THE HAND-MADE GENTLEMAN

Many of the adventures which led to the Hand-Made Gentleman and the shop at Rushwater are from the author's own experience. Pearl is a composite of Davenport (the country blacksmith who invented an electric motor in 1833) and of a certain modest veteran of northern New York.

It tells how steam-power chose its first long pathway and began its swift errands from the Atlantic to the middle continent; how the roar and rush of the water-floods betrayed their secret and suggested the coming of great things; how “the horses of the river” began to tread the turbine and yield their power to man; how the spirit of new enterprise contended with conservatism, ignorance, and greed in the capitals, and how, thereby, evils developed which we are now striving to correct.

For its background of railroad and political history the author is indebted to many forgotten records, and to his friends A. Barton Hepburn, William C. Hudson, Arthur D. Chandler, and Mark D. Wilber, an honored Assemblyman in the sessions of 1865, 1866, and 1867, and later United States District Attorney. For the color of the day in Pittsburg, at the close of the war, he is under obligation to Mr. Andrew Carnegie; for that of Black Friday, to Mr. Thomas A. Edison.

The author has held to no strict observance of the unity of place, the work of his characters being that of turning the State into one neighborhood.

BOOK ONE—IN WHICH THE ADVENTURES OF CRICKET PRESENTED, WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF HIM

THE HAND-MADE GENTLEMAN

A TALE OF THE BATTLES OF PEACE

ADVENTURE I—BEING THAT OF CRICKET AND THE CHILD GHOST

WAS born in 1843. Since then I have endured many perils, of which I shall try to tell you. First of all, there was the peril of being named Solomon; and it would appear that, fora day or two, I was threatened also with the name of Zephaniah, but escaped at last with the lighter penalty of Jacob.

When I found myself I had just printed my full name in big letters on a slate—Jacob Ezra Heron. I have had some success, but—bless you!—it is poverty when I think of the sense of riches that I had that day. I will try to give only the merest outline of my chief assets, and they were: this name, which was all my own; a mother, who was the joint possession of myself and my sister, four years older than I; one friend of the name of Lizzie McCormick, and one little green book which was a legacy from my grandmother. I had practically no liabilities save a number of unpunished sins.

Now, a little as to my schedule of assets. First of all, there is the boy indicated by the name on my slate—a small boy five years old. I was in the little red school-house! My eyes were not much above the level of my reading-book that rested on the teacher's knee. The watch at her belt seemed to prattle in my ear as if to put me out, and, when she opened the hateful thing, I felt sure it complained of me, for immediately she grew impatient. I was afraid, and spoke scarcely any louder than the watch itself. I feared that somebody would do something to me, and I had three occupations—looking out for danger, drawing cats, and printing my name on a slate.

Every evening I used to sit by the fireside in my little chair and rock and sing. My mother called me Cricket, because I was small and spry and cheerful. Others called me Cricket because she did.

Now, an important item in the schedule is my friend and confidant, Lizzie McCormick. She was one of the most remarkable things that ever was, being much and yet nothing. She was a myth—a creation of my fancy—but almost as real as any of you sitting here. There was a drunken old bachelor of the name of McCormick who lived not far away, and Lizzie claimed that she was his girl. I made her acquaintance one day when I had been very bad and was shut in my room alone. She sprang out of the air suddenly, and sat down beside me on the rag carpet, and made a gulping sound—like that of “a hen with the pip,” as our washerwoman said when I tried to make the sound for her. Lizzie was a freckled girl with red hair and a very long neck, and gold teeth and a wooden leg, because she had been shot in the war.

We played marbles together, and talked freely in a tongue so “foreign” that no human being could understand it, as my mother informed me later. She showed me her trinkets, and among them was a thing she called “a silver horruck,” which Santa Claus had brought to her—a shiny thing that looked like a goose's leg. She was with me a good deal after that, and always slept with me in my trundle-bed. In due time she began to do and say things for which I was held responsible, and eventually became a ghost, when I would have no more to do with her.

You will remember I spoke of the little green book. It was kept in a high drawer. Often I begged for a look at it, and when my mother opened the drawer I was on my tiptoes and reaching for the sacred thing. When I had looked at the pictures she put it away again very tenderly.

