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Title: Tom Thatcher's Fortune
Author: Horatio Alger Jr.
Language: English
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CONTENTS
TOM THATCHER’S FORTUNE
CHAPTER Page
I. AN OLD LETTER. 5
II. THE YOUNG RIVALS. 11
III. THE RACE ON ROUND POND. 14
IV. A FALSE FRIEND. 24
V. DARIUS DARKE. 31
VI. ENDS IN A FIRE. 38
VII. THE MIDNIGHT FIRE. 45
VIII. THE BARN LOFT. 50
IX. AN UNEXPECTED CHARGE. 55
X. IN SEARCH OF EMPLOYMENT. 59
XI. A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE. 66
XII. TOM’S JOURNEY. 71
XIII. A CHEAP OVERCOAT. 78
XIV. THE TRAMP TRANSFORMED. 84
XV. THE TRAGEDY AT ROCKY GULCH. 91
XVI. TOM’S VISIT TO PEARL STREET. 97
XVII. TOM GAINS A VICTORY. 103
XVIII. DO THE DEAD LIVE? 108
XIX. TOM STARTS ON HIS JOURNEY. 113
XX. A HOTEL ACQUAINTANCE. 116
XXI. TOM’S NEW EMPLOYER. 120
XXII. A ROUGH DIAMOND. 126
XXIII. PETER BRUSH, THE HUNTER. 131
XXIV. MR. BURNETT BEATS A RETREAT. 135
XXV. A SOLITARY WALK. 139
XXVI. PERCY BURNETT UNMASKS. 143
XXVII. A FRIEND IN NEED. 148
XXVIII. HOW PETER BRUSH CAME TO THE RESCUE. 153
XXIX. THE PACIFIC TRAIL. 159
XXX. THE MAN WITHOUT A SCALP. 163
XXXI. TWO NEW COMRADES. 166
XXXII. A STARTLING SIGHT. 171
XXXIII. TAKEN CAPTIVE. 175
XXXIV. TWO POWWOWS. 179
XXXV. HOW TOM PASSED THE NIGHT. 183
XXXVI. TOM’S DEADLY PERIL. 186
XXXVII. THE INDIANS ADOPT TOM. 192
XXXVIII. THREE MONTHS IN CAPTIVITY. 197
XXXIX. THE CABIN AT ROCKY GULCH. 201
XL. TOM FINDS HIMSELF RICH. 208
XLI. TOM AND THE GRIZZLY. 213
XLII. A STARTLING DISCLOSURE. 219
XLIII. TOM COMES INTO A FORTUNE. 224
XLIV. A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. 228
XLV. HOW THINGS WENT ON AT HOME. 233
XLVI. MRS. THATCHER LOSES HER NEW HOME. 238
XLVII. A DOUBLE SURPRISE. 244
XLVIII. RETRIBUTION OVERTAKES JOHN SIMPSON. 251
HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS. 259
BY WILLIAM BENNET.
THAT BELL! 269
BY PAUL BLAKE.
[Illustration: AT A GLANCE, TOM SAW THE BEAR WATCHING THE MAN CROUCHING
AMONG THE BRANCHES. [Page 217.]]
Tom Thatcher’s Fortune.
BY HORATIO ALGER, JR.,
_Author of_
“Joe’s Luck,” “Frank Fowler, the Cash Boy,” “Ragged Dick,” “Tom
Temple’s Career,” “Luck and Pluck,” etc., etc.
ILLUSTRATED.
[Illustration]
A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS,
52-58 DUANE STREET, NEW YORK.
Copyright, 1888. BY A. L. BURT.
TOM THATCHER’S FORTUNE.
BY HORATIO ALGER, JR.
TOM THATCHER’S FORTUNE.
CHAPTER I.
AN OLD LETTER.
“Is supper ready, mother? I’m as hungry as a bear!”
The speaker was a sturdy boy of sixteen, with bright eyes, and a
smiling sun-browned face. His shirt sleeves were rolled up displaying
a pair of muscular arms. His hands were brown and soiled with labor.
It was clear that he was no white-handed young aristocrat. His clothes
alone would have shown that. They were of coarse cloth, made without
any special regard to the prevailing fashion.
Tom Thatcher, for this was his name, had just come home from the shoe
manufactory, where he was employed ten hours a day in pegging shoes,
for the lucrative sum of fifty cents per day. I may as well state here
that he is the hero of my story, and I hope none of my readers will
think any the worse of him for working in a shop. I am aware that it is
considered more “genteel” to stand behind a counter, and display goods
to customers, even if the wages are smaller. But Tom, having a mother
and little sister to help support, could not choose his employment. He
lived in a large shoe town, and was glad to find employment in the
large manufactory of John Simpson, who, by virtue of his large capital,
and as the employer of a hundred hands, was a man of mark in the town
of Wilton.
“Supper will be ready in five minutes, Tom,” said his mother, rather a
delicate-looking woman, of refined appearance, notwithstanding she was
dressed in a cheap calico.
“Are you tired, Tom?” asked his little sister Tillie, whose full name,
never used at home, was Matilda.
“Not much, Tillie, but I’ve got a famous appetite.”
“I am sorry I haven’t got something better for you, Tom,” said his
mother. “I have only a hot potato, besides tea, and bread and butter.”
“Why, that is good enough, mother,” said Tom, cheerfully.
“You ought to have meat after working hard all day in the shop, my boy;
but meat comes so high that I don’t dare to have it on the table every
day.”
“Too much meat might make me savage, mother,” said Tom laughing. “I
wish we could have it oftener, for your sake. Anything will do for me.
When I get older I shall earn higher wages, and then we’ll live better.”
“It’s very uncomfortable to be poor,” said Mrs. Thatcher, sighing.
“Poor children, if your father were only living you would fare better.
I little dreamed when he went to California, eight years ago, that he
would never come back.”
“Mr. Simpson and father went to California together, didn’t they,
mother?”
“Yes. They were both poor men at the time. Mr. Simpson was no better
off than your father, but now--your poor father is in his grave, and
John Simpson is one of the richest men in Wilton.”
“Mr. Simpson came home rich, didn’t he?”
“Yes. How rich I don’t know, but from being a journeyman he was able to
build a manufactory of his own, and has been getting richer ever since.”
“Were he and father together in California?”
“Yes, Tom.”
“And didn’t father find any gold? How could one be prosperous, and the
other unlucky?”
“I never could understand it. The very last letter I received from your
father mentioned that he was prosperous, and had accumulated a large
amount of gold dust, he and John Simpson also. Three months afterward
John Simpson came home, but nothing was ever heard of your poor father
or his money again.”
“What did Mr. Simpson say? Didn’t he know anything about him?”
“He called on me, and told me that your father and he had separated
a little while before leaving California. He made his way to San
Francisco while your father remained at the mines. He felt quite sure
that your father had been robbed and murdered by some desperate person
who had heard of his good fortune.”
“Was that all he could tell you?”
“That was all.”
“Couldn’t he tell how much gold father had at the time?”
“He said it amounted to some thousands of dollars, but how much he
could not tell exactly. I cared little for that. If your poor father
had only come back alive I would have been happy, even if he had come
back in rags, and without a penny.”
“Were he and Mr. Simpson good friends?” asked Tom, thoughtfully.
“They were very intimate before they went to California.”
“And were you and Mrs. Simpson intimate, too, mother?”
“Yes; we lived in the same house. It was a double house, and each
family occupied a part. You and Rupert Simpson were born the same day,
and played together like brothers when you were both young boys.”
“It isn’t much like that now, mother. Rupert puts on all sorts of airs
because his father is rich. He wouldn’t think of associating with me on
equal terms. He thinks himself altogether superior to a poor boy who
works in a shoe shop.”
“He has no right to look down upon you, Tom,” said Mrs. Thatcher, with
natural motherly indignation. “You are superior to him in every way.”
Tom laughed.
“He don’t think so, mother,” he answered, “and I am afraid it would
be hard to convince him. But it seems strange to me to think that our
families were once so intimate. Mrs. Simpson rides in her carriage, and
always wears silks or satins to church, while you are compelled to wear
a cheap gingham for best. She never comes to call on you.”
“I don’t wish her to,” said Mrs. Thatcher, with honorable pride. “It
would only be an act of condescension on her part, and Sarah Simpson
isn’t the woman to condescend to me, who was born and brought up her
equal.”
“You’re right there, mother. You are just as much a lady as she is,
even if you are poor.”
“I hope I am, Tom.”
“You spoke of father’s last letter to you, mother. I haven’t looked at
it for a long time. Will you let me see it?”
“Certainly, my son.”
Mrs. Thatcher went to the bureau, and from the top drawer took out an
old letter, grown yellow with age, and unfolding it handed it to Tom.
It was quite long, but a large part of it would be of no interest to my
readers. I only transcribe the parts which are material to my story.
“I am glad to say, my dear Mary, that I have been very
fortunate. John Simpson and I, some three months ago, chanced
upon some very rich diggings, which, lying out of the ordinary
course of travel and exploration, had thus far failed to
attract attention. For a month or more we worked alone,
managing in that time to ‘feather our nests’ pretty well. Then
we sold out a portion of our claims to a third party for a
large sum, and worked the balance ourselves. I don’t dare to
tell you how much we are worth, but enough to make us very
comfortable. I can say as much as that. It won’t be long before
I come home. I could come now, but I think it a shame to leave
so much treasure in the ground, when it can be had for the
digging. A little patience, dear wife, and I shall come home,
and place you and our darling children in a position where you
will never again know the limitations of poverty.
“Simpson’s plans are the same as mine. We shall probably go
home together, and build two nice houses near each other. It
will be pleasant in years to come to refer to our days of
struggle when we worked together at the shoe bench for a dollar
and a half a day, and had to support our families on that
paltry sum. Those days, thank God! are over, and I am still a
young man with half my life before me, as I hope.”
“Poor father!” said Tom. “How little he thought that his good luck was
to prove the cause of his death, and that the money he had secured
would never find its way to his family.”
“It always makes me sad to read that letter,” said Mrs. Thatcher. “It
is so bright and hopeful, and death was even then so near.”
As Tom gave back the letter to his mother, a knock was heard at the
door.
Tom rose to open it, and admitted a boy of about his own age, Harry
Julian, the minister’s son, one of his most intimate friends.
CHAPTER II.
THE YOUNG RIVALS.
“Good-evening, Harry,” said Mrs. Thatcher, cordially. “Won’t you sit
down and take a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Thatcher; I have just got through supper. You must
excuse my coming so early, but I wanted to be sure to find Tom at home.”
The speaker was a slender, pleasant-faced boy of about Tom’s age. He
was better dressed than Tom, for though his father received but a small
annual salary from his parish, he was possessed of a considerable
private fortune, which enabled him to live with more freedom from
pecuniary anxiety than most ministers. The boys had always been
intimate, and Tom had more than once been favored by the loan of books
from his friend’s library.
“You have found me at home, Julian,” said Tom. “Is there anything going
on this evening?”
“Yes, and that’s what brings me here. There’s going to be a large
skating party on Round Pond, and we want you to join it.”
“I should like it, but I can’t go quite yet. I must saw and split some
wood for to-morrow first.”
“How long will it take you?”
“Less than an hour.”
“Let me help you. Then it won’t take so long.”
“I’m afraid I can’t afford to pay a hired man,” said Tom, laughing.
“The pleasure of your company will pay me,” said Harry.
“Thank you. I would take off my hat in return for the compliment if I
happened to have it on. I will soon be through supper.”
“Won’t you change your mind, Harry, and let me give you a cup of tea?”
asked Mrs. Thatcher.
“On second thoughts I will. It will keep me warm.”
The boys were soon through supper, and, adjourning to the wood-shed,
set to work energetically on the wood-pile.
“Will you saw or split, Harry?” asked Tom.
“I might break the saw if I attempted to use it. I will try the ax.”
“What would Rupert Simpson say if he should see you helping me?” said
Tom, in a moment’s pause. “He would think you were lowering yourself.”
“And he might be welcome to his opinion,” said Harry, independently.
“You are a good deal together.”
“Yes, but he seeks my company, not I his.”
“Mother tells me that he and I were like two brothers when we were
quite young. But he wasn’t rich then.”
“That has spoiled him.”
“At any rate, it has cured him of his liking for my company. Doesn’t
he ever speak to you about your being intimate with me?”
“Yes, often. He thinks I like you better than I do him, and he is right
there.”
“I can guess what he says to you, Harry?”
“Try it.”
Tom changed his voice, adopting Rupert’s rather affected tone.
“I shouldn’t think,” he began, “that you would associate with that Tom
Thatcher. He pegs shoes in father’s shop, and isn’t fit for gentlemen
like us to notice. My father doesn’t like me to keep such low company.”
Harry laughed heartily.
“You must have been listening some time when Rupert was speaking to
me,” he said.
“Then I hit right, did I?”
“Couldn’t come nearer.”
“I thought so. Yet father and Mr. Simpson worked side by side at the
shoe bench. They went to California together. Both secured a great deal
of money, but my poor father didn’t live to come home.”
“And his money? What became of that?” inquired Harry.
“No one knows. He was probably robbed of it.”
“It is a sad story, Tom.”
“Yes. My poor father’s fate is often in my mind. I cannot bring him
back to life, but I hope some day to learn something more of his last
days, and, if possible, of the manner in which he died.”
“Couldn’t Mr. Simpson tell you something about it?”
“He called on mother after his return, but gave her no definite
information. I am sometimes tempted to call on him and inquire on my
own account.”
“I would if I were you.”
“I will, then. I won’t speak to mother about it, because it always
makes her sad to speak about father’s death.”
“There’s the last stick, Harry,” said Tom, a few moments later. “Now I
sha’n’t have to keep you waiting any longer. I have only to put on my
coat, and get my skates.”
“Better wear your overcoat, Tom. It is quite cold.”
“Oh, I’m tough,” said Tom, lightly. “Besides, I can skate better
without it.”
He didn’t like to name the real reason, that he had no overcoat fit to
wear. The one he had worn the previous winter was very ragged, and he
could not spare money to buy a new one.
Harry suspected that this was the case, but was too delicate to refer
to it, and said nothing further.
From a nail in the closet Tom took down a pair of old wooden-framed
skates, on which, however, he could beat many who were provided with
club-skates of the most approved styles.
His friend Harry had a new pair of club-skates, and so had Rupert
Simpson.
A walk of a quarter of a mile brought the boys to Round Pond, which was
situated near the center of the village. It was small, not more than
three-quarters of a mile in circumference; but it was frozen clear as
glass, and looked tempting to the young skaters as they descended the
bank, and sat down by the margin to put on their skates.
Many boys and a few girls were already on the ice. When Tom and Harry
arrived some of them came to greet the new-comers. It was evident that
both were general favorites.
Among the boys who came up was Rupert Simpson.
“What made you so late, Harry?” he asked, impatiently.
“I called for Tom, and he had some wood to saw and split before he
could come.”
“I suppose you helped him,” suggested Rupert, with a sneer.
“I did.”
Rupert looked astonished and disgusted.
“I didn’t know you hired out to saw and split wood,” he said, with
another sneer.
“Now you do know it, I suppose you will cut my acquaintance,” said
Harry, pleasantly.
“I suppose you have a right to suit yourself. You wouldn’t catch me
sawing and splitting wood. We leave that to the servants.”
“You couldn’t give me a job, could you? However, it would be of no use.
I only work for Tom.”
Rupert shrugged his shoulders, and his attention was drawn to Tom’s old
skates.
“Those skates look as if they dated back to the ark,” said he, rudely.
“I don’t think they are quite so old as that,” returned Tom, coolly.
“They are a curiosity, anyway.”
“They can do good service, Rupert, that is, when Tom wears them,” said
Harry. “In spite of our fine club-skates, I believe we should find it
hard work to keep up with him.”
“Speak for yourself!” said Rupert, haughtily.
“No, I speak for you, too.”
“Try it! A race! a race!” exclaimed the boys in chorus.
“I will race with Harry,” said Rupert, hastily.
“No; you can beat me; I admit that in advance. Race with Tom.”
Tom said nothing. By this time his skates were on, and he was quite
ready to enter upon a trial of speed with Rupert, or any boy on the
pond; but he did not care to betray any anxiety on the subject.
Rupert was rather conceited on the subject of his skating. With the
exception of Tom Thatcher, he was probably the best skater in the
village--that is, among the boys--and felt pretty confident that he
could beat Tom himself. His reluctance was due only to his not liking
to place himself on an equality with the boy who pegged shoes for his
father at fifty cents per day. The clamor of the boys, however, and the
anticipation of a triumph over his rival overruled his objections, and
he said:
“I’ll try a race across the pond, if you insist upon it.”
“What do you say, Tom?” asked Harry.
“I am ready,” said Tom, promptly. “Just wait a minute till I tighten my
skates.”
“Won’t you use mine?” asked Harry.
“I object to that,” said Rupert.
“That will place you on equal terms.”
“I doubt that,” said Rupert, with a sneer which made his meaning plain.
“I will use the skates I have on,” said Tom, quietly.
“Clear the track!” exclaimed Harry.
The two boys took their positions side by side, both eager for the
race.
CHAPTER III.
THE RACE ON ROUND POND.
Harry Julian gave the word.
No sooner was it out of his mouth than the two rivals dashed off in
eager competition. In fact Rupert started before the word was fairly
spoken and in consequence gained a slight lead upon his opponent.
Slight, indeed, but still of importance, considering the shortness of
the race-track.
The sight of Rupert just ahead put increased vigor into Tom’s efforts,
and, setting his teeth hard, he skated as he had never done before. He
was eager to win--more so than if any other boy had been in competition
with him, for he knew that if he were defeated Rupert would never cease
boasting of his victory.
Tom did not intend giving him that gratification if he could help it.
But if Tom was eager to win, the same can be said of Rupert. In his
view, it would be disgraceful to be beaten by a boy who pegged shoes in
his father’s shop.
So he, too, exerted himself to the utmost, and probably had never
before skated as well.
Indeed, the boys were half way across the pond before Tom had succeeded
in overtaking his rival. For a hundred yards the boys skated side by
side, amid the intense excitement of the young spectators. But Tom
had one important advantage over his rival. He was excited, it is
true, but he breathed freely and easily, while Rupert was becoming
short-breathed. He had evidently exerted himself beyond his strength.
Slowly, but perceptibly, Tom began to lead him. Now the race was
three-quarters over. Rupert tried to make up the increasing gap between
them, but it proved to be impossible. To his disappointment and rage
he saw that his despised opponent must inevitably beat him. He could
not make up his mind to this, and, to provide himself with a convenient
excuse for his failure, he contrived to stumble and fall a hundred
yards from the goal.
Unconscious of this, Tom kept on and finished the race. Then looking
back, to his surprise he saw Rupert picking himself up from the ice.
He instantly wheeled round and started back.
“Did you fall, Rupert?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Rupert, sullenly.
“How did it happen?”
“I stumbled and fell.”
“I am sorry. I hope you are not hurt.”
“No, I am not hurt--that is, not much.”
By this time the other skaters were standing round the two rivals.
“Tom, I congratulate you on your victory,” said Harry Julian.
“What victory?” demanded Rupert, quickly.
“His victory in the race, to be sure, Rupert.”
“There has been no victory,” said Rupert, scowling.
“Why not?”
“Because I stumbled. Of course that prevented my winning.”
The boys looked at each other. They guessed why Rupert had stumbled.
“Tom was considerably ahead of you when you fell,” said Harry.
“He was a little ahead, but I could have made it up.”
“I don’t think you could.”
“That’s your opinion,” said Rupert, rudely. “I say I could.”
“Would you like to try it again?” asked Tom.
“It wouldn’t be a fair race. Your skates are different from mine.”
“They are not so good as yours.”
“I know that, but they are good enough for going.”
“You seem to have changed your opinion. You objected to my using
Harry’s skates, which are like yours.”
“Because I wanted to give you the advantage of your own skates.”
“Are you willing to have a second trial, in which I use Harry’s skates?”
If Rupert had been prudent he would have made some excuse for
declining, but I have already said that he was self-conceited about his
skating, and he really believed that he could skate faster than Tom. In
the event of a second trial, he would have a chance to show this. After
slight hesitation, therefore, he said:
“Yes; I’ll try again, just to satisfy you.”
It was decided to start from the further end of the pond, and again
Harry Julian was selected to give the word.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered both boys.
“Then--go!”
This time both started together.
At equal speed they dashed out for the opposite shore. Tom was fresher
than his rival, and he was not now obliged to exert himself as in the
former race. Indeed, he kept himself partly in check, not caring to
pass Rupert till they neared the end of the race, for he feared that
when the latter found himself hopelessly in the rear he would again
manage to stumble, and so deprive him of the laurels he had justly won.
Of course the boys who were looking on did not know this, and when
they saw Tom and Rupert skating side by side when the race was
three-quarters over, they watched with great excitement, uncertain
which would win.
Now the race was seven-eighths over, and still the boys were skating
side by side. It was difficult to tell which was ahead.
Rupert’s breath came quick and short. Only a little ahead was the goal,
and there seemed as good a chance of his reaching it as of Tom’s doing
so.
“Anyway, we shall come in together,” he thought, “and then the pegger
boy can’t triumph over me.”
This would not be quite as well as winning the race, but it would
certainly be a great deal better than being defeated.
But Rupert made no account of Tom’s reserved strength. Even as this
thought passed through his mind, Tom made a brilliant spurt, and before
Rupert fairly realized the situation, his rival had touched the goal,
leaving him fifty feet behind.
He reddened with anger and mortification, utterly unable to devise any
excuse for his failure.
At a little distance behind were the other skaters.
“That was a pretty race,” said Harry, as he came up. “I suppose you’ll
admit that you are beaten, now, Rupert. Come, own up,” said Harry,
seeing that Rupert remained silent. “You can’t deny that that was a
fair race.”
“He wouldn’t have beaten me if I had been well,” said Rupert, thinking
of an excuse at last.
“If you had been well?”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I’ve got a bad headache. I thought of stopping in the middle of the
race, but I didn’t want to spoil it.”
There was not a boy within hearing who believed for a moment that
Rupert was really troubled with a headache, so that his subterfuge was
of no service to him.
“Your headache came on rather suddenly, didn’t it?” asked Harry,
significantly.
“No; I’ve had it for half an hour.”
“When the race was first proposed did you have it?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I thought it might not interfere with me.”
“Then I suppose you don’t consider this a fair race?”
“Of course not. How can a fellow skate well when he’s got a splitting
headache?”
“Would you have said anything about the headache if you had won?”
“Look here, Harry Julian, I don’t like the way you talk. If you mean to
insult me say so at once.”
“I don’t care to insult anyone,” said Harry, coldly. “Since you don’t
consider this a fair race I presume Tom will be willing to race you any
time you may appoint. You can wait till you are in perfect health.”
“Yes,” said Tom, “I am ready to race any time. Rupert is an excellent
skater, and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he beat me some time,”
he added, generously.
Such, however, was not the opinion of the boys. From what they had seen
they entertained no doubt as to which was the better skater of the
two, and Rupert would have risen in their opinion if he had manfully
admitted his defeat.
At half-past nine the skating party broke up, and the young skaters
went home.
Tom and Harry walked together.
“To-morrow evening,” said Tom, “I mean to call on Squire Simpson, and
ask him about father’s life in California. I shall feel easier when I
learn all that is to be known about it.”
CHAPTER IV.
A FALSE FRIEND.
Mr. Simpson was not a justice of the peace, but his fellow-citizens
had got into the habit of calling him “squire,” and the title was not
unpleasant to him.
He sat, in dressing-gown and slippers, in a comfortable sitting-room,
reading a city paper, when a servant appeared at the door.
“There’s a boy at the door who says he would like to see you, sir.”
“Who is it?” asked Mr. Simpson.
“It’s Thomas Thatcher, sir.”
“What does he want with me?” inquired the rich man, arching his
eyebrows in surprise.
“I don’t know, sir; he didn’t say.”
“Well, let him come in.”
A minute later Tom was ushered into the presence of his employer.
“Well, Tom, what’s your business?” asked Squire Simpson, curtly.
“My mother tells me, Mr. Simpson, that you were with father in
California just before his mysterious disappearance----”
“Suppose I were!” interrupted Squire Simpson, brusquely.
“I wanted to ask you a few questions about him,” said Tom.
“Did your mother send you here?” demanded the rich man, with a frown of
displeasure.
“No, sir; she does not know that I have come.”
“It is very singular that you should come to me on such an errand,”
said Simpson, in a tone of displeasure.
“Is it surprising that I should wish to know something of my father,
sir?” returned Tom, not at all abashed by his reception.
“I told your mother, years ago, all that I had to tell.”
“I was too young then to take any part in the inquiry. Have you any
objection to tell a son something of his father’s last years?”
The rich man hesitated a moment, and then, with an ill grace, replied:
“What is it you wish to know?”
“How long did you leave my father before his death?”
“How should I know. I don’t know when he died, or whether he died at
all.”
“How long, then, before you set out for home?”
“A few weeks--six weeks, perhaps.”
“My father had considerable money at the time you left him, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me how much?”
“I don’t see what good it would do you to know--you are not likely to
get the money.”
“I suppose not, sir; but it was his money that probably tempted the man
who wickedly murdered him.”
Squire Simpson seemed very ill at ease, as if, instead of being
questioned by a boy, he were in the witness-box.
“Yes,” said he, “I suppose your father was murdered for his money. How
much did he have? Well, probably five thousand dollars, more or less. I
had considerably more, having met with greater luck than he.”
“At what place did you leave father, Squire Simpson?”
“It was at a place called Rocky Gulch. I don’t know what they call it
now.”
“Didn’t father say anything about coming home when you left him?”
“He hadn’t fixed upon any time. He wanted to increase his pile. I
suppose he felt dissatisfied because he hadn’t as much as I. He would
have done better to come home with me.”
“I wish he had,” said Tom, sadly.
“Of course, it would have been better for him and for his family, but
it can’t be helped now. I wonder you should bring up this old matter
now. It can do no possible good. It was the Lord’s will that your
father should be taken away, and we must submit to His will. It’s
wicked to murmur against the plans of Providence.”
The rich man said all this in a brisk, business-like manner, as if he
were quite reconciled to what had happened.
“Still,” said Tom, “we can’t help thinking of how changed our
circumstances would have been if father had come home as you did.”
“Yes, yes; but you haven’t anything to complain of. You live
comfortably, don’t you? I give you employment in my shop,” he added,
pompously, “out of regard to your father’s memory.”
“Yes, sir, you give me employment,” said Tom, slowly.
He could not be brought to think this a very great favor, since he was
only paid what other boys were for the same labor.
“How long have you been at work in the shop?”
“Three years.”
“Then for three years I have put you in a way of earning your living.”
“It is rather hard to live on fifty cents a day,” said Tom.
“Then, I take it, your errand here is to ask for higher wages?” said
Simpson, quickly.
“No, sir; the thought never entered my mind when I came here.”
“I suppose you wouldn’t accept it if it were offered,” said Simpson,
with a slight sneer.
“Yes, sir, I should.”
“I thought so.”
“But not as a favor. I think I earn more money.”
“What gives you that idea?” demanded his employer displeased.
“In Tompkins peggers are paid seventy cents a day.”
“Then you are at liberty to go there and find work,” said Simpson,
roughly.
“I can’t do that, sir, as you know I cannot leave my mother. Besides,
if I had my board to pay, I should be worse off than I am now.”
“That is a very sensible conclusion. You will find that you are well
off in my employment, but if at any time you become dissatisfied, don’t
trouble yourself to stay on my account. I can easily fill your place.”
“Yes, sir, I suppose you can,” answered Tom, slowly.
“Have you any further business with me?” asked Mr. Simpson, impatiently.
“No, sir.”
“Then I will bid you good-evening.”
“I have just a few words to say, Mr. Simpson,” said Tom, looking
steadily at the man before him.
“Say them.”
“You were my father’s friend and companion for years,” Tom began. “You
worked together, and went to California together. You came home rich,
while he was unfortunate enough to lose his money and his life. To-day
you are a rich manufacturer, while his widow and children are compelled
to live chiefly on a boy’s small wages. You know all this, and it has
never come into your mind to help them, or to pay the boy as good wages
as he could get elsewhere. If you had died, and my father had come home
prosperous, he would not have treated your family so.”
It was surprising that Mr. Simpson should have allowed Tom to finish
this speech without interruption, but he did so. Then he burst forth in
a fury.
“Boy, if you came here to insult me, you did the worst thing you could
have done for your family. You complain, do you, that I don’t support
you and your family in luxury?”
“That is not true,” interrupted Tom.
“Such is the plain inference from your words. You are not at all
grateful for my supporting you all these years.”
“You haven’t done it, sir.”
“I have given you the employment without which you and your family
would have starved. You can’t deny that.”
“I don’t think we should have starved, sir.”
“I will give you a chance to try the experiment. You complain that you
can’t live on the wages I pay you. I will give you the chance to work
for more somewhere else. To-morrow morning you may go to my foreman and
ask for the wages that are due you. You needn’t trouble yourself to
return to work in my shop.”
Tom turned pale, for he did not feel sure how he was to make up the
small pittance which he had hitherto earned by pegging.
“You discharge me, then?” he said, in a low voice.
“Yes,” answered his employer, who marked with cruel enjoyment the
dismay depicted upon Tom’s face.
“Then, sir, I will bid you good-night.”
Tom turned, and with a firm step walked out of the room. But his heart
was heavy within him. How should he break the tidings of this serious
misfortune to his mother. How were they to live on the scanty sum which
she earned by sewing and knitting.
In the midst of Tom’s despondency his heart suddenly lightened.
“I won’t despair,” he said to himself. “I will trust in the Lord. He
will provide for us somehow.”
Mingled with this feeling was a firm and resolute determination.
_He would make it the business of his life to ascertain how and under
what circumstances his father died, and bring his murderer to justice!_
CHAPTER V.
DARIUS DARKE.
As Tom was on his way home, walking slowly and thoughtfully, while he
considered the change which had taken place in his circumstances and
prospects, his attention was attracted to a man shabbily dressed, whose
suit looked as if it had been worn five years steadily, advancing along
the pathway in an opposite direction.
Nowadays the man would be called a tramp, but at that time the name was
not as common as now.
He was a stranger in the village, but Tom didn’t give any thought to
his appearance. He was too much interested in his own thoughts and his
own troubles.
The man passed him, and then, as if struck by a sudden thought, turned
back and addressed him.
“Boy,” said he, “are you acquainted about here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you tell me where John Simpson lives?”
“Yes,” answered Tom, with momentary wonder that such a man should have
anything to do with the rich shoe manufacturer. “He lives only a little
distance back on this same side of the road. You can find the house
well enough, for it is the finest in the village.”
“Then I suppose John Simpson is a rich man?” said the tramp, after a
slight pause.
“Yes, he is the richest man in town.”
“Where did he get his money?”
“In California--that is, he got considerable of it there. Then he came
back here and built a large shoe manufactory. I suppose he has made a
good deal of money by this business.”
“Humph! I suppose he is a good deal respected, isn’t he?”
“He is looked up to, as most rich men are,” answered Tom, with a tinge
of bitterness.
He could not truly say that he, for one, respected John Simpson.
“That’s all the same,” said the stranger. “Give a man money, and he’ll
be respected fast enough. Does Mr. Simpson put on airs?”
“If you mean does he feel his importance, I think he does.”
“A regular tip-top aristocrat, I take it.”
“Very likely. Do you know him?” asked Tom, thinking it about time that
he should change places with his questioner.
“Know him, boy? Yes, I knew him once--slightly. I haven’t met him for
years.”
“Did you know him in California?” asked Tom, urged by an irresistible
impulse to ask this question.
The man started.
“What makes you ask that question?” he demanded, quickly.
“Because you said you knew Mr. Simpson some years ago.”
“Well, yes, I knew him in California,” said the other, slowly.
“Then perhaps you knew my father there?” said Tom, eagerly.
“Your father!”
“Yes; my father was in California at the time. He went out with Mr.
Simpson.”
“What was your father’s name?”
The question was put with what seemed to be strong interest and
curiosity.
“Robert Thatcher.”
The tramp whistled, as if to express his surprise and amazement.
“Did you know him?” Tom repeated.
The stranger answered guardedly:
“I heard that such a man was at work with John Simpson.”
“And you saw him?”
“I believe I saw him once.”
“Do you know what became of him?”
“Do I know what became of him? I suppose he came home.”
“No; he did not. He never came home.”
“Why not?”
“Mr. Simpson says he was probably murdered for his money.”
“Oh, Simpson says that, does he? What more does he say?”
“He doesn’t seem to know any more.”
“Does he say how much money your father had?”
“He thinks about five thousand dollars.”
The stranger laughed.
“The report was in the camp near by that Simpson and your father had
cleared twenty-five thousand dollars apiece.”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars!” repeated Tom, overwhelmed with
astonishment.
“Yes; and it was generally believed. The claim was wonderfully rich,
and besides what the two men took out they sold their claim for at
least twenty thousand dollars. That was ten thousand dollars apiece.”
“Can this be possible?”
“Oh, you may rely upon that. That I happened to know.”
“This very evening I called upon Mr. Simpson and asked him about the
matter. He told me that father had about five thousand dollars at the
time he disappeared.”
“Then Simpson lied,” said the tramp, bluntly.
“I don’t know why he should misrepresent things to me.”
“I suppose he had his reasons.”
“But what were they?”
“I give it up. Where do you live?”
“In that little cottage.”
By this time Tom had reached his own house, the stranger walking slowly
by his side.
“From the appearance of your house I shouldn’t suppose you were very
rich.”
“Rich!” echoed Tom. “We have all we can do to live.”
“Who do you mean by we?”
“My mother, and sister, and myself.”
“Doesn’t John Simpson help you?”
“He has given me a chance to peg in his manufactory, and paid me fifty
cents a day, which is considerably below the regular wages in other
establishments. If you call that helping us, then he has helped us.”
“That I call rather mean, since he has plenty of money.”
“So do I; but we never asked him for help. All I wanted was fair wages
for my work.”
“Did you ever ask him to increase your small pay?”
“I asked him this very evening.”
“What did he say?”
“He got angry, and discharged me from his employment.”
“Money has evidently hardened his heart. What are you going to do?”
“I must try to find something else to do, or else go to the poor-house.”
“You won’t go to the poor-house. You don’t look like that kind of a
boy. I wish I had John Simpson’s money and shop. I’d employ you at
double his wages.”
“Thank you for your kind intentions, sir,” said Tom.
The tramp looked so far from being a capitalist, and, judging again
from his appearance, his prospect of becoming a capitalist seemed so
poor, that Tom did not gain much encouragement from his last words.
“At present I am quite unable to help you, but it may not be always
so,” continued the stranger.
“Thank you, sir,” said Tom, politely.
He reflected that a man’s generous feelings were of little account if
he had no money.
“I see you want to go in,” said the tramp. “Don’t let me keep you. I
think I’ll go and make a call on John Simpson.”
“You’ll find him at home, sir. That is, he was at home twenty minutes
since.”
“All right. I guess I’ll find him.”
Just as the stranger was leaving, Tom, impelled by the thought he
might some time want to secure further information from this man, who
appeared to have met his father in California, asked him:
“Would you be kind enough to tell me your name, sir?”
“My name! What do you want of my name?” demanded the tramp.
“Except John Simpson, who will tell me nothing, I have never before met
any one who knew anything of my father’s life in California. I might
wish to meet you again and ask you more questions.”
“I will take care that you have a chance to meet me some time,” said
the other, after a pause. “At present I prefer not to mention my name.”
“Suppose I want to write to you?”
“Then you may address your letter to Darius Darke, New York
Post-office.”
“Darius Darke.”
“Yes; I don’t think you will forget that name. It isn’t my real name,
of course. Sorry I haven’t got a card to offer you,” he added, with
grim humor.
“I shall remember the name.”
As Tom entered his humble home, he asked himself:
“Why did Mr. Simpson misrepresent the amount of father’s treasure? Of
course he knew that he was deceiving me.”
But this question was easier to ask than to answer.
CHAPTER VI.
ENDS IN A FIRE.
Darius Darke, to call him by the name by which he chose to be known,
on parting company with Tom, turned his steps toward the house of Mr.
Simpson, the wealthy shoe manufacturer.
As he walked along, he thought over the information which Tom had given
him.
“What a scoundrel Simpson is!” he said to himself. “He might at least
have taken care of poor Thatcher’s family. Now he has actually turned
the boy out of his shop, depriving him of his living. There would be
small chance of his doing anything for me if I hadn’t a hold upon him.
I think I may be able to persuade him that it will be for his interest
to provide for me.”
He walked on, till he stood opposite the fine mansion of the man he
sought.
“So John Simpson lives here, and I have no roof to cover me. The wicked
do prosper sometimes, it appears. Well, I’ll pull the bell, and see if
he knows me.”
John Simpson was sitting in the same room in which he had had his
interview with Tom.
He was ill at ease, for Tom’s questioning had stirred up unpleasant
thoughts in the mind of the rich man. He was almost sorry that he had
discharged Tom from his employment. He knew very well that Tom was
popular in the village, as his father had been before him, and that
the townspeople would take sides with him. Again, everybody knew the
relations which had existed between him and the boy’s father, and he
foresaw that he would be considered mean in thus treating the son of an
old comrade. Yet he felt so irritated with Tom that he was not prepared
as yet to recall his hasty words.
“I’ll let him shift for himself for awhile,” he decided. “It may teach
him a lesson, and cure him of his impertinence to me.”
At this moment the bell rang.
“Very likely the boy has come back to beg that I will take him
on again,” thought the rich man complacently, and he smiled in
anticipation of the triumph this would afford him.
But he did not know Tom, or he would never have thought of this. Our
hero was poor, but he had plenty of self-respect and proper pride. He
would have humiliated himself if he saw no other way of saving his
mother and sister from privation, but not until he had tried earnestly
to find employment elsewhere.
The servant appeared at the door.
“Please, sir, there’s a poor man wants to see you, Mr. Simpson.”
“A poor man! Who is he?”
“Never saw him before, sir. He looks like a tramp.”
“I don’t care to see him.”
“He told me to say that he used to know you in California.”
John Simpson started uneasily.
“Bring him in,” he said.
Directly afterward Darius Darke entered the room and coolly seated
himself in an arm-chair.
“Good-evening, Mr. Simpson,” he said.
“It appears to me that you are very ready to make yourself at home in a
gentleman’s house,” said John Simpson, angrily.
“Why shouldn’t I? I was once a gentleman myself.”
“It must have been long ago,” said the rich man with a sneer.
“Oh, you judge by my clothes,” said the tramp, coolly. “That’s wrong.
Such as you see me I am a man of education, and a college graduate.”
“I don’t care what you have been. You are down in the world now.”
“That’s true enough.”
“What did you mean by sending me word that you knew me in California?”
“I told the truth.”
“Where was it?”
“At Rocky Gulch. You were associated with a man named Thatcher. By the
way is he living now?”
“No, he is not,” said Simpson, uneasily.
“How long has he been dead?”
“Eight years. He never came home from California.”
“How was that?”
“I suppose he was robbed.”
“And murdered?”
“Very probable. But you must excuse my speaking on this subject. It is
painful to me.”
“I don’t wonder at it,” said Darius Darke, in a tone which was pointed
and significant.
John Simpson scanned his face sharply.
“Of course,” he explained, “it is painful to think of the sad fate of a
man with whom I was so intimate.”
Darius Darke moved his chair nearer that on which the rich man was
seated and asked, abruptly:
“John Simpson, what became of Thatcher’s money?”
“How should I know?” answered the shoe manufacturer nervously. “I
suppose the men who stole it have spent it long ago. Why do you come to
me with such a question?”
“I supposed you would be as likely to know as any one.”
“Then, sir, you are very much mistaken. I don’t understand what
business it is of yours. I should judge that your own affairs required
all your attention.”
“So they do,” said Darius Darke, imperturbably. “I am coming to them by
and by. But it occurred to me that poor Thatcher’s family needed the
money he had when I knew him at Rocky Gulch.”
“How do you know he left a family?”
“I was speaking to his boy this evening. A fine, manly fellow Tom
Thatcher is. He’ll make a smart man if he lives.”
“You were speaking to Tom Thatcher this evening?” gasped John Simpson,
unpleasantly surprised. “At what time this evening?”
“Just before I came in.”
“And you hadn’t met him before?”
“No; I asked him the way to your house, and he told me he had just left
it.”
John Simpson was relieved. He feared at first that Tom’s call was
induced by a previous interview with his present visitor.
“He seems a fine boy,” repeated Darke.
“He is a very impertinent boy.”
“He doesn’t look like it. By the way, he tells me you have discharged
him from your employment.”
“He forced me to it. I may take him on again after a time. Did you
speak to Tom about his father?” asked John Simpson, uneasily.
“Yes. He says that you told him his father had only five thousand
dollars.”
“Suppose I did.”
“He got ten thousand dollars for his share of the money you jointly
sold the claim for, John Simpson.”
“How do you know that? Who are you?” demanded the rich man, with
feverish interest.
“How do I know? I certainly ought to know, for I was one of the two men
who bought you out.”
“You!” exclaimed Simpson, with undisguised amazement.
“Yes. I don’t look like it now, do I? But I had money then, and I
paid ten thousand dollars down for a half interest in the claim. I
may as well tell you that I never got the money back. The claim was
nearly exhausted at the time you sold, though I am sure neither you
nor Thatcher knew it. Well, you both remained awhile. After you left
my partner and myself came to the conclusion that we had made a bad
bargain, and he deputed me to follow you and see if you wouldn’t return
a part of the money under the circumstances.”
“Well?”
“Well, I finally came up with you. It was a bright moonlight night. I
found where you were encamped.”
Darius Darke paused. He rose from his chair, went to the door, and
closed it; then he came back, and approaching Mr. Simpson’s chair,
said, in a low voice:
“Don’t ask me to tell what I saw. You, of all men, would shrink from
hearing it.”
John Simpson looked at him with a dazed air.
“Why have you come here to tell me this?” he asked.
Darius Darke’s manner changed.
“Because,” said he, “I need money. The world has not used me well. Let
me have five hundred dollars, and you will not see me again for a year.”
“I cannot do it,” answered Simpson, hastily.
“Reflect upon it for five minutes. I think you will let me have it.”
There was a little haggling, but Darke remained firm. In the end he
prevailed. Before he left the room, money and securities amounting to
five hundred dollars were in his hands.
“Where are you going?” asked Simpson.
“I leave this town to-morrow, but I must pass the night somewhere. I
suppose I will not be received in the hotel, looking as I am. Will you
allow me to sleep in your stable?”
John Simpson hesitated. Finally he spoke.
“Follow me,” he said.
Out of the back door they went unobserved, to the back of the lot, six
hundred feet away, where was an old ruined barn, now no longer used, as
Mr. Simpson had built a stable near the house.
“You will find some hay in the loft,” he said, “and can rest
undisturbed till morning. I expect you to keep your promise then, and
leave this village.”
“I will do so.”
About one o’clock there was an alarm of fire in the village. John
Simpson’s old barn was discovered to be on fire, and was past saving
when the village hook-and-ladder fire-engine arrived on the spot.
CHAPTER VII.
THE MIDNIGHT FIRE.
Fire! When Tom Thatcher heard the bells ringing, and the ominous cry
of “Fire!” rang with startling distinctness through the streets of the
village, he sprang from his bed and hurried on his clothes.
“Where are you going, Tom?” asked his mother, as she saw him pass her
chamber door.
“To the fire, mother.”
“But it is past midnight.”
“I’ll be home soon, mother.”
“Don’t go too near, Tom.”
“No, I won’t.”
And Tom hurried out of the little cottage, and joined those who were
hastening to the scene of the midnight fire.
For boys in their teens, and for some beyond that period, fires have an
irresistible fascination. This is especially true in a village, where
such occasions are uncommon, and where, as all are acquainted, the loss
will come upon a friend or neighbor.
“Where is the fire?” asked Tom, of the first man he met.
“At Squire Simpson’s.”
“Not his house?” asked Tom, excited.
“No, it’s the old barn at the back of his house.”
“I wonder how it could have caught fire?” thought Tom, but as no answer
suggested itself, he hurried on to the fire.
It was enveloped in a blaze when he came up, and surrounded by a
group of men and boys, some in their shirt-sleeves, though it was a
December night. The fire-engine was on the ground, but the firemen were
inactive, for it was clear that nothing could be done to arrest the
flames.
Prominent among those present was the rather portly form of John
Simpson, bareheaded, and clad in a showy dressing-gown, the same he
had worn in his interview with Tom and Darius Darke only a few hours
earlier.
Mr. Simpson seemed excited and nervous, but that certainly was not
surprising, considering that the fire was on his own premises, and
might as well have involved his dwelling-house.
“Well, squire,” said Newell Ingalls, a near neighbor, “the old barn
will have to go.”
“Yes, sir, there’s no doubt about that.”
“Is there any insurance?”
“No; but the building was worth very little. There might have been two
or three tons of hay inside.”
“Have you any suspicion as to how it caught fire? It seems rather queer
it should have caught of itself.”
“I am afraid I can explain the matter, Mr. Ingalls,” said Squire
Simpson, raising his voice a little, as if he desired the crowd to hear
what he was about to say.
Naturally his neighbors gathered a little more closely about him,
induced by curiosity.
