CHAPTER XXII.

A SYMPATHETIC SOUL.

Both Roger and his father urged Ben and Jerry to come home with them for dinner, but the older brother declined, saying that they had many things to talk over between them. Already Ben had found that Jerry was disinclined to answer his eager questions in the presence of the strangers, and he was consumed with curiosity to know what singular chance had brought the blind boy thither.

When the automobile stopped in front of the house, Jimmy Jones, his eyes big with wonderment, peered forth through the darkness and saw the two boys alight and the little dog hop out after them. Then good nights were called, the big car swung slowly round and rolled away, and Jimmy came hopping forth, palpitant to know about the game.

“Did you play, Ben—did you play?” he asked. “Who won?”

“We did, and I played, Jimmy.”

“Oh, good! I wish I could ‘a’ been there to see it. Mother she’s kept some hot bread for you and some coffee. She said you’d be hungry.”

“That’s right,” confirmed Mrs. Jones, her ample figure appearing in the doorway. “You’re young and strong, and I don’t b’lieve hot bread will do no damage to your dejesshun. Joel, my late departed, he was a master hand for hot bread and presarves. We had baked beans for supper, an’ I’ve left the pot in the oven, so they’re piping hot. Joel, he used to eat about four heapin’ plates of beans, an’ then he’d complain because every little morsel he put into his stummick disagreed with him. Who’s that with ye?”

“This is my brother, Mrs. Jones—my brother Jerry. We haven’t seen each other for a long time, and he’s been walking far to-day, so he’s very tired. Step up, Jerry.”

Ben grasped the little chap’s arm and guided him as the steps were mounted. In an aside he whispered for the ear of Mrs. Jones, “He’s blind.”

“Land sakes!” breathed the good woman, putting up both hands. “Come right in and set down to the table. Mamie, she’s gone out somewhere, an’ Sadie’s having one of her chills. Don’t stumble on the doorstool. Right this way.”

Gently but firmly she swept them into the room, where the table still sat with the white cloth and some dishes upon it. Jerry clung to the line, and now the little dog followed at his heels.

“This is a surprise,” said the widow, as she hastened to place another plate and another chair. “Y’u never told me about your brother, Ben; fact is, y’u never told me much about y’urself, nohow. I s’pose y’u’ll want to wash up. There’s the sink an’ soap an’ water an’ a clean towel. Did y’u come all the way from Clearport in Mr. Eliot’s automobile? My goodness! that must ‘a’ been grand. I don’t cal’late I’ll ever have no opportunity to ride in one of them things, an’ I guess I’d be scat to death if I did, ’cause they go so fast. Don’t it ’most take a body’s breath away?”

“Not quite as bad as that,” answered Ben, smiling; “but it’s splendid, and I enjoyed it.”

“So did I,” said Jerry. “It ’most felt like I was kind of flying through the air. I hope I ain’t making nobody a lot of trouble, coming so unexpected this way.”

“Trouble!” beamed Mrs. Jones. “My gracious! I should say not! Why, Ben he’s gittin’ to be ’most like one of my fambly, though sometimes it’s hard work makin’ him come down to eat with us when I ax him. I ain’t like some folks, thank goodness, that’s put out and upsot over every little thing that happens; an’ if I’d been so, livin’ so many years with an ailing husband, they’d had me dead an’ buried long before him. I never can endure folks that’s always complaining about the hard time they have to get along, when there’s so much to enjoy in this world an’ so much to be thankful for. Every time I git sorter billious and downcast an’ dejec’ed I look ’round till I find somebody that’s wuss off than I be, an’ then I take holt an’ try to give them a lift, an’ that cheers me up an’ makes me feel thankful an’ content with my lot.”

As she talked she brought forth the beans and poured them, steaming, upon a huge platter. Hot bread, fresh butter and a dish of preserves were likewise placed on that table, after which the coffee was poured.

“Now,” said the widow, “I want to see y’u two youngsters make a hole in the vittles.”

“I think we can,” laughed Ben. “I know I’m mighty hungry, and I expect Jerry is, too.”

