“LANDED WITH BOTH KNEES UPON THE MIDDLE OF OUR JAILER’S BACK.”

Frontispiece.

(See page [208].)

THE TREASURE OF
MUSHROOM ROCK

A STORY OF PROSPECTING IN THE
ROCKY MOUNTAINS

BY
SIDFORD F. HAMP

ILLUSTRATED

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1899

Copyright, 1899
BY
SIDFORD F. HAMP
Entered at Stationers’ Hall, London
The Knickerbocker Press, New York

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

THE TREASURE
OF MUSHROOM ROCK

CHAPTER I
MOSELEY’S

ONE windy night in April, some five-and-twenty years ago, the young moon, peeping now and then between the scudding wisps of cloud, seemed to be maintaining a careful watch upon a little incident which was taking place outside the windows of Moseley’s school—a large brick building standing in a walled enclosure.

Save for the roaring of the wind in the elm-trees, no sound was to be heard until, presently, the clock in the old church-tower struck eleven. As if the striking of the hour had been a signal, a boy suddenly appeared, stepping softly from the shadow of the enclosure wall. Picking up a small pebble, he cast it up at one of the windows. The window opened immediately and a second boy appeared. The one below gave two clicks with his tongue; whereupon the boy above let fall from the window a white bundle, which, instead of dropping upon the ground, unfolded itself and hung suspended. In the half-darkness the object looked very like two sheets knotted together to form a rope. That it was indeed intended to serve as a rope became at once evident, for the second boy, getting astride of the window-ledge, seized the sheet with one hand, and letting go his hold of the ledge came squirming and twisting down to the ground.

Having paused for an instant to listen, the two boys tiptoed away and were presently lost in the shadow. A moment later they reappeared on the top of the wall, dropped upon the outer side, stood still again for an instant to listen and peer about, and then, seemingly satisfied that there was nobody moving, they turned their faces southward and went running, pit-pat, down the white chalk road until they vanished among the trees at the bottom of the hill.

How it came about that Percy Goodall, an American boy, and I, Tom Swayne, an English boy, were running away together that windy night in April from Moseley’s school in the south of England, what led to our flight, and what came of it, form the subjects of the tale I have set out to chronicle; having been urged to undertake the task by Percy’s father and mine, and by our kind old friend, Sir Anthony Ringwood.

Percy’s father was the American Consul at one of the large seaport towns on the English Channel. His duties, of course, obliged him to live on the spot, but thinking that a smoky town, swarming with rough sailors of all nations and with many undesirable characters, was not the best place for a boy, he cast about for a good school to which he might send his son. After many and careful inquiries he settled upon Moseley’s, and accordingly, at the end of one Christmas holidays, Percy being then fourteen years old, his father took him up there and left him, a forlorn little scrap of humanity, alone in a land of strangers.

He was not alone for long, however, nor did he long continue to feel like a stranger, for on the following day we boys all came trooping back to school. There were about sixty of us, varying in ages from nine to nineteen. Most of us boarded in the houses of the different masters, but a few were day-boys, whose homes were in the village. Of these, I, Tom Swayne, the vicar’s son, was one.

As soon as it was discovered that there was a new boy, and that boy an American, Percy became a centre of attraction to the whole school. None of us had ever seen an American before, and we therefore inspected the newcomer with great interest. We found a sturdy, active, bright-eyed youngster, who, instead of being arrayed, as we had half expected, in striped trousers, a star-spangled coat, and a “chimney-pot” hat with the fur all turned the wrong way, was clothed like any of ourselves. In fact, except for the mispronunciation—as it seemed to us—of a few words, we could not see wherein an American differed from anybody else.

Percy and I very soon became friends. We had our desks next to each other in school, and we were put into the same class, occupying at first the two bottom places; an arrangement, however, which did not last very long, for Percy, as soon as he “got the hang of things,” to use his own expression, began to move up in the class, leaving me to occupy my accustomed place at the bottom by myself. He was quick at learning Latin and Greek; whereas I never could do anything in the classical languages—and unfortunately for me Latin and Greek formed the backbone of our studies at Moseley’s.

But though in the matter of scholarship there was a good deal of difference between Percy and me, that fact did not prevent us from becoming the best of friends; for in most other respects there were many points of resemblance between us. We were both fond of all kinds of athletic exercise, and both were good at any game requiring strength and agility. Many a time did the spirit of adventure get us into scrapes with Sir Anthony Ringwood’s keepers; many an exploring expedition did we make together, far out upon Salisbury Plain in one direction, and down to the New Forest in the other; and, to be honest, I fear I must admit that when any particularly ingenious piece of mischief was reported to old Moseley, the Head-master, it was pretty sure to have been Percy who had thought of it, and the pair of us who had taken the lead in carrying it out.

Of all the attractive places in the neighbourhood, however, the one to which we most resorted was Hengist’s Castle, a handsome old ruin standing on a small elevation about a mile from Moseley’s; and there is one incident connected with our explorations of this ancient edifice which is so closely associated with our subsequent adventures that I must not pass it over in silence.

My father and mother took a great liking for my American chum—they admired his brightness and his transparent honesty—and both of them, my mother especially, to make him feel that though a stranger in the land he was not exactly a foreigner, as a French boy would have been, made him welcome to the vicarage whenever he chose to come, and as we were always together, that was pretty often. On one of these occasions, a wet Saturday afternoon, Percy, poking about among the neglected volumes on the top shelves of the library, came upon a musty old leather-bound history of Hengist’s Castle. Among the many anecdotes scattered through this book there was one in particular which attracted his attention. It told how, “once upon a time,” a certain Sir Gregory Powlett had taken refuge in the castle; how he was at supper in the dining-hall one evening, when there came a clank of mailed feet and a thundering at the door, and the soldiers of that vengeful tyrant, Richard III., had burst upon the scene; and how Sir Gregory had but time to fly to the fireplace, whence, though there was a fire burning at the time, he had succeeded in gaining the secret passage.

This story set Percy thinking. If there had been a secret passage in the days of Richard III., why should it not be there yet? He communicated his idea to me, and we determined to set about a systematic search for it. From the diagrams and pictures with which the history was embellished we made out the situation of the dining-hall and the fireplace, and one half-holiday, without a word of our intention to anybody, we commenced our exploration.

Of the original walls of the dining-hall there was but one left standing; the others had been knocked to pieces by Cromwell’s men. This wall abutted against the ancient Keep, a square tower of considerable altitude, and was itself some seven feet thick and thirty feet high; covered, in many places to the top, with a heavy mat of ivy. In the thickness of the wall the chimney was built, a shaft five feet square at the bottom, but diminishing in size a short distance from the ground to one half those dimensions.

Standing in the fireplace, Percy and I peered about for an opening somewhere, but could see none. There was no stone panel working on a hinge, which was what we had rather expected to find, nor anything in the nature of steps by which we might climb the chimney. Overhead all was dark, for the shaft, besides contracting suddenly, had in it a bend which prevented us from seeing out at the top.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Percy: “we must get upon the top of the wall somehow and look down. I expect we can climb up by the ivy.”

