"I'll take another piece of fish, mother," said Robert, passing his plate. "I think, on the whole, I shan't be obliged to learn to braid straw."
"No; you can do better at fishing."
"Only," added Robert, with mock seriousness, "we might change work sometimes, mother; I will stay at home and braid straw, and you can go out fishing."
"I am afraid I should make a poor hand at it," said Mrs. Rushton, smiling.
"If Halbert Davis could look in upon us just now, he would be disappointed to find us so cheerful after my losing my place at factory. However, I've disappointed him in another way."
"How is that?"
"He expected Will Paine would lend him his boat while he was gone, but, instead of that, he finds it promised to me."
"I am afraid he is not a very kind-hearted boy."
"That's drawing it altogether too mild, mother. He's the meanest fellow I ever met. However, I won't talk about him any more, or it'll spoil my appetite."
On the next two mornings Robert went out at five o'clock, in order to get home in time for the market-wagon. He met with fair luck, but not as good as on the first day. Taking the two mornings together, he captured and sold seventy pounds of fish, which, as the price remained the same, brought him in a dollar and forty cents. This was not equal to his wages at the factory; still, he had the greater part of the day to himself, only, unfortunately, he had no way of turning his time profitably to account, or, at least, none had thus far occurred to him.
On the morning succeeding he was out of luck. He caught but two fish, and they were so small that he decided not to offer them for sale.
"If I don't do better than this," he reflected, "I shan't make very good wages. The fish seem to be getting afraid of me."
He paddled about, idly, a few rods from the shore, having drawn up his line and hook.
All at once, he heard a voice hailing him from the river bank:
"Boat ahoy!"
"Hallo!" answered Robert, lifting his eyes, and seeing who called him.
"Can you set me across the river?"
"Yes, sir."
"Bring in your boat, then, and I'll jump aboard. I'll pay you for your trouble."
Robert did as requested, with alacrity. He was very glad to earn money in this way, since it seemed he was to have no fish to dispose of. He quickly turned the boat to the shore, and the stranger jumped on board. He was a man of rather more than the average height, with a slight limp in his gait, in a rough suit of clothes, his head being surmounted by a felt hat considerably the worse for wear. There was a scar on one cheek, and, altogether, he was not very prepossessing in his appearance. Robert noted all this in a rapid glance, but it made no particular impression upon him at the moment. He cared very little how the stranger looked, as long as he had money enough to pay his fare.
"It's about a mile across the river, isn't it?" asked the stranger.
"About that here. Where do you want to go?"
"Straight across. There's an old man named Nichols lives on the other side, isn't there?"
"Yes; he lives by himself."
"Somebody told me so. He's rich, isn't he?" asked the stranger, carelessly.
"So people say; but he doesn't show it in his dress or way of living."
"A miser, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"What does he do with his money?"
"I only know what people say."
"And what do they say?"
"That he is afraid to trust banks, and hides his money in the earth."
"That kind of bank don't pay very good interest," said the stranger, laughing.
"No; but it isn't likely to break."
"Here? boy, give me one of the oars. I'm used to rowing, and I'll help you a little."
Robert yielded one of the oars to his companion, who evidently understood rowing quite as well as he professed to. Our hero, though strong-armed, had hard work to keep up with him.
"Look out, boy, or I'll turn you round," he said.
"You are stronger than I am."
"And more used to rowing; but I'll suit myself to you."
A few minutes brought them to the other shore. The passenger jumped ashore, first handing a silver half-dollar to our hero, who was well satisfied with his fee.
Robert sat idly in his boat, and watched his late fare as with rapid steps he left the river bank behind him.
"He's going to the old man's house," decided Robert. "I wonder whether he has any business with him?"
The stranger walked, with hasty strides, in the direction of an old farmhouse, which could be seen a quarter of a mile away. Whether it had ever been painted, was a question not easily solved. At present it was dark and weather-beaten, and in a general state of neglect.
The owner, Paul Nichols, was a man advanced in years, living quite alone, and himself providing for his simple wants. Robert was right in calling him a miser, but he had not always deserved the name. The time was when he had been happily married to a good wife, and was blessed with two young children. But they were all taken from him in one week by an epidemic, and his life was made solitary and cheerless. This bereavement completely revolutionized his life. Up to this time he had been a good and respected citizen, with an interest in public affairs. Now he became morose and misanthropic, and his heart, bereaved of its legitimate objects of affection, henceforth was fixed upon gold, which he began to love with a passionate energy. He repulsed the advances of neighbors, and became what Robert called him—a miser.
How much he was worth, no one knew. The town assessors sought in vain for stocks and bonds. He did not appear to possess any. Probably popular opinion was correct in asserting that he secreted his money in one or many out-of-the-way places, which, from time to time, he was wont to visit and gloat over his treasures. There was reason also to believe that it was mostly in gold, for he had a habit of asking specie payments from those indebted to him, or, if he could not obtain specie, he used to go to a neighboring town with his bank notes and get the change effected.
Such was the man about whom Robert's unknown passenger exhibited so much curiosity, and whom it seemed that he was intending to visit.
"I wonder whether the old man is at home!" he said to himself, as he entered the front yard through a gateway, from which the gate had long since disappeared. "He don't keep things looking very neat and trim, that's a fact," he continued, noticing the rank weeds and indiscriminate litter which filled the yard. "Just give me this place, and his money to keep it, and I'd make a change in the looks of things pretty quick."
He stepped up to the front door, and, lifting the old-fashioned knocker, sounded a loud summons.
"He'll hear that, if he isn't very deaf," he thought.
But the summons appeared to be without effect. At all events, he was left standing on the doorstone, and no one came to bid him enter.
"He can't be at home, or else he won't come," thought the visitor. "I'll try him again," and another knock, still louder than before, sounded through the farmhouse.
But still no one came to the door. The fact was, that the old farmer had gone away early, with a load of hay, which he had sold; to a stable-keeper living some five miles distant.
"I'll reconnoiter a little," said the stranger.
He stepped to the front window, and looked in. All that met his gaze was a bare, dismantled room.
"Not very cheerful, that's a fact," commented the outsider. "Well, he don't appear to be here; I'll go round to the back part of the house."
He went round to the back door, where he thought it best, in the first place, to knock. No answer coming, he peered through the window, but saw no one.
"The coast is clear," he concluded. "So much the better, if I can get in."