Jerry was hungry, indeed; really, the little fellow was almost starved, and it was with no small difficulty that he repressed the eager desire to gulp his food. Watching him, the widow understood, and covertly, even while she talked in the same cheerful, optimistic strain, she wiped her eyes more than once with the corner of her apron. There was something about these two boys that appealed to her big, motherly heart, and the thought that the thin, weary-looking little chap was doomed never to enjoy the precious privilege of sight gave her a feeling of regret and sorrow that she found difficult to disguise.

“You see,” said Ben suddenly, thinking it courteous and necessary to make some explanation—“you understand, Mrs. Jones, that if I’d known Jerry was coming I’d told you about it. He gave me a regular surprise. I hope you won’t mind if he stops with me to-night, for there’s plenty of room, and——”

“Land sakes! what be y’u talkin’ about, Ben?” interrupted the widow protestingly. “Mind—’course I don’t mind! I’m glad he’s come. I’m glad y’u have got some comp’ny to cheer y’u up, for sometimes y’u do sort of seem to need it, an’ I know I can’t just fill the bill; for old folks never do jibe in proper an’ sympathetic with young folks. Then I’m so busy I don’t have the time to look arter y’u the way I’d like to.”

“You’ve been very good indeed to me, Mrs. Jones—almost like a mother,” returned Ben. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you.”

“Now don’t talk that way. Goodness gracious! ain’t y’u fussed ’round amusin’ Jimmy, a-fixin’ squirrel traps an’ swings an’ things for him? That’s more’n squared any little thing I could do for y’u to make y’u comf’table.”

“Look!” cried Jimmy. “The little dog is hungry. See him begging. He’s hungry, mom. Can’t I feed him?”

Pilot was sitting on his haunches, his forward paws drooping as he turned his head to look from one to another beseechingly.

“’Course y’u can feed him,” said the widow quickly. “I sorter forgot about him. Lemme look, an’ I’ll see if I’ve got a bone in the pantry.”

She found some bones and scraps, which she brought forth on a plate, and Jimmy, begging the privilege, was permitted to feed Pilot, who expressed his appreciation by a sharp bark and such frantic wagging of his tail that his whole body was shaken from side to side all the way to his forward shoulders.

When supper was over, to satisfy Jimmy, Ben was compelled to tell about the football game, and this he did with such modesty that the listeners, who had not witnessed the contest, were given no inkling as to how conspicuously he had figured in it. He was even fair and generous enough to accord Hayden all the credit the fellow deserved.

At the first mention of Bern’s name the blind lad uttered a cry of astonishment and alarm, reaching out a trembling hand to touch his brother.

“Ben! Ben!” he exclaimed. “It’s not Bern Hayden who—who used to live in Hilton—not that fellow?”

“Yes, Jerry, it’s the same fellow. He lives here in Oakdale now.”

“But, Ben, he—why, you know what he did. You know——”

“I’m not likely to forget it, Jerry.”

“He hates you.”

“There’s not an atom of love lost between us,” was the grim retort.

“He made you go away from Hilton.”

“And he tried to drive me out of Oakdale, but he failed in that, Jerry. He came mighty near it, it’s true, and only for the good friends I made here he would have succeeded. His old father even went to Prof. Richardson, at the academy, and tried to poison his mind.”

“Oh, I’m afraid of them, Ben! I know Bern Hayden would do anything to hurt you—anything.”

“You needn’t be afraid. Roger Eliot is my friend; his father is, too, and Mr. Eliot has fully as much strength and influence in Oakdale as Lemuel Hayden.”

“That’s right,” confirmed Mrs. Jones, “and he’s lived here lots longer. Everybody knows Urian Eliot ’round these parts; an’, even if he is a rich man and rather tight and close in business dealin’s, they do say he’s honest an’ just. ’Course he’s got his enemies, same’s anybody has; but even the wust on ’em can’t point out no crooked thing he’s ever done.”

Nevertheless, it was no easy matter to calm and reassure the agitated blind boy. Presently, after they had talked for a time, Mrs. Jones lighted a small hand-lamp and gave it to Ben, saying:

“I won’t keep y’u up no longer, for I know y’u must be tired an’ want to go to bed—anyhow, I’m dead sartain your brother is plumb pegged out. But to-morrer is the day of rest, an’ y’u can sleep jest as late as y’u want to.”

