The Project Gutenberg eBook, George at the Wheel, by Harry Castlemon

GEORGE AT THE WHEEL;

OR,

LIFE IN THE PILOT-HOUSE.

George At The Wheel

ROUGHING IT SERIES.

GEORGE AT THE WHEEL;

OR,

LIFE IN THE PILOT-HOUSE.

By HARRY CASTLEMON,

AUTHOR OF "THE GUNBOAT SERIES," "THE FRANK NELSON SERIES," "THE BOY TRAPPER SERIES," &C.

THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.
PHILADELPHIA
CHICAGO TORONTO

FAMOUS CASTLEMON BOOKS.

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Copyright, 1881, by Porter & Coates.

CONTENTS.

GEORGE AT THE WHEEL;

OR,

LIFE IN THE PILOT-HOUSE.

CHAPTER I. UNCLE JOHN AND NED.

"Well, Ned, I must say, that you have had some narrow escapes. Have you seen anything of those ranchemen lately? I mean the one who owns the stolen horse and his companion?"

"No, sir; and I don't want to see them, either. It is true that they might not recognise me in these clothes, for every time they described me, they spoke of my buckskin coat and silver buttons; but I have no desire to run the risk!"

"You say you haven't seen Gus Robbins since the day you reached town. Where do you suppose he is?"

"I haven't the least idea. All I know is, that he has not gone home. He got angry at some little thing I said, and left without bidding me good-by. But I say, father, I don't want to stay here any longer. I shall not feel safe until I am miles away from Texas!"

"Well, where do you want to go, and what do you want to do?"

"I don't know; I haven't thought about it. George and I talked of going up to the head-waters of the Mississippi, and coming back in a canoe. I should have enjoyed such a trip, but George had to go and get himself captured by those Greasers, and of course that put an end to that scheme."

"If Gus Robbins were here he might go with you. I suppose you wouldn't care to go back to Foxboro' under the existing circumstances?"

"No sir, I should not. All the folks there know that Gus ran away from home and came down here to visit us, and they would have too much to say about it. We couldn't call on Mr. Robbins, of course. He is perfectly well aware of the fact that I sent Gus the money to defray the expenses of his journey, and he'd give us the cold shoulder at once. But, father, what do you suppose those Greasers wanted of George? What did they intend to do with him after they had taken him across the river?"

"I am sure I don't know. I am sorry that Gus left you as he did, for there is no knowing what will become of him."

"What will the neighbors say when they learn that George is gone, and that you made no effort to find him? Won't they suspect something?"

"I can't help it if they do. If there is anything done about it, Mr. Gilbert must be the one to do it; for of course I can't go back there until those ranchemen and Mr. Cook are satisfied. Now, make up your mind where you want to go, and we will leave Brownsville to-night."

Uncle John Ackerman and his son Ned had been closeted in their room at the hotel for the last hour, talking over the exciting events that had happened since the latter left home. The boy, as we have already said, told a truthful story, but his father had very little to tell him in return. He did not want to talk about George, and every time Ned made inquiries concerning him, Uncle John answered his questions in as few words as he could, and made all haste to turn the conversation into another channel. He seemed to grow nervous and excited every time his nephew's name was mentioned; and this, taken in connection with his anxiety to avoid all allusion to him, which was much too palpable to escape Ned's notice, made the latter believe that his father knew more about George's capture than he was willing to reveal.

"He is keeping something from me," said Ned, to himself, over and over again; and the longer the interview continued, the firmer became his convictions on this point. He brought his cousin's name in at every opportunity, but could neither surprise nor coax his father into saying more than he had already said, viz.: That he knew nothing whatever of the object the Mexicans had in view, when they captured George; and could not even guess what they intended to do with him. Those who have read the preceding volume of this series, know the statement to be false; and to enable those who have not read it to follow this story understandingly, we will spend a few moments upon the missing boy's past history.

George Ackerman, our hero, was born, and had spent the most of his life on his father's cattle ranche, which was located a few days' journey from one of the small frontier towns of Texas. When he was about thirteen years of age his father died, leaving his immense property in trust to his only brother, John Ackerman, who was named as George's guardian. Uncle John came to Texas at once, bringing with him his son, Ned; who, by the terms of the will left by George's father, was to be the heir to the property in case his cousin did not live to reach his majority. That provision of the will, was a most unfortunate one for George, for it was the means of bringing him into a great deal of trouble.

Uncle John was a poor man up to this time, and had been obliged to work hard for his living. He held the position of book-keeper in a dry-goods store in the town in which he lived, and Ned was clerk in the same store. The latter was anything in the world but an industrious boy, and when he learned that his father was to have the entire management and control of an estate worth forty thousand dollars a year, his astonishment and delight knew no bounds.

For awhile, Ned enjoyed the life of ease he led in his new home. The first thought that came into his mind when he awoke in the morning was, that during the whole of the long day before him, he need not turn his hand to labor of any kind. There were a good many servants about the ranche who were paid to work; and it was not even necessary that Ned should black his own boots or saddle his horse. He had nothing to do but enjoy himself. This was a glorious way to live, and Ned told himself that he should never grow tired of it. But he did; and he even learned to hate his life of inactivity and uselessness, as cordially as he had hated the life he led in the dry-goods store in Foxboro'. There was literally nothing he could do but ride on horseback, and Ned had found by experience, that that was hard work. There was nothing to be seen on the ranche; there was not a house in sight; no boys with whom he could associate; no books in the small, well-selected library that he cared to read; and the hours hung heavily on his hands.

To make matters worse, Ned learned that the other boys in the neighborhood, were not as lonely as he was; that they visited one another regularly; had hunting parties and barbecues, and were never at a loss to know how to pass the time in an agreeable manner. But they never asked Ned to join them. They slighted him on every occasion, just as their fathers and older brothers slighted Uncle John.

Nobody in that country liked the new-comers, and the reason was, because they would not work. The settlers, who were always busy at something, did not believe that people could spend their lives in doing nothing. Their creed was, that every man and boy must pass the time in some way; and if they did not devote it to some honest occupation, they would spend it in doing something dishonest. So, when they found that Uncle John and his son held aloof from work and dressed in the height of fashion, they became suspicious of them at once. There was only one class of men in that country who lived and dressed in that way, and they were rogues, every one of them.

Ned, being left entirely to himself, passed a most dismal winter. He never went out of sight of the house but once, and then he spent a few days with his cousin in camp; in the hope of finding an opportunity to try his rifle on some of the big game with which he had heard the plains were so well stocked; but he was caught out in a "norther," and so nearly frozen, that it was a long time before he could get thawed out again. He saw no game, and was glad to get back to the rancho.

When his cousin told him why it was that the boys in the settlement would have nothing to do with him, Ned made a feeble effort to show that he had something in him, and that he was capable of making an honest living. He fenced in fifty acres of land and planted it to wheat—or, rather, he sat on his horse and watched his father's hired men while they did the work. While he was wondering how he should pass the long months that must elapse before his crop would be ready for the reapers, a bright idea occurred to him, and he lost no time in carrying it out.

Among the clerks belonging to the store in Foxboro' in which he had formerly been employed was a young fellow, Gus Robbins by name, the son of the senior partner, with whom he had once been on terms of the closest intimacy. Gus had faithfully promised to visit Ned in his Texas home, and while he was thinking about him, and the agreeable change his presence would make in the gloomy old rancho, it suddenly occurred to him that it was quite possible he could bring him there. He wrote to Gus at once, and was almost ready to dance with delight when he received a letter in reply stating that his friend would be only too glad to visit Texas, and that want of money was the only thing that prevented him from so doing. Ned promptly sent him a hundred dollars, urging him to come on at once, and then settled back into his old aimless life again. But it was not as gloomy as it had been, for he had something to occupy his mind. He laid out numerous plans for the amusement of his expected friend, and promised himself some exciting times when he arrived. But, as it happened, the exciting times began before Gus arrived, and Ned was the hero of a series of adventures that astonished everybody who heard of them. The incident that led to some of these adventures was so simple a thing as trading horses.

It was Ned's custom to ride every day to the top of a high swell, about five miles from home, and there stake out his horse and lie down on his blanket to watch the trail along which his expected friend Gus would have to pass in order the reach the rancho. One day he encountered on the top of this swell a flashily-dressed and splendidly-mounted stranger, who astonished Ned by offering to trade horses with him. The offer was promptly accepted, and the stranger rode hastily away, leaving Ned holding by the bridle the handsomest horse he had ever seen. The animal proved to be just as good as he looked, and Ned was delighted with the way he behaved under the saddle—so delighted, in fact, that he was willing to run a serious risk in order to keep him. He began to suspect, after a while, that the horse had been stolen, so he said nothing to his father about the trade he had made. His suspicions proved to be well-founded, for that same night a couple of men came along looking for this same horse, which they called Silk Stocking. Ned heard them describe the animal, but he did not surrender him, as he ought to have done, for the appearance of the two men, who were armed to the teeth, frightened him, and he was afraid that if he acknowledged he had the horse in his possession, they would do him some serious injury. He knew that the men lived a long distance away, and he hoped that they would go back to their own settlement and stay there; so he resolved to keep the horse, although his resolution did not amount to much, for that very night he lost him. A band of Mexicans, led by renegade Americans, who lived on the other side of the Rio Grande and gained a livelihood by stealing cattle from the Texas farmers and ranchemen, made a descent upon the rancho. They came after the strong box which Uncle John kept in the office, and which one of their spies had told them was filled with gold and silver.

The appearance of the attacking party was entirely unexpected and so sudden that Ned, who happened to be under the shed in which he had hitched his new horse, did not have time to run into the house. He concealed himself in the manger, from which he could obtain a fair view of the yard and see every move the raiders made. He was greatly astonished to discover that they were met at the porch by one of the servants, who seemed to be waiting for them, and who gave them instructions in regard to their future movements. This servant's name was Philip, and he was Uncle John's cook. He had left one of the doors open, and through it the raiders entered the rancho without opposition; but they had scarcely crossed the threshold when they were discovered, and a fierce battle ensued between them and the herdsmen, in which the robbers got the worst of it.

Being driven out of the house, the raiders concealed themselves behind wagons and lumber piles and opened fire on the herdsmen, which the latter returned with their revolvers. One of them ran into the shed and took refuge in the very manger in which Ned was concealed; but he was quickly routed by some sharpshooter in the rancho, who sent his bullets crashing through the planks altogether too close to Ned's head for comfort. The robbers were finally obliged to mount and ride away without accomplishing their object, and Ned's new horse went with them. The boy had released the animal when the raiders first made their appearance, for fear that by his neighing he would lead some of the band to his place of concealment. He was glad to see him go, and hoped from the bottom of his heart that he had seen and heard the last of him. He had seen the last of him, but he was destined to hear a good deal more concerning him. That same horse afterward came pretty near getting George Ackerman into trouble, and how it happened shall be told in its proper place.

A few days after this the long-expected visitor made his appearance. He was met at Palos—that was the name of the nearest settlement—by one of Uncle John's herdsmen, who showed him the way to the rancho. He had left home without his father's knowledge, thus adding another to the list of runaways whose adventures are to be described in this series of books. Ned met him on the top of the swell before spoken of, and the two rode homeward, talking over old times, and dwelling with a good deal of pride and enthusiasm upon the numerous "scrapes" in which they had been engaged in Foxboro'. Gus seemed eager to appear as the hero of new ones, and Ned promised him that his ambition should be fully gratified. And he kept his promise.

A few days afterward, the two boys rode over to look at Ned's wheat field, and found the fence broken down, the crop entirely ruined, and the enclosure in the possession of a small herd of half-wild cattle, which acted as if they were fully sensible of the mischief they had done and were elated over it. Here was a chance for Gus to get himself into business, and he did it by shooting down one of the herd, Ned following his example by severely wounding another. Then they drove the herd out of the field and rode gaily homeward, all unconscious of the fact that the owner of the cattle, Mr. Cook, had been looking at them over the top of a neighboring ridge, watching their every movement. Ned knew better than to do this. He knew, for his cousin George had told him so, that such an act as he had just performed had once set the whole settlement in an uproar, and brought about a reign of terror, the like of which nobody there wanted to see again.

CHAPTER II. A SURPRISE.

The settlement in which Uncle John and Ned lived was composed of two classes of men, the farmers and the ranchemen. The former devoted themselves to tilling the soil, and the ranchemen to raising cattle for market. The ranchemen did not like their neighbors, for every farm that was located and fenced in took away just so many acres of their pasture, and the farmers did not like the ranchemen, because their cattle broke down the fences and destroyed the crops. The little difficulties that were constantly arising between these two classes of men gradually gave way to greater ones, until at last the farmers began shooting the stock that broke into their fields, and the ranchemen revenged themselves by shooting the farmers. This led to a state of affairs that can hardly be described; but the troubles had all been satisfactorily settled, and would, perhaps, never have been thought of again if Ned Ackerman's evil genius had not put it into his idle brain to raise another "neighborhood row," as he called it, just to be revenged upon the settlers for paying so little attention to him. His Cousin George urged him to abandon the idea, telling him in so many words that, if he persisted, the country would be made too hot to hold him; but Ned would not listen. He and Gus Robbins shot the cattle, as we have described, and their punishment followed close upon the heels of it.

George Ackerman was unlike his Cousin Ned in every respect. He was industrious and saving, and by his own unaided efforts he had accumulated property in stock worth six thousand dollars. He spent almost all his time in company with his herdsman, Zeke, in taking care of these cattle. He preferred living in camp to living at the rancho, for the old house did not seem like home to him any longer, and neither did his relatives act as though they wanted him there. The truth of the matter was they did not want him there, and they had not been long at the rancho before they began laying plans to drive him away. In order to accomplish this, Ned urged his father to take George's herd of cattle away from him, believing that if it were done, George would be too badly discouraged to raise another, and that he would go off somewhere to seek his fortune, leaving him and his father to manage the estate as they saw fit. But George positively refused to surrender the herd for which he had worked so long and faithfully, and said, more by his manner than by words, that if Uncle John attempted to take it from him by force, he and Zeke would make a most desperate resistance.

The conversation our hero had with his uncle on this subject took place one morning just as George was getting ready to start out with a fresh supply of provisions to join his herdsman, whom he had left on the prairie with his cattle. It was some days before he found him, for Zeke, having seen signs of an Indian raiding party, had moved the herd farther away from the river, in order to insure its safety. But it was not safe even then, as George soon learned to his cost.

The same band of cattle-thieves who had made the attack on the ranche for the purpose of securing the strong box in which Uncle John kept his money, found the herd and stampeded it. They drove the cattle right over George, who threw himself into an old buffalo wallow, and thus escaped being trampled to death. Two of the raiders kept on after the herd to turn it towards the river, while the others provided themselves with blazing brands from the camp-fire and searched the woods until daylight.

George, who could see all their movements, thought they were looking for Zeke. The old fellow carried a repeating rifle, and when the raiders appeared he made a stubborn fight, severely wounding several of their number, and George thought they wanted to capture him, in order that they might take revenge on him for it.

When the cattle-thieves went away, George filled his haversack with the bacon and crackers they had left in camp, and set out for home on foot, his horse and pack-mule having been driven off with the herd. A few days afterwards he fell in with one of the wounded raiders, who had been left behind by his companions, and from his lips he received some items of information that astonished him not a little. He learned that an attack had been made upon the rancho, that his Uncle John was laying plans to get him out of the way so that Ned could inherit the property, and that Philip, the Mexican cook, a man of whom George had always been suspicious, was assisting him in carrying those plans into execution.

Springer (that was the name of the wounded cattle-thief, who had once worked for George's father) assured the boy that it was through Uncle John's connivance that the raiders knew where to find George's cattle, and that it was George himself, and not Zeke, whom they were looking for when they were searching the woods with their firebrands. If they had found him, they would have taken him across the river into Mexico—what they would have done with him after they had got him there, Springer said he didn't know—and Uncle John would have rewarded them for it by bringing in a thousand head of cattle and pasturing them near the river, so that the raiders could come over and capture them at their leisure.

When the man had finished his story, George divided his small stock of provisions with him, put him on his horse, and resumed his journey toward home. He did not know what to think of the news he had just heard, and he finally decided that he would go straight to Mr. Gilbert, who was an old friend of his father's, lay the matter before him, and be governed by his advice. He was obliged to camp one more night on the prairie before he reached Mr. Gilbert's rancho, but he did not pass the night alone. He had two visitors, one of whom was the owner of the stolen horse for which Ned had traded, and to which he had held fast, even after he knew that the man of whom he received him had no lawful right to him.

The visitors did not know who George was, and consequently they were very communicative. They told him all about Silk Stocking, and threatened to do something terrible to Ned when they found him. They were sure they would recognise him anywhere by the clothes and ornaments he wore. They were looking for a boy wearing a Mexican sombrero, a buckskin coat with silver buttons, high patent leather boots, the heels of which were armed with silver-plated spurs, and who carried a riding-whip with an ivory handle. They found a boy after a while who answered to this description pretty nearly, and they—well, we have not come to that yet.

George was greatly alarmed by what the men told him. He knew that his cousin had got himself into serious trouble by holding fast to the horse after he knew the animal had been stolen, and he could see no way to get him out of it. If he had been satisfied that the men intended to punish him in some lawful manner, it is probable that he would not have thought of trying to save him from the consequences of his folly; for George was a law-abiding boy, and he did not believe in assisting a culprit to escape, even though that culprit might be his own cousin. But he had the best of reasons for believing that his visitors had made up their minds to take the law into their own hands, and knowing that they had no right to do that, he resolved to save his cousin from their fury, or at least to delay them in their search until he could see Mr. Gilbert, and ask him what he thought about it.

When morning came the men, who had lost their way, asked George to put them on the road to Mr. Ackerman's rancho, but he didn't do it. He sent them thirty-five miles out of their course, after which he set out for Mr. Gilbert's house, where he arrived just at dark. He told his old friend all his troubles, not forgetting to repeat what Springer had said about Uncle John and his plans, and Mr. Gilbert, in return, told him some bad as well as some good news. The good news was that George's horse and mule were safe in his (Mr. Gilbert's) corral; that Zeke was unharmed, and that, with the assistance of some of the settlers he had recaptured every one of George's lost herd. The bad news was, that Ned and his friend, Gus Robbins, had been shooting Mr. Cook's cattle, that all the ranchemen in the neighborhood were very angry at them for it, and that they were going to meet at Cook's on the following day and decide how they would punish them.

This last piece of intelligence made George all the more anxious to reach home in order to warn his cousin, and Mr. Gilbert urged him to lose no time in doing it. The best thing Ned and Gus could do, he said, would be to go North and stay there until the events of the last few days were forgotten; and as for Uncle John, he wasn't fit to be any boy's guardian, and George had better take measures at once to have a new one appointed. Our hero thought this advice worth acting upon, all except that portion of it relating to the selection of a new guardian. He could not bear the idea of disgracing his father's only brother. Uncle John might be guilty of the offences with which he was charged, and then again he might not. He had nothing but Springer's word for it, and he would wait until he had better evidence than that before he took any action in the case.

While the two were talking the matter over, the owner of the stolen horse and his companion arrived. They had learned that they had been sent a long distance out of their way, and they were in very bad humor over it. While Mr. Gilbert entertained them, George slipped out of the house, mounted his horse, which one of the herdsmen had saddled for him, and started for home with all haste. Every body there was surprised to see him, for Zeke had brought the news of his disappearance, and he was given up for lost. More than that, the trail along which he had just passed was watched by men who had orders to make a prisoner of him and take him across the river. They were instructed to watch for a boy on foot; but George came on horseback, and so passed them in safety.

Ned and his friend, Gus Robbins, were greatly alarmed when they heard what George had to say to them, and so was Uncle John. They agreed to every thing he had to propose, and in a very few minutes the three boys were mounted and riding away in the darkness. George had used extra care to enter and leave the house without Philip's knowledge, but the crafty Mexican knew just what was going on. His first act, when the boys were out of sight, was to put the owner of the stolen horse and his companion on the wrong trail, and his next, to hunt up the two men who had been ordered to capture George, and tell them that he had started for Brownsville. Then he came back and told his employer what he had done, and if George could have overheard their conversation, he would have needed no better evidence that his uncle was his enemy. There was one who did overhear it, and who showed what he thought of it by knocking Philip down.

George was overtaken and captured the next day while he and his companions were in camp, and the last time we saw him his captors were just starting to take him across the river. Before he took leave of his cousin he received permission to change clothes with him, and it was a very fortunate thing for Ned that he did so. The latter was twice brought face to face with the owner of the stolen horse, who was following him with the greatest perseverance, and if he had been dressed in his nobby suit, he would have been recognised and pounced upon at once.

When George was taken from them, Ned and Gus were left to find their own way to Brownsville, which they reached in due time, and a very unsociable pair they were, too. Ned very unreasonably charged his friend with being the cause of all his troubles, and told him that he had better go home and stay there. This made Gus so angry that he scarcely spoke to Ned during the journey, and when they reached Brownsville he left him without saying good-by. It was a long time before Ned heard of him again. Where he went, and what he did, we have yet to tell.

As soon as Ned reached Brownsville he "dressed himself up like a gentleman," as he expressed it, and waited impatiently for the arrival of his father. Uncle John came at last, and took Ned around to his hotel and up to his room, where we now find them, and where they had spent an hour or more in talking over the incidents of the last few days. Ned was surprised at the anxiety his father exhibited to learn all the particulars of George's capture. He was obliged to tell the story over and over again, and when Uncle John had heard all he wanted to know, he dropped George entirely, and would not speak of him if he could help it.

"He is glad George has gone," thought Ned, "and it wouldn't surprise me in the least to know that he had something to do with his disappearance. Well, if he has gone for good, I don't see what I can do about it. I don't see why I should cry over it, either, for I am master of a cool forty thousand a year. I little thought, while I was handling the yard-stick in old Robbins's store and working for starvation wages, that I should ever be a millionaire. Forty thousand a year! How in the world am I going to spend it, I'd like to know! Of course I must go to Europe—all the gentlemen go there—but first I'll go to Foxboro' and lord it over some of those fellows who used to slight me because I was nothing but a dry-goods clerk. But, after all, I don't know that I blame them. I shall not renew my association with those clerks, for a millionaire ought to be particular in regard to the company he keeps."

"Now make up your mind where you want to go and we will leave Brownsville to-night," repeated Uncle John, slapping his son familiarly on the shoulder and breaking in upon his meditations. "We have nobody but ourselves to look out for now that George is gone, and we can do as we please."

"But he might escape and come back, you know," suggested Ned.

"I hardly think—I am afraid he will not be so fortunate," replied Uncle John. "Those cattle-thieves are a desperate lot of men."

"Don't you think you ought to go back to the rancho and make some effort to find him?" inquired Ned.

He asked the question simply to see what answer his father would make, and not because he wanted him to act upon the hint thus thrown out.

"And put myself in danger for nothing?" exclaimed Uncle John. "That would be the height of folly. How could I help him while he is across the river in the hands of those desperadoes? They may have made an end of him already. Mr. Gilbert, who thoroughly understands the temper of the people in that settlement, advised me to go away for a while, and I shall certainly do so."

"And when we come back I shall be the lawful master of the finest estate in Texas," exclaimed Ned, with great enthusiasm.

"I confess that it looks that way now," replied Uncle John, who, although he was as highly elated as Ned was, controlled himself better. "Have you any idea what you will do with your wealth?"

"I know one thing," answered Ned, "and that is, I'll not live in Texas. I'll leave an agent in charge of the ranche and go up north where white folks live. They won't snub me because I wear good clothes. Who's there?"

The bell-boy, who knocked at that moment, evidently took this question for an invitation to enter. At any rate he opened the door, saying as he thrust his head into the apartment—

"A gentleman to see you, sir."

George's Unexpected Appearance

Uncle John and Ned jumped to their feet in the greatest surprise and consternation. The former could not have told just what he stood in fear of, but Ned could. He fully expected to see the owner of that stolen horse stalk into the room; but if that gentleman had made his appearance, Ned would not have been so utterly confounded as he was at the sight of the visitor who came in. Uncle John and Ned took just one look at him and dropped back into their chairs without speaking. It was George Ackerman. He looked as natural as life, and was apparently none the worse for his short sojourn among the cattle-thieves. His presence there proved quite conclusively that Ned was not yet lawful master of the finest estate in Texas.

CHAPTER III. THE CONTRA-GUERRILLAS.

The last time we saw George Ackerman he was dressed in his cousin's nobby suit, and was riding away from camp between the two cattle-thieves, whom Philip, his uncle's cook, had placed upon his trail. He was their prisoner, and they seemed determined to keep him too; for one of them, in order to prevent all attempts at escape, held fast to one end of a lariat, the other end of which was tied around the neck of George's horse.

The boy was not frightened in the least—he never was, unless he saw something to be frightened at—but he was anxious and uneasy, as any body would have been under the same circumstances. He began to believe now, that Springer told the truth; and that his capture was the result of the plans his uncle had laid to get him out of the way, so that Ned could lay claim to the property. But beyond that he was all in the dark.

As long as George remained within sight of the camp he turned in his saddle, now and then, to look back at the boys from whom he had been so unexpectedly separated. They were disconsolate enough, if one might judge by their actions. Gus Robbins was standing in the edge of the timber gazing stupidly after the prisoner and his captors, as if he had not yet been able to make up his mind, whether he was awake or dreaming; and Ned was walking back and forth, wringing his hands and making other demonstrations indicative of a very agitated state of mind.

"There is nothing for him to cry over," thought George, who was surprised at his cousin's want of pluck. "He can't get lost if he tries; and he will be sure to meet his father in Brownsville. He had no business to shoot those cattle, for I told him he would get himself into trouble by it."

When the camp and its two unhappy occupants had been left out of sight behind the swells, George turned to take a good look at his captors. They were dressed in Mexican costumes; but for all that, he knew that they were Americans. They were a hard-looking pair; and if he had had any intention of appealing to their sympathies, one glance at their faces would have been enough to drive all such thoughts out of his mind.