The door proved to be locked, but the windows were easily raised. Through one of these he clambered into the kitchen, which was the only room occupied by the old farmer, with the exception of a room above, which he used as a bedchamber. Here he cooked and ate his meals, and here he spent his solitary evenings.
Jumping over the window sill, the visitor found himself in this room. He looked around him, with some curiosity.
"It is eighteen years since I was last in this room," he said. "Time hasn't improved it, nor me, either, very likely," he added, with a short laugh. "I've roamed pretty much all over the world in that time, and I've come back as poor as I went away. What's that copy I used to write?—'A rolling stone gathers no moss.' Well, I'm the rolling stone. In all that time my Uncle Paul has been moored fast to his hearthstone, and been piling up gold, which he don't seem to have much use for. As far as I know, I'm his nearest relation, there's no reason why he shouldn't launch out a little for the benefit of the family."
It will be gathered from the foregoing soliloquy that the newcomer was a nephew of Paul Nichols. After a not very creditable youth, he had gone to sea, and for eighteen years this was his first reappearance in his native town.
He sat down in a chair, and stretched out his legs, with an air of being at home.
"I wonder what the old man will say when he sees me," he soliloquized. "Ten to one he won't know me. When we saw each other last I was a smooth-faced youth. Now I've got hair enough on my face, and the years have made, their mark upon me, I suspect. Where is he, I wonder, and how long have I got to wait for him? While I'm waiting, I'll take the liberty of looking in the closet, and seeing if he hasn't something to refresh the inner man. I didn't make much of a breakfast, and something hearty wouldn't come amiss."
He rose from his chair, and opened the closet door. A small collection of crockery was visible, most of it cracked, but there was nothing eatable to be seen, except half a loaf of bread. This was from the baker, for the old man, after ineffectual efforts to make his own bread, had been compelled to abandon the attempt, and patronize the baker.
"Nothing but a half loaf, and that's dry enough," muttered the stranger. "That isn't very tempting. I can't say much for my uncle's fare, unless he has got something more attractive somewhere."
But, search as carefully as he might, nothing better could be found, and his appetite was not sufficiently great to encourage an attack upon the stale loaf. He sat down, rather discontented, and resumed the current of his reflections.
"My uncle must be more of a miser than I thought, if he stints himself to such fare as this. It's rather a bad lookout for me. He won't be very apt to look with favor on my application for a small loan from his treasure. What's that the boy said? He don't trust any banks, but keeps his money concealed in the earth. By Jove! It would be a stroke of luck if I could stumble on one of his hiding places! If I could do that while he was away, I would forego the pleasure of seeing him, and make off with what I could find. I'll look about me, and see if I can't find some of his hidden hoards."
No sooner did the thought occur to him than he acted upon it.
"Let me see," he reflected, "where is he most likely to hide his treasure? Old stockings are the favorites with old maids and widows, but I don't believe Uncle Paul has got any without holes in them. He's more likely to hide his gold under the hearth. That's a good idea, I'll try the hearth first."
He kneeled down, and began to examine the bricks, critically, with a view of ascertaining whether any bore the marks of having been removed recently, for he judged correctly that a miser would wish, from time to time, to unearth his treasure for the pleasure of looking at it. But there was no indication of disturbance. The hearth bore a uniform appearance, and did not seem to have been tampered with.
"That isn't the right spot," reflected the visitor. "Perhaps there's a plank in the floor that raises, or, still more likely, the gold is buried in the cellar. I've a great mind to go down there."
He lit a candle, and went cautiously down the rickety staircase. But he had hardly reached the bottom of the stairs, when he caught the sound of a wagon entering the yard.
"That must be my uncle," he said. "I'd better go up, and not let him catch me down here."
He ascended the stairs, and re-entered the room just as the farmer opened the door and entered.
On seeing a tall, bearded stranger, whom he did not recognize, standing before him in his own kitchen, with a lighted candle in his hand, Paul Nichols uttered a shrill cry of alarm, and ejaculated:
"Thieves! Murder! Robbers!" in a quavering voice.
The stranger was in rather an awkward predicament. However, he betrayed neither embarrassment nor alarm. Blowing out the candle, he advanced to the table and set it down. This movement brought him nearer Paul Nichols, who, with the timidity natural to an old man, anticipated an immediate attack.
"Don't kill me! Spare my life!" he exclaimed, hastily stepping back.
"I see you don't know me, Uncle Paul?" said the intruder, familiarly.
"Who are you that call me Uncle Paul?" asked the old man, somewhat reassured.
"Benjamin Haley, your sister's son. Do you know me now?"
"You Ben Haley!" exclaimed the old man, betraying surprise. "Why, you are old enough to be his father."
"Remember, Uncle Paul, I am eighteen years older than when you saw me last. Time brings changes, you know. When I saw you last, you were a man in the prime of life, now you are a feeble old man."
"Are you really Ben Haley?" asked the old man, doubtfully.
"To be sure I am. I suppose I look to you more like a bearded savage. Well, I'm not responsible for my looks. Not finding you at home, I took the liberty of coming in on the score of relationship."
"What, were you doing with that candle?" asked Paul, suspiciously.
"I went down cellar with it."
"Down cellar!" repeated his uncle, with a look of alarm which didn't escape his nephew. "What for?"
"In search of something to eat. All I could find in the closet was a dry loaf, which doesn't look very appetizing."
"There's nothing down cellar. Don't go there again," said the old man, still uneasy.
His nephew looked at him shrewdly.
"Ha, Uncle Paul! I've guessed your secret so quick," he said to himself. "Some of your money is hidden away in the cellar, I'm thinking."
"Where do you keep your provisions, then?" he said aloud.
"The loaf is all I have."
"Come, Uncle Paul, you don't mean that. That's a scurvy welcome to give a nephew you haven't seen for eighteen years. I'm going to stay to dinner with you, and you must give me something better than that. Haven't you got any meat in the house?"
"No."
Just then Ben Haley, looking from the window, saw some chickens in the yard. His eye lighted up at the discovery.
"Ah, there is a nice fat chicken," he said. "We'll have a chicken dinner. Shall it be roast or boiled?"
"No, no," said the old farmer, hastily. "I can't spare them. They'll bring a good price in the market by and by."
"Can't help it, Uncle Paul. Charity begins at home. Excuse me a minute, I'll be back directly."
He strode to the door and out into the yard. Then, after a little maneuvering, he caught a chicken, and going to the block, seized the ax, and soon decapitated it.
