“For once that day, Guy was supremely happy.”

Guy Harris,
THE RUNAWAY.

By HARRY CASTLEMON,

Author of

“Julian Mortimer,” “The Boy Trapper,” “Sportsman’s Club Series,” “The

Gunboat Series,” etc., etc.

ILLUSTRATED.

NEW YORK:

A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER.

Copyrighted 1887, by A. L. Burt.

GUY HARRIS,

THE RUNAWAY.

CHAPTER I.
THE AFFAIR OF THE MATCH-BOX.

“WELL, Guy Harris, I have only one word to say to you. If you think you can play off on me in this way, you are very much mistaken. I will post you among the fellows as a boy who is too mean to pay his honest debts.”

“I don’t care if you do, George Wolcom. I’ll tell the fellows in return that I have no debts hanging over me, and that you are a boy who doesn’t do as he agrees. I wanted a cross-gun; I tried to make one and failed. You said you knew how to handle carpenters’ tools and would make me one. I described to you just what I wanted, and you told me that you could fill the bill, and that the gun, when completed, would be worth half a dollar. What sort of a thing have you given me? Look at this,” continued the speaker, holding out at arm’s length a piece of wood which might have been taken for a cross-gun, although it looked about as much like a ball-club; “I can make a better one myself.”

“Then you don’t intend to pay me?”

“Of course I do, when you bring me such a gun as I told you I wanted.”

“But you won’t pay me for the one I have already made for you?”

“No, sir, I won’t.”

“Very well; but bear in mind that I am a boy who never let’s one do him a mean trick without paying him back in his own coin. I’ll be even with you for swindling me.”

“Oh, Guy! I say. Guy Harris, hold on a minute.”

The two boys, between whom the conversation above recorded took place, stopped when they heard these words, and looking across the street saw Tom Proctor running toward them. One arm was buried to the elbow in his pocket, and under the other he carried a beautiful snow-white dove, which was fluttering its wings and trying to escape from his grasp.

“See here, Guy!” exclaimed Tom as he came up, “I have just been over to your house, where I found my pigeon, which I lost about a week ago. Your mother said it came to your barn, and that you shut it up to keep it for me. Now that was a neighborly act, and I want to repay it. Here’s that box you have so often tried to buy from me.”

As Tom said this he pulled his hand out of his pocket and gave Guy the article in question, which proved to be a brass match-box. It was not a very valuable thing, but it had a revolving top secured by a curiously contrived spring, was stamped all over with figures of wild ducks, deer and rabbits, and was altogether different from anything of the kind that Guy had ever seen before.

For some reason or other he had long shown a desire to obtain possession of this box, but the owner could not be induced to part with it.

Before he could express his thanks for the gift Tom was half-way across the street on his way home.

“This is just the thing I wanted,” said Guy joyfully, as he and George Wolcom resumed their walk. “I shall think of Tom every time I look at this box when I am out on the prairie.”

“When you are out on the prairie?” echoed George. “What do you mean by that?”

“Oh, it is my secret. You may know it some day, but not now. What do you suppose is the reason why I want a cross-gun?”

“Why, to kill birds with.”

“No, sir; I want to practice shooting at a mark. I shall have use for a rifle every hour in the day before I am many months older.”

“You will? Where are you going?”

“You needn’t ask questions, for I sha’n’t answer them,” said Guy, shutting the box with a click, and making a motion to put it into his pocket.

“Wait a second,” exclaimed George suddenly. “I know why Tom Proctor was generous enough to give you that box. It will be of no use to you for the spring is broken.”

“It isn’t either,” replied Guy.

“Yes it is; I saw it. Hand it out here and I will show you.”

Without hesitation Guy passed the box over to his companion, who, after opening and shutting it a few times, and making a pretense of examining the spring, coolly put it into his own pocket. Guy looked at him in great surprise, but George walked on without noticing him.

“Now that’s the biggest piece of impudence I ever witnessed,” said Guy at length. “I’d like to know what you mean by it.”

“Didn’t I tell you that I always get even with a fellow who does me a mean trick?” asked George, in reply. “I’ll keep this box as part payment for the cross-gun I made you.”

“Do you call this thing a cross-gun?” demanded Guy, once more holding up the stick he carried in his hand; “I don’t, and I sha’n’t pay you a cent for it either. Give me that box.”

“Give me that half-dollar you owe me.”

“I don’t owe you any half-dollar. Here, take your old cross-gun and give me my box.”

“It isn’t my gun—it is yours; and you can’t have your box till I get my just dues. You may depend upon that.”

A long and spirited debate followed this reply, and would most likely have ended in blows had the two boys been of equal age and size, for Guy was a spirited fellow, and always ready to stand up for his rights.

George was an overgrown lout of a boy, and plumed himself on being the bully of his school. Guy knew better than to attempt to take the box from him by force, so he followed along after him, talking all the while, and trying to convince him that he was in the wrong, and that he showed anything but a manly spirit in taking so unfair an advantage of a boy so much smaller than himself.

But George, being pig-headed and vindictive, could not be made to look at the matter in that light. He kept tantalizing his companion by turning the box in his hand, praising the beauty of the figures stamped upon it, and asking Guy now and then if he had anything else he could keep his matches in when he reached the prairie.

Presently the two boys arrived in front of the house in which Guy lived—a neat little edifice, with a graveled carriage-way leading upon one side, and trees and shrubbery growing all around it. Guy halted at the gate, and George, believing that if his companion would not pay him for his cross-gun he might be willing to give half a dollar to get possession of the match-box again, stopped also to argue the matter.

While the discussion of the points Guy had raised was going on, the gate leading into the next yard was opened, and a bright, lively-looking fellow, Henry Stewart by name, and one of Guy’s particular friends, came out. He greeted Guy pleasantly, and was about to pass on, when he noticed the look of trouble on his face, and stopped to inquire the reason for it. The matter was explained in few words, and Henry turned and gave the bully a good looking over. Being a great lover of justice, he was indignant at the treatment his crony had received.

“Well,” said George, returning Henry’s gaze with interest; “you have nothing to do with this business, and if you are wise you will keep out of it.”

“I want that box!” said Henry firmly.

“If you get it before I am ready to give it to you,” returned George, “just send me word, will you?”

Before this defiance had fairly left his lips the bully was rolling over and over in the gutter, which was in a very moist condition, owing to the heavy rain that had fallen during the previous night, while his antagonist stood erect on the sidewalk, flushed and excited, but without even a wrinkle in his clean, white wristbands, or a spot of mud on his well-blacked boots. In falling, George dropped the match-box, which Henry caught up and put into his pocket.

This proceeding was witnessed by two women—Henry’s mother and Guy’s step-mother. The latter made no move, but treasured up the scene in her memory to be repeated in a greatly exaggerated form to Mr. Harris when he came home to dinner, while Henry’s mother hurried down the stairs and out to the gate. She called to her son, who promptly answered the summons, and in reply to her anxious inquiries repeated the story of Guy’s troubles.

I do not know what his mother said to him, but I am sure it could not have been anything very harsh, for a moment afterward Henry came gayly down the walk, winked at Guy as he passed, and looked pleasantly toward the discomfited bully, who, having picked himself up from the gutter, was making the best of his way to the other side of the street, holding one hand to his head and the other to his back, both of which had been pretty badly bruised by the hard fall he had received.

“Now, that Hank Stewart is the right sort!” thought Guy, gazing admiringly after the erect, slender figure of his friend as it moved rapidly down the street. “If it hadn’t been for him I should never have seen this box again. I shouldn’t like to lose it, for I shall have use for matches after I become a hunter and trapper, and I shall need something to carry them in. This box is just the thing. If I wasn’t afraid Hank would refuse, I would ask him to go with me, I must have a companion, for of course I don’t want to go riding about over those prairies on my wild mustang all by myself while there are so many hostile Indians about, and Hank is the fellow I’d like to have with me. He knows everything about animals and the woods; he’s the best fisherman in Norwall; he never misses a double shot at ducks or quails; and I never saw a boy that could row or sail a boat with him. Why, it wouldn’t be long before he would be the best hunter and trapper that ever tracked the prairie. I’ll think about it, and perhaps I shall make up my mind to ask him to go with me instead of Bob Walker.”

Thus soliloquizing Guy made his way through the yard to the carriage-house and mounted the stairs leading to the rooms above. There were three of them. The first and largest served in summer as a place of storage for Mr. Harris’ sleighs and buffalo-robes, and in winter for his buggy and family carriage. The second was the room in which the coachman slept, and the third Guy had appropriated to his own use.

Here he had collected a lot of trumpery of all sorts, which he called his “curiosities,” and of which he took the greatest possible care. The members of the family, and those of his young friends who had seen the inside of this room, thought that Guy had shown strange taste in making his selections, for there was not an article in it that was worth saving as a curiosity, and but few that could under any circumstances be of the least use to him.

On a nail opposite the door hung a rubber blanket with a hole in the center, so that it could be worn over one’s shoulders like a cloak; from another was suspended a huge powder-horn; and on a third hung a rusty carving-knife, which one of Guy’s companions had sold to him with the assurance that it was a hunting-knife. Then there was a portion of an old harpoon which Guy said was a spear-head, a pair of well-worn top-boots, an old horse-blanket and a clothes-line with an iron ring fastened to one end of it. This last Guy called a lasso. He spent many an hour in practicing with it, whirling it around his head and trying to throw the running noose over a stake he had planted in the yard.

One corner of the room was occupied by a pile of old iron, to which horseshoes, broken frying-pans and articles of like description were added from time to time. Whenever this pile attained a certain size it would always disappear, no one seemed to know how or when, and Guy would go about for a day or two jingling some coppers in his pocket. When he had handled them and feasted his eyes on them to his satisfaction, he would stow them in an old buckskin purse which he kept in his trunk.

In another corner of the room was a large bag, into which Guy put everything in the shape of rags that he could pick up about the house. When filled it was emptied somehow, and Guy had a few more coppers to be put away in his purse. It was well for our hero that his father and mother did not know what he intended to do with the money he earned in this way.

“Nobody except me sees any sense in all this,” said Guy, as he closed the door behind him, and gazed about the room with a smile of satisfaction. “There isn’t a thing here that will not be of use to me by and by. That rubber blanket will keep me dry when it rains. That powder-horn I shall have filled at St. Joseph or Independence, and, as a rifle requires but little ammunition, it will hold enough to last me during a year’s hunting. That knife will answer my purpose as well as one worth two dollars and a half, for I can sharpen it, and make a sheath for it out of the skin of the first buffalo or antelope I kill. I must sell my iron again before long. How the fellows laugh at me because I am all the while looking out for old horseshoes and such things! But I don’t care. I’ve made many a dime by it, and dimes make dollars. I never neglect a chance to turn a penny, but I haven’t yet saved a quarter of what I need. I found half a dollar the other day by keeping my eyes turned down as I walked along the street, and that was a big lift, I tell you.”

As Guy said this he opened a small tool-chest that stood beside the pile of old iron. In this were stowed away a variety of articles he had picked up at odd times and in different places, and which he thought he might find useful when he reached the prairie.

There was a small bundle of wax-ends, such as shoemakers use. These would come handy when he needed a pair of good leggings, or when his moccasins, saddle, or bridle, got out of repair. There were several iron and bone rings he could use in making lassos or martingales for his horse; three or four pounds of lead for his bullets, and a ladle to melt it in; half a dozen jackknives, some whole and sound, others broken beyond all hope of repair; a multitude of lines, fish-hooks, sinkers and bobbers, which he intended to use on the mountain streams and lakes of which he had read so much; a few steel-traps, all bent and worthless, and also several “figure fours” which he had made so as to have them ready for use when he reached his hunting-grounds. In this receptacle Guy placed his match-box, congratulating himself on having secured another valuable addition to his outfit. This done, he bent his steps toward his house.

When he entered the dining-room he found his father and mother seated at the table, and he knew by the expression on their faces, as well as by the words that fell upon his ear, that there was a storm brewing. His mother had been relating the particulars of the encounter between Henry Stewart and George Wolcom, and repeating the discussion between Guy and the bully that led to it, all of which she had seen and overheard from her chamber window, and our hero came in just in time to hear her declare:

“I never in my life saw boys behave so disgracefully. Mrs. Stewart ran out of the house and tried to put a stop to the disturbance, but they paid not the least attention to her.”

“Guy,” said Mrs. Harris, “where is that article, whatever it is, that has been the cause of all this trouble?”

“I have put it away,” was the reply.

“Go and get it immediately.”

Guy retraced his steps to the carriage-house, and taking out the match-box, carried it to his father, who looked at it contemptuously.

“This is a pretty thing to raise a fight about, isn’t it?” he exclaimed. “Take it and throw it away.”

“But, father,” began Guy.

“Do you hear me?” demanded Mr. Harris fiercely. “Throw it away.”

Guy knew better than to hesitate longer. Mr. Harris was a stern man, and in his efforts to “bring his boy up properly,” sometimes acted more like a tyrant than a father.

Taking the box, Guy walked out of the door and disappeared behind the carriage-house.

“I will throw it away,” said he to himself, “but I’ll be careful to throw it where I can find it again. I never heard of such injustice. I wasn’t in any way to blame for the trouble, for I didn’t ask Hank to pitch into George Wolcom and get my box for me; and neither did Mrs. Stewart run out and try to put a stop to the fight. It was all over before she showed herself. But that’s just the way with all step-mothers, I have heard, and I know it is so with mine. She runs to father with every little thing I do, and seems to delight in having me hauled over the coals. It isn’t so with Ned. He can do as he pleases, but I must walk straight, or suffer for it. I sha’n’t stand it much longer, and that’s all about it. Stay there till I want you again.”

Guy threw the box into a cluster of currant bushes at the back of the garden, and after noting the spot where it fell, went slowly back to the dining-room and sat down to his dinner.

CHAPTER II.
SOME SCRAPS OF GUY’S HISTORY.

I MUST say before I go further, that Guy Harris is not an imaginary character. He has an existence as surely as you have, boy reader. He is to-day an active professional man, and he has consented to have the story of his boyhood written in the hope that it may serve as a warning, should it chance to fall into the hands of any discontented young fellow who is tempted to do as he did.

Guy lived in the city of Norwall—that name will do as well as any other—on the shore of one of the great lakes. When he was a few months old his mother died, and a year afterward his father married again. Of course Guy was too young to remember his lost parent, and until he was fourteen years old he knew nothing of this little episode in the family history. Mr. and Mrs. Harris never enlightened him, because they feared that something unpleasant might result from it. Having often heard the boy express his opinion of step-mothers in the most emphatic language, and declare that he would not live a day under his father’s roof with a stranger to rule over him, they thought it best to allow him to remain in ignorance of the real facts of the case. And Guy never suspected anything. It is true that he was sometimes sadly puzzled to know how it happened that he had three grandfathers, while all the boys of his acquaintance had only two; but when he spoke of it to his mother, she always had the headache too badly to talk about that or anything else.

Guy often told himself that his mother was not like other boys’ mothers. He cherished an unbounded affection for her, and stood ready to show it by every means in his power; but there was something about her that kept him at a distance. There was not that familiarity between him and his mother that he saw between other boys and their mothers. There was a coolness in her demeanor toward him that she did not even exhibit toward strangers. There was a wonderful difference, too, in her treatment of him and his half-brother, Ned, who was at this time about nine years of age. Ned came and went as he pleased. The front gate was no barrier to him, and he always had a dime or two in his pocket to spend for peanuts and chocolate creams. If he wanted to go over to a neighbor’s for an hour’s visit, or wished to spend an afternoon skating on the pond, he applied to his mother, who seldom refused him permission. If Guy desired the same privilege, he was told to consult with his father, who generally said: “No, sir; you’ll meet with bad company there;” or, “You’ll break through and be drowned;” or, if he granted the request, he would do it after so much hesitation, and with so great reluctance that it made an unpleasant impression on Guy’s mind, and marred his day’s sport.

At last a few scraps of the family history, which his parents had been so careful to keep from him, came to Guy’s knowledge. Through one of the neighborhood gossips he learned, to his intense amazement, that Mr. Harris had been twice married; that his first wife had lain for almost fourteen years in her grave in a distant State; and that the woman who sat at the head of the table, who so closely watched all his movements during his father’s absence, and whom he called mother, was not his mother after all. Then a good many things which hitherto he had not been able to understand became perfectly clear to him. He knew now where his three grandfathers came from, and could easily account for the partiality shown his half-brother, Ned. But he wanted proof, and to obtain it laid the matter before his Aunt Lucy, who, after telling him how sorry she was that he had found it out, reluctantly confirmed the story.

Guy felt as if he were utterly alone in the world after this; but when he had thought about it a while, he took a sensible view of the case. He loved his father’s wife, and he did not allow the facts with which he had just been made acquainted to make any change in his feelings or demeanor toward her. Indeed, he was more attentive to her than before; he tried to anticipate and gratify her desires as far as lay in his power, and in every way did his best to please her; but the result was most discouraging. With all his efforts he could not win one approving word or smile. His mother was colder and more distant than ever, and from that time Guy’s home was somehow made very uncomfortable for him.

Mr. and Mrs. Harris were good people, as the world goes. They were prominent members of the church, and held high positions in society. Abroad they were as agreeable and pleasant as people could be, but the atmosphere of home grew dark the moment they crossed the threshold. Mr. Harris, especially, was a perfect thunder-cloud; his very presence had a depressing effect upon the family circle. When he came home from his place of business at night, he generally had something to say in the way of greeting to his wife and Ned, but Guy was seldom noticed, unless he had been doing something wrong, and then more words were devoted to him than he cared to listen to.

When supper was over, Mr. Harris sat down to his paper, and until ten o’clock never looked up or spoke. His wife sewed, read novels, or played backgammon with Ned, and Guy was left to himself. His father never talked to him about his sports and pastimes, his boyish trials, disappointments, hopes and aspirations, as other fathers talk to their sons. He never allowed him to go outside the gate—except upon very rare occasions—unless he was going to school or was sent on an errand. He never gave him a cent to spend for himself, except on Christmas, when, in addition to making him numerous presents (which Guy was so repeatedly and emphatically enjoined to take care of that he almost hated them as well as the giver), he opened his heart and presented him with a quarter of a dollar. He wasn’t going to ruin his boy by giving him money, he said.

Up to the time that he was fourteen years old Guy had the making of a man in him. He was smart, honest, truthful, generous to a fault, and attentive to his books, it being his father’s desire, as well as his own, that he should enter college. I wish I could take him through my story with all these good traits about him; but candor compels me to say that at the time he was presented to the reader he was a different sort of boy altogether. In the neighborhood in which he lived he bore an excellent reputation. People called him a good boy, referred to the fact that he was never seen prowling about the streets after dark, and spoke of the promptness with which he obeyed the commands of his parents. But the truth was that at heart Guy was no better than any other boy. He stayed at home of evenings, not because it was a pleasant place and he loved to be there, but for the reason that he was not allowed to go out; and he obeyed his parents’ orders the moment they were issued, because he knew that he would be whipped if he did not. All his generous impulses had been crushed out of him by the stern policy pursued by his father, who believed in ruling by the rod, instead of by love. From being a frank, honorable boy, above doing a mean action and abhorring a lie, Guy became sneaking and sly—so sly that it was almost an impossibility to fasten the guilt of any wrong-doing upon him. He learned to despise his home, with its thunder-clouds and incessant reprimands and fault-findings, and longed to get off by himself somewhere—anywhere, so that he could enjoy a few minutes’ peace. He had hit upon a plan to rid himself of his troubles, and now we will tell what it was, and how it resulted.

CHAPTER III.
GUY’S HOME AND HENRY’S.

AS CAN well be imagined, Guy felt very sore after the affair of the match-box. His whole soul rebelled against the petty tyranny and injustice of his father, and while he was at school that afternoon his mind dwelt so much upon it that he stood “zero” in every one of his lessons, and failed so miserably in his philosophy that he narrowly escaped the disgrace—and it was considered a lasting disgrace by the boys belonging to the Brown Grammar School—of being kept after hours to commit his task.

When four o’clock came Guy drew a long breath of relief, and chucked his books under his desk so spitefully that he made a great deal of racket, which caused the teacher to look sharply in his direction. Guy, knowing that he was suspected, turned and stared at Tom Proctor, who sat next behind him, as if to say, “There is the guilty one,” and Tom gave the accusation a flat denial by turning about and looking at the youth who sat next behind him. This is a way that some school-boys have of doing business, as you know. In a case like this a scholar can “carry tales” and accuse a school-mate of breaking the rules without saying a word.

When school was dismissed Guy was the first one out of the gate. Some of the Delta Club were going over to their grounds to engage in a practice game of ball, and as Guy belonged to the first nine, of course he was expected to accompany them; but he, knowing that he must first go home and ask permission of his mother, which would most likely be refused, replied that he had something else to do, and hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him. Arriving at his father’s gate, he slackened his pace and walked leisurely through the yard into the garden. He went straight to the currant bush, behind which he had thrown his match-box, and finding his treasure safe, put it into his pocket and returned to the carriage-house. When he thought he could do so without being seen by any one, he bounded up the stairs, entered his curiosity shop, and noiselessly closing the door, locked himself in.

“Now then,” he exclaimed with a triumphant air, “if mother and Ned will only let me alone for about an hour, I can enjoy myself. I haven’t seen a minute’s peace since twelve o’clock. Father thought he was very sharp when he ordered me to throw this box away,” he added, as he opened the small tool-chest and deposited his recovered property therein, “but I am a little sharper than he is. Whew! wouldn’t I get my jacket dusted though, if he knew what I have done?”

As Guy said this, he unlocked a small compartment in the tool-chest and took out a book bound in brown and gold, and bearing the title, “The Boy Trappers of the Platte.” Closing the chest, and seating himself upon it, he opened the book, and for two hours reveled in bear fights, adventures with the Indians, and hunting and trapping scenes without number. For once that day he was supremely happy. He forgot all his troubles, and lived only among the imaginary characters and amid the imaginary scenes presented to him on the printed page. Two or three times while he was thus engaged, Ned came up, tried the door, and called to him; but Guy only stopped long enough to flourish his fist in the air with a significant gesture, as if he would have been glad of a chance to use it on Ned’s head, and then went on with his reading, until the creaking of the gate, and the sound of wheels on the carriage-way, told him that his father had arrived.

“Dear me, how provoking!” exclaimed Guy, jumping quickly to his feet and putting the book away in the tool-chest, “Just as I get to the most interesting part of a chapter, I must be interrupted. I wish father had stayed away ten minutes longer; or, better than that, I wish he was like other fathers, and would let me take this book into the house and read it openly and aboveboard, as I should like to do. He is so opposed to works of fiction that I wonder he lets Ned read Robinson Crusoe. He talks of going to the White Mountains this summer, and taking mother and Ned with him, and leaving me at home to punish me for going in swimming the other day. Don’t I hope he will do it, though? It wouldn’t be punishment at all, if he only knew it. I’d have more fun than I have seen for ten years. I’d read every book in Henry Stewart’s library.”

Having closed and locked the tool-chest, Guy went cautiously to the window, and when he saw his father get out of his buggy and enter the house, he slipped quietly out of the room and down the stairs. He passed an uncomfortable quarter of an hour before the supper-bell rang, strolling about the yard with his hands in his pockets, and scarcely knowing what to do with himself. It seemed so hard to come back to earth again after living for two hours among the exciting scenes which his favorite author had created for his amusement.

