"Well, I dare say it won't matter such a great deal to your stepmother what you call her, so long as you do what you're told, Tad. But please to understand, my lad, that if you kick up a rumpus here, and make things unpleasant for my wife, you'll hear of it again from me, as sure as my name's James Poole."

"But, dad," pursued the boy, "she ain't kind to the children, leastways only to her own kid. She beats poor little Bert, and boxes Nell's ears for the least thing."

"Tiresome spoilt brats! Serve 'em right!" retorted the man. "But anyhow, Tad, it ain't your business. You may as well understand, once for all, that I mean she shall be missis here, and manage the home her own way. Now go along, will you! I've no more time to waste on tale-tellin' and grumblin'."

"It's wicked! It's a shame!" muttered Teddie Poole (or Tadpole as his friends had nicknamed him). "This has got to end somehow!"

But his father only growled under his breath, caught up his cap, and left the house.

"Yes, it's too bad; everything's against me and them two poor chil'en. Dad's number two—she don't care for 'em one little bit, though nothin's too good for that great, thumpin', squealin' baby of hers. I'd take Bert and Nell right off somewheres, only I couldn't keep 'em and look after 'em—poor mites!"

Then with a heavy heart, Tad betook himself to his work. It was not much of a place that the boy had got. He was only a grocer's lad at four shillings a week, but it was better than nothing, and he did his work willingly enough, though he was often footsore and weary with running or standing about from morning till night.

There was a great deal of good in poor Tad. When his own mother died, he tried to take care of his little brother and sister, and often denied himself for their sake.

But when at last James Poole married again, the boy bitterly resented his stepmother's harsh ways with her husband's children. And since her own baby's birth, things at home had been worse than ever. She grudged to Bert and Nell every moment of time that she was obliged to give them, and even the very food they ate. She had no sympathy for their childish troubles, no tender words or caresses for anyone but her own baby boy; while towards Tad, who had from the first made no secret of his feelings, she showed in return a dislike which had something almost malignant about it.

Several times the lad had complained to his father, but his words had produced no effect except still more to enrage his stepmother against him. And now Tad had made another appeal, and had once again failed.

All day long, he turned the matter over in his mind as he ran his errands or helped his master, Mr. Scales, to make up parcels in the shop. Life at home was becoming unbearable—impossible—he told himself. What was to be done?

Once the grocer glanced at him with a comical, puzzled smile on his fat, good-natured face, but Tad never looked up, and presently his master said:

"Before you put them little packets up in brown paper, Teddie, just see if they are all right, will you?"

The lad obeyed, but as he began to look through his packets of grocery, he flushed hotly.

"I can't think how I could have been so stupid, sir," he said penitently; "why, here's sugar and salt got mixed somehow, and the bacon rashers has gone and wrapped theirselves up with the yaller soap. Oh my! And a pound of taller dips is broke loose all among the currants, till they looks just like the hats of them 'ketch-'em-alive' fellers. Oh, sir, I'm awful sorry."

The round face of Mr. Scales expanded into a grin of genuine amusement.

"It isn't often you make such mistakes, my boy," he said kindly, "so I must forgive you this time. But it seems to me, Tad, that you've something on your mind."

"Yes, sir, that's just it," answered Tad.

"Is it anything I can help you in?"

"No, sir, thank you, no one can't help me," replied the boy gloomily.

"Ah well, you think so now, but perhaps things will mend in a day or two, and then you'll feel more hopeful."

Tad shook his head, but did not reply. He tried, however, to put his troubles out of his mind for the present, and to give his undivided attention to his work, so as to make no more mistakes. He did not reach home that evening until eight, and his father and stepmother were sitting at table. Bert, half undressed, was sobbing in a corner, his face to the wall, and little Nell was wailing in her cot upstairs, having been put to bed supperless for some childish offence.

"Late again, Tad!" exclaimed Mrs. Poole crossly. "Why can't you be home in good time?"

"Mr. Scales kept me a bit later than common," replied Tad; "we was very busy."

"I don't believe that's anything but a excuse," retorted the woman. "It's a deal more likely as how you've been playin' round with them rude street boys that you learns your pretty manners from."

Tad flushed scarlet with rage.

"I came straight home," said he; "I ran all the way to try and get back quick. I don't tell lies, and I think you ought to believe me."

"Hark at that, now! Jim, just do hark at that! Ought to, forsooth! Ain't there any other thing, if you please, that I ought to do?"

"Yes," shouted Tad, beside himself with passion—"lots of 'em!"

"Shut up, will you?" roared James Poole, bringing his heavy fist down upon the table. "Am I never to have a minute's peace at home?"

"'Tain't my fault, dad," said the boy; "I ain't gone and done nothin'."

"No, everybody knows you never do nothin'," sneered his stepmother. "You're just one of they poor critturs that's put upon all the time by other folks, when you're as innercent as a angel."

Tad got up and pushed his plate away without having touched a mouthful.

"I can't eat, dad," he said to his father, "a bite or a sup would choke me."

James Poole made no reply, but his wife laughed and said:

"So much the better! All the more left for us!"

"Bein' Saturday," said Tad, coming round to his father's side, "Mr. Scales paid me as usual. Here's the money for you, dad!" and he put down four shillings on the table.

"Give it to your mother, Tad, she does the providin'."

But Tad did not obey.

"Give that there money to me, do you hear?" cried Mrs. Poole.

But Tad appeared to take no notice of her.

"Won't you have the tin, father?" he said.

"No, my boy; I know I've took your wages till now, but I find your mother—your stepmother—likes to have it herself, and it's all the same to me."

Tad did not even glance at Mrs. Poole, but deliberately gathered up the coins and pocketed them, saying:

"Then, since you don't want my earnin's, dad, I'll keep 'em, for from to-day I'm a-goin' to feed myself."