"What have you done?" said Paul, ruefully, for the old man had followed his nephew, and was looking on in a very uncomfortable frame of mind.
"Taken the first step toward a good dinner," said the other, coolly. "I am not sure but we shall want two."
"No, no!" said Paul, hastily. "I haven't got much appetite."
"Then perhaps we can make it do. I'll just get it ready, and cook it myself. I've knocked about in all sorts of places, and it won't be the first time I've served as cook. I've traveled some since I saw you last."
"Have you?" said the old man, who seemed more interested in the untimely death of the pullet than in his nephew's adventures.
"Yes, I've been everywhere. I spent a year in Australia at the gold diggings."
"Did you find any?" asked his uncle, for the first time betraying interest.
"Some, but I didn't bring away any."
Ben Haley meanwhile was rapidly stripping the chicken of its feathers. When he finished, he said, "Now tell me where you keep your vegetables, Uncle Paul?"
"They're in the corn barn. You can't get in. It's locked."
"Where's the key?"
"Lost."
"I'll get in, never fear," said the intruder, and he led the way to the corn barn, his uncle unwillingly following and protesting that it would be quite impossible to enter.
Reaching the building, he stepped back and was about to kick open the door, when old Paul hurriedly interposed, saying, "No, no, I've found the key."
His nephew took it from his hand, and unlocking the door, brought out a liberal supply of potatoes, beets and squashes.
"We'll have a good dinner, after all," he said. "You don't half know how to live, Uncle Paul. You need me here. You've got plenty around you, but you don't know how to use it."
The free and easy manner in which his nephew conducted himself was peculiarly annoying and exasperating to the old man, but as often as he was impelled to speak, the sight of his nephew's resolute face and vigorous frame, which he found it difficult to connect with his recollections of young Ben, terrified him into silence, and he contented himself with following his nephew around uneasily with looks of suspicion.
When the dinner was prepared both sat down to partake of it, but Ben quietly, and, as a matter of course, assumed the place of host and carved the fowl. Notwithstanding the shock which his economical notions had received, the farmer ate with appetite the best meal of which he had partaken for a long time. Ben had not vaunted too highly his skill as a cook. Wherever he had acquired it, he evidently understood the preparation of such a dinner as now lay before them.
"Now, Uncle Paul, if we only had a mug of cider to wash down the dinner. Haven't you got some somewhere?"
"Not a drop."
"Don't you think I might find some stored away in the cellar, for instance?" asked Ben, fixing his glance upon his uncle's face.
"No, no; didn't I tell you I hadn't got any?" returned Paul Nichols, with petulance and alarm.
"I mean to see what else you have in the cellar," said Ben, to himself, "before I leave this place. There's a reason for that pale face of yours." But he only said aloud, "Well, if you haven't got any we must do without it. There's a little more of the chicken left. As you don't want it I'll appropriate it. Nothing like clearing up things. Come, this is rather better than dry bread, isn't it?"
"It's very expensive," said the miser, ruefully.
"Well, you can afford it, Uncle Paul—there's a comfort in that. I suppose you are pretty rich, eh?"
"Rich!" repeated Paul, in dismay. "What put such a thing into your head?"
"Not your style of living, you may be sure of that."
"I am poor, Benjamin. You mustn't think otherwise. I live as well as I can afford."
"Then what have you been doing with your savings all these years?"
"My savings! It has taken all I had to live. There isn't any money to be made in farming. It's hard work and poor pay."
"You used to support your family comfortably when you had one."
"Don't—don't speak of them. I can't bear it," said Paul, his countenance changing. "When I had them I was happy."
"And now you're not. Well, I don't wonder at it. It must be dismal enough living alone. You need somebody with you. I am your nephew and nearest relation. I feel that it is my duty to stay with you."
The expression of dismay which overspread the old man's face at this declaration was ludicrous.
"You stay with me?" he repeated, in a tone of alarm.
"Yes, for a time at least. We'll be company for each other, won't we, Uncle Paul?"
"No, no; there's no room."
"No room? You don't mean to say that you need the whole house?"
"I mean I cannot afford to have you here. Besides I'm used to being alone. I prefer it."
"That's complimentary, at any rate. You prefer to be alone rather than to have me with you?"
"Don't be offended, Benjamin. I've been alone so many years. Besides you'd feel dull here. You wouldn't like it."
"I'll try it and see. What room are you going to give me?"
"You'd better go away."
"Well, uncle, we'll talk about that to-morrow. You're very considerate in fearing it will be dull for me, but I've roamed about the world so much that I shall be glad of a little dullness. So it's all settled. And now, Uncle Paul, if you don't object I'll take out my pipe and have a smoke. I always smoke after dinner."
He lit his pipe, and throwing himself back in a chair, began to puff away leisurely, his uncle surveying him with fear and embarrassment. Why should his graceless nephew turn up, after so many years, in the form of this big, broad-shouldered, heavy-bearded stranger, only to annoy him, and thrust his unwelcome company upon him?
Paul Nichols looked forward with dismay to the prospect of having his nephew remain with him as a guest. Like all misers, he had a distrust of every one, and the present appearance of his nephew only confirmed the impressions he still retained of his earlier bad conduct. He had all the will to turn him out of his house, but Ben was vastly his superior in size and strength, and he did not dare to attempt it.
"He wants to rob, perhaps to murder me," thought Paul, surveying his big nephew with a troubled gaze.
His apprehensions were such that he even meditated offering to pay the intruder's board for a week at the tavern, if he would leave him in peace by himself. But the reluctance to part with his money finally prevented such a proposal being made.
In the afternoon the old man stayed around home. He did not dare to leave it lest Ben should take a fancy to search the house, and come upon some of his secret hoards, for people were right in reporting that he hid his money.
At last evening came. With visible discomposure the old man showed Ben to a room.
"You can sleep there," he said, pointing to a cot bed in the corner of the room.
"All right, uncle. Good-night!"
"Good-night!" said Paul Nichols.
He went out and closed the door behind him. He not only closed it, but locked it, having secretly hidden the key in his pocket. He chuckled softly to himself as he went downstairs. His nephew was securely disposed of for the night, being fastened in his chamber. But if he expected Ben Haley quietly to submit to this incarceration he was entirely mistaken in that individual. The latter heard the key turn in the lock, and comprehended at once his uncle's stratagem. Instead of being angry, he was amused.
"So my simple-minded uncle thinks he has drawn my teeth, does he? I'll give him a scare."