Good nights were said, and the brothers mounted the narrow back stairs, Ben assisting Jerry while the little dog scrambled up behind them. When at last they were in the privacy of Ben’s room, he questioned Jerry.

“I didn’t want to ask too many things before people,” he said, “because I thought perhaps there might be something you wouldn’t care to answer; but I don’t understand how it was that I found you, tired and worn out, tramping to Oakdale. How did Uncle Asher happen to let you leave his home?”

“Uncle Asher is dead,” said Jerry.

THE BLIND FUGITIVE.

Ben was startled. “Dead,” he cried, aghast—“Uncle Asher dead?”

“Yes,” answered Jerry, sitting on the edge of the bed, “he was took off sudden, Ben. He didn’t live much more’n an hour after he was struck down. It was apoplexy or something like that. The doctor, he couldn’t do anything. Uncle, he never spoke but once, and that was just before he went. Of course I was awful scat, Ben, but I was in the room, and I heard him whispering my name. I went to the bed and felt for his hands. One of them didn’t have any strength, and it was stone cold. The other was cold, too, but I felt it grip my wrist, and then, sort of husky and choky, Uncle Asher said, ‘The will, it’s in’—and that was all. He never finished; he couldn’t. I don’t believe it was ten minutes after that when they told me he was gone.”

Ben seemed to be stupefied by the intelligence of this tragedy. “Uncle Asher dead!” he repeated, apparently finding it difficult to comprehend the situation. “He was good to you, wasn’t he, Jerry?”

“Always. He wouldn’t talk about you, Ben; all he’d say was that nobody knowed what had become of you. But he was good to me, and he said I’d always be taken care of.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ben simply, brushing away the tears which welled into his eyes. “As long as he was good to you, I don’t mind what he thought about me, for I suppose he had reasons to believe I was bad.”

“I wanted to tell you all about it when we met back there on the road,” said Jerry; “but I thought perhaps it wasn’t best to talk too much before other people. I was afraid to talk, Ben, and I’ve got good reasons to be afraid. Listen, Ben; I ran away.”

“You—you what?” gasped the older lad in great astonishment.

“I ran away, Ben. I didn’t even wait till the funeral was over.”

“What made you do that?”

“Because—because they were going to send me off to some institution for poor and helpless children. I heard them talking about it, the doctor and the lawyer and one or two of the neighbors. They didn’t know I heard them, but I couldn’t help listening. The lawyer had come, and he said he’d drawn up Uncle Asher’s will four years ago. It was in a safety deposit vault at the bank. I heard him telling that there wasn’t no provision made for me in that will. Something was left to the housekeeper and one or two distant relatives, and all the rest went to benevolent institutions; I was left out.

“Of course I thought of you, Ben, the very first thing, and I wanted to let you know; but there wasn’t nobody who could tell me where you were. It was pretty hard to think mebbe I’d be shut up in some institution and kept there and never, never find you again. When I thought about that all alone in my room I got desperate, Ben. All that was left to me was my little dog, Pilot, that uncle had bought for me and trained to lead me round; and I was afraid they’d takePilot away from me, too. So that night I packed up a few things, and took the violin Uncle Asher had given me, and took Pilot, and we stole out of the house and ran away.

“I told Pilot just what I was going to do, and, honest and true, I believe he understood what I said. I told him Uncle Asher was gone, and that if we didn’t run away mebbe folks would separate us and we couldn’t be together no more. He’d never been outside that town before, Ben, but when we took to the road in the night he just kept going straight ahead without once trying to turn back. Needn’t nobody ever tell me some dogs don’t understand as much as human folks.

“I’d took along some bread and doughnuts out of the pantry, and, when it come morning and I could feel the sun shining, we had breakfast side of a little brook, after which we crept into the bushes and hid all day long. I heard people going by on the road, but I told Pilot to keep still, and he minded. There was enough food left for supper, and the next night we tramped it again all night long, stopping only two or three times to rest. In the morning I had breakfast off someapples I found in an orchard. Pilot he left me, and I thought mebbe he’d deserted for good, and I guess I cried, Ben; but he hadn’t gone far, and after a while he come back with an old bone he’d found, and that served him for breakfast. We got into a shed and slept there till it was dark and we could travel some more.”

