Chapter Twenty Six.

Chapter Twenty Six.The Growing Cloud.“Dexter, I want to talk to you,” said Helen, a few weeks later. The boy sighed.“Ah! you are afraid I am going to scold you,” she said.“I don’t mind you scolding me,” he replied; “but I don’t think I have done anything this time, except—”“Except what?” said Helen, for the boy paused.“Except talk to Bob Dimsted.”“Have you been out to meet him?”“No, that I haven’t,” cried Dexter. “He came to the bottom of the river to fish, and he spoke to me; and if I had not answered, it would have seemed so proud.”Helen was silent for a few moments, not knowing what to say.“It was not about that,” she said, at last, “but about your lessons. Mr Limpney has again been complaining very bitterly to papa about your want of progress.”“Yes,” said Dexter, “and he is always scolding me.”“Then why don’t you try harder?”“I do, but I am so stupid.”“You are not, Dexter. You always learn easily enough with me.”“Yes, with you,” said the boy quickly, “but you don’t want me to say angleABCis equal to the angleCBA, and all such stuff as that.”“Don’t call it stuff,” said Helen, smiling in spite of herself; “it is Geometry.”“But it is rum stuff all the same. What’s the use of my learning about straight lines and squares and angles?”“But you are behind with your Algebra too.”“Yes,” sighed Dexter, “I’m just as stupid over that.”“Now, Dexter!”“But I am, quite. Why can’t I go on finding out things by Arithmetic, as we used at the schools? It was bother enough to learn that. Oh, what a lot of caning I had over nine times!”“Over nine times!” said Helen.“Over a hundred, I should say,” cried Dexter. “I mean with strokes on the hand, and taps on the head, and over the shoulders—counting ’em altogether; and wasn’t I glad when I knew it all, and twelve times too, and somebody else used to get it instead of me.”“Dexter, papa wishes you to learn these things.”“Do you?” said the boy.“Yes, very much. I should like to see you master them all.”“Then I will. See if I don’t,” he cried.“That’s right. Try and please Mr Limpney by being energetic.”“Yes, I’ll try,” said Dexter; “but I don’t think he’ll be pleased.”“I shall be. Now, get out your last lessons over which you failed so dismally, and I’ll try and help you.”“Will you?” cried the boy, in delighted tones, and he hurriedly obtained his folio, pens, and ink, feeling in such high spirits that if Bob Dimsted had been at hand to continue his temptations they would have been of no avail.The orange question was first debated, and tried in two or three different ways without success. Then it was laid aside for the time being, while the stage-coaches were rolled out and started, one from London to York, the other from York to London.“Look here,” said Dexter, “I’ll try the one that starts from London, while you try the one from York.”That was only another simple equation, but in its novelty to Helen Grayson, as difficult as if it had been quadratic, and for a time no sound was heard but the busy scratching of two pens.“It’s of no good,” said Dexter suddenly, and with a look of despair upon his face. “I’m so terribly stupid.”“I’m afraid, Dexter,” said Helen merrily, “if you are stupid, I am too.”“What! can’t you do it!”“No.”“Are you sure?”“Yes, Dexter. Algebra is beyond me.”“Hooray!” cried the boy, leaping from his seat, and dancing round the room, ending by relieving his excitement by turning head over heels on the hearthrug.“Is that to show your delight at my ignorance, Dexter?” said Helen, smiling.“No,” he cried, colouring up, as he stood before her out of breath. “It was because I was glad, because I was not so stupid as I thought.”“You are not stupid, Dexter,” said Helen, smiling. “We must go back to the beginning, and try and find out how to do these things. Does not Mr Limpney explain them to you?”“Yes,” said Dexter dismally, “but when he has done, I don’t seem to see what he means, and it does make me so miserable.”“Poor boy!” said Helen gently. “There, you must not make your studies a trouble. They ought to be a great pleasure.”“They would be if you taught me,” said Dexter eagerly. “I say, do ask Dr Grayson to send Mr Limpney away, and you help me. I will try so hard.”“A pretty tutor I should make,” cried Helen, laughing. “Why, Dexter, I am as ignorant, you see, as you!”Dexter’s face was a study. He seemed hurt and pleased at the same time, and his face was full of reproach as he said—“Ignorant as me! Oh!”“There, I’ll speak to papa about your lessons, and he will, I have no doubt, say a few words to Mr Limpney about trying to make your tasks easier, and explaining them a little more.”“Will you!” cried the boy excitedly, and he caught her hands in his.“Certainly I will, Dexter.”“Then I will try so hard, and I’ll write down on pieces of paper all the things you don’t want me to do, and carry ’em in my pockets, and take them out and look at them sometimes.”“What!” cried Helen, laughing.“Well, that’s what Mr Limpney told me to do, so that I should not forget the things he taught me. Look here!”He thrust his hand into his trousers-pocket, and brought out eagerly a crumpled-up piece of paper, but as he did so a number of oats flew out all over the room.“O Dexter! what a pocket! Now what could you do with oats?”“They were only for my rabbits,” he said. “There, those are all nouns that end inus, feminine nouns. Look,tribus, acus, porticus. Isn’t it stupid?”“It is the construction of the language, Dexter.”“Yes; that’s what Mr Limpney said. There, I shall put down everything you don’t like me to do on a piece of paper that way; and take it out and read it, so as to remember it.”“Try another way, Dexter.”“How?” he said wonderingly.“By fixing these things in your heart, and not on paper,” Helen said, and she left the room.“Well, that’s the way to learn them by heart,” said the boy to himself thoughtfully, as with brow knit he seated himself by a table, took a sheet of paper, and began diligently to write in a fairly neat hand, making entry after entry; and the principal of these was—“Bob Dimsted: not to talk to him.”The next day the doctor had a chat with Mr Limpney respecting Dexter and his progress.“You see,” said the doctor, “the boy has not had the advantages lads have at good schools; and he feels these lessons to be extremely difficult. Give him time.”“Oh, certainly, Doctor Grayson,” said Mr Limpney. “I have only one wish, and that is to bring the boy on. He is behind to a terrible extent.”“Yes, yes, of course,” said the doctor; “but make it as easy for him as you can—for the present, you know. After a time he will be stronger in the brain.”Mr Limpney, BA, looked very stern. He was naturally a good-hearted, gentlemanly, and scholarly man. He thoroughly understood the subjects he professed to teach. In fact, the ordinary routine of classic and mathematical study had, by long practice, grown so simple to him, that he was accustomed to look with astonishment upon a boy who stumbled over some of the learned blocks.In addition, year upon year of imparting knowledge to reckless and ill-tempered as well as stupid boys had soured him, and, in consequence, the well-intentioned words of the doctor did not fall on ground ready to receive them quite as it should.“Complaining about my way of teaching, I suppose,” he said to himself. “Well, we shall see.”The result was that Mr Limpney allowed the littleness of his nature to come uppermost, and he laboriously explained the most insignificant portions of the lessons in a sarcastic manner which made Dexter writhe, for he was not slow to find that the tutor was treating him with contempt.To make matters worse, about that time Dan’l watched him more and more; Peter was unwell and very snappish; there was a little difficulty with Mrs Millett over some very strong camomile-tea which Dexter did not take; and on account of a broken soap-dish which Maria took it into her head Dexter meant to lay to her charge,—that young lady refused even to answer the boy when he spoke; lastly, the doctor seemed to be remarkably thoughtful and stern. Consequently Dexter began to mope in his den over the old stable, and at times wished he was back at the Union Schools.The wish was momentary, but it left its impression, and the thought that, with the exception of Helen, no one liked him at the doctor’s house grew and grew and grew like the cloud that came out of the fisherman’s pot when Solomon’s seal was removed, and that cloud threatened to become the evil genii that was to overshadow the boy’s life.

“Dexter, I want to talk to you,” said Helen, a few weeks later. The boy sighed.