He began to jump up and down on the chamber floor in his heavy boots, which, as the floor was uncarpeted, made a terrible noise. The old man in the room below, just congratulating himself on his cunning move, grew pale as he listened. He supposed his nephew to be in a furious passion, and apprehensions of personal violence disturbed him. Still he reflected that he would be unable to get out, and in the morning he could go for the constable. But he was interrupted by a different noise. Ben had drawn off his boots, and was firing them one after the other at the door.
The noise became so intolerable, that Paul was compelled to ascend the stairs, trembling with fear.
"What's the matter?" he inquired at the door, in a quavering voice.
"Open the door," returned Ben.
His uncle reluctantly inserted the key in the lock and opening it presented a pale, scared face in the doorway. His nephew, with his coat stripped off, was sitting on the side of the bed.
"What's the matter?" asked Paul.
"Nothing, only you locked the door by mistake," said Ben, coolly.
"What made you make such a noise?" demanded Paul.
"To call you up. There was no bell in the room, so that was the only way I had of doing it. What made you lock me in?"
"I didn't think," stammered the old man.
"Just what I supposed. To guard against your making that mistake again, let me have the key."
"I'd rather keep it, if it's the same to you," said Paul, in alarm.
"But it isn't the same to me. You see, Uncle Paul, you are growing old and forgetful, and might lock me in again. That would not be pleasant, you know, especially if the house should catch fire in the night."
"What!" exclaimed Paul, terror-stricken, half suspecting his nephew contemplated turning incendiary.
"I don't think it will, mind, but it's best to be prepared, so give me the key."
The old man feebly protested, but ended in giving up the key to his nephew.
"There, that's all right. Now I'll turn in. Good-night."
"Good-night," responded Paul Nichols, and left the chamber, feeling more alarmed than ever. He was beginning to be more afraid and more distrustful of his nephew than ever. What if the latter should light on some of his various hiding places for money? Why, in that very chamber he had a hundred dollars in gold hidden behind the plastering. He groaned in spirit as he thought of it, and determined to tell his nephew the next morning that he must find another home, as he couldn't and wouldn't consent to his remaining longer.
But when the morning came he found the task a difficult one to enter upon. Finally, after breakfast, which consisted of eggs and toast, Ben Haley having ransacked the premises for eggs, which the old man intended for the market, Paul said, "Benjamin, you must not be offended, but I have lived alone for years, and I cannot invite you to stay longer."
"Where shall I go, uncle?" demanded Ben, taking out his pipe coolly, and lighting it.
"There's a tavern in the village."
"Is there? That won't do me any good."
"You'll be better off there than here. They set a very good table, and——"
"You don't," said Ben, finishing the sentence. "I know that, but then, uncle, I have two reasons for preferring to stay here. The first is, that I may enjoy the society of my only living relation; the second is, that I have not money enough to pay my board at the hotel."
He leaned back, and began to puff leisurely at his pipe, as if this settled the matter.
"If you have no money, why do you come to me?" demanded Paul, angrily. "Do you expect me to support you?"
"You wouldn't turn out your sister's son, would you, Uncle Paul?"
"You must earn your own living. I can't support you in idleness."
"You needn't; I'll work for you. Let me see, I'll do the cooking."
"I don't want you here," said the old man, desperately. "Why do you come to disturb me, after so many years?"
"I'll go away on one condition," said Ben Haley.
"What's that?"
"Give me, or lend me—I don't care which—a hundred dollars."
"Do you think I'm made of money?" asked Paul, fear and anger struggling for the mastery.
"I think you can spare me a hundred dollars."
"Go away! You are a bad man. You were a wild, bad boy, and you are no better now."
"Now, Uncle Paul, I think you're rather too hard upon me. Just consider that I am your nephew. What will people say if you turn me out of doors?"
"I don't care what they say. I can't have you here."
"I'm sorry I can't oblige you by going, Uncle Paul, but I've got a headache this morning, and don't feel like stirring. Let me stay with you a day or two, and then I may go."
Vain were all the old man's expostulations. His nephew sat obstinately smoking, and refused to move.
"Come out to the barn with me while I milk," said Paul, at length, not daring to leave his nephew by himself.
"Thank you, but I'm well off as I am. I've got a headache, and I'd rather stay here."
Milking couldn't longer be deferred. But for the stranger's presence it would have been attended to two hours earlier. Groaning in spirit, and with many forebodings, Paul went out to the barn, and in due time returned with his foaming pails. There sat his nephew in the old place, apparently not having stirred. Possibly he didn't mean mischief after all, Paul reflected. At any rate, he must leave him again, while he released the cows from their stalls, and drove them to pasture. He tried to obtain his nephew's companionship, but in vain.
"I'm not interested in cows, uncle," he said. "I'll be here when you come back."
With a sigh his uncle left the house, only half reassured. That he had reason for his distrust was proved by Ben Haley's movements. He lighted a candle, and going down to the cellar, first securing a pickax, struck into the earthen flooring, and began to work energetically.
"I am sure some of the old man's money is here," he said to himself. "I must work fast, or he'll catch me at it."
Half an hour later Paul Nichols re-entered the house. He looked for his nephew, but his seat was vacant. He thought he heard a dull thud in the cellar beneath. He hurried to the staircase, and tottered down. Ben had come upon a tin quart-measure partly filled with gold coins, and was stooping over, transferring them to his pocket.
With a hoarse cry like that of an animal deprived of its young, his uncle sprang upon him, and fastened his claw-like nails in the face of his burly nephew.
The attack was so sudden, and the old man's desperation so reinforced his feeble strength, that Ben Haley was thrown forward, and the measure of gold coins fell from his hand. But he quickly recovered himself.
"Let me alone," he said, sternly, forcibly removing his uncle's hands from his face, but not before the claw-like nails had drawn blood. "Let me alone, if you know what is best for yourself."
"You're a thief!" screamed Paul. "You shall go to jail for this."
"Shall I?" asked Ben, his face darkening and his tone full of menace. "Who is going to send me there?"
"I am," answered Paul. "I'll have you arrested."
"Look here, Uncle Paul," said Ben, confining the old man's arms to his side, "it's time we had a little talk together. You'd better not do as you say."
"You're a thief! The jail is the place for thieves."
"It isn't the place for me, and I'm not going there. Now let us come to an understanding. You are rich and I am poor."
"Rich!" repeated Paul.
"Yes; at any rate, you have got this farm, and more money hidden away than you will ever use. I am poor. You can spare me this money here as well as not."
