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                        JULIUS, THE STREET BOY
                                  OR
                               OUT WEST

                                  BY
                          HORATIO ALGER, JR.

                               Author of

    Brave and Bold, Bound to Rise, Risen from the Ranks, Erie Train
              Boy, Paul, the Peddler, Phil, the Fiddler,
                          Young Acrobat, Etc.

                       [Illustration: colophon]

                           MADE IN U. S. A.

                        M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY
                          CHICAGO :: NEW YORK




JULIUS, THE STREET BOY.




CHAPTER I.

RETIRED FROM BUSINESS.


“Where are you goin’, Julius? Where’s yer blackin’ box?” asked Patrick
Riley.

“I’ve retired from business,” said Julius.

“Did yer rich uncle die, and leave yer a fortune?”

“No, but he’s goin’ up the river to Sing Sing, for the benefit of his
constitushun, and I’m goin’ West fer my health.”

“Goin’ West? You’re gassin’.”

“No, I ain’t, I’m goin’ in a few days, along of Mr. O’Connor, and a lot
of other chaps.”

“Is it far out there?” asked Pat.

“More’n a hundred miles,” said Julius, whose ideas of geography and
distances were rather vague.

“Yer don’t mean ter live out there?”

“Yes, I do, I’m goin’ on to a farm, or into a store, and grow up
respectable.”

“Won’t yer miss the city, Julius?”

“Likely I will.”

“I don’t think I’d like the country,” said Pat, reflectively. “New
York’s a bully place. There’s always something goin’ on. I say, did you
hear of that murder in Center Street last night?”

“No; what was it?”

“A feller stabbed a cop that was trottin’ him round to the station house
for bein’ tight. There’s always something to make it lively here. In the
country there ain’t no murders, nor burglaries, nor nothin’,” concluded
Pat, rather contemptuously.

“I hope there’s theayters,” said Julius, thoughtfully. “I like to go
when there’s a good lively piece.”

“Have you been to our theayter yet, Julius?”

“Your theayter?”

“Yes, me and some of the boys have got up a theayter. We do the pieces
and actin’ ourselves.”

“Where is it?” asked Julius, with lively curiosity.

“It’s No. 17 Baxter Street, down in the basement. We call it ‘The Grand
Duke’s Oprea House.’ We don’t have to pay no rent. It’s Jim Campara’s
place, an’ he’s treasurer, so his father don’t charge nothin’.”

“How long have you been goin’, Pat?”

“Most a month. We play every night.”

“Are you doin’ well? Do you make money?”

“Tiptop. I say, Julius, yer must come to-night. It’s my benefit.”

“Do you get all the money that’s took in?”

“No, half goes for expenses. I get the rest.”

“What do you do?”

“Oh, I play <DW65> parts, and dance the jigs.”

“What do you charge for a ticket?”

“Five cents admission, and eight cents reserved seats.”

“That’s cheaper’n Tony Pastor’s.”

“Yes; we can’t expect to get so much as Tony, ’cause yer know we ain’t
purfessional. We’re amatoors.”

“How much do you get for your valuable services, Pat?” asked Julius,
laughing.

“I’ll tell yer the way we do. Jim Campara--he’s the treasurer--keeps all
the stamps till the end of the week, and then it is divided between us.
Last week I got three dollars.”

“You did! Well, that’s pretty good pay.”

“Well,” said Pat, “there’s some expenses. I have to pay for my
wardrobe.”

“What’s that?”

“My stage clo’es. Besides I have to practice dancin’ in the daytime. I
ain’t Pat Riley on the stage.”

“What are you, then?”

“My actin’ name is ‘Miles O’Reilly.’”

“What made you change?”

“Yer see it sounds grander than Pat Riley.”

“Who acts besides you?”

“Oh, there’s Dan Conroy, Pete Connors, Teddy Sullivan, Jim McGrath, Dick
Burke, Jim Gillispie and Campara.”

“If I was goin’ to stay in the city I’d like to play too,” said Julius.

“Maybe you ain’t got a genius for it,” responded the eminent <DW64>
comedian. “Lots of boys wants to come in, but we don’t take none if they
can’t act. There was Billy Burke wanted to come; but we tried him, an’
he couldn’t play no more’n a stick. We want fellers that’ll draw. You
come round to-night, an’ you’ll see what we can do.”

“I guess I will. What number did you say?”

“No. 17 Baxter Street. Curtain rises at eight o’clock, prompt.”

“I’ll be there. What yer goin’ to play?”

“‘Laughin’ Gas’ and ‘Dick Turpin’ is the principal pieces, but the
‘Mulligan Guards’ is the best. Yer better be on time, for it’s my
benefit, and my friends will be out in crowds.”

Here’s Pat’s keen eyes detected a gentleman with soiled boots, and he
called out, “Shine yer boots, mister?”

“Yes, if you’ll be quick about it.”

“I’ll shine ’em up in half a second, sir.”

“Go ahead!”

The gentleman submitted his boots to the professional efforts of Pat,
unaware that the young bootblack was the celebrated Miles O’Reilly of
the “Grand Duke’s Oprea House.” Probably he had never visited that
famous and fashionable place of amusement, or he would have recognized
the face of one of the most brilliant stars in the galaxy of talent
which nightly appeared upon its humble stage.

Julius went on his way, being for a few days a gentleman of leisure. For
the benefit of such readers as may not be familiar with the details of
his story as told in “Slow and Sure,” it is well to record the fact that
he had been brought up by Jack Morgan, a thief and burglar, who, for the
last four years, had spent half of his time on Blackwell’s Island. When
at liberty, Julius lived with him. When he was in seclusion, Julius
looked out for himself, and, being sharp and shrewd, and accustomed to
depend upon his own exertions, managed just as well without his guardian
as with him. He had no particular reason to like Jack, who merely gave
him the liberty of earning his own living, and frequently borrowed his
scanty earnings without thinking it necessary to repay them.

Some weeks before, Jack, with a friend and confederate, Marlowe, formed
a plan for entering a house on Madison Avenue, which, they had reason to
believe, contained a considerable amount of plate. The owner was absent
in Europe and the house was left during his absence under the care of
Paul Hoffman and his mother. Paul, whose early history is recorded in
“Paul, the Peddler,” was the proprietor of a street necktie stand, near
the Astor House. He had on one occasion shown kindness to Julius, and
the latter was grateful. Learning that Jack and Marlowe proposed to
enter the house occupied by Paul, he showed his gratitude by giving the
young street merchant an intimation of their intentions. Thus, when the
attempt was made, Paul was prepared, and the two burglars walked into a
trap. Jack was caught on the spot, but Marlowe for the time escaped. Had
he left the city at once, he might have escaped wholly. But he was
inflamed with bitter anger against the boy Julius, who, as he rightly
judged, had betrayed them, and he was determined to be revenged.
Following the boy to Staten Island, he overtook him in a lonely place,
and but for timely interference might have murdered him, in which case
the present volume would never have been written.

But Julius was reserved for better things. His dangerous enemy was
arrested, and being identified as having been concerned in the Madison
Avenue robbery, was tried in due form, and sentenced to ten years’
imprisonment in Sing Sing.

I have anticipated matters a little, as at the time the present story
opens both he and Jack Morgan were temporarily confined in the Tombs,
while awaiting trial.

As for Julius, he was rewarded by a gift of fifty dollars, and, by the
advice of his new friends, determined to seek a home in the West, going
out under the auspices of the Children’s Aid Society. The company of
which he was to be one was to start in a few days. Meanwhile Julius
decided to enjoy a rest from his usual labors, having an ample supply of
money to meet his small expenses. On the whole, he was pleased with the
idea of going West. But, apart from this consideration, he felt that his
life would not be safe in the city should Jack Morgan or Marlowe succeed
in breaking jail, as they had done more than once before. The boy had
good reason to apprehend danger, for he well knew their brutal natures,
and their unscrupulousness, and that they would stop at no crime in
wreaking vengeance upon him. Once out West, however, he would be out of
their reach, and it was not likely that they would follow him out
there.




CHAPTER II.

THE “GRAND DUKE’S OPREA HOUSE.”


Some minutes before eight, Julius reached the “Grand Duke’s Oprea
House.” It is very eligibly located on Baxter Street not far from the
famous Five Points. Perhaps in consequence of the filthy condition of
the streets in the immediate neighborhood, visitors are not expected to
appear in full dress, and nothing is more common than for the young
gentlemen who patronize it to dispense with coat or vest, or both. As
for kid gloves, these are not tolerated at the _Oprea_ House, and a
fellow who indulged in them would be regarded as “puttin’ on airs,” and
probably be hustled out unceremoniously, as guilty of a gross insult to
the rest of the spectators.

The entrance to the Grand Duke theatre is not imposing. In fact, the
visitor is obliged to descend a shaky staircase into a cellar about ten
feet below the level of the sidewalk.

“It’s like goin’ down into a coal mine,” remarked Julius to Pat Riley,
who was acting as his guide.

“That’s so,” said Pat; “but we have jolly fun when we get there.”

Reaching the bottom of the flight of steps, Julius found himself
confronted by the ticket seller who was looking out of a square hole,
over which were marked the prices of admission.

“That’s where yer pay,” said Pat. “I go in free, coz I’m one of the
actors.”

“Five cents,” said the keeper of the box office.

“There it is,” said Julius, who had come provided with the right change.

The treasurer pulled a cord connecting with the door of entrance, and
Julius entered.

The _Oprea_ House proved to consist of a room twenty feet by thirty, and
six and a half feet high. A portion of this was set apart as a stage, in
front of which hung a curtain of turkey-red calico, four breadths wide.
On one side was a lofty pillar with a scroll, on which was written the
ambitious name of this temple of the muses, “Grand Duke’s Oprea House.”
In place of the customary footlights was a kerosene lamp, which with the
aid of a concave reflector illuminated the room.

“What do yer think of it, Julius?” asked Pat, with justifiable pride.

“It’s bully.”

“Ain’t it? Do yer see that?”

Pat pointed to a large broadside of brown packing paper, on which was
rudely scrawled:

                               “BENEFIT
                                  OF
                            MILES O’REILLY,
                       The Great <DW65> Komedian
                                  AND
                             Jig Dancer.”

“That’s me!” said Pat, with professional pride. “It looks big, don’t
it?”

“Yes,” said Julius, admiringly.

“There’s lots of chaps would give all they could make on shines in a
week, to hev their names put up there,” said Pat, confidentially.

“I’d like it myself,” said Julius.

“Ef you wos goin’ to stay in the city, I’d learn you some jigs,” said
Pat, “and see what you was made of. It isn’t every feller that can make
a good jig dancer.”

“How are you, Miles?” said a large boy, slapping Pat on the shoulder. “I
guess you’ll have a good house.”

“I hope I will. Dave, this is a friend of mine. He ain’t been to the
_Oprea_ House before.”

“Glad to see yer,” said David Conroy, with dignified affability. “Hope
yer’ll get yer money’s worth.”

To this Julius made a suitable reply.

“Dave is stage manager,” said Pat. “He kin do anything, kin Dave. He
painted the sceneries; you’ll see ’em bimeby, and he’s the best actor
we’ve got. He’s captain of the Mulligans. There ain’t nothin’ that
feller can’t do,” concluded Pat, with unmistakable admiration expressed
in his tone.

“Where do you get your plays from, Pat?”

“Call me Miles while we are in the _Oprea_ House. That’s my name here.”

“Miles, then.”

“Dave fixes ’em up out of plays at the Theatre Comique, and some of the
songs we gits from Tony Pastor’s. If there was time I’d take you behind
the sceneries. But it’s most time to begin.”

“Miles O’Reilly is wanted,” was heard from behind the curtain, and the
great comedian left our hero and hurried behind the scenes.

By this time the cellar was nearly full of boys, varying in age from
five to twenty, who were crowded together in such near proximity as the
limited size of the auditorium rendered imperatively necessary. The
front row was close up to the curtain, and here Julius was fortunate
enough to secure a place.

The stiffness and reserve which characterize the spectators at other
theatres was dispensed with at the free and easy “Grand Duke’s Oprea
House.” Cheerful and jocose remarks were interchanged, spiced with
genial humor, and occasionally tinged with sarcastic remarks of a
personal character. But all was taken in good part. At last, however,
the patrons became impatient, and calls were heard, such as, “What yer
waitin’ fur?” “Hurry up de overture!” “Have yer gone ter sleep behind
there?”

At last the manager responded to the flattering impatience of his
patrons. The curtain arose and displayed the orchestra consisting of two
musicians, a performer on an accordeon and a bone-player. The overture
was made up of pieces skillfully selected by the manager to suit the
tastes of the audience. Choice gems from “Norma,” “Trovatore,” and
“Faust” would not have satisfied the fastidious tastes of the Grand
Duke’s patrons. Instead of these, such choice airs as “Squeeze me, Joe,”
and “Up in Avenue A,” afforded unmistakable pleasure, and the whole
closed with “The Campbells Are Coming,” which was rendered with spirit
and general acceptance.

Next came the comedy, “Laughing Gas,” in which the gas is administered
to a variety of patients, who are differently affected, one laughing,
another dancing, another combative, and so on. The acting was rude, but
lively, and the piece was rapturously applauded. In this applause Julius
bore his full part. Though he is my hero I have no desire to represent
him as more refined or better educated than the majority of his
companions. The classic drama or the opera, as brought out at the
Academy, would have been far less attractive to him than this rude
performance.

He was no less pleased with the next piece, in which two boys,
representing _Tom King_ and _Dick Turpin_, appear on the stage with dark
lanterns, and attempt the robbery of a house, but become panic-stricken,
and exhibit more alarm than the occupants of the house. This, of course,
amuses the spectators.

“It ’minds me of Jack and Marlowe,” said Julius to his next neighbor,
“when they was robbin’ the house on Madison Avenue.”

“Was you there?” asked the other.

“No, but I knew all about it. I lived with Jack.”

“You did!” repeated the other, with something like awe at finding his
neighbor to have been intimate with so illustrious a criminal. “How did
you like him?”

“Jack wa’n’t a bad sort,” said Julius, “except when he was sprung. I
like him better than Marlowe.”

“They was took by the cops, wasn’t they?”

“Yes, they was took,” said Julius, shortly.

His own agency in the affair he didn’t care to mention, chiefly because
in the class to which he belonged it was considered a point of honor to
make common cause against the cops, that is, against the conviction of
those who transgress the laws, and our hero felt that the revelation of
his agency in entrapping his associates would not increase his
popularity. Nor would he have taken the part he did but for the
gratitude he felt to Paul, and the fear that he would suffer harm.

Later in the evening the beneficiary, the great Miles O’Reilly,
appeared in a jig, which was very creditably danced. His appearance was
the signal for a noisy ovation; due partly to his general popularity,
and partly to his position as the beneficiary of the evening.

“Good for yer, Miles!” expressed the general appreciation of his
efforts. Space will not permit us to enlarge on the other features in
the programme of the evening. Evidently “The Mulligan Guards” was most
popular, being received with tremendous applause. To gratify the
curiosity of such of my readers as are not familiar with this celebrated
local song, the first verse is here introduced:

    “We crave your condescension,
       We’ll tell you what we know
     Of marching in the Mulligan Guard,
       From Sligoward below.
     Our captain’s name was Hussey,
       A Tipperary man,
     He carried his sword like a Russian duke,
       Whenever he took command.

CHORUS.

    “We shouldered guns, and marched and marched away,
     From Baxter Street we marched to Avenue A;
     With drums and fifes how sweetly they did play,
     As we marched, marched, marched in the Mulligan Guard.”

The effect of the song is heightened by the marching of the Guards, the
roll of the drum, and presenting arms, which the young actors went
through very creditably.

At the close, Miles was summoned before the curtain, and a speech was
called for. As the recipient of the benefit the eminent actor could not
very well decline. He presented himself with a low bow, and said:

“Boys, I’m glad to welcome yez here this evening. I don’t care so much
for the stamps.” (“Oh, no! course yer don’t!” came in ironical accents
from some one in the audience.) “That’s so, Jim Blin, and you know it.
I’m glad yez like my dancin’! I won’t say no more, ’cause I ain’t used
to makin’ speeches, but, with the kind permission of the manager, I’ll
give yez anuther jig, and wish you good-night!”

Here the speaker bowed, the music struck up, and, to the satisfaction of
all, the beneficiary repeated his performance. Then there was a rush for
the door and in five minutes the “Grand Duke’s Oprea House” was silent
and deserted.




CHAPTER III.

ON THE RAILWAY.


As the time approached for his leaving New York, Julius could not help
feeling a little regret. The great city had been a harsh stepmother to
him. He had suffered often from cold and hunger, during the years that
he had been drifting about her streets, an unconsidered waif in the
great sea of life. He had received kindness from few, harshness from
many. From the age of five he had been forced to earn his own living,
with no one to look out for him except a professional thief. He had seen
more of the dark than the bright side of life, but he had not been
without his enjoyments. Youth is hopeful and can find enjoyment under
the most unpropitious circumstances.

So Julius, as he took his last walk through the streets with which he
had for years been familiar, felt sorry that he was to leave them the
next day, perhaps, for many years. It is true he hoped to do better at
the West, but all his present associations were with Broadway, Chatham
Street, and the Bowery, and City Hall Park, and his new life would seem
strange at first.

But when all preparations had been made and he found himself seated in
the cars, dressed in a new suit, with thirty other boys, under the
general charge of Mr. O’Connor, the superintendent of the Newsboys’
Lodging House, he forgot the city, and was exhilarated by the rapid
motion of the cars, and the varied panorama through which he was swiftly
passing.

“Ain’t it bully, Teddy?” said he to one of his city acquaintances who
occupied the adjoining seat.

“That’s so, Julius. I never rid in the cars before.”

“Didn’t you?” said Julius, with complacent superiority. “I have.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Well, I went to Newark, and one summer I went to Long Branch--that’s a
big watering place, you know. Both places are in New Jersey. I stayed a
week at Long Branch.”

“Did you put up at one of the big hotels?”

“Yes, I put up at the Continental Hotel.”

“You’re gassin’!”

“No, I ain’t.”

“How much did you pay?”

“I forgot to ask for the bill,” said Julius.

“Where’d you sleep?”

“Oh, I slept in a bathing house, on the beach. It belonged to the
hotel.”

“How’d you like it?”

“Pretty good, only the tide came up so high that it poured into the
bathing house, and gave me a wetting.”

“Did you get anything to do?”

“I made a few stamps by blackin’ boots, but the black-boots in the hotel
said he’d bounce me for interferin’ with his business. So I thought I’d
come back to the city. I didn’t mind much, for there wasn’t much goin’
on in the daytime.”

“Do you know how long we’ll be travelin’?”

“Mr. O’Connor told me it would take us two days and nights, and perhaps
more. He says it’s more’n a thousand miles.”

“Suppose’n we don’t like it, and want to come back?”

“We can’t do it without money.”

“I haven’t got but a dollar.”

“I have got forty dollars,” said Julius, complacently.

“Where’d you get such a pile?” asked Teddy, who regarded forty dollars
as quite a fortune.

“Speculatin’ in real estate,” answered Julius, who did not care to
mention exactly how he came by the money.

“I don’t believe you’ve got so much,” said Teddy, who was under the
impression that he was being sold.

“I’ll show you part of it,” said Julius.

He drew out a pocketbook, and displayed five one-dollar bills, and a
small amount of fractional currency.

“That’s only five dollars.”

“Mr. O’Connor’s got the rest. He’s goin’ to give it to the man that I’m
to live with to take care of for me. I’d rather he’d keep it. I might
lose it, or spend it foolish.”

“Well, you’re in luck. I jist wish I had half as much.”

“Do you remember Jim Driscoll, that used to sell papers on Nassau
Street?”

“Yes, I knew him; where is he?”

“He went West about two years ago. He’s doin’ well. Got fifty dollars in
the savings bank, and a good home besides.”

“Who told you?”

“Mr. O’Connor. He had a letter from him.”

“Jim can’t write, nor read either. When he was sellin’ papers in Nassau
Street, he used to ask what was the news. Sometimes I told him wrong.
Once I told him the President was dead, and he didn’t know no better
than to believe it. He sold his papers fast, but the last chap got mad
and booted him.”

“Well, Jim can write now. He’s been to school since he was out there.”

“He can do more’n I can. I can read easy readin’, but I can’t write no
more’n a lamp-post.”

“Nor I,” said Julius, “but I mean to learn. I can’t read much, either.”

“I say, Julius; won’t it seem odd if we made money, and come to New York
and put up at a big hotel, and get our boots blacked, just like the
customers we used to have?”

“That’s what I mean to do, Teddy. I’ve got tired of knockin’ round the
streets, as I have ever since I was knee high to a toad.”

“So have I, Julius. But I expect we’ll have to work hard.”

“I always did have to work. I’ll be willin’ to work when I’ve got a good
home, and feel that I’m gettin’ along.”

The time had come to both of these homeless boys when they had become
tired of their vagrant life and Arab-like condition. They had a vague
idea of what is meant by respectability, and they began to appreciate
its value. They could see that the street life they had been leading
must soon terminate, and that it was time to form plans for the future.
In a few years they would be men, and lay aside the street employments
by which they had gained a scanty and miserable living. When that time
came, would they take a respectable place in the ranks of workingmen, or
become social outlaws like Jack Morgan and his confederate, Marlowe?
Such thoughts had come frequently to Julius of late, and his present
state of mind was one of the most encouraging signs of his future good
conduct. He was dissatisfied with his past life, and anxious to enter
upon a better.

The thirty boys were not all in one car. Mr. O’Connor and the greater
part of them were in the car behind. Julius and the others could find
no room there, and had come into this car.

After his conversation with Teddy, Julius began to look out of the
window. Inexperienced as a traveler, and knowing very little of the
country, he saw much that excited his interest, as they sped onward at
the rate of thirty miles an hour. He also, with his usual habit of
observation, regarded his fellow-passengers with interest. Directly in
front of him sat a stout man, plainly dressed, who had become sleepy,
and occasionally indulged in a nod, his newspaper having fallen from his
hands upon the floor. He was probably more used to traveling than our
hero and cared less for the scenery. Julius gave him a casual look, but
without much interest, till at a way station a flashily dressed young
man entered, and, looking carefully about him, selected the seat beside
the stout man though he had his choice of several. Julius started when
he saw him, and looked puzzled. He was sure he had seen him before, at
Jack Morgan’s room, but there was something unfamiliar in his
appearance. Jack’s friend had black hair. This man’s hair was red. A
closer look, however, explained this discrepancy. Underneath the edge of
the red he caught sight of a few black hairs, which were not entirely
concealed. It was clear that he wore a red wig.

“It is Ned Sanders,” said Julius to himself, “and he’s got a red wig on.
What’s he up to, I wonder? I’ll watch him.”




CHAPTER IV.

JULIUS DETECTS A PICKPOCKET.


Ned Sanders settled himself into his seat, and looked about him. He did
not, however, recognize Julius, for, though he had seen him in calling
upon Jack Morgan, he had never taken particular notice of his features,
probably regarding him as of little importance. Finally Mr. Sanders
devoted special attention to the man at his side. As the latter was
sleeping, he was not conscious of the close watch of his companion.

Julius noticed it, however, and, being familiar with the character of
Sanders, said to himself: “I know what he’s up to. He wants to pick his
pocket.”

From the watch pocket of the stout stranger depended a gold watch chain
solid and valuable in appearance, and to it was attached a gold watch.

Sanders took out a newspaper, and held it before him. He appeared to be
very much occupied with its contents, but Julius detected a stealthy
glance at his companion’s waistcoat.

“This is gettin’ excitin’,” thought Julius. “He won’t wait long.”

Julius was right. Ned Sanders felt that now was the favorable
opportunity to carry out his unlawful purpose, while his neighbor was
asleep, as when his nap was over he would more readily detect his
intentions.

With his paper still before his face, his hand crept softly to the watch
chain, which he gently appropriated, dropping it into his coat pocket.
But he was not yet satisfied. He was preparing to relieve the other of
his pocketbook also, when Julius thought it was about time to interfere.
Rising in his seat, he struck the stout man forcibly on the back. The
latter started, and opening his eyes said, “What! Eh, what do you want?
Is it morning?”

The pickpocket started also, and looked uneasy, but retained his seat,
not suspecting that he had been detected. His uneasiness arose from the
fear that his neighbor, on awakening, would immediately miss his watch,
which would be awkward and perhaps dangerous for him. He was vexed with
Julius, whom he did not yet recognize, for this interference with his
plans.

“Can’t you let the gentleman alone?” he said angrily. “Why do you
disturb him?”

“What’s the matter?” said his victim, in his turn, a little irritated.
“What do you mean by thumping my back, boy?”

“I wanted to ask you what time it is,” said Julius, quietly.

“Well, that’s cool,” grumbled the stout man. “You wake me up out of a
nap to ask me what time of day it is.”

Sanders turned pale when Julius asked this question, for he saw that
discovery was imminent. He half arose from his seat, but it occurred to
him that that would only fasten suspicion upon him. Moreover the train
was going at the rate of twenty-five miles an hour, and, though he might
go into another car, he could not escape from the train. He closed his
lips tightly, and tried to look calm and indifferent. He had determined
to brazen it out.

Notwithstanding his grumbling rejoinder, the stout man felt for his
watch. Now it was his turn to start and look dismayed.

“By jove, it’s gone!” he ejaculated.

“What’s the matter, sir?” asked Julius.

“My watch and chain are gone. Do you know anything about them, boy?”

“I think you had better put that question to the man you’re sittin’
with.”

“What do you mean by that, you young rascal?” demanded Ned Sanders, pale
with passion and dismay. “I think, sir, the boy behind you has taken
your watch.”

“I don’t see how he could do that,” said the other, regarding him
suspiciously. “Can you tell me where my watch is sir?”

“What should I know of your watch? Do you mean to insult me, sir?”
blustered the pickpocket.

His manner increased the suspicions of his victim, who recognized, by
his appearance and flashy attire, the class to which he belonged. He
turned to Julius, and asked, “What made you refer to this gentleman?”

“Because,” said Julius bluntly, “I saw him take it. He held up the paper
before him, while he loosened your chain. He’s got it in his pocket
now.”

“That is sufficient. Now, sir,” he said sternly, “I command you
instantly to return my watch and chain.”

“I haven’t got it. The boy lies,” said Sanders, furiously.

By this time, most of the passengers in the car had gathered around the
two. Just at this moment, too, the conductor entered.

“What’s the matter, gentlemen?” he asked.

“This man has stolen my watch,” said the stout man.

“It’s a ---- lie!” said Sanders.

“Are you willing to show us what you have in your pockets?” said the
conductor.

“No, I’m not. I am a New York merchant, and I won’t submit to an
impertinence.”

“Where is your place of business?”

“In Pearl Street,” answered Sanders, quite at random.

“Have you one of your business cards with you?”

“I believe so.”

He felt in his pocket, and appeared surprised at finding none.

“I believe I have none with me,” he admitted. “I generally have some.”

“What’s your business?”

“I’m in the clothing business?” said Sanders, with some hesitation.

“What is your name?”

“I won’t answer any more questions,” said the pickpocket, desperately.
“You have insulted me enough, all of you. Just make way, will you? I am
going to get out.”

The cars had just stopped at a way station.

Sanders attempted to arise, but his victim seized him by the arm.

“You don’t leave this car till you have surrendered my watch,” he said.

“Let go, or I’ll strike you,” said Sanders, losing his prudence in his
anger.

“You can’t get out till you have been searched,” said the conductor.
“Who is the boy that saw him take the watch?”

“I did,” said Julius.

“Where did he put it? Did you notice?”

“In his left breast pocket.”

“Show us what you have in that pocket.”

Sanders hesitated? and then drew out a handkerchief.

“There, I hope you are satisfied,” he said.

Meantime his neighbor, pressing his hand against the pocket on the
outside, exclaimed triumphantly:

“He’s got the watch. I can feel it.”

The thief uttered a profane ejaculation, and made a desperate effort to
arise, but three men threw themselves upon him, two holding him down,
while the other drew out the watch and chain, and handed them to their
owner.

“Now will you let me go?” demanded Sanders, doggedly. He felt that it
would do no good to indulge in further protestations of innocence.

“No,” said the conductor. “Gentlemen, will you guard him till we reach
the next station? Then I will place him in the hands of an officer.”

“Boy,” said Sanders, turning around, and glaring fiercely at Julius, “I
shan’t forget you. Some time I’ll make you repent what you’ve done
to-day.”

“Don’t mind him, my lad,” said the stout man, elated by the recovery of
his property. “You’ve done exactly right. But how came you to suspect
this man?”

“Because I knew him,” said Julius.

Here Sanders turned around, and scanned our hero’s face sharply.

“That’s a lie!” he said.

“It’s not a lie, Mr. Ned Sanders,” said Julius. “I’ve seen you more than
once.”

Again Sanders scanned his features sharply. This time a light dawned
upon him.

“I know you now,” he said; “you’re Jack Morgan’s boy.”

“I was,” said Julius.

“Have you left him?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out West.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t want to tell me.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t care about receiving a visit from you.”

“I’ll hunt you up, and pay off old debts. I shouldn’t be in this scrape
but for you,” said Sanders, vindictively.

He relapsed into a moody silence, and said nothing more while in the
car. At the next station, which was an important place, two officers
were summoned, who took him into custody. But he managed to elude their
vigilance some hours later and escaped to New York.




CHAPTER V.

JULIUS IS REWARDED.


After the pickpocket had been removed from the car, his intended victim
turned in his seat, and addressed Julius.

“Come and sit by me,” he said; “I want to speak with you.”

Julius readily accepted the invitation.

“My boy,” said the stout gentleman, “you have done me a great service.”

“I am glad of it,” said Julius.

“You must know that this watch and chain, which but for you I should
have lost, were bought for me, in Switzerland, by a son who has since
died. They are valuable in themselves, but they are five times as
valuable to me because they were a last gift from him.”

“I am glad Ned didn’t get off with ’em,” said Julius.

“You seem to know this man,” said the other, with some curiosity.

“Oh, yes, sir, I know him like a brick.”

The common expression is “like a book”; but that would hardly have
implied any close knowledge on the part of Julius, for he knew next to
nothing of books. Probably the phrase he did use was suggested by the
other.

“Is he a professional pickpocket?”

“Oh, yes, that’s the way he makes a livin’.”

“Then how do you come to know him?”

“Oh, he used to come and see Jack.”

“Who’s Jack?”

“Jack Morgan--the man I used to live with.”