“This evening,” said the squire, “I had a call from a man whom I knew
slightly some years since in California. I didn’t remember him at
first, but he managed to recall himself to my recollection. The poor
fellow had been unlucky. He was miserably dressed, and appeared like a
tramp. I gave him something in memory of old times, and at his request
I allowed him to pass the night in the old barn. I didn’t think to
caution him against smoking. I have no doubt he lighted his pipe, and
somehow the fire was communicated to the hay on which he was probably
lying. That probably accounts for the fire.”
“Then the man must have been burned in the fire!” exclaimed Ingalls,
with an expression of horror.
“I am very much afraid of it,” said Mr. Simpson, with a nervous shudder.
“Poor fellow! It’s lucky you did not put him in the stable.”
“Indeed it is, for in that case the fire would inevitably have spread
to the house, which would probably now be in ashes.”
“How happened it that you did not let him sleep in the stable?” asked
Reuben Hunting.
“I was about to do so,” answered the squire, “when, for some reason
which I cannot explain, I changed my mind and led him out to this old
barn.”
“Did the thought of fire occur to you?” asked Hunting.
“I don’t think it did. It was a providential thought, as it seems to me
now.”
“What was the man’s name?” inquired George Ingalls.
“I can’t at this moment recall it. My acquaintance with the man was
very slight, and I never knew him very well.”
It may be imagined with what feelings Tom listened to this
conversation. He knew very well who this unhappy man was who had
perished in the flames. That is he knew him by the name he had
mentioned.
Our hero shuddered, and a feeling of awe crept into his mind, as he
reflected that within a few hours he had talked with Darius Darke, to
whom the gates of a terrible death had now opened.
He stood there, silent and grave, when, unexpectedly, public attention
was turned to him.
“This man was seen by at least one who is now present,” continued the
squire. “He told me that he had inquired the way to my house of Thomas
Thatcher.”
“Did you see him, Tom?” asked a dozen voices at once.
“Yes,” answered Tom. “I talked with him from ten to fifteen minutes.”
“Did he tell you his name?”
“He gave me a name, but he as much as said that it wasn’t his real
name.”
“What name was it?” asked several, eagerly.
“Darius Darke.”
“That’s a queer name. Is it his real name, squire?”
“I don’t think it is. I know very little of him or his career. He may
have had reasons for using a false name.”
“Very likely.”
“If he was burnt in the fire, squire, you’ll be likely to find his
bones among the ashes,” suggested Newell Ingalls.
“I hope not. I hope he had time to escape,” said the squire. “However,
it will be well to look in the morning.”
By this time the barn was completely consumed, and the embers alone
remained.
“Friends and neighbors,” said Squire Simpson, “it is all over, and
there seems to be no danger of the fire spreading. I won’t keep you any
longer out of your beds. I thank you heartily for your kindly coming to
my help, and I will on a future occasion express my acknowledgments in
a suitable manner.”
The crowd dispersed, the engine was returned to the engine-house, and
John Simpson sought his chamber.
He looked into the mirror, and hardly knew the image reflected there,
so pale and bloodless were his cheeks.
“I look badly,” he said, to himself, “but it will pass off. As to that
man, the world is well rid of him, and so am I. He should not have
tried to blackmail me. I never should have got rid of him if----”
He did not finish the sentence, but with a nervous shudder sought his
bed. He slept at last, but it was a troubled sleep, that gave him no
refreshment.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE BARN LOFT.
Was Darius Darke really burned to death in the old barn assigned him as
a resting-place?
So Squire Simpson thought, but he was mistaken.
When John Simpson went back to the house the tramp climbed up on the
loft and lay down on the hay.
It was a comfortable place, far more comfortable than many in which he
had been compelled to lodge, but it did not please him.
“Why,” he asked himself, “should John Simpson pass by his comfortable
stable and put me in this out-of-the-way barn? I have fallen pretty
low, it is true, but I still think a stable is not too good a place for
me. What! what is that?”
He started as he felt something cold on his face, and quickly rose to a
sitting posture.
“It is a rat!” he exclaimed, in disgust. “I felt his cold paws on my
face. I never can sleep here!”
Then the thought occurred to him that the stable was near by, and he
could probably get in easily. He groped his way down from the loft,
opened the door through which he had entered, and retraced his steps
along the path leading to the house, deviating at last and seeking the
stable.
He could not open the large door, but there was a small side door
through which he entered. Leaving it open for a minute till he could
get his bearings, he caught a glimpse of a ladder, by which he easily
ascended to the loft, which was about half filled with hay.
He stretched himself out on his humble bed with a sigh of satisfaction.
“There won’t be any rats here,” he said to himself. “The building is
new and they haven’t found a lodgment here yet. I must wake up early in
the morning and vacate the premises, and John Simpson will never know
that I changed my sleeping-room.”
Darius Darke ensconced himself in the hay, and congratulated himself on
his change of quarters. He expected to sink to sleep, but the stable
seemed close! He had always been accustomed to plenty of air, but
especially of late, when his bed had often been by the side of a fence,
or at the foot of a hay-stack, under the canopy of heaven.
“I wonder whether there isn’t a window here?” thought he.
He rose from his couch and began to explore. He was successful.
In the side of the barn was, not a window, but a small door, which was
fastened by a latch on the inside.
It was easy, of course, to open it, and admit the free air just behind
where he lay.
“That is better,” he soliloquized, in a satisfied tone, and, resuming
his place on the hay, he was soon fast asleep.
Generally he was a good sleeper. His walking during the day was enough
to insure that. To-night, however, was an exception.
Soon after midnight he awoke, and found the pale moon shining upon him
through the small door.
He rose, and drawing near the window, looked out. Mechanically, for he
had no object in so doing, he directed his glance toward the old barn,
where he had been assigned a bed. He saw something that startled him.
Beside the barn was the stooping figure of a man. He seemed to have
with him a basket, from which he drew out shavings, which he carefully
placed just at the corner of the barn, at a place where the timbers
were dry and broken.
“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Darius Darke, “he is going to set the barn on
fire!”
“Who was the incendiary? What could be his object?”
These were questions which naturally addressed themselves instantly to
the mind of the eager watcher. Was it possible----
A terrible suspicion formed itself in his mind. To resolve it, it was
necessary to identify the incendiary. Here the moonlight, which had
probably awakened him, did him a further service.
As the figure rose from its crouching posture, after applying a match
to the heap of shavings, it swiftly turned and fled, as if pursued, in
the direction of the house. In so doing, it necessarily came nearer the
watchful eye of the lodger in the stable.
“It is John Simpson!” exclaimed Darius Darke, a cold perspiration
gathering on his face. “It is clear enough now what he meant to do. He
intended to burn me up in the barn as I slept, and thus rid himself
forever of the man who was acquainted with his secret. This is the
reason why he passed by the stable and assigned me the old barn as a
resting-place. His plans are defeated. If I were a better man, I should
believe it to be by a special interposition of Providence. At any rate,
I am grateful for my escape.”
Even as he spoke the fire was making headway. The old dry timbers
formed admirable food for the flames. Besides, there was a considerable
amount of hay on the loft, and this, too, was of a highly combustible
character.
“The barn will be a heap of ashes in half an hour,” thought the tramp.
“It will, of course, attract attention, and soon there will be a crowd
here. I must close this door. No one must know that I am not actually
in the barn, the victim of the flames.”
He closed the door, but through a crevice watched the flames, and soon
heard the murmur of many voices, and the noise created by the arrival
of the fire-engine. He could not hear the explanation which was given
by John Simpson of the origin of the fire, but he guessed correctly
what he would say.
“I should like to hear the hypocrite speak,” he thought. “How shocked
these simple neighbors of his would be if they could know that the man
who holds so prominent a place among them had this very night sought to
commit a most atrocious murder!”
An hour later--less even--the barn was a smouldering mass of cinders,
and the yard was deserted.
“I mustn’t stay here any longer,” thought Darius Darke. “I am sorry to
lose my night’s sleep, but I must be up and away while the village lies
buried in sleep. For the present John Simpson must suppose me dead, but
the time will come when the man he thinks murdered will rise from the
grave to disturb his peace.”
He descended to the floor, slipped out of the door by which he had
entered, and ere the morning dawned was ten miles away from Wilton.
CHAPTER IX.
AN UNEXPECTED CHARGE.
“Mother,” said Tom, the next morning when they met at the
breakfast-table, “I have some bad news for you.”
“Bad news!” repeated Mrs. Thatcher, turning pale. “What is it?”
“Don’t let it trouble you too much, mother, for it doesn’t depress me.”
“Don’t keep me any longer in suspense, Tom,” said his mother,
anxiously. “Whatever it is, let me know it at once.”
“Then,” said Tom, “I am out of work. Mr. Simpson has discharged me.”
“What for? Is business slack?” inquired Mrs. Thatcher.
“No, business is very good. The fact is, Mr. Simpson is angry with me.”
“Have you given him any cause, my son?”
“I will tell you all about it and let you judge. Last evening I called
upon him and asked him questions about my father, and how much money he
had when they parted in California.”
“But, Tom, what good can all this do now?” said his mother.
“Perhaps none, mother; but you must admit that I have reason to feel
interested in the fate of my poor father.”
“How did Mr. Simpson receive you?”
“Very coldly. Still he answered some of my questions. But when I spoke
of the great change it would have made in our circumstances if father
had lived, and brought home the money which even Squire Simpson admits
that he had gained, he began to tell how much he had done for us.”
“What has he ever done for us?” asked Mrs. Thatcher, wonderingly.
“I will tell you in his own words--he has employed me in his shop.
When he said that, I said that he had given me no more than any one
else--even less than is paid in other shoe towns--he became angry, and
told me that he would discharge me, and I would then have the chance of
seeking higher wages somewhere else.”
“Did he really mean it?” asked Mrs. Thatcher, in alarm.
“Did he mean it, mother? If you had seen him and heard him, as I did,
you wouldn’t have needed to ask that question. He meant it fast enough.
Why, mother, I actually believe that he hates me.”
“But why should he hate you? Why should any one hate you, my boy?”
“I haven’t given any one a good cause for doing it. But all the same he
hates me, and that is why he has discharged me. I am to go to the shop
this morning and collect what is due me, and that will be the end of
it.”
“Tom, I will go and see Mr. Simpson myself. I will ask him to take you
back.”
“No, mother,” said Tom, decidedly; “I am too proud to beg to be taken
back.”
“It won’t be you who ask it. It will be I.”
“It would humble me all the same.”
“But, Tom, we find it hard enough to live when you are at work. If you
are out of work we shall starve.”
“No, you won’t, mother. In one way or another I will manage to earn
fifty cents a day, and I hope more. Now I am going to the shop to
collect my money.”
Tom went out, leaving his mother in low spirits. She was not so hopeful
as he of his ability to make up the sum which he had lost by his
discharge from the shop.
In the shoe-shop Tom found plenty of sympathy. There was even a strong
feeling of indignation excited against Mr. Simpson, for Tom Thatcher
was a popular favorite. He collected his money--three day’s wages--and
left the shop.
On the way he met John Simpson. The boy would have avoided him, but the
manufacturer called him by name.
“Look here, you Tom Thatcher,” he said, “I have a word to say to you.”
“Very well, sir,” said Tom, proudly.
“I know very well what you were up to last night.”
“I was at your fire, if you mean that, sir.”
“I believe,” said John Simpson, sternly, “that you were the incendiary.”
Tom started, in uncontrollable surprise.
“I believe that you set the barn on fire in order to be revenged upon
me for discharging you from my employment.”
“Good Heavens, sir, what are you saying! You yourself attributed it to
the man whom you let sleep in the barn.”
“I only did it to screen you. I didn’t want the son of my old comrade
to be suspected of such a crime. I am willing that the matter should
stand so.”
“But I am not,” said Tom, with spirit. “Your charge is a base
falsehood. I can prove by my mother that I was fast asleep in my room
for three hours before the fire. You know who set the fire better than
I.”
“What do you mean?” gasped the rich man, turning pale.
“That I know absolutely nothing about it.”
“Oh, that was all, was it?” returned Simpson, relieved, and he walked
away.
Tom looked after him, puzzled by his manner.
CHAPTER X.
IN SEARCH OF EMPLOYMENT.
On his way back from the shop Tom met another member of John Simpson’s
family.
It was Rupert.
Rupert was carefully dressed, and looked, as the saying is, as if he
had just come out of a bandbox. He was rather fond of dress. Besides
it helped to distinguish him from the other boys in the village. Harry
Julian was the only one who had the means to dress as well, and he was
content with dressing neatly.
Generally Rupert would have passed Tom with a cool nod, if indeed he
had deigned to notice him at all, but now his curiosity was excited by
seeing him in the street at an hour when he was usually at work.
“Why are you not at work?” asked Rupert, pausing in his walk.
“Because I have no work to do,” answered Tom, who did not care to seek
Rupert’s sympathy.
“Isn’t the shop open to-day?” asked Rupert, puzzled, for he knew
nothing of Tom’s dismissal.
“Yes, it’s open.”
“Then why are you not at work?”
“Didn’t your father tell you that he had discharged me?”
“No,” said Rupert, eagerly. “What for?”
“He is angry with me. I will refer you to him.”
“But what are you going to do?” inquired Rupert, who did not seem to
take the news much to heart.
“I must find work somewhere else.”
“That won’t be very easy.”
“Perhaps not.”
“If you can’t find anything to do, you and your mother will have to
come on the town, won’t you?” asked Rupert, briskly.
“I don’t think so,” said Tom, gravely.
“I wonder father didn’t say anything at home about it,” continued
Rupert. “Wouldn’t you just as lief tell me why he bounced you?”
“I must refer you to your father,” said Tom, coldly. “Good-morning.”
“That boy is very proud, considering he is a beggar, or the next thing
to it,” said Rupert to himself. “I suppose he was impudent to pa. I
know pa wouldn’t stand that, and he ought not to. I am glad Tom’s pride
has had a fall.”
Tom didn’t go immediately home. There was another shop in the village,
considerably smaller than Mr. Simpson’s, but still employing twenty
hands. This was kept by a Mr. Casey, a man well-to-do, but not setting
up for an aristocrat like his competitor in business. Tom thought it
possible he might get employment here, and he dropped in on the way
home.
“Good-morning, Tom,” said Casey, who was cutting out shoes.
“Good-morning, sir.”
“Are you not at work to-day?”
“Mr. Simpson thinks he can get along without me.”
“How is that?” asked Casey, in surprise.
Tom briefly told under what circumstances he had been discharged.
“That’s a pity,” said Casey, in a sympathizing tone. “I can’t justify
John Simpson in that.”
“You don’t want a pegger, do you, Mr. Casey?”
“Not unless one of my boys leave me. I’d like to take you on; but I
have no vacancy. As soon as there is one, you may depend on my sending
for you.”
“Thank you, sir. That is all I can ask.”
“How much did Mr. Simpson pay you?” asked Casey.
“Fifty cents a day.”
“That is poor. Why, I pay sixty, and out of town more is paid.”
“I know that; but it wouldn’t pay me to go out of town as long as
mother lives here.”
“That’s true. Well, Tom, I hope you will find something to do. You may
depend on hearing from me when I have a vacancy.”
Tom thanked him and left the shop. He had been kindly received; but
kind words wouldn’t pay the baker’s and grocer’s bills, and he felt
rather sober.
A few rods from Casey’s shop he met his friend Harry Julian, who also
expressed his surprise at seeing Tom on the street at that time in the
day.
Tom gave an explanation.
Harry looked concerned, for he was strongly attached to Tom, and he
very well understood what a serious matter it was to him and his mother
for him to be out of work.
He reflected a moment, and his face brightened as something occurred to
him.
“Tom,” he said, “will you do me a favor?”
“Of course I will, Julian.”
“Then let me lend you this,” and before Tom understood what he meant,
he had thrust something into his vest-pocket.
Tom drew it out, unfolded it, and found it to be a five-dollar bill.
“Thank you, Harry,” he said; “but I can’t take this.”
“Why not? Remember, I ask it as a favor to me.”
“But it isn’t that; it is a favor to me.”
“Well, are you too proud to accept a favor from your friend Harry?
Listen, Tom,” he added, rapidly. “You know father is very well off, and
he gives me a dollar a week as an allowance. I don’t spend it all, and
so I happen to have five dollars on hand. I really have no use for it.
Now won’t you take it?”
“You are very kind, Harry, but I have some money in my pocket.”
“How much?”
“A dollar and a half.”
“That won’t last you till you get something to do.”
Tom knew this only too well, and he was strongly tempted to accept, for
his mother’s sake.
“Will your father like your giving away this money?” he asked.
“He will be glad to have me assist a friend, particularly you. He likes
you, Tom, and is always willing I should come to visit you.”
“Then I will tell you what I will do, Harry--I will take the money, and
use it if I am absolutely obliged to. But I shall expect to pay it back
some time.”
“All right, Tom. You may pay it back when you are twenty-one. That will
be soon enough. What a mean man that Simpson is. What an awful thing
that was last night--I mean the tramp burning up in the old barn.”
“Yes, it was. I suppose I was the only one who saw him besides Squire
Simpson. Harry, he said he knew my father in California, and that he,
father, was worth at one time twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Harry, in surprise.
“Yes, and I believe the story.”
“I wish you had it now, Tom.”
“So do I; but it’s no use wishing.”
Tom went home considerably encouraged. True, he had no prospect of
a place, but the sympathy and kindness of Harry Julian had made the
world seem brighter to him. Boys, as well as men, when in trouble crave
sympathy. They like to feel that they are not standing alone, but have
some one’s good wishes.
“What a splendid fellow Harry is,” said Tom, warmly, to himself; “not
much like Rupert. I really believe Rupert would be glad to see me in
the poor-house. If I were rich and he were poor, I would try to help
him, and not be mean enough to rejoice in his misfortune.”
When Harry went home he lost no time in telling his father of Tom’s
misfortune, and what he had done to relieve it.
“I thought you would approve, father,” he said.
“Approve, my son! I rejoice at your kindness of heart. You could not
have pleased me more.”
“I am afraid Tom will find it hard to get anything to do,” said Harry,
thoughtfully.
“Can he write a good hand?”
“Yes, he writes a very plain hand.”
“Then, if he gets nothing better to do, I will offer to employ him as a
copyist to copy some of my old sermons. I will pay him as much as Mr.
Simpson has been paying.”
“Shall I tell him?” asked Harry.
“No; I prefer that he should get employment elsewhere if he can, for
this copying would only be a makeshift. It would not lead to anything
permanent. Still, if he finds nothing else, I will offer him four weeks
employment in my study.”
While Harry and his father were devising some way of providing
employment for Tom, John Simpson and his son Rupert were also
discussing his affairs, but in a different spirit.
“I wouldn’t have discharged him if he hadn’t been impudent,” said
Squire Simpson.
“Just what I thought, pa. He’s awfully independent. He is very rude to
me.”
“He will be his own enemy,” said the squire, sententiously.
“You won’t take him back, pa, will you?”
“Not unless he makes me an humble apology.”
“Then he’ll never come back,” thought Rupert. “He’s too proud to do
that.”
John Simpson had one source of regret. His enemy, as he considered him,
Darius Darke, had been cut off in a terrible manner, but at the same
time the five hundred dollars which he had given him had also been
consumed.
“What a fool I was not to put him off till morning!” he reflected,
with vexation. “Then I would have saved five hundred dollars. But it
never occurred to me. However, I am glad to be rid of him even at that
price. I am sorry he fell in with Tom Thatcher, and told him that story
about his father’s having twenty-five thousand dollars. Tom was already
inclined to be suspicious. I wish he were out of the village--he and
his whole family. If he can’t find work, he may have to go yet. The
family can’t live on nothing, and the cottage isn’t worth much. I wish
I had a mortgage on it.”
CHAPTER XI.
A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE.
The town of Wilton, aside from the manufacture of shoes, had no other
branch of industry employing a considerable number of men and boys.
This accounts for the difficulty Tom experienced in finding employment.
However, he did have one offer. In passing Abel Babcock’s blacksmith’s
shop, the smith, who had just finished shoeing a horse, called out to
him:
“Come here a minute, Tom.”
Tom entered the smithy.
“I hear you are out of a job, Tom.”
“Yes, Mr. Babcock. I am looking for work.”
“It was mean of John Simpson to turn you off, and I wouldn’t mind
telling him so.”
“It was unlucky for me.”
“How would you like to learn my business?” asked Abel Babcock.
“The business of a blacksmith?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think it would suit me,” said Tom, slowly.
“You’ve got to do something, Tom. You can’t afford to be particular.”
“I know that. Suppose I said yes, what would you be willing to pay me?”
“Well,” said the smith, slowly, “I couldn’t pay you much--that is the
first year. You couldn’t do much just at first.”
“But how much?” persisted Tom.
“Well, maybe I could afford to pay a dollar a week the first year.”
Tom shook his head.
“That wouldn’t do,” he said. “I have to help support my mother and
sister. Mr. Simpson paid me three dollars a week, and it was all we
could do to get along on that. Why doesn’t your son, James, learn the
business?”
“I wish he would,” said the blacksmith, “but he prefers to work in a
shoe shop. If he’d learn my business, he could earn more after awhile.
Then you don’t think you’d like to go in with me?”
“Even if I did like it, I couldn’t afford to do it. But I’m much
obliged to you for the offer.”
“Oh, you’re welcome, as far as that goes,” and Abel Babcock returned to
his work.
“That boy’s goin’ to make a smart man some of those days,” said he to
himself. “It’ll take more’n John Simpson to keep him down. He’s comin’
out at the top of the heap some time.”
It might have afforded Tom some satisfaction if he had been aware of
Abel Babcock’s high opinion of him, but it is doubtful whether he would
have been complacent enough to agree with him. The fact was, Tom began
to feel sober. He was willing enough to work, but there seemed to be
no opening for him--that is, in Wilton. For the first time he began to
think of other places.
He picked up in the village store a stray copy of the New York
_Herald_, and he ran his eye eagerly over the advertising column headed
“Help Wanted.” It was clear, so he thought, there were places open in
New York. But New York was thirty miles away, and he could not leave
his mother and sister. On the other hand, he could be of little service
to them while he remained out of work.
We need not dwell upon this time of discouragement. After Tom had
fully satisfied himself that there was no one in Wilton who required
his services, his friend Harry, authorized by his father, proposed to
him to spend three hours a day in copying his old sermons, as already
mentioned.
“He will pay you fifty cents a day,” said Harry, “I believe that is the
same you received in the shop.”
“Yes, but I am afraid I can’t write well enough.”
“You write a good, plain hand, and that is all that is required. Do you
accept?”
“I shall be very glad to,” answered Tom, with a sigh of relief. “I’m
tired of doing nothing.”
“Then report at father’s study to-morrow morning at nine o’clock.”
Tom promised to do so.
It must be admitted that our hero did not find his employment very
interesting. The Rev. Mr. Julian’s sermons were of a dogmatic
character, and though he was a most excellent man, his pulpit
discourses were undeniably dry. Yet Tom felt a degree of satisfaction
in feeling that he was again earning something toward the support of
his mother, and he felt especially glad when one morning, on the way to
the parsonage, he encountered Rupert Simpson.
Rupert smiled superciliously.
“You don’t find it very easy to get work, I see,” said Rupert.
“How do you see it?”
“You have plenty of leisure to walk about now.”
“That is true. I don’t work as many hours as I did in your father’s
shop,” returned Tom.
“Are you working at all?” demanded Rupert, quickly.
“Yes.”
“What are you doing?”
“Writing for Mr. Julian.”
“Perhaps you are writing his sermons,” said Rupert, with a sneer.
“That is exactly what I am doing,” answered Tom, with a smile at
Rupert’s bewilderment.
“Come, that’s nonsense. You are only trying to fool me.”
“If you want to see me at work, you can come with me. I am going to the
minister’s study now.”
“I suppose you are copying for him,” said Rupert, with sudden
enlightenment.
“You have guessed right.”
“What does he pay you?” inquired Rupert, curiously.
“I am paid fifty cents for three hours’ work. That is what your father
paid me for the whole day.”
“It won’t last long,” said Rupert, shortly, comforting himself with
this thought, as he walked away.
That was exactly what Tom told himself. It would not last long. He felt
that he must be looking out for something else, and, though at present
employed, he felt uneasy.
He had the afternoon to himself, and occasionally he got a small job to
do, which made a trifling addition to his income. But, of course, this
was precarious.
The post-office was located in the village store, and the storekeeper,
or one of his clerks, distributed the mail. Tom went there one
afternoon to buy a half-pound of tea, and a couple of pounds of sugar
for his mother, for their purchases were necessarily of an economical
character, when the clerk who was waiting upon him, said:
“I believe there’s a letter for you in the office.”
“Is there?” asked Tom, rather surprised, for the family correspondence
was very limited.
“Yes; here it is--a letter from New York; and it’s for you.”
Tom opened the letter and hurriedly glanced at the signature.
His heart gave a sudden bound.
It was signed by the man who, he supposed, had perished in the flames
at the recent fire--Darius Darke!
Over the top was written:
“Strictly confidential.”
It ran thus:
“This will seem to you like a voice from the grave. Doubtless
you supposed that I was consumed in the burning barn. I wish
all except yourself to believe this. When, therefore, you have
read this letter, burn or otherwise destroy it, so that there
may be no chance of my secret being discovered. I wish to see
you as soon as possible, for reasons which I will explain when
we meet. Come to New York on Monday, and meet me at twelve
o’clock noon, or if you cannot reach the city so early, at
three o’clock, in front of the Astor House. I inclose money
to defray your expenses.
“DARIUS DARKE.”
This letter occupied one page of commercial note-paper. Between the two
leaves was tucked a ten-dollar bill.
“Who was your letter from?” asked the clerk.
“An acquaintance of mine,” answered Tom, briefly, as he thrust the
bank-note hurriedly into his vest-pocket.
CHAPTER XII.
TOM’S JOURNEY.
As Tom went home his mind was in a whirl of mingled excitement and
bewilderment. Neither he nor any one else in the village had harbored
a moment’s doubt on the subject of the wandering tramp. It was firmly
believed that he had been consumed in the burning barn. Now it turned
out that he was not a victim of the conflagration, but was alive and
well in the city of New York.
“He must be better off than he was when I met him,” thought Tom, “or he
wouldn’t be able to send me a ten-dollar bill.”
His thoughts recurred to the fire and to Darius Darke.
If the tramp had not accidentally set the old barn on fire, who had?
Was it possible that Darius had set it on fire out of spite against the
owner? This was hardly likely, since John Simpson had allowed him to
sleep there, and probably given him money, which would account for his
ability to send the ten-dollar bill.
Tom finally settled upon this theory. The tramp, he decided, had
accidentally set the barn on fire while smoking, but had managed to
escape. The fear of being charged with incendiarism would naturally
prompt him to escape while he could. What Mr. Darke had to communicate
to him he could not conjecture, but he was resolved to meet him at the
time specified. It must be important, or he would not have offered to
defray his expenses.
One difficulty presented itself. He was forbidden to mention the
existence of Darius Darke. How, then, could he account to his mother
for his wish to visit New York--a journey which he had never made
alone? In fact, he had been in the great city but twice in his life.
It was now Thursday, and it was not necessary yet to mention the
matter. He might think of some plausible pretext before Monday.
He did not wait in vain.
On Friday, when engaged in copying in the minister’s study, he
overheard Mr. Julian say to his wife:
“I ought to go to New York in a day or two, but I hardly know how to
spare the time.”
“On business?” inquired his wife.
“Yes; I draw a certain amount of interest money every quarter from Mr.
Mellish, of Mellish & Co., No. -- Wall Street, who has charge of some
securities of mine. It was due a week since, and I may have occasion
for it.”
“Why can’t you spare time to go?”
“I am to make a tour of inspection among the schools next week, and I
have, besides, some extra writing to do.”
Mr. Julian chanced to be chairman of the school committee in Wilton,
and the supervision of the schools brought him considerable labor.
“Mr. Julian,” said Tom, looking up from his writing, “couldn’t I do the
business for you?”
The minister looked surprised.
“I don’t know but you could,” he said, after a pause of consideration.
“Do you know your way about New York?”
“Not very well, but I’ll find it,” answered Tom, promptly.
“What put it in your head to propose going?” asked Mr. Julian.
“I saw a copy of the New York _Herald_ the other day. It contained a
good many advertisements for help. I should look around and see if I
couldn’t hear of some place.”
“Not a bad idea,” said the minister, approvingly. “Well, I believe I
will trust you. When do you want to go?”
“On Monday,” said Tom, promptly.
“Very well, Monday let it be--that is, of course, if your mother
doesn’t object. I shall pay your railway fares, and give you money
enough to buy your dinner.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Tom would have declined taking money for his expenses, but he could not
do so without betraying his own secret. He therefore made no objection.
Mrs. Thatcher felt a little nervous about Tom’s going to the city
alone. He was old enough to be trusted to make such a journey, but his
mother had traveled so little that she felt timid.
“You must be very careful, Tom,” she urged. “I hear there are a great
many wicked men in New York, who may lie in wait for you, and lead you
astray.”
“I think, mother,” said Tom, good-humoredly, “they won’t think me of
sufficient importance. Besides, you know, I am only to be in the city a
few hours.”
“I shall feel anxious till you get back, Tom.”
“I don’t believe anybody will try to carry me off, mother. If they do
they’ll have a tough job. I’ll make it lively for them.”
Mrs. Thatcher, privately, was of the opinion that Mr. Julian had acted
imprudently in trusting a boy with so important a commission, but she
saw that Tom had no fears, and acquiesced in his going.
The morning train for New York left the Wilton station at half-past
eight o’clock.
Rather to Tom’s surprise, Rupert Simpson was a passenger by this train.
As Tom entered the cars, he found Rupert already installed in a seat by
the window. There was no other seat vacant except the one beside him.
“Is that seat taken, Rupert?” asked Tom.
Rupert surveyed our hero in undisguised surprise and awe.
“No,” he answered. “Where are you going?”
“To New York,” answered Tom, seating himself. “I suppose you are going
there, too.”
“Yes. I didn’t expect to meet you here.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“What are you going for?”
“On business,” returned Tom.
“What sort of business can you possibly have in New York?” demanded
Rupert, impatiently.
Tom was in good spirits, and disposed to be on good terms with
everybody. Otherwise he might, perhaps, have taken offense at Rupert’s
tone.
“It isn’t business of my own,” he answered, “that is not entirely. I am
going up for Mr. Julian.”
“That’s strange.”
“Is it? Why?”
“It is strange that he should trust any business to a boy like you.”
“I don’t know but it is. I think I can attend to it, though.”
“What sort of business is it?” continued Rupert, giving way to
curiosity.
“I don’t think I ought to tell, as it is his business, not mine.”
“No doubt it is of great consequence,” sneered Rupert.
“It is of some importance, certainly. Are you going on business, too?”
“I am going to stay a week with some friends on Madison Avenue,”
answered Rupert. “I suppose you have heard of Madison Avenue?”
“I don’t know that I have. I don’t know much about the city.”
“It is one of the finest streets in the city, and my friends live in an
elegant house.”
“You will have a fine time, no doubt,” said Tom.
“Oh, yes, I am sure to. I shall go all about.”
“I wish I were in your place, Rupert.”
“Oh, it wouldn’t suit you. You wouldn’t know how to behave among
fashionable people.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” asked Tom, spiritedly.
“Because you are only a shoe-pegger. You are not used to good society.”
“I consider my mother and sister to be good society,” said Tom, quickly.
“Oh, no doubt they are good sort of people,” said Rupert,
condescendingly, “but they are not fashionable.”
“I don’t see much difference between you and me on that score,” said
Tom. “Your father and mine used to work at the shoe bench together.”
“Do you mean to insult me?” asked Rupert, flushing with vexation.
“No, I am only telling the truth.”
Rupert looked offended, and became silent and sullen. By this time
there was another vacant seat on the opposite side of the car. Tom rose
and took it, finding that Rupert did not enjoy his society. On the
whole he was not sorry, for he had feared that he might be unable to
shake him off, and he did not wish any one from Wilton to be present at
his interview with Darius Darke.
An hour and a half passed quickly. By ten o’clock Tom was in New
York--two hours before the time appointed for the meeting.
CHAPTER XIII.
A CHEAP OVERCOAT.
Tom thought it best to attend, first of all, to Mr. Julian’s business.
Accordingly he inquired his way to Wall Street, and was not long in
finding the office of Mellish & Co.
It was a large office on the ground floor, with a counter and a
cashier’s desk. Considerable business appeared to be transacted there,
to judge from the number of clerks and of visitors.
“Well, young man, what can I do for you?” inquired a young man.
It was a son of Mr. Mellish, the head of the firm.
Tom presented a few lines from Mr. Julian, authorizing the firm to pay
him the quarterly interest due on Mr. Julian’s securities.
The young man glanced his eye over it rapidly.
“Will you have a check or the money?” he asked.
“The money,” answered Tom.
“Very well. I will make out a check, and our cashier will give you the
money on it.”
Five minutes later--perhaps in less time--Tom had placed in his hands
two hundred and fifty dollars. He had not supposed the business would
be transacted so easily. In his eyes two hundred and fifty dollars was
an immense sum, and he had some private doubts whether, in spite of
Mr. Julian’s letter, they would be willing to pay it to an unknown boy
like him. It even occurred to him that it might be inconvenient for the
firm to pay out so much money, and they might put him off till another
day. But he didn’t know how things were done in Wall Street.
Next to him was a boy of about his own age, who quietly gave an order
for the purchase of five hundred shares of some kind of stock, at 89.
Tom calculated that this purchase would amount to over forty thousand
dollars. Yet the order was taken as a matter of course.
“There must be a good deal of money in New York,” thought Tom, not
unnaturally.
As he was going out of the office, a bootblack stepped up to him and
said, jocosely:
“Say, young feller, couldn’t you lend me a thousand dollars till
to-morrer? I’ve got a big payment to make, and I’m short.”
As the young applicant for a loan was dressed in a ragged costume of
unknown antiquity, Tom, of course, understood the joke.
“I’ve got a big payment to make myself,” he answered, “and I can’t
spare any money to-day.”
“All right!” said the bootblack, nonchalantly, “I’ll go and see Astor
or Vanderbilt. I guess one of ’em will let me have the money.”
“You didn’t take me for either of them, did you?” asked Tom.
“Oh, no; I knew you was A. T. Stewart,” said the boy, winking.
Tom laughed and walked up toward Broadway.
He was a little nervous about carrying so much money about with him. If
he should lose it there would be no possibility of making it up. He put
it into his inside coat pocket and buttoned up his coat tight.
As he was turning out of Wall Street he was addressed by a man of
thirty or thereabouts, who had seen him come out of the office of
Mellish & Co., though Tom did know that.
“My young friend,” he said, “have you five minutes to spare?”
Tom looked up at the clock on Trinity Church and saw that it was not
yet eleven o’clock.
“Yes, sir,” he answered.
“I see you have no watch,” began the stranger.
“Is he going to give me one?” thought Tom.
“A young man of your age ought to have a watch. Now I’m going to make
you an offer--a splendid offer--the chance of a life-time. Do you see
that watch?”
He drew out what appeared to be a gold watch of rather a pretty pattern.
“I see it,” said Tom, wondering what was to come next.
“I want to sell it. The fact is, I’ve got a note to meet at three
o’clock, and must have some money. The watch is worth seventy-five
dollars. I will sell it to you for twenty-five.”
“You must be in great want of money,” said Tom, not meaning to be
sarcastic.
“I am; but that is not the only consideration. I really don’t need the
watch, for I have another at home. Say the word, and the watch is yours
at twenty-five dollars--dirt cheap, I can assure you.”
“It may be,” said Tom--he really thought it was--“but I can’t afford to
buy it.”
“Buy it then on speculation. Why, I venture to say you can double your
money on it in a week, if you will look about a little for a purchaser
who knows a good thing when he sees it.”
“Then why are you willing to sell for so small a sum?” asked our hero.
“Why? Because my commercial credit depends on my meeting my note, and
credit is worth a great deal more to me than the small sum I should
lose by the transaction. Then, besides, if any one is going to profit
by it, I should like to have you.”
“Why?” asked Tom.
“Because you look like a gentleman. You look like a cousin of mine,
now in Europe. He is a smart fellow, and very good looking,” added the
stranger, meditatively.
“I wonder whether he means all that,” thought Tom, “or is he only
giving me taffy.”
He looked at the watch, and it certainly did look tempting. If the
money in Tom’s pocket had been really his, I am inclined to think he
would have bought it, but he was too honest to think for a moment of
appropriating the money in his pocket.
“The watch may be a very good one,” he said, “but I can’t buy it; I
haven’t got the money.”
“Couldn’t you borrow twenty-five dollars? I don’t know but I would say
a little less.”
“It would be of no use,” said Tom, shaking his head.
The watch was galvanized, and possibly worth one-fifth as much as Tom
was invited to pay for it, so that he had a narrow escape.
“I wonder if I look like a capitalist!” thought Tom. “Here, within ten
minutes, I’ve been asked to buy a gold watch, and to lend a thousand
dollars. I don’t remember that anybody ever asked me anything of the
kind in Wilton.”
Tom walked up Broadway till he came to the Astor House.
It was but eleven o’clock, and it was not yet time to meet Darius
Darke. He therefore passed on, and walked slowly up that wonderful
street, watching with mingled interest and curiosity, the shops and
the display of goods therein. He was especially interested in a large
ready-made clothing store, and the overcoats about the door.
Tom was very much in want of an overcoat. In fact, though it was a cold
day, he had none on at that very moment. He reflected that he had ten
dollars of his own, the sum sent him by Darius Darke. As his traveling
expenses were paid by Mr. Julian, he had not been obliged to trench on
that fund.
“If I could get an overcoat for five dollars, I don’t know but I’d buy
one,” he said to himself.
He entered, and inquired the prices of several articles in that line,
but he found, to his disappointment, that ten dollars was the lowest
price.
While he was standing in the store, a gentleman of moderate size made
choice of one of the best overcoats sold by the firm.
“Shall we send your overcoat home?” asked the salesman.
The gentleman shrugged his shoulders.
“I suppose you may as well, though I don’t expect ever to wear it
again.”
Then, glancing at Tom, who was on the point of leaving the store, he
said:
“My boy, I see you have no overcoat. Will you consider it an insult if
I offer you my old one?”
“No, sir; I would accept it, with thanks,” answered Tom, quickly.
“Then it is quite at your service. You will find it not over half worn
but it never fitted me, and that is why I lay it aside.”
Tom lost no time in trying on the coat. It could not have fitted him
better if it had been made for him. It was a gray mixed cloth, well
made, and did not look to be even half-worn.
“I am _very_ much obliged to you, sir,” said Tom, gratefully.
“Oh, don’t mention it! Glad it will be of service to you. Good-morning.”
“It appears to me I am in luck,” thought Tom, surveying his new
overcoat complacently. “I wonder if such things often happen in New
York. My visit to New York is likely to prove a success.”
At five minutes to twelve Tom reached the Astor House, and took a
position on the steps.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE TRAMP TRANSFORMED.
Several persons were standing near Tom, but no one who looked like his
nocturnal acquaintance of Wilton.
“I suppose I am ahead of time,” thought our hero.
Just then a well-dressed gentleman, swinging a light bamboo cane,
approached and tapped Tom lightly on the arm.
“I see you are on hand my young friend,” said the new-comer.
Tom glanced quickly at the man who had spoken to him.
He saw a gentleman, handsomely dressed, with a heavy gold chain
depending from his waistcoat, and having every appearance of a man not
only well-to-do, but rich.
“Haven’t you made a mistake, sir?” he asked, in a puzzled manner.
“No, I think not. You are Thomas Thatcher, from Wilton, are you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you don’t remember me?”
“Surely, you are not----”
“Darius Darke, at your service. So you didn’t know me?”
“No, sir; you don’t look much like the man I saw in Wilton the night of
the fire.”
“Speak low,” said the other. “I don’t care, for reasons of my own, to
be identified as that man. We must continue our conversation in a place
more retired. Come up to my room;” and he turned to enter the hotel.
“Do you live here?” asked Tom, amazed, for to live in the Astor House,
as he understood, required a long purse.
“Yes; follow me.”
He led the way up-stairs, and introduced Tom into a pleasant room on
the third floor.
“Now, sit down, Thomas, and make yourself at home. Confess, you are
surprised at my transformation?”
“I certainly am, sir.”
“Did you expect to see the same disreputable-looking tramp who appeared
to you on that eventful evening?”
“Well, not exactly, sir, for your sending me the ten-dollar bill--for
which I thank you--showed that you must have improved in your
circumstances.”
“But you were not prepared for quite so great a change?” said Darius
Darke, as he drew out a handsome gold watch and noted the time.
“No, sir; but then, of course, I knew very little about you.”
“You thought I was burned with the old barn, eh?”
“Yes.”
“How did John Simpson account to his neighbors for the fire?”
“He said he had let you sleep in the barn, and neglected to caution you
about smoking. He thought you had set the building on fire in that way.”
Darius Darke laughed grimly.
“John Simpson is a crafty man,” he said, “but he overreached himself
this time, or perhaps I should say that I overreached him. My young
friend, I may say to you that I have not smoked for years--certainly, I
did not smoke on that eventful night.”
“Then how did the barn catch fire?” asked Tom, a good deal puzzled.
“It was set on fire.”
“Did you----”
“No, I did not set the barn on fire; I could have no object in doing
it. _The fire was kindled by John Simpson himself._”
“Do you mean it?” asked Tom, his eyes wide open with surprise.
“Yes, I mean it.”
“But why should he want to burn down his own property?”
“He wanted to burn me up in it,” answered Darius, coolly.
“Why should he be so wicked?” asked Tom, more and more surprised.
“Hark you, my young friend, John Simpson is a much more wicked and
desperate man than you have an idea of. He has reasons for wishing
to get me out of the way. I know a secret of his which may give him
trouble.”
“How did you escape, Mr. Darke?”
Darius Darke explained to Tom how he had been induced to change his bed
and remove to the stable. He explained furthermore how he had chanced
to see Mr. Simpson setting fire to the building.
“I understood at once his motive,” continued Mr. Darke, “and I resolved
to watch the issue of this act. When the building was in flames, and
the crowd around it, I saw all from the stable where I was safely
hidden. It was not till all was over, and the crowd had dispersed,
that I ventured to leave my retreat, and take up my line of march from
the place which had come near proving my grave. I came at once to New
York, and here I have been ever since. But there is one thing I have
not explained to you. You wonder, no doubt, how the penniless tramp
succeeded in assuming the dress and position of a gentleman in easy
circumstances.”
Tom admitted that this was a matter which he could not understand.
“Then I will explain. After leaving you I called upon Mr. Simpson. He
did not at first recognize me, but I succeeded in recalling myself
to his remembrance. He was not glad to see me. In fact, he heartily
wished me at the remotest corner of the globe, I make no doubt, but he
was, nevertheless, prevailed to hand over to me five hundred dollars.
I see you look surprised,” continued Darius Darke. “_He did not dare
to do otherwise!_ I knew that about him which gave me a hold upon
him. Well, it was so late that it seemed necessary to remain in Wilton
till morning. In my wretched attire I could not secure a lodging at
the tavern, and my kind host offered me the hospitality of his barn. I
don’t think at the moment he had any designs upon my life. Otherwise he
would have suggested that I leave the money in his hands till the next
day, and thus avoid the danger of burning it up.”
“I was thinking of that, Mr. Darke,” said Tom.
“It would naturally occur to any one. I suppose that after I had left
him the idea of this easy way of ridding himself of me occurred to my
old friend Simpson, and although he was likely to sacrifice the money,
he doubtless thought it would save him from any more involuntary loans.
So he went out after midnight, when I might be supposed to have fallen
asleep, and kindled the fire.”
“The next morning he accused me of setting the fire,” said Tom.
“The scoundrel! I can see his object, however. He hates you almost as
much as he does me.”
“I don’t see why he should hate me,” said Tom.
“People are sure to hate those whom they have injured. That is a lesson
I have learned in a rather varied career.”
“I don’t know that Mr. Simpson has tried to injure me, unless by
discharging me from his employment.”
“Hasn’t he taken you back again?”
“No.”
“I think he would like to drive you out of the village,” said Mr.
Darke, thoughtfully. “The sight of you is unpleasant to him.”
“Why should it be?”
“Why? I will tell you presently. But I must first proceed with my own
story. I arrived in New York with the five hundred dollars which my
kind friend Simpson had given me. My first business, as you can well
imagine, was to procure a more suitable dress; in other words, to
restore myself to society by assuming a respectable appearance. That
did not take long. I ran across a friend of more prosperous days, and
learned that he was in business in Wall Street, as a broker. He gave me
a valuable point, bought for me a line of stocks, which went up five
per cent. the first day, and, in brief, has so manipulated my little
fund that the five hundred dollars which I brought from Wilton have
already increased to five thousand.”
“I didn’t think such things were possible,” said Tom, dazzled by the
recital of this remarkable success.
“They are possible but not probable. The probability was that I should
lose all my money, or at any rate, the greater part of it, but fortune
happened to be propitious, and I am a rich man, that is, I consider
myself so. As three weeks since I hadn’t a penny, you may consider that
I am justified in my view.”
“I should consider myself rich with _one_ thousand dollars,” said Tom.
“No doubt, but your ideas will grow. You will understand now why I
venture to take a room at a fashionable hotel.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And now it is time to tell you my object in sending for you.”
“I wish he would make me his private secretary,” thought Tom.