“Ah! you are afraid I am going to scold you,” she said.

“I don’t mind you scolding me,” he replied; “but I don’t think I have done anything this time, except—”

“Except what?” said Helen, for the boy paused.

“Except talk to Bob Dimsted.”

“Have you been out to meet him?”

“No, that I haven’t,” cried Dexter. “He came to the bottom of the river to fish, and he spoke to me; and if I had not answered, it would have seemed so proud.”

Helen was silent for a few moments, not knowing what to say.

“It was not about that,” she said, at last, “but about your lessons. Mr Limpney has again been complaining very bitterly to papa about your want of progress.”

“Yes,” said Dexter, “and he is always scolding me.”

“Then why don’t you try harder?”

“I do, but I am so stupid.”

“You are not, Dexter. You always learn easily enough with me.”

“Yes, with you,” said the boy quickly, “but you don’t want me to say angleABCis equal to the angleCBA, and all such stuff as that.”

“Don’t call it stuff,” said Helen, smiling in spite of herself; “it is Geometry.”

“But it is rum stuff all the same. What’s the use of my learning about straight lines and squares and angles?”

“But you are behind with your Algebra too.”

“Yes,” sighed Dexter, “I’m just as stupid over that.”

“Now, Dexter!”

“But I am, quite. Why can’t I go on finding out things by Arithmetic, as we used at the schools? It was bother enough to learn that. Oh, what a lot of caning I had over nine times!”

“Over nine times!” said Helen.

“Over a hundred, I should say,” cried Dexter. “I mean with strokes on the hand, and taps on the head, and over the shoulders—counting ’em altogether; and wasn’t I glad when I knew it all, and twelve times too, and somebody else used to get it instead of me.”

“Dexter, papa wishes you to learn these things.”

“Do you?” said the boy.

“Yes, very much. I should like to see you master them all.”

“Then I will. See if I don’t,” he cried.

“That’s right. Try and please Mr Limpney by being energetic.”

“Yes, I’ll try,” said Dexter; “but I don’t think he’ll be pleased.”

“I shall be. Now, get out your last lessons over which you failed so dismally, and I’ll try and help you.”

“Will you?” cried the boy, in delighted tones, and he hurriedly obtained his folio, pens, and ink, feeling in such high spirits that if Bob Dimsted had been at hand to continue his temptations they would have been of no avail.

The orange question was first debated, and tried in two or three different ways without success. Then it was laid aside for the time being, while the stage-coaches were rolled out and started, one from London to York, the other from York to London.

“Look here,” said Dexter, “I’ll try the one that starts from London, while you try the one from York.”

That was only another simple equation, but in its novelty to Helen Grayson, as difficult as if it had been quadratic, and for a time no sound was heard but the busy scratching of two pens.

“It’s of no good,” said Dexter suddenly, and with a look of despair upon his face. “I’m so terribly stupid.”

“I’m afraid, Dexter,” said Helen merrily, “if you are stupid, I am too.”

“What! can’t you do it!”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Dexter. Algebra is beyond me.”

“Hooray!” cried the boy, leaping from his seat, and dancing round the room, ending by relieving his excitement by turning head over heels on the hearthrug.

“Is that to show your delight at my ignorance, Dexter?” said Helen, smiling.

“No,” he cried, colouring up, as he stood before her out of breath. “It was because I was glad, because I was not so stupid as I thought.”

“You are not stupid, Dexter,” said Helen, smiling. “We must go back to the beginning, and try and find out how to do these things. Does not Mr Limpney explain them to you?”

“Yes,” said Dexter dismally, “but when he has done, I don’t seem to see what he means, and it does make me so miserable.”

“Poor boy!” said Helen gently. “There, you must not make your studies a trouble. They ought to be a great pleasure.”

“They would be if you taught me,” said Dexter eagerly. “I say, do ask Dr Grayson to send Mr Limpney away, and you help me. I will try so hard.”

“A pretty tutor I should make,” cried Helen, laughing. “Why, Dexter, I am as ignorant, you see, as you!”

Dexter’s face was a study. He seemed hurt and pleased at the same time, and his face was full of reproach as he said—

“Ignorant as me! Oh!”

“There, I’ll speak to papa about your lessons, and he will, I have no doubt, say a few words to Mr Limpney about trying to make your tasks easier, and explaining them a little more.”

“Will you!” cried the boy excitedly, and he caught her hands in his.

“Certainly I will, Dexter.”

“Then I will try so hard, and I’ll write down on pieces of paper all the things you don’t want me to do, and carry ’em in my pockets, and take them out and look at them sometimes.”

“What!” cried Helen, laughing.

“Well, that’s what Mr Limpney told me to do, so that I should not forget the things he taught me. Look here!”

He thrust his hand into his trousers-pocket, and brought out eagerly a crumpled-up piece of paper, but as he did so a number of oats flew out all over the room.

“O Dexter! what a pocket! Now what could you do with oats?”

“They were only for my rabbits,” he said. “There, those are all nouns that end inus, feminine nouns. Look,tribus, acus, porticus. Isn’t it stupid?”

“It is the construction of the language, Dexter.”

“Yes; that’s what Mr Limpney said. There, I shall put down everything you don’t like me to do on a piece of paper that way; and take it out and read it, so as to remember it.”

“Try another way, Dexter.”

“How?” he said wonderingly.

“By fixing these things in your heart, and not on paper,” Helen said, and she left the room.

“Well, that’s the way to learn them by heart,” said the boy to himself thoughtfully, as with brow knit he seated himself by a table, took a sheet of paper, and began diligently to write in a fairly neat hand, making entry after entry; and the principal of these was—

“Bob Dimsted: not to talk to him.”

The next day the doctor had a chat with Mr Limpney respecting Dexter and his progress.

“You see,” said the doctor, “the boy has not had the advantages lads have at good schools; and he feels these lessons to be extremely difficult. Give him time.”

“Oh, certainly, Doctor Grayson,” said Mr Limpney. “I have only one wish, and that is to bring the boy on. He is behind to a terrible extent.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said the doctor; “but make it as easy for him as you can—for the present, you know. After a time he will be stronger in the brain.”

Mr Limpney, BA, looked very stern. He was naturally a good-hearted, gentlemanly, and scholarly man. He thoroughly understood the subjects he professed to teach. In fact, the ordinary routine of classic and mathematical study had, by long practice, grown so simple to him, that he was accustomed to look with astonishment upon a boy who stumbled over some of the learned blocks.

In addition, year upon year of imparting knowledge to reckless and ill-tempered as well as stupid boys had soured him, and, in consequence, the well-intentioned words of the doctor did not fall on ground ready to receive them quite as it should.

“Complaining about my way of teaching, I suppose,” he said to himself. “Well, we shall see.”

The result was that Mr Limpney allowed the littleness of his nature to come uppermost, and he laboriously explained the most insignificant portions of the lessons in a sarcastic manner which made Dexter writhe, for he was not slow to find that the tutor was treating him with contempt.

To make matters worse, about that time Dan’l watched him more and more; Peter was unwell and very snappish; there was a little difficulty with Mrs Millett over some very strong camomile-tea which Dexter did not take; and on account of a broken soap-dish which Maria took it into her head Dexter meant to lay to her charge,—that young lady refused even to answer the boy when he spoke; lastly, the doctor seemed to be remarkably thoughtful and stern. Consequently Dexter began to mope in his den over the old stable, and at times wished he was back at the Union Schools.

The wish was momentary, but it left its impression, and the thought that, with the exception of Helen, no one liked him at the doctor’s house grew and grew and grew like the cloud that came out of the fisherman’s pot when Solomon’s seal was removed, and that cloud threatened to become the evil genii that was to overshadow the boy’s life.