Well, that is about as things stood with me in my childhood. I have given you a core out of the bed-rock, and let it go at that—saving one circumstance. It will all help you to understand me.

I come now to the true tales, which are better for the fireside, on a white Christmas, than all that kind of thing. First, I shall tell you the very brief adventure of

CRICKET AND THE CHILD GHOST

Go back with me to the winter of 1850, when hard times travelled over the land like a pestilence, and even entered the houses of the great. I was in my seventh year, and my assets had been largely increased by the steady friendship of Santa Claus. But he was going to pass me that year, the times being harder for him than for other people. I felt sorry for him, and sorry for my sister and mother, and sorry, too, for myself.

Well, it was the day before Christmas, and I had been to school and was on my way home alone, my sister being ill, and night was near. Suddenly I became aware that Lizzie McCormick was limping along beside me.

“It don't pay to be good,” said she, impatiently.

“I've been very good for a long, long time,” I answered. “I've filled the wood-box every night an' morning, an' I gave half my candy to Sarah. I guess God was surprised.”

“So was Sarah,” she answered, as I recalled the delight of my sister.

I thought a moment and then said, “God loves me.”

“Why don't he give you a pair of new boots, then?”

“It's hard times.”

“He gives 'em to some children.”

I felt of the treasure, which I had concealed in my pocket, and wondered whether, under the circumstances, I had better let it go. I tried to take a look at it, but the air was dusky and I could not see.

“Come on!” Lizzie called, swinging her wooden leg very fast and keeping ahead of me. “I ain't going home. I'm going to see if I can find Santa Claus.”

“So 'm I,” was my answer. “Maybe he'll give us a ride.”

We hurried along without speaking until I saw how dark it was, and knew that we were a long way from home.

“My mother will be looking for me!” I called, with a little sob.

Lizzie stopped and again made a sound like that of a hen with the pip, and I knew it to be a token of her contempt for me.

“I don't believe there is any Santa Claus,” she remarked, presently.

I had been thinking of that. The faith of my childhood was failing a little, but I clung to the dear old saint and could not let him go. However, I was on the brink of change.

In a moment Lizzie put her hand in my coat-pocket.

“There,” said she, “see what you've got now.”

I felt, and upon my word there was something hard in my pocket wrapped in tissue-paper, and it felt very promising.

“It's a real horruck,” said she; “I am going to give it to you.”

Then I saw her hand moving before my face. I put up my own hand, but hers began to fly around in the air, and I could not touch it. Now I suddenly remembered that ghosts had a trick of that kind, for so the washerwoman had informed me. For the first time I began to think of the word, and felt its mystery. Lizzie stood shivering, and a sound came out of her mouth like wind whistling in a chimney.

“You go 'way!” I cried, in a fright.

Lizzie turned and looked at me and uttered a cry of fear, and began to run. Her clothes had a strange rustle, and I could scarcely see her in the darkness. She seemed to run up a stairway into the snowy air, and was out of sight in a jiffy. Then I could hear her screaming to me in a dark tree-top, as if she saw something terrible.

“Look out, Cricket! Look out! Look out!”

I was in a panic of fear, knowing not the peril that threatened me. I struggled through the drifts and ran till I 'could see the lights of the village. The sight allayed my fear a little.

I had heard that hymn-singing was good in time of peril, and I began to walk and sing, with a trembling voice, the Christmas hymn which my mother had lately taught me.

Soon I knelt for a moment in the snow and said my prayers. Then I rose and ran on, singing as I went, and thought less of my peril. Soon teams began to pass me, coming and going, and my fear was gone.

I felt for my horruck. It was in my pocket, all right, and the feel of it began to fill me with wonder. I forgot it when I came to one of the stores, and entered behind the legs of a tall man, and stopped before a basket of oranges, and stood looking down at them. There were a number of people in the store.

“Would you like one?” a man asked me.

“I—I haven't any money,” was my answer.

“Put one in your pocket,” he whispered; “they wouldn't know.”

I shook my head, and answered in a voice so low that he held his ear down to catch the words:

“It doesn't belong to me.”

He lifted me in his arms and asked my name, and I gave it, and told him that I was out looking for Santa Claus.

“Isn't he coming to your house?” the man asked.

I shook my head.

“Why not?”