"I always heard that the Ackermans was a plucky lot, but I didn't allow to find a kid like you so mighty cool an' keerless like," said one of the men, after he had looked in vain for some signs of alarm in his captive's countenance. "Look here! You said that you knew all about Fletcher, an' I ax you again, who told you about him?"

"And I give you the same reply that I did before," returned George, "It's my own business. Were you with Fletcher on the night he made the attack on our rancho?"

"Mebbe we was, an' mebbe we wasn't," replied the man.

"I hardly thought you would confess it," said George. "Philip thought he was doing a very smart thing when he left that door open, so that you could go into the house; didn't he?"

George's captors seemed greatly astonished at this question. They stared fixedly at him for a moment and then they looked at each other.

"You didn't succeed in getting the money-box, did you?" continued George, who knew that the men would have given something handsome to know where he received all his information. "You got nothing at the ranche but a horse—a dark chestnut with white mane and tail, and four white feet."

"He is over the river now," said one of the men, who was so amazed, that he spoke before he thought what he was doing.

"I know it."

"Wal, go on. What else do you know?"

"I know that you expect to receive a thousand head of fat cattle, as your reward, for making a prisoner of me. You can tell Fletcher, for his satisfaction, that the next time he wants to put a spy into any of the ranches in this country, he had better select a more reliable man than that Mexican cook. There!" added George, to himself, "If I am not very much mistaken, Philip is in a fair way to see as much trouble as he has tried to get me into."

There could be no doubt about that, if the expression on the faces of the boy's captors, was any index of the thoughts that were passing through their minds. He had purposely aroused their suspicions against the cook, and the significant glances they exchanged with each other, had a volume of meaning in them.

"When I get home, the first thing I do will be to tell Jake to kick Philip out of the house," said George, again communing with himself. "Of course, Fletcher will want to know who told me all these things, and it would never do to say that I got my information from Springer. I say," he added, aloud, "where do you fellows make your home, anyhow?"

"You'll see when you get thar," replied one of the men.

"I suppose you were with Fletcher on the night he jumped down on me and stampeded my cattle, were you not?" continued George.

"Mebbe we was, an' mebbe we wasn't."

"I know who was there."

"Who?"

"Springer. He used to herd cattle for my father, you know, and I recognised him the moment I put my eyes on him. He was shot right there," said George, placing the forefingers of each hand on his legs to indicate the spots where Zeke's bullets had found a lodgement. "He was badly injured, too, and I don't believe he ever got back across the river."

"Wal, he did," said one of the men. "He had a hard time of it, but he got through all right, an' he's thar now."

"I am very glad to hear it," said George, to himself. "That's just what I was trying to get at. If I can find him, perhaps he will help me escape."

George held no further conversation with his captors during the ride, for they were busy talking with each other. As they conversed wholly in the Spanish language, George could not understand what they said, but still he knew that they were talking about Philip, for he heard his name mentioned now and then, and it was almost always coupled with an oath. They seemed to think that their trusted spy had been guilty of treachery, and they made a report to that effect when they got across the river.

It was five miles to the nearest belt of timber, and while they were travelling toward it, the cattle-thieves exercised the utmost caution, stopping on the top of every swell and sweeping their eyes around the horizon to make sure that there was no one in sight. But they reached the timber without being seen by anybody, and there they camped to wait until dark. They did not think it safe to approach the ford in broad daylight. George now had an opportunity to finish the nap from which he had been so rudely awakened, and the cattle-thieves took turns in standing guard.

When night came, he was ordered into the saddle again and led toward the ford, his captors taking the same precautions as before to prevent his escape. They crossed the river in safety, and as soon as their horses had mounted the opposite bank, they were put to their full speed. There was no need of concealment now, for the cattle-thieves were among friends who, had they been pursued by ranchemen or troops from Texas, would have done everything in their power to aid them to escape.

They now had a journey of eighteen miles before them, and it required but a little over two hours for them to accomplish it. It was so dark at first that George could not see his hand before him; but the moon arose after a while, and then he was able to see that they were following a well-beaten trail, which ran in a tortuous course through the hills. This trail finally led them into a wide valley, from the middle of which arose the whitewashed walls of what had been a comfortable rancho. Their horses' hoofs rang out loudly on the pavement as they rode unchallenged into the open gateway and along the arched passage that led to the spacious patio or court-yard. It was deserted, save by a few goats that were feeding at a pile of fodder in one corner, and a disconsolate dog or two which, having been awakened from his sleep, was stealing off under the shadow of the walls to find a new resting-place.

On the four sides of the court-yard, doorways without doors yawned darkly at the intruders. In front of one of these doors the cattle-thieves dismounted, and while one remained outside to guard the prisoner, the other entered with the horses, which he hitched there and supplied with a feed of corn. When he came out again, he brought the saddles and blankets with him.

"Now then," said he, as he led the way into one of the adjoining apartments, "we'll go in here. Thar's plenty of room in our hotel, and thar's no need of crowdin' the boarders. Spread your blanket down anywheres, young fellow, and don't try to skip outen here durin' the night, fur we always sleep with one eye open."

As if to put all attempts at escape out of the question, the speaker spread his own couch in front of the door and stretched himself upon it.

A bed which consists simply of a blanket and saddle is quickly made up, and George, who had not yet recovered from the fatigue of his five days' journey on foot, fell fast asleep almost as soon as he took possession of it. When he awoke at daylight he was not a little astonished at what he saw. The rooms opening off the court-yard, which had been so silent and apparently deserted when he rode into the rancho had, during his sleep, given up a most unexpected tenantry—men, women, children, goats and dogs, so many, in fact, that it was a wonder where they all came from. A confused babel of voices saluted his ears, and finally awoke his captors, who made no effort to restrain him when he put on his sombrero and walked out into the courtyard.

Having heard some astonishing stories told of the almost regal state maintained by wealthy Mexican rancheros before the war, George looked about him with the greatest interest. On every side he saw the lingering remains of departed grandeur. In the centre of the court-yard was a ruined fountain, and beyond it was a long column of fluted pillars, with gaily-carved capitals. In front of these pillars were the remains of a garden, now trodden hard with the pressure of many feet, but still affording a little sustenance to a few flowerless shrubs and one or two sickly orange and fig trees. Upon the broad stone verandah on the other side of the fluted columns the master of the house had doubtless feasted his guests, or smoked and dozed away the time in his hammock, while the fountain played merrily and the air was redolent of the perfume of flowers. Now slouching figures, clad in rusty leather trowsers and velvet jackets, and smoking villainous cigarettes, swaggered through the court-yard, and from the adjoining rooms, with their tessellated floors and frescoed ceilings, came the impatient calls of hungry cattle and horses, which were growing tired of waiting for their breakfast.

While George was wondering where the master was, and what had happened to bring about so great a change in the house, he walked slowly along the court-yard, glancing into all the rooms as he passed, and no one spoke to him, or even seemed to notice him. He took a survey of the verandah, which was littered with blankets, ponchos, saddles and weapons, and was about to retrace his steps, when he heard a suppressed exclamation of astonishment near him, and turned quickly to find himself face to face with his father's old herdsman, the cattle-thief who had warned him against his Uncle John. He sat on his blanket, with his back against the wall, and the crutches which lay by his side proved that he had not yet fully recovered from the wounds that had been inflicted upon him by Zeke's Winchester.

"Hallo, Springer!" exclaimed George, starting forward; but as he was about to mount the steps leading to the verandah, the man threw up his hand, with a warning gesture.

"Keep your distance," said he, in a low tone. "We mustn't be too friendly, kase thar's too many watchin' you!"

"Humph!" exclaimed George. "There doesn't seem to be anybody watching me. I have been all around the court-yard, and nobody said a word to me."

"No difference," replied Springer. "They all know you, and have got their eyes on you. Don't you think now that I knowed what I was talking about when I told you that your uncle wasn't no friend of your'n? Where did they find you?"

"They surprised and captured me while I was on my way to Brownsville," replied George, who, still adhering to the resolution he had already made that he would not discuss private family matters with such a fellow as Springer, hastened to add, "Who runs this rancho, and what are these men doing here? Are they all cattle-thieves? There must be five or six hundred of them."

"The house belongs to Don Miguel de—something; I disremember the last name," answered Springer. "You see he thought when Max came over here, him and the French soldiers would be sure to clean out Juarez; so the Don, he accepts some kind of an office under the emperor, and Juarez, he confiscates his property, and Max, he sends a regiment here to watch things. But they don't find nothing much to watch, all the property 'ceptin' the house havin' been took away, an' so they settles down to cattle stealin'."

"Then these men are Maximilian's soldiers, are they?" said George.

"Yes; they're the contra-guerrillas, and a bad lot they are, too."

"I have heard of them," said George, with an involuntary shudder. "The people in Brownsville and Matamoras say there is not a man in the whole crowd who has not committed some crime."

"No more is there," replied Springer. "I'd oughter know, kase I belong to 'em."

"Is Fletcher the colonel of the regiment?"

"No. He's only the boss of the cattle stealin' expeditions, kase he knows the country and the ranches on the other side of the river better'n any body else. His idea of stealing you was a little private speculation of his'n, an' thar's only a few of us into it. Philip is the one that put him up to it. You see, he heard your uncle an' that boy of his'n talkin' agin you, an' wishin' you was out of the way so't they could have the ranche all theirselves, an' Philip, he skirmished around in that sly way of his'n till he got on your uncle's blind side, an' then he told him that if he'd promise to leave a thousand head of cattle where they could be stole easy, he'd see that you didn't never trouble him no more. I wouldn't tell you no lie about this business," added Springer, earnestly. "You give me grub and water when I was starvin' fur 'em, an' put me on my hoss, an' give me a chance for my life, when nobody else wouldn't a done it; an' I'm goin' to do you a good turn to pay you for it, if I can."

"Well, it is quite in your power to do me a good turn," said George, quietly. "You can help me get away from here."

"O, no, I can't do that," exclaimed Springer. "I want to put you on your guard against your uncle an' cousin, so that you will look out for them. They mean harm to you, sure's you're born!"

"And it seems that they have carried out their plans, too," said George, dolefully. "Have you any idea what these fellows intend to do with me?"

"They ain't agoin' to do nothing to you," said Springer, encouragingly. "They've just going to hold fast to you, that's all; an' as long as Fletcher has got you under his thumb, he's just as good as owner of the Ackerman ranche an' all the cattle that's onto it. You see?"

"No, I don't," answered George.

"Wal, then I'll make it plain to you. A'most all the beef we get for our army comes from over the river. The soldiers eat a power of it, an' when the quartermaster wants some more, he'll send word to Fletcher, an' Fletcher, he'll send word to your uncle by that Mexican cook of his'n to bring in another thousand head so't we can steal 'em, an' your uncle, he'll have to do it; kase if he don't, Fletcher, he'll blow the whole thing, an' what would the neighbors do to your Uncle John? They'd handle him rough, I tell you!"

George made no reply. He could not bear to think of what the settlers would do if they were acquainted with the fact that Uncle John had deliberately caused his nephew to be captured and carried off by the guerrillas in order that he might obtain possession of his property. It was very probable that they would "handle him rough," and that, too, without the aid of judge or jury.

"But look here, Springer," said George, after a moment's reflection. "You told me that you were to receive only a thousand head of cattle for capturing me. When you get them you can't demand any more."

"We can an' we will," said Springer, stoutly. "We'll ax for cattle just as often as we please, an' your Uncle John, he dassen't say no to us. That's Fletcher's plan."

"This is a pretty state of affairs," said George, angrily. "Must I pay for my capture out of my own pocket, and then stand still and allow myself to be stripped clean?"

Springer shrugged his shoulders as if to say that the boy could answer these questions in any way he pleased, and the latter, after turning the situation over in his mind, said with all the bitterness he could throw into his tones:

"I am not going to stay here and be robbed in this way. The Mexican government can't protect me, and my own government won't, for fear of hurting the feelings of you cattle-stealing gentlemen, and I am going to take care of myself. Springer, you must assist me to escape."

We must pause here for a moment to give the reader some idea of the state of affairs on our Texan border at the time of which we write, for George was quite correct when he said that the Mexican government could not protect him and that his own government would not.

From the days of Jacob Sadelmayer, who visited the Apache country about the year 1744, until within a few years past, the Mexican people allowed themselves to be regularly and systematically robbed by bands of raiding Indians who were armed with nothing more formidable than bows and arrows. During our civil war, and for years afterward, these Indians turned their attention to the frontier settlements of Texas, and forced them back a hundred and fifty miles. Our government uttered some feeble protests, but it was not to be expected that a people who had for so many years submitted to the forays of these savages, were going to make vigorous warfare upon them for our protection. It was not to their interest to do so, for the reason that as long as these raiders could find market for their plunder in Mexico, and could retreat there to get out of reach of our troops, they allowed the Mexicans themselves to rest in peace.

At the time George Ackerman was taken prisoner, Maximilian, having been abandoned by the French soldiers, who had been withdrawn on the demand of our government, was making his last stand against Juarez. His soldiers were deserting him by hundreds, and as the most of them would rather steal than work any day, they formed themselves into bands, and plundered their own countrymen and the Texans with the greatest impartiality. Fletcher and his band nominally belonged to one of Maximilian's regiments, but they were nothing better than professional thieves. They formed a sort of foraging party; but instead of foraging upon the enemy, they raided upon the Texans, drove off their cattle and sold them to Maximilian's commissary. These raiding parties were almost always pursued, and although some of them were overtaken and punished, the majority succeeded in crossing the river, where they were safe. The Mexican authorities would not arrest them, and our troops dared not follow them over the Rio Grande for fear of bringing on a war with Mexico. Texan ranchemen, when they passed through Mexican towns, often found property there that had been stolen from them, but their demands for it were met with derision and contempt.

This was the way matters stood on the morning that George Ackerman found himself a prisoner among the Contra-Guerrillas. His chances for seeing home and friends again would have been much better if the United States and Mexico had been at war and he had been captured in battle, for then he might have looked forward to an exchange; but as it was, there was no such hope for him.

CHAPTER IV. MORE ABOUT SILK STOCKING.

"Turn about is fair play, Springer," said George. "I fed you when you were hungry, put you on your horse and gave you a chance to escape to this side of the river, and you must help me in some way."

"I don't see how I can do it," replied the wounded cattle-thief, who seemed to be alarmed by the proposition. "If I do an' am ketched at it, I'm a goner. You didn't run no risk by helpin' me."

"I didn't!" exclaimed George. "I know a story worth two of that. What do you suppose the settlers would do to me, if they should find out that I had given aid and comfort to such a man as you are?"

"How are they goin' to find it out? It ain't likely that any one of us will tell 'em of it."

"And neither is it likely that I shall tell Fletcher if you assist me," answered George. "You see, Springer——"

"Easy! easy!" whispered the man, raising his hand warningly. "He's coming."

"Who is coming?"

"The boss."

George faced about and saw a tall fellow, dressed in Mexican costume, picking his way among the recumbent guerrillas who were stretched out on their ponchos in the court-yard, waiting for breakfast. As he came nearer, George turned away from Springer, and looked at him with a good deal of curiosity. He was not a Mexican—there was that much to be said in his favor—but there was nothing in his face that induced the captive to appeal to his sympathies. When the boy descended the steps leading down from the verandah, the robber chief stood at the foot waiting for him.

"So you're George Ackerman, are you?" said he, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets and looking down at the boy. "Now, I want to know, who told you so much?"

The man spoke in an abrupt tone, but his face wore a good-natured smile, and George did not feel in the least afraid of him.

"The fellows who brought you in here last night, seem to think that Philip has been talking too much," continued Fletcher; "and if that is the case, I want to know it."

If the man had looked toward Springer, who at that moment appeared to be busily engaged in adjusting the bandages he wore about his wounded legs, he would have seen that his face had grown very white, and that he was listening intently for George's reply.

"You can ask Philip about that the next time you see him," was the answer, which was given in a tone that was calculated to strengthen Fletcher's suspicions against the cook. "I know why my uncle wants to get rid of me, and how he intends to accomplish his object; and whether or not he will succeed, depends entirely upon yourself. I am your prisoner, and you have the power to do with me as you please."

"Well, you are a cool one, that's a fact," exclaimed Fletcher, who seemed to be astonished at the boy's courage. "He will succeed, so far as getting rid of all his cattle is concerned, your uncle will; but——"

"They are not his cattle," interrupted George. "They belong to me individually."

"No odds. We don't care who belongs to 'em, so long as we get 'em," replied the guerrilla, cheerfully. "As I was going on to say, your uncle will get rid of all his cattle, but he won't get rid of you, by a long shot. We want the beef, and we don't care how we get it, if we don't have to fight for it; but I aint going to put an ugly hand on you, and I'll make it hot for anybody who does. I haint got nothing against you. You don't stand between me and a fortune. I reckon there are others in the settlement who know as much as you do?"

"There are some there who suspect as much as I know," replied George. "I had a long talk with one of my friends about it, night before last."

"Then Philip will have to come away from that ranche, for he won't be of no more use there," said Fletcher. "Now, I aint a going to be any harder on you than I can help. You can walk around the ranche as much as you please; but you can see for yourself, that it won't be of no use for you to try to get away. If we should catch you at that, we'd have to shut you up in one of those rooms and put a guard over you. Come on, and let's get some breakfast."

"What are you going to do with me, any how?" asked George, as he followed the guerrilla toward the other end of the court-yard.

"O, we'll let you visit with us, until we get all Ackerman's cattle; and then we'll set you back across the river, so that you can make it warm for the old rascal," replied Fletcher, with an encouraging wink.

"I don't want to stay here until my stock is all stolen," said George; and he added to himself: "I won't, either."

The boy breathed much easier after his interview with the robber chief. He had never expected to be so well treated by the man who always led the guerrillas on their plundering expeditions, and whose deeds of violence had much to do with the reputation those same guerrillas bore. He had the assurance that no harm was intended him, and consequently his mind was at rest on that score; but he did not want to stay there a passive prisoner, and, what was more, he was determined that he would not. If he saw a chance for escape he would improve it, and he would take some desperate risks, too.>

That day was a dreary one to George, who could find nothing to interest him. He could not smoke and doze away the long hours in his blanket, as the Mexicans did, and he had already seen every thing there was to be seen about the rancho. He was surprised at the manner in which the guerrillas performed garrison duty. There was no guard mount, such as he had seen at the fort on the other side of the river; there was no sentry at the gateway, no herdsmen to take care of the horses, the most of which were allowed to run loose in the valley; and if Springer had not told him that the regiment had been sent there to watch the rancho, he never would have known it from anything they did to indicate the fact. No one paid the least attention to him, not even Springer, who must have taken himself off to some safe hiding-place, for George could not find him again.

"He is afraid that I will ask him to assist me in making my escape," thought the boy, and he made a pretty shrewd guess as to the cause of the man's sudden disappearance. "Well, who cares? If they are going to allow me to run around as I please, I'll not ask help of any body. I wonder what they have done with my horse?"

George answered this question for himself by directing his course toward the room into which he had seen Ranger led the night before. The animal was still there. He greeted his master with a low whinny of recognition, and rubbed his head familiarly against his shoulders when the boy patted his glossy neck. He tried to follow George, too, when the latter went out, but he was tied to a ring in the wall, and his master dared not set him at liberty.

"I am afraid that our days of companionship are over, Ranger," said George, as he put his hands into his pockets and sauntered toward the gate. "Fletcher seems to think that I can't get away from here if he keeps you tied up. But there are other horses close at hand, some of them as good as you are, probably, and I must take one of them."

There was no one at the gate to stop him, and George went through it, and turning around an angle of the wall bent his steps towards the place where the horses belonging to the guerrillas were grazing, walking slowly and stopping now and then to look about him as if he had determined upon nothing in particular. He did not know how many pairs of eyes there might be watching him, and he was careful to do nothing to excite the suspicions of his guard, if he had any. He moved leisurely around the building and then went back through the gate and lay down upon his blanket, which he had spread in front of the room that had served him and his captors for a sleeping apartment. His short walk outside the walls had satisfied him that unless some restraint was put upon his actions his captivity would be of very short duration. If he could leave the rancho after dark, it would be no trouble at all for him to capture one of the horses that were feeding on the plain, and set out for the nearest ford. He resolved that he would attempt it that very night.

George made three or four more excursions outside the rancho that afternoon, each time going a little farther away from the building than before, and when he came in from his last ramble he had been gone two hours, and Fletcher was looking for him.

"O, here you are," he exclaimed, as George approached him. "I reckoned that perhaps you had skipped out."

The man said this with a grin which made George believe that perhaps his escape could not be accomplished so easily after all. It told him as plainly as words that he was watched.

"Skipped out!" repeated George, "I guess not. I have no desire to be shut up in one of these rooms with a guard over me."

"I saw you looking at the horses," continued Fletcher. "Did you notice that fellow with the white mane and tail, and four white feet?"

Yes, George had noticed him, and with the eye of a horseman, too. The animal would have been conspicuous for his beauty in a drove of thoroughbreds; and among the shaggy, ill-conditioned beasts that the guerrillas owned, he looked like a well-dressed gentleman surrounded by a crowd of ragamuffins.

"That's the fellow that followed us off on the night we went to your rancho after that money box," said Fletcher. "He's just lightning, and if some of those rich fellows down there with Max don't offer me something handsome for him, I'll keep him myself."

"It must be the stolen horse that goes by the name of Silk Stocking," thought George. "I wonder if he would let me catch him? If he would, I could get Ned out of one scrape easily enough."

"I reckon you won't be lonesome to-night while I am gone, will you?" continued Fletcher, as he led the way into one of the rooms in which a dozen or more guerrillas were sitting on the floor eating their supper of broiled beef and tortillas. These, as George afterward learned, were the men whom Fletcher had selected to accompany him on a raid he intended to make that night. "Well, I can't help it if you are lonesome, for business is business, and has got to be attended to while the moon shines. We can't go but two or three times more, and then we'll have to stop for a whole month," added the boss cattle-thief, with a deep sigh of regret.

"That knocks me," said George, to himself. "I can't carry out my plans while these fellows are off on a raid, for while I am looking around for a ford I might run right into them. If I don't succeed in the very first attempt I am done for." Then aloud he said: "You'll not hurt any body while you are gone, will you?"

"Not if we can help it," replied Fletcher, in the most unconcerned manner possible. "We're bound to have the cattle, and those who don't want to get popped over will stay in doors, where they belong."

It was all George could do to refrain from telling the nonchalant robber that things would not always be so—that if he lived, he would see the day that he could not rob and shoot honest settlers without being followed across the river and punished wherever he was found—and if he had told him so, he would have uttered nothing but the truth. The time did come, sure enough, and Fletcher lived to see it, when the simple crossing of the Rio Grande did not insure the safety of the raiders. They were pursued into their own territory and soundly thrashed there, and George Ackerman himself was the first guide who led the troops in the pursuit. But, angry as he was, the boy did not give utterance to the thoughts that were flashing through his mind. He knew that it would be folly to irritate the guerrilla, for the latter might put him in close confinement, and then there would be no such thing as escape for him.

Supper over, the cattle-thieves went out to saddle their horses, and when everything was ready for the start, they mounted and rode away, Fletcher pausing long enough to ask his captive if he had any word to send across the river. George replied that he had not, adding, in undertone;

"I wish I could send word to the settlers to be on the alert, to give you the worst whipping you ever had."

But, if George had only known it, there was no need of sending warning to the settlers. Fletcher came back just before daylight with no cattle, and three men less than he had when he went out. The noise the guerrillas made on their return awoke George, who gleaned from the few scraps of their conversation that he was able to catch, that they had had their trouble for their pains—that the ranchemen were waiting for them, and whipped them beautifully before they fairly gained a footing on Texas soil.

"Good for the ranchemen," thought George, as he rolled himself up in his blanket and tried to find an easy place for his head on his hard pillow. "If that is the way they are going to do business, it will be a long time before you get your pay for making a prisoner of me."

The boy did not leave his blanket the next morning until Fletcher came in to tell him that breakfast was ready. He could hear the guerrillas grumbling lustily over the ill-luck that had attended their companions the night before, and he was in no hurry to mingle with them, for fear they might vent their spite upon him in some way; but they showed no disposition to do anything of the kind. Fletcher looked very savage and was not as talkative as usual; the men in his mess swore a little more over this meal, and that was all George saw or heard to indicate that anything had gone wrong with them.

Although the raiders had been badly punished, they were by no means disheartened. As soon as breakfast was over, they took fresh horses, and reinforced by a dozen or more companions, set out to try another ford twenty miles further up the river. They came back early the next morning, and this time they were very jubilant, for they had met with glorious success. They had brought five hundred head of stock back with them, and some unfortunate rancheman on the other side of the river was ten thousand dollars poorer than he had been a few hours before.

Fletcher and his men spent two more nights in this way, and to George's intense disgust, they came back full handed each time. He had the opportunity to look at the cattle before they were sent into the interior, and had the satisfaction of seeing that none of them bore his brand.

On the fifth morning of his captivity, George encountered Springer on the verandah. He had sought an interview with him every day, but Springer had taken good care to keep out of his way, because he knew that he could not assist him in his efforts to escape without running the risk of bringing himself into trouble with the boss cattle-thief. On this particular morning, however, he purposely intercepted the boy while the latter was taking his usual walk around the court-yard. He had something of importance to say to him.

"Wal, George, you ain't gone yet, have you?" said Springer, after he had looked all around to make sure that there was no one within ear-shot.

"No, but I haven't been wasting any time," was the reply. "I have learned that I can go in and out of the rancho whenever I please, and I have made a friend of Silk Stocking."

"Who's that?" inquired Springer.

"That is the name of the horse you raiders brought away with you on the night you made the attack on our rancho," replied George. "I have fed him crackers every day until he has learned to know me, and will let me catch him any where. I got on his back last night, and if I had been certain that the road was clear, you wouldn't have seen me here this morning. I would have made a bold dash for home and freedom."