“Jack didn’t have very respectable friends, then, I should judge.”

“Ned and he was pretty thick. They used to do business together.”

“Was Jack a pickpocket, also?”

“He didn’t do much that way; he was too clumsy. He broke into houses.”

“What! was he a burglar?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mean to say that you lived with a burglar?” asked the stout
gentleman, in surprise.

“Yes,” said Julius, unconcerned.

“And did you help him, too?” demanded the other, suspiciously.

“No, I didn’t,” said Julius. “I didn’t like the business. Besides, I
didn’t want to be sent over to the island. I blacked boots, and such
things.”

“That is a much better way of getting a living,” said his companion,
approvingly.

“So I think,” said Julius; “but it ain’t quite so easy.”

“I think you are mistaken. An honest life is the easiest in the end.
Where is Jack now?”

“Oh, he’s in the Tombs. He was took up for burglary of a house in
Madison Avenue. I guess he’ll be sent up for five or ten years.”

“That won’t be very easy, or pleasant.”

“No,” said Julius. “I’m glad I ain’t in Jack’s shoes.”

“I hope, my lad, you are in no danger of following the example of your
evil associates.”

“No,” said Julius. “I’m goin’ to be respectable.”

“An excellent determination. How do you happen to be traveling?”

“Oh, I’m goin’ out West.”

“What made you think of that?”

“Mr. O’Connor--he’s the superintendent of the Newsboys’ Lodging
House--was goin’ to take some boys out, and get ’em places; and he
offered to take me.”

“Are all these boys I see in the car going out too?”

“Yes, sir, all of ’em, and there’s some more in the car behind.”

“Where in the West do you expect to go?”

“I don’t know,” said Julius. “Is the West a big place?”

“I should say it was,” said the other, with a laugh. “It’s a very large
place.”

“Were you ever there?” asked Julius, desiring to hear something about
his place of destination.

“I live there--in Wisconsin. Did you ever hear of Wisconsin?”

Julius shook his head.

“I don’t know much about any places, except New York and Jersey,” he
added.

“I live in the city of Milwaukee, in Wisconsin. It is quite a
flourishing city.”

“Is it as big as New York?”

“Oh, no; we can’t show any cities in the West as big as New York. I
doubt if we ever shall, though we’ve some large cities, that are growing
fast. Do you think you are likely to come to Milwaukee?”

“I don’t know,” said Julius. “Mr. O’Connor could tell you.”

“Where is he?”

“In the other car. Will I speak to him?”

“Not yet. I’ve got something more to say to you. I am under an
obligation to you.”

“What’s that?” asked Julius, puzzled.

“I mean that you have done me a favor.”

“That’s all right,” said Julius. “I’m glad of it.”

“And in doing so, you have probably made an enemy,” added the other.

“You mean Ned Sanders?”

“Yes; I am afraid, if he gets a chance, he will do you an injury.”

“I’ll be out of his way.”

“He might some time see you.”

“If he does, and I’m grown up, I won’t be afraid of him.”

“You seem to be a brave young man.”

“I ain’t a coward,” said Julius, proudly.

“And yet there are some things I hope you will be afraid of.”

“What are them?” asked Julius, somewhat puzzled.

“I hope you will be afraid to lie and steal, and do wrong generally.”

“I shan’t steal,” said Julius; “I don’t know about lyin’, most boys lie
sometimes.”

“I hope you will be one of the boys that do not lie at all.”

“Maybe so,” said Julius, dubiously. “A feller can’t always be good.”

“No, I suppose not. But there is no occasion for lying.”

“I’ll try not to, but I ain’t an angel.”

“Angels are scare, as far as my observation goes,” said his companion,
smiling, “and you appear to have too much human nature about you to be
altogether angelic. But there’s one thing you can do. You can try to do
right.”

“I mean to,” said Julius, promptly. “I want to grow up respectable.”

“If you want to, you probably will. You’ll have a better chance at the
West than you would in New York.”

“If I stayed there, I’d be a bootblack all my life,” said Julius. “There
ain’t no chance for a boy like me to rise. I wouldn’t want to be a
bootblack,” he added reflectively, “when I got to be old and
gray-headed.”

“No, it wouldn’t be an agreeable business for an old man to follow. But
I’ve got off the track.”

“Off the track!” repeated Julius, looking out of the window.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. The cars are all right. But I meant to say,
that I had got away from what I meant to say. I think I owe you
something for your saving me from losing my watch.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Julius.

“To me it is a great deal, and I want to show my sense of the favor. Is
there anything in particular you would like?”

“I don’t know,” said Julius, thoughtfully. “I might like a jack-knife.”

“That isn’t enough. As I said, I have particular reason to value my
watch and chain. Did you ever have a watch yourself?”

“I never got so far along. I couldn’t save enough on shines for that.”

“Well, it so happens that, in New York, I took a small silver watch and
chain in the way of business from a traveler who owed me money. Here it
is.”

He drew from his pocket a neat, but inexpensive silver watch, with a
chain of the same metal.

“What do you think of it?” he said.

“It’s tiptop,” said Julius admiringly.

“I am glad you like it, for I am going to give it to you.”

“Goin’ to give me a watch and chain!” repeated Julius, in amazement.

“Yes. Would you like it?”

“It’ll make me feel like a swell,” said Julius, elated. “Ain’t it a
beauty, Teddy?” he continued, turning in his seat, and displaying it to
his comrade.

“It ain’t yours, is it?” asked Teddy, not without a slight feeling of
envy.

“Yes, it is. This gentleman says so.”

And Julius proudly put the watch in his vest pocket, and attached the
chain to one of the button-holes. The donor looked on with a benevolent
smile, glad that he had been able to make so acceptable a gift to the
boy who had done him such a service.

“Now,” he said, smiling, “it will be your turn to look out for
pickpockets. They may try to carry off your watch, as they did mine.”

“I d like to see ’em do it,” said Julius, confidently. “It’ll take a
smart pickpocket to hook my watch.”

“Well, my young friend,” said the other, “as the time may come when I
can do you a service, I will give you my card.”

“I can’t read writin’,” admitted Julius, reluctantly, as he took the
card, which was printed in script.

“My name is John Taylor, of Milwaukee. Keep the card, and you will soon
be able to read it.”

Here the paper boy passed through the car, and Mr. Taylor, purchasing a
copy of _Harper’s Weekly_, was soon immersed in its contents. Finding
that the interview was ended, Julius returned to his former seat, and
Teddy and he spent some time in admiring it.




CHAPTER VI.

A NEWSBOY’S LETTER.


“I say, Julius, you’re in luck,” said Teddy.

“I won’t be in luck if Marlowe or Ned Sanders gets hold of me.”

“They won’t find you, away out West.”

“Marlowe might. He’s a tough customer, Marlowe is. I mind how he looked
when he got hold of me at Staten Island. Jack ain’t so bad, but
Marlowe’d go a thousand miles to get hold of me.”

“I wouldn’t think of it, Julius.”

“I shan’t lose no sleep. If he don’t break out of jail, I’ll be a man
before he can get at me.”

“Look out of the window, Julius. See them cows harnessed together. What
are they doin’?”

“They’re ploughin’, I expect,” said Julius, who, like his companion,
took a yoke of oxen for cows.

“They don’t go very fast.”

“They look as if they was lazy. They’re the biggest cows I ever see.”

Here Mr. O’Connor came into the car and passed down the aisle, looking
to see that none of the boys were missing.

“Well, boys, how are you getting along?” he asked, pleasantly.

“Bully!” “Tiptop!” were heard from the boys on either side.

“What have you got there, Julius?” asked the superintendent, noticing
the watch chain.

Julius drew out his watch.

“Where did you get it?” asked Mr. O’Connor, a little suspiciously. “You
haven’t spent any of your money, have you?”

“No; it was given me,” said Julius.

“Given you?”

“By that gentleman.”

Mr. Taylor looked up, finding himself referred to.

“Is this the gentleman who has charge of your party?” he asked, turning
to Julius.

“Yes, sir. It is Mr. O’Connor.”

“Mr. O’Connor, the boy’s story is correct. He detected a pickpocket in
the act of appropriating my gold watch and chain. As it was of great
value, I asked his acceptance of the watch and chain you see.”

“I hope you did not ask any reward, Julius,” said the superintendent.

“It was entirely my own thought,” said Mr. Taylor. “I presume the boy
never thought of any compensation.”

“No, I didn’t,” said Julius.

“I am glad you have behaved so well, Julius,” said superintendent,
approvingly. “I am sure you will value your present.”

“It’s bully,” said Julius, enthusiastically.

“Where do you intend to take the boys, Mr. O’Connor?” asked Mr. Taylor.

“I have an invitation from the citizens of Brookville, in Wisconsin, to
make my headquarters there. I am told that boys and girls are in demand
in that town and vicinity, and that I shall probably be able to find
homes for all my party in that neighborhood.”

“I think you can. I know Brookville very well. I have a nephew living
there. He is a prosperous farmer. By the way, I shouldn’t be surprised
if he would like a boy. Suppose I give you a note to my young friend
here to deliver to him.”

“I should be glad to have you do so.”

“If Ephraim takes him into his family, he will have an excellent home.”

“That is what we desire for all our party.”

“Do you generally succeed?”

“Very generally. We seldom receive complaints from the children we have
placed. They are treated kindly almost without exception.”

“How about the other parties? Do they often prefer complaints of the
children?”

“Sometimes, but not often. Considering the training our children have
had in the city streets, they conduct themselves remarkably well in
their new homes. Removed from the temptations and privations of the
city, their better natures assert themselves, and they behave as well as
ordinary children. In fact, I may say that most of the complaints that
come to us are of a trivial nature. People forget that our boys are no
more perfect than their own, and if now and then they pelt the cows, or
leave the turkeys out in the rain, that hardly indicates a depraved
heart.”

Mr. Taylor smiled.

“I have heard of such things, myself,” he said. “I suspect boys are
about the same now that they were fifty years ago.”

“And will be fifty years hence. Of course, they will always need
restraint, and, if they do mischief, they must pay the penalty. Still,
if a boy is simply mischievous, I don’t think he can be considered a
hopeless case.”

“I should say not. I used to do some things myself that were not quite
exemplary. Of course I was punished and in time I steadied down.”

“As you seem to take an interest in our mission,” said Mr. O’Connor,
“you may feel interested to read a letter[A] which I received not long
since from one of our boys in Indiana. It is characteristic, and will
give a good idea of the improvement which emigration makes in their
condition and circumstances.”

 [A] This letter is a genuine production. It is taken from an extremely
 interesting work, by Charles L. Brace, on “The Dangerous Classes of
 New York, and Twenty Years’ Work Among Them.”

“I should like very much to read it,” said Mr. Taylor.

This was the letter:

“M----, IND., Nov. 24, 1859.

     “TO MY FRIEND AND BENEFACTOR: So I take my pen in hand to let you
     know how I am, and how I am getting along. As far as I can see, I
     am well satisfied with my place; but I took a general look around,
     and, as far as I can see, all the boys left in M---- are doing
     well, especially myself, and I think there is as much fun as in New
     York, for nuts and apples are all free. I am much obliged to you,
     Mr. O’Connor, for the paper you sent me. I received it last night,
     read it last night--something about the Newsboys’ Lodging House.

     “All the newsboys in New York have a bad name; but we should show
     ourselves, and show them, that we are no fools; that we can become
     as respectable as any of their countrymen; for some of you poor
     boys can do something for your country; for Franklin, Webster,
     Clay, were poor boys once, and even Commodore V. C. Perry or Math.
     C. Perry. But even George Law, and Vanderbilt, and Astor--some of
     the richest men of New York--and Math. and V. C. Perry, were
     nothing but printers, and in the navy on Lake Erie. And look at
     Winfield Scott. So now, boys, stand up, and let them see that you
     have got the real stuff in you. Come out here, and make respectable
     and honorable men, so they can say, there, that boy was once a
     newsboy.

     “Now, boys, you all know I have tried everything. I have been a
     newsboy, and when that got slack, you know I have smashed baggage.
     I have sold nuts, I have peddled. I have worked on the rolling
     billows up the canal; I was a bootblack; and you know, when I sold
     papers I was at the top of the profession. I had a good stand of my
     own, but I found all would not do. I could not get along, but I am
     now going ahead. I have a first-rate home, ten dollars a month, and
     my board; and, I tell you, fellows, that is a great deal more than
     I could scrape up my best times in New York. We are all on an
     equality, my boys, out here, so long as we keep ourselves
     respectable.

     “Mr. O’Connor, tell ‘Fatty,’ or F. John Pettibone, to send me a
     Christmas number of _Frank Leslie’s_, and _Harper’s Weekly_, a
     _Weekly News_ or some other pictorials to read, especially the
     _Newsboys’ Pictorial_, if it comes out. No old papers, or else
     none. If they would get some other boys to get me some books. I
     want something to read.

     “I hope this letter will find you in good health, as it leaves me,
     Mr. O’Connor. I expect an answer before two weeks--a letter and a
     paper. Write to me all about the lodging house. With this I close
     my letter. With much respect to all.

     “I remain your truly obedient friend,

“J. K.”



“The writer of this letter is evidently a smart boy,” said Mr. Taylor,
as he finished reading it. “I warrant he will make his way in the
world.”

“I expected he would do well, when we sent him out,” said the
superintendent. “In New York he was a leader in his set, and very
successful in his street trades. But, as you see, he admits that he is
doing much better out West.”

“His Western life will make a man of him. Do you often hear from those
you have sent out?”

“We are in constant correspondence with them. We feel ourselves under an
obligation to look after them still, and to show them that we keep up an
interest in them.”

“It must have a good effect upon them.”

“We find that it does. They are ashamed to misconduct themselves,
knowing that it will come to our ears.”

“Have you sent out many children, in this way?”

“Thousands of our children are located in different parts of the great
West. With few exceptions, they are doing well, and bid fair to
become--some have already become--respected and useful members of
society.”

“What would have been their fate, had they remained in the city?”

“Many would be vagrants, many, doubtless, tenants of prison cells; very
few would have turned out well.”

“It is a great work,” said Mr. Taylor warmly. “I hope you will be
encouraged to persevere. I feel like helping you. Accept this
contribution to the funds of your society,” and he drew two fifty-dollar
bills from his pocketbook and handed to the superintendent.

“Thank you, sir,” said Mr. O’Connor, “I am sure you will not regret your
gift. Every addition to our means enables us to extend our operations.
This gift, for instance, will enable us to bring out six children to the
West and place them in good homes.”

“Will it, indeed!” said Mr. Taylor, gratified. “That assurance alone
abundantly repays me. But I must write the note of introduction which I
promised to my young friend.”




CHAPTER VII.

BROOKVILLE.


Though there was plenty of excitement and novelty attending the journey,
Julius and his companions looked forward with eager interest to the hour
when they would reach their destination. Where were they to live, and
what sort of homes would they obtain? These were questions which
naturally arose in the minds of all.

Hour after hour the train sped onward with its living freight. The boys
looked out upon the broad fields, smiling in the sunlight, and
bright-looking villages scattered along the route, and wondered if their
future homes would look anything like them.

At last the moment approached when their curiosity was to be gratified.

“Boys, the next town is Brookville,” said Mr. O’Connor, passing through
the cars.

“Are we goin’ to stop there?” asked Teddy.

“Yes; that is where we get out of the cars.”

Soon a large village came in sight. It was quite thickly settled, and
the streets were broad and regular. The boys could see various public
buildings, besides a large number of dwelling houses. The place looked
quite attractive, and the boys’ faces lighted up with pleasure.

“I say, Teddy,” said Julius, “Brookville’s a nice place.”

“Don’t look much like New York,” said Teddy, dubiously.

“Of course it don’t. The country ain’t like the city, stupid.”

“I guess it’s a pretty good place,” said Teddy. “I hope we’ll live near
each other.”

“I hope so, too; but maybe not. You may live somewhere else.”

“Shan’t we all live here?”

“No; I heard Mr. O’Connor say we’d be scattered around among the towns,
but I’m goin’ to live here.”

“How do you know you are?”

“‘Cause I’ve got a letter to Mr. Taylor’s nephew. He lives in
Brookville.”

“P’rhaps he’ll want two boys.”

“Maybe he will.”

“What’s that?” asked Teddy, as the sound of music was heard.

“It’s a band--don’t you see it?--on the platform. What a crowd of
people!”

“Boys,” said Mr. O’Connor, “that music is for you. The citizens have
come out to welcome you. Now I will tell you what you must do. You will
follow me out of the cars as soon as the train stops, form two by two
on the platform, and then you may swing your hats, and shout, ‘Three
cheers for Brookville!’ Will you do it?”

“All right, sir,” said the boys, eagerly.

They were already within a few rods of the station. Speed was already
slackened, and in a moment the cars had stopped.

“Now, boys, form in line after the other passengers have left the car,”
said the superintendent. “Then follow me.”

His directions were carefully followed, and in five minutes the little
company were drawn up on the platform. Many curious eyes were fixed upon
them by those who had come to meet them, and some were already selecting
those whom they desired to adopt.

“Now, boys,” said the superintendent, when order was obtained, “what
have you to say to the ladies and gentlemen who have been kind enough to
come here to meet you?”

“Three cheers for Brookville!” shouted Tim Shanter, who, it had been
agreed, should act as leader.

The cheers were given with a will, and with such emphasis that it was
clear none of the boys as yet was troubled with weak lungs.

Then the band struck up again, and after they had concluded, one of the
citizens came forward and addressed Mr. O’Connor.

“Mr. O’Connor, I presume?” he said.

“That is my name, sir. You were expecting us?”

“Yes; we received your telegram, and have made arrangements to receive
you. First, however, let me introduce myself. My name is Taylor.”

“Ephraim Taylor?”

“Yes,” said the other, in some surprise.

“You wonder that I know your name,” said Mr. O’Connor. “I met an uncle
of yours while traveling in the State of New York, and he gave one of
our boys a letter to you.”

“Indeed!”

“It was a boy,” exclaimed the superintendent, “who had an opportunity of
being of service to him.”

“In what way, may I ask?”

“He detected a pickpocket in the act of taking your uncle’s gold watch,
and warned him of it. Julius, come here!”

Julius stepped out of the ranks. Mr. Taylor looked at him earnestly.

“I hear that you fell in with my uncle,” he said.

“Yes, sir. He give me a letter for you.”

“Let me see it.”

Julius drew the letter from his pocket and handed it to Mr. Taylor.

The letter read as follows:

     “MY DEAR NEPHEW: This will be handed to you by a boy who has done
     me a service, the nature of which the superintendent will explain
     to you. I do not know how you are situated, or whether you require
     the services of a boy. If you do, I think you can’t do better than
     to take this one. He is bright, sharp, and, as I have reason to
     believe, honest. I shall be glad if he can secure a good home.

Your uncle,

“JOHN TAYLOR.”



Julius had already examined critically the personal appearance of Mr.
Taylor, whom he regarded as his future employer and guardian. His past
life had made him a good and quick observer of character. Street boys,
obliged to fight their way, and struggle for a livelihood, are by their
circumstances made preternaturally sharp. They acquire a judgment and
self-reliance beyond their years, however defective they may be in the
knowledge to be gained from books. Engaged in reading his uncle’s
letter, Mr. Taylor did not notice the keen glance with which Julius
regarded him. But the result was favorable.

“I guess I’ll like him,” said our hero to himself. “He looks like he
might be kind. I hope he’ll take me.”

Mr. Taylor looked up with a smile.

“My uncle wants me to take you, my lad,” he said.

“Will you?” asked Julius.

“What do you say, Mr. O’Connor?” said Mr. Taylor. “Will you intrust this
young man to me?”

“I shall be glad to do so,” said the superintendent. “I will ask you to
leave him with us till to-morrow, however, as applications will not
generally be accepted till then.”

“I have no objection to that. Now let me tell you what arrangements we
have made for your reception. How many children have you in your
company?”

“Fifty-two.”

“It is as I supposed. There are more than can be lodged at our hotel,
which is small. They could receive but twenty there, and the remainder
can be accommodated in a hall we have in the village.”

“I should prefer that they would not be separated. I would rather have
them all under my own eye for to-night,” said the superintendent.

“Very well; then perhaps it will be best for all to be accommodated in
the hall. There are two halls, in fact; and bedding can be placed on the
floor. It won’t be quite so comfortable as it would be at the hotel.”

“Our boys are used to roughing it,” said Mr. O’Connor. “Many a night in
the city they have slept out in old wagons or alleyways. It won’t hurt
them to sleep on the floor.”

“The hall is about half a mile distant. I will lead the way, and you may
get settled at once.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Tim Shanter, see that the boys walk in line,” said the superintendent.
“I appoint you captain, Mr. Taylor, and I will go on ahead, and you will
follow us.”

So the procession moved through the village, attracting curious glances
from the inhabitants as it passed along. The boys on their side used
their eyes to advantage. They were delighted with the fields of grass,
the trees now in full leaf, the flower-plots in front of some of the
houses, and the singing of the birds. There was not one of them who did
not hope that he would find a home in Brookville.




CHAPTER VIII.

JULIUS HAS AN ADVENTURE.


About midway in the principal street of Brookville is the town hall. It
is a neat building, of considerable size, and two stories in height.

Here the procession halted, and after a pause filed in.

The boys found themselves in a large hall, with a platform and desk at
one end, the body of the hall being filled with settees.

“Looks like a schoolroom,” said Teddy.

“Only there ain’t no desks,” said Julius.

“We’re to stay here all night, boys,” said Tim Shanter.

“It’s only three o’clock. What will we do till then?” said Tom Burke.

“Boys,” said Mr. O’Connor, “would you like to see something of the
village?”

“Yes!” “Yes!” was heard from all quarters.

“Then for the next two hours you may go where you please, but you must
be back before six.”

“All right, sir!” shouted half a dozen, and there was a rush for the
door.

“Come back,” shouted the superintendent. “You haven’t heard all I have
to say.”

The boys turned back reluctantly.

“You must be careful to do no mischief, and commit no trespass upon any
person’s property. I want you to show our friends here that, if you have
been brought up in the streets of New York, you know how to behave
yourselves.”

“We will!” “We will!” shouted the boys, and in less than a minute the
hall was emptied.

They separated into groups, and walked off in different directions.
Julius, Teddy and Tom formed one of the parties.

“Where will we go?” said Tom.

“Come down here,” said Julius, pointing down a side street. “There’s
some nice fields off there.”

“Ain’t it jolly?” said Teddy. “It’s a big sight better than New York.”

“Ain’t that a nice field for baseball?” said Julius, pointing to a large
pasture some distance ahead.

“There’s lots of fields, but no ball.”

“Look there, fellers! Do you see that little pond down there?”

“Let us go there.”

“All right.”

The boys jumped over the fence, and walked in the direction of the pond.
It was a small circular sheet of water, covering about two acres. On it
was a small, unpainted boat, which the boys no sooner saw than they
jumped into. There was but one paddle inside, which the boys used by
turns. They had never before been in a boat, and were not scientific
navigators; still they managed to paddle around the little pond, greatly
to their satisfaction.

“I wonder if there’s any fish in this pond,” said Julius.

“I don’t see none,” said Teddy.

“If there was, it would be good fun to catch some,” said Tom.

“We could use Teddy for bait,” suggested Julius.

“I wouldn’t advise a small fish to swaller me,” said Teddy. “I’d dance a
double shuffle in his stomach, and he’d soon want ter let me go.”

The boys enjoyed floating about, and time passed quickly.

“What time is it?” asked Tom.

Julius drew out his watch with an air.

“It’s five o’clock,” he said.

“We ought ter be goin’ back; Mr. O’Connor told us we must be back in
time.”

They turned the boat toward shore, when all at once Tom, who was looking
toward the shore, exclaimed, “What’s that, boys?”

Following the direction in which he pointed, the boys were startled by
seeing a large, clumsy animal walking deliberately down toward the place
where they were about to land.

They paused in their progress, and Julius, after a careful examination
of the stranger, announced, “I’ll tell you what it is, boys; it’s a
bear!”

“A bear!” exclaimed Tom and Teddy, simultaneously.

“Yes; I’ve seed a picture of one in Frank Leslie’s. It’s a bear, sure.”

“What will we do?” said Teddy, alarmed. “They’ll bite, won’t they?”

“I guess they will,” said Julius. “They’d kill you just as easy as
winkin’.”

“I didn’t know there was any wild animals around here,” said Teddy,
nervously.

“Yes,” said Tom; “there’s bears, and wolves, and panthers. I’ve read
about ’em in a dime novel called ‘Pathfinder Pete; or, The Wild Hunter
of the West.’ You know we are in the West now.”

“How will we get back?” asked Teddy, rather anxiously. “He’s squattin’
down, waitin’ for us.”

The bear had come to a pause, and, squatting on its hind quarters, was
steadily and seriously regarding the boys with an expression which, to
their excited imaginations, seemed particularly savage and bloodthirsty.

“I wish’t I had a rifle like the one ‘Pathfinder Pete’ had,” ejaculated
Tom.

“You wouldn’t dare to fire it if you had one,” said Julius.

“Yes, I would. I’d fire a bullet into his right eye and then I’d fire
another right into his left eye, and then he couldn’t see to chase us.”

“That would be good enough if we had a rifle,” said Julius; “but we
haven’t. S’pose we land on the other side of the pond, and run for the
fence.”

“Don’t yer do it!” exclaimed Teddy, in terror. “He’d catch us before we
got halfway there.”

“Do bears run fast, Tom?” asked Julius, deferring to the superior
knowledge of his comrade, who had had the great privilege of reading the
instructive story of “Pathfinder Pete.”

“Don’t they? They can go twenty miles an hour without hurtin’ ’em.”

“They don’t look like it,” said Julius, surveying the clumsy form of the
bear. “I’ll bet that bear can’t keep up with me.”

“Maybe he don’t look it, but he can run like lightnin’. ‘Pathfinder
Pete’ was chased by a bear, when his rifle wasn’t loaded, an’ the only
way he got off was to hide behind a tree till he’d loaded his gun, an’
then he blazed away, and keeled him over on his back.”

“Then I wish ‘Pathfinder Pete’ would happen around this afternoon.
Teddy, jist sing a bit. Maybe that’ll frighten him.”

“I don’t feel like singin’,” said Teddy. “Oh, boys, how will we get
home?”

“I move,” said Julius, who was least disturbed of the three, “that we
pitch out Teddy. While the bear’s eatin’ him, we’ll run away.”

“Don’t yer do it,” entreated Teddy, his teeth chattering with fright.

“We won’t jest yet. Wait an’ see if he won’t go away himself.”

“He’s goin’ to swim out to us,” screamed Teddy, in fright, as the bear
arose to his feet, and put one foot in the water. But he quickly
withdrew it, apparently not liking the feeling.

“Do you think we’ll have to stay here all night?” asked Tom, soberly.

“If the bear don’t get tired, and go away.”

“I wish I was back at the Lodgin’ House,” said Teddy, gloomily.

The bear arose to his feet, and walked slowly around the pond, looking
from time to time at the boat and the three young navigators.

“What time is it now, Julius,” asked Tom, after a while.

“Wants five minutes ter six,” said Julius.

“What’ll Mr. O’Connor think?”

“He can’t blame us for not comin’. I say, boys, I’m gettin’ hungry,”
said Tom.

“So is the bear,” said Julius, significantly.

At this suggestion, Teddy turned a shade paler.

So the boys watched and waited in vain for their unwelcome visitor to
depart, keeping the little boat as near the middle of the pond as
possible.

“I guess we’ll have to stay all night,” said Tom.

Just at that moment the attention of the three boys was drawn to a boy
of about their own age, who was walking across the field toward the
pond.

“Does he see the bear, I wonder?” said Teddy.

“The bear sees him,” said Tom. “He’s goin’ for him.”




CHAPTER IX.

THE BEAR AND HIS MASTER.


“Hadn’t we better holler to him to look out for the bear?” suggested
Teddy.

“He sees him, and is callin’ to him,” said Julius, directly afterward.

The three boys looked on in eager excitement, to see what would come of
the meeting. Teddy fully expected that the bear would appropriate the
newcomer for his supper, and was very much surprised at seeing him
rubbing his head against the boy’s legs, as if they were fast friends.

“Look at that,” he cried. “I don’t believe he’s a bear.”

“Yes, he is,” said Tom, confidently. “Don’t you think I know a bear when
I see him?”

“I’ll ask him,” said Julius.

“Hello, there, Johnny!” he called out from the boat.

The boy looked up, and for the first time noticed the three boys.

“How did you know my name?” he asked, in surprise, for it so happened
that his name was really John.

“I guessed at it,” said Julius.

“Who are you?”

“We’re New York aldermen,” said Julius, “travelin’ for our health.”

“How came you in my boat?”

“Is the boat yours?”

“Yes.”

“We thought we’d give it a little exercise, seein’ it had nothin’ to
do.”

“I know who you are. You came with the agent of the Children’s Aid
Society.”

“That’s so; I’m the president of the society, and these gentlemen are
directors.”

“You look like it,” said the other boy, smiling.

“Is that a bear?” asked Tom, who was anxious to have the question
settled.

“Yes, it is.”

“Won’t he bite?”

“Oh, no; he’s a tame bear. Ain’t you, old Bruin?”

The bear rubbed his head against his legs as before.

“Won’t he do anything to us if we come on shore?” asked Teddy,
nervously.

“Oh, no; he’s as good-natured as an old dog.”

“Then we’ll land,” said Julius. “We’ve been stayin’ out here an hour,
’cause Teddy here was afraid of him.”

“You were just as much afraid as I was,” said Teddy, indignantly.

“That’s a lie. Me and Tom ain’t afraid of anything; but we wouldn’t
leave you here alone.”

“Don’t you believe him,” said Teddy.

“I don’t,” said the boy on shore, laughing.

“You see,” said Julius, “that my life is valuable to my country, and I
couldn’t bear to lose it. Step out, Teddy. Now tie the boat. We’d better
make tracks, or Mr. O’Connor’ll scold us.”

They joined the other boy and the bear, though Teddy took care to keep
as far away from the latter as he could.

“Where did you get the bear?” asked Julius. “Do they live around here?”

“No; this was taken when a cub by an uncle of mine, and when it was
half-grown he gave it to me.”

“How long have you had him?”

“About five years; ever since I was nine years old.”

“Is he quite tame?”

“Oh, yes; he’s as tame as a cat.”

“Do you let him go around loose?”

“Part of the time. In the night we tie him, and keep him in the barn.”

The bear, with the desire probably of getting acquainted with different
members of the party, here walked around to the further side, where
Teddy was walking.