“'Cause it's hard times,” I whispered,

Well, it was the storekeeper himself, and he kissed me and sat me on the counter and gave me fruits and candies.

“Would you like to speak to Santa Claus?” he asked.

I nodded, and my heart began to beat all the faster.

He went to the rear end of the store and returned quickly with a stout, gray-headed man in a big fur overcoat. I recognized the figure, and was almost overcome with emotion. The thought of my mission bore me up. With a trembling hand I took from my pocket the little green book which my grandmother had given to me, and which was, indeed, my greatest treasure. I had removed it slyly from the bureau drawer that morning. I held it toward him. No human being ever offered more to charity.

“That's a Christmas present for you,” I said, fearfully.

He took my little book, and read the title on its green paper cover aloud.

I spoke up faintly as soon as he had finished, saying, “My grandmother gave it to me—you can have it.”

“Thanks,” said he, and laughed, which so took me down that I could not keep back my tears.

“Are you a good boy?” he asked.

“He's one of the best boys in the county, and I'm going to keep track of him,” said the storekeeper, and I was glad, for I was not able to answer.

“Now,” said he to Santa Claus, “I want you to take him home and give them all a merry Christmas.”

Well, they put a little fur coat upon me and a piece of goat-skin for a beard, and a baby pack-basket, and filled it with grand things for my mother and sister, and put a stub of a pipe in my mouth.

The man took me home, and I was forgiven, I fancy, on account of my looks, for who could punish a fairy Santa Claus? And, all in all, what a merry Christmas we had! I had exchanged the little green book for something better, of which I shall try to tell you.

As to Lizzie McCormick, she remained a ghost, and probably found better company, for I never saw her again, although sometimes I have heard her whisper in the darkness. She taught me that ghosts are easily conquered if a boy will be stern with them.

But there remains with me a strange souvenir of our parting, and that is the horruck. It was a real thing; I have it now, a big silver dollar. Here it is. Look at the odd device stamped on the face of the coin:

I assure you, for many a long year it was the great mystery of our house. And I got a certain fear of it by-and-by, knowing, as I did, that a ghost gave it to me.

ADVENTURE II—BEING THAT OF CRICKET AND THE PEARL OF GREAT PRICE

Y home had been a grist-mill in old times, and stood on the river-shore near a small village. One side of it was in the stream, but firmly founded on a ledge, and the year round water roared through a part of the basement. A hanging stairway climbed the face of the mill to a narrow landing under its eaves. There a broad door with a clanking iron latch opened upon our home. Those days it was called the Mill House, and a pretty thing it was—weathered gray, with broad windows that had small panes in them, and vines and flowers on the ledges in summer-time, and honeysuckle on the stair side.

When I look back at the old house the sun is ever shining on it and the flowers are in full bloom, and I can see the lights and shadows of the river. It was a full flowing stream, smooth and silent above the mill, and stained and sprinkled with willow gloom; white and noisy-just below, where the waters hurtled over a natural dam of rocks. It put me in mind of the sea, toward which it was ever flowing, and which I had studied with a curious eye in my geography. The river always seemed to invite me to go along with it.

Well, one day, when near the end of my fifteenth year, I accepted its invitation—launched my new canoe and went away with the swift water. It was a clear, warm day, and the river gave me rare entertainment, with its reeds and wild roses and quiet little bays and green, sloping terraces, and birds and beasts. Where it bent to the edge of the highway I saw a man sitting on the bank—a lank, tall man, with white hair and a full, gray beard. A black setter dog with tan points sat beside him.

“Happy new year!” said the man.

I made no answer, but swung into the bay near him and stopped.

“Didn't you know that a new year begins every day?” he asked. He showed the wear of hard times. He had a shoe on one foot and a slipper on the other, and wore a soiled linen duster and a pair of goggles. I saw now that his face had been badly scarred. He had a nose large at the end, with white and red seams in it, which cut across the cheek to his temple on one side.

“I can tell you something almighty singular,” he went on.

“What's that?” was my query.

He took off a shabby felt hat, spat into the river, and drew his hand across his mouth.

“My name is Pearl,” said he; “I am the Pearl o' great price.”

I smiled, but he looked very serious.

“I am weary o' life,” he continued. “I came down to this river to drown myself, but I am unable to do it on account o' my meanness. It's a pity.”

I waited, full of curiosity, while he sat and whittled.