Supper over, there was another hour to be passed in some way before the gas was lighted. His father talked politics with the next-door neighbor; Ned played graces with his mother; and wide-awake, restless Guy was as usual left to himself. No one took the least notice of him. He must have something to do—it wasn’t in him to remain long inactive—and as there was a strong breeze blowing, he thought he would raise his kite. He could not go into the street for that purpose, so he climbed to the top of the barn; but his father quickly discovered him, and ordered him down.

Then he tried it in the garden, but the trees were thick, and the kite’s tail was always in the way. It caught in a cherry tree, and as Guy was about to mount among the branches to disengage it, his father again interfered. He wasn’t going to have his fine ox-hearts broken down for the sake of all the kites in the world.

“For once that day, Guy was supremely happy.”

By the aid of the step-ladder Guy finally released the kite, and made one more attempt to raise it, this time by running along the carriage-way; but by an unlucky step he left the point of his boot on one of the flower-beds, and that set his mother’s tongue in motion. His father heard it, and turned sharply upon him.

“Guy,” said he, “what in the world is the matter with you to-night? Put that kite away, and go into the house.”

Guy’s under lip dropped down, and with mutterings not loud, but deep, he prepared to obey.

His father’s quick eye noticed the drooping lip, and his quick ear caught the muttering.

“Come here, sir,” said he angrily.

Guy approached, and his father, seizing his arm with a grip that brought tears to his eyes, shook him until every tooth in his head rattled.

“What do you mean by going into the sulks when I tell you to do anything?” he demanded. “Straighten out that face! Now, then,” he added after a moment’s pause, during which Guy choked back his tears and assumed as pleasant an expression as could be expected of a boy whose arm was being squeezed by a strong man until it was black and blue, “go into the house and stay there.”

The father could compel obedience, but his son was too much like himself to be easily conquered. He could control his actions as long as he was in sight, but he could not control his thoughts. Guy’s heart was filled with hate.

“This is a fair sample of the manner in which I am treated every day of my life,” he muttered under his breath as he stowed his kite away in its accustomed place. “They’ll think of it and be sorry some day, for if I once get away from here I’ll never come back. I never want to see any of them again. I can’t please them, and there is no use trying. Nobody cares for me, and the sooner I am out of the way the better.”

When Guy entered the sitting-room he found his mother there reading a highly-seasoned novel by a popular sensational writer, and Ned deeply interested in “Robinson Crusoe.” The piano was open and Guy walked to it and sat down. There was a piece of music upon it, entitled “’Tis Home Where’er the Heart Is.” As Guy ran his fingers over the keys he thought of all that had happened that day, and told himself that if those words were true his home was a long way from Norwall.

“That will do, Guy,” said his mother suddenly. “My head aches, and it is not necessary that you should practice now.”

Guy began to get desperate. He couldn’t sit around all the evening and do nothing—no healthy boy could. He went to the library, and knowing that he was doing something that would certainly prove the occasion of more fault-finding, took a book from some snug corner in which he had hidden it, and sat down to read.

In a few minutes his father came in. He picked up his paper and was about to seat himself in his easy chair when he caught sight of Guy and stopped. The latter did not look up, but watched his father out of the corner of his eye.

“Guy,” said Mr. Harris sharply.

“Sir!” said the boy.

“What have you there?”

“‘Cecil,’” was the reply.

“Cecil who? Cecil what?”

“That’s the name of the book.”

“Let me see it.”

Mr. Harris took the volume and ran his eye over the pages, while a look of contempt settled on his face. Had he taken the trouble to read the book he would have found that it was the history of a youth who was turned out into the world at an early age by the death of his parents; that it described the trials and temptations that fell to his lot, and told how he made a man of himself at last. But Mr. Harris, like many others, condemned without knowing what he was condemning.

Three words on the title-page told him all he cared to know about the work. It was a “Book for Boys.” All books for boys were works of fiction, and he never intended that Guy should read a work of fiction if he could prevent it.

“Where did you get this?” demanded Mr. Harris.

“I borrowed it of Henry Stewart. His father bought it for him last week, and he is a member of your church, too,” answered Guy, seizing the opportunity to put in a home-thrust.

“I don’t care if he is. I have no objection to your associating with Henry, for he is a good boy in some respects, although it is the greatest wonder in the world to me that he hasn’t been ruined by his father’s ignorance beyond all hope of redemption. I am surprised at Brother Stewart—I am really. What’s that sticking out of your pocket?”

“It is a copy of the New York Magazine.”

“Let me see it.”

Guy handed out the paper, and as Mr. Harris slowly unfolded it the sneer once more settled on his face. He handled the sheet with the tips of his fingers, as if he feared that the touch might contaminate him.

“‘Nick Whiffles!’” said he, reading the title of one of the stories. “Who is he? Who owns him?”

“I borrowed the paper of Henry Stewart. His father has taken it for years, and says he couldn’t do without it.”

“I don’t care what his father says. His opinions have no weight with me. Who’s Nick Whiffles?”

“He was a famous Indian-fighter and guide.”

“Oh, he was, was he? Well, you just guide him out of this house, and never bring him or anybody like him here again. I won’t have such trash under my roof. Guy, it does seem as if you were determined to ruin yourself. Don’t you know that the reading of such tales as this unfits you for anything like work? Don’t you know that after a while nothing but this light reading will satisfy you?”

“No, sir, I don’t,” replied Guy boldly. “Henry Stewart told me that he didn’t care a snap for history until he had read the ‘Black Knight.’ Through that story he became interested in the manners and customs of the people who lived during the Middle Ages, and he wanted to know more about them. He read everything on the subject that he could get his hands on, and Professor Johnson says he is better posted in history than half the teachers in the public schools.”

“And all through the reading of a novel?” exclaimed Mr. Harris. “I know better. There’s not a word of truth in it. This bosh has a very different effect upon you at any rate. You waste all your spare time upon it, and the consequence is, you are getting to be a worthless, disobedient boy.”

“But, father, I must have something to read.”

“Don’t I know that; and don’t I get you a new book every Christmas? Where’s that volume entitled ‘Thoughts on Death; or, Lectures for Young Men,’ that I bought for you three weeks ago? You haven’t looked into it, I’ll warrant.”

Mr. Harris was wrong there. Guy had looked into it, and he had tried to read it, but it was written in such language that he could not understand it. At the time his father gave him this book he had presented Ned with a box of fine water-colors—the very thing Guy had long wished for. Why had not Mr. Harris consulted the tastes and wishes of the elder, as well as those of the younger son?

“Return that book and paper to their owner at once, and don’t bring anything like them into this house again,” repeated Mr. Harris.

“May I visit with Henry a little while?” asked the boy.

“Well—I—y-es. You may stay there a quarter of an hour.”

“It’s a wonder,” thought Guy, as he picked up his cap and started for Mr. Stewart’s house. “Why didn’t he tell me that home is the place for me after dark? That’s the reply he generally makes.”

As Guy climbed over the fence that ran between his father’s yard and Mr. Stewart’s he heard a great noise and hubbub. He listened and found that the sounds came from the house he was about to visit.

As he drew nearer he saw that one of the window curtains was raised, and that he could obtain a view of all that was going on in Mr. Stewart’s back parlor. The occupants were engaged in a game of blind-man’s buff. Mr. Stewart, his eyes covered with a handkerchief, and his hands spread out before him, was advancing cautiously toward one side of the room, evidently searching for Henry, who had squeezed himself into one corner, with a chair in front of him. The other children were probably trying to divert their father’s attention, for two of them were clinging to his coat-tails, while the eldest daughter would now and then go up and pull his whiskers or pat him on the back. Mrs. Stewart sat in a remote corner sewing and smiling pleasantly, seemingly unmindful of the deafening racket raised by the players.

“Humph!” said Guy, “it will be of no use for me to ask Henry to go with me. I wouldn’t go myself if I had a home like this. How would my father look with a handkerchief over his eyes, and Ned and me hanging to his coat-tails? And wouldn’t mother have an awful headache though, if this was going on in her house?”

It certainly was a pleasant scene that Guy looked in upon, and he stood at the window watching the players until he began to be ashamed of himself. Then he mounted the steps and knocked at the door.

Mrs. Stewart admitted him, and he entered the parlor just in time to see Henry’s father pounce upon him and hold him fast.

“Aha! I’ve caught you, sir,” said Mr. Stewart, with a laugh that did one’s heart good, “and now we had better stop, for we are arousing the neighbors. Here’s Guy come in to see what’s the matter.”

“No, sir,” replied the visitor, “I just came over to return a book and paper I borrowed of Henry.”

“Why, you haven’t read them, have you?” asked his friend. “I gave them to you only yesterday.”

“I know it; but father told me to bring them back. He won’t permit me to read them. He says they are nothing but trash.”

Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at his father, who in turn looked inquiringly at Guy.

“Does your father ever read the New York Magazine?” asked Mr. Stewart.

“No, sir!” replied Guy emphatically.

“Ah! that accounts for it. If he would take the trouble to look at it, he might change his opinion of it. A paper that numbers ministers among its contributors, that advocates temperance and reform, and shows up the follies of the day in its stories, can’t be a very dangerous thing to put into the hands of the youth of the land. Here is an article by a minister in the paper we have been reading to-night. Take it over and show it to your father.”

“I wouldn’t dare do it, sir,” returned Guy blushing. “He told me to guide Nick Whiffles out of the house, and never guide him in again.”

“Oh, that’s where the shoe pinches, is it? Well, I think Nick very good in his place. Indeed, I confess to a great liking for the old fellow.”

“He’s just splendid,” said Henry.

“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, you know,” continued Mr. Stewart. “After you and Henry have sat for six long hours on your hard desk at school, a game of ball or a sail on the lake does you a world of good. If you should live a week or two on corn bread and bacon, or pork and beans, you would be glad to have a piece of pie or cake, wouldn’t you? The mind requires recreation and change as much as the body, and where can you find it if it be not in a good story by some sprightly author? Of course the thing can be carried to excess, and so can eating. One can read himself into an unhealthy frame of mind as easily as he can gorge himself into dyspepsia.”

When Mr. Stewart had said this much he stopped and took up his paper. It wasn’t for him to criticise or find fault with the rules his neighbor had made regarding his son’s reading.

Guy, having an object to accomplish before he returned home, and knowing that time was precious, declined the chair offered him, and after taking leave of the family, intimated to Henry that he had something particular to say to him. The latter accompanied him to the fence, and Guy leaned upon it, utterly at a loss how to broach the subject uppermost in his mind.

CHAPTER IV.
THE READING LESSON.

GUY DID not know how to begin the conversation. He wanted to approach the subject gradually, for he believed that some little strategy would be necessary in order to bring Henry to his way of thinking, but somehow the words he wanted would not come, and seeing that his friend was getting impatient, he plunged into it blindly:

“How would you like to be a hunter and trapper?” he asked.

“I don’t know anything about trapping, but I like hunting as well as any boy in the world,” said Henry.

“I mean how would you like to make a business of it, and spend your life in the woods or on the prairie?”

“I don’t know, but I am going to try it a little while this fall. Father owns some land in Michigan that he has never seen, and about the first of September he and I are going up to take a look at it. His agent writes that game is abundant, and I am going to buy a rifle before we start.”

“Well, if I had a chance like that I’d never come back again. I’d stay in the woods.”

“Oh, my father wouldn’t let me.”

“I don’t suppose he would, but you could do as I intend to do—run away.”

Henry straightened up and looked at his companion without speaking.

“Oh, I mean it,” said Guy with a decided nod of his head. “I am tired of staying here. I am weary of this continual scolding and fault-finding, and am going to get away where I can take a little comfort. I have always wanted to be a hunter. I have got my plans all laid, and I want some good fellow for a companion, for I should be lonely if I were to go by myself. I’d rather have you than anybody else, and if you will go we’ll take the ‘Boy Trappers’ with us. That book will tell us just what we will have to do. It tells how to build wigwams, how to trap beaver and otter, and catch fish through the ice; how to make moccasins, leggings and hunting-shirts; how to catch wild horses; how to preserve the skins of wild animals—in fact, everything we want to know we will find there.”

“Where do you want to go?” asked Henry.

“Out to the Rocky Mountains.”

“What will you do when you get there?”

“We’ll hunt and trap during the spring and fall, and when summer comes we’ll jump on our horses, take our furs to the trading-posts and sell them.”

“And what will we do during the winter?”

“We’ll have a nice little cabin in some pleasant valley among the mountains, such as the boy trapper had, and we’ll pass the time in curing our furs and fighting the Indians. That is what they did, you know. I tell you, Hank,” said Guy with great enthusiasm, “it wouldn’t be long before we would become as famous as either Kit Carson or Captain Bridges! What’s the matter with you?” he added, looking suspiciously at his friend, who seemed on the point of strangling.

Henry, who had listened in utter amazement to what Guy had to say, could control himself no longer. Clinging to the fence with both hands he threw back his head and broke out into a shout of laughter that was heard full a block away.

“I don’t see anything so funny about it,” said Guy indignantly. “I am in earnest.”

“Oh, dear!” said Henry, after he had laughed until his jaws and sides ached. “I know this will be the death of me. Why, Guy, what in the world put such a ridiculous notion into your head?”

“I don’t call it a ridiculous notion. If the boy trappers could live that way I don’t see why we couldn’t. I guess we are as smart and as brave as they were.”

This set Henry to going again. It was some minutes before he could speak.

“Do you believe that book is true?” he asked.

“Of course I do.”

“Why, Guy, I didn’t think you were such a dunce. The idea that three boys, the oldest of them only seventeen years of age, could live as they did, surrounded by savage beasts and hostile Indians, and get into such scrapes as they did, and come out without a scratch. Common sense ought to teach you better than that. Those boy trappers never had an existence except in the brain of the man who wrote the book.”

“Then why did he write it?” demanded Guy.

“What makes you play base-ball and cricket, and why do you go fishing and boat-riding every chance you get? Such sports are not necessary to your existence—you could live without them—but they serve to fill up the time when you don’t feel like doing anything else. That’s one reason why books like ‘Boy Trappers’ are written—to keep you in the house and help you while away a leisure hour that you might otherwise spend in the streets with bad boys. Oh, Guy! Guy!”

“Now, don’t you begin your laughing again,” said his companion.

At this moment a door opened and the boys heard Mr. Harris calling.

“Guy!” he shouted.

“Sir!” was the response.

“Come in now.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Henry.

“Oh, we have a reading lesson every night, and I have to help,” replied Guy with great disgust. “We’re reading Bancroft’s History of the United States, and I despise it. I can’t understand half of it, but father makes me read aloud twenty minutes every night, and scolds because I can’t tell him the meaning of all the hard words. Now, Hank, are you going with me or not?”

“Of course I am not. I’ll not give up such a home, and such a father and mother as I’ve got for the sake of living in a wilderness all my life.”

“Well, you won’t repeat what I have said to you, will you?”

“No, indeed; but you must promise me that you will give up that idea.”

“All right, I will.”

“You’ll never speak of running away from home again, or even think of it?”

“No, I never will—honor bright.”

“Then you may rely upon me to keep your secret. Now I have a plan to propose: Let’s go fishing on the pier to-morrow—it’s Saturday, you know—and talk the matter over. I can convince you in five minutes that you had better stay at home. Come over early—say five o’clock.”

“I’ll see what father says about it; good-night. I might have known better than to ask him to go with me,” added Guy mentally, as he walked slowly toward the house. “If I had as pleasant a home as he has I wouldn’t go either. Why don’t my father and mother take some interest in me, and talk to me as Mr. and Mrs. Stewart talk to Hank? I haven’t changed my mind, and I never shall. I promised that I would never again think of running away from home, but I did it just to keep Hank’s mouth shut. As long as he thinks I have given up the idea, he won’t say a word to anybody. He’ll be astonished some fine morning, for I shall leave here as soon as I can scrape the money together. I wish I could find a pocket-book with a hundred dollars in it. I’d never return it to the owner, even if I found him. I must try Bob Walker now.”

When Guy entered the sitting-room he found his father and mother waiting for him. The former handed him an open volume of Bancroft’s History and Guy, seating himself, began reading the author’s elaborate description of the passage of the Stamp Act and the manner in which it was received by the colonists—a subject in which he was not in the least interested. His father often took him to task for his bad reading and pronunciation, but he managed to get through with the required twenty minutes at last, and with a great feeling of relief handed the book to his mother and moved his chair into one corner of the room. In forty minutes more the lesson was ended and Mr. Harris turned to question Guy on what had just been read. To his surprise and indignation he saw him sitting with his feet stretched out before him, his chin resting on his breast and his eyes closed. The boy was fast asleep.

“Guy!” Mr. Harris almost shouted.

“Sir!” replied his son, starting up quickly and rubbing his eyes.

“This is the way you give attention to what is going on, and repay the pains I am taking to teach you something, is it?” demanded his father. “Do you think ignorance is bliss? You don’t know anything a boy of your age ought to know. Tell me how many distinct forms of government this country has passed through.”

“I can’t,” replied Guy.

“Who was the third President of the United States?”

“I don’t know.”

“What were the names of the two men who were hanged in effigy by the Massachusetts colonists when the news of the passage of the Stamp Act was received?”

“I don’t know,” said Guy again.

“And yet that is just what we have been reading about to-night. I saw a picture in that paper you had in your possession a little while ago,” continued Mr. Harris with suppressed fury. “It was a man dressed in furs, who stood leaning against a horse, holding a gun in one hand and stretching the other out toward a dog in front of him. Who was that man intended to represent?”

“Nick Whiffles,” said Guy promptly.

“What was the name of his dog?”

“Calamity.”

“Did his horse have a name?”

“Yes, sir—Firebug; and he called his rifle Humbug.”

“There you have it!” exclaimed Mr. Harris with a sneer. “You know all about that, and you’ve no business to know it either, for it will do you more harm than good. If we had been reading that trash to-night you would have been wide-awake and listening with all your ears; but because we were reading something worth knowing—something that would be of benefit to you in after life, if you would take the trouble to remember it—you must needs settle yourself and go to sleep. Now, then, draw up beside this table and read five pages in that history; and read them so carefully, too, that you can answer any question I may ask you about them to-morrow.”

Guy, so sleepy that he could scarcely keep his eyes open, staggered to the chair pointed out to him and sat down, while his father once more picked up the evening paper and his mother resumed her needle.

When he had read the required number of pages and looked them over two or three times to fix the names and dates in his memory, he arose and put the book away in the library.

“Father,” said he.

“Don’t you know that it is very rude to interrupt a person who is reading?” replied Mr. Harris, looking up from his paper. “What do you want?”

“May I go fishing with Henry Stewart on the pier to-morrow?”

“No, sir, you may stay at home. A boy who behaves as you do deserves no privileges. I have learned that I cannot trust you out of my sight.”

Knowing that it would not be safe to show any signs of anger or disappointment, Guy kept his face as straight as possible and turned to leave the room. But when he put his hand on the door-knob his father called to him.

“Guy,” said he, “where are you going?”

“I am going to bed.”

“And do you intend to leave us with that frown on your face and without bidding us good-night? One or the other of us might die before morning and then you would be sorry you parted from us in anger. I’ve a good mind to whip you soundly, for if ever a boy deserved it you do. Come back here and kiss your mother.”

Almost ready to yell with rage, Guy returned and kissed his mother, who presented her cheek without raising her eyes from her novel, bid his father good-night, and this time succeeded in leaving the room without being called back.

When he was safe out of his father’s sight he turned and shook his fist at him, at the same time muttering something between his clenched teeth that would have struck Mr. Harris motionless with horror could he have heard it. He went to bed with his heart full of hate, and not until his mind wandered off to other matters, and he begun to dream of the wild, free and glorious life he expected to lead in the mountains and on the prairies of the Far West, did he recover his usual spirits. He fell asleep while he was building his air-castles, and awoke to hear the breakfast bell ringing and to see the morning sun shining in at his window.

When he descended to the dining-room he was met by Ned, who was dressed in his best, and who informed him, with evident satisfaction, that Henry Stewart had been over to see if he was going fishing, and that his father had said that he couldn’t go to the pier or do anything else he wanted to do until he had learned to behave himself. Ned added that he and his father and mother were going to ride out to visit Uncle David, who lived nine miles in the country, and that he, Guy, was to be left at home because there was no room in the buggy for him, and that he was not to stir one step outside the gate until their return.

“I’ll show you whether I will or not,” said Guy to himself. “It’s a pretty piece of business, indeed, that I am to be shut up here at home while the rest of you go off on a visit. I won’t stand it. I’ll see as much fun to-day as any of you, and if I only had all the money I need, you wouldn’t find me here when you return.”

Breakfast over, the buggy was brought to the door, and Mr. Harris, after assisting his wife and son to get in, turned to say a parting word to Guy.

He was to remain in the yard all day, bring no boys in there to play with him, and be very careful not to get into any mischief. If these commands were not obeyed to the very letter there would be a settlement between them when Mr. Harris came back.

Guy drew on a very long face as he listened to his father’s words, meekly promised obedience and opened the gate for his father to drive out. He watched the buggy as long as it remained in sight and then, closing the gate, jumped up and knocked his heels together, danced a few steps of a hornpipe, and in various other ways testified to the satisfaction he felt at being left alone.

“I shouldn’t feel sorry if I should never see them again,” said he. “I am my own master to-day, and I am going to enjoy my liberty, too. But before I begin operations I must put Bertha and Jack on the wrong scent. They would blow on me in a minute.”

Guy once more assumed a very sober expression of countenance, and walked into the kitchen where the servant-girl was at work.

“Bertha,” said he, “I am going up to my curiosity shop, and I don’t want to be disturbed. You needn’t get dinner for me, for I sha’n’t want any.”

“I am glad of it,” replied the girl, “I am going visiting myself to-day.”

Guy strolled out to the carriage-house, and here he found Jack, the hostler and man-of-all-work, to whom he gave nearly the same instructions, adding the request that if any of his young friends called to see him, Jack would say to them that Guy had gone off somewhere, which, by the way, had Jack had occasion to tell it, would have been nothing but the truth.

The hostler promised compliance, and Guy, having thus opened the way for the carrying out of the plans he had determined upon, went up to his curiosity shop, locking the door behind him, and putting the key into his pocket. He lumbered about the room for a while, making as much noise as he conveniently could, to let Bertha and Jack know that he was there, and then stepped to the window that overlooked the garden and peeped cautiously out. Having made sure that there was no one in sight, he crawled out of the window, feet first, and hanging by his hands, dropped to the ground. As soon as he touched it he broke into a run, and making his way across the garden, scaled a high board-fence, dropped into an alley on the opposite side, and in a few minutes more was two blocks away.

“There!” he exclaimed, as he slackened his pace and wiped his dripping forehead with his handkerchief; “that much is done, and no one is the wiser for it. Now, the first thing is to go down to Stillman’s and buy a copy of the Journal. I wrote to the editors of that paper three weeks ago, telling them that I am going to be a hunter, and asking what sort of an outfit I shall need, and how much it will cost, and I ought to get an answer to-day.

“The second thing is to hunt up Bob Walker and feel his pulse. He once told me that he would run away and go to sea if his father ever laid a hand on him again, so I know I shall have easy work with him. He won’t be as pleasant a companion, though, as Henry Stewart, for he swears, and is an awful overbearing, quarrelsome fellow. But I can’t help it; I must have somebody with me.”