"It is all I have."
"I know better than that. You have plenty more, but I will be satisfied with this. Remember, I am your sister's son."
"I don't care if you are," said the old man, doggedly.
"And you owe me some help. You'll never miss it. Now make up your mind to give me this money, and I'll go away and leave you in peace."
"Never!" exclaimed Paul, struggling hard to free himself.
"You won't!"
His uncle repeated the emphatic refusal.
"Then I shall have to put it out of your power to carry out your threat."
He took his uncle up in his strong arms, and moved toward the stairs.
"Are you going to murder me?" asked Paul, in mortal fear.
"You will find out what I am going to do," said Ben, grimly.
He carried his uncle upstairs, and, possessing himself of a clothesline in one corner of the kitchen, proceeded to tie him hand and foot, despite his feeble opposition.
"There," said he, when his uncle lay before him utterly helpless, "I think that disposes of you for a while. Now for the gold."
Leaving him on the floor, he again descended the cellar stairs, and began to gather up the gold coins, which had been scattered about the floor at the time of Paul's unexpected attack.
The old man groaned in spirit as he found himself about to be robbed, and utterly helpless to resist the outrage. But help was near at hand, though he knew it not. Robert Rushton had thought more than once of his unknown passenger of the day before, and the particular inquiries he made concerning Paul Nichols and his money. Ben Haley had impressed him far from favorably, and the more he called to mind his appearance, the more he feared that he meditated some dishonest designs upon Paul. So the next morning, in order to satisfy his mind that all was right, he rowed across to the same place where he had landed Ben, and fastening his boat, went up to the farmhouse. He reached it just as Ben, having secured the old man, had gone back into the cellar to gather up the gold.
Robert looked into the window, and, to his surprise, saw the old farmer lying bound hand and foot. He quickly leaped in, and asked:
"What is the matter? Who has done this?"
"Hush!" said the old man, "he'll hear you."
"Who do you mean?"
"My nephew."
"Where is he?"
"Down cellar. He's tied me here, and is stealing all my gold."
"What shall I do? Can I help you?"
"Cut the ropes first."
Robert drew a jackknife from his pocket, and did as he was bidden.
"Now," said Paul, rising with a sigh of relief from his constrained position, "while I bolt the cellar door, you go upstairs, and in the closet of the room over this you will find a gun. It is loaded. Bring it down."
Robert hurried upstairs, and quickly returned with the weapon.
"Do you know how to fire a gun?" asked Paul.
"Yes," said Robert.
"Then keep it. For I am nervous, and my hand trembles. If he breaks through the door, fire."
Ben Haley would have been up before this, but it occurred to him to explore other parts of the cellar, that he might carry away as much booty as possible. He had rendered himself amenable to the law already, and he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, so he argued. He was so busily occupied that he did not hear the noise of Robert's entrance into the room above, or he would at once have gone upstairs. In consequence of the delay his uncle and Robert had time to concert measures for opposing him.
Finally, not succeeding in finding more gold, he pocketed what he had found, and went up the cellar stairs. He attempted to open the door, when, to his great surprise, he found that it resisted his efforts.
"What makes the door stick so?" he muttered, not suspecting the true state of the case. But he was quickly enlightened.
"You can't come up!" exclaimed the old man, in triumph. "I've bolted the door."
"How did he get free? He must have untied the knots," thought Ben. "Does the old fool think he is going to keep me down here?"
"Unlock the door," he shouted, in a loud, stern voice, "or it will be the worse for you."
"Have you got the gold with you?"
"Yes."
"Then go down and leave it where you found it, and I will let you come up."
"You're a fool," was the reply. "Do you think I am a child? Open the door, or I will burst it open with my foot."
"You'd better not," said Paul, whose courage had returned with the presence of Robert and the possession of the gun.
"Why not? What are you going to do about it?" asked Ben, derisively.
"I've got help. You have more than one to contend with."
"I wonder if he has any one with him?" thought Ben. "I believe the old fool is only trying to deceive me. At any rate, help or no help, it is time I were out of this hole."
"If you don't open the door before I count three," he said, aloud, "I'll burst it open."
"What shall I do," asked Robert, in a low voice, "if he comes out?"
"If he tries to get away with the gold, fire!" said the old man.
Robert determined only to inflict a wound. The idea of taking a human life, even under such circumstances, was one that made him shudder. He felt that gold was not to be set against life.
"One—two—three!" counted Ben, deliberately.
The door remaining locked, he drew back and kicked the door powerfully. Had he been on even ground, it would have yielded to the blow, but kicking from the stair beneath, placed him at a disadvantage. Nevertheless the door shook and trembled beneath the force of the attack made upon it.
"Well, will you unlock it now?" he demanded, pausing.
"No," said the old man, "not unless you carry back the gold."
"I won't do that. I have had too much trouble to get it. But if you don't unlock the door at once I may be tempted to forget that you are my uncle."
"I should like to forget that you are my nephew," said the old man.
"The old fool has mustered up some courage," thought Ben. "I'll soon have him whining for mercy."
He made a fresh attack upon the door. This time he did not desist until he had broken through the panel. Then with the whole force he could command he threw himself against the upper part of the door, and it came crashing into the kitchen. Ben Haley leaped through the opening and confronted his uncle, who receded in alarm. The sight of the burly form of his nephew, and his stern and menacing countenance, once more made him quail.
Ben Haley looked around him, and his eyes lighted upon Robert Rushton standing beside the door with the gun in his hand.
He burst into a derisive laugh, and turning to his uncle, said: "So this is the help you were talking about. He's only a baby. I could twist him around my finger. Just lay down that gun, boy! It isn't meant for children like you."
Though he had a weapon in his hand, many boys in Robert's situation would have been unnerved. He was a mere boy, though strong of his age. Opposed to him was a tall, strong man, of desperate character, fully resolved to carry out his dishonest purpose, and not likely to shrink from violence, to which he was probably only too well accustomed. From the old man he was not likely to obtain assistance, for already Paul's courage had begun to dwindle, and he regarded his nephew with a scared look.
"Lay down that gun, boy!" repeated Ben Haley. "I know you. You're the boy that rowed me across the river. You can row pretty well, but you're not quite a match for me even at that."
"This gun makes me even with you," said Robert, returning his look unflinchingly.
"Does it? Then all I can say is, that when you lose it you'll be in a bad pickle. Lay it down instantly."