The ivy outside was probably older than that inside the hall; at any rate it was thicker and reached higher. We therefore went outside, and choosing a spot where the mass of leaves was at least three feet in thickness and the stem of the plant about six inches in diameter, we went scrambling to the top and then made our way along the uneven surface of the broken wall until we came to the hole we were seeking, which we found to be level with the top of the wall and half concealed by the ivy.

Apparently we were no better off than before, however. We could see nothing, and we were afraid to attempt the descent of the inside of the chimney, for a fall to the bottom would pretty certainly result in some broken bones, to say nothing of a broken neck.

“Look here, Percy,” said I, “let us go back to the vicarage and bring up a rope—there is one in the gardener’s tool-house, I know—and then we will fasten it to something and climb down the chimney.”

This suggestion met with Percy’s approval; and in half an hour we were back again, rope in hand.

“Do you think you can hold it, Tom, while I go down?” asked Percy.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “The rope is rather small, and it might slip through my hands. If we can take a turn with it round something I could hold it then.”

After a short search we found, some distance below the top of the wall, a dressed stone imbedded in the masonry and projecting about eighteen inches into the dining-hall. What it was there for we did not know, nor did we care, so long as it would serve our purpose. After one or two casts I succeeded in looping the rope under the stone, when, firmly holding one end, I sat down on the edge of the chimney With my feet braced against the other side and gave the word to Percy to descend.

Having the rope to hold by, Percy found no difficulty in scrambling down the dark hole until his feet came against the uppermost of three little ledges built in the sloping wall of the chimney. Securing a firm foothold, he took from his pocket a fragment of candle, lighted it, and commenced spying up and down for an opening. None was to be seen; three of the walls, at any rate, were solid. He turned round on the ledge. There, close against his face, was a dark passage about two feet square, so cleverly placed in the overhanging wall as to be invisible either from above or below.

“Tom!” My name came booming up the chimney.

“Hallo!” I shouted in reply.

“I’ve found it!”

“Found what? The passage?”

“Yes. Right here. Can you see the candle?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, it is right in front of me; but it is as dark as pitch inside. Wait a moment; I will reach in as far as I can and see if I can see anything.”

He did so; and immediately, fluff!—out went the candle, and I heard him exclaim, “Hi! B-rrr! Get out!”

“What is it?” I shouted.

“Bats. A dozen of them. They flew right into my face.”

“I say, Percy,” I called down to him, “can you stand without the rope?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, then, let go. I’m going to tie the two ends together and come down too.”

This was soon done, and down I went, my knees braced against one side of the chimney and my shoulders against the other. Standing upon the top ledge, while Percy stood upon the lowest one, I lit my candle—for we had “annexed” a couple of candle-ends when we went down for the rope.

“That’s the passage, all right,” said I. “But how did that old buffer in the history-book ever get up to it? Ah, I see. Look here—come up a step. Do you see this big iron staple with three rusty links of chain attached to it? The chain must have hung down into the fireplace once, so that an active fellow might pull himself up by it and draw it up after him. But I suppose the rain, running down the chimney for two hundred years, has rusted it all away. These links look pretty rotten themselves.”

They were, indeed, pretty rotten; for, as I spoke, I picked up one of them and broke it to pieces with my finger and thumb quite easily. The staple itself, however, being thicker, and being placed farther inside the passage, was still perfectly sound.

“Come on,” said Percy. “Let us crawl down the passage and see where it leads to.”

After crawling for a short distance we found that the roof of the passage rose sufficiently to enable us to stand upright, and directly afterwards we came upon a flight of stone stairs ascending into the darkness. Up these we went, ten steps, emerging presently through a square hole into a little room, in which were a small fireplace and a window, the latter covered with ivy. Looking through this window we could see the school and the village, and we guessed at once that the room was built in the wall of the Keep, which we knew to be immensely thick.

As may be supposed, we were highly jubilant over our discovery. We decided at once that we would keep our secret to ourselves, if possible; that the room should be our own private den, to which nobody, on any pretence whatever, should be admitted.

The first thing to be done was to provide some ready means of access to the passage, and this we accomplished before the day was out.

Procuring from the village blacksmith a stout iron bar, we laid it across one corner of the chimney-top in receptacles made for the purpose by prying up some of the stones, and having reset the stones as well as we could, the first part of our task was completed. The next thing was to attach to the bar one half of the rope, which I had begged from my father, and after tying a short, stout piece of wood every two feet of its length, to drop it down the chimney. The other half of the rope we tied in like manner to the big staple in the entrance of the passage, and as it reached to within seven feet of the hearthstone we were able to go up or down as we liked. There was little chance that anybody would discover the end of the rope in the chimney, for, though the boys were in the habit of playing hide-and-seek about the castle, they were all aware that there was nowhere to hide in the fireplace, while the occasional tourist was unlikely to go in there at all.

As our den contained a fireplace of its own, and as the weather was chilly, for it was just after the Christmas holidays,—Percy’s second Christmas at the school,—it naturally occurred to us that we ought to have a supply of fire-wood. But fire-wood is a scarce article in England, and we were obliged to search the hedge-rows and spinneys for a long distance around for dead sticks ere we could collect a sufficient supply. With infinite labour we succeeded in getting together about a cart-load, which we hoisted in small bundles up the chimney and carried to the den; and then, of course, we must straightway light a fire to test the drawing qualities of our fireplace.

We had been standing by the fire, warming ourselves, for a quarter of an hour, or so, when Percy, happening to look out of the window, exclaimed:

“Why! What is the matter down in the village? The whole population seems to be coming up here.”

“It’s the smoke!” I cried. “It’s the smoke pouring out of the top of the Keep. They are coming up to see what is the cause of it. We must hurry out and pull up our ropes; they might find them.”

Back we went in great haste; detached the ropes and pulled them up; drew the ivy over the iron bar, and scrambled down the wall. Then, Percy taking one of the ropes and I the other, we wound them round and round our bodies and buttoned our coats over them. They made us look absurdly fat, but that could not be helped. Then we ran round the bottom of the hill and joined the procession of villagers from behind.

It was not surprising that their attention had been attracted. We had built a roaring fire in the hope of taking the chill out of the walls of the den, and some of the wood being rather damp, an immense volume of smoke was rolling away from the summit of the old tower.

The men and boys, including Percy and myself, at once dispersed all over the castle in search of the fire; every spot, likely or unlikely, was inspected, without result, and presently everybody congregated again at the base of the Keep, whence the mysterious smoke was still pouring in clouds, to discuss the meaning of this wonderful phenomenon. Percy and I were in perfect ecstasies of delight as we listened to the varied opinions of the astonished villagers; it was with the greatest difficulty we could restrain our laughter.

“Do’ee know what ’tis makes thicky smo-ak?” said one old fellow in a smock-frock. “’Tis my opinion it be gho-asts.”

“Or witches,” added another, turning pale at his own idea.

Everybody shook his head and looked serious; for the farm-labourer of the south of England firmly believed in witches at that time—and probably he does so still, for he is of a slow-moving race.

One man, however, a big young fellow in a velveteen coat, scouted the idea. He was one of Sir Anthony Ringwood’s keepers.