“Oh, Jerry,” cried Ben sympathetically—“oh, Jerry, it must have been terrible!” He seated himself beside the blind lad, about whose shoulders his arm was tenderly flung. The little dog, half dozing on the floor, rolled a contented, satisfied eye toward them and closed it again.

“I can’t tell you all we did and all we went through, Ben,” the blind lad continued; “but we managed to get along somehow, though I was always scat for fear they’d catch me and take me back. I played on the violin and sometimes I sang, and Jerry he would sit up on his haunches and beg, and people gave us some money. That’s how we were able to live and buy food.”

“It was a marvel you were not caught, Jerry. Perhaps no one searched for you.”

“Oh, yes, they did,” declared the blind boy quickly—“yes, they did, Ben. It was three nights ago I was stopping at a house in a little village where some kind folks agreed to put me up when I heard somebody knocking at the door. It gave me a start, and I listened. I heard a man talking to the man of the house, and he was asking about me. He described me—a little blind boy with a fiddle and a dog. I hadn’t undressed for bed, and that was lucky. I called Pilot softly, and somehow we got down the back stairs and out of the house before they came up to that room to look for me. Again we tramped it all night long, though it was awful cold and I shivered and almost froze every time we stopped to rest. Everywhere I went I asked for you, and I kept praying to find you, Ben, though it didn’t seem that there was any chance. I guess, though, that prayer was heard.”

“It was, Jerry; it must have been. Something led you to me, and something guarded you from capture until you had found me.”

“But what if they find me now, Ben—what can we do?”

The older lad meditated a moment. “I can take care of you, Jerry,” he said. “I’m strong, and I can work. I’ll have to give up school for a time and find work again.”

“But you know, Ben—you know they think you’re bad. They might separate us on that account. I’m sure they would.”

“And only for Bern Hayden,” exclaimed Ben bitterly, “I’d never have such a reputation! We’ll do the best we can, Jerry; don’t you worry. Fortune has seemed to favor me here in Oakdale, and I feel sure everything is bound to come out all right in the end. We won’t be separated, little brother; we’ll stick together.”

CLOUDS GATHER AGAIN.

Again Ben Stone found himself confronted by a problem that demanded immediate solution. It disturbed his pillow long after Jerry, wearied to the extreme, was sleeping soundly; and when at last he slept it gave him troubled dreams.

He was first to waken in the morning, and, when he would have slept still longer, the great question swooped upon him and tore away the last shred of slumber. The little dog welcomed him with wagging tail as he crept softly out of bed that he might not disturb his sleeping brother. He was nearly dressed when Jerry awoke with a startled cry, sitting up on the bed and thrusting out his thin arms, his hands spread open as if to hold away some fearsome thing. In a twinkling Ben was at the bed, speaking reassuringly to Jerry.

“Oh—oh, is it you, brother?” gasped the blind boy, as he felt himself gathered into the embrace of Ben’s strong arms. “I thought they had caught me. I thought they were going to take me back.”

“You were only dreaming, Jerry. You’re quite safe with me.” Tenderly he caressed the little lad, who, trembling, clung to him.

“You won’t let them take me away, will you, Ben?”

“No, Jerry, they shall not take you away.”

Mrs. Jones would have had them down to breakfast, but when she came to call them they had eaten from Ben’s small store of apples and sandwiches, and they seemed quite happy and contented, so that she had no glimpse of the threatening shadow which hovered near.

During the greater part of that Sunday the brothers remained in the little room, having many things to talk about and being unwilling to advertise for the general public the fact that Jerry was in Oakdale. Late in the afternoon, however, they walked out together, turning westward to avoid the main part of the village and passingthe academy. Before reaching Turkey Hill they left the road and set off across the fields toward a grove of pines upon the shore of Lake Woodrim. Pilot, unleashed, frisked before them. On the shore of Bear Cove they found a seat beneath one of those pines where the ground was carpeted with soft brown needles.

They were sitting there, talking, when a small, flat-bottomed punt containing a single occupant rounded Pine Point in full view and was paddled toward them. The person in the boat was Spotty Davis, who, despite the fact that it was Sunday, had been fishing. He discovered them almost immediately, and, recognizing Ben, called loudly:

“Hello, Stoney, old fel; what ju doin’? Thought mebbe I could ketch a pick’rel or two here in the cove.”