Chapter Twenty Seven.Dexter writes a Letter.Dexter watched his chance one afternoon when the study was empty, and stole in, looking very guilty.Maria saw him going in, and went into the kitchen and told Mrs Millett.“I don’t care,” she said, “you may say what you like, but it’s in him.”“What’s in him!” said the old housekeeper, raising her tortoise-shell spectacles so as to get a good look at Maria, who seemed quite excited.“Master may have tutors as is clergymen to teach him, and Miss Helen may talk and try, but he’s got it in him, and you can’t get it out.”“Who are you talking about, Maria,” said the old lady testily.“That boy,” said Maria, shaking her head. “It’s of no good, he’s got it in him, and nothing won’t get it out.”“Bless my heart!” cried Mrs Millett, thinking first of mustard and water, and then of castor-oil, “has the poor fellow swallowed something?”“No-o-o-o!” ejaculated Maria, drawing the word out to nearly a foot in length.“But you said he’d got something in him, Maria. Good gracious me, girl! what do you mean!”“Sin and wickedness, Mrs Millett. He comes of a bad lot, and Dan’l says he’s always keeping bad company.”“Dan’l’s a chattering old woman, and had better mind his slugs and snails.”“But the boy’s always in mischief; see how he spoiled your silk dress.”“Only spotted it, Maria, and it was clean water. I certainly thought it rained as I went under his window.”“Yes, and you fetched your umbrella.”“I did, Maria. But he’s better now. Give him his physic regular, and it does him good.”“Did you find out what was the matter with those salts and senny!”“No, Maria, I did not. I had to break the glass to get it out; set hard as a stone. It was a good job he did not take it.”Mrs Millett never did find out that Dexter had poured in cement till the glass would hold no more, and his medicine became a solid lump.“Ah, you’ll be tired of him soon,” said Maria.“No, I don’t think I shall, Maria. You see he’s a boy, and he does behave better. Since I told him not, he hasn’t taken my basting-spoon to melt lead for what he calls nickers; and then he hasn’t repeated that wicked cruel trick of sitting on the wall.”“Why, I see him striddling the ridge of the old stable, with his back to the weathercock, only yesterday.”“Yes, Maria, but he wasn’t fishing over the wall with worms to try and catch Mrs Biggins’s ducks, a very cruel trick which he promised me he wouldn’t do any more; and he hasn’t pretended to be a cat on the roof, nor yet been to me to extract needles which he had stuck through his cheeks out of mischief; and I haven’t seen him let himself down from the stable roof with a rope; and, as I told him, that clothes-line wasn’t rope.”“Ah, you always sided with the boy, Mrs Millett,” said Maria; “but mark my words, some of these mornings we shall get up and find that he has let burglars into the house, and Master and Miss Helen will be robbed and murdered in their beds.”“Maria, you’re a goose,” said the old housekeeper. “Don’t talk such rubbish.”“Ah, you may call it rubbish, Mrs Millett, but if you’d seen that boy just now stealing—”“Stealing, Maria?”“Yes ’m, stealing into Master’s study like a thief in the night—and after no good, I’ll be bound,—you wouldn’t be so ready to take his part.”“Gone in to write his lessons,” said Mrs Millett. “There, you go and get about your work.”Maria snorted, stuck out her chin, and left the kitchen.“Yes, she may talk, but I say he’s after no good,” muttered the housemaid; “and I’m going to see what he’s about, or my name ain’t what it is.”Meanwhile Dexter was very busy in the study, but in a furtive way writing the following letter in a bold, clear hand, which was, however, rather shaky in the loops of the letters, while the capitals had an inclination to be independent, and to hang away from the small letters of the various words:—Sir,Me and a friend have borrowed your boat, for we are going a long journey; but as we may keep it all together, I send to you fourteen shillings and a fourpny piece, which I have saved up, and if that isn’t quite quite enough I shall send you some more. I hope you won’t mind our taking your boat, but Bob Dimsted says we must have it, or we can’t get on.Yours af—very truly,Obed Coleby, or To Sir Jhames Danby, Dexter Grayson.Dexter’s spelling was a little shaky here and there, but the letter was pretty intelligible; and, as soon as it was done, he took out his money and made a packet of it, and doubled it up, a task he had nearly finished, when he became aware that the door was partly opened, and as he guiltily thrust the packet into his pocket the door opened widely, and Maria entered, with a sharp, short cough.“Did I leave my duster here, Master Dexter!” she said, looking round sharply.Before Dexter could reply, she continued—“No, I must have left it upstairs.”She whisked out and closed the door with a bang, the very opposite of the way in which she had opened it, and said to herself triumphantly—“There, I knew he was doing of something wrong, and if I don’t find him out, my name ain’t Maria.”Dexter hurriedly finished his packet, laying the money in it again after further consideration—in and out amongst the paper, so that the money should not chink, and then placing it in the enclosure with the letter, he tied it up with a piece of the red tape the doctor kept in a little drawer, sealed it, and directed it in his plainest hand to Sir James Danby.Dexter felt better after this was done, and the jacket-pocket a little bulgy in which his missive was stuffed. He had previously felt a little uneasy about the boat; but though not quite at rest now, he felt better satisfied, and as if this was a duty done.That same evening, just before it grew dusk, Dexter watched his opportunity, and stole off down the garden, after making sure that he was not watched.There was no one visible on the other side, and it seemed as if Bob Dimsted was not coming, so after waiting a few minutes Dexter was about to go back to the house, with the intention of visiting his pets, when there was a loud chirping whistle from across the river.Dexter looked sharply through the gathering gloom; but still no one was visible, and then the chirp came again.“Are you there, Bob?”“Why, course I am,” said that young gentleman, rising up from where he had lain flat behind a patch of coarse herbage. “I’m not the sort of chap to stay away when I says I’ll come. Nearly ready!”“Ye–es,” said Dexter.“No gammon, you know,” said Bob. “I mean it, so no shirking out.”“I mean to come too,” said Dexter with a sigh.“Well, you do sound jolly cheerful; you don’t know what a game it’s going to be.”“No, not quite—yet,” said Dexter. “But how are we going to manage!”“Well, if ever!” exclaimed Bob. “You are a rum chap, and no mistake. Of course we shall take the boat, and I’ve got that table-cloth ready for a sail, and a bit of rope to hoist it up.”Dexter winced about that table-cloth, one which he had borrowed at Bob’s wish from the housekeeper’s room.“But must we take that boat?”“Why, of course, but we shall send it back some day as good as new, hanging behind a ship, and then have it sent up the river. I know lots of fellows who’ll put it back for me if I ask ’em.”Dexter felt a little better satisfied, and then listened to his companion’s plans, which were very simple, but effective all the same, though common honesty did not come in.The conversation was carried on across the river, and to ensure its not being heard, Dexter lay down on the grass and put his lips close to the water, Bob Dimsted doing the same, when, it being quite a still evening, conversation became easy.“What are your people doing now?” said Bob, after they had been talking some time.“Dr Grayson is writing, and Miss Grayson reading.”“Why, we might go now—easy.”“No,” said Dexter. “If we did, it would be found out directly, and we should be fetched back, and then, I dare say, they’d send me again to the school.”“And yer don’t want to go there again, do you!”“No,” said Dexter, with a shudder. “Don’t forget the ball of string I told you about?”“No, I’ve got that,” replied Bob sharply. “And p’r’aps that won’t be long enough. It’s very deep in the sea. Now mind, you’re here.”“Yes, I’ll mind.”“If yer don’t come, I won’t never forgive you for making a fool of me.”“I won’t do that,” said Dexter; and then after a little more hesitation as to something he particularly wanted to do, and which he saw no other way of doing, he whispered—“Bob!”“Hullo!”“Will you do something for me before you come!”“Yes, if I can. But I say, don’t you forget to bring a big bundle of your clothes and things, and if you don’t want ’em all, I can wear some of ’em.”Dexter was silent.“And as much money as you can; and, I say, the old un never give you a watch, did he?”“No.”“You wouldn’t like to borrow his, would you!”“No, of course not,” said Dexter indignantly.“Oh, I don’t want you to, unless you like. Only watches is useful at sea. Sailors find out where they are by their watches. I don’t quite know how, but we could soon find out. Whatcher want me to do!”“I want you to take a little parcel to Sir James Danby’s.”“I ain’t going to carry no parcels,” said Bob importantly.“It’s only a very little one, as big as your hand. You know the letter-box in Sir James’s big door!”“I should just think I do,” said Bob, with a hoarse laugh. “Me and two more boys put a lighted cracker in last fift’ o’ November.”“I want you to go there last thing,” said Dexter, as he could not help wondering whether the cracker made a great deal of noise in the letter-box; “and to drop the packet in just as if it was a letter. I mean just before you come.”“But what for?”“Because it must be taken there. I want it taken.”“O very well. Where is it?”“Here,” said Dexter, taking out his carefully tied and sealed packet.“Chuck it across.”“Get up, then, and be ready to catch it.”“All right! Now then, shy away.”Dexter drew back from the river, and aiming carefully at where he could see Bob’s dim figure, he measured the distance with his eye, and threw.Slap!“Got it!” cried Bob. And then, “Oh!”There was a splash.“Just kitched on the top o’ my finger, and bounced off,” whispered the boy excitedly.“O Bob, what have you done!”“Well, I couldn’t help it. I ain’t a howl.—How could I see in the dark!”“Can’t you see where it fell in!”“Why, ain’t I a-trying. Don’t be in such a fuss.”Dexter felt as if their expedition was at an end, and he stood listening with a breast full of despair as Bob lay down at the edge of the river, and rolling up his sleeve began feeling about in the shallow water.“It’s no good,” he said. “It’s gone.”“O Bob!”“Well, what’s the good of ‘O Bobbing’ a fellow? I couldn’t help it. It’s gone, and— Here: I got it!”Bob rose up and gave his arm a whirl to drive off some of the moisture.“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll wrap it in my hankychy, and it’ll soon dry in my pocket, I say, what’s inside?”“Something for Sir James.”“Oh! S’pose you don’t know!”“Is the paper undone?” said Dexter anxiously.“No, it’s all right, I tell yer, and it’ll soon get dry.”“And you’ll be sure and take it to Sir James’s.”“Now?”“No, no, last thing to-night, just before you come, and don’t ring, only drop the thing in the letter-box.”“All right. Didn’t I get my arm wet! There, I’m going home to get it dry, and put the rest of my things ready. Mind you bring yours all right.”Dexter did not answer, but his companion’s words made him feel very low-spirited, for he had a good deal in his mind, and he stood listening to Bob, as that young worthy went off, whistling softly, to make his final preparations for the journey down the river to sea, and then to foreign lands, and the attempt seemed now to begin growing very rapidly, till it was like a dense dark cloud rising higher and higher, and something seemed to keep asking the boy whether he was doing right.He felt that he was not, but, at the same time, the idea that he was thoroughly misunderstood, and that he would never be happy at the doctor’s, came back as strongly as ever.“They all look upon me as a workhouse boy,” he muttered, “and Bob’s right. I’d better go away.”