A walk of a quarter of an hour brought Guy to Stillman’s news-depot, where he stopped and purchased a copy of the paper of which he had spoken. Seeing a vacant chair in one corner of the store, he seated himself upon it, and with trembling hands unfolded the sheet, looking for the column containing the answers to correspondents. When he found it he ran his eye over it until it rested on the following paragraph:

“An Abused Dog.—If you are going to become a hunter you will need an expensive outfit. A good rifle will cost from $25 to $75; a brace of revolvers, from $16 to $50; a hunting-knife, $1.25 to $3.50. Then you will need a hatchet or two, an abundance of ammunition, blankets, durable clothing, horse, etc., which, together with your fare by rail and steamer to St. Joseph, will cost you at least $200 more. We know of no hunter or trapper to whom we could recommend you, and neither can we say whether or not you will be able to find a wagon train that you could join. Now that we have answered your questions, we want to offer you a word of advice. Give up your wild idea, and never think of it again. As sure as you are a live boy, it will end in nothing but disappointment and misery. We are inclined to believe that the story of your grievances is greatly exaggerated; but even if it is not, you cannot better your condition by running away from home. Your parents have your welfare at heart, and if you are wise you will remain with them, even though their requirements do sometimes seem harsh and unnecessary. It may be that you will some day be left to fight your way through the world with no father or mother to advise or befriend you, and then you will find how hard it is. Take our word for it, if you live to be five years older, you will laugh at yourself whenever you reflect that you ever thought seriously of becoming a professional hunter.”

Guy read this paragraph over twice, and then folded the paper and walked slowly out of the store.

CHAPTER V.
A SAIL ON THE LAKE.

IT IS beyond my power to describe Guy’s feelings at that moment. He had never in his life been more grievously disappointed. It had never occurred to him that anybody who knew anything would discourage his project, much less the editors of his favorite journal, to whom he had made a full revelation of his circumstances and troubles. And then there was the expense, which greatly exceeded his calculations. That was the great drawback.

“Humph!” soliloquized Guy, after he had thought the matter over, “the man who wrote that article didn’t know my father and mother. If he did, he wouldn’t be so positive that everything they do is for the best. I know better, and won’t give up my idea. I am determined to succeed. There are plenty of men who make a living and see any amount of sport by hunting and trapping, and why shouldn’t I? Kit Carson is a real man and so is Captain Bridges. So is Adams, the great grizzly bear tamer. One of these days, when I am as famous as they are, I shall laugh to think I did become a professional hunter. But the money is what bothers me now. I shall need at least three hundred dollars. Great Cæsar! Where am I to get it? I’ve worked and scraped and saved for the last six months, and I’ve got just fifteen dollars. That isn’t enough to buy a rifle. Where is the rest to come from? That’s the question.”

Guy walked along with his hands behind his back and his eyes fastened thoughtfully on the ground, revolving this problem in his mind. His prospects did not look nearly so bright now as they did an hour ago. He was learning a lesson we all have to learn sooner or later, and that is that we cannot always have things as we want them in this world, and that the best laid schemes are often defeated by some unlooked-for event. Three hundred dollars! He never could earn that amount. His rags brought him but two cents a pound, and although he kept a sharp lookout and pounced upon every piece of cloth he found lying about the house, it sometimes took him a whole month to fill his bag, which held just five pounds. Old iron was worth only a cent a pound, and business in this line was beginning to get very dull, for he had not found a single horseshoe during the last two weeks, and he had purchased the last thing in the shape of broken frying-pans and battered kettles that any of his companions had to dispose of. He must find some other way to earn money. He had thought of carrying papers, which would add a dollar and a quarter a week to his income, besides what he would make out of his Carriers’ Addresses on New Years. But Mr. Harris had vetoed that plan the moment it was proposed.

Guy did not know what to do next.

“Dear me, am I not in a fix?” he asked himself. “I read in the paper the other day of a boy picking up five thousand dollars that some banker dropped in the street. Why wasn’t I lucky enough to find it? That banker might have whistled for his money when once I got my hands upon it. I must have three hundred dollars and I don’t care how I get it.”

Guy was gradually working himself into a very dangerous frame of mind. When one begins to talk to himself in this way it needs only the opportunity to make a thief of him. If Guy thought of this, he did not care, for he continued to reason thus, and was not at all alarmed when a daring project suddenly suggested itself to him. Twenty-four hours ago he would not have dared to ponder upon it; but now he allowed his thoughts to dwell upon it, and the longer he turned it over in his mind the more firmly he became convinced that it was a splendid idea and that it could be successfully carried out. He wanted to get away by himself and look at the matter in all its bearings. With this object in view he turned down Erie Street and bent his steps toward Buck’s boat-house, intending to spend an hour or two on the lake. In that time he believed he could make up his mind what was best to be done.

Arriving at the boat-house, Guy entered and accosted the proprietor, who stood behind his bar dispensing liquor and cigars to a party of excursionists who had just returned from a sail on the lake.

“Mr. Buck, is the Quail in?” asked Guy, giving the name of his favorite sail-boat.

“Yes, she is,” replied a voice at his elbow; “but what do you want with her?”

Guy recognized the voice and turned to greet the speaker. He was a boy about his own age, who sat cross-legged in an arm-chair beside the door, his hat pushed on the side of his head rowdy fashion, one hand holding a copy of a sporting paper, and the other a lighted cigar, at which he was puffing industriously. His name was Robert Walker. He was a low-browed, black-haired fellow, and although by no means ill-looking, there was something in his face that would have told a stranger at the first glance that he was what is called a “hard customer.” And his looks were a good index of his character and reputation. He was known as one of the worst boys in the neighborhood in which Guy lived. Parents cautioned their sons against associating with him, for he would fight, smoke, swear like any old sailor, and it was even whispered about among the boys belonging to the Brown Grammar School that he had been seen rather the worse for the beer he had drank. But Guy had always admired Bob; he was such a free and easy fellow! Besides, he knew so much that boys of his age have no business to know, that he was looked upon even by such youths as Henry Stewart as a sort of oracle. He and Guy represented two different classes of boys—one having been spoiled by excessive indulgence, and the other by unreasonable severity.

Robert’s father was Mr. Harris’ cashier and book-keeper, and the two families would have been intimate had not Bob been in the way. The fathers and mothers visited frequently, but the boys never did; their parents always tried to keep them apart. But in spite of this they were often seen together on the streets, and a sort of friendship had sprung up between them. This was the boy Guy wanted for a companion on his runaway expedition, now that Henry Stewart had declined his invitation.

“The Quail is in,” continued Bob, extending his hand to Guy, who shook it cordially, “but you are just a minute too late. Mr. Buck is going to get her out for me as soon as he is done serving these gentlemen. However, seeing it is you, I’ll take you along, and we can divide the expenses between us.”

“All right,” replied Guy. “Do you know that you are just the fellow I want to see?”

“Anything particular?” asked Bob, knocking the ashes from his cigar.

“Yes, very particular.”

“Well, that’s curious. During the last week I have had something on my mind that I wanted to speak to you about—it’s a secret, too, and one that I wouldn’t mention to any fellow but you—but somehow I couldn’t raise courage enough to broach the subject. We’ll go out on the lake where we can say what we please without danger of being overheard. Let’s take a drink before we go. Come on.”

“I am obliged to you,” answered Guy, “but I never drink.”

“Take a cigar, then.”

“No, I don’t smoke.”

“Nonsense. Be a man among men. Give me some beer, Mr. Buck. Take a glass of soda, Guy. That won’t hurt you, and it is a temperance drink, too.”

Guy leaned his elbows on the counter and thought about it. This was a temptation that he had never been subjected to before. What would his father say if he yielded to it? But, on the whole, what difference did it make to him whether his father liked it or not? He was going away from home to be a hunter, and from what he had read he inferred that hunters did not refuse a glass when it was offered to them. If he was going among Romans, and expected to hold a high place among them, he must follow their customs. So he said he would take a bottle of soda, and when it was poured out for him he, not understanding the etiquette of the bar-room, watched Bob and followed his motions—bumped his glass on the counter, said “Here are my kindest regards,” and drank it off.

“Now,” said Bob, smacking his lips over his beer, “we’re all ready. I’ve got half a dollar’s worth of cigars in my pocket, and they will last us until we get back.”

The boys followed Mr. Buck out of the house, and along a narrow wooden pier, on each side of which were moored a score or more of row and sail-boats of all sizes and models. When they reached the place where the Quail was lying they clambered down into her, Mr. Buck cast off the painter, and the little vessel moved away. Guy never forgot the hour he spent on the lake that day. A week afterward he would have given the world, had he possessed it, to be able to wipe it out or live it over again.

As the harbor was long and narrow and the wind unfavorable, considerable maneuvering was necessary, and for the first few minutes the attention of Guy and his companion was so fully occupied with the management of their craft that they could find no opportunity to begin the discussion of the subject uppermost in their minds. But when they rounded the light-house pier and found themselves fairly on the lake, Bob resigned the helm to Guy, and relighting his cigar, which he had allowed to go out, stretched himself on one of the thwarts, and intimated that he was ready to listen to what his friend had to say, adding:

“You may think it strange, but I believe I can tell you, before you begin, what you want to talk about.”

“You can!” exclaimed Guy. “What makes you think so?”

“The way you act, and the pains you are taking to make money. Does your father know that you are a dealer in rags and old iron?”

“Of course not.”

“I thought so. What do you want with the little money you are able to make in that way? You don’t see any pleasure with it, for you never spend a cent. What are you going to do with that powder-horn you’ve got hung up in your curiosity shop? It is of no use to you, for your father won’t allow you to own a gun. And then there’s that lead bullet-ladle, rubber blanket, and cheese-knife. They are not worth the room they occupy as long as you stay here. But you are laying your plans to run away from home, young man—that’s what you are up to. Indeed, you have almost as good as said so in my hearing two or three different times.”

“Well, it’s a fact, and there’s no use in denying it,” said Guy. “You won’t blow on me?”

“Certainly not. That’s just what I wanted to see about, for I am going to do the same thing myself.”

“Are you? Give us your hand. We’ll go together. I’m going to be a hunter.”

“I know you are; I’ve heard you say so. I had some idea of becoming a sailor, but since I have thought the matter over I have made up my mind that your plan is the best. If one goes to sea he has to work whenever he is ordered, whether he feels likes it or not; but if he lives in the woods he is his own master, and can do as he pleases. Have you any definite plan in your head?”

“Yes. As soon as I get money enough. I am going to step aboard a propeller some dark night and go to Chicago. I can travel cheaper by water than I can by land, you know, and money is an object, I tell you. From Chicago I shall go to St. Joseph, purchase a horse and whatever else I may need, join some wagon train that is going to California, and when I reach the mountains and find a place that suits me, I’ll stop there and go to hunting.”

“That’s a splendid plan,” said Bob with enthusiasm. “It is much better than going to sea. When do you intend to start?”

“Ah! that’s just what I don’t know. I find by a paper I bought this morning that I shall need at least three hundred dollars; and that’s more than I can ever raise.”

“By a paper you bought!” repeated Bob.

“Yes; there it is,” said Guy, taking it from his pocket and tossing it toward his companion. “You see I wrote to the editors, telling them just how I am situated and what I intend to do, and they answered my letter this week. Look for ‘An Abused Boy’ in the correspondents’ column, and you will see what they said.”

After a little search Bob found the paragraph in question, and settled back on his elbow to read it.

When he finished, the opinion he expressed concerning it was the same Guy had formed when he first read it.

“It is rather discouraging, isn’t it?” asked the latter.

“Not to me,” answered Bob. “These editors don’t know any more than anybody else. Why should they? In the first place the man who wrote this is not acquainted with our circumstances; and in the next, he is not so well posted on the price of some things as I am. He says a rifle will cost twenty-five dollars. Pat Smith has a cart-load of them, good ones, too, that you can buy for twelve dollars apiece.”

“Is that so?” asked Guy.

“Yes; and after we get through with our sail we’ll go around and look at them. He has hunting-knives, which he holds at a dollar and a quarter. I know, because I asked the price of them. Blankets are not worth more than five dollars per pair; and if you take steerage passage on the steamer and a second-class ticket from Chicago you can go through to St. Joseph for twenty-five dollars. Then how are you going to spend the rest of your three hundred? Not for a horse, certainly; for I have heard father say that when he went to California in ’49 he bought a very good mustang for thirty dollars. However,” added Bob, “it will be well enough to have plenty of money, for we don’t want to get strapped, you know.”

“But where is it to come from?” asked Guy.

“I know. I have been thinking it over during the last week, and I know just how to go to work. Perhaps you won’t like it, and if you don’t you can go your way and I’ll go mine. Here, smoke a cigar while I tell you about it.”

“No, no! I can’t smoke.”

“What will you do when we are in the mountains? There’ll be plenty of stormy days when we can’t hunt or trap, and you’ll need a pipe or cigar for company.”

“It will be time enough for me to learn after I get to be a hunter.”

“Perhaps it is just as well,” returned Bob, after a moment’s reflection. “If I carry out my plans you will have to help me, and you will need a clear head to do it. Listen now and I will tell you what they are.”

Bob once more settled back on his elbow, and to Guy’s intense amazement proceeded to unfold the details of the very scheme for raising funds which he himself had had in contemplation when he came to Mr. Buck’s boat-house, and which Bob proposed should be put into execution at once, that very day.

Guy trembled with excitement and apprehension while he listened, and nothing but the coolness and confidence with which his companion spoke kept him from backing out. He had always imagined that the day for the carrying out of his wild idea was in the far future, and from a distance he could think of it calmly; but if Bob’s plans were successful they would be miles and miles away ere the next morning’s sun arose, and with the brand of thief upon their brows.

He begun to realize now what running away meant. He did not once think of his home—there was scarcely a pleasant reminiscence connected with it that he could recall—but now that the great world into which he had longed to throw himself seemed so near, he shrunk back afraid. This feeling quickly passed away.

The wild, free life of which he had so often dreamed seemed so bright and glorious, and his present manner of living seemed so dismal by contrast that, feeling as he did, he could not be long in choosing between them. He fell in with Bob’s plans and caught not a little of his enthusiasm. He even marked out the part he was to play in the scene about to be enacted, making some suggestions and amendments that Bob was prompt to adopt.

The matter was all settled in half an hour later, and the Quail came about and stood toward the pier. When she landed and the boys entered the boat-house, Bob reminded Guy that it was his turn to stand treat. The latter was prompt to respond, and won a nod of approval from his companion by calling for a glass of beer.

Having settled their bill at the boat-house the boys started for the gunsmith’s. There they spent twenty minutes in looking at the various weapons and accouterments they thought they might need during their career in the mountains, and Bob excited the astonishment of his friend by selecting a couple of rifles, as many hunting-knives, powder-horns, bullet-pouches and revolvers, and requesting the gunsmith, with whom he seemed to be well acquainted, to put them aside for him, promising to call in an hour and pay for them.

“Isn’t that carrying things a little too far?” asked Guy when they were once more on the street. “What if we should slip up in our arrangements?”

“But I don’t intend to slip up,” returned Bob confidently. “There’s no need of it. Why, Guy, what makes your face so pale?”

“I feel nervous,” replied the latter honestly.

“Now don’t go to giving away to such feelings, for if you do you will spoil everything. Remember that our success depends entirely upon you. If I fail in doing my part the fault will be yours. But I must leave you here, for it won’t be safe for us to be seen together. If you are going to back out do it now before it is too late.”

“I’m not going to do anything of the kind. I’ll stick to you through thick and thin.”

“All right. Remember now that when the South Church clock strikes one I will be on the corner above your father’s store, and shall expect to find you there all ready to start.”

“You may depend upon me,” replied Guy. “I’ll be there if I live.”

The two boys separated and moved away in nearly opposite directions, their feelings being as widely different as the courses they were pursuing. Bob, cool and careless, walked off whistling, stopping now and then to exchange a pleasant nod with an acquaintance, while Guy was as pale as a sheet and trembled in every limb. It seemed to him that every one he met looked sharply at him, and with an expression which seemed to say his secret was known. He felt like a criminal; and actuated by a desire to get out of sight of everybody, and that as speedily as possible, he broke into a run, and in a few minutes reached his home.

CHAPTER VI.
A NARROW ESCAPE.

WALKING rapidly along the alley that ran behind his father’s garden Guy climbed the fence, dropped down into a thicket of bushes, and stopped to take a survey of the premises. There was no one in sight, and having fully satisfied himself on this point he crept stealthily into the carriage-house and up the stairs to his curiosity shop. Locking the door behind him he took down from one of the nails a dilapidated valise, which he had provided for this very occasion, and throwing open his tool-chest began bundling his valuables into it with eager haste. He did not forget anything, not even the rubber blanket, powder-horn, or rusty butcher-knife. When the last article had been crowded into the valise he closed it, and carrying it to the window that overlooked the garden dropped it to the ground. Then he locked the door of the curiosity shop, descended the stairs, and picking up the valise carried it to the lower end of the garden and concealed it under a quince tree.

This much was done, but he had still another piece of work to perform, and that took him into the house. He went to his mother’s room, and after considerable fumbling in one of the bureau drawers took out something wrapped up in a white paper, which, after he had examined it to make sure that he had found what he wanted, he put it into his pocket. Next he hurried to his own room to secure the buckskin purse containing the fifteen dollars he had with so much difficulty scraped together. This done, he selected from his abundant wardrobe a pair of heavy boots, a shirt or two, a change of linen, a few pairs of stockings, and a suit of his roughest and most durable clothing, all of which he tied up in a handkerchief he had spread upon the floor. Once during this operation he paused and looked with rather a longing eye toward the pair of patent-leathers and the natty broadcloth suit he was accustomed to wear on extra occasions, but, after a little reflection, he decided to leave them behind, consoling himself with the thought that in the country to which he was going buckskin was oftener seen than broadcloth, and that fine boots and expensive clothing would not look well on the person of a trapper.

Having tied his bundle he caught it up and ran out of the house. His previous examination of the premises had satisfied him that the coast was clear, so he did not take any pains to conceal his movements. He went directly to the place where he had concealed his valise and spent ten minutes trying to crowd some of the clothing into it; but it was already so full that there was not room even for a pair of stockings, and Guy found that he must either carry his bundle through the streets wrapped up in his handkerchief or leave it behind. He decided on the former course. Even trappers must have clothes, and he feared that those he was then wearing might not hold together until he could capture and cure a sufficient number of deer hides to make him a suit of buckskin.

Taking the valise in his left hand, and the bundle in his teeth, Guy mounted to the top of the fence, and was on the very point of swinging himself over, when happening to cast his eyes up the lane, whom should he see approaching but Henry Stewart. He had come up just in time to catch him in the act of running away from home.

So thought Guy, as he stood leaning on the top of the fence, growing pale and red by turns, and utterly at a loss what to do. He was well aware that the quick-witted Henry would know in a minute what was going on; he could not well help it if he made any use of his eyes, for there was the evidence of Guy’s guilt in the shape of his valise and bundle in plain sight. What would Henry think of him for breaking the solemn promise he had made the evening before—and more than that, what would he do? But, unfortunately for our hero, Henry not being as wide-awake as he usually was, did not see him. I say unfortunately, because had Henry received the least intimation of what was going on, he would have saved his friend many an hour of misery and remorse. He walked along, whistling merrily, as though he felt at peace with himself and all the world, carrying in one hand his jointed fish-pole, stowed away in a neat bag of drilling, and in the other a fine string of rock bass; and so completely was his mind occupied with thoughts of the splendid sport he had enjoyed on the pier that he had neither eyes nor ears for what was going on near him.

Guy saw that he had a chance to save himself, and he lost not an instant in taking advantage of it. As quick as a flash he dropped his burdens behind the fence, and in a moment more would have been out of sight himself had not the noise the heavy valise made in falling through the branches of a quince tree in the garden aroused Henry from his reverie. He looked up just in time to see Guy’s head disappearing behind the fence.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, “I saw you, old fellow. What are you about there?”

Guy, finding that he was discovered, straightened up and looked over the top of the fence again. “Halloo, Hank,” said he, with an attempt to appear as cordial and friendly as usual.

“What’s going on in here?” asked Henry, walking up close to the fence and peeping through one of the cracks. “I heard something drop.”

“It was my ball club,” replied Guy, who could swallow a lie as easily as if it had been a strawberry. “I was about to toss it toward you to attract your attention, when it slipped out of my hand.”

“Oh,” said Henry. “But what’s the matter with you? Your face is as white as a sheet. Are you ill?”

“No, only mad because father wouldn’t let me go fishing this morning. I wish you would pass on and attend to your business,” added Guy mentally. “I am in an awful hurry.”

“I am sorry you couldn’t go, for we had the best of sport,” said Henry. Then he exhibited his string of fish, and went on to tell who were on the pier, and what success each one had met with—how he had struck a splendid black bass, and after an exciting struggle had almost landed him, when his line broke and the fish took himself off; how Charley Root, one of their school-mates, hooked on to a yellow pike that he ought to have lost, he handled him so awkwardly, but which, by the united efforts of all the men and boys on the pier, was safely landed at last, and when placed on the scales pulled down the beam at nine pounds and a quarter—of all of which Guy scarcely heard a dozen words, although under any other circumstances he would have listened with all his ears.

“As you must be lonely, I’ll come in and visit with you a while,” added Henry.

“I wish you could,” answered Guy, “but father told me before he went away to bring no one in the yard.”

“Then suppose you come over and see me.”

“I can’t. I have orders not to go outside the gate to-day.”

“Have you finished reading the ‘Boy Trappers?’ If you have, I’ll lend you another book.”

“No, I am not yet done with it. Perhaps I will spend an hour or two with you this evening, after the folks come home.”

“I wish you would. You know we want to talk about something. Good-by.”

“Farewell—a long farewell,” said Guy to himself as his friend moved away. “You’ll never see me again or the ‘Boy Trappers’ either, for I’ve got it safely stowed away in my valise. I need it more than you do, and you’ve so many you won’t miss it. But didn’t I come near being caught, though?” he added, drawing a long breath as he thought of his very narrow escape. “In half a second more I’d have been over the fence and into a scrape that I could not possibly have lied out of. But what’s the odds? A miss is as good as a mile.”

Guy remained standing on the fence for ten minutes—long enough to allow Henry time to reach home and go into the house—and then jumped down into the garden after his valise and bundle. This time he succeeded in scaling the fence without being seen by anybody, and with a few rapid steps reached the corner of the block, where he stopped to take a last look at his home. He ran his eye quickly over its familiar surroundings, and without a single feeling of regret turned his back upon it and hurried away. A walk of fifteen minutes brought him to the corner above his father’s store, where he found Bob waiting for him. The latter had a well-filled valise in his hand, and was as cool and careless as ever. He peered sharply into Guy’s face as he came up and seemed satisfied with what he saw there.

“You look better than you did the last time I saw you,” said he. “Have you got it?”

Guy replied in the affirmative.

“Father hasn’t left the store yet,” continued Bob, “so we’ll have plenty of time to go down to the dock and engage passage on a propeller. The Queen of the Lakes sails to-night, and we’ll go on her.”

“All right,” said Guy with a show of eagerness he was very far from feeling.

“We’ll have to leave our luggage somewhere, for when we get our guns and other things we’ll have as much as we can carry, and we might as well leave it on board the steamer as anywhere else. We mus’n’t be seen together with these valises in our hands, or somebody will suspect something, so you had better go back and go down Elm Street and I’ll go down Ninth. We’ll meet at the foot of Portage Street, where the Queen of the Lakes lies.”