Although Ben had not found Spotty’s friendship wholly unwelcome, he was now far from pleased by the chap’s appearance. It was too late to get away, however, and so he waited until Davis, paddling straight in, grounded the punt upon a bit of gravelly beach and sprang out. Pilot regarded the stranger doubtfully, growling a little.

“Say, who’s your friend, Stoney?” inquired Spotty, advancing unhesitatingly. “Gee! what an ugly lookin’ dog!” he added, with a derisive grin. “Don’t let him chaw me up, will ye?”

“Down, Pilot! Be still!” commanded Jerry. And, although he obeyed, the dog continued to regard Davis with suspicious eyes.

“This is my brother Jerry,” explained Ben. “He arrived in Oakdale last night. Jerry, this is one of my friends, Tim Davis.”

“Your brother, hey?” said Spotty, taking the thin hand Jerry held forth. “Say, what’s the matter with his blinkers? They look awful funny.”

“He’s blind,” explained Ben in a low tone.

“Sho! Can’t see nothin’? Jerusalem! that’s tough. Can’t he really see nothin’ at all?”

“As far as sight is concerned, he can’t distinguish daylight from darkness.”

“Whew!” breathed Spotty, sitting down and staring at Jerry. “I never see nobody like that before. You never told me about him, Ben; you’ve never said much of anything about your folks.”

“I thought possibly you had heard some stories from Bern Hayden.”

“Well, not much; he just sorter knocked you, and I s’posed that was ’cause he was sore on you. Say, I guess you proved that you could play football yesterday. Bern didn’t have much on you in that game. Wasn’t it tough I got knocked out? Them fellers kind of picked me out and soaked me. They’ve always had a grudge against me, them Clearporters. Last time I played baseball against them Harry Hutt spiked me, and that put me out of the game, too. Eliot he was mad, ’cause he said I wasn’t hurt so bad I couldn’t play; and I s’pose he was mad yesterday, too. He’s awful stiff-necked sometimes; but you certainly got on his soft side through what you done for his sister, and I guess he’d back you up in anything. He brought Hayden to terms all right when Bern tried to force you off the team by gettin’ the fellers to quit. I wish you’d heard a few things Bern had to say yesterday ’cause Roger invited you to ride home in the automobile.”

“I’m decidedly glad I didn’t hear them,” returned Ben. “All I ask is that Bern Hayden keeps away from me and lets me alone.”

“He didn’t like it much when some of the fellers said we couldn’t ever won that game only for you. That was a hard pill for him to swaller. He’s always used me all right, in a way, though I know he thinks he’s better’n I am ’cause his father’s got the dough. I don’t think it’s right, either, for some folks to have so much money and other folks to have so little. Now there’s lots of things I’d like if I only had the chink to buy ’em. Look a’ the rotten old fishin’ tackle I’ve got in that bo’t; if I had money I’d buy an elegant jointed rod, a triple action reel, a silk line, and any amount of hooks and flies and baits. How long is your brother goin’ to stay?” Spotty concluded suddenly with that question.

“I—I don’t know about that,” faltered Ben. “We haven’t quite decided. Isn’t it pretty late in the season for fish to bite?” he asked, seeking to turn the drift of conversation.

“Guess ’tis,” admitted Davis. “I ain’t had a bite. We can generally ketch pick’rel pretty late, though.”

Ben rose and assisted Jerry to his feet. “I think we’ll go back,” he said.

“What’s your hurry?” asked Davis. “It’s kinder comf’table here. The wind don’t cut into this cove, and the sun’s warm.”

But they left him, and, after they had passed through the grove and were recrossing the open field beyond, Jerry said: “Somehow, I don’t like your friend, Ben. There’s something about his voice and the way he talks that I don’t like.”

“Oh, I reckon he’s a harmless fellow, and he was one of the first in Oakdale to be really friendly toward me; I can’t forget that.”

When they reached the house they learned that Roger Eliot had been there asking for them.

“He seemed real disapp’inted,” said the widow. “P’raps y’u’d better walk ’round to his house an’ see him.”