“My life is insured—that's what's the matter,” he went on. “You see, I took out a policy years ago an' paid for it, an' an' ol' buzzard got it for a few dollars that I owed him. If I die the meanest man in the world 'll git a thousand dollars, an' it won't do; come to think it over, I 've got to outlive him if it takes a hundred years.”

He threw his slippered foot over his knee, laughed silently, and shook his head.

“That's one on me,” he remarked. “It ain't decent for me to laugh, but I can't help it.”

“Are you sick?” I asked.

“Not exac'ly sick,” he answered. “When I behave myself I wouldn't know that I had a body if it wasn't for my big toe that keeps peekin' through my shoe leather. Sometimes it makes a bow, very p'lite, an' says, 'Hello, there!'”

He rose and took off his hat. “Look at me—ain't I a gem?” he added.

“I'm sorry for you,” I suggested.

“That's good! I'm tired o' bein' sorry for myself, an' glad to have some one 'tend to that part o' my business.”

He called the dog to his feet, put a hand on his head, and introduced him in this manner:

“This is my friend and fellow-citizen, Mr. Barker—Adam Barker bein' his full name. You see before you the firm of Pearl & Company.”

I smiled, and thought him an odd man.

“Mr. Barker, please take the floor,” he commanded.

The dog stood on his hind feet with a look of eager expectancy.

“Mr. Barker, I swear to you that hereafter I will be worthy of your love,” said the stranger. “Shall the firm continue? Those in favor will please say aye.”

The dog gave a bark, and his master said: “It seems to be carried; it is carried. Is there any further business to come before this meetin'?”

Mr. Barker answered.

“Then we stand adjourned,” said the man, whereupon the dog began to jump playfully. “Pearl & Company are now ready to resume business.”

Man and dog sat looking at me.

“We can do anything,” he went on. “Bring us a pig's tail an' we'll make a whistle of it; bring us a ton of iron an' we'll build a steam-engine. I put in the skill an' labor, an' Mr. Barker furnishes the company. Got to have that in every kind o' business.”

I made no answer, but sat looking at this wonderful man.

“Where ye goin'?” he asked.

“Down the river.”

“So'm I,” said he. “Give me the stern seat an' I'll furnish the power. If you're goin' to be sorry for me, you'll have enough to do.”

I swung her stem to the shore and let them in. He took the paddle, and the dog a place between us.

“Handsome little river—this here,” said my new friend, as he cut the ripples with a powerful stroke. “Think o' the strength of her,” he went on presently; “she keeps a-pushin' night an' day. The power of a thousand horses couldn't hold her for a second. If she only had brains she could do half the work o' the county.” After a moment's silence, he added: “If somebody would go into partnership with her and put up brains against her strength, the firm would do wonders.”

That view of the river was new to me.

“Did you ever see Niagara Falls?” the stranger asked.

“No.”

“You must go and see that big water-hammer hit the side o' the world. It weighs a million tons or more, an' swings a hundred an' fifty feet, an' for a dozen miles you can hear the boom of it. Think o' the power in that blow. One o' these days it's goin' to help push us along an' kick a lot o' things out of our way. Down below, the rapids run like wild horses. I call 'em God's horses. One o' these days they'll put 'em on the tread.”

“On the tread!” I exclaimed.

“Yes; every one of 'em 'll tread a turbine an' move a belt, an' then—” He paused and spat over the gunwale, and I looked at him full of wonder. “'Lectricity!” he exclaimed; “streams and rivers o' lightnin'!”

His words impressed me deeply, but I did not fully comprehend them until more familiar with his habit of putting his thought into terms of power. But I thought often of the “big water-hammer” and of “God's horses.”

“Look at the fish,” he said, after a moment of impressive silence. “One of 'em just looked up an' winked at me real insultin'. I don' know but we'd better get offended an' go after em.

“No tackle,” was my answer.

“We'll make some,” said he, promptly. “We're goin' to be hungry by-an'-by.”

He went ashore, stripped some bark off a willow, split it into strands, and began to braid them. In a few moments he had made a fairly good line, and tied it to the end of a pole.

“Will you have a snare or a hook?” he asked. “I can make ary one.”

“A snare,” I answered, for I had never seen a snare.