"It's just as well that you didn't try it," said Springer, hastily, "kase the road wasn't cl'ar. You might have run plump into Fletcher's gang afore you knowed it. Now I'll tell you what's a fact: I can't help you none only by giving you good advice, an' I am risking my life by doin' that. The road will be clear to-night, an' if you are bound to start for the other side of the Rio, you'd best do it afore you see the sun rise agin. Fletcher aint goin' on no more raids till next full moon, but he's goin' to start with the regiment, bright an' 'arly to-morrow morning, for our old camp at Queretaro; an' I'll just tell you what's a fact, if you ever let yourself be took so far into the country as that, it will be a long time afore you see Texas agin. Fletcher don't mean no harm to you, but thar's fightin' goin' on down thar, an' I don't know what may happen to us."

"I am glad you told me," said George. "I'll be off this very night. Good-by, Springer. Don't go on any more cattle raids, will you?"

"I aint likely to go on any more for a while," said Springer. "I shall be laid up for another month at least."

He looked all around the court-yard to make sure that there was no one watching him, and then cordially shook the hand that George extended toward him.

"If you had been engaged in some honest business that night you would not have received those wounds," said the boy. "Now, when you get well, cut loose from such fellows as these with whom you are now associating, and turn over a new leaf. Good-by!"

"Good-by, an' good luck to you," said Springer, heartily.

George walked slowly across the court-yard, passed out of the gate and went toward the place where the horses were feeding. Silk Stocking was cropping the grass a little apart from the others—he seemed to be a high-toned horse, and to look upon himself as something better than the rest of the drove—and when George whistled to him he promptly raised his head and came up to receive the piece of cracker which the boy had taken care to put into his pocket that morning.

"I don't wonder that those men were so determined to recover possession of you, old fellow," said George, as he ran his fingers through the animal's long white mane. "You are a regular pet and as gentle as you are handsome. Now don't go back on me when I come out to catch you to-night, and I will see that you find your way back into the hands of your lawful master."

George did not dare spend a great while in Silk Stocking's company, for fear that some of the guerrillas might see him and suspect something; so he walked slowly toward the rancho, after seeing him eat the cracker, and the horse began cropping the grass again.

The hours always pass away slowly when one is impatient, and this was the longest and gloomiest day of George's captivity. He spent it, as the most of the guerrillas spent all their unemployed moments, lying at his ease on his blanket; but to a boy of George's active habits this was anything but an agreeable way of killing time. He found an opportunity during the day to secure his lasso, which he tied around his waist, buttoning his buckskin coat over it so that it was concealed from view.

George went to bed at dark, but of course he did not go to sleep. For long hours he rolled uneasily about on his blanket, alternating between hope and fear, and waiting impatiently for the guerrillas to retire to their rooms; but there seemed to be more than the usual number of wakeful and talkative ones among them, and it was almost midnight before silence settled down over the rancho. Then he sat up on his blanket and looked about him.

CHAPTER V. "HOLD UP THERE, SILVER BUTTONS!"

During the time that George had been a prisoner among the guerrillas, he had made it a point to leave the rancho two or three times during the night, his object being to accustom his guards, if he had any, to seeing him go and come at all hours. The fact that no one had ever attempted to interfere with him in any way, encouraged the belief that no one ever would interfere with him; but somehow he felt a strange sinking at his heart as he arose from his blanket and proceeded to arrange it, so that one to have taken a casual glance at it, would have supposed that it still concealed a human figure.

"I can't imagine what is the matter with me," said George, to himself, as he moved to the door with noiseless footsteps, and gazed about the silent and deserted court-yard. "I never have been stopped while passing through that gate, and I don't see why I should stand so much in fear of being stopped to-night. Perhaps it is because I know that if I don't escape the first time trying, I never shall. Yes, that must be it. Well, I must make the attempt successful."

So saying, George stepped boldly out of the door, and after assuring himself that his lasso was securely fastened about his waist, he thrust his hands into his pockets and walked along with the greatest deliberation, as he always did when taking his airings about the court-yard. But he did not go straight toward the archway that formed the gate. He drew up behind the wall and peeped cautiously around the corner of it. As he did so he drew a long breath and his courage gave away altogether. There was a sentinel at the opposite end of the archway. He was leaning in an easy attitude against the wall, his feet crossed and his hands clasped at a "parade rest" over the muzzle of his carbine. His sombrero was pushed on the back of his head, and he was gazing in a dreamy sort of way toward the hills that bounded the western end of the valley.

The officer in command of the guerrillas (George did not know who he was, for since he had been at the rancho he had heard orders given by nobody except Fletcher), had stationed the sentry at the gate to keep his men from straying away to visit some of the neighboring haciendas. He wanted them all there when he was ready to begin the march for Queretaro in the morning, and the measures he had taken to secure their presence had shut up George's only avenue of escape.

So thought the prisoner, as he took another look at the sentinel and walked back toward his quarters. He had scarcely moved away from the wall when a loud yawn broke the stillness, and a moment later the door which opened into the room next to the one he occupied as a sleeping-apartment, was filled by a tall figure, who stretched his arms and rubbed his eyes vigorously. It was Fletcher. George was really alarmed by this unexpected encounter, but the cattle-thief's first words proved that he did not suspect anything.

"Hallo, there!" he exclaimed, when he saw the boy coming toward him. "What's the matter with you. Can't you sleep?"

"No," replied George. "I don't do enough during the day to make me tired enough to sleep at night."

"You'll have enough to do to-morrow," replied the boss cattle-thief, encouragingly; "so you had better go back to your blanket. We shall be in the saddle at daylight."

"Where are we going?" asked George, who was not supposed to know anything of the contemplated movement on the part of the guerrillas.

"Down to join old Max," was the reply. "Wouldn't wonder if we saw lively times down there, too. They say that Max is on his last legs, now that the Frenchmen have left him; and if that is the case, we are going to leave him, too, and strike hands with Juarez. You see, there is going to be some shooting done before this little matter is settled; and we don't want to be found on the losing side."

"It is no more than I should expect of you," said the boy, to himself, as he passed on toward his own room. "You joined your fortunes with Maximilian when you thought he was sure to succeed; and stand ready to desert him at the very time when he needs you the most. For downright meanness, commend me to a renegade of your stamp."

But, after all, Fletcher and his men were not more despicable than some who held higher positions in the army. One of Maximilian's trusted native officers, General Lopez, betrayed him; and on the 19th day of the following June, he was led out of his prison at Queretaro, to be shot. The contra-guerrillas did, indeed, see lively times at that place, being almost cut to pieces while they were on their way to join Juarez.

George afterward heard all about it from Springer, who came out of the fight in safety, and profiting by the severe lesson he had received at the hands of George's herdsman, made efforts to lead an honest and respectable life.

George did not forget his own affairs, while commenting upon the perfidy of Fletcher and his guerrilla companions. While he was thinking about that, he was preparing to try another way of escape. He did not go into his own room again, but passed on to the apartment that served as a stable for his horse, which had never been allowed to run at liberty with the others. It will be remembered, that Philip had warned the men who captured George, to look out for that same horse, for he was very swift; and if they allowed him the least chance, he would carry his master so far out of their sight, that they would never see him again. These men had, in turn, warned Fletcher, and that was the reason the horse had been kept confined. But there was another steed about there that was quite as fleet as Ranger, and which could be as readily caught when running at large, and George was impatient to be on his back.

In the room in which Ranger was secured, was a window that was high and narrow—very narrow, the boy thought, as he looked at it, and then took a survey of his broad chest. It had more the appearance of a port-hole than a window; for the stones of which the thick wall was built, were laid at such an angle, that the opening was much wider in the room than it was on the outside of the building. Fortunately, there were neither bars nor window-sash to impede his movements.

"It will be hard work," thought George, "but I must get through or go to Queretaro."

He quickly pulled off his coat, which, with his sombrero and lasso, he thrust through the window. Then having further reduced his proportions by removing all his outer clothing, he crawled into the opening, feet first, and after a good deal of effort and some very tight squeezing, he worked himself through and dropped to the ground on the outside.

To put on his clothing again, catch up his lasso and leave the building out of sight in the darkness, was the work of but a very few minutes. It took him longer to find the horses, and he approached them with the greatest caution, for fear of creating a stampede among them; but when he found them, his troubles were over, for almost the first one he saw was Silk Stocking. The animal allowed himself to be caught, raised not the slightest objection as the lasso was forced into his mouth and tied about his lower jaw, and when the boy flung himself upon his back, he moved off without waiting for the word.

Now came the most dangerous part of the whole undertaking. In order to reach the road that led to the river, he was obliged to pass along the valley within easy gun-shot of the sentry at the gateway, who would certainly have discovered him had it been even moonlight; but fortunately the night was very dark—so dark, that the only way in which George could tell when he reached the road was by listening to the sound made by his horse's hoofs. That intelligent animal seemed to know just what was expected of him. He kept in a rapid walk until he reached the road, and then he turned into it without any guidance from his rider, and of his own free will broke into a gallop.

Although George had passed along this road but once before, he had no fear of losing his way. His bump of locality was so well developed, that he could find in the darkest of nights any place which he had once visited, and while he trusted to his horse to keep in the road, he trusted to his own senses to keep him from straying off into the wrong trail. He travelled as a river-pilot guides his vessel at night—by the shape of the trees and bushes on each side of the way, and they were all familiar to him, although he had seen them but once. He stopped occasionally to listen for sounds of pursuit, but if there was any attempted, those who were following him never came within hearing.

For the first few miles George kept his horse moving along at an easy gait, holding his speed in reserve for an emergency; but when half the distance to the river had been passed over, and Silk Stocking, warming to his work, showed an inclination to go faster, the boy did not try to check him. He had not been long on his back before he told himself that he didn't wonder that Ned's desire to keep him had been strong enough to get him into trouble. The animal's speed was equal to his beauty and docility.

As soon as George became satisfied that his escape had been accomplished, he began to think of the future. Where should he go and what should he do after he got across the river? His uncle and cousin did not want him at home (he had heard and experienced enough to remove all his doubts on that point), and George was too high-spirited to go where he was not welcome. He knew that it was in his power to bring about a different state of affairs at the rancho, and that he could do it by simply applying for a new guardian; but his friend and counsellor, Mr. Gilbert, had told him that the change would have to be made by process of law, and George was afraid that before the matter was settled, some very damaging disclosures regarding his uncle's way of doing business would be brought to light. It would never do, he thought, to allow his father's only brother to be disgraced, and if he permitted him to stay there in charge of the estate, it was quite probable that when George reached his majority he would step into a very small patrimony.

"I don't know what to do," thought the boy, after he had racked his brain in the unsuccessful effort to find a way out of the difficulty. "I must either come down on Uncle John, or stand quietly by and see him pocket all my money. I don't see why he and Ned can't behave themselves! They will make enough out of me in an honest way, according to the terms of father's will, to make them independent, and I do wish they would stop stealing from me and laying plans to get me out of the way. I'll speak to Mr. Gilbert about it."

Silk Stocking might have made quicker work of the eighteen miles that lay between the rancho and the river, if his rider had urged him to do it, but being allowed to choose his own gait, he accomplished it in about two hours and a half, so that it was about four o'clock in the morning when George crossed the ford and found himself again on Texas soil. Feeling perfectly safe from pursuit, he jogged along at a very easy pace, directing his course toward Mr. Gilbert's rancho. He did not know that Uncle John had followed Ned to Brownsville, or rather, he was not certain of it, and he did not want to see him again, until he had had an interview with the only man in the settlement who was unprejudiced enough to give him sensible advice.

It was twenty-five miles to his friend's rancho, and before he had gone half that distance, he was aroused from a reverie into which he had fallen by a quick movement on the part of his horse, which suddenly threw up his head, and after turning his ears back as if he were listening to some sound behind him, set off at the top of his speed. At the same moment George heard the muffled sound of horses' hoofs in the grass behind him. That was a most alarming sound, but it was accompanied by one that was still more alarming—the sharp crack of a revolver and the noise made by a bullet as it passed through the air close by his side.

"Hold up, there, Silver Buttons!" shouted a voice that sounded strangely familiar to the boy's ears. "That's only a warning! the next one will strike centre, sure!"

Believing that Fletcher and his men were upon him, and that the time had come for the exhibition of all the speed which Silk Stocking had thus far held in reserve, George threw himself flat upon his horse's neck, dug his heels into his side, and looking back over his shoulder, saw that he was pursued by two men, who, by keeping their nags in the long grass that grew on each side of the trail, had succeeded in coming quite close to him before their approach was discovered. But they were not Fletcher's men; they were Texans.

A single glance at them was enough for George, who, seeing one of the men raise his revolver and take a steady aim at his head, brought himself to an upright position, stopped his horse with a word and faced about. The man lowered his revolver, and he and his companion rode up and scowled fiercely at George, who knew who they were and whom they supposed him to be, before they said a word to him. One of them was the owner of Silk Stocking; and as George had his cousin's clothes on, of course they supposed him to be Ned Ackerman, the boy who had given them so much trouble. George remembered how savagely they had talked while they were smoking at his camp-fire, that they had threatened to snatch Ned so bald-headed that the next time he saw a stolen horse he would run from it, and he wondered what they would do to him, now that they had caught him with the stolen animal in his possession. Of course, it would be no trouble at all for him to prove that he wasn't Ned Ackerman, and that he had never had anything to do with the stolen horse, if they would only give him the opportunity; but the probability was that they would take vengeance on him first and listen to his explanation afterward, if there was life enough left in him to make it.

There was another disagreeable thought that came into George's mind while he was sitting there waiting for the men to approach (one thinks rapidly when he is in danger, you know), and it was this: If he proved that he wasn't Ned Ackerman, wouldn't it also be necessary for him to prove who he was? And while he was doing it, wouldn't the men learn that he had had something to do with Ned's escape? They would certainly be very angry at him for that. In fact, it will be remembered that while he was in Mr. Gilbert's library, he had over heard one of these same men say, as he and his companion passed through the hall, that he would like to get his hands on that rascally boy who had sent them so far out of their course. Taken altogether, it looked as though George was in a fair way to be punished both for what he did as well as for what he didn't do.

"Well, my young Silver Buttons, you stopped just in time," said one of the men, as he rode up and seized the lasso which served George for a bridle. "If I had sent one more bullet after you, it would have struck something, sure. Get off that horse before I knock you off. You have backed him for the last time!"

George lost not a moment in obeying this order. The man carried a loaded riding-whip, and as he uttered these words he wound the lash about his hand, in readiness to strike the boy with the heavy butt, if he did not move on the instant.

"A pretty chase you have led us," exclaimed the other horseman, whom we have heard addressed as "Joe." "How did you get back from Brownsville so quickly?"

"I haven't been to Brownsville yet," answered George, "but I hope to go there to-morrow or next day."

"Perhaps you will, and then again perhaps you won't," said the owner of the stolen horse, who answered to the name of Lowry. "It's my opinion, that when we are through with you, there won't be enough of you left to go any where."

"Very well," replied George, with a calmness that surprised himself. "If you have made up you minds to that, of course you can carry out your resolution, for I haven't the power to resist you. If I had, I should use it. I confess that appearances are against me——"

"Yes; I should say they were," interrupted Joe.

"But I can explain everything to your satisfaction," continued George, "and more than that, I can prove every statement I make."

"By whom will you prove it?"

"By people living right here in this settlement, who have known me ever since I was born."

"Wouldn't trust 'em," exclaimed Mr. Lowry, quickly. "We know, by experience, that the most of them are rascals who are in league with you. One night, when we were lost on the prairie, we camped with a cow-boy who told us a cock-and-a-bull story about having been robbed by the raiders, and who sent us thirty-five miles out of our way; Gilbert sent with us, as guide, a herdsman who lost us again on purpose; and finally, we were met by one of Ackerman's servants, who told us, that his employer had just started for Palos to be gone two or three weeks, and that his son went with him riding this very horse. We went in pursuit as soon as we got our own horses out of Ackerman's corral; and we might have been riding toward Palos yet, if we hadn't been set right by a man of the name of Cook. We knew that he wouldn't deceive us, for he was very angry at you for shooting some of his cattle. He's the only white man in the settlement."

"I am glad to know that you have confidence in somebody," answered George, wondering who that servant was who sent Mr. Lowry and his companion off toward Palos, "and I am perfectly willing to go to his rancho with you. When you know all the circumstances connected with this miserable business, you will not have so poor an opinion of the people living in this settlement."

"Well, I must say that you ring a pretty oily tongue," said Mr. Lowry, who was plainly surprised at the ease with which the boy expressed himself. "Go on now, and explain why you didn't give Silk Stocking up on the night Joe and I came to your father's rancho and got fresh horses there?"

"Because I wasn't at the rancho that night, and neither was the horse in my possession," answered George.

"You were there," exclaimed Joe, in angry tones, "and the horse was in your possession. You had him hitched under an open shed close by the house, and you heard us say that he had been stolen."

"I can prove that I never heard you speak that night. I couldn't, for I was miles away attending to my herd of cattle."

Joe seemed ready to boil over with rage when he heard this, and his companion turned white with anger. The former would at once have fallen upon the boy with his riding-whip if he had not been restrained by Mr. Lowry; but the latter's forced calmness was more alarming than Joe's belligerent demonstration, for it told George, as plainly as words, that when his anger broke forth, it would be all the more terrible from being so long restrained.

"Do you mean to tell us that we can place no dependence upon our senses?" demanded Mr. Lowry, while an ominous light shone in his eyes.

"No, sir; I mean to tell you that you are mistaken as to my identity. On the night you got those fresh horses I was at Catfish Falls, watching my cattle which had been stolen from me, as I told you."

"As you told us!" echoed Joe. "Great Moses! Are you the scamp that sent us to Dickerman's when we wanted to go to Ackerman's?"

"Hold on, Joe!" said Mr. Lowry, extending his arm to interrupt the riding-whip which was brandished threateningly in the air. "He can't get out of this scrape by pretending to be somebody else. We saw him standing on his father's porch, and he had these same clothes on, too."

"These are not my clothes."

"Whose are they then, and what are you doing in them?"

"They belong to my cousin, Ned Ackerman, who, if he has had good luck, is safe in Brownsville by this time. He was the one who traded for Silk Stocking, and the reason why he would not give him up, was because he was afraid that you would lay violent hands upon him. I exchanged my clothes for his at the time I was captured by the Greasers, and I did it for his protection, little dreaming that I should get myself into trouble by it. I knew that you would follow him, and that if you came up with him you would recognise him by his dress."

"What do you mean by saying that you were captured by Greasers?" asked Joe, whose anger seemed to have given away to astonishment.

"I mean just what I say. I have been a prisoner on the other side of the river since last Thursday, and it was there I found Silk Stocking."

The ranchmen looked at each other for a moment, and then broke out into loud peals of laughter. George's story was too ridiculous for belief.

CHAPTER VI. GEORGE PROVES AN ALIBI.

"Young fellow," exclaimed Joe, who was the first to speak. "I have often said that when I came across the champion liar, I would give him my hat. I think you are fairly entitled to it. Here, take it!" he added, pulling off his sombrero and extending it toward George, who was forced to smile in spite of himself. "I'll go home bareheaded!"

"You are a good one, I declare," remarked Mr. Lowry. "I said you should never back my horse again, but I think you have earned a ride. Jump on and come with us."

Without a moment's hesitation George swung himself upon Silk Stocking's back and rode away with the ranchemen, who burst out into fresh peals of laughter every time they looked at him.

"Do you know any more funny stories?" asked Joe, at length.

"I have only made a beginning," answered George.

"Got more of them back, have you?" exclaimed Mr. Lowry. "If I wasn't so mad at you I would let you go on, just to see how big a story you can tell."

"I could tell you one that would make you open your eyes," said George, "and it would be nothing but the truth. But I know you wouldn't believe a word of it, and perhaps it would be better that you should hear it from somebody besides myself. You will give me a chance to prove that I am not the boy you take me for, will you not?"

"O, yes," replied Mr. Lowry, who seemed to have recovered his good-nature all of a sudden. "We'll give you all the chance you want."

"Then let's turn off here to the right. This is my ranche—or rather it will be mine if I live to be twenty-one years old—and that house you see over there was my home when my father was alive."

There was something in those words that touched Joe's heart. He looked steadily at George for a moment, and then asked in a much kinder tone of voice than he had thus far used in addressing him.

"Where is your home now?"

"I have none," replied George sadly. "But that is a part of my story, and, as I said before, I would rather that somebody else should tell it to you. Then perhaps you will believe it."

After this the three relapsed into silence, and did not speak again until they rode around the house and drew rein in front of the porch. Jake, who was acting as manager of the ranche during Uncle John's absence, and Bob, another herdsman, who was officiating as cook, hearing the sound of their horses' hoofs, came out to see who the visitors were. At that moment George was just dismounting. The men took one look at his sombrero, ornamented with its gaudy cord and tassel, and at the patent-leather boots, with their silver-plated spurs, and were about to walk away with an exclamation of disgust, when George turned his face toward them. Then they uttered ejaculations indicative of the greatest astonishment, and springing forward caught him in their arms.

"Why, Mr. George, is this you?" cried Jake, when he had given the boy two or three bear-like hugs, during which he swung him clear off the ground. "It is, aint it? We thought the Greasers had got you, sure."

"And so they did have me," answered George, after he had brushed back his hair and replaced his sombrero, which had fallen from his head. "I have only just escaped from them. Now, Jake, I want you to answer a few questions for me."

"Heave ahead, Mr. George," replied Jake. "Thar's been a heap of things goin' on here since you've been away."

"I don't care anything about that. I want you to tell my friends here who I am."

"Who you be?" The herdsman backed away and gave the boy a good looking over, as if to make sure of his identity, and continued almost indignantly: "Why, you are George Ackerman, the young gentleman who will some day own this yere ranche an' everything what's onto it. An' a mighty fine piece of property it is, too, gents," he added, nodding to the two horsemen, who had not yet dismounted. "Worth a clean forty thousand a year."

"Never mind that," said George, hastily. "Whose clothes are these I have on?"

"They are Ned Ackerman's," replied Jake, throwing as much contempt as he could into his tones. "But how you came by 'em, and how you can bring yourself to wear that feller's duds, beats my time all holler. Don't it your'n, Bob? He's the chap, gents, Ned is, who traded for this very hoss, an' who held fast to him arter he knowed that he had oughter give him up. He's the fine lad that shot Cook's cattle, too, Ned is. Oh, he's meaner'n—meaner'n——"

Jake flourished his clenched hand over his head and glared wildly about, being utterly at a loss for a simile.

"Remember who he is and say nothing hard against him," said George quietly. "He has never injured you in any way. Was Ned at home on the night these gentlemen came here in search of Silk Stocking?"

"'Course he was. He stood right here on the porch an' heard everything they had to tell about the hoss bein' stole. That's why I say he had oughter give him up."

"What was the reason he would not surrender him?"

"'Cause he dassent, the coward. He was afeared they'd trounce him. An' served him right if you had, too, gents. That boy oughter have some sense pounded into him."

"Hold on, Jake. Where was I on the night in question?"

"You? You was off to Catfish Falls, a'most a hundred miles from here, whar the Greasers jumped down on you an' stampeded your cattle."

"Then they did rob me of my cattle, did they?"

"Mr. George!" exclaimed the herdsman, who had been every moment growing angrier under this catechising, of which he could not see the object, "what be you tryin' to get through yourself, any how?"

"Nothing at all. I only want you to answer my questions. Did the raiders run off any of my cattle?"

"They run 'em all off; but Zeke, he put the settlers on the trail an' got 'em all back agin. Mighty pretty herd it is, too, gents. Three hundred head of 'em, an' all fit for market."

"You remember the night these gentlemen came here to punish Ned, and you assisted me to get him out of the house before they arrived, do you not?"

"I ain't likely to forget it," replied Jake, drawing himself up to his full height, and looking defiantly at the two horsemen, as if to say that if he and George had done anything wrong in assisting Ned in his extremity, and they felt like punishing them for it, they (Mr. Lowry and Joe) were quite welcome to attempt it.

"Have you any idea who it was that met these men before they reached the rancho, and sent them off toward Palos on a wild-goose chase?"

"I know who it was; it was Philip."

"Where was the horse at the time?"

"He was across the Rio, most likely. But if he was there, I don't know how you got him. Howsomever, I do know, gents, that he went off with the Greasers on the night they jumped down on this rancho."

"How do you know that it was Philip who sent them off towards Palos?"

The herdsman suddenly lost his defiant attitude, and became almost cringing.

"I really don't like to tell, Mr. George," said he, after making several ineffectual attempts to speak, "'cause, it's something I never did afore. But I s'pose I'll have to answer that question, won't I? Wal, the fact is, I never did like the way that chap Philip went snoopin' around while he was here. On the night these gents came to the rancho, I seed that he was riding about a good deal on hoss-back, an' that was something I never knowed him to do afore. I seed him when he came back an' put his hoss into the corral, an' I seed him, too, when he walked into the house, an' straight to the office whar Mr. Ackerman was. He went without bein' asked, an' that made me think that he was up to something pizen; so I crept along the hall, an' looked in at the key-hole. I didn't see nothing, though, for the cunnin' rascal had hung his hat over the key-hole; but I heard something an' I—I listened, I did, Mr. George. I never done it afore, an' I'll never do it agin, if you don't want me to."

"All is fair in war," exclaimed Mr. Lowry.

He and his companion were so deeply interested, and so utterly amazed at what they heard, that neither of them had spoken before. George had proved that he had uttered nothing but the truth when he told them that he could make them open their eyes.

"What did you hear?" added Mr. Lowry.

"Wal, gents, in the first place I heared something private, which I don't tell to nobody but Mr. George," said Jake; and this answer proved him to be a discreet as well as a faithful friend. "In the next place I heared him tell Mr. Ackerman that he had met you on the trail, an' sent you off towards Palos. In the next place, he said that the trail was watched, so't George couldn't never come home agin."

"Who were watching for him, and what was the reason they didn't want him to come home?" asked Joe.

"That was one of the private things you heard, I suppose?" remarked Mr. Lowry.