Dexter watched his chance one afternoon when the study was empty, and stole in, looking very guilty.

Maria saw him going in, and went into the kitchen and told Mrs Millett.

“I don’t care,” she said, “you may say what you like, but it’s in him.”

“What’s in him!” said the old housekeeper, raising her tortoise-shell spectacles so as to get a good look at Maria, who seemed quite excited.

“Master may have tutors as is clergymen to teach him, and Miss Helen may talk and try, but he’s got it in him, and you can’t get it out.”

“Who are you talking about, Maria,” said the old lady testily.

“That boy,” said Maria, shaking her head. “It’s of no good, he’s got it in him, and nothing won’t get it out.”

“Bless my heart!” cried Mrs Millett, thinking first of mustard and water, and then of castor-oil, “has the poor fellow swallowed something?”

“No-o-o-o!” ejaculated Maria, drawing the word out to nearly a foot in length.

“But you said he’d got something in him, Maria. Good gracious me, girl! what do you mean!”

“Sin and wickedness, Mrs Millett. He comes of a bad lot, and Dan’l says he’s always keeping bad company.”

“Dan’l’s a chattering old woman, and had better mind his slugs and snails.”

“But the boy’s always in mischief; see how he spoiled your silk dress.”

“Only spotted it, Maria, and it was clean water. I certainly thought it rained as I went under his window.”

“Yes, and you fetched your umbrella.”

“I did, Maria. But he’s better now. Give him his physic regular, and it does him good.”

“Did you find out what was the matter with those salts and senny!”

“No, Maria, I did not. I had to break the glass to get it out; set hard as a stone. It was a good job he did not take it.”

Mrs Millett never did find out that Dexter had poured in cement till the glass would hold no more, and his medicine became a solid lump.

“Ah, you’ll be tired of him soon,” said Maria.

“No, I don’t think I shall, Maria. You see he’s a boy, and he does behave better. Since I told him not, he hasn’t taken my basting-spoon to melt lead for what he calls nickers; and then he hasn’t repeated that wicked cruel trick of sitting on the wall.”

“Why, I see him striddling the ridge of the old stable, with his back to the weathercock, only yesterday.”

“Yes, Maria, but he wasn’t fishing over the wall with worms to try and catch Mrs Biggins’s ducks, a very cruel trick which he promised me he wouldn’t do any more; and he hasn’t pretended to be a cat on the roof, nor yet been to me to extract needles which he had stuck through his cheeks out of mischief; and I haven’t seen him let himself down from the stable roof with a rope; and, as I told him, that clothes-line wasn’t rope.”

“Ah, you always sided with the boy, Mrs Millett,” said Maria; “but mark my words, some of these mornings we shall get up and find that he has let burglars into the house, and Master and Miss Helen will be robbed and murdered in their beds.”

“Maria, you’re a goose,” said the old housekeeper. “Don’t talk such rubbish.”

“Ah, you may call it rubbish, Mrs Millett, but if you’d seen that boy just now stealing—”

“Stealing, Maria?”

“Yes ’m, stealing into Master’s study like a thief in the night—and after no good, I’ll be bound,—you wouldn’t be so ready to take his part.”

“Gone in to write his lessons,” said Mrs Millett. “There, you go and get about your work.”

Maria snorted, stuck out her chin, and left the kitchen.

“Yes, she may talk, but I say he’s after no good,” muttered the housemaid; “and I’m going to see what he’s about, or my name ain’t what it is.”

Meanwhile Dexter was very busy in the study, but in a furtive way writing the following letter in a bold, clear hand, which was, however, rather shaky in the loops of the letters, while the capitals had an inclination to be independent, and to hang away from the small letters of the various words:—

Sir,

Me and a friend have borrowed your boat, for we are going a long journey; but as we may keep it all together, I send to you fourteen shillings and a fourpny piece, which I have saved up, and if that isn’t quite quite enough I shall send you some more. I hope you won’t mind our taking your boat, but Bob Dimsted says we must have it, or we can’t get on.

Yours af—very truly,

Obed Coleby, or To Sir Jhames Danby, Dexter Grayson.

Dexter’s spelling was a little shaky here and there, but the letter was pretty intelligible; and, as soon as it was done, he took out his money and made a packet of it, and doubled it up, a task he had nearly finished, when he became aware that the door was partly opened, and as he guiltily thrust the packet into his pocket the door opened widely, and Maria entered, with a sharp, short cough.

“Did I leave my duster here, Master Dexter!” she said, looking round sharply.

Before Dexter could reply, she continued—

“No, I must have left it upstairs.”