And not waiting to hear any more, he went upstairs to his little garret room, and bolted himself in to brood over his wrongs, and think out some way of escape from the influences of a home that had grown so hateful.

[CHAPTER II]

PLANNING REVENGE

NO sleep did Tad get that night, tired though he was. He was thinking so hard that he could not close his eyes. Things had come to a climax at last, and something must be done. His stepmother and he hated each other cordially, and his efforts to stand up for the children only made matters worse both for himself and them.

There were only two courses open to Tad now, and to one of these he must commit himself on the following day. Either he must eat humble pie, submit his will entirely to his stepmother, and have no choice of his own in anything, or he must go quite away, away as far as he could—and try to shift for himself.

The thought of remaining at home, to be sneered at, and scolded, and abused by Mrs. Poole, was intolerable. The idea of submitting to her, and thus acknowledging her authority, he put from him as altogether too bitter a pill to be swallowed. There remained, then, only the other alternative, and that was to cut adrift from all his belongings, and go away.

The thing that troubled him most about this plan, next to leaving little Bert and Nell, was that he knew it would be nothing but a delight to Mrs. Poole to get rid of him, and he could not bear to give her pleasure even by carrying out this plan of his own.

"I'd like oncommon to punish her—punish her well!" said the boy to himself, as he tossed uneasily on his bed and stared before him into the darkness. "I'd like to make her real unhappy as she's always makin' us. Go away I'm bound to, but I must do something beside as 'll make her laugh t'other side of her mouth."

For some moments Tad thought intently. At last, with a sudden bound, he found himself, in his excitement, standing in the middle of the floor.

"I have it!" he chuckled. "I know what I'm a-goin' to do! That's fine!"

And again he laughed to himself—a hard laugh that told a sad tale of its own, and showed what a terrible power, even over the soft young heart of early youth, have the stony influences of injustice and cruelty.

With the first dawn of Sunday morning, Tad rose and dressed himself noiselessly. Into an old satchel-basket, that his master had given him, he packed his clothes and his one spare pair of boots. His brush and comb, and a very few other little matters, were added, and then he covered all neatly with a sheet of newspaper, after which he put the basket away in the cupboard till he should want it.

Tad knew his stepmother's Sunday habits and customs, and quite hoped that he should presently have a chance to carry out the plans for his own escape and for the accomplishing of the revenge which he had promised himself.

The boy had eaten no supper, and had passed a sleepless night, and he began to feel sick and faint by the time his little preparations were completed, so that he was glad to lie down again.

About seven o'clock he heard his father's voice calling him, and he jumped up and ran out of his room.

"Come and dress the children, Tad," said James Poole; "your stepmother have got a headache, and means to stay quiet till near dinner time."

Tad smiled, well pleased. He knew that this was the usual Sunday headache, which needed a long sleep and a plentiful dinner for its cure, and he had reckoned upon it as a most important part of his plans. He dressed Bert and Nell, and then the baby. But this last was not an easy thing to do, for the child wriggled and squirmed like an eel.

Meanwhile James Poole lighted the fire and got breakfast ready, and presently all sat down but Tad.

"Come and have your breakfast, lad," said his father.

"No thank you, dad," replied the boy.

"And why not?"

"You heard what she said to me last night, dad, didn't you? After that and what I answered her, I ain't goin' to eat nothin' more of her providin'."

And Tad's face burned at the remembrance of the insulting words that had brought him to this resolution. His heart was hot within him as with a smouldering fire, while he said to himself, "Ah well—my turn's comin'."

"Don't be such a fool, Tad," said his father; "here, take your tea, and I'll cut you some bread and butter."

Tad was just longing for some food. He had not eaten a mouthful since an early tea in Mr. Scales' little back parlour the day before. But it was not for nothing that Mrs. Poole had often called him "the most obstinatious little beast of a boy" she'd ever seen. And since he had made up his mind not to eat again at his father's table, he stuck to his resolution, rash and foolish as it was.

"No, dad, no," he said. "I'll make shift to get a bite somewheres or other later on, but I ain't goin' to unsay what I said last night—not for no one."

"You forget it's Sunday, lad, you can't buy any food," said James Poole; "and besides, though you may be able to starve for a day, you can't keep on doin' of it, so that sooner or later you're bound to break your resolution. Now don't be an obstinate mule, but eat your breakfast, or you'll be makin' yourself ill."

"I don't care," said Tad, feeling very wretched in mind and body.

Not to be shaken in his purpose, he set the baby on his father's knee, and went to his room.

There, seeing his overcoat hanging up on a nail on the door, he recalled to mind that, two days before, his master had given him some broken biscuits that had remained behind after the whole ones were sold. He had put them into the pocket of his light overcoat, just as he was leaving the shop, and had not once thought of them till now. Very thankful to be able to appease his ravenous hunger, the lad sat down and ate up the biscuits to the very last crumb, washing down the dry, stale morsels with a drink of water from his jug.

Then feeling much better for his meal, he went downstairs again, cleared the breakfast table, and washed the crockery and spoons, afterwards making up the fire and tidying the kitchen, all of this being his accustomed Sunday work.

When all was in order, he dressed Bert and Nell for morning Sunday School, and took them there, returning home quickly, for he knew he should be called upon to mind the baby, and take him out; and this—for reasons of his own—he did not mind doing to-day.

An hour later, while James Poole sat reading his paper and smoking a pipe in the chimney corner, and while great, fat, lazy Mrs. Poole turned in bed and commenced another nap to the accompaniment of some terrific snores, Tadpole slipped away with the baby in his arms, and the basket strapped to his waist.

He did not care to say good-bye to his father; had not James Poole taken his wife's part when she was cruel and unjust? As for Bert and Nell, Tad had given each of them a tearful embrace as he left them at the school door—a long, loving kiss that would have set them wondering and asking questions, had they been just a little older. But as it was, they did not notice the difference in their brother's manner.