He removed a piece of wire from the anchoring, made a loop, and fastened the line upon it.

“Now slip that over their noses an' jerk,” he said, as he passed the pole to me.

He worked the paddle and I the pole, and soon we had half a dozen fish, and quite enough for a meal.

“It's time that we organized for dinner,” said he. “I'll be the cook if you'll be the commissary.”

“All right,” I answered.

“Do not be surprised if you find salt an' pepper in yon farm-house,” he suggested.

I went to the house indicated, which was not a stone's-throw from the river-bank, and there a woman gave me all I sought, and, when she had learned my name, added butter and half a loaf of bread and a bit of shortcake.

“You are promoted for meritorious conduct,” said the Pearl, on my return. “You are appointed corporal of the guard, and will have nothing to do now but keep the cows out o' camp.”

He had built his fire in a grove that flung its shade over a bit of still water. There a number of cattle had gathered, and were gazing at us. Soon a bull came roaring into camp, and stood and pawed the earth and threatened me. I cut him with a beech-rod, and drove him away.

“You are promoted for bravery,” said the Pearl of great price; “I appoint you my friend for life.”

He gave me his hand, and I looked up at him with amusement.

“Do you accept the appointment?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered, for I was delighted with my new acquaintance.

“Good!” said he, “and I promise, boy, that H. M. Pearl, Esquire, will never bring the blush of shame to your cheek, and I am yours truly, now an' forever—one an' inseparable.” In a moment he added: “I ain't pretty, but I can be decent, you see.”

I enjoyed him more than the dinner, and we made a wonderful day of it. After an hour's rest we set out again, and near three o'clock landed at the little village of Mill Pond, some ten miles away. From the shore I could see on a store-front the sign

SAM WEATHERBY'S EMPORIUM

A man stood on the steps of the emporium looking at us.

“Well, Pearl, is that you?” he exclaimed as we drew near.

“It's me, but it ain't Pearl,” my friend answered.

“How's that?”

“Turned over a new leaf. The late H. M. Pearl is now H. M. Pearl, Esquire. This is my friend. His name is—”

“Heron,” I said.

“Not Cricket Heron?” the stranger asked.

I nodded.

“Don't you remember coming to my store at Heartsdale one Christmas eve?”

“And you said you would keep track of me?”

“Yes. I moved down the river long ago, and I've been thinking for a month that I would go and have a talk with you and your mother. I want a clerk, and if you wish to learn a good business I'll take you in.”

Well, he showed me through the store, and I was much elated, and told about the child ghost and all the details of my straying that Christmas eve, and showed them my horruck, and Mr. Pearl sat down to study it. .

“I shall have to go,” I said, as he reluctantly surrendered the coin; “good-bye.”

“Not now,” he answered. “It's a hard pull against the current, an' I'm goin' to take you home. You wouldn't get there till to-morrow mornin.'”

Well, he would go with me, and so we set out together—the Pearl having left his dog with Mr. Weatherby. As we made our way upstream he told me tales full of the oddest fancies.

By-and-by it grew dark, and I could hear only the dip of his paddle and water washing on the bow.

“Say,” he exclaimed, suddenly, “that's an awful curious riddle that you've got in your pocket there.”

“What do you make of it?” I asked.

He seemed not to hear me, but continued to work his paddle in silence until we got out below the Mill House.

“Did you ever hear of the ghost riddles?” he asked, presently.

“No.”

“Well, I wouldn't wonder if it was one of em.

“What are the ghost riddles?” I asked.

“I'll tell you some time; my sister had one give to her,” he said, as he started down the river.

“I want you to stay all night with us!” I called. But I could hear only the sound of his feet on the gravel as they hurried away.

ADVENTURE III.—BEING THAT OF THE BUNGWOOD COW

HAT week my clerkship began with Mr. Weatherby. To my great disappointment “the Pearl of great price” had left the village of Mill Pond, having gone nobody knew where.

It was my duty to sweep the floor and clean the windows, pump the kerosene, draw the West India molasses, and, when not otherwise employed, to sell tea, candy, and tobacco. The kerosene department took most of my time.