“Oh, take him away!” said the frightened boy. “He’s goin’ for me.”

“Shut up, you fool!” said Julius; “do you think he’d touch such skinny
meat as you, when he could have Tom or me? He ain’t fond of pigs.”

“I wouldn’t care if he ate you or Tom,” said Teddy.

“Pat him,” said the stranger. “You’ll see how he won’t hurt you.”

Teddy did so in fear and trembling, and was at last convinced that there
was nothing to fear.

“Are you going to live in Brookville?” asked the young owner of the
bear.

“I am,” said Julius.

“Who are you going to live with?”

“With Mr. Taylor.”

“Mr. Ephraim Taylor?”

“Yes; what kind of a man is he?”

“He’s a good man; he’s rich, too. Did he say he’d take you?”

“Yes; I brought him a letter from his uncle. His uncle gave me this
watch and chain;” and Julius displayed, not without pride, his valued
treasure.

“It’s a nice one,” said the other, after examining it.

“Have you got one?”

“Not yet; my father’s going to give me one on my next birthday.”

“When will that be?”

“On the Fourth of July.”

“Was you born then?”

“Yes,” said John smiling. “They celebrate my birthday around here.”

“We do in New York, too.”

“You see I am a great man.”

“What’s your name--your whole name?”

“John Sandford.”

“Do you live near Mr. Taylor’s?”

“About half a mile.”

“Then we’ll see each other sometimes.”

“Yes; you can tell me about New York.”

“Wasn’t you ever there?”

“No; but I should like to go. It’s a very big place, isn’t it?”

“You bet it is.”

“What is the population?”

“What?”

“How many people are there in the city?”

“About ten million, I guess,” said Julius, pausing to think, and then
guessing.

“There can’t be so many as that. Why, London has only a little over
three millions.”

“London ain’t New York.”

“No; but it’s a good deal bigger.”

“Well, I don’t know exactly. I never counted,” said Julius.

“Are those other boys going to live in Brookville?”

“I hope I will,” said Teddy.

“So do I,” said Tom.

“Mr. O’Connor is goin’ to get places for us to-morrow,” said Julius.
“I’ll tell you what, Johnny, you’d better take Teddy yourself. You could
let him sleep with the bear. Only, if the bear got hungry in his sleep,
maybe he’d make hash out of him.”

“That would be hash treatment,” said John, laughing. “What is your name?
I’ve told you mine.”

“My name is Julius.”

“What else?”

“Nothing else.”

“Haven’t you got but one name?” asked John, surprised.

“No; what’s the use of two names?”

“Everybody has two.”

“Then, if I go to live with Mr. Taylor, I’ll call myself Julius Taylor.”

“What’s your name?” turning to Teddy.

“I’ll tell you,” said Julius. “That is the Hon. Teddy Bates, professor
of boot blackin’, and this other <DW15> is Tom Burke, Esq., one of the
most distinguished baggage-smashers in all New York.”

“I don’t often get into such good company,” said John, laughing. “Are
all the rest of your company as celebrated?”

“Oh, no; they’re common loafers. Me and Tom and Teddy are----”

“Uncommon loafers, I suppose.”

“You guessed right the first time,” said Julius.

“Hello, fellers!” interrupted Tom; “there’s Pat Maloney comin’ up the
road; I guess he’s comin’ for us.”

“Where’ve you fellers been?” said Pat, on meeting them. “Mr. O’Connor
sent me to find you.”

“Was he mad?”

“No; he thought you’d lost your way. What’s that?” he exclaimed,
suddenly, for the first time espying the bear.

“It’s a bear,” said John Sandford. “But don’t be frightened. He is tame.
He won’t hurt you.”

“You’d better come quick, or you’ll lose your grub,” said Pat.

This was enough. The three boys were very hungry, and, quickening their
pace, soon rejoined their companions, whom they found partaking of a
substantial supper, which had been liberally supplied by the citizens of
Brookville, with characteristic Western hospitality.




CHAPTER X.

A BOOTBLACK’S SPEECH.


Julius and his companions were readily excused by the superintendent, on
explaining the cause of their delay.

After supper was over, Mr. O’Connor said: “Boys, this is the last time
you will be all together. To-morrow probably many of you will set out
for new homes. Now, how shall we pass the time?”

“A speech from Corny Donovan!” cried one boy.

“Speech from Corny!” was heard from all parts of the hall.

“Corny, have you anything to say to the boys?” asked the superintendent,
smiling.

Corny was a short, wiry little fellow, apparently twelve, but in reality
two years older. He was noted among the boys for his drollery, and
frequently amused them with his oratory. He came forward with a twinkle
of merriment in his eye.

“The Honorable Corny Donovan will speak to the meetin’,” said Julius,
acting as temporary chairman.

Corny took his place on the platform, and with perfect gravity took out
a small, red handkerchief, and blew his nose explosively, in imitation
of a gentleman who once addressed the boys at the Lodging House. The
boys greeted this commencement with vociferous applause.

“Go in, Corny!” “Spit it out!” were heard from different parts of the
hall.

“Boys,” said Corny, extending his right arm horizontally, “I’ve come
here from my manshun in Fifth Avenoo to give you some good advice.
You’re poor miserable <DW15>s, ivery mother’s son of you. You don’t know
much anyhow. Once’t I was as poor as you.” (“Hi; hi!” shouted his
auditors.) “You wouldn’t think to look at my good clo’es that I was once
a poor <DW15> like the rest of yez.” (“Yes we would. Where’s your gold
watch?”) “Where’s my gold watch? I left it at home on the planner. Maybe
you’d like to grow up gentlemen like me. But you can’t do it. It ain’t
in you.” (“Oh, dry up!”) “Boys, where’s your manners? Don’t you know no
more’n to interrupt me in my speech? Me and Mr. O’Connor have brought
you out here to make men of you. We want you to grow up ‘spectable.
Blackin’ boots won’t make men of you.” (“You’re only a bootblack
yourself!”) “I only blacked boots for amoosement, boys. I’d have you
know I used to leave my Fifth Avenoo manshun in disguise, and pass the
day round Printin’ House Square, blackin’ boots, ’cause my doctor told
me I must have exercise, or I’d die eatin’ too much rich food.” (“Rich
hash, you mean!”) “No, I don’t. I never allow my cook to put hash on
the table, ’cause you can’t tell what it’s made of, no more’n sassidges.
There’s lots of dogs and cats disappear in New York, and it’s pop’larly
supposed that they commits suicide; but the eatin’-house keepers know
what ’comes of ’em.” (“You bet! That’s so, Corny!”)

“Now I want you boys to leave off bummin’, and try to be ’spectable
members of s’ciety. I don’t want yer to spend yer money for cigars, an’
chew cheap tobaccer, just as ef you was men. Once’t I saw a
four-year-old <DW15> sittin’ on a doorstep, smokin’ a cigar that was
half as big as he was. All at once’t his rags took fire, and he went up
in a balloon.” (“Hi! hi!”)

“I tell you, boys, the West is the place for you. Who knows but what
you’ll git to be Congressmen, or even President?” (“Hear the boy talk!”)
“I didn’t mean you, Jim Malone, so you needn’t say nothin’. They don’t
make Congressmen out’n sich crooked sticks as you be. Maybe you’ll keep
a corner grocery some time, or a whiskey shop, an’ lay on the floor
drunk half the time.” (“Pitch into him, Corny!”) “But that ain’t what I
was a goin’ to say. You’ll be great men, ef you don’t miss of it; and if
you’re good and honest and industrious like I am,” (“Dry up! Simmer
down!”), “you’ll come to live in fine houses, and have lots of servants
to wait on you, and black yer boots, instead of blackin’ ’em yourself.”
(“I’ll take you for my bootblack, Corny,” interrupted Julius.) “No, you
won’t. I expect to be governor before that time, and maybe you’ll be
swallered by the bear that scared you so this afternoon.” (Laughter from
the boys.) “But I’ve most got through.” (“Oh, drive ahead, Corny!”) “If
you want to be great men all you’ve got to do is to imertate me. Me and
Mr. O’Connor are goin’ to watch you, to see that you behave the way you
ought to. When you’re rich you can come back to New York, and go to the
Lodgin’ House and make a speech to the boys, and tell ’em you was once a
poor <DW15> like they be, and advise ’em to go West, if they want to be
somebody.

“Now, boys, I won’t say no more. I’m afeared you won’t remember what
I’ve said already. I won’t charge you nothin’ for my advice.”

Corny descended from the platform amid the laughter and applause of his
comrades.

Mr. O’Connor said: “Boys, Corny’s advice is very good, and I advise you
to follow it, especially as to avoiding cigars and tobacco, which can
only do boys harm. I am not sure that any of you stand a chance of
becoming a Congressman or President, as he suggests, but there is one
thing pretty certain--you can, if you are honest, industrious, and
improve your opportunities at the schools which you will have a chance
to attend, obtain a respectable position in society. Some of the boys
who in former years have gone to the West have become prosperous,
having farms or shops of their own. I don’t see why you can’t be just as
successful as they. I hope you will be, and if, some years hence, you
come to New York, I hope you will visit the Lodging House. If I am still
there, I shall be glad to see you, and have you speak to the boys, and
encourage them, by the sight of your prosperity, to work as you have
done. Now I would suggest that you sing one or two of the songs we used
to sing on Sunday evenings at the Lodging House. After that you may go
out for an hour, but you must keep near this hall, as the evening is
coming on.”




CHAPTER XI.

NEW HOMES FOR THE HOMELESS.


The next day was to witness the dispersion of the little company which
had come out to try their fortunes in the great West. Notices had been
circulated in the neighboring villages that a company of boys had
arrived, and farmers and mechanics who needed a boy on the farm or in
the shop came to Brookville; and at eleven in the forenoon the hall
presented a busy and animated sight. While the newcomers scanned
attentively the faces of the boys, or opened conversations with them, to
guide them in the selections, the boys again were naturally anxious to
obtain desirable guardians and homes. Julius, being already provided
for, had no anxiety, but wandered about, surveying the scene with
comparative indifference. As he had a bright and intelligent look, he
was more than once addressed by visitors.

“What is your name, my lad?” asked a middle-aged farmer from the next
town.

“Julius.”

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

“How would you like to come with me, and help me on my farm?”

“I’m engaged,” said Julius, with an air of importance; for as young
ladies are often emulous of getting married before their companions, so
the boy who first succeeds in obtaining a place plumes himself
accordingly.

“Indeed!” said the farmer, somewhat disappointed. “Where are you going
to live?”

“With Mr. Ephraim Taylor.”

“In Brookville?”

“Yes.”

“Then I shall have to look somewhere else, I suppose.”

“Maybe you’d like Corny Donovan?” suggested Julius.

“Where is he? Point him out.”

Our hero pointed out the speaker of the evening before.

“He’s small,” said the farmer, after a critical survey. “How old is he?”

“He’s fourteen.”

“He doesn’t look more than twelve.”

“He’s strong, Corny is, and he’s smart. He used to earn twice as much
money as some of the boys.”

“What did he do?”

“He blacked boots.”

“Do you think he would like to work on a farm?”

“I’ll axe him. Come here, Corny.”

Corny Donovan came up.

“Here’s a gentleman wants to talk to you,” said Julius.

“I was asking if you would like to work on a farm.”

“Yes,” said Corny, promptly, “if I was treated well, and could go to
school. I want to learn somethin’, so’s I can grow up to be somebody.”

“You ain’t afraid of work, are you?”

“No, nor nothin’ else. Julius here is afraid of bears.”

“You won’t find any bears where I live,” said the farmer, smiling. “How
would you like to go home with me?”

“I’d like it. You’ll have to speak to Mr. O’Connor.”

“He is the man who brought you to the West?”

“Yes. He stands there.”

Mr. O’Connor was the center of a group of farmers and others, who were
making inquiries about particular boys.

“Mr. O’Connor,” said the farmer just introduced, “I want to ask you
about a boy who calls himself Corny Donovan.”

“He is a smart boy; there is no smarter in our company.”

“Can you recommend him?”

“My dear sir, it depends on what you mean by the word.”

“Well, is he to be depended upon?”

“I think so; but we cannot guarantee it. You know what has been the past
life of our boys; how they have been brought up in neglect and privation
in the city streets, subject to little restraint, and without careful
instruction. You can’t expect them to be models of all the virtues.”

“No, I suppose not!”

“But I can tell you this--that among the thousands whom we place in
Western homes, there are few who do us discredit by being guilty of
criminal offenses. They may at times be mischievous, as most boys in all
conditions are, and with whatever advantages. There are few who show
themselves really bad.”

“That is all I want to know, Mr. O’Connor. I will take this boy, Corny,
and try him, with your consent.”

“Have you spoken with him?”

“Yes; he thinks he shall like being on a farm.”

“Then, sir, you have only to give us good references, and the matter
shall be arranged. We always insist upon them, as we feel under
obligations to place our boys in good families, where they will be
likely to receive good treatment.”

“That is quite fair, sir. I can satisfy you on that point.”

The matter was soon arranged, and Corny Donovan’s suspense was at an
end. He had found a home. His new guardian was Mr. Darius Fogg, who
owned and cultivated a large farm in the adjoining township of
Claremont.

“How far do you live from Brookville?” asked Julius.

“About six miles.”

“Can Corny come over some time? I should like to see him sometimes.”

“Oh, yes; he will have occasion to come often. We send our farm produce
here, to go East by rail, and we do our shopping here. Mrs. Fogg will
want Cornelius to drive her over of an afternoon.”

“Shall I drive the horses?” asked Corny, his eyes lighting up with eager
anticipation.

“Certainly; you will have to do it every day.”

“That’ll be stavin’. I say, Julius, won’t I put her over the road
two-forty?”

This remark Mr. Fogg did not hear, or he might have been alarmed at the
prospect of either of his staid farm horses being put over the road at
racing speed. It is doubtful, however, whether Corny, or any other
driver, could have got any very surprising speed out of them.

Teddy Bates was attached to Julius, and, though he was but a year
younger than our hero, looked up to him as a weak nature looks up to a
stronger. He was very anxious to find a home near our hero. Fortune
favored him at last, as a Mr. Johnson, a shoemaker, living only half a
mile distant from Mr. Taylor, agreed to take him into his shop, and
teach him the shoemaker’s trade.

“So you’re goin’ to learn to make shoes, Teddy,” said Julius. “Do you
think you’ll like it?”

“I don’t know,” said Teddy, “but I’m glad I’m goin’ to be near you.”

“We’ll have bully times, but I’d rather be on a farm. I want to drive
horses.”

“I never drove a horse,” said Teddy.

“Nor I; but I can.”

“S’pose he runs away.”

“I won’t let him. You ain’t afraid of a horse as well as a bear, are
you, Teddy?”

“I ain’t used to ’em, you see.”

“Nor I; but I will be soon.”

Teddy did not reply; but congratulated himself that he should have no
horse to take care of. In this, however, he was mistaken, as his new
guardian kept a horse also, though he did not have as much use for him
as if he had been a farmer.

Teddy, I may here remark, was an exception to his class. Street boys are
rarely deficient in courage or enterprise, and most would be delighted
at the opportunity to control or drive a horse. But Teddy inherited a
timid temperament, and differed widely from such boys as Julius or Corny
Donovan.

“Well, my boy, are you ready? I’ve got to be getting home,” said Mr.
Johnson, walking up to the place where Teddy stood talking with Julius.

“Yes, sir, I’m ready. I’ll just bid good-by to Mr. O’Connor.”

“Good-by, my boy,” said the superintendent. “I hope you will behave well
in your new home, and satisfy the gentleman who has agreed to take you.
Write home sometimes, and let me know how you are getting along.”

“I can’t write, sir,” said Teddy, rather ashamed of his ignorance.

“You will soon learn. Good-by!”

Next Julius came up, as Mr. Taylor was also ready to start.

“Good-by, Julius,” said Mr. O’Connor. “Now you’ve got a chance to make a
man of yourself, I hope you’ll do it.”

“I will,” said Julius, confidently. “If Jack Morgan or Marlowe come
round to ask where I am, don’t tell them.”

“I don’t think they’ll trouble me with any inquiries. They are probably
in Sing Sing by this time.”




CHAPTER XII.

JULIUS IN LUCK.


A light wagon was standing outside for Julius and his new guardian.

“Jump in, Julius,” said Mr. Taylor.

Our hero did not need a second command. He was quickly in his seat, and
looked wistfully at his companion, who held the reins.

“May I drive?” he asked.

“Are you accustomed to driving?”

“No, sir.”

“I suppose you never got a chance in the city?”

“No, sir. Jack didn’t keep a horse,” said Julius, with a smile.

“Who was Jack?”

“He was the man I lived with.”

“Was he in any business?”

“Yes, sir; but it wasn’t a very good kind of business. Jack used to
break into houses, and take anything he could find. He tried pickin’
pockets one while, but he was too clumsy, and got caught too often.
Marlowe could do that better.”

“Were those the two men you spoke of to Mr. O’Connor, as you were coming
away?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did you happen to be in charge of such a man?”

“That’s more than I knows of. When I was a little chap, four or five
years old, I lived with Jack; but he never told me where he got me
from.”

“Do you think you are his son?”

“No; I know I’m not. When Jack got drunk he used to tell me I wa’n’t no
child of his, and he’d send me out to shift for myself if I didn’t do
jest as he told me.”

“Did he often get drunk?”

“He used to drink when he got a chance, but he’d only get reg’lar drunk
about once a week.”

“Did he ever offer you anything to drink?”

“No,” answered Julius, laughing; “he wanted it all himself. But I
wouldn’t have took it.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t like it. Besides, I didn’t want to lay round drunk like Jack.
I didn’t see that there was any fun in it.”

“You are right there. There is very little fun, as you call it, in
getting drunk. It appears to me you were brought up under bad
influences.”

“Yes, I was,” said Julius, in a matter-of-fact manner.

“Many would be afraid to take into their houses a boy who had been
reared by a thief.”

“Maybe they would,” said Julius.

“They might be afraid that he had been trained to steal.”

“Yes,” said Julius; “but what’s the good of stealin’ when you got a good
home?”

“Quite right; but that isn’t the highest view to take of stealing. It is
wrong in the sight of God.”

“That’s what they told us at the Lodgin’ House.”

“I hope you believe it.”

“Yes, sir, I believe it.”

“And if ever you are tempted to take anything that doesn’t belong to
you, think first that it will be displeasing to God. After that, you may
consider that it is bad policy also.”

“It was bad for Jack and Marlowe. They was in prison half the time.
They’re in Sing Sing now, hammerin’ stone, I expect.”

“You may be thankful that you are out of their reach. But you said you
wanted to drive.”

“Yes, sir,” said Julius, eagerly.

“Take the reins, and I’ll show you how to do it. You will have to learn
to harness and unharness the horse also.”

“That’ll be bully,” said our hero, in a tone of satisfaction.

“I am glad you like the idea. I am going to make a Western farmer of
you.”

“That’s what I want.”

Mr. Taylor gave Julius some practical directions about driving, and had
an illustration of the boy’s quickness in his immediate comprehension
and acting upon them. They soon came in sight of a gate, on the other
side of which was a lane.

“Jump out and open the gate,” said Mr. Taylor. “That lane leads to my
house.”

They soon came in sight of a substantial farm-house of good appearance.
A man in overalls, and without a coat, came up to meet the carriage.

“Abner,” said Mr. Taylor, “you may take out the horse, and put him in
the barn.”

“Shall I go with him?” asked Julius.

“Not now. I will take you into the house, and introduce you to Mrs.
Taylor, who will show you where you are to sleep.”

He entered the house, followed by Julius.

“Come in here,” said Mr. Taylor, throwing open the door of a comfortable
sitting-room. It was furnished in ordinary, yet tasteful, style; and to
Julius, bred in the street and never having known anything better than a
bare and cheerless apartment in a shabby tenement house, it seemed like
a palace. In front of a fire sat a pleasant and comely woman of
thirty-five, sewing. She looked up as Mr. Taylor entered, and her eyes
rested with interest on the boy who followed him.

“Emma,” said her husband, “this is the boy I spoke to you about.”

“I am glad to see you,” said Mrs. Taylor, with a cordial smile,
extending her hand, which Julius took bashfully. He was not diffident in
the presence of men, but he was not accustomed to ladies, and felt
awkward in their presence. “You have come a long journey,” said Mrs.
Taylor.

“Yes, sir--I mean ma’am,” stammered Julius.

“You come from New York?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I hope you will like Brookville. It isn’t much like the great city you
have left.”

“I like it a great deal better.”

“What is your name?”

“Julius.”

“You are the first Julius that I ever met. And your other name?”

“I haven’t got none.”

The lady looked surprised.

“What was your father’s name. Surely he had one.”

“Maybe he did, but I never had the pleasure of his acquaintance.”

“This is really singular, Ephraim,” said his wife. “How can he get along
with but one name?”

“He can take ours.”

“How would you like to take the name of Taylor?” he asked.

“Tiptop,” said Julius.

“Then you can call yourself Julius Taylor. I suppose that will be all
the formality required. Emma, where are you going to put him?”

“I will show him his room,” said Mrs. Taylor. “Is his trunk outside?”

“I haven’t got no trunk,” said Julius.

“Then where do you keep your clothes?” asked Mrs. Taylor, in some
surprise.

“I suspect,” said her husband, “Julius carries his clothes on his back.”

“I’ve got some in this bundle,” said our hero, displaying a paper
parcel.

“You will have to buy him some, Ephraim,” said his wife. “He will need a
supply of underclothes.”

“I leave that matter in your hands, my dear. You will know more about
his needs than I.”

Julius followed Mrs. Taylor upstairs to a small back chamber on the
second floor, which was neatly furnished, with a bedstead, table,
bureau, washstand, two chairs, and adorned, moreover, by three prints
cheaply framed, and hung upon the walls.

“This will be your room Julius,” said Mrs. Taylor.

To the boy, with the recollections of his street life fresh in his
memory, it seemed hardly credible that this sumptuous chamber, as it
seemed to him, could really be his.

“Do you like it?” asked Mrs. Taylor, noticing that he remained silent.

“Don’t I?” he answered, drawing a long breath. “Is this goin’ to be my
room?”

“Yes, you are to sleep here regularly. That bureau is for your clothes.
You can put your bundle inside now, and in a few days you shall have
some more to put in.”

“It’s stavin’,” ejaculated Julius, rapturously.

“I am not familiar with that word,” Mrs. Taylor said, “but I suppose it
means that the room suits you. You will find some water in the pitcher,
if you want to wash. When you have got through, you may come downstairs.
We shall have dinner directly.”

Left to himself, Julius sat down on the bed, and tried to realize the
situation.

“What would Jack say if he should see me now?” he said to himself. “I
didn’t expect I was goin’ to set up as a gentleman so quick. Ain’t this
a jolly bed? I’ll sleep like a top on it. It’s a blamed sight better
than lyin’ on the floor in Jack’s room, or sleepin’ in old wagons, or on
the piers. I feel as if one of them magician chaps had shaken his stick
at me and changed me from a bootblack into a prince, like he did in that
play at the Old Bowery. So I’m Julius Taylor now.”

Julius arose from the bed, and proceeded to wash his face and hands,
though, under ordinary circumstances, he would scarcely have thought it
necessary. But he reflected that he had ascended in the social scale,
and it was only proper to adapt himself to his new position. When he had
completed his ablutions, to use an expression which he would not yet
have understood, he heard a bell ring below.

“That’s for grub!” he said to himself. “I guess I can do my share.”




CHAPTER XIII.

THE NEW DOLL.


Julius had been unusually fortunate in obtaining a home in Mr. Taylor’s
family. His new guardian was a man of wealth; indeed, he was the
wealthiest man in Brookville. He owned shares in banks and mining
companies, and could have lived handsomely had his farm yielded no
income. He had a taste for agriculture, however, though he personally
carried on but a small part of his extensive farm. His wife had been
born and brought up in an Eastern city, was well educated, and, though
she superintended the affairs of her household, did comparatively little
work herself, having the aid of two stout, capable girls in the kitchen,
who relieved her of all the drudgery, and, being competent for their
positions, required very little looking after. It will be seen,
therefore, that Mr. Taylor’s household is not presented as that of an
average Western farmer. Though, as a class, our Western farmers are
intelligent, they lack the refinement and cultivation which Mr. and Mrs.
Taylor derived from their early advantages.

I must now explain how they came to take Julius into their family.
Though they had been married twelve years, they had but one child, a
little girl of five, a pretty and attractive child. Having no son, it
occurred to them to receive into their household a boy, who would be
company for little Carrie, and whom, if found worthy, they might
hereafter adopt and provide for. A boy of the age of Julius can always
make himself useful on a Western farm, but it was only partially with a
view to this consideration that he was received.

Mr. Taylor resolved to give him a good education, and increase his
advantages, if he showed himself to possess capability and willingness
to learn.

Comparatively few of the boys who are sent to the West can hope to
obtain such homes; but though their privileges and opportunities may be
less, they will in most cases obtain a decent education, good treatment,
and a chance to rise.

While Julius was upstairs, Mr. Taylor asked his wife:

“Well, Emma, what do you think of the boy I have brought home?”

“He looks bright, but I judge that he has not had much education.”

“Quite right; it will be for us to remedy that. He has been brought up
in the streets of New York, but I don’t think he has any bad faults.”

“He described his room as ‘stavin’,” said Mrs. Taylor, smiling. “I never
heard the word before.”

“It is an emphatic word of approval among boys. I have heard it among
those who are not street boys. They use it where girls would say a
thing was ‘perfectly lovely’.”

“I never had much to do with boys, Ephraim. You know I had no brothers,
so I am ignorant of their dialect.”

“I presume Julius will enlighten your ignorance before long.”

“I hardly think I shall adopt it. Suppose I should tell Mrs. Green that
her dress was ‘stavin’?”

“Probably she would stare. Seriously, I hope our young waif may do
credit to our training. He will have a great deal to learn, and much to
unlearn; but he looks bright, and I have good hopes of success.”

Here little Carrie entered, and at once monopolized attention.

“What do you think I have brought home for you, Carrie?” asked her
father, taking her in his arms and kissing her.

“I don’t know, papa. What is it?”

“It’s a doll--a big doll.”

“How big?” asked Carrie, seriously.

“Bigger than Carrie.”

“Oh, how nice!” said the child. “Where is it?” and she looked around.

“It will soon come in.”

“Where did you get it, papa?”

“It came all the way from New York.”

“How nice of you, papa!”

“And what do you think, Carrie? It can walk all by itself.”

“Really, papa?”

“Yes, and it can talk.”

“Can it talk like me?” asked the unsuspecting child.

“Yes; and a great deal louder.”

“It must be a funny doll,” said the child, reflectively? “What does it
look like?”

“Like a boy.”

“Is it a boy doll?”

“Yes.”

“I am glad of that. All my dolls are girls.”

“Well, this is a boy.”

“Did you pay a great deal for it, papa?”

Mr. Taylor laughed.

“I expect it will cost me a great deal before I get through with it; for
I forgot to tell you one thing, Carrie--this doll I am speaking to you
about, eats.”

“Does it eat dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Shall I have to feed it?”

“I think it will prefer to feed itself, Carrie,” said her father,
compelled to laugh by the serious, wondering face of the little girl.

At that moment Julius entered the room.

“There it is now,” said Mr. Taylor.

“That is a boy,” said Carrie, looking somewhat disappointed.

“I told you it was.”

“But you said it was a doll. Are you a doll?” she asked, sliding from
her father’s knee, and running up to Julius.

“I’m a pretty big one,” said Julius, amused.

“There, papa, you were only funning,” said the little girl,
reproachfully.

“Didn’t I tell you the truth? Can’t he eat, and talk, and walk?”

“Yes, but he isn’t a doll.”

“Isn’t he better than a doll? A doll couldn’t play with you; Julius
can.”

“Is your name Julius?” asked the little girl, looking up to our hero.

“Yes.”

“What’s your other name?”

“Taylor,” answered Julius, with a glance at her father.

“Why, that’s our name.”

“Then he must be of our family,” said her father. “Do you want him to
stay, and live with us? He can play with you, and tell you stories, and
you can have plenty of good times together.”

“Yes, I should like to have him stay. Will you, Julius?”

“Yes, if you want me to,” answered our hero; and he felt strongly
attracted to the sweet little girl, who had mistaken him for a doll.

“Then you may lead him out to dinner, Carrie,” said Mr. Taylor, as Jane,
one of the servants, opened the door and announced that dinner was
ready. “Perhaps you will have to feed him, as he is a doll, you know.”

“Now you are funning again, papa,” said Carrie, shaking her curls. “Will
you sit by me, Julius?”

“I should like to, Carrie,” said our hero; and hand in hand with the
little girl he walked into the next room, where a table was neatly
spread for dinner.

It was a new experience to Julius. He had never had a sister. Those
girls with whom he had been brought in contact had been brought up as he
had been, and, even where their manners were not rough, possessed little
of the grace and beauty of this little child of fortune. She seemed to
the eyes of our young plebeian a being of a higher type and superior
clay, and, untutored as he was, he could appreciate in a degree, her
childish beauty and grace.

Mr. and Mrs. Taylor were pleased to find that the little girl’s
happiness was likely to be increased by this accession to their
household.

“I think, Carrie,” said her mother, “you like Julius better than if he
were a doll.”

“Yes, mamma, I do.”

“If you don’t,” said Julius, “I’ll turn myself into a big doll with pink
eyes.”

“You can’t,” said Carrie, seriously.

“Maybe I can’t myself, but I might get a big magician to do it.”

“Is that a fairy,” asked the little girl.

“I guess so.”

“The difference is,” said her father, “that magicians are men, but
fairies are women.”

“I don’t want you to,” said Carrie, “for then you couldn’t talk to me,
and play with me. Please stay a boy.”

“I will as long as you want me to,” said Julius, gravely.

Our hero did not feel wholly at his ease, for he was not used to dining
in company. In the cheap eating houses which he had been accustomed to
patronize, when he was in luck, very little ceremony prevailed. The
etiquette in vogue was of the loosest character. If a patron chose to
sit with his hat on, or lean his elbows on the table, there was nothing
to prevent. But Julius was observing, and carefully observed how Mr. and
Mrs. Taylor ate, being resolved to imitate them, and so make no
mistakes. He found it difficult, however, to eat with his fork, instead
of his knife, as he had always done hitherto, and privately thought it a
very singular and foolish custom. His attempts were awkward, and
attracted the attention of his new guardians; but they were encouraged
by it to believe that he would lay aside other habits springing from his
street life, and, after a while, shape his manners wholly to his new
position.