"Sartinly, it was. That's something I can't tell you, gents. After that Philip went on to tell that he had hunted up some Greasers an' put them on the trail of Mr. George, who had started to guide his cousin to Brownsville, an'—an' that's all."

Jake was about to add that Philip had suggested that his employer had better pasture a thousand head of cattle near the river, so that they could be easily captured by the raiders, as Uncle John had agreed to do in case George was got out of the way, so that Ned could claim the property; but he checked himself just in time.

"No, that ain't all neither," he added, after a moment's reflection. "I listened at that thar key-hole till Philip opened the door to come out, an' then I lifted him, I tell you. I knocked him clean acrost the room, just to let him an' Mr. Ackerman see that I knowed all about it. Then, thinkin' that two heads was better than one in a furse like that, I hunted up Bob, here, who had just happened to come into the kitchen. He listened to what I had to say, an' then he allowed that we had oughter gobble the varmint, 'cause most likely the settlers would want to see him in the mornin'; but when we went back arter him, we found that he had skipped. We ain't none of us seed him since."

George, who could not think of any other questions that he wanted to ask just then, turned to Mr. Lowry and his companions and said, with a smile—

"Now, Mr. Joe—I don't know what other name to call you—I shall be happy to take your hat if you still consider me the champion liar."

George did not notice how quickly Jake's face and Bob's flushed with anger when they heard these words, and neither did the ranchemen.

"I beg your pardon, George," said Joe, promptly. "I am sorry I said it, but you will confess that appearances were very much against you."

"Didn't I say as much?" asked George, in reply. "Now, gentlemen, get down and come into the house. As soon as we have had some breakfast, we will ride over and see Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Cook."

"My lad," said Mr. Lowry, as he swung himself out of his saddle and shook George warmly by the hand, "we can see now that we made a great mistake. I never listened to a more remarkable story."

"But it is the truth, every word of it," roared the herdsman, as he brought one of his huge fists down into his open hand with a ringing slap. "An' any gent who don't believe it, just wants to step out with me in front of this shed. We will soon see who's the champion liar."

"Jake, come back here and behave yourself," commanded George.

"I wouldn't get excited, my friend," said Mr. Lowry, calmly. "Never mind him," he added, turning to George. "I don't blame him. I should do the same thing myself under similar circumstances. We are entirely satisfied, and there is no necessity of proceeding further in the matter."

"There is one thing I forgot, Jake," exclaimed George, suddenly. "Where is Uncle John now?"

"Gone to Brownsville," replied the herdsman, who was in a very bad humor. "As soon as I knocked Philip down, he packed up an' cleared himself. I have since found out that he went over to Gilbert's and left money enough with him to pay for this hoss an' for the cattle that were shot."

"Who is cook now that Philip has gone?"

"I am," said Bob, gruffly.

"Well, then, show us what you can do in that line, by serving up a good breakfast in a little less than no time," said George, paying no attention to Bob's black looks. "I, for one, shall bring a sharp appetite to it. Jake, see that these three horses are fed, and pick out a good one for me to ride over to Mr. Gilbert's. Ranger I shall never see again. I left him in the hands of the guerrillas, and I suppose he is on his way to Queretaro before this time. Come in, gentlemen."

Bob scowled savagely at George's guests as they passed, and as soon as he saw them enter the hall, he walked slowly into the kitchen. His first move was to take down from a nail in the wall a broad belt containing a brace of navy revolvers. This he buckled about his waist, after which he began his preparations for breakfast. When Jake came in, having attended to the horses that had been entrusted to his care, he proceeded to arm himself in the same manner. Then he threw himself into the nearest chair and assumed a sort of dogged, defiant air as if he were waiting for something to turn up.

What was the meaning of these warlike preparations? Why, one of the ranchemen had called George the champion liar, and that, according to a Texan's code, was a mortal offence. Explanations and apologies would not make amends for it; nothing but a fight could do that. Jake and Bob thought that the affray ought to have come off at once; and after they had satisfied George's wounded honor by putting a bullet or two into each of the visitors, then they would have invited them to breakfast, but not before. However, the matter could be brought to a settlement when the visitors went away, and the herdsmen were both determined that it should be done. But George, being a Texan himself and understanding the customs of the country, was on the alert. Having conducted the ranchemen into the sitting-room, which Uncle John had furnished in such gorgeous style, he excused himself for a moment and hurried into the kitchen. The countenances of the two men he found there lighted up as he entered, but fell again when George, pointing to the revolvers, said quietly—

"Pull those things off!"

"But, Mr. George," began Jake.

"Pull those things off!" repeated the boy. "I know what you mean by this nonsense, but I shall not allow my guests to be insulted in any such way. You'd look nice, wouldn't you, Bob, waiting at table with a brace of navy revolvers strapped about your waist? Why, those men in there could use you up in a minute."

"Wal, I'd see that the buffalo gnats didn't bother 'em none while they was a doin' it," replied Bob, sullenly.

"Pull those things off, I say!" exclaimed George, again, "or else clear out and leave me to get breakfast alone."

That settled the matter. The herdsmen reluctantly obeyed the order, and when George had seen the revolvers hung up where they belonged, he left the kitchen and went to his own room. He quickly threw off his cousin's fancy clothes—he was glad to get rid of them—and having removed all travel-stains from his hands and face, and put on a neat business-suit and a pair of well-blacked boots, he went back to his guests again. The change in his dress made a great difference in his appearance, and if Ned could have seen him now, perhaps he would not have been ashamed of him.

During the half hour that elapsed before Bob announced that breakfast was ready, George and his visitors chatted as unreservedly and familiarly as three friends would who had long been separated. The ranchemen told of their exciting race after the thief who had stolen the horse, described their journey to Brownsville and back, and laughed over their numerous failures to capture the boy of whom they were in search; and George, in return, explained why he had sent them so far out of their course on the morning they left his camp, and astonished them by declaring that he was in the library on the night they came to Mr. Gilbert's rancho, and that he had heard some of the threats they made concerning him. The men praised him for his adroitness, and said that he was a brave boy to risk so much for the sake of his cousin. If they had known just how he stood in regard to that same graceless relative, their admiration would have been greatly increased.

An excellent breakfast having been disposed of the horses were brought to the door, and in a few minutes more George and the two ranchemen were in the saddle, and riding toward Mr. Gilbert's rancho. That gentleman regarded them with some uneasiness as they drew rein and dismounted in front of his porch, but Mr. Lowry's first words reassured him.

"It is all right, sir," said he, as he grasped Mr. Gilbert's hand. "We know all about it, and we beg to take back the hard things we said in your hearing about the people living in this settlement. We were nicely outwitted by everybody with whom we came in contact; but, as I said before, it is all right."

Mr. Gilbert cordially returned Mr. Lowry's greeting and Joe's, and then turned to welcome George.

"You can't imagine how anxious I have been about you," said he. "Jake turned me out of bed to tell me that Philip had put some Greasers on your trail, and I was really afraid that they might capture you."

"So they did," exclaimed Joe, before George could speak. "If they hadn't caught him, we wouldn't have had Silk Stocking now."

Mr. Gilbert opened his eyes in surprise.

"I wondered how you got the animal back," said he, "for I knew that he had gone off with the raiders. Come in, and tell me all about it."

The horses having been given into the charge of one of the herdsmen, Mr. Gilbert ushered his visitors into the library.

CHAPTER VII. A STORMY INTERVIEW.

"This is the room," said George, seating himself on the lounge, while Mr. Lowry and Joe took possession of the easy chairs that were pointed out to them. "I was in here when you came to the rancho, and heard you say, as you passed through the hall, that you thought there was a regular nest of horse-thieves at Ackerman's; and that you would like to get your hands on that rascally boy who had sent you so far out of your course. While you were waiting for supper, I slipped out, mounted my horse, which in company with my pack-mule had made straight for this place, when my cattle were stampeded, and put out for home."

"It was a pretty sharp trick," said Joe, "and you deserve credit for the way in which you carried it out."

"Now, George," said Mr. Gilbert, "we are ready to hear your story. Where have you been? and what have you been doing, since I last saw you?"

George settled himself into an easy position on the lounge, and beginning with the night on which he had left Mr. Gilbert in so unceremonious a manner, he gave a glowing description of his adventures and exploits among the guerrillas. The only thing he omitted from his narrative, was the conversation he had had with Springer and Fletcher in regard to his uncle's plans. The visitors would have been glad to hear that, for Jake had told them just enough to excite their curiosity; but it was something that George reserved for Mr. Gilbert's private ear.

"Silk Stocking is in the hands of his lawful owner at last," said the boy, in conclusion, "and as soon as Mr. Cook has been paid for the cattle that Ned and Gus shot, all these difficulties will be happily ended."

"Then they are ended already," said Mr. Gilbert. "Cook has been paid, and says he is entirely satisfied."

"Of course he doesn't blame me for anything that happened," said George.

"Well, yes, he did," answered Mr. Gilbert, "and so did all the rest of the settlers. They found fault with you for assisting those boys to escape. They said you had no business to do it."

"Humph!" exclaimed George. "What do they take me for, I'd like to know? Would any of them stand by and see a relative of theirs get into trouble and never lift a finger to help him? I guess not."

Mr. Gilbert shrugged his shoulders by way of reply, and Mr. Lowry, after a few minutes silence, remarked that he thought he and Joe had better be moving toward home. Wouldn't they wait until after dinner, which would be ready within an hour? No; he guessed they had better not. They had been gone a long time, and unless they "showed up," pretty soon, their folks would begin to worry about them. So, in accordance with their request, their horses were brought to the door, and the ranchemen, after taking leave of Mr. Gilbert and George, mounted and rode away.

"That business was settled in a way I did not expect," said the former, as he and his young companion went back into the library. "You have made a friend of every body in the settlement by the course you have pursued, although I must say, that the neighbors were very angry at you at first; but Uncle John and Ned—Well, what are you going to do in regard to them?"

George replied to this question by completing the story of his captivity among the guerrillas, which he did by describing his interview with Springer, and repeating the conversation he had had with the boss cattle-thief. Mr. Gilbert listened in silence, and when the boy ceased speaking, he got up and began pacing the floor.

"Well, George," said he, at length, "you know what I think of this difficulty. There is only one way out of it. Your uncle will not willingly give up his position, and you must call upon the law to throw him out, neck and heels."

"But if I should tell him, in so many words, that I know all about his plans, don't you think he would be more careful in future?" asked George.

"Beyond a doubt he would," replied Mr. Gilbert; and to himself he added: "He would be so very careful that nobody would detect him in his villainy again."

"That is what I thought," said George. "I don't want to turn him loose in the world and send him back to his bookkeeping again, for he is getting to be an old man. I can remove one temptation from his path by keeping out of his way, and that I have decided to do. If I am ever going to see anything of life outside of Texas, I must see it now, for when I come into possession of the ranche and the stock that belong to it, I shall be kept busy."

Mr. Gilbert rubbed his chin, and looked up at the picture that hung on the wall over the lounge.

"I don't know whether you will be kept so very busy or not," said he, to himself. "It is my opinion that if you give your rascally relatives full swing, you will have very little stock to take care of."

But Mr. Gilbert did not give utterance to this opinion. He saw very plainly that the boy was opposed to taking any legal action against his uncle, and he was determined that he would not try to influence him in the matter. He had given his advice simply because George had asked him for it, and the boy was quite at liberty to do as he pleased about following it.

"What course have you marked out for yourself?" added Mr. Gilbert, aloud.

"I thought I would leave Texas for a year or two (you know you told me that I would be safer anywhere in the world than I am here) and go into business," replied George.

"Have you any idea what it will be?"

"No, sir; I have not."

"Neither have I. A boy who has spent most of his life in the saddle, or in camp taking care of cattle, wouldn't make a very good clerk—at least I shouldn't want such a one, if I were a merchant—and your schooling hasn't fitted you for anything else."

"I can keep a set of books," said George, with some dignity.

"But you couldn't stand the confinement. You are not accustomed to it. You will want some active, out-of-door occupation."

"And what is the reason I can't find it? There must be plenty of such work to do."

This was but the beginning of a long conversation that George held with Mr. Gilbert that day, and after he had told his friend all his plans, and listened to some good advice, he mounted his horse and rode away to find Zeke, who was pasturing his herd on Mr. Gilbert's grounds, about three miles from the rancho. The honest old fellow was delighted to see his employer once more, and was almost overwhelmed with grief when George told him that he was going away to be gone a year, and perhaps a good deal longer. The boy gave him some very emphatic instructions in regard to the management of his herd, and then took a hurried leave of him and galloped away; for the longer he remained in Zeke's company, the more firmly he became convinced that he was about to abandon the only life for which he was suited, and the stronger became his desire to give up his "northern scheme," as Mr. Gilbert called it, and settle down again to the business of herding cattle.

Having already said good-bye to Mr. Gilbert and his family, George did not return to that gentleman's rancho, but held straight for home, and sought an interview with Jake and Bob. To these faithful men he also gave some very positive orders, and having entered into a sort of alliance with them, both offensive and defensive, and spent an hour or two in looking over some books he found in his uncle's safe, he packed his valise, mounted his horse and set out for Brownsville, accompanied by a young herdsman who was to bring back his nag, as well as those on which his relatives and Gus Robbins had made the same journey a few days before.

His first hard work, after reaching his destination, was to find Uncle John and Ned, and there was but one way to do it. He visited all the principal hotels and examined the registers. On one he found the name of Edward Ackerman.

"I don't know who he is or where he is," said the clerk, when his attention was drawn to the signature. "I judged by his appearance that he was a cow-boy. He stopped with us about an hour and then dug out, taking the key of his room with him and leaving his grip-sack behind. I was under the impression that he had been doing something crooked, for I never saw him after two men came here making inquiries about him. Did he get in on you for any amount?"

"O, no," answered George. "He is square with the world—so far as I know," he added, to himself, as he turned and walked out of the office. "The men who came here looking for him were Mr. Lowry and Joe. I saw their signatures on the register. It is probable that Ned saw and recognised them, and that that was the reason he 'dug out' so suddenly."

At the next hotel at which he called, George met with better success. His uncle was registered as one of the guests of the house, and the clerk said he had seen him go up to his room an hour or so before, taking a strange young gentleman with him. The bell-boy was summoned, and George followed him up the stairs.

"A gentleman to see you, sir," announced the boy; after which he closed the door and went back to the office, leaving George standing face to face with his relatives, who hoped they had seen him for the last time. The explosion of a bomb-shell in their room would hardly have caused them greater astonishment and alarm. There was an expression on his face that they did not like to see there. They stared, but could not speak to him.

"Well, how do you do?" exclaimed George, as he deposited his valise beside the door and seated himself on the bed, both the chairs being occupied. "You seem surprised."

"We are indeed surprised, most agreeably so," said Uncle John, recovering his power of speech by an effort.

He got up and extended his hand to his nephew, who took it, but did not grasp it with any cordiality. Ned also came forward to greet him, but anybody could see that it was something he did not like to do.

"Your cousin told me that you were captured by the Mexicans, and I never expected to see you again," said Uncle John, as he went back to his chair. "Did you escape from them, or did they release you; or how did you get away? I am anxious to know all the particulars."

"It is a long story," replied George, looking carelessly about the room, "and I have more important matters to talk about just now."

"Have you any idea why they didn't take Ned and Gus, too?" said Uncle John, who knew very well what those "important matters" were to which George referred. "Your cousin has had one or two very narrow escapes from the men who were hunting for that stolen horse. Do you know what they would have done with him if they had caught him? I wonder where Silk Stocking is now?"

Uncle John thought, that by rattling on in this way, he could divert his nephew's mind; turn the conversation into channels selected by himself; and so, indefinitely postpone the discussion of a very disagreeable subject. When George first entered the room, Uncle John told himself, that he had come there "on purpose to raise a row;" and he thought so now, as he noticed the hard lines about the boy's mouth.

There was something coming—the guilty man was sure of that—and he wanted to put it off as long as he could; but George didn't. He was waiting patiently for an opening, and it was presented the very next minute.

"I never heard of those cattle thieves taking a prisoner before," faltered Ned, who knew that he ought to say something.

"Neither did I; and they never would have made a prisoner of me, if they hadn't been hired to do it."

As George said this, his eyes ceased to rove about the room, and rested first upon Uncle John and then upon Ned. The latter grew as pale as a sheet under his gaze, while Uncle John's face turned very red. George had dealt them a stunning blow, and Uncle John was the first to rally from it.

"Why do you look at me in that way?" he demanded sharply. "And what do you mean to insinuate, when you say, that those men were hired to make a prisoner of you?"

"Yes," said Ned, in a very faint voice. "What do you mean to insinuate?"

"I insinuate nothing!" replied George, in a tone that alarmed his uncle, for it told him very plainly that the boy was sure of his ground. "I mean to tell you, in language you can easily understand, that I know all about it."

"About it! About what?"

"Uncle John, it is useless for you to feign ignorance. You are to blame for my capture, and I know it as well as you do. Jake knows it, and he knocked Philip down in your presence to pay him for putting those cattle thieves on my trail. Fletcher knows it, and I had a long talk with him on the subject. If I hadn't escaped from him, my ranche would have been stripped clean. His plan was to hold fast to me, so that he could make a demand on you for stock whenever he felt like it. If you refused to comply with those demands, he would have blown the whole thing among the settlers. If he had ever done that, Uncle John, you would have been in more danger than Ned and Gus were on the night I took them out of the rancho. He may do it yet, for he has got as good a hold on you as he wants. By the way, I don't see Gus anywhere. Has he gone home?"

"George!" exclaimed Uncle John, as soon as he could speak, "I don't understand you at all. What are you trying to get at? There is only one thing plain to me, and that is that somebody has been slandering me."

There was nothing "sharp" in the tone in which these words were uttered. It was evident that Uncle John was very badly frightened, although he was doing his best to keep up a bold front.

"Did Springer slander you when he told me that you were to pay Fletcher and his gang twenty thousand dollars in stock for capturing me?" asked George.

Uncle John settled back in his chair, with an air which said that he had no patience with anybody who could put faith in so outrageous a statement, while Ned, who began to tremble all over, got up and walked to the window. He could not bear to meet his cousin's eye.

"Of course he slandered me if he told you that, and you insult me by believing it," replied Uncle John. "I don't know Springer, and neither did I ever hear of him before."

"You have heard of Fletcher, haven't you?"

Uncle John replied most emphatically that he never had.

"Did Philip slander you, when he told you to your face that you might as well tell one of the men to bring in a thousand head of cattle and pasture them between the rancho and the river, so that they could be easily captured?" inquired George.

"He never used any such language to me."

"He wasn't knocked down in your presence, either, was he?"

"He never was. If such a thing had happened, I should promptly have discharged the man who did it, for I will not allow any fighting among my own servants."

"You had better not say that much to Jake or Bob when you go home, for if you do, they will certainly knock you down."

"George!" Uncle John almost shouted, "have you been setting the servants against me? If you have, you are guilty of a most contemptible proceeding."

"That's the way to talk to him!" exclaimed Ned, whose courage seemed to be coming back to him, now that he had placed himself out of reach of his cousin's searching gaze. "You had better go out of the room, or leave off insulting us."

"I am not insulting you. I am telling you the truth in plain language, and if I stay in here, I shall continue to do so until I have convinced you that your rascality has been most thoroughly exposed."

"Leave the room!" roared Ned.

"Very good," replied George, rising to his feet, and putting on his hat; "I will leave the room very willingly, but I give you fair warning, Uncle John, that if I do it, I shall go straight home and begin proceedings against you. I have been advised to have a new guardian appointed, and I begin to think it is the best thing I can do."

"Sit down! sit down!" cried Uncle John, when he saw the boy moving toward his valise. "Let us see if we can't straighten things out to the satisfaction of all of us."

"I think myself that you had better straighten them out now, instead of waiting until you are obliged to do so before a court of law," said George, significantly.

"Who advised you to have a new guardian appointed?" inquired Uncle John.

"Mr. Gilbert did."

"Of course," sneered Ned. "He is down on us because we are so far above him. Who is he, any how, but a low, ignorant herdsman, whose money entitles him to the position he holds? What would he be up North?"

"What were you up North?" asked George, in reply.

"I was a gentleman, and I am one now."

"And Mr. Gilbert would be known as an honest man, no matter where he went."

"I suppose you think I am not honest," said Uncle John, who, during this side sparring had been allowed a little time in which to collect his scattered wits. "You can carry out your silly threat about that court of law just as soon as you please."

"If I do, you will have to account for every cent that has passed through your hands since you have been my guardian," returned George.

"I can do it. The books show where it has gone."

"What entry did you make in reference to the money that Ned sent to Gus Robbins to pay his way down here?"

"I charged it to myself," answered Uncle John, who was not a little astonished by this question. He supposed that that was a matter that George knew nothing about.

"What did you do with the ten thousand dollars you received for the herd of cattle that Mose drove to Palos when he met Gus Robbins there?"

"I entered it upon the cash account in the proper way. The books show it."

"They don't show it!" said George, bluntly. "They don't show more than half the money you have received since you have been on that ranche."

"How do you know?" demanded Uncle John, starting up in his chair. "Look here, young man! Have you been prying into my private affairs?"

"I have been examining the books you thought you left locked up in the safe, if that is what you mean," replied George, boldly. "And as I know something about bookkeeping, and all about the money you have received since you took charge of my affairs, I was able to see that your accounts are frauds of the first water. Now, Uncle John, I have dwelt longer on these matters than I intended to when I came up here, and I am coming down to business. If you will promise faithfully that you will deal honestly and fairly by me from this time forward, you can hold your present position for five years longer; otherwise you shall not hold it five days. In the first place, there must not be a single steer sold from that ranche while I am gone. There is no need of it, for you have, or ought to have, fifty thousand dollars in the bank to draw on. Do you promise that?"

"I shall make no promises or concessions whatever," replied Uncle John, whose terror had given away to rage intense and bitter. "I shall manage that estate in future as I have in the past, according to my own judgment."

"Then you shall not manage it any longer. Your account is twenty-five or thirty thousand dollars short already, and I can't stand such a leak as that," said George, as he put on his hat again and picked up his valise. "I don't want to disgrace you, but I don't see how I can help it; for you can bet your bottom dollar that I am not going to stand still and see myself robbed."

George walked out of the room, banging the door behind him, while Ned threw himself into his chair and looked at his father who mopped his face vigorously with his handkerchief, while his hands trembled so violently that he could scarcely control them. They had passed through a very trying interview.

CHAPTER VIII. LIFE IN THE PILOT-HOUSE.

"Now, I just want to know if anybody ever heard of such miserable luck as I have," exclaimed Ned, who was the first to break the silence. "Here I was, pluming myself on being the owner of the finest cattle ranche in Texas, when, as if to mock me and show me how all my bright hopes are destined to end, in walks George, as cool as a cucumber, and looking as though he had never seen a Greaser. Why in the world couldn't they hold fast to him after they got him? My forty thousand a year are up a hollow stump, and George knows everything. Did you hire those men to capture him?"

"Didn't you hear me say that every word of his story was false?" demanded his father, fiercely. "Would I be likely to put my nephew's life in jeopardy?"

"If there is no truth in it, I don't see how he came to hear it from so many different sources."

"And neither do I see how he found out that you sent that money to Gus Robbins," said Uncle John. "Have you any idea how that got to his ears?"

"Not the slightest," answered Ned. He saw that his father was almost ready to boil over with fury, and he did not think it would be quite safe to acknowledge that it was through his own admissions that George had become acquainted with that little circumstance. "Gus must have told him; or it may be that I have enemies as well as you. But what are we going to do? That's the question."

And it was one that aroused Uncle John from the stupor into which he had fallen, and showed him the necessity of prompt and decisive action. He jumped from his chair and began walking up and down the room.

"Can George turn you out of your position and have somebody appointed in your place?" continued Ned.

"Of course he can. I hoped to keep him in ignorance concerning that fact, but Gilbert, or some other busy-body, has been posting him."

"Then you had better make things straight with him and be quick about it," said Ned, growing frightened again. "If you don't, he'll oust you sure, and then what will become of me—of both of us? You'll have to go back to your desk again, and I'll have to pick up my yard-stick. Father, I never could endure that sort of life again. You must make it up with him?"

Uncle John wrung his hands and groaned. He was terribly agitated, and it was not to be wondered at. He could not have told which he stood the more in fear of—punishment at the hands of the angry settlers, who would be sure, sooner or later, to learn all about his dealings with his nephew, or the loss of the management of his brother's property. He could not bear to think of either.

"Where are you going?" inquired Ned, as his father suddenly turned toward the door and laid his hand upon the knob.

"I am going to see George," was the reply. "It would never do to let him go back home feeling as he does now, for you and I would never dare to show our faces there again. I am going to try to reason with him first, and if that has no effect, I shall use my authority."

"That's the way to talk," exclaimed Ned, gleefully. "Pound him within an inch of his life, and if you want any help, call for me. I will leave the door open so that I can hear you."

Ned had been on the very point of volunteering to go with his father, in order to back him up during the coming interview, and holding himself in readiness to assist him as circumstances might require; but the fear that the interview might end in a fight, checked the words that arose to his lips. George's fists were pretty large and heavy, and a good fair blow from one of them would have played sad havoc with the little sense that Ned Ackerman possessed.

"I hardly think that extreme measures will be called for," said Uncle John, "but if they are, I shall use them. Stay here until I return."

"I declare, I didn't know that George could be so insolent," thought Ned, as his father closed the door behind him. "The idea of a little snipe like him sitting there and talking to a gray-headed man as he would talk to a boy of his own age! I wonder that he wasn't kicked out of the room for his impudence. But I believe that father is afraid of him; he certainly acted like it; and if he is, it proves that he has been up to something. I hope he will lay his plans with a little more skill next time."

Ned kept his ear at the open door, but no sounds came up from below to indicate that his father had found it necessary to use his authority in order to bring the refractory George to his senses. He passed a long and gloomy hour alone in his room, and sometimes his impatience and suspense increased to such a degree that it was all he could do to keep from going out in search of Uncle John. When the latter at last made his appearance, Ned saw at a glance that he had passed through another exciting and stormy interview. The perspiration stood on his forehead in great beads, and his face was as flushed as it would have been if he had just finished a hotly-contested foot-race with somebody. He dropped into his chair, and drew his handkerchief from his pocket.