But it was late and growing dark, and Ben decided not to call on Roger that night.

Stone appeared at school the following day wearing a gravely troubled face, which led Eliot to question him, and he was on the point of telling Roger everything and asking his advice when several other boys came up and the opportunity was lost. All day long Ben’s mind dwelt on the perplexing problem, and gradually he came to believe there was only one solution; he must give up school, leave Oakdale, and find a job of some sort by which he could support himself and Jerry. It meant the shattering of all his plans, but he faced the alternative bravely, and even became a bit more relieved and cheerful when he had decided to accept it as the only thing that could be done.

When the boys came out for practice that afternoon neither Stone nor Hayden was with them. Spotty Davis was on hand, however, and, after a consultation with the coach, Roger called Spotty aside for the purpose of telling him as kindly as possible that he would be no longer needed upon the team.

Davis instantly showed his resentment and anger. Hayden, coming up, heard him shrilly saying:

“That’s all right, Mr. Eliot, you can fire me. I’ve seen other fellers knocked out in football games, and they wasn’t fired. Mebbe you’ll need me yet, and mebbe you won’t get me if you do.” With which he walked away and sat down alone on one of the lower rows of seats, his sly face wearing a sour expression of resentment and anger.

Practice was begun without Stone. In the midst of it he appeared, wearing his plain, homespun clothes, and called to the captain.

“Roger,” he said, “I can’t play football any more.”

Eliot uttered an exclamation of surprise. “Why not, Ben? What’s the matter now?”

“I told you my story some time ago; you’re the only one who has ever heard it from me. Uncle Asher, who took my blind brother to care for, is dead, and now someone must look after Jerry. I haven’t money enough to attend school and take care of him too, so I’m going to leave school. I must find work; I’ve settled on that.”

“Oh, say, that’s too bad, Stone, old chap! Now don’t be hasty; let’s think this matter over. Perhaps my father will do something for Jerry.”

Ben shook his head. “I couldn’t permit my brother to accept charity, Roger; I thank you very much for the generous thought, but I’ve made up my mind. I’ve left the suit you loaned me, and everything else, in the gym. Perhaps I’ll see you again to-morrow before we leave Oakdale. I couldn’t practice to-night if I wanted to, for Jerry is all alone. I went to see him after school was over and tell him my decision; that’s why I wasn’t here promptly. Don’t say anything to the rest of the fellows now. I’d like to bid them all good-by, but I don’t want to do so here at this time.”

Roger found it useless to advance argument, and finally Ben departed, watched by the eyes of Hayden, who had sauntered past in time to catch a few words of the conversation.

Five minutes later Hayden excused himself and left the field in the wake of Spotty Davis, who was finally going away in a sullen and resentful frame of mind.

Stone went down into the village to purchase a pair of shoes for Jerry, whose footwear was almost wholly gone to the uppers. In his timiditythe blind boy had remained all day long in that room at Mrs. Jones’, again beset by fear that the pursuers he dreaded might find him; and he was even unwilling to be seen in the village with his brother.

Ben spent some time selecting the shoes, for he wished to get a stout and serviceable pair at a moderate price, which was no easy matter. Having made the purchase at last, he was on the point of leaving when the shopkeeper said:

“There was a man here in town a while ago asking for a boy by your name, only the front part of his name was Jerry instead of Ben, and the man said he was blind.”

For a moment Ben’s heart ceased to beat. “How long ago was that?” he asked huskily.

“Oh, less than an hour, I guess. He’d just struck town, and he’s gone over to the hotel for supper.”

Ben ran all the way back to Mrs. Jones’ house. At the door he met Spotty Davis, who had just come down the back stairs.

Davis seemed a trifle startled. “Hello, Ben!” he exclaimed. “I just dropped round to see ye. Found your brother all alone. Saw you wasn’t practicin’ to-night, and sorter wondered what the matter was. You know, Eliot he’s fired me. What do you think of that? I didn’t believe he’d do it.”

“I can’t stop to talk with you, Spotty,” said Ben; “I’m in a great hurry. Excuse me, will you?”

“Sure,” said Davis, with great willingness, as he passed on.

At the gate Davis paused an instant to glance back; but Ben had disappeared, and Spotty scudded away into the gathering twilight.