When dinner was over, Mr. Taylor said: “Julius, would you like to go out
with me and see the farm?”

“Yes, sir,” said our hero, eagerly.

“I thought you were going to play with me,” said little Carrie,
disappointed.

“Julius can’t play with you all the time, my dear,” said her mother.
“After supper perhaps he will.”

“Shall I change him into a doll?” asked her father. “Then he’ll have to
stay in.”

“No,” said Carrie; “I like a boy better.”




CHAPTER XIV.

FIRST LESSONS.


“I suppose you don’t know much about farming, Julius?” said Mr. Taylor,
after supper.

“No more’n a horse,” said Julius.

“Some horses know considerable about farming, or at least have a chance
to,” said his new guardian, with a smile.

“I guess they know more’n me.”

“Very likely; but you can learn.”

“Oh, yes,” said Julius, confidently. “It won’t take me long.”

“I shall put you in charge of Abner, who will give you some instruction.
You will begin to-morrow morning with helping him to milk.”

“All right, sir.”

“He gets up at five o’clock. He will knock at your door, as he comes
downstairs. He sleeps on the floor above. Now I want to ask a few
questions about other matters. I suppose your education has been
neglected.”

“I was to college once,” said our hero.

“How was that?”

“I carried a bundle of books from a bookseller in Nassau Street to one
of the purfessors of Columbia College.”

“If that is the extent of your educational advantages, you probably
still have something to learn. Have you been to school?”

“Not much. I went to evenin’ school a few times.”

“Can you read and write?”

“I can read a little, but I have to skip the hard words. I ain’t much on
writin’.”

“Here is a little book of fairy stories. You can read one aloud to
Carrie.”

“I can’t read well enough,” said Julius, drawing back reluctantly.

“That is just what I want to find out,” said Mr. Taylor. “Don’t be
bashful. If you can’t read well, you shall have a chance to improve.”

“Are you going to read me a story, Julius?” asked little Carrie,
delighted.

“I’ll try,” said Julius, embarrassed.

He began to read, but it soon became evident that he had not exaggerated
his ignorance. He hesitated and stumbled, miscalled easy words, and made
very slow progress, so that Carrie, who had been listening attentively,
without getting much idea of the story, said, discontentedly, “Why, how
funny you read, Julius! I like better to hear papa read.”

“I knew I couldn’t do it,” said Julius, disconcerted, as he laid down
the book.

“You will soon be able to,” said Mr. Taylor, encouragingly. “Now I will
tell you what I propose to do. In the forenoon, up to dinner time, you
shall work on the farm, and in the afternoon I will assign you lessons
to be recited in the evening. Would you like that?”

“Yes,” said Julius. “I don’t want to be a know-nothin’ when I get to be
a man.”

It is hardly necessary to explain that in using the term “know-nothing”
Julius had no thought of its political meaning.

“But I’m afraid I won’t learn very fast,” he said hesitatingly.

“Perhaps not just at first, but you will soon get used to studying. I
will be your teacher; and when I am too busy to hear your lessons, Mrs.
Taylor will supply my place. Are you willing, Emma?”

“Certainly, Ephraim; it will remind me of the years that I was teaching
school.”

“Next winter I will send you to the public school,” said Mr. Taylor. “By
that time you will, I hope, have learned so much that you will be able
to get into a class of boys somewhere near your own age.”

“I shouldn’t like to be in a class with four-year-old babies,” said
Julius. “They’d take me for a big baby myself.”

“Your pride is natural and proper. Your grade in school will depend on
how well you work between now and winter.”

“I’ll study some to-night,” said Julius, eagerly.

“Very well. The sooner you begin the better. You may take the same story
you have been trying to read, and read it over three times carefully by
yourself. When you come to any words you don’t know, you can ask Mrs.
Taylor or myself. To-morrow evening you may read it aloud to Carrie, and
we can see how much benefit you have derived from your study.”

Julius at once set to work in earnest. He had considerable perseverance,
and really desired to learn. He was heartily ashamed of his ignorance,
and this feeling stimulated him to make greater exertions.

The next morning he was awakened by a loud knock at his door.

“What’s up?” he muttered, drowsily.

“Get up, Julius,” Abner called, loudly.

Julius opened his eyes, and stared about him in momentary bewilderment.

“Blest if I didn’t forget where I was,” he said to himself. “I thought I
was at the Lodgin’ House, and Mr. O’Connor was callin’ me. I’m comin’,”
he said, aloud.

“You’ll find me at the barn,” said Abner.

“All right.”

Julius hurried on his clothes, and proceeded to the barn, where he soon
found Abner in the act of milking.

“Is it easy to milk?” he asked.

“It’s easy when you know how,” said Abner.

“It don’t look hard.”

“Come and try it,” said Abner.

He got off his stool, and Julius took his place. He began to pull, but
not a drop of milk rewarded his efforts.

“There ain’t no milk left,” he said. “You’re foolin’ me.”

In reply Abner drew a full stream into the pail.

“I did just like you,” said Julius, puzzled.

“No, you didn’t. Let me show you.”

Here followed a practical lesson, which cannot very well be transferred
to paper, even if the writer felt competent to give instructions in an
art of which he has little knowledge.

Julius, though he had everything to learn, was quick in acquiring
knowledge, whether practical or that drawn from books, and soon got the
knack of milking, though it was some days before he could emulate Abner
with his years of experience.

The next day Julius undertook to milk a cow alone. So well had he
profited by Abner’s instructions, that he succeeded very well. But he
was not yet experienced in the perverse ways of cows. When the pail was
nearly full, and he was congratulating himself on his success, the cow
suddenly lifted her foot, and in an instant the pail was overturned, and
all the milk was spilled, a portion of it on the milker.

Julius uttered an exclamation of mingled dismay and anger.

“What’s the matter?” asked Abner, rather amused at the expression on the
face of Julius, notwithstanding the loss of the milk.

“Matter! The darned brute has knocked over the pail, and spilled all the
milk.”

“Cows is curis critters,” said Abner, philosophically. “They like to
make mischief sometimes.”

“Just let me get a stick. I’ll give her a dose,” said Julius, excited.

“No,” said Abner, “we’ll tie her legs if she does it again. It doesn’t
do much good beating an animal. Besides,” he added, smiling, “I s’pose
she thought she had a right to spill the milk, considerin’ it was hers.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Julius. “That’s the way she pays her
board.”

“I s’pose she didn’t see it in that light. Better luck next time,
Julius. It wa’n’t your fault anyway.”

The cow stood placidly during this conversation, evidently well pleased
with her exploit. Julius would like to have given her a beating; but
Abner, who was a kind-hearted man, would not allow it.

“It would be a bully idea to make her go without her breakfast,” said
Julius, whose anger was kept fresh by the sight of the spilled milk.

“Wal,” said Abner, “you see there’s this objection. If she don’t have no
breakfast, she won’t give as much milk next time.”

“I didn’t think of that.”

“She can’t make milk out of nothin’. Don’t you have no cows in New
York?”

“Oh, yes,” said Julius, laughing; “the mayor has a whole drove of ’em,
that he pastures in Central Park.”

“Does he get pasturin’ for nothin’?” asked Abner, in good faith.

“In course he does. Then there’s a lot of bulls in Wall Street.”

“Do they let ’em go round loose?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t they ever get rampagious?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t they do mischief?”

“I guess they do. They’re always fightin’ with the bears.”

“Sho! you don’t mean to say you’ve got bears in New York.”

“Yes, I do. They’re in Wall Street, too.”

“I shouldn’t think they’d allow it,” said Abner, whose knowledge of
finance and the operators who make Wall Street the theatre of their
operations was very rudimentary.

“Oh, ain’t you jolly green!” said Julius, exploding with laughter.

“What do you mean?” demanded Abner, inclined to feel offended.

“The bulls and bears I am talkin’ of are men. They’re the brokers that
do business in Wall Street.”

“How should I know that? What do they give ’em such curis names for?”

“I don’t know,” said Julius. “I never heard. Didn’t you ever go to New
York?”

“No; but I should like to go. It costs a pile of money to go there, I
expect. I wish you’d tell me something about it.”

“All right.”

Then and at other times Julius gave Abner a variety of information, not
always wholly reliable, about New York and his former life there, to
which Abner listened with greedy attention.




CHAPTER XV.

TEMPTATION.


Though Mr. Taylor owned several hundred acres, he retained but forty
under his personal charge. The remainder was rented to various parties,
who paid him either in money or grain, according to the agreement made.
Being fond of agriculture, he would have kept the whole in his own
hands, but that it would have increased so largely the cares of his
wife. A large number of farm laborers would have been required, whom he
would probably have been compelled to receive under his own roof, and
his wife would have become in effect the mistress of a large boarding
house. This he was too considerate to require, or allow.

Even of the forty acres he reserved, but a small portion was cultivated,
the remainder being used for pasturage or mowing. During the greater
part of the year, therefore, he found Abner’s services sufficient. Only
during haying and harvest he found it necessary to engage extra
assistance. Mr. Taylor was, however, an exception to the general rule.
Ordinarily, Western farmers, owning a large number of acres, carry on
the whole themselves; though it is doubtful whether their profits are
any greater than if they should let out the greater part.

It will be seen, therefore, that Julius was fortunate in his position.
He had to work but half the day, while the remaining half he was at
liberty to devote to making up the many deficiencies in his early
education. He was sensible enough to appreciate this advantage, and
showed it by the rapid improvement he made. After he had begun to
improve in his reading, he had lessons assigned him in writing and
arithmetic. For the latter he showed a decided taste; and even mastered
with ease the difficulties of fractions, which, perhaps more than any
other part of the arithmetic, are liable to perplex the learner.

“You are really making excellent progress, Julius,” said Mr. Taylor to
him one evening. “I find you are a very satisfactory pupil.”

“Do you, sir?” said Julius, his eyes brightening.

“You appear not only to take pains, but to have very good natural
abilities.”

“I’m glad I’m not goin’ to grow up a know-nothin’.”

“You certainly won’t if you keep on in this way. But there is one other
thing in which you can improve?”

“What is that?”

“In your pronunciation. Just now you said ‘goin’’ and ‘know-nothin’.’
You should pronounce the final letter, saying ‘going’ and ‘nothing.’
Don’t you notice that I do it?”

“Yes, sir; but I’m used to the other.”

“You can correct it, notwithstanding. By way of helping you I will
remind you whenever you go wrong in this particular way; indeed,
whenever you make any mistake in pronunciation.”

“I wish you would,” said Julius, earnestly. “Do you think they’ll put me
in a very low class at school?”

“Not if you work hard from now to Thanksgiving.”

“I’d like to know as much as other boys of my age. I don’t want to be in
a class with four-year-olds.”

“You have got safely by that, at least,” said Mr. Taylor, smiling. “I
like your ambition, and shall be glad myself, when you enter school, to
have you do credit to my teaching.”

There was nothing connected with the farm work that Julius liked better
than driving a horse, particularly when he had sole charge of it; and he
felt proud indeed the first time he was sent with a load of hay to a
neighboring town. He acquitted himself well; and from that time he was
often sent in this way. Sometimes, when Mr. Taylor was too busy to
accompany her, Mrs. Taylor employed him to drive her to the village
stores, or to a neighbor’s, to make a call; and as Julius showed himself
fearless, and appeared to have perfect control even of Mr. Taylor’s most
spirited horse, she felt as safe with him as with her husband.

Julius had been in his new place about six weeks, when his integrity
was subjected to a sudden and severe test. He was sent to a neighbor’s,
living about a mile and a half away, and, on account of the distance,
was told to harness up the horse and ride. This he did with alacrity. He
took his seat in the buggy, gathered the reins into his hands, and set
out. He had got a quarter of a mile on his way when he suddenly espied
on the floor of the carriage, in the corner, a pocketbook. He took it
up, and, opening it, discovered two facts: first, that it belonged to
Mr. Taylor, as it contained his card; next, that its contents were
valuable, judging from the thick roll of bills.

“How much is there here?”

This was the first question that Julius asked himself.

Counting the bills hurriedly, he ascertained that they amounted to two
hundred and sixty-seven dollars.

“Whew! what a pile!” he said to himself. “Ain’t I in luck? I could go to
California for this, and make a fortune. Why shouldn’t I keep it? Mr.
Taylor will never know. Besides, he’s so rich he won’t need it.”

To one who had been brought up, or rather who had brought himself up, as
a bootblack in the streets of New York, the temptation was a strong one.
Notwithstanding the comfort which he now enjoyed there were moments when
a longing for his old, independent, vagrant life swept over him. He
thought of Broadway, and City Hall Park, of Tony Pastor’s, and the old
Bowery, of the busy hum and excitement of the streets of the great
city; and a feeling something like homesickness was aroused within him.
Brookville seemed dull, and he pined to be in the midst of crowds. This
longing he was now able to gratify. He was not apprenticed to Mr.
Taylor. It is not the custom of the Children’s Aid Society to bind out
the children they send West for any definite term. There was nothing to
hinder his leaving Brookville, and either going back to New York, or
going to California, as he had often thought he would like to do. Before
the contents of the pocketbook were exhausted, which, according to his
reckoning, would be a very long time, he would get something to do.
There was something exhilarating in the prospect of starting on a long
journey alone, with plenty of money in his pocket. Besides, the money
wouldn’t be stolen. He had found it, and why shouldn’t he keep it?

These thoughts passed through the mind of Julius in considerably less
time than I have taken in writing them down. But other and better
thoughts succeeded. After all, it would be no better than stealing to
retain money when he knew the owner. Besides, it would be a very poor
return to Mr. Taylor for the kindness with which he had treated him ever
since he became a member of his household. Again, it would cut short his
studies, and he would grow up a know-nothing--to use his own word---
after all. It would be pleasant traveling, to be sure; it would be
pleasant to see California, or to find himself again in the streets of
New York; but that pleasure would be dearly bought.

“I won’t keep it,” said Julius, resolutely. “It would be mean, and I
should feel like a thief.”

He put the pocketbook carefully in the side pocket of his coat, and
buttoned it up. As he whipped up the horse, who had taken advantage of
his preoccupation of mind to walk at a snail’s pace, it occurred to him
that if he should leave Brookville he would no longer be able to drive a
horse; and this thought contributed to strengthen his resolution.

“What a fool I was to think of keeping it!” he thought. “I’ll give it to
Mr. Taylor just as soon as I get back.”

He kept his word.

“Haven’t you lost your pocketbook, Mr. Taylor?” he asked, when, having
unharnessed the horse, he entered the room where his guardian was
sitting.

Mr. Taylor felt in his pocket.

“Yes,” said he, anxiously. “It contained a considerable sum of money.
Have you found it?”

“Yes, sir; here it is.” And our hero drew it from his pocket, and
restored it to the owner.

“Where did you find it?”

“In the bottom of the wagon,” answered Julius.

“Do you know how much money there is in the wallet?” asked Mr. Taylor.

“Yes, sir; I counted the bills. There is nearly three hundred dollars.”

“Didn’t it occur to you,” asked Mr. Taylor, looking at him in some
curiosity, knowing what he did of his past life and associations,
“didn’t it occur to you that you could have kept it without my
suspecting it?”

“Yes,” said Julius, frankly. “It did.”

“Did you think how much you might do with it?”

“Yes; I thought how I could go back to New York and cut a swell, or go
to California and maybe make a fortune at the mines.”

“But you didn’t keep it.”

“No; it would be mean. It wouldn’t be treating you right, after all
you’ve done for me; so I just pushed it into my pocket, and there it
is.”

“You have resisted temptation nobly, my boy,” said Mr. Taylor, warmly;
“and I thank you for it. I won’t offer to reward you, for I know you
didn’t do it for that; but I shall hereafter give you my full
confidence, and trust you as I would myself.”

Nothing could have made a better or deeper impression on the mind of
Julius than these words. Nothing could have made him more ashamed of his
momentary yielding to the temptation of dishonesty. He was proud of
having won the confidence of Mr. Taylor. It elevated him in his own
eyes.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, taking his guardian’s proffered hand. “I’ll
try to deserve what you say. I’d rather hear them words than have you
pay me money.”

Mr. Taylor was a wise man, and knew the way to a boy’s heart. Julius
never forgot the lesson of that day. In moments of after temptation it
came back to him, and strengthened him to do right.




CHAPTER XVI.

THE NEW TEACHER.


On the first Monday after Thanksgiving the winter school commenced.
Julius looked forward to the day with eager interest. He had studied at
home faithfully in the afternoon, according to Mr. Taylor’s proposal,
and had really made remarkable progress. His ambition was aroused, and
he had labored to reach an equality with other boys of his age. He was
encouraged to believe he had done so, and therefore was not afraid of
being mortified by his standing in the assignment of scholars to
classes.

“Who is to be the teacher this winter?” asked Mrs. Taylor, at the
breakfast table, turning to her husband.

“It is a nephew of Deacon Slocum. I believe his name is Slocum.”

“Do you know anything of him?”

“No; I only know that the Deacon actively interested himself to get him
the appointment. Most of the parents would have preferred Dexter
Fairbanks. He has experience, and is known to be an excellent teacher.”

“How came the deacon to carry his point?”

“By asking his nephew’s appointment as a special favor. I only hope he
will prove a good teacher.”

Julius listened to this conversation with attention. He felt that he was
personally interested in the matter. He hoped the new teacher would be a
good one, for he really wished to learn. If I should say, however, that
this was all that our hero had in view, I should convey a false idea. He
expected to have a good time, and meant to get what enjoyment he could
as well as profit. By this time he was pretty well acquainted with the
boys who, like himself, were to attend the school, and no longer felt
like a stranger.

One thing I must add. When we first made acquaintance with Julius, in
the streets of New York, he was meager and rather undersized. Want and
privation had checked his growth, as was natural. But since he had found
a home in the West, he had lived generously, enjoyed pure air, and a
sufficiency of out-of-door exercise, and these combined had wrought a
surprising change in his appearance. He had grown three inches in
height; his form had expanded; the pale, unhealthy hue of his cheek had
given place to a healthy bloom, and his strength had considerably
increased. This change was very gratifying to Julius. Like most boys of
his age he wanted to be tall and strong; in the city he had been rather
ashamed of his puny appearance; but this had disappeared, and he now
felt able to cope with most boys of his age.

Some minutes before nine a group of boys assembled in front of the
schoolhouse.

“Have you seen the new teacher?” asked Julius, addressing John Sandford.

“No; they say he only came to Brookville late last evening.”

“Where is he going to board?”

“At Deacon Slocum’s, so father says. The deacon is his uncle.”

“I hope he isn’t like his uncle, then,” said Henry Frye. “The deacon
always looks as stiff as a fence rail.”

“I wish we were going to have Mr. Fairbanks here again this winter. He’s
a regular, tiptop teacher.”

“So he is,” said Henry.

“Mr. Taylor says it’s the deacon’s doing, getting his nephew appointed.”

“Of course it was. Mr. Fairbanks was willing to teach. I wish we could
have had him. He used to go out at recess, and play ball with us
sometimes.”

“Could he play well?” asked Julius.

“I bet he could. Do you see that tree over there?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he knocked a ball as far as that one day.”

“He must have been pretty strong in the arms,” said Julius, measuring
the distance with his eye.

“He was that.”

“Did he ever lick the boys?”

“No; he didn’t need to. We all liked him, and didn’t give him any
cause.”

“Maybe this teacher will be a good one.”

“I hope so; but I know he isn’t as good as Mr. Fairbanks.”

“Isn’t that he, coming up the hill?” asked Teddy Bates.

“It must be,” said John Sandford. “He bends backward just like the
deacon. Tall, too; looks like a May pole.”

Forty pairs of eyes scanned with interest the advancing figure of the
schoolmaster. He was very tall, very thin, with a pimply face, and
bright red hair, and a cast in his right eye. He would hardly have been
selected, either by a sculptor or an artist, as a model of manly beauty;
and this was the impression made upon the youthful observers.

“Ain’t he a beauty?” said Henry Frye, in a low voice.

“Beats the deacon all hollow,” said John Sandford; “and that’s saying a
good deal.”

“He’s got the family backbone,” said Julius, who had been long enough in
the town to become well acquainted with the appearance of most of the
inhabitants.

“That’s so, Julius.”

By this time the teacher had come within a few feet of his future
scholars.

“Boys,” said he, majestically, “I am Mr. Slocum, your teacher.”

The boys looked at him, and two of the younger ones said,
“Good-morning.”

“You will at once enter the schoolhouse,” said the new teacher, with
dignity.

“Isn’t the bell going to ring?” asked Henry Frye.

“Yes. On the whole, you may wait for the bell.”

He entered the schoolhouse, and a minute later reappeared at the door
ringing the bell violently.

Probably few persons are the objects of more critical attention than a
new teacher, for the pupils who are to be under his charge. It is to
many an embarrassment to be subjected to such close scrutiny, but Mr.
Theophilus Slocum rather liked it. He had an exceedingly high opinion of
himself, and fancied that others admired him as much as he admired
himself. Of his superior qualifications as a teacher he entertained not
the slightest doubt, and expected to “come, see and conquer.” He had
taught small schools twice before, and, although his success was far
from remarkable, he managed to keep the schools through to the end of
the term.

Such was the teacher who had undertaken to keep the winter term of the
principal school in Brookville.

Mr. Slocum took his place at the teacher’s desk, solemnly drew out a
large red handkerchief, and blew a sonorous blast upon his nose, and
then began to speak.

“Boys and girls,” he commenced, in a nasal voice, “I have agreed to
teach this school through the winter. They wanted me in two or three
other places, but I preferred to come here, in order to be near my
venerable relative, Deacon Slocum. I expect you to make great
improvement, considering how great will be your advantages. When I was a
boy I used to take right holt of my studies, and that’s the way I have
rose to be a teacher.” (Significant looks were exchanged between
different scholars, who were quick to detect the weakness of the
speaker.) “I was not raised in this State. I come from Maine, where I
graduated from one of the best academies in the State. I come out here,
hoping to advance the cause of education in the West. I don’t think all
the best teachers ought to stay in the East. They ought to come to the
great West, like I have, to teach the young idea how to shoot. Now, boys
and girls, that’s all I’ve got to say, except that I mean to be master.
You needn’t try to cut up any of your pranks here, for I won’t allow it.
I will form the classes, and we will begin.”

For an hour and a half the new teacher was engaged in classifying the
scholars. Then came recess, and on the play ground, as may well be
supposed, not a few remarks were made upon the new teacher, and his
speech.

“He’s a conceited jackass,” said John Sandford. “You’d think, to hear
him talk, that we had no good teachers in the West till he came.”

“He’d better have stayed where he came from,” said Henry Frye. “I don’t
believe they wanted him in two or three other places.”

“I wish he had gone to one of them, for my part. I wouldn’t cry much.
How much better Mr. Fairbanks was!”

“I should say he was,” said Tom Allen. “You wouldn’t catch him making a
jackass of himself by making such a speech.”

“I hope he knows something,” said Julius, “for I want to learn.”

“I don’t believe he does,” said John. “When a man talks so much about
what he knows, I think he’s a humbug. Did you hear what he said about
taking right ‘holt’? It seems to me a teacher from one of the best
academies in Maine ought to know better.”

“He puts on airs enough,” said Tom Allen. “If he expects he’s going to
tread us under foot, he’ll find himself mistaken.”

Tom Allen was the largest boy in school--large-framed and muscular,
through working on a farm. He was tractable if treated justly, but apt
to resist if he felt that any attempt was being made to impose upon him.
He was a little dull, but tried to improve. He was a scholar whom it was
the interest of the teacher to secure as a friend, for he could render
very efficient assistance in case of trouble. He was not particularly
pleased with the tone of the new teacher’s opening speech, regarding it
as unnecessarily aggressive, as well as betraying not a little
self-conceit. He had been a trusted supporter of Mr. Fairbanks, who had
patiently endeavored to clear up difficulties in his lessons, and, not
being naturally quick, he encountered them often. It would have been
well if Mr. Slocum had understood the wisdom of conciliating him; but
the new teacher was very deficient in good judgment and practical
wisdom, and was by no means as well versed as he pretended to be in the
studies which he had undertaken to teach. It was a proof of his want of
tact that he had begun his career by threatening the school, and
parading his authority very unnecessarily.




CHAPTER XVII.

A FIRST-CLASS HUMBUG.


Julius found, to his great satisfaction, that he was placed in a class
of boys of his own age and size, and that the lessons assigned were not
beyond his ability to learn. Teddy Bates, on the other hand, who had had
no opportunity of increasing his knowledge since his departure from New
York, was placed in the lowest class. He was astonished to find his old
companion so far above him.

“How did you do it, Julius?” he asked at recess.

“I have been studying at home ever since I came here. Mr. Taylor helped
me.”

“You didn’t know no more’n I do when you came out here.”

“That’s so, Teddy.”

“You must have studied awful hard.”

“That’s because I wanted to make up for all the time I’d lost. I was a
reg’lar know-nothing when I began.”

“Like me,” said Teddy.

“You haven’t had the same chance I have,” said Julius, wishing to save
the feelings of his friend.

“I’ve had to peg shoes all day. I didn’t get no time to study.”

“Never mind, Teddy. You’ve got a chance now. Do the best you can, and if
you get stuck, I’ll help you.”

“What a lot you must know, Julius! You’re in the highest class. Do you
think you can get along?” asked Teddy, with newborn respect for his
friend on account of his superior knowledge.

“I ain’t afraid,” said Julius, confidently. “You can work your way up,
too, if you try.”

“I ain’t as smart as you are, Julius.”

“Oh, yes, you are,” said our hero, though he secretly doubted it, and
with good reason. There was no doubt that Julius surpassed his friend,
not only in energy, but in natural talent.

The boys soon discovered that their new teacher was by no means equal in
scholarship to the favorite whom he had superseded. Notwithstanding he
had graduated, as he asserted, at one of the most celebrated academies
in Maine, he proved to be slow at figures, and very confused in his
explanations of mathematical principles. It may be well to let the
reader into a little secret. Mr. Slocum had passed a few months at an
academy in Maine, without profiting much by his advantages; and, having
had very indifferent success in teaching schools of a low grade at home,
had come out West by invitation of his uncle, under the mistaken
impression that his acquirements, though not appreciated in the East,
would give him a commanding position at the West. He was destined to
find that the West is as exacting as the East in the matter of
scholarship.

Mr. Slocum betrayed his weakness first on the second day. Frank Bent, a
member of the first class, went up to him at recess with a sum in
complex fractions.

“I don’t quite understand this sum, Mr. Slocum,” he said. “Will you
explain it to me?”

“Certainly,” said the teacher, pompously. “I dare say it seems hard to
you, but to one who has studied the higher branches of mathematics like
I have, it is, I may say, as easy as the multiplication table.”

“You must be very learned, Mr. Slocum,” said Frank, with a grave face,
but a humorous twinkle in his eye.

“That isn’t for me to say,” said Mr. Slocum, complacently. “You know the
truth shouldn’t be spoken at all times. Ahem! what sum is it that
troubles you?”

“This, sir.”

“Yes, I see.”

Mr. Slocum took up the arithmetic, and looked fixedly at the sum with an
air of profound wisdom, then turned back to the rule, looked carefully
through the specimen example done in the book, and after five minutes
remarked: “It is quite easy, that is, for me. Give me your slate.”

He worked on the sum for the remainder of the recess, referring
frequently to the book, but apparently arrived at no satisfactory
result.

“Do you find it difficult, sir?” asked Frank, mischievously.

“Certainly not,” said the teacher; “but I think I see why it is that you
didn’t get it.”

“Why, sir?”

“Because the answer in the book is wrong,” replied Mr. Slocum. “Ahem! I
have discovered other errors before. I believe I will write to the
publishers about it, Really, it ought to be corrected in the next
edition.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Frank, amused; for he didn’t credit the statement
about the error.

“What do you think Slocum says?” he said in a whisper to Julius, who sat
at the same desk with him.

“What is it?”

“He says the answer to the fifth sum is wrong in the book, and he is
going to write to the publishers about it.”

“The fifth sum! Why, I’ve done it, and got the same answer as is in the
book.”

“How did you do it?”

“Just like the rest. It’s easy enough. I’ll show you.”

“I see,” said Frank. “The teacher worked on it for ten minutes, and then
couldn’t get it. I guess he don’t know much.”

“I don’t see anything hard about it,” said Julius. “All you’ve got to do
is to follow the rule.”

“I’ll tell him you did it when we recite. See what he’ll say.”

“First class in arithmetic,” called Mr. Slocum.

The boys took their places.

“Our lesson to-day treats of complex fractions,” said Mr. Slocum,
pompously. “Does any boy know what complex means?”

“Difficult,” suggested one boy.

“Not exactly. It means complicated. That is, they are puzzling to
ordinary intellects, but very simple to those who have studied the
higher branches of mathematics, such as algebra, geometry,
triggernometry”--this was the way the teacher pronounced it--“and so
forth. I have studied them all,” he added, impressively, “because I have
a taste for mathematics. Many of you wouldn’t be able to understand such
recondite studies. I will now ask each of you to give the rule. Julius,
you may give it first.”

The rule was correctly recited by each member of the class.

“That is very well,” said Mr. Slocum, blandly. “I will now explain the
way in which the sums are done.”

Mr. Slocum went to the blackboard, and, keeping the book open, did the
sum already done in the book, giving the explanation from the page
before him.

“You see that there seems to be no difficulty,” he said, with an air of
superior knowledge. “I have, however, detected an error in the fifth
sum, about which one of the class consulted me during recess. The book
is evidently wrong, and I propose to write to the publishers, and
acquaint them with the fact.”

Here Frank Bent raised his hand.

“What is wanted?” asked the teacher.

“Julius Taylor has done the sum, and gets the same answer as the book.”

“Julius, do I understand you to say that you got the same answer as the
book?” demanded Mr. Slocum, rather discomposed. “I am afraid,” he added,
severely, “you copied the answer out of the book.”

“No, I didn’t,” said Julius, bluntly.

“You may go to the board, and perform the problem, and explain it after
you get through,” said the teacher.

Julius went to the board, and did what was required; writing down at the
close the same answer given in the book.

“Now elucidate it,” said Mr. Slocum, who, like many superficial persons,
thought that the use of long and uncommon words would impress others
with an idea of his learning.

Julius had never heard the word before, but he supposed it must mean
“explain,” and accordingly explained it--so well, that even Mr. Slocum
understood the operation, and perceived that it was correct. It was
rather an awkward situation, to admit that a pupil had succeeded where
he had failed; but Mr. Slocum was equal to the emergency.