The two boys separated and pursued their different routes toward the dock. Guy reached it ten minutes in advance of his companion, and the first vessel he saw was the propeller of which he was in search. Her name was painted in large letters on her bow, and over her rail was suspended a card bearing the words, “This steamer for Chicago to-night.” Her crew were engaged in rolling barrels and hogsheads up the gang-planks, and Guy, watching his opportunity, dodged in and ascended the stairs that led to the cabin.

“Now, then,” exclaimed a flashily-dressed young man, who met him at the top and looked rather suspiciously at the bundles Guy deposited on the floor of the cabin, “what can I do for you?”

“Are you the steward?” asked the boy.

“I have the honor.”

“I want to go to Chicago on this boat.”

“Who are you, where do you live, and what is your name?” demanded the steward with another sidelong glance at Guy’s luggage.

The boy noticed the look, and took his cue from it.

“My name is John Thomas,” said he, “and I used to live in Syracuse, but I am going West now to find my uncle.”

“Where does your father live, and what business does he follow?”

“I haven’t got any father or mother either. I am alone in the world.”

The man’s face softened instantly. The next words he uttered were spoken in a much kinder tone.

“The fare will be eight dollars,” said he.

“I had thought of taking steerage passage,” returned Guy. “Money is not as plenty with me as it is with some folks.”

“Then you can go for five dollars. Step this way.”

Guy picked up his valise and bundle and followed the steward, who led the way along the deck toward the forward part of the vessel, finally turning into an apartment which looked very unlike the neatly furnished cabin they had just left. The floor was destitute of a carpet, and the rough bunks that were fitted up against the bulk-heads looked anything but inviting. Chests, bundles, and bed-clothes were scattered about, and in one corner were congregated a dozen or more persons of both sexes, who were eating bread and bologna and talking loudly.

Guy looked askance at them, and more than half made up his mind that he wouldn’t take passage in the steerage. He didn’t like the idea of being obliged to keep such company for a journey of seven hundred miles.

“You may take this bunk,” said the steward, pointing out the one he wished Guy to occupy.

“Where are the bed-clothes?” asked the boy.

“We don’t furnish them to steerage passengers. Every man finds his own.”

“But I haven’t got any,” said Guy, “and I can’t sleep on those hard boards. I think I had better wait a while. I have a friend, Ned Wheeler, who is going with me, and perhaps he will decide to take a cabin passage.”

The steward, not deeming any reply necessary, turned on his heel and walked out, leaving Guy alone with the emigrants. He did not know that it would be quite safe to leave his luggage there with no one to watch it, but after a little hesitation he decided to run the risk; and, pitching his valise and bundle into the bunk the steward had pointed out to him, he hurried below to watch for his expected companion. He wanted to post him. In a few minutes Bob made his appearance.

“Look here,” said Guy, as he ran to meet him, “your name isn’t Bob Walker any longer—at least while we remain on board this propeller.”

“I understand,” said Bob. “Let me see; I’ll call myself——”

“I have told the steward that your name is Ned Wheeler, and that my name is John Thomas.”

“It seems to me that you might have found better ones if you had tried.”

“No matter; they will answer our purpose as well as any others. You see our names will have to go into the passenger list, and if our fathers should suspect that we have gone up the lakes, they would have no difficulty in tracing us as far as Chicago, if we gave our true names.”

“I understand,” said Bob again. “Have you picked out a berth yet?”

“No; but I have seen the steerage, and it is a horrible-looking place. Come on; I’ll show it to you.”

Bob was not very favorably impressed with the appearance of things in the steerage. He looked at the dingy deck, the empty bunks, the ragged, dirty group in the corner, and stepped back and shook his head.

“I can’t go this, Guy,” said he. “I have been used to better things. Get your bundles, and we’ll take cabin passage. We shall have money enough to pay for it.”

The steward being hunted up, showed the boys to a state-room in the cabin, in which they deposited their luggage, after which they hurried ashore to carry out their plans.

Now came the hardest part of the work, and Guy would have been glad to shirk it, could it have been accomplished without his assistance.

It was dangerous as well as difficult, and there was dishonor connected with it. More than that—and this was what troubled Guy the most—there was a possibility that the crime they intended to commit, even if they were successful in it, would be discovered before they could leave the city, and then what would become of them?

While Guy was thinking about it, they arrived within sight of his father’s dry-goods store.

“Now, then,” said Bob, giving him an encouraging slap on the back, “keep a stiff upper lip, and remember that everything depends upon you. Do your part faithfully, and I’ll do mine.”

With a beating heart Guy walked into the store, and, stopping before the counter, drew a small package from his pocket. He tried to look unconcerned, but he trembled violently, and his face was white with excitement and apprehension.

The clerk who stepped up to attend to his wants stared at him in astonishment.

“What’s the matter, Guy?” he inquired.

“Nothing—nothing whatever, Mr. Fellows. What made you ask?”

“Why, you look as though you had been sick for a week. And see how your hand shakes.”

“Well, I don’t feel remarkably lively for some cause or other, that’s a fact,” returned Guy. “Mother sent me down here to see if you could match this piece of silk,” he continued, unfolding the package and displaying its contents.

“No, I cannot,” answered the clerk, and Guy knew very well what he was going to say before the words left his lips. “I told Mrs. Harris the last time she was in that our new stock would not arrive before Monday.”

“Mother is in a great hurry and can’t wait a day longer. Can’t you send out to some other store?”

“Certainly,” said the clerk, taking a pair of scissors from his pocket and cutting the silk in twain. “Here, Thompson, take this up to Kenton’s and see if they can match it; and, Jones, you take this piece and go over to Sherman’s.”

When Guy had seen the two clerks depart on their errand he drew a long breath of relief. A part of his work was accomplished, and it had been, too, just as he and Bob had planned it. The next thing was to keep Mr. Fellow’s employed in the front part of the store for a few minutes longer.

“Won’t you be kind enough to look over your stock again?” said Guy. “Mother is positive there is a remnant of that silk somewhere in the store.”

“I’ll do it, of course, to please her,” replied the clerk, “but I know I sha’n’t find it. Ah! Here’s Mr. Walker. Perhaps he knows something about it.”

At the mention of that name Guy started as if he had been shot. Bob’s father was the very man of all others he did not want to see just then, for he belonged in the back of the store, and Bob was there. Guy had a presentiment that something disagreeable was about to happen.

CHAPTER VII.
ADRIFT IN THE WORLD.

“WHY, GUY, what’s the matter with you?” asked Mr. Walker, giving the boy’s hand a cordial grip and shake. “Been sick?”

“No, sir,” stammered Guy.

“Then you’re going to be. I never saw you look so pale before. What was it you said to me?” added Mr. Walker, addressing himself to the clerk.

“Mrs. Harris has sent down that piece of silk again,” answered Mr. Fellows. “Can we match it?”

“No; and there’s not a piece like it in the city,” said Mr. Walker. “But we’ll have some on Monday sure, for I ordered——”

The gentleman suddenly paused, and looking sharply toward the back part of the store, bent forward in a listening attitude.

Guy listened also, and was almost ready to drop with terror when he distinctly heard a faint, grating noise like that which would be made by turning a key carefully in a lock. It seemed to come from behind the high desk which fenced off the office from the main part of the store.

Mr. Walker stood for an instant as if profoundly astonished, and, with an inquiring glance at the clerk, started on tiptoe toward the office. Mr. Fellows was close at his heels, and Guy, impelled by a curiosity that he could not have resisted if he had tried, brought up the rear. He saw Mr. Walker disappear behind the high desk, and jumping upon a chair and looking over it, he had a full view of the scene that transpired on the other side.

Bob was kneeling in front of an open safe, and was in the very act of crowding a large package of money into his pocket. So intent was he upon what he was doing, that he did not hear his father’s stealthy approach.

Mr. Walker was utterly confounded. Hardly able to believe the evidence of his eyes, he stood for a moment as if deprived of all power of action; then springing forward with a quick bound, he wrenched the package from his son’s grasp, and sunk helpless and almost breathless into the nearest chair.

“Oh. Robert! Robert!” he exclaimed, while the tears he could not repress coursed down his cheeks. “Is this the way you repay my kindness and indulgence? How could you do it! How could you do it!”

A death-like silence followed. Mr. Walker leaned his head upon his hands and shook like a man with the ague. Bob, having recovered his perpendicular—for his father, in his excitement, had thrown him headlong into the nearest corner—stood sullen and motionless. The clerk rubbed his eyes, and looked from one to the other in silent amazement; and Guy, stunned and bewildered, staggered off the chair, and walking like one in a dream, moved slowly out of the store and down the street. He did not know where he was going, and what was more he did not care. When he came to himself he was standing in the upper story of an elevator, gazing in a stupid, benumbed sort of way at the monster wheel as it slowly revolved, bringing up an endless chain of loaded buckets from some dark abyss beneath him. He was able now to think over the incident that had just happened at the store, and as he was not yet fully hardened, he felt his situation most keenly.

“It is all over with me now,” said he, with a calmness that surprised himself, “for of course the part I have played in this miserable business will be known when the folks come home, even if it isn’t known already. Mother will say that she didn’t send me down there to match that piece of silk, and in that way my guilt will be exposed. Besides, Bob is cornered, and I know him too well to indulge in the hope that he will take all the blame upon himself and shield me. I can’t stay here, for I am forever disgraced. I must go, and with only fifteen dollars in my pocket, too. Now that I think of it, I am glad Bob didn’t succeed in stealing that package. I shall at least have the satisfaction of knowing that what little money I have, I have earned honestly.”

How Guy managed to exist during that long afternoon was a mystery to himself. He wanted to keep out of sight of everybody, and the loft of the elevator was as good a place of concealment as he could have found. No one intruded upon him during the five hours he spent there. He passed a portion of his time in walking about with his hands in his pockets, thinking over his situation and wondering what should be his first move now that he was fairly adrift in the world, and the remainder in standing at the front window watching the crew of the Queen of the Lakes, who were still busily engaged in loading their vessel.

During the afternoon several passengers arrived, some on foot and some in carriages, and Guy always held his breath in suspense while he sharply scrutinized the face of every one who ascended the gang-plank, and was as often greatly relieved to find that there were none among them he had ever seen before.

At length, to his great joy, he discovered a thin cloud of smoke, which grew thicker and blacker every moment, ascending from the propeller’s chimney.

The men who were loading the vessel became quicker in their movements and rolled the freight along at a more rapid rate, encouraged by the voices and gestures of the mates.

Finally one of the planks was drawn in and the after gangway closed, and just as it begun to grow dark two of the four lines that held the steamer to the wharf were cast off and the whistle was blown.

Guy now had another disagreeable piece of business to perform, and that was to transfer himself from the loft of the elevator to the deck of the propeller.

Drawing in a long breath and calling all his courage to his aid he ran swiftly down the stairs, paused a moment at the door and then bounded across the wharf and up the gang-plank. He went directly to the upper deck, and seating himself upon the rail over the gangway, looked closely at every one who came on board the propeller, intending, if he saw Mr. Walker or any of his father’s clerks approaching, to beat a hasty retreat. But all Mr. Harris’ employees were doing just what Guy ought to have been doing—attending to their business. Had they known where he was and what he was about to do, it is probable that some of them would have interested themselves in the matter; but as they did not, Guy was left to his own devices.

At last, to the boy’s intense relief, everything was made ready for the start. The whistle shrieked again, the captain took his stand upon the wheel-house, the lines were handed aboard, and the Queen of the Lakes moved slowly down the harbor.

As soon as clear water was seen between the boat and the wharf Guy told himself that he was safe from pursuit, and settling into a comfortable position on the rail, he prepared to take a last look at the city of Norwall.

As it was already dark he could not see much of it except the lights. These faded out of his sight one by one, and finally when the steamer, after passing the breakwater and the light-house swung around and headed up the lake, they were all shut out from his view.

Then Guy begun to feel lonely and chilly, too, for a keen, cutting wind was blowing and he had no overcoat. As he arose to his feet, intending to go into the cabin where it was warmer, some one suddenly laid a hand upon his shoulder.

Guy started violently, and so surprised and frightened was he that he lost his balance, and would certainly have fallen overboard had not the hand been quickly shifted from his shoulder to his arm, griping it with sufficient force and strength to haul him on board and enable him to recover his equilibrium. As soon as he was fairly on his feet he looked up and was astonished beyond measure to find himself confronted by Bob Walker, who was comfortably wrapped up in an overcoat, held a lighted cigar in his teeth, and wore his hat on one side in the same old rowdy style. He did not look much like a boy who had been caught in the act of robbing a safe.

“Why, Guy,” said he with a laugh, “you are as nervous as an old woman. You must get over that before you reach the mountains, or Kit Carson and Captain Bridges will never have a rival in you. Did you think I was a policeman?”

“Bob,” exclaimed Guy gleefully, “you don’t know how glad I am to see you. I little expected to find you here.”

“What did you think I would do?” demanded Bob. “You didn’t imagine that I would stay in Norwall after being caught in such a scrape, did you? I am not quite so green. I tell you, Guy, if father had stayed away just five minutes longer we’d have been rich. That package I held in my hand had five hundred dollars in it.”

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Guy, catching his breath.

“It’s a fact. The amount was marked on the wrapper.”

“What did your father say to you?”

“He told me to go home, and I did; but I didn’t stay there long. I got my overcoat and came back to the boat. I’ve been on board ever since two o’clock waiting for you.”

“And I was hiding in the elevator all the while. But, Bob, do you know I am glad that you didn’t get out of the store with that money? It is bad enough to run away from home; it would be worse if we were thieves!”

“Bah!” exclaimed Bob contemptuously, “you’re losing courage already, and you’d better not, for you will have need of all you can muster before we get through with this business. We’ve got to earn money now to buy an outfit, and how are we going to do it? But let’s go into the cabin. It’s cold out here.”

Bob strutted off with as much dignity as if he had been the owner of the vessel, and Guy slowly followed. The cabin was a blaze of light, and most of the passengers had congregated there to escape from the cold wind that was blowing. They sat around in little groups, some reading, others conversing with their friends, and everybody seemed to be happy except Guy. He was indeed losing courage; and if he could have blotted out the events of that afternoon, he would have given everything he ever hoped to possess to have been safe under his father’s roof again. He had not yet got fairly out into the “wide, wide world,” of which he had so often dreamed, had encountered none of its trials and vicissitudes, and yet he knew as well as though he had already tried it, that the struggle he was about to commence would prove too much for him. The longer he thought about it the more nervous and uneasy he became, until at last he could not sit still, or bear to remain in the cabin. The air seemed hot and almost stifling, and the merriment of the passengers grated harshly on his ears. Arising to his feet he made his way to the deck, and for four long hours paced back and forth, all unmindful of the wind and the big drops of rain that now and then dashed into his face.

At last, overcome with fatigue and excitement, he sought his state-room. Bob had already turned in, and was snugly tucked away in the lower bunk. He appeared to be asleep, for his eyes were closed and he breathed heavily.

Guy hastily divested himself of his damp garments, and hanging them upon the hooks that were screwed into the bulk-head, climbed into his bunk and was soon in a deep slumber. He was aroused once during the night by some one moving about the room; but it was only Bob, who, in reply to an inquiry from Guy, said that he had been on deck to see how things were going, and that it was raining buckets and blowing great guns. Guy quickly went off into the land of dreams again, lulled by the rocking of the vessel, but about daylight was awakened by the pangs of seasickness.

All that forenoon he suffered greatly, and was a most forlorn-looking object indeed. Bob, who was as lively as a cricket, faithfully attended to all his wants, and shortly after dinner brought him a lemon and a piece of toast. When he had taken a little of the juice of the former, and a few mouthfuls of the latter, he felt better, and was able, with Bob’s help, to put on his clothes and go on deck. While the two boys were conversing and watching the white-caps as they rolled toward them, the steward approached, and addressing himself to Guy, said:

“Please walk up to the clerk’s office.”

“To pay your fare, you know,” added Bob, seeing that Guy did not quite understand. “I settled mine this morning.”

“Oh, yes. I have been so sick that I forgot all about that. Lend me your arm, please. I haven’t yet got my sea legs on.”

Bob complied, and in a few minutes the two boys were standing before the clerk, who drew the book containing the passenger list toward him, and asked, as he held his pen poised in the air:

“What name?”

“Guy—John Thomas,” replied the seasick runaway, who would have given his true name had not Bob pinched his arm just in time to prevent it.

“Guy John Thomas,” repeated the clerk, as he entered the name in his book. “Where to?”

“Chicago.”

“Eight dollars.”

Guy thrust his hand into the pocket of his trousers, and a look of blank amazement suddenly overspread his pale face. The pocket was empty. He felt in the other, and finally searched everywhere about his clothes, but nothing in the shape of a purse could be found.

“My gracious!” gasped Guy.

“What’s the matter?” asked his companion.

“Matter!” Guy almost shouted; “matter enough. I’ve lost my pocket-book.”

“No!” exclaimed Bob, looking surprised.

“But I say yes!” shrieked Guy; “and with it I have lost every cent I had in the world. Oh! what shall I do?”

“It can’t be possible,” said Bob, feeling of his friend’s pockets. “Look again.”

“Oh, haven’t I looked everywhere already?” demanded Guy, the tears starting to his eyes as he begun another thorough examination of his clothing. “It’s lost, I tell you.”

“Perhaps you left it in your valise. Let’s go and look.”

“No, I didn’t. I put it in my pocket yesterday, and I didn’t once take it out. Oh, dear! oh, dear!”

The clerk laid down his pen, leaned his elbows on the desk before him, and waited to see what Guy was going to do about it, and the latter, having satisfied himself that the money was not to be found about his person, allowed Bob to lead him off to his state-room. With frantic haste he overhauled the bundle and tumbled the contents of his valise upon the floor, but no purse rewarded his search. Then he looked under his pillow, and into every corner in the room, but with no better success.

“It’s no use; it’s gone,” screamed Guy, throwing himself upon Bob’s bunk and giving away to a torrent of tears, “and here I am without a copper in my pocket, and no friend to help me! I can’t go back home, and I don’t know what to do. I wish I was dead. Have you got any money, Bob?”

“Not a dollar; not even half a dollar. I had just enough to pay my fare, and expected to look to you for a few dimes. We’re in a fix, that’s certain. When we reach Chicago we shall be strapped as flat as pancakes, and in a strange city, too. I’ll go and speak to the skipper. Perhaps he can do something for you.”

Bob easily found the captain, who listened patiently while he stated his friend’s case, and accompanied him to the presence of Guy, to whom he propounded a few inquiries: Had he any idea where he lost his money? Might he not have dropped it or had his pocket picked before he came on board the propeller. Had he seen any stranger in his room the night before? and had he any relatives or friends in Chicago? To all these questions Guy replied in the negative. The captain looked thoughtfully at the floor for a moment, said it was a hard case, but he didn’t see that he could do anything, and turning on his heel he left the room, while Bob seated himself on the edge of his bunk, and looked at his friend with a very sympathizing expression on his countenance.

A dozen times that afternoon Guy searched all his pockets, examined the contents of his valise and bundle, and peeped into every part of the state-room, hoping that in his hurry and excitement he had overlooked the purse, and that it would yet come to light; but he as often abandoned the search in utter despair, and threw himself upon the bunk to indulge in a fresh burst of tears. Bob lent willing assistance, and tried to utter words of consolation, but these did not help Guy. He did not want sympathy, but money.

About four o’clock the door opened, admitting the steward.

“Have you found it yet?” he asked.

“No,” sobbed Guy, “and I never shall.”

“Did you lose all you had?”

“Every red cent.”

“Then, of course, you can’t pay your fare to Chicago. I have been talking to the captain about you, and he says you must go ashore the first landing we make, which will be at Saginaw. In the meantime you will have to give up this room and go into the steerage. You will find an empty bunk there.”

“Oh, I haven’t got any bed-clothes, and how am I to sleep on those hard boards?” exclaimed Guy.

“I don’t know I am sure. But you will have it to do, if you sleep at all. We have three or four passengers who slept on chairs in the cabin last night, and I must put one of them in here.”

Guy covered his face with his hands and cried lustily.

“Come, come! Shoulder your dunnage and clear out! I am in a hurry,” said the steward sharply.

Guy saw that he had no alternative. Slowly arising from his bunk he picked up his valise, while Bob took his bundle, and together they went their way to the steerage. It looked ten-fold more dingy and forbidding now than it did when Guy first saw it. He did not think he could live there, and told Bob so.

“Nonsense!” said his companion. “You will live in worse places than this before you see the Rocky Mountains. But I’d be a man if I were you, Guy. Choke down your tears.”

“Oh, yes; it’s all well enough for you to talk, for you’ve nothing to trouble you. Your passage is paid and you’ve a nice room to sleep in. But you won’t go to Chicago, will you?”

“Why not?”

“And leave me alone?”

“I don’t see that I can help it. I have paid my passage, and I might as well go on.”

“But, Bob, what shall I do without you?”

“A fellow can’t live in this world without money, Guy, and if I go ashore in the woods how am I going to earn any?”

“How am I going to earn any?” retorted Guy with more pluck and independence than he had yet exhibited. “But I see what you are at very plainly. You want to go back on me.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do; and I don’t care either. If you want to desert me while I am in trouble, do it. I don’t ask any odds of you. All I want you to do is to keep away from me from this time forward. Don’t speak to me, or even look at me. But bear one thing in mind—we must both struggle for an existence now, and I’ll come to the top of the heap first.”

As Guy said this he snatched the bundle from Bob’s hand, pitched it, with the valise, into one of the empty bunks, and turning square about left the steerage.

CHAPTER VIII.
GUY FINDS A FRIEND.

POOR GUY! his misfortunes were following close upon the heels of one another. He had looked upon the loss of his money as the greatest of calamities, but now a worse had befallen him. He was at swords’ points with Bob Walker, and he did not see how he could get on without him. Bob was so self-reliant, and could so easily adapt himself to circumstances that Guy had already learned to lean upon him. Fully sensible of his own lack of courage and independence, he wanted somebody to advise and sympathize with him. Longing to get away by himself where he could brood over his sorrows to his heart’s content, he hurried out of the steerage, and was making his way aft, when he ran plump into the arms of some one. It was the steward.

“Ah! this will never do,” said the officer. “Steerage passengers are not allowed abaft the waist.”

“Eh?” exclaimed Guy.

“Come here,” said the steward, “and I will explain what I mean. Do you see this gangway that runs athwartships? Well, you mustn’t come any nearer the stern than that. Go for’ard now.”

Guy started in obedience to his command, and just then the supper-bell rung. The first to answer the summons was Bob Walker, who went into the wash-room and tucked up his sleeves preparatory to performing his ablutions. Guy went in also, and followed his movements.

Having recovered from his seasickness by this time, he was, of course, very hungry, and the savory odors that came from the cabin every time the door was opened served to quicken his appetite. He hung up his cap, and was about to turn on the water, when the ubiquitous steward once more appeared.

“Now, pard, this won’t do, either,” said he, taking hold of the boy’s arm and waving his hand toward the door.

“Why not?” demanded Guy, trying to throw off the steward’s grasp. “I want to wash before supper, don’t I?”

“If you do you will find plenty of buckets on the main deck.”

“I am not in the habit of washing in buckets, and I sha’n’t do it,” replied Guy, greatly astonished.