"Now comes my revenge!" muttered the lad. "My one bit of pleasure in all this bad business. Oh, Mrs. P., you shall have a few jolly hours to-day, if I can manage it for you."

And with a vindictive light in his eyes, Tad walked away, on and on, till he left the town behind him, and came out into a country road between hedges, with a meadow on one side, and a copse and plantation on the other. Finding at last a gate to the meadow, he climbed over it, nearly dropping the child in his scramble. Once over, he went further into the field to be out of sight of anyone passing on the road, for he had no wish, just as his little plan promised success, to be taken up as a trespasser.

For some time he walked about with the child, till at last the little fellow fell asleep. Then Tad laid him in a soft, sheltered place under a tree, and spread a shawl, kept up by the handle of the basket, to keep off the wind and the sun. Then he stood looking at the baby with a malicious grin on his lips.

"It's all right so far," said he to himself. "When dinner time comes, and no me nor no baby turns up, Mrs. P. will begin to have the lovely time I've been wishin' her; and when I think she's had about enough of it, I'll carry baby back, and leave him on the doorstep, or somewheres handy, and then off I goes on my travels, like a prince in one of them fairy tales."

[CHAPTER III]

GONE

THE baby awoke after awhile, and cried a little, but Tad was too good and experienced a nurse not to have anticipated and arranged for what the child would want. He quickly produced from the basket the little one's feeding-bottle and some milk, and very soon the baby, quite satisfied and happy, was creeping about on the grass and playing with some flowers that Tad found for him. And when he wearied of this, the boy rocked him to sleep again in his arms.

Then, wearied by his own sleepless night, he lay down beside the child for a much-needed nap. His last feeling, before dropping into dreamland, being one of grim rejoicing in the recollection that his stepmother must already be in a "fine taking,"—as he would have expressed it,—about her baby. Tad had made up his mind not to carry the child back until dark, "for fear," he said to himself, "of being nabbed." But already it was afternoon, and in these autumn days the darkness came early.

When Tad awoke from a sound sleep of several hours, the twilight was creeping over earth and sky. The quiet rest had much refreshed him, and baby too had waked up in a happy mood, and looked so much less like his mother than usual, that Tad felt fonder of the poor little fellow than ever before, and even kissed his little round face when he picked him up.

Carrying the basket on his arm, and the baby over his shoulder, Tad walked across the meadow, and came to a stile leading out on to a common, where was a gipsy encampment.

A couple of carts were drawn up near the hedge on one side of the field, four or five stiff-legged, scraggy horses were grazing hungrily on the short, stubbly grass, while not far from a fire, which blazed merrily under a black pot, sat a little company of brown-skinned, rough-looking men and women, and a few children played about around them.

It helped to pass the time, watching the gipsies, so Tad, with the baby in his arms, got over the stile, and drawing nearer to the picturesque group, stood looking at the people, and hungrily sniffing the savoury steam that rose from the cooking-pot.

Presently a young woman rose from among the little company, and came towards Tad.

"You look hungry, lad; have a bite with us," she said.

Tad gladly consented, and as the air was growing chill, he joined the group of gipsies as they gathered closer round the fire. The young woman took the baby from him, and fondled and rocked it while Tad ate his supper.

"'Tain't long since she lost her own child," said one of the men to Tad, "and this little un ain't onlike him."

When the lad had finished his meal, he thought he had perhaps better set off on a little spying expedition, to see if the coast was clear for him to take the baby home; for he did not wish to be met by any search parties coming to look for him and his little charge.

But to do his spying safely; he ought to leave the child here; and turning to the young woman, who was walking to and fro with the baby, crooning to it, and putting it to sleep in the usual motherly fashion, he said:

"I've got a errand to run, missis, and maybe it'll take me a hour or more. Would you have the goodness just to mind the little un for me till I can come back for him? I'll be as quick as I can."

"It'll be all right," replied the woman, with an eager light in her dark eyes. "I'll see to the baby. You needn't hurry, neither. He's goin' off to sleep again, and there's no fear but what he'll be quite quiet and content."

Thanking her warmly, away went the Tadpole, carrying his big head high, and putting all possible speed into his slender body and thin legs. He spent over an hour in dodging about and looking here and there for possible pursuers. But he met no search parties, and feeling now more sure than ever of being able to carry out his plan to the very end, he came leisurely back to the common where he had left the gipsy camp.

It was quite dark now; he could just see the dull glow of the fire's dying embers, but nothing else. As he came nearer, however, what were his surprise and dismay to find that the place was deserted. Gone were the carts, the horses, the people, and worst of all, gone too was the baby. It was as if the whole encampment had melted into thin air—vanished as utterly as the scenes of a dream.

"They must have crossed the common and come out into a road beyond," thought Tad.

And hoping to overtake them and get back the child, he started at a quick run, often stumbling in the darkness, and once or twice falling outright. After going some distance, he reached a place where four roads met, leading off in various directions. Meanwhile the darkness had deepened, no moon or stars lightened the gloom, and Tad began to realise the hopelessness of trying to follow the gipsies, who, no doubt, had employed their usual cunning to elude pursuit. Utterly baffled and at fault in his search, and well-nigh stunned by the misfortune that had come upon him, the lad stood still at the cross roads, and tried to collect his thoughts.

His intention had been only to give his stepmother a thorough fright, by way of paying her out for some of the unkindness he and Bertie and Nell had received from her. But now the matter had been taken out of his hands, and it looked very much as if, not only Mrs. Poole, but he himself and the baby too, were likely to suffer from this revenge that he had so carefully planned.

"What a mess I've got into, to be sure!" sighed Tad as he peered round with weary eyes, vainly searching the thick darkness. "Whatever shall I do?"