"Then lay down the gold you have in your pockets," said our hero, still pointing his gun at Haley.
"Good boy! Brave boy!" said the old man, approvingly.
"Look here, boy," said Haley, in quick, stern tones, "I've had enough of this nonsense. If you don't put down that gun in double quick time, you'll repent it. One word—yes or no!"
"No," said Robert, resolutely.
No sooner had he uttered the monosyllable than Haley sprang toward him with the design of wresting the gun from him. But Robert had his finger upon the trigger, and fired. The bullet entered the shoulder of the ruffian, but in the excitement of the moment he only knew that he was hit, but this incensed him. In spite of the wound he seized the musket and forcibly wrested it from our hero. He raised it in both hands and would probably in his blind fury have killed him on the spot, but for the sudden opening of the outer door, and entrance of a neighboring farmer, who felt sufficiently intimate to enter without knocking. This changed Haley's intention. Feeling that the odds were against him, he sprang through the window, gun in hand, and ran with rapid strides towards the river.
"What's the matter?" demanded the new arrival, surveying the scene before him in astonishment.
"He's gone off with my gold," exclaimed Paul Nichols, recovering from his stupefaction. "Run after him, catch him!"
"Who is it?"
"Ben Haley."
"What, your nephew! I thought he was dead long ago."
"I wish he had been," said Paul, wringing his hands. "He's taken all my money—I shall die in the poorhouse."
"I can't understand how it all happened," said the neighbor, looking to Robert for an explanation. "Who fired the gun?"
"I did," said our hero.
"Did you hit him?"
"I think so. I saw blood on his shirt. I must have hit him in the shoulder."
"Don't stop to talk," said Paul, impatiently. "Go after him and get back the gold."
"We can't do much," said the neighbor, evidently not very anxious to come into conflict with such a bold ruffian. "He has the gun with him."
"What made you let him have it?" asked Paul.
"I couldn't help it," said Robert. "But he can't fire it. It is unloaded, and I don't think he has any ammunition with him."
"To be sure," said Paul, eagerly. "You see there's no danger. Go after him, both of you, He can't hurt ye."
Somewhat reassured the neighbor followed Robert, who at once started in pursuit of the escaped burglar. He was still in sight, though he had improved the time consumed in the foregoing colloquy, and was already near the river bank. On he sped, bent on making good his escape with the money he had dishonestly acquired. One doubt was in his mind. Should he find a boat? If not, the river would prove an insuperable obstacle, and he would be compelled to turn and change the direction of his flight. Looking over his shoulder he saw Robert and the farmer on his track, and he clutched his gun the more firmly.
"They'd better not touch me," he said to himself. "If I can't fire the gun I can brain either or both with it."
Thoughts of crossing the stream by swimming occurred to him. A sailor by profession, he was an expert swimmer, and the river was not wide enough to daunt him. But his pockets were filled with the gold he had stolen, and gold is well known to be the heaviest of all the metals. But nevertheless he could not leave it behind since it was for this he had incurred his present peril. In this uncertainty he reached the bank of the river, when to his surprise and joy his eye rested upon Robert's boat.
"The boy's boat!" he exclaimed, in exultation, "by all that's lucky! I will take the liberty of borrowing it without leave."
He sprang in, and seizing one of the oars, pushed out into the stream, first drawing up the anchor. When Robert and his companion reached the shore he was already floating at a safe distance.
"He's got my boat!" exclaimed our hero, in disappointment.
"So he has!" ejaculated the other.
"You're a little too late!" shouted Ben Haley, with a sneer. "Just carry back my compliments to the old fool yonder and tell him I left in too great a hurry to give him my note for the gold he kindly lent me. I'll attend to it when I get ready."
He had hitherto sculled the boat. Now he took the other oar and commenced rowing. But here the wound, of which he had at first been scarcely conscious, began to be felt, and the first vigorous stroke brought a sharp twinge, besides increasing the flow of blood. His natural ferocity was stimulated by his unpleasant discovery, and he shook his fist menacingly at Robert, from whom he had received the wound.
"There's a reckoning coming betwixt you and me, young one!" he cried, "and it'll be a heavy one. Ben Haley don't forget that sort of debt. The time'll come when he'll pay it back with interest. It mayn't come for years, but it'll come at last, you may be sure of that."
Finding that he could not row on account of his wound, he rose to his feet, and sculled the boat across as well as he could with one hand.
"I wish I had another boat," said Robert. "We could soon overtake him."
"Better let him go," said the neighbor. "He was always a bad one, that Ben Haley. I couldn't begin to tell you all the bad things he did when he was a boy. He was a regular dare-devil. You must look out for him, or he'll do you a mischief some time, to pay for that wound."
"He brought it on himself," said Robert "I gave him warning."
He went back to the farmhouse to tell Paul of his nephew's escape. He was brave and bold, but the malignant glance with which Ben Haley uttered his menace, gave him a vague sense of discomfort.
In spite of his wounded arm Ben Haley succeeded in propelling the boat to the opposite shore. The blood was steadily, though slowly, flowing from his wound, and had already stained his shirt red for a considerable space. In the excitement of first receiving it he had not felt the pain; now, however, the wound began to pain him, and, as might be expected, his feeling of animosity toward our hero was not diminished.
"That cursed boy!" he muttered, between his teeth. "I wish I had had time to give him one blow—he wouldn't have wanted another. I hope the wound isn't serious—if it is, I may have paid dear for the gold."
Still, the thought of the gold in his pockets afforded some satisfaction. He had been penniless; now he was the possessor of—as near as he could estimate, for he had not had time to count—five hundred dollars in gold. That was more than he had ever possessed before at one time, and would enable him to live at ease for a while.
On reaching the shore he was about to leave the boat to its fate, when he espied a boy standing at a little distance, with a hatchet in his hand. This gave him an idea.
"Come here, boy," he said.
The boy came forward, and examined the stranger with curiosity.
"Is that your hatchet?" he asked.
"No, sir. It belongs to my father."
"Would you mind selling it to me if I will give you money enough to buy a new one?"
"This is an old hatchet."
"It will suit me just as well, and I haven't time to buy another. Would your father sell it?"
"Yes, sir; I guess so."
"Very well. What will a new one cost you?"
The boy named the price.
"Here is the money, and twenty-five cents more to pay you for your trouble in going to the store."