“It was to reveal to you a secret which you ought to know--the secret
of the hold I have upon John Simpson. Since he made that atrocious
attempt upon my life I owe him no consideration. I do not require his
help, and I declare myself his bitter foe. I forsake him, and I devote
myself to you.”
He spoke with energy, and Tom listened in surprise and bewilderment. He
was not sure of Mr. Darke’s sanity.
CHAPTER XV.
THE TRAGEDY AT ROCKY GULCH.
“It is now between eight and nine years ago,” said Darius Darke,
deliberately, “that I found myself at a mining district in California,
then known as Rocky Gulch. With me was a man named James Gibbon. We
had brought some money to California, and had greatly increased it by
lucky investments in San Francisco. We were well fixed, but expected to
increase our wealth in mining.”
“At Rocky Gulch we found several men at work, but the richest claims
belonged to John Simpson and Robert Thatcher.”
“My father?”
“Yes, your father. We purchased the greater part of their claims,
paying twenty thousand dollars.”
“Then my father’s share was ten thousand dollars?”
“Correct. It proved to be an unwise purchase. The claims were nearly
exhausted, though this was unknown to your father and his partner.”
“I am glad father did not know this. I should not like to think he had
defrauded you.”
“Your father thought he was giving us full value for our money.
Presently Simpson and your father left Rocky Gulch, and a few days
later my partner and I became satisfied that our claims were
practically exhausted. Gibbon requested me to follow your father and
Simpson, and, representing the case to them, plead for a return of some
part of the money. I set out.”
“Fifty miles away I overtook the men of whom I was in search. It was on
a bright moonlight night when I came in sight of the camp. Your father
lay stretched out on the ground, and John Simpson was bending over him
and rifling his pockets.”
“Is this true?” exclaimed Tom, deeply agitated.
“It is true as gospel. Beside the prostrate man was a large bag of gold
dust, which Simpson had laid aside. Concealed from view behind a large
tree, I watched, spell-bound, the nefarious work.”
“Why did you not dash forward, and help my father?”
“Because I was wholly unarmed, and I knew that Simpson was well armed.
Again, I believed that, so far as your father was concerned, he was
beyond help.”
“Was my father dead?” Tom asked, pale with emotion.
“I thought so at the time. I waited till the work of plunder was at an
end, and then I uttered a shrill cry. John Simpson heard it and fled,
in his fear forgetting the bag of gold dust. He never turned back, but,
his fears increased by the thought of his crime, he fled as fast as his
limbs could carry him.”
“I approached your father, and bending over anxiously sought to
discover whether he was alive or dead. I discovered that he had been
stunned by a severe blow on the head, but he was still breathing. I
remained beside him all night.”
“Did he die?” asked Tom, anxiously.
“No, not at once. But the heavy blow had affected his reason, and
though he opened his eyes, he did not appear to recognize me, or to
understand what had happened. In perplexity I left him to procure
assistance and food, but I had to go farther than I anticipated. I
ought to say that I took the precaution to excavate a place in the
earth, and store therein the bag of gold dust.”
“I was away a couple of hours. When I returned with two men whom I had
found two miles away, what was my surprise to find that your father had
disappeared. How I was unable to conjecture. He certainly was in no
position to get away by himself. I next thought of the bag of gold. Was
that gone, too? To my perplexity, I was unable to find the place where
I had hidden it. If your father had remained where I left him, I should
have had a clew. As it was, I was at a loss.”
“And you never found the gold dust?”
“Never. I ought to say, however, that I had but little time left for
the search. I was in haste to get to San Francisco, for a good deal
depended upon it. Gibson and myself paid for our claims partly in
drafts upon a San Francisco bank. As soon as Simpson reached the city
he would no doubt present them for payment. I wanted to stop them. I
was unsuccessful. John Simpson was a few hours ahead of me. He had
obtained the money, and I could find no trace of him in the city.”
“Didn’t you know where he lived?” asked Tom.
“No; if I had he would have heard from me much sooner. It was only a
few weeks ago, in fact, just before my visit to Wilton, that I learned
his residence. I was down in the world, penniless, or nearly so, and,
though the thought humiliated me, I determined to trade in my secret.
The rest you know.”
“Thank you for telling me all this, Mr. Darke,” said Tom, “but I am
sorry I have heard it.”
“Why?”
“Because I shall hereafter think of Mr. Simpson as a murderer, without
being able to do anything to repair the wrong which he inflicted upon
our family. Besides, I shall always be in doubt as to what became of my
father.”
“Why don’t you go out to California and see if you can’t find out
something about him, and the bag of gold dust which belonged to him?”
Tom looked at Mr. Darke in surprise.
“You don’t seem to understand my position,” he answered. “At present I
am earning fifty cents a day. Where am I to get money enough to pay for
such an expensive journey?”
“I will give you five hundred dollars toward it; that is, if you will
agree to undertake the journey.”
“But I have no claim upon you, Mr. Darke.”
“You need not thank me. From John Simpson I obtained five hundred
dollars, and it has enabled me to secure a small fortune in Wall
Street. The original money I cannot keep. I should regard it as
blood-money--the price of my complicity in his guilty secret. I give it
to you as part of the large sum of which he defrauded your father, for
though he failed to secure the bag, he carried off a large sum that of
right belongs to you and your mother to-day. Do you accept my proposal?”
Tom looked thoughtful.
“Are you willing that I should leave a part of this money for my mother
to live upon while I am away?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then, if my mother does not object, I will go.”
“If she objects, tell her of the bag of gold dust which is hidden
somewhere at Rocky Gulch; but it will be better not to harrow up her
feelings by speaking of your father’s attempted murder by John Simpson.”
“I will follow your advice. But how shall I explain my having the money
to make this journey?”
“Tell her you have found a friend who once knew your father and who
furnishes you with the necessary means. Caution her, however, not to
mention this to others. It is especially necessary that it should not
come to the ears of John Simpson, or he will do what he can to thwart
you. And now for the money.”
Darius Darke drew out a plethoric pocket-book and extracted therefrom
five one hundred dollar bills.
“These are for you,” he said. “Let me advise you before you leave the
city, to deposit them in a savings bank. It is hardly prudent to carry
so much money about.”
“Can you recommend me a safe bank?”
“I will go with you, as you are unacquainted with the city.”
The two left the Astor House together, and Mr. Darke led the way to a
large savings bank in the Bowery, where Tom deposited all his money
except a hundred dollars. This he exchanged for small bills, intending
to carry them home and leave them with his mother.
As he left the bank with his pass-book in his hand, he felt almost
bewildered with the sudden change in his circumstances.
Thrusting his hands into the inner pocket of his overcoat to place the
pass-book therein, his hand came in contact with a package of papers.
In surprise he opened it, and found it to contain valuable securities.
“What have you get there?” asked Darke.
“They must belong to the gentleman who gave me the overcoat!” answered
Tom.
CHAPTER XVI.
TOM’S VISIT TO PEARL STREET.
“Let me look at the papers,” said Mr. Darke. As he did so he whistled.
“Tom,” he said, “this small bundle of papers is worth ten thousand
dollars.”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed Tom, in amazement.
“Yes; I have made a rough estimate of their value. Now what are you
going to do with them?”
“Return them, of course.”
“I thought you would say so. Luckily you will have no difficulty about
it. On the envelope is the owner’s name and address--Samuel Perkins,
No. 597 Pearl Street.”
“I will go there at once,” said Tom, promptly.
“Do so. The owner will be anxious if he has discovered his loss. When
shall I see you again?”
“I will come to the city day after to-morrow.”
“I shall want to see you. I shall still be at the Astor House.”
While Tom is on the way to Pearl Street, we will precede him.
Mr. Perkins, on his return to his office, was for an hour or two
engaged in business duties. Then a business friend, with whom he was
also socially intimate, came in, and they found time for a chat.
“By the way, Darrell,” said Mr. Perkins, “I have been making a
purchase. What do you say to my new overcoat?”
“It seems a very good one. Where did you buy it?”
Mr. Perkins told him.
“I bought it ready made, contrary to my usual custom, but it fits as
snugly as a kid glove.”
“Where is the old one. If you have no use for it, I would like it for a
poor man of my acquaintance.”
“Too late, Darrell. I gave it away in the store.”
“How was that?”
“I saw a bright-looking boy pricing a coat. He was apparently a country
boy, and had no outer garment. You know I am not very gigantic; so,
concluding that my old coat would fit him, I offered it, and it was
gratefully accepted.”
“Then I am too late. By the way, I hope there was nothing in the
pockets?”
He was startled at the effect of his words. Mr. Perkins jumped to his
feet, while a look of absolute dismay overspread his face. He plunged
both hands hastily into the pockets of his new coat, and exclaimed:
“What a cursed fool I have been!”
“What’s the matter, Perkins?” asked his friend.
“The matter? Matter enough! In the pocket of the coat I gave away was a
package of securities amounting to about ten thousand dollars in value.”
“Good heavens!”
“And they didn’t belong to me. They belong to my ward. I got them out
of the safe deposit vaults to-day.”
“That _is_ serious. Do you know where the boy lives?”
“I don’t know his name.”
Darrell whistled.
“Are the securities negotiable?” he asked.
“A part of them.”
“I wish I could advise you what to do. Was your name on the envelope?”
“Yes,” answered Perkins, brightening at the suggestion!
“It is too much to hope the boy will return them to you.”
“I don’t know about that. He looked honest. He is a boy in whom I
should have considerable confidence,” said the merchant, slowly.
Darrell shook his head.
“Your only hope is to offer a liberal reward. I advise you to insert
an advertisement in the papers offering a reward of--say five hundred
dollars.”
“I’ll do it.”
Mr. Perkins seized a pen, and proceeded to draw up such an
advertisement as his friend had suggested, when the door of the office
opened, and Tom walked quietly into the room.
“Mr. Perkins,” said he, “I have found something which belongs to you.”
The merchant looked up. No sooner did he see and recognize Tom than he
sprang vivaciously from his chair.
“Did you find the papers?” he asked.
“Here they are, sir.”
“There, Darrell, what did I tell you?” he demanded, triumphantly.
“Didn’t I say the boy would prove honest?”
“One case in a hundred.”
“I hope you didn’t think I would keep the papers after you had been
so kind as to give me the overcoat!” said Tom, hastily. “I am not so
mean as that. I would have come sooner, but it was only about fifteen
minutes ago that I found the package.”
Mr. Perkins nodded his head in vigorous approval.
“Do you hear that, Darrell?” he asked. “Did you know the value of these
papers?” he asked of Tom.
“Yes, sir; a gentleman of my acquaintance told me they were worth about
ten thousand dollars.”
“Very correct. Do you know what I was about to do when you came in?”
“No, sir.”
“I had just discovered my loss. I was writing an advertisement offering
a reward of five hundred dollars if you would bring them back.”
“I hope you don’t think I needed a reward for doing my duty.”
“Some boys would.”
“I am not one of that kind,” said Tom, proudly.
“I am now willing to pay you that reward. You have relieved my mind of
a great load.”
“I will not accept a dollar, sir,” said Tom, firmly.
“Yet I judge that you are a poor boy?”
“Poor, but honest.”
“Where do you live?”
“In Wilton, about thirty miles from the city.”
“Do you want a place?”
“This morning I should have said yes. Now, I think I have other plans.”
“What are they?”
As briefly as he could, Tom explained what he intended to do.
Samuel Perkins listened with attentive interest.
“How soon do you propose to start for California?” he asked.
Tom answered that he should try to get away in a few days, if he found
that his mother had no objection.
“Before you start, come to me; I may have a business commission for
you.”
“Very well, sir. Now, if you will excuse me, I will go. I want to catch
the next train for Wilton.”
“A moment. What is your name?”
“Thomas Thatcher.”
“I will remember it. Good-by, and good luck to you.”
“That’s a boy of sterling merit,” said Perkins. “If he does not go to
California I will give him a good place.”
“If you have no place for him, I will engage him. It is not every boy
who would so resolutely refuse five hundred dollars.”
“You are right there.”
As for Tom, it did not strike him that he had done anything especially
worthy of commendation in rejecting the reward which Mr. Perkins
offered him. He had been so strictly trained in honesty that it had not
occurred to him as possible that he could act in any other way than to
return the papers. But for the unexpected good fortune which had come
to him from another quarter, he would have accepted gratefully the
offer of a place in Mr. Perkins’ establishment. As it was, he felt it
his duty to go to California, and clear up, if he could, the mystery of
his father’s fate.
When he entered the yard of his humble home, Tillie espied him from the
window, and her sharp young eyes instantly took notice of the overcoat.
“Where could he have got it?” thought his mother.
Tillie was asking that question of Tom himself a minute afterward.
“Girls are always curious,” he answered, good-humoredly. “I picked it
off a bush.”
“Now, Tom, don’t tease me so.”
“A gentleman made me a present of it.”
“I wish he’d give me a cloak, then.”
“You and mother shall both have cloaks, and dresses, too,” answered
Tom, cheerfully.
“You speak as if you had come into a fortune, Tom,” said his mother.
“I have been very lucky to-day. I will tell you all about it presently.”
Tom preferred to say what he had to his mother alone, as his sister was
too young to be trusted with a secret.
CHAPTER XVII.
TOM GAINS A VICTORY.
“Go to California!” exclaimed Mrs. Thatcher, in dismay, when Tom had
finished his story. “You surely can’t be in earnest, Tom?”
“Why, not, mother? Remember, there is a bag of gold dust somewhere
there which belongs to us. If my father knows what is going on here,
don’t you think it would be a relief to him to know that this money was
in our hands? When he was gathering it he was thinking of us. It was
for our sakes that he went so far from home, and thus far his labor has
brought us no advantage.”
Tom spoke earnestly, and his mother was somewhat impressed by his
words. Still she had a mother’s reluctance to have her only boy leave
her on a distant trip for an uncertain period.
“Of course, I wouldn’t go if you and Tillie were likely to suffer,”
continued Tom. “But I shall be able to leave with you as much money as
I earned in the whole of last year, besides buying you some dresses,
and so on, before I go.”
“I can’t understand where all this money comes from, Tom,” said Mrs.
Thatcher, in a puzzled tone.
“I am not at liberty to tell you, mother; I can only say it is given
me for the special purpose of making this journey.”
“But who could possibly care so much about your going to California.”
“It is some one who once knew father, and knew about the bag of gold
dust being concealed.”
“It seems very strange.”
“So it does, mother. It seems very strange to me. But shall I reject a
piece of good fortune because it seems strange?”
“I can’t look on it as good fortune to be separated from my boy.”
“Of course, mother, we shall miss each other, but a year or perhaps
less, will soon pass, and we can be together once more. I will hire a
boy to come and prepare the wood and do errands for you. Charlie Bates
will be willing to do it, I know, and I will make it worth his while.”
“It won’t be necessary, Tom. If you go away I shall not live in this
house.”
“Not live in this house!” exclaimed Tom, surprised in turn.
“No, I have other views,” said Mrs. Thatcher, in a tone which quite
mystified Tom.
“While you have been away, Tom, I, too, have had a proposal made to me.”
“A proposal, mother! Surely you will not marry again?”
“You are a foolish boy,” said his mother, smiling. “The proposal is of
quite a different character.”
“What is it, mother?”
“You remember that Mr. Hiram Bacon lost his wife a year since,” said
Mrs. Thatcher. “Since then his daughter has been keeping house for him.
Now she is to be married, and will move out of town. He came here this
afternoon to ask me to become his housekeeper.”
“But what is to become of Tillie?”
“She is to be with me. He says he would rather have her than not, as
he likes to see children about the house. He also offered to take you,
and let you pay your expenses by working on the farm. He agreed to pay
you a dollar a week, besides board. Now, Tom, think how comfortable we
might all be, if you would give up the idea of going to California, and
settle down here.”
“I shouldn’t like it, mother. Farming wouldn’t suit me. If I give up
the plan of going to California, I have a situation offered me in New
York.”
“Accept it then, Tom. It will be much better for you than going so far
from home.”
But Tom finally persuaded his mother that it would be expedient for him
to go to California, promising when he returned to settle down near
home.
That same evening he went to the minister’s house, and handed over the
money which he had collected, and resigned his position as copyist.
“I am glad you have found some better employment, my boy,” said the
minister. “As to this plan of yours I think it rather hazardous for
a boy of your age to go so far away; but I pray God to bless you, to
fulfill your desires, and bring you safe home!”
Tom had imparted his designation confidentially to the minister’s
family, knowing the kind interest which they each and all, felt in him,
but he had no intention of making it generally known, as it would then
reach the ears of John Simpson, and probably excite his suspicions.
It was not possible, however, wholly to suppress the news of his
departure. In due course, therefore, it came to the knowledge of Rupert
Simpson, who undertook to learn more from Tom himself.
“Is it true that you are going to leave Wilton?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Tom, briefly.
“I thought you’d have to. You couldn’t get work here.”
“I can do better elsewhere.”
“Where are you going?”
“To New York, first.”
“Oh, I see--you’ll set up as a bootblack,” sneered Rupert.
“If I did I would offer you a partnership.”
“Don’t be impudent,” said Rupert, reddening.
“I generally repay compliments in kind, Rupert. As you are so anxious
about my prospects, I may say that a Pearl Street merchant has offered
me a place.”
“Then you expect to live in New York--as long as you keep your
situation?”
“No; I shall travel at first.”
“Indeed! Where?”
“I shall probably go West.”
This was all that Rupert was able to elicit from Tom.
He faithfully reported it to his father. John Simpson was relieved to
hear that Tom was to leave Wilton. Had he known that our hero was going
to California his feeling would have been very different. As it was, he
concluded that Tom had undertaken the business of traveling-agent for
some firm.
“He won’t make his fortune at it,” said he, shrugging his shoulders.
“It’s a poor business.”
“I am glad of that,” said Rupert. “I hope he’ll come back in rags.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
DO THE DEAD LIVE?
“I wish you were going with me, Mr. Darke,” said Tom, as he sat in that
gentleman’s room at the Astor House, making his farewell call.
He had made all arrangements, seen his mother and sister installed
in the comfortable farm-house of Hiram Bacon, had procured a modest
outfit, and was ready to start for the Pacific coast. He felt that it
was a great undertaking for a boy of fifteen, and he longed for the
championship of some one whom he knew, even but slightly.
Darius Darke shook his head.
“I have had enough of California!” he answered. “There I met with
sorrow and losses. It will be long before I care to see it again.”
“Shall you stay in New York, Mr. Darke?”
“In a week from to-day I start for Europe, to be absent for a year.”
Tom looked surprised.
“Are you going on business?” he asked.
“No. I am going on a tour of pleasure. It seems strange to me, who have
been a penniless tramp for two years, that I can really afford this
journey.”
“You must enjoy it all the better for that,” said Tom.
“I do. By the way, my good fortune still follows me. I have been
following up the stock market, and the tide has been with me. I am now
worth ten thousand dollars.”
“It seems like magic,” said Tom.
“I have played a hazardous game, and won. Now I have withdrawn for
good. This very morning I invested my money in good dividend-paying
stocks, and now I can leave America with a mind free from anxiety. By
the way, if you need more money, draw on me.”
“Thank you sir,” said Tom, gratefully, “but there is no occasion. My
mother and sister are well provided for, and I shall only need to leave
a hundred dollars with them. I have spent sixty for clothes for them
and myself, and that leaves me three hundred and forty.”
“Shall you take it all with you?”
“No; I shall leave a hundred and fifty in the bank, and get along
on the remainder. I don’t want to spend it all on what may prove a
wild-goose chase.”
“You are prudent; but are you not afraid of running short of money?”
“No; I am going to work my passage partly. I am in no hurry. If I can
get anything to do on the way I will accept it.”
“I think you’ll get along,” said Darius Darke. “You have good common
sense ideas. By the way, hasn’t John Simpson got a son?”
“Yes, a boy of about my own age.”
“What sort of a boy is he?”
“He is not a friend of mine, and I might speak too harshly of him,”
said Tom. “He knows that his father is rich and he puts on airs
accordingly.”
“How does he treat you?”
“He looks down upon me--says I am a low shoe-pegger. He doesn’t think
me fit to associate with him.”
“The time may come when he will have to look up to you. Patience, Tom!
You may be as rich as his father some day.”
“I don’t want to be rich unless I can get money honestly.”
“Stick to that, Tom. I haven’t led a model life. I’ve made mistakes,
and committed errors, but I don’t look upon them now as I once did.
I have turned over a new leaf, and I mean to do what I can to redeem
myself.”
Before the two new friends parted, Darius Darke gave Tom an address in
New York, where he could direct any communication. It was at the office
of Mellish & Co., already referred to.
“They will have orders to forward letters home,” said Darke. “If you
get into trouble, or if you make any important discoveries write to me.
Bear in mind that I am deeply interested in your success.”
“Thank you, Mr. Darke.”
“Now, good-by, Tom, and God bless you.”
Leaving Tom till the next chapter, we devote a few additional lines to
Darius Darke and John Simpson.
The shoe manufacturer was thoroughly persuaded that his dreaded enemy
was safely and finally disposed of. He entertained not a doubt that he
had perished in the flames that consumed the old barn. True, he had
not been able to discover any bones among the ruins, and this puzzled
him considerably.
“I suppose,” he concluded, “that the fire must have been so intense
that the bones as well as the flesh were entirely consumed. It must
have been so. The man had no chance to escape, or, if he had, I should
have heard from him before now. I have seen the last of him.”
This thought gave John Simpson no little satisfaction. It might have
been supposed that he would feel some compunction in reflecting upon
the awful fate to which he had consigned a fellow-creature; but a
cowardly man becomes easily cruel, and the feeling of relief outweighed
the horror of the crime.
It was during the last week of Darius Darke’s stay in New York
that John Simpson came up to transact a little business. It was on
Wednesday, and, having time to spare, he dropped into a matinee
performance at one of the theaters.
In the interval between the second and third acts he chanced to look
around him, and his heart gave a painful bound as his eyes rested on a
man of about his own age seated not far from him.
“Do the dead live?” he asked himself, in dismay. “That looks like the
man who I thought was burned in my barn.”
John Simpson had a good memory for faces, and though Mr. Darke was
handsomely dressed, and looked like a man of ample means, very
different from the dilapidated tramp who had called upon him three
weeks before, an uneasy suspicion haunted him that this was the man.
“I must satisfy myself,” he said. “I must find out if that is the man
who called upon me in Wilton.”
He left his seat, and advanced to where Darius Darke was sitting.
“I beg pardon, sir,” he said, “but I think you called upon me not long
since.”
Luckily Darius Darke had noticed his approach (till then he had not
seen him) and was on his guard.
“Sare,” he said, in broken English, shrugging his shoulders, “I know
you not. I am one Frenchman, who make one leetle visit to New York on
business.”
The voice which he assumed was entirely different from his own, and
John Simpson was completely deceived.
“I beg your pardon,” he said; “I was mistaken.”
“Oh, don’t mention it, sare,” said the assumed Frenchman, politely.
“I have had a good scare,” said John Simpson, wiping the perspiration
off his face. “Of course it couldn’t be the man I thought, but there is
certainly a strange resemblance.”
CHAPTER XIX.
TOM STARTS ON HIS JOURNEY.
Tom called at the office of Samuel Perkins, in Pearl Street, as
requested by that gentleman.
“Well, my young friend, are you ready to go to California?” asked the
merchant.
“Yes, sir.”
“You would rather go than enter my employment?”
“Just at present, sir, I have a particular reason for wishing to go to
California. Whenever I return I will call on you, and if you should
then have a vacancy I should like to fill it.”
“Good! Have you a watch?”
“No, sir.”
“I thought not.”
Mr. Perkins opened the drawer of his desk, and took out a neat gold
watch, of Waltham manufacture, and handed it to Tom.
“You will find that useful, I fancy,” he said.
“Is this for me?” asked Tom, amazed.
“It was purchased expressly for you,” said the merchant.
Now there was no possession that Tom so much coveted as that of a
watch, and he thanked Mr. Perkins heartily.
“No thanks are required, my young friend,” said the merchant. “I am
still much in your debt for the return of my papers.”
“If I hadn’t returned them after you had given me the overcoat I should
have been a rascal,” said Tom, warmly.
“Still it was a temptation. At any rate, you are heartily welcome to
the watch. I have prepared a letter to a friend of mine--a business
man--in San Francisco, which I will get you to deliver whenever you
reach there.”
“Is it important?” asked Tom. “It may be months before I get there.”
“It can wait till you reach the city. And now, my young friend, as I
am writing letters to go to Europe by to-morrow’s steamer, I must ask
you to excuse me. Give me your hand. I wish you all sorts of good luck.
Good-by! Don’t forget to report to me whenever you come back to New
York.”
The very first thing Tom did when he reached the street was to look
at his new watch. He regarded it with pride and satisfaction, and I
will not venture to say how many times he took it out during the first
twenty-four hours. Attached to it was a plain gold chain. Opening it
Tom saw that his name was engraved inside. This made it all the more
desirable.
“I wish mother and Tillie could see my new watch,” he thought. “I’ve a
great mind to go up to Wilton this afternoon and show it to them.”
But on second thoughts he decided not to do this. It would only render
necessary a second leave-taking, and this would be painful. He decided
that it was better to get started as soon as possible on his trip to
the Pacific coast.
There were two ways to go to California--across the continent, or by
steamer _via_ Panama. Tom was somewhat in doubt upon which to decide.
The shortest route would be by steamship, for at that period the Union
Pacific Railroad had not been built, or even commenced. If Tom had been
in haste he would have decided in favor of the steamer, but he was in
no especial hurry; besides, he thought there would be a possibility
of finding some employment or agency which would pay a part of his
expenses, if he went by land. He was also influenced in part by a
desire to see the broad plains and prairies of the far West, and he
had no objection to a few adventures on the way. It was not quite so
easy or safe to go to California in those days. On the way were hostile
Indians, desperate adventurers, highwaymen, and a chance of being
snowed up in the winter season.
After some inquiry, therefore, Tom decided to buy a ticket to St.
Louis, and when he arrived there take a short time to study the route
and arrange his subsequent plans. Possibly he might secure some
business commission or agency there, which would enable him to pay a
part or the whole of his traveling expenses.
CHAPTER XX.
A HOTEL ACQUAINTANCE.
On arriving at St. Louis Tom sought out a modest inn known as the St.
Louis Hotel. The price per day was but a dollar, and this served as a
recommendation in his eyes. The war had not yet enhanced the price of
all articles, and even the best hotels charged but two dollars and a
half, where now the tariff is four and five dollars.
Tom had two objects in view. He wanted to see St. Louis, and he thought
it possible that he might find some employment--of what sort he had no
very definite idea.
He devoted a day or two to visiting different parts of the city,
regarding everything with the fresh interest of a boy who was making
his first journey. He, too, though he did not know it, excited the
attention and curiosity of some of the guests of the hotel.
One evening, as he sat in the public room, reading a New York paper
which he had picked up from the table, he was accosted by a young man
of thirty or thereabouts, tall, and rather loosely put together, who
was smoking a cigar. He tendered another to Tom, with the remark:
“Will you try a cigar, young man?”
“No, thank you, sir, I don’t smoke,” answered Tom, politely.
“You’ll learn by and by. Been long in the city?”
“Not long.”
“Going further West?”
“I expect to go to California.”
“Indeed! Anybody with you?”
“No, I am traveling alone.”
The young man, for some reason, seemed to hear this with satisfaction.
“Got any friends out there--in California, I mean?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Going out to make your fortune, I reckon?”
“I will if I get the chance,” said Tom, smiling.
Of course he was not disposed to communicate his real errand to a
stranger.
“Shall you start soon?”
“I don’t know exactly. I am trying to find something that will help to
pay my expenses,” said our hero.
He had no objection to admitting this, for his new acquaintance might
possibly put him in the way of procuring such employment as he desired.
“Do you think that would be possible?” he asked.
“I am not sure about that. Would you expect all your expenses to be
paid, or have you money enough to pay a part of them?”
The stranger seemed interested to hear Tom’s answer.
“Oh, I have some money of my own,” answered Tom, quickly. “I have
enough to carry me through, but I want to save some of it.”
“So, so,” returned the young man, seeming gratified. “I am glad to hear
that.”
“Why?” asked Tom.
“Because a friend of mine and myself propose to start for California in
two or three days, and we would like to engage a boy to go with us, and
do any little services that we might require. Now, I don’t want to make
any promises, but I will speak to my friend, and see if he is willing
to join me in engaging you.”
“Thank you,” said Tom, joyfully, for he had not expected so soon to
make an engagement.
“Oh, there will be no occasion to thank me; it will be a mutual
arrangement,” said the other, waving his hand. “What is your name?”
“Tom Thatcher.”
“I suppose you can bring recommendations of honesty, and so on?”
“I don’t know as I can give you any recommendations, for I know no one
in St. Louis,” said Tom, “but I hope you will not doubt my honesty.”
“I don’t speak for myself,” said the stranger. “I am easily satisfied.
My friend is more particular, but I think he will accept my guarantee.
If now you had any certificate from your minister at home. By the way,
where do you come from?”
“From Wilton, in the State of New York.”
“By the way, what will be your views in regard to pay?”
“I haven’t thought of that,” answered Tom, truly.
“I suppose not. I will tell you my own idea, but, of course, shall have
to consult my friend.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“We would require you to pay your own traveling expenses, but we would
allow you fifteen or twenty dollars a week salary. How does that strike
you?”
“I didn’t expect so much,” answered Tom, honestly, much elated, indeed,
by what he regarded a munificent offer.
“I am willing to agree to twenty, but I can’t speak for my friend.”
“I will agree to fifteen,” said Tom.
“Then, my young friend, we will confer together again. I may be able to
see my friend this evening and arrange matters. Suppose you meet me in
this place to-morrow, say at ten o’clock in the forenoon.”
“All right, sir.”
The young man arose, and left the hotel.
Tom was quite elated at the thought that he was likely to make so
profitable an engagement.
“Fifteen to twenty dollars a week!” he said to himself. “That will be
lucky and no mistake! It’s rather an improvement on three dollars a
week. I hope I sha’n’t lose the place from having no recommendations. If
they will only wait I am sure Mr. Julian would send me one.”
It never occurred to Tom that the stranger who proposed to employ him
might stand in greater need of a recommendation, and might find it
considerably more difficult to obtain one.
CHAPTER XXI.
TOM’S NEW EMPLOYER.
As yet Tom did not know the name of the man from whom he hoped for an
engagement. He afterward learned that he went by the name of Percy
Burnett.
Of course Tom kept his appointment punctually the next morning. He was
too anxious about the engagement to risk losing it by any negligence.
About a quarter after ten Mr. Burnett lounged into the hotel office.
“You are on hand, I see,” he said, taking an armchair near the settee
on which Tom was sitting.
“Yes, sir.”
“I have seen my friend about the little matter I spoke of yesterday,”
said Mr. Burnett, “but I find he won’t be ready to start for California
for four weeks.”
Tom’s countenance fell. He had been buoyed up by the thought of the
engagement, and now all seemed to be over.
Percy Burnett watched our hero’s expressive face, and read his
disappointment.
He proceeded:
“I thought at first that we should have to give up our plan,” he said,
“but on second thoughts I may still be able to carry it out.”
Tom’s face brightened.
“I am not willing to wait here four weeks for my friend,” continued Mr.
Burnett. “It would only be a waste of valuable time. I should be glad
to have you go with me as a--a sort of private secretary, but I can’t
afford to pay you as much as I mentioned yesterday. I think I said
twenty dollars, did I not?”
“Fifteen to twenty dollars,” corrected Tom.
“Just so. That would be too much for me to pay alone.”
“I would go for less,” said Tom, eagerly.
“I suppose you would hardly agree to say twelve?”
Twelve! It was just four times as much as Tom had ever hitherto
received, and he quickly answered:
“I will be willing to go for that.”
“Give me your hand, Tom,” said Mr. Burnett, appearing to be much
pleased. “You are a gentleman, and I engage you on the spot. How soon
can you go?”
“I can go immediately,” answered Tom, promptly.
“That is well. You won’t complain then if I ask you to be ready
to-morrow?”
“I will be on hand, sir.”
“Very well, meet me here to-morrow at the same hour.”
Mr. Burnett rose, and shaking hands with Tom, left the room.
Tom reflected with great satisfaction on the engagement he had made. To
be sure he had his own traveling expenses to pay, but these would be
largely diminished by the weekly salary he was to receive. How long it
would take to go across the plains he had no idea, but whether long or
short, it appeared as if he had made an excellent arrangement.
The next day the two started together from St. Louis. Mr. Burnett had a
small satchel with him, which he handed to Tom to carry.
“This will be the first of your duties,” he said, with a smile.
Tom took the satchel cheerfully.
“I must ask you to be very careful of it,” said Mr. Burnett. “It
contains articles of considerable value.”
“I will be very careful, sir.”
“It is chiefly jewelry and watches,” explained his employer. “I am
carrying them to San Francisco, as I expect to realize large profits
on them. I should think there might be five thousand dollar’s worth in
that satchel. You wouldn’t suppose it, would you?”
“No, I should not,” said Tom, sincerely.
“You understand now why I asked if you could bring any recommendations
of honesty,” said Mr. Percy Burnett.
“Yes, sir.”
“I am trusting you with a very valuable package. Now what is to prevent
your giving me the slip, and carrying it off?”
“I hope you don’t think there is any danger, Mr. Burnett!”
“None at all. I have perfect confidence in your honesty. If I had not,
I certainly would not have dreamed of engaging you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“My friend would probably have been more particular. He has a more
suspicious temperament. For my part, I pride myself on my skill in
reading faces, even when seen for the first time. Now, when I saw you,
I said to myself: ‘That is an honest, reliable boy. I never saw him
before, but I can tell by his appearance that he has been well brought
up and is honest as the day is long.’”
Tom was gratified by this compliment, and said:
“Thank you, sir; I am sure you won’t regret your confidence in me.”
This conversation took place in the cars. They were on their way to
St. Joseph--popularly called St. Joe--a place from which most parties
started on their overland trips to California.
Tom paid his own fare, as had been arranged between them, and though
the disbursement was considerable, consoled himself with the thought
that, at the end of a week, he would be in receipt of twelve dollars
from his employer.
Indeed, Mr. Burnett had very considerately offered to pay the first
week’s salary in advance, but this Tom had declined.
“I would rather not receive the money until it is earned,” he said.
“By the way, Tom, that is a very pretty watch and chain of yours,” said
Mr. Burnett.
“Yes, sir, so I think.”
“How much did you pay for it, if I may venture to ask?”
“I did not buy it, sir. It was made a present to me just before I left
New York.”
“A very nice present, upon my word. I advise you to be very careful of
it. It might excite the cupidity of some dishonest person who might be
tempted to steal it.”
“Yes, sir; I will be very careful of it. Thank you for the hint.”
“I once had a watch and chain stolen myself,” continued Mr. Burnett.
“It was in the cars, too. A well-dressed person sat down beside me, and
engaged me in conversation. I suspected nothing, but shortly after he
had left me at a way-station I discovered that my watch and chain were
gone.”
“Did you never recover them?” asked Tom, with interest.
“Never. I suppose the fellow pawned or sold them.”
They were nearing St. Joe when a rakish-looking fellow entered the
cars, and seemed to recognize Burnett.
“How are you, old fellow?” he said.
Percy Burnett glanced instinctively at Tom, and answered, stiffly:
“Very well, thank you. This is my friend, Mr. Thatcher.”
“How are you, Thatcher?” asked the new-comer, laughing. “I say, Jim,
what’s your game?”
“I really don’t understand you,” said Burnett. “Come into the next car
with me a moment.”
The other laughed, and followed Burnett.
“I don’t much fancy that fellow,” thought Tom. “Why did he call Mr.
Burnett Jim? His name is Percy.”
He was still wondering that his employer should have such a friend,
when Burnett came back.
CHAPTER XXII.
A ROUGH DIAMOND.
“Rather a rough fellow that,” said Percy Burnett, as he resumed his
seat beside Tom.
“Yes, sir.”
“A rough diamond, I call him,” said Burnett.
Perhaps he saw by Tom’s face that his friend had not struck his young
secretary as a diamond, rough or otherwise, for he proceeded:
“He has sterling qualities, Jack has, and an excellent heart. He is
not refined, I grant. Indeed, he is rather coarse--never moved in good
society, but he’ll stand by a friend through thick and thin. Why, he
once watched beside my sick bed, when I had a fever, day and night, and
wouldn’t leave me till I was out of danger.”
“That was very kind,” Tom was forced to admit.
“Yes, I shall never forget it. We became very intimate. You may have
noticed that he called me Jim?”
“Yes, I did.”
“The fact is, he took a dislike to the name of Percy. I believe he had
been injured by some party of that name. So he asked if he might call
me Jim, and I consented. Names don’t matter much if the heart’s in the
right place.”
“No, I suppose not,” answered Tom, who was satisfied with the
explanation.
“I haven’t seen Jack for a good while,” said Mr. Burnett, “and he was
curious to know what I was doing. He expressed himself rather oddly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The fact is, Tom--and I suppose you may have guessed--I am a dealer
in watches and jewelry. I was in business in Cincinnati till recently,
but decided to remove to San Francisco, upon learning that there is an
excellent opening there for a man in my business. A small part of my
stock I have in the satchel which you are carrying. Did you ever think
of learning the jewelry business?”
“No, I never thought of it,” Tom replied.
“When we get to San Francisco I may be able to offer you inducements.”
“I shall want to travel about the State a little first,” said Tom.
“Thank you for the offer, though.”
“Oh, well, I shall be in a hurry. Will you go to the mines?”
“I think so.”
“Perhaps I may go, too. I have never been in any mining district, and I
have a curiosity to see what it looks like. Will you have a cigar?”
“No, thank you.”
“Oh, I forgot you don’t smoke. I suppose I must go into the
smoking-car--be back soon.”
The reader may have a curiosity to know what passed between Percy
Burnett and his friend, the rough diamond, when they left the car
together.
“Who’s that boy you’ve got with you, Jim?” asked Jack.
“A young man who is under my guardianship,” said Mr. Burnett,
hesitating.
Jack laughed.
“A pretty sort of guardian you’ll make,” he said, winking at his friend.
“Don’t speak so loud, Jack. You’ll attract attention.”
“And that’s just what you don’t want, I reckon.”
“Well, yes, if you will have it so.”
“Come, now, tell me what’s your game anyhow? Is the boy rich?”
“No.”
“Then what good can he do you?”
“He has a little money,” said Percy Burnett, cautiously.
“It won’t be his long, then.”
“You wrong me--indeed, you do. I am taking him out as far as Salt Lake
City, and my expenses are to be paid by his friends.”
This was the best story that Mr. Burnett could devise upon the spur of
the moment.
“All I can say is that his friends can’t know much about you. You
didn’t mention to them the term you had served in----”
“Hush!” said Burnett, looking about him in alarm. “Don’t you know any
better than to blurt out such things where people may hear?”
“Well, I’ll keep mum for your sake.”
“Do so, and I’ll make it worth your while, Jack.”
“When?”
“When I return to St. Joe.”
“When will that be?”
“Before long.”
“No, it won’t, if you go all the way to Salt Lake City.”
“Perhaps I may not go all the way there,” said Percy, in a low voice.
“Oh, I see!” responded Jack, winking. “I begin to see your game.”
“You were always a shrewd, long-headed fellow, Jack.”
“So I am,” said Jack, evidently gratified by the praise.
“Of course, when I am in funds----”
“As you expect to be before long.”
“Well, as I expect to be before long, if you don’t interfere with my
plans. I shall remember my friends.”
“Enough said! Now, honor bright! how soon do you expect to get back to
St. Joe?”
“Perhaps in two or three days.”
“You won’t bring the boy back with you?”
“Not if he wants to go on.”
“I say, Jim, I’m hard up. Let me have five dollars now.”
“I assure you, Jack, I am not in a situation to part with any money
just now.”
“I must have it,” said Jack, significantly.
“Oh, well, if you must,” and Mr. Percy Burnett drew it from his vest
pocket, and reluctantly put it into the hand of the “rough diamond.”
“It’s rough luck meeting that fellow!” he muttered as he returned to
his young secretary, “I was hoping I should not meet a soul that knew
me till this job was fairly off my hands. Jack is always hard up,
but it wasn’t safe to refuse him. I must not allow him to have any
conversation with the boy. I will take care to steer clear of him when
I come back this way.”
It was clear that Mr. Percy Burnett was not so much attached to the
“rough diamond” as he led Tom to suppose.
CHAPTER XXIII.
PETER BRUSH, THE HUNTER.
Arrived at St. Joe, the town was found to be crowded, owing to some
local celebration. At the first two hotels our two travelers were
unable to gain admittance. At the third they were obliged to share a
room with a third guest, already in possession.
Tom did not particularly care, as long as there was a comfortable bed
to sleep in, but Mr. Burnett seemed very much annoyed.
“Can’t you do any better for us?” he asked the clerk.
The clerk shook his head.
“I don’t know about taking the room; I don’t like to be with a
stranger.”
“Just as you like, major,” said the clerk, indifferently. “We sha’n’t
have any trouble in letting the room.”
It is a Western fashion to bestow titles on strangers, and this
accounts for Burnett being dubbed major.
Percy Burnett hesitated, but just then another party applied for a
room, and he hastily agreed to take it.
The room was a fair one. It contained two beds, one large and one small
one. Naturally Tom and his new acquaintance selected the large one. The
other was to be occupied by the stranger, who proved to be a stout
man of middle age, who looked as if he had led an out-of-door life. A
little conversation revealed the fact that he, too, was on his way to
California.
“That’s lucky,” he said, in a free, cordial way, “why can’t we hitch
horses?”
“I don’t understand you,” said Burnett, coldly.
“I mean, why can’t we go together? We shall find it more social.”
“I will think of it,” said Burnett, curtly.
Tom was pleased with the appearance and manner of their fellow
room-mate, who gave his name as Peter Brush. He was not a man of
education, but he seemed good-natured and gifted with a fund of common
sense. He was a practical hunter, was familiar with the great middle
region over which they must pass on their way to California, and told
Tom a good many stories of his adventures upon the plains.
“Have you ever been to California?” asked Tom.
“There you’ve got me,” answered Mr. Brush. “I’ve been as far as Utah,
but I haven’t been any farther. I ’spose I should have gone, but my
wife was kind of sickly, and I didn’t want to be gone so long. Now
she’s dead, and I’ve got nothing to tie me down.”
“Haven’t you any children?” asked our hero.
“Yes, I’ve got a youngster about thirteen. I’ve left him at school in
St. Louis. He’s stayin’ with an uncle--his mother’s brother. I want
him to have more learnin’ than his father. As for me, I never attended
school but two years, and the most I can do is to read and write, and
I’m no great shakes at either. But that’s no reason why little Ben
shouldn’t be a scholar. Have you been to school much?”
“Considerably,” answered Tom.
“And I suppose you’re a good hand at writin’ an’ cipherin’, and so on?”
“Pretty good,” answered Tom, modestly.
“And you’re goin’ out to Californy to make your fortune?”
“I hope to do something that way.”
“And that gentleman with you--is he an old friend?”
“I am working for him; I am his private secretary.”
Peter Brush looked amazed.
“What does he want of a private secretary when he is crossing the
plains?” he asked.
“I don’t know exactly.”
“What do you do, if you don’t mind tellin?” asked Mr. Brush.
“I carry a satchel,” said Tom.
He was about to add that the satchel contained a stock of jewelry, when
he reflected that this would be imprudent, and that his employer would
not like him to be so communicative.
“Does he pay you much for that?” asked the hunter, after a pause.
“Twelve dollars a week.”
“And your traveling expenses?”
“No; I pay those myself.”
Peter Brush whistled softly and looked thoughtful. He evidently thought
the arrangement a queer one.
“Then you have money enough for your expenses?” he said.
Tom answered in the affirmative. He knew that he was perhaps unwise
in so far trusting a stranger, but he could not, for the life of him,
distrust the honest-looking hunter.
This conversation took place while Mr. Burnett was down-stairs, smoking
a cigar and looking about the town.
On his return he seemed to view with displeasure the intimacy between
Mr. Brush and his young secretary, and took the occasion of Mr. Brush
leaving the room, to say:
“Don’t get too intimate with that man. I don’t like his looks.”
“He seems like a good, honest fellow,” Tom could not help saying.
“Don’t trust to appearances. I’ve seen more of the world than you, and
to me he looks like a rascal.”
“I don’t believe there’s anything out of the way with him,” thought
Tom, but he remained silent.
CHAPTER XXIV.
MR. BURNETT BEATS A RETREAT.
The night passed, and the travelers breakfasted together in the plain
dining-room of the inn. Tom and his employer sat together, and Peter
Brush occupied a seat directly opposite Tom. He was disposed to be
social, and Tom was entirely ready to respond, but Percy Burnett was
reticent. He answered the hunter in monosyllables, whenever he could,
and very evidently did not care to converse with him. Brush, however,
was not a sensitive man, and mentally pronouncing Burnett “grouty,” he
kept up a conversation with Tom.
Our hero knew very well that his companion was displeased, but he felt
that in such a matter as this Burnett had no business to dictate. He
himself liked Brush, and saw no reason why he should not meet his
friendly advances.
Just before they rose from the table, Brush said to Tom:
“When do you calculate to leave St. Joe?”
“That is as Mr. Burnett decides,” answered Tom, turning to his employer.
“How soon do you calc’late to start, colonel?” asked Peter Brush.