“Witches and ghosts!” he exclaimed, scornfully. “’Tain’t neither one nor t’other; ’tis poachers, that’s what ’tis. They’ve bin and found some room in the castle as nobody knows on, and ’tis them as is making this’ere smoke.”

But this very reasonable idea of our friend in velveteen was received with equal scorn by the others. They preferred the witch theory. I have no doubt but that every single one of them took care to stop up his keyhole that night, in case one of the witches, offended at this officious prying into her affairs, should think fit to pay him a visit.

Having concluded their fruitless search, the party returned to their homes; while Percy and I, readjusting the ropes, went back to the den, where we spent the rest of the afternoon sitting by the fire and chuckling over the mystification of the villagers.

But though the villagers had no trouble in deciding that the supernatural smoke was due to the agency of witchcraft, Sir Anthony was by no means so easily satisfied. The old Baronet was the largest landowner and chief magnate of the neighbourhood. He had been a great sportsman in his day, having shot buffaloes on the plains of America and tigers in the Indian jungles, and though he was now too old for such enterprises, he was still as keen as ever with his gun, and preserved the game upon his large estates with great strictness. Poachers were the bane of his existence; and his declaration that he would prosecute to the utmost extent of the law anyone found infringing upon his game-rights was well known to us and to everybody else in the village.

The poachers happened to be particularly active at this time, and the young keeper’s theory that some of that troublesome fraternity had discovered a secret chamber in the castle found favour with the better-educated people of the neighbourhood; Sir Anthony in particular was convinced of its correctness. In consequence, he ordered a strict examination of the old ruin to be made under the direction of the head-keeper, a very intelligent man; but Percy and I, getting wind of his intention, removed the telltale ropes, and as the ivy was not strong enough to bear the weight of a grown man, none of the keepers could get upon the top of the wall, and our secret therefore remained a secret, its value being only enhanced by the wonder which the mystery excited in the whole community.

CHAPTER II
THE FLIGHT

SOME six months previous to our discovery of the secret chamber, it happened that all the boys in our class at school had been taken with a desire to become archers,—the result of reading the story of Robin Hood,—and Percy and I, among the rest, had procured bows and arrows, and had spent many hours practising at a sack full of straw suspended from a bough in the playground. With the others the craze, as such crazes will, had died out again in a short time; we two alone kept it up. For one thing, my chum’s persevering nature impelled him, having undertaken to be an archer, to be one; another reason was that our bows were very superior to those of the other boys. In the churchyard there grew a splendid old yew-tree, the pride of the village, and we, young rascals that we were, had purloined from it two straight branches, which, with great pains, we had fashioned into very serviceable bows. By constant practice we became highly respectable shots, and many a luckless small bird did we thoughtlessly slay for the mere pleasure of killing; we even became so expert as now and then to kill a rabbit “on the wing,” as Percy put it.

The favourite place for our shooting expeditions was the Cross-roads Spinney, a triangular piece of ground of eight or nine acres, well covered with trees, which lay about two miles from the village. It belonged to nobody, or rather, being claimed by Sir Anthony and by the Parish, it had for many years lain in Chancery; a state of affairs which suited us very well, for, while the lawsuit dragged along, we boys appropriated the place for our own happy hunting-ground. Bordering as it did upon Sir Anthony’s best game-preserve, it was a source of great annoyance to the old Baronet that the title could not be settled, for many a pheasant flew over the wall to roost in the spinney, and very seldom did it ever fly back again; somebody was sure to get it. Then, too, the gypsies would frequently encamp there, to Sir Anthony’s great disgust; for, with him and his keepers, “gypsy” and “poacher” were synonymous terms.

This spinney was not far from Hengist’s Castle, and the belief that the poachers who were just now giving so much trouble were harbouring in the ruins, kept all the keepers on the alert, not only in the hope of laying hands on the culprits, but of discovering their hiding-place.

One evening in April, Percy and I were returning from a shooting expedition, bearing our spoils, one rabbit each, in our hands, when we were overtaken by one of our school-fellows,—Bates, senior, by name,—with whom, though there were no active hostilities between us, we had long been “at outs.” We did not like him, and he returned the compliment.

That I may not do him an injustice, I must explain that Bates had some reason for his antipathy. He was an orphan, his affairs being managed by a crusty old lawyer in London, whose idea of the proper discharge of the duties of a guardian was confined to the remitting of so much money to his ward every three months—more money than a boy ought to have at command—and in taking no further notice of him until next quarter-day came round. Bates was thus in a manner thrown upon the world to follow his own bent, and, unfortunately for him, his bent had one very serious twist in it,—he was a born gambler.

Old Moseley was aware of his pupil’s proclivities. He had found him out once in a horse-racing transaction whereby Bates had lost a considerable sum of money, and had warned him that at the next offence he would have to leave the school; a warning which seemed to have had the desired effect, for during some months thereafter Bates desisted.

One day, however, Percy and I, ranging the woods in search of birds’-nests, came suddenly upon Bates and a stranger seated on the ground with a handkerchief spread between them, shaking dice for shillings. The disconcerted gambler, when he saw he was discovered, sprang to his feet and advanced upon us with a threatening air, but, though he was three years older and three inches taller than either of us, Percy and I were not afraid of him, and Bates, knowing, probably, that we were a pair hard to beat,—which I think I may assert without risking the charge of bragging,—thought better of it, and, changing his manner, invited us to join the game—an invitation we promptly declined. He then fell to begging us to say nothing about it. This we promised—with a reservation.

“Look here, Bates,” said Percy, who was usually the spokesman for the pair; “of course we won’t say anything about it. Why should we? But if old Moseley asks us any questions we are not going to tell him any lies.”

I nodded my head in approval. Bates, who seemed to regard such scruples as absurd, tried in vain to argue us out of this resolution, and was obliged finally to content himself with the assurance we had given him.

To have been defied by two boys younger than himself was bad enough; to be at the mercy of their possibly indiscreet tongues was worse. From that time forth, fearing that the incident might come to light, Bates, all unsuspected by us, set his wits to work to oust us from the school, if possible, and by a curious, roundabout course he succeeded at last, though in a manner he could hardly have expected, and with results he was very far from anticipating.

Since the occurrence of the dice-shaking incident Percy and I had held no intercourse with him, and we were therefore somewhat surprised and quite well please when Bates, overtaking us that evening, checked his pace and spoke to us.

“I say, you fellows,” said he; “don’t you think it is about time we made friends again?”

It occurred to me that this way of putting it was hardly correct, as we had never been friends before; but Percy did not notice it, and putting out his hand, he said, “All right, Bates; I’m willing if you are.”

Percy was of that straightforward, unsuspicious nature that it never entered his mind that Bates could have ulterior motive for his friendly advances; while, as for myself, I was accustomed to follow my chum’s lead without much consideration for the consequences. Accordingly we shook hands all round and walked on side by side, glad to think that the feud was ended.

“You haven’t been to the spinney to-day, have you?” asked Bates.

“No,” replied Percy. “We went up the Roman road to Crabtree’s farm. There are lots of rabbits there, and old Crabtree is glad to have them shot; they are so think as to be just a nuisance.”