The boy pocketed the money with satisfaction. He was a farmer's son, and seldom had any money in his possession. He already had twenty-five cents saved up toward the purchase of a junior ball, and the stranger's gratuity would just make up the sum necessary to secure it. He was in a hurry to make the purchase, and, accordingly, no sooner had he received the money than he started at once for the village store. His departure was satisfactory to Ben Haley, who now had nothing to prevent his carrying out his plans.
"I wanted to be revenged on the boy, and now I know how," he said. "I'll make some trouble for him with this hatchet."
He drew the boat up and fastened it. Then he deliberately proceeded to cut away at the bottom with his newly-acquired hatchet. He had a strong arm, and his blows were made more effective by triumphant malice. The boat he supposed to belong to Robert, and he was determined to spoil it.
He hacked away with such energy that soon there was a large hole in the bottom of the boat. Not content with inflicting this damage, he cut it in various other places, until it presented an appearance very different from the neat, stanch boat of which Will Paine had been so proud. At length Ben stopped, and contemplated the ruin he had wrought with malicious satisfaction.
"That's the first instalment in my revenge," he said. "I should like to see my young ferryman's face when he sees his boat again. It'll cost him more than he'll ever get from my miserly uncle to repair it. It serves him right for meddling with matters that don't concern him. And now I must be getting away, for my affectionate uncle will soon be raising a hue and cry after me if I'm not very much mistaken."
He would like to have gone at once to obtain medical assistance for his wound, but to go to the village doctor would be dangerous. He must wait till he had got out of the town limits, and the farther away the better. He knew when the train would start, and made his way across the fields to the station, arriving just in time to catch it. First, however, he bound a handkerchief round his shoulder to arrest the flow of blood.
When he reached the station, and was purchasing his ticket, the station-master noticed the blood upon his shirt.
"Are you hurt, sir?" he asked.
"Yes, a little," said Ben Haley.
"How did it happen?" inquired the other, with Yankee inquisitiveness.
"I was out hunting," said Ben, carelessly, "with a friend who wasn't much used to firearms. In swinging his gun round, it accidentally went off, and I got shot through the shoulder."
"That's bad," said the station-master, in a tone of sympathy. "You'd better go round to the doctor's, and have it attended to."
"I would," said Ben, "but I am called away by business of the greatest importance. I can get along for a few hours, and then I'll have a doctor look at it. How soon will the train be here?"
"It's coming now. Don't you hear it?"
"That's the train I must take. You see I couldn't wait long enough for the doctor," added Ben, anxious to account satisfactorily for his inattention to the medical assistance of which he stood in need.
When he was fairly on board the cars, and the train was under way, he felt considerably relieved. He was speeding fast away from the man he had robbed, and who was interested in his capture, and in a few days he might be at sea, able to snap his fingers at his miserly uncle and the boy whom he determined some day to meet and settle scores with.
From one enemy of Robert the transition is brief and natural to another. At this very moment Halbert Davis was sauntering idly and discontentedly through the streets of the village. He was the son of a rich man, or of one whom most persons, his own family included, supposed to be rich; but this consciousness, though it made him proud, by no means made him happy. He had that morning at the breakfast table asked his father to give him a boat like Will Paine's, but Mr. Davis had answered by a decided refusal.
"You don't need any boat," he said, sharply.
"It wouldn't cost very much," pleaded Halbert.
"How much do you suppose?"
"Will Paine told me his father paid fifty dollars for his."
"Why don't you borrow it sometimes?"
"I can't borrow it. Will started a day or two since for boarding school."
"Better still. I will hire it for you while he is away."
"I thought of it myself," said Halbert, "but just before he went away Will lent it to the factory boy," sneering as he uttered the last two words.
"Do you mean Robert Rushton?"
"Yes."
"That's only a boy's arrangement. I will see Mr. Paine, and propose to pay him for the use of the boat, and I presume he will be willing to accede to my terms."
"When will you see him?" asked Halbert, hopefully.
"I will try to see him in the course of the day."
It turned out, however, that there was no need of calling on Mr. Paine, for five minutes later, having some business with Mr. Davis, he rang the bell, and was ushered into the breakfast-room.
"Excuse my calling early," he said, "but I wished to see you about——" and here he stated his business, in which my readers will feel no interest. When that was over, Mr. Davis introduced the subject of the boat, and made the offer referred to.
"I am sorry to refuse," said Mr. Paine, "but my son, before going away, passed his promise to Robert Rushton that he should have it during his absence."
"Do you hold yourself bound by such a promise?" inquired Mrs. Davis, with a disagreeable smile.
"Certainly," said the lawyer, gravely. "Robert is a valued friend of my son's, and I respect boyish friendship. I remember very well my own boyhood, and I had some strong friendships at that time."
"I don't see what your son can find to like in Robert Rushton," said Mrs. Davis, with something of Halbert's manner. "I think him a very disagreeable and impertinent boy."
Mr. Paine did not admire Mrs. Davis, and was not likely to be influenced by her prejudices. Without inquiry, therefore, into the cause of her unfavorable opinion, he said, "I have formed quite a different opinion of Robert. I am persuaded that you do him injustice."
"He attacked Halbert ferociously the other day," said Mrs. Davis, determined to impart the information whether asked or not. "He has an ungovernable temper."
Mr. Paine glanced shrewdly at Halbert, of whose arrogant and quarrelsome disposition he had heard from his own son, and replied, "I make it a point not to interfere in boys' quarrels. William speaks very highly of Robert, and it affords him great satisfaction, I know, to leave the boat in his charge."
Mrs. Davis saw that there was no use in pursuing the subject, and it dropped.
After the lawyer had gone Halbert made his petition anew, but without satisfactory results. The fact was, Mr. Davis had heard unfavorable reports from New York the day previous respecting a stock in which he had an interest, and it was not a favorable moment to prefer a request involving the outlay of money.
It was this refusal which made Halbert discontented and unhappy. The factory boy, as he sneeringly called him, could have a boat, while he, a gentleman's son, was forced to go without one. Of course, he would not stoop to ask the loan of the boat, however much he wanted it, from a boy he disliked so much as Robert. He wondered whether Robert were out this morning. So, unconsciously, his steps led him to the shore of the river, where he knew the boat was generally kept. He cast his eye toward it, when what was his surprise to find the object of his desire half full of water, with a large hole in the bottom and defaced in other respects.
Halbert's first emotion was surprise, his second was gratification. His rival could no longer enjoy the boat which he had envied him. Not only that, but he would get into trouble with Mr. Paine on account of the damage which it had received. Being under his care, it was his duty to keep it in good condition.