“In two or three days,” said Burnett, briefly.
Tom was rather surprised. He had not anticipated that Mr. Burnett meant
to remain so long at St. Joe.
“I guess I’ll wait for you,” said Brush. “I did expect to go sooner,
but I ain’t in such a mighty hurry. I’d rather wait a little longer for
the sake of having good company.”
Tom smiled, and nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment. He felt
glad that the hunter was to be with them, and Brush so understood it.
If he had looked at Percy Burnett, he would have seen by the expression
on that gentleman’s face that _he_ had an entirely different feeling on
the subject.
No sooner had Peter Brush left the room than Percy Burnett turned
toward our hero, and said, abruptly:
“You seem determined to annoy me.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom, astonished.
“I told you I didn’t like that fellow.”
“I know it.”
“Yet you encourage him to intrude his unwelcome company upon us. You
were talking with him all breakfast-time.”
“Well,” answered Tom, with spirit, “why shouldn’t I? He was very
pleasant and social, and it was only polite to answer him when he spoke
to me.”
“You could show by your manner that you don’t relish his society,”
growled Burnett.
“But I do like his society,” said Tom, with spirit. “You can’t expect
me to feel just as you do toward everybody. If you don’t like him,
you have a right to feel as you do. You have no right to order me to
dislike him, too.”
Percy Burnett was rather surprised and disconcerted by Tom’s unexpected
independence. He had taken him for a boy who would yield readily to his
guidance, and he was not disposed even now to give up the attempt to
control him.
“He is an uneducated, low fellow!” he growled. “I can’t understand what
pleasure you can find in such company. I don’t believe he can read or
write.”
“Yes, he can,” said Tom, “but that is about the extent of his
education.”
“Who told you that?”
“He told me so himself. As to being low, he doesn’t look so low as the
man who spoke to you in the cars.”
Percy Burnett’s face darkened, and he was about to speak violently, but
a glance at Tom’s face, which, boyish as it was, indicated no ordinary
strength and firmness, led him to change his purpose.
“Jack is rough, I admit,” he said, “but he’s worth half a dozen of this
fellow.”
Tom did not agree to this, but he did not think it necessary to say so.
He did not care to quarrel with Mr. Burnett, and thus lose the twelve
dollars a week upon which he relied. He kept silent therefore.
For some reason or other Percy Burnett was unusually vexed and troubled
at the thought of being accompanied by Brush, the hunter.
“It would spoil everything if that meddlesome fellow joins us,” he
said to himself. “I could beat that stubborn boy for so obstinately
encouraging him to keep company with us. I must give him the slip
somehow.”
In the hotel yard was a stage with four horses attached. The driver was
already on the box.
An idea came to Mr. Burnett.
“My friend,” he said, “when are you going to start?”
“In ten minutes, general.”
“Where are you bound?”
Percy Burnett learned that the destination was a point forty
miles distant in Kansas. It was the first portion of the great
transcontinental line, the terminus of which was San Francisco.
Mr. Burnett made up his mind at once.
He hurried into the hotel and summoned Tom.
“Be quick, boy,” he said, “the stage is about ready to start.”
“Are we going right off?” asked Tom, in surprise.
“Yes; make haste.”
“You told Mr. Brush you should not be ready for two or three days.”
“I only wanted to put the fool off the scent. We are going by that
stage; come on.”
“All right, sir.”
Tom, of course, made no opposition to Mr. Burnett’s plans. It was not
his place to do so. As long as he was in his employ, and accepted wages
from him, he must conform to his arrangements.
In ten minutes the driver seized the reins, the stage bowled away, and
Tom’s face was set westward.
He felt sorry to have lost the opportunity of saying good-by to
the good-natured hunter, but his mind was soon full of pleasurable
excitement as the stage rumbled on its way toward the Pacific.
CHAPTER XXV.
A SOLITARY WALK.
It was a long and tedious ride. The roads were not of the best--indeed
they were not far from the worst--and more than once the stage had a
narrow escape from tipping over.
Tom did not complain, however. He liked the excitement of the ride, and
did not mind the violent jolting, though it made his limbs ache and his
bones sore.
Percy Burnett grumbled enough for Tom and himself, too.
“I wouldn’t have taken this infernal stage,” he said, at a
halting-place, “if I had known it would shake me to pieces.”
“It is better than walking,” said one of the passengers,
philosophically.
“I don’t know about that,” answered Burnett. “I would about as soon
walk.”
Tom heard this, but did not think Mr. Burnett in earnest. For his own
part, though an inexperienced traveler, he showed that he was already a
good one, for he met, with cheerful good humor, the discomforts of the
trip.
About five miles before the stage reached its destination Percy Burnett
called out to the driver:
“How much further have we got to go, driver?”
“Five or six miles, sir.”
“I can’t stand it.”
“You won’t have to stand,” said a good-natured fellow-passenger. “You
can sit.”
Percy Burnett turned upon him irritably.
“You may consider that very witty, sir,” he said, “but I don’t.”
“No offense intended,” said the other, pleasantly.
“I’ve a great mind to walk,” said Burnett. “Driver, is it easy to find
the road?”
“Yes, sir; straight ahead.”
“And it’s only about five miles?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I will walk; but I shall want company. Tom, are you tired?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you willing to walk the rest of the way with me?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Tom, cheerfully.
He answered truly, for his limbs were cramped by sitting for many hours
in one position, and he felt that it would be agreeable to limber them
a little with exercise.
“I don’t know but I’ll join you,” said a passenger.
Percy Burnett looked excessively annoyed.
“If you don’t object to my company,” continued the other.
“Please yourself, sir,” said Burnett in a repellent tone, which showed
very clearly his aversion to the proposal.
“On the whole, I guess, I will stick by the stage,” said the other,
seeing that his company would be unwelcome.
Mr. Burnett looked very much relieved.
“You can leave your baggage on the coach,” said the driver, noticing
that Burnett had his bag in his hand.
“I’d rather keep it. Tom, bring yours with you.”
Of course Tom obeyed, though he did not see any advantage in burdening
himself with what might just as well have gone in the coach.
“That’s an agreeable man,” said the passenger, whose overtures had been
declined, after the coach drove off.
“As sweet as a crab-apple,” said the driver. “I’m glad to be rid of
him.”
“The boy’s a different sort.”
“Yes, the boy’s a good fellow. Pity he’s tied to such a man.”
So the coach drove away, leaving Tom and his employer plodding along in
a heavy, muddy road. It was hard work walking, but Tom did not care for
that. He would like, however, to have had a more agreeable companion.
A little ahead of them was a fallen bough of a tree, separated from the
parent trunk probably by some violent storm. It occurred to Tom that
it would be a good idea to cut from it a stick, which might serve as a
staff, and so lighten the labor of walking. He went up to the bough,
therefore, and drew out a stout jack-knife, which he had in his pocket.
“What are you going to do?” asked Mr. Burnett, quickly.
“Going to cut me a cane,” replied Tom, innocently.
“I can’t stop for any such nonsense,” said Burnett, crossly.
“Go right on, Mr. Burnett, and I’ll catch you,” said Tom,
good-humoredly.
“I positively forbid your cutting a cane, do you hear me?” said
Burnett, angrily.
“I hear you, but I don’t understand you,” said Tom, considerably
surprised.
“I believe I speak plain English. Leave that, and come along.”
Tom began to think his employer very unreasonable, but as he accepted
wages from him he did not think it wise to quarrel. So he resumed his
march, but did not attempt to speak to his companion.
Presently the road entered a wood. It was already dusk, and the trees,
though leafless, still contributed to deepen the darkness which
surrounded them.
CHAPTER XXVI.
PERCY BURNETT UNMASKS.
As Tom plodded along beside his employer, who did not deign to utter a
word, he could not help doubting whether he had done wisely in selling
his independence for twelve dollars a week. Had he understood Burnett’s
real character and disposition, he would not have engaged with him.
As matters stood he thought it best to remain for the present in his
service.
“Mr. Burnett may be annoyed about something, and that may be the reason
of his being so cross,” Tom reflected. “To-morrow he may be different.”
Tom was destined soon to be undeceived, and in a manner far from
pleasant.
The wood through which they were passing was about a mile in width.
When they had reached the middle point, Burnett halted.
“Stop here!” said he.
Tom looked at him in surprise. He could not conceive of any reason
for stopping, unless, indeed, Mr. Burnett was tired, which was hardly
probable, as they had scarcely walked a mile.
“Stop here?” he said, interrogatively.
“That is what I said.”
“Very well, sir. Shall we sit down?”
There was a fallen tree lying beside the road, or rather lane, through
which they were walking, and Tom made a motion to sit down.
“Never mind about sitting down,” said Burnett, with an incomprehensible
smile. “I want to transact a little business with you.”
Tom was getting more and more at a loss to comprehend his companion’s
meaning, but he only said:
“Very well.”
“How much money have you?” demanded Burnett.
“What do you mean?” asked Tom, with quick suspicion.
“You seem very stupid. Whatever money you have with you you may give to
me. Do you hear?”
“I prefer to keep it myself,” said Tom, firmly.
“And I consider it safer in my hands. Hand it over.”
“I do not choose to, Mr. Burnett,” said Tom, resolutely.
“Do you dare refuse?” demanded Burnett, angrily. “Am I not your master?”
“No, sir; I have no master.”
“I pay you wages. I am your employer. That is the same thing.”
“It seems to me you want me to pay you wages,” said Tom, shrewdly.
“Don’t bandy words with me, boy; I won’t allow it. Give me your money,
and that quickly!”
Burnett’s purpose was now plain to Tom. The man wanted to rob him. For
that purpose he had inveigled him into this lonely place, where there
was little chance of his obtaining assistance. He must depend upon
himself, but the chances of success were not flattering.
He was a strong boy, but Mr. Burnett was several inches taller, and had
a man’s strength, against which he had not much chance in a struggle.
If only somebody would come along. Perhaps, if he could only prolong
the conversation, some one might appear. It seemed to be the only thing
he could do.
“Do you mean to rob me, Mr. Burnett?” he asked, retreating slightly.
“Well, there is no use in mincing words. That is precisely my
intention.”
“And was that the reason why you engaged me to go with you!”
“You’ve hit it, boy. Do you think I am such a fool as to pay you twelve
dollars a week just to carry that little satchel?”
Tom began to suspect he was a fool.
It didn’t seem reasonable that any man should be willing to pay such a
salary for so small a service.
“You told me the contents were valuable,” he said.
“You thought it was full of watches and jewelry,” laughed Burnett.
“Yes. Didn’t you tell me so?”
“To be sure I told you so. But you must not believe all you hear,
youngster.”
“I am not to believe you, then?”
“Not when I have a purpose to serve; but we have talked long enough.
Give me your money.”
Tom was pale with excitement, but his lips closed resolutely. He
realized the unfortunate plight in which he would be placed if he
should part with the money he had reserved for the expenses of his
journey. He would be compelled to give up his project, and go home, if
he were able to get home without money.
“I won’t allow you to rob me,” he said, firmly.
“Then,” said Burnett, with an oath, “you must take the consequences.”
He rushed upon Tom, and a contest ensued, in which Tom exerted himself
to the best of his ability, but, as might be supposed, he was not a
match for a strong man. Burnett threw him down, and by force possessed
himself of our hero’s money.
“Now,” he said, “I will trouble you for that watch.”
That was one pang the more. Tom was proud of his watch. Moreover,
he valued it not a little because it was a gift from a man who had
been pleased with his conduct. He regarded it, therefore, much as a
schoolboy regards a school-prize.
“Mr. Burnett,” he said, “you have my money, and I don’t know what I am
going to do without it, more than a thousand miles from home. Leave me
my watch at least.”
“Sorry I can’t oblige you,” said Burnett, with an evil smile. “I want
the watch myself.”
“You must take it yourself, then, for I won’t give it to you.”
“That is what I propose to do,” said Burnett, coolly, and he removed
the watch in spite of Tom’s resistance.
“Is that all?” asked Tom, desperately, “or would you like my coat also?”
“No, I will leave that. It wouldn’t fit me.”
“I suppose I ought to be thankful for that,” said Tom, bitterly.
“No occasion to thank me. This is business.”
“A very mean business,” retorted Tom.
“Don’t use your tongue too much, my young friend, or I might get mad,
and give you something to remember.”
“You have given me something to remember.”
Burnett smiled.
“One more little operation, and I will bid you good-night.”
He drew from his pocket a strong cord and proceeded to tie Tom’s hands.
“What are you doing?” asked Tom, struggling.
“I don’t mean that you shall follow me. To-morrow morning some one will
come along and release you.”
Percy Burnett had nearly accomplished his task, despite Tom’s
resistance, when both he and Tom were startled by the voice of one
apparently close at hand:
“What are you about, you scoundrel?”
Percy Burnett turned his head suddenly, and his face paled, as he saw
in the twilight a man ten paces distant, holding in his hand a revolver.
He jumped to his feet.
CHAPTER XXVII.
A FRIEND IN NEED.
It is not to be supposed that Tom was indifferent to the sudden
appearance of one who seemed sent by heaven to his help.
He looked eagerly in the direction of the new comer. The honest face
and sturdy figure were not unknown to him.
“It is Mr. Brush!” he exclaimed joyfully.
“Yes,” said that individual, approaching, “it is Peter Brush. What has
this rascal been up to?”
“Take care how you call me names, you clodhopper!” exclaimed Burnett,
furiously, by no means pleased to see the man he had striven so hard to
avoid.
“I may be a clodhopper, but I am not a scoundrel and a thief!” returned
Brush.
Burnett felt that he was in a tight place. Would it be possible to
deceive Mr. Brush? At any rate, he decided to try it.
“Sir,” he said forcibly, controlling his temper, “you are mistaken. I
don’t blame you, for you are misled by what you have just seen.”
“If I am mistaken, perhaps you will explain why you have bound that
boy, and taken his money and watch?”
“The boy is a thief, and has cheated me.”
[Illustration: PETER BRUSH RELEASES TOM FROM THE HANDS OF THE ROBBER.
[Page 149.]]
“WHAT!” exclaimed Tom, his eyes flashing.
“Wait a minute,” said Brush.
He stepped up to our hero, and drawing a knife, severed the cords that
bound him, while Percy Burnett looked on in annoyance.
“Now, Tom,” said Brush, “what have you got to say to this charge?”
“I say it’s a lie!” asserted Tom boldly.
“Take care, you young rascal!” exclaimed Burnett, making a step toward
our hero, now on his feet.
“Easy, now,” said Peter Brush. “The boy’s under _my_ protection. Let
him alone!”
“The boy’s in _my_ employment,” said Burnett, “and I’ll thank you not
to interfere.”
“I shall interfere all the same, if I think it necessary,” said Brush,
composedly.
“I am not in your employment,” said Tom, facing Burnett. “I’ve had
enough of your service.”
“You say the boy is a thief,” continued Brush. “Can you prove it?”
“Yes, he managed to pick my pocket of a considerable sum of money,
which he has now in his possession.”
“Don’t believe him, Mr. Brush,” said Tom.
“Easy now, Tom. How large a sum of money?” asked Brush.
That was just what Burnett could not tell, not knowing how much Tom had
in his possession.
“I can’t say exactly. It’s over a hundred dollars,” he said, after a
pause.
“How about the watch? Did you have two?” for Burnett had one of his own
besides the one he had taken from Tom.
“No; the watch belongs to the boy.”
“Yet you took it?”
“Precisely. I took it in part compensation for the money of which he
had robbed me.”
“But you have the money, too.”
“Who are you, anyway, and what business have you to interfere between
me and my servant?” burst forth Burnett, angrily, finding himself
cornered.
“Your servant!” said Tom, proudly. “I am not your servant, nor
anybody’s servant.”
“That’s a fact, Tom,” said Mr. Brush. “This fellow ought to be your
servant.”
“If you are going to insult me, I’ll leave you,” said Burnett, suiting
the action to the word.
“Come back, you thief!” cried Brush, covering him with his rifle.
“Do you mean to murder me?” asked Percy Burnett, alarmed.
“No, but there’s a little formality you must go through before you bid
us good-by.”
“What is that?”
“Hand over the boy’s watch and money.”
“There’s the watch,” said Burnett, giving it back with an ill grace.
“The money is mine and I will keep it.”
“I don’t think you will,” said Brush, composedly.
“I will have you arrested for highway robbery,” exclaimed Burnett,
angrily.
“I don’t think you will find any one to believe you, Jim Dobson.”
Burnett started, and a look of dismay overspread his face.
“My name is Percy Burnett,” he said, haughtily, recovering himself.
“Is it? It used to be Jim Dobson, well known to the police of Chicago,
Cincinnati and St. Louis. You were recognized at St. Joe. Now will you
hand over the money?”
With a muttered curse Burnett, _alias_ Dobson, threw Tom’s pocket-book
on the ground.
“Now I suppose I may go,” he said, sullenly.
“When the boy has examined his wallet to see if the money’s all there.”
“I know it is,” said Tom, “he hasn’t had time to open it.”
“Then you can go, Mr. Dobson. Good-by! Take my advice and lead a better
life in the future.”
“Curse your advice!” said Burnett, as he strode rapidly away, leaving
Tom and his new friend together in the gathering darkness.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
HOW PETER BRUSH CAME TO THE RESCUE.
“We sha’n’t miss him much, Tom,” said Brush, as Percy Burnett--as he
called himself--disappeared from view.
Tom breathed a sigh of relief.
“I never want to see him again,” he said.
“Nor I, unless I see him in the prisoner’s dock. He’s a regular rascal
and no mistake. It’s lucky I came up just as I did, Tom.”
“If you hadn’t I would have had to lie here all night, bound hand and
foot.”
“I am not sure but we ought to have served him as he wanted to serve
you,” said Mr. Brush. “It isn’t too late yet--we can overtake him.”
“Let him go, Mr. Brush. I don’t care to be revenged upon him. He tried
to rob me, but he has been defeated, thanks to you. And that reminds
me--how did you happen to get here just in the nick of time? We left
you this morning in St. Joe.”
“Just so, my lad. It is lucky, as you say, or as you mean, anyway.
Well, when I saw you last night, and found you so pleasant and social
like, I took a great fancy to you. Thinks I to myself--‘That boy’s the
right sort!’”
“Thank you for your favorable opinion, Mr. Brush.”
“You needn’t thank me, for I couldn’t help feeling the way I did. As
I was goin’ the same journey, I thought I’d like to hitch to you and
Dobson, though I didn’t much like him; but he seemed offish, and I saw
he didn’t want me. I didn’t know why then, but I know now.”
“I was very much disappointed when Mr. Burnett hurried me away from St.
Joe without seeing you.”
“So was I. I’d only gone out for half an hour to do a little shopping,
thinkin’ I’d find you when I came back. Well, when I got back to the
hotel, I looked round for you, and couldn’t find you. I thought maybe
you’d gone out to take a walk. To make sure, I asked the stable-boy if
he’d seen anything of a man and boy. He told me that you’d started off
in the stage only twenty minutes ago. That took me quite aback, and I
didn’t know what to do. I knew well enough what that rascal did it for.
He wanted to get me off the track. Now, Tom, I’m a determined sort of
man--kinder stubborn, I expect--and when I found how much he wanted to
separate us, I was bound to defeat his plans, if it cost me a hundred
dollars, partic’larly after a little discovery I made.”
“What was that, Mr. Brush?” asked Tom.
“I’ll tell you. A gentleman who was standin’ by, and heard what I asked
the stable-boy, said:
“‘Do you know them parties you are askin’ about?’
“‘No, I only met ’em last evenin’.’
“‘Well, the man’s a first-class rascal and swindler.’
“‘You don’t say!’ I answered. ‘Who is he, and what do you know about
him?’
“‘It’s Jim Dobson, the famous confidence man and forger. He’s served
more than one term in the State prison. He isn’t a very good companion
for that boy that’s traveling with him.’
“I was struck all of a heap when I heard that, Tom. I knew what you
told me, that this man had hired you for a secretary, or somethin’
of that kind. Of course I knew that was all a sham. What should a
jail-bird like him want of a secretary. It didn’t take me long to make
up my mind what his game was. I knew you had some money, for you had
told me so last night, and I concluded that that was what Dobson was
after. I saw that you would be robbed unless some friend interfered. I
determined to be that friend.”
Tom took the hard, toil-hardened hand of his new friend, and gratefully
pressed it.
“You were a friend when I most needed a friend,” he said.
“Oh, don’t mention it,” said Brush, hurriedly, for it always made him
feel awkward to be thanked. “I’m paid for all I’ve done by knowin’ that
I’ve come up with that pesky rascal.”
“But I don’t see how you managed to overtake us,” said Tom. “That is
what puzzles me.”
“Easy now, Tom, I’m comin’ to that. I asked the stable-boy if there was
another stage goin’ this way. He told me ‘not till to-morrow.’ I knew
that would never do. In twenty-four hours you’d get that start of me
that I couldn’t come up with you at all. There was only one thing to
do.”
“You don’t mean to say you walked?” said Tom.
“No; if I had tried that I should be fifteen miles back. It isn’t
favorable walking in this mud.”
Tom was more than ever puzzled. Mr. Brush was on foot, and there was no
apparent way in which he could have come otherwise, unless he had flown
and suddenly dropped down where he stood.
But our hero didn’t have to wait long to have his question answered.
Even as he wondered there fell upon his ear a clear, distinct, neigh.
Peter Brush laughed.
“That lets the cat out of the bag,” he said.
“Have you a horse, then?”
“Yes; he is only a few rods off.”
“I thought you were on foot.”
“I got off his back just before I came up with you. I wanted to take
you, or, leastwise, Jim Dobson, by surprise, and I reckon I did.”
“It was not a very pleasant surprise to him, Mr. Brush.”
“I didn’t mean it should be when I saw that scoundrel bendin’ over you,
and tryin’ to tie your hands and feet. I tell you I felt riled.”
“So did I,” said Tom, laughing.
“He thought you were completely in his power, but rascals sometimes do
get mistaken, thank the Lord!”
“Then you bought a horse?”
“Yes, I found that was the only way I could overtake you. I followed
the stage, a good way behind, but it wasn’t long before I began to gain
upon it. I didn’t expect you would get out of the stage, and when I saw
you and Dobson alone in this wood, I was surprised.”
“Mr. Burnett”--this name came more natural to Tom--“complained that his
limbs ached from riding, and he asked me to get out and walk with him.
I suspected nothing. I thought him a rich man, and didn’t think he’d
try to rob me of the little money I had with me.”
“Of course you didn’t. Has he paid you any wages?”
“No; the week wasn’t up. He offered to pay me a week in advance.”
“So he might, as he meant to take it from you again.”
“I didn’t think of that,” said Tom, laughing.
“It didn’t take me more’n fifteen minutes to find a horse and buy it,”
said Mr. Brush, proceeding with his story. “I didn’t have time to
examine it, and find whether it was sound, but I guess I got a good
bargain. Anyhow it’s worth sixty dollars, and that’s what I paid for
it. And now, Tom, that I’ve told my story, what do you say to hitchin’
horses?”
“I haven’t any horse to hitch, Mr. Brush.”
Peter Brush laughed loudly.
“I mean,” he explained, “that we might as well go along together, now
that you’ve got rid of that swindler.”
“With all my heart, Mr. Brush. I shall be glad of your company.”
“I ain’t goin’ to engage you as my secretary, for I wouldn’t know what
to do with one if I had him. I can’t pay you twelve dollars a week, but
if your money gives out I won’t see you suffer.”
“There’s one thing in the way, Mr. Brush,” said Tom, “I can’t keep up
with your horse.”
“I’ll buy you one, Tom, at the next haltin’ place.”
“No need of that, Mr. Brush; I’ll buy one myself.”
“Have you got money enough?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll pick one out for you. I’ll see you don’t get cheated. Now,
my lad, it’s gettin’ dark, and we’d better push on. You get on the
horse, and I’ll trudge alongside.”
Tom consented to ride a part of the time. But it was ten o’clock, so
bad were the roads, before they reached the frontier village, and
secured an humble lodging for the night.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE PACIFIC TRAIL.
Tom and his new acquaintance spent a day at the little settlement where
they passed the night. Tom was fortunate enough to buy a horse for
forty-two dollars, and he also provided himself with a rifle and a few
things which Mr. Brush told him were necessary for the long trip they
had in view.
Whenever he thought of the change he had made in companions he
congratulated himself. He had found no pleasure in Burnett’s society,
even before he had found out his treachery. The salary he was to
receive was his only inducement. Now he had relinquished all salary,
and must defray his entire expenses without help, but he felt assured
that, should he become penniless, his honest friend Brush would not
desert him. So, with a bold heart he set out upon his long journey.
I do not propose to give a daily record of the journeyings of the
two companions, as they followed the Pacific Trail. The journey was
monotonous enough. So many miles daily, the number varying according
to the state of the road, if such a name can be given to the path they
were following, camping for the night and resuming travel the next day.
It was so monotonous that they almost forgot the days of the week.
Let us look in upon the pair four weeks later. During that time they
had made about five hundred miles.
“Tom,” said Peter Brush, as they rode side by side over a broad,
rolling prairie, “this is lonely, isn’t it? For all we can see we
are the only people living in the world. There isn’t a house, nor a
clearing, nor the smoke of a chimney, anywhere in sight.”
“That is so, Mr. Brush.”
“Seems to me, Tom, you are lookin’ rather sober. Is there anything a
weighin’ on your mind?”
“Yes, Mr. Brush, I was thinking of my mother and sister.”
“Then if you are thinkin’ of them, you ought to look cheerful. If I
had a mother and sister to think of I’d give a thousand dollars down,
though I am a poor man.”
“You don’t quite understand me, Mr. Brush. How do I know that they are
well? They may be sick, or dead,” and our hero’s lip quivered.
“Don’t go to borrering trouble, Tom. It ain’t no use. I’ll bet you a
dollar they’re well, and as lively as crickets.”
“If I only knew that! But there isn’t any chance of my writing to them,
or hearing from them, in this great wilderness.”
“That’s so, Tom. There don’t seem to be any post-offices near by,
that’s a fact.”
“I am afraid mother will worry about me, when she has to go so long
without getting a letter. She’ll think I’m either sick or dead.”
“I don’t b’lieve she will. She will trust to Providence, that is, if
she’s a religious woman, and goes to church, as most mothers do.”
“My mother is the best woman in the world!” said Tom, warmly.
“I don’t doubt it--not a mite. She’s got a pretty good son, and when
you see a good son you’ll generally find he has a good mother.”
“I am glad you have so good an opinion of me, Mr. Brush, but I’m afraid
I don’t deserve it.”
“Suppose we argy that point.”
“Never mind,” said Tom, smiling, “I’m perfectly willing you should
think so. How soon do you think I can write a letter home?”
“There’s a place about a hundred miles further on. We’ll get there
within a week. When you get there, you can write a long letter.”
“I will; I will try to make up for lost time. I shall have a great deal
to write.”
“So you will, Tom.”
“Sha’n’t you write, too, Mr. Brush?”
“I haven’t got anybody to write to,” answered Peter Brush.
“There’s your boy.”
“I never writ a letter to him in my life. Fact is, Tom, I ain’t much
on writin’; I can handle a rifle a good deal better than a pen. My boy
doesn’t expect a letter from me.”
“It seems to me if my father were away traveling, I should want to hear
from him.”
“I reckon you would, but there’s a difference in families. Ours isn’t a
writin’ family.”
“When did you see your boy last?”
“Only a few weeks ago.”
“And when do you expect to see him again?”
“In a year, likely, if things come round right. He’s all right, and got
good care taken of him, so there’s no use worryin’. Your mother’s well
fixed, too, isn’t she?”
“Yes, I suppose she’s very comfortable. She is keeping house for a rich
farmer, and wants for nothing.”
“Then, don’t you go to borrering trouble.”
Just then the two friends heard a steady tramp behind, as if another
horseman were on their track.
Peter Brush looked round, and his curiosity seemed to be excited.
“Tom,” said he, “look round. There’s a queer-lookin’ critter on our
track.”
CHAPTER XXX.
THE MAN WITHOUT A SCALP.
This was what Tom saw on looking behind him:
A very tall man, bestriding a raw-boned horse, who looked as if, like
Dr. Tanner, he had just emerged from a forty days’ fast.
The man was very nearly as thin as the horse, with a long face, set
off, but scarcely adorned, by a rough, red beard. He was attired in a
suit of rusty black, and looked not unlike a wandering missionary.
“He’s tryin’ to catch up with us, Tom,” said Mr. Brush. “Suppose we
halt and give him a better show.”
Tom had no objections. In their lonely journey it was rather agreeable
to meet a new acquaintance, however unprepossessing he might appear.
“Good morning, fellow pilgrims,” said the new-comer, as he came up
abreast of our two friends.
“Good mornin’ yourself,” said Brush. “What’s the news?”
“Just what I would like to know,” said the other. “I haven’t heard a
word from civilization for weeks. Whom have I the honor of addressing?”
“My name is Peter Brush, at your service. This boy is my friend, Tom
Thatcher. We are on our way to Californy, and we may get there if we
don’t run a-foul of any murderous Indians. I ain’t quite ready to part
with my scalp yet, so I hope they’ll keep away.”
“It’s very painful, being scalped,” said the new arrival, meditatively.
“I reckon so.”
“I know it. For I had that little operation performed on me.”
Peter Brush drew in his horse, and stared at the stranger in profound
surprise.
“What was that you were sayin’?” he ejaculated.
“I’ve been scalped myself, and I know how it seems.”
“Stranger----”
“Lycurgus B. Spooner, M.D. That is my name and title.”
“Then Mr. Spooner--or, Dr. Spooner--won’t you oblige me by removin’
your hat?”
Dr. Spooner did so, and displayed a thick mass of red hair.
“I don’t see any signs of scalpin’,” said Mr. Brush, puzzled.
The doctor removed his wig, and displayed the marks of the unpleasant
surgical operation to which he had been subjected by the Indians.
“How was it you didn’t die?” asked Tom.
“The confounded redskins thought I was dead, and left me lying on the
prairie. But I wasn’t so far gone as they supposed. After awhile I came
to, and a party of travelers coming up, took care of me. I recovered
after a time, and tried to make up for my loss by a wig.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Four years.”
“And how do you get along without a scalp?” asked Peter Brush,
curiously.
“Don’t miss it,” answered Spooner, laconically. “I used to have
headaches, but now I never have ’em.”
“And you think it’s on account of the scalpin’?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“I sometimes have headaches myself, but I don’t care about curin’ ’em
that way.”
Tom laughed.
“I agree with you, Mr. Brush.”
“If you have a fancy for being scalped,” said Dr. Spooner, “it is very
possible that an opportunity may be afforded you before long.”
Tom was naturally startled, and none the less because the doctor’s
declaration was made in the coolest and most indifferent manner.
“What do you mean?” asked Peter Brush, hurriedly.
“Look at that, and you won’t need to ask.”
With his whip-handle he pointed to the left. There, at only a few rods
distance, was a sight which made Tom’s blood run cold in his veins.
Stiff and stark lay the bodies of two emigrants, with their scalps
removed, evidently the victims of a ruthless band of savages.
CHAPTER XXXI.
TWO NEW COMRADES.
It was the first time Tom had ever looked upon a man who had met a
violent death, and the sight impressed him deeply.
The two men were fairly well dressed, apparently between thirty and
forty years of age, not unlike the average emigrant of those days, who
left a comfortable home in the East to seek his fortune in the far West.
“How long since this happened, doctor?” asked Peter Brush, soberly.
He naturally deferred in this matter to the superior judgment of a
physician.
Dr. Lycurgus Spooner dismounted from his horse and examined the
unfortunate victims of Indian barbarity with a professional eye.
“Not many hours,” he answered, briefly.
“Then the plaguy redskins are not far away?”
“Probably not,” answered the doctor. “In fact, only a few miles back I
fell in with a party who had a narrow escape from the red rascals.”
“I wonder we did not meet them.”
“They took a more northerly course than you are doing.”
“But you met them?”
“I struck to the south after meeting them, partly because I thought
in that way I should get further away from the Indians. It seems,
however, from this sad sight, that the red devils have been in this
neighborhood.”
“What shall we do?” queried Brush, doubtfully. “I don’t care to meet
them, nor Tom here I reckon.”
“We may as well push on, but it will be best to keep a good lookout on
all sides.”
“Trust me for that. I’ve got a good pair of eyes, and I won’t run afoul
of them if I can help it.”
“Have you any objection to my company?” asked Dr. Spooner.
“Not a mite. I shall be glad to have you hitch horses with our’n. Can
you fight?”
“I have done it before now.”
“Then, if we are attacked, you will stand by us?”
“You may rely upon me.”
“Then you are welcome. By the way, doctor, I ain’t curious, that is,
not uncommon curious, but I do wonder why you, a doctor, are roamin’
round in these diggin’s?”
“You think I would be better off attending my patients at home, I
suppose?”
“Just so.”
“But suppose the choice lies between a grave in the East, and a
wandering life of privation in the West, what do you say, then?”
“Who wanted to kill you at the East?” asked Peter Brush, bluntly.
“Consumption, my friend. I inherit a tendency to that fatal disease. My
mother died of it. Her mother died of it, and several other relations
have in turn fallen victims to the scourge of the Atlantic Coast.
Well, when I found the seeds ripening in my own system, and nature’s
warning becoming only too plain, I took the hint. I knew there was
only one course to take. I must abandon the East, and my flourishing
practice, must give up furnace-heated houses, and live out of doors far
away from the fatal east winds. It was a great sacrifice, for I was a
successful physician, and I liked the life of towns, and the culture
and advantages of Eastern civilization, but life was precious, and I
did not hesitate.”
“How long ago was that, doctor?” asked Mr. Brush.
“Six years ago. I went across the plains to California. There I made
some money and returned, but I could not stay long, for my old symptoms
began to come back. I resumed my wanderings, and have spent more or
less of the time since on the plains.”
“And how’s your health?”
“There’s a good deal of life in me yet, though I don’t look rugged.”
Indeed the doctor, with his slim, hollow cheeks, looked far from
robust, but he was embrowned by exposure to the elements, and was tough
and wiry, and as Mr. Brush found out, he had a good deal of endurance.
“You don’t look like a picter of health,” said Mr. Brush.
“No; but that’s partly because I am constitutionally thin. Our family
doesn’t gain flesh easily. I am well, and my appetite is always good,
sometimes inconveniently good, for I am often so situated that I can’t
gratify it.”
“I’ve got a healthy appetite myself,” remarked Peter Brush.
“I’m not backward that way either,” said Tom.
“Does your horse come of a consumptive family, too, doctor?” asked
Brush, slyly, as his eye took in the bony skeleton on which Dr.
Lycurgus B. Spooner was riding.
“In one sense, yes. He can consume as large an amount of hay and oats
as any of his race. But, my friends, before we leave this place let us
pay the last rites to the memory of these poor fellows who have been
cut off in the midst of health and life by the savages.”
“I say amen to that with all my heart, and Tom will help, I know.”
“Yes,” said Tom, soberly, while the thought could not help rising that
before long some stranger might be called upon to do the same service
for him.
A hole was dug close to where the bodies lay, and the two victims were
deposited therein with reverent care. No clew could be found to their
identity. There were no letters in their pockets, and they were buried
by those who knew not their names.
“I’d like to kill a few of the wretches that did this foul deed!” said
Mr. Brush. “If I were going to be killed, I’d rather meet my fate at
the hands of a white man than to be cut down by an ignorant savage.”
“I can’t say it would make much difference to me,” said Dr. Spooner,
philosophically. “Death is death, whether a white man kills you, or a
red man.”
“I would rather be killed by my equal than by a savage, who is only a
two-legged brute,” persisted Peter Brush.
“I hope the choice won’t be forced upon any of us,” said the doctor.
“At any rate, I prefer not to speculate upon such a fate as probable,
though it may be possible.”
“You’ve got the advantage of us, Doctor. You have no scalp to lose.”
“No, but I set some value by my head, though it may be scalpless.”
“They didn’t take your horse’s scalp, Dr. Spooner?”
“No. It is some advantage to be a horse. This poor beast, miserable as
he looks, has twice saved me from capture by the redskins. Haven’t you,
Bony?”
“A very appropriate name!” laughed Brush.
“It is short for Bonaparte. Still it is appropriate, as you say. He can
get over the ground pretty fast, if there is need of it. And now, my
men, what is your destination? Are you going to California?”
“Yes,” answered Peter Brush, “such is our intention.”
“In search of fortune, I presume?”
“Yes, but not wholly,” and Peter Brush told the doctor of the leading
object of our young hero, Tom.
“I have a mind to go with you,” said Lycurgus. “I am wandering rather
aimlessly just now. I might be able to help your young friend.”
“Then keep along with us, the more the merrier,” said Brush, cordially.
“What do you say, Tom?”
“I hope the doctor will come with us.”
“Then I will. Here is my hand on it.”
Neither Tom nor Brush foresaw how fortunate for them was Dr. Spooner’s
determination.
CHAPTER XXXII.
A STARTLING SIGHT.
Twenty-four hours later the party left the prairie, and came to a
region more uneven and wooded.
“It seems pleasant,” said Tom, “to get away from the prairie.”
“It may be pleasanter,” said the doctor, “but it is not so safe.”
“Why not?” asked Tom.
“Your friend Brush will tell you as I do, that we are more liable to
encounter Indians. They naturally seek the woods and hills.”
“Yet the two travelers whom we buried were on the prairie.”
“That is true; of course, the savages roam over the prairies at times,
but even there they may be seen long beforehand. Here one may come upon
them suddenly.”
“What the doctor says is gospel truth,” said Peter Brush, gravely.
“I feel more anxious in my mind than I did yesterday. But it isn’t
best to worry overmuch. I’ve been over the plains--at least as far as
Utah--half a dozen times, and I’ve never been in the clutches of the
redskins yet.”
“I hope I shall be as lucky, Mr. Brush,” said Tom.
“I hope so, too. To my mind they are a set of poisonous reptiles that
ought to be exterminated. I don’t know what they were made for, anyway.”
“Your views are extreme, friend Brush,” said Lycurgus Spooner. “I have
no great liking for the redmen myself, but it is certain that the fault
is not wholly on their side. They have been badly treated by our race.”
“No more than they deserved,” said Mr. Brush, stubbornly, for he was
strongly prejudiced. “I’d like to argy the point.”
“No occasion for that. We will each hold to our own opinions, and I
hope we may have no cause to think more ill of them.”
Tom and his friend Brush found Mr. Spooner an entertaining companion.
He was an educated man, had read a great deal, and seen a good deal of
the world, having pursued his professional studies in part at Paris and
Vienna. It must be confessed that he looked like a tramp, but one who
judged him by his outward appearance would make a great mistake.
It was toward the close of the afternoon. They had just forded a narrow
stream, and safely landed on the other side, were about to resume their
journey, when, in a little inlet half-hidden by the trees, they saw an
object which startled them.
It was an Indian canoe.
“Do you see that, Tom?” said Brush, quickly.
“Yes; it is a canoe, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and it means that the Indians are not far away. Am I right, Dr.
Spooner?”
“Probably you are, friend Brush.”
“What shall we do?” asked Tom.
“I suppose it will be best to push on. We shall never accomplish our
journey unless we do, but we must keep our eyes open, and be prepared
to come upon the Indians at any moment. What do you say, doctor?”
“You are right.”
No doubt Tom had reason to feel anxious. When he started away from home
he knew that he must encounter difficulties and endure privations, but
he had not thought of danger. He was only a boy of sixteen, and at that
age one seldom weighs carefully the consequences of any given step.
How then did he feel? Serious, to be sure, but the thought of danger
gave him a feeling of excitement and exhilaration that was partly
pleasurable. He felt older, more like a man, now that he found himself
in a situation which men would consider serious.
The little party moved on with great caution, scarcely speaking above a
whisper.
Though they were in the woods, there was a good trail, and they had
no difficulty in making their way onward on horseback. There was very
little underbrush. Straight and high-branched, the trees rose in lofty
majesty. They were stripped of their foliage, for it was a winter
month, but they looked like dark sentinels, posted by nature, to warn
off intruders from her vast and lonely domain.
Suddenly Peter Brush, who was gifted with keen sight, clutched Tom by
the arm.
“What’s the matter?” asked our hero.
“Hush! Look there!”
Tom followed the direction of the extended finger, and his heart beat
quicker as he caught sight of a company of savages sitting in a circle
beneath the overspreading branch of an immense tree a dozen rods away.
A fire had been kindled in the center of the group, and the savages
were evidently enjoying it. Their day’s tramp was over, and in their
silent way they were enjoying their evening rest.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
TAKEN CAPTIVE.
The Indians numbered not far from twenty. The dusky warriors sat in
silence, wearing their usual look of gravity. Among all races there
is probably not one less social than the American Indian. A garrulous
Indian would be a curiosity.
The three travelers gazed as if fascinated upon the group of savages.
In spite of the dire peril in which they stood, their curiosity was
excited by one member of the dusky company.
It was a boy, about as old as Tom, apparently, who was incased in a
blanket, and lay close to the fire. I say incased to indicate how
closely the blanket was folded around his boyish form.
Beside him sat a tall, stalwart warrior, who gazed on the boy with a
look of evident anxiety.
The boy’s thin features, and a certain contraction of his brow,
indicated that he was sick and in pain. Lycurgus Spooner and Peter
Brush judged that he was the chief’s son, or, at least, the son of a
man of distinction.
While taking their observations, our three pilgrims had halted their
horses. Thus far they had not attracted the attention of the Indian
braves.
What was to be done?
They did not dare to consult audibly, lest the sound of their voices
should reach the quick ears of the Indians.
Peter Brush, with an inquiring glance, extended his hand in the
direction of the river which they had just forded. Lycurgus Spooner,
understanding the unspoken question, bowed his head affirmatively.
The three turned their horses, and were about to retrace their steps,
when Tom’s horse gave a slight whinny.
Instantly the Indians raised their heads, and our travelers were
discovered. Without a word the redmen sprang to their feet, and, with
a wild whoop, that was well calculated to send terror to the hearts of
the fugitives, started in pursuit.
When the three reached the river-bank the Indians were close behind.
“Stop!” shouted the foremost Indian, the tall warrior who had been
seated beside the boy.
It was one of the four English words which he knew.
The command might not have been obeyed, but that it was reinforced by
a gun drawn to the shoulder and leveled at Lycurgus Spooner, whom he
took to be the leader of the party, in virtue of his age and dignified
bearing.
“The game’s up,” said Brush. “We may as well give ourselves up, and not
wait till we are shot.”
“There is no hope of escape,” said Lycurgus, reigning in his horse by
the river-bank.
“We might get across,” said Tom.
“And be shot in doing it? No; it’s a bad business, but it can’t be
helped.”
All this conversation passed in an instant, for there was no time to
waste, or, rather, there was risk in prolonging the discussion.
All halted their horses, and almost simultaneously they were surrounded
by the Indians.
The chief made a signal for them to dismount. Lycurgus Spooner was the
first to obey. It was not his first experience of Indian captivity, and
he knew that prompt obedience would be wise.
His example was followed by Peter Brush and Tom, who with much
apprehension and anxious hearts leaped to the ground, to find
themselves hemmed in by savage forms, and faces grave but void of
expression, but even in their self-repression inspiring fear.
At a signal three warriors led off the horses. Tom fancied that the
Indian who led Dr. Spooner’s horse regarded the thin, bony beast with
contempt, but he might have been mistaken.
Dr. Spooner, Peter Brush and Tom were ranged in line, and conducted
toward the camp-fire, preceded and followed by an Indian guard.
It must not be supposed that they were allowed to retain their
fire-arms. Their rifles were taken from them, and the acquisition of
these arms appeared to yield their captors considerable satisfaction.
They had learned to value these articles, which were to them of
practical value.
Who shall say what thoughts surged up in the heart of our young hero,
as he found himself in the power of a people of whom he had read so
much? He remembered a thin, paper-covered novel, which he had read
only the previous summer in the security of home, in which had been
described the captivity of a boy of his own age. Little did he dream
at that time that he himself would ever be the hero of a similar
adventure. It was romantic, certainly, but Tom would readily have
surrendered all the romance of the situation for a quiet seat in his
humble home far away.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
TWO POWWOWS.
At a signal from the chief all three prisoners were bound and placed on
the ground close by.
Then the Indians, resuming their sitting positions, had a powwow, or,
as we should say, deliberated. Though the three captives could not
understand their speech, they readily inferred that they were the
subjects of discussion, and that their fate was being decided. This,
indeed, might be inferred from the occasional glances cast toward them
by the different speakers.
There was one circumstance, however, that puzzled them, and naturally.
Reference was also made to the sick boy. This they also inferred from
the looks which he attracted.
“They are talking about us, doctor,” said Peter Brush, in a low voice.
“Yes, but they are also talking of the boy.”
“You don’t understand them, do you?”
“Only an occasional word. I know the Indian word for boy, and they have
used that several times.”
“They may mean Tom.”
“That is what I thought at first, but I observed that whenever they use
the word, they either point or glance at the sick boy in the center.”
“That’s curious. I can’t see what he has to do with us.”
“Nor I.”
“What do you suppose they will do with us?”
“Don’t let us think of unpleasant subjects, friend Brush. There’s one
comfort--my scalp is pretty safe.”
“But mine isn’t,” said Brush, sadly running his hand through his
bristling hair. It was not ornamental, but Peter Brush was attached to
it, and the thought that he might lose it strengthened the value he set
upon it.