Of course, I was in love with a girl much older than I, but the odor of petroleum, which, in spite of soap and water, maintained its hold upon me day and night, gave me the feeling of a tethered dog. Hope would not live with it, somehow. Then my face itself was so innocent of beard, beauty, or manliness. The little mirror which hung in a corner of the store flung back at me, always, a look of sheer contempt. One day, when I was alone, I took a store razor and began my first shave. As I went on, my face seemed to be enlarging and taking a highly serious view of itself. I stood by the mirror feeling it. As I did so, secret and burning thoughts began to move my tongue. Unconsciously I was talking to myself when I heard a loud guffaw. It was Bony Squares, lately returned from a far city to his home at Mill Pond. He was a printer who had travelled much, and could box and play ball and keep a crowd roaring on the store-steps every Saturday night. Moreover, he wore boiled shirts, and collars cut very low, and wonderful neckties of colored silk, and had a smart way with him.

“Ah, ha!” he exclaimed, “you've been a-shav-ing yerself!”

I smiled and blushed, and said nothing.

He dropped his walking-stick and hopped over it two or three times, and cackled, “Ha, ha! ho, ho! You're going to have a mustache, and then you're going to see a gal by the name o' Mary.”

It seemed as if ruin stared me in the face.

“Lend me two dollars,” Bony Squares demanded. “Come, be quick about, it or I'll tell on ye—hope t' die if I don't.”

It was to me a large sum, for my income was only four dollars and twenty-five cents a month. But my fear of ridicule had the persuasiveness of a thumb-screw. I had two dollars and nineteen cents that I had been saving for the fair at Heartsdale. With great solemnity I took the two-dollar bill out of my pocket and put it in the hand of my oppressor.

“I'm going for a drive to-night,” he said, as he took the money. “It's a matter of business that 'll pay me pretty well, and I may need some help. Come along, and I'll pay you back the money I've borrowed and a dollar besides.”

“Where to?” I inquired.

“Oh, down the country about fifteen miles. I'm going to get a Bungwood cow for a friend o' mine.”

“A Bungwood cow!” I exclaimed.

“An imported breed,” said he, “and the best in the world. They're frisky and a little dangerous.”

That seemed to me rather curious, but, then, I did not know much about cows. It was a greater compliment than I had ever received—the invitation of this imperial and heroic figure; but I concealed my joy with a look of calmness.

“When are you coming back?” I inquired.

The jaunty fellow crossed the floor, rattling his change and singing, “Oh, we won't go home till morning!” He turned quickly and said, with a sober face: “I'll get ye here in good season. Tell 'em you're going to stay with a friend, an' will be back in the morning.”

I lied about it, for I knew that Mr. Weatherby had no high opinion of Bony Squares, and got permission to go.

At seven o'clock that evening I set out for the corner below Mill Pond, where Bony, with a horse and a buckboard, was to wait for me. There he was, and away we went; and the horse's hoofs beat time for a lively ditty sung by my new friend. The chill night fell, and a sense of sadness and regret was in me. To what place he drove, or how long it took him to get there, I know not even now. After a long time I fell asleep. A rude shake and the light of a lantern awoke me. I got out of the buggy in a shed back of a little church.

“Now for a boat-ride,” said my companion; “then a short drive, and we'll be on our way home again.”

“Where you going?”

“After the cow, of course.”

I followed him a few rods to the shore of a great river. A man stood in a boat near by, as if waiting for us. I had never seen so much water; it sped and shimmered in the moonlight far from shore, and beyond was the mystery of the night. The loud voices of the river filled me with awe, and our boat creaked and swerved in roaring currents, and the boatman grew weary with his struggle, and breathed like a spent horse by and by. I knew it was the St. Lawrence, and wondered if he were going to swim the cow through its whirlpools and rapids.

We landed safely by-and-by, and followed the boatman through thick woods. There was a road just beyond them in the edge of the open. We turned into it, and a moment's walk brought us to another stage in the mystery. There, under a tree by the roadside, were a horse and wagon. For half a moment Bony stood whispering to the boatman. Then, turning quickly, he said, “Jump in—we've no time to lose.”

He leaped to the seat beside me, gave the horse a cut, and we sped away on a road which he seemed to know. We drove for half an hour or so, and drew up at a large building. A lighted candle was burning in a window near the front door.

Bony got out of the wagon.

“Let me take your watch,” he whispered. “I want to keep track o' the time. We haven't long to stay here.”