"Now, I tell you what's a fact," said Ned, to himself; "if he has been trying to use 'extreme measures,' he has got worsted at it; he has come back whipped. Well, why don't you speak?"

"Let me recover my breath, won't you?" exclaimed Uncle John, impatiently.

"Is everything all right, or not?" demanded Ned, paying no attention to this request. "I want to know the best or the worst, at once."

"I am to retain my position as his guardian," said Uncle John, "but he imposes some hard conditions."

"You didn't agree to them, of course?"

"Of course, I did. I couldn't do otherwise."

"Why didn't you use the authority you talk so much about?"

"I didn't think it was best. I can do as I please about keeping my promises."

"So you can; I didn't think of that."

"If I find that George's interests require me to exercise my own judgment, as I have done in the past, I shall not hesitate to do it," continued Uncle John, who could not bear that his own son should see him in his true character. "He cannot possibly foresee every emergency that may arise."

"George told you that not a steer was to be sold off the place while he was gone," said Ned. "What did he mean by that?"

"He meant just what he said. Zeke is the only one who has authority from George to sell any cattle."

"Well, if that isn't a pretty state of affairs, I wouldn't say so," exclaimed Ned, in great disgust. "So Zeke is put over you, is he?"

"Oh, no; he is left in charge of George's herd, and when he wants money, he is at liberty to sell cattle to get it. George himself is going North to find something to do."

"Well, there!" cried Ned, bringing his hands together with a loud slap. "I have heard some good news at last. That will leave us monarchs of all we survey, won't it? I will get rid of that Zeke the first thing I do."

"How will you go to work? If I told him that his services were no longer required he would pay no attention to me. George said so."

"Very well; let him stay; but when he comes after supplies, just see that he doesn't get any."

"But he'll not come to us; he'll go to Gilbert. George arranged all that before he left. Then he ordered Jake and Bob to visit every one of our herds and find out just how many cattle there were in each of them. They are to send a report to him through Gilbert, and George says that when he comes home the number of cattle he finds on the ranche must correspond with that report, or there'll be trouble between us."

"Why, father, he has tied your hands hard and fast," exclaimed Ned, springing from his chair, and walking about the room in a state of great excitement.

"He thinks he has," said Uncle John, quietly.

"I don't see why in the world you agreed to any such degrading terms," continued Ned.

"I did it because it was that or the desk for me, and the yard-stick for you," answered Uncle John. "But there are one or two contingencies that George did not provide for. Some of the cattle will probably be stolen."

This was said in so significant a tone of voice that Ned would have been dull indeed if he had failed to catch his father's meaning.

"Then, again, there are herdsmen in the country who will suit us much better than those we now employ, and as fast as they turn up I shall hire them, without consulting anybody's wishes except my own."

"So you can," exclaimed Ned, joyfully. "That boy has somehow got the idea into his head that he is just a trifle smarter than anybody else, but he will find that there are others in the world who are just as smart as he is. Did he have any more to say in regard to those ridiculous stories that somebody has been circulating about you?"

"He did, and he believes them to be true. I assured him that they were not, that I was perfectly willing that my conduct should be investigated at any time, and finally we shook hands, and agreed to let by-gones be by-gones."

"I should think you would have felt more like knocking him down," said Ned; "I know I should."

"His perverseness was certainly very trying to my patience; but, after all, my way of settling the difficulty was the best. We shall leave Brownsville for St. Louis to-night; and as we are to travel in his company, I want you to be very guarded in your words and actions. Everything is satisfactorily settled, and we must be careful to treat him as kindly and considerately as we did before he insulted us."

A stranger would have supposed, from this, that Ned and his father were the injured parties, and that George had no reason to complain of their treatment of him.

Uncle John did not tell all that happened during his second interview with George. While he was in the presence of his son his pride had enabled him to keep up some show of courage; but when he was alone with his nephew, he had nothing to sustain him, and it was all he could do to keep from breaking down entirely. He loudly denied every accusation that George brought against him, but the boy gave him to understand that he knew just what he was talking about, and that there was but one way in which Uncle John could ever regain his confidence. That was by dealing fairly with him in the future. This the old man eagerly, almost abjectly, promised to do; but we have already seen how sincere he was when he made those promises.

"I don't want to see him again," said Ned, "and neither can I bear the thought of travelling in his company as far as St. Louis. I don't see why you consented to any such arrangement. Why didn't you let him go alone, if he is so very anxious to leave to-night? We could have waited until to-morrow."

"But we must be willing to do something for the sake of appearances," replied his father, who would have breathed much easier himself if George had been a thousand miles away at that moment. "One reason why I decided to go with him, was because I want to see him settled at something before I leave him."

"But just think how he will lord it over us!" said Ned, who knew very well how he would have acted if he had been in his cousin's place. "He will let everybody know that he is the moneyed man and that we are the dependants."

"You need not be at all alarmed. George is not that sort of a boy. I'll say that much for him."

Ned's fears on this score were entirely set at rest when he met his cousin at the supper table. George had always been somewhat reserved in the presence of his relatives—he could not help feeling that there was something between himself and them that kept them apart—and the events of the last few days did not in the least widen the gulf between them. Having taken his uncle to task for his rascality, and come to a plain understanding with him, he regarded all differences between them as settled for ever, and he never referred to them in any way. If Mr. Gilbert had known it, he would have declared that George was "too confiding for any use;" and perhaps we shall see that he would not have been very badly mistaken if he had pronounced such a judgment upon the boy's actions.

The three left Brownsville that night for Galveston, at which place they boarded a steamer bound for New Orleans. They stopped there a week in order to give Uncle John and Ned an opportunity to see the sights, and to drive out the shell road to Lake Pontchartrain. Ned and his father had, of course, passed this way when they went to Texas, but they were so impatient to see the property of which Uncle John was to have charge, and to begin the spending of its handsome revenues, that they had not wasted a day in this or any other city along their route.

Having done New Orleans and vicinity to their satisfaction, they took passage for St. Louis on board the steamer General Quitman.

She was a very fine and a very swift vessel (during the war she was fitted up by the rebels as a cotton-clad ram, and we know, by experience, that some of the gunboats in the Mississippi squadron were very much afraid of her), and she left the miles behind her at an astonishing rate, her loud "exhaust" proclaiming her approach to the settlers who lived along the banks a league in advance of her.

While the novelty of this mode of travelling lasted, George and his companions were at no loss to know what to do with themselves. They found abundant gratification in sitting on the wide guards, enjoying the rapid motion, and watching the panorama that passed so swiftly before them; but this grew monotonous after a while, and then Ned took to his bunk; Uncle John read the papers and magazines with which he had provided himself before starting from New Orleans, and George, being left to himself, strolled about the boat to see what he could find that was worth looking at. One day he went up to the hurricane-deck, where he took his stand and watched the pilot who was steering the vessel.

"Come in; come in," said the latter, when he saw that the boy was interested in his movements.

"Thank you, sir. I didn't know that you allowed passengers in here," replied George, as he ascended the steps that led up to the pilot-house door.

"O, yes we do, and we are glad to have them come, for we get lonely sometimes. Sit down there," said the pilot, pointing to a high bench that was built against the after-bulkhead. "Then you can look out ahead and on both sides of you and see everything."

"I think you pilots have an easy way of making a living," said George, as he took possession of the bench. "You have no dirty work to do as the engineers have."

"That is very true," replied the pilot. "We are on duty only while the vessel is under way. As soon as we reach port we are at liberty to go ashore and spend the time as we please, until the boat is ready to start again. But it is not an easy berth for all that. In fact, I don't know any easy way of making a living. You are a young man, and you don't want to start out in life with the foolish notion that you can make headway in the world unless you are willing to work."

"I know what work is," said George, with a smile.

"What is your business?"

"I have none just at present. I am looking for an opening. I am from Texas, and I used to herd cattle."

"Were they your own, or did they belong to somebody else?"

"They were my own property."

"There, now!" exclaimed the pilot. "I'll warrant that you sold out your herd in the hope of finding some easier way of making a livelihood. You will never find it. I have spent some months in Texas, and I know how those ranchemen live. They have nothing to do, month in and month out, but ride around on horseback and keep their stock from straying away. If I had money enough I would go into that business to-morrow; and if you are wise, you will go straight back to it."

"I can't," replied George, who told himself that after his new acquaintance had tried herding unruly cattle for a while, and been caught out in a 'norther or two, and jumped down on by raiders, he would be quite willing to resume his place in the pilot-house. "Circumstances compel me to strike out in another direction. How long does it take one to learn the river, and how much does it cost?" added George, who had suddenly taken it into his head that he would like to be a pilot. It was an active, out-of-door occupation, and that was just what he wanted.

"Well, that depends," was the answer. "If you have a good memory and are a judge of water, you could learn it in three years, or less. The cost need not amount to any great sum. If you have any personal friends among pilots, one of them might be induced to take you for nothing; but a stranger would probably charge you something. In fact, he wouldn't think of taking you as a 'cub' unless you agreed to pay him."

"I don't know a single pilot," said George, "and I should be perfectly willing to pay for instruction. How much does a licensed pilot receive for his services?"

"That also depends. If there is plenty of freight, and the water is good, they sometimes get two hundred and fifty dollars a month."

"Three thousand dollars a year!" exclaimed George.

"Well—no; not always. There is scarcely one pilot in ten who works every month in the year. Unless his boat is in some regular trade, he is paid off as soon as the trip for which he was hired is made, and he remains idle until he finds another job. If times are dull and the water low, he may not find anything to do for months; for pilots are not wanted when boats are not running, you know, Tommy."

"My name is George Ackerman," said the boy.

"Ah! I am delighted to hear it. My name is Black. I suppose you can steer a horse pretty well, can't you? I thought so. Do you think you could steer this boat?"

"I am afraid not. I never tried it."

"Well, step up here and see what you can do," said Mr. Black, moving away from the wheel, but still keeping his right hand upon one of the spokes. "We often have passengers come up here and steer for us. One of those boys who got off at Natchez, steered for me yesterday for over three hours; but then he is a pilot's son, and has made a good many trips up and down the river. Don't get in front of the wheel," he added, as George stepped down from the bench and laid his hands upon the spokes. "Stand at the side of it—so. Now you have got perfect control of it. Do you see that white pole out there in the bow? That is the jack-staff, and the large black ball you see about half way up the staff, is the night hawk."

"What is it for?"

"That is what we steer by in the night."

"I shouldn't think you could see it."

"O yes, we can. It shows almost as plainly as it does in the daytime, and by keeping one eye on it we can tell which way the boat is swinging. Do you see that leaning tree up there in the bend? Well, keep the jack-staff pointed straight toward it."

"If I do that I shan't keep the boat in the middle of the river," said George.

"I don't want you to keep in the middle of the river. I want you to go where the water is the deepest."

Mr. Black moved away from the wheel, and George had the swiftly-moving boat under his own control.

CHAPTER IX. THE PILOT'S GRATITUDE.

George was greatly surprised to find that it requires skill, and a good deal of it, too, to do so simple a thing as keeping a steamer in a straight course. Mr. Black had done it without the least apparent exertion, not unfrequently managing the wheel with only one hand, but George could not, for the life of him, keep the jack-staff directed towards the object in the bend that had been pointed out to him. That leaning tree was like the negative pole of a magnet: it seemed to repel rather than to attract; and every time the jack-staff was brought to bear upon it, the bow would swing to one side or the other, and George could not hold it anywhere. Like all beginners, he kept the wheel in constant motion; but he was quick to learn anything in which he was interested, and it was not long before he found out that there was always an increased strain upon the tiller rope before the boat began to swing, and that easing the wheel a spoke or two did more good than giving it a round turn. When he had learned this much, he had taken the first step towards learning how to steer a steamboat.

"The deepest water is not always to be found in the middle of the river," continued Mr. Black. "If it was, what would be the use of pilots? Anybody could take a boat up or down the river, provided he knew the bells and could handle the wheel. But the channel is constantly changing, and to-day we find plenty of water in places where sand-bars were high and dry a year or two ago."

"How do you know, then, but that the channel we are now following may change over to the other side of the river before you come down again?" said George.

"I don t know it. I shouldn't be in the least surprised, for stranger things than that have happened. Do you see that tow-head over there?" inquired Mr. Black, directing the boy's attention to a little grove of willows that grew on the farther side of the stream; "that's 'Old' river. The Mississippi used to run on the other side of that tow-head, at least three miles from where it runs now. It is these constant changes that make it necessary for us to have fields-men, who are willing to devote all their time to keeping track of the channel. A pilot of twenty, or even ten years ago, would find it hard work to take a boat to New Orleans. In fact, I don't believe that he could do it, if he depended entirely upon himself. But we help one another all we can. For example, when we get to Cairo, some pilot there, who hasn't been down the river for a few months, will ask me how I got into Helena; there's a very bad river there, you know, and lots of bars, and those bars are always on the move. I'll tell him all the turns I made, and he will remember every word I say, and make the same turns in the darkest of nights. That's why I told you that a man must have a good memory to be a pilot. Now here we are in the bend, and this leaning tree will be of no more use to us to-day. We must find something else to steer by. Bring her around easy, keeping just about this distance from the shore—that's it—now a little more. Steady at that. Do you see that log cabin up there in the bight of the next bend? Well, run the boat right in at the door."

George, who changed the course of the boat very cleverly in obedience to these instructions, told himself that he was learning rapidly, and the pilot remarked that he was doing very well indeed for a boy who had never touched a wheel before. While he was thus engaged, Ned, who had grown tired of idling away the time in his bunk, sauntered up to the hurricane-deck, and exhibited the greatest surprise at what he saw when he glanced toward the pilot-house. He came up the steps, seated himself on the elevated bench, and listened eagerly to the conversation between Mr. Black and his cousin. He must have heard something that interested him, for when the dinner-bell rang, and Mr. Black took the wheel, after telling George that he could come up and steer for his partner in the afternoon, if he felt so inclined, Ned hurried off to hunt up his father, whom he found in the barber shop.

"George has struck something already," he whispered, as he turned the water into one of the wash-bowls, "and I hope from the bottom of my heart that he will make the most of it. He has been steering the boat all the morning, and from what I heard him say to the pilot, I gained the idea that he has some intention of becoming a river man."

"Perhaps it would be a good opening for him," said Uncle John, burying his face in one of the towels.

"I am sure it would," replied Ned. "It would take him three years at least to learn the river, and there are no vacations, you know."

That was the reason why Uncle John had not suggested to George, that it would be a good plan for him to go back to school, because there were vacations; and because he knew that during those vacations, George would be very likely to run down to Texas to see how things were going there. It was Uncle John's desire to see the boy settled in some business, that would occupy every moment of his time.

"It is a dangerous calling, but a very honorable as well as a useful one," added Uncle John. "We couldn't get along without pilots, you know."

"I heard George say, that he would be willing to give fifty dollars a month to learn the business," said Ned.

"Very well. If he has made his decision, the want of money shall not stand in his way. Could you describe the pilot to me, so that I could recognise him?"

"Do you know that tall, dark man, with long black whiskers that come clear down to his waist, and who always dresses in light clothes?"

"I believe I have seen him," said Uncle John, in reply.

This was all the conversation that passed between Ned and his father on this subject, but it was enough to enable the boy to understand, that Uncle John had marked out a course of action for himself. And so he had. He scraped an acquaintance with Mr. Black before he went to dinner, told him of the relationship that existed between himself and the boy who had spent the morning in the pilot-house, and had a long talk with him about river men and the dangers of the life they led. He told him, too, that he (Uncle John) was a very wealthy man, and quite willing to indorse any arrangements his nephew might be able to make with Mr. Black. This, of course, increased the pilot's interest in George, and an incident happened that very afternoon that increased it still more.

Contrary to his usual custom, George ate his dinner in great haste that day. He had already become infatuated with life in the pilot-house, and he was eager to see more of it. As he ran up the steps that led to the hurricane deck, his eye chanced to fall upon something that lay close to the cabin skylights, and under the shelter of the projecting roof, where it must have rolled when it dropped from its owner's pocket. It was a large, black pocket-book, and if there was any faith to be put in appearances, it was well filled. George picked it up, turned it over in his hands, and looked all around the deck to see if there was any body in sight. As he did so, a rather flashily-dressed young man, who had been standing near the bell, hurried up to him with a great show of eagerness. He was one of the passengers, and George had often bestowed more than a passing glance upon him, for the reason that he had seen him drinking at the bar, and playing cards in the cabin for money.

"I am very much obliged to you," said he, as he held out his hand. "I couldn't imagine where I had dropped it, and I thought I was ruined."

If the young man had hoped to surprise George into promptly surrendering the article he had found, he was doomed to be disappointed. It is true that the boy was from the country, and that he had never had anything to do with city sharpers; but he was pretty smart, for all that, and his quick wit served him in the place of experience.

"What is it?" said he, as he put his hand behind him.

"Why, it is my pocket-book. It is a black one with a silver clasp."

"I am well aware of that fact," replied George, who knew that the young man must have caught a momentary glimpse of the article in question while he was holding it in his hands. "It is easy enough to describe the outside of a thing after you have seen it, but can you describe the contents?"

"Of course I can. There's a good deal of money in it."

"How much?"

"That is something I can't tell, for I am so careless with money, that I never keep a strict account of what I carry about with me. There are also some papers in it that are of no value to anybody except myself."

"All right," said George. "Come on."

"Where are you going?"

"Down to find the captain. You can come with me and describe those papers to him."

"I will give you a hundred dollars the minute you hand over my property," said the young man.

"I don't want your money. I only want to be sure that I give the wallet into the hands of its owner."

As he said this, he took his hand from behind him and put it into his pocket. The young man had a fair view of the wallet, for George did not attempt to hide it from his gaze, and he saw that it was pretty "fat." Believing that its plumpness was occasioned by a big roll of greenbacks which he would find on the inside in case he could get the pocket-book into his possession, he thought he could afford to increase his reward.

"That's mine," said he. "I have carried it for years, and I would recognise it among a thousand. Hand it over here, without any more fooling, and I will give you two hundred dollars to reward you for your honesty. Just think of it! That is a big sum for a boy like you to own."

"I don't want your money," repeated George. "Whenever you get ready to prove the contents of this pocket-book, you can go to the old man to do it."

So saying he ran down the stairs, paying no heed to the protests of the young man, who increased his offer of reward to two hundred and fifty dollars, and turning into the cabin found the officer of whom he was in search just rising from the table.

"I have found something, sir," said he, "and I would thank you to take charge of it until the owner calls upon you for it."

He handed out the pocket-book, as he spoke, and the captain at once opened it to see if he could find anything to indicate who the owner was.

"It belongs to somebody who is pretty well fixed," said he, at length. "There's a big roll of bills here, as well as—Hallo! Jerry Black," he exclaimed, pulling out a card and reading the name that was written upon it. "He is one of my pilots—the man I saw you steering for this morning. He will be glad to remember you for this, for you have placed him under very heavy obligations. I say it knowing something of his circumstances. If you are not afraid to trust me with it, I will give it to him as soon as he awakes. He has gone to bed for the afternoon."

When George ascended to the hurricane deck again he looked every where for the young man who had laid claim to the lost pocket-book, but he was not to be seen. The boy had said nothing to the captain about that little affair, because he did not want to get the would-be swindler into trouble. He had easily foiled him in his attempt to cheat Mr. Black out of his property, and that was the end of the matter so far as George was concerned. When he entered the pilot-house he found there a new man, who greeted him cordially.

"So you're the boy that wants to be a pilot, are you?" said he, "Jerry spoke to me about you. Come on, and let us see what you can do."

George had the boat under his charge almost all that afternoon. About four o'clock Mr. Black suddenly mounted the steps. His face was very pale and he looked as though he had lost everything on earth that was worth living for.

"What's the matter?" exclaimed his partner, as the owner of the lost pocket-book threw himself wearily down upon the bench. "Are you sick?"

"Yes, sick at heart. I am a used-up man, Sam," replied Mr. Black. "My wife and children will lose the roof that shelters them, and I shall be turned out to begin the world again, as I began it thirty years ago, with empty hands."

"You don't mean to tell me that you have lost it?" exclaimed Sam.

"Yes, I do."

"Then what in the name of sense are you staying in here for? Stir around and make a fuss about it. If you dropped it on the boat, it may have fallen into the hands of some honest person."

"And so it has," cried George, from his place at the wheel. "The old man's got it."

George thought that since he was acting as a pilot, he ought to use a pilot's language, and that was the reason he called the captain the "old man."

"How do you know that?" demanded Mr. Black and Sam, in one breath.

"I saw him have it—it was a black pocket-book with a silver clasp—and I heard him read the name of Jerry Black from a card he took out of it."

The owner of that name jumped off the bench, went through the door like a shot, and disappeared down the stairs. He went straight to the captain, who handed out his property without waiting to be asked for it, at the same time telling the pilot who it was that had found it and given it into his keeping. Mr. Black started for the pilot-house to thank George for the favor he had rendered him, and on the guards he ran against Uncle John.

"General," said he, acting upon an idea that suddenly shot through his mind, "may I have a word with you?"

Almost everybody of any prominence in the South answers to some military or judicial title. If he is pretty well to do in the world, he is a major; if he is very well to do, he is a judge or a colonel; and if he is wealthy, he bears the dignified title of general. Uncle John was flattered by this show of respect, and announced that he was quite ready to hear what Mr. Black had to say to him.

"General," said the pilot, slapping the recovered pocket-book into his open palm. "I owe that nephew of yours something. He found this wallet that I had somehow lost out of my pocket. It contains fifteen hundred dollars that I borrowed in New Orleans to pay off the mortgage on my house, and the receipts for all the money I have paid on that mortgage. If I had lost the money, my house would have been sold over the head of my wife, who is an invalid, and who could never survive the loss of the home for which we have both worked so hard. My property is mortgaged to a sharper who would foreclose in a minute in order to gain possession of it."

"Well, sir," said Uncle John, with the dignity becoming his newly-acquired title. "What has my nephew to do with it?"

"He has this much to do with it, or, rather, I have this much to do with him: I want to make him some return for the service he has rendered me, and I don't know how to go about it. You say that the boy is rich, and that he will some day be richer, and of course, under the circumstances, I couldn't think of offering him money."

"Certainly not," said Uncle John. "He doesn't need it. He can call upon me for all he wants. There is only one way in which you can help him, and that is by making a pilot of him."

"I should be glad to do it," said Mr. Black, "but I thought I had better speak to you before saying anything to him about it."

"O, my consent is not necessary," replied Uncle John. "The boy has always been his own master, and I suppose he always will be."

"But if he is so well off, I don't see why he should want to risk life and limb by running on the river," said Mr. Black.

"Riches sometimes take to themselves wings and fly away, you know. No matter how much money a young man may be worth, or how much more he may have in prospect, he ought to be made to learn some useful trade or business that will enable him to earn a living for himself, if circumstances compel him to do so. That was his father's doctrine and it is mine, too."

"And a very good doctrine it is," said Mr. Black.

"I repeat, that I stand ready to back up, with money, if money is required, any bargain that you may make with my nephew," continued Uncle John. "But I want you and him to understand one thing very distinctly; if George takes up this business of piloting, he must stick to it until he makes himself master of it. If he can't learn the river in three years, I want you to keep him six. I don't believe in doing things by halves."

"Neither do I. A poor pilot is worse than none, for he endangers every boat and cargo that are placed under his care. George seems to take to the business naturally; and if he will only stay with me, I will make a first-class——"

"If he goes into it at all, he must stay with you!" said Uncle John, emphatically. "I want an agreement to that effect, made between him and you. You need not say, however, that I suggested the idea to you. Speak for yourself, but not for me."

"All right, general," said Mr. Black, as he turned toward the stairs, "I'll bear it in mind."

"O, don't I hope he will take it, though!" exclaimed Ned, who had stood a little apart from his father, but still quite near enough to him to catch every word of the conversation. "I wonder if I could say anything that would induce him to do so?"

"Probably not," answered his father. "George has somehow got hold of the idea, that we don't want him near us—he told me so in plain language during our second interview at Brownsville—and you might influence him the wrong way."

That was something Ned did not want to do, and so he wisely resolved that he would say nothing to his cousin on the subject. Knowing that George was in the pilot-house, he hung around the foot of the stairs all the afternoon, waiting to hear what he would have to say to Uncle John when he came down.

Mr. Black returned to the pilot-house, looking very unlike the pale, discouraged man who had gone in there a few minutes before. He carried his pocket-book in his hand, and slammed it down upon the bench with a triumphant air.

"George," said he, "let Sam steer the boat, and you come and sit down here. I want to talk to you."

The boy reluctantly gave up his place at the wheel; and after Mr. Black had shaken him warmly by the hand, and told him how deeply he was indebted to him for the recovery of his money and receipts, he listened while George described how he had found the pocket-book; and then he drew him to a seat on the bench.

"If you really want to be a pilot, I will take you with me as a cub, free of all expenses, except your clothes, which you will have to provide for yourself," said he. "That is customary, you know. That is the only way in which I can repay you."

"I hope you don't think I want to be paid for being honest," said George.

"Certainly not; but still we always like to show our gratitude to those who have done us a service. What do you say?"

This brought the matter squarely home to George, who did not know what to say. He had never in his life thought of being a pilot until that morning, and all the ideas he had of the business, he had gained during the few hours he had spent in the company of Mr. Black and his partner. He had only seen the sunny side of it; of its trials and perplexities he knew nothing. He tried to obtain some information regarding them during the long conversation that followed Mr. Black's proposition, and before it was ended he came to the conclusion that unless his new friends told some greatly exaggerated stories, there where not so many difficulties and obstacles in the way of a cub-pilot, as there were in the path of him who was ambitious to become a successful cattle raiser. Something definite must have been decided upon, for when the supper bell rang, and Mr. Black and George descended to the boiler-deck, Ned said to himself, after taking one look at his cousin's face:

"He's done it! He's done it, as sure as the world, and we are well rid of his hateful presence for long months to come."