“Tom, what are you thinking about, my lad?” asked Brush.
“I am thinking that we are in a tight place,” answered Tom, soberly.
“Keep a stiff upper lip, lad. We ain’t past hope.”
“God may help us,” said Tom, reverently.
Peter Brush scratched his head reflectively.
“I am sorry to say, lad, that I never gave much thought to Him. My
mother used to tell me about God when I was a little chap, but I’ve
spent most of my life away from churches, and I don’t know much about
anything but this earth.”
“Surely you believe there is a God, Mr. Brush?”
“Yes, Tom, but I don’t feel as if I had much to do with Him. If you
think He will help us, just ask Him.”
“I have been asking him in my own thoughts,” said Tom, “and I have a
feeling that somehow help will come to us.”
“We stand in precious need of help from some quarter. I wish I could
make out the Indian palaver.”
“We shall know in due time, friend Brush,” said Lycurgus Spooner;
“perhaps sooner than we care to.”
“Do you think they will do anything to us to-night, Dr. Spooner?” asked
Tom.
“No; such is not their custom. They have had their council. They will
do nothing till the night is over. We shall be allowed a good night’s
sleep.”
“I don’t expect to sleep a wink all night,” said Peter Brush, in a
lugubrious tone. “I shall be thinking all the while how it feels to be
scalped.”
“That won’t tend to make your dreams pleasant, friend Brush. My advice
is, that whatever is to come, you try to sleep well. It will strengthen
you, either to devise means of escape, or, if need be, to meet your
fate.”
“It’s all very well to give that advice, doctor, but not being a
cold-blooded animal, I sha’n’t find it easy to follow. Suppose you were
going to be hung to-morrow morning--how do you think you could sleep?”
“No such fate as that is in store for us, at any rate. People are hung
only in civilized communities. Did you ever hear of a man shipwrecked
on a territory entirely unknown to him, who in the course of his first
walk came to a man hanging upon a gallows? ‘Thank heaven!’ he said, ‘I
am in a civilized country!’”
Tom and Mr. Brush laughed in spite of the peril that menaced them, and
this unexpected sound drew the wondering attention of the Indians.
Indeed, it increased their respect for their captives. It was clear
that they were not cowards or they would not laugh under such
circumstances.
But the merriment of our three friends was short-lived. They became
silent and thoughtful, and as they gazed at the flickering flames,
and the shadows grew darker, all were impressed by the gravity of the
situation, and the uncertain tenure by which they held their lives.
CHAPTER XXXV.
HOW TOM PASSED THE NIGHT.
The Indians had held their powwow, and so had their white captives, and
both were silent. One by one dropped into a slumber. Tom was the first
of the three to fall asleep. He was fatigued, and he had a greater
trust in Providence. His fears were allayed by a confidence that
somehow, and from some quarter, help would come.
In the middle of the night, or, rather, about half-past one o’clock, he
suddenly awoke. As well as his constrained position would let him he
looked about him; first, at his two companions. They were both asleep,
but on the face of Brush there was a troubled expression, indicating,
perhaps, unpleasant dreams. Lycurgus Spooner looked as tranquil as if
he were sleeping in his own bed. He was following his own advice, and
securing for himself a sound, refreshing slumber.
Next Tom looked at the Indians. They, too, were asleep, their dusky
faces no more expressionless than in their waking moments. They slept
soundly, like animals as they were, untroubled by cares or anxieties.
It is only in a state of civilization that the nerves become active
and irritable. Refinement and civilization bring with them higher
enjoyments, and more intense sufferings.
“All around me are asleep,” thought Tom; “if only my hands and feet
were not tied, I might escape.”
Hope kindled in his heart. He began to work upon the cords that
confined his wrists, and succeeded in loosening them a little. He
had a knife in his pocket. If only he could have got hold of that!
But it would be necessary to unfasten his wrists first, and that was
impossible.
Next he tried with his hands, fastened as they were, to release his
feet, but he was forced to work at a disadvantage, and the knots were
too secure.
“I must give it up as a bad job,” thought Tom. “Even if I got free, of
which there isn’t much chance, I should not like to leave Mr. Brush and
the doctor in captivity. It would seem mean.”
Tom’s chivalry was, perhaps, overstrained. I do not myself consider
that he was under any obligation to remain and risk a terrible fate
because he could not also rescue his two companions. Yet I like Tom
better for his unselfishness.
The boy captive had just desisted from his futile attempt to extricate
himself from his fetters, when, chancing to direct his gaze toward the
Indian boy, he saw the bright eyes of the young chief fastened upon him.
Tom’s nature was intensely sympathetic, and forgetting that the young
Indian was his natural foe, he smiled pleasantly.
The Indian boy seemed surprised, but even his unresponsive nature was
affected by Tom’s bright look. His naturally grave face lighted up,
and a faint smile showed Tom that his friendly overture was not thrown
away.
It cheered him, and he thought, “I believe that boy would be my friend
if they would let him. I wish my fate depended upon him.”
The Indian boy’s smile faded, and an expression of pain succeeded,
while he pressed his hand upon his chest.
“I am sorry for the poor fellow,” thought Tom. “I wonder what’s the
matter with him.”
Probably his face expressed his sympathy, and the Indian boy read it
as he once more looked toward the young captive, so near his own age.
The pain seemed to pass and he became more tranquil, but still his dark
eyes were open, and it did not seem likely that he would soon fall
asleep.
“I must give up all thoughts of escaping,” thought Tom, “while the boy
is awake.”
He fell asleep again after awhile, and did not awake till he was shaken
roughly by one of the Indians.
Morning had come, though on that wintry day the tardy sun had not yet
risen.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
TOM’S DEADLY PERIL.
The three captives, on awakening, regarded their captors with looks of
anxiety. They tried to read their fate in those dusky faces, but in
vain.
There was a little conversation between the chief and an elderly
Indian, who proved to be an interpreter, having a fair knowledge of
the English language for an Indian, and then the latter approached our
three friends.
He singled out Dr. Spooner as the supposed head of the party, and to
him addressed himself.
“White man,” he said, “the chief bids me tell you your fate.”
It need hardly be said that he had attentive listeners.
“You and you,” pointing out Brush, “may go, but your horses and guns
remain with us.”
“I am very much obliged to you, colonel,” said Peter Brush, greatly
relieved. “You’re welcome to the horse and rifle, and my friend, the
doctor, will no doubt say the same. How soon can we go?”
“At once. You shall be unbound, and free to keep on your way to the
great waters.”
“And the boy may go, too?” said the doctor, who was more cool and
self-possessed than Mr. Brush, and had at once noted the omission to
include Tom in the proposed release.
“Of course! Didn’t he say Tom, too?” said Peter Brush, hastily.
“The boy must stay!” said the Indian interpreter, gravely.
“But why must he stay? He is under my care. I can’t go without him?”
said Brush, eagerly.
“White boy must stay!” repeated the Indian.
“What do you propose to do with him?” asked Dr. Spooner, uneasily.
The Indian continued:
“For more than a moon the young chief has been sick and weak. A bad
spirit has entered into him and torments him.”
“But what has all this to do with Tom?” asked Brush, impatiently.
“Let him tell his story in his own way, friend Brush,” said the doctor.
“We shall know soon enough.”
The interpreter continued:
“The Great Spirit is vexed. He has sent one of the bad spirits to
trouble Miantonimo. He must be appealed.”
“But what has that to do with Tom?” asked Peter Brush, again.
“Hush!” said Lycurgus Spooner.
“He has revealed it to his children that Miantonimo will not get well
till a white boy has been sacrificed in his stead.”
A look of anxiety and horror swept over the face of Dr. Spooner. Peter
Brush did not seem to catch the meaning of the last words.
“Surely,” said Lycurgus, “you would not kill an innocent boy?”
“The Great Spirit has said it,” said the Indian, gravely.
“Kill Tom!” ejaculated Peter Brush, horror-stricken. “He don’t mean
that, does he, doctor?”
“The boy must die!” said the interpreter.
“Then you may kill me, too, you bloody butcher!” exclaimed Peter Brush,
tugging fiercely at his fettered hands.
“Calm yourself, friend Brush,” said Lycurgus Spooner. “Let me speak
with the Indians. Perhaps I can convince them of their folly.”
“I’d like to argy the point myself,” said Peter.
Of course, Tom had heard all this, and the thought of the fate which
seemed inevitable blanched his cheek and sent a cold chill to his heart.
What! at the age of sixteen must he die a violent death, because a
young Indian boy was sick, a victim to the cruel superstition of a band
of savages?
“God help me!” he murmured, with pale lips. “For the sake of my dear
mother and sister, save me from this fearful fate!”
“This is terrible!” ejaculated Peter Brush, while in his excitement the
big drops of perspiration gathered on his brow. “Kill me, Mr. Indian,
and let the boy live. He is young, and his life is worth more than
mine.”
“No good!” said the Indian. “A boy is sick. A boy must die.”
“Mr. Brush,” said Tom gratefully, “I will never forget this unselfish
offer. You have offered your life for mine. You are a true friend.”
“But the brutes won’t accept my offer,” said Peter Brush, bitterly.
“They are bound to shed your innocent blood, my poor boy. If I only had
my revolver here, and loaded, I would kill some of them, or my name
isn’t Peter Brush.”
“Be careful what you say, or they will kill you, too,” said Tom, in a
warning voice.
The interpreter stood aside. At a signal from the chief, two men
advanced toward Tom. They took him up in their arms, and carried him to
a young tree, of slender trunk, and deftly bound him with his back to
the tree, facing toward the group.
“Are they going to kill Tom before our very eyes?” said Peter Brush, in
a tone of horror.
“It is indeed terrible!” said Lycurgus Spooner, in a state of agitation
almost as great.
“Oh, Tom, Tom, I wish I’d left you with that swindling Jim Dobson. He
would only have robbed you, while I have led you to your death.”
“You couldn’t help it, Mr. Brush,” said Tom, his lips quivering. “It is
hard, but I’ll try to meet it.”
“You thought God was going to help you!” exclaimed Brush, bitterly.
“It is not too late yet. He may save me yet. But Mr. Brush, I have a
favor to ask of you.”
“What is it? I will do anything in my power, Tom.”
“And I too, my poor lad,” said Dr. Spooner.
“Write to my mother, and let her know that I am dead, but don’t let her
know how I died. Let her think that I caught cold and died of a fever.
She won’t feel so bad. There’s some money that I have in the ---- bank,
in New York. Let her know about that. They will give it to her, if she
calls for it.”
“Yes, Tom, I will do it,” said Peter Brush, stifling a sob--“that is,
if I live. I don’t think I can stand it to see those red devils kill
you.”
While this conversation was going on the Indians remained quiet.
Probably they understood that Tom was giving to his two friends the
last messages he was ever to deliver, and a sense of propriety,
possibly a feeling of sympathy, would not permit them to interfere.
For it must be remembered that they were about to kill Tom from no
feeling of hostility, but merely because in their superstition they
thought God required a sacrifice, and would in return restore the young
chief to health.
Poor Tom! his fate seemed sealed. The Indian chief, who on account
of his relationship was considered the fitting instrument for
accomplishing the sacrifice, took his stand at the distance of a
hundred feet from the tree to which Tom was bound, and raised his rifle.
Tom closed his eyes, and with an unspoken prayer, commended his soul to
God, when a most surprising incident startled all who were looking on.
The Indian boy rose suddenly to his feet, flung off the blanket in
which he was wrapped, and rushing to the tree, flung his arms around
Tom, with a loud cry.
His father dropped the rifle with which he was about to act the part of
executioner, and gazed as if spell-bound upon the two boys.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE INDIANS ADOPT TOM.
Not less powerful was the effect produced upon the Indian warriors by
this unexpected action of the sick boy.
They gazed upon him almost in stupefaction. Then they began to murmur
expressions of wonder, not unmingled with awe. To their superstitious
minds it seemed like a direct interposition of God in Tom’s favor. And
who shall say that it was not so? Who shall say that the kindly and
compassionate impulse which led Miantonimo to Tom’s rescue was not
God’s work?
New hope sprang up in Tom’s heart as he felt the arms of the Indian boy
closely encircling him. He knew that Miantonimo was the chief’s son,
and likely to prove a powerful intercessor. He would have returned the
embrace if he could, but his arms were pinioned, or failing that, have
thanked him warmly, but he knew the Indian boy could not understand him.
“Miantonimo!” he said, softly, and his eyes were full of gratitude,
which the boy chief could understand.
Miantonimo, still encircling Tom with his arms, turned his head, and in
the Indian language, said:
“Save him, my father, let him be my brother.”
“The Great Spirit has spoken through my son,” said Wanuka, the chief,
gravely.
“Then shall he live?”
“He shall live. No harm shall come to him,” said the chief. “Unbind
him. He shall stay with us, and be brother of Miantonimo.”
This decision seemed to please the Indian braves, who murmured in
approval.
Two of them, at a signal from Wanuka advanced, and loosened the ropes
that confined the boy prisoner.
Peter Brush and Lycurgus B. Spooner looked on with joy, not unmingled
with amazement.
“It is wonderful!” ejaculated Brush.
“Wonderful, indeed, friend Brush. It seems to me like a direct
interposition of the Almighty.”
“That Indian boy is a trump. I’d like to shake hands with him.”
“So would I, but it might be misunderstood. It will be best to keep
quiet and let things take their course.”
No sooner was Tom unbound, than with boyish warmth of heart he threw
his arms around the neck of Miantonimo and gave him a brotherly embrace.
Wanuka and the Indian warriors looked on with approval, for was not Tom
to remain with them and become the brother of their future chief. Their
satisfaction was increased by the improved looks of Miantonimo. He no
longer looked sick, but his manner was sprightly and his eyes sparkled.
It was difficult to believe that he was the same boy who for days
reclined, weak and spiritless, by the log-fire, wrapped in blankets.
“The Great Spirit has cured him!” went from mouth to mouth.
“Give me my bow,” said the Indian boy.
It was brought to him in wonder, and in place of resuming his position
on the ground, he signed to Tom to come with him to a vacant spot near
by, and putting up a mark, made him shoot at it.
Tom was no archer, and his shot was wide of the mark.
Miantonimo, laughing, took the bow, and carefully adjusting it, struck
the object at which he aimed.
“Well,” said Peter Brush, “that beats all I ever heard of. I don’t
believe I’m awake. Pinch me, to make sure.”
“No need of that, friend Brush. Tom has had a signal deliverance. Just
now he was in danger of being sacrificed; now he is a prime favorite.”
Just then the interpreter, after a brief conference with the chief,
advanced toward our two friends.
“Wanuka bids me say that you are free. You can go where you will.”
“And may Tom go, too?”
“Who is Tom?”
“The boy.”
“No, he will stay with us. He will be the brother of Miantonimo.”
Peter Brush and Dr. Spooner looked at each other in perplexity. Tom’s
life was saved, but the Indians were resolved to keep him a captive,
and that, they knew, would make him miserable.
“Here’s a pretty kettle of fish, doctor,” said Peter. “Must we leave
Tom here?”
“I am afraid we must,” said the doctor, slowly.
“I have a great mind to say that he is my son, and I can’t do without
him.”
“Better not. If the Indians should find out that it is a deception, the
consequences might be serious. Besides, they wouldn’t let him go even
then.”
“Do you think not?” asked Brush, doubtfully.
“I feel sure of it. Tom owes his life to the sudden fancy which
Miantonimo has taken for him. When the boy is just recovering, you may
be sure his father will not allow any fancy of his to be thwarted. Tom
must stay.”
“And spend his life with the Indians?”
“No. Tom is a smart boy. Sooner or later he will escape. He is lucky
to save his life, even by a long term of captivity. We will bid him
farewell, and urge him to keep up a good heart, and persuade them to
let him go as soon as possible.”
Brush and Dr. Spooner signified their desire to speak to Tom, and our
hero was allowed to approach them.
“Tom,” said Brush, “we hate to leave you here, but the doctor thinks it
wouldn’t do to oppose the plans of the Indians. As soon as Miantonimo
is well, use your influence with him to procure a release from
captivity. I can’t tell whether we shall meet again, but I hope so.”
“Good-by,” said Tom, sadly. “I ought to feel thankful that my life has
been saved, but it seems hard to stay here.”
“Be patient, and your deliverance will come. There are plenty of things
that may turn up. Keep a stiff upper lip, and keep friends with the
redmen, at any rate, and especially with Miantonimo. He’s a regular
trump, that boy is. He’s the first Indian I ever liked.”
“Yes, he’s a good fellow. I wish I understood his language, and could
talk with him.”
“Try to learn; it will help you.”
A few words more, and the two white men left the Indian camp, and
pursued their way westward.
Poor Tom followed them with longing eyes, and his heart was heavy
within him.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THREE MONTHS IN CAPTIVITY.
Eager as he was to leave his new associates, Tom was wise enough to
understand that it must not be thought of at present. He must bide his
time.
Meanwhile he must make himself as agreeable as possible to the young
Indian whose friendly feeling had saved his life. Had Miantonimo
still remained sick, he would have watched by his sick couch, but of
this there was no need. A wonderful change had come over the boy. His
sickness, whatever it was, seemed to have left him all at once. His
strength rapidly returned, and he was able to resume his usual sports.
In these he always wanted Tom to participate, and the white boy was
entirely willing. While he remained in captivity he must pass the time
in some way, and none seemed more agreeable than to share the life and
employments of Miantonimo.
There were some things which the Indian boy could teach him. In the
course of a few weeks Tom became expert with the bow; he even rivaled
his adopted brother, who was remarkably skillful. He learned to ride a
horse bareback, to shoot, to hunt. He also picked up some of the Indian
dialect, so that he and Miantonimo could converse after a fashion.
All this was regarded by Wanuka and his followers with quiet approval.
Tom seemed to become more and more like their people, and they looked
forward to his becoming a great warrior, for his courage and skill were
understood and appreciated by them.
Oftentimes Wanuka, as he sat in silence and watched the two boys at
their sports, congratulated himself that his son had found a friend so
congenial, and one in whose society he seemed to take so much delight.
But how was it with Tom? Was he contented?
At first when under the tutelage of his young Indian friend he was
learning to ride and to shoot, he found these exercises so interesting
that he, for the time being, forgot to regret civilization and all
its advantages and opportunities. But when he had learned all that
Miantonimo could teach, when he could rival his teacher, and there was
nothing to do but repeat from day to day the same routine, life became
monotonous.
For three months he had not read a word of print. Not even a scrap of
newspaper had fallen beneath his eye. Tom was troubled with a sense of
dreariness and mental vacancy. If he could have bought the dullest and
most trivial book he would have regarded it as a literary treasure.
“Must it be always so?” he asked himself, one evening. “Must I live cut
off from all that I have been accustomed to enjoy, eating, sleeping,
and hunting, and with nothing else to look forward to? If this is the
case, I shall not value life much.”
Besides, there were his mother and sister, from whom he seemed forever
separated. Such ties cannot be rent, when the heart is as affectionate
as Tom’s, without great sorrow and pain.
The next day the two boys were riding together.
No one was with them, as no watch was needed when Tom had Miantonimo
with him.
The Indian boy looked wistfully at Tom, whose gravity he had noticed,
and asked:
“Why is my brother sad? Why does he not smile as he did yesterday? Is
he in pain or sorrow?”
“Miantonimo,” said Tom, “far away, near the shores of the ocean, my
mother and sister dwell. They know not where I am. They mourn for me.
Perhaps they think I am dead. Do you wonder that I am sad?”
Miantonimo looked grave.
“Can you not be happy with me?” he asked. “You are like a brother to
me.”
“Dear Miantonimo, I like you. You saved my life. But you cannot take
the place of my mother and sister.”
“Why, then, did you leave them?”
“They are poor. I left home to seek gold, far away by the great western
sea. I wished to bring it home that they might not want.”
Miantonimo looked up, and his face was sad.
“Do you wish to leave me?” he asked.
“I wish you could go with me.”
“I must stay with my people,” said the Indian boy. “But you--if you
wish to go, you can go.”
“Your father will be angry,” said Tom, but his face was lighted up with
new hope.
“I will tell my father that I was willing you should go. Look yonder!
Do you see a line of men and horses winding through the valley?”
“Yes.”
“They are your people. Go and join them, and forget Miantonimo,” said
the Indian boy in sad, reproachful accents.
“I will never forget Miantonimo, but I shall be glad to join the party.”
He brought his horse alongside his companion’s, grasped his hand long
and cordially, and then turning, galloped away.
The Indian boy watched him, sitting motionless upon his horse, with a
sad and wistful look, and then rode slowly back to rejoin his tribe.
“Poor Miantonimo! he is a true friend!” thought Tom. “He will grieve
for me, but I cannot stay with him.”
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE CABIN AT ROCKY GULCH.
The curtain falls, shutting out our view of Tom, as, day by day, he
wends his slow way from the great barren plains west of the Mississippi
valley toward the modern Golconda.
He had been fortunate in joining a company of emigrants, who treated
him kindly, accepting his company as welcome, for he was the only boy
in the party, and to more than one he brought to mind boys of their own
left behind in homes far east.
He feared that Wanuka, angry at his desertion, would pursue him,
and perchance attack the party to which he had joined himself. But
Miantonimo prevented that. Indian boy as he was, he was a true and
unselfish friend, and repressed the sadness and loneliness which he
felt for the sake of the white boy whom he had learned to love as David
loved Jonathan.
The curtain rises disclosing a different scene.
We see a valley hemmed in on nearly every side by high mountains.
Tall pines, straight as a flag-staff, rise here and there. Bowlders,
projected above the earth’s surface by some former upheaval, dating
back thousands of centuries it may be, dot the slope of the hills and
the shelving valley, and this is probably the reason why the place
received years since, and still bears, the name of Rocky Gulch.
It is not uninhabited now, for there is a small village. Most of the
houses are occupied by miners, for the treasures of the place are not
exhausted.
In one of these cabins, rude enough in its construction, live two men
whom we have met before.
That tall figure, in a rather close-fitting suit, with an old sombrero
crowning a head and covering a face which evidently belonged to a
man of thought and culture, must surely be Dr. Lycurgus B. Spooner,
physician and wanderer by profession. And that other figure, shorter,
stouter, broader-shouldered, surmounted by a bronzed, honest face, can
belong to none other than Peter Brush.
Together they sit in the twilight, which comes earlier in the shadow of
the hills, at the door of their humble residence, smoking clay pipes at
the close of their day’s labor.
For a time they are silent. Then Mr. Brush lays aside his pipe, and
turning to his companion, says, slowly:
“Doctor, I don’t know why it is, but to-day I’ve been thinkin’ more
than usual of poor Tom.”
“So have I, friend Brush. I don’t know why it is, but when I was at my
work, his image kept rising before me.”
“How long have we been here, doctor?”
“Three months to-day, friend Brush.”
“And we haven’t heard anything of Tom in all that time.”
“It was hardly to be expected. There isn’t any post-office where he is,
and if there was, he would not know where to direct to us.”
“I hope the poor boy has come to no harm.”
“That wasn’t likely unless he made an attempt to escape. The Indian
boy--what was his name?”
“Miantonimo.”
“Yes. Well, he had such a fancy for Tom that he would be sure to
have him treated well. It was very strange,” continued the doctor,
meditatively, “almost like a romance.”
“It beats any romance I ever read,” said Peter Brush. “Doctor, I
mistrust that Tom would try to escape sooner or later, and would most
likely be caught and----”
Peter Brush gasped a little, and did not try to finish the sentence.
“He wouldn’t try to escape if he didn’t have a fair show, friend Brush.
Tom is a smart boy; I didn’t know him long, but I found that out.”
“Yes, he’s a mighty smart boy. Now, supposin’ he did escape, what then?”
“What then? He would come here. When you told me his story, I made up
my mind to that, directly. Tom set out on a mission, to clear up the
mystery of his father’s disappearance. It was here that his father was
robbed, and perhaps murdered. You may rely upon it, friend Brush, that
he would come here just as fast as his legs could bring him.”
“I know you said that. That was why we came here.”
“To be on the ground when he came--precisely. Well, friend Brush, we
haven’t made any mistake in that. We’ve made it pay.”
“That is true. We stumbled upon a rich vein, which wasn’t to be
expected after the place had been ransacked for years. I reckon that
between us we have taken out six thousand dollars.”
“About that.”
“If Tom comes here, I will divide with him. He sha’n’t suffer any loss
for stayin’ behind.”
“I have a different proposition to make, friend Brush. You say we have
six thousand dollars?”
“As near as I can calc’late,” answered Peter.
“Then suppose we divide that into three portions--one for you, one for
me, and the other for Tom.”
“Agreed, pard. But it’s hardly fair that you should give up part of
your findings.”
“Why not?” asked the doctor sharply. “Do you mean to insinuate that Tom
isn’t my friend, as well as yours?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then, friend Brush, it appears to me that you are talking nonsense. I
claim the right to help Tom if he joins us.”
“I’m afraid it’s no use talkin’, doctor,” said Peter Brush, in a
dispirited tone. “Poor Tom may be scalped and murdered for all we know.”
“I don’t believe it, friend Brush,” said Lycurgus B. Spooner,
energetically, “and I wish you wouldn’t call up such disagreeable
ideas. It’s no joke being scalped, I tell you.”
“I s’pose it isn’t.”
“I _know_ it isn’t, and I claim to be good authority on that point,
for I’m one of the four men who were submitted to that little surgical
operation and still live. I don’t care to think of any of my friends
being operated upon in like manner.”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t have mentioned it, but, doctor, how long is
this thing goin’ on?”
“Is what thing going on? Be a little more explicit, friend Brush.”
“I mean, how long are we goin’ to wait here for Tom?”
“Do you mean that you are tired of waiting for him?”
“No, I mean nothing of the kind. I mean that if you will stay here I
will go back and try to find him.”
“Among the Indians?”
“Yes.”
“But why am I to stay here?”
“So that if the boy comes there will be somebody left to receive him.”
“How long have you been thinking of this, friend Brush?”
“For a week or more. I will leave all the gold-dust with you except,
maybe, a few hundred dollars’ worth to pay expenses. If I don’t come
back, you can keep it for yourself and Tom.”
“Wouldn’t it be better, friend Brush, for me to go and leave you here?”
“No; I don’t believe I could stand it. I want to be lookin’ for Tom
myself.”
“Let it be so, then. When do you wish to go?”
“To-morrow.”
“Very well. I shall feel lonely without you, but you are probably
better adapted to the business.”
While they were talking some one had come near. It was a boy--the
picture of a penniless tramp, with the clothes almost literally falling
off from him--a veritable ragamuffin, yet clean, bright-eyed, and with
cheeks of a healthy brown. His face was fairly glowing with the joy of
an unexpected discovery, as he rushed to the pair with the speed of a
young whirlwind, and with hands outstretched, he exclaimed:
“Mr. Brush--doctor--don’t you know me?”
“WHY, IT’S TOM!” exclaimed honest Peter Brush, almost beside himself
with joy. And he seized our hero, and gave him a bear-like hug. “Are
you really alive?”
“I sha’n’t be long if you squeeze me like that!”
“Tom,” said Dr. Spooner, “I am just as glad to see you as our friend
Brush, but I won’t show it in the same way.”
“Not to-night, at any rate.”
“Is your scalp all right, Tom?” asked Brush, anxiously.
Tom laughed, and pulling off a ragged and dirty hat, displayed an ample
crop of chestnut hair.
“And now, Tom, tell us all about it,” said the doctor. “How did you get
away, and what adventures have you had?”
“One question first, doctor. Have you got anything to eat? I haven’t
tasted food for twelve hours.”
“To be sure we have,” answered Brush, “and plenty of it. Sit here with
the doctor, and in ten minutes you shall have supper.”
“Brush is chief cook this week, Tom,” explained Dr. Spooner. “It is
well for you that he is, for my genius doesn’t lie in that direction.”
CHAPTER XL.
TOM FINDS HIMSELF RICH.
In ten minutes Tom found himself sitting at the hospitable board of his
two friends. It was literally a board. A broad plank, or rather two
side by side, were stretched across the tops of two barrels, and upon
this humble table Peter Brush spread a plain but substantial supper.
Cold meat, bread and butter and tea--that was all it consisted of, but
of these there was plenty, and Tom made a fierce onslaught upon them.
“I’m sorry we haven’t any pudding or pie, Tom,” said Mr. Brush. “I know
somethin’ about cookin’, but I ain’t up to that.”
“Brush made a pie once,” said the doctor, shuddering. “It looked pretty
well, but I tasted it, and the taste is still in my mouth. He tried to
eat it himself, but couldn’t. A pig came along, and we gave it to him.
I never saw that pig again. I suspect he died of the colic.”
Peter Brush laughed good-naturedly at this story, and only retorted:
“How much better would you have succeeded, doctor?”
“Worse, if possible. Don’t suppose I’m running down your culinary
skill, friend Brush. I freely admit that it exceeds mine.”
“I never tasted anything so good in my life,” said Tom, with a large
sense of enjoyment.
“Hunger is a good sauce, my lad. To-morrow you may be more critical.”
Supper was over at length, and the three friends sat down before the
cabin door.
“Tom, now I come to look at you,” said Brush, “you are the most
complete ragamuffin I ever saw. Isn’t he, doctor?”
Tom laughed and looked rather ruefully at his dilapidated garb.
“I’ve worn this suit seven or eight months,” he said, “through woods
and underbrush, sleeping in it at night when I lived with the Indians,
and roughing it as I never expected to. Do you see those shoes?”
They scarcely hung about his feet, while his suit was torn, soiled and
tattered.
“If mother should see me now, she would be in despair,” he said, “and
that isn’t the worst of it.”
“What is the worst of it, Tom?”
“I am not only ragged, but penniless.”
Peter Brush and the doctor exchanged a look of satisfaction. They were
glad that Tom was penniless, because their help would be so much the
more welcome.
“How is that, my lad?” asked Lycurgus. “The Indians didn’t take away
your money, did they?”
“No; but after I left them and joined the party I finished my journey
with, I had a use for all my funds. I had to buy a horse, and just as I
came to the last stage of my journey he either ran away or was stolen.
The last fifty miles I made on foot. As to the rest of the money it
went for incidental expenses. Do you want to know how much I have left?”
He took from his pocket two cents.
“Those won’t pass here, Tom. Nobody will take so small a coin as that.”
“Not even for a suit of clothes?” asked Tom.
“No.”
“Then I must go to work and earn enough. What are the chances around
here, Mr. Brush?”
“I’ll show you what we’ve done, Tom.”
Peter Brush led the way to his treasury, as he called the place where
he had stored his gold dust.
“What do you say to that?”
“Is it gold dust?” asked Tom, taking up a handful in curiosity.
“Yes.”
“How much is all that worth?”
“Six thousand dollars.”
“You don’t mean to say you found it all here?” asked Tom, amazed.
“Yes, I do. We struck a rich vein.”
“Is there more?” asked Tom, eagerly. “I will go to work to-morrow.”
“You don’t ask who this belongs to,” said Peter Brush, rather
ungrammatically.
“To you and the doctor, of course.”
“And to you.”
“But I didn’t gather any of it,” said Tom.
“It makes no difference,” said Brush. “The firm was Spooner, Brush &
Thatcher, and a third of it belongs to you as junior partner. Tom, you
are worth two thousand dollars.”
“But I can’t take it, Mr. Brush,” cried Tom. “I can’t accept your great
kindness. I had no hand in collecting this gold.”
“Because you were with the Indians when we left you.”
“You couldn’t help it.”
“But we saved our own lives by leaving you there. You had the worst of
it. Do you want to make us ashamed of deserting you?”
“No, but----”
“Then you must take your share of the money. If you don’t, we’ll throw
it away, won’t we doctor?”
“Yes, Tom must take it.”
“Then, my dear, kind friends, I will take it, for your sake and my
mother’s. I wish I could change a part of it for a suit of clothes.”
“You can. There’s a trader in the village who keeps a general stock of
goods. We’ll fit you out in the morning.”
“And is there a chance to mail a letter. Mother hasn’t heard from me
for months; she may think I am dead.”
“There’s no regular post-office, but you can leave the letter at the
trader’s, and it will go to ’Frisco by the first chance. Letters don’t
often have to wait over a week.”
“It seems like a dream,” said Tom. “An hour ago I came here a
penniless tramp. Now, thanks to you, I am a rich boy. I can’t realize
that I am worth two thousand dollars.”
“Now, Tom, you must tell us how you escaped from the Indians. You
haven’t told us a word yet.”
“True, Mr. Brush; I will begin at once.”
So Tom told his story, and you may be sure he had attentive listeners.
It will not, of course, be necessary to repeat it here, since we
already know what is of most interest. In response to questions, Tom
mentioned many details which were of greater interest to his friends
than they would be to us.
“That Indian boy is a regular trump, and no mistake!” said Mr. Brush.
“I wish you had brought him with you.”
“I shall never forget his kindness,” said Tom. “I shall think the
better of all Indians for his sake all my life.”
So the evening wore on, and bed-time came. Tom wrapped himself in a
blanket, and, weary with his long journey, was soon in the land of
dreams.
CHAPTER XLI.
TOM AND THE GRIZZLY.
When Tom got up the next morning he found breakfast ready.
It was nearly eight o’clock.
“You must think me lazy,” he said.
“Oh, no; you were fatigued by your journey. Besides, we don’t go to
work very early.”
After breakfast Tom wandered out and surveyed the gulch with sad
interest.
“This is the place,” he said, “where my father was robbed and perhaps
murdered. I wish I could solve the mystery of his fate.”
“Don’t let it affect your spirits too much, my young friend,” said Dr.
Spooner. “Your father may have died before his time, but he is in the
hands of his Creator. We must submit to the inevitable, trusting and
believing that in the end all will turn out for the best.”
“You are right,” said Tom, “but here where my poor father disappeared,
I can’t help recalling him to mind.”
“And very natural it is, too.”
After a walk, Tom joined his friends in their labors. The claim was
not exhausted, and they decided to remain at Rocky Gulch as long as it
was worth working.
Tom did not work all day. He devoted a part of every afternoon to
exploring the gulch, with the view of finding the bag of gold dust,
which Mr. Darke had concealed, and then been unable to find. In more
than one place he dug down, only to be disappointed. It was provoking
to think that somewhere, perhaps where he had himself walked, there
was hidden beneath the surface a sum of money belonging to him and his
mother by right of inheritance, which would have made the family rich.
But Tom did not employ all his leisure time in this way. Sometimes he
took his gun, for he had bought one since he came to Rocky Gulch, and
wandered for miles over the hills, or through the valleys, shooting a
bird or a squirrel, according to the opportunities he had.
One day he took for an entire holiday; he was alone, Mr. Brush being
rather indisposed, and the doctor being in attendance upon him.
Having so much time at command, he wandered further than ever before.
He had not had much sport. In fact his thoughts were upon his home, and
he walked on without much thought of the scene about him, when there
came to his ears, borne by the wind, a shout, which sounded very much
like “Help! help!”
This roused Tom instantly, and brought back his thoughts to the present.
Whence came the voice?
He could not immediately determine. He looked about him, but could see
no person. But he saw something else which sufficiently startled him.
Squatting beneath a large tree was a huge bear, which, from his
appearance, Tom instantly recognized as a grizzly. He knew, though
he had never seen one before, that the grizzly bear of California is
stronger and more formidable even than the lion, being just the sort of
stranger which a prudent man would be most anxious to avoid.
Tom started back in alarm, but the bear had not yet seen him. In fact,
the attention of the huge animal seemed otherwise directed. He was
looking up into the tree.
Following his gaze, Tom solved the mystery of the voice. Crouching
among the branches was a well-dressed man, who looked exceedingly
uncomfortable.
The bear below was “holding the fort,” and as long as he remained there
the man did not dare to come down.
“But why didn’t the bear climb the tree?” some of my readers may be
tempted to ask.
For the reason that the grizzly bear, at any rate, when fully grown,
seldom or never climbs. He leaves that to the more common species.
As long, therefore, as the besieged party remained in the tree, he was
safe. But it was hardly a position in which he could feel comfortable
in his mind. Peering anxiously around, he at length espied our hero,
whom he had not before seen, and called out:
“Boy, have you got a gun with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then shoot that confounded grizzly, who is waiting for me at the foot
of the tree.”
“Suppose I miss him,” suggested Tom.
“Then you must look out for yourself. He will transfer his attention
from me to you.”
“That would be rather serious.”
“You needn’t miss him. Aim just behind the ear.”
“I will try.”
“If he chases you climb up the nearest tree.”
Close to Tom was a tree which he judged that he could climb easily.
This gave him a chance of escape in case he should fail to disable the
huge beast.
By this time the bear had discovered Tom, but, apparently thinking
him unworthy of notice, he just growled a little and resumed his post
beneath the tree.
“It’s me he wants,” cried the man besieged. “Ugh, you brute! I wish I
could wound you mortally, and see your dying agonies.”
The bear listened very complacently, evidently feeling that the
advantage was on his side.
“Come, boy, are you going to shoot?” asked the man in the tree.
Tom did not answer.
He was carefully taking aim. He was fully conscious that his own
personal safety depended upon the effectiveness of his shot. In fact,
his safest course would have been to leave the spot and the beleaguered
man to his fate. But Tom was not that kind of a boy. He was bold and
courageous, and he would have been ashamed if he had coolly deserted
a man whom it was in his power to help, at however great danger to
himself.
[Illustration: “At a glance Tom saw the Bear watching the man crouching
among the branches.”--Page 217. _Tom Thatcher’s Fortune._]
So he quietly and carefully took aim, and then pulled the trigger.
The grizzly uttered an angry growl, and correctly guessing the quarter
from which the attack had come, was fired with revenge. He started
toward Tom, and our hero would have stood a slender chance had the
great beast succeeded in reaching him. But the shot had done its work.
The grizzly had scarcely gone a rod when he staggered and fell in a
great floundering mass upon the ground.
Tom was already up in the tree he had selected for a refuge before he
ventured to look at his enemy.
His heart was elate with joy and triumph when he saw how effective had
been his shot. It was no light thing for a boy not yet seventeen to
bring down the monarch of the California forests.
The bear made a few convulsive movements, and then settled into the
rigidity of death.
“He’s done for!” exclaimed the stranger joyfully, preparing to descend
the tree. “He will never trouble us any more.”
“Then I’ll come down,” said Tom.
Together they met beside the huge beast.
Then the stranger, turning to Tom, said:
“My young friend, you have saved my life. That is a debt I never can
pay, but I don’t mean to let it go unacknowledged. What is your name,
and where do you live?”
“My name is Tom Thatcher, and I live at Rocky Gulch.”
“Ha! I am going there. We will go together.”
“I shall be glad of your company,” said Tom, politely.
On the way the stranger introduced himself as Robert Percival, a
banker, from San Francisco.
“I have some interests at Rocky Gulch,” he said. “I feel an affection
for the spot, for here I laid the foundation of my fortune. Feeling the
need of a little rest from business cares, I have come out here from
the city. By Jove! I came near getting a permanent vacation. If you
hadn’t come to my help, I can’t undertake to say that I should ever
have been able to return to any business in the city.”
Toward the close of the afternoon Tom and his new friend reached Rocky
Gulch.
CHAPTER XLII.
A STARTLING DISCLOSURE.
As there was no hotel, nor even tavern, at Rocky Gulch, the banker,
Percival, gladly accepted Tom’s invitation to pass the night at the
cabin occupied jointly by himself and his two friends.
“But what will your friends say?” asked Percival.
“They will be glad of your company,” said Tom, promptly.
The banker looked pleased.
“My visit will prove pleasanter than I anticipated,” he said.
When they reached the cabin Tom found that Mr. Brush was much better.
In fact, he and the doctor were at the door smoking.
“Dr. Spooner, Mr. Brush,” said our hero, “allow me to introduce a new
acquaintance, Mr. Percival, of San Francisco.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Percival,” was the cordial greeting of both, as
they extended their hands.
“I have promised Mr. Percival accommodations for the night,” continued
Tom.
“He shall be welcome if he doesn’t object to rough it,” answered Brush.
“We don’t live in a palace.”
“My friend,” said the banker, “it seems to me a palace compared with
what would have been my lodging but for the lucky chance of meeting
your young friend here.”
The doctor and Mr. Brush looked inquiringly first at one, then at the
other.
Tom smiled, but left Mr. Percival to tell the story.
“I was emphatically up a tree,” said the banker, “with a grizzly
standing guard underneath, when this brave boy (Tom blushed at the
compliment) came up, and taking effectual aim, disposed of Mr. Bruin.”
“You don’t mean to say you killed a grizzly, Tom?” exclaimed Mr. Brush,
in excitement.
“It is a literal fact,” said Robert Percival, “and one of the largest
specimens I have ever seen.”
“Where is he?”
“We were not able to bring him along,” said Tom, smiling. “If you and
the doctor can manage him I will give him to you.”
“I’ve always wanted to kill a grizzly,” said Peter Brush, meditatively.
“It would be a feather in my cap. Yet here am I, a man of fifty-two,
and I have not had a chance yet, while you, a mere stripling, have
succeeded.”
“I didn’t go to do it,” said Tom, with a queer smile.
“No, but you’ve done it, while neither I nor my friend the doctor, I
presume, have ever succeeded.”
“I think I could dispose of a first-class grizzly if he would only
consent to take my medicines,” said the doctor, dryly.
At this there was a general laugh.
“Mr. Percival,” said the doctor, “I venture to say that you and Tom are
hungry.”
“I am famished,” said the banker.
“I am glad you are hungry, for I am cook this week, and hungry men are
not fastidious.”
“I will help you, doctor,” said Peter Brush.
“Out of regard for our guest I will accept your offer,” said Dr.
Spooner. “I am sorry I haven’t a few pounds of Tom’s grizzly to cook.”
“I am content that he didn’t make a meal of me,” said the banker,
shrugging his shoulders.
Supper was enjoyed, and the four who partook of it were unusually
jovial.
After the meal was finished Robert Percival’s business instinct led him
to inquire of his hosts how well they had succeeded in their mining. He
was surprised to learn how much gold dust they had accumulated.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “business is business, and that as well as the
need of recreation has brought me out here. If you feel inclined to
part with your dust I will make you as favorable an offer as any one in
San Francisco, and give you drafts in payment.”
The three partners consulted, and Peter Brush acted as spokesman, and
promptly accepted their guest’s offer.
“Nothing will suit us better,” he said. “We are sure you will deal
honorably with us.”
“Even if such were not my custom,” said Percival, “I would do so for
the sake of your young associate, who has rendered me so important a
service. I confess my surprise at seeing so young a boy engaged in this
business. Is he related to either of you?”
This drew out Tom’s story. It was told partly by Mr. Brush, partly by
our young hero himself.
Robert Percival listened from the first with interest. But as the story
proceeded, and reached the point where our hero’s father was robbed
and left for dead near the very spot where they were conversing, his
interest increased, and was apparently mingled with surprise. When the
tale was told he ejaculated:
“This is a most extraordinary occurrence.”
“Not so extraordinary,” said Brush. “In the early days of California
emigration, robbery and murder could not have been so very uncommon.”
“But you don’t understand me, my friend. It is extraordinary that this
story should be told to me.”
“Why?” asked Brush and Tom, and the doctor looked equally inquisitive.
“Why? Because I myself found the bag of gold dust of which the boy is
in search, and I was one of the party who found his father and carried
him from the gulch!”
This statement was listened to with unbounded amazement by his three
listeners.
CHAPTER XLIII.
TOM COMES INTO A FORTUNE.
There was deep silence for more than a minute.
All eyes were turned upon him who had made so extraordinary a statement.
Then Tom asked in a subdued tone:
“Was my father dead?”
“No, but he was insensible from concussion of the brain.”
“How long did he live, Mr. Percival?”
“HE IS LIVING NOW!” answered the banker.
Tom stared at the speaker in incredulous amazement. Dr. Lycurgus B.
Spooner and Mr. Brush seemed equally amazed. All looked to their guest
for an explanation.
“You wonder,” continued the banker, without waiting to be questioned,
“you wonder, no doubt, why, if this is the case, that your father did
not return to his home and family. I can tell you in four sad words.
Though your father did not lose his life, he did lose his reason. The
blow which he received upon his head affected his brain, and he has
never recovered the use of his mental faculties since.”
“Where is he?” asked Tom, soberly, for this was heavy news.
“He is boarding in a private family in San Francisco. Let me explain,
that, though he is not sane, he is not violent, and does not therefore
require to be confined in an asylum. He is quiet and sane in many
respects. He boards in a small family where there are children, and so
far as one in his condition may, he appears to enjoy life. He is in
good physical condition, works about the garden, goes on errands for
the family, and is able to be useful in many ways.”
“But what supports him?” asked Tom, anxiously. “His board amounts to
something. How is it paid?”
“I pay it,” answered Mr. Percival.
Tom rose impulsively and seized his hand.
“Thank you, sir, for your generous kindness to my poor father,” he said.
“My boy, I would be glad to accept your thanks, if I deserved them,
but you must remember that for eight years I have had possession of a
considerable sum of money belonging to your father.”
“But you did not know it was his.”
“True, I did not know it, but I guessed it. I may as well explain
that though I was only one of a party who discovered and rescued your
father, I alone found the gold dust. Being found so near your father,
I at once came to the conclusion that it was his, and resolved to
devote so much of the income of it as might be needed to his support
and welfare. I found a poor but worthy family, to whom the sum paid for
his maintenance would be an important help, and I placed him in their
charge. He is with them now.”