His first impulse was to run home, confess the whole story to his father, and let him do what was best for the recovery of the baby. Tad's conscience told him that this clearly would be the right thing to do. But then, if he acted thus, it meant that he must face his stepmother's fury, and give up, for the present, at least, his plan of leaving home. He felt sure that Mrs. Poole would never believe that he had not deliberately and wilfully deserted the baby. He was certain she would never give him credit for his intention to bring her child safely back when the purposes of his boyish vengeance had been fulfilled.

No—he did not feel he could muster courage enough to return home to such a greeting as hers would be, and yielding to the whispers of his cowardice, he determined to set out on his travels at once, without seeing any of his home people again, and leaving the baby to take its chance. Still, since his conscience gave him some sharp pricks as to the fate of the child entrusted to his care, he resolved that on the following day, he would send by post, from the first town or village through which he passed, a letter to his father, telling him just how it had happened that the little one was carried off by the gipsies who had been encamped on the common outside the town. This resolve arrived at, Tad felt a little comforted, and set out to walk to a place some six miles distant, where he intended to pass the night.

In thus running away, he was conscious of only two causes of regret. One was his separation from Bert and Nell, and the other that he was obliged to give up his situation. He had feared to let Mr. Scales know he was leaving home, lest he should be stopped. So now he could not help thinking of the little ones crying because he did not come home to put them to bed as usual; and also of what his kind master would say when Monday morning came, but with it no boy to take the shutters down, and sweep out the shop, and get everything ready for the business of the day.

"Still—all said and done—at least I'm free!" said Tad to himself. "I've shook off that horrid stepmother of mine, and it shan't be my fault if I ever see her again."

So saying the lad drew himself up, and strode at a great pace along the dark road, and tried hard to believe that he had never been so happy in all his life.

[CHAPTER IV]

ANOTHER STEP DOWN

IT was late that night before Tad reached the village of Pine Hill and approached the little, homely, old-fashioned inn which went by the name of "The Traveller's Rest," this being the sign of the first inn ever built in the place, hundreds of years before.

The house was kept by a very respectable man, called Anthony Robson, and Tad had often heard his father speak of Tony Rob (as he called him) in high terms as a thoroughly good fellow.

"Please can I have a bit of supper and a corner to lie down in?" asked Tad, timidly addressing the landlord, whose burly form was resting in a big armchair in the chimney corner.

Apparently he was having a little rest and a last pipe before locking up his house for the night and going to bed.

Tony Robson stared at the lad for what seemed to Tad an age before he replied. Then as he saw him cringe a little before the questioning gaze fixed upon him, he said:

"Ain't you rather a whipper-snapper to be goin' journeyin' by yourself at this time of night, and Sunday too? What's your name?"

Tad hesitated, with downcast eyes. If he gave his real name, the landlord might prevent his going any further; for he knew James Poole, and would guess that the boy was going away from his home without leave.

"No," thought Tad, "I must give another name."

Then as Tony, with his face growing a little stern and suspicious, again asked the question, the boy replied with the first name he could think of—Hal Barnes—this being the name of one of his former school-fellows who was now a farmer's boy living some miles from Ponderton.

"And where may you be goin', Hal Barnes?" asked Tony.

The second lie is always easier than the first, and to this question Tad replied glibly enough:

"I'm a-goin' to Crest Mount, sir; goin' after a page's place up at the squire's. I'm to see him at ten sharp to-morrow mornin', and I couldn't do this unless I slept here to-night, for I comes from beyond Ponderton. Else I don't care for takin the road Sunday, and wouldn't have done it, if I could anyways manage different."

"Dear me!" said Tad to himself. "How nat'ral and easy all that pretty little tale sounded!"

The landlord seemed to think so too, for his face lost its stern expression, and he said:

"Oh, that's it, is it? But Crest Mount is a goodish way, even from here; a matter of five mile or so."

"Oh, I don't mind a walk, sir," said Tad, "and I shall be rested by to-morrow."

"Well now," said Tony Robson, "I take it you don't want nothin' very expensive in the way of supper and bed, do you?"

"No, sir, I haven't got much money, and I can't afford anything but the cheapest."

"It's too late to cook you anything, and the wife's gone to bed, but you can have a slice of ham and a cut of the home-made loaf, and a pint mug of milk. Will that do for supper?"

"Oh dear yes, sir, thank you," replied Tad.

"And as for a bed, what do you say to a good shakedown of clean hay in the loft? It's sweet and wholesome, and you won't have to pay nothin' for it, so that'll leave you able to afford a bit of breakfast in the mornin'. My dame shall give you a good bowl of oatmeal and milk afore you start off for Crest Mount."

"Thank you kindly, sir; I'm much obliged," said Tad.

And glad to get out of answering any more questions, and of being forced to draw upon his imagination for his facts, he ate his supper and then thankfully went to bed in the loft among the scented hay, where, being very weary, he fell asleep at once, only coming back to consciousness when the landlord's stable-boy came in for hay for the horses of some early travellers.

Tad ate his porridge, paid his reckoning, and walked briskly on, avoiding the busy high roads as much as possible, and taking short cuts across fields and through copses, lest he should chance to meet some one he knew.

Once, about three miles from Crest Mount, he got a lift in a baker's cart, so it was only noon when he reached the place. There he bought at the post-office, which was also a stationer's shop, a sheet of paper, a pencil, an envelope, and a penny stamp, and carrying them to the Green where there were some benches, he sat down and wrote to his father, giving him an account of how the baby had been stolen, and adding that as he did not dare to face his stepmother after what had happened, he should not come home any more. He sent his best love to Bert and Nell, expressed a hope that the baby might soon be found, and remained James Poole's dutiful son, Tad.

When the letter was posted, the boy felt as though he had shaken off a weight. Now he need stay no longer in Crest Mount; he would only just buy himself a little loaf and a couple of apples for his dinner, and then push on towards a small seaport called Upland Bay.