And the sequel proved that Ned was not far from right.

When George had eaten his supper he drew a bee-line for the pilot-house. He saw but one person on the boiler-deck, and that was the young man who had tried to swindle him out of Mr. Black's money. George thought that if he had been guilty of an act of that kind he would have gone off somewhere and hidden himself; but the young man held his head up and looked as honest as anybody.

"Well," said he, "I didn't succeed in fooling you, did I? I only wanted to try you, you know. Have you found the owner yet?"

George replied that he had.

"I suppose he did the handsome thing by you?" said the young man, in an inquiring tone. "I know I should if it had been mine."

"I am entirely satisfied with the reward I received," replied George.

"Was there much in it?"

"Fifteen hundred dollars, I believe, and papers worth twice that amount."

The young man's countenance fell at once. He turned and walked away, while George ran up the stairs that led to the hurricane-deck.

"Fifteen hundred dollars, and papers worth twice that amount," repeated the young man, as he leaned upon the rail and looked down into the water. "That would have set me square with my employer, and got me out of a scrape that I am sure is going to end in something serious, sooner or later. I have lost a lot of Clayton's money at poker, and how I am going to replace it, I don't know. Why couldn't I have been lucky enough to find that pocket-book? But I never have luck except in one way: I am always able to get even with those who go back on me, and if I ever have the chance to make this young snipe feel as miserable as I do this moment, how quickly I'll jump at it."

The opportunity he wished for presented itself after a while, and we shall see what use the young man made of it.

CHAPTER X. TONY RICHARDSON.

"Anthony, why didn't you do this during school hours?"

The speaker was Mr. Bliss, the principal of one of the St. Louis grammar schools. He leaned back in his chair and looked at a young fellow about sixteen years of age, who stood in front of the rostrum with his eyes fastened upon a dog's-eared algebra he held in his hand. This was Tony Richardson, of whom we had something to say in the first volume of this series, and he was the only son of one of the wealthiest steamboat owners in the city.

"Don't you think this thing is getting to be a little too monotonous?" continued the principal. "This makes the third time that you have been kept after school this week for coming to the recitation-seat unprepared."

"My head is so thick I can't learn figures," replied Tony. "It seems to run in the family. I have heard my father say that he was the poorest scholar in his class, so far as mathematics were concerned. No matter how hard he studied, he couldn't get his lesson."

"But the trouble with you is, you do not study unless you are obliged to do so," answered Mr. Bliss. "To be candid with you, Anthony, I think you have fallen into the way of allowing your mind to wander off to the ends of the earth, when it should be kept right here in the school-room and concentrated on your books. That is a most ruinous habit, and you would do well to break it off at once. You have committed this lesson in ten minutes, simply because you knew that you would be required to do so before you could go home. You could have mastered it in the same length of time during school hours, if you had set about it in earnest. Now, see if you can't give a better account of yourself in future. Try it for one short week—for your father's sake, if you won't try it for your own. That will do."

"For my father's sake," said Tony, to himself. "I don't see why I should exert myself to please him, when he goes out of his way to refuse every request I make of him."

He walked back to his desk, placed his algebra upon the shelf with the rest of his books—it would have given him more pleasure if he could have kindled a fire with it in the stove—bade his teacher good-night and went out. Most boys would have been too sulky to be courteous, but Tony Richardson was not that sort. With all his faults he was not mean-spirited.

"This thing is getting to be a trifle too monotonous," said he, as he put on his hat and descended the stairs, "and I am not going to stand it much longer; that's all there is about that. I don't see why father wants me to study algebra, when he hated it so cordially himself. I'll warrant that there are not two captains in his whole fleet who know the binomial-theorem from a side of sole-leather, and yet they are all good commanders. If they can run a boat without knowing anything about mathematics, I don't see why I can't do the same. I want to go to sea—I just know I was born to be a sailor—and if father won't let me go, he must give me a place on one of his boats. I can tell him that much."

While these thoughts, and a good many others like them, were passing through Tony's mind, he was walking rapidly toward the levee. When he came within sight of the river he saw there, among the scores of other vessels with which the levee was lined, one of his father's magnificent boats, the Telegraph, which was advertised to start for New Orleans on the following Monday. The engineer had just sounded his gong, and a boy about his own age was ascending the steps that led into the pilot-house. The captain had stationed himself near the bell that stood on the forward part of the hurricane-deck, and the hands, under the charge of one of the mates, were awaiting the order to haul in the gang-plank and cast off the lines.

"She must be going up to the coal-fleet," thought Tony, as he ran swiftly down the levee, swinging his hat over his head. "I shall have plenty of time to go up with her, and get back to the depot before the train starts for home."

The captain saw him coming, and knowing who he was, delayed the order to cast off until Tony had run up the gang-plank. The latter stopped on the hurricane-deck to exchange a few words of greeting with the "old man," and then went into the pilot-house, where he found George Ackerman at the wheel. George had now been on the river for more than six months, and the reader will have some idea of the progress he had made in his new vocation when we tell him that he was the only pilot on board the Telegraph at that moment, that Mr. Black, after being engaged for the trip, had gone to Webster Groves to take leave of his family, that his partner, Mr. Kelsey, was somewhere on shore, and that neither of them had felt the least hesitation in leaving George to take the boat up to the coal-fleet, and bring her back again.

Our hero did not yet know the river, but he was a fine steersman, and could make a landing or get the boat under way almost as well as anybody. He was worth something now, and Mr. Black paid him twenty dollars a month for his services. Regarding this in the light of a promotion, George wrote to Texas about it, and was afterwards very sorry that he had done so, for Uncle John, prompted by Ned, at once shut down on the monthly allowance which he had thus far sent him regularly. The amount he received was enough to clothe him as well as he cared to dress; he was under no expense for board, for when he was not running on the river, he lived with Mr. Black, in his home at Webster Groves. But still George did not like that act on the part of Uncle John. It showed him that his guardian was determined to exercise all the authority he possessed, and more, too, if he could.

"How are you, Tony?" exclaimed George. "Sit down until I back her out and straighten her up, and then I'll talk to you."

"And I'll take your place at the wheel, won't I?" said Tony, as he took a seat on the elevated bench.

"Of course; that's always understood."

The two boys, having often been thrown into each other's society of late, were well acquainted, and a sort of friendship had sprung up between them. Mr. Black had been employed on one or another of Mr. Richardson's boats ever since he left the General Quitman, and of course George went with him everywhere as his assistant. Tony, who thoroughly hated school and everything belonging to it, was deeply in love with the water, and spent all his leisure hours in loitering about the levee; and whenever any of his father's boats were moved from one wharf-boat to another, or sent up to the coal-fleet, Tony was generally on hand to do the steering. He took unbounded delight in a boat, and looked forward with impatience to the day when he would take his position as captain of one of the swiftest and most beautiful steamers on the river. What sort of an apprenticeship he would have to serve before he would be qualified to fill so responsible a berth, Tony did not know. In fact, it was something about which he seldom troubled himself. There was one thing he was certain of, however, and that was, he was not going to begin as deck hand or watchman, or even as clerk or mate. The deck hands were a low set, in Tony's estimation. Besides, they were obliged to handle the freight, and that was not a genteel business. Watchmen were only a grade higher than the deck hands, clerks had too much to do with figures, and mates were generally too rough in dress and language to suit the boy. He had heard of men stepping from the pilot-house into the captain's place, and if he had to serve in any subordinate capacity before he could take command of a steamer, he thought he would rather be a pilot than anything else. These officers and the clerks comprise the aristocracy among river men. They generally dress in the height of fashion, sport a good deal of jewelry, and the pilots, if they choose to do so, can wear kid gloves while they are at work. Their money comes easily, and, as a rule, goes easier. Where there is one prudent man among them, like Mr. Black, who puts his earnings into a home, there are a dozen who make all haste to get rid of them.

We ought to say right here, that the prospect of becoming a riverman, did not exactly suit Tony. His first love was the sea. He thought about it during his waking hours, and dreamed of it when he was asleep. He sang forecastle songs, told sea stories, and tried to talk and walk like a sailor. When his father emphatically refused to aid him in carrying out his insane ideas, Tony shed a good many tears in secret; banged his school-books about more spitefully than ever; and fell back upon the river as the next best thing to think about. If he went there he would accept nothing but a high position, and he would hold it only temporarily; for as soon as he became his own master, he would start as straight for salt water as he could go.

"How do you like the river by this time?" asked Tony, as the Telegraph was backed rapidly away from the wharf-boat.

"First rate!" replied George with great enthusiasm. "I like it better and better every day, and I know I shall never get tired of it. I don't think I should like to go back to herding cattle again."

"Well, there's no need of it. If I were my own master, as you are, I should do as I please."

"And you would please to go to sea, I suppose?"

"Of course I would. That is what I am going to do sometime; and I don't see why my father will not let me go now."

"Perhaps he has something better in view for you," suggested George.

"He can't have anything in view for me that will suit me half so well," replied Tony, with the air of one who had made up his mind. "I am old enough to know what I want, and what I don't want. Let me have her now."

The Telegraph had by this time been backed away from the levee, and straightened up the river, and George felt safe in resigning the wheel to his companion. But he did not go far away from it. There were a good many boats running about, some moving out of their berths and others going in; and as it required some skill to steer clear of all of them, George stood close by, so that he could seize the wheel in an instant; while Tony, who was no mean steersman, managed it with one hand, and kept up an almost constant signaling with the other.

When two boats meet, one going down and the other up the river, or if a boat is backing out into the stream while another is coming up, the upper boat has the right of way, but the lower one always whistles first. For example, Smith, who is piloting a boat up the river, may whistle once to notify Brown, who is coming down the river, that he (Smith) intends to turn his boat to the right, so as to pass by on Brown's left hand. If the latter is satisfied with the arrangement, he gives notice of the fact by whistling once in reply; but if he is not satisfied with it, if he wants to make a landing, or pick up a tow, or do anything else that required him to make Smith pass by on his right hand instead of the left, he whistles twice; and Smith must reply to the signal, to show that he understands it; get his boat out of Brown's way, and go by on the other side. The burden of the responsibility in avoiding a collision, if one seemed likely to occur, would rest with the pilot who was going up the river; for the reason, that his vessel could be handled much more easily and quickly, than the one that was coming down driven by all the force of a powerful current. George had learned all these things, as well as a good many others, during the comparatively short time he had been under Mr. Black's instructions; and knowing his responsibility, he did not feel willing to trust his boat entirely in the hands of his friend Tony.

The nearer the Telegraph approached to the coal-fleet, which was composed of a number of barges moored to the bank two or three miles above the city, the clearer the river became, and presently George moved away from the wheel and seated himself on the bench. He kept one eye on Tony, who was too busy to talk, and the other out ahead to see that nothing came in their way.

The young pilot had been acquainted with his new friend long enough to know that he was a very discontented boy, and he could not see why it was so. He did not then know that the source of happiness is within ourselves, and that our surroundings have not so much to do with it as our own dispositions. By Tony's invitation he had once accompanied him to his home, and he had found there all the aids to happiness that any reasonable boy could ask for; but still Mr. Richardson was strict, and Tony was very much of a rebel The more he resisted lawful authority the tighter the reins were drawn, until Tony finally came to the conclusion that home was always a dreary place, that fathers found no pleasure in life except in denying their sons every gratification on which they had set their hearts, and that no boy of any spirit would put up with such a state of affairs after he became able to take care of himself. George was not long in finding out how matters stood, and he wasted all his eloquence in the effort to make Tony believe that he was then seeing the happiest years of his life.

"You may some time know by experience, what it is to have no home to go to," said George. "Stranger things than that have happened, you know, and then you will wish that you had made the most of these days, which now seem so gloomy to you, and improved the opportunities you slight every hour of your life."

"You needn't preach," snapped Tony, in reply. "Haven't you told me more than once that you left home because you were not happy there?"

"I have told you that I left Texas because I was not safe there," answered George.

"Well, it was your home, wasn't it?"

"It used to be."

"You lived in the same house that you lived in while your father was alive?"

George said he did.

"And your father's only brother was your guardian and had charge of the house?"

George said that was so, too.

"Then it was your home," said Tony, triumphantly; "and to be consistent, you ought to have stayed there, whether you wanted to or not."

"But haven't I told you that I couldn't stay?" asked George.

"And haven't I told you that I can't stay here?" retorted Tony. "This is not a new notion of mine. I have been thinking about it for a long time—in fact, ever since I went into algebra. It is hard work for me to go to school."

"It will be harder for you to earn your own living. I know what work is, and you don't. There is no need of your going to sea, or running on the river."

"I know what you mean. Of course, I shall be a rich man some day, if I live, but I don't care for that. I want liberty to do as I please, more than I want money, and I want it now. What's more, I'm going to have it, either with or without——"

"Your father's consent," added George, when Tony paused.

"That's just it. I don't know that I ought to be so plain with you, but you will not repeat what I say?"

"I have better business than carrying tales," replied George. "If your father should ever say anything to me about it, I should tell him the truth, and some day you would thank me for it. I know what you have in your mind, and you had better take my advice and give it up."

"More preaching," said Tony, with a laugh. "I give you fair warning that you will never make a convert of me, for you don't know what you are talking about. You have led a free and easy life there on the plains, being under no restraint, but coming and going as you pleased, and what do you know of the trials and tribulations of a boy who is held with his nose tight to the grindstone every day? Come, George, give us a rest. If you do not let my father into my secret before he broaches the subject to you, you will never say a word to him about it."

There was not the slightest danger that Mr. Richardson would ever speak to George about Tony, but it was not very long before he took occasion to speak to Tony about George. The next evening, while they were seated in the cars waiting for the train to start toward home, Mr. Richardson suddenly looked up from his paper and said:

"Anthony, who was that fellow you brought home with you yesterday?"

"He's not a fellow," answered the boy. "His name is Ackerman, and he is Mr. Black's cub. He runs on one of your boats."

"Well, just drop him now; and don't bring him or anybody like him out to Kirkwood any more. When you have so many nice acquaintances, I can't imagine why you should be so intimate with those rivermen," said Mr. Richardson.

"They are the ones who have made your money for you," said Tony.

"I am aware of that; and they have been well paid for serving me. I find no fault with the men themselves—a braver and more skilful class cannot be found anywhere—but I do object to the morals of the most of them. Having passed some of the best years of my life on the river, I ought to know something about rivermen. This boy you speak of may be all right now, but he is under bad influences."

George never heard of this conversation between Tony and his father, and there was nothing in Tony's behavior toward him to indicate that such an interview had ever taken place. The latter kept track of the different boats on which Mr. Black was employed, and whenever one of them came into port, Tony made it a point to visit the cub pilot as soon as he could get out of school. He liked George, and he had but one fault to find with him; the latter had been a cattle raiser, and Tony wished he had been a sailor, so that he could have talked with him about the sea.

The Telegraph reached the coal-fleet in due time, and fortunately for Tony there was another boat there, the Ida Clifford, which, having filled her bunkers, was about to return to the city. Being acquainted with one of the pilots, Tony went aboard of her and steered her down, thus saving himself a long walk. On arriving at the landing he went ashore, and started for his father's office on Fourth street. When he reached it, he saw Mr. Richardson standing in the door drawing on his gloves.

"Ah!" said he, as Tony came up. "I began to think I should have to start for home without you. You have been kept after school as usual, I suppose?

"Yes, sir," replied Tony, "And when I got out, I went up to the coal-fleet on the Telegraph."

"Well, now that you have come, we will start for the depot. We have barely time to catch the train."

Mr. Richardson lived in Kirkwood, a beautiful little village located about thirteen miles from the river. Its society was made up principally of the families of wealthy men who did business in St. Louis. Living within easy reach of the city, they were still far enough away from it to escape all its heat, dust and noise. Tony and his father came in every morning on the seven o'clock train, and returned together in the evening after business hours were over.

"I should think you would get tired of being kept after school," said Mr. Richardson, as they walked toward the depot. "The report you bring home every week shows you to be anything but a faithful student. What do you expect to gain by so foolish a waste of time?"

"I don't expect to gain anything by it," replied Tony. "I only want to get through my school-days with as little trouble and work as I can. I shall be glad when they are over."

"And you want to get through life in the same way, I suppose?" said his father.

"No, sir; I am willing to work, and I should like to begin to-morrow. I want to go to sea."

"Anthony, you might as well give up that idea first as last. You will never go with my consent. I don't see what put that notion into your head. You have about as clear an idea of what would be required of you on shipboard as you have of the duties of a book-keeper."

"Will you let me do the next best thing, then? Will you let me go on the river?"

"No, indeed. I want to see you something better than a steamboat man."

"I should really like to know what you want me to be, anyhow," said Tony, with some impatience.

"I want to see you a respected member of society, for one thing," said his father. "I hope you will not think that your school-days are over until you have been through college. That was one thing I missed, for I began life poor; but I don't want you to miss it. I can see now how advantageous such training would have been to me. Get your education first, and decide upon your life-work afterwards."

"But I don't want to go to college," said Tony; "and I won't, either," he added, in an undertone. "I am not going to study myself to death for the sake of reading Greek and Latin. I don't want to go to school any longer," he said, aloud. "I had the best notion in the world to pack up my books to-night and take them home with me."

"That would have been a useless waste of strength and time on your part, for on Monday morning you would have had the pleasure of packing them up again and taking them back with you," said Mr. Richardson, bringing the iron ferule of his heavy cane down upon the sidewalk with more than his usual energy. "I believe I shall have something to say in regard to your conduct for at least five years to come."

"Then I must go to school, whether I want to or not, must I?"

He asked this question in a tone of voice which he intended should make an impression on his father, and lead him to see that his son had resolved upon something. But, contrary to his expectations, Mr. Richardson did not seem to be at all affected by it. He answered very calmly and decidedly,

"Certainly, you must."

"Well, if you won't let me go to sea, as you know I have long wanted to do, nor on the river either, can't you find a place for me in your office?"

"I am going to give him every chance," said Tony, to himself, "and if he doesn't see fit to improve one of them, he must take the responsibility for anything that happens."

"I have no place for you," replied his father. "There is nothing in the office you can do, unless you act as messenger boy, and I certainly shall not discharge young Bowman to make an opening for you. He needs the money he earns, for he is the only support of a widowed mother."

"Couldn't I be a clerk of some kind?" asked Tony. "I have given him another chance."

"No, indeed. My clerks must all understand figures. I do wish you would wake up and go to work in earnest. Anthony, didn't you tell me last Christmas that if I would buy you a pony, you would work hard at your books for a whole year?"

Tony believed he did have a faint recollection of making some such promise.

"You have got the pony, and how have you kept your word?"

The boy did not reply to this question. The truth of the matter was, he had learned, as a good many of us have, that there is more pleasure in looking forward to the possession of a thing, than there is in possessing it. The pride he at first felt in having a horse of his own, very soon gave place to an unreasonable hostility toward the animal. It was not so easy to ride him as it looked to be, and he was so slow of foot that one of the Kirkwood boys offered to bet a six-bladed, pearl-handled knife against Tony's "Barlow," that he could find a fellow who could beat him in a fair race. Tony couldn't afford to study hard for a whole year to pay for such a pony as that.

"But whether you wake up or not," continued Mr. Richardson, "you can depend upon one thing: you are going to stay at school until you know more than you do now."

"We'll see about that," was Tony's mental rejoinder. "I have tried my best more than a dozen times to induce him to let me leave school—I'd rather saw wood than pore over these books day after day—but he is bound to disregard all my wishes, and now I will see how he'll feel when he finds that I have disregarded his. I never can do anything I want to do as long as I stay here, and I'm going to make a break. I am going out into the world to begin life in earnest. I am off for salt water!"

As Tony said this, he closed his lips tightly and looked very determined, indeed.

CHAPTER XI. DOWN THE RIVER ON A COAL-BARGE.

Tony Richardson had never held five minutes conversation with a sailor, he had never seen the ocean or a ship, and the inquiry will very naturally arise: What could have put it into his head to go to sea? The idea was suggested to him through the same hurtful influence that had made a thief of Bob Owens, and sent him out into the world to make himself famous as a hunter and Indian fighter. Perhaps you don't believe that so simple a thing as reading a story could affect a boy's whole life? If so, what do you think of the following, which recently appeared in a Rochester paper? We have copied it just as it was printed, with these exceptions: the names of the culprits have been changed, and another substituted for that of the paper in which the story referred to appeared:

"BOYS' PAPERS AND INCENDIARISM.

"The speedy arrest of the 'fire-bugs,' who amused themselves two or three evenings in this city by firing buildings, was highly gratifying to our citizens, many of whom began to feel a little nervous over the operations of the young rascals. We refer to them and their work in this place because they afford another illustration of the pernicious influence upon boyish minds of evil literature. Damon, the elder of the two, is eighteen, and his companion, Volbets, is twelve years old. The former, when captured, had in his pocket two copies of the Boys of the Nation, one of those abominable sheets filled with wild stories of crime and adventure so fascinating to ill-disciplined minds, and he said that he was inspired to his criminal work by reading the story of 'Rory of the Hills; or, the Outlaws of Tipperary.' These boys had already burned down a house on Orchard street and a stave factory, when they were arrested, and they had planed to fire three more Wednesday night, if the detectives had not spoiled their game."

That proves, beyond a doubt, that stories have an effect of some kind, does it not? Tony Richardson had imbibed some very ridiculous ideas through the same channel. The story that made the greatest impression upon him was the "Phantom Cruiser," which he had read and re-read until he knew it almost by heart. It described the adventures and exploits of a boy who, after passing through all sorts of perils, such as shipwrecks, and battles with pirates, was finally turned adrift by a mutinous crew because he would not join his fortunes with theirs, and blown upon an uninhabited island in mid ocean. There he accidentally stumbled upon a bed of pearl oysters, of wonderful richness, and after he had loaded himself down with the valuable gems, he escaped from the island, and set out for home to reward his friends and excite the envy of all his enemies. Tony's thoughts often wondered off to that island when they ought to have been fixed on his books. They wandered off there now, while he was walking toward the depot with his father, and he hoped, and sometimes he believed, that his sailor life would have an ending quite as romantic and glorious.

Unfortunately for Tony, the realities of life had no charm for him. He was constantly building air-castles, and looking for something that never came. He lived in a little world of his own creation, and he was not happy unless he was wandering about that world, and mingling with the impossible beings with which his lively imagination had peopled it.

Having decided to "make a break," Tony went further, and made up his mind that he would do it without any unnecessary delay. He could not go on the river without his father's consent, for almost all the steamboat men who ran out of St. Louis were acquainted with him, and some of them would be sure to tell Mr. Richardson that they had seen him. If he went anywhere, he must go to sea. But just here a difficulty arose: How was he going to make his way to New Orleans, which was the nearest port at which he could ship on an ocean-going vessel? There were three ways open to him. He could ask some steamboat captain to pass him, or he could ship as deck hand, or he could pay his fare in the cabin. There were objections to every one of these plans. If he asked for a pass, he would be sure to get it, but he would have to answer a thousand and one questions. Did his father say he might go to New Orleans? and, if so, why didn't Tony take passage on one of his boats?

"That would never do," soliloquised the boy, who had thought all these things over more than once. "When I leave here I want to disappear as completely as though I had ceased to exist. If father should find out that I had left for New Orleans, it would be just like him to telegraph there and stop me. I can't work my way as deck hand, for I couldn't eat and sleep with such a lot of men as they are. Besides I am not strong enough to handle heavy freight, and some of those sharp-eyed mates would certainly penetrate any disguise I might assume. If I pay my fare in the cabin, I shall run the same risks I would run in asking for a pass. 'Tony,' some inquisitive clerk would say, 'what are you doing this for? Why don't you go down on one of your father's boats, and then you could go for nothing?' I wish I was not so well known. If I only had money enough I would go by rail; but I have only enough to pay for my ticket, and I ought to have a little left to buy an outfit when I reach New Orleans. Dear me! I am always bothered about something."

But, after all, getting to New Orleans was not so great a task as Tony thought it was. Unluckily for him events took a turn which made it very easy for him to accomplish his object, and that, too, without his father's knowledge.

The next day was Saturday, and consequently there was no school; but Tony went to the city as usual—we have said that he spent all his leisure hours on the levee—and taking leave of his father at the depot made his way toward one of the wharf-boats. There he encountered a well-known coal-dealer, Mr. Vandegriff by name, whose countenance lighted up at the sight of him.

"Looking for a job?" said he, as he shook hands with Tony.

"Not to-day, I guess," was the laughing reply.

"But I am in earnest," said Mr. Vandegriff, as he and Tony walked over the gang-plank to the wharf-boat. "Here's the Armada loading for New Orleans, and she is in such a hurry to get off that she can't stop to coal up; so I have had a barge made fast alongside of her, and she is going to take it down the river with her and coal up while she is under way. When she gets all she wants she will turn the barge adrift, and when one of my tugs comes in, I'll send down after it."

"Well?" said Tony, who knew that there was nothing unusual in all this.

"Well, I want somebody to go with her and check the coal and take the money," said Mr. Vandegriff.

"Where's Hardy?" asked Tony. "I thought he attended to all such business for you."

"So he did, but he will never do it again. I gave him his walking-papers last night. He is too imprudent to handle any of my money. The Handy Andy took a barge down the river yesterday to coal up while she was under way, and as she had a small crew, I sent fourteen of my darkies with her to help. The Handy Andy let the barge go about twenty miles below here, and Hardy was alone on that barge with that gang of men for more than four hours. When the tug came up to take her in tow, Hardy said to the darkies: 'Have any of you boys got a life preserver about you?' They told him they hadn't; and Hardy said: 'Then, if the tug blows up before we reach the city, I shall have to use this to buoy me up till I can swim ashore;' and as he spoke, he drew out of his pocket a roll of bills containing about three hundred dollars, and put under his arm."

"What a dunce!" cried the boy.