FLIGHT.

Ben mounted the stairs in haste. “Here, Jerry,” he said, “let me try these shoes on you. Let’s see if they fit.” His hands trembled a bit as he removed the remnants of the shoes the blind boy had worn and tried the others upon Jerry’s feet. “How do they feel?” he asked, as he hastened to lace them.

“All right,” was the answer. “But what’s the matter, Ben? You’re panting and excited. Has anything happened?”

“I’ve been hurrying,” said Ben evasively.

But even the little yellow dog seemed to realize that something was wrong, for he moved about uneasily, eying the brothers and whining.

“I’ve decided we had better leave Oakdale at once—right away,” said Ben, as he rose to his feet. “Sit still, Jerry, while I gather up the things I must take.”

“Ben,” said the younger lad, with conviction, “something has happened. You’re nervous and alarmed; I know it by your voice. Why don’t you tell me, Ben—why don’t you tell me?”

At any rate, it would be necessary to tell him in a few moments, and so, seeking to frighten the blind boy as little as possible, Ben did so at once. The moment Jerry learned a man had appeared in Oakdale asking for him he became panic-stricken; his face grew pallid and he trembled in every limb.

“They will take me away from you, brother—they will separate us!” he exclaimed.

“They shall not!” cried the older lad fiercely. “I had decided already to leave Oakdale to-morrow; we’ll leave to-night—we’ll slip away at once. Keep still, Jerry, and I’ll make all the preparations.”

“But what if that man should come—what if he should come before we can start?”

“He’ll have to get here in a hurry to find us.”

Indeed, it did not take Ben Stone long to make a bundle of the few belongings he felt he must take. A great deal of his poor personal propertyhe had resolved to abandon for the time being, confident that Mrs. Jones would take care of everything for him. Sometime when there was no longer danger he could recover it all.

“We’ll get out of the house without saying a word to anybody,” said Ben. “That’s the best way, although I hate to do it, for we seem to be running away like criminals.”

At the last moment, smitten by regret because fancied necessity seemed to compel him to leave without bidding the kind widow good-by, he seized a piece of brown paper and the stub of a pencil and sat down to write a few words of farewell—Jerry urging him to hasten even while he was scribbling. This was what he wrote:

“My Dear Mrs. Jones:—“I’ll never be able to thank you enough for allyour kindness to me and to my little blind brother.I’m forced to do what I am doing, though Iregret it very much. I wish I might say good-byto you and to Jimmy, but I do not dare. Iknow I shall always be ashamed and sorry forthis last thing I have done, but I couldn’t help it.I hope you’ll forgive me and always think as wellof me as you can, no matter what you may hearabout me.”

“My Dear Mrs. Jones:—

“I’ll never be able to thank you enough for allyour kindness to me and to my little blind brother.I’m forced to do what I am doing, though Iregret it very much. I wish I might say good-byto you and to Jimmy, but I do not dare. Iknow I shall always be ashamed and sorry forthis last thing I have done, but I couldn’t help it.I hope you’ll forgive me and always think as wellof me as you can, no matter what you may hearabout me.”

“I’ll never be able to thank you enough for all

your kindness to me and to my little blind brother.

I’m forced to do what I am doing, though I

regret it very much. I wish I might say good-by

to you and to Jimmy, but I do not dare. I

know I shall always be ashamed and sorry for

this last thing I have done, but I couldn’t help it.

I hope you’ll forgive me and always think as well

of me as you can, no matter what you may hear

about me.”

At this point Jerry’s impatient pleading could be no longer resisted, and, hastily signing his name, Ben left the note of farewell where it could not be overlooked by Mrs. Jones. With all possible stealth they descended the stairs and got softly out of the house.

The night had come on overcast and dark, heavy clouds veiling the moon. A raw wind, chill and dank, came from the east, soughing fitfully through the bare limbs of the trees and sending fallen leaves scurrying along the ground. Just outside the gate Ben turned to look back at the lighted windows. Mamie, accompanying herself on the melodeon, was singing, and there was a choking sensation in Ben’s throat as he listened.

“An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;O! give me my lowly thatch cottage again;A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.Home, home, sweet, sweet home!Be it ever so humble, there’s noplace like home.”