Though Ponderton—the place where he had lived all his life—was not very far from the coast, Tad had never yet seen the sea. But he had read wonderful things about it in the absurd penny dreadfuls that he had got hold of now and again. His head was full of pirates, of marvellous adventures on strange islands, of grand discoveries of countless treasures in all sorts of unlikely places. Also he had a vague idea that, somehow or other, the sea brought luck sure and certain, and that if he could only manage to get to the shore, his fortune was as good as made.

He walked on all day, only stopping now and again to ask his way, or to beg a drink of water or buttermilk at the farms he passed. But it was dark by the time he reached the little town of Upland Bay—a picturesque place, perched high upon a bold cliff, while, on the inland side, a wide reach of breezy downs and cornfields stretched away for miles, as it seemed to Tad when he peered through the darkness.

As he trudged up the High Street, looking curiously about him, and eagerly inhaling the cool, strong, salt air, he was suddenly brought to a stand in front of the police-station. For there, in full glare of a lamp, he saw a large written notice posted up. With blanched cheeks and starting eyes he read these words:

"Missing since yesterday morning, Sunday, September 2nd, Edward Poole of Ponderton, aged fourteen, having with him a baby boy about eight months old. When last seen was carrying the child and a basket through the streets of Ponderton. The lad has a big head and thin body, and was dressed in a dark grey suit with a cap of the same, and the baby in a red flannel dress and coat. A reward will be paid to anyone giving information that may lead to the finding of the lad and infant."

Here, at least, in this out-of-the-way place, Tad had thought to feel himself safe; but even here the hue and cry was after him, and a reward offered for his capture. Assuredly Mrs. Poole had lost no time. The telegraph had been set to work, and probably at every little town and village within twenty miles of Ponderton, a written notice had been posted.

[CHAPTER V]

DRIVEN FORTH

LIKE one in a bad dream, Tad stood and stared at the placard. There was something very ominous and startling, on coming for the first time into this little town, to find his secret, his story there before him.

"Ay there it is!" he muttered. "My name and my clothes and all, so as the perlice should be sure to catch me. Catch me? Ay, and so they may yet."

At the thought, he shrank into the shadow of the wall.

"Why, here I am, with my big head, and thin body, and I'm wearin' of that very grey suit and cap, and a bobby might just step out and nab me this minute. Now what can I do," Tad asked himself, "to put the bobbies off the scent and make 'em think there's no Edward Poole in the place?"

Musing intently, the lad had moved stealthily away, and turned down a narrow, dark street, where he was less likely to be noticed. Once round the corner, he quickened his pace until he came to a little archway leading into some kind of a court. Here he undid his satchel, produced from it an old snuff-coloured suit that he used to wear when doing dirty work, and proceeded to exchange his tidy grey clothes for the shabby brown, packing the former carefully away in the satchel. He turned his cap inside out, and put it on well forward, shading his eyes; then turning his frayed collar up round his throat, he emerged from the sheltering archway.

The clouds had been gathering for the last hour or two, and now the rain began to fall, the lamps were dim and blurred, and the lad's courage revived. A big cookshop attracted him by its savoury odours, which made the hungry boy's mouth water. While he was gazing in and wondering which of all the good things he should choose if he could afford a hearty supper, two men came up, and also paused for a look.

Tad, feeling fairly safe in his old brown clothes, did not move away at once, and had not indeed taken much notice of them or their conversation, until a sentence—a single sentence—of their talk, turned him faint and sick with fear, and set him trembling all over.

"I say, Bill, they say there's more partic'lars now about that there scoundrel of a boy. You know which I mean—the artful young chap what run off with the baby; disappeared with his poor little half-brother."

Not daring to move lest he should be noticed, afraid almost to breathe, Tad listened intently.

"No, is there, Fred?" said the man Bill.

"Yes," replied Fred; "it 'pears as if this lad Poole was a wonderful jealous, spiteful sort of chap, and they're half afeared he may have got rid of the baby somehow, just out of pure wickedness—and then run away."

"Wouldn't I like to catch the young gallows-bird!" remarked Bill so savagely that Tad would have turned and fled that minute, but that he must have given himself away there and then by so doing. "I've got a dear little un of my own," resumed Bill in a softened voice, "only about eight months old too, and I know just how I'd feel to anyone as tried to treat him unjust and unfair."

"Well," remarked the man Fred, "one comfort is that there's little chance of the boy gettin' clear away. He's safe to be nabbed sooner or later; I only wish I'd the doin' of it."

Then the two men went into the shop, and Tad, with a white, drawn face and quaking limbs, moved away from the shop window.

After wandering about among the darkest and poorest streets in the town, he found his way at last to the harbour, where several small coasters and smacks were about to sail, for the wind was fair, and the tide just on the turn.

"Please, sir, don't you want someone to help on board your boat?" asked Tad of the skipper of the largest vessel.

The man turned, took his pipe out of his mouth, and eyed Tad from head to foot.

The boy winced under the keen scrutiny, and repeated his question.

"Hum!" grunted the skipper. "And what do you know about the sea?"

"Oh, lots!" replied Tad, with vivid recollections of the sea-stories he had read.

"Ever been to sea before?"

"No, but—"

"Is your father a sailor?"

"No, but—"

"But what?" questioned the man roughly.

"I've read lots about it, and always thought I'd like it of all things."

The skipper gave a little short laugh, which emboldened Tad to remark:

"What I'd like best to be, is a pirate."

"A what?" growled the man.