She whisked out and closed the door with a bang, the very opposite of the way in which she had opened it, and said to herself triumphantly—

“There, I knew he was doing of something wrong, and if I don’t find him out, my name ain’t Maria.”

Dexter hurriedly finished his packet, laying the money in it again after further consideration—in and out amongst the paper, so that the money should not chink, and then placing it in the enclosure with the letter, he tied it up with a piece of the red tape the doctor kept in a little drawer, sealed it, and directed it in his plainest hand to Sir James Danby.

Dexter felt better after this was done, and the jacket-pocket a little bulgy in which his missive was stuffed. He had previously felt a little uneasy about the boat; but though not quite at rest now, he felt better satisfied, and as if this was a duty done.

That same evening, just before it grew dusk, Dexter watched his opportunity, and stole off down the garden, after making sure that he was not watched.

There was no one visible on the other side, and it seemed as if Bob Dimsted was not coming, so after waiting a few minutes Dexter was about to go back to the house, with the intention of visiting his pets, when there was a loud chirping whistle from across the river.

Dexter looked sharply through the gathering gloom; but still no one was visible, and then the chirp came again.

“Are you there, Bob?”

“Why, course I am,” said that young gentleman, rising up from where he had lain flat behind a patch of coarse herbage. “I’m not the sort of chap to stay away when I says I’ll come. Nearly ready!”

“Ye–es,” said Dexter.

“No gammon, you know,” said Bob. “I mean it, so no shirking out.”

“I mean to come too,” said Dexter with a sigh.

“Well, you do sound jolly cheerful; you don’t know what a game it’s going to be.”

“No, not quite—yet,” said Dexter. “But how are we going to manage!”

“Well, if ever!” exclaimed Bob. “You are a rum chap, and no mistake. Of course we shall take the boat, and I’ve got that table-cloth ready for a sail, and a bit of rope to hoist it up.”

Dexter winced about that table-cloth, one which he had borrowed at Bob’s wish from the housekeeper’s room.

“But must we take that boat?”

“Why, of course, but we shall send it back some day as good as new, hanging behind a ship, and then have it sent up the river. I know lots of fellows who’ll put it back for me if I ask ’em.”

Dexter felt a little better satisfied, and then listened to his companion’s plans, which were very simple, but effective all the same, though common honesty did not come in.

The conversation was carried on across the river, and to ensure its not being heard, Dexter lay down on the grass and put his lips close to the water, Bob Dimsted doing the same, when, it being quite a still evening, conversation became easy.

“What are your people doing now?” said Bob, after they had been talking some time.

“Dr Grayson is writing, and Miss Grayson reading.”

“Why, we might go now—easy.”

“No,” said Dexter. “If we did, it would be found out directly, and we should be fetched back, and then, I dare say, they’d send me again to the school.”

“And yer don’t want to go there again, do you!”

“No,” said Dexter, with a shudder. “Don’t forget the ball of string I told you about?”

“No, I’ve got that,” replied Bob sharply. “And p’r’aps that won’t be long enough. It’s very deep in the sea. Now mind, you’re here.”

“Yes, I’ll mind.”

“If yer don’t come, I won’t never forgive you for making a fool of me.”

“I won’t do that,” said Dexter; and then after a little more hesitation as to something he particularly wanted to do, and which he saw no other way of doing, he whispered—

“Bob!”

“Hullo!”

“Will you do something for me before you come!”

“Yes, if I can. But I say, don’t you forget to bring a big bundle of your clothes and things, and if you don’t want ’em all, I can wear some of ’em.”

Dexter was silent.

“And as much money as you can; and, I say, the old un never give you a watch, did he?”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t like to borrow his, would you!”

“No, of course not,” said Dexter indignantly.

“Oh, I don’t want you to, unless you like. Only watches is useful at sea. Sailors find out where they are by their watches. I don’t quite know how, but we could soon find out. Whatcher want me to do!”

“I want you to take a little parcel to Sir James Danby’s.”

“I ain’t going to carry no parcels,” said Bob importantly.

“It’s only a very little one, as big as your hand. You know the letter-box in Sir James’s big door!”

“I should just think I do,” said Bob, with a hoarse laugh. “Me and two more boys put a lighted cracker in last fift’ o’ November.”

“I want you to go there last thing,” said Dexter, as he could not help wondering whether the cracker made a great deal of noise in the letter-box; “and to drop the packet in just as if it was a letter. I mean just before you come.”

“But what for?”

“Because it must be taken there. I want it taken.”

“O very well. Where is it?”

“Here,” said Dexter, taking out his carefully tied and sealed packet.

“Chuck it across.”

“Get up, then, and be ready to catch it.”

“All right! Now then, shy away.”

Dexter drew back from the river, and aiming carefully at where he could see Bob’s dim figure, he measured the distance with his eye, and threw.

Slap!

“Got it!” cried Bob. And then, “Oh!”

There was a splash.

“Just kitched on the top o’ my finger, and bounced off,” whispered the boy excitedly.

“O Bob, what have you done!”

“Well, I couldn’t help it. I ain’t a howl.—How could I see in the dark!”

“Can’t you see where it fell in!”

“Why, ain’t I a-trying. Don’t be in such a fuss.”

Dexter felt as if their expedition was at an end, and he stood listening with a breast full of despair as Bob lay down at the edge of the river, and rolling up his sleeve began feeling about in the shallow water.

“It’s no good,” he said. “It’s gone.”

“O Bob!”

“Well, what’s the good of ‘O Bobbing’ a fellow? I couldn’t help it. It’s gone, and— Here: I got it!”

Bob rose up and gave his arm a whirl to drive off some of the moisture.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll wrap it in my hankychy, and it’ll soon dry in my pocket, I say, what’s inside?”

“Something for Sir James.”

“Oh! S’pose you don’t know!”

“Is the paper undone?” said Dexter anxiously.

“No, it’s all right, I tell yer, and it’ll soon get dry.”

“And you’ll be sure and take it to Sir James’s.”

“Now?”

“No, no, last thing to-night, just before you come, and don’t ring, only drop the thing in the letter-box.”

“All right. Didn’t I get my arm wet! There, I’m going home to get it dry, and put the rest of my things ready. Mind you bring yours all right.”

Dexter did not answer, but his companion’s words made him feel very low-spirited, for he had a good deal in his mind, and he stood listening to Bob, as that young worthy went off, whistling softly, to make his final preparations for the journey down the river to sea, and then to foreign lands, and the attempt seemed now to begin growing very rapidly, till it was like a dense dark cloud rising higher and higher, and something seemed to keep asking the boy whether he was doing right.

He felt that he was not, but, at the same time, the idea that he was thoroughly misunderstood, and that he would never be happy at the doctor’s, came back as strongly as ever.

“They all look upon me as a workhouse boy,” he muttered, “and Bob’s right. I’d better go away.”