"I wonder how it happened?" thought Halbert. "Won't the young beggar be in a precious scrape when it's found out? Most likely he won't let Mr. Paine know."
In this thought he judged Robert by himself. Straightway the plan suggested itself of going to the lawyer himself and informing him of Robert's delinquency. It would be a very agreeable way of taking revenge him. The plan so pleased him that he at once directed his steps toward Mr. Paine's office. On the way he overtook Hester Paine, the young lady on whose account he was chiefly incensed against Robert. Being as desirous as ever of standing in the young lady's good graces, he hurriedly advanced to her side, and lifting his hat with an air of ceremonious politeness, he said:
"Good-morning, Hester."
Hester Paine was not particularly well pleased with the meeting. She had been made acquainted by her brother with the quarrel between Halbert and Robert, and the mean revenge which the former had taken in procuring the dismissal of the latter from the factory. Having a partiality for Robert, this was not likely to recommend his enemy in her eyes.
"Good-morning, Mr. Davis," she said, with cool politeness.
"You are very ceremonious this morning, Miss Hester," said Halbert, who liked well enough to be called "Mr." by others, but not by Hester.
"Am I?" asked Hester, indifferently. "How so?"
"You called me Mr. Davis."
"That's your name, isn't it?"
"I am not called so by my intimate friends."
"No, I suppose not," said Hester, thus disclaiming the title.
Halbert bit his lips. He was not in love, not because he was too young, but because he was too selfish to be in love with anybody except himself. But he admired Hester, and the more she slighted him the more he was determined to force her to like him. He did, however, feel a little piqued at her behavior, and that influenced his next words.
"Perhaps you'd rather have the factory boy walking beside you," he said, with not very good judgment, if he wanted to recommend himself to her.
"There are a good many factory boys in town," she said. "I can't tell unless you tell me whom you mean."
"I mean Robert Rushton."
"Perhaps I might," said Hester.
"He's a low fellow," said Halbert, bitterly.
"No one thinks so but you," retorted Hester, indignantly.
"My father was obliged to dismiss him from the factory."
"I know all about that, and who was the means of having him sent away."
"I suppose you mean me."
"Yes, Halbert Davis, I mean you, and I consider it a very mean thing to do," said Hester, her cheeks flushed with the indignation she felt.
"He attacked me like the low ruffian that he is," pleaded Halbert, in extenuation. "If he hadn't insulted me, he wouldn't have got into trouble."
"You struck him first, you know you did. My brother told me all about it. You were angry because he walked home with me. I would rather go home alone any time than have your escort."
"You're very polite, Miss Hester," said Halbert, angrily. "I can tell you some news about your favorite."
"If it's anything bad, I won't believe it."
"You'll have to believe it."
"Well, what is it?" demanded Hester, who was not altogether unlike girls in general, and so felt curious to learn what it was that Halbert had to reveal.
"Your brother was foolish enough to leave his boat in Rushton's care."
"That is no news. Will was very glad to do Robert a favor."
"He'll be sorry enough now."
"Why will he?"
"Because the boat is completely ruined."
"I don't believe it," said Hester, hastily.
"It's true, though. I was down at the river just now, and saw it with my own eyes. There is a great hole in the bottom, and it is hacked with a hatchet, so that it wouldn't bring half price."
"Do you know who did it?" asked Hester, with the momentary thought that Halbert himself might have been tempted by his hatred into the commission of the outrage.
"No, I don't. It was only accidentally I saw it."
"Was Robert at the boat?"
"No."
"Have you asked him about it?"
"No, I have not seen him."
"Then I am sure some enemy has done it. I am sure it is no fault of his."
"If your brother had let me have the boat, it wouldn't have happened. I offered him a fair price for its use."
"He won't be sorry he refused, whatever has happened. But I must bid you good-morning, Mr. Davis," and the young lady, who was now at her own gate, opened it, and entered.
"She might have been polite enough to invite me in," said Halbert, with chagrin. "I don't see how she can be so taken up with that low fellow."
He waited till Hester had entered the house, and then bent his steps to Mr. Paine's office, which was a small one-story building in one corner of the yard.
The lawyer was sitting at a table covered with papers, from which he looked up as Halbert entered the office.
"Sit down, Halbert," he said. "Any message from your father?"
"No, sir."
"No legal business of your own?" he inquired, with a smile.
"No, sir, no legal business."
"Well, if you have any business, you may state it at once, as I am quite busy."
"It is about the boat which your son lent to Robert Rushton."
"I shall not interfere with that arrangement," said the lawyer, misunderstanding his object. "I told your father that this morning," and he resumed his writing.
"I did not come to say anything about that. The boat wouldn't be of any use to me now."
"Why not?" asked the lawyer, detecting something significant in the boy's tone.
"Because," said Halbert, in a tone which he could not divest of the satisfaction he felt at his rival's misfortune, "the boat's completely ruined."
Mr. Paine laid down his pen in genuine surprise.
"Explain yourself," he said.
So Halbert told the story once more, taking good care to make the damage quite as great as it was.
"That is very strange," said the lawyer, thoughtfully. "I can't conceive how such damage could have happened to the boat."
"Robert Rushton don't know how to manage a boat."
"You are mistaken. He understands it very well. I am sure the injury you speak of could not have happened when he was in charge. You say there was not only a hole in the bottom, but it was otherwise defaced and injured?"
"Yes, sir, it looked as if it had been hacked by a hatchet."
"Then it is quite clear that Robert could have had nothing to do with it. It must have been done by some malicious person or persons."
Knowing something of Halbert, Mr. Paine looked hard at him, his suspicions taking the same direction as his daughter's. But, as we know, Halbert was entirely innocent, and bore the gaze without confusion.
"I don't see why Robert hasn't been and let me know of this," said Mr. Paine, musing.
"He was probably afraid to tell you," said Halbert, with a slight sneer.
"I know him better than that. You can testify," added the lawyer, significantly, "that he is not deficient in bravery."
"I thought I would come and tell you," said Halbert, coloring a little. "I thought you would like to know."
"You are very kind to take so much trouble," said Mr. Paine, but there was neither gratitude nor cordiality in his tone.
Halbert thought it was time to be going, and accordingly got up and took his leave. As he opened the office door to go out, he found himself face to face with Robert Rushton, who passed him with a slight nod, and with an air of trouble entered the presence of his friend's father.