“Well,” said Bates, “I’ve just come by the spinney, and I saw something that made me think of you two fellows and your bows and arrows. I had an idea; and you can help me to carry it out if you like. In fact, to be honest, that was why I proposed to you to be friends again.”

We were rather pleased at this “honest” confession. Bates was not such a bad fellow after all, perhaps.

“What is your idea?” asked Percy.

“I’ll tell you. As I was coming along I saw five pheasants fly over Sir Anthony’s park-wall and alight in the spinney. I crept in there, and there they were, all settling themselves for the night in a young fir-tree. Then I thought of you. What do you say to going out to-night and having a try for them? You can bring your bows and arrows, and I’ll show you the place. What do you say?”

“But, look here, Bates,” said I. “Isn’t it against the law to shoot pheasants?”

“Oh, no,” said Bates confidently. “If you were to shoot them on Sir Anthony’s land, that would be poaching, of course; but in the spinney a pheasant belongs to anybody who can get it.”

“Are you sure?” asked Percy.

“Certain, quite certain,” Bates declared with much emphasis. “You would not catch me going after pheasants if there was any fear of getting into prison for it. No, thank you. You may be sure of that.”

“It does seem pretty reasonable,” said Percy, “that game found on land that belongs to nobody in particular should be the property of anyone who can get it; and if you’re sure you’re right, Bates, I think we may as well go. Eh, Tom?”

Percy, naturally enough, knew almost nothing of the English game-laws, and, as for myself, I knew but little more. I was aware that rabbits were not game—in the eye of the law—and that pheasants were, but whether it were an illegal act to kill a pheasant in a public place like the spinney I had no knowledge. But as Bates was not afraid to venture (and we had no great opinion of his courage); as we were both very desirous of shooting a pheasant; and as, in fine, we possessed that common attribute of schoolboys, the habit of acting first and thinking afterwards, we decided to go.

At eight o’clock that evening, therefore, Bates, carrying a bag for the reception of the game, called for us at the vicarage, where Percy and I were waiting for him, and together we set off for our hunting-ground by a short cut across the fields.

We had nearly reached our destination, when Bates, vaulting over the gate which led from one field to another, managed somehow to entangle his feet in the game-bag and fell upon his hands and knees on the farther side, at the same time uttering a sharp exclamation of pain.

“Have you hurt yourself?” asked Percy, solicitously, seeing that our guide remained sitting on the ground clasping one ankle with both hands.

“I’m afraid I’ve twisted my ankle a little,” replied Bates, suppressing a groan with seeming difficulty.

“Well, that is hard luck,” said Percy. “That ends our expedition for to-night, sure enough. Look here, Bates. Put one arm over Swayne’s shoulders and the other over mine and we’ll help you along back to the schoolhouse as fast as we can. If you can’t do it in that way, we’ll carry you pick-a-back in turns. I expect we can manage it if we rest often enough.”

“Oh, no,” returned Bates. “We won’t give up our expedition yet, now that we have come this far. I am afraid I had better not try to walk any farther myself, but you two can go on and get the pheasants. You won’t be gone more than half an hour, I suppose, and then you can come back to me and give me a hand home. I’ll just sit here and wait for you.”

At first we were very much opposed to this course, but Bates insisting, we at length agreed to go on, and accordingly, taking with us the game-bag, and leaving him propped up with his back against the gate, we hurried off.

We soon spotted the young fir-tree, the position of which Bates had carefully described to us, and there, sure enough, were the pheasants; we could see them, like dark blotches, against the sky.

“You take the first shot,” whispered Percy.

Choosing the lowest bird, that its fall might not disturb the others, I let fly, and down it came with hardly a flutter. Percy then took a shot, with equal success. We placed the two birds at the foot of the tree, and were stooping to pull out the arrows, when we were suddenly pounced upon from behind, and a voice in my ear, a voice strangely familiar, said:

“These are your poachers, Keeper, caught in the act. Sir Anthony will give you a five-pound note for this, you may depend.”

“Thanks to you, sir,” said the keeper, who was holding Percy by the collar. “Bring the young gent along; they’ll spend the rest of the night in the lock-up.”

My assailant transferred his grip to my collar, and I was then able to turn my head and look at him. It was Bates.

“What are you up to, Bates?” I exclaimed, giving him a dig in the stomach with my elbow. “What do you mean by calling us poachers? You know perfectly well we are not poaching.”

“Oh, yes, you are, though,” replied Bates, with a complacent snigger. “Are they not, Keeper?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the keeper—it was the big young man who had helped the villagers in the search for our fire in the castle. “They’re poaching, sure enough. ’Tain’t the first time, neither, I’ll lay a tanner.”

“What rot you are talking, Keeper!” I blurted out. “You know just as well as I do that this isn’t Sir Anthony’s land.”

“Ah, but it is, though,” replied the grinning keeper; and Bates burst out laughing.

“Perhaps you didn’t know,” said he, “that the Chancery suit was settled three days ago in favour of Sir Anthony. This spinney is part of his preserves now; and you are caught poaching, my fine fellows. You’ll never see your native land again, my little Yankee,” shaking his fist at Percy. “If you’re not hung you’ll be transported for life. Oh, this is fine! I think I’ve squared accounts with the pair of you now, you young beggars.”

Then the whole extent of Bates’ villainy burst upon us. He had known of the settlement of the lawsuit, and he had pretended to make friends with us that evening solely with the object of drawing us into this trap. His twisted ankle was merely a part of the trick, contrived beforehand.

I was so enraged at his unparalleled meanness that I squirmed around in his grasp, and seizing him by the arms, I set to work kicking his shins with enthusiastic vigour. This was more than Bates had bargained for. He hopped about, first on one leg and then on the other, struggling to break from my grasp, and yelling to the keeper to come and help him. But the keeper was fully occupied in holding Percy; so Bates and I had it out between us. I hope I am not of a very vindictive nature, but I confess I long remembered with satisfaction the sound made by my stout English shoes as they cracked against the shins of the howling Bates.

At length he broke away and fled; when I instantly ran to the assistance of Percy. Coming up behind the keeper I seized him by the hair, pulling his head back so that his face was turned up to the sky. Down he came to his knees, and leaving his hold of Percy he attempted to grasp me by the wrist. This, however, was just what I was expecting, and giving him a sharp push I threw him forward upon his face.

The next moment Percy and I were out of the wood and scudding down the road.

The indignant keeper was up and after us like a shot; we could hear his heavy shoes coming, clip-clop, on the hard road behind us. We were just beginning to think we should out-run him when he blew a shrill whistle, in response to which two other keepers suddenly appeared in the road a hundred yards ahead. They supposed they had caught us then; but they were mistaken. Without an instant’s hesitation Percy swerved to one side, put down his head, shut his eyes, and dashed at the quickset hedge which bordered the road. He burst half-way through, when a push from me sent him forward upon his hands and knees on the other side. I dived into the gap he had made, and Percy, seizing me by the arm, dragged me through, just as the young keeper came panting up behind.

Away we went across country, heading straight for the castle, and after a smart run of nearly a mile we dashed into the old dining-hall—still fifty yards ahead of our pursuers. Calling to Percy to take to the chimney, I bolted through the arched doorway of the hall and scrambled up the ivy, reaching the top in time to see the young keeper pop into the fireplace down below. He had evidently seen Percy go in there, and supposed he had caught him as in a trap. Great was his surprise, therefore, to find the place empty.