“Oh, that’s the way the wind sets, is it?” exclaimed the steward, changing his tone and manner in an instant. “You’re standing on your dignity, are you, you dead beat? Now mark you,” he added, shaking his finger in the boy’s face, “if I catch you as far aft as this gangway again I’ll walk you for’ard by the nape of the neck. Now get out o’ this! Out you go, with a jump.”

Guy did not go with a jump exactly, but he went with a very strong push, for the steward, exerting all his strength, flung him headlong through the door, and kicked his cap after him. Bob stood by, wiping his hands, and, as Guy made his hasty exit, he chuckled audibly, and gave the steward an approving wink.

When he went into the cabin to supper he jingled some silver in his pocket, and shook his head in a very wise and knowing manner.

“You’ll come out at the top of the heap before I do, will you?” he soliloquized. “It looks like it now, does it not? You’re not sharp enough to make your way in this wicked world, my innocent young friend. I was as poor as you were yesterday morning, and now I’ve got forty dollars to help me along. A fig for such fellows as you! I am better off without you.”

Guy, filled with rage and grief, picked up his cap and made his way forward. He fully realized now what it was to be adrift in the world. With no money in his pocket, no friend to whom he could go for advice or assistance, and with the prospect before him of being put off the boat in a strange place and among strange people, his situation was indeed a trying one.

He glanced into the steerage as he walked by the door, but could not make up his mind to enter. It looked gloomy in there, and the occupants stared at him so rudely that he hurried on, anxious to get out of their sight.

“A man is no man unless he has money in his pocket,” said the runaway to himself. “Everybody is down on me now, because I am broke. It beats me where that purse could have gone so suddenly. I know it was in my pocket last night when I hung up my clothes, for I heard it strike against the bulk-head. If it were not for that safe scrape I’d work my way home on some vessel, take the whipping I know I’d get, and settle down with the determination to behave myself. But I shall never see home again, for I shall starve to death. I brought no provisions with me, and I can’t raise the money to buy a seat at the second table. I sha’n’t get a bite to eat until I reach Saginaw, and then I shall have to beg it.”

A bright prospect this for the boy who had so confidently expected to find nothing but fair weather and plain sailing before him! Instead of leaving all his troubles at home, he was running into others that he had never dreamed of.

“Here you are!” exclaimed a cheery voice at his elbow. “Come in and take a bite with us.”

Guy, who had been walking along with his eyes fastened thoughtfully on the deck, looked up and found himself in front of an open door that led into the quarters occupied by the crew of the propeller, who were engaged in eating their supper. In one corner of the room was a huge mess-chest, which did duty as a table, and the sailors sat around it, holding their plates on their knees.

Guy stopped and took a good look at the man whose voice had aroused him from his reverie, and recognized him at once as one of the wheelsmen. He was a man rather past the prime of life, with grizzly hair and whiskers, and hands and face as brown as an Indian’s. Although he was somewhat better dressed than the majority of his companions, and had doubtless bestowed a little pains upon his toilet before sitting down to supper, he was a rough-looking fellow, but still there was something in the mild blue eye which beamed from under his shaggy brows that won Guy’s heart at once.

“You’re the lad who lost his money, ain’t you?” continued the sailor.

“Yes, I am,” replied Guy, almost ready to cry again.

“Haven’t you nary shot in the locker?”

“Not one. I’m dead broke.”

“Never mind,” said the sailor kindly, seeing that Guy’s eyes were rapidly filling with tears. “I’ve known many a man in my time in the same fix. Why, bless you, when I was your age I used to think no more of it than I did of eating my regular allowance of salt horse or standing my trick at the wheel. Haven’t had any supper, have you?”

“No; nor I can’t get any, either.”

“Yes, you can. Walk up to that table and call for what you want. We’ve four darkey waiters, but they’ve all gone out to the galley after the plum-pudding. They’ll be in directly. When you have greased your jaw-tackle with some of our turkey and other fine fixings, tell us how you come to be out here so far from shore without a cent in your pocket for ballast.”

Guy understood the invitation thus conveyed, and did not hesitate to accept it. He did not wait for the darkies to come in with the plum-pudding, and neither did he find “turkey and other fine fixings” on the chest; but there was an abundant supply of good, wholesome food, and Guy having found an empty plate helped himself most bountifully. His spirits rose a little as his appetite became somewhat appeased, and in compliance with the wheelsman’s repeated request he related the story of his loss, to which everybody listened with interest. When he came to tell that the steward had taken his room from him, and that the captain had ordered that he must go ashore at the steamer’s first landing-place, he could scarcely restrain his tears.

After he had finished his narrative some of the sailors questioned him in regard to his history, but when they got through they knew no more than when they begun, for Guy gave anything but truthful answers. The wheelsman said nothing. He seemed to be thinking busily. When he had laid aside his plate and filled a short, black pipe, which he drew from his pocket, he beckoned to Guy, who followed him to the main deck.

“Now, then,” said the wheelsman as he and the runaway seated themselves beside an open gangway, out of earshot of everybody, “you say your name is John Thomas. Mine’s Dick Flint, and I’m glad to see you. How are you?”

“Well enough in body, but rather uncomfortable in mind,” replied Guy as he took the sailor’s hand and shook it cordially. “But, after all, I feel better than I did an hour ago, for I’ve had something to eat.”

“I know how it seems to be hungry,” said the wheelsman. “Now, maybe you wouldn’t lose nothing if you was to tell me your plans. What are you going to do when you reach the Western country? Got any folks there?”

“I have an uncle, as I have already told you,” replied Guy, “but I don’t know where he is. Indeed, I don’t much care; for since I left Syracuse I have changed my mind about trying to find him. I am going to be a hunter and trapper.”

“You are!” exclaimed Flint, measuring the boy with his eye.

“Yes. I am going out to the Rocky Mountains to fight Indians and grizzly bears and make myself famous. There’s plenty of fun and excitement to be found in that life, and I have always wanted to follow it.”

“If it is excitement you are after you had better go to sea. You’ll find it there, take my word for it. I don’t know anything about this hunting business, but you’ll need guns and traps, won’t you? And how are you going to get them with your locker empty?”

“Yes, I shall need at least three hundred dollars; but where it is to come from I don’t know. I must go to work and earn it somehow.”

“Did you ever follow any kind of business?”

“No; I have been to school all my life.”

“Well, you had better go a-sailoring with me. You can earn the money you want in that way. You see, I don’t run here on the lakes—I belong outside.”

“Outside?” repeated Guy.

“Yes, out on the ocean. I have sailed the blue water, man and boy, for thirty-five years, and if I live I expect to sail it thirty-five more. I left an old mother in Ohio when I went to sea—I ran away from her, like a fool as I was—and for twenty years I never heard from her. At last I found myself in Boston with a few hundreds in my pocket, and I thought I would go back to the old place, and, if my mother was still above hatches, the money I had saved would make her comfortable for the rest of her days. But I didn’t find her,” said Flint, while a sorrowful expression settled on his face—“never had a chance to tell her how sorry I was that I had treated her so, and that if she would forgive me and own me as her son once more I would try and make up for it. She had been under the sod ten years, and the old place was in the hands of strangers. Nobody knew me or ever heard of me. Of course I couldn’t stay there, and hearing that there was a schooner in Chicago loading for Liverpool, I went up and engaged a berth on her. Finding that she wasn’t ready to sail, I shipped as wheelsman in this tub to go one trip to Buffalo and back. The schooner will be off the ways and have her cargo aboard by the time we get there, and if you say the word maybe I can work you in as cabin-boy or something.”

“But you forget that I must leave this boat at Saginaw,” said Guy.

“No, I don’t. There’s more’n one way to get around that. Will you go? That’s what I want to know?”

“I will, and I am under great obligations to you for the offer.”

“Belay that,” said the sailor. “I know what it is to be without money or friends—I am used to it, but you ain’t, I can see that plain enough, and I want to help you out. Now about your money—when did you see it last?”

The loss of the purse was a matter that the wheelsman inquired into very particularly. He questioned Guy closely for ten minutes, and having finished his pipe, knocked the ashes from it and arose to his feet.

“I must go on watch now,” said he. “When you get ready to go to bed, tumble into my bunk. There’s room enough in it for both of us, and any of the boys will show you where it is. Keep up a good heart and you’ll come out all right. I’ll make a sailor man of you.”

Flint walked off, leaving Guy sitting silent and thoughtful. His mind was relieved of a great load of anxiety, for he had found somebody to lean upon. And this new friend was more to his liking than the one he had lost, for he had more confidence in him. Having been a wanderer upon the face of the earth for thirty-five years, Flint of course knew all about his position and was fully competent to give advice in any emergency. But still there was one objection to him. Guy would have thought more of him if he had been a hunter instead of a sea-faring man. He did not want to go before the mast for he was too firmly wedded to his idea of living in the woods. He had thought and dreamed of it for years, and he clung to it still.

“This sailoring will be a merely temporary business,” thought Guy, “and perhaps it is after all the best thing I could do. I am well enough acquainted with city life to know that I can’t make much money at anything just now, having no trade or profession. The only course open to me is to go into a store or office, and there I could command but three or four dollars a week, out of which I should have to pay my board, so I could not save anything. I may be able to earn eight or ten dollars a month as cabin-boy, and as I shall be under no expense for board of course I shall have all my money at the end of the voyage. Besides, while I am earning the three hundred dollars I need, I shall be getting used to hard fare and hard weather, and consequently I shall be in better condition to begin my career as a hunter. I shall adopt Flint’s plan, for I don’t think I could do better.”

Having come to this conclusion Guy made his way to the sailors’ quarters and went to bed in a very happy frame of mind.

CHAPTER IX.
THE BUCKSKIN PURSE.

DURING the next two days Guy was as light of heart as a boy could possibly be. He messed and bunked with the sailors, and soon begun to feel so much at home among them that he would not have gone back into the cabin if he had been allowed the privilege. It is true he sometimes told himself that these unkempt, swaggering fellows in blue flannel shirts and canvas trousers were not just the sort of men that he had been in the habit of associating with at home. But after all he cared very little for that. He expected to mingle with rough characters and lead a rough life all his days, and the sooner he commenced the sooner he would get used to it.

He saw the steward occasionally, but that worthy never noticed him. He knew of course that Guy could not leave the steamer until she made a landing, and if in the meantime the crew were disposed to take him and care for him, it was no concern of his. All he wanted of Guy was to keep away from that part of the vessel devoted to the use of the cabin passengers.

Guy also saw Bob Walker every day, but never spoke to him. Indeed he was not allowed an opportunity, for whenever Bob caught a glimpse of him he would throw up his head, stick his cigar (and he always had one in his mouth) up toward his right cheek, and walk off with all the independence imaginable. This always made Guy very angry.

“He thinks he is some, but he’ll be glad to sulk away and hide himself before we reach Chicago,” soliloquized Guy. “He smokes at least ten or a dozen cigars every day; and twelve cigars at ten cents each amount to a dollar and twenty cents—in two days, two dollars and forty cents. He told me he didn’t have half a dollar in his pocket; and if that was the truth, where does he get those cigars? I don’t wonder Flint suspects him. I would have suspected him myself if I had been sharp.”

On the evening of the fourth day after leaving Norwall, Flint hurried into the crew’s quarters, where Guy was dreaming away the time in his bunk, and shook him roughly by the shoulder.

“Roll out now,” said he. “Saginaw is close by. We shall be alongside the pier in half an hour, and you must be ready to get off. Where’s your dunnage?”

“Here it is,” said Guy, pulling his valise and bundle out of an empty berth.

“What have you got in that carpet-sack? I heard something rattle, and you lift it as though it was heavy.”

“So it is. I’ve got my hunting equipments in here.”

“Roll ’em out, and let’s have a look at ’em.”

Guy accordingly produced the key and unlocked his valise. The sailor looked into it, examined the contents, and said:

“You can’t take them things on board ship with you, and you might as well get rid of them one time as another. Chuck ’em overboard.”

Guy was astonished, and at first felt like flatly refusing to obey the order. He had been to considerable trouble and some expense to collect the articles comprising the outfit, and he could not bear to part with them. But after a little reflection he thought better of it, and gathering them all up in his arms, he went to the door, looked up and down the deck to make sure that there was no one in sight, and threw them into the water.

The hunting-knife, on the handle of which he had intended to score a notch for every grizzly bear he “rubbed out;” the lead, which, melted into bullets, was to have created such havoc among the buffaloes and antelopes of the prairie; the traps that were to have made him rich and famous—all went down among the fishes. The rubber blankets alone remained afloat, and after giving a melancholy flap or two, as if bidding him farewell, faded from his view in the fast-gathering twilight.

“Now,” said the wheelsman, when Guy came back to him, “what’s in that bundle? Your clothes? Well, put ’em into your carpet-sack, and while you’re doing it, listen to what I have to say. I must talk fast, for both me and my partner have to be at the wheel when we make a landing. By the time we reach the pier it will be pitch dark. As soon as the gang-plank is out, take your dunnage and go ashore. Follow a long wood-pile which you will find on the pier until you come to the shore end of it, and then round to and come back to the propeller on the opposite side. Do you understand? I shall be relieved from the wheel by that time, and I’ll be standing on deck just over the after gangway. You’ll see me, and you must keep watch of me, too, for when the coast is clear I’ll wave my hat, and you must run up the gang-plank and dodge into the engineers’ locker. You know where that is, don’t you?”

“Yes; but what will the engineers say if they see me going in?”

“Nothing. I’ve talked it all over with them, and they said I might stow you away in there. They’re sorry for you because you lost your money. Behind the door of the locker you’ll find a chest with a blanket and pillow in it, and all you’ve got to do is to turn in and keep still. You can lay there as snug as a bug in a rug, for nobody except the engineers ever goes near that locker, and they won’t bother you.”

“Flint!” shouted the mate on watch at this moment.

“Ay, ay, sir!” answered the sailor. “I must go to the wheel now. Can you remember what I have said?”

“Yes, I can,” replied Guy.

“Be careful that no one sees you when you come aboard,” said Flint earnestly, “or you’ll get me and the engineer in hot water.”

So saying, the wheelsman hurried away, and Guy sat down on one of the bunks near the door to wait until the propeller reached the shore. She had scarcely touched the pier when the steward came up.

“Ah, here you are!” he exclaimed, slapping Guy familiarly on the shoulder. “I have been looking for you. It is time you were making yourself scarce about here.”

“I am going as soon as the gang-plank is shoved out,” replied Guy.

“But I want to see you go. I am well posted in the tricks of you dead-beats, and can’t be fooled easy. Come on. That isn’t all your baggage,” he added as Guy picked up his valise. “You had a bundle when you came on board.”

“If you are better acquainted with my business than I am, you had better attend to it,” replied the boy, who did not like the steward’s domineering tone. “I guess I know what I am doing.”

He pushed past the officer as he spoke, and started down the stairs. On the way he met with Bob Walker, who was loitering around on purpose to see him off.

Bob winked at the steward and nodded familiarly to Guy, who returned the recognition with a savage scowl. When the latter disappeared down the stairs, Bob seated himself on the railing, and drawing a buckskin purse from his pocket, shook it in his closed hands, and smiled complacently. If one might judge by the loud jingling of its contents, the purse was well filled.

“Now, my young boy,” said the steward, when he and Guy had descended the gang-plank that led to the pier, “I shall stand here until I see you safely ashore. Good-by, and the next time you start out on your travels, be sure you’ve got money in your pocket.”

Guy bolted off without saying a word in reply. The extraordinary interest the steward took in his movements was something he had not bargained for, and he was very much afraid that he might not succeed in returning to the steamer without being seen by him or some one else who would order him ashore again.

What could he do in that case? Saginaw, what little he was able to see of it by the aid of the light from the lanterns and torches on the pier, was not a cheerful-looking place. More than that, he did not know a soul there; and where could he go to pass the night and find a breakfast the next morning? The only friend he had that side of Norwall was the wheelsman, and sooner than lose him he would do something desperate.

Casting his eye over his shoulder occasionally, he saw that the steward was not only keeping watch of him, but that he was following him to see that he went ashore.

There were two others watching him also—Bob Walker, who was perched upon the rail, and Dick Flint, who stood at the foot of the stairs leading to the wheel-house.

“Bob is very anxious to see the last of me,” said Guy to himself, “and that, in my opinion, is another proof that he stole my money. But he isn’t as smart as he thinks he is, and neither is the steward. With Flint’s help I can fool them both. There’s no use in spoiling things by being in too great a hurry. The crew are getting ready to wood-up, so I shall have plenty of time.”

Guy made his way along the wood-pile, but when he reached the end of it he could not “round to and come up on the other side,” as the sailor had told him to do, so he kept straight ahead, and having reached the shore, stopped in the shadow of a warehouse. Neither Bob nor the steward could see him there, but as the pier and the steamer were brilliantly lighted up, he could observe their every movement.

He saw the steward, who had followed him to the end of the wood-pile, gaze steadily at the warehouse for a few minutes, and then turn about, go back to the propeller, and disappear in the gangway. Bob also left his perch after a little delay, and that was a signal to Guy to bestir himself.

He ran quickly down the bank to the pier, and throwing himself on his hands and knees behind the wood-pile, made his way toward the steamer, dragging his valise after him. In a few seconds more he was crouching close at the edge of the pier, waiting impatiently for a sign from Dick Flint, who was walking slowly up and down the deck.

Bob Walker, having seen Guy disappear behind the warehouse, drew a long breath of relief, and pulled a fresh cigar from his pocket.

“He has gone at last,” said he, “and I am safe. His presence for the last three days has been a perfect torture to me; but from this time forward I shall stand in no fear of discovery. There comes the steward, and I might as well have a glass of ale.”

Bob was very observing, and the Queen of the Lakes had not been many hours out of the port of Norwall before he began to learn something. He noticed that there were two or three gentlemen among the cabin passengers who made regular hourly visits to some place abaft the cabin, and that when they came back they were either smoking fragrant cigars or wiping their lips as if they had something good to eat or drink. Bob made it his business to follow them on one of their excursions, and found that they stopped in front of a little bar kept by the steward. After that Bob went there on his own responsibility, and became one of the best customers at the bar. As he always paid for what he got, and seemed to have plenty of money, the steward cultivated his acquaintance, and was ready to serve him with a cigar or a glass of ale at any hour of the day or night.

On this particular evening, as Bob made his way aft, a sailor followed him at a respectful distance. While he stood at the bar, the man, who was partially concealed behind a stanchion, took off his hat and waved it once or twice in the air, whereupon a figure which was crouching at the end of the wood-pile sprung up and darted into the gangway like a flash. It was Guy Harris.

Rapid as his movements were, however, he did not succeed in entering the gangway without discovery; for Bob, having received some change from the steward, who at once closed the bar and went off, faced about, and while putting the money away in his purse, happened to cast his eye toward the pier just in time to see Guy jump up from behind the wood-pile. He thought he recognized him, and to make sure of it leaned quickly over the side and obtained a good view of him.

“Now that plan won’t work, my young friend,” he exclaimed, and so astonished was he that he spoke the words aloud. “It will never do to let you stay here. I’ll have you put off again before you are five minutes older.”

Bob hastily put the purse into his pocket and was hurrying forward when he found himself brought to a stand-still by a burly fellow who suddenly stepped before him and blocked up his path.

“Hold hard there!” said the latter. “Where are you going?”

“I want to find the steward,” answered Bob, trying to crowd by the sailor.

“Hold hard there, I say!” repeated the man, seizing Bob by the collar and pushing him back. “What do you want to see the steward for?”

“What’s that to you, you insolent fellow? Let me pass, and don’t dare put your hand on me again. If you do, I will report you to the captain.”

“Oh, you will, will you? Come on, there’s the old man on the pier.”

Flint, for it was he, linked his brawny arm through Bob’s and made a motion to pull him toward the stairs, but the boy drew back.

“Why don’t you come on?” cried the wheelsman. “I thought you wanted to report me to the cap’n. What have you got to say to the steward, I ask you?”

“There’s a fellow below who is going to steal a ride to Chicago,” replied Bob, alarmed at the man’s tone and manner.

“No, he hain’t,” said Flint. “He’s only come back to get his money. Hand it out here.”

Bob’s assurance was pretty well frightened out of him by these words. His secret was not safe after all. He made a strong effort to keep up his courage.

“Hand what out?” he asked, trying to assume a look of injured innocence.

“Oh, you don’t know nothing about it, do you? I want that buckskin purse that you just put into your pocket. There’s fifteen dollars in it, or ought to be, and you stole it from your room-mate on the first night out from Norwall. Hand it over, I say.”

“I didn’t steal any money. You didn’t see me put any buckskin purse into my pocket, and I haven’t got any, either. The best thing you can do is to let me pass.”

“You needn’t put on no frills with me, ’cause they won’t go down. You didn’t know that the curtain of the window of your state-room was up that night, did you? You didn’t think I saw you when you took that purse out of your room-mate’s pocket, did you? Well, I did; and I heard you tell him when he asked you what you were doing, that you had been out on deck to see how things were going on, and that it was raining buckets and blowing great guns butt-end foremost. Aha!” he added, seeing that an expression of unbounded astonishment overspread Bob’s pale face. “I know all about it, don’t I? I stood here, too, while you were loafing at that bar, and saw you take that same purse from your pocket and pay for a glass of something out of it. And there it is, right there,” said Flint, making a sudden dash at the boy’s pocket and clutching it and its contents with a firm grasp. “Now hand it out without no more words, or I’ll walk you down to the old man and have you locked up for a thief. I sha’n’t ask you again.”

Bob was utterly confounded. The conversation between him and Guy on the first night out had taken place just as the sailor had repeated it, and that was the time he had stolen the purse from his friend’s pocket. But how in the world could the theft have been found out? Guy did not see him take the money, for he was asleep. Beyond a doubt Flint told the truth when he said that he had observed the whole proceeding. Overcome with fear and rage Bob could not speak. Mistaking his silence for obstinacy, the wheelsman seized him by the collar and began dragging him toward the stairs, intending to take him before the captain. Then Bob found his tongue very speedily.

“Hold on,” he cried. “If I give you the money will you promise that you won’t blow on me?”

“I’ll keep still if you do; but if I hear you lisp a word about a fellow’s trying to steal a ride to Chicago I’ll have you locked up as sure as you’re alive. Now,” he added, as Bob placed the purse in his hands, “how much have you spent out of it?”

“Just ten cents.”

“Well, hand it out here. I must have fifteen dollars. Not a red less will satisfy me.”

“I have nothing smaller than a dollar.”

“Then give me that. I’ll take it for interest.”

Bob did not dare refuse. He gave the money to the wheelsman, who said, as he put it away in the purse:

“Now go into your room, and don’t show your face on deck again until this vessel is well under way. Keep a still tongue in your head and I’ll do the same.”

Bob, glad enough to get out of the man’s sight, at once started for the cabin. Flint watched him out of sight and then rolled off toward the wheel-house, winking and nodding his head as if he were highly gratified at what he had done.

CHAPTER X.
WHAT BOB FOUND IN CHICAGO.

GUY HAVING, as he supposed, made his way on board the propeller without being seen by anybody, ran with all possible speed toward the engine-room, keeping a good lookout on all sides for fear of meeting the steward who, as he had learned to his cost, had a way of turning up most unexpectedly. That officer was not in sight, however, but somebody else was, as Guy found when he entered the engineer’s room. It was the striker, who was busy oiling the machinery.

The runaway stopped, undecided what to do. The man, hearing the sound of his footsteps, looked up, and after casting his eyes all about him, nodded encouragingly, and pointed with his thumb over his shoulder toward the door of the locker, which stood invitingly open. This reassured Guy, who started forward again, and in less time than it takes to tell it, was snugly curled away in the box behind the door.