“Ahem!” he admitted, “you are correct. I did the sum by a recondite
process which is in use in the higher branches of mathematics, and I
probably made a mistake in one of the figures, which led to a different
result. The method in the book is a much more simple one, as I explained
to you a short time ago. Frank Bent, you may take the next sum and do it
on the board.”

It so happened that Frank, who was not very strong in arithmetic, made a
mistake, and got a wrong answer.

“My answer doesn’t agree with the book,” he said.

Mr. Slocum looked at the operation; but, though his face wore an
expression of profound wisdom, it was too complex for him. He was,
however, thoroughly up in the science of sham.

“You have made a mistake,” he said, sagely. “Can any boy point it out?”

Julius raised his hand, greatly to the relief of the teacher.

“Julius, you may come up to the board, and point out the right method of
performing the sum.”

Our hero did so; thereby affording information to the teacher, as well
as to his classmates.

“Very well,” said Mr. Slocum, patronizingly. “Julius, you do me credit.
Bent, do you understand the sum now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You must pay more attention next time. You can’t do anything without
attention and talent. When I was a student at one of the most celebrated
educational institutions in Maine, I was noted for my attention. When
the principal handed me the first prize at the end of the term, he said
to me: ‘Theophilus, you have gained this testimonial by your attention
and natural talent.’ I am sorry that I left the prize at my home in
Maine. It would give me pleasure to show it to you, as it might
encourage you to go and do likewise. We will now go through the
remaining sums. John Sandford, you may try the sixth sum.”

So the recitation proceeded. In spite of his pompous words, the scholars
began to suspect that the new teacher was a first-class humbug. There is
reason to believe that they were not very far from the truth.




CHAPTER XVIII.

MR. SLOCUM’S STRATEGY.


“I don’t believe Mr. Slocum knew how to do that sum,” said Frank Bent,
at noon. “He got off by saying that he did it in another way; but I saw
him looking at the rule about forty times when he was trying to do it.
If you hadn’t done it on the board, he would have been caught.”

“Listen, boys,” said John Sandford, “I’ll put you up to a good joke. We
shall have the rest of those sums to-morrow. We’ll all pretend we can’t
do them, and ask him to explain them to us. Do you agree?”

The boys unanimously agreed.

“As he will be most likely to call on you, Julius, you must be the
individual to ask him for an explanation.”

“All right,” said Julius, who enjoyed the prospect of cornering the
teacher.

Accordingly at recess Julius went up to the teacher gravely, and said,
“Mr. Slocum, will you tell me how to do this sum?”

“Ahem! let me see it,” said the teacher.

He took the book and read the following example:

“If seven is the denominator of the following fraction, nine and
one-quarter over twelve and seven-eighths, what is its value when
reduced to a simple fraction?”

Now this ought not to present any difficulty to a teacher; but Mr.
Slocum had tried it at home, and knew he could not do it. He relied upon
some one of the scholars to do it on the board, and as he decided in his
own mind, from his experience of the day before, that Julius was most to
be relied upon, he was dismayed by receiving such an application from
our hero.

“It is rather a difficult example,” he said, slowly. “Have you tried
it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Julius had tried it, and obtained the correct answer; but this he did
not think it necessary to mention.

“Then you had better go to your desk and try again.”

“Won’t you explain it to me, sir?”

“I have not time,” said Mr. Slocum. “Besides, I think it much better
that you should find out for yourself.”

“It isn’t easy to get ahead of him,” thought Julius; “but when the class
comes up, we’ll see how he’ll get off.”

To tell the truth, though he had got off for the time being, Mr. Slocum
was rather disturbed in mind. He could not do the sum, and it was
possible he would be called upon to explain it to the class. How should
he conceal his ignorance? That was an important question. He did not
suspect that a trap had been laid for him, but supposed the question had
been asked in good faith.

At length the time came, and the class were called upon to recite.

“Julius Taylor,” said the teacher, “you may go to the board and do the
eleventh example.”

“I’ll try, sir,” said Julius.

He went up to the board and covered it with a confused mass of figures;
finally bringing out the answer one hundred and eleven over eight
hundred and forty-six.

“I haven’t got the same answer as the book, Mr. Slocum,” he said.

“You have probably made some mistake in the figures,” said the teacher.

“I am not sure that I have done it the right way, sir.”

Mr. Slocum scanned with a look of impressive wisdom the confused figures
on the board, and said: “You are right in principle, but there is an
error somewhere.”

“Would you be kind enough to point it out, sir?” asked Julius, demurely.

“Is there any one in the class who has obtained the correct answer to
this sum?” asked the teacher, hoping to see a hand raised.

Not one of the class responded.

“You may all bring up your slates and do it at the same time, while
Julius does it again on the board,” he said.

Five minutes passed, and by agreement every one announced a wrong
answer. The boys thought Mr. Slocum would now be forced to explain. But
the pedagogue was too wise to attempt what he knew was impossible.

“I see,” said the teacher, “that these sums are too difficult for the
class. I shall put you back at the beginning of fractions.”

This announcement was heard by most of the boys with dismay. Many of
them could only attend school in the winter, and wanted to make as much
progress as they could in the three months to which they were limited.
Among the most disappointed was Julius. He saw that his practical joke
on the teacher was likely to cost him dear, and he resolved to sacrifice
it.

“I think I can do it now, sir,” he said. “I have just thought of the
way.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Slocum, much relieved; “you may do it.”

Our hero at once performed the sum correctly, obtaining the same answer
as the book.

“I’ve got it,” he said.

“You may explain it to the class,” said the teacher.

Julius did so.

“That is the result of perseverance,” said Mr. Slocum, “I was always
persevering. When I was connected with a celebrated institution of
learning in the State of Maine, the principal one day said to me:
‘Theophilus, I never knew a more persevering boy than you are. You never
allow any difficulties to stand in your way. You persevere till you have
conquered them.’ Once, at the end of the arithmetic--a more difficult
one than this--there was a very hard example, which none of the other
boys could do; but I sat up till one o’clock at night and did it. Such
are the results of perseverance.”

“May we go on where we are?” asked Julius, “and not go back to the
beginning of fractions?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Slocum, “since you have shown that you can persevere. I
could easily have explained the sum to you at once; but what good would
it have done you? You could not have done the next. Now that you have
got it out yourself, I think I am justified in letting you advance.”

So Mr. Slocum triumphed; but not one of the class credited his
statement. It was clear to all that he had been “stuck,” and did not
dare attempt the sum for fear of failing.

“You had to back down, and do the sum after all, Julius,” said Frank
Bent.

“Yes; I didn’t want the class put back to the beginning of fractions.”

“The master was pretty well cornered, I wondered how he would get out.”

“I hope he knows more about other things than arithmetic.”

“I wish we had Mr. Fairbanks back again. He had the whole arithmetic by
heart. There wasn’t a sum he couldn’t do; though he didn’t brag about
it, like Mr. Slocum. He knew how to explain so a feller couldn’t help
understand him.”

In the afternoon Mr. Slocum had another chance to boast. This time it
was about his travels, which, by the way, were limited to his journey
from Maine, by way of New York. But the city of New York, in which he
spent two days, had impressed him very much, and he was proud of having
visited it.

“What is the largest city in the United States, Julius?” asked the
teacher; though this question was not included in the lesson.

“New York.”

“Quite correct. New York is indeed a vast city. I am quite familiar with
it, having spent some time there not long since. I expect you have not
any of you had the privilege of visiting this great city.” Here Julius
and Teddy Bates exchanged glances of amusement.

“New York contains a great variety of beautiful edifices,” continued Mr.
Slocum, complacently. “I used often to walk up Broadway, and survey the
beautiful stores. I made some purchases at the store of the celebrated
A. T. Stewart, whom you have heard of frequently.”

Mr. Slocum’s extensive purchases to which he alluded consisted of a
handkerchief, for which he paid fifty cents.

“It is very beneficial to travel,” continued Mr. Slocum. “It enlarges
the mind, and stores it with useful information. We cannot all travel,
for travel is expensive; but I think teachers ought to travel, as it
enables them to illustrate lessons in geography by their own
observations in distant cities and remote lands.”

Here Frank Bent raised his hand.

“Will you tell us some more about New York, sir?”

Mr. Slocum was flattered; and with a preliminary flourish proceeded: “I
am glad you desire to acquire information; it is a very laudable
ambition. I stopped at one of the finest hotels in New York, located on
Chatham Avenue, a broad and fashionable thoroughfare, lined with stately
stores.”

Here Julius and Teddy found it difficult to repress their laughter, but
by an effort succeeded.

“Did you go to the Grand Duke’s Oprea House?” Julius asked, raising his
hand.

“To be sure,” said Mr. Slocum, supposing it to be a fashionable place of
amusement. “It is an elegant structure, worthy of the great city in
which it is erected. I never visited Europe, but I am told that none of
the capital cities of the Old World can surpass it in grandeur.”

This was intensely amusing to Julius, who remembered the humble basement
in Baxter Street, described in our early chapters, as the “Grand Duke’s
Oprea House.” He concluded that Mr. Slocum’s knowledge of New York was
about on a par with his knowledge of complex fractions.




CHAPTER XIX.

MR. SLOCUM AS AN ORATOR.


“Next Wednesday afternoon the boys will all speak pieces,” Mr. Slocum
announced. “You may select any pieces you please. At the celebrated
institution in Maine, from which I graduated, we used to speak pieces
every week. You may be interested to know that your teacher gained a
great reputation by his speaking. ‘Theophilus,’ said the principal to me
one day, I never had a student under my instruction who could equal you
in speaking. There is no one who can do such justice to Daniel Webster,
and other great orators of antiquity. You are a natural orator, and
eloquence comes natural to you.’ This was a high compliment, as you will
agree; but it was deserved. The principal put it to vote whether a prize
should be offered for speaking, but the students voted against it;
‘for,’ they said, ‘Slocum will be sure to get it, and it will do us no
good.’ I hope, boys, you will do your best, so that I may be able to
compliment you.”

The scholars were not a little amused at this illustration of their
teacher’s self-conceit, which was quite in keeping with previous
exhibitions of the same weakness.

“I wish Mr. Slocum would favor us with a specimen of his declamation,”
said John Sandford, at recess.

“He must be a regular steam engine,” said Walter Pratt; “that is,
according to his own account.”

“The principal of the celebrated institution in Maine thought a good
deal of Theophilus,” said Julius.

“What a phenomenon he must have been!” said Tom Allen. “He appears to
have stood first in everything.”

“But he seems to forget easy,” said Frank Bent. “Complex fractions are
too much for him.”

“Well, how about asking him to speak?” resumed John Sandford. “Who goes
in for it?”

“I,” said Julius.

“And I.”

“And I.”

“Who shall go up and ask him?”

“Go yourself, John.”

“All right, boys. I’ll do it, if you say so. But I am afraid I can’t
keep a straight face.”

So John went back into school just before the bell rang, and approached
the teacher’s desk.

“What’s wanted, Sandford?” said Mr. Slocum.

“The boys want to know, Mr. Slocum, if you will be willing to speak a
piece for us on Wednesday. You see, sir, we never heard any good
speaking, and we think it would improve us if we could hear a good
speaker now and then.”

As may be inferred from his habit of boasting, Mr. Slocum was very
accessible to flattery, and listened graciously to this request. John
was perfectly sober, though he was laughing inside, as he afterward
said; and the teacher never dreamed of a plot to expose and ridicule
him.

“You are quite right, Sandford,” said he, graciously; “it would
undoubtedly be very beneficial to you, and I will look over one of my
old pieces, and see if I can remember it. I am glad to see that the boys
are anxious to improve in the important branch of declamation.”

John carried to the boys the news of his success, which was received
with a great deal of interest. Though most of the boys thought it
irksome to commit a piece to memory, and had no ambition to become
orators, all went to work willingly, feeling that they should be repaid
by hearing the “master” speak.

“Speaking” was new business to Julius. During his very brief school
attendance in New York he had not been sufficiently advanced to declaim,
and he felt a little apprehensive about his success. He chose an extract
from one of Webster’s speeches, and carefully committed it, reciting it
at home to Mr. Taylor, from whom he received several suggestions, which
he found of value. The result was that he acquitted himself quite
creditably.

“I wonder whether the master’ll speak first,” said John Sandford, and
there were others who wondered also; but Mr. Slocum had not announced
his intentions on this point. But when the scholars were assembled on
Wednesday afternoon, he said: “I have promised you that I will give you
this afternoon a specimen of my speaking, and I have selected one of the
pieces that I was distinguished for, when I was connected with one of
the most celebrated institutions in the State of Maine. I will wait,
however, until you are all through, as I do not like to discourage you
in your inexperienced efforts. I will wind up the speaking by ascending
the rostrum after your declamation is finished.”

One after another the boys spoke. One boy, of thirteen, rather
inappropriately had selected the well-known little poem, commencing

    “You’d scarce expect one of my age
     To speak in public on the stage.”

“That piece is rather too young for you,” said Mr. Slocum, when he had
taken his seat. “I remember speaking that piece when I was two years
old. I was considered a very forward baby, and my parents were very
proud of me; so they invited some company, and in the course of the
evening they stood me up on a table, and I spoke the piece you have just
listened to. Even now I can remember, though it is so long ago, how the
company applauded, and how the minister came up to me, and, putting his
hand on my head, said: ‘Theophilus, the day will come when your father
will be proud of you. You will live to be a credit to the whole Slocum
family.’ Then he turned to my father, and said: ‘Mr. Slocum, I
congratulate you on the brilliant success of your promising son. He is
indeed a juvenile “progedy”’”--this was Mr. Slocum’s word--“‘and the
world will yet hear of him.’ Such was my first introduction to the world
as an orator, and I have always enjoyed speaking from that time. I hope
that some of my pupils will also become distinguished in the same way.”

“I wish he’d speak that piece now,” whispered Julius to his next
neighbor.

“Isn’t he a conceited jackass?” was the reply.

“He must have been a beautiful baby,” said Julius, comically.

“A regular phenomenon in petticoats.”

“What are you laughing at?” demanded Mr. Slocum, sternly.

“Julius said he wished you would speak that piece you spoke when you
were two years old.”

“It wouldn’t be appropriate,” said the teacher, seriously. “I like best
now to declaim the sonorous sentences of Daniel Webster and Patrick
Henry. If I should ever enter public life, as my friends have tried at
times to persuade me, I think I should adopt their style. Frank Bent, it
is your turn to speak.”

At last the scholars had all spoken, and in expectant silence Mr.
Slocum’s “piece” was awaited by the boys.

“Boys,” he said, arising with dignity, and advancing to the platform, “I
should like to speak a piece from Webster; but I have forgotten those I
once knew, and I will favor you with one of a lighter character, called
‘The Seminole’s Reply.’”

Mr. Slocum took his place on the rostrum, as he liked to call it, made a
low bow to the boys, struck an attitude, and began to declaim at the top
of his voice. The first two stanzas are quoted here, in order to show
more clearly the character of Mr. Slocum’s declamation:

    “Blaze, with your serried columns!
       I will not bend the knee!
     The shackles ne’er again shall bind
       The arm which now is free.
     I’ve mailed it with the thunder,
       When the tempest muttered low,
     And when it falls, ye well may dread
       The lightning of its blow!

    “I’ve seared ye in the city,
       I’ve scalped ye on the plain;
     Go, count your chosen, where they fell
       Beneath my leaden rain!
     I scorn your proffered treaty!
       The paleface I defy!
     Revenge is stamped upon my spear,
       And blood my battle cry!”

No fault could be found with Mr. Slocum on the score of animation. He
exerted his voice to the utmost, stamped with his foot, and when he
came to “the arm which now is free,” he shook his first at the boys in a
most savage way. But his most effective gesture occurred in the second
line of the second verse, where, in illustrating the act of scalping, he
gathered with one hand his luxuriant red hair, and with the other made a
pass at it with an imaginary tomahawk.

The boys cheered vociferously, which encouraged Mr. Slocum to further
exertions. Nothing could exceed the impressive dignity with which he
delivered the concluding half of the fourth stanza:

    “But I stand as should the warrior,
       With his rifle and his spear;
     The scalp of vengeance still is red
       And warns ye, Come not here!”

The gravity of the boys, however, was endangered by a too appropriate
gesture. When Mr. Slocum wished to designate the scalp of vengeance as
still red, he pointed to his own hair, which, as has been said, was of a
decided red tint.

The two concluding lines of the poem, as many of my readers, to whom it
is familiar, will doubtless remember, are these:

    “But I’ll swim the sea of slaughter,
      Till I sink beneath its wave.”

This Mr. Slocum illustrated by going through the motions of swimming
with his hands, much to the delight of the boys.

When the orator had concluded his effort, and with a low bow resumed his
seat, the boys applauded uproariously. Mr. Slocum’s vanity was
flattered, and he arose to acknowledge the compliment.

“Boys,” he said, “I am glad to find that you appreciate my efforts to
instruct you. Don’t be discouraged because you cannot yet speak as well
as I do. Keep on in your efforts. Let your motto ever be Excelsior! and
the time will perhaps come when you will receive the applause of
listening multitudes. The school is now dismissed.”

“Wasn’t it rich, Julius?” asked John Sandford, when they were walking
home. “I never wanted to laugh so much in all my life. But the best of
it was about the red scalp.”

“You’re envious, John. That’s the reason you ridicule Mr. Slocum’s
speaking. I’m afraid you’ll never be as great an orator as he is.”

“I hope not,” said John.




CHAPTER XX.

MR. SLOCUM’S PANIC.


Had Mr. Slocum become in after years a distinguished man, and in due
time a biography had been called for, some one of the scholars who had
the great privilege of receiving his instructions would have been
admirably qualified, so far as information went, to perform the task of
writing it; for, as we have seen, the teacher took frequent occasion to
illustrate points that came up in the day’s lessons by narratives drawn
from his own personal experience. One day, for instance, when in the
class in geography a certain locality was spoken of as abounding in
bears, Mr. Slocum indulged in a reminiscence.

Laying down the book on his desk, he said: “I myself once had an
adventure with a bear, which I will narrate for your entertainment.”

Mr. Slocum’s stories were always listened to with close attention, in
the confident expectation that they would be found to redound greatly to
his credit. So the boys looked up, and exhibited a gratifying interest
on the part of the class.

“You must know,” said the teacher, “that we have extensive forests in
Maine, in some of which wild animals are to be found. One day, when a
mere boy, I wandered into the woods with some of my school companions.
We were hunting for squirrels. All at once an immense bear walked around
from behind a tree, and faced us, not more than fifty feet away. Most of
the boys were frightened, for we had no guns with us. We knew that if we
climbed the trees the bear could climb after us. So, as they looked upon
me as a leader, they turned to me, and said, ‘Theophilus, what shall we
do? The bear will kill us,’ and one of the smallest boys began to cry.
But I was not frightened,” continued Mr. Slocum, impressively. “I was
always noted for my presence of mind even as a boy.

“‘Don’t be frightened, boys,’ I said, ‘I will save you.’

“I had heard that nearly all beasts are afraid of the human eye. So I
advanced slowly toward the savage beast, fixing my eye sternly upon him
all the while.”

Here Mr. Slocum glared upon the boys, by way of illustrating the manner
in which he regarded the bear.

“The result was what I expected. The bear tried to sustain my steady
gaze, but in vain. Slowly he turned, and sought the solitudes of the
forest, leaving us in safety. When my companions found that they were
saved, they crowded around me, and said, with tears in their eyes,
‘Theophilus, you have saved our lives!’ When we returned home,” Mr.
Slocum added, complacently, “the fame of my bravery got about, and the
parents of the boys clubbed together, and bought a gold medal, which
they presented to me out of gratitude for what I had done.”

“Have you got it with you, sir?” asked one of the class.

“I am sorry to say that I have not,” answered the teacher. “I was afraid
I might lose it, and so I left it on deposit in a bank, before I left
Maine for the West.”

“Do you believe that bear story, John?” asked Julius, of John Sandford,
when they were walking home from school together.

“No, I don’t.”

“Nor do I.”

“The fact is, Mr. Slocum is the biggest blower I ever met with. I don’t
believe half the stories that he tells about himself. If they were true,
he would be, I think, one of the most remarkable men that ever lived. I
don’t believe he’s as brave as he pretends.”

“Suppose we find out.”

“How can we?”

“Has he ever seen your bear?”

“I don’t think he has. We never let it out into the road.”

“Can’t we manage to have him fall in with the bear some evening, John?”
asked Julius. “It would be fun to see him try to stare the old fellow
out of countenance.”

“That’s a splendid idea, Julius. I’m in for it, but I don’t see exactly
how we can manage it.”

“I’ll tell you. He goes by your house sometimes in the evening, doesn’t
he?”

“Yes. He told me once he walked in order to commune with Nature.”

“Well, I propose that he shall commune with the bear once, by way of
variety.”

“Tell me what to do, and I will do it.”

“Have the bear close by, and just after he has passed let him out--the
bear, I mean. Then run by Mr. Slocum, appearing to be in a great fright,
and tell him there’s a bear after him.”

“Good!” said John, shaking with laughter. “But you must help me.”

“So I will.”

“It will be easier for one reason,” said John. “I have taught the bear
to run after me, and as soon as he sees me ahead he will begin to run
too.”

“Let it be to-morrow evening. What time does Mr. Slocum go by?”

“About seven o’clock.”

“I’ll be around at your house then at half-past six.”

“Would you tell the rest of the boys?”

“Not till afterward. If they come around, and there is a crowd, we may
not be able to carry out our plan.”

“He’ll be mad with us when he finds out our game.”

“Let him be mad. We’ll look him in the eye, and he’ll turn tail and
flee.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The next evening two boys might have been seen crouching behind the wall
bordering a large field belonging to Mr. Sandford. The bear was
peacefully reclining beside them. From time to time the boys took
observations, with a view to discover whether the enemy was in sight.

“I am afraid he isn’t coming,” said Julius. “That would be a joke on
us.”

“He can’t be so mean, when we have made such preparations to receive
him.”

“I think he would if he only knew what they are.”

“Hush! there he is.”

In the distance the stately figure of the teacher was seen, walking with
dignified composure. Mr. Theophilus Slocum always walked as if he felt
that the eyes of the world were upon him. He realized that he was a
personage of no little importance, and that it behooved him to shape his
walk and conversation accordingly.

The hearts of the boys beat high with anticipation. At length they heard
the teacher go by.

“Now for it!” said Julius.

“Now is the time to try men’s soles!” said John. “Can you run?”

“You’ll see.”

Through an opening they emerged into the road, followed by the bear. Mr.
Slocum was now about fifty feet in advance.

“Now scream!” said Julius.

The boys uttered a shriek, and began to run at the top of their speed.
The bear, as he had been trained, tried to keep up with them. Mr. Slocum
turned around, and saw the fleeing boys, and behind them the huge,
unwieldy bear getting rapidly over the ground. He knew it was a bear,
for he had once seen one at a menagerie.

“Oh, Mr. Slocum, save us!” implored Julius, appearing greatly
frightened.

“There’s a bear after us,” chimed in John. “Don’t let him kill us.”

Now the teacher had never heard of Mr. Sandford’s bear. He was not aware
that one was kept in the village. He supposed that this one had strayed
from the forest, and was dangerous. Alas! that I should record
it--instead of bravely turning, and facing the animal, Theophilus turned
pale with terror, and exerting his long limbs to the utmost, fled
incontinently, shooting ahead of the boys, whom he didn’t pause to
rescue, coattails flying, and, having lost his hat in his flight, with
his red hair waving in the wind.

When John and Julius saw the tall figure speeding before them, and saw
the panic into which their eminent instructor had been thrown through
their mischievous means, a sense of the ridiculous so overcame them that
they sank down in the path, convulsed with laughter. But Mr. Slocum
didn’t see this, for he never stopped till he had run half a mile, when
he bolted into the village store, panting and out of breath, and
answered the eager inquiries of the men who were congregated there, by
giving an alarming account of a ferocious bear which had closely pursued
him for two miles.

“Is it Sandford’s bear?” asked one of his auditors.

“Does Mr. Sandford keep a bear?” asked Theophilus.

“Yes; he has a large one. But it is quite tame. It wouldn’t hurt a
child.”

“Why,” said the teacher, bewildered, “Mr. Sandford’s son, John, was
running away from him. Julius Taylor was with him. They told me that a
bear was after them, and asked me to save them.”

Mr. Slocum was hardly prepared for the laugh which followed. The joke
was understood at once.

“I think, Mr. Slocum,” said the storekeeper, “that the boys were playing
a trick upon you. They probably let out the bear just after you passed
by. You didn’t stop to save them, did you?”

“No,” stammered Theophilus, beginning to look foolish, for he, too,
understood the joke now, and saw that it would be hard to reconcile his
conduct this evening with his bravery as a boy.

For almost the first time in his life he had absolutely nothing to say.
He left the store, and retraced his steps in the hope of finding his
hat. In this he was successful, but neither John, Julius, nor the bear
was visible. The boys were in Mr. Sandford’s barn, laughing over the
joke, and beginning to wonder whether Mr. Slocum would say anything
about it in school the next day.




CHAPTER XXI.

A REVOLUTION IN SCHOOL.


Mr. Slocum was terribly annoyed by what had happened. It seemed
impossible to explain his flight in any way that would reflect credit
upon himself. He could not pretend that it was all a joke, for he had
shown himself too much in earnest in the village store, where he had
taken refuge, for this to be believed. Though not remarkable for sense,
Mr. Slocum knew that if he should undertake to punish Julius and John
for their agency in the affair, he would only give it greater publicity.
He felt a strong desire to do this, however, and would have derived
great comfort from flogging them both. Finally he decided not to refer
to the matter in school, and in this decision he was unusually discreet.

Of course Julius and John did not keep the matter secret. When Mr.
Slocum came up the school-house hill, the next morning, there was not a
scholar in the school who had not heard of his adventure, and the
teacher, in his hurried glance at his pupils, detected a look of sly
meaning, which revealed to him the fact that all was known. Julius and
John were among the rest, looking very demure and innocent. Mr. Slocum
saw them, too, out of the corner of his eye, and he determined to seize
the first chance that presented itself of flogging each.

The school opened. Julius was doubtful whether any reference would be
made to the bear. He rather expected a speech, but Mr. Slocum
disappointed him. He heard the classes as usual, but refrained from
making any remarks of a biographical character. His self-complacency had
been severely disturbed, and he looked severe and gloomy.

He watched Julius and John, hoping to detect something in their conduct
which would justify him in punishing them; but they, too, were unusually
quiet, as rogues are apt to be just after a successful trick.

At length, however, something happened which led to an explosion.

Tom Allen, who has been described as the oldest and largest boy in
school, sat directly behind Julius. He was not a brilliant scholar, but
he had a keen sense of the ludicrous, and had been very much amused by
the account of the teacher’s narrow escape from Mr. Sandford’s bear. He
had a little taste for drawing, of which he occasionally made use. After
finishing his sums, having a few idle moments, he occupied himself with
drawing on his slate a caricature of Mr. Slocum pursued by the bear.
There was enough resemblance in the portraits, both of the man and the
animal, to make the subject of the picture unmistakable. It was, as was
natural, slightly caricatured, so that the effect was ludicrous.

Desiring his effort to be appreciated, he passed the slate to Julius,
who sat in front of him. Our hero was easy to make laugh, and he no
sooner cast his eyes over the picture than he burst into audible
laughter. This was the occasion that Mr. Slocum had been waiting for.
Laughter was against the rules of the school--it was disorderly--and
would give him an excuse for the punishment he was so strongly desirous
of inflicting. He strode to the desk of Julius while the latter was
still looking at the slate. Mr. Slocum, too, saw it, and his fury was
increased, for he recognized the subject only too well.

Seizing Julius by the collar, he jerked him out upon the floor, saying,
in a voice of concentrated passion: “So, sir, you are drawing pictures
instead of studying. I’ll give you a lesson.”

“I didn’t draw it,” said Julius.

“I’ll flog you for telling a lie,” exclaimed the excited teacher.

Julius was about to repeat his disclaimer, but it was made unnecessary.
Tom Allen arose quietly in his seat, and said: “Julius is perfectly
right, Mr. Slocum; he didn’t draw the picture.”

“Who did, then?” asked the teacher, pausing in his contemplated
punishment.

“I did,” said Tom, coolly. “If you want to punish anybody for doing it,
you’ll have to punish me.”

This was very disagreeable intelligence for Mr. Slocum. Tom Allen was a
stout, broad-shouldered, immensely powerful young fellow, standing five
feet ten inches in his stockings. There are few teachers who would not
have fought shy of punishing, or attempting to punish, such a formidable
scholar. Mr. Slocum was disconcerted at the interruption, and did not
care about undertaking such a doubtful job. Neither did he want to
release Julius from his clutches. He knew that he could punish him, and
he meant to do it. A lucky thought came to him.

“I do not punish him for drawing the picture,” he said, “but for
disturbing the order of the school by laughing at it.”

“I couldn’t help laughing at it,” exclaimed our hero.

“Nor could any of the other scholars,” said Tom Allen; and taking the
slate from the desk before him, he held it up, and exhibited it to the
other scholars. It was recognized at once, and there was a general shout
of laughter.

Mr. Slocum looked about him with an angry scowl, and his temper was
fairly aroused, so that he became, to a certain extent, regardless of
consequences.

“I won’t let you off,” he said to Julius, tightening his grasp on the
boy’s collar.

“What are you punishing him for?” asked Tom Allen, quietly.

“For laughing out in school.”

“The rest of the scholars have done the same. Are you going to punish
them, too?”

“I shall punish some of them,” said the teacher, with a smile of
complacent malice. “John Sandford laughed loudest. His turn will come
next.”

By this time it was very clear to all present what the two boys were to
be punished for. The laughing was only a pretext. They were to be
flogged for their participation in the practical joke of the day before.

“Mr. Slocum,” said Tom Allen, “I am the greatest offender. The boys only
laughed, but I drew the picture.”

“You did not laugh,” said Mr. Slocum, uneasily.

“Still, if anybody is to be punished, I am the one. Here is my hand. You
may ferule me, if you like.”

Tom Allen’s hand was hardened by labor, and he would not have minded the
feruling in the least. But Mr. Slocum had no desire to ferule Tom. His
animosity was not excited against him, but against Julius and John. He
wanted to punish them, and so wipe out the grudge he had against them.