"Wasn't he!" exclaimed Mr. Vandegriff. "He acted as though he had no sense. The darkies opened their eyes when they saw the money, and one of them said to him: 'Fore de Lawd, boss, if we'd knowed you had all dem greenbacks in your good clothes, you'd never tuk 'em to de city wid you;' and to tell the honest truth, I don't think he ever would. It would have been no trouble at all for them to rob him; divide the money among themselves; jump into the skiff that was towing at the stern of the barge, and take to the woods. The worst of it is, that Hardy, by that one fool act, has made it dangerous for anybody to go down the river on a barge with a gang of men, unless he is prepared to defend himself. Those negroes have always believed, that the boat knew how much coal she wanted, and paid for it before leaving the city; and that the clerk went down with her simply to see that she didn't take more than she had paid for. But now their eyes are opened, and there are some reckless ones among them who will hereafter be on the watch."

"And is that the job you want me to take?" asked Tony. "I think you had better get somebody else."

"Bless your heart," said Mr. Vandegriff, "there's no danger in going down with the Armada. If there was, I shouldn't think of asking you. She has got her full crew; and I shall send only a couple of my best hands with you to make the lines fast, when the tug finds the barge. They have worked for me a long time; and I would rather trust them, than some white men with whom I am acquainted. I know that money is no object to you," he added, seeing that the boy still hesitated, "but I don't want you to do it for nothing. I'll give you ten dollars."

Tony pricked up his ears when he heard this. If he could get a few more such "jobs" at ten dollars a piece, it would not take him many Saturdays to earn money enough to pay for his sailor's outfit, when he reached New Orleans.

"Suppose I should get into a fight with these two darkies, and keep them from robbing me and running off with your money?" said Tony.

"Then you can keep a hundred dollars out of it, and hand me the balance," answered Mr. Vandegriff, who little imagined that the boy would ever be in a situation to take advantage of this permission. "You'll go, won't you? Speak quick, for she will be ready to start in a few minutes; and I must sign a blank receipt for you to fill out, when she has finished coaling. I haven't time to look for anybody else; and I can't go myself."

"Yes," said Tony, "I'll go."

Mr. Vandegriff walked rapidly toward the office, and as he drew the printed form of a receipt from his pocket-book, the Armada's bell rang. He quickly signed the receipt and placed it in a small account-book which he handed over to the boy, who ran out and sprang on board the Armada.

"All ashore, Tony," shouted the captain, from his perch on the hurricane-deck. "We are in a great hurry. Where in the world is that clerk of yours, Vandegriff?"

The coal-dealer replied by pointing out Tony, who shook his account-book at the captain. The latter nodded his head to signify that it was all right, tapped the bell, and when the lines had been cast off and the staging hauled in, the Armada backed out into the stream, taking the coal-barge with her.

As soon as the forecastle had been cleared up, long planks were run down into the barge, and the crew of the steamer, assisted by Mr. Vandegriff's two negroes, began filling up the bunkers, Tony and one of the clerks sitting on the guard and checking the boxes as fast as they were brought on board. It was about nine o'clock when the Armada moved away from the wharf-boat, and it was a little past three in the afternoon when she cast off the lines and left the barge to the mercy of the current, and Tony Richardson sitting on the forward-deck with more than five hundred dollars in his pocket, and a look of excitement on his face. It was a much larger amount of money than he had ever had in his possession before.

"Don't I wish it was mine?" thought Tony, as he straightened out his leg and passed his hand over the huge lump in his pocket. "I wouldn't see St. Louis again for one while, I bet you."

Notwithstanding his great desire to free himself from the restraints of home and school, and to enter upon the glorious career of which he had so often dreamed, Tony had never once thought of stealing money enough to enable him to carry out his plans. The idea had never once suggested itself to him, and if it had, by any chance, came into his mind, it would have frightened him. He would no more have taken a dollar of Mr. Vandegriff's money to keep him in his runaway scheme, than he would have jumped into the river and made way with himself.

"Now, I believe I will eat my lunch," continued Tony, "and I hope by the time it is finished that tug will be along. What Mr. Vandegriff told me about Hardy makes me just a trifle nervous. But didn't he say that these men were all right? He certainly did, and so I have nothing to fear."

Tony squared around on the barge so that he could look up and down the river without turning his body, and while disposing of the good things, the steward of the Armada had put up for him, he kept a good lookout for the tug whose appearance he awaited with no little impatience and anxiety. Now and then he turned his eyes toward the two negroes, who were seated on the after-deck engaged in very earnest conversation, but he paid no particular attention to them until he saw them arise to their feet, as if moved by a common impulse, and start toward the bow, walking along the gunwales of the barge, one on each side. When the barge was loaded to its full capacity, the top of these gunwales was not more than two feet above the water; but as fast as the coal was taken out, the unwieldy craft rose, and now, when the cargo was almost all removed, the gunwales were six or seven feet high. Each end of the barge was covered by a deck about eight feet long, and this was where the crew stood when they were handling the lines.

This movement on the part of the negroes alarmed Tony, who dropped the leg of the chicken he held in his hand, and sprang to his feet. Something told him that it would never do to allow those men to come too close to him.

"Say, you Mose and Sambo," he shouted, "what are you coming here for? Go back where you belong."

"Want to ax you something, sah," replied one of the negroes—the one at whom the boy had looked when he called out the name of "Sambo." He hadn't got either one of the names right, but still the ones he had given them will do to distinguish them by.

"Stop, right where you are," commanded Tony, who, frightened as he was, managed to speak in a very firm and determined tone of voice. "I can hear what you have to say."

"We's comin' right dar whar you is," said the one who had been called Mose.

As he spoke, he drew a long knife from his pocket, and with a quick movement, threw open the blade, which caught with a spring. Tony's terror was greatly increased by the sight of the glittering steel. It was plain that the men intended to rob him of Mr. Vandegriff's money, but what they intended to do with him after they got it, was not so clear to him. The sight of the knife and the expression on the face of the man who carried it, suggested only the most dreadful things. He looked anxiously up the river, but the tug was not in sight. He turned his eyes in the other direction, but the stream was clear as far as he could see. Beyond a point which jutted out from the left hand bank, a huge black cloud of smoke arose in the air, pointing out the position of the Armada, which was flying down the river with all the speed her powerful engines could give her. There was nobody to whom he could look for assistance; he was utterly alone. He had never before been placed in a situation of danger, and when he thought of it afterward, he was astonished at the manner in which he conducted himself, and the promptness with which he acted.

"Does you see dis yere?" said Mose, holding up the knife so that the boy could have a fair view of it. "Don't make no fursin' or yellin' now, kase if you do, it'll be wuss for you!"

"I am in charge of this craft," said Tony, still speaking in a steady voice, "and I tell you again, and for the last time, to go back to the stern of the barge where you belong. If you don't, you'll hear something drop."

The negroes, who were surprised at the boy's bold front, halted and looked across the barge at each other. If Tony had at that moment placed his hand in his hip-pocket, or made any other demonstrations to indicate that he had a pistol about him, it is very probable that the men would have obeyed his orders, and that he would have been saved from something that afterwards happened; but Tony, being the hero of an adventure that really occurred, and not an imaginary character, did not do this. He was too badly frightened to think of it, and he did just what he ought not to have done. Seeing that the men hesitated, he sought to gain an increased advantage over them and frighten them still more by stooping quickly and picking up two lumps of coal. This simple act reassured the negroes, and Mose shouted across to his companion—

"Hi, Jeff! He ain't got nuffin to shoot wid. Frow dem chunks down, boy, or it'll be wuss for you, if you don't pay some heed to what we're tellin' you!"

The men again advanced along the gunwales, and Tony, knowing that if he allowed them to gain a footing on the deck they would quickly overpower him, suddenly drew back his right-hand and sent one of the lumps of coal whizzing through the air, toward the man who carried the knife. He had been catcher for the Monitor ball club for two seasons, and the members were loud in their praises of the way he threw to the second base. He threw that lump of coal with all the force he could put into his arm, and it went as straight for that darkey's head, as a ball from his hands ever went for the hands of the second basemen. It struck that head too, and bounded from it as it would have bounded from a brick wall; but it checked the advance.

Mose flourished his hands over his head, and after trying in vain to keep his balance, he sprang into the air; at the same time turning his body about half-way around and throwing out his arms, so that when he came down, they caught across the gunwale; and there he hung over the water.

Tony was not a little frightened at the effect of his shot. He thought that the man was about to fall into the river; and if he had, he would have stood a fair chance of drowning, before his companion could have gone out in the skiff and picked him up. But even while these thoughts were passing through Tony's mind, he began to wish that the lump of coal had been larger and heavier, and that his arm had been stronger. Mose was not in the least injured by the blow he had received, nor was he cowed by his narrow escape from being knocked overboard. He still held fast to the knife; and the eyes with which he glared at the boy over the gunwale, were fairly ablaze with fury.

"What you doin' dar, Jeff?" he shouted, as he drew himself up, and threw one foot over the side of the barge. "Can't you frow chunks just as well, an' mebbe better'n he kin?"

These words seemed to arouse the other negro, who had halted and been on the point of turning back, when he witnessed his companion's discomfiture. He quickly jumped down into the barge; and Tony, who had been indulging in the hope that he could hold the robbers at bay until the tug hove in sight, lost all heart when he saw him begin to gather up the coal. He looked about the deck and saw at a glance, that if the negroes were going to adopt his own mode of fighting, it would be impossible for him to defend his position. They would have a thousand bushels of coal within their reach, while Tony had not more than a dozen lumps, and some of these were too small to be of any service. Two of the biggest of these lumps, Tony in his desperation put to a good use. With one of them he knocked Jeff flat, just as he was preparing to rise to his feet with an armful of coal; and with the other, he inflicted a severe cut upon the hand of Mose, causing him to howl with rage and pain, and to drop the threatening knife. By these two shots, Tony unconsciously created evidence that was strong enough to send both the rogues to jail as soon as they reached St. Louis.

Jeff was on his feet again in an instant, and clearing his eyes of the blood which trickled into them from an ugly cut in his forehead, he looked all around for Tony; but the latter had disappeared. The moment the last lump of coal left his hand, he sprang across the narrow deck, and seizing a rope that was made fast to the bitts, descended it hand over hand, and dropped into a skiff that was towing alongside the barge. To shove off, pick up the oars and put the skiff in rapid motion was the work of scarcely a moment.

Tony's Escape From The Coal Barge

"Hyar he is, Jeff," shouted Mose, who had at last succeeded in climbing up and seating himself on the gunwale. "Knock him outen dat dar boat, if he don't come back. Bus' de bottom in. Do something mighty lively, kase we's gone niggahs if dat dar tug kotch us hyar!"

Jeff must have thought so too, for his movements were much quicker than they had been before. He climbed out of the barge to the deck as quickly as he could, and opened a hot fire upon Tony, who was pulling swiftly away from the dangerous neighborhood; but although his missiles were thrown with power sufficient to do damage if they had hit anything, they all went wide of the mark, and by the time Jeff's companion could raise himself to his feet and run along the gunwale to the deck, the boy was safely out of range. Mose fired a few chunks at him, but they all fell short, and then it seemed to dawn upon the negroes all at once that their prize had slipped through their fingers; that they had opened the doors of the penitentiary for their reception, and gained nothing by it. It must have been some such thought as this that set them into the wild war-dance that followed. They jumped about the deck, stamped their feet, and whooped and swore at the top of their voices; and Mose shook his knife at Tony, and made furious gestures with the weapon, just to show what he would do if he only possessed the power.

"Well, boys," said Tony, as soon as he could make himself heard, "it looks to me as though you were in for it. I've got this thing in my own hands. You'll stay there until the tug comes, and I'll stay here."

"No, we won't stay hyar, nudder," shouted Mose, in reply. "We kin swim to de shoah."

"You try it, if you dare. If I see one of you take to the water, I'll knock him on the head with an oar."

Tony had not only brought himself safely out of a very dangerous situation, but he had very neatly turned the tables upon those who had intended to rob him, and he felt very jubilant over it. Well, it was something to be proud of, and it was a great pity that he should go deliberately to work and spoil it all by his foolishness.

"I have earned a hundred dollars by this day's work," said Tony, as he wiped the big drops of perspiration from his forehead, "and as soon as I get it safe in my hands, I shall bid a long farewell to St. Louis."

Tony uttered these last words very slowly, as if he were talking about one thing and thinking about another. And so he was. Why should he return to St. Louis at all? he asked himself. Before he left home that morning, something had prompted him to put into his pocket the twenty-five dollars he had saved to buy his sailor's outfit when he reached New Orleans. Why not add to that at least a portion of the amount which Mr. Vandegriff had told him he might retain if he got into a fight with the negroes and came off first best? It is true that he had no clothes except those he carried on his back, and he told himself that he did not want any more. It would be a waste of time to go back to the city after a supply, and he would run the risk of being seen by somebody when he crept out of his father's house with a valise in his hand. There was something about such a proceeding that did not suit Tony. He thought it would make him look too much like a sneak-thief. Besides, he wanted to forget his home entirely, and he could not do it so long as he was wearing any of the clothes his father's money had purchased for him.

"It is now or never," said Tony, to himself "I can go down the river in this skiff to Cairo, purchasing my supplies at farm-houses along the way, and there I shall find some Cincinnati or Pittsburgh boat whose officers will not question me, because they are not acquainted with me. I don't feel just right about taking that money, but I have fairly earned it—I wouldn't go through such a battle again for ten times one hundred dollars—and Mr. Vandegriff said I might have it. Good-by!" he shouted, waving his hand to the negroes, "I'll go and hurry up the tug."

As Tony said this, he pulled toward the Missouri shore, and when he had got out of the current, he turned and rowed up the river. As long as he remained in sight of the barge, he kept his eyes fastened upon the negroes, expecting to see them take to the water and strike out for shore; but as they did nothing of the kind, the boy finally came to the conclusion that they could not swim. At last the current carried them and their floating prison into the bend around which the Armada had disappeared half an hour before, and when the barge was out of sight behind the point, Tony ceased his efforts at the oars and began to look about him.

CHAPTER XII. TONY FINDS A FRIEND.

"The first thing is to find a place in which to hide for awhile," said Tony, to himself. "That tug can't be far away—Mr. Vandegriff said she would come up with the barge by the time the Armada had taken all the coal she wanted—and I must keep out of sight until she takes the barge in tow and goes up the river again. I don't know what folks will think when she goes back to St. Louis without me, and I don't care, either. I don't expect to see any of them again for long years to come. I will send Mr. Vandegriff his money as soon as I reach Cairo, and that will make me square with him. I believe that is the spot I am looking for."

Tony had just discovered what he declared to be "the finest kind of a hiding-place." A huge tree which had been undermined by the water had sunk down into the river, and now lay with its top resting upon the bank and its roots in the stream. These roots formed a mass twelve or fifteen feet square, and between them and the bank there was water enough to float the skiff. Tony pulled up to examine this hiding-place, his movements being accelerated by a sound which just then came to his ears. He exerted himself to the utmost, and to his great relief succeeded in running his skiff behind the roots just as the tug came around the point above. Had he been a few moments later he would certainly have been discovered.

"A miss is as good as a mile," panted Tony, as he stretched himself out under the thwarts and looked at the tug through an opening in the roots. "If she doesn't see me now she never will, for it will be pitch dark when she comes back with the barge. I'd give something to know how Jeff and Mose will explain my disappearance."

Tony kept his eyes fastened upon the tug as she moved swiftly past his place of concealment, and then he turned around, and lying with his face toward the stern of the skiff, watched her until she disappeared around the bend below. It was pitch dark when her lights came into view around the point, and her labored puffing, as she struggled against the current with her heavy burden, became audible to the ears of the runaway. Presently she began to whistle, and she kept it up at irregular intervals.

"That's for me," thought Tony. "Captain, you're only wasting steam. I hear you, but I'll not pay any attention to you."

In about two hours the tug passed Tony's hiding-place the second time, and when the sound of her exhaust began to grow fainter, the boy made his skiff fast to one of the roots and lay down to sleep. He slept, too, and his slumber was not in the least disturbed by regretful dreams of the home he had deserted. It needs contact with the world and a few hard knocks from it to show a discontented boy what home is worth, and Tony had not yet received any of these.

He awoke the next morning at daylight, hungry as a wolf, and impatient to reach Cairo in order that he might send Mr. Vandegriff's money to him. He was in a great hurry to be rid of it, for his experience on the barge had satisfied him that he was not altogether safe so long as it was in his possession. The first thing was to look out for a breakfast, and this he obtained at a farm-house he found about five miles down the river. At this place he also purchased a basket and cooked viands enough to fill it. He did not want to go supperless to bed again if he could help it.

Tony passed two more nights on the river, and by that time he had become heartily disgusted with this mode of travelling. Whenever he became tired of rowing, he drew in his oars and allowed the skiff to float with the current; but during these periods of rest, his progress was very slow, and he was so impatient to reach his journey's end, that he kept the oars in motion almost all the time. He had to be constantly on the alert, for there was a good many boats passing up and down the river, and Tony made it a point to go ashore and hide in the bushes every time one hove in sight. He was afraid that some of the pilots would see and recognise him. He was plied with questions every time he stopped for supplies. Canoeing was not as popular in those days as it has since become, and the people living along the river had not grown accustomed to the sight of solitary travellers making their way down the stream in this primitive fashion. One long-haired, unkempt Missourian, after filling his basket, informed him that he had given him a good looking over, and that if anybody came that way in a day or two looking for a stolen boat, he would be able to give an accurate description of him.

Tony passed the little town of Cape Girardeau bright and early one morning, and shortly after twelve o'clock he looked over the levee on the Illinois side, and obtained his first view of the city of Cairo. He at once directed his course across the river, and running the bow of his skiff high and dry upon the bank, he left it and the basket for the use of the first person who might be in need of them, and set out for the city on foot. In this way he saved himself a good deal of hard work, for it would have taken him two or three hours to row around the point and up the Ohio river to the wharf-boat. As it was, he reached the St. Charles hotel in about half an hour, and having purchased two sheets of note-paper and an envelope from the news-agent, he went into the office and sat down to write a letter to Mr. Vandegriff. Having made up his mind what he wanted to say, his pen moved rapidly, and in twenty minutes the letter was finished. It contained a circumstantial account of the battle on the coal-barge, and wound up with these words:—

"You told me that if those negroes attempted to rob me, and I saved your money for you, I could keep a hundred dollars out of it and hand you the balance. You will see, by reference to the book which I send you with this letter, that I have kept out fifty dollars of it, which I need to pay my expenses to the place where I am going. If you should happen to see my father, I wish you would tell him for me that I have decided to strike out for myself. I inclose you bank check for the rest of the money."

When Tony read the letter over to correct the mistakes he had made in his hurried writing, and came to this part of it, he could not help telling himself that it was rather a heartless way of taking leave of his relations; but he was in a great hurry to get through with the business he had to do before the bank closed, and he had only time to add, "Give my love to my mother." Then a sharp pang shot through his heart. He had never cherished much affection for his father, who, being completely engrossed in his business, scarcely ever spoke to Tony, except to take him to task for something he had done. But his mother; could he leave her in this way?

"It isn't too late yet," thought the runaway, settling back in his chair, and holding the letter off at arms' length. "If I leave town this afternoon by rail, I can be in St. Louis to-morrow morning, and I have half a notion—no, I haven't, either. Father would give me a regular overhauling for going away on that barge without first asking his permission (I wasn't fool enough to do that, for I know he would have said 'no' most emphatically), and what excuse could I make for dodging the tug? No, sir; this thing has gone so far that there's no backing out now."

As the boy said this he drew his hand hastily across his eyes, folded and addressed the letter, and placed it into the account book, which he put into his pocket. It was necessary that the book should go with the letter, so that Mr. Vandegriff might know how many bushels of coal the Armada had taken from the barge.

"I suppose there is a bank in this city?" said he, as he approached the clerk's counter.

"Yes, sir," was the reply; "it is in the block up the levee."

"Where is the express office?"

"Two doors this side of the bank; same block."

After thanking the clerk for this information, Tony hurried away. He had no trouble in finding the bank, and after he had counted out fifty dollars of Mr. Vandegriff's money, he handed the rest, together with the letter, to the cashier, with the request that he would give him a check on St. Louis for it, made payable to the person whose name was on the envelope. The cashier complied, and when Tony had placed the check in the letter, and the letter in the account book, he started back for the express office. The clerk he found there was accommodating enough to supply him with paper and twine, and when he had wrapped the book and its contents up in a neat package, and the clerk had further secured it by sealing it with wax, Tony paid the charges on it and went out.

"That's done," said he, as he crossed the railroad track and bent his steps toward the nearest wharf-boat, "and all I have to do now is, to find a boat that is going down the river."

Just then the afternoon train came in from the north, and the steamer lying alongside the wharf-boat began to whistle. Toward her the boy directed his course; and ten minutes later, he was seated on the boiler-deck with his chair tipped back, his feet on the railing, his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest, and a ticket for Memphis in his pocket. When he reached that city, he took passage on a steamer bound for New Orleans, at which place he arrived early in the morning. He stayed on board the boat long enough to get his breakfast, and then sauntered out to take a look at things along the river. He had never been in the city before, and and if he had come there under different circumstances, he would have been glad to spend a day or two in seeing the sights; but he was too full of his idea of becoming a sailor, to waste any time in that way. The sooner he found a chance to ship, the sooner he would be on the ocean.

A few minutes after he left the steamer, he obtained his first view of a sea-going vessel. Of course, he was disappointed in her; we generally are disappointed, when we see for the first time something of which we have read and heard a great deal, and which we have often longed to examine for ourselves. She was not near as large as he had expected to find her; and there were many things about her, that did not suit Tony's idea of marine architecture. While he stood on the wharf looking at her, and wondering if anybody would order him ashore if he should step aboard to take a closer view of her, he became aware that he was an object of interest to a boy a little older than himself, who was leaning over the rail, staring at Tony as hard as the latter was staring at the vessel. He was a sailor, that was plain enough to be seen; and he might have been a very good-looking one too, if he had taken a little more pains with his personal appearance. He wore a tarpaulin, which was pushed as far back on his head as it could go without falling off; a blue flannel shirt with a wide collar, and trowsers of the same material, which were thrust into a pair of heavy boots. His face was almost copper-colored; and his hands, which were large and bony, were profusely tattooed with India ink. He chewed tobacco, too, and threw away a big quid before addressing Tony.

"Want to ship?" said he.

"That's what I am here for," answered Tony. "Do you allow folks aboard there?"

"O, yes; come on. You don't look like a sailor man," he added, as Tony sprang over the rail and approached him.

"And when you first went to sea, you didn't look any more like a sailor than I do," replied Tony. "I know I am green, but I can learn as well as anybody, can't I?"

"Of course you can," said the boy, backing up against the rail, and running his eyes over Tony's clothes. "But I don't know whether you can stand the racket or not. You don't look to be any too stout."

"I shouldn't care to measure strength with you," said Tony, with a smile, "but still I have got a pretty good muscle, although I have never done a day's manual labor in my life."

"What kind of labor is that?" asked the young sailor.

"I mean that I have never worked with my hands. I have always worked with my head," explained Tony.

"O! Then you are not the stuff that sailors are made of," was the rather disheartening rejoinder. "I didn't think you could stand the racket."

"Is it a hard life?"

"Well, it aint an easy one—not by no means."

"Then why don't you quit it and go at something else?"

"Me? O, I can't. There's nothing else I could do. I have been to sea ever since I was eight years old, and I am now seventeen."

"You ought to be a first-class sailor," said Tony.

"I can hand, reef and steer as well as the rest of them, if that's what you mean," replied the young sailor, rather proudly. "I am an able seaman, and I should think I had ought to be. I made three voyages as second mate of a little coaster."

"Are you an officer of this ship?" inquired Tony.

"This aint a ship, you lubber. She's a brig." "You see," he added, in a little milder tone, "a ship has three masts, and this has only two. No, I am not an officer. I always have to go before the mast on long voyages, such as the one we have just made, but then I like them better than I do short ones. If you have got any book-learning you might get to be an officer in a few years. If you want to ship I know where there is a chance for you."

"Do you?" exclaimed Tony, eagerly. "I am ever so much obliged to you for telling me of it. I do want to ship."

"All right! Come on. There's a berth for somebody aboard my old vessel, the Princeton," said the young sailor, as he and Tony sprang out upon the wharf. "She's the one I was second mate of, you know. I was down there this morning, and the old man told me, if I heard anybody say he wanted to ship, to send him along; but I guess I had better go with you, for you might not be able to find her. If the captain takes you, you will have the same berth I did when I first went to sea."

"What was it?" asked Tony.

"Jemmy Ducks!"

"I don't understand you. Who's Jemmy Ducks?"

"Well, he's a sort of lackey to everybody. He has to keep the cabin in order, help the cook, and haul at the sheets; and he works for kicks instead of ha'pence."

"Kicks!" exclaimed Tony. "Who'll kick me?"

"All hands and the cook. But, bless you, that won't hurt you. It only makes you tough and waterproof. The only way is to work hard; keep still, and say nothing to nobody till your time comes, and then let him have it, good and strong."

"Let who have it?"

"Why, if you tend to your business straight and square you'll get ahead, of course; and then you'll go for the fellow that takes your place."

"Must I kick somebody who has never done me any harm, simply because somebody else has kicked me?" cried Tony.

"If you want to get square, that's the only way you can do it," said his new friend, indifferently.

If Tony had never known before, that it will not do to put implicit faith in everything one reads in books, he knew it now. In his favorite sea-novels there was no mention made of the hardships of a sailor's life, and the cruelties that are practised upon him. His existence was described as one of ease and pleasure. Of course there were wrecks, and fights with pirates and mutinous crews; but the typical sailor, who was always loyal to his captain, rather enjoyed such things as these, for they served to break the monotony of long voyages, and gave him opportunity to show his skill and courage, and win a reward. The constant annoyances and punishments to which a foremast hand is sometimes subjected, were never spoken of; but Tony's new friend referred to them as though they were matters of everyday occurrence. The runaway found that they were, too. He began to believe that he had made a mistake, and while he was informing himself of the fact, his companion led him down to a pier and across to a little schooner that lay on the opposite side. This was the Princeton—an ill-looking craft to bear so dignified a name. She was not more than half as large as the brig to which Tony's new acquaintance belonged, and neither did her deck present the same scene of neatness and order.