The engineer came in soon afterward to put away his oil can, and when he went out he locked the door after him.

Guy felt perfectly safe then, and told himself that there was no danger of discovery. No one came near the locker until the propeller was well out from Saginaw, and then Flint appeared, carrying under his arm a bundle wrapped up in a newspaper.

“Well, our plans worked all right, didn’t they?” said he, and he seemed as highly elated as Guy himself. “You couldn’t have a better hiding-place than this. The steward would never think of looking for you here, even if he knew you were on board, which he doesn’t. There’s only one in the secret beside me and the engineers, and that’s the friend who stole your money.”

“Bob Walker!” gasped Guy. “How did he find it out?”

“He saw you when you came aboard.”

“Then my cake is all dough,” said Guy in great alarm. “He’ll blow on me sure.”

“I’ll risk him, and insure his silence for a dime,” returned Flint. “He’s afraid of me, and he’d better be; for if I hear of his trying to get you into trouble, I’ll have him before the cap’n in less time than he could say ‘hard a port’ with his mouth open. Here’s your purse. I knew he had it.”

“Flint, you’re a good fellow,” said Guy, so overjoyed that he could not speak plainly. “I never can repay you. How did you get it?”

“I saw him have it in his hand, and scared it out of him. I made him believe that I was looking through the window when he took it out of your pocket, and told him that if he didn’t hand it over, I’d have him locked up. He spent ten cents of the money, but I made him give me a dollar, so you’ve got ninety cents for interest. Here’s some bread and cold meat I brought you,” said Flint as he deposited his bundle in one corner of the chest. “You will have to live on it until we reach Chicago, for it won’t be safe for me to come here very often. Somebody might see me. You can walk around a little of nights, but don’t show your face outside the locker in the day-time. Good-by.”

“Now that’s a friend worth having,” said Guy to himself, after the wheelsman had gone out. “Nobody need tell me again that it is such hard work to get on in the world. It’s sheer nonsense. One can always find somebody to lend him a helping hand. I am as comfortable as I care to be, and wouldn’t go home if I had the chance. I am my own master, and can do as I please without asking anybody’s permission. I only wish Flint was a hunter instead of a sailor.”

While these thoughts were passing through Guy’s mind, he was rummaging about in the chest (it was as dark as a pocket in the locker), searching for the bundle Flint had left. Having found it, he ate a few slices of the bread and meat, and then pulling the blankets over his head, curled up and went to sleep.

Before twenty-four hours had passed over his head Guy found occasion to change his mind in regard to some things. He learned that it was exactly the reverse of comfortable to be shut up in such close quarters. He grew weary of this confinement, and longed to get out where he could see what was going on; but he followed Flint’s instructions to the very letter. He ventured out occasionally at night for five or ten minutes, but during the day remained closely concealed, passing the time in sleeping and pacing up and down his narrow prison. While he was taking his exercise he was always on the alert, and the moment a key was inserted into the lock or a hand placed upon the door-knob, he would jump into his box and cover himself up with the blankets. Three days and nights were spent in this way, and then Flint once more made his appearance.

“It’s all right now, my hearty,” said he cheerfully. “We’ll be in Chicago in another hour, and you mustn’t waste any time in getting off after the boat is made fast, for I sha’n’t breathe easy until I know you are safe ashore.”

“Does anybody suspect anything?” asked Guy anxiously.

“Nobody except that friend of yours. He hasn’t said a word, and it is just as well for him that he didn’t; but he’s been all over the steamer a dozen times looking for you. How have you enjoyed yourself, anyhow? Grub all gone yet?”

“Yes; and I’m as hungry as a wolf.”

“Never mind; we’ll have a good supper before long. Be careful that no one sees you when you go off the boat.”

With this piece of advice Flint went out, and Guy, having placed his valise close at hand, walked impatiently up and down the locker, waiting for the propeller to make the landing.

Time moves on laggard wings when one is in a hurry, and Guy thought he had never passed so long an hour before; but at last the engineer’s bell rang, the jarring and rocking of the boat subsided into a gentle, gliding motion, the capstan overhead began to groan and rattle, and finally a heavy bump or two announced that the wharf had been reached. Guy heard the men come down to shove out the gang-plank, and at the same moment one of the engineers pushed open the door of the locker and nodded to him—a signal previously agreed upon between him and Flint that the coast was clear.

Guy picked up his valise and ran quickly through the engine-room, but when he came within sight of the gangway he saw that the propeller was still moving ahead, and that the gang-plank had not yet been pushed out. More than that, his own enemy, the steward, was coming slowly down the stairs, and Guy caught sight of him just in time to avoid discovery by dodging into a dark passage-way.

As soon as the steamer’s headway was checked by the lines the gang-plank was shoved out, and a man on the pier, who had been waiting for an opportunity to come on board, ran up and was cordially greeted by the steward.

“Halloo, Boyle!” exclaimed the officer as the two met at the foot of the stairs, “what do you want here? Are you looking for anybody?”

“Yes, I am,” replied the man.

“It isn’t me, is it?” asked the steward with a laugh.

“No, not this time. I am after a couple of boys who are supposed to have taken passage on this steamer from Norwall. Good-looking young fellows they are, I judge from the description I have of them. One is tall and slender, with light hair and blue eyes, is dressed in black and wears a straw hat. His name is Guy Harris.”

“Great Scott!” thought the listening runaway, “it is all over with me now.”

“I don’t know any boy of that name,” replied the steward, “but we certainly had one aboard who answered to that description. He got off at Saginaw, or rather, we put him off because he had no money. What is the matter?”

“Nothing, only these two young rascals have run away from home, and I am directed to detain them until their fathers arrive—that’s all. Harris got off at Saginaw, you say? I don’t care; his father is rich, I hear, and the more trouble I have to catch him the more money I shall make. The other is short and thickset, with black hair and eyes, wears a blue beaver overcoat, carries a small black valise, and is much given to smoking good cigars. His name is Robert Walker.”

“I don’t know him by that name, but there is such a boy on board, and here he comes now,” said the steward, as the sound of footsteps was heard at the top of the stairs.

The steward and his companion turned their backs and appeared to be very deeply interested in something that was occurring on the wharf, while Guy, trembling with excitement and alarm, drew himself into as small a compass as possible, and waited to see what was going to happen. He was in momentary fear of discovery, for the two men were scarcely more than twenty feet away, and must have seen him if they had once turned their eyes in his direction.

The footsteps sounded nearer, and presently Bob Walker appeared, smoking as usual. He carried his valise in one hand, and the other, being thrust into the pocket of his trousers, held back his overcoat so as to show the gold watch-chain that hung across his vest.

“The footsteps sounded nearer and presently Bob Walker appeared smoking.”

He nodded familiarly to the steward, and was about to pass down the gang-plank when he who had been addressed as Boyle suddenly turned and faced him. He gave a stage start, opened his eyes to their widest extent, looked fixedly at the boy for a moment, and then slowly extended his hand, greeting him with:

“Why, Bob, is it possible? How do you do? How do you do, Bob Walker? How’s your father and mother and all the rest of the good people of Norwall? I didn’t expect to see you here. Give us a shake.”

Bob, taken completely by surprise, involuntarily extended his hand, but suddenly recollecting himself, as quickly withdrew it.

“I didn’t expect to see you either,” said he; “but, as it happens, you’ve made a mistake. My name is Wheeler.”

Bob’s attempt to appear easy and unconcerned was a miserable failure. He knew who the man was, and what brought him there, for he accidentally caught a glimpse of something on the under side of the lapel of his coat. It was a detective’s shield!

Although his heart almost came up into his mouth, he did not lose his courage. He tried to “brave it out,” but, of course, overdid the matter, and his behavior was enough to have removed the last doubt as to his identity, had any existed in the mind of the detective.

“And more than that,” continued Bob, “I don’t live in Norwall. My home is in Omaha. Good-evening!”

“Good-evening,” said the detective. “No offense, I hope?”

“None whatever,” replied Bob politely. “We are all liable to make mistakes.”

“You don’t happen to have a good cigar about your clothes, do you?” said the officer.

Of course Bob had, for he was always well supplied, and promptly produced one.

The detective put it between his teeth, and accepting Bob’s cigar, applied the lighted end to his own, and puffed away until it was fairly started, all the while running his eye over the face and figure of the boy before him.

“Thank you,” said he; “we’ll smoke as we go along. If you are all ready, I am. I see you understand the situation, so there’s no use in wasting time in words. Your father will be along some time to-morrow, and any little explanations you may want—why, he’ll give ’em to you. I guess we had better be walking along now.”

“Haven’t you instructions to arrest somebody else?” asked Bob, with wonderful courage and self-possession.

“Yes; but he doesn’t seem to be here. He was put off at Saginaw.”

“I know he was, but he didn’t stay put off. He is somewhere on this boat now.”

“My gracious!” gasped Guy, squeezing himself closer against the bulk-head.

“Oh, you’re mistaken,” said the steward, with some surprise in his tones. “I saw him go off myself.”

“And I saw him come back,” insisted Bob. “He is concealed somewhere among the cargo.”

“Humph!” exclaimed the engineer, who, while he pretended to be very busy rubbing down the machinery, was listening to every word of the conversation. “How could he live three days without a bite to eat or a drop to drink?”

“That’s easy enough done when one makes up his mind to it,” said Bob. “He’s on this vessel, and I know it. He is as deep in the mud as I am, and I don’t want to go back without him. Won’t you look for him, Mr. Officer?”

“No, I guess not,” answered the detective, who put more faith in the steward’s story than he did in Bob’s. “I’ll find him, sooner or later—you needn’t worry about that. We’d better go along now. Come on.”

Bob might still have continued to argue the matter, had not the detective taken him gently but firmly by the arm and led him down the gang-plank.

Guy, from his place of concealment, watched him until he disappeared in the darkness, and that was the last he ever saw of him.

And what became of Bob after that? His adventures would make a long story; but with them we have at present nothing to do. It will be enough to say that he went home with his father, who arrived in Chicago the next day; but he did not long remain with him. Although he heard nothing to induce the belief that the attempt he had made upon Mr. Harris’ safe was known, there were plenty who were acquainted with the fact that he had run away from home, and that made him very discontented. The war broke out shortly afterward, and Bob went into the service, enlisting as landsman in the Mississippi squadron.

In two years, by bravery and sheer force of character (it is not always the good who are prosperous, except in novels), he raised himself to the rank of acting ensign, and held the position of executive officer of one of the finest “tin-clads” in the fleet. But he was not satisfied with this. The evil in his nature was too strong to be kept down, and with his captain he entered into a conspiracy to surrender his vessel to the rebels for a large amount of cotton—some say four hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth.

Bob’s conspiracy was defeated through the vigilance of a young officer, whose name is known to but few, and whose exploit, as far as I have been able to learn, was never mentioned in the report of the Secretary of the Navy.

Their villainous plot being discovered, Bob and his commanding officer made their escape from the vessel one dark night, and that was the last that was ever seen of them.

Guy saw all that transpired, and listened to the conversation between Bob and the detective like one in a dream. He now looked upon the temporary loss of his money as a blessing in disguise, for had he paid his passage to Chicago his arrest would have been certain. But he felt comparatively safe, for Boyle had been put on a wrong scent. It would take him two or three days to go to Saginaw and back, and by that time, if the schooner was ready to sail, Guy and his friend would be miles on their way toward the Atlantic Ocean.

So fearful was he, however, that the detective might yet return and take him into custody, or that he might be waiting on the wharf ready to receive him when he came out, that Guy dared not leave his hiding-place.

He saw the steward go back up the stairs and the cabin passengers come down and go ashore, but he did not move until the engineer stepped up and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Look here, my friend,” said he, with some impatience in his tone, “we’ve done all we could for you, and now you’d better be making tracks. We don’t want you here any longer.”

The man’s looks indicated very plainly that, if he did not go off the boat of his own accord and at once, he would be helped off, so Guy lost no time in putting himself in motion. He caught up his valise, and without stopping to thank the engineer for his kindness in allowing him to use his locker for a hiding-place during the voyage, hurried down the gang-plank, and stopped in the shadow of a building on the opposite side of the wharf. There he was safe from observation, and there he remained until he saw the wheelsman come ashore with his dunnage slung over his shoulder.

CHAPTER XI.
THE BOARDING-HOUSE.

“OH, FLINT!” exclaimed Guy, running to meet the sailor, “you don’t know how glad I am to see you. I have had a narrow escape, I tell you. I just got away from an officer who captured Bob by the skin of my teeth.”

With this introduction Guy began the story of his recent adventure, to which his companion listened with all his ears. He was surprised as well as delighted to hear what had happened to Bob Walker, and hastened to calm the fears of his young friend by assuring him that as long as he followed in his (Flint’s) wake he was in no danger. In the first place, he would take him where no detective would ever think of looking for him; and in the second, they would remain in the city but a day or two at the very furthest, and by the time Boyle could go to Saginaw and back, they would be on their way to Liverpool and safe from pursuit.

Flint fulfilled the first part of his promise by conducting Guy to a sailors’ boarding-house in an obscure street, where they ate supper and took lodgings for the night. After breakfast the next morning they set out in company to call upon the agent, whose business it was to ship the crew that was to man the schooner during her voyage to Liverpool. They found him at his office, and after listening to some astonishing stories from Flint, who declared that Guy understood his business as cabin-boy, having just been discharged from the propeller Queen of the Lakes, where he had served in that capacity for the last two months, the agent was finally induced to add the boy’s name to the shipping articles and pay him his advance. Then, after a visit to a cheap clothing store, where Flint purchased an outfit for Guy, they returned to the boarding-house and thence made their way to their vessel, the Ossipee, which was almost ready to sail.

During the first part of the voyage Guy had but little to complain of. Although he was kept busy all the time, his duties were comparatively light, the officers were kind, the food abundant and well cooked, and the weather mild and agreeable. Guy even begun to think that a career on the ocean-wave was, after all, very pleasant and desirable, and sometimes had serious thoughts of abandoning his idea of becoming a hunter and spending the remainder of his days upon the water. But even a sailor’s life has its dark side, as he discovered when they reached the Gulf of St. Lawrence. During a violent gale the schooner sprung a leak, and from that time until she reached a port in Nova Scotia, into which she put for repairs, Guy never once closed his eyes in sleep. He was kept at the pumps until every bone and muscle in his body ached with fatigue, and when relieved from them it was only to perform some other duty equally laborious. It was all the crew could do to keep the schooner afloat, and for five long, dreary days Guy stood face to face with death in one of its most appalling shapes.

And what a change that storm made in the disposition of every man on board! The officers raved and swore, and hastened obedience to their orders by threatening to knock the men overboard with handspikes and belaying pins. Guy, bewildered by the confusion and noise, and frightened almost out of his senses by the danger he was in, was forever getting into somebody’s way, and of course came in for the lion’s share of abuse. He was kicked and cuffed every hour in the day and pushed about as if he had no more feeling than the freight which was so unceremoniously thrown overboard. Once the mate ordered him to “lay for’d and lend a hand at the jib down-haul,” and while Guy was looking about to see which way to go, the officer picked up a rope and brought it down across his shoulders with a sounding whack. It might have fared hard with Guy then had not Flint, who happened to overhear the order, saved him from further punishment by hurrying forward and executing it for him.

Port was reached at last, and we can imagine how relieved Guy was and with what feelings of delight he listened to the speech the captain made to the crew, in which he informed them that the vessel was so badly damaged that she must go into the dry-docks again and that the hands were to be discharged with three months’ pay. He packed up his dunnage with great alacrity, and as he followed Flint over the side, declared that he had seen enough of salt water to last him as long as he lived, and that the rest of his life should be on shore.

“Why, you haven’t seen anything of a sailor’s life yet,” said his companion. “I know we’ve had rather a rough time for the last week, but that’s nothing. Of course one must work if he goes to sea, and so he must if he follows any other business. You’ll see better times when you are once fairly afloat.”

“But just look at the danger,” said Guy.

“Humph! look at the danger you’re in now while you are ashore,” returned Flint. “Suppose, while we are passing along this row of buildings, that a brick should fall from one of the chimneys and strike you on the head! Where would you be? Or suppose you should accidentally put yourself in the path of a runaway horse! Wouldn’t you be in danger then? The safest place in the world is on shipboard. That’s a sailor’s doctrine.”

“But it isn’t my doctrine,” said Guy. “And another thing. I don’t like to have a man swear at me and say that for two cents he would throw me into the drink. If I am to be cuffed and whipped and jawed every day I might as well be—somewhere.”

Guy was about to say that he might as well be at home, for he had run away from it on purpose to escape such discipline. He came very near exposing himself, for he had told Flint that he had no home, and he knew that was the reason the sailor was so kind to him.

“And don’t you remember how that mate beat me with a rope?” added Guy. “If you hadn’t taken my part he might have been pounding me yet, for I didn’t know where to go to find the jib down-haul.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Flint encouragingly. “A boy who goes to sea may make up his mind to one thing, and that is, he’s going to get more kicks than ha’pence. And it may not be his fault; but if he gets ’em after he learns his duties, then it is his fault. You didn’t see me struck or hear anybody say he’d throw me overboard. That’s ’cause I know my business and ’tend to it. But you will see better times after we get fairly afloat. Halloo! let’s go in here and see what’s going on.”

Flint’s attention was attracted by the sound of voices and shouts of laughter which issued from a very dingy-looking building they were at that moment passing. Guy glanced up at the sign and saw that it was a sailor’s boarding-house.

Flint opened the door that led into the public room, and Guy followed him in. The boy did not like the looks of the apartment, for it too vividly recalled to his mind the quarters occupied by the steerage passengers on board the Queen of the Lakes. It was not much like the steerage in appearance, but it was fully as gloomy and uninviting.

One side of the room was occupied with tables and chairs, and the other by a small bar, at which cheap cigars and villainous liquors were kept for sale. The floor was covered with sawdust, and littered with cigar stumps and “old soldiers,” and the walls were discolored by tobacco smoke, which filled the room almost to suffocation.

A party of sailors were seated at one of the tables, engaged in a game of “sell out,” now and then laying down their cards for a few seconds to bury their noses in tumblers of hot punch, which they kept stowed away on little shelves under the table. They looked up as Flint and his companion entered, and a man who was standing behind the bar, and who seemed to be the proprietor of the house, came forward to relieve them of their bundles, and inquired what he could do for them.

“Can you grub and lodge us ’till we find a ship?” asked Flint.

“Of course I can,” said the proprietor. “This is the very place to come. Supper will be ready in an hour. Will you sit down by the stove and have a drop of something warm?”

“I don’t mind. We’ve had a rough time outside for the last week, and hain’t got warmed up yet.”

The sailor and his young companion drew a couple of chairs near the stove, and sat down, whereupon a short, thickset man, who, seated in a remote corner of the room, had been regarding them rather sharply ever since they came in, arose and pulled his chair to Flint’s side.

“Did you say you want to ship?” he asked in a low tone, at the same time casting a quick glance toward the card players.

“Yes,” replied the sailor, running his eye over the man; “but we hain’t in no hurry about it.”

“Well, I am in a great hurry to raise a crew, and should like to get one to-night. I am second mate of the clipper Santa Maria, bound for Honolulu—forty dollars advance. Better say you’ll put your name down. Best ship you ever sailed in, and you’ll find every thing lovely aboard her. The cap’n’s a gentleman. Ask him for a chaw of tobacco, and you’ll have to mind your eye or get knocked overboard with a whole plug of it, and the mates ain’t none of your loblolly boys neither. What do you say?”

“Say no, mate,” exclaimed one of the card players, all of whom had paused in their game to hear what the mate had to say to Flint. “Don’t go near the bloody hooker.”

“What’s the matter with her?” asked Flint.

“Why, she’s got a crew aboard she never discharges, and who don’t sign articles,” answered the sailor.

“Then I guess I won’t ship,” said Flint, picking up his chair and moving it nearer the players.

“You’d better not. She’s been trying for three days to find a crew—the cap’n, both the mates, and all the shipping agents in port have been running about the streets looking for hands, but everybody who knows her is shy of her. She has borne a hard name from the day she was launched.”

“And all through just such fellows as you are!” cried the mate, jumping to his feet, his face red with anger. “Don’t I wish I had you with me just one more voyage? I’d haze you until you were ready to jump overboard.”

“But you’ll never have me with you another voyage,” said the sailor, with a laugh. “One cruise in the Santa Maria is as much as I can stand. Ay, you had better go!” he continued, as the mate buttoned his coat and hurried toward the door. “You’re no good here, and you’ll never raise a crew until you call on the sharks.”

“Look out that I don’t get you in that way, my hearty,” exclaimed the mate, as he slammed the door behind him.

The sailors once more turned to their cards, and Flint moved back beside Guy. At this moment the landlord came up, bringing on a tray two glasses filled with some steaming liquor. Flint took them off the tray and placed them on the floor behind the stove.

“What did that sailor mean when he said that the Santa Maria had a crew who don’t sign articles?” asked Guy in a whisper.

“He meant ghosts,” replied Flint.

“Ghosts?” repeated Guy. “Humph!”

“Hold on there, and don’t say ‘humph’ till you know what you’re talking about,” said the sailor sharply.

“Why, Flint, there are no such things. You surely don’t believe in them?”

“I surely do, though.”

“You have never seen one.”

“Avast there!” exclaimed Flint.

“Have you, really? What did it look like?”

“They take different shapes. I’ve seen them that looked like rats, and I’ve seen ’em that looked like black cats. Sometimes you can’t see ’em at all, and them kind is the worst, for they’re the ones that talks. Once, when I was a youngster, a little older than you, I sailed in a ship out of Boston. One night it blew such a gale that it took twenty-six of us to furl the mainsail, and we were almost an hour in doing it, too. We lost one man overboard while we were about it, and every night after that when the order was given to lay aloft to loose or furl the sails, we were certain to find Dave Curry there before us working like a trooper. Oh, it’s gospel,” said Flint earnestly, seeing that an expression of incredulity settled on the face of his young companion; “’cause I saw him often with my own eyes, and what I tell you I have seen, you may put down as the truth. Shortly after that I sailed in a brig whose bell every night when the mid-watch was called struck four times, and no one ever went near it.”

“Who struck it then, if no one went near it?” demanded Guy, not yet convinced.

“The ghost of a quartermaster, and a man-o’-wars man who was lost overboard when the brig made her first cruise. The last voyage I made was in a ship bound around the Cape. When the time came we begun to prepare for bad weather by sending down the royal yards and mast and getting in the flying jib-boom. One of the hands was out on the boom and had just sung out, ‘haul in!’ when a sea broke over the bows and he was never seen afterward. But every night we used to hear him, as plain as I can hear myself speaking now, calling out as if he were tired of waiting, ‘haul in!’ We kept a good lookout, but although we could never see any one, we always heard the voice. What are you looking at them glasses so steady for? You don’t want to drink that stuff, do you?”

“No; I drink nothing stronger than beer.”

“And if you know when you are well off you will let that alone,” said Flint earnestly. “It never does nobody no good. It takes your money as fast as you can earn it, and gets you into scrapes. I know by experience.”

“Why don’t you empty one of the glasses?” asked Guy.

“Do you think I’m fool enough to drink anything in this house?” inquired Flint, in a low whisper. “Didn’t you hear that fellow tell the mate that he’d never ship a crew till he got the sharks to help him.”