“I don’t choose to punish you,” said Theophilus, “though you have been
guilty of inciting disorder.”

“Why not?” asked Tom. “I shall not resist; that is, if you only ferule
me.”

“There is no need of giving my reasons,” said Mr. Slocum, stubbornly. “I
have on more than one occasion noticed the insubordinate spirit of
Julius Taylor and John Sandford; and it is due to myself that I should
punish them, and I intend to do it now.”

He was preparing to punish Julius, and evidently would not have spared
the rod to spoil the child, when Tom Allen interfered again.

“Mr. Slocum,” said he, stepping out from behind the desk, “I’ve got a
word to say in this matter. You shall not punish Julius!”

“What!” roared Theophilus, almost foaming at the mouth. “Do you know
whom you are talking to?”

“I know that I am talking to a man in a passion, who wants to do an
injustice,” said Tom. “I am willing to do what’s right, and I have
offered to let you ferule me; but I won’t stand by and see an innocent
boy suffer for what he couldn’t help.”

“You are a rebel! I will expel you from school!” exclaimed Mr. Slocum.

“I won’t go,” said Tom, “as long as there are boys here who need my
protection. I have got Julius into a scrape, and I won’t let him be
punished for my fault. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

“And this is what I’ve got to say,” retorted the furious teacher,
bringing down the rod on the shoulders of Julius, who was struggling in
his grasp.

Then Tom Allen thought it was time to act. He tore the rod from Mr.
Slocum’s grasp, and flung it to the other side of the room. The
astonished teacher loosened his grasp, and Tom, forcibly drawing him
away, told him to take his seat. Then Mr. Slocum lost all prudence. His
face fiery with rage, he pitched into Tom Allen, and there was a
rough-and-tumble fight, in which Tom had the best of it. At this most
unlucky time one of the trustees, the Rev. Mr. Brandon, entered the
schoolroom on a visit of inspection, and stood appalled at the spectacle
before him.

“Good heavens! Mr. Slocum, what does this mean?” he ejaculated.

Mr. Slocum started as if he had been shot, and turned his perturbed
countenance toward the trustee.

“It means that there is a rebellion in school,” he said.

An immediate inquiry was instituted, and Mr. Brandon was at last made
acquainted with the circumstances.

“I think, Mr. Slocum,” he said, “you had better dismiss the school, and
I will call a meeting of the trustees for this evening at my house. I
will ask you to be present; also four of your scholars, including Thomas
Allen, Julius Taylor, and any two others whom you may select.”

It needs only to be said that, it being made clear to the trustees that
Mr. Slocum was incompetent to teach the school, taking into
consideration his literary qualifications alone, he was recommended to
resign; and next week, to the joy of the scholars, Dexter Fairbanks, the
former popular teacher, was installed in his place.

Mr. Slocum did not remain long in Brookville. Whether he went farther
West, or returned to Maine, was not ascertained, and few of his pupils
cared to inquire.




CHAPTER XXII.

AN INDIAN’S REVENGE.


After Mr. Fairbanks assumed charge of the school there was no further
trouble. He was a teacher of large experience, good judgment, and a
happy faculty of imparting what he knew. He was not a man of extensive
acquirements, but he was thoroughly versed in all the branches he was
required to teach. Though he never boasted of his remarkable
achievements, like his predecessor, his pupils had far greater
confidence in his knowledge.

Julius learned rapidly under his care. After the winter term was over
Mr. Fairbanks was induced to open a private school by those who thought
the more of him from comparing him with his predecessor; and to this
school Julius also was sent. But, though his progress was steady, no
events of interest call for mention here. He became popular with his
schoolfellows, distinguishing himself in the playground as well as the
classroom. Nearly all the street phrases which he carried to the West
with him dropped away, and only now and then did he betray the manner of
his former life.

Having written so much to let my readers know how Julius was advancing,
I pass to describe a character who has something to do with my story.
Though no tribe of Indians was settled near Brookville, single
representatives of the race, from time to time, visited the
village--occasionally with baskets of beadwork to sell, occasionally in
the less honorable character of mendicant. Most were subject to the
curse which civilization brought with it to these children of the
forest, namely, the love of strong drink; and a large portion of
whatever money they received was spent for what the Indian appropriately
calls fire water.

It was on a day in the following summer that a tall Indian, wrapped in a
dirty blanket, presented himself at the back door of Mr. Taylor’s house.
His features were bloated, and clearly indicated his habits. His
expression otherwise was far from prepossessing, and the servant, who
answered his call, looked at him rather uneasily, knowing that her
mistress, herself and little Carrie were alone in the house. Mr. Taylor
had gone to a neighboring town and taken Julius with him, while Abner
was in the fields.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Money,” said the Indian, laconically.

“I have no money,” she answered. “I will give you something to eat.”

“Want money,” repeated the Indian.

“I’ll go and ask my mistress,” said Jane.

Mrs. Taylor, on being informed of the matter, went herself to the door.
Little Carrie’s curiosity had been aroused, and she asked if she might
go too. As there seemed to be no objection, Mrs. Taylor took the little
girl by the hand, and presented herself at the door.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, of her dusky visitor.

“No; want money,” was the reply.

“I am not in the habit of giving money at the door. My husband does not
approve of it,” she answered.

“Go ask him,” said the Indian.

“He is not at home,” she answered, incautiously; “but I am sure he would
not be willing to have me give you any money.”

As soon as she had admitted the absence of her husband she realized her
imprudence. There was a scarcely perceptible gleam of exultation in the
eye of the Indian as he heard what was so favorable to his purpose. A
man would be in his way, but a woman he could frighten.

“Must have money; must have two dollar,” he reiterated.

“What do you want money for?” asked Mrs. Taylor.

“Buy rum--good!”

“Then I am sure I shall give you none. Rum is bad,” said Mrs. Taylor.

“It makes Indian feel good.”

“It may for the time, but it will hurt you afterward. I will give you
some meat and some coffee. That is better than rum.”

“Don’t want it,” said the Indian, obstinately. “Want money.”

“You’d better give it to him, ma’am, and let him go,” said Jane, in a
low voice.

“No,” said Mrs. Taylor; “Mr. Taylor is very much opposed to it. The last
time I gave money he blamed me very much. If he is not satisfied with
coffee and meat I shall give him nothing.”

“Ugh! Ugh!” grunted the Indian, evidently angry.

“I’m afraid of him, mamma. He’s so ugly,” said Carrie, timidly, clinging
to her mother’s hand.

“He won’t hurt you, my darling,” said Mrs. Taylor.

But the Indian had caught the little girl’s words, and probably
understood them. He scowled at her, and this terrified the child still
more.

“Will you have some coffee?” Mrs. Taylor asked once more.

“No; rum.”

“I have no rum to give you.”

“Money.”

“Neither shall I give you money.”

The Indian emitted a guttural sound, probably indicating
dissatisfaction, and turned slowly away.

“I am glad he is gone,” said Mrs. Taylor. “I don’t like his looks.”

“Is he a bad man?” asked Carrie.

“I don’t know, my dear, but he likes to drink rum.”

“Then he must be bad.”

“He’s the worst lookin’ Indian I ever see,” said Jane. “I don’t want to
set my eyes upon him again. He ought to be ashamed, goin’ round askin’
for money, a great, strong man like him. Why don’t he work?”

“Indians are not very fond of working, I believe, Jane.”

“If he wants money, he might make baskets.”

“Why didn’t you tell him so?”

“I was afraid to. He looked so wicked.”

So the subject was dismissed. They supposed that the Indian was gone,
and that they would not hear from him again. But they had forgotten that
the red man is quick to take offense, and is revengeful by nature. They
did not suspect that he was even then planning a revenge which would
strike anguish into the heart of all in the household.

The Indian had not gone away, as they supposed. He was still hovering
about the house, though he carefully avoided observation. He had been
greatly incensed at the persistent refusal of Mrs. Taylor to supply him
with rum, or the means of purchasing it. Years before he had become a
slave to the accursed fire water, and it had become a passion with him
to gratify his thirst. But it could not be obtained without money, and
money was not to be had except by working for it, or by begging. Of
these two methods the Indian preferred the last.

“Work is for squaws!” he said, in a spiteful and contemptuous manner.
“It is not for warriors.”

But John, as he was sometimes called, did not look like the noble
warriors whom Cooper describes. He was a shaggy vagabond, content to
live on the alms he could obtain from the whites in the towns which he
visited. As for lodgings, he was forced to lie down in his blanket
wherever he could find the shelter of a tree or a forest.

The sight of the child had suggested to John a notable revenge. He could
steal the little child, who had called him an ugly man--an expression
which he understood. Thus he could wring the mother’s heart, and obtain
revenge. There would be little danger of interference, for he knew that
Mr. Taylor was away.

Mrs. Taylor and Carrie went back to the sitting-room where the mother
resumed her sewing, and Carrie began to play with her blocks on the
floor. Neither of them suspected that, just outside, the Indian was
crouching, and that from time to time he glanced into the room to watch
his chances of carrying out his plan.

By and by Carrie grew sleepy, as children are apt to do in the hot
summer afternoons, and when they are tired.

“Lie down on the sofa, my darling,” said her mother.

“So I will, mother,” said Carrie. “I am very hot and sleepy.”

She lay down, and her mother tenderly placed a cushion under the little,
weary head.

Soon Carrie was wrapped in the deep, unconscious sleep of childhood. The
Indian, with a look of satisfaction, beheld her repose, as he stole a
glance through the window.

Soon Mrs. Taylor thought of a direction she wished to give Jane.
Glancing at little Carrie, she left the room, knowing that the child
would not miss her.

No sooner had she left the room than the Indian, who had been waiting
for this, sprang in through the open window, clasped the unconscious
child in his arms, whose slumber was too profound to be disturbed even
by this action, and in a moment was out on the lawn, speeding rapidly
away with the little girl in his arms.

Suspecting no harm, Mrs. Taylor remained absent for fifteen minutes,
then returning, her first glance was at the sofa, where she had left
Carrie. Her heart gave a sudden bound when she discovered her absence.
But even then she did not suspect the truth. She thought the child might
have waked up, and gone upstairs.

“Carrie! Carrie!” she called out, in the greatest uncertainty and alarm.

But there was no answer.

She summoned Jane, and together they hunted high and low for the little
girl, but in vain.

Then first a suspicion of the truth came to her.

“The Indian has carried her off!” she exclaimed in anguish, and sank
fainting to the floor.




CHAPTER XXIII.

KIDNAPPED.


The Indian was fleet-footed, like most of his race. After obtaining
possession of the child, he struck across the fields, for on the public
road he would have been liable to be seen and stopped. Little Carrie was
in the deep sleep of childhood, and did not awake for some time. This of
course was favorable to his design, for he had over a mile to go before
he reached the woods, in which the instinct of his race led him to take
refuge. It was not till a stray twig touched her cheek that the little
girl awoke.

Opening her eyes, her glance rested on the dark face of the Indian, and,
as might have been expected, she uttered a shriek of terror. At the same
time she tried to get away.

“Put me down,” she cried in her fright.

“Not yet,” said the Indian.

“Where are you taking me, you ugly Indian? I want to go to my mamma.”

“No go,” said the Indian.

“I want to go home,” said Carrie; and she renewed her efforts to get
away.

“No go home. Stay with John,” said the Indian.

“I don’t want to stay with you. Take me home.”

“No take home,” said the Indian; but he put her down, tired perhaps with
carrying her.

Carrie looked about her bewildered. All about her were thick woods, and
she could not see her way out. She did not know in what direction lay
the home to which she was so anxious to return, but she thought it might
be in the direction from which they had come. She started to run, but in
an instant the Indian was at her side. He seized her hand in his firm
grasp, and frowned upon her.

“Where go?” he asked.

“Home to my mamma.”

“No go,” said he, shaking his head.

“Why did you take me away from my mamma?” asked the poor child.

“Bad woman! No give poor Indian money,” responded the savage.

“Take me home, and she will give you money,” urged the child.

“Not now. Did not give before. Too late,” responded John.

“Are you going to keep me here? Will you never take me home?” asked
Carrie, overwhelmed with alarm.

“Little girl stay with Indian; be Indian’s pickaninny.”

“I don’t want to be a pickaninny,” said Carrie. “Poor mamma will be so
frightened. Did she see you take me away?”

“No. She go out. Leave child asleep. Indian jump through window. Take
little girl.”

When Carrie understood how it was that she had been kidnapped, she felt
very much frightened; but even in her terror she felt some curiosity
about the Indian, and his mode of life.

“Where is your house?” she asked. “Is it here in the woods?”

“All places, under trees.”

“What! do you sleep under trees, without any roof?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you build a house?”

“Indian live in wigwam.”

“Then why don’t you live in a wigwam?”

“My wigwam far away--over there,” and he pointed to the north.

“Where will you sleep to-night?”

“Under tree.”

“Then you must take me home, I can’t sleep under a tree. I would catch
my death of cold. So mamma says.”

“Must stay. Get used to it. Indian make bed of leaves for pickaninny.”

“I don’t want to sleep on leaves. I want to sleep in my little bed at
home.”

“Come,” said John; and he dragged the child forward.

“Where are you taking me? Oh, carry me home!” pleaded Carrie.

“Stop!” said the Indian, sternly. “No cry, or I kill you.”

Carrie stopped, in greater fear than ever. The stern face of her
companion made it not improbable that he might carry out the fearful
threat he had uttered. So she checked her audible manifestations of
grief, but the tears still coursed silently down her cheeks.

“What will mamma say, and papa--and Julius?” This was the thought that
continually occupied her mind. Would she never see these dear ones
again? Must she spend all her life with the wicked Indian? At any rate,
when she got to be a woman--a great, strong woman, and knew her way
about, she would run away, and go home. But there would be a good many
years first. She wondered whether her skin would turn red, and she would
look like the Indians. Then her father and mother would not know her,
and would send her back again to live with the Indians. Altogether,
however groundless some of her fears might be, little Carrie was very
miserable and unhappy.

Meanwhile the Indian strode along. The little girl was forced at times
to run, in order to keep up with her companion. She began to feel
tired, but did not dare to complain.

At length they stopped. It was at a place where the Indian had spent the
previous night. A few leaves had been piled up, and the pile was arched
over by some branches which he had broken off from the surrounding
trees. It was a rude shelter, but was a little better than lying on the
bare ground.

He turned to the little girl, and said, “This Indian’s house.”

“Where?” asked the child, bewildered.

“There,” he said, pointing to the pile of leaves. “Suppose pickaninny
tired; lie down.”

Carrie sat down on the leaves, for she did feel tired, and it was a
relief to sit. Had Julius been with her, or her father, she would have
enjoyed the novel sensation of being in the heart of the woods, knowing
that she would be carried home again. But with the Indian it was
different. Her situation seemed to her very dreadful, and she would have
cried, but that she had already cried till she could cry no more.

The Indian gathered some more leaves, and threw himself down by her
side. He looked grave and impassive, and did not speak. Carrie stole
glances at him from time to time, but also kept silence. She felt too
miserable even to repeat her entreaties that he would take her home.

But a child cannot always keep silence. After an hour she mustered
courage to accost her fearful companion.

“Are you married?” she asked.

The Indian looked at her, and grunted, but did not reply.

“Have you got a wife?”

“Had squaw once--she dead,” answered John.

“Have you got any little girls like me?”

“No.”

“I wish you had,” sighed Carrie.

“What for you wish?”

“Because, then you would let me go to my papa. If you had a little girl,
you would not like to have any one carry her off, would you?” and the
little girl fixed her eyes on his face.

He grunted once more, but did not reply.

“Think how sorry your little girl would be,” said Carrie.

But the Indian was not strong in the way of sentiment. His feelings were
not easily touched. Besides, he felt sleepy. So he answered thus:
“Little girl no talk. Indian tired. He go sleep.”

So saying, he stretched himself out at length on the leaves. But first
he thought it necessary to give the child a caution.

“Little girl stay here,” he said. “Sleep, too.”

“I am not sleepy any more,” said Carrie.

“No go way. Suppose go, then Indian kill her,” he concluded, with a
fierce expression.

“You wouldn’t be so wicked as to kill me, would you?” said Carrie,
turning pale.

“Me kill you, if go away.”

Carrie implicitly believed him; and, as she did not know her way about,
she would not have dared to disobey his commands. Then all at once there
came another fear. The evening before Julius had read her a story of a
traveler meeting a lion in the forest, and narrowly escaping with his
life. It is true the forest was in Africa, but Carrie did not remember
that. She did not know but that lions were in the habit of prowling
about in the very forest where she was. Suppose one should come along
while the Indian was asleep. She shuddered at the thought, and the fear
made her speak.

“Are there any lions in this wood?” she asked.

“Why ask?” said the Indian.

“If one came while you were asleep, he might eat me up.”

The Indian was quick-witted enough to avail himself of this fear to
prevent the child’s leaving him.

“Suppose one come; you wake me. Me kill him.”

“Then there are lions here?” she repeated, terror-stricken.

“Yes. Suppose you go away. Maybe meet him; he kill you.”

“I won’t go away,” said Carrie, quickly. “Are you sure you could kill
one, if he came?”

“Yes; me kill many,” answered the Indian, with a disregard of truth more
often to be found among civilized than barbarous nations.

Poor Carrie!--her sensations were by no means to be envied, as she sat
by the side of the sleeping Indian, agitated by fears which, to her,
were very real. On the one side was the Indian, on the other the lion
who might spring upon her at any minute. From time to time she cast a
terrified glance about her in search of the possible lion. She did not
see him; but what was her delight when, as a result of one of these
glances, she caught sight of a boy’s face--the face of Julius--peeping
from behind a tree!

She would have uttered a cry of joy, but he put his hand to his lips,
and shook his head earnestly. She understood the sign, and instantly
checked herself.




CHAPTER XXIV.

FOUND.


Mr. Taylor and Julius had reached home about twenty minutes after Mrs.
Taylor’s discovery of the disappearance of her little girl. The former
was not a little startled, when his wife, pale and with disheveled hair,
ran out to meet them.

“What is the matter, Emma?” he asked hastily.

“Oh, Ephraim, our poor child!”--and the poor mother burst into tears.

“What has happened to her? Is she sick?” he asked, anxiously.

“She’s gone.”

“Gone! What do you mean?” he asked, utterly at a loss to understand his
wife’s meaning.

“An Indian has carried her off. I shall never see her again;” and Mrs.
Taylor burst into a fresh flood of tears.

“Tell me how it all happened, as quickly as possible,” said the father.
“I don’t understand.”

After a time he succeeded in obtaining from his wife an account of the
Indian’s application, and the revenge which followed her refusal to
supply him with money.

“Oh, I wish I had given him what he asked! I would rather give all I
had, than lose my little darling. But I knew you did not want me to give
money to strangers,” sobbed Mrs. Taylor.

“You did right, Emma. Whatever the consequences, you did right. But that
is not the question now. We must immediately go in search of our lost
child. Julius, call Abner.”

Abner was at the barn, having just returned from the fields. He came
back with Julius.

“Abner,” said Mr. Taylor, after briefly explaining the case, “we will
divide. You go in one direction, and I in another. Have you got a gun?”

“Yes, Mr. Taylor.”

“Take it; you may need it. I have another.”

“Have you got one for me?” asked Julius.

“Do you know how to fire a gun?”

“Yes, sir; Abner showed me last week.”

“I am afraid even with one you would be no match for an Indian. I cannot
give you a gun, but I have a pistol in the house. You shall have that.”

“I’ll take it,” said Julius. “Perhaps I shall be the one to find
Carrie.”

“Take it, and God bless you!” said the father, as he brought out a small
pistol, and placed it in the hands of Julius. “Be prudent, and run no
unnecessary risk.”

The three started in different directions, but it chanced that Julius
had selected the right path, and, though he knew it not, was on the
track of the Indian and the lost child, while Abner and Mr. Taylor
started wrong.

There had been some delay in getting ready, and altogether the Indian
had a start of nearly an hour. On the other hand, he was incumbered with
the weight of the child, which had a tendency to diminish his speed.
Again, Julius ran a part of the way. He knew little of the Indians from
personal observation, but he had read stories of Indian adventure, and
he concluded that the captor of little Carrie would take to the woods.
He therefore struck across the fields for the very woods in which the
little girl was concealed.

He wandered about at random till chance brought him to the very tree
from behind which he caught sight of the object of his search, under the
guardianship of the sleeping Indian. His heart gave a bound of
exultation, for he saw that circumstances were favorable to her rescue.
His great fear was that when she saw him she would utter a cry of joy,
which would arouse the sleeping savage. Just at this moment, as
described in the last chapter, Carrie espied him. Fortunately she caught
his signal, and checked the rising cry of joy. She looked eagerly toward
Julius, to learn what she must do. He beckoned her to come to him. She
arose from her leafy seat cautiously, and moved, with a caution which
danger taught her, toward our hero. He had the satisfaction of taking
her hand in his, and of observing that her movements had not been heard
by her savage companion, who was so tired that he still slept.

“Come with me, Carrie,” he whispered, “and make as little noise as
possible.”

“Yes, Julius,” said the little girl, whispering in reply. “Where is
papa?”

“He came after you, too; but he did not take the right road.”

“How did you know where I was?”

“I guessed at it, and I guessed right. Don’t make any noise.”

“Yes, Julius.”

So they walked hand in hand. Julius hurried his little companion, for he
feared that the Indian would awake and pursue them. If he did so, he was
by no means sure that he could defend her. His pistol was loaded, but it
had but one barrel, and when it was discharged, he would be completely
defenseless.

“Has the Indian got a gun?” he asked, in a whisper.

“I didn’t see any,” said Carrie.

Then he felt more easy in mind. If hard pressed, he would at least be
able to fire one shot.

But there was another difficulty. He had not come directly to the place
where he had found Carrie, but had wandered about in different
directions. The result was that he didn’t know his way out of the
woods.

“Do you know which way you came, Carrie?” he asked, in some perplexity.

“No, Julius. I didn’t wake up till I was in the woods.”

“I don’t know my way. I wish I could fall in with your father or Abner.”

“What would you do if you met a lion?” asked Carrie, anxiously.

“There are no lions here.”

“The Indian said so. He said they would eat me if I ran away.”

“That was only to frighten you, and prevent your escaping.”

“Then are there no lions?”

“No, Carrie. The Indian is the worst lion there is in the woods.”

“Let us go home quick, Julius,” said Carrie, clasping his hand tighter
in her fear.

“Yes, Carrie; we will keep on as fast as we can. We will go straight. If
we keep on far enough, I am sure we must get out of the woods. But I am
afraid you will get tired.”

“No, Julius. I want to go home.”

So they kept on, Julius looking anxiously about him and behind him,
fearing that the Indian might have waked up, and even now be in pursuit
of his little captive.

He had reason for his fear. The slumbers of the savage were light, and,
though they had not been interrupted by the flight of Carrie, he roused
himself about ten minutes later. He turned slowly around, expecting to
see her sitting on the pile of leaves. Discovering that she was gone, he
sprang to his feet with a cry of rage and disappointment. He was
surprised, for he had supposed that she would be afraid to leave him.

He instantly formed the determination to get her back. Without her his
revenge would be incomplete. Besides, it would be mortifying to his
pride as a warrior that a little child should escape from him, thus
getting the better of him.

He was broad awake now, and his senses were on the alert. With Indian
quickness he tracked the footsteps of the little girl to the tree. Thus
far it seemed that she had run away without assistance. But at this
point he found another trail. He stooped over, and carefully scrutinized
the track made by our young hero, and it helped him to a conclusion.

“Boy,” he muttered. “Small foot. Come when Indian sleep. No matter. Me
catch him.”

A white man would have obtained no clew to guide him in the pursuit of
the fugitives; but the Indian’s practiced skill served him. With his
eyes upon the ground, marking here a print, and there a slight pressure
on the scattered leaves, he kept on his way, sure of success.




CHAPTER XXV.

JULIUS BECOMES A CAPTIVE.


Julius was still wandering about in uncertainty, holding Carrie by the
hand, when the Indian came in sight of him. Stealthily creeping up, he
seized our hero by the shoulder before he realized that the enemy was
upon him. He had no time to draw his pistol, nor did he deem it prudent
to do so now, as the Indian could easily wrest it from him, and turn it
against him.

“Me got you!” exclaimed the savage, in accents of fierce exultation.

Little Carrie uttered a dismal cry when she looked up and saw that her
dreaded captor was near.

“Don’t be frightened, Carrie,” said Julius, soothingly, though, to tell
the truth, he felt rather uncomfortable himself.

“What do you want?” he demanded, putting a bold face on.

“Want little girl,” answered the Indian.

“I am taking her home. Her father sent me for her.”

“No matter; no go,” said the Indian, frowning.

“What good will it do you to keep her?” asked Julius, though he
suspected argument would be of no avail.

“No matter; come!” said the savage, and he seized Carrie by the hand.

“Oh, Julius, don’t let him carry me off,” said Carrie, beginning to cry.

“We must go, Carrie,” said our hero, in a low voice. “Perhaps he will
let us go after a while.”

“But I want to go to mamma!” said the little girl, piteously.

“No go. Mother bad,” said the Indian.

“She isn’t bad,” said Carrie, forgetting her fear in her indignation.
“She’s good. You are bad.”

“Hush, Carrie!” said Julius, who foresaw that it would not be prudent to
provoke the savage.

“You come, too,” said the Indian to Julius. “What for you steal little
girl?”

Julius felt that he might with great propriety have put this question to
his companion, but he forebore. He was trying to think of some way of
escape.

The Indian plunged into the thick wood, holding Carrie by the hand.
Julius followed close after him.

“So it seems,” he said to himself, “instead of recovering Carrie I am
caught myself. I wish Mr. Taylor and Abner would come along. We should
be too much for the Indian, then.”

This gave him an idea. He took a piece of paper quietly from his pocket,
and wrote on it:

     “I am with Carrie and the Indian. He is leading us into the middle
     of the wood. I will drop pieces of paper here and there on the way.

JULIUS.”



This he dropped casually in the path, without the knowledge of the
Indian.

“There,” he said to himself; “if either of them comes this way, it may
be the means of saving us.”

But though John did not observe this, he did notice the pieces of paper
which Julius dropped, and he was sharp enough to detect his motive for
doing this.

“What for drop paper?” he demanded, seizing Julius roughly by the
shoulder.

Julius knew that it would be of no use to equivocate, and he answered,
manfully. “To let Mr. Taylor know where we are.”

“Umph!” grunted the Indian. “Pick up.”

Julius was forced to pick up all the bits of paper he had scattered, but
the original one containing the message he left where it lay.

“Now come.”

The Indian made Julius go in front, and the three went on till they
reached the pile of leaves where Carrie and the Indian had rested
before.

The Indian resumed his reclining position, and made Julius and Carrie
sit down also. Our hero, who still had the pistol, was in doubt whether
to use it, but a moment’s reflection satisfied him that it would be of
no use. If he wounded the Indian, the latter in his rage might kill them
both. Another idea came to him. He had heard from Mrs. Taylor that the
Indian had demanded money, and had probably taken offense because it was
not given him. He had two dollars in his pocket. If he should give this
to their captor, he would probably be eager to invest it in “fire
water,” and this would make it necessary to go to the village. While he
was absent Carrie and he could start again on their way home.

Upon this hint he spoke.

“Let us go,” he said, “and I will give you money.”

As he spoke he drew four silver half-dollars from his pocket.

“Give me,” said the Indian, his dull eye lighting up.

Julius surrendered them, but said, “Can we go home?”

“No go,” said the Indian. “Stay here.”

Our hero expected nothing better. Still he felt disappointed.

By and by the anticipated effect was produced. The Indian was eager to
exchange the money for drink, but he did not want his captives to
escape.

He arose to his feet, and approached Julius.

“Come,” he said.

He took the wondering boy by the shoulder, and placed his back against a
tree.

“What is he going to do?” thought our hero, rather alarmed.

He was not long left in uncertainty.

The Indian drew from some hiding place in his raiment a stout cord, and
proceeded dexterously to tie Julius to the tree.

“Don’t hurt him!” exclaimed Carrie, terrified, thinking that something
dreadful was going to be done to Julius.

The Indian did not deign to reply, but proceeded to perform his task so
thoroughly that Julius felt uncomfortably cramped.

When it was accomplished, the Indian turned to go.

“Go ’way,” he said. “Soon come back. Stay here.”

Julius felt that he was likely to obey the command, as there was not
much chance of his breaking his bonds. But there was one hope yet that
somewhat encouraged him.

“Feel in my pocket, Carrie,” he said, “and see if I have a knife.”

Carrie obeyed, but the search was unavailing.

“How unlucky!” said Julius. “I usually have it with me, but I remember
leaving it in my other pants. If I only had it, you could cut the
string, and we could escape.”

“Do you think he will keep us always, Julius?” asked Carrie,
disconsolately.

“No, Carrie; I will find a way to get you home, before long,” said
Julius in a tone that expressed more cheerfulness than he felt.

“It’s provoking,” he thought, “to be tied up here, when there is such a
good chance to escape. I’ll never go without a knife again. I didn’t
think how much good it might do me.”




CHAPTER XXVI.

THE RESCUE.


Meanwhile Mr. Taylor and Abner had pursued the search in vain. From
opposite directions they met at the entrance to the wood.

“Have you found no traces of Carrie, Abner?” asked the father,
anxiously.

“No, sir,” said Abner.

“Have you met Julius?”

“No, sir.”

“I, too, have been unsuccessful; but I am impressed with the belief that
my dear child is somewhere in this wood.”

“Very likely, sir. It would be nat’ral for an Indian to make for the
woods; that is, if he’s got her.”

“I am afraid there is no doubt of that,” sighed Mr. Taylor. “Do you
think he would hurt her, Abner?” he asked, anxiously.

“No, I reckon not. He’d keep her to get money out of you.”

“I would rather give half my fortune than lose my darling.”

“It won’t be necessary to go as high as that, Mr. Taylor. Most likely
he’s got her in here somewhere. If we go together, we’ll be too much
for the red rascal.”

“Come on, then, and may God speed us.”

So they entered the wood, and plunged deeper and deeper into its gloom.
By and by Abner’s attention was drawn to a white fragment of paper, half
concealed in the grass. Elsewhere it would not have been noticed, but in
the woods it must evidently have been dropped by some one.

He picked it up, and glanced at it.

“Hurrah!” he shouted. “It’s the boy’s hand-writing.”

“What boy?”

“Julius.”

“Give it to me, quick,” said Mr. Taylor.

“Read it out loud,” said Abner, almost equally interested.