“Is there no hope of his recovering his mind?” asked Tom, anxiously.
“The doctor says that anything which will recall his old life may
restore his lost faculties. I think your presence, and what you could
tell him of your mother, and his old home, may have a very important
influence upon him.”
“Then I must go to him as soon as I can,” said Tom.
“Your eagerness is natural. A week hence I shall myself return. If you
will wait till then I shall be able to introduce you to his presence.
He knows me, and considers me his friend.”
“Dr. Spooner,” said Tom, “I shall be sorry to leave you and Mr. Brush,
but I feel that I ought to go to my father as soon as possible.”
“Of course, of course, Tom,” said Peter; “but we sha’n’t be separated.
We will all go together.”
“So say I,” said Dr. Lycurgus Spooner.
“Good!” said Tom, joyfully.
“Then,” said the banker, “I shall be able to complete my business with
you all. I have bought your gold dust, you remember, and must settle
for it. I can do so better in San Francisco than here. Besides, I shall
have a large account to settle with my young friend here.”
“With me?” asked Tom.
“Yes, the gold dust which I found I shall return to you with interest.”
“But you have spent the interest on my father.”
“Only a small part. Let me tell you, my boy, that that gold was the
foundation of my fortune. It amounted to a little over twelve thousand
dollars. I invested in building-lots in the city, and sold out at
an immense profit. I am now worth half a million, and that was the
nucleus of my fortune.”
“Half a million!” exclaimed Peter Brush, regarding his guest with awe.
“Yes. Now, let me tell you what I propose to do. To my young friend,
Tom, I will turn over twenty-five thousand dollars, if he will give me
a receipt in full for the money belonging to his father, which I have
been using for eight years.”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars! Mr. Percival, that is too much.”
“It is not enough, but if you are satisfied, I will accept the rest as
a voluntary concession of your rights.”
“Twenty-five thousand dollars will make us all rich,” said Tom, his
eyes glowing with joy. “Mother can live like a lady.”
“As I am sure she is.”
“In that case,” said Tom, “I won’t claim any of the gold which we have
found here. Doctor, I give you and Mr. Brush my share.”
At first his two friends opposed this, but Tom was firm, and, knowing
that he was now rich, they ceased their opposition.
A week later, the three friends, in company with Mr. Percival, set out
for San Francisco, which they reached without any adventure which we
feel called upon to record.
CHAPTER XLIV.
A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY.
In the upper part of San Francisco, where now stand fine mansions,
there were at the time of my story, only a few small and modest houses,
with land enough attached for a kitchen garden.
One of these was occupied by David Temple, employed as a clerk in the
city. In his family for years Robert Thatcher had made his home.
He was at work in the garden--a man of about fifty, but looking
considerably older on account of his hair, which had become prematurely
whitened. His figure was slightly bent, and his face was embrowned
by exposure. Physically he looked well, but in his face there was
something wanting. His intellect was clouded, but many had conversed
with him for an hour at a time without ascertaining the fact.
On many subjects Mr. Thatcher was sane, but on others his memory was at
fault. This was especially the case when his own history was referred
to. A veil seemed to shut out all that part of his existence which
preceded his coming to California.
“Where did you live before coming to this State, Mr. Thatcher?” asked a
visitor one day.
“Eh?” asked Thatcher, looking puzzled.
The question was repeated.
A troubled look overspread the face of the stricken man, as he answered
slowly:
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know?” was the amazed rejoinder.
“No, I can’t seem to remember.”
The visitor was called away, and privately informed of Mr. Thatcher’s
peculiarity.
The Temple family took special care to avoid all disquieting allusions.
They never in conversation referred to their guest’s past history,
at least to that part of his life which preceded his arrival on the
Pacific coast.
All these particulars were communicated to Tom by Mr. Percival when
they were on their way to the city.
“Don’t you think there is any chance of father’s recovery?” asked our
hero, considerably troubled.
“Yes I believe the sight of you will have a powerful effect.”
“But I was only a little boy when father left us. He will hardly be
able to see any resemblance between me and the little boy he left
behind him.”
“Tell him your name. Speak to him of your mother and sister; it may
awaken old memories and associations.”
This advice seemed good to Tom and he determined to follow it.
When on the day of his arrival in San Francisco he went out with the
banker to the little cottage where his father was domesticated, Tom
felt agitated, and with reason. He was about to see the father whom
he had long supposed to be dead, and to test the possibility of his
recovery.
“Is that he?” asked Tom, clutching the arm of Mr. Percival.
“Yes, Tom. Would you recognize him?”
“He looks much older, but his face looks natural. May I speak to him?”
“No; let me speak first. He knows me.”
“Good-day, Mr. Thatcher,” said the banker.
“Good-day, sir,” answered Thatcher, politely.
“I hope you are well.”
“Quite well, sir.”
His eyes rested upon Tom, and a puzzled expression swept over his face.
“Who is that?” he asked, abruptly.
“It is a young friend of mine. His name is Tom.”
“Where was it?” he continued, dreamily. “Tom! Tom! I once knew a boy of
that name.”
“It is a common name. This boy is Tom Thatcher.”
The old man clutched his hoe convulsively.
“What did you say?” he asked, eagerly.
“Tom Thatcher--the same as yours.”
“Let me look at him,” said Thatcher, abruptly, hurrying to Tom and
looking into his face with a bewildered look.
“Boy,” he said, hoarsely, “where do you come from? Who is your father?”
“I come from the town of Wilton,” answered Tom, trembling with
excitement. “My father’s name was Robert Thatcher.”
“Wilton! Robert Thatcher! Why, that’s my name! Good heaven! what does
this mean?”
“Did you ever have a son named Tom?” asked the banker.
“Why--yes,” answered Thatcher, his face lighting up with returning
memory.
“And a daughter named Tillie?” asked Tom.
“Yes, yes! I remember it all now. Where, where are they?”
And he clutched Tom’s arm as he searched his face for an answer.
“Father,” said Tom, with emotion, “I am your son Tom.”
“And--and your mother?”
“She still lives. She is waiting for you to return to her.”
Robert Thatcher passed his hand over his brow.
“Can this be true?” he asked, “or is it a dream?”
“It is no dream, father. I have come to California to take you home.
Will you come?”
“Yes, yes, now. But,” he added, with momentary doubt, “you cannot be
Tom. Tom was a little boy, and you are a large one. He was only half
your size.”
“That was long ago, father. I have grown up, but I am the same Tom.”
It must not be supposed that Robert Thatcher recovered his memory and
reason all at once. It was not till Tom talked with him day after day,
and patiently recalled one circumstance after another, and one person
after another living in their native village, that the veil which
had hung between him and the past was rent at length, and the bright
light of fully recovered reason illumined his mind. Tom did not act
wholly according to his own judgment, but he was aided and advised by a
skillful physician, conversant with mental maladies similar to that by
which Mr. Thatcher was afflicted.
At length he was repaid for his patient labor. His father’s mind
returned to its normal condition, and four weeks after his arrival in
San Francisco Tom and his father sailed for New York by the regular
steamer.
Mr. Percival had settled up his indebtedness, and Tom carried with him
drafts on New York for twenty-four thousand dollars. A part of the
remaining thousand paid their passage, and the balance Tom carried with
him in hard cash. Of course, the money properly belonged to his father,
but it was Mr. Thatcher’s desire that Tom should relieve him entirely
of business cares.
We must precede him, and let the reader know what had happened in
Wilton while Tom was away.
CHAPTER XLV.
HOW THINGS WENT ON AT HOME.
We go back to the time of Tom’s leaving home.
His departure from Wilton excited considerable surprise, more
especially as people could not find out where he had gone. Many were
the inquiries made of Mrs. Thatcher, but she answered as Tom had
requested her, “Tom has gone West.”
“Indeed, has he gone far West?”
“I can’t tell you precisely how far West he has gone,” answered Mrs.
Thatcher, smiling.
“Will he be gone long?”
“That depends on how successful he is in his business.”
“I suppose he has taken some agency?” remarked Miss Woodward (an
inquiring old maid).
Mrs. Thatcher said neither yes nor no, but somehow Miss Woodward got
the idea that she said yes, and so reported throughout the village.
Mrs. Thatcher and Tillie moved to the comfortable farm-house of Mr.
Hiram Bacon, as had been arranged before Tom went away, and this made
Tom’s departure a little less mysterious, since he was leaving his
mother and sister in a good home.
Still there was considerable curiosity felt, and there seemed a chance
of finding out something when Tom wrote home.
“Have you heard from Tom yet?” asked the indefatigable Miss Woodward, a
little later.
“Where did he write from?” asked the old maid, eagerly.
“From St. Louis,” answered our hero’s mother, with a little hesitation.
“Ah! St. Louis is a good way off. Is he going any further?”
“Perhaps so.”
Another letter came to Mrs. Thatcher from St. Joseph, announcing that
Tom was going across the plains, and that it might be a good while
before he would be able to write again.
Mrs. Thatcher did not mention this second letter, but the postmaster
noticed the postmark, and through him it became known.
Among those who heard of it was John Simpson. Rupert had picked up the
news somewhere in the village.
“St. Joseph!” exclaimed Mr. Simpson, startled. “Why, it looks as if the
boy was on his way to California.”
“How could he go to California?” said Rupert, rather enviously.
“Doesn’t it cost a good deal of money?”
“Yes.”
“He’s as poor as poverty.”
“True; but he has found money enough to go to St. Joseph, and that is
no trifle.”
Mr. Simpson felt uneasy. Was it because he feared that the ghastly
mystery connected with Rocky Gulch would be unearthed, and his
reputation blasted. At any rate, he decided to see Mrs. Thatcher
himself, and find out what he could.
He did not call at the new home of the widow of his old partner, but
chanced one day to meet her in the street.
“Good-morning, Mrs. Thatcher,” said the squire, affably.
“Good-morning, sir,” responded Mrs. Thatcher, coldly.
“I hear your son is away. You must miss him.”
“I do miss him, Mr. Simpson.”
“Has he gone far?”
“He has gone to the West.”
“Far West?”
“I have not heard from him lately.”
“Ha! There is something she wishes to conceal,” thought John Simpson.
“I am afraid he won’t get back the money his traveling expenses must
cost him.”
“He was obliged to do something, Mr. Simpson. There was no chance left
for him in Wilton.”
“When you write to him, tell him that I will give him back his old
place if he sees fit to come back.”
“I will tell him,” said Mrs. Thatcher, but she expressed no gratitude,
for she felt none.
Why did John Simpson make this offer? Because he wanted to keep Tom
away from California. After so many years, there seemed little enough
chance of the boy’s learning anything of the circumstances attending
his father’s fate, but a guilty conscience makes men cowards, and John
Simpson was troubled with an uneasy idea that some time, in some way to
him unknown his crime might be made known.
There was another circumstance that puzzled him. How did Tom Thatcher
obtain the necessary funds for so expensive a journey? Probably, he
said to himself, Mrs. Thatcher had mortgaged her house, and given Tom
the money. He determined to find out if he could.
“You must excuse what I am about to say, Mrs. Thatcher,” he began,
clearing his throat to begin with, “but I am afraid you did a foolish
thing in raising money on your place to pay the expenses of such a
wild-goose chase.”
“Who told you I had mortgaged my place, Mr. Simpson?” demanded the
widow, looking the rich man full in the face.
“Why, no one,” stammered the squire, taken aback by her directness,
“but I of course inferred it, knowing that Tom had no money of his own.”
“Then you inferred a mistake,” said Mrs. Thatcher. “The place is not
mortgaged.”
“You don’t say so!” said Simpson, more than ever bewildered.
“I do not propose to mortgage my place at present.”
“When you do,” said Simpson, recovering himself, “come to me. I will do
as well by you as any one.”
It would indeed have suited him to obtain a lien upon Mrs. Thatcher’s
humble homestead, that he might have her in his power.
She neither said yes nor no, but “I will bear in mind your offer, Mr.
Simpson.”
He walked slowly away, puzzling over the problem of where Tom obtained
his money. Was there some one behind who backed him? Was there some one
who had sent him to California, and, if so, why? He must know whether
Tom had gone there.
Now, the postmaster had obtained his office through Mr. Simpson’s
influence, and was therefore likely to do him a favor.
“Mr. Jackson,” he said, when alone with that functionary, “does Mrs.
Thatcher write to her son Tom?”
“I haven’t noticed any letter, sir.”
“When she brings one, please notice the address, and let me know it.
I am afraid the boy will spend all his mother’s property if no one
interferes. I want to write to him to come back. I will give him
employment.”
“Very kind of you, sir,” said the postmaster, obsequiously.
“He is the son of my old associate,” said John Simpson, with an
assumption of generosity, “and I naturally feel an interest in him and
his mother.”
But for weeks Mrs. Thatcher brought no letters to the office. Tom was
on the plains, and she knew not where to address him.
CHAPTER XLVI.
MRS. THATCHER LOSES HER NEW HOME.
One day, about four months after Tom’s departure, John Simpson sat at
his writing-desk, busy about some accounts, when Rupert entered the
room in visible excitement.
“Father,” he said, “what do you think? Hiram Bacon died last night.”
In a village like Wilton the death of a well-known citizen, especially
if it is sudden, creates excitement.
“You must be mistaken, Rupert,” said his father. “I saw Mr. Bacon no
later than yesterday afternoon in the post-office.”
“He’s dead now,” persisted Rupert. “He was found dead in bed this
morning. The doctor says he died of heart disease.”
“That’s very sudden,” said John Simpson, no longer incredulous. “I can
hardly believe it.”
“I wonder where Tom Thatcher’s mother will live now,” continued Rupert.
“I didn’t think of that,” said his father, his face lighting up with
satisfaction. “To be sure, it will be a great loss to her. She will
lose a comfortable living.”
“I’m glad of it,” said Rupert.
“Rupert, Rupert, don’t rejoice over the misfortunes of your neighbors,”
but he spoke very mildly.
“I can’t help it father. I hate Tom Thatcher and all his relations.”
“You shouldn’t hate anybody, my son,” said Mr. Simpson; but his rebuke
was very light.
“Don’t you hate anybody, father?”
“Ahem! not that I am aware of, my son.”
But when Rupert had left the room Mr. Simpson’s face betrayed his
satisfaction.
“You won’t be quite so independent now, Mrs. Thatcher, I am thinking,”
he soliloquized. “You’ll have a hard time getting along now. You’ll
have to mortgage your place after all, and I will be on hand to advance
the money. You won’t get any help from that vagabond son of yours. I
shall live to see you all in the poor-house.”
There did not seem to be much difference between Rupert and the father
who had just been preaching charity to him, but Mr. Simpson never
quite removed the mask which concealed his real character, even in the
presence of his own son, who, nevertheless, understood him better than
the father suspected.
Yet weeks and even months passed, and Mrs. Thatcher did not appear to
stand in need of money, nor, so far as John Simpson could find out, did
she make any effort to mortgage her place. He did not know what the
reader is already aware of--that she was living on the hundred dollars
which Tom had left with her, added to the scanty amount which she was
able to earn with her needle.
But though she still was able to live day by day, her face became more
sad and anxious. She was famishing for news from Tom, yet no letter
came from him. She knew, of course, that there would be a difficulty
about writing when he was on the plains, but making all allowances
for that, the time had come when she might expect to hear something.
She could not know that at that very moment he was in captivity with
the Indians, and if it had been made known to her it would only have
increased her anxieties.
In her trouble the minister, Rev. Mr. Julian, was a friend and
comforter. With him she shared her anxieties, and he said what he could
to relieve her anxiety, though he, too, began to feel that something
might have happened to his friend’s son.
“Don’t get discouraged, my dear friend,” said the minister. “It is a
long and wearisome journey across the plains. I believe Tom is quite
safe, and that you will soon receive tidings from him.”
“I wish I could feel so,” said Mrs. Thatcher, sadly. “Mr. Julian, he
is my only boy. I have Tillie, but my hopes rested with him. I looked
to Tom to be the prop of my old age. Without him my life will be worth
nothing.”
“Don’t say that, Mrs. Thatcher. You will still have your daughter to
live for. But don’t give up Tom. He is a manly boy, and will come back
to you well and prosperous, if God wills.”
“But if he is well why doesn’t he write? He is not a boy to give me
unnecessary anxiety by neglect.”
“I can’t explain that, but I can easily believe that the western mails
are irregular.”
This thought gave Mrs. Thatcher courage for a time, but soon another
cause of anxiety presented itself. When at Mr. Bacon’s, she had drawn
upon her reserve fund of money more freely because she thought her
position a permanent one. When she unexpectedly lost it this fund had
considerably diminished.
She found herself at length with but five dollars left, and the thought
forced itself upon her that she must mortgage her little place. Just at
this juncture she received a call from John Simpson.
“Have you heard anything from Tom?” asked the manufacturer blandly, as
he took a seat in Mrs. Thatcher’s little sitting-room.
“No, Mr. Simpson,” answered the widow, with a spasm of pain.
“Isn’t that rather strange?”
“Oh, Mr. Simpson, you don’t know how anxious I am about him,” said the
poor mother, sadly.
“Very natural, but I always thought it was unwise to let him go so far
away. Don’t you think so yourself?”
“Perhaps you are right, but I acted for the best. Then there was
nothing for Tom to do here. You had dismissed him from the shop.”
“Yes, I know, but I would have taken him back again after awhile.”
“Why didn’t you tell him so. Then he would have been here now.”
“Things may turn out for the best after all, Mrs. Thatcher,” said Mr.
Simpson, evading a direct reply. “Meanwhile, I came in to see if there
was any way in which I could help you.”
Mrs. Thatcher looked surprised. John Simpson was about the last person
from whom she would have expected an offer of assistance.
“In what way?” she asked.
“I was thinking you might want to raise money on the place,” suggested
Simpson, blandly.
“I do need money,” said the widow, hesitatingly.
“Of course you do; you couldn’t well help it,” said the manufacturer
briskly. “Now I have come here prepared to make you an offer.”
“Well, sir?” said Mrs. Thatcher, inquiringly.
“I will lend you four hundred dollars at six per cent. interest, and
take a mortgage on the house and lot.”
“That is less than half the value of the place,” said the widow.
“What can you be thinking of, Mrs. Thatcher? Pray at what sum do you
value this property?”
“It ought to be worth a thousand dollars.”
John Simpson shook his head.
“It wouldn’t bring over six hundred,” he said.
“That can’t be possible,” said Mrs. Thatcher, anxiously.
“It is not only possible, but true,” said the rich man, positively.
“Property has depreciated dreadfully, dreadfully.”
“Then I don’t know what is going to become of us if Tom doesn’t come
back,” said Mrs. Thatcher, in a tone of discouragement.
“Oh, something will turn up,” said Simpson, carelessly. “Well, widow,
about the mortgage, what do you say?”
“I will consult Mr. Julian.”
John Simpson frowned.
“He is a minister. What does he know about business?”
“He has business of his own to attend to. Besides, he is my friend.”
“Better say the word now, widow. I may draw back from the agreement.”
“Then I must apply to some one else. Even according to your own
statement the place is worth six hundred dollars, and ought to command
as large a mortgage anywhere.”
“I said it wouldn’t fetch six hundred dollars.”
“I will not take such an important step, Mr. Simpson, without
consulting some one.”
“Very well,” said Simpson, displeased, “take your own way, but it will
be at your own risk.”
“Let it be so, then,” said Mrs. Thatcher, calmly, and John Simpson left
her, foiled for the present, but confident that he would eventually
carry his point.
CHAPTER XLVII.
A DOUBLE SURPRISE.
It was ten o’clock in the evening. Tillie was fast asleep, but her
mother, by the light of a small lamp, was engaged in sewing in her
little sitting-room.
Her face was grave and sad. Her hope of seeing Tom again in life was
fast growing fainter and fainter. He was her only boy, and she had lost
him. She would never again see his bright face, or hear his cheerful
voice through the long and weary years that probably awaited her.
Beside this loss pecuniary cares were of secondary importance, but they
troubled her at this hour. If, as John Simpson said, the house and lot,
her only property, would scarcely bring six hundred dollars, that would
not last long, and how was she to get along? If only she had Tom’s
strong arm to rest upon, he would find something to do, and would not
let his mother want.
The five dollars had now dwindled away. But fifty cents were left,
and she could not get sewing enough to do to defray even their small
expenses.
That very afternoon she had sent Tillie to the house of John Simpson,
asking him to call the coming day. She had made up her mind to accept
his offer, and either mortgage the place for four hundred dollars or
sell it outright for six hundred, if he would give it.
She reckoned that two hundred dollars a year, in addition to what she
could earn, would support them; and thus three years would be provided
for. During that time Tom might come back. She would not give him up
yet.
The outlook was sad enough, and it was no wonder that Mrs. Thatcher
looked pale and sad, yet she was on the threshold of a great joy,
though she knew it not.
At length, about half-past ten, she rose from her sewing and prepared
to go to bed.
At that very minute she heard a knock at her door.
“Who can be coming here at this hour?” she thought, with alarm.
Not long before a tramp had entered a house in the village during the
night, and it occurred to her that this might be the same man or one of
his confederates. She was alone and defenseless, and naturally she felt
nervous.
“Who is there?” she asked, in a tremulous voice.
“It’s I, mother.”
There was something in that voice which sent a thrill through her
veins, and wakened a glad hope in her heart.
No hesitating now! Hurriedly she opened the door, and uttered a glad
cry of surprise as Tom entered.
“Oh, my boy, my boy! I thought I should never see you again!” she
cried, as she clasped him to her bosom.
“A bad penny always turns up again,” said Tom, merrily.
Then Mrs. Thatcher had a chance to look at the boy from whom she had
been separated for a year.
“You have grown taller, Tom,” she said.
“Yes, mother, I am at least two inches taller.”
Then she examined his clothes. They were well worn; in fact, they were
shabby. It was clear that Tom had not been successful. But what of
that? She had him back, and that was better than all.
“Well, Tom,” she said, “you didn’t find it pay going to California?”
Tom smiled.
“I am glad I went, though I did have a hard time getting there.”
“Why didn’t you write?”
“On the plains there were no post-offices, or scarcely any. Then,
again, I was captured by the Indians, and kept a prisoner for three
months.”
Mrs. Thatcher uttered a little cry.
“Oh, Tom! if I had known that I should have died of anxiety.”
“Then it’s well you didn’t know, mother.”
“How did you happen to come here instead of to Mr. Bacon’s?”
“I heard that he was dead. How have you got along, mother? Have you
been pressed for money?”
“I have fifty cents left, Tom, but now that you are back I won’t feel
anxious any more. You will stay at home, now, won’t you?”
“But can I get any work, mother?”
“Yes; John Simpson says he will take you back into the shop.”
“And give me three dollars a week?”
[Illustration: MRS. THATCHER UTTERED A GLAD CRY OF SURPRISE AS TOM
ENTERED [Page 247.]]
“Yes; that will be better than nothing. Take it for awhile, Tom. I
can’t have you go away again just yet.”
“I’ll see about it, mother.”
Then Mrs. Thatcher told Tom that Mr. Simpson was coming the next day to
arrange about a mortgage on the place.
“That is, if you think it best, Tom.”
“Let him come, mother. We will talk it over. I shall want to see him
myself about business.”
“You won’t say anything to irritate him, Tom? You know he might refuse
to give you a place again in the shop.”
“And that would be a misfortune,” said Tom, smiling.
“Of course. That will enable you to stay at home with me, and we can be
so happy together, Tom. We may live poorly, but if we are together, we
won’t mind that.”
“It seems good to be at home again, mother, but I have something
important to say to you.”
“You, Tom?”
“Something that will surprise you very much.”
“What is it, Tom?” asked his mother, anxiously. “Not bad news?”
“No, good news. Do you think you can bear it?”
“Bear good news! Why shouldn’t I?”
“I met an old friend in California--one whom we all thought to be dead.
He has come home with me.”
“An old friend? I can’t think whom you mean, Tom,” said his mother,
with a puzzled expression.
“We thought,” continued Tom, slowly, “that he died in California
eight--nine years ago.”
“What can you mean, Tom?” asked his mother, in deep agitation, for she
began to suspect the truth.
Tom’s answer was to open the outer door again, and call:
“Father!”
Then Mr. Thatcher, who had been patiently waiting for Tom to break the
news to his wife, entered. Instantly he was clasped in the arms of his
wife.
The shock and surprise were so great that Mrs. Thatcher came near
fainting away, but joy is seldom dangerous, and she soon recovered.
“Mother,” said Tom, after a brief space, “there are reasons why we do
not want father’s return made known in the village just at present. Do
you think Tillie will recognize him?”
“No; she was very young when her father went away.”
“Then call him by a different name in her presence, so she may not
suspect the truth.”
“You may call me Johnson,” said Mr. Thatcher. “I had a friend of that
name in California. It will do as well as any other.”
“I will try to hide the secret, but I fear my face will betray it.”
“People will think you are excited by Tom’s return,” said her husband.
“How thankful I ought to be!” said Mrs. Thatcher. “I thought myself
almost alone in the world, and to-night has brought me back two dear
ones. I am twice blessed!”
“Now,” thought Tom, “we shall be ready to see Mr. Simpson in the
morning. If father’s appearance does not confound him, Mr. Darke will
arrive early, and his testimony will confront him with another crime
attempted.”
CHAPTER XLVIII.
RETRIBUTION OVERTAKES JOHN SIMPSON.
It must be explained that Tom and his father, on reaching New York late
in the evening, went to the Astor House to spend the night.
At the breakfast-table the next morning, Tom, in looking about him,
to his great surprise recognized Darius Darke. Mr. Darke was equally
surprised to meet Tom. It appeared that Mr. Darke had arrived from
Europe on a Cunard steamer only two days previous.
He reported that he had a pleasant trip. During his absence his man
of business, with whom he had left his funds, had managed by skillful
manipulation to more than double his money, so that he found himself,
even after deducting the expenses of his European trip, the possessor
of twenty thousand dollars.
Tom, too, had his story to tell, and he received the hearty
congratulations of Darius Darke for the energy, perseverance and pluck
which had enabled him to succeed in the face of so many difficulties.
“And now, Tom,” said Mr. Darke, “we will form an alliance, go up to
Wilton, and bring consternation and dismay to our common enemy, John
Simpson.”
So it was agreed, but Mr. Darke was to stop over night at a town five
miles distant from Wilton, and ride over in the morning.
John Simpson, with a pleasant sense of triumph in his heart, left his
handsome dwelling to call upon Mrs. Thatcher, whom he considered now to
be in his power.
He could not explain why it was that he hated the Thatchers so much,
but it is generally the case that the victim is hated by the one who
has injured him. Moreover, as long as Mrs. Thatcher remained in Wilton
she recalled a scene in his life which he was anxious to forget.
Therefore, he desired by depriving her of her humble home to force her
to leave Wilton for good.
When Mr. Simpson entered the cottage he found Mrs. Thatcher alone. Tom
and his father and sister were together in an upper room.
“Well, widow, I’ve called to see you about the mortgage,” said the rich
man, sinking into a rocking-chair.
At the words Mrs. Thatcher’s heart felt a thrill of happiness, for she
was a widow no longer. She did not know, for it had not been revealed
to her, that the man before her had tried to make her a widow, or she
would not have been able to treat him with common politeness.
“Can’t you let me have more than four hundred dollars on the place, Mr.
Simpson?” she asked, having been so instructed by Tom.
“No,” said the shoe manufacturer, decidedly.
“The place is worth a thousand dollars.”
“Nonsense, Mrs. Thatcher. It wouldn’t bring over six hundred.”
“I can hardly believe that.”
“I will strain a point and give you that sum,” said Mr. Simpson, who
knew very well that he would be making an excellent bargain.
“I can’t decide upon so important a matter without consulting my son.”
To Mr. Simpson’s amazement she went to the foot of the stairs and
called “Tom.”
“Has Tom got home?” asked the rich man, looking disturbed.
“He got home last night.”
Before Mr. Simpson had a chance to ask any further questions, Tom
entered the room. He was looking healthy and manly, but he was shabbily
dressed.
“He has returned as poor as he went,” thought John Simpson.
“So you’ve got home,” said he coldly.
“Yes, sir.”
“And you are probably convinced by this time that you were a fool to
leave home.”
“No, sir; I have seen something of the world. Besides, there was
nothing for me to do here.”
“Where did you go?”
“To California.”
Mr. Simpson started, and carefully scrutinized Tom’s face, but it told
him nothing.
“There was nothing for me to do here,” continued Tom.
“Mr. Simpson said the other day that he would take you back into his
shop,” said Mrs. Thatcher.
Tom looked inquiringly at the rich man, who said, coldly: “At present
there is no vacancy. There may not be any for some months.”
“But how am I to live in the meantime?” asked Tom.
“On the money I will advance to your mother on the place.”
Mrs. Thatcher repeated the offer which Mr. Simpson had made, and asked:
“Shall I accept, Tom?”
“No,” answered Tom, promptly.
“Do you propose to be guided by the advice of this young jackanapes,
Mrs. Thatcher?” asked John Simpson, angrily.
“Tom knows more about business than I do.”
“He looks like it--a ragged tramp like him!” said the rich man, with a
sneer. “After that display of impudence I refuse altogether to employ
him. Now you can do as you please--accept my offer or starve with him.”
“Mother,” said Tom, quietly, “will you be kind enough to leave me alone
with Mr. Simpson? I wish to speak to him in private.”
“Certainly, Tom.”
Very much to his surprise, Mr. Simpson found himself left alone with
Tom, whose manner was self-possessed and grave.
“What does all this mean?” he asked, imperiously.
“Be patient, Mr. Simpson, I have something to say which you ought to
hear. When I was in California I visited a place called Rocky Gulch.”
John Simpson’s ruddy face paled, and he made a visible start, but he
recovered himself by an effort.
“That was foolish,” he said. “All the gold dust has been gathered long
ago, and there could be no advantage in going there.”
“I wanted to find out something, if I could, about my poor father’s
disappearance,” said Tom, gravely.
“Then you wasted your time,” said Simpson, nervously.
“No; I learned something.”
“What was it?” asked the rich man, in a voice slightly tremulous.
“I learned that while my father was asleep, one whom he supposed to be
a friend stole upon him, attacked him, and left him for dead, carrying
away a large sum belonging to my poor father.”
“That is a lie!” said Simpson, his face livid with dismay, rising from
his chair.
The door opened and Tom’s father entered the room.
“It is true, John Simpson,” he said, sternly, “and you are the guilty
man who stole in upon my unprotected slumbers, and sought to kill me.”
“Great heavens! Whence do you come?” demanded Simpson, hoarsely.
“I come from California, where for eight years and more I lived bereft
of reason in consequence of your cruel assault.”
“You need not tell me that,” said Simpson, with a bold inspiration.
“Your story is evidently the tale of a crazy man, and will not be
believed. I am glad you are alive, but your attempt to levy blackmail
will not succeed,” and he sat down with a smile of gratified malice.
“If such is the case and my father’s story is untrue, why did you give
five hundred dollars to Darius Darke to keep your secret, about a year
ago?”
This was another surprise. How could Tom know this? Certainly not from
the man who had received the money, for he had been burned in the old
barn.
“Who told you this cock-and-bull story?” demanded Mr. Simpson,
defiantly. “It is clearly a bold invention of yours.”
Another door opened, and John Simpson stared aghast at the man whom he
had supposed to have been burned alive in the conflagration.
“It is no invention, John Simpson,” said the new-comer.
“Where do you come from?” asked Simpson, with staring eyes and parched
lips.
“From Europe. You were very cunning, John Simpson, in your attempt, by
destroying my life, to silence forever the tongue of one who might have
appeared against you, but Providence did not suffer you to succeed. I
did not sleep in the old barn; I passed the night in your stable, which
I found more comfortable.”
“And set my barn on fire! That explains it,” said Simpson, desperately.
“No, it does not explain it. With my own eyes I saw you set the fire. I
understood your motive. I meant you to believe that you had succeeded,
and I left the village during the night. I went to New York, made a
fortune in stocks, and went to Europe, but I gave the five hundred
dollars I had wrung from your fears to this boy, and sent him to
California, where he succeeded better than I expected. Your old crime
and your new one are discovered, John Simpson. Your race is run.”
“You can’t do anything,” said Simpson, defiantly.
“We can procure your arrest on a double charge of attempted murder, if
you wish to stand trial.”
“No, no!” exclaimed Simpson, with blanched face. “It isn’t true, but it
would blast my reputation.”
“It is true, and you know it.”
“Can’t we compromise this thing?” asked Simpson, nervously.
“It is for this boy to determine. Tom, what will you accept?”
“How much money of my father’s did Mr. Simpson obtain?”
“Ten thousand dollars, at least.”
“Let him pay to my father ten thousand dollars, with interest for nine
years, and I shall be willing to let him off.”
“And you, Mr. Thatcher?”
“I leave the matter in Tom’s hands.”
Before John Simpson left the cottage, which he had entered for a very
different purpose, he had entered into a covenant to pay the sum
demanded.
In a subsequent interview he offered Mr. Thatcher his house, furniture,
and large manufactory, in lieu of the money, and, as they were amply
worth that, the offer was accepted, Mr. Thatcher having a desire to
return to his old business.
With the remnant of his fortune, Mr. Simpson left town, and established
himself in a Western State. He couldn’t bear to see daily the man whom
he had attempted to murder.
Here he was induced to engage in speculations, lost all his money
in the course of a few years, and died of grief. Rupert, now reduced
to penury, found his way back to Wilton, and obtained a position as
workman in the shop which his father had once owned. His pride had had
a severe fall.
Tom became his father’s junior partner, and at twenty-one is really
acting-manager and responsible head of the great shop where he once
worked for three dollars a week. Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Thatcher now
live in the handsome house once owned by John Simpson, while Rupert,
rather curiously, is a boarder in the humble cottage once occupied by
the Thatchers.
No one in Wilton understands how this wonderful change was brought
about, for Tom and his father kept Mr. Simpson’s guilt and restitution
a secret. It is popularly supposed that Mr. Thatcher was very fortunate
in California, and made his fortune there.
It is not certain that Tom will remain long in Wilton, or in his
present business. He has a handsome offer from Samuel Perkins, of
Pearl Street, New York, whose papers he restored, and as he would
like a larger field of action he may remove to New York and become a
commission merchant. Indeed, as his father is willing to retire from
business it is likely that he will accept the first fair offer for his
manufactory and establish himself in the city.
Mrs. Thatcher is well and happy, and it is needless to say proud of
Tom, whose energy and pluck enabled him successfully to find the clew
which restored to him in the end a father and a fortune.
HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS.
BY WILLIAM BENNETT.
The boy home for the holidays is always suspected of all manner of
mischief.
I know that I, Charley Mitford, found it so when I was home for my last
Christmas holidays. Everything that went wrong was sure to be my fault;
sometimes I was blamed justly, but generally, I thought, unjustly. I
will tell you about one scrape of mine.
My father had invited a middle-aged gentleman, who was a learned
professor, and a terrible book-worm, to spend a week or two at our
house.
I didn’t like Dr. Millbank, and he hated me and all other boys. I
generally kept out of his way; but one day, the doctor being in a more
friendly and talkative mood than ordinary, I ventured to accompany him
into the library, taking care only to speak to him when he condescended
to speak to me.
The doctor, however, soon became lost in a book, and altogether forgot
my presence. I accordingly retired into the recess of a window, and
also engaged myself with a book on old sports and pastimes. Dr.
Millbank’s back was turned upon me, and he was thoroughly lost in his
studies.
Now, learned as was the doctor in his special subjects--mostly of
the dry-as-dust order--he knew but little of the natural history of
magpies; and at the present moment my interest and the interest of my
story is with one of those birds, Jack by name.
He was a tame magpie, a clever talker, and a great pet in our
household, though he was as mischievous, almost, as they said I was.
He came hopping into the library, unseen by the doctor, but watched by
my observant eyes. He stealthily posted himself on a chair; it seemed
that there was something on his mind.
While he was ensconced in his citadel of the chair, he kept his
cunning, twinkling eyes fixed on the doctor’s silver spectacles on his
nose. Magpies are fond of pilfering bright or glittering articles, and
with secret joy I saw that Jack was meditating a theft.
Perched, however, in his elevated position, and seeing no hope for the
present of purloining the spectacles, he stealthily took the leather
case which the doctor had laid upon the table after taking the glasses
therefrom. Then he stealthily hopped out of the room.
A few minutes later, the doctor, weary of his book, took his spectacles
from his nose, and naturally enough, sought the case to place them in.
The case was not to be found.
“This is most mysterious. I know I placed it on the table. Dear me!
dear me! always something to annoy me!”
It was very wrong, no doubt, to laugh at the misfortunes or annoyances
of other people, but I was home for the holidays, you know, and I
really couldn’t help it. He laid down his spectacles on the table,
while he took a walk round the room, frowning in his displeasure and
mystification. Then he espied me lounging with outstretched legs in the
recess with my book of sports.
“Ah, ah, Master Charles, and so you are the culprit, are you?”
“Sir!” I exclaimed, affecting to be ignorant of his meaning.
“My spectacle-case--where is it?”
“Spectacle-case? I have not got it.”
“What! Why, I laid it beside me on the table, and now it is gone! You
should not take such liberties with your elders.”
“Why, sir, I have not moved from the spot where I am sitting, and it is
a very hard case for me to be accused of removing it.”
“Your joke is impertinent at a time like this. You are the only person,
as I said before, who has been in the library since I have been reading
here----”
“Excuse me, doctor----”
“Do not interrupt me, Master Charles. I must ring the bell for your
father. Boys home for the holidays take so much license nowadays that
really they have become an intolerable nuisance. There should be no
school holidays if I could have my way.”
As he spoke, the doctor advanced to the bell-rope. He walked with his
back toward the door, and as he did so my old friend Jack, the magpie,
came hop-hop-hopping in, and his thievish eye at once fell upon the
silver specs, which the enraged man had laid down on the very spot on
the table where before he had laid the case which had so disgraced me
in his eyes.
Jack quietly hopped upon his old quarters in the armchair and as
quickly possessed himself of the envied trophy, and I became the
innocent witness of another theft much greater than the last.
Deeper disgrace to me, I thought; but as the doctor was evidently sure
I was the culprit, and was not likely to accept any explanation from
me, I thought it best to keep quiet, though by this I no doubt made
myself Jack’s accessory.
A servant answered the bell, and he was requested to send my father
hither, and, of course, my father came.
“Well, doctor, what can I have the pleasure of doing for you?” he
inquired. “You appear agitated--what is the matter?”
“Look here, sir, if you please,” said the doctor to my father. “I laid
my spectacle-case on the table where you see my glasses,” and here he
pointed to the table, and my father looked on the spot indicated, and
said:
“Where, doctor, where? I see no glasses.”
We were all standing some distance from the table, and the doctor could
not see what was on it; he only spoke from the knowledge that he had
placed his spectacles on the table, to which he now drew near, when,
to his great surprise, and to my greater amusement, he made the same
discovery that my father had done, that there were no glasses there.
“Why, sir, not five minutes ago I laid my glasses on this spot!” he
exclaimed, giving the table rather a loud rap with his knuckles, which
did not harm the table, though it did the knuckles, as the doctor’s
screwed-up face indicated. “There, sir, exactly there--and now you see
with your own eyes that both case and spectacles are gone!”
“It is a very mysterious occurrence, Dr. Millbank,” remarked my father.
“I cannot say that I see any mystery about it, sir; I am no believer
in spiritualism, but I am in logic. I laid the spectacles and case
there on that table. They are now gone--no one has been in the room but
Master Charles.”
“_Ergo_, Master Charles must have them,” interrupted my father. “That
is the true inference of your logic.”
Just then, another visitor came hopping into the room--no less than my
father’s favorite, Jack, the magpie. My father was now seated by the
side of the doctor, and the bird, as was his custom, hopped and flew to
his shoulder, which was his favorite perch when he had the opportunity.
“Well pa,” said the cunning bird, bending his head and beak to my
parent’s face.
“And what do you want, Master Jack?”
“Sho!” said the magpie, which was another daily phrase of his which he
had picked up. Then he pretended to be sleepy, winking and blinking,
and even yawning and crying, “Poor Jack! poor Jack!”
“A fine, rare bird, Mr. Mitford, is your magpie,” said the doctor, who
would not have said so much had he known, as I did, that Jack was the
author of his misery.
“By the by,” cried my father, “I wonder if the magpie has taken the
things from the table!”
“Tell the truth!” I said, catching the bird up by his tail, much to his
displeasure. “What have you done with the spectacles?”
“Sho!” screamed the bird, making divers pecks at my hands.
“Depend upon it, my friend,” said my father, “it is the magpie who is
the thief.”
“Easier said than proved, dear sir,” replied the doctor. “I know this,
however, that I would not keep a bird capable of such thefts. But I
am surprised, Mr. Mitford, that you should suggest such a solution of
the mystery. It is quite a vulgar error to suppose that magpies are
thieves of anything but that which contributes to their sustenance.
If a magpie will take one bright thing he will take another. There is
a silver pencil-case,” said the incredulous doctor, placing it on the
table, when, to his great surprise, the bird, that had hitherto been
immovable, hopped from my father’s shoulder to the armchair. “Now, sir,
if the bird took my glasses, and if it is his nature to steal, he will
soon possess himself of the pencil-case.”
“Not when he is observed, perhaps. Jack, like human thieves, doesn’t
like his evil propensities to be seen.”
“Then let us all three retire and leave the magpie with the
pencil-case. What then?”
“Why, that when we return you will find the bird and the case both
flown.”
“A bargain, sir!” said the doctor, quite pleased that he should soon
have the satisfaction of proving my father in the wrong.
We all retired to the dining-room, and had a little agreeable talk
about magpies, and the plot that had been laid to discover whether Jack
was a thief or not.
An hour later I asked whether I should go and look after the bird and
the case.
“No, thanks, Master Charles,” said the doctor, “I object to that; you
are home for the holidays. We will all go together when your father is
prepared.”
“I am quite ready, sir.”
So we all three went to the library and to the table. Bird and
pencil-case had vanished! The doctor was astonished; I and my father
were not, but laughed to each other at the doctor’s expression of
surprise.
“What do you say now, doctor?” quizzed my delighted parent.
“That they are gone!” he replied.
“It could not be by ‘the boy home for the holidays,’ now, could it?”
“But the bird, sir--where is the bird?” exclaimed the doctor, who
fairly felt himself in a dilemma.
“Gone to his storehouse,” replied my father.
“And where is that?”
“I have not been able to discover.”
“Have you taken any means to do so?”
“I have not. Can you suggest any?” inquired my father.
“Watch him,” was the laconic but sensible reply.
“But the cunning fellow has committed his depredations when he has not
been seen.”
“Plant some temptation for him, as now, and then place three or four
persons to watch where he takes it.”
“A very good idea, and I will follow it out now, if you please.
“I should like very much, for my curiosity is now deeply excited. Ah!
Master Charles, you are a boy of an excellent temper to bear so well as
you have done with my petulance and hasty conclusions.”
“Now,” said my father, “I will place my gold pencil-case on the spot
where you placed your silver one, and then wait the return of the sly
old bird.”
This was done, and it was not many minutes before the bird entered, no
doubt to see if there were any more bright things to be taken away.
What! another pencil-case for Jack! No one was in the room but the
doctor, who this time pretended to be deeply engaged in a book, as I
had before done, while I and my father planted ourselves in unseen
places outside the room. The bird was not slow in accomplishing his
theft, and as quickly hopped out of the library with the pencil-case.
“Seeing is believing!” exclaimed the doctor, closing the book with a
loud bang. “I wouldn’t keep a magpie for the world.”
Then he made his way to the courtyard, where I and my father had
stationed ourselves. We had not been long here before the bird came
hopping along with the pencil-case in his beak, and he flew to the top
of a loft.
The doctor’s countenance expressed indescribable surprise, while I and
my father laughed heartily as Jack flew up to his hiding place.
We all ascended the ladder, and when we had got to the roof, there, in
a leaden valley between two angles, we discovered a hoard of bright
things, among others the cases and spectacles belonging to Dr. Millbank!
“What do you say now, doctor?” triumphantly asked my father, extending
his hands over the magpie’s storehouse and handing him back his
property.
“That I will never keep a magpie,” he returned, shaking his head,
placing his hands behind the tail of his long clerical-cut coat, and
blushing and laughing.
During a little conversation between us on the top of the loft the
saucy bird returned, looking unutterable things and screaming when he
saw us there and his hoard disturbed.
When the doctor held up his glasses, and was about to admonish him, the
bird turned tail upon us and flew off, croaking “Sho! Sho!” and we did
not see him for two days afterward. He was evidently deeply offended;
indeed, Jack was not the same bird afterward, and was even cold and
indifferent to the caress of my father; as for “Master Charles,” he
dare not touch Jack’s tail.
On taking his departure, the doctor, smiling good-naturedly, remarked:
“I assure you, Mr. Mitford, until now I set down all these wonderful
stories of animals that we meet with as fabulous. But your bird, sir,
has taught me a wholesome lesson, that things may nevertheless be true,
whether we believe them or not; and, further, I have had a warning
not to be too hasty in coming to conclusions with boys home for the
holidays upon circumstantial evidence; and still further, that as long
as I wear spectacles I will never keep a magpie.”
We each and all had a hearty laugh, a shake of the hand, and the doctor
took his departure. When he next loses his spectacles he will inquire
if there is a magpie around.
THAT BELL!
BY PAUL BLAKE.