"A pirate, you know, sir; I've read all about them, and they has the jolliest kind of a life, takin' treasure ships and hidin' away the gold and di'monds on desert islands where there's no end of wonderful things, and then I've—"

"Shut up!" roared the skipper. "Of all the precious young fools I ever see, you're the biggest—far away. If them's the sort of yarns you spin, you'd never do no good aboard of the 'Mariar-Ann.' So hold your noise and be off with you. I'll be bound you're a runaway from home, and your mother 'll be comin' along lookin' for you presently."

"I haven't got a mother, but it's true I want to get away out of this. I'll do anything, everything you tell me if you'll take me to sea with you."

"Now look here, youngster," said the man, "I ain't goin' to get myself into a mess, not for nobody. Tell the truth—are you in hidin'?"

"Yes," said poor Tad.

"What have you been up to?"

"It's too long a story to tell here," replied the boy, peering about him distrustfully into the darkness. "Take me on board and I'll tell you all."

"Take you aboard and run the risk of bein' took up myself, for helpin' you away? Not if I know it! And now I think of it—" he added half to himself—"wasn't there some sort of notice up in the town about a lad wanted by the police? Here, Tim," he called to a man who was at work on the vessel. "What did you tell me you see wrote up at the station?" And the skipper turned his head to hear his mate's reply.

"There—you see, you young scamp," said the skipper, when—his suspicions confirmed—he turned once more to address Tad.

But to his surprise, he found himself talking into empty space. The culprit at the bar had not waited for the verdict. Tad was gone.

[CHAPTER VI]

AFLOAT

WHEN the wind blew the clouds away about midnight, and the moon came out, the cold white light falling upon a lonely high road revealed a wretched figure toiling on with weary, dragging steps, his garments heavy with rain.

This miserable tramp was Tad. He still carried his satchel, but that too was drenched, and when he stopped and groped in it for some food to stay the pangs of hunger, he pulled out only a squashy mess of pulp which had once called itself a penny roll, but which now bore no resemblance whatever—not even a family likeness—to that dainty.

With a sigh and a glance of disgust, Tad threw the sop into the ditch at the side of the road, and plodded on, splashing recklessly through the deep mud and puddles. The road, bounded on the right by cornfields, had run along the cliff keeping close to the coastline. But now the way cut straight across the shoulder of a promontory, and began to dip to a gorge on the further side, between mighty jagged walls where some long ago convulsion of nature had broken the cliff line of the shore.

This gully widened towards the beach, ending there, above high-water mark, in soft, deep, white sand which gleamed like silver in the moonlight.

To the heavy sleepful eyes of the traveller, the spot looked inviting enough. Sheltered from the wind, dry under foot, and as lonely and deserted as ever a fugitive and a vagabond could desire, this rocky, sand-carpeted nook seemed a very haven of refuge to poor Tad. Slowly and cautiously picking his way among the irregularities of the gorge, the forlorn lad clambered down, and presently found himself in the sandy corner which promised so welcome a refuge.

Here, by the white light of the moon, he crawled in and out among the rocks till he found a deep bed of dry sand with large boulders all round it, so that it was quite a sheltered nest, shutting out the keen autumn wind, and screening him too from observation, had there been anyone to see.

Here, then, nestling down among the rocks, and burrowing into the sand like a rabbit, poor Tad, lulled by the quiet, monotonous wash of the waves on the shingle lower down, fell sound asleep—so sound that he heard nothing, saw nothing. Till in broad daylight, he awoke suddenly with the feeling of something cold against his cheek. And starting up, he found a little rough cur gazing inquisitively into his face, with its comical head on one side. It was the little, chill, black nose of the animal rubbing against his cheek that had waked him.

Tad sprang to his feet alarmed. The sun was high in the heavens; the hour could not be far from noon. He had almost slept the clock round. Only half awake still, he stared about him with frightened eyes. Where there was a dog there might also be people—people who might have heard his story, and would perhaps recognise him for the hunted young scapegrace who was supposed to have done away with his little half-brother.

Hither and thither, with panic-stricken gaze, peered poor Tad, but no human form was in sight. He walked a few steps further to get a wider view of the shore. Rounding a corner of rock, he spied, in the cleft of a boulder, a gleam of colour. As he came nearer, he saw that the gleam of colour was the corner of a red bandanna kerchief tied round something, in the form of a bundle. But as the boy—cramped and stiff with lying for twelve hours in damp things—stooped painfully to examine the bundle, the dog leaped past him, and lay down by the rock with his forepaws on the knot of the kerchief. Made bold by hunger, and feeling sure the bundle contained food, Tad laid his hand upon it and tried to lift it, but as he did so, the dog growled and showed his teeth. Evidently the animal had been sent to guard the bundle, and the owner of both would be back presently.

By this time the boy was perfectly ravenous with hunger, and ready to do anything for a meal. He did not, however, wish to run the risk of being bitten, and so he at first tried to divert the dog's attention by throwing a stick towards the water for him to fetch. But the sharp little cur saw through his design, and would not budge an inch.

Then Tad took up an ocean cat-o'-nine-tails of tough, leathery seaweed, and tried to frighten the poor little beast away, but it only whined, and crouched still closer to the rock.

Made quite desperate by the little animal's faithful resistance, Tad at last dragged an old shirt out of his satchel, threw the clinging folds over the dog's head and body, tied the sleeves together round the little creature, and rolled it, struggling and snapping vainly, into a long, bolster-like bundle. This he laid down on the sand, with two large stones on the outer folds to keep the dog from extricating itself. Then he snatched up the red kerchief and unknotted it. Oh joy! What a delightful dinner met the glad eyes of the famished lad. Several thick slices of bread and butter, a couple of hard-boiled eggs, part of the heel of a Dutch cheese, and a solid-looking, brown-crusted, seed loaf, together with a tin flask of cold coffee.

Tad's first impulse was to sit right down, then and there, and gorge himself with the food. But fear for his safety mastered even the impulse of his hunger, and he remembered that the owner of the dog and the red bundle would certainly be returning soon.