Soon Bates and the other two men came up, and as I lay on the top of the wall, peeping over, I could hear their conversation.

“Gone up the chimney, have they?” said Bates. “Then they can’t escape: they will have to come down again sometime. I’ll tell you what it is, men: these are the poachers who have been making this smoke that has been puzzling everybody so much; they have found some secret chamber up the chimney here. I wonder what Sir Anthony will say when he hears who it is that has been stealing his pheasants so long.”

“He’ll prosecute ’em, sir; you may depend on it,” said one of the keepers. “He told me, only this morning, he didn’t care who it was, he’d prosecute ’em to the full extent of the law.”

“I hope he will; they deserve it—the young rascals. Look here, men——”

Bates and the three keepers fell to whispering together; I could no longer hear what was said. Presently they withdrew to either side of the fireplace and stood motionless, except that Bates occasionally rubbed his shins. It was plain that they expected that, if they kept quiet, we, supposing they had gone, would come down to be pounced upon.

I put my face over the opening of the chimney and gave a click with my tongue; Percy answered the signal; and then I whispered to him to come up. Soon his head appeared, and creeping out of the hole he pulled up the rope and laid it on the wall.

“Did you pull up the other rope?” I asked.

“Part way. I lodged it on one of the ledges below the passage. What are they doing down there?”

“Waiting for us to come down.”

We peered over the wall. Seemingly the enemy had already tired of waiting, for they were holding another whispered consultation, which resulted in the disappearance of two of the keepers into the fireplace. Presently we heard a muffled voice exclaim:

“There’s a rope up here. Give me your stick, Andrew, and I’ll hook it down.”

Bates and the remaining keeper immediately crowded into the fireplace, and we, listening down the chimney, heard a scrabbling and a scuffing, and then a light appeared, and the same voice said:

“Here’s a passage. Here’s three candles and a half, and candle-grease all along. That’s where they’ve gone. I’m a-going to crawl in there.”

“Hold up a bit, Jim,” the young keeper called out; “I’m coming too.”

“So will I,” cried the other, whose curiosity was excited by the discovery of a passage; and, “So will I,” cried Bates, who did not choose to be left alone in the shadowy old ruin.

There was a great deal of scuffing and scraping, and we two, lying flat on the wall with one eye each over the edge of the orifice, saw four pairs of heels alternately kick and struggle and finally disappear down the passage.

“Come on, Percy,” I exclaimed. “Let us get down the wall while we can.”

“Wait a bit,” he replied. “There’s something else to be done first.”

To my surprise he let down the rope and vanished into the chimney again. He was back in a minute, however, and pulling up the rope, he sprang to his feet and cried:

“Now we’re all right. They won’t catch us to-night, I think.”

“What did you go down for?” I asked.

“I cut the other rope and dropped it into the fireplace.”

Instead of the enemy catching us, we had caught the enemy.

We were soon down upon the ground again, and on our homeward way, but on rounding the corner of the Keep we espied a glimmer of light coming through the ivy-leaves which covered the window of our private den.

“Let us hail them,” said Percy; and on my acquiescing he called out, “Hallo, up there!”

Immediately the leaves parted, and a face, illuminated by a candle, appeared. It was Bates. At his exclamation of surprise on seeing us—for the moon was up—his face was at once surrounded by those of the three keepers, who gazed in wonder at our unexpected appearance.

“Good-bye, Keepers,” cried Percy. “I’ve cut the rope in the chimney, and you can’t get out. I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but I’m afraid you are likely to starve to death. There’s plenty of fire-wood, and there are three sparrows and a blackbird hanging on a nail in the corner; they will keep you alive for a day or two; after that you can cook Bates. Good-bye.”

With that we turned our backs upon the prisoners and set off at a brisk trot for the vicarage.

There was a summer-house in one corner of the vicarage garden, and to this we repaired in order that we might consult as to our future proceedings.

“Do you believe that poaching is a hanging matter, Tom?” asked Percy. “I remember my father telling me that there were once two hundred and forty hanging offences in England, and this one might have been left over when they repealed the others.”

“I believe it is not,” I replied. “But it is imprisonment, I’m sure.”

“What are we to do, then? We were caught poaching; there seems to be no doubt about that. We didn’t intend it, of course, but I’m afraid Sir Anthony may not take that into consideration; he appears to be so hot against poachers. And for that matter, we may not have a chance to tell our side of the story at all, because in England, I’ve heard, a prisoner is not allowed to give evidence in his own defence. So, there we are, you see. Four witnesses against us and none for us. Our chance of imprisonment, it seems to me, is pretty good—or pretty bad, rather.”

Our case certainly did look serious when Percy thus laid it out for my inspection.

“As far as I see,” said I, “there is nothing left but to run away. I don’t want to run away, you may be sure, but I don’t want to be hung or transported or put in jail either. I wish my father and mother were here, so that we might ask them what we ought to do.”

It happened that my parents had that evening driven off to dine and sleep fifteen miles away, and Percy’s father being too far off for us to communicate with him, we were thus deprived of our natural advisers. It did not occur to either of us to lay the matter before old Moseley, for the head-masters of English schools, at that time at least, seemed to their younger pupils to stand upon too high and unapproachable an eminence to be regarded by them as friends and counsellors.

“I’ll tell you what we must do,” said Percy, after sitting in profound thought for the space of five minutes—“and considering that we got into this scrape by no fault of our own, I believe our parents won’t blame us for doing it. We’ll run off down to Southampton—we can get there before morning—and slip on board a steamer going over to France. From there I’ll write to my father and tell him all about it, and he will arrange the matter somehow; or, if it is not to be arranged, he will tell us what to do next. What do you say?”

“I think it is a first-rate idea, and I vote we do it.”

Doubtless we were a foolish pair of youngsters to decide upon such a course, but I think, considering the circumstances, it is not so much to be wondered at that we should run away and conceal ourselves for a time until we should find out whether we were to be hanged, drawn, and quartered, or otherwise made to suffer, for an offence we had never intended to commit.

“But, Percy,” said I, as the thought occurred to me, “what about those fellows up at the castle? We can’t leave them to starve to death.”

After some consideration Percy thought of a plan.

“See here,” said he. “You write out a statement of the whole matter and leave it on your dressing-table. Say how Bates got us into this mess, and where he is now. I’ll do the same. I’ll address it to old Moseley and ask him to send it on to my father. How will that do?”

“That will do. And then your father, and mine too, will know that we are all right, and that we haven’t run away without a pretty good reason.”

“How much money have you?” asked Percy, as we rose from our conference.

“There are four pounds in my savings-box,” I replied.

“Well, bring it all,” said he. “I have three pounds, besides twenty-five dollars my aunt gave me. Come and throw a stone at my window at eleven and I’ll be ready. We must wait till everybody is asleep.”

Percy then hurried off to the schoolhouse, and at five minutes past eleven that night, as I have already told, we were running down the white chalk road on our way to Southampton, twenty-five miles distant.