“Yes, but I don’t know what he means.”

“You never saw a two-legged shark, did you?”

“No, I never did.”

“Well, there’s one,” said Flint, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the bar.

“Who? Where? You don’t mean the landlord?”

“Don’t I, though? I don’t mean nobody else. I can tell one of them fellows as far as I can see him. He’ll have a crew for the Santa Maria before many hours, now you see if he don’t. That’s what he’s up to, and that’s why I don’t drink the stuff in that glass. Them fellows playing cards are all fools. They’ll be out of sight of land some fine morning, now you see if they don’t—to-morrow may be.”

Flint settled back in his chair, nursed his right leg, and winked knowingly at Guy.

“I don’t understand,” said the boy. “They won’t ship aboard the Santa Maria, will they?”

“Yes, they will.”

“They needn’t do it unless they choose.”

“Ah! needn’t they though? That shows all you know. You see the landlord is keeping them here by dosing ’em with something strong—a sailor is always ready to stay where he can get plenty to drink—and by the time it comes dark they’ll be half-seas over. Then the landlord will drug ’em to sleep by putting something in their drinks, and get help and carry them aboard the Santa Maria. By the time they get their senses again they’ll be miles away.”

“But they can’t do duty if they’re drugged,” said Guy.

“No matter. If they can’t do duty to-day they can to-morrow, and the cap’n ’ll take ’em so long as they ain’t dead.”

“Let’s get away from here and go somewhere else,” said Guy in great alarm. “I don’t want to stay with such a man. I’m afraid of him.”

“Well, you needn’t be. All we’ve got to do is to keep clear heads on our shoulders, and we’re all right. Just bear one thing in mind. As long as you stay in this house don’t drink nothing, not even water.”

“Supper!” cried the landlord at this moment. “Walk right into the dining-room, boys. Why, what’s the matter, mates?” he added, glancing from Flint and his companion to the untasted glasses on the floor; “don’t they suit you?”

“No; they’re too stiff and got too much sugar in ’em.”

“Then step right up to the bar and let me mix you another glass. It sha’n’t cost you a cent.”

“Never mind now,” said Flint. “We’ll wait until after supper.”

Guy, who had not had a square meal for a week, was delighted to find himself seated at a well-filled table once more. He fell to work in good earnest and made ample amends for his long fast. There were two drawbacks to the full enjoyment of the meal, and one was, he could not drink anything. Forgetting himself on several occasions he raised his cup of coffee to his lips, but being checked by a look or a sly nudge from Flint, always put it down untasted. The other drawback was the company in which he found himself.

The sailors knew little of the etiquette of the table, and cared less. They were merry and quarrelsome by turns, pounded on the table with their fists until the dishes jumped up and performed jigs and somersaults in the air, and talked, laughed, and swore at the top of their voices. The landlord seemed accustomed to all this, and never interfered with his guests except when it was necessary to keep them from coming to a free fight.

The sailors left the table one after the other, as their appetites were satisfied, and returned to the public room, whither they were followed by Flint and Guy, the former leading the way. As they were passing along the hall that led to the bar-room, the sailor suddenly paused, looked steadily at something before him for a moment, and then drew back.

“It’s come, and sooner than I thought for,” said he, in an excited whisper.

“What has come?” asked Guy.

“Stick your head out of that door and see for yourself. Be careful to keep out of sight of the landlord.”

Guy advanced cautiously toward the door, wondering what it could be that had so excited his companion, and Flint followed close to his heels, rolling up his sleeves and making other preparations indicative of a desire or intention to fight somebody.

CHAPTER XII.
IN THE COURT-ROOM.

GUY expected to see something startling, but was disappointed. The public room was as quiet and orderly as it had been at any time since he entered it. The sailors had resumed their game, and the landlord was standing behind the bar with a row of glasses ranged on a shelf before him, into each of which he was putting a small portion of a white powder that he took from a paper he held in his hand. Then he filled all the glasses with some kind of liquor, stirred them with a spoon, and placing them upon a tray started toward the table at which the sailors were sitting. “It is my treat now, lads,” said he, “and here is something to make your suppers set easy.”

“Don’t touch it,” shouted Flint, suddenly starting forward. “Knock him down, some of you. That stuff is doctored.”

Guy did not understand just what Flint meant by this, but it was plain that the sailors did. They all jumped to their feet in an instant, while the landlord put down the tray and looked at Guy’s companion with an expression on his face that was perfectly fiendish. A moment afterward a glass propelled by his hand came sailing through the air, and was shivered into fragments against the wall close beside Flint’s head.

“I’ll be at you in a second,” said the latter, as he coolly made his way behind the bar. “There’s the stuff that’s in your glasses, mates,” he added, throwing upon the counter the paper that contained the remainder of the drug. “If there is a ’pothecary among you, may be he can tell you what it is—I can’t.”

The sailors had, while at the supper table, given abundant evidence that they were in just the right humor for a row, and this was all that was needed to start one going. As Flint came out from behind the counter to pay his respects to the landlord in return for the glass the latter had thrown at his head, that worthy retreated toward the dining-room shouting lustily for help. It came almost immediately in the shape of three or four villainous-looking fellows who were armed with bludgeons. Their sudden appearance astonished Guy. He had seen no men about the house, and he could not imagine where they sprung from so quickly.

“There’s a man who wants to raise a fight,” cried the landlord, pointing to Flint. “Down with him.”

“Stand by me, mates,” said Flint, throwing off his hat, and pushing back his sleeves, “and we will clean the shanty.”

The opposing parties came together without a moment’s delay, and the noise and confusion that followed almost made Guy believe that pandemonium had broken loose. Having never witnessed such a scene before he was overcome with fear and bewilderment. Deprived of speech and the power of action, he stood watching the struggling men, all unconscious of the fact that he was every moment in danger of being stricken down by the glasses which whistled past his ears like bullets. At last the lights were extinguished, and this seemed to arouse Guy from his trance of terror. As quick as a flash he darted into the dining-room, and jerking open a door that led into the street, soon put a safe distance between himself and the combatants.

“Great Scott!” panted Guy, seating himself under a gas-lamp to rest after his rapid run. “I didn’t bargain for such things as this. I’d rather be at home a great sight. Why, a man’s life isn’t safe among such people. I am tired of the sea, and homesick besides; and I think the best thing I can do is to start for Norwall while I have money in my pocket.”

Had Guy acted upon this sensible conclusion, he might have saved himself from a great deal of misery that was yet in store for him. While he was thinking about it—trying to picture to himself the commotion his unexpected return would create in his father’s house, and wondering what sort of a reception would be extended to him—he heard some one coming rapidly down the sidewalk; and fearing that it might be the landlord, or some of his assistants, who were searching for him, he sprung up and darted down a cross street that led to the dock. He was running directly into more trouble, if he had only known, it—trouble that he was not to see the end of for months; and he brought it all on himself by so simple a thing as going to the dock.

While he was running along at the top of his speed, intent on getting out of hearing of the footsteps that seemed to be pursuing him, he suddenly became aware that there was something exciting going on in advance of him. He stopped to listen, and the blood seemed to curdle in his veins when he heard the sounds of a fierce struggle and a faint, gasping cry for help.

He looked in the direction from which the sounds came, and by the aid of the light from a gas-lamp, a short distance behind him, he could distinguish the forms of three men, who, clasped in a close embrace, were swaying back and forth, and so near the edge of the wharf that a single misstep on the part of one of them would have precipitated them all into the water.

“Another free fight,” thought Guy, whose first impulse was to turn and take to his heels. “These sailors are a dreadful set, and I’ll not stay among them a day longer.”

“Help! help!” shouted one of the men, his cry being almost instantly choked off by a strong grasp on his throat.

“Give up the money,” said a hoarse voice, “or over you go.”

A light suddenly dawned upon Guy’s mind; he begun to understand the matter now.

Two ruffians had set upon somebody with the intention of robbing him and throwing him into the harbor, and he was fighting hard for his life and property. Instantly Guy’s tongue was loosed, and he begun shouting at the top of his voice:

“Police! police!” he yelled. “Fire! murder! help!”

“There, we’re discovered,” exclaimed one of the robbers. “Let’s throw him over and run.”

Guy’s frantic appeal met with a prompt and most encouraging response—the rattle of a policeman’s club on the pavement. It was given probably as a warning to the robbers that there was somebody coming, and they had better be making off if they wished to avoid arrest. They acted upon the friendly hint by releasing their prisoner and trying to run away; but he, being strong and determined, seized them both with the intention of preventing their escape, at the same time awakening a thousand echoes among the deserted warehouses by his lusty cries for help, in which he was ably seconded by Guy. The robbers finally succeeded in throwing off their victim’s grasp, and one of them ran down the dock, while the other dodged into a door-way just as a policeman made his appearance around the corner.

“What’s the matter here?” demanded the officer with becoming dignity and imperiousness. “Is this you, Mr. Heyward?” he added, peering sharply into the face of the rescued man. “What’s all this row about?”

“Two men were trying to rob me,” replied Mr. Heyward, feeling in his pockets to satisfy himself that his purse and watch were safe.

“Well, where are they now? Why didn’t you hang onto them till I came?”

“I couldn’t. They broke away from me and ran off.”

“And one went that way and the other in there,” said Guy, pointing with his right hand down the dock, and with his left toward the door-way into which one of the highwaymen had fled for concealment. “I saw them both.”

The guardian of the night darted into the door-way, closely followed by Mr. Heyward, and presently Guy heard the sounds of a desperate fight going on in the dark. But it was over in a few seconds, and the policeman and his assistant reappeared, dragging the robber between them.

“That’s the man,” said Guy. “I know him by his fur cap.”

“Will you swear to him?” asked Mr. Heyward. “I think I recognize him; but, to tell the truth, he and his comrade assaulted me so unexpectedly, and kept me so busy, that I didn’t have a chance to take a good look at either of them.”

“Of course I’ll swear to him,” replied Guy. “I would know him anywhere.”

“All right. I shall want you for a witness to-morrow. What is your name and where do you live?”

“I don’t live anywhere. I’m a sailor,” said Guy, who did not think it best to answer the first part of the question.

“Then I shall have to take you with me,” said the policeman. “Come on.”

“Where must I go?”

“Why, to the station, of course.”

“To the watch-house!” exclaimed Guy, greatly amazed. “Oh, now, what must I go there for? I haven’t been doing anything.”

“I know it,” said Mr. Heyward. “No one accuses you. But I intend to prosecute this ruffian to the full extent of the law, and you will be the principal witness against him—in fact, the only one whose evidence will amount to anything. In order to convict him I must have some one to swear positively that he is the man who attempted to rob me. I can’t do it, and neither can the policeman.”

“Come on, and don’t waste any more words over it,” commanded the officer.

Guy, whose courage had been completely frightened out of him by the scenes of violence he had witnessed, timidly obeyed. He fell in behind the officer and Mr. Heyward, who led the robber toward the police headquarters.

Guy had read in the papers that lodgings were sometimes furnished at watch-houses, and that night he learned what it meant. He found that those who were accommodated with quarters at the expense of the city were not provided with comfortable beds and private apartments, as they would have been had they put up at a first-class hotel. He was thrust into a room with a lot of homeless wanderers, and lay all night on the hard floor, with no covering, and nothing but his tarpaulin to serve as a pillow. How homesick he was, and how heartily he wished himself under his father’s roof once more!

Very frequently, as he rolled about, trying to find a plank soft enough to sleep upon, he would raise himself upon his elbow, look around at the ragged, slumbering men by whom he was surrounded, and think of the neat little bedroom and soft, warm couch to which he had been accustomed at home. While brooding over his boyish troubles and trials he had never thought of the comforts and privileges that fell to his lot, but he thought of them now, when it was too late to enjoy them.

He passed a most miserable night, and was glad indeed when day began to dawn and the lodgers to disperse; but he was not allowed to leave the station, not even long enough to get his breakfast. He was kept under lock and key until ten o’clock, when Mr. Heyward’s case came up for trial. When he was conducted into the court-room, which was packed with loungers and embryo lawyers, as justices’ courts almost always are, he felt and looked more like a criminal than the hardened wretch who sat in the dock. He had never been in a court-room before, and he knew so little of the manner in which proceedings are conducted there that he was shown the witness-stand three different times before he could be made to comprehend that he was expected to occupy it.

“You seem to be very dull, young man,” said the justice sharply. “What is your name?”

The tone of voice in which the question was propounded, accompanied as it was by a fierce frown on the judicial face, was enough to frighten away what few wits Guy had left about him. He did not know what reply to make. If he gave his own name it might go into the papers and be seen by everybody who knew him, and if he gave a fictitious one, the judge might find it out in some way and punish him.

“Witness, did you hear my question?” demanded the justice. “What is your name?”

“Guy Harris,” answered the boy.

“Well, why couldn’t you have said so at once and not kept me waiting so long? Swear him.”

A red-faced gentleman, with a long nose and ruffled shirt, arose and mumbled a few words which Guy did not understand, and when he sat down, another, who proved to be a lawyer, took him in hand and went at him in a way that completed his discomfiture. He reminded Guy that he was on his oath, informed him that he should expect the truth and nothing but the truth from him, and ended his exordium by asking him where he lived—another question that Guy did not care to answer.

And it was so all through the examination. The lawyer insisted upon knowing all about matters that Guy wanted to keep to himself, and the consequence was that in less than five minutes he was completely wound up, and stammered, hesitated and blushed in a way that made everybody believe that he was not telling the truth. At the end of half an hour he was told that he might step down, and he was very glad to do it, for he was perspiring as if he had been engaged in some severe manual labor, trembling in every limb and so weak that he could scarcely remain upon his feet. He had seen quite enough of a court-room, and anxious to get out of it as soon as possible, began elbowing his way through the crowd toward Mr. Heyward, who was sealed beside his lawyer.

I know I might make this part of my story more interesting by saying that Mr. Heyward, who beyond all doubt owed his rescue entirely to Guy, was a rich merchant; that to show his gratitude to his preserver he took him home with him and dressed him like a gentleman; that he gave him a situation in his store, and that Guy was so smart and quick to learn that he became a full partner in two years and married the merchant’s beautiful and only daughter, and that the merchant finally died, and left him heir to two millions of dollars. That would be a grand way to wind up the career of our hero, but unfortunately he is a bad boy, and it is only the good ones whose lines fall in such pleasant places.

Guy had a very different future before him. Mr. Heyward did not even thank him for the service he had rendered, and Guy did not expect it. All he cared for was to get out of the court-room and that as quickly as possible.

“Are they through with me now?” he asked, when he reached Mr. Heyward’s side.

“Yes, for the present,” was the answer.

That was enough for Guy, who began crowding his way toward the door, paying little heed to the growling of those whose toes he trod upon or whose sides he jammed, with his elbows. He breathed, easier when he reached the street, and hurried away looking for a restaurant where he might find something to satisfy his appetite, for it was now twelve o’clock and he had had no breakfast.

“Thank goodness, I am out of there at last!” said he, wiping his dripping forehead, “and I’ll never go near a place like it again if I can help it. If I see a fight going on, I’ll run away and not stop to learn who comes out first best. How savagely that prisoner looked at me while I was giving my evidence! There was an expression in his eye which said, as plainly as words, ‘I’ll pay you for that some day, my boy!’ I wonder what they are going to do with him anyhow?”

To explain what happened afterward it is necessary to answer this question. The prisoner was convicted on Guy’s evidence and held to bail to answer to a higher court for an assault with intent to commit robbery. Bail was speedily found by his friends, and the man was at liberty to go where he pleased until the following month, when his case would come up for trial.

As soon as this decision was rendered, Mr. Heyward, who was resolved that the robber should not escape punishment, began looking about for his witness, intending to have him locked up until the day of trial. But the boy was not to be found about the court-room, and a policeman was sent out to hunt him up.

The runaway little dreamed that he had a prospect before him of being shut up in jail for a whole month.

Guy found an eating-house at last, and entering, stood at the counter while he drank a cup of muddy coffee, ate a cold boiled egg and a ham sandwich, and thought over his prospects—or rather his want of them. He was alone in the world once more, for Flint, his only friend, was gone. He had not seen him since the fight at the boarding-house. Guy was afraid to go back there after him, or to get his luggage, and more than that, he was not certain that he could find his way there, even if he wanted to go. Of one thing he was satisfied, and that was, that if Flint was still alive and at liberty, the place to look for him was on the dock in the neighborhood of the shipping. Thither Guy accordingly bent his steps as soon as he had finished his breakfast.

CHAPTER XIII.
“JOHN THOMAS, A. B.”

WHEN he found his friend Flint, Guy did not know just what he would do. Probably he intended to be governed entirely by his advice, for he had already thought better of his resolution to return at once to Norwall.

It is true that he had seen the rough side of the world so far during his wanderings, but he believed that it had better things in store for him. At any rate he would find Flint and ask him if it hadn’t. The sailor was so jolly and hopeful, and spoke so encouragingly whenever Guy told him of his troubles, that it was a pleasure to be in his company.

Guy spent an hour in unavailing search for his friend, but he discovered the Ossipee, which was discharging her cargo preparatory to going into the dry docks, and by taking her as a point of departure succeeded at last in finding the boarding-house at which he had eaten supper the night before.

He approached it with the utmost caution, momentarily expecting to come suddenly upon some signs of the terrible fracas that had taken place there a few hours ago, such as broken skulls, dissevered limbs, and lifeless bodies; but nothing of the kind was to be seen. The place was as quiet as the station-house he had just left, and Guy had half a mind to go in and ask for Flint, but hesitated when he thought of the landlord, with his fierce mustache and closely-cropped head. He did not want to see the landlord again, or that worthy might demand to know what he meant by running out of his house in that unceremonious manner and leaving his supper bill unpaid.

While Guy was wondering how he could answer such a question without wounding the landlord’s feelings, a hail came to him from the opposite side of the street.

“Halloo there! Hold on a minute!” exclaimed a voice.

Guy looked up and saw a stranger coming toward him. He was dressed in broadcloth, wore a shining plug hat on his head, and well-blacked boots on his feet; rings sparkled on his fingers, something that looked like a diamond glittered in his shirt bosom, and a heavy gold watch-chain dangled across his crimson waistcoat. Taken altogether he reminded Guy of the steward of the Queen of the Lakes. He approached with some eagerness in his manner, and as he came up thrust out his hand and greeted the boy with:

“Why, Jenkins, how are you? Glad to see you; when did you come in? Just been down to your ship looking for you. How are you, I say?”

The stranger smiled so good-naturedly, shook his hand so warmly, and appeared so delighted to see him, that Guy was rather taken aback. As soon as he could speak, he replied:

“I came in night before last in the schooner Ossipee from Chicago; but my name isn’t Jenkins.”

The stranger started, and looked at Guy a moment with an expression of great surprise on his face.

“Well, I declare, I have made a mistake—that’s a fact!” said he. “But you look enough like Jenkins to be his brother. You see, he’s a particular friend of mine, and I am always on the lookout to do him a neighborly turn. I wonder if you are as good a sailor as he is.”

“I am a sailor,” replied Guy.

“Of course you are. I can tell that by the cut of your jib.”

These words went straight to Guy’s heart, and vastly increased his importance in his own eyes. He straightened up, thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and took a few steps up and down the sidewalk, rolling from side to side as he had seen Flint do.

“Think I don’t know a sailor man when I see him!” exclaimed the stranger. “Why, I have been one myself. Take something warm this frosty morning?”

“No, sir,” emphatically replied the boy, who had already seen enough of the evils of strong drink. “You don’t get anything warm down me.”

“Good resolution!” cried the man, giving Guy’s hand another cordial shake, and slapping him familiarly on the back. “Stick to it. Do you know that that is one of the things that keeps you sailor men before the mast all your lives? It is the sober, intelligent ones, just such fellows as I see you are, who get to be mates and captains. Now, I can put you on a vessel where you will be pushed ahead as fast as you can stand it. You want a berth, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t,” replied Guy. “I want to find my mate; and if I don’t succeed, I am going home.”

“Your mate!” exclaimed the stranger. “Oh, I know him—know him well. It’s Jack a—Jack a——”

“No, it isn’t Jack; it’s Dick Flint.”

“Why, so it is. How stupid in me to forget his name! I saw him with you yesterday, come to think. Let me see,” added the stranger, placing his finger on his forehead and looking down at the ground in a brown study; “didn’t I ship him last night on board the Santa Maria? Of course I did.”

“Of course you didn’t. He don’t ship on no such vessel, and neither do I. She’s got a crew aboard of her who don’t sign articles,” said Guy glibly, making use of some expressions he had heard at the boarding-house. “I don’t want to ship with ghosts. I have seen too many of them in my time.”

“Have you, though?” said the stranger. “I knew you were an old salt as soon as I put my eyes on you.”

“Yes,” said Guy, pushing his tarpaulin on one side of his head, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets, and making a motion with his tongue as if he were turning a quid of tobacco in his mouth. “The last voyage I made was in a ship bound around the Cape. When the time came we began to get ready for bad weather by sending down the royal-yards and masts, and taking in the flying jib-boom. One of the hands—my chum he was, too, and the best fellow and finest sailor that ever chewed biscuit—was out on the boom, and had just sung out ‘haul in!’ when a big sea broke over the vessel, and that was the last we ever saw of him—that is, alive. But every night after that when the mid-watch was called, and the order was given to haul in the flying jib-boom, we were sure to find that fellow out there before us, working like a trooper. No, sir, I don’t ship in any more vessels that carry ghosts, if I know it.”

Guy pushed his hat further on the side of his head, turned his back partly to the stranger and looked as wise as possible, thinking no doubt that he had made an impression on his auditor. He did not know that he had got his narrative somewhat mixed up, but that the stranger did was evident. There was a roguish twinkle in his eye, and he was obliged to bite his lips to keep from laughing outright. Controlling himself with an effort he leaned toward Guy and said, in a low, confidential tone:

“I don’t blame you. The Santa Maria does bear a hard name, that’s a fact, and I wouldn’t sail in her myself. I’ve got another vessel on my books—the clipper Morning Light, bound up the Mediterranean, and I know that’s the very place you want to go. Isn’t it now, say?” he exclaimed, hitting the boy a back-handed slap on the chest.

“Yes,” answered Guy. “I should like to go.”

“Of course you would. Everybody wants to go, but only a few can get the chance. I tell you it takes influence to get a berth on board a Mediterranean trader,” said the man, who knew that he could impose upon Guy to his heart’s content. “Wealthy country that, and if you don’t come back rich, it will be your own fault. Ostrich feathers are plenty and worth a hundred dollars a pound on this side of the Atlantic. Diamonds, pearls, nuggets, and gold-dust, are to be had for the picking up. Everybody fills his pockets, from the captain down to Jemmy Ducks. Come and put down your name. Where’s your dunnage?”

“Hold on,” said Guy, as the stranger seized his arm and tried to pull him away. “I want to find Flint, and see what he has to say about it.”

“I know where he is, and can find him for you in less than ten minutes,” said the stranger, who had about as clear an idea of Flint’s whereabouts as Guy himself. “All I ask of you is to put down your name. Where’s your dunnage?”

“I left it in there last night,” said Guy, pointing toward the boarding-house.

“Why, the landlord didn’t ship you, did he? That is, he didn’t find a vessel for you?”

“No, I didn’t give him a chance. They had a fight in there, and I ran away.”

“A fight. Oh, that’s nothing. It’s all settled now, I’ll warrant. Come with me. I’ll get your dunnage for you.”