Berry was a boy of many characteristics. The most notable were an
amazing love of sleep and a desperate activity when awake. He seemed to
lay in a fresh stock of energy every time he had a nap, and although
the most difficult boy in the world to waken, when he was awake he was
irrepressible.
It was winter. Berry found that season of the year did not agree with
his constitution.
“This getting up in the middle of the night is killing me,” he remarked
one day to a group of sympathizers. He had the whole school on his side
in this particular matter, for work before breakfast in winter was
decidedly unpopular. At half-past seven every boy had to be at his desk
“putting in” an hour at mathematics before prayers and breakfast.
It was pitch dark at seven, when the big bell rang as a signal to rise.
It is curious how difficult it was to hear that bell in winter. Berry
never heard it, or rather never heeded it. He scorned to rise till
twenty minutes past seven. He could “do it,” as he termed dressing, in
ten minutes, and had been known to do it in five. On such occasions his
personal ablutions were apt to be rather neglected.
“That old bell is at the bottom of it,” remarked Culverwell, another
boy, who found that the heavy clang disturbed his slumbers.
“It’s John who’s at the bottom of the bell,” put in Millward.
“I wish he’d resign,” said Berry. “It’s time they pensioned him off and
sent him to a hospital for incurables.”
“He’s a hopeless job,” said Millward. “I spent half an hour one day
trying to make him understand that I was willing to stand him a
shilling if he’d give us a few minutes’ grace in the morning. But he’s
as deaf as a post and though he took my shilling he rang us up more
punctually than ever next morning.”
“I wish he’d hang himself with his bell-rope,” said Culverwell.
They eyed the offending bell, which hung idly in its turret, built over
what was once a stable, but was now part of the school building.
“I wish we could muffle the old thing,” said Millward, looking
wistfully up. “It’s freezing hard, and ’twill be deadly work getting up
to-morrow.”
“I believe I could shy a stone up and crack it,” suggested another.
Berry had been silently inspecting the building.
“Tell you what, you fellows,” he said at last, “I believe I could get
up there if I had a ladder. Out of the small class-room window, jump on
the ledge, then creep up the roof by the chimney, then a ladder over
the space to the turret. If you fellows will hand me up the ladder I’ll
go!”
They were all dumb for a moment at his audacity. Then Millward said:
“How are you going to get into the small class-room? It’s always locked
in play-time.”
“So ’tis,” assented Culverwell.
“Then I must get up to the ledge with a ladder, and then pull it up
after me.”
“You’re a plucky beggar!” exclaimed Millward, in admiration. “Shouldn’t
we have a jolly snooze in the morning if you could stop that old bell’s
jaw!”
“I will, too,” said Berry. “There must be a ladder somewhere about.”
“There’s the one John uses to clean the outside of the windows,”
suggested Millward, “but it isn’t long enough.”
“It may do,” said Berry. “Come along, let’s get hold of it. This is
just the time; it’s dark, and ’tisn’t tea-time for half an hour.”
It was just five o’clock and nearly every boy was indoors; few cared
for sliding on a worn slide in the dark, and a game was out of the
question. So the three boys had small fear of being discovered as they
prowled about in search of John’s ladder.
That worthy was having his tea, and was not likely to be disturbed
by any noise, for he was stone deaf. The boys hauled out his ladder
almost from under his nose without his hearing a sound. Culverwell kept
“cave” while Millward held the ladder for Berry to ascend.
It was a plucky if not perilous feat to attempt in the dark. But Berry
was abounding in pluck, and the spirit of the adventure made him keep
his nerve. He soon found himself on the ledge, and managed to haul up
the ladder after him. It was an assistance instead of an incumbrance in
crossing the roof, and he soon was within a dozen feet of the turret.
The boys below anxiously waited for his reappearance. But he had a job
before him. His idea was to unship the tongue of the bell. He had a
glorious reward if he could succeed, _for John would never know if the
bell rang or not_!
It would be superb to have the old factotum pulling away at his rope
and fancying he was fulfilling his duty when the tongueless bell was
swinging silently on its pivot.
Berry worked the tongue this way and that, but it was a difficult job.
The inside of the bell was as dark as the inside of a wolf, to use a
hunter’s simile; he had to feel everything, and the metal was terribly
cold.
However, at last he managed to unhitch it. He deliberated what to do
with it, now he had it. He put it in his pocket, and descended as
quickly as was consistent with security.
“Off with the ladder,” was his first order.
They soon had that in its place again. Then they felt safe from
detection.
“What are you going to do with it?” asked Millward, alluding to the
rusty tongue which Berry exhibited.
“I think I shall leave it at the bottom of the turret. If I take it
away they’ll know some one’s been up, but if we leave it here they’ll
think it’s dropped down.”
“Let’s hope they will,” said Culverwell, dubiously.
“At any rate, I’ll chance it,” continued Berry. “So you fellows will be
able to have a tall time to-morrow morning; we sha’n’t get called till
half-past eight, at the earliest.”
The sequel proved the correctness of Berry’s prophecy. Old John sought
his bell-rope punctually at seven, as usual, rang away steadily for
three minutes, and then retired to his den to commence his never-ending
job of shoe-cleaning. One or two boys awoke from sheer habit, but,
hearing no bell, went to sleep again. The rest slumbered peacefully on,
little thinking to whom they owed their unwonted repose.
The whole household were asleep. The big bell was the signal for
rising to every one, servants included, with the exception of John
and his wife. Her duty was to light the schoolroom fires, after which
she retired to her own part of the house to prepare her husband’s
breakfast. These two almost useless pensioners on the doctor’s bounty
inhabited two rooms apart from the rest of the house.
How long every one would have slept can not be known, perhaps till
nine, for when one depends on a bell for waking, one waits for the
accustomed sound. But dogs are not like human beings, and Fido, who
always had his breakfast at eight, began making a great disturbance at
a quarter past.
Fido woke his mistress, the doctor’s wife. She looked at her
watch--8:15. She was surprised beyond measure, as there was a strange
silence everywhere. But the clock on the mantelpiece confirmed her
watch, and two minutes later bells were ringing in a manner which
brought the servants out of their beds with a jump.
By half-past eight, every one, boys and all, had been awakened,
informally, for the bell refused to make a sound. John was summoned,
and was at last made to understand what was the matter. He asseverated
warmly that he had rung the bell, and went on a tour of inspection.
He found the tongue on the ground, and obtaining a ladder from the
gardener, next door, fastened it in its place again before it was time
to ring for school.
“Never had such a gorgeous sleep in my life,” said Millward, warmly, to
Berry. “We’ll vote you a silver tankard as a reward of merit.”
“Pity the trick can’t be played twice,” remarked Culverwell. “They
don’t seem to suspect anything this time, but if it were to happen
again, there’d be an inquisition.”
Berry heaved a regretful sigh. It was hard to think that at seven
next morning the inexorable bell would toll out as usual the knell of
departing night.
Something that day put him in a peculiarly reckless mood. More than
that, he did not get his usual afternoon nap; he was disturbed by an
inconsiderate master, who wanted to know when his exercises were going
to be handed in to him. So five o’clock found Berry ready for any deed
requiring more cheek than usual.
The bell! It struck him directly after he had written his last line.
Whatever might happen, he would have one more good sleep.
He did not confide his intentions this time to his two friends. He knew
his way now. In five minutes he had captured the ladder and placed it
against the wall.
He was just stepping off it on to the ledge, when he heard footsteps
beneath him, perilously near. If he attempted to draw up the ladder,
the noise must attract attention. His only chance was to keep quite
still, in the hope that the ladder wouldn’t be noticed in the dark.
But it was. Old John happened to have finished his tea earlier than
usual, and was on his way to fetch an armful of wood.
“Now, who’s been taking my ladder!” he said to himself. “Suppose it’s
one of them boys wanting to get their balls off the ledge.”
He put the ladder on his shoulder and marched off with it.
Berry listened in horror. He did not know it was John who had captured
his only means of retreat; whoever it was, he must throw himself on his
mercy.
“Hi!” he called out, in a voice meant to combine a shout and a whisper.
“Hi! you there!”
It was a shout this time and no mistake. But it had no effect.
Berry knew now it must be John. It was no use to shout. He tore off
a piece of plaster, and shied it in the direction of the retreating
figure.
It struck the ground close to John, but he did not hear it. Poor Berry
was left alone on the ledge, fourteen feet from the ground.
He couldn’t drop, for there was a nasty grating just beneath him;
besides, he could not lower himself from the narrow ledge. He might
have done it in daylight, but not in darkness. Even his pluck must draw
the line somewhere.
It was an uninviting night, and not a boy was out of doors. There was
nothing for it but to accept the inevitable, and remain where he was
until something happened.
He knew well enough what would happen. After tea there would be calling
over; he would be unable to say “Adsum,” and inquiry would be made,
resulting in his capture and punishment.
Once more he proved himself a true prophet. Everything fell out exactly
as he had anticipated. And by the time he was assisted down he was so
cramped and frozen he would have welcomed a caning on the spot to warm
him.
Intentionally or unintentionally, the authorities did not connect his
being on the ledge with the outrage on the bell of the day before. He
received the usual punishment for missing calling over, but beyond
that nothing was done.
Probably the master who captured him considered he had already received
punishment enough. At any rate, Berry was of opinion that he had bought
his extra hour’s sleep rather dearly.
A. L. Burt’s Catalogue of Books for Young People by Popular Writers,
52-58 Duane Street, New York
BOOKS FOR BOYS.
=Joe’s Luck=: A Boy’s Adventures in California. By HORATIO
ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
The story is chock fell of stirring incidents, while the
amusing situations are furnished by Joshua Bickford, from
Pumpkin Hollow, and the fellow who modestly styles himself the
“Rip-tail Roarer, from Pike Co., Missouri.” Mr. Alger never
writes a poor book, and “Joe’s Luck” is certainly one of his
best.
=Tom the Bootblack=; or, The Road to Success. By HORATIO ALGER,
JR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
A bright, enterprising lad was Tom the Bootblack. He was not at
all ashamed of his humble calling, though always on the lookout
to better himself. The lad started for Cincinnati to look up
his heritage. Mr. Grey, the uncle, did not hesitate to employ
a ruffian to kill the lad. The plan failed, and Gilbert Grey,
once Tom the bootblack, came into a comfortable fortune. This
is one of Mr. Alger’s best stories.
=Dan the Newsboy.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
Dan Mordaunt and his mother live in a poor tenement, and the
lad is pluckily trying to make ends meet by selling papers
in the streets of New York. A little heiress of six years is
confided to the care of the Mordaunts. The child is kidnapped
and Dan tracks the child to the house where she is hidden,
and rescues her. The wealthy aunt of the little heiress is so
delighted with Dan’s courage and many good qualities that she
adopts him as her heir.
=Tony the Hero=: A Brave Boy’s Adventure with a Tramp. By
HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
Tony, a sturdy bright-eyed boy of fourteen, is under the
control of Rudolph Rugg, a thorough rascal. After much abuse
Tony runs away and gets a job as stable boy in a country hotel.
Tony is heir to a large estate. Rudolph for a consideration
hunts up Tony and throws him down a deep well. Of course Tony
escapes from the fate provided for him, and by a brave act, a
rich friend secures his rights and Tony is prosperous. A very
entertaining book.
=The Errand Boy=; or, How Phil Brent Won Success. By HORATIO
ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
The career of “The Errand Boy” embraces the city adventures of
a smart country lad. Philip was brought up by a kind-hearted
innkeeper named Brent. The death of Mrs. Brent paved the way
for the hero’s subsequent troubles. A retired merchant in New
York secures him the situation of errand boy, and thereafter
stands as his friend.
=Tom Temple’s Career.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
Tom Temple is a bright, self-reliant lad. He leaves Plympton
village to seek work in New York, whence he undertakes an
important mission to California. Some of his adventures in the
far west are so startling that the reader will scarcely close
the book until the last page shall have been reached. The tale
is written in Mr. Alger’s most fascinating style.
=Frank Fowler, the Cash Boy.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
Frank Fowler, a poor boy, bravely determines to make a living
for himself and his foster-sister Grace. Going to New York
he obtains a situation as cash boy in a dry goods store. He
renders a service to a wealthy old gentleman who takes a fancy
to the lad, and thereafter helps the lad to gain success and
fortune.
=Tom Thatcher’s Fortune.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
Tom Thatcher is a brave, ambitious, unselfish boy. He supports
his mother and sister on meagre wages earned as a shoe-pegger
in John Simpson’s factory. Tom is discharged from the factory
and starts overland for California. He meets with many
adventures. The story is told in a way which has made Mr.
Alger’s name a household word in so many homes.
=The Train Boy.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
Paul Palmer was a wide-awake boy of sixteen who supported his
mother and sister by selling books and papers on the Chicago
and Milwaukee Railroad. He detects a young man in the act of
picking the pocket of a young lady. In a railway accident
many passengers are killed, but Paul is fortunate enough to
assist a Chicago merchant, who out of gratitude takes him into
his employ. Paul succeeds with tact and judgment and is well
started on the road to business prominence.
=Mark Mason’s Victory.= The Trials and Triumphs of a Telegraph
Boy. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
$1.00.
Mark Mason, the telegraph boy, was a sturdy, honest lad, who
pluckily won his way to success by his honest manly efforts
under many difficulties. This story will please the very large
class of boys who regard Mr. Alger as a favorite author.
=A Debt of Honor.= The Story of Gerald Lane’s Success in the
Far West. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
$1.00.
The story of Gerald Lane and the account of the many trials
and disappointments which he passed through before he attained
success, will interest all boys who have read the previous
stories of this delightful author.
=Ben Bruce.= Scenes in the Life of a Bowery Newsboy. By HORATIO
ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
Ben Bruce was a brave, manly, generous boy. The story of his
efforts, and many seeming failures and disappointments, and his
final success, are most interesting to all readers. The tale is
written in Mr. Alger’s most fascinating style.
=The Castaways;= or, On the Florida Reefs. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
This tale smacks of the salt sea. From the moment that the
Sea Queen leaves lower New York bay till the breeze leaves
her becalmed off the coast of Florida, one can almost hear
the whistle of the wind through her rigging, the creak of her
straining cordage as she heels to the leeward. The adventures
of Ben Clark, the hero of the story and Jake the cook, cannot
fail to charm the reader. As a writer for young people Mr. Otis
is a prime favorite.
=Wrecked on Spider Island=; or, How Ned Rogers Found the
Treasure. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
Ned Rogers, a “down-east” plucky lad ships as cabin boy to
earn a livelihood. Ned is marooned on Spider Island, and while
there discovers a wreck submerged in the sand, and finds a
considerable amount of treasure. The capture of the treasure
and the incidents of the voyage serve to make as entertaining a
story of sea-life as the most captious boy could desire.
=The Search for the Silver City=: A Tale of Adventure in
Yucatan. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
Two lads, Teddy Wright and Neal Emery, embark on the steam
yacht Day Dream for a cruise to the tropics. The yacht is
destroyed by fire, and then the boat is cast upon the coast of
Yucatan. They hear of the wonderful Silver City, of the Chan
Santa Cruz Indians, and with the help of a faithful Indian
ally carry off a number of the golden images from the temples.
Pursued with relentless vigor at last their escape is effected
in an astonishing manner. The story is so full of exciting
incidents that the reader is quite carried away with the
novelty and realism of the narrative.
=A Runaway Brig=; or, An Accidental Cruise. By JAMES OTIS.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
This is a sea tale, and the reader can look out upon the wide
shimmering sea as it flashes back the sunlight, and imagine
himself afloat with Harry Vandyne, Walter Morse, Jim Libby and
that old shell-back, Bob Brace, on the brig Bonita. The boys
discover a mysterious document which enables them to find a
buried treasure. They are stranded on an island and at last are
rescued with the treasure. The boys are sure to be fascinated
with this entertaining story.
=The Treasure Finders=: A Boy’s Adventures in Nicaragua. By
JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
Roy and Dean Coloney, with their guide Tongla, leave their
father’s indigo plantation to visit the wonderful ruins of
an ancient city. The boys eagerly explore the temples of an
extinct race and discover three golden images cunningly hidden
away. They escape with the greatest difficulty. Eventually
they reach safety with their golden prizes. We doubt if there
ever was written a more entertaining story than “The Treasure
Finders.”
=Jack, the Hunchback.= A Story of the Coast of Maine. By JAMES
OTIS. Price $1.00.
This is the story of a little hunchback who lived on Cape
Elizabeth, on the coast of Maine. His trials and successes are
most interesting. From first to last nothing stays the interest
of the narrative. It bears us along as on a stream whose
current varies in direction, but never loses its force.
=With Washington at Monmouth=: A Story of Three Philadelphia
Boys. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, ornamental cloth, olivine edges,
illustrated, price $1.50.
Three Philadelphia lads assist the American spies and make
regular and frequent visits to Valley Forge in the Winter
while the British occupied the city. The story abounds with
pictures of Colonial life skillfully drawn, and the glimpses of
Washington’s soldiers which are given shown that the work has
not been hastily done, or without considerable study. The story
is wholesome and patriotic in tone, as are all of Mr. Otis’
works.
=With Lafayette at Yorktown=: A Story of How Two Boys Joined
the Continental Army. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, ornamental cloth,
olivine edges, illustrated, price $1.50.
Two lads from Portmouth, N. H., attempt to enlist in the
Colonial Army, and are given employment as spies. There is no
lack of exciting incidents which the youthful reader craves,
but it is healthful excitement brimming with facts which every
boy should be familiar with, and while the reader is following
the adventures of Ben Jaffrays and Ned Allen he is acquiring a
fund of historical lore which will remain in his memory long
after that which he has memorized from textbooks has been
forgotten.
=At the Siege of Havana.= Being the Experiences of Three Boys
Serving under Israel Putnam in 1762. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo,
ornamental cloth, olivine edges, illustrated, price $1.50.
“At the Siege of Havana” deals with that portion of the
island’s history when the English king captured the capital,
thanks to the assistance given by the troops from New England,
led in part by Col. Israel Putnam.
The principal characters are Darius Lunt, the lad who,
represented as telling the story, and his comrades, Robert
Clement and Nicholas Vallet. Colonel Putnam also figures to
considerable extent, necessarily, in the tale, and the whole
forms one of the most readable stories founded on historical
facts.
=The Defense of Fort Henry.= A Story of Wheeling Creek in
1777. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, ornamental cloth, olivine edges,
illustrated, price $1.50.
Nowhere in the history of our country can be found more heroic
or thrilling incidents than in the story of those brave men and
women who founded the settlement of Wheeling in the Colony of
Virginia. The recital of what Elizabeth Zane did is in itself
as heroic a story as can be imagined. The wondrous bravery
displayed by Major McCulloch and his gallant comrades, the
sufferings of the colonists and their sacrifice of blood and
life, stir the blood of old as well as young readers.
=The Capture of the Laughing Mary.= A Story of Three New York
Boys in 1776. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, ornamental cloth, olivine
edges, price $1.50.
“During the British occupancy of New York, at the outbreak
of the Revolution, a Yankee lad hears of the plot to take
General Washington’s person, and calls in two companions to
assist the patriot cause. They do some astonishing things, and,
incidentally, lay the way for an American navy later, by the
exploit which gives its name to the work. Mr. Otis’ books are
too well known to require any particular commendation to the
young.”--=Evening Post.=
=With Warren at Bunker Hill.= A Story of the Siege of Boston.
By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, ornamental cloth, olivine edges,
illustrated, price $1.50.
“This is a tale of the siege of Boston, which opens on the day
after the doings at Lexington and Concord, with a description
of home life in Boston, introduces the reader to the British
camp at Charlestown, shows Gen. Warren at home, describes what
a boy thought of the battle of Bunker Hill, and closes with
the raising of the siege. The three heroes, George Wentworth,
Ben Scarlett and an old ropemaker, incur the enmity of a young
Tory, who causes them many adventures the boys will like to
read.”--=Detroit Free Press.=
=With the Swamp Fox.= The Story of General Marion’s Spies. By
JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
This story deals with General Francis Marion’s heroic struggle
in the Carolinas. General Marion’s arrival to take command of
these brave men and rough riders is pictured as a boy might
have seen it, and although the story is devoted to what the
lads did, the Swamp Fox is ever present in the mind of the
reader.
=On the Kentucky Frontier.= A Story of the Fighting Pioneers of
the West. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
In the history of our country there is no more thrilling
story than that of the work done on the Mississippi river by
a handful of frontiersmen. Mr. Otis takes the reader on that
famous expedition from the arrival of Major Clarke’s force at
Corn Island, until Kaskaskia was captured. He relates that part
of Simon Kenton’s life history which is not usually touched
upon either by the historian or the story teller. This is one
of the most entertaining books for young people which has been
published.
=Sarah Dillard’s Ride.= A Story of South Carolina in 1780. By
JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“This book deals with the Carolinas in 1780, giving a wealth of
detail of the Mountain Men who struggled so valiantly against
the king’s troops. Major Ferguson is the prominent British
officer of the story, which is told as though coming from a
youth who experienced these adventures. In this way the famous
ride of Sarah Dillard is brought out as an incident of the
plot.”--=Boston Journal.=
=A Tory Plot.= A Story of the Attempt to Kill General
Washington. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
$1.00.
“‘A Tory Plot’ is the story of two lads who overhear something
of the plot originated during the Revolution by Gov. Tryon to
capture or murder Washington. They communicate their knowledge
to Gen. Putnam and are commissioned by him to play the role
of detectives in the matter. They do so, and meet with many
adventures and hairbreadth escapes. The boys are, of course,
mythical, but they serve to enable the author to put into very
attractive shape much valuable knowledge concerning one phase
of the Revolution.”--=Pittsburgh Times.=
=A Traitor’s Escape.= A Story of the Attempt to Seize Benedict
Arnold. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“This is a tale with stirring scenes depicted in each chapter,
bringing clearly before the mind the glorious deeds of the
early settlers in this country. In an historical work dealing
with this country’s past, no plot can hold the attention closer
than this one, which describes the attempt and partial success
of Benedict Arnold’s escape to New York, where he remained as
the guest of Sir Henry Clinton. All those who actually figured
in the arrest of the traitor, as well as Gen. Washington, are
included as characters.”--=Albany Union.=
=A Cruise with Paul Jones.= A Story of Naval Warfare in 1776.
By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“This story takes up that portion of Paul Jones’ adventurous
life when he was hovering off the British coast, watching
for an opportunity to strike the enemy a blow. It deals more
particularly with his descent upon Whitehaven, the seizure of
Lady Selkirk’s plate, and the famous battle with the Drake.
The boy who figures in the tale is one who was taken from a
derelict by Paul Jones shortly after this particular cruise was
begun.”--=Chicago Inter-Ocean.=
=Corporal Lige’s Recruit.= A Story of Crown Point and
Ticonderoga. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
$1.00.
“In ‘Corporal Lige’s Recruit,’ Mr. Otis tells the amusing story
of an old soldier, proud of his record, who had served the king
in ’58, and who takes the lad, Isaac Rice, as his ‘personal
recruit.’ The lad acquits himself superbly. Col. Ethan Allen
‘in the name of God and the continental congress,’ infuses
much martial spirit into the narrative, which will arouse the
keenest interest as it proceeds. Crown Point, Ticonderoga,
Benedict Arnold and numerous other famous historical names
appear in this dramatic tale.”--=Boston Globe.=
=Morgan, the Jersey Spy.= A Story of the Siege of Yorktown in
1781. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“The two lads who are utilized by the author to emphasize
the details of the work done during that memorable time were
real boys who lived on the banks of the York river, and who
aided the Jersey spy in his dangerous occupation. In the
guise of fishermen the lads visit Yorktown, are suspected of
being spies, and put under arrest. Morgan risks his life to
save them. The final escape, the thrilling encounter with
a squad of red coats, when they are exposed equally to the
bullets of friends and foes, told in a masterly fashion, makes
of this volume one of the most entertaining books of the
year.”--=Inter-Ocean.=
=The Young Scout=: The Story of a West Point Lieutenant. By
EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
The crafty Apache chief Geronimo but a few years ago was the
most terrible scourge of the southwest border. The author has
woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the incidents of
Geronimo’s last raid. The hero is Lieutenant James Decker, a
recent graduate of West Point. Ambitious to distinguish himself
the young man takes many a desperate chance against the enemy
and on more than one occasion narrowly escapes with his life.
In our opinion Mr. Ellis is the best writer of Indian stories
now before the public.
=Adrift in the Wilds=: The Adventures of Two Shipwrecked Boys.
By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
Elwood Brandon and Howard Lawrence are en route for San
Francisco. Off the coast of California the steamer takes fire.
The two boys reach the shore with several of the passengers.
Young Brandon becomes separated from his party and is captured
by hostile Indians, but is afterwards rescued. This is a very
entertaining narrative of Southern California.
=A Young Hero=; or, Fighting to Win. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
This story tells how a valuable solid silver service was stolen
from the Misses Perkinpine, two very old and simple minded
ladies. Fred Sheldon, the hero of this story, undertakes to
discover the thieves and have them arrested. After much time
spent in detective work, he succeeds in discovering the silver
plate and winning the reward. The story is told in Mr. Ellis’
most fascinating style. Every boy will be glad to read this
delightful book.
=Lost in the Rockies.= A Story of Adventure in the Rocky
Mountains. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
$1.00.
Incident succeeds incident, and adventure is piled upon
adventure, and at the end the reader, be he boy or man, will
have experienced breathless enjoyment in this romantic story
describing many adventures in the Rockies and among the
Indians.
=A Jaunt Through Java=: The Story of a Journey to the Sacred
Mountain. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
$1.00.
The interest of this story is found in the thrilling adventures
of two cousins, Hermon and Eustace Hadley, on their trip across
the island of Java, from Samarang to the Sacred Mountain. In a
land where the Royal Bengal tiger, the rhinoceros, and other
fierce beasts are to be met with, it is but natural that the
heroes of this book should have a lively experience. There is
not a dull page in the book.
=The Boy Patriot.= A Story of Jack, the Young Friend of
Washington. By EDWARD S. ELLIS. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges,
illustrated, price $1.50.
“There are adventures of all kinds for the hero and his
friends, whose pluck and ingenuity in extricating themselves
from awkward fixes are always equal to the occasion. It is an
excellent story full of honest, manly, patriotic efforts on the
part of the hero. A very vivid description of the battle of
Trenton is also found in this story.”--=Journal of Education.=
=A Yankee Lad’s Pluck.= How Bert Larkin Saved his Father’s
Ranch in Porto Rico. By WM. P. CHIPMAN. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
“Bert Larkin, the hero of the story, early excites our
admiration, and is altogether a fine character such as boys
will delight in, whilst the story of his numerous adventures is
very graphically told. This will, we think, prove one of the
most popular boys’ books this season.”--=Gazette.=
=A Brave Defense.= A Story of the Massacre at Fort Griswold in
1781. By WILLIAM P. CHIPMAN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
$1.00.
Perhaps no more gallant fight against fearful odds took place
during the Revolutionary War than that at Fort Griswold,
Groton Heights, Conn., in 1781. The boys are real boys who
were actually on the muster rolls, either at Fort Trumbull on
the New London side, or of Fort Griswold on the Groton side of
the Thames. The youthful reader who follows Halsey Sanford and
Levi Dart and Tom Malleson, and their equally brave comrades,
through their thrilling adventures will be learning something
more than historical facts; they will be imbibing lessons of
fidelity, of bravery, of heroism, and of manliness, which must
prove serviceable in the arena of life.
=The Young Minuteman.= A Story of the Capture of General
Prescott in 1777. By WILLIAM P. CHIPMAN. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
This story is based upon actual events which occurred during
the British occupation of the waters of Narragansett Bay.
Darius Wale and William Northrop belong to “the coast patrol.”
The story is a strong one, dealing only with actual events.
There is, however, no lack of thrilling adventure, and every
lad who is fortunate enough to obtain the book will find not
only that his historical knowledge is increased, but that his
own patriotism and love of country are deepened.
=For the Temple=: A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. By G. A.
HENTY. With illustrations by S. J. SOLOMON. 12mo, cloth,
olivine edges, price $1.00.
“Mr. Henty’s graphic prose picture of the hopeless Jewish
resistance to Roman sway adds another leaf to his record of
the famous wars of the world. The book is one of Mr. Henty’s
cleverest efforts.”--=Graphic.=
=Roy Gilbert’s Search=: A Tale of the Great Lakes. By WM. P.
CHIPMAN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
A deep mystery hangs over the parentage of Roy Gilbert. He
arranges with two schoolmates to make a tour of the Great Lakes
on a steam launch. The three boys visit many points of interest
on the lakes. Afterwards the lads rescue an elderly gentleman
and a lady from a sinking yacht. Later on the boys narrowly
escape with their lives. The hero is a manly, self-reliant boy,
whose adventures will be followed with interest.
=The Slate Picker=: The Story of a Boy’s Life in the Coal
Mines. By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
This is a story of a boy’s life in the coal mines of
Pennsylvania. Ben Burton, the hero, had a hard road to travel,
but by grit and energy he advanced step by step until he found
himself called upon to fill the position of chief engineer of
the Kohinoor Coal Company. This is a book of extreme interest
to every boy reader.
=The Boy Cruisers=; or, Paddling in Florida. By ST. GEORGE
RATHBORNE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
Andrew George and Rowland Carter start on a canoe trip along
the Gulf coast, from Key West to Tampa, Florida. Their first
adventure is with a pair of rascals who steal their boats. Next
they run into a gale in the Gulf. After that they have a lively
time with alligators and Andrew gets into trouble with a band
of Seminole Indians. Mr. Rathborne knows just how to interest
the boys, and lads who are in search of a rare treat will do
well to read this entertaining story.
=Captured by Zulus=: A Story of Trapping in Africa. By HARRY
PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
This story details the adventures of two lads, Dick Elsworth
and Bob Harvey, in the wilds of South Africa. By stratagem the
Zulus capture Dick and Bob and take them to their principal
kraal or village. The lads escape death by digging their way
out of the prison hut by night. They are pursued, but the
Zulus finally give up pursuit. Mr. Prentice tells exactly how
wild-beast collectors secure specimens on their native stamping
grounds, and these descriptions make very entertaining reading.
=Tom the Ready;= or, Up from the Lowest. By RANDOLPH HILL.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
This is a dramatic narrative of the unaided rise of a fearless,
ambitious boy from the lowest round of fortune’s ladder to
wealth and the governorship of his native State. Tom Seacomb
begins life with a purpose, and eventually overcomes those who
oppose him. How he manages to win the battle is told by Mr.
Hill in a masterful way that thrills the reader and holds his
attention and sympathy to the end.
=Captain Kidd’s Gold=: The True Story of an Adventurous Sailor
Boy. By JAMES FRANKLIN FITTS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
$1.00.
There is something fascinating to the average youth in the
very idea of buried treasure. A vision arises before his eyes
of swarthy Portuguese and Spanish rascals, with black beards
and gleaming eyes. There were many famous sea rovers, but none
more celebrated than Capt. Kidd. Paul Jones Garry inherits a
document which locates a considerable treasure buried by two of
Kidd’s crew. The hero of this book is an ambitious, persevering
lad, of salt-water New England ancestry, and his efforts to
reach the island and secure the money form one of the most
absorbing tales for our youth that has come from the press.
=The Boy Explorers=: The Adventures of Two Boys in Alaska. By
HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
Two boys, Raymond and Spencer Manning, travel to Alaska to
join their father in search of their uncle. On their arrival
at Sitka the boys with an Indian guide set off across the
mountains. The trip is fraught with perils that test the lads’
courage to the utmost. All through their exciting adventures
the lads demonstrate what can be accomplished by pluck and
resolution, and their experience makes one of the most
interesting tales ever written.
=The Island Treasure=; or, Harry Darrel’s Fortune. By FRANK H.
CONVERSE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
Harry Darrel, having received a nautical training on a
school-ship, is bent on going to sea. A runaway horse
changes his prospects. Harry saves Dr. Gregg from drowning
and afterward becomes sailing-master of a sloop yacht. Mr.
Converse’s stories possess a charm of their own which is
appreciated by lads who delight in good healthy tales that
smack of salt water.
=Guy Harris=: The Runaway. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
Guy Harris lived in a small city on the shore of one of the
Great Lakes. He is persuaded to go to sea, and gets a glimpse
of the rough side of life in a sailor’s boarding house. He
ships on a vessel and for five months leads a hard life. The
book will interest boys generally on account of its graphic
style. This is one of Castlemon’s most attractive stories.
=Julian Mortimer=: A Brave Boy’s Struggle for Home and Fortune.
By HARRY CASTLEMON. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
The scene of the story lies west of the Mississippi River, in
the days when emigrants made their perilous way across the
great plains to the land of gold. There is an attack upon the
wagon train by a large party of Indians. Our hero is a lad of
uncommon nerve and pluck. Befriended by a stalwart trapper, a
real rough diamond, our hero achieves the most happy results.
=By Pike and Dyke=: A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch Republic.
By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by MAYNARD BROWN. 12mo,
cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00.
“Boys with a turn for historical research will be enchanted
with the book, while the rest who only care for adventure will
be students in spite of themselves.”--=St. James’s Gazette.=
=St. George for England=: A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. By G.
A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth,
olivine edges, price $1.00.
“A story of very great interest for boys. In his own forcible
style the author has endeavored to show that determination and
enthusiasm can accomplish marvellous results; and that courage
is generally accompanied by magnanimity and gentleness.”--=Pall
Mall Gazette.=
=Captain Bayley’s Heir=: A Tale of the Gold Fields of
California. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by H. M. PAGET.
12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00.
“Mr. Henty is careful to mingle instruction with entertainment;
and the humorous touches, especially in the sketch of John
Holl, the Westminster dustman, Dickens himself could hardly
have excelled.”--=Christian Leader.=
=Budd Boyd’s Triumph=; or, The Boy Firm of Fox Island. By
WILLIAM P. CHIPMAN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
The scene of this story is laid on the upper part of
Narragansett Bay, and the leading incidents have a strong
salt-water flavor. The two boys, Budd Boyd and Judd Floyd,
being ambitious and clear sighted, form a partnership to catch
and sell fish. Budd’s pluck and good sense carry him through
many troubles. In following the career of the boy firm of Boyd
& Floyd, the youthful reader will find a useful lesson--that
industry and perseverance are bound to lead to ultimate success.
=Lost in the Canyon=: Sam Willett’s Adventures on the Great
Colorado. By ALFRED R. CALHOUN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
$1.00.
This story hinges on a fortune left to Sam Willett, the hero,
and the fact that it will pass to a disreputable relative if
the lad dies before he shall have reached his majority. The
story of his father’s peril and of Sam’s desperate trip down
the great canyon on a raft, and how the party finally escape
from their perils is described in a graphic style that stamps
Mr. Calhoun as a master of his art.
=Captured by Apes=: The Wonderful Adventures of a Young Animal
Trainer. By HARRY PRENTICE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
$1.00.
Philip Garland, a young animal collector and trainer, sets sail
for Eastern seas in quest of a new stock of living curiosities.
The vessel is wrecked off the coast of Borneo, and young
Garland is cast ashore on a small island, and captured by the
apes that overrun the place. Very novel indeed is the way by
which the young man escapes death. Mr. Prentice is a writer of
undoubted skill.
=Under Drake’s Flag=: A Tale of the Spanish Main. By G. A.
HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth,
olivine edges, price $1.00.
“There is not a dull chapter, nor, indeed, a dull page in the
book; but the author has so carefully worked up his subject
that the exciting deeds of his heroes are never incongruous nor
absurd.”--=Observer.=
=By Sheer Pluck=: A Tale of the Ashanti War. By G. A. HENTY.
With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, olivine
edges, price $1.00.
The author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the
details of the Ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a
witness.
“Mr. Henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys’
stories. ‘By Sheer Pluck’ will be eagerly read.”--=Athenæum.=
=With Lee in Virginia=: A Story of the American Civil War. By
G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth,
olivine edges, price $1.00.
“One of the best stories for lads which Mr. Henty has yet
written. The picture is full of life and color, and the
stirring and romantic incidents are skillfully blended with the
personal interest and charm of the story.”--=Standard.=
=By England’s Aid=; or, The Freeing of the Netherlands
(1585-1604). By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by ALFRED
PEARSE. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00.
“It is an admirable book for youngsters. It overflows with
stirring incident and exciting adventure, and the color of the
era and of the scene are finely reproduced. The illustrations
add to its attractiveness.”--=Boston Gazette.=
=By Right of Conquest=; or, With Cortez in Mexico. By G. A.
HENTY. With illustrations by W. S. STACEY. 12mo, cloth, olivine
edges, price $1.50.
“The conquest of Mexico by a small band of resolute men under
the magnificent leadership of Cortez is always rightfully
ranked among the most romantic and daring exploits in
history. ‘By Right of Conquest’ is the nearest approach to a
perfectly successful historical tale that Mr. Henty has yet
published.”--=Academy.=
=For Name and Fame=; or, Through Afghan Passes. By G. A. HENTY.
With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, olivine
edges, price $1.00.
“Not only a rousing story, replete with all the varied forms
of excitement of a campaign, but, what is still more useful,
an account of a territory and its inhabitants which must for a
long time possess a supreme interest for Englishmen, as being
the key to our Indian Empire.”--=Glasgow Herald.=
=The Bravest of the Brave=; or, With Peterborough in Spain. By
G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by H. M. PAGET, 12mo, cloth,
olivine edges, price $1.00.
“Mr. Henty never loses sight of the moral purpose of his
work--to enforce the doctrine of courage and truth, mercy and
loving kindness, as indispensable to the making of a gentleman.
Boys will read ‘The Bravest of the Brave’ with pleasure and
profit; of that we are quite sure.”--=Daily Telegraph.=
=The Cat of Bubastes=: A Story of Ancient Egypt. By G. A.
HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price
$1.00.
“The story, from the critical moment of the killing of the
sacred cat to the perilous exodus into Asia with which it
closes, is very skillfully constructed and full of exciting
adventures. It is admirably illustrated.”--=Saturday Review.=
=Bonnie Prince Charlie=: A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. By
G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth,
olivine edges, price $1.00.
“Ronald, the hero, is very like the hero of ‘Quentin Durward.’
The lad’s journey across France, and his hairbreadth escapes,
makes up as good a narrative of the kind as we have ever read.
For freshness of treatment and variety of incident Mr. Henty
has surpassed himself.”--=Spectator.=
=With Clive in India=; or, The Beginnings of an Empire. By G.
A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth,
olivine edges, price $1.00.
“He has taken a period of Indian history of the most vital
importance, and he has embroidered on the historical facts
a story which of itself is deeply interesting. Young people
assuredly will be delighted with the volume.”--=Scotsman.=
=In the Reign of Terror=: The Adventures of a Westminster Boy.
By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by J. SCHÖNBERG. 12mo,
cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00.
“Harry Sandwith, the Westminster boy, may fairly be said to
beat Mr. Henty’s record. His adventures will delight boys by
the audacity and peril they depict. The story is one of Mr.
Henty’s best.”--=Saturday Review.=
=The Lion of the North=: A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the
Wars of Religion. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by JOHN
SCHÖNBERG. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00.
“A praiseworthy attempt to interest British youth in the great
deeds of the Scotch Brigade in the wars of Gustavus Adolphus.
Mackey, Hepburn, and Munro live again in Mr. Henty’s pages, as
those deserve to live whose disciplined bands formed really the
germ of the modern British army.”--=Athenæum.=
=The Dragon and the Raven=; or, The Days of King Alfred. By G.
A. HENTY. With illustrations by C. J. STANILAND. 12mo, cloth,
olivine edges, price $1.00.
“In this story the author gives an account of the fierce
struggle between Saxon and Dane for supremacy in England, and
presents a vivid picture of the misery and ruin to which the
country was reduced by the ravages of the sea-wolves. The
story is treated in a manner most attractive to the boyish
reader.”--=Athenæum.=
=The Young Carthaginian=: A Story of the Times of Hannibal.
By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by C. J. STANILAND. 12mo,
cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00.
“Well constructed and vividly told. From first to last nothing
stays the interest of the narrative. It bears us along as on a
stream whose current varies in direction, but never loses its
force.”--=Saturday Review.=
=In Freedom’s Cause=: A Story of Wallace and Bruce. By G.
A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth,
olivine edges, price $1.00.
“It is written in the author’s best style. Full of the wildest
and most remarkable achievements, it is a tale of great
interest, which a boy, once he has begun it, will not willingly
put one side.”--=The Schoolmaster.=
=With Wolfe in Canada=; or, The Winning of a Continent. By G.
A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth,
olivine edges, price $1.00.
“A model of what a boys’ story-book should be. Mr. Henty has
a great power of infusing into the dead facts of history new
life, and as no pains are spared by him to ensure accuracy in
historic details, his books supply useful aids to study as well
as amusement.”--=School Guardian.=
=True to the Old Flag=: A Tale of the American War of
Independence. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON
BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00.
“Does justice to the pluck and determination of the British
soldiers during the unfortunate struggle against American
emancipation. The son of an American loyalist, who remains true
to our flag, falls among the hostile red-skins in that very
Huron country which has been endeared to us by the exploits of
Hawkeye and Chingachgook.”--=The Times.=
=A Final Reckoning=: A Tale of Bush Life in Australia. By G. A.
HENTY. With illustrations by W. B. WOLLEN. 12mo, cloth, olivine
edges, price $1.00.
“All boys will read this story with eager and unflagging
interest. The episodes are in Mr. Henty’s very best
vein--graphic, exciting, realistic; and, as in all Mr. Henty’s
books, the tendency is to the formation of an honorable, manly,
and even heroic character.”--=Birmingham Post.=
=The Lion of St. Mark=: A Tale of Venice in the Fourteenth
Century. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE.
12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00.
“Every boy should read ‘The Lion of St. Mark.’ Mr. Henty has
never produced a story more delightful, more wholesome, or more
vivacious.”--=Saturday Review.=
=Facing Death=; or, The Hero of the Vaughan Pit. A Tale of
the Coal Mines. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON
BROWNE. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00.
“The tale is well written and well illustrated, and there is
much reality in the characters. If any father, clergyman, or
schoolmaster is on the lookout for a good book to give as a
present to a boy who is worth his salt, this is the book we
would recommend.”--=Standard.=
=Maori and Settler=: A Story of the New Zealand War. By G.
A. HENTY. With illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. 12mo, cloth,
olivine edges, price $1.00.
“In the adventures among the Maoris, there are many breathless
moments in which the odds seem hopelessly against the party,
but they succeed in establishing themselves happily in one of
the pleasant New Zealand valleys. It is brimful of adventure,
of humorous and interesting conversation, and vivid pictures of
colonial life.”--=Schoolmaster.=
=One of the 28th=: A Tale of Waterloo. By G. A. HENTY. With
illustrations by W. H. OVEREND. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges,
price $1.00.
“Written with Homeric vigor and heroic inspiration. It is
graphic, picturesque, and dramatically effective ... shows us
Mr. Henty at his best and brightest. The adventures will hold
a boy enthralled as he rushes through them with breathless
interest ‘from cover to cover.’”--=Observer.=
=Orange and Green=: A Tale of the Boyne and Limerick. By G.
A. HENTY. With illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. 12mo, cloth,
olivine edges, price $1.00.
“The narrative is free from the vice of prejudice, and ripples
with life as if what is being described were really passing
before the eye.”--=Belfast News-Letter.=
=Through the Fray=: A Story of the Luddite Riots. By G. A.
HENTY. With illustrations by H. M. PAGET. 12mo, cloth, olivine
edges, price $1.00.
“Mr. Henty inspires a love and admiration for
straightforwardness, truth and courage. This is one of the best
of the many good books Mr. Henty has produced, and deserves to
be classed with his ‘Facing Death.’”--=Standard.=
=The Young Midshipman=: A Story of the Bombardment of
Alexandria. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges
price $1.00.
A coast fishing lad, by an act of heroism, secures the interest
of a shipowner, who places him as an apprentice on board one
of his ships. In company with two of his fellow-apprentices he
is left behind, at Alexandria, in the hands of the revolted
Egyptian troops, and is present through the bombardment and the
scenes of riot and bloodshed which accompanied it.
=In Times of Peril.= A Tale of India. By G. A. HENTY. With
illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00.
“The hero of the story early excites our admiration, and
is altogether a fine character such as boys will delight
in, whilst the story of the campaign is very graphically
told.”--=St. James’s Gazette.=
=The Cornet of Horse=: A Tale of Marlborough’s Wars. By G. A.
HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price
$1.00.
“Mr. Henty not only concocts a thrilling tale, he weaves fact
and fiction together with so skillful a hand that the reader
cannot help acquiring a just and clear view of that fierce and
terrible struggle known as the Crimean War.”--=Athenæum.=
=The Young Franc-Tireurs=: Their Adventures in the
Franco-Prussian War. By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo,
cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00.
“A capital book for boys. It is bright and readable, and
full of good sense and manliness. It teaches pluck and
patience in adversity, and shows that right living leads to
success.”--=Observer.=
=The Young Colonists=: A Story of Life and War in South Africa.
By G. A. HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges,
price $1.00.
“No boy needs to have any story of Henty’s recommended to him,
and parents who do not know and buy them for their boys should
be ashamed of themselves. Those to whom he is yet unknown could
not make a better beginning than with this book.”
=The Young Buglers.= A Tale of the Peninsular War. By G. A.
HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price
$1.00.