“An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;

O! give me my lowly thatch cottage again;

A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,

Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.

Home, home, sweet, sweet home!

Be it ever so humble, there’s no

place like home.”

“Come,” entreated Jerry; and they fled on past the silent academy, the gym and the athletic field—on into the bleak night. The blind boy had brought his violin, and it was swung by the cord over his back.

With the village behind them, Ben paused once more to look around. The lights of Oakdale twinkled far down the road. It was there he had dreamed pleasant dreams; it was there he had fought his fight until victory seemed within his grasp; but those dreams were over, and he had been conquered by cruel fate in the hour of his triumph. Fear, which frequently perverts the soundest judgment, had forced him, without reasoning or sober thought, into this flight by night.

They went on, and soon a barren shoulder of Turkey Hill shut out those lights and they were alone on the highway that led to the northwest.

“We’ll be followed, Ben,” said Jerry apprehensively. “What can we do?”

“If you, blind and alone, save for Pilot, could avoid pursuers so long, surely together we must find it a simpler matter. Trust me. This is not the first time I have been forced into running away.”

“I know—I know; but they didn’t try to catch you, Ben. They let you go and thought it good riddance. Now it’s different.”

“I don’t understand why they should put themselves to so much trouble and expense to find you, Jerry, and shut you up in an institution. Perhaps they’ll give it up after a while.”

Hand in hand they went on through the black night. At times Pilot, having trotted a short distance ahead, would pause to peer at them through the blackness, and whine. The wind moaned across the open spaces and crashed the limbs of trees together while they were passing through strips of woods. The dampness in the atmosphere added to the penetration of the chill, and Jerry’s teeth chattered.

They came to Barville, ten miles from Oakdale, and were in the outskirts of the dark and silent village before they were aware of it. They were tempted to try to circle round the place, fearing someone might see them, but only two or three dim lights gleamed faintly from windows, andnot a soul did they encounter on the streets of the town. Once a dog barked in a house they were passing, but Jerry was swift enough in bidding Pilot be still to prevent the little animal from answering.

Beyond Barville they paused to rest, and Ben, hearing Jerry’s teeth chatter, persisted in pulling off his coat and buttoning it about the blind lad’s shoulders. In this manner the violin on Jerry’s back was protected when, later, a fine, drizzling rain began.

“But you’ll be wet through, Ben, and you’ll catch cold,” said Jerry. “I wish you’d take your coat.”

“I’m all right,” laughed the elder brother. “I’m tough, and there’s never anything the matter with me. Perhaps we can find shelter somewhere.”

The rain, driven in the teeth of the wind, soon drenched him through; and when at last he perceived near the road an old barn with no house at hand, even Ben was more than willing to stop.

“I think the house must have burned down,” he said, “for there isn’t any to be seen. It’s a good place, Jerry. We must be eighteen or twenty miles from Oakdale. We can stop here and keep out of sight all through the day, if necessary.”

So they tried the door of the barn and found it unfastened. In the black darkness they felt their way cautiously, at last climbing upon a haymow, where Jerry sank down exhausted.

“Perhaps they’ll give it up when they find we’re gone, Ben,” said the blind boy, shivering. “Maybe they won’t try to follow us.”

“Maybe not. We’ll hope so, anyway. Bern Hayden will be glad when he finds out. He’ll rejoice over it.”

They burrowed into the hay and talked for a time of various plans, while gradually, in spite of their drenched condition, the heat of their bodies as they snuggled close together warmed them through. Pilot crept up against Jerry and contented himself. The wind swept against the old barn and moaned through cracks, while the rain beat unceasingly upon the roof.

Ben thought of Bern Hayden’s fine home, and he had a wrestle with the bitter resentment against fate which sought to claim him. At first it seemed that everything in the world was wrong and that those who least deserved it, or did not deserve it at all, were most favored by fortune; but then he remembered Roger, to whose home he had been welcomed, and he knew that some who were worthy were privileged to bask in prosperity’s sunshine.

Finally the mournful sweep of the wind and the fitful beating of rain lulled his senses, and he slept—slept to dream of Hayden leering triumphantly upon him. In his sleep he muttered:

“Wait—wait; my time will come!”

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