Chapter Twenty Eight.Preparations for Flight.Dexter listened till Bob Dimsted’s whistle died away, and then stole from the place of appointment to go back to the house, where he struck off to the left, and made his way into the loft, where he took a small piece of candle from his pocket, lit it, and set it in an old ginger-beer bottle.The light roused the various occupants of the boxes and cages. That and the step were suggestive of food, and sundry squeakings and scratchings arose, with, from time to time, a loud rap on the floor given by one of the rabbits.There was a lonely desolate feeling in Dexter’s breast as he set the rat at liberty, for the furtive-looking creature to hurry beneath the boards which formed the rough floor.Then the mice were taken out of their box, and the first movement of the little creatures was to run all over their master, but he hurriedly took them off him, feeling more miserable than ever, and ready to repent of the step he was about to take.The rabbits were carried downstairs, and turned out into the yard, Dexter having a belief that as they had once grown tame perhaps, many generations back, they might now as easily grow wild, and if in the process they made very free with old Dan’l’s vegetables, until they escaped elsewhere, it would not be very serious.As it was, they crept here and there over the stones for a few moments, and then went off investigating, and evidently puzzled by their freedom.The hedgehog and squirrel were brought down together, and carried right into the garden, where the former was placed upon one of the flower-beds, and disappeared at once; the latter held up to a branch of the ornamental spruce, into which it ran, and then there was a scuffling noise, and Dexter ran away back to the stable, afraid to stop, lest the little ragged jacketed animal should leap back upon him, and make him more weak than he was.He climbed again to the loft, hearing a series of tiny squeaks as he mounted—squeaks emanating from his mice, and directly after he nearly crushed the rat, by stepping upon it as the little animal ran up to be fed.He had come for the toad and snake, and hurriedly plunging his hand into the big pot he found Sam the toad, seated right at the top, evidently eager to start on a nocturnal ramble, but the snake was coiled up asleep.It was a curious pet, that toad, but somehow, as it sat nestled up all of a squat in the boy’s warm hand, he felt as if he should like to take it with him. It was not big, and would take up little room, and cost nothing to feed.Why not?He hesitated as he descended and crossed the yard to the garden, and decided that he would not. Bob Dimsted might not like it.He reached the garden, and crossed the lawn to the sunny verbena bed. That seemed a suitable place for the snake, and he tenderly placed it, writhing feebly, among the thin pegged-down strands.Then came the other reptile’s turn.They had been friends and even companions together in the big flower-pot, Dexter argued, so they should have the chance of being friends again in the flower-bed.The toad was in his left hand, and going down on one knee he separated the verbenas a little, and then placed his hand, knuckles downward, on the soft moist earth, opening his fingers slowly the while.“Good-bye, Sam,” he said, in a low voice. “You and I have had some good fun together, old chap, and I hope you will be very happy when I’m gone.”He slowly spread his hand flat, so that his fingers and thumb ceased to form so many posts and rails about the reptile, or a fleshly cage. In imagination he saw the dusky grey creature crawl off his hand gladly into the dewy bed, and it made him more sad to find how ready everything was to be free, and he never for a moment thought about how he was going to play as ungrateful a part, and march off too.“Good-bye, Sam,” he said, as he recalled how he had played with and tickled that toad, and how it had enjoyed it all, and turned over to be rubbed. Then he seemed to see it walk in its heavy, cumbrous way slowly off, with its bright golden eyes glistening, till it sat down in a hollow, and watched him go.But it was all fancy. The toad did not crawl out of his hand among the verbenas, nor go right away, but sat perfectly motionless where it was, evidently, from its acting, perfectly warm, comfortable, and contented.“Well, Sam, why don’t you go!” said Dexter softly. “Do you hear?”He gave his hand a jar by striking the back on the earth, but the toad did not move, and when he touched it with his right hand, it was to find the fat squat reptile squeezed up together like a bun.He stroked it, and rubbed it, as he had rubbed it scores of times before, and the creature once more pressed up against his fingers, while Dexter forgot everything else in the gratification of finding his ugly pet appreciate his attentions.“Now then! off you go!” he cried quickly; but the creature did not stir.“Are you going?” said Dexter. “Come: march.”Again it did not stir.“He don’t want to go,” cried the boy, changing it from, one hand to the other; and the next moment he was holding it, nose downward, over his jacket-pocket, when the toad, pretty actively for one of its kind, began to work its legs and dived slowly down beneath the pocket-handkerchief crumpled-up there, and settled itself at the bottom.“It seems to know,” cried Dexter. “And it shall go with me after all.”Curious boy! some one may say, but Dexter had had few opportunities for turning his affections in ordinary directions, and hence it was that they were lavished upon a toad.Indoors, when he stole back after setting all his pets at liberty to shift for themselves, Dexter felt very guilty. He encountered Mrs Millett in the hall, and a thrill ran through him as she exclaimed—“Ah, there you are, Master Dexter, I just want a few words with you.”“Found out!” thought the guilty conscience, which needs no accuser.“Now just you look here, sir,” said the old housekeeper, in a loud voice, as she literally button-holed the boy, by hooking one thin finger in his jacket, so that he could not get away, “I know all.”“You—you know everything,” faltered the boy.“Yes, sir. Ah, you may well look ’mure. You little thought I knew.”“How—how did you find out?” he stammered.“Ah! how did I find out, indeed! Now, look here, am I to go straight to the doctor and tell him!”“No, no, pray don’t,” whispered Dexter, catching her arm.“Well, then, I must tell Miss Helen.”“No, no, not this time,” cried Dexter imploringly; and his tone softened the old lady, who shook the borders of her cap at him.“Well, I don’t know what to say,” said Mrs Millett softly. “They certainly ought to know.”Dexter gazed at her wildly. He knew that everythingmust come out, but it was to have been in a few hours’ time, when he was far away, and deaf to the angry words and reproaches. To hear them now seemed more than he could bear. It could not be. Bob Dimsted must think and say what he liked, and be as angry and unforgiving as was possible. It could not be now. He must plead to the old housekeeper for pardon, and give up all idea of going away.“Ah!” she said. “I see you are sorry for it, then.”“Yes, yes,” he whispered. “So sorry, and—and—”“You’ll take it this time, like a good boy!”“Take it?”“Yes, sir. Ah! you can’t deceive me. Last time I saw the empty glass I knew as well as could be that you hadn’t taken it, for the outside of the glass wasn’t sticky, and there were no marks of your mouth at the edge. I always put plenty of sugar in it for you, and that showed.”“The camomile-tea!” thought Dexter, a dose of which the old lady expected him to take about once a week, and which never did him any harm, if it never did him any good.“And you’ll take it to-night, sir, like a good boy!”“Yes, yes, I will indeed,” said Dexter, with the full intention of keeping his word out of gratitude for his escape.“Now, that’s like being a good boy,” said the old lady, smiling, and extricating her fingers from his button-hole, so as to stroke his hair. “It will do you no end of good; and how you have improved since you have been here, my dear, your hair’s grown so nicely, and you’ve got such a good pink colour in your cheeks. It’s the camomile-tea done that.”Mrs Millett leaned forward with her hands on the boy’s shoulder, and kissed him in so motherly a way that Dexter felt a catching of the breath, and kissed her again.“That’s right,” said the old lady. “You ain’t half so bad as Maria pretends you are. ‘It’s only a bit of mischief now and then,’ I says to her, ‘and he’s only a boy,’ and that’s what you are, ain’t it, my dear?”Dexter did not answer.“I shall put your dose on your washstand, and you mind and take it the moment you get out of bed to-morrow morning.”“Yes,” said Dexter dismally.“No! you’ll forget it. You’ve got to take that camomile-tea to-night, and if you don’t promise me you will, I shall come and see you take it.”“I promise you,” said Dexter, and the old lady nodded and went upstairs, while the boy hung about in the hall.How was it that just now, when he was going away, people were beginning to seem more kind to him, and something began to drag at his heart to keep him from going?He could not tell. An hour before he had felt a wild kind of elation. He was going to be free from lessons, the doctor’s admonitions, and the tame regular life at the house, to be off in search of adventure, and with Bob for his companion, going all over the world in that boat, while now, in spite of all he could do, he did not feel so satisfied and sure.There was something else he knew that he ought to do. He could not bid Helen good-bye with his lips, but he felt that he must bid her farewell another way, for she had always been kind to him from the day he came.He crept into the study again, this time without being seen.There was a faint light in the pleasant room, for the doctor’s lamp had been turned down, but not quite out.A touch sent the flame brightly round the ring, and the shade cast a warm glow on the boy’s busy fingers as he took out paper and envelope; and then, with trembling hand, sore heart, and a pen that spluttered, he indited another letter, this time to Helen.My dear Miss Grayson,I am afraid you will think me a very ungrateful boy, but I am obliged to go away to seek my fortune all over the world. You have been so kind to me, and so has Doctor Grayson sometimes, but everybody else has hated me, and made game of me because I was a workhouse boy, and I could not bear it any longer, and Bob Dimsted said he wouldn’t if he was me, and we are going away together not to come back again any more.—I am,Your Affec Friend.Dexter Grayson.PS—I mean Obed Coleby, for I ought not to call myself Dexter any more, and I would have scratched it out, only you always said it was better not to scratch out mistakes because they made the paper look so untidy.I like you very much, and Mrs Millett too, but I can’t take her fiz—physick to-night.Is physick spelt with a k?There was a tear—a weak tear in each of Dexter’s eyes as he wrote this letter, for it brought up many a pleasant recollection of kindnesses on Helen’s part.He had just finished, folded and directed this, when he fancied he heard a door open across the hall.Thrusting the note into his pocket so hastily that one corner went into the toad, he caught up a piece of the doctor’s foolscap, and began rapidly to make a triangle upon it, at whose sides and points he placed letters, and then, feeling like the miserable impostor he was, he rapidly let his pen trace a confused line ofA’sandB’sandC’s, and these backwards and forwards.This went on for some minutes, so that there was a fair show upon the paper, when the door softly opened, Helen peered in, and then coming behind him bent down, and, in a very gentle and sisterly way, placed her hands over his eyes.“Why, my poor hard-working boy,” she said gently. “So this is where you are; and, oh dear, oh dear! Euclid again. That Mr Limpney will wear your brains all away. There, come along, I am going to play to papa, and then you and I will have a game at draughts.”Dexter rose with his heart beating, and that strange sensation of something tugging at his conscience. Why were they all so kind to him to-night, just when he was going away?“Why, you look quite worn out and dazed, Dexter,” said Helen merrily. “There, come along.”“Eh? Where was he? In mischief?” said the doctor sharply, as they entered the drawing-room.“Mischief? No, papa: for shame!” cried Helen, with her arm resting on the boy’s shoulders. “In your study, working away at those terrible sides and angles invented by that dreadful old Greek Euclid.”“Work, eh? Ha! that’s good!” cried the doctor jovially. “Bravo, Dexter! I am glad.”If ever a boy felt utterly ashamed of himself, Dexter did then. He could not meet the doctor’s eye, but was on his way to get a book to turn over, so as to have something to look at, but this was not to be.“No, no, you have had enough of books for one day, Dexter. Come and turn over the music for me. Why! what’s that?”“That?” said Dexter slowly, for he did not comprehend.“Yes, I felt it move. You have something alive in your pocket.”He felt prompted to lie, but he could not tell a falsehood then, and he stood with his teeth set.“Whatever have you got alive in your pocket?” said the doctor. “I know. A young rabbit, for a guinea.”“Is it?” cried Helen. “Let me look: they are such pretty little things.”“Yes, out with it, boy, and don’t pet those things too much. Kill them with kindness, you know. Here, let me take it out.”“No, no!” cried Dexter hastily.“Well, take it out yourself.”A spasm of dread had run through the boy, as in imagination he saw the doctor’s hand taking out the letter in his pocket.“It isn’t a young rabbit,” he faltered.“Well, what is it, then? Come, out with it.”Dexter hesitated for a few moments, and now met the doctor’s eye. He could not help himself, but slowly took out his pocket-handkerchief, as he held the note firmly with his left hand outside the jacket. Then, diving in again, he got well hold of Sam, who was snug at the bottom, and, with burning cheeks, and in full expectation of a scolding, drew the toad slowly forth.“Ugh!” ejaculated Helen.The doctor, who was in a most amiable temper, burst into a roar of laughter.“Well, you are a strange boy, Dexter,” he said, as he wiped his eyes. “You ought to be a naturalist by and by. There, open the window, and put the poor thing outside. You can find plenty another time.”Dexter obeyed, glad to be out of his quandary, and this time, as he put Sam down, the reptile crawled slowly away into the soft dark night.He closed the window, and went back to find the doctor and Helen all smiles, and ready to joke instead of scold. Then he went to the piano, and turned over the music, the airs and songs making him feel more and more sad, and again and again he found himself saying—“Why are they so kind to me now, just as I am going away?”“Shall I stop!” he said to himself, after a time.“No: I promised Bob I would come, and so I will.”