CHAPTER III
A FALSE START

THERE was a tinge of red in the eastern sky when two very weary and very hungry boys came tramping into Southampton and made their way down to the docks. Among the innumerable vessels lying side by side they presently came to one which presented an appearance of greater bustle than the others; the steam was roaring from the funnels, cases and boxes were being lowered into the hold amid much shouting and running up and down of sailors, and everything betokened a speedy departure.

Of a man standing on the wharf, his hands in his pockets and a pipe in the corner of his mouth, one of the boys inquired whither this vessel was bound.

“D’n’-know,” grunted the man. “Dieppe, maybe, or St. Malo.”

“When does she sail?” asked the boy again.

“High tide; ’bout an hour.”

“Thank you,” said Percy, who had asked the questions; and then, turning to me, he suggested that we had time to go and get some breakfast.

In a greasy little den by the waterside we managed to make a very hearty meal, for we were too hungry to be particular, and in half an hour we sallied forth again much refreshed. Somewhat to our consternation, as we issued from the house we ran plump into the arms of a big policeman, who eyed us, as we thought, with suspicious keenness, but as he did not address us we walked back to the vessel, to which a gang-plank had now been run out.

There did not appear to be many passengers going aboard, but among them we noticed a large family, father and mother, three daughters, and a son, awaiting their turn, and joining ourselves to this party we walked on board with them, apparently without exciting any suspicion. If any of the officers thought anything about it at all, they probably supposed we were coming to see the rest of the family off.

We went at once down to the saloon, and walking up a long passage toward the stern, tapped at the door of one of the state-rooms. There was no answer, so, opening the door, we peeped in.

“This will do, Tom,” whispered my companion. “See; the beds are not made up; this cabin is not taken.”

We slipped in, shut the door, and crawled beneath the berths on either side. For the time, at any rate, we were safe.

During the long walk of the night before we had discussed a plan of action, and had decided that, instead of paying for our passage before starting, we would get on board and hide, if possible, in order to avoid unpleasant explanations until it should be too late to send us back; in which design we had succeeded more easily than we had ventured to hope.

In about half an hour we heard a bell ring, somebody called out, “Any more for the shore?” and not long afterwards, with a suddenness which made us jump, there came, just under our heads apparently, a chug—chug—chug! and a splashing of water which notified us plainly enough that we had started. Presently, from the slight motion of the vessel, we guessed that we were clear of the docks and were steaming down between the Isle of Wight and the mainland. This motion continued for a long time, and then the boat suddenly heeled over and rolled back with a creaking of timbers and a slamming of doors which proclaimed the fact that we had rounded the Needles and were out in the English Channel.

“Percy,” I whispered, “I wonder what they are doing at home now. They’ve found your sheets hanging out of the window long before this.”

“Yes. And, Tom, I wonder if Bates has ventured to climb down the chimney yet.”

“Not he,” I replied. “The keepers might, but Bates won’t.”

We lay silent again, and presently, worn out by our long night’s tramp, and by the exertions and excitement of the day before, we fell asleep. It was towards evening when the ringing of the dinner-bell woke us up. Thinking it was the calling-bell at school, Percy started up and was at once brought to a sense of his present situation by cracking the back of his head sharply against the bottom of the berth. Seeing that I was moving he whispered across to me:

“Tom, shall we go out now? We must be nearly across. How long does it take to get over to France? Do you know?”

We had both crawled from our hiding-places, and were enjoying a hearty stretch; I had opened my mouth to reply to Percy’s question, when we heard footsteps in the passage, and a voice saying, “Number four. Lower berth.”

“This is number four, Percy,” I whispered, hastily. “Shall we hide?”

“No,” said he, stoutly, and “All right,” said I; and standing side by side we looked expectantly and with something of a tremor at the door.

The door opened, and a large man in a gold-laced hat put one foot inside the cabin and stopped, regarding us with wide-opened eyes. Behind him we saw a steward carrying an armful of bedding.

“Well, young gentlemen,” said the gold-laced man, whom we took to be the Captain; “where did you spring from?”

“We came on board this morning, sir,” said Percy, “and we’ve been asleep ever since.” Then, seeing that the man looked serious, he hastily added, “We are ready to pay for our passage, sir.”

“And, if you please, sir,” I asked, “shall we be able to get something to eat before we land?” For I was ravenously hungry.

At this the big man broke into a big laugh. “Well, yes,” said he. “You will be more than hungry if you don’t. Where do you suppose you are going to?”

“France,” we both answered together.

At this the big man’s countenance fell again. Telling the attending Steward to leave the bedding, he shut the door, and said:

“Boys, I’m afraid you have made some grievous mistake. This boat is not going to France. We are bound for New Orleans.”

It was our turn to look grave. Instead of a passage of six or eight hours, we were in for a sea-voyage of two or three weeks. Added to this, if we should give up all our money it would hardly suffice to pay our way, and moreover we should on landing be stranded, penniless, in a strange city in what was, to me at least, a foreign land. The situation was decidedly serious.

“How did you ever come to make such a mistake?” our interlocutor went on. “And why didn’t you take a ticket before coming on board? A pretty mess you’ve made of it.”

“I’ll tell you the truth, sir,” replied Percy, with a glance at me which I answered with a nod. “We ran away from school last night and intended to go over to France for a time; but we were afraid to offer to pay our passage beforehand lest you should refuse to take us; so we slipped on board and hid in this cabin.”

“Well, well! You have certainly made a mess of it. I must go and tell the Captain——”

“The Captain! We thought you were the Captain.”

“No; I’m the Purser. How much money have you, by the way?”

“Seven pounds, sir, and twenty-five dollars.”

“Hm! Sixty dollars. Not much more than enough to pay your passage by steerage. And then you will be left paupers in New Orleans. Hm! I must go and talk to the Captain.”

“If you please, sir,” said Percy, “can’t we earn our passage somehow? We are both strong, and we’ll do anything.”

“I’ll see what can be done. Meanwhile you must have something to eat. Come with me.”

The Purser led us to the Steward’s pantry, and there left us busily and satisfactorily engaged in demolishing a dish of cold ham and a pile of bread and butter.

“Percy,” said I, as soon as we were left to ourselves, “we’ve got into a pretty hobble. How are we going to get out of it?”

“I don’t know how we are going to get out of it,” replied my companion. “Unless we should meet another ship and the Captain should send us back we shall have to go on to New Orleans. As far as we are concerned I don’t care; it is thinking of the folks at home that bothers me. They won’t know what has become of us, and there will be no means of letting them know for three weeks, perhaps. If there was any way of getting back I’d go back, and chance being hung, rather than let them worry over us such a long time.”

“So would I,” was my response. “It would be quite a pleasure to meet a policeman if he would guarantee to send a message home to say we were all right.”

Though we were, perhaps, rather a harum-scarum pair of youngsters, we were not altogether graceless. We were very sincerely troubled about this matter. As it happened, however, our trouble was superfluous. Though we were not made aware of the fact until long afterwards, it may be well to say at once that our parents had already found out where we were, and, knowing that we were well capable of taking care of ourselves, so far from being overwhelmed with anxiety on our account, they were almost disposed to chuckle over the predicament in which they guessed we must be.