I handed him the gold watch and chain which had belonged to my father, and which I was permitted to wear. They were to me precious above all value. I had some misgivings, but who could resist Bony Squares?

He fastened the chain upon his waistcoat, mounted the steps, rapped, and was soon admitted. Presently a big man came out of an open shed, which was part of the building, and put half a barrel and two demijohns into the wagon-box behind me. In a moment Bony came to the door and whistled.

“Come an' have a bite,” he said to me.

I was chilled to the bone, and my teeth were chattering as I climbed the steps.

Crackers and cheese and a box of sardines, newly opened, lay on the counter of a store, crowded with merchandise and rank with many odors.

Bony stood eating. Now and then he took a sip of liquor from a small glass. He and the storekeeper spoke in low tones.

“Another drop 'll warm ye,” said the storekeeper, as he poured more for him.

“It's as good as a hot stove,” said Bony, tipping his glass.

Soon we returned to the river and recrossed it with what Bony called “the cow.”

Silently, hurriedly, we put our horse in the shafts and made off on a smooth road. The moon had set, and we could not see our way. Bony let the horse have his head and hurried him along. Suddenly, in the near darkness, some one shouted: “Halt! Halt!”

Bony's whip fell savagely on the back of the horse, and the latter took the first leap in a wild run. For half a minute we were in a bad mess, and knew not how we were coming out of it. Pistols roared on both sides of us, and bullets whizzed above our heads. For possibly three minutes we flew down the dark road, our front wheels leaving ground with every jump. Then suddenly it seemed as if the stars were falling on us. We had struck something. The horse went down, and we plunged headlong into the darkness. I rose unhurt, and ran around the wagon just as Bony got up with a groan. We could hear our pursuers coming.

“Follow me,” my companion whispered. “We must take to the woods or go to jail. You're in it as deep as I am.”

I hesitated in a sort of panic. My head was hot and more incapable than ever. One allpowerful thought moved me: Bony had my watch and chain, and was making off with them.

“Come, you ——— fool—they'll shoot us down!”

Bony whispered, and I followed him.

We were in the midst of a strip of woods, and went bumping the tree-columns on our way-through it. We had come into an open field when we heard our pursuers shouting, back where the horse fell. We ran like frightened sheep, and slowed our pace beyond the top of a hill and began to walk. We tramped for an hour in silence. The sky was clearing, and we could discern the rocks and stones and fences.

“I am not going any farther,” I said, stopping suddenly.

“Well, go back, then,” said Bony Squares. “You've gone and got me into a nice scrape,” I declared.

“Better git sore on me—ye saphead!” said Bony, with contempt. “As if I expected to do anything but give ye a dollar an' a good time.”

“I didn't have anything to do with your smuggling,” I said. “If I'd known you were in that kind of business I wouldn't have been with you.”

“Go on, ye cry-baby! Wasn't ye in the wagon?”

“Yes—but—”

“Well, that's enough—the goods was in the wagon, an' so was you an' so was me. All they have to do is to ketch ye with the goods. If ye didn't know what I was up to, what did ye run for?”

Between tears and perspiration I felt as if I were melting and running down at the top like a tallow-candle. But I held myself up manfully, and not a whimper came out of me. I had become a fugitive in spite of myself.

“Guess they wouldn't do much to us if we did go home,” I said, tentatively.

The Hand-Made Gentleman: A Tale of the Battles of Peace

THE HAND-MADE GENTLEMAN

A Tale of the Battles of Peace

By Irving Bacheller

Author of “Eben Holden”, “Silas Strong” etc., etc. </5>

New York and London

Harper & Brothers Publishers

Copyright, 1909

TO MY DEAR FRIEND E. PRENTISS BAILEY

FOREWORD

BOOK ONE—IN WHICH THE ADVENTURES OF CRICKET PRESENTED, WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF HIM

THE HAND-MADE GENTLEMAN

A TALE OF THE BATTLES OF PEACE

ADVENTURE I—BEING THAT OF CRICKET AND THE CHILD GHOST

CRICKET AND THE CHILD GHOST

ADVENTURE II—BEING THAT OF CRICKET AND THE PEARL OF GREAT PRICE

SAM WEATHERBY'S EMPORIUM

ADVENTURE III.—BEING THAT OF THE BUNGWOOD COW