“Mr. Henty is a giant among boys’ writers, and his books are
sufficiently popular to be sure of a welcome anywhere. In
stirring interest, this is quite up to the level of Mr. Henty’s
former historical tales.”--=Saturday Review.=
=Sturdy and Strong=; or, How George Andrews Made his Way. By G.
A. HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price
$1.00.
“The history of a hero of everyday life, whose love of truth,
clothing of modesty, and innate pluck, carry him, naturally,
from poverty to affluence. George Andrews is an example of
character with nothing to cavil at, and stands as a good
instance of chivalry in domestic life.”--=The Empire.=
=Among Malay Pirates.= A Story of Adventure and Peril. By G. A.
HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price
$1.00.
“Incident succeeds incident, and adventure is piled upon
adventure, and at the end the reader, be he boy or man, will
have experienced breathless enjoyment in a romantic story
that must have taught him much at its close.”--=Army and Navy
Gazette.=
=Jack Archer.= A Tale of the Crimea. By G. A. HENTY. With
illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00.
“Mr. Henty not only concocts a thrilling tale, he weaves fact
and fiction together with so skillful a hand that the reader
cannot help acquiring a just and clear view of that fierce and
terrible struggle.”--=Athenæum.=
=Friends, Though Divided.= A Tale of the Civil War. By G. A.
HENTY. With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price
$1.00.
“It has a good plot; it abounds in action; the scenes are
equally spirited and realistic, and we can only say we have
read it with much pleasure from first to last.”--=Times.=
=Out on the Pampas=; or, The Young Settlers. By G. A. HENTY.
With illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00.
“A really noble story, which adult readers will find to the
full as satisfying as the boys. Lucky boys! to have such a
caterer as Mr. G. A. Henty.”--=Black and White.=
=The Boy Knight=: A Tale of the Crusades. By G. A. HENTY. With
illustrations. 12mo, cloth, olivine edges, price $1.00.
“Of stirring episode there is no lack. The book, with its
careful accuracy and its descriptions of all the chief battles,
will give many a schoolboy his first real understanding of a
very important period of history.”--=St. James’s Gazette.=
=The Wreck of the Golden Fleece.= The Story of a North Sea
Fisher Boy. By ROBERT LEIGHTON. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
$1.00.
A description of life on the wild North Sea--the hero being a
parson’s son who is appreciated on board a Lowestoft fishing
lugger. The lad has to suffer many buffets from his shipmates,
while the storms and dangers which he braved on board the
“North Star” are set forth with minute knowledge and intense
power. The wreck of the “Golden Fleece” forms the climax to a
thrilling series of desperate mischances.
=Olaf the Glorious.= A Story of the Viking Age. By ROBERT
LEIGHTON. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
This story of Olaf the Glorious, King of Norway, opens with the
incident of his being found by his uncle living as a bond-slave
in Esthonia; then come his adventures as a Viking and his raids
upon the coasts of Scotland and England, his victorious battle
against the English at Maldon in Essex, his being bought off by
Ethelred the Unready, and his conversion to Christianity. He
then returns to Pagan Norway, is accepted as king, and converts
his people to the Christian faith.
=To Greenland and the Pole.= A story of Adventure in the Arctic
Regions. By GORDON STABLES. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
$1.00.
The unfailing fascination of Arctic venturing is presented in
this story with new vividness. It deals with skilöbning in
the north of Scotland, deer-hunting in Norway, sealing in the
Arctic Seas, bear-stalking on the ice-floes, the hardships of
a journey across Greenland, and a successful voyage to the
back of the North Pole. This is, indeed, a real sea-yarn by a
real sailor, and the tone is as bright and wholesome as the
adventures are numerous.
=Yussuf the Guide.= A Story of Adventure in Asia Minor. By
GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
This story deals with the stirring incidents in the career of
a lad who has been almost given over by the doctors, but who
rapidly recovers health and strength in a journey through Asia
Minor. The adventures are many, and culminate in the travellers
being snowed up for the winter in the mountains, from which
they escape while their captors are waiting for the ransom that
does not come.
=Grettir the Outlaw.= A Story of Iceland. By S. BARING-GOULD.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“This is the boys’ book of the year. That is, of course,
as much as to say that it will do for men grown as well as
juniors. It is told in simple, straightforward English, as all
stories should be, and it has a freshness and freedom which
make it irresistible.”--=National Observer.=
=Two Thousand Years Ago.= The Adventures of a Roman Boy. By A.
J. CHURCH. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“Prof. Church has in this story sought to revivify that most
interesting period, the last days of the Roman Republic.
The book is extremely entertaining as well as useful:
there is a wonderful freshness in the Roman scenes and
characters.”--=Times.=
=Nat the Naturalist.= A Boy’s Adventure in the Eastern Seas. By
GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
Nat and his uncle Dick go on a voyage to the remoter islands of
the Eastern seas, and their adventures are told in a truthful
and vastly interesting fashion. The descriptions of Mr. Ebony,
their black comrade, and of the scenes of savage life, are full
of genuine humor.
=The Log of the Flying Fish.= A Story of Peril and Adventure.
By HARRY COLLINGWOOD. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“This story is full of even more vividly recounted adventures
than those which charmed so many boy readers in ‘Pirate Island’
and ‘Congo Rovers.’... There is a thrilling adventure on the
precipices of Mount Everest, when the ship floats off and
providentially returns by force of ‘gravitation.’”--=Academy.=
=The Congo Rovers.= A Story of the Slave Squadron. By HARRY
COLLINGWOOD. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“The scene of this tale is laid on the west coast of Africa,
and in the lower reaches of the Congo; the characteristic
scenery of the great river being delineated with wonderful
accuracy. Mr. Collingwood carries us off for another cruise at
sea, in ‘The Congo Rovers,’ and boys will need no pressing to
join the daring crew, which seeks adventures and meets with any
number of them.”--=The Times.=
=Boris the Bear Hunter.= A Tale of Peter the Great and His
Times. By FRED WISHAW. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“This is a capital story. The characters are marked
and lifelike, and it is full of incident and
adventure.”--=Standard.=
=Michael Strogoff=; or, The Courier of the Czar. By JULES
VERNE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“The story is full of originality and vigor. The characters are
lifelike, there is plenty of stirring incident, the interest is
sustained throughout, and every boy will enjoy following the
fortunes of the hero.”--=Journal of Education.=
=Mother Carey’s Chicken.= Her Voyage to the Unknown Isle. By
GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“Undoubtedly one of the best Mr. Fenn has written. The
incidents are of thrilling interest, while the characters are
drawn with a care and completeness rarely found in a boy’s
book.”--=Literary World.=
=Dick Sand=; or, A Captain at Fifteen. By JULES VERNE. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“Jules Verne himself never constructed a more marvellous tale.
It contains the strongly marked features that are always
conspicuous in his stories--a racy humor, the manly vigor
of his sentiment, and wholesome moral lessons.”--=Christian
Leader.=
=Erling the Bold.= A Tale of the Norse Sea Kings. By R. M.
BALLANTYNE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“This volume makes a really fascinating book, worthy of
its telling title. There is, we venture to say, not a dull
chapter in the book, not a page which will not bear a second
reading.”--=Guardian.=
=Masterman Ready=; or, The Wreck of the Pacific. By CAPTAIN
MARRYAT. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“As racy a tale of life at sea and adventure as we have met
with for some time.... Altogether the sort of book that boys
will revel in.”--=Athenæum.=
=The Green Mountain Boys.= A Tale of the Early Settlement of
Vermont. By D. P. THOMPSON. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
$1.00.
A story of very great interest for boys. In his own forcible
style the author has endeavored to show that determination and
patriotic enthusiasm can accomplish marvellous results. This
story gives a graphic account of the early settlers of Vermont,
and their patriotic efforts in defending their homes from the
invasions of enemies.
=Every Inch a Sailor.= By GORDON STABLES. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
“A story which is quite as good in its way as ‘Treasure
Island,’ and is full of adventure of a stirring yet most
natural kind. Although it is primarily a boys’ book, it is a
real godsend to the elderly reader.”--=Evening Times.=
=The Golden Galleon.= A Narrative of Adventure on Her Majesty’s
Ship the Revenge. By ROBERT LEIGHTON. 12mo, cloth, illustrated,
price $1.00.
“This story should add considerably to Mr. Leighton’s high
reputation. Excellent in every respect, it contains every
variety of incident. The plot is very cleverly devised, and the
types of the North Sea sailors are capital.”--=The Times.=
=The Gorilla Hunters.= A Tale of the Wilds of Africa. By R. M.
BALLANTYNE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“We conscientiously believe that boys will find it capital
reading. It is full of incident and mystery, and the mystery
is kept up to the last moment. It is full of stirring
adventure, daring and many escapes; and it has a historical
interest.”--=Times.=
=Gascoyne the Sandalwood Trader.= By R. M. BALLANTYNE. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“One of the best stories of seafaring life and adventure which
have appeared this season. Entertaining in the highest degree
from beginning to end, and full of adventure which is all the
livelier for its close connection with history.”--=Spectator.=
=Two Years Before the Mast.= A Personal Narrative of Life at
Sea. By R. H. DANA, JR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“One of the very best books for boys that we have seen for a
long time: its author stands far in advance of any other writer
for boys as a teller of stories of the sea.”--=The Standard.=
=The Young Rajah.= A Story of Indian Life. By W. H. G.
KINGSTON. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“This story will place the author at once in the front rank. It
is full of life and adventure, and the interest is sustained
without a break from first to last.”--=Standard.=
=How Jack Mackenzie Won His Epaulettes.= A Story of the Crimean
War. By GORDON STABLES. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“This must rank among the few undeniably good boys’ books. He
will be a very dull boy indeed who lays it down without wishing
that it had gone on for at least 100 pages more.”--=Mail.=
=The King’s Pardon.= A Story of Land and Sea. By ROBERT
OVERTON. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“An excellent story, the interest being sustained from first to
last. This is, both in its intention and the way the story is
told, one of the best books of its kind which has come before
us this year.”--=Saturday Review.=
=Under the Lone Star.= A Story of the Revolution in Nicaragua.
By HERBERT HAYNES. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“We have not of late come across a historical fiction,
whether intended for boys or for men, which deserves to be so
heartily and unreservedly praised as regards plot, incidents,
and spirit as this book. It is its author’s masterpiece as
yet.”--=Spectator.=
=Geoff and Jim=: A Story of School Life. By ISMAY THORN. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“This is a prettily told story of the life spent by two
motherless bairns at a small preparatory school. Both Geoff
and Jim are very lovable characters, only Jim is the more so;
and the scrapes he gets into and the trials he endures will,
no doubt, interest a large circle of young readers.”--=Church
Times.=
=Jack=: A Topsy Turvy Story. By C. M. CRAWLEY-BOEVEY. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“The illustrations deserve particular mention, as they add
largely to the interest of this amusing volume for children.
Jack falls asleep with his mind full of the subject of the
fishpond, and is very much surprised presently to find
himself an inhabitant of Waterworld, where he goes through
wonderful and edifying adventures. A handsome and pleasant
book.”--=Literary World.=
=Black Beauty.= The Autobiography of a Horse. By ANNA SEWELL.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
This is the life story of a horse; how he was ill treated and
well cared for. The experiences of Black Beauty, Ginger, and
Merrylegs are extremely interesting. Wherever children are,
whether boys or girls, there this Autobiography should be. It
inculcates habits of kindness to all members of the animal
creation. The literary merit of the book is excellent.
=Mopsa the Fairy.= By JEAN INGELOW. 12mo, cloth, illustrated,
price 75 cents.
“Mrs. Ingelow is, to our mind, the most charming of all living
writers for children, and ‘Mopsa’ alone ought to give her a
kind of pre-emptive right to the love and gratitude of our
young folks. It requires genius to conceive a purely imaginary
work which must of necessity deal with the supernatural,
without running into a mere riot of fantastic absurdity;
but genius Mrs. Ingelow has, and the story of ‘Jack’ is
as careless and joyous, but as delicate as a picture of
childhood.”--=Eclectic.=
=Carrots=: Just a Little Boy. By MRS. MOLESWORTH. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price 75 cents.
“One of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been
our good fortune to meet with for some time. Carrots and his
sister are delightful little beings, whom to read about is
at once to become very fond of. A genuine children’s book;
we’ve seen ’em seize it, and read it greedily. Children are
first-rate critics, and thoroughly appreciate Walter Crane’s
illustrations.”--=Punch.=
=Larry’s Luck.= By the author of “Miss Toosey’s Mission.” 12mo,
cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“It is believed that this story, by this favorably known
author of ‘Miss Toosey’s Mission,’ will be found both highly
interesting and instructive to the young. Whether the readers
are nine years old, or twice as old, they must enjoy this
pretty volume.”--=The Examiner.=
=A Child’s Christmas=: A Sketch of Boy Life. By MRS.
MOLESWORTH. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“This is another of those delightful juvenile stories of
which this author has written so many. It is a fascinating
little book, with a charming plot, a sweet, pure atmosphere,
and teaches a wholesome moral in the most winning
manner.”--=Gazette.=
=Chunk, Fusky and Snout.= A Story of Wild Pigs for Little
People. By GERALD YOUNG. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75
cents.
“The story is an extremely interesting one, full of incident,
told in a quiet, healthful way, and with a great deal of
pleasantly interfused information about wild pigs and their
ways. It is sure to interest both boys and girls.”--=Christian
Union.=
=Daddy’s Boy.= By L. T. MEADE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
75 cents.
“A charming story of child life. Little Sir Rowland is one of
the most fascinating of the misunderstood child heroes of the
day. The quaint doings and imaginings of this gentle, lovable,
but highly original child are introduced by Mrs. Meade, with
all her accustomed pathos.”--=Guardian.=
=Adventures of Prince Prigio.= By ANDREW LANG. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price 75 cents.
“This book has so much charm of style and good writing that it
will be eagerly read by many other than the young folk for whom
it is intended.”--=Black and White.=
=A Flock of Four.= A Story for Boys and Girls. By ISMAY THORN.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“As a gift book for boys it is among the best new books of
the kind. The story is interesting and natural, from first to
last.”--=Gazette.=
=A Flat Iron for a Farthing.= The Story of an Only Son. By
JULIANA HORATIA EWING. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“A very good book it is, full of adventure, graphically told.
The style is just what it should be; simple but not bold, full
of pleasant humor, and with some pretty touches of feeling.
Like all Mrs. Ewing’s tales, it is sound, sensible, and
wholesome.”--=Times.=
=The Greek Heroes.= Fairy Tales for My Children. By CHARLES
KINGSLEY. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“We do not think these heroic stories have ever been more
attractively told.... There is a deep under-current of
religious feeling traceable throughout its pages which is sure
to influence young readers powerfully. One of the children’s
books that will surely become a classic.”--=London Review.=
=Jackanapes.= By JULIANA HORATIA EWING. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price 75 cents.
“This is one of Mrs. Ewing’s charming little stories for young
children. The narrative ... is full of interest for its real
grace and delicacy, and the exquisiteness and purity of the
English in which it is written.”--=Boston Advertiser.=
=Princess and Curdie.= By GEORGE MACDONALD. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price 75 cents.
“One of the cleverest and most pleasing stories it has been
our good fortune to meet with for some time. The Princess and
Curdie are delightful little beings, whom to read about is at
once to become very fond of.”--=Examiner.=
=Peter the Pilgrim.= The Story of a Boy and His Pet Rabbit. By
L. T. MEADE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“Little Peter, with his soft heart, clever head, and brave
spirit is no morbid presentment of the angelic child ‘too good
to live,’ and who is certainly a nuisance on earth, but a
charming creature, if not a portrait, whom it is a privilege to
meet even in fiction.”--=The Academy.=
=We and the World.= A Story for Boys. By JULIANA HORATIA EWING.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“The author has evidently studied the ways and tastes of
children and got at the secret of amusing them; and has
succeeded in what is not so easy a task as it may seem--in
producing a really good children’s book.”--=Daily Telegraph.=
=Little Ivan’s Hero.= A Story of Child Life. By HELEN MILMAN.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“We should imagine those queer folk indeed who could not read
this story with eager interest and pleasure, be they boys or
girls, young or old. We highly commend the style in which the
book is written, and the spirit which pervades it.”--=World.=
=Dick, Marjorie and Fidge.= The Wonderful Adventures of Three
Little People. By G. E. FARROW. 12mo, cloth, illust’d, price
75 cents.
“... To the young, for whom it is especially intended, this
is a most interesting book of adventures, well told, and a
pleasant book to take up when their wish is to while away a
weary half-hour. We have seen no prettier gift-book for a long
time.”--=Athenæum.=
=A Wonder Book: For Boys and Girls.= Comprising Stories
of Classical Fables. By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price 75 cents.
“A beautiful little story. It will be read with delight by
every child into whose hands it is placed.”--=Gazette.=
=My Dog Plato=: His Adventures and Impressions. By H. M.
CORNWALL LEGH. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“A capital story, and one we heartily commend to boy readers,
both gentle and simple.”--=Guardian.=
=Squib and His Friends.= A Story for Children. By ELLEN EVERETT
GREEN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“This book will please by its simplicity, its tenderness,
and its healthy interesting motive. It is admirably
written.”--=Scotsman.=
=Tom’s Opinion.= The Story of a Boys’ School. By the author of
“Miss Toosey’s Mission.” 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“A beautiful little story.... It will be read with delight by
every boy into whose hands it is placed.”--=Pall Mall Gazette.=
=Robin’s Ride.= A Story for Children. By ELLINOR D. ADAMS.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“It is a first-rate boys’ book. It is a capital story; the
characters are well drawn, and the incidents are perfectly
natural.”--=Times.=
=Peter and Tom.= A Story for Boys. By BELLE S. CRAGIN. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
Peter and Tom were unlikely heroes, particularly in the
direction of heroism, but the proper chord was touched in each
of their lives, and through many trials and adventures they
developed Christian principles and successful business traits.
=Nurse Heatherdale’s Story.= By MRS. MOLESWORTH. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price 75 cents.
“‘Nurse Heatherdale’s Story’ is all about a small boy, who
was good enough, yet was always getting into some trouble
through complications in which he was not to blame. He is an
orphan, though he is cared for in a way by relations, who
are not so very rich, yet are looked on as well fixed. After
many youthful trials and disappointments he falls into a big
stroke of good luck, which lifts him and goes to make others
happy.”--=Commercial Advertiser.=
=The Last of the Huggermuggers.= A Giant Story. By CHRISTOPHER
P. CRAUCH. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“Fresh and charming in style, with fun that is never forced,
pathos that is always genuine, and with a distinctly
wholesome purpose. This is certain to be a favorite with
boys.”--=Literary World.=
=The Hunting of the Snark.= By LEWIS CARROLL, author of “Alice
in Wonderland.” 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“Whether as regarding author or illustrator, this book is a
jewel rarely to be found nowadays. Not a whit inferior to its
predecessor in grand extravagance of imagination, and delicious
allegorical nonsense.”--=Quarterly Review.=
For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by
the publisher, =A. L. BURT, 52-58 Duane Street, New York=.
BOOKS FOR GIRLS.
=Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.= By LEWIS CARROLL. 12mo,
cloth, 42 illustrations, price 75 cents.
“From first to last, almost without exception, this story is
delightfully droll, humorous and illustrated in harmony with
the story.”--=New York Express.=
=Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There.= By
LEWIS CARROLL. 12mo, cloth, 50 illustrations, price 75 cents.
“A delight alike to the young people and their elders,
extremely funny both in text and illustrations.”--=Boston
Express.=
=Little Lucy’s Wonderful Globe.= By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“This story is unique among tales intended for children,
alike for pleasant instruction, quaintness of humor, gentle
pathos, and the subtlety with which lessons moral and otherwise
are conveyed to children, and perhaps to their seniors as
well.”--=The Spectator.=
=Joan’s Adventures at the North Pole and Elsewhere.= By ALICE
CORKRAN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“Wonderful as the adventures of Joan are, it must be admitted
that they are very naturally worked out and very plausibly
presented. Altogether this is an excellent story for
girls.”--=Saturday Review.=
=Count Up the Sunny Days=: A Story for Girls and Boys. By C. A.
JONES. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“An unusually good children’s story.”--=Glasgow Herald.=
=The Heir of Redclyffe.= By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
“A narrative full of interest from first to last. It is told
clearly and in a straightforward manner, and arrests the
attention of the reader at once, so that one feels afresh the
unspeakable pathos of the story to the end.”--=London Graphic.=
=The Dove in the Eagle’s Nest.= By CHARLOTTE M. YONGE. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“Among all the modern writers we believe Miss Yonge first, not
in genius, but in this, that she employs her great abilities
for a high and noble purpose. We know of few modern writers
whose works may be so safely commended as hers.”--=Cleveland
Times.=
=Jan of the Windmill.= A Story of the Plains. By MRS. J. H.
EWING. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“Never has Mrs. Ewing published a more charming volume, and
that is saying a very great deal. From the first to the last
the book overflows with the strange knowledge of child-nature
which so rarely survives childhood: and moreover, with
inexhaustible quiet humor, which is never anything but innocent
and well-bred, never priggish, and never clumsy.”--=Academy.=
=A Sweet Girl Graduate.= By L. T. MEADE. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
“One of this popular author’s best. The characters are well
imagined and drawn. The story moves with plenty of spirit
and the interest does not flag until the end too quickly
comes.”--=Providence Journal.=
=Six to Sixteen=: A Story for Girls. By JULIANA HORATIA EWING.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“There is no doubt as to the good quality and attractiveness of
‘Six to Sixteen.’ The book is one which would enrich any girl’s
book shelf.”--=St. James’s Gazette.=
=The Palace Beautiful=: A Story for Girls. By L. T. MEADE.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“A bright and interesting story. The many admirers of Mrs. L.
T. Meade in this country will be delighted with the ‘Palace
Beautiful’ for more reasons than one. It is a charming book for
girls.”--=New York Recorder.=
=A World of Girls=: The Story of a School. By L. T. MEADE.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“One of those wholesome stories which it does one good to read.
It will afford pure delight to numerous readers. This book
should be on every girl’s book shelf.”--=Boston Home Journal.=
=The Lady of the Forest=: A Story for Girls. By L. T. MEADE.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“This story is written in the author’s well-known, fresh and
easy style. All girls fond of reading will be charmed by this
well-written story. It is told with the author’s customary
grace and spirit.”--=Boston Times.=
=At the Back of the North Wind=. By GEORGE MACDONALD. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“A very pretty story, with much of the freshness and
vigor of Mr. Macdonald’s earlier work.... It is a sweet,
earnest, and wholesome fairy story, and the quaint native
humor is delightful. A most delightful volume for young
readers.”--=Philadelphia Times.=
=The Water Babies=: A Fairy Tale for a Land Baby. By CHARLES
KINGSLEY. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“The strength of his work, as well as its peculiar charms,
consist in his description of the experiences of a youth with
life under water in the luxuriant wealth of which he revels
with all the ardor of a poetical nature.”--=New York Tribune.=
=Our Bessie.= By ROSA N. CAREY. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
$1.00.
“One of the most entertaining stories of the season, full of
vigorous action, and strong in character-painting. Elder girls
will be charmed with it, and adults may read its pages with
profit.”--=The Teachers’ Aid.=
=Wild Kitty=. A Story of Middleton School. By L. T. MEADE.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“Kitty is a true heroine--warm-hearted, self-sacrificing,
and, as all good women nowadays are, largely touched with the
enthusiasm of humanity. One of the most attractive gift books
of the season.”--=The Academy.=
=A Young Mutineer.= A Story for Girls. By L. T. MEADE. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“One of Mrs. Meade’s charming books for girls, narrated in that
simple and picturesque style which marks the authoress as one
of the first among writers for young people.”--=The Spectator.=
=Sue and I.= By MRS. O’REILLY. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
75 cents.
“A thoroughly delightful book, full of sound wisdom as well as
fun.”--Athenæum.
=The Princess and the Goblin.= A Fairy Story. By GEORGE
MACDONALD. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“If a child once begins this book, it will get so deeply
interested in it that when bedtime comes it will altogether
forget the moral, and will weary its parents with importunities
for just a few minutes more to see how everything
ends.”--=Saturday Review.=
=Pythia’s Pupils=: A Story of a School. By EVA HARTNER. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“This story of the doings of several bright school girls is
sure to interest girl readers. Among many good stories for
girls this is undoubtedly one of the very best.”--=Teachers’
Aid.=
=A Story of a Short Life.= By JULIANA HORATIA EWING. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“The book is one we can heartily recommend, for it is not only
bright and interesting, but also pure and healthy in tone and
teaching.”--=Courier.=
=The Sleepy King.= A Fairy Tale. By AUBREY HOPWOOD AND SEYMOUR
HICKS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“Wonderful as the adventures of Bluebell are, it must be
admitted that they are very naturally worked out and very
plausibly presented. Altogether this is an excellent story for
girls.”--=Saturday Review.=
=Two Little Waifs.= By MRS. MOLESWORTH. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price 75 cents.
“Mrs. Molesworth’s delightful story of ‘Two Little Waifs’ will
charm all the small people who find it in their stockings. It
relates the adventures of two lovable English children lost in
Paris, and is just wonderful enough to pleasantly wring the
youthful heart.”--=New York Tribune.=
=Adventures in Toyland.= By EDITH KING HALL. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price 75 cents.
“The author is such a bright, cheery writer, that her stories
are always acceptable to all who are not confirmed cynics, and
her record of the adventures is as entertaining and enjoyable
as we might expect.”--=Boston Courier.=
=Adventures in Wallypug Land.= By G. E. FARROW. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price 75 cents.
“These adventures are simply inimitable, and will delight boys
and girls of mature age, as well as their juniors. No happier
combination of author and artist than this volume presents
could be found to furnish healthy amusement to the young folks.
The book is an artistic one in every sense.”--=Toronto Mail.=
=Fussbudget’s Folks.= A Story for Young Girls. By ANNA F.
BURNHAM. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“Mrs. Burnham has a rare gift for composing stories
for children. With a light, yet forcible touch, she
paints sweet and artless, yet natural and strong,
characters.”--=Congregationalist.=
=Mixed Pickles.= A Story for Girls. By MRS. E. M. FIELD.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“It is, in its way, a little classic, of which the real beauty
and pathos can hardly be appreciated by young people. It is
not too much to say of the story that it is perfect of its
kind.”--=Good Literature.=
=Miss Mouse and Her Boys.= A Story for Girls. By MRS.
MOLESWORTH. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“Mrs. Molesworth’s books are cheery, wholesome, and
particularly well adapted to refined life. It is safe to add
that she is the best English prose writer for children. A new
volume from Mrs. Molesworth is always a treat.”--=The Beacon.=
=Gilly Flower.= A Story for Girls. By the author of “Miss
Toosey’s Mission.” 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“Jill is a little guardian angel to three lively brothers who
tease and play with her.... Her unconscious goodness brings
right thoughts and resolves to several persons who come into
contact with her. There is no goodiness in this tale, but its
influence is of the best kind.”--=Literary World.=
=The Chaplet of Pearls=; or, The White and Black Ribaumont. By
CHARLOTTE M. YONGE. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“Full of spirit and life, so well sustained throughout that
grown-up readers may enjoy it as much as children. It is one of
the best books of the season.”--=Guardian.=
=Naughty Miss Bunny=: Her Tricks and Troubles. By CLARA
MULHOLLAND. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“The naughty child is positively delightful. Papas should not
omit the book from their list of juvenile presents.”--=Land and
Water.=
=Meg’s Friend.= By ALICE CORKRAN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated,
price $1.00.
“One of Miss Corkran’s charming books for girls, narrated in
that simple and picturesque style which marks the authoress
as one of the first among writers for young people.”--=The
Spectator.=
=Averil.= By ROSA N. CAREY. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
$1.00.
“A charming story for young folks. Averil is a delightful
creature--piquant, tender, and true--and her varying fortunes
are perfectly realistic.”--=World.=
=Aunt Diana.= By ROSA N. CAREY. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
$1.00.
“An excellent story, the interest being sustained from first to
last. This is, both in its intention and the way the story is
told, one of the best books of its kind which has come before
us this year.”--=Saturday Review.=
=Little Sunshine’s Holiday=: A Picture from Life. By MISS
MULOCK. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“This is a pretty narrative of child life, describing the
simple doings and sayings of a very charming and rather
precocious child. This is a delightful book for young
people.”--=Gazette.=
=Esther’s Charge.= A Story for Girls. By ELLEN EVERETT GREEN.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“... This is a story showing in a charming way how one
little girl’s jealousy and bad temper were conquered; one
of the best, most suggestive and improving of the Christmas
juveniles.”--=New York Tribune.=
=Fairy Land of Science.= By ARABELLA B. BUCKLEY. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
“We can highly recommend it; not only for the valuable
information it gives on the special subjects to which it
is dedicated, but also as a book teaching natural sciences
in an interesting way. A fascinating little volume, which
will make friends in every household in which there are
children.”--=Daily News.=
=Merle’s Crusade.= By ROSA N. CAREY. 12mo, cloth, illustrated,
price $1.00.
“Among the books for young people we have seen nothing more
unique than this book. Like all of this author’s stories it
will please young readers by the very attractive and charming
style in which it is written.”--=Journal.=
=Birdie=: A Tale of Child Life. By H. L. CHILDE-PEMBERTON.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“The story is quaint and simple, but there is a freshness
about it that makes one hear again the ringing laugh and the
cheery shout of children at play which charmed his earlier
years.”--=New York Express.=
=The Days of Bruce=: A Story from Scottish History. By GRACE
AGUILAR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“There is a delightful freshness, sincerity and vivacity
about all of Grace Aguilar’s stories which cannot fail to
win the interest and admiration of every lover of good
reading.”--=Boston Beacon.=
=Three Bright Girls=: A Story of Chance and Mischance. By ANNIE
E. ARMSTRONG. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“The charm of the story lies in the cheery helpfulness of
spirit developed in the girls by their changed circumstances;
while the author finds a pleasant ending to all their happy
makeshifts. The story is charmingly told, and the book can be
warmly recommended as a present for girls.”--=Standard.=
=Giannetta=: A Girl’s Story of Herself. By ROSA MULHOLLAND.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“Extremely well told and full of interest. Giannetta is a true
heroine--warm-hearted, self-sacrificing, and, as all good women
nowadays are, largely touched with enthusiasm of humanity. The
illustrations are unusually good. One of the most attractive
gift books of the season.”--=The Academy.=
=Margery Merton’s Girlhood.= By ALICE CORKRAN. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
“The experiences of an orphan girl who in infancy is left by
her father to the care of an elderly aunt residing near Paris.
The accounts of the various persons who have an after influence
on the story are singularly vivid. There is a subtle attraction
about the book which will make it a great favorite with
thoughtful girls.”--=Saturday Review.=
=Under False Colors=: A Story from Two Girls’ Lives. By SARAH
DOUDNEY. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“Sarah Doudney has no superior as a writer of high-toned
stories--pure in style, original in conception, and with
skillfully wrought out plots; but we have seen nothing equal in
dramatic energy to this book.”--=Christian Leader.=
=Down the Snow Stairs=; or, From Good-night to Good-morning. By
ALICE CORKRAN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“Among all the Christmas volumes which the year has brought to
our table this one stands out facile princeps--a gem of the
first water, bearing upon every one of its pages the signet
mark of genius.... All is told with such simplicity and perfect
naturalness that the dream appears to be a solid reality. It is
indeed a Little Pilgrim’s Progress.”--=Christian Leader.=
=The Tapestry Room=: A Child’s Romance. By MRS. MOLESWORTH.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“Mrs. Molesworth is a charming painter of the nature and
ways of children; and she has done good service in giving
us this charming juvenile which will delight the young
people.”--=Athenæum, London.=
=Little Miss Peggy=: Only a Nursery Story. By MRS. MOLESWORTH.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
Mrs. Molesworth’s children are finished studies. A joyous
earnest spirit pervades her work, and her sympathy is
unbounded. She loves them with her whole heart, while she lays
bare their little minds, and expresses their foibles, their
faults, their virtues, their inward struggles, their conception
of duty, and their instinctive knowledge of the right and wrong
of things. She knows their characters, she understands their
wants, and she desires to help them.
=Polly=: A New Fashioned Girl. By L. T. MEADE. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
Few authors have achieved a popularity equal to Mrs. Meade as
a writer of stories for young girls. Her characters are living
beings of flesh and blood, not lay figures of conventional
type. Into the trials and crosses, and everyday experiences,
the reader enters at once with zest and hearty sympathy. While
Mrs. Meade always writes with a high moral purpose, her lessons
of life, purity and nobility of character are rather inculcated
by example than intruded as sermons.
=One of a Covey.= By the author of “Miss Toosey’s Mission.”
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“Full of spirit and life, so well sustained throughout that
grown-up readers may enjoy it as much as children. This
‘Covey’ consists of the twelve children of a hard-pressed Dr.
Partridge out of which is chosen a little girl to be adopted by
a spoiled, fine lady. We have rarely read a story for boys and
girls with greater pleasure. One of the chief characters would
not have disgraced Dickens’ pen.”--=Literary World.=
=The Little Princess of Tower Hill.= By L. T. MEADE. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“This is one of the prettiest books for children published,
as pretty as a pond-lily, and quite as fragrant. Nothing
could be imagined more attractive to young people than such
a combination of fresh pages and fair pictures; and while
children will rejoice over it--which is much better than crying
for it--it is a book that can be read with pleasure even by
older boys and girls.”--=Boston Advertiser.=
=Rosy.= By MRS. MOLESWORTH. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75
cents.
Mrs. Molesworth, considering the quality and quantity of her
labors, is the best story-teller for children England has yet
known.
“This is a very pretty story. The writer knows children,
and their ways well. The illustrations are exceedingly well
drawn.”--=Spectator.=
=Esther=: A Book for Girls. By ROSA N. CAREY. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
“She inspires her readers simply by bringing them in contact
with the characters, who are in themselves inspiring. Her
simple stories are woven in order to give her an opportunity
to describe her characters by their own conduct in seasons of
trial.”--=Chicago Times.=
=Sweet Content.= By MRS. MOLESWORTH. 12mo, cloth, illustrated,
price 75 cents.
“It seems to me not at all easier to draw a lifelike child
than to draw a lifelike man or woman: Shakespeare and Webster
were the only two men of their age who could do it with
perfect delicacy and success. Our own age is more fortunate,
on this single score at least, having a larger and far nobler
proportion of female writers; among whom, since the death of
George Eliot, there is none left whose touch is so exquisite
and masterly, whose love is so thoroughly according to
knowledge, whose bright and sweet invention is so fruitful,
so truthful, or so delightful as Mrs. Molesworth’s.”--=A. C.
Swinbourne.=
=Honor Bright=; or, The Four-Leaved Shamrock. By the author of
“Miss Toosey’s Mission.” 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“It requires a special talent to describe the sayings and
doings of children, and the author of ‘Honor Bright,’ ‘One of
a Covey,’ possesses that talent in no small degree. A cheery,
sensible, and healthy tale.”--=The Times.=
=The Cuckoo Clock.= By MRS. MOLESWORTH. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price 75 cents.
“A beautiful little story. It will be read with delight by
every child into whose hands it is placed.... The author
deserves all the praise that has been, is, and will be bestowed
on ‘The Cuckoo Clock.’ Children’s stories are plentiful, but
one, like this is not to be met with every day.”--=Pall Mall
Gazette.=
=The Adventures of a Brownie.= As Told to my Child. By MISS
MULOCK. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“The author of this delightful little book leaves it in doubt
all through whether there actually is such a creature in
existence as a Brownie, but she makes us hope that there might
be.”--=Chicago Standard.=
=Only a Girl=: A Tale of Brittany. From the French by C. A.
JONES. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“We can thoroughly recommend this brightly written and homely
narrative.”--=Saturday Review.=
=Little Rosebud=; or, Things Will Take a Turn. By BEATRICE
HARRADEN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“A most delightful little book.... Miss Harraden is so bright,
so healthy, and so natural withal that the book ought, as a
matter of duty, to be added to every girl’s library in the
land.”--=Boston Transcript.=
=Girl Neighbors=; or, The Old Fashion and the New. By SARAH
TYTLER. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“One of the most effective and quietly humorous of Miss
Tytler’s stories. ‘Girl Neighbors’ is a pleasant comedy, not so
much of errors as of prejudices got rid of, very healthy, very
agreeable, and very well written.”--=Spectator.=
=The Little Lame Prince and His Traveling Cloak.= By MISS
MULOCK. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“No sweeter--that is the proper word--Christmas story for the
little folks could easily be found, and it is as delightful for
older readers as well. There is a moral to it which the reader
can find out for himself, if he chooses to think.”--=Cleveland
Herald.=
=Little Miss Joy.= By EMMA MARSHALL. 12mo, cloth, illustrated,
price 75 cents.
“A very pleasant and instructive story, told by a very charming
writer in such an attractive way as to win favor among its
young readers. The illustrations add to the beauty of the
book.”--=Utica Herald.=
=The House that Grew.= A Girl’s Story. By MRS. MOLESWORTH.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“This is a very pretty story of English life. Mrs. Molesworth
is one of the most popular and charming of English
story-writers for children. Her child characters are true
to life, always natural and attractive, and her stories are
wholesome and interesting.”--=Indianapolis Journal.=
=The House of Surprises.= By L. T. MEADE. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price 75 cents.
“A charming tale of charming children, who are naughty enough
to be interesting, and natural enough to be lovable; and very
prettily their story is told. The quaintest yet most natural
stories of child life. Simply delightful.”--=Vanity Fair.=
=The Jolly Ten: and their Year of Stories.= By AGNES CARR SAGE.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
The story of a band of cousins who were accustomed to meet at
the “Pinery,” with “Aunt Roxy.” At her fireside they play merry
games, have suppers flavored with innocent fun, and listen to
stories--each with its lesson calculated to make the ten not
less jolly, but quickly responsive to the calls of duty and to
the needs of others.
=Little Miss Dorothy.= The Wonderful Adventures of Two Little
People. By MARTHA JAMES. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“This is a charming little juvenile story from the pen of Mrs.
James, detailing the various adventures of a couple of young
children. Their many adventures are told in a charming manner,
and the book will please young girls and boys.”--=Montreal
Star.=
=Pen’s Venture.= A Story for Girls. By ELVIRTON WRIGHT. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
Something Pen saw in the condition of the cash girls in a
certain store gave her a thought; the thought became a plan;
the plan became a venture--Pen’s venture. It is amusing,
touching, and instructive to read about it.
For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by
the publisher, =A. L. BURT, 52-58 Duane Street, New York.=
FAIRY BOOKS.
=The Blue Fairy Book.= Edited by ANDREW LANG. Profusely
illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.
“The tales are simply delightful. No amount of description can
do them justice. The only way is to read the book through from
cover to cover.”--=Book Review.=
=The Green Fairy Book.= Edited by ANDREW LANG. Profusely
illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.
“The most delightful book of fairy tales, taking form and
contents together, ever presented to children.”--=E. S.
Hartland, in Folk-Lore.=
=The Yellow Fairy Book.= Edited by ANDREW LANG. Profusely
illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.
“As a collection of fairy tales to delight children of all
ages, it ranks second to none.”--=Daily Graphic.=
=The Red Fairy Book.= Edited by ANDREW LANG. Profusely
illustrated, 12mo, cloth, price $1.00.
“A gift-book that will charm any child, and all older folk, who
have been fortunate enough to retain their taste for the old
nursery stories.”--=Literary World.=
=Celtic Fairy Tales.= Edited by JOSEPH JACOBS. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
“A stock of delightful little narratives gathered chiefly from
the Celtic-speaking peasants of Ireland. A perfectly lovely
book. And oh! the wonderful pictures inside. Get this book if
you can; it is capital, all through.”--=Pall Mall Budget.=
=English Fairy Tales.= Edited by JOSEPH JACOBS. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
“The tales are simply delightful. No amount of description
can do them justice. The only way is to read the book through
from cover to cover. The book is intended to correspond to
‘Grimm’s Fairy Tales,’ and it must be allowed that its pages
fairly rival in interest those of that well-known repository of
folk-lore.”--=Morning Herald.=
=Indian Fairy Tales.= Edited by JOSEPH JACOBS. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
“Mr. Jacobs brings home to us in a clear and intelligible
manner the enormous influence which ‘Indian Fairy Tales’
have had upon European literature of the kind. The present
combination will be welcomed not alone by the little ones for
whom it is specially combined, but also by children of larger
growth and added years.”--=Daily Telegraph.=
=Household Fairy Tales.= By the BROTHERS GRIMM. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
“As a collection of fairy tales to delight children of all ages
this work ranks second to none.”--=Daily Graphic.=
=Fairy Tales and Stories.= By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated price $1.00.
“If I were asked to select a child’s library I should name
these three volumes, ‘English,’ ‘Celtic,’ and ‘Indian
Fairy Tales,’ with Grimm and Hans Andersen’s Fairy
Tales.”--=Independent.=
=Popular Fairy Tales.= By the BROTHERS GRIMM. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
“From first to last, almost without exception, these stories
are delightful.”--=Athenæum.=
=Icelandic Fairy Tales.= By A. W. HALL. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
“The most delightful book of fairy tales, taking form and
contents together, ever presented to children. The whole
collection is dramatic and humorous. A more desirable child’s
book has not been seen for many a day.”--=Daily News.=
=Fairy Tales From the Far North.= (Norwegian.) By P. C.
ASBJORNSEN. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.
“If we were asked what present would make a child happiest
at Christmastide we think we could with a clear conscience
point to Mr. Jacobs’ book. It is a dainty and an interesting
volume.”--=Notes and Queries.=
=Cossack Fairy Tales.= By R. NISBET BAIN. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
“A really valuable and curious selection which will be welcomed
by readers of all ages.... The illustrations by Mr. Batten are
often clever and irresistibly humorous. A delight alike to the
young people and their elders.”--=Globe.=
=The Golden Fairy Book.= By VARIOUS AUTHORS. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
“The most delightful book of its kind that has come in our way
for many a day. It is brimful of pretty stories. Retold in a
truly delightful manner.”--=Graphic.=
=The Silver Fairy Book.= By VARIOUS AUTHORS. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.
“The book is intended to correspond to ‘Grimm’s Fairy Tales,’
and it must be allowed that its pages fairly rival in interest
those of the well-known repository of folk-lore. It is a most
delightful volume of fairy tales.”--=Courier.=
=The Brownies, and Other Stories.= By JULIANA HORATIA EWING.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“Like all the books she has written this one is very charming,
and is worth more in the hands of a child than a score of other
stories of a more sensational character.”--=Christian at Work.=
=The Hunting of the Snark.= An Agony in Eight Fits. By LEWIS
CARROLL, author of “Alice in Wonderland.” 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price 75 cents.
“This glorious piece of nonsense.... Everybody ought to read
it--nearly everybody will--and all who deserve the treat will
scream with laughter.”--=Graphic.=
=Lob Lie-By-the-fire, and Other Tales.= By JULIANA HORATIO
EWING. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price 75 cents.
“Mrs. Ewing has written as good a story as her ‘Brownies,’ and
that is saying a great deal. ‘Lob Lie-by-the-fire’ has humor
and pathos, and teaches what is right without making children
think they are reading a sermon.”--=Saturday Review.=
For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by
the publisher, =A. L. BURT, 52-58 Duane Street, New York.=
Transcriber’s Note:
Table of Contents has been added by transcriber.
Punctuation has been standardized; hyphenation retained as in the
original publication.
Frontispiece
Page 215 _changed to_
Page 217
Page 13
I thougbt so _changed to_
I thought so
Page 14
of a quarter of a ile brought the boys _changed to_
of a quarter of a mile brought the boys
Page 54
I musn’t stay here any longer _changed to_
I mustn’t stay here any longer
Page 73
think of same plausible pretext _changed to_
think of some plausible pretext
Page 131
Purcy Burnett hesitated _changed to_
Percy Burnett hesitated
Page 138
the destination was a poin _changed to_
the destination was a point
Page 149
Page 147 _changed to_
Page 149
Page 156
let’s the cat out of the bag _changed to_
lets the cat out of the bag
Page 170
Haven’t you, bony? _changed to_
Haven’t you, Bony?
Page 187
bad spirits to trouble Miantomimo _changed to_
bad spirits to trouble Miantonimo
to his children that Miantomimo _changed to_
to his children that Miantonimo
Page 189
couln’t help it _changed to_
couldn’t help it
Page 201
the sadness and lonliness _changed to_
the sadness and loneliness
Page 217
Page 215 _changed to_
Page 217
Page 231
that the vail _changed to_
that the veil
Page 246
there were no post-office _changed to_
there were no post-offices
Page 274
Page 245 _changed to_
Page 247
Page 276
He could’t drop _changed to_
He couldn’t drop
Books for Boys
A Jaunt Through Java
on their trip acrosss the island _changed to_
on their trip across the island
Captured by Zulus
by dig ing their way out _changed to_
by digging their way out
True to the Old Flag
of the British soliders _changed to_
of the British soldiers
The Gorilla Hunters
belive that boys will _changed to_
believe that boys will
Books for Girls
Our Bessie
12mo, cloth, illusstrated _changed to_
12mo, cloth, illustrated
The Cuckoo Clock
but on, like this is not _changed to_
but one, like this is not
Fairy Tales
The Golden Fairy Book
Retold in a truly deightful _changed to_
Retold in a truly delightful
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Tom Thatcher's Fortune" ***
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