Dexter listened till Bob Dimsted’s whistle died away, and then stole from the place of appointment to go back to the house, where he struck off to the left, and made his way into the loft, where he took a small piece of candle from his pocket, lit it, and set it in an old ginger-beer bottle.

The light roused the various occupants of the boxes and cages. That and the step were suggestive of food, and sundry squeakings and scratchings arose, with, from time to time, a loud rap on the floor given by one of the rabbits.

There was a lonely desolate feeling in Dexter’s breast as he set the rat at liberty, for the furtive-looking creature to hurry beneath the boards which formed the rough floor.

Then the mice were taken out of their box, and the first movement of the little creatures was to run all over their master, but he hurriedly took them off him, feeling more miserable than ever, and ready to repent of the step he was about to take.

The rabbits were carried downstairs, and turned out into the yard, Dexter having a belief that as they had once grown tame perhaps, many generations back, they might now as easily grow wild, and if in the process they made very free with old Dan’l’s vegetables, until they escaped elsewhere, it would not be very serious.

As it was, they crept here and there over the stones for a few moments, and then went off investigating, and evidently puzzled by their freedom.

The hedgehog and squirrel were brought down together, and carried right into the garden, where the former was placed upon one of the flower-beds, and disappeared at once; the latter held up to a branch of the ornamental spruce, into which it ran, and then there was a scuffling noise, and Dexter ran away back to the stable, afraid to stop, lest the little ragged jacketed animal should leap back upon him, and make him more weak than he was.

He climbed again to the loft, hearing a series of tiny squeaks as he mounted—squeaks emanating from his mice, and directly after he nearly crushed the rat, by stepping upon it as the little animal ran up to be fed.

He had come for the toad and snake, and hurriedly plunging his hand into the big pot he found Sam the toad, seated right at the top, evidently eager to start on a nocturnal ramble, but the snake was coiled up asleep.

It was a curious pet, that toad, but somehow, as it sat nestled up all of a squat in the boy’s warm hand, he felt as if he should like to take it with him. It was not big, and would take up little room, and cost nothing to feed.

Why not?

He hesitated as he descended and crossed the yard to the garden, and decided that he would not. Bob Dimsted might not like it.

He reached the garden, and crossed the lawn to the sunny verbena bed. That seemed a suitable place for the snake, and he tenderly placed it, writhing feebly, among the thin pegged-down strands.

Then came the other reptile’s turn.

They had been friends and even companions together in the big flower-pot, Dexter argued, so they should have the chance of being friends again in the flower-bed.

The toad was in his left hand, and going down on one knee he separated the verbenas a little, and then placed his hand, knuckles downward, on the soft moist earth, opening his fingers slowly the while.

“Good-bye, Sam,” he said, in a low voice. “You and I have had some good fun together, old chap, and I hope you will be very happy when I’m gone.”

He slowly spread his hand flat, so that his fingers and thumb ceased to form so many posts and rails about the reptile, or a fleshly cage. In imagination he saw the dusky grey creature crawl off his hand gladly into the dewy bed, and it made him more sad to find how ready everything was to be free, and he never for a moment thought about how he was going to play as ungrateful a part, and march off too.

“Good-bye, Sam,” he said, as he recalled how he had played with and tickled that toad, and how it had enjoyed it all, and turned over to be rubbed. Then he seemed to see it walk in its heavy, cumbrous way slowly off, with its bright golden eyes glistening, till it sat down in a hollow, and watched him go.

But it was all fancy. The toad did not crawl out of his hand among the verbenas, nor go right away, but sat perfectly motionless where it was, evidently, from its acting, perfectly warm, comfortable, and contented.

“Well, Sam, why don’t you go!” said Dexter softly. “Do you hear?”