If only we could have known this, what a difference it would have made to our comfort!

But two healthy boys cannot long remain in a doleful frame of mind, and under the genial influence of the cold ham we presently began to brighten up.

“That Purser is a jolly old buffer,” said I; “I only hope the Captain is half as good a fellow. Suppose they let us work our passage, what shall we do when we get to New Orleans?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” replied Percy. “First of all, as soon as ever we set foot on shore, we must telegraph home, if it takes every cent we possess. Then, I propose that we take one of the big river-steamers up to St. Louis,—working our passage, if they’ll let us,—and from there turn eastward, ride as far as our money will take us, and walk the rest of the way to Philadelphia. I have lots of relations in Philadelphia, and they will help us. What do you think?”

I readily acquiesced in Percy’s plan; as, indeed, I should have done in any other he might have proposed. It was not likely that I should be able to contribute any valuable suggestions on the subject, for my knowledge of American geography and American distances was quite microscopic in its littleness. Of St. Louis I had never heard before, while as to the other two cities, I knew that one was somewhere in the South and the other somewhere in the East, and that was all. How far apart they might be I had no idea.

It was well we settled upon a plan of action while we had the chance, for, as it happened, we were destined to have few opportunities of conversing during the rest of the voyage. One of the stewards presently came in with a message from the Purser, to say that the Captain could not see us until next day, and that he—the Steward—would find us a bed. Accordingly, after going on deck in the forward part of the ship to get a breath of fresh air for half an hour, we went to bed and slept soundly until next morning.

Soon after breakfast, our friend (as we had come to regard him) the Purser came and told us to follow him to the Captain’s cabin. It was with a good deal of apprehension that we entered the sanctum of the monarch of this little floating kingdom, but as there was nothing else to be done we plucked up such courage as was left to us and stepped over the threshold.

The Captain was a grey-haired, clean-shaven little man, with a keen eye and a quick manner. He looked up as we came in.

“Oh, these are your stowaways, are they, Mr. Purser?” said he. “So you have run away from school, have you, you young scamps? Do you know I could put you in irons and take you back to Southampton if I chose? I’m not sure but that I ought to do it. How am I to know that you are not running away from the law?”

At this accidental shot Percy and I felt very uncomfortable, perceiving which, and supposing that he had hurt our feelings, the Captain changed his tone.

“Well, well,” said he, good-naturedly, “I don’t think that; your appearance is in your favour; you look like an honest pair of youngsters. So you want to work your passage, do you? Is either of you any good at figures?”

“Yes, sir,” said I, brightening up in a moment, and pointing with my thumb at Percy. “Goodall, here, is a regular nailer.”

“Oh, Goodall is a regular nailer, is he?” repeated the Captain, relaxing into a smile. “Well, Mr. Purser, suppose you take this nailer and set him to work in your office. Keep him tight at it; make him earn his passage. And you, you great hobbledehoy,”—to me,—“what can you do? Your hands are more use to you than your head, I’ll wager.”

I suppose my wits were somewhat confused by this sudden address; at any rate, after a moment’s consideration, I commenced the enumeration of my capabilities by saying thoughtfully:

“Well, sir, I’m a pretty good shot with a bow and arrow”—at which absurd reply both the Captain and the Purser burst into peals of laughter.

“How old are you, boy?” asked the former as soon as he had recovered his powers of speech.

“Sixteen, sir.”

“Sixteen! I thought you were eighteen. Are you willing to shovel coal for a living for the next two weeks?”

“Yes, sir,” said I, eagerly.

“Very well, then. The Chief Engineer tells me, Mr. Purser, that one of his firemen is laid up with a sprained wrist; so find this boy a suit of overalls if you can and turn him loose in the boiler-room. It is a good hot job, and it will take off some of his flesh; he’s a deal too fat. Now, get along with you, you young scamps, and mind you behave yourselves.”

“Well, boys,” said the Purser, after we had retired, “you have come out of that scrape pretty well.”

“Thanks to you, sir, I expect,” said Percy.

“I put in a good word for you, I admit,” replied our big friend. “I was pleased with the way you spoke up last night. Now I must see to putting you to work. Come along.”

As a result of the Purser’s arrangements Percy and I were separated; he being pretty closely confined by his duties in the Purser’s office, while I, dressed up in a canvas suit, was sent down into the black depths of the ship, to shovel coal.

It would be needless repetition to go into all the details of our voyage, every day being but a counterpart of the day before. It is enough to say that when, after a smooth and uneventful passage, the engines at last stopped, and I was at liberty to go on deck, I found myself looking out over a great city,—the metropolis of the Southern States.

Before we went ashore I was told that the Captain had sent for me to his cabin, and as soon as I had washed and changed my canvas suit for my own clothes I hastened to obey the message. I was about to knock at the door when I saw Percy coming towards me, and guessing that he had received a similar command I waited for him.

As I stood there close by the door I heard the Captain’s voice addressing someone inside. He seemed to be much amused by something his companion had just been telling him, for he was laughing heartily.

“Capital idea!” he exclaimed. “It will do them all the good in the world. You may report from me that they have behaved very well, and that in my opinion they are quite capable of taking care of themselves.”

At this moment Percy joined me, when we at once knocked at the door and stepped into the cabin. The individual to whom the Captain had been talking, a small, sharp-faced man in a check suit, rose as we entered, and taking no notice of us apparently, thanked the Captain for his information and went out.

“Well, boys,” said the Captain, “I sent for you to tell you that I have had a satisfactory report of both of you, and to give you this”—handing us ten dollars each; “I’m told you have earned it. Now let me give you something else—a piece of advice. Telegraph to your friends for the money and turn right round and go home again. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, sir; and thank you,” said Percy and I together, glad to be thus dismissed without the cross-questioning to which we had feared we might be subjected. Having then taken leave of our good friend the Purser, we straightway went ashore.

Pausing only for a few minutes to look down upon the city, and to wonder how the inhabitants ever dared to go to bed with that tremendous river only awaiting an opportunity, apparently, to rush in and drown them all before morning, we set off in search of a telegraph-office, whence we sent a brief message home, and having also mailed a long letter which Percy had written during the passage out, we retraced our steps to the river-side.

As we left the post-office we noticed the sharp-faced man whom we had seen in the Captain’s cabin. He was talking to a policeman, who, as we passed, turned his eyes in our direction and laughed at something the small man said. The sound of the laugh was a great relief to us. If we were the objects of it, well and good. The policeman might laugh at us as much as he liked, provided he did not interfere with us. To tell the truth, we had been somewhat apprehensive lest we might on landing be snapped up by the authorities and shipped off to England, willy-nilly.

Among the many steamboats of extraordinary shape—as they seemed to me—lying along the levee we soon found one about to start up the river, and stepping on board we addressed ourselves to one who appeared to be in authority—an authority he maintained, seemingly, by the use of a copious and needless flow of profane language.

“Well, what do you want?” asked this personage, turning upon us as though he had been a dog, and we had come to steal his bone.