Guy did not hesitate to enter the boarding-house under the protection of the stranger, and indeed he need not have been afraid to go in there alone.

There was but one man in the bar-room, and that was the second mate of the Santa Maria, who was probably on the lookout for a crew for his vessel.

“Morning, Rupert,” said the stranger, as he and Guy entered; “I believe my young friend here left something with you last night.”

“Ah, yes; here it is,” replied the landlord, handing Guy’s bundle over the counter and smiling pleasantly upon the boy. “What made you dig out in such a hurry? Did the fellows scare you?”

“Yes, they did,” replied Guy.

“You need not have been alarmed. You were my guest, and of course I should have protected you. You see, Smith,” added the landlord, turning to the shipping agent, “the boys had a bit of a blow-out here last night, and one or two of them came to a clinch. It was all over in a minute, and we took a few drinks all around and made it up. It didn’t amount to anything.”

“I think it amounted to a good deal,” said Guy, looking around at the walls where the plastering had been knocked off by the flying glasses. “It frightened me, I tell you. Where is Flint now?”

“Flint?” repeated the landlord interrogatively. “Do you mean the man who came here with you. Oh, he’s up-stairs with the rest, sleeping it off.”

“I’d like to see him,” said Guy.

“Of course you can, if you wish, but I wouldn’t trouble him if I were you. Let him sleep. He’ll be down to supper, and then you can talk to him.”

“By the way,” said Smith suddenly, “Flint has shipped aboard the Morning Light, hasn’t he?”

Smith looked steadily at the landlord as he said this, and the landlord looked steadily at Smith. The two worthies evidently understood one another.

“Yes,” was the landlord’s reply. “He’s signed articles, and got his advance fair and square.”

“There, now,” said the shipping agent, turning to Guy; “are you satisfied? Your mate has shipped aboard my vessel, and if you will come with me I will ship you. You’ll see splendid times up the Mediterranean,” he added, with a sly wink at the landlord.

“Finest country in the world,” observed that gentleman.

“Such chances to make money,” suggested the agent.

“Never saw the beat,” said the landlord. “Been up there myself, and that’s the way I got my start in the world. Went out cabin-boy, and came back sailing my own vessel.”

“Do you hear that?” exclaimed the agent, triumphantly. “Didn’t I tell you so? Come with me, and I’ll put you in the way to make a man of yourself.”

Before Guy could reply the agent assisted him to shoulder his bundle, and gently forcing him into the street, locked arms with him and led him away, talking rapidly all the while, and giving the boy no chance to put in a word. In a few minutes more he found himself seated in a small, dark room, which the agent called his office; and the latter, having placed before him on the table a large sheet of ruled paper, which contained several names—taking care, however, to keep his hands spread out over the top of it—nodded his head toward a pen that was sticking in an inkstand close by, and told Guy to put down his name.

As the boy was about to comply it occurred to him that it might be a good plan to find out what sort of a paper it was that he was expected to sign. But just as he was on the point of asking some questions concerning it, he was checked by the thought that by such a proceeding he would show his ignorance, and beside, it would look too much as though he doubted his gentlemanly friend, the shipping agent. So he said nothing, signed a name to the paper, and was held for a voyage to—well, it was to some place a long way from the shores of the Mediterranean.

“John Thomas; that’s all right. You are a good penman, and ought to be something better than a foremast hand. When your ship comes back to this port, if you don’t tell me that you have made yourself rich by the voyage, and that you are at least a second mate, I shall be ashamed of you. Now, then,” said the agent, laying his pocket-book on the table and taking the pen from the boy’s hand, “what shall I put after your name—A. B.?”

“What’s that?” asked Guy.

“Why, you’re an able seaman, are you not!”

“No—that is, yes; of course I am. But I want to go as cabin-boy. I like that better.”

“I can’t ship you as cabin-boy; got one already. You will get more money by going before the mast, and you want to make all you can, don’t you? I’ll fix it for you.”

The agent dipped his pen into the ink and wrote A. B. after the name Guy had signed, and Guy, ignoramus that he was, never tried to prevent him. If he could make more money by going as an able seaman of course it was to his advantage to do it. That was the way he looked at the matter then, but before many hours had passed over his head he took a different view of it. He learned through much tribulation that honesty is the best policy one can pursue, even though he be a sea-faring man.

The agent having prevailed upon Guy to sign articles, seemed on a sudden to lose all interest in him. It is true that after he paid him his advance he accompanied him to a store and assisted him in making some necessary additions to his outfit, but he hurried through the business, his every action indicating that he was impatient to be rid of Guy. When all the purchases had been made he took a hasty leave of the boy and told him to go to Rupert’s boarding-house and stay there, holding himself in readiness to go aboard his vessel at six o’clock that night. If he was not on hand when he was wanted, he would find the police after him.

CHAPTER XIV.
SHIPPING A CREW.

“HUMPH!” said Guy to himself, as he shouldered his bundle and started toward Rupert’s boarding-house, “there is no danger that I shall have the police after me. If Flint is going out in the Morning Light of course I must go too, for he is the only friend I have in the world, and I am bound to stick to him. I don’t see what made that shipping agent grow so very cold and distant all of a sudden. I wish now, since he has shown himself so very independent, that I had examined that paper before I signed it. He was very polite until he got me to put down my name, and then he was almost ready to insult me. I can’t imagine what need I shall have of all these thick clothes he made me buy,” added Guy, as he shifted his heavy bundle from one shoulder to the other. “I thought it was warm up the Mediterranean. I knew he tried to fool me when he told me about the pearls and diamonds, but I don’t care. I shall see something of the world and be my own master, and perhaps when I return I will have money enough to take me out to the Rocky Mountains. I haven’t given up my idea of being a hunter, and I never shall.”

Guy passed a dreary afternoon at the boarding-house, in spite of the friendly efforts of the landlord to make things pleasant for him. That gentleman talked incessantly and told wonderful stories about the rapid promotions and sudden fortunes that were sure to fall to the lot of everybody who was fortunate enough to go up the Mediterranean on the clipper-ship Morning Light. But Guy, green as he was, did not believe them. He did not care to talk either, for he was very lonely and wanted to see Flint. Contrary to the landlord’s promise, the sailor did not make his appearance at the supper table, the host accounting for his absence by telling Guy that Flint did not feel very well and wanted to sleep as long as he could.

“May I see him?” asked the boy.

“No, he doesn’t want to be disturbed,” was the reply. “I have just been to his room to tell him you were here, and he asked me to tell you to go aboard your vessel at six o’clock, and he will come as soon as he awakes.”

Guy was not at all pleased with this arrangement. He did not believe that Flint had sent him any such instructions, and neither did he want to go away without seeing him. But he could not help himself, for at six o’clock precisely Smith, the shipping agent, appeared and ordered him to shoulder his bundle and come on.

The boy was obliged to obey. He followed the agent to the dock and into a yawl manned by two sailors, who immediately shoved off toward a vessel lying at anchor in the harbor.

Guy did not like the looks of her. If she was a clipper, he had hitherto had very erroneous ideas of marine architecture, he told himself. She looked more like the pictures he had seen of Dutch galliots.

When they reached her Guy followed the agent over the side, and one of the sailors threw his bundle up after him.

“Here’s an A. B. I have brought you,” said the agent, addressing himself to a man who came up to meet them.

“All right,” was the reply. “What’s his name?”

Guy started and looked sharply at the speaker. He was certain that he had seen him before. He was dressed like the man who had introduced himself to Flint as the second mate of the Santa Maria, and his voice was wonderfully like the mate’s, too. Guy tried to get a glimpse of his face, but it was effectually concealed by a tarpaulin and a heavy woolen muffler.

“His name is John Thomas,” said the agent, seeing that Guy did not answer the question.

“Take your dunnage into the forecastle, Thomas, and be ready to turn to at any moment,” said the man.

“I declare, he’s an officer,” thought Guy, “and I really believe he’s the second mate of the Santa Maria. If he is, how came he here on board the Morning Light? Dear me, I wish Flint would come.”

“Good-by, Jack,” said the agent, shaking the boy’s hand. “I’ve got you into tidy quarters, and shall expect to hear a good report of you.”

“What do you suppose keeps Flint?” asked Guy anxiously.

“I am sure I can’t tell. I have nothing to do with him, you know. Rupert shipped him—I didn’t. No doubt he’ll be aboard directly. Good-by.”

The agent disappeared over the side and Guy shouldered his dunnage and went down into the forecastle. Three or four of the bunks were already occupied, and, selecting one of the empty ones, Guy made up his bed in it, and then went on deck to look about him and await the arrival of Flint.

There were a few men on deck, the owners of the beds he had seen in the forecastle, but they did not notice Guy, and he was too much interested in his own affairs to have anything to say to them. Flint’s absence was the source of great anxiety to him. He could not account for it, and neither could he explain the remarkable resemblance between the man who met him as he came over the side and the second mate of the Santa Maria, whom he had last seen in the public room of the boarding-house.

“Could it be possible,” he asked himself—and at the thought the blood went rushing back upon his heart, leaving his face as pale as death itself—“that the agent had made a mistake and brought him to the Santa Maria instead of the Morning Light?”

“Great Cæsar!” thought Guy, catching his breath, “if that is the case I’m among the ghosts in spite of myself. I’ll ask some of these men. Of course they know the name of the vessel.”

As Guy was about to act upon this resolution his attention was attracted by the sound of oars, and running to the side he saw a large yawl approaching the ship.

His hopes arose wonderfully, but fell again when he discovered that there were but three men in the boat—two plying the oars and the other sitting in the stern with his hands on the tiller.

“Boat ahoy!” said the mate, leaning over the rail and speaking almost in a whisper.

“Rupert!” was the answer, given in the same cautious tone.

“All right,” exclaimed the officer. “I thought you were never coming. Stand by there, one of you, to catch the painter. Cap’n,” he added, thrusting his head down the companion way, “the boat’s come.”

Guy, being the nearest at hand, caught the painter as it came whirling up to him, and as he drew the boat up to the ladder that was quickly lowered over the side, he was surprised to see that she was loaded almost to the water’s edge.

A number of bundles and chests were piled in the bow, and the bottom was covered with men—probably a dozen or fifteen of them in all—who appeared to be asleep. Of those who managed the yawl one was Rupert, the boarding-house keeper, and the others were two of his assistants, who had rushed into the bar-room to quell the fight, or rather to help it along.

Guy recognized them at once. He wondered what they were going to do with the men who were lying on the bottom of the boat, and was not long in finding out.

The men must have been slumbering heavily, for the landlord and his assistants made no effort to arouse them, but lifting them in their arms, one after the other, carried them up the ladder and laid them in a row on the deck, as if they had been dead men.

The last one who was brought over the side was Dick Flint, limp and lifeless like the rest. Guy was greatly horrified and disgusted to see his friend in such a condition. He had been almost twenty-four hours trying to sleep off the effect of the “blow out” at which he had assisted. He must have been very drunk indeed.

“I wish to goodness I had stayed ashore,” said Guy, almost ready to cry with vexation. “I don’t want a drunkard for my companion, and I’ll tell Flint so at the very first opportunity. I believe home is the best place for a boy after all. If he gets whipped and scolded sometimes when he doesn’t deserve it, he always has plenty to eat, a good bed to sleep in, and isn’t obliged to associate with such wretches as these. Halloo! what is the captain up to, I wonder?”

The men had all been carried to the deck by this time, and now a piece of iniquity was enacted that struck Guy dumb with amazement. The captain and his mate, accompanied by the boarding-house keeper, approached the place where the sailors were lying. The former held in his hands a pen and a roll of paper, which proved to be the shipping articles Guy had signed in the agent’s office; the mate carried an inkstand and Rupert a lantern.

“What is this man’s name?” asked the captain, stopping at the head of the row and pointing with his pen toward one of the prostrate sailors.

“Richard Flint,” replied the landlord, “and he is an able seaman.”

The captain wrote Flint’s name and rate on the shipping articles, and then kneeling down beside him, placed the pen between his nerveless fingers, and seizing his hand in his own, described a cross with it upon the shipping articles. This done, the captain passed the pen over to his mate, who signed his own name opposite Flint’s, and the latter stood on the shipping articles in this way:

his

Richard X Flint, A. B.

mark

Jacob Schwartz,

Second Mate, and witness to signature.

Although the whole proceeding was most outrageous, the form was according to law, and Flint, had he recovered his senses at that moment, would have been held for the cruise in spite of himself. Remonstrance would have been of no avail, and resistance would have rendered him liable to punishment.

But this was not all the wickedness that was perpetrated upon the unconscious seaman. While the mate was signing his name to the articles the captain produced his pocket-book and counted out forty dollars in bills, which he placed in Flint’s hand, and closing his fingers over them, turned to the man who lay next to him, and whom he shipped and paid in the same manner.

Guy had been a puzzled witness of the whole proceedings, but now he thought he begun to understand it.

“I have been lied to and cheated,” said he to himself. “Rupert and Smith both told me that Flint had signed articles and received his advance all fair and square; and if that was the truth, how does it come that he is being shipped and paid over again? I am afraid I have got myself into a scrape.”

Guy did not know just what sort of a scrape he had got into, and he could not stop to think about it then, for another matter demanded his attention. He was interested in Flint’s affairs, and knowing that the sailor could not take care of his money while he was in that condition, he started toward him, intending to take possession of it, and give it to him when he became sober; but what was his surprise to see Rupert step up to the insensible man, and coolly unclasping his fingers, put the money in his own pocket. In other words, he deliberately robbed Flint, and that, too, before the face and eyes of the captain and his mate, who, although they must have observed the act, did not pay the least attention to it. This was more than Guy could stand. He walked up to the captain and boldly charged Rupert with the theft.

“Captain,” said he, “do you see what this landlord is doing? He is stealing the advance as fast as you pay it to the men.”

The result of this exposure of the boarding-house keeper was just what Guy might have looked for had he taken time to consider the matter before acting. He supposed, in his simplicity, that the landlord would turn pale and tremble, like the guilty wretch he was, and that the captain, after compelling him to return the money, would arrest him on the spot, or unceremoniously kick him off his vessel. But nothing of the kind happened. Rupert looked a little surprised, but only gave Guy one quick glance and held the lantern lower, so that the captain could see to sign another name. The latter, however, arose hastily, placed his pen between his teeth, and seizing Guy by the throat, choked him until he was black in the face; and then, with a strong push, sent him sprawling on deck.

“There, now,” said he, “that’s the first lesson; and if it don’t learn you to keep a civil tongue in your head, and speak when you’re spoken to, I’ll give you another that’ll sink deeper. Turn to and carry that dunnage into the forecastle.”

The severe choking to which Guy had been subjected, and the jarring occasioned by his heavy fall on deck, had well-nigh proved too much for him. His head whirled about like a top, sparks of fire danced before his eyes, and his legs for the moment refused to support him. He was in no condition just then to carry heavy burdens, but he had heard the order and dared not disregard it. His last week’s experience on board the Ossipee had taught him that instant obedience and unquestioning submission is the whole duty of a foremast hand. He is looked upon as a slave, a beast of burden, an unreasoning brute, who has no right to any desires, feelings, or will of his own. If he receives a blow from a handspike that would brain an ox, he has no business to become insensible or get sick over it, but must jump up at once and resume his work with cheerfulness and alacrity. Guy, however could not do this, for he had not yet been sufficiently hardened. He pulled himself up by the fife-rail and clung to it several minutes before his head became steady, so that he could walk.

Was this the beginning of the “better times” which, according to Flint, he was to enjoy when once he was “fairly afloat?” Guy asked himself; and then seeing the captain looking his way, he released his hold on the fife-rail, and staggered toward the bundles belonging to the sailors, which lay where Rupert and his assistants had thrown them. With great difficulty, for he was still very weak, he raised one of them to his shoulder, and carrying it to the forecastle, threw it into one of the empty bunks.

As he was about to return to the deck he met two of the crew coming down the ladder carrying the insensible form of Dick Flint between them. They did not handle him very gently, but pitched him into one of the bunks as if he had been a log of wood, and laughed and passed some rough joke when his head came in contact with the hard boards.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!” said Guy, indignantly. “This man is my friend, and too good a fellow to be jammed about in that way, even if he is drunk.”

“Well, now, who are you that comes here giving orders and making yourself so free?” demanded one of the men, turning fiercely upon Guy.

“I am a sailor like yourself, and a better one than you dare ever be,” retorted the runaway, little dreaming how soon he would be called upon to make good his boast.

“I ain’t saying nothing against that,” said the man, with a little more respect in his tones; “but I’d like to know what port you have sailed out of all your life that you can’t tell the difference between a man that’s drunk and one that’s drugged!”

“Drugged!” exclaimed Guy, utterly confounded.

“Yes; that’s what’s the matter with your mate. The last glass he took was doctored. You might pound him to death with a belaying-pin and never hurt him.”

“Drugged!” repeated Guy, some scraps of the conversation he had held with Flint at the boarding-house coming vividly to his mind. “What ship is this?” he asked suddenly.

“Why, didn’t you sign articles?”

“Yes, but I’m afraid I’ve been cheated.”

“No, I guess not,” said the sailor. “You came aboard with a clear head on your shoulders, so you’re all right.”

But Guy was quite positive that he was not all right. He would have given a month’s wages to know the name of the vessel he had shipped on, but dared not press the man to give a direct answer to his question, for fear that some strong suspicions that had suddenly arisen in his mind would be confirmed.

“I just know this is the Santa Maria,” said the boy to himself, at the same time casting a quick glance around the dimly lighted forecastle. “I know it as well as I know that I am alive. Everything goes to prove it. In the first place the men Rupert brought here in his boat are the same ones I saw playing cards in his house. Flint predicted that they would all be drugged and shipped aboard the Santa Maria, and things have turned out just as he said they would. But how did Flint himself manage to be caught in the trap? That’s what beats me. In the second place the mate, who witnessed the signatures on the shipping articles, is the same man I saw at Rupert’s, and who said he was an officer of the Santa Maria. I know him in spite of his tarpaulin and woolen muffler, for he’s got the same clothes on. Dear me! I wish Flint would wake up and tell me what to do.”

While Guy’s thoughts were running in this channel, he was working industriously at his task of carrying the sailors’ bundles into the forecastle, and finally he found Flint’s among them.

Hastily untying it, he took out two blankets, and rolling up one of them to serve as a pillow, he put it under his friend’s head and spread the other over his shoulders. As he was making his way up the ladder to bring down the last bundle, he heard the splashing of oars close by, and running to the side, saw a yawl approaching.

“Ship ahoy!” cried one of the men in the yawl.

“Halloo!” replied the mate.

“What ship is this?”

Guy listened with all his ears to hear the mate’s reply, but the officer leaned as far over the rail as he could, and spoke in a tone so low that Guy could not catch his words.

“When are you going to sail?” asked the man in the yawl.

“Just as soon as we can haul up our mud-hook,” replied the mate.

“Got your crew all aboard?”

“Yes.”

“Have you one among your hands of the name of Guy Harris?”

“Merciful Heavens!” thought Guy. “Who in the world can that be, and what does he want of me? Is it the detective who arrested Bob Walker in Chicago? Great Scott!”

Guy did not wait to hear any more of the conversation, but hastily catching up the bundle, threw it over his shoulders and ran into the forecastle.

CHAPTER XV.
AN UNWELCOME DISCOVERY.

GUY REMAINED in the forecastle just long enough to rid himself of his bundle, and then ran back up the ladder. Frightened as he was, he was possessed by an irresistible desire to learn who it was that wanted to see him. He intended to return to the deck and crouch down by the side, where he could hear what was said; but when he had ascended the ladder a few steps he heard the sound of voices near by, and saw that the occupants of the yawl had boarded the vessel. There were four of them, three were policemen and the other was Mr. Heyward. The latter held the shipping articles in his hand, and by the aid of Rupert’s lantern was looking for Guy’s name. The captain and his mate stood at a little distance looking on.

“The name don’t seem to be on the list,” said one of the officers, who was looking over Mr. Heyward’s shoulder.

“I told you it wasn’t!” growled the skipper. “If you ain’t satisfied, search the ship. What has the man been doing, anyhow?”

“It isn’t a man I am after, but a boy,” said Mr. Heyward. “He is an important witness in a case I intend to bring before the courts next month.”

“Who told you he was aboard my ship?” demanded the captain.

“No one. He slipped out of the court-room this morning before I knew it, and as he cannot be found about the city, it struck me he might be on board some vessel, for he is a sailor. If I find him I shall have him locked up. I am satisfied that he is not here,” said Mr. Heyward, handing the shipping articles to the mate. “I am all ready, Mr. Officer, if you are.”

“I want to ask the captain just one question before I go,” answered the policeman. “How long has your vessel been lying here?”

“About four days.”

“Have you kept a watch on board all the while?”

“Of course I have,” replied the captain testily. “Do you think I am fool enough to leave a ship with a valuable cargo without a watch?”

“I merely asked for information. Those burglars who broke into that jewelry store night before last—you heard about it, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Did they get anything?”

“They made a big haul. There is a heavy reward offered for them, but they have disappeared very mysteriously. We have positive proof that they have not left the city, and it may be that they have concealed themselves on some vessel which they have reason to believe is about to sail.”

“If you think they are here you had better look around,” said the captain. “I don’t want any such passengers with me.”

“Oh, if you have had a watch aboard your vessel all the time they could not have got here without your knowledge, so there’s no use in searching the ship. Good-by, captain. I wish you a pleasant voyage.”

Seeing that Mr. Heyward and his companions were about to go over the side, Guy ducked his head and beat a hasty retreat into the forecastle.

“Whew!” he panted, drawing his coat-sleeve across his forehead, “wasn’t that a narrow escape? I don’t think much of such laws as they have in this country, anyhow. I haven’t done anything to be punished for, and yet Mr. Heyward, if he could have found me, would have had me locked up in jail for a whole month. It’s lucky I didn’t sign my right name to the articles.”

Guy was aroused from his reverie by the sound of bustle and hurry on deck, and while he was wondering what it was all about he was summoned from his hiding-place by the hoarse voice of the second mate. When he reached the deck he found that preparations were being made to get the ship under way. There were four sober men in the crew—those Guy had found on the vessel when he first came aboard—and Guy and the mate made six. There were fourteen sailors in the bunks below, so that the vessel’s company, counting in the captain and leaving out the first officer, who for some reason or other had not yet made his appearance, numbered twenty-one men.

“Now, then, look alive.” said the mate. “There’s only a few of us to do this work to-night, but there’ll be more in the morning. Here, Thomas, clap on to the standing part of that messenger, lead it aft, and make it fast to a ring-bolt on the starboard side.”

Every word of this command was Greek to frightened and bewildered Guy, who stood looking about the deck undecided which way to turn. He had heard of “messenger-boys,” but he did not know that there were any on board, unless he was one, and he couldn’t see the use of leading himself aft and making himself fast to a ring-bolt, whatever that might be.

“Sir?” said he, as soon as he had collected himself so that he could speak.

“Sir!” echoed the mate with a terrific oath. “I spoke plainly enough, didn’t I? Where’s your ears?”

“They’re on my head. But I don’t see any messenger-boy.”

“Messen——Who said anything about a messenger-boy?” roared the mate. “What’s this, you lubber?” he continued, picking up a rope which led from the place where they were standing through a block made fast to the cable and thence to the capstan. “What is it, I say? But look here, my hearty, didn’t you ship for an able seaman?”