He gave his hand a jar by striking the back on the earth, but the toad did not move, and when he touched it with his right hand, it was to find the fat squat reptile squeezed up together like a bun.

He stroked it, and rubbed it, as he had rubbed it scores of times before, and the creature once more pressed up against his fingers, while Dexter forgot everything else in the gratification of finding his ugly pet appreciate his attentions.

“Now then! off you go!” he cried quickly; but the creature did not stir.

“Are you going?” said Dexter. “Come: march.”

Again it did not stir.

“He don’t want to go,” cried the boy, changing it from, one hand to the other; and the next moment he was holding it, nose downward, over his jacket-pocket, when the toad, pretty actively for one of its kind, began to work its legs and dived slowly down beneath the pocket-handkerchief crumpled-up there, and settled itself at the bottom.

“It seems to know,” cried Dexter. “And it shall go with me after all.”

Curious boy! some one may say, but Dexter had had few opportunities for turning his affections in ordinary directions, and hence it was that they were lavished upon a toad.

Indoors, when he stole back after setting all his pets at liberty to shift for themselves, Dexter felt very guilty. He encountered Mrs Millett in the hall, and a thrill ran through him as she exclaimed—

“Ah, there you are, Master Dexter, I just want a few words with you.”

“Found out!” thought the guilty conscience, which needs no accuser.

“Now just you look here, sir,” said the old housekeeper, in a loud voice, as she literally button-holed the boy, by hooking one thin finger in his jacket, so that he could not get away, “I know all.”

“You—you know everything,” faltered the boy.

“Yes, sir. Ah, you may well look ’mure. You little thought I knew.”

“How—how did you find out?” he stammered.

“Ah! how did I find out, indeed! Now, look here, am I to go straight to the doctor and tell him!”

“No, no, pray don’t,” whispered Dexter, catching her arm.

“Well, then, I must tell Miss Helen.”

“No, no, not this time,” cried Dexter imploringly; and his tone softened the old lady, who shook the borders of her cap at him.

“Well, I don’t know what to say,” said Mrs Millett softly. “They certainly ought to know.”

Dexter gazed at her wildly. He knew that everythingmust come out, but it was to have been in a few hours’ time, when he was far away, and deaf to the angry words and reproaches. To hear them now seemed more than he could bear. It could not be. Bob Dimsted must think and say what he liked, and be as angry and unforgiving as was possible. It could not be now. He must plead to the old housekeeper for pardon, and give up all idea of going away.

“Ah!” she said. “I see you are sorry for it, then.”

“Yes, yes,” he whispered. “So sorry, and—and—”

“You’ll take it this time, like a good boy!”

“Take it?”

“Yes, sir. Ah! you can’t deceive me. Last time I saw the empty glass I knew as well as could be that you hadn’t taken it, for the outside of the glass wasn’t sticky, and there were no marks of your mouth at the edge. I always put plenty of sugar in it for you, and that showed.”

“The camomile-tea!” thought Dexter, a dose of which the old lady expected him to take about once a week, and which never did him any harm, if it never did him any good.

“And you’ll take it to-night, sir, like a good boy!”

“Yes, yes, I will indeed,” said Dexter, with the full intention of keeping his word out of gratitude for his escape.

“Now, that’s like being a good boy,” said the old lady, smiling, and extricating her fingers from his button-hole, so as to stroke his hair. “It will do you no end of good; and how you have improved since you have been here, my dear, your hair’s grown so nicely, and you’ve got such a good pink colour in your cheeks. It’s the camomile-tea done that.”

Mrs Millett leaned forward with her hands on the boy’s shoulder, and kissed him in so motherly a way that Dexter felt a catching of the breath, and kissed her again.

“That’s right,” said the old lady. “You ain’t half so bad as Maria pretends you are. ‘It’s only a bit of mischief now and then,’ I says to her, ‘and he’s only a boy,’ and that’s what you are, ain’t it, my dear?”

Dexter did not answer.

“I shall put your dose on your washstand, and you mind and take it the moment you get out of bed to-morrow morning.”

“Yes,” said Dexter dismally.

“No! you’ll forget it. You’ve got to take that camomile-tea to-night, and if you don’t promise me you will, I shall come and see you take it.”

“I promise you,” said Dexter, and the old lady nodded and went upstairs, while the boy hung about in the hall.

How was it that just now, when he was going away, people were beginning to seem more kind to him, and something began to drag at his heart to keep him from going?

He could not tell. An hour before he had felt a wild kind of elation. He was going to be free from lessons, the doctor’s admonitions, and the tame regular life at the house, to be off in search of adventure, and with Bob for his companion, going all over the world in that boat, while now, in spite of all he could do, he did not feel so satisfied and sure.

There was something else he knew that he ought to do. He could not bid Helen good-bye with his lips, but he felt that he must bid her farewell another way, for she had always been kind to him from the day he came.

He crept into the study again, this time without being seen.

There was a faint light in the pleasant room, for the doctor’s lamp had been turned down, but not quite out.

A touch sent the flame brightly round the ring, and the shade cast a warm glow on the boy’s busy fingers as he took out paper and envelope; and then, with trembling hand, sore heart, and a pen that spluttered, he indited another letter, this time to Helen.

My dear Miss Grayson,I am afraid you will think me a very ungrateful boy, but I am obliged to go away to seek my fortune all over the world. You have been so kind to me, and so has Doctor Grayson sometimes, but everybody else has hated me, and made game of me because I was a workhouse boy, and I could not bear it any longer, and Bob Dimsted said he wouldn’t if he was me, and we are going away together not to come back again any more.—I am,Your Affec Friend.Dexter Grayson.PS—I mean Obed Coleby, for I ought not to call myself Dexter any more, and I would have scratched it out, only you always said it was better not to scratch out mistakes because they made the paper look so untidy.I like you very much, and Mrs Millett too, but I can’t take her fiz—physick to-night.Is physick spelt with a k?

My dear Miss Grayson,

I am afraid you will think me a very ungrateful boy, but I am obliged to go away to seek my fortune all over the world. You have been so kind to me, and so has Doctor Grayson sometimes, but everybody else has hated me, and made game of me because I was a workhouse boy, and I could not bear it any longer, and Bob Dimsted said he wouldn’t if he was me, and we are going away together not to come back again any more.—I am,

Your Affec Friend.

Dexter Grayson.

PS—I mean Obed Coleby, for I ought not to call myself Dexter any more, and I would have scratched it out, only you always said it was better not to scratch out mistakes because they made the paper look so untidy.

I like you very much, and Mrs Millett too, but I can’t take her fiz—physick to-night.

Is physick spelt with a k?

There was a tear—a weak tear in each of Dexter’s eyes as he wrote this letter, for it brought up many a pleasant recollection of kindnesses on Helen’s part.

He had just finished, folded and directed this, when he fancied he heard a door open across the hall.

Thrusting the note into his pocket so hastily that one corner went into the toad, he caught up a piece of the doctor’s foolscap, and began rapidly to make a triangle upon it, at whose sides and points he placed letters, and then, feeling like the miserable impostor he was, he rapidly let his pen trace a confused line ofA’sandB’sandC’s, and these backwards and forwards.

This went on for some minutes, so that there was a fair show upon the paper, when the door softly opened, Helen peered in, and then coming behind him bent down, and, in a very gentle and sisterly way, placed her hands over his eyes.

“Why, my poor hard-working boy,” she said gently. “So this is where you are; and, oh dear, oh dear! Euclid again. That Mr Limpney will wear your brains all away. There, come along, I am going to play to papa, and then you and I will have a game at draughts.”

Dexter rose with his heart beating, and that strange sensation of something tugging at his conscience. Why were they all so kind to him to-night, just when he was going away?

“Why, you look quite worn out and dazed, Dexter,” said Helen merrily. “There, come along.”

“