Looking about him, uncertain what to do for the best, the lad espied a little boat, moored to a rock in shallow water, not very far from the place where he was standing. And the idea occurred to him that he might get to the boat by wading, row off to a little rocky islet about half a mile out to sea, and—

"Then," said he to himself, "I shall be safe, and I'll have time to think what to do next."

Another swift look round to see that no one was coming yet—then the boy ran down the beach, waded into the water, scrambled into a boat, and at once cast off the loop of string which held her to a jutting point of the rock.

The tide had turned, and away slipped the boat on a receding wave, into deeper water. For a few minutes Tad, in his great hunger, was so busy discussing the contents of the red bundle, that he was conscious of nothing else. But, as the first sharp pangs of famine were assuaged, he glanced about him, and seeing that the tide and current were carrying him away from the island, he threw down the remnants of his stolen meal, so as to take up the oars, which he had not thought of before.

What were the boy's feelings when he found that there were no oars in the boat at all; they must have been left on shore, together with the sail and the boat-hook.

With an exclamation of fear and horror, Tad turned his eyes despairingly towards the beach, hoping to see someone who would come in another boat to his rescue, for his little craft, borne swiftly on the ebb of the tide, was drifting steadily out to sea. But no—not a soul was in sight anywhere on land, and not a fishing-smack upon the water, far as the eye could reach.

Overwhelmed with despair at this new misfortune that had befallen him, and perceiving dimly that this, like the others, was clearly the outcome of his own wrong-doings, the poor lad in despair threw himself down in the bottom of his drifting boat, sobbing and crying till he fell asleep again from exhaustion; fell asleep rocked by the swaying and heaving of the waters; hushed into a deep and dreamless rest by their wash and whisper.

[CHAPTER VII]

JEREMIAH JACKSON

"BOAT ahoy! Wake up there! Or is it dead you are?"

With these words ringing in his ears, Tad sprang to his feet, nearly upsetting the little boat. The sun had gone down, the soft twilight was stealing over sea and sky, and close to him was a vessel, a good-sized schooner, laden with timber; even her decks were piled with it.

The skipper, a fat, red-headed, freckled man, with kind, blue eyes and a big voice, was looking over the ship's side at the poor solitary waif, in the oarless, sail-less boat, while another man threw a rope to Tad and called to him to catch hold. The boy had just sense enough to obey, and the sailor drew the boat close, and in a minute or two Tad was safe on the deck of the schooner.

"Where did you come from, shrimp?" asked the fellow who had thrown the rope.

"And how do you come to be making a voyage all by yourself?" cried a second sailor.

"What's up with your parents, I'd like to know," remarked a third, "that they lot you go to sea in a cockleshell?"

"Shut up, boys, and hold your noise, all of you!" said the red-haired man in a voice like a speaking-trumpet. "Time enough for all that later on. Can't you see, you three blind bats, that the lad's half dead with cold and hunger and fear? Here, Frank," he called to a tall boy who appeared just then from the cuddy with a big metal teapot in his hand, "take the youngster to your place, and let him have a wash and a warm, and then give him some tea and cold corned beef, and afterwards bring him below to me."

So, an hour later, poor Tad, clean and comfortable, and with his appetite satisfied, was ushered into the trim cabin, where the skipper sat finishing his own meal.

"Now then, my young voyager," said he, as Tad stood silently before him, "give an account of yourself! How did you happen to be floatin' round in the sea, as I found you?"

"Afore I say anything, sir," replied Tad, "what do you mean to do with me?"

"We're bound for Granville with Norwegian pine," said the skipper; "and as I can't alter my course for you, you've got to go along of me."

"And please, sir, where may Granville be? Is it in Wales or maybe Scotland?"

"No, my lad, it's in France," rejoined the man.

"France!" exclaimed Tad, aghast. "But I don't want to go to France."

"Then I don't see but what we must stop the ship, and put you aboard your small boat—as we're towin' at this present moment—and let you drift; then, as sure as my name's Jeremiah Jackson, you'll go to the bottom of the sea the first breeze that comes. If you like that better than France, I'll give the orders at once." And the big skipper laughed.

"Well, sir," said Tad, after a minute's reflection, "maybe, arter all, it won't be such a bad thing for me to go to France, considerin'—"

"Considerin' what, boy? Now then, make a clean breast of it and tell the truth."

"Considerin' as how the bobbies is arter me," replied Tad reluctantly.

The captain gave a low whistle, and a quick glance at the lad's downcast face, then he said:

"What are they after you for? What have you been and done?"

"Well sir—to tell the truth, there's several things I done, but the perlice ain't arter me for them. It's for the things I ain't done that they're arter me."

"It seems to me you must be clean off your head, child, to tell me such nonsense," remarked the skipper. "Now then, try and give me something I can believe."

So plucking up courage, and seeing real kindness in the fat skipper's face, Tad told his story, beginning with the home miseries and his longing to revenge himself on his stepmother; then his making off with his little half-brother, and the disappearance of the child with the gipsies; his subsequent adventures and escapes, his thefts and dodges and lies, and the misfortune that had followed him all the way through—all this Tad told without keeping back anything.

Jeremiah Jackson listened attentively, only interrupting the boy's narrative now and again to ask a question, if Tad's hesitating speech did not succeed in making his meaning clear.

But when the lad paused at last, adding only, "That's all, sir," the skipper said:

"So you feel as if you'd been unlucky, do you?"

"Yes, sir," rejoined Tad; "everything's gone agen me from the first; I can't think why."

"Shall I tell you?" asked Jeremiah, a kind, pitying look coming into his blue eyes, and making his big broad face almost beautiful; "it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks." Then, seeing that Tad did not understand, he added, "When we set out on a wrong and dangerous road, lad, we can scarce wonder—it seems to me—if we meets with ill luck. S'posin' now, that instead of gettin' out my chart and studyin' my course, careful and sure, I just let the ship drive afore the wind, whose fault would it be, think you, Teddie Poole, if we run slap up agen a rock and come to be a wreck? But judgin' from what you've been tellin' me, that's very like what you done."