Mr. Taylor read:

     “I am with Carrie and the Indian. He is leading us into the middle
     of the wood. I will drop pieces of paper here and there on the
     way.”

“Bully for Julius!” said Abner. “We’ve got the Indian now, sure.”

“I am glad he is with Carrie. She would be so frightened,” said Mr.
Taylor.

“That’s true. She thinks a heap of Julius.”

“He is a good boy--quick-witted, too, or he wouldn’t have thought of the
paper.”

“I don’t see the scraps of paper he told about,” said Abner, who had
been very anxiously peering about him.

“It may be that he was afraid to drop them, lest it should attract the
Indian’s attention,” said Mr. Taylor, coming very near the truth.

“Maybe so. There is another way we can track them.”

“How is that?”

“Noticing where the grass and sticks are trodden over. That’s the Indian
way. We’ll fight the red man in his own way.”

“Well thought of, Abner. Your eyes are better than mine. Lead the way,
and I will follow.”

Abner was sharp-sighted, nor was he wholly ignorant of the Indians and
their ways; and thus it was that he led the anxious father almost
directly to the place where Carrie and Julius were waiting in fear and
anxiety for the Indian’s return.

Abner spied them first.

“There they are!” he exclaimed, “and the Indian isn’t with them.”

Unable to control his impatience, Mr. Taylor, with a cry of joy, rushed
to the spot, and in a moment his beloved little daughter, Carrie, was in
his arms.

“My dear little girl,” he said, kissing her again and again, “I thought
I had lost you altogether. Were you very much frightened?”

“I was so frightened, papa, till Julius came. I didn’t mind it so much
then.”

Meanwhile Abner was loosening the cord by which our hero was tied.

“I s’pose the redskin did this,” said he. “Looks like his work.”

“Yes; he liked my company so much he didn’t want to let me go,” said
Julius.

“Where is he?”

“Gone to the village to buy rum, I expect.”

“Where did he get his money?”

“I offered him money to let Carrie and me go, but he took it, and then
tied me up here. That’s what I call mean.”

“So do I,” said Abner; “but he’ll find the bird flown when he gets back,
I reckon.”

“The birds, you mean.”

“Julius,” said Mr. Taylor, grasping the hand of our hero, now released
from his uncomfortable situation, “you have earned my heartfelt
gratitude. But for you my darling would still be in the power of that
miserable Indian.”

“I didn’t do much,” said Julius, modestly. “I only managed to get taken,
too.”

“It was the paper which you had the forethought to drop that led us
here.”

“Did you find it?” asked Julius, eagerly. “Then it did some good after
all. I was afraid it wouldn’t. The Indian saw me dropping bits of paper,
and he was sharp enough to know what it meant. He made me pick them up,
but I left the paper with writing on it. He didn’t see that.”

“That’s the way I thought it was,” said Mr. Taylor. “I told Abner you
were prevented from giving us the clew, as you promised.”

“Well, it’s all right now,” said Julius. “Our copper- friend will
have to dispense with our company to-night.”

“We must be getting home,” said Mr. Taylor. “Your mother is terribly
anxious about you, Carrie. Are you tired?”

“Yes, papa; the Indian made me walk so fast.”

“I will take you in my arms, my poor child. He shan’t get hold of you
again.”

“I’ll take her part of the time, Mr. Taylor,” said Abner.

But the glad father did not seem to feel the weight of his recovered
treasure. Quickly they retraced their steps, and when they came near the
house Mrs. Taylor ran out to meet them, clasping Carrie to her bosom
with grateful joy. It was a day of thanksgiving, for the lost had been
found.




CHAPTER XXVII.

JULIUS BUYS A HOUSE.


An hour later the Indian was found drunk by the roadside. After
procuring a supply of liquor with the money which he had taken from
Julius, he set out on his return to the woods, but stopped from time to
time to drink. His potations were so deep that he was finally incapable
of proceeding farther.

His agency in kidnapping little Carrie having become known, he was
arrested, and brought before a justice. The magistrate sentenced him to
a month’s imprisonment, assuring him that when it was over it would not
be expedient for him to visit the neighborhood again. The savage endured
his imprisonment with the stoicism characteristic of his race, and on
the day of his release departed, and was not seen again in Brookville.

On the day succeeding Carrie’s adventure, Mr. Taylor said to Julius, “I
shall to-day place to your credit in the savings bank two hundred and
fifty dollars, in acknowledgment of your service in rescuing my little
girl, though it involved risk to yourself.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Julius, gratefully; “but I don’t think I deserve
so much.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“Abner did as much as I.”

“Abner will not go unrewarded. I shall deposit a similar sum in the bank
for him.”

“Then, sir, I can only thank you for your kindness. I hope I shall
deserve it.”

“I hope and believe you will,” said his patron, warmly. “Only keep on as
you have begun, and you will win the respect and good-will of all.”

Though Julius said little, this commendation gave him great
satisfaction. Little more than a year before he had been a poor and
ignorant street boy, the companion of two burglars, with no prospects in
life except to grow up in ignorance, and perhaps vice. To-day he was a
member of a family of social position, as well educated as most boys of
his age, with every encouragement to keep on in the right path, worth
three hundred dollars in money, and with a prosperous future before him.

“How fortunate I am,” he thought. “It was a lucky thing for me when I
made up my mind to come out West.”

But his good fortune was not exhausted. One morning, a few months later,
Mr. Taylor called him back as he was leaving the breakfast table.

“Julius,” he said, “I want to speak to you on a matter of business.”

“Yes, sir,” said Julius, inquiringly.

“You have three hundred dollars in the savings bank.”

“It is more now, sir, as some interest was added in January.”

“Very true. Now, I am going to give you some advice about investing it.”

“I shall be very glad to follow your advice, Mr. Taylor.”

“This is what I have in view: You know Mr. Cathcart’s place, about a
mile from here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There is a small house and barn on the place, and about ten acres of
land are connected with it. He is anxious to sell, as he has had a very
good offer of employment in Minnesota. Now, I advise you to buy the
place. It is sure to rise in value on account of its location. I should
not be surprised if it doubled in value in five years.”

“But,” said Julius, rather bewildered, “he won’t sell for three hundred
dollars, will he?”

“No, probably not,” answered Mr. Taylor, smiling.

“That is all the money I have.”

“He asks fifteen hundred dollars, which is cheap for it, in my opinion.”

“Then I don’t see how I can buy it.”

“Suppose he should be willing to take three hundred dollars down, and
the remainder at the end of a few years, you paying the interest in the
meantime.”

“Yes, I see,” said Julius.

“The twelve hundred dollars would be secured by a mortgage, which you
would eventually pay off.”

Here Mr. Taylor explained to Julius, whose knowledge of real estate
transactions was limited, the nature of a mortgage, and the laws
relating to it.

“I should like to buy it, if you think best,” said our hero, at length.

“Then I will arrange matters, as your guardian. By the time you are
twenty-one, you will, I venture to say, be worth quite a little
property.”

“But what shall I do with the place?” asked Julius. “I can’t go to live
there.”

“You may as well defer that till you are married,” said Mr. Taylor; a
suggestion which made Julius smile. “The proper course is to find a
tenant for it. The rent will enable you to pay taxes and the interest on
the mortgage, and probably yield you a profit beside. Even if not, you
will be richly repaid in time by the increased value of the property.”

No time was lost in effecting this transaction, as Mr. Cathcart was
anxious to leave Brookville as soon as possible. The money was drawn
from the savings bank, and almost before he knew it Julius found himself
the owner of a house and outbuildings, and ten acres of land. He went
out to see it, and it gave him a peculiar feeling to think that he, late
a ragged New York street boy, was now the proprietor of a landed estate.

“I wonder what Jack and Marlowe would say if they knew it,” he thought.
“It would make Marlowe mad, I know. He never at any time liked me very
much, and now he hates me bad enough, I am afraid.”

A week after the property passed into our hero’s hands, a
respectable-looking man called at Mr. Taylor’s door. He was a young
mechanic, a carpenter, who had recently established himself in
Brookville.

“Take a seat, Mr. Brown,” said Mr. Taylor, politely.

“I came on a little business,” said the young man. “I would like to hire
the Cathcart place. I hear you are the purchaser.”

“You are perfectly right, Mr. Brown,” said Mr. Taylor. “I purchased it,
but it was in behalf of my ward Julius, here. You will have to speak to
him about hiring it.”

“Indeed!” said the young man. “I hope,” turning to Julius, “you won’t
object to me as a tenant.”

“I have so little experience as a landlord,” said Julius, laughing,
“that I don’t quite know what to say. What rent are you willing to
give?”

“I could afford to pay ten dollars a month.”

“That is a fair price, Julius,” said Mr. Taylor.

“Then I shall be glad to accept your offer,” said Julius. “You can move
in as soon as you please.”

“That is satisfactory. I hope you will find me a desirable tenant.”

“And I hope you will find me a good landlord,” said Julius.

“I think we shall agree pretty well,” said the young man. “After we get
settled, we shall be glad to receive a visit from our landlord.”

Julius laughingly agreed to call.

“It seems like a joke,” he said afterward to Mr. Taylor, “my being a
landlord. I don’t know how to act.”

“I hope it will prove a profitable joke, Julius,” said Mr. Taylor. “I
have reason to think it will.”

“I think I will write to Mr. O’Connor and tell him how I am getting
along,” said Julius.

“Do so,” said Mr. Taylor.

Julius wrote that very day, not without pride and satisfaction.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

A BUSINESS JOURNEY.


We must now carry forward the story two years. It has been a profitable
time for Julius. His excellent natural abilities, stimulated by
ambition, have advanced him very considerably in the education which
comes from books, while the hours spent in labor on the farm have
strengthened his muscles, and developed his figure, so that he presents
a strong contrast to the undersized and slender boy who came from the
city streets in Mr. O’Connor’s company. The effort of generous diet also
may be seen in his improved looks. He would now be regarded as quite a
good-looking boy, though he privately considers himself entitled to the
more dignified appellation of a young man.

I am glad to be able to record that in other ways also he has improved.
As a street boy, he was not wholly free from the errors common to his
class. Now he has a regard for truth, and Mr. Taylor has come to have
implicit confidence in his word. He has even come to feel a paternal
interest in the once neglected waif, and treats him in all respects like
a son. Little Carrie, too, calls him Brother Julius, and probably feels
as much affection for him as if he were her own brother.

Thus happily situated, Julius is not troubled as to his real parentage.
There is a mystery attending his origin, which he will probably never be
able to solve. But he is content to regard Mr. and Mrs. Taylor as his
parents, since they have allowed him to do so, and will always be known
by the name of Julius Taylor.

Of course he has not forgotten his old associates, Jack Morgan and
Marlowe. About two years after his arrival in Brookville a paragraph was
copied into the county paper from the _New York Herald_, recording the
daring attempts of these two criminals to escape from the prison at Sing
Sing. Jack Morgan was caught and brought back, but Marlowe managed to
make good his escape.

“I suppose,” thought Julius, “Jack was too fat. He couldn’t get over the
ground as fast as Marlowe.”

In this he was correct. Jack Morgan’s size and clumsiness had interfered
with his escape, while Marlowe, who was not so incumbered, got away.

“Marlowe would be glad to know where I am,” said our hero to himself.
“He’d like to punish me for getting him caught. But he isn’t likely to
find me out here. And even if he did, I think I can take care of myself
better than I could when he knew me.”

Julius surveyed his figure in the glass complacently as he said this. He
was five feet eight inches in height, and weighed one hundred and fifty
pounds. His arm was powerful; and though he could not contend on equal
terms with the tall burglar, he felt that the time would soon come when
he could do so.

“I wonder if he’d know me now,” thought our hero.

This question was soon to be solved, though Julius did not know it.

In the month of October Mr. Taylor proposed to Julius to set out on a
collecting tour, among the towns in the neighborhood.

“I have claims against a dozen persons,” he said, “which ought to be
presented and paid. At present, however, it is not convenient for me to
leave home. If you will take my place, it will be quite a relief.”

“There is nothing I should like better,” said Julius, elated at the
prospect of a journey.

“I thought you might like it,” said Mr. Taylor.

“I am glad you feel sufficient confidence in me to send me,” said our
hero.

“You have given me reason to confide in you,” said Mr. Taylor, quietly.
“You will judge of the extent of my confidence when I say that the bills
which I shall give you to collect amount to a thousand dollars, or,
perhaps, a little more.”

“I will bring back every cent,” said Julius, promptly.

“Every cent you succeed in collecting. I have no doubt of it. The only
caution I have to give you is, to guard against being robbed. If it is
supposed that you have a considerable sum of money, you might be in
danger of having it stolen.”

“It’ll take a smart thief to get it away from me,” said Julius,
confidently. “I didn’t live fifteen years in the streets of New York for
nothing. When do you want me to start?”

“To-morrow morning. I shall give you the horse and buggy, and we will
plan the order of your journey to-night. You will stop at hotels, and
expend whatever is needful. I will ask you only to keep an account of
your expenses, to be submitted to me on your return.”

“Very well, sir. How long do you expect me to be gone?”

“That will depend on how much success you meet with. I should think a
week might be sufficient. If you find it necessary to stay longer, do
so; but let me know from time to time what progress you make in your
mission.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll write to you every day.”

There are few boys of seventeen who would not have experienced pleasure
in such an expedition. To have the command of a horse and buggy, to
drive from town to town, putting up at hotels by night, would to most be
a pleasant prospect. But Julius thoroughly understood that, however
pleasant it might be, the motive of his journey was business; and he
resolved to exert himself to the utmost in the interests of his guardian
and benefactor.




CHAPTER XXIX.

MARLOWE.


Four days later Julius arrived about dusk in the village of
Lawrenceburg. There was a citizen of this place against whom Mr. Taylor
had given him a note to collect. He put up at the hotel, and after
entering his name inquired where Mr. Philip Thompson resided.

“Two miles distant, on the Northcote road,” said the landlord. “Have you
business with him?”

Julius answered in the affirmative.

“If you want to go over there after supper, I will send my boy to show
you the way.”

“I think I will wait till morning,” said Julius, who felt tired. “My
business will wait till then.”

There was a man sitting on the piazza of the tavern when Julius drove
up. He was a tall man, rather shabbily built, with a slouching gait, who
kept his eyes bent downward, while his face was partly shaded by a soft
felt hat. Julius did not notice him, or rather did not do so
particularly; but the stranger fixed his eyes eagerly on the boy’s face,
and started perceptibly, while a look partly of recognition, partly of
hatred, swept over his countenance.

I do not intend to make this man’s personality a mystery. It was Dan
Marlowe, the burglar, whom, three years before, Julius had been
instrumental in trapping, and who, until within two or three months, had
been confined in Sing Sing prison. His escape has already been referred
to.

He had now two ends to accomplish. One was to elude capture, the other
to revenge himself on Julius.

While in prison he had heard from a fellow-prisoner that Julius was
somewhere in the West. He could not ascertain where. Till to-day he had
no clew whereby he might discover him; when all at once chance brought
him face to face with his young enemy. In spite of his growth he
recognized the boy, for he seldom forgot a face; but, to make certainty
more certain, he lounged into the office after Julius had recorded his
name, and examined the signature.

“Julius Taylor,” he repeated to himself. “The young cub has picked up
another name since he left us. But it’s he--it’s the same Julius. I
thought I couldn’t be mistaken. His face is the same, though he’s almost
twice as large as he was. He little dreams that Dan Marlowe is on his
track. I’d like to wring the boy’s neck!” he muttered to himself. “He’s
cost me over two years in Sing Sing; and poor Jack’s there yet.”

Having satisfied himself, he went back to his seat on the piazza.

Pretty soon Julius came out, and gave a casual look at Marlowe. But the
latter had his hat pulled down over his eyes, and not enough of his
features could be seen for our hero to distinguish him. Besides, Julius
was not thinking of Marlowe. He had no reason to suspect that his old
companion was in the neighborhood. If not caught, he supposed that he
was somewhere in hiding in the city of New York, or nearby.

Marlowe did not, however, care to run even a small risk of discovery. He
had not changed as much as Julius, and the latter might probably
recognize him. So, finding that our hero had also seated himself
outside, he quietly arose from his chair, and went out to walk.

“An ill-looking fellow,” thought Julius, casually. “He looks like a
tramp.”

Marlowe strolled off at random, not caring where he went. His sole
object was to keep out of the way of Julius. He went perhaps a mile, and
then, turning into a field, sat down on the grass. Here he remained for
a long time. He did not set out on his return till he judged that it was
near ten o’clock. When he entered the inn, not Julius alone, but all the
other guests had retired; for in the country late hours are not popular.

“We were just going to shut up, Mr. Jones,” said the landlord.

Jones was the assumed name by which Marlowe now passed.

“I went out for a walk,” said, Marlowe, “and didn’t know how time was
passing, having no watch with me.”

“You must like walking in the dark better than I do.”

“I wasn’t walking all the time,” said Marlowe. “I had some business on
my mind, and went out to think it over. Who was that young fellow that
came about six o’clock.

“Julius Taylor. He’s from Brookville. Do you wish to know him? If so, I
will introduce you to him.”

“I only asked from curiosity,” said Marlowe, carelessly.

“His room is next to yours, No. 8. Yours is No. 7.”

This was what Marlowe wanted to know, and he heard the information with
satisfaction. He proposed to make Julius a visit that night. What might
be the result he did not stop to consider. He only knew that this was
the boy to whom he owed two years of imprisonment, and that he would
have him in his power. He did not ask himself what he should do. He did
not consider whether he was about to endanger his own safety, and expose
himself to the risk of recapture. His spirit was fierce and revengeful,
and he had made up his mind to gratify it.

He called for a light, and ascended the staircase to his room, No. 7. He
noticed the number over the door which Julius occupied, and outside he
saw a pair of shoes, which had been left to be blacked.

“He’s been prospering,” he said to himself, gloomily, “while Jack and me
have been shut up. He’s had a good home, and good fare, and grown up to
consider himself a gentleman; while me and Jack, that brought him up,
have been confined like wild beasts. That’s his pay for selling us to
the cops. But the end is not yet. Marlowe’s on his track, and this night
there’ll be a reckoning.”

He sat down on the side of the bed and waited. He wanted to make sure
that all were asleep in the inn, that he might carry out his dark
designs without interruption.




CHAPTER XXX.

CONCLUSION.


Julius was tired, and fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the
pillow. He slept so soundly that he did not hear Marlowe fumbling at the
lock with some of the burglar’s tools which he always carried with him.
Curiously he was dreaming of his old life, when he was under the
guardianship of Jack and Morgan, and Marlowe was a constant visitor. It
seemed to him that the latter had been accusing him to Jack, and was
threatening him with uplifted arm, when, all at once, he was aroused
from sleep by a violent shaking, and, opening his eyes, his first glance
rested on the man of whom he had been dreaming.

He stared at him in bewilderment and alarm, but said nothing, such was
his surprise.

“Well, boy,” said Marlowe, growing impatient, “why are you staring at me
so hard? Don’t you know me?”

“Yes,” said Julius, the spell broken, “you are Dan Marlowe.”

“Did you see me downstairs?”

“Were you the man that was sitting on the piazza when I drove up?”

“Yes.”

“I wish I had known it,” thought Julius. “I should have been on my
guard.”

“It is some time since we met,” said Marlowe.

“Yes, it is.”

“And I suppose,” he added, sneeringly, “you wish it had been longer.”

“You are right there; I didn’t care to see you again,” returned Julius,
boldly.

“I don’t wonder at that, after your base treachery, you rascally hound!”
said Marlowe, furiously. “Do you know how Jack and me spent the last two
years?”

“In prison?” said Julius, hesitating.

“Yes; in prison, and we have you to thank for it. You might as well have
turned against your own father as against Jack.”

“No,” said Julius, firmly. “I am sorry for Jack. I wouldn’t have gone
against him, if there was any other way of saving Paul. Paul had been
kind to me when I needed it. What did Jack ever do for me? We lived
together when he was out of prison, but it was I that brought him all my
earnings. I paid my own way and more, too, even when I was a boy of
eight. I owe Jack nothing. But I am sorry for him all the same. I wish
he could get free.”

“And what about me?” asked Marlowe, sneeringly. “Are you glad I am
free?”

“No, I’m not,” said Julius, boldly. “I never liked you as well as Jack.
He’s bad enough, but you’re worse. Though he didn’t take care of me, he
was generally kind to me. Even if I owe him something, I owe you
nothing.”

“But I owe you something, my chicken,” said Marlowe, between his teeth.
“Do you know why I am here? No? Well, I’ll tell you. I met Ned Sanders
soon after I got out, and he told me the tricks you played on him. I
found out from him that you had come out West, and that’s why I came
here. I hadn’t forgotten who sent me up. I swore, at the time, I’d be
revenged, and now I’ve got the chance.”

The man looked so malicious--so possessed by the spirit of evil--that
Julius could not help shuddering as he met his baleful gaze.

“What do you mean to do to me?” he asked, feeling helpless, as he
realized that in spite of his increased strength he was no match for the
stalwart ruffian.

“I mean to kill you,” said Marlowe, fiercely.

Julius shuddered, as well he might; but he answered: “If you do, your
life will be in danger.”

“What do you mean?” quickly asked Marlowe, taking it as a threat.

“You will be hung.”

“They must catch me first,” said he, coolly. “But first you must answer
me a question. How much money have you?”

“I can’t tell without counting.”

“Don’t dare to trifle with me, boy!”

“I am telling you the truth.”

It may be mentioned that, apart from his personal apprehension, Julius
was anxious about his money. He had in a wallet six hundred dollars
belonging to Mr. Taylor, which he had collected in various places. He
was ambitious to justify his benefactor’s confidence, and carry it to
him in safety; but Marlowe threatened to take both the money and his
life. He was only a boy, but emergencies make men out of boys. He had
been provided by Mr. Taylor with a revolver, not with any supposition
that he would need it, but as a safeguard in case robbery should be
attempted on the road. He had forgotten to put it under his pillow, but
it was in the pocket of his coat, and that coat was hanging over a chair
on the opposite side of the bed from that on which Marlowe was standing.
He could only obtain possession of it by stratagem.

“Give me your money,” said Marlowe, fiercely.

“Then spare my life,” said Julius, assuming a tone of entreaty.

“I cannot promise,” said Marlowe; “but I will assuredly kill you at once
unless you give me the money.”

“Then wait till I get it for you,” said Julius.

He jumped out of bed, Marlowe suspecting nothing, and put his hand in
the pocket of his coat. He drew out, not a pocketbook, but the revolver,
which he deliberately pointed at Marlowe.

“Dan Marlowe,” he said, quietly, “you are stronger than I, but this
pistol is loaded, and I know how to use it. Come toward me, and I fire.”

“Confusion!” exclaimed the burglar, furiously, and his impulse was to
spring upon Julius. But there was something in the boy’s resolute tone
which made him pause.

“He wouldn’t be so cool if it wasn’t loaded,” he thought.

A doubt in the mind of Julius was solved. Marlowe had no pistol, or he
would have produced it. Disagreeable as it was, the burglar stopped to
parley. He could postpone his revenge, and only exact money now.

“Put up your pistol,” he said. “I only wanted to frighten you a bit.
You’ve done me a bad turn, and you owe me some return. Give me all the
money you have with you, and I’ll say quits.”

“I can’t do that,” said Julius, “for the money isn’t mine.”

“Whose is it?”

“It belongs to my guardian.”

“Is he rich?”

“Yes.”

“Then he can spare it. Tell him it was stolen from you.”

“I shall do no such thing,” said Julius, firmly. “It hasn’t been stolen
yet, and won’t be, as I believe.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Marlowe, furiously, making a dash toward
our hero.

“Hold!” shouted Julius. “One step farther and I fire.”

There is a popular impression that men of violence are brave; but it is
a mistaken one. Marlowe had not the nerve to carry out his threat, while
covered by a pistol in the hands of a resolute antagonist. There was
another reason also. The partitions were thin, and the noise had aroused
the gentleman sleeping in No. 9. He came out into the entry, and knocked
at the door of No. 8.

“Put up your pistol, boy,” said Marlowe, hurriedly, “and I will open the
door.”

Julius did not put it up, but hastily concealed it, and the door was
opened.

The visitor was an elderly man in his nightclothes.

“How do you expect a man to sleep?” he said, peevishly, “when you are
making such an infernal noise?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Marlowe, politely, “but I am just leaving my
friend here, and shall retire at once. You won’t hear any more noise.”

“It is time it stopped,” said the visitor, not quite appeased. “Why,
it’s after midnight!”

“Is it, really?” said Marlowe. “I did not think it so late. Good-night,
Julius.”

“Good-night,” said our hero.

The visitor retired, and so did Marlowe. But Julius, distrusting his
neighbor, not only locked, but barricaded the door, and put the revolver
under his pillow. But he had no further visit from Marlowe. The latter,
for prudential reasons, postponed the revenge which he still meant to
take.

In the morning Julius looked for his enemy, but he was nowhere to be
seen. Inquiring in a guarded way, he ascertained that Marlowe had taken
an early breakfast and had gone away. It might be that he feared Julius
would cause his arrest. At any rate, he was gone.

Julius never saw him again, but read in a newspaper, not long afterward,
the closing incidents in the career of this dangerous ruffian. He made
his way to Milwaukee, and resumed his old business. While engaged in
entering a house by night, he was shot dead by the master of the house,
who had heard him enter. It was a fitting end to a misspent life. From a
boy he had warred against society, and now he had fallen at the hands of
one of his intended victims.

       *       *       *       *       *

But little remains to be told--too little for a separate chapter.
Julius has redeemed the promise of his youth, and now in his early
manhood possesses the respect and attachment, not only of Mr. and Mrs.
Taylor, but of all who know him. His real estate speculation has turned
out favorably. The property for which he paid fifteen hundred dollars is
now worth three times that sum, owing to the rapid growth and increasing
population of Brookville; but as it is likely to become still more
valuable, he has decided not to sell yet. He has repaid Mr. Taylor the
amount of the mortgage out of his earnings, and is now sole proprietor.
He has assumed the management of Mr. Taylor’s large farm, and is likely
in time to grow rich. It is reported that he is engaged to be married to
a niece of Mrs. Taylor, who recently came from the East to visit her
aunt; and it is not unlikely that the report is true. Though he can
boast no proud lineage, and is even indebted to strangers for a name,
the Taylors feel that the good qualities which he possesses will
compensate for these deficiencies.

He has once visited New York. Last year he went to the East on business
for Mr. Taylor, and sought out some of his old haunts. Among other
places, he visited the Newsboys’ Lodging House, and, at the request of
Mr. O’Connor, made a short speech to the boys, a portion of which will
conclude this story:

“Boys,” he said, “it is but a few years since I was drifting about the
streets like you, making my living by selling papers and blacking
boots, ragged, and with a dreary prospect before me. I used to swear and
lie, I remember very well, as I know many of you do. If I had stayed in
the city I might be no better off now. But in a lucky moment I was
induced by Mr. O’Connor to go West. There I found kind friends and a
good home, and had a chance to secure a good education. Now I carry on a
large farm for my benefactor, and second father, as I consider him, and
I hope in time to become rich. I tell you, boys, it will pay you to
leave the city streets and go out West. You may not be as lucky as I
have been in finding rich friends, but it will be your own fault if you
don’t get along. There are plenty of homes waiting to receive you, and
plenty of work for you to do. If you want to prosper and grow up
respectable, I advise you to come out as soon as you get the chance.”


THE END.




THE PATERNOSTERS.


“And do you really mean that we are to cross by the steamer, Mr. Virtue,
while you go over in the _Seabird_? I do not approve of that at all.
Fanny, why do you not rebel and say we won’t be put ashore? I call it
horrid, after a fortnight on board this dear little yacht, to have to
get on to a crowded steamer, with no accommodation and lots of seasick
women, perhaps, and crying children. You surely cannot be in earnest?”

“I do not like it any more than you do, Minnie; but, as Tom says we had
better do it, and my husband agrees with him, I am afraid we must
submit. Do you really think it is quite necessary, Mr. Virtue? Minnie
and I are both good sailors, you know; and we would much rather have a
little extra tossing about on board the _Seabird_ than the discomforts
of a steamer.”

“I certainly think that it will be best, Mrs. Grantham. You know very
well we would rather have you on board, and that we shall suffer from
your loss more than you will by going the other way; but there’s no
doubt the wind is getting up, and though we don’t feel it much here, it
must be blowing pretty hard outside. The _Seabird_ is as good a seaboat
as anything of her size that floats; but you don’t know what it is to be
out in anything like a heavy sea in a thirty-tonner. It would be
impossible for you to stay on deck, and we should have our hands full,
and should not be able to give you the benefit of our society.
Personally, I should not mind being out in the _Seabird_ in any weather,
but I would certainly rather not have ladies on board.”

“You don’t think we should scream, or do anything foolish, Mr. Virtue?”
Minnie Graham said indignantly.

“Not at all, Miss Graham. Still, I repeat, the knowledge that there are
women on board, delightful at other times, does not tend to comfort in
bad weather. Of course, if you prefer it, we can put off our start till
this puff of wind has blown itself out. It may have dropped before
morning. It may last some little time. I don’t think myself that it will
drop, for the glass has fallen, and I am afraid we may have a spell of
broken weather.”

“Oh, no; don’t put it off,” Mrs. Grantham said; “we have only another
fortnight before James must be back again in London, and it would be a
great pity to lose three or four days perhaps; and we have been looking
forward to cruising about among the Channel Islands, and to St. Malo,
and all those places. Oh, no; I think the other is much the better
plan--that is, if you won’t take us with you?”

“It would be bad manners to say that I won’t, Mrs. Grantham; but I must
say I would rather not. It will be a very short separation. Grantham
will take you on shore at once, and as soon as the boat comes back I
shall be off. You will start in the steamer this evening, and get into
Jersey at nine or ten o’clock to-morrow morning; and if I am not there
before you, I shall not be many hours after you.”

“Well, if it must be it must,” Mrs. Grantham said, with an air of
resignation. “Come, Minnie, let us put a few things into a hand-bag for
to-night. You see the skipper is not to be moved by our pleadings.”

“That is the worst of you married women, Fanny,” Miss Graham said, with
a little pout. “You get into the way of doing as you are ordered. I call
it too bad. Here have we been cruising about for the last fortnight,
with scarcely a breath of wind, and longing for a good brisk breeze and
a little change and excitement, and now it comes at last, we are to be
packed off in a steamer. I call it horrid of you, Mr. Virtue. You may
laugh, but I do.”