We stated our desires and our qualifications, with the result that we both secured places as “roustabouts”; and thoroughly disgusted were we both with our tasks long before we reached St. Louis. It was not so much the nature of the work to which we objected, nor was it to the society of the negroes and poor-whites with whom we were herded; our main objection was to the stream of foul language for ever being poured upon us by “his profanic majesty,” as Percy called him, the Mate. It required all our resolution not to desert half-a-dozen times on the way up, but being determined to stick to our plan, if possible, we managed to hold on until, at last, the ordeal was over, and we found ourselves one day walking, free and untrammelled, in the streets of St. Louis.

The first thing we did on landing was to enter a cheap clothing store and purchase some underclothes—a much-needed addition to our wardrobe. As we were going out again we brushed past a man who was trying on a new necktie before a looking-glass, and happening to look into the glass, I saw, rather to my surprise, that it was the small, sharp-faced man whom we had twice seen in New Orleans. It struck me as being an odd coincidence, but nothing more, and I did not even mention it to Percy.

Betaking ourselves next to a little eating-house, we ordered some dinner, and while waiting for it Percy amused himself and me by reading items from the old newspaper in which our clothes were wrapped. Presently he gave a subdued whistle, and after glancing around the room to see if anyone was observing us, he leaned across the table and said, softly:

“Tom, here’s something about us. Listen. ‘The police of Philadelphia have been requested by the Chief-Constable of Southampton, England, to look out for two runaway boys. The names of the boys are Per’—there’s a piece torn out here, but lower down it goes on—‘has many relatives in Philadelphia, and it is expected they will probably make for that city.’”

This was a dreadful shock to us. Here was our line of retreat cut off, so to say. The mention of the Chief-Constable of Southampton fully convinced us that the paragraph emanated from Sir Anthony, whose resentment at having his pheasants shot and his keepers entrapped we pictured to ourselves in lively colours. Doubtless, we thought, the police of Philadelphia were all on the lookout, and should we venture within the limits of that city we should instantly be pounced upon by them and sent back across the water to be delivered into the clutches of the vengeful Sir Anthony. What were we to do?

We ate our dinner in silence and perturbation of spirit, and, still undecided as to our future course, we were about to rise and go out, when Percy, with a thump upon the table, suddenly exclaimed:

“I know what we’ll do, Tom.”

“What?” I asked.

“Instead of going east, we’ll go west. We’ll go to Ogden in Utah.”

“Where’s Ogdenenutah?” said I, thinking it was all one word.

“In the Rocky Mountains.”

“Is it? That will suit me. I’ve always wanted to see the Rocky Mountains. But why should we go to that place with the long name in particular?”

“Because I have an uncle and a cousin living in a mining town called Golconda, not far from there. I have not seen them since I was a little bit of a boy, but I have heard my father talk of them, and I am sure they will be just the ones to tell us what we ought to do.”

“All right,” said I. “Let us go to Ogdenenutah. How are we to get there?”

“Why, I think we had better go part way by train and part way on foot. It won’t do to spend all our money on railway tickets, because there’s no knowing what may turn up. We will go by train as far as we think we can afford to go, and walk the rest of the way to Ogden—Ogden in the Territory of Utah, you old stupid!”

“Very well,” said I, nodding my head in approval. “We’ll go to Ogden in the Territory of Utah. How far do you suppose we shall have to walk?”

“I can’t say for certain, of course, until I see how far our money will take us, but five hundred miles perhaps,—possibly more.”

“Phew!” I whistled. “That is something like a walk. Never mind. We’ll do it. We’ll go to the Territory of Ogden in Utah if we have to hop.”

CHAPTER IV
THE MAN WITH THE SQUEAKY VOICE

LITTLE did we realise the magnitude of the task we were undertaking, when, having first written home to explain our reasons for this sudden change of plan, we betook ourselves to the railroad station and started, with fairly clear consciences, on our westward course. In due time we descended from the train at a little station which appeared to have been set down in the midst of nowhere, whence, with all the confidence of youth and ignorance, we set forth upon our tremendous tramp across the plains.

For a whole month thereafter we marched steadily and perseveringly along the endless railroad track; and never, I firmly believe, were two boys so utterly and completely tired as were we by the end of that time.

If our sea-voyage had been monotonous, this voyage across the solid sea of the rolling plains was even more so. Day after day the same green circle of hills surrounded us; every little town we passed was as like the last as one pea is like another; such a perpetual sameness in the landscape was there that we might have thought we were walking in a circle, but for the sun, which every morning rose behind us, and every evening shone in our faces.

The only break in the monotony of our wearisome task was an incident which occurred perhaps half-a-dozen times; an incident with which we could very well have dispensed, for the reason that by no means could we make head or tail to it.

Every now and then, as we came plodding along the track, each with a stick in his hand and a rolled-up blanket over his shoulder, we would, on passing through a station, find the agent standing on the platform, watching our approach, and grinning as though he saw something in our appearance that was irresistibly amusing. Sometimes he would merely eye us as we went by; at other times he would greet us in some such fashion as this:

“Well, boys; glad to see you. Had a longish walk, haven’t you? Getting pretty tired? Well, don’t let me detain you; you’ve got a tidy bit to walk yet. Good-bye.”

Then, laughing to himself, he would go back to his clicking telegraph instrument, while we walked on, wondering how he came to make so good a guess concerning us and our affairs. It really seemed as though these men must have been expecting us, had such a thing been possible. It was very puzzling; we were quite at a loss to account for their extraordinary behaviour.

On one of these occasions I caught a glimpse through the window of the waiting-room of a face which somehow seemed familiar. For a moment I thought it was the man whom we had seen in the Captain’s cabin at New Orleans, but as such a thing appeared to be out of the question I dismissed the idea without a second thought.

In the early part of our walk we were fortunate in the matter of finding a lodging for the night. Our practice was, when the sun began to get low, to look out for a farmhouse of decent appearance, and having first washed off the dust of travel and made ourselves as presentable as possible, to apply for leave to sleep in the barn; a permission which was nearly always accorded.

But by the time we had come somewhere towards the middle of Nebraska this condition of affairs had changed. It is true that we were still kindly received at the farmhouses, but the farmhouses were more widely scattered, and the farther we advanced the less frequent they became. In consequence, we had now and then been benighted on the prairie; on which occasions, especially if it happened to be a windy or a rainy night, we found that the pleasure of camping out lay more in the imagination than the reality.

The farther we went, too, the more tired we grew. It seemed almost impossible sometimes to summon up energy enough to go on when the rising sun warned us that it was time to start on another day’s tramp. In fact, we were beginning to entertain uncomfortable suspicions that we had undertaken more than we could accomplish, when there occurred an incident which relieved us of all further anxiety on that score.

We had been toiling all day against a strong west wind, the sun had gone down an hour ago, we were out on the wide, open plain, with never a house in sight, and, thoroughly weary, we had decided to camp in the first sheltered spot we could find, when we came upon a small trestle-bridge spanning a narrow, but deep, gully. Across this bridge we had walked in order to get under the lee of the creek-bank, when, looking back, we saw on the side we had just left a little tumble-down cabin. We at once retraced our steps, and scrambling down the side of the gully, we approached the building. It was evidently very old. The door was gone; the mud chinking had all fallen out; while, of two bunks built against the end wall, one above the other, the upper one only was sound.