Tad was silent. Deep down in his heart, where his conscience was awakening, he felt the truth of what the skipper said.

Jeremiah Jackson went on:

"I know it's been very hard for you, my poor boy. I don't wonder you wanted to run away from home, nor I don't blame you for doin' it—things bein' as they was. But the trick you played on your stepmother was a mean thing, and it's out of this wrong-doin' that all the rest of the bad things has come, makin' of you a thief and a vagabond."

"Yes, sir, that's so, but what am I to do now?"

"Well," said the skipper, "maybe you won't relish what I'm goin' to say, but if I was you I'd ask this here old Jeremiah Jackson to carry me back to England when he sails from Granville in a week's time for Southampton. And then, lad, I'd make the best of my way home again—even if I had to tramp it; and I'd tell the bobbies and my dad too the whole truth, and take brave and patient anything as comes after, whether it be the lock-up or a good hidin'. No, Teddie Poole, don't look at me so! That would be the straight, right, manly thing to do, and what's more, it would be the Christian thing too."

Tad hung his head. Jeremiah Jackson had asked a hard thing, a very hard thing. And yet the good man's words had touched him; he felt the skipper was right. But he shrank from all that he felt sure awaited him at home. The thought of his stepmother's relentless wrath daunted him. He could almost see her frowning, hateful face, and hear his father's stern voice and hard words. All that he must do and suffer if he took the course suggested to him, came to his mind now, and overwhelmed him with dread.

"Think it out, lad, to-night," said Jeremiah, "and ask the good Lord Who ain't far—so the Scripture says—from anyone of us, to help you to do the right, and leave the rest with Him."

[CHAPTER VIII]

FOXY AND PHIL

THE "Stormy Petrel," as Jeremiah Jackson's vessel was called, remained nearly a week at Granville, discharging her cargo, and loading again with various goods for Southampton.

During these days Tad was in a miserably uncertain state of mind. At one time he would almost resolve to take the good skipper's advice, and go home to face bravely anything that might happen. At another, he shrank from the thought of returning, and felt as though he could far more easily brave any amount of unknown dangers, than go back to the home troubles that he knew so well.

On the afternoon of the day before the schooner was to sail, Tad was standing about on the wharf feeling very unhappy, and very uncertain as to what course to take. While he wandered listlessly round, he met a boy about twelve years of age, with a monkey in his arms. A small organ was strapped across the lad's shoulders, and when he turned the handle of the instrument, it ground out a horrible parody of a popular French tune, and the monkey, leaping from its bearer's arms, danced a queer kind of hornpipe on the top of the organ, tossing its little red cap in the air, and pretending to be in the best of good spirits. What a feeble pretence this was, however, even Tad could see, for the poor little beast had a face almost as pinched and woebegone as that of the organ boy, and that was saying a great deal.

As it happened, Tad was still mooning over the second half of his dinner, so much absorbed was he in perplexing thought. All on board the schooner had been too busy that day to have a proper dinner set out, and Tad had received his rations of bread and salt pork, and a substantial baked apple dumpling, and had been told to go on shore and eat it there. The bread and meat had been eaten, and the first hunger being appeased, Tad had once more fallen into a brown study, out of which he was roused only when the poor little organ lad and his monkey had come quite near, and were casting longing glances upon the dumpling which Tad held—only half folded in paper—in his hand.

The mute language of want is one which the eyes speak very plainly. At least this language is plain enough to those who have suffered from hunger, and Tad knew only too well what it was to be hungry. So when he saw the longing look in the eyes both of boy and beast, he promptly handed over his dumpling, and for a while forgot his own troubles in the delight with which his bounty was received.

The organ boy broke off a generous piece first for his little charge, then sitting down in a quiet corner of the wharf, he began to eat his own share, gratefully smiling and nodding his thanks to Tad, but not saying a word.

"The little chap's a Frenchman, for sure," said Tad to himself, "and can't speak no English, and he sees plain enough as how I ain't a countryman of his. That's why he don't try to talk to me. Still he may have learned a few words of English while he carried his organ round; I'll try him and see if he understands me."

"Look here," said Tad, laying a hand on the little lad's shoulder to arrest his attention, "are you a French boy, or what?"

The child shook his head, but whether this meant that he was not a French boy or that he did not understand what was being said to him, Tad could not tell.

"I do wish I knowed if you can understand what I says to you," said Tad; "I'd like to have a talk with you if you do but understand and speak a little bit of English. Now, what's your name?"

The organ boy looked full in Tad's face, then glanced round timidly, and said:

"Hush, not so loud! I'm English, like you; my name's Phil Bates, but I've a French master, and he's forbidden me to speak to any of my own people, and if he catches me at it, don't he beat me just!"

His tone and manner were quiet and restrained, and his language more refined than might have been expected in a boy of his appearance and employment.

"And how do you come to be with a French master?" inquired Tad.

"Oh, my aunt, (her I lived with after father and mother died) she sort of sold me to old Foxy. She was poor and had some children of her own, and was glad to be rid of me, and so Foxy (Renard is his name) gave a half sov for me, and he's got me, worse luck!"

"Was you sold here in France?" asked Tad.

"No, Foxy went over to England for something or other. We was livin' not far from Southampton, and he happened to see me standin' at auntie's cottage door, and her close by. And says he to her in that wonderful lingo of his, 'Mine good womans, is dis so pretty boy your own cheaild?'

"And says auntie, 'No, he ain't, he's only a nevvy.'"

What happened to Tad

WHAT HAPPENEDTO TAD

WHAT HAPPENED
TO TAD