"She's bound for Rio, so the old man told me this morning; and on the way, she's going to stop at Havana," said the young sailor, as he and Tony fell in behind a couple of longshoremen, who were rolling a heavy cask down the gang-plank.

"To Rio Janeiro!" exclaimed Tony. "Why, that's in Brazil. This little brig can't go there."

"This is a schooner," replied the young sailor, with some contempt in his tones.

"She has two masts, just like yours."

"She's got two masts, I know, but she ain't like my vessel. Can't you see that she is a fore-and-after, while mine is square rigged?"

This was all Greek to Tony, who could only gaze about the vessel and look bewildered.

"Avast, there!" suddenly cried his companion, seizing him by the arm and pulling him away from an open hatch, into which he would have walked in a moment more. "Don't fall into the hold and break your neck before you sign articles. Say, captain," he added, as he and Tony approached a short, broad-shouldered, red-faced man, who had just ascended the companion-ladder. "You told me this morning, that you wanted a cabin-boy. How do you like the looks of this fellow?"

The captain run his eyes over Tony's face and figure, took one or two pulls at his pipe, and said in a hoarse voice:

"He looks well enough, but can he do anything?"

"Nary thing," replied the young sailor, with refreshing candor. "Can't you see for yourself that his mouth is always gaping like a contribution box for dimes? He don't know a schooner from a brig. You'll have to break him in."

CHAPTER XIII. ON BOARD THE PRINCETON.

The captain gave Tony another good looking over, after which he took his pipe out of his mouth long enough to say "Humph!" Then he put it back again.

"Oh, he can make up the bunks and sweep the cabin and help the doctor, if he don't know the ropes," exclaimed the sailor, who thought he ought to say a good word for Tony, seeing that the latter did not know enough to say it for himself. "You can do that, can't you, shipmate?"

"No, I can't," answered Tony. "I don't know anything about medicine; I can't help the doctor."

The young sailor stared at the captain, and the captain looked hard at Tony. Then they both looked up at the main top-mast, and broke out into loud peals of laughter. After that the skipper also swore a good-natured oath, and asked Tony where he lived.

"In St. Louis," was the reply.

"Why didn't you stay there?"

"Because I didn't want to. I would like to see something of the world, and earn a living at the same time."

"All right; I'll take you."

"At how much a month, captain?" asked the sailor.

"Eight dollars," replied the skipper.

"That's settled," said the sailor. "Have you got any money? You want an outfit—some bedding and clothes that will do to work in."

"Oh, yes, I've got enough for that," replied Tony.

"Then let's go ashore, and I'll show you where to get them. I am my own master to-day, for we shan't begin to break cargo until to-morrow. When do you sail, captain?"

"About four o'clock. Look here, Bradley, I'll leave that greenhorn in your charge, and I want you to bring him back as soon as you can. And you, Abraham," added the skipper, looking at the runaway.

"I am Anthony Richardson," replied the owner of that name. "Tony, for short."

"Well, Tony, when you come back, report to the doctor."

As the boy was about turning away without making any reply, the captain called sharply after him.

"Did you hear me?" he demanded.

"Say 'ay, ay, sir!'" whispered Bradley, giving the runaway a prod in the ribs with his elbow.

Tony gave the required response, and the captain continued:

"Hereafter keep your ears open, and remember your manners."

"You had better bear that in mind," said Bradley, when he and Tony were once more ashore. "Whenever an officer gives you an order, say 'ay, ay, sir!' and don't waste any time about it, either."

"It hurts me to be obliged to show so much respect to such a fellow as that captain is," replied Tony. "I have had better men than he say 'sir' to me."

"That's what I thought," said Bradley; "and them are the fellows that you had ought to have stayed with. But that's all over now. The respect that's paid to a man on board ship don't depend upon the position he holds ashore, and you'll find it out. An able seaman who hasn't got a cent to his name, is worth more in a gale of wind than a landsman with a million dollars in his pocket."

"I suppose that's so," said Tony, with a sigh. "I suppose, too, that I shall be hauled over the coals a good many times before I know just what is required of me. But, Bradley, I can't be of any use to the doctor."

"Yes, you can. The doctor is the cook."

"O!" exclaimed Tony. "I understand. But what makes the old man so cross?"

"He ain't cross; it's only just his way. You won't have any trouble with him to speak of, if you only do your duty up to the handle. But there's one man there that you had better look out for. He's the captain's pet; and pets on shipboard are a nuisance."

"I'll not have anything to do with him, if you will tell me who he is," said Tony.

"You can't help yourself. He's the first mate. Now, I'll tell you, as near as I can, just what you will have to do, and the better you do it, the less trouble you'll get into."

Bradley then went on to describe the duties that were imposed upon himself when he first went to sea, and told of a good many difficulties he had fallen into, which he could have avoided if he had had a friend at the start to point them out to him. Tony listened with all his ears, and treasured everything up in his memory. Bradley told him what he had to expect in pretty plain language, and it was a wonder that Tony's courage did not give way altogether.

"If a sailor has to work so hard, what is there in the life that is so fascinating?" said he. "What is there about it that is pleasant?" he added, as Bradley turned toward him with an inquiring look.

"There's nothing about it that I ever heard of that is pleasant for poor Jack," was the reply. "Some of us like it, in spite of the hard work and harder fare, but the most of the men who are before the mast to-day are looking forward to the time when they can quit the sea and settle down on shore. It's the captains that have the bully times. If you could see the master of a fine ship come out of his cabin of a pleasant afternoon, when the wind is fair and everything draws, and sit down on his quarter-deck and smoke his cigar, you would say that he was the happiest man in the world. Those old fellows are happy, and some of them are rich, too. Let's go in here and see what we can find that is worth looking at."

So saying, Bradley led the way into a cheap clothing store near the levee, in which were to be found all articles of necessity and luxury required by sea-faring men; at least that was what the advertisement in the window said. If Tony had been left to himself he would not have known what to ask for; but Bradley selected the articles for him, and he went about it as though he understood it. Having purchased a good many outfits for himself, he knew almost to a penny what a shirt or a hat was worth, and setting his own price upon it, told the shop-keeper that he could take it or leave it alone—just as he pleased. The consequence was that he got the outfit for much less money than Tony would have been obliged to pay for the same articles. It was not a very extensive one, but Bradley assured him that it would answer until he could earn money enough to add to it. When everything had been paid for, the clothes were put into a canvas-bag, the mattrass was wrapped up in a pair of blankets, and each boy shouldered a bundle and set out to return to the Princeton. Tony's money had not much more than paid his expenses, for he had only fifteen dollars left.

Arriving at the Princeton, Bradley led the way at once into the forecastle, and throwing his bundle into the only empty bunk he found there, laughed heartily at the expression of blank amazement he saw on Tony's face. The latter had read much of the forecastle, and now he saw one for the first time. He could hardly bring himself to believe, that eight men could stow themselves away there. It was very small and dark, and pervaded by an odor that Tony did not like.

"It's mostly tobacco smoke," said Bradley, "and there's a little tar, slush and bilge-water mixed up with it. It's nothing when you get used to it."

"But I don't see how I can stand it," said Tony, heaving a deep sigh as he thought of his pleasant, little room at Kirkwood, with its neat writing-desk, well-filled bookcase and easy chairs. "I have been used to better things at home."

"Yes, I thought so, when I first slapped my peepers onto you," said Bradley, "and there's where you ought to have stayed. But since you are bent on snuffing salt water, it may comfort you to know, that better men than you have lived in just such places as this; and that some of those same men are now masters of our finest ships—East Indiamen, mail steamers and crafts like them. The only way to make a sailor out of a fellow is, to shove him in at the hawse-hole, and let him work his way aft, without help from anybody."

While the young sailor was speaking, he was busy making up Tony's bed in the empty bunk, which was in the lower tier and in the darkest corner of the forecastle. This work took up scarcely two minutes of his time, for all he had to do, was to put the mattrass in and spread the blankets over it.

"There you are," said he, when he had finished his task. "Now when you are ready to turn in, you can use your clothes-bag for a pillow. Is there anything more I can do for you?"

"I don't think of anything," answered Tony. "I am very grateful to you for the service you have rendered me."

"Belay that," said Bradley, hastily. "It's all right. If I was going with you, I could give you a hint now and then that would be of use to you."

"Why can't you go?" exclaimed Tony.

"Because the crew is all shipped—the bedding in these bunks shows that—and I am not yet discharged from the brig. I want my money before I leave her, and I don't know when I shall get it. It depends upon the work there is to be done. Good-by! Who knows but you and I may some day reef a top-sail together in a gale of wind? Now, pull off those shore duds, and put on one of the suits I bought for you. When you have done that, go on deck and report to the doctor, as the old man told you to do."

Bradley, having shaken hands with the runaway, mounted the ladder that led to the deck; while Tony, remembering that his new friend had told him that promptness in obeying orders, was of the utmost importance on ship-board, made all haste to pull off his fine clothes and put on one of his new suits. He was very lonely now that Bradley was gone, and for the first time since leaving St. Louis, he began to be homesick.

"I am really afraid I have made a mistake," thought he, as he packed his clothes carefully away in his bag. "Now, that I have got out into the world, I find that it doesn't look just as I thought it would. Instead of being my own master, as I supposed I should be, it seems that I shall have more people to rule me than I ever had before. I don't much like the idea of being ordered around by such a fellow as that captain; and then there's the cook. What if he should happen to be a darkey?"

Having prepared himself for work, Tony went on deck and made his way toward the cabin, intending to ask the skipper where he should go to find the cook, an idea which, if it had been carried out, would have got him into trouble immediately. But, fortunately for him, he learned what he wanted to know without making any inquiries of the captain. Passing a little house on deck, he looked into it, and saw a negro banging the pots and kettles about. There was a stove in it, and preparations for dinner were going on. Tony's heart sank within him. This was the galley, and beyond a doubt the man before him was the cook.

"Perhaps it would be well to show him at the start that I shall stand no nonsense from him," thought Tony, as he leaned his arms on the window sill, and looked into the galley. "Well, Snowball," said he, "is there anything I can do for you?"

"Who is you?" demanded the negro, plunging a long-handled fork into one of the kettles on the stove.

"I am the cabin boy, and the old man told me to report to you," replied Tony.

The cook turned upon him like a flash when he heard this. "Look heah, chile," he exclaimed, shaking the fork at Tony. "If you use any mo' sich onrespecful language as Snowball to me agin, I chuck you in de ribber. Dar can't no white trash like you talk dat ar way to me. Bring your lazy bones in here, an' take dat knife an' peel dem taters."

Tony again thought of the advice Bradley had given him while they were on their way to the clothing store, and what was more he was wise enough to act upon it. He had been told that he must never answer back, no matter how savagely he might be addressed. If he did that, he would have everybody in the schooner down on him, and then his life would be a hard one indeed. There were a thousand ways in which a sailor could bother a landsman, and the only way in which he could escape being made a victim of their malice, was to do cheerfully and willingly whatever he was told to do.

"I feel very cheerful just now, don't I?" thought Tony, as he walked into the galley, and began the work that had been assigned to him. "What would my father say if he could see me at this moment? I don't think it is quite safe to fool with that cook, for he looks to me like a man who would chuck a fellow over the side in a minute if he got mad at him. Say, doctor," he added, suddenly, knowing that if he wanted to keep up his spirits he must not give away to his gloomy thoughts, "I want to tell you——"

"I is Mr. Sands, I is," interrupted the cook.

All the rest of the crew aroused his ire every hour in the day by calling him some name he did not like, and he was determined that the cabin boy, the only person on board over whom he had any authority, should treat him with due respect.

"All right, Mr. Sands," said Tony, who was rather amused by this assumption of dignity. "I want to tell you that I know nothing whatever about a cabin-boy's duties, and still less about cooking, and I want you to be easy on me till I learn how to do my work."

"Well, den, peel dem taters thinner'n dat," said the negro, pointing at Tony with his long-handled fork. "It's wastin' the schooner's money to cut off so much tater wid dem skins."

The darkey, remembering that his new assistant had addressed him by a title that he particularly despised, was inclined to be sulky at first, but he gradually recovered his good-nature and began to question Tony. The latter enjoyed the conversation, and exerted himself to do his part of it. While he was talking, he was not thinking of the dismal prospect before him.

Not being accustomed to work, Tony soon grew tired enough to sit down, but he could not find the opportunity. No sooner was one thing done than he was ordered to take up something else. Dinner being ready, the cook showed him how to set the table in the cabin, and when the officers were summoned, he had to take his stand behind the captain's chair in readiness to pass dishes, or execute any other orders he might receive. He took a good look at the two mates, whom he now saw for the first time, and although he did not admire the appearance of one of them, he was sure he would have liked the other if he had not been warned against him. There was nothing in the countenance of the first mate to indicate that he was such a brute as he afterwards showed himself to be. He looked more like a gentleman than either of the other officers.

When the captain and his mates had satisfied their appetites, Tony, having been previously instructed, set to work to clear away the table and put the cabin in order. This done, he went into the galley, where he was met by the cook, who, with his mouth too full to speak, waved his hand toward some viands he had placed upon one of the shelves, and nodded his head to Tony, as if inviting him to help himself. The boy looked at the food with rather a doubtful eye. It was a portion of what had been left over from the dinner in the cabin, and it was not dished up with the same care that the cook had expended upon it when he placed it before the captain.

"Have I got to be satisfied with other's leavings?" asked Tony, putting his hands into his pockets and looking at the cook.

"Why, chile, dat's your grub!" exclaimed the darkey.

"Of course it is; and you may see the day when you will be glad to put up with worse!" exclaimed another voice.

Tony faced about and saw the first mate standing in the door. He did not look as amiable now as he did while he was eating his dinner.

"Who are you that comes aboard this vessel and finds fault with the way things are done?" demanded the officer, angrily. "You are afraid to eat after gentlemen, are you? Come out of that and turn to."

Tony had heard orders issued often enough to know that "turn to" meant "go to work." He knew, also, that it was customary, when the work was not very pressing, to allow the crew ample time to eat their dinner and take a smoke after it. He did not want to smoke, but he was hungry, and he did want something to eat.

"I haven't had my dinner yet," said he.

No sooner had the words left his lips, than he recalled Bradley's advice, but it was too late to act upon it. The officer walked into the galley, and seizing the boy by the collar, shook him until he was so dizzy that he could scarcely stand when he was released. Then he dragged him to the door, and giving him a kick to hasten his movements, said in savage tones: "Jump into that yawl at the stern and hook them falls on. Lay aft, the rest of us, and run that boat up," he added, waving his hand to the crew who were sitting around the windlass.

Fortunately for Tony he understood this order. He made his way aft and found the second mate then overhauling the falls. The yawl floated close under the stern, and it was the work of but a few seconds for Tony to drop down into it and hook the blocks fast to ring-bolts in the bow and stern. By this time the crew arrived, and the boat with Tony in it, was hauled up to the davits and made fast there.

"I believe I have made a mistake," thought Tony, as he climbed back to the schooner's deck, after pulling the plug out of the yawl, so that the water that had leaked into her could run out. "This thing of working under the eye of a darkey, and waiting at table, and saying 'sir' to men I wouldn't have looked at a few days ago, isn't what it is cracked up to be. It isn't what I want to go to sea for, either. If the mate is going to make a practice of shaking me up in that way, I shan't have brains enough left to learn the ropes. I wonder if I can eat my dinner now."

He found out when he reached the galley. As he was about to enter the door, the cook held up his hand warningly; but before Tony could ask him what he meant, the first mate appeared and seized him by the collar.

"Didn't I tell you to turn to?" he demanded, tightening his grasp until the boy's neck-tie began to choke him.

"Yes, sir; but I thought I had got through," gasped Tony.

"Well, you haven't got through, and you won't as long as you stay aboard this vessel. We want to get to sea some time this month, and you are to help to clear up the decks. Go for'ard, now, and the second mate will tell you what to do."

Tony found that there was a great deal to be done, but his services did not amount to much. He made an effort to do something, knowing what the consequences would be if he shirked his duty, and he exerted himself to such good purpose that he succeeded in blistering both his hands, and calling down upon his devoted head the hearty maledictions of the men he was trying so hard to assist. Finally, the second mate got out of all patience with him.

"Go and help the doctor wash dishes," said he, pushing the boy toward the galley. "You are only in the way here, and we can get along better without you."

It was hard for Tony to respond with a cheerful "ay, ay, sir!" when he was spoken to as if he were an unruly dog, but he managed to do it, adding that he hoped he would some day know his duty better.

CHAPTER XIV. TONY MAKES ANOTHER BREAK.

"Go way! Go way from dar, boy!" exclaimed the cook, when Tony presented himself before that important personage. "Didn't de fus' mate done tol' you to turn to?"

"He did," replied the boy, "but the other one ordered me to come here and help you."

"Den dat's all right. Dar's the dinner I done save for you; but you'd bes' eat wid one hand, an' do something else wid de other, kase if de fas' mate look in hyar an' see dat you ain't doin' nuffin' but eat, he'll find work for you, suah. Dat's de kind of a man he is!"

Acting upon this advice, Tony ate his dinner by snatches, and for a short half hour he was allowed a little peace; but at the end of that time, the cargo was all aboard, the hatchways were closed, and a tug came alongside to tow the schooner to the Gulf. As she was to pick up two or three other small vessels on the way, the services of all hands, as well as those of the cook and his clumsy subordinates, were called into requisition in making up the tow.

No doubt there were many interesting sights to be seen along the river below New Orleans, but if there were, Tony never knew it. He was kept busy every moment, and between handling wet lines and hauling at the halliards and sheets, his blistered palms fared badly indeed. He ate his supper as he had eaten his dinner, holding his food with one hand and working with the other; and at ten o'clock tumbled into his hard bed, aching in every joint, and almost ready to cry with weariness and disappointment.

"I know I have made a mistake," thought the runaway, who had borne up remarkably well considering all the circumstances. Almost all the boys who leave home as he did, shed bitter tears of repentance before the first night has passed over their heads. "Bradley was right when he said, that I am not the sort of stuff that sailors are made off, for I can't stand it, to work all the time as hard as I can put in. I've made one break, and if I get the chance I'll make another; but this one will be toward home."

Tony was very homesick now; and he awoke the next morning from a fitful slumber into which he had fallen, to find that he had been attacked by another malady, that was almost as bad—sea-sickness. He got up when all hands were called, but the officer on watch, seeing his condition, did not order him to turn to. They were now well out in the Gulf, and the shores of Louisiana were lying low in the horizon. The waves raised by the brisk wind that was blowing, tossed the little schooner about in a way, that made it impossible for Tony to keep his feet without holding fast to something; and now and then a billow, higher than the rest, would dash against her bows, and send the water in a shower all over the deck. This was the life for which Tony had so often longed; but now that he was having a little experience of it, he did not like it. The bounding and plunging of the schooner, were very different from the smooth, gliding motion of a river steamer, and Tony was frightened.

He never forgot the horrors of that day. His sea-sickness grew worse every moment, and finally prostrated Tony, who took to his bunk and stayed there, expecting every moment to be his last. When he found himself, as he supposed, standing face to face with death, his courage gave away altogether, and his hard pillow was wet with the tears that could no longer be restrained. He thought of the innumerable pleasures that had been his while he was at home, of the indulgences that had been so freely granted to him, and he wondered why in the world he had never appreciated them before. The little trials and troubles that fell to his lot, appeared very insignificant now.

"I was a fool," said Tony, bitterly, "and if I ever live to get off this vessel, I'll go as straight home as I can go. Thank goodness, I have money enough to pay my fare from Havana to New Orleans."

As Tony said this, he raised himself to a sitting posture in his bunk; took up the clothes-bag that served him for a pillow, and began throwing out its contents. He was so ill, that he did not notice that the articles were not so neatly packed away as they ought to have been. He had placed the suit he wore, when he first came aboard the schooner, in the top of the bag, so that it would not be wrinkled by the other clothes pressing upon it; but he found it at the bottom. The vest was the last article he brought to light, and to his great surprise and alarm, he found that all the pockets had been turned inside out. Then it flashed upon him, that the money he had been talking about had disappeared. Somebody had robbed him. He held the vest away from him with both hands, gazed at it a moment, and then dropped back upon his back.

Whether he went to sleep or became unconscious, Tony afterward said he didn't know; but he could not remember anything that happened during the next few hours. When he came to himself it was dark, and the forecastle was dimly lighted by a smoky lantern which hung from one of the beams overhead. His sea-sickness was all gone, and he was very hungry. He was pretty strong too, he found, when he came to sit up in his bunk, and he was able to think clearly and to remember the resolution he had made that morning.

"I am not going too stay among such a heartless lot as these sailors are," thought the runaway, as he picked up the various articles of clothing that were scattered about over the blankets, and put them back into his bag. "I have been as sick as a fellow could be all day, and not a soul has been near me to see whether I was getting better or worse. I don't believe there is one among them who would care a cent if I had died. That's not like the folks at home; and right there is where I am going, with as little delay as possible."

Having put all his clothes back into his bag, Tony threw off the blankets and arose to his feet. Then, he found, that he was not as strong as he thought he was; but still he managed to make his way to the deck. The crew, who were gathered about the windlass singing songs and telling stories (it was the second dog-watch, as the hours from six to eight in the evening are called, and they are the only hours of recreation known on shipboard), paid no attention to him as he staggered toward the galley; but Mr. Sands greeted him very cordially.

"I kinder reckoned you'd come around purty soon, an' so I kep' something hot for you," said he. "Come in an' take a bite. You don't look so peart as you did yesterday, when you come to de winder an' called me Snowball."

"I don't feel so smart, either," replied Tony, in a faint voice. "I am obliged to you for thinking of me when everybody else seems to have forgotten me, and I will try to drink a cup of tea as soon as I come back. I am going to see the captain."

"What you want to see de capin' for?" demanded the cook. "Better keep away from him? I tell you. He don't like for to be pestered."

"I am not going to pester him. I want to tell him that I have been robbed. I left fifteen dollars in the pocket of my vest when I put it into my clothes-bag, and somebody has gone through it and stolen the money."

The cook did not seem to be at all surprised by this piece of news. He did not even look up from his work.

"Well, den," said he, "what made you luff your money down dar in de fo'castle. Dat ain't no way. 'Course it would be stole if you don't take care on it."

"It's gone, and I want the captain to get it back for me," said Tony.

"How can he get it back for you? Can you pick out de man who stole it?"

"No, I couldn't do that; but if the captain should find those bills in some man's pocket, wouldn't he know that he was the guilty one?" asked Tony.

"Could you sw'ar to dem bills, if you should see em?"

"Of course not," replied Tony, who began to see what the cook was trying to get at.

"Den how de ole man goin' to get your money back? How you know dat one of de crew took it? Mos' likely somebody slip down into the fo'castle an' stole it afore we luff New Orleans. You bes' drink your tea an' make no furse. You get nuffin but jaw from de ole man; I tell you dat. Nex' time look out."

Here was another disappointment for Tony. He supposed that the captain would interest himself in his case at once, and that it would be no trouble at all for him to discover the thief and restore the lost money; but now he saw that there were difficulties in the way. Suppose the captain was willing to be "pestered" for once, that he searched the crew, and found upon the person of each of them just fifteen dollars in bills? How was Tony going to prove his property? He could not even prove that he had fifteen dollars when he came aboard the schooner, for Bradley, who was the only one who was acquainted with the fact, was miles away at that moment.

"It's gone, and that's all there is about it," said Tony, to himself, as he leaned against the bulkhead, and nibbled a piece of dry toast and drank a decoction of herbs called tea, which the cook poured out for him. "It's gone, and I am penniless as well as friendless. There is only one thing I can do now, and if I live, I am going to do it."

The tea and toast tasted better than Tony thought they would; the fresh gulf breeze blew away the slight headache he had brought out of the forecastle with him, and gave him a little strength, and the boy finally mustered up ambition enough to assist the cook in his work about the galley. While he was thus engaged, the second mate came by, and seeing that Tony had got upon his feet again, he stopped at the door long enough to tell him that he belonged to his (the second mate's) watch, which would go on duty at eight o'clock and remain on until midnight. The crew of the Princeton was so small that the men were obliged to stand watch and watch, all hands being on duty during the daytime.

Tony awoke the next morning to pass through the hardest day he had yet experienced on shipboard. His troubles began at once, for everybody, including Mr. Sands, seemed to have got up cross. While he was engaged in washing down the deck, he was thoroughly drenched by a bucket of water which was thrown into his face by the first-mate, who would not allow him to go below to change his clothing, but ordered him into the galley as soon as the scrubbing was done.

"Get out o' hyar, boy!" exclaimed the cook, when his assistant presented himself before him with dripping garments. "I done wash dis galley dis mornin', an' now you muss it all up again."

"What am I to do?" asked Tony, in some alarm. "The mate won't let me change my clothes and you don't want me here."

"Well, den, go into de cabin an' set de table afore de ole man gets up," commanded Mr. Sands.

Tony stopped long enough to wring some of the water out of the legs of his trowsers (that brought him a blessing from the second-mate, who told him in rather sharp language, that that part of the deck had been swabbed up once), and after drying his hands on one of the cook's towels, he hurried into the cabin. When he was putting up the leaves of the table, he heard the captain moving about in his stateroom and he made all the haste he could, hoping to complete his work before that officer came out; for he noticed with no little uneasiness, that he was leaving a trail behind him wherever he went. It could be plainly seen, too, dingy as the carpet was; and it was the first thing that caught the captain's eye when he opened the door of his stateroom, which he did, before Tony had fairly begun setting the table.

"What's that?" roared the captain, looking first at the carpet and then at Tony.

"The mate threw a bucket of water over me, sir," replied the boy.

"Suppose he did! Haven't you sense enough to go and get on a dry suit?" demanded the captain.

"I wanted too, sir, but he wouldn't let me."