Tom Virtue laughed, but he showed no signs of giving way, and ten
minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Grantham and Miss Graham took their places in
the gig, and were rowed into Southampton Harbor, off which the _Seabird_
was lying.

The last fortnight had been a very pleasant one, and it had cost the
owner of the _Seabird_ as much as his guests to come to the conclusion
that it was better to break up the party for a few hours.

Tom Virtue had, up to the age of five-and-twenty, been possessed of a
sufficient income for his wants. He had entered at the bar, not that he
felt any particular vocation in that direction, but because he thought
it incumbent upon him to do something. Then, at the death of an uncle,
he had come into a considerable fortune, and was able to indulge his
taste for yachting, which was the sole amusement for which he really
cared, to the fullest.

He sold the little five-tonner he had formerly possessed, and purchased
the _Seabird_. He could well have afforded a much larger craft, but he
knew that there was far more real enjoyment in sailing to be obtained
from a small craft than a large one, for in the latter he would be
obliged to have a regular skipper, and would be little more than a
passenger, whereas on board the _Seabird_, although his first hand was
dignified by the name of skipper, he was himself the absolute master.
The boat carried the aforesaid skipper, three hands, and a steward, and
with them he had twice been up the Mediterranean, across to Norway, and
had several times made the circuit of the British Isles.

He had unlimited confidence in his boat, and cared not what weather he
was out in her. This was the first time since his ownership of her that
the _Seabird_ had carried lady passengers. His friend Grantham, an old
school and college chum, was a hard-working barrister, and Virtue had
proposed to him to take a month’s holiday on board the _Seabird_.

“Put aside your books, old man,” he said. “You look fagged and
overworked; a month’s blow will do you all the good in the world.”

“Thank you, Tom; I have made up my mind for a month’s holiday, but I
can’t accept your invitation, though I should enjoy it of all things.
But it would not be fair to my wife; she doesn’t get very much of my
society, and she has been looking forward to our having a run together.
So I must decline.”

Virtue hesitated a moment. He was not very fond of ladies’ society, and
thought them especially in the way on board a yacht; but he had a great
liking for his friend’s wife, and was almost as much at home in his
house as in his own chambers.

“Why not bring the wife with you?” he said, as soon as his mind was made
up. “It will be a nice change for her too; and I have heard her say that
she is a good sailor. The accommodation is not extensive, but the
after-cabin is a pretty good size, and I would do all I could to make
her comfortable. Perhaps she would like another lady with her; if so by
all means bring one. They could have the after-cabin, you could have the
little stateroom, and I could sleep in the saloon.”

“It is very good of you, Tom, especially as I know that it will put you
out frightfully; but the offer is a very tempting one. I will speak to
Fanny, and let you have an answer in the morning.”

“That will be delightful, James,” Mrs. Grantham said, when the
invitation was repeated to her. “I should like it of all things; and I
am sure the rest and quiet and the sea air will be just the thing for
you. It is wonderful, Tom Virtue making the offer; and I take it as a
great personal compliment, for he certainly is not what is generally
called a lady’s man. It is very nice, too, of him to think of my having
another lady on board. Whom shall we ask? Oh, I know,” she said
suddenly; “that will be the thing of all others. We will ask my cousin
Minnie; she is full of fun and life, and will make a charming wife for
Tom!”

James Grantham laughed.

“What schemers you all are, Fanny! Now I should call it downright
treachery to take anyone on board the _Seabird_ with the idea of
capturing its master.”

“Nonsense, treachery!” Mrs. Grantham said indignantly; “Minnie is the
nicest girl I know, and it would do Tom a world of good to have a wife
to look after him. Why, he is thirty now, and will be settling down into
a confirmed old bachelor before long. It’s the greatest kindness we
could do him, to take Minnie on board; and I am sure he is the sort of
man any girl might fall in love with when she gets to know him. The fact
is, he’s shy! He never had any sisters, and spends all his time in
winter at that horrid club; so that really he has never had any women’s
society, and even with us he will never come unless he knows we are
alone. I call it a great pity, for I don’t know a pleasanter fellow than
he is. I think it will be doing him a real service in asking Minnie; so
that’s settled. I will sit down and write him a note.”

“In for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose,” was Tom Virtue’s comment
when he received Mrs. Grantham’s letter, thanking him warmly for the
invitation, and saying that she would bring her cousin, Miss Graham,
with her, if that young lady was disengaged.

As a matter of self-defense he at once invited Jack Harvey, who was a
mutual friend of himself and Grantham, to be of the party.

“Jack can help Grantham to amuse the women,” he said to himself; “that
will be more in his line than mine. I will run down to Cowes to-morrow
and have a chat with Johnson; we shall want a different sort of stores
altogether from those we generally carry, and I suppose we must do her
up a bit below.”

Having made up his mind to the infliction of female passengers, Tom
Virtue did it handsomely, and when the party came on board at Ryde they
were delighted with the aspect of the yacht below. She had been
repainted, the saloon and ladies’ cabin were decorated in delicate
shades of gray, picked out with gold; and the upholsterer, into whose
hands the owner of the _Seabird_ had placed her, had done his work with
taste and judgment, and the ladies’ cabin resembled a little boudoir.

“Why, Tom, I should have hardly known her!” Grantham, who had often
spent a day on board the _Seabird_, said.

“I hardly know her myself,” Tom said, rather ruefully; “but I hope she’s
all right, Mrs. Grantham, and that you and Miss Graham will find
everything you want.”

“It is charming!” Mrs. Grantham said enthusiastically. “It’s awfully
good of you, Tom, and we appreciate it; don’t we, Minnie? It is such a
surprise, too; for James said that while I should find everything very
comfortable, I must not expect that a small yacht would be got up like a
palace.”

So a fortnight had passed; they had cruised along the coast as far as
Plymouth, anchoring at night at the various ports on the way. Then they
had returned to Southampton, and it had been settled that as none of the
party, with the exception of Virtue himself, had been to the Channel
Islands, the last fortnight of the trip should be spent there. The
weather had been delightful, save that there had been some deficiency in
wind, and throughout the cruise the _Seabird_ had been under all the
sail she could spread. But when the gentlemen came on deck early in the
morning a considerable change had taken place; the sky was gray and the
clouds flying fast overhead.

“We are going to have dirty weather,” Tom Virtue said at once. “I don’t
think it’s going to be a gale, but there will be more sea on than will
be pleasant for ladies. I tell you what, Grantham; the best thing will
be for you to go on shore with the two ladies, and cross by the boat
to-night. If you don’t mind going directly after breakfast I will start
at once, and shall be at St. Helier’s as soon as you are.”

And so it had been agreed, but not, as has been seen, without opposition
and protest on the part of the ladies.

Mrs. Grantham’s chief reason for objecting had not been given. The
little scheme on which she had set her mind seemed to be working
satisfactorily. From the first day Tom Virtue had exerted himself to
play the part of host satisfactorily, and had ere long shaken off any
shyness he may have felt towards the one stranger of the party, and he
and Miss Graham had speedily got on friendly terms. So things were going
on as well as Mrs. Grantham could have expected.

No sooner had his guests left the side of the yacht than her owner began
to make his preparations for a start.

“What do you think of the weather, Watkins?” he asked his skipper.

“It’s going to blow hard, sir; that’s my view of it, and if I was you I
shouldn’t up anchor to-day. Still, it’s just as you likes; the _Seabird_
won’t mind it if we don’t. She has had a rough time of it before now;
still, it will be a case of wet jackets, and no mistake.”

“Yes, I expect we shall have a rough time of it, Watkins, but I want to
get across. We don’t often let ourselves be weather-bound, and I am not
going to begin it to-day. We had better house the top-mast at once, and
get two reefs in the mainsail. We can get the other down when we get
clear of the island. Get number three jib up, and the leg-of-mutton
mizzen; put two reefs in the foresail.”

Tom and his friend Harvey, who was a good sailor, assisted the crew in
reefing down the sails, and a few minutes after the gig had returned and
been hoisted in, the yawl was running rapidly down Southampton waters.

“We need hardly have reefed quite so closely,” Jack Harvey said, as he
puffed away at his pipe.

“Not yet, Jack; but you will see she has as much as she can carry before
long. It’s all the better to make all snug before starting; it saves a
lot of trouble afterwards, and the extra canvas would not have made ten
minutes’ difference to us at the outside. We shall have pretty nearly a
dead beat down the Solent. Fortunately the tide will be running strong
with us, but there will be a nasty kick-up there. You will see we shall
feel the short choppy seas there more than we shall when we get outside.
She is a grand boat in a really heavy sea, but in short waves she puts
her nose into it with a will. Now, if you will take my advice, you will
do as I am going to do; put on a pair of fisherman’s boots and oilskin
and sou’-wester. There are several sets for you to choose from below.”

As her owner had predicted, the _Seabird_ put her bowsprit under pretty
frequently in the Solent; the wind was blowing half a gale, and as it
met the tide it knocked up a short, angry sea, crested with white heads,
and Jack Harvey agreed that she had quite as much sail on her as she
wanted. The cabin doors were bolted, and all made snug to prevent the
water getting below before they got to the race off Hurst Castle; and it
was well that they did so, for she was as much under water as she was
above.

“I think if I had given way to the ladies and brought them with us they
would have changed their minds by this time, Jack,” Tom Virtue said,
with a laugh.

“I should think so,” his friend agreed; “this is not a day for a
fair-weather sailor. Look what a sea is breaking on the shingles!”

“Yes, five minutes there would knock her into matchwood. Another ten
minutes and we shall be fairly out; and I shan’t be sorry; one feels as
if one was playing football, only just at present the _Seabird_ is the
ball and the waves the kickers.”

Another quarter of an hour and they had passed the Needles.

“That is more pleasant, Jack,” as the short, chopping motion was
exchanged for a regular rise and fall; “this is what I enjoy--a steady
wind and a regular sea. The _Seabird_ goes over it like one of her
namesakes; she is not taking a teacupful now over her bows.

“Watkins, you may as well take the helm for a spell, while we go down to
lunch. I am not sorry to give it up for a bit, for it has been jerking
like the kick of a horse.

“That’s right, Jack, hang up your oilskin there. Johnson, give us a
couple of towels; we have been pretty well smothered up there on deck.
Now what have you got for us?”

“There is some soup ready, sir, and that cold pie you had for dinner
yesterday.”

“That will do; open a couple of bottles of stout.”

Lunch over, they went on deck again.

“She likes a good blow as well as we do,” Virtue said enthusiastically,
as the yawl rose lightly over each wave. “What do you think of it,
Watkins? Is the wind going to lull a bit as the sun goes down?”

“I think not, sir. It seems to me it’s blowing harder than it was.”

“Then we will prepare for the worst, Watkins; get the try-sail up on
deck. When you are ready we will bring her up into the wind and set it.
That’s the comfort of a yawl, Jack; one can always lie to without any
bother, and one hasn’t got such a tremendous boom to handle.”

The try-sail was soon on deck, and then the _Seabird_ was brought up
into the wind, the weather fore-sheet hauled aft, the mizzen sheeted
almost fore and aft, and the _Seabird_ lay, head to wind, rising and
falling with a gentle motion, in strong contrast to her impetuous rushes
when under sail.

“She would ride out anything like that,” her owner said. “Last time we
came through the Bay on our way from Gib. we were caught in a gale
strong enough to blow the hair off one’s head, and we lay to for nearly
three days, and didn’t ship a bucket of water all the time. Now let us
lend a hand to get the mainsail stowed.”

Ten minutes’ work and it was securely fastened and its cover on; two
reefs were put in the try-sail. Two hands went to each of the halliards,
while, as the sail rose, Tom Virtue fastened the toggles round the mast.

“All ready, Watkins?”

“All ready, sir.”

“Slack off the weather fore-sheet, then, and haul aft the leeward.
Slack out the mizzen-sheet a little, Jack. That’s it; now she’s off
again, like a duck.”

The _Seabird_ felt the relief from the pressure of the heavy boom to
leeward and rose easily and lightly over the waves.

“She certainly is a splendid seaboat, Tom; I don’t wonder you are ready
to go anywhere in her. I thought we were rather fools for starting this
morning, although I enjoy a good blow; but now I don’t care how hard it
comes on.”

By night it was blowing a downright gale.

“We will lie to till morning, Watkins. So that we get in by daylight
to-morrow evening, that is all we want. See our side-lights are burning
well, and you had better get up a couple of blue lights, in case
anything comes running up Channel and don’t see our lights. We had
better divide into two watches; I will keep one with Matthews and
Dawson, Mr. Harvey will go in your watch with Nicholls. We had better
get the try-sail down altogether, and lie to under the foresail and
mizzen, but don’t put many lashings on the try-sail, one will be enough,
and have it ready to cast off in a moment, in case we want to hoist the
sail in a hurry. I will go down and have a glass of hot grog first, and
then I will take my watch to begin with. Let the two hands with me go
down; the steward will serve them out a tot each. Jack, you had better
turn in at once.”

Virtue was soon on deck again, muffled up in his oilskins.

“Now, Watkins, you can go below and turn in.”

“I shan’t go below to-night, sir--not to lie down. There’s nothing much
to do here, but I couldn’t sleep, if I did lie down.”

“Very well; you had better go below and get a glass of grog; tell the
steward to give you a big pipe with a cover like this, out of the
locker; and there’s plenty of chewing tobacco, if the men are short.”

“I will take that instead of a pipe,” Watkins said; “there’s nothing
like a quid in weather like this, it aint never in your way, and it
lasts. Even with a cover a pipe would soon be out.”

“Please yourself, Watkins; tell the two hands forward to keep a bright
lookout for lights.”

The night passed slowly. Occasionally a sea heavier than usual came on
board, curling over the bow and falling with a heavy thud on the deck,
but for the most part the _Seabird_ breasted the waves easily; the
bowsprit had been reefed in to its fullest, thereby adding to the
lightness and buoyancy of the boat. Tom Virtue did not go below when his
friend came up to relieve him at the change of watch, but sat smoking
and doing much talking in the short intervals between the gusts.

The morning broke gray and misty, driving sleet came along on the wind,
and the horizon was closed in as by a dull curtain.

“How far can we see, do you think, Watkins?”

“Perhaps a couple of miles, sir.”

“That will be enough. I think we both know the position of every reef to
within a hundred yards, so we will shape our course for Guernsey. If we
happen to hit it off, we can hold on to St. Helier, but if when we think
we ought to be within sight of Guernsey we see nothing of it, we must
lie to again, till the storm has blown itself out or the clouds lift. It
would never do to go groping our way along with such currents as run
among the islands. Put the last reef in the try-sail before you hoist
it. I think you had better get the foresail down altogether, and run up
the spit-fire jib.”

The _Seabird_ was soon under way again.

“Now, Watkins, you take the helm; we will go down and have a cup of hot
coffee, and I will see that the steward has a good supply for you and
the hands; but first, do you take the helm, Jack, whilst Watkins and I
have a look at the chart, and try and work out where we are, and the
course we had better lie for Guernsey.”

Five minutes were spent over the chart, then Watkins went above and Jack
Harvey came below.

“You have got the coffee ready, I hope, Johnson?”

“Yes, sir, coffee and chocolate. I didn’t know which you would like.”

“Chocolate, by all means. Jack, I recommend the chocolate. Bring two
full-sized bowls, Johnson, and put that cold pie on the table, and a
couple of knives and forks; never mind about a cloth; but first of all
bring a couple of basins of hot water, we shall enjoy our food more
after a wash.”

The early breakfast was eaten, dry coats and mufflers put on, pipes
lighted, and they then went up upon deck. Tom took the helm.

“What time do you calculate we ought to make Guernsey, Tom?”

“About twelve. The wind is freer than it was, and we are walking along
at a good pace. Matthews, cast the log, and let’s see what we are doing.
About seven knots, I should say.”

“Seven and a quarter, sir,” the man said, when he checked the line.

“Not a bad guess, Tom; it’s always difficult to judge pace in a heavy
sea.”

At eleven o’clock the mist ceased.

“That’s fortunate,” Tom Virtue said; “I shouldn’t be surprised if we get
a glimpse of the sun between the clouds presently. Will you get my
sextant and the chronometer up, Jack, and put them handy?”

Jack Harvey did as he was asked, but there was no occasion to use the
instruments, for ten minutes later, Watkins, who was standing near the
bow gazing fixedly ahead, shouted:

“There’s Guernsey, sir, on her lee bow, about six miles away, I should
say.”

“That’s it, sure enough,” Tom agreed, as he gazed in the direction in
which Watkins was pointing. “There’s a gleam of sunshine on it, or we
shouldn’t have seen it yet. Yes, I think you are about right as to the
distance. Now let us take its bearings, we may lose it again directly.”

Having taken the bearings of the island they went below, and marked off
their position on the chart, and they shaped their course for Cape
Grosnez, the northwestern point of Jersey. The gleam of sunshine was
transient--the clouds closed in again overhead, darker and grayer than
before. Soon the drops of rain came flying before the wind, the horizon
closed in, and they could not see half a mile away, but, though the sea
was heavy, the _Seabird_ was making capital weather of it, and the two
friends agreed that, after all, the excitement of a sail like this was
worth a month of pottering about in calms.

“We must keep a bright lookout presently,” the skipper said; “there are
some nasty rocks off the coast of Jersey. We must give them a wide
berth. We had best make round to the south of the island, and lay to
there till we can pick up a pilot to take us into St. Helier. I don’t
think it will be worth while trying to get into St. Aubyn’s Bay by
ourselves.”

“I think so, too, Watkins, but we will see what it is like before it
gets dark; if we can pick up a pilot all the better; if not, we will lie
to till morning, if the weather keeps thick; but if it clears so that we
can make out all the lights we ought to be able to get into the bay
anyhow.”

An hour later the rain ceased and the sky appeared somewhat clearer.
Suddenly Watkins exclaimed, “There is a wreck, sir! There, three miles
away to leeward. She is on the Paternosters.”

“Good Heavens! she is a steamer,” Tom exclaimed, as he caught sight of
her the next time the _Seabird_ lifted on a wave. “Can she be the
Southampton boat, do you think?”

“Like enough, sir, she may have had it thicker than we had, and may not
have calculated enough for the current.”

“Up helm, Jack, and bear away towards her. Shall we shake out a reef,
Watkins?”

“I wouldn’t, sir; she has got as much as she can carry on her now. We
must mind what we are doing, sir; the currents run like a millstream,
and if we get that reef under our lee, and the wind and current both
setting us on to it, it will be all up with us in no time.”

“Yes, I know that, Watkins. Jack, take the helm a minute while we run
down and look at the chart.

“Our only chance, Watkins, is to work up behind the reef, and try and
get so that they can either fasten a line to a buoy and let it float
down to us, or get into a boat, if they have one left, and drift to us.”

“They are an awful group of rocks,” Watkins said, as they examined the
chart; “you see some of them show merely at high tide, and a lot of them
are above at low water. It will be an awful business to get among them
rocks, sir, just about as near certain death as a thing can be.”

“Well, it’s got to be done, Watkins,” Tom said firmly. “I see the danger
as well as you do, but whatever the risk it must be tried. Mr. Grantham
and the two ladies went on board by my persuasion, and I should never
forgive myself if anything happened to them. But I will speak to the
men.”

He went on deck again and called the men to him. “Look here, lads; you
see that steamer ashore on the Paternosters. In such a sea as this she
may go to pieces in half an hour. I am determined to make an effort to
save the lives of those on board. As you can see for yourselves there is
no lying to weather of her, with the current and wind driving us on to
the reef; we must beat up from behind. Now, lads, the sea there is full
of rocks, and the chances are ten to one we strike on to them and go to
pieces; but, anyhow, I am going to try; but I won’t take you unless you
are willing. The boat is a good one, and the zinc chambers will keep her
afloat if she fills; well managed, you ought to be able to make the
coast of Jersey in her. Mr. Harvey, Watkins, and I can handle the
yacht, so you can take the boat if you like.”

The men replied that they would stick to the yacht wherever Mr. Virtue
chose to take her, and muttered something about the ladies, for the
pleasant faces of Mrs. Grantham and Miss Graham had, during the
fortnight they had been on board, won the men’s hearts.

“Very well, lads, I am glad to find you will stick by me; if we pull
safely through it I will give each of you three months’ wages. Now set
to work with a will and get the gig out. We will tow her after us, and
take to her if we make a smash of it.”

They were now near enough to see the white breakers, in the middle of
which the ship was lying. She was fast breaking up. The jagged outline
showed that the stern had been beaten in. The masts and funnel were
gone, and the waves seemed to make a clean breach over her, almost
hiding her from sight in a white cloud of spray.

“Wood and iron can’t stand that much longer,” Jack Harvey said; “another
hour and I should say there won’t be two planks left together.”

“It is awful, Jack; I would give all I have in the world if I had not
persuaded them to go on board. Keep her off a little more, Watkins.”

The _Seabird_ passed within a cable’s-length of the breakers at the
northern end of the reef.

“Now, lads, take your places at the sheets, ready to haul or let go as I
give the word.” So saying, Tom Virtue took his place in the bow, holding
on by the forestay.

The wind was full on the _Seabird’s_ beam as she entered the broken
water. Here and there the dark heads of the rocks showed above the
water. These were easy enough to avoid, the danger lay in those hidden
beneath its surface, and whose position was indicated only by the
occasional break of a sea as it passed over them. Every time the
_Seabird_ sank on a wave those on board involuntarily held their breath,
but the water here was comparatively smooth, the sea having spent its
first force upon the outer reef. With a wave of his hand Tom directed
the helmsman as to his course, and the little yacht was admirably
handled through the dangers.

“I begin to think we shall do it,” Tom said to Jack Harvey, who was
standing close to him. “Another five minutes and we shall be within
reach of her.”

It could be seen now that there was a group of people clustered in the
bow of the wreck. Two or three light lines were coiled in readiness for
throwing.

“Now, Watkins,” Tom said, going aft, “make straight for the wreck. I see
no broken water between us and them, and possibly there may be deep
water under their bow.”

It was an anxious moment, as, with the sails flattened in, the yawl
forged up nearly in the eye of the wind towards the wreck. Her progress
was slow, for she was now stemming the current.

Tom stood with a coil of line in his hand in the bow.

“You get ready to throw, Jack, if I miss.”

Nearer and nearer the yacht approached the wreck, until the bowsprit of
the latter seemed to stand almost over her. Then Tom threw the line. It
fell over the bowsprit, and a cheer broke from those on board the wreck
and from the sailors of the _Seabird_. A stronger line was at once
fastened to that thrown, and to this a strong hawser was attached.

“Down with the helm, Watkins. Now, lads, lower away the try-sail as fast
as you can. Now, one of you, clear that hawser as they haul on it. Now
out with the anchors.”

These had been got into readiness; it was not thought that they would
get any hold on the rocky bottom, still they might catch on a projecting
ledge and at any rate their weight and that of the chain cable would
relieve the strain upon the hawser.

Two sailors had run out on the bowsprit of the wreck as soon as the line
was thrown, and the end of the hawser was now on board the steamer.

“Thank God, there’s Grantham!” Jack Harvey Exclaimed; “do you see him
waving his hand?”

“I see him,” Tom said, “but I don’t see the ladies.”

“They are there, no doubt,” Jack said confidently; “crouching down, I
expect. He would not be there if they weren’t, you may be sure. Yes,
there they are; those two muffled-up figures. There, one of them has
thrown back her cloak and is waving her arm.”

The two young men waved their caps.

“Are the anchors holding, Watkins? There’s a tremendous strain on that
hawser.”

“I think so, sir; they are both tight.”

“Put them round the windlass, and give a turn or two, we must relieve
the strain on that hawser.”

Since they had first seen the wreck the waves had made great progress in
the work of destruction, and the steamer had broken in two just aft of
the engines.

“Get over the spare spars, Watkins, and fasten them to float in front of
her bows like a triangle. Matthews, catch hold of that boat-hook and try
to fend off any piece of timber that comes along. You get hold of the
sweeps, lads, and do the same. They would stave her in like a nutshell
if they struck her.”

“Thank God, here comes the first of them!”

Those on board the steamer had not been idle. As soon as the yawl was
seen approaching slings were prepared, and no sooner was the hawser
securely fixed, than the slings were attached to it and a woman placed
in them. The hawser was tight and the descent sharp, and without a
check the figure ran down to the deck of the _Seabird_. She was lifted
out of the slings by Tom and Jack Harvey, who found she was an old woman
and had entirely lost consciousness.

“Two of you carry her down below; tell Johnson to pour a little brandy
down her throat. Give her some hot soup as soon as she comes to.”

Another woman was lowered and helped below. The next to descend was Mrs.
Grantham.

“Thank God, you are rescued!” Tom said, as he helped her out of the
sling.

“Thank God, indeed,” Mrs. Grantham said, “and thank you all! Oh, Tom, we
have had a terrible time of it, and had lost all hope till we saw your
sail, and even then the captain said that he was afraid nothing could be
done. Minnie was the first to make out it was you, and then we began to
hope. She has been so brave, dear girl. Ah! here she comes.”

But Minnie’s firmness came to an end now that she felt the need for it
was over. She was unable to stand when she was lifted from the slings,
and Tom carried her below.

“Are there any more women, Mrs. Grantham?”

“No; there was only one other lady passenger and the stewardess.”

“Then you had better take possession of your own cabin. I ordered
Johnson to spread a couple more mattresses and some bedding on the
floor, so you will all four be able to turn in. There’s plenty of hot
coffee and soup. I should advise soup with two or three spoonfuls of
brandy in it. Now, excuse me; I must go upon deck.”

Twelve men descended by the hawser, one of them with both legs broken by
the fall of the mizzen. The last to come was the captain.

“Is that all?” Tom asked.

“That is all,” the captain said. “Six men were swept overboard when she
first struck, and two were killed by the fall of the funnel. Fortunately
we had only three gentlemen passengers and three ladies on board. The
weather looked so wild when we started that no one else cared about
making the passage. God bless you, sir, for what you have done! Another
half-hour and it would have been all over with us. But it seems like a
miracle your getting safe through the rocks to us.”

“It was fortunate indeed that we came along,” Tom said; “three of the
passengers are dear friends of mine; and as it was by my persuasion that
they came across in the steamer instead of in the yacht, I should never
have forgiven myself if they had been lost. Take all your men below,
captain; you will find plenty of hot soup there. Now, Watkins, let us be
off; that steamer won’t hold together many minutes longer, so there’s no
time to lose. We will go back as we came. Give me a hatchet. Now, lads,
two of you stand at the chain-cables; knock out the shackles the moment
I cut the hawser. Watkins, you take the helm and let her head pay off
till the jib fills. Jack, you lend a hand to the other two, and get up
the try-sail again as soon as we are free.”

In a moment all were at their stations. The helm was put on the yacht,
and she payed off on the opposite tack to that on which she had before
been sailing. As soon as the jib filled, Tom gave two vigorous blows
with his hatchet on the hawser, and, as he lifted his hand for a third,
it parted. Then came the sharp rattle of the chains as they ran round
the hawser-holes. The try-sail was hoisted and sheeted home, and the
_Seabird_ was under way again. Tom, as before, conned the ship from the
bow. Several times she was in close proximity to the rocks, but each
time she avoided them. A shout of gladness rose from all on deck as she
passed the last patch of white water. Then she tacked and bore away for
Jersey.

Tom had now time to go down below and look after his passengers. They
consisted of the captain and two sailors--the sole survivors of those
who had been on deck when the vessel struck--three male passengers, and
six engineers and stokers.

“I have not had time to shake you by the hand before, Tom,” Grantham
said, as Tom Virtue entered; “and I thought you would not want me on
deck at present. God bless you, old fellow! we all owe you our lives.”

“How did it happen, captain?” Tom asked, as the captain also came up to
him.

“It was the currents, I suppose,” the captain said; “it was so thick we
could not see a quarter of a mile any way. The weather was so wild I
would not put into Guernsey, and passed the island without seeing it. I
steered my usual course, but the gale must have altered the currents,
for I thought I was three miles away from the reef, when we saw it on
our beam, not a hundred yards away. It was too late to avoid it then,
and in another minute we ran upon it, and the waves were sweeping over
us. Everyone behaved well. I got all, except those who had been swept
overboard or crushed by the funnel, up into the bow of the ship, and
there we waited. There was nothing to be done. No boat would live for a
moment in the sea on that reef, and all I could advise was that when she
went to pieces everyone should try to get hold of a floating fragment;
but I doubt whether a man would have been alive a quarter of an hour
after she went to pieces.”

“Perhaps, captain, you will come on deck with me and give me the benefit
of your advice. My skipper and I know the islands pretty well, but no
doubt you know them a good deal better, and I don’t want another
mishap.”

But the _Seabird_ avoided all further dangers, and as it became dark
the lights of St. Helier’s were in sight, and an hour later the yacht
brought up in the port and landed her involuntary passengers.

A fortnight afterwards the _Seabird_ returned to England, and two months
later Mrs. Grantham had the satisfaction of being present at the
ceremony which was the successful consummation of her little scheme in
inviting Minnie Graham to be her companion on board the _Seabird_.

“Well, my dear,” her husband said, when she indulged in a little natural
triumph, “I do not say that it has not turned out well, and I am
heartily glad for both Tom and Minnie’s sake it has so; but you must
allow that it very nearly had a disastrous ending, and I think if I were
you I should leave matters to take their natural course in future. I
have accepted Tom’s invitation for the same party to take a cruise in
the _Seabird_ next summer, but I have bargained that next time a storm
is brewing up we shall stop quietly in port.”

“That’s all very well, James,” Mrs. Grantham said saucily; “but you must
remember that Tom Virtue will only be first-mate of the _Seabird_ in
future.”

“That I shall be able to tell you better, my dear, after our next
cruise. All husbands are not as docile and easily led as I am.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

                         The Aeroplane Series

                       By JOHN LUTHER LANGWORTHY


  1. The Aeroplane Boys; or, The Young Pilots First Air Voyage

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       *       *       *       *       *

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            701-733 S. DEARBORN STREET      ::      CHICAGO
                   *       *       *       *       *

                           Radio Boys Series


1. Radio Boys in the Secret Service;
or, Cast Away on an Iceberg               FRANK HONEYWELL

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or, Held for Ransom by Mexican Bandits    J. W. DUFFIELD

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       *       *       *       *       *

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                           By ANNABEL SHARP


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       *       *       *       *       *

                          The American Boy’s

                             Sports Series

                            BY MARK OVERTON

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End of Project Gutenberg's Julius, The Street Boy, by Horatio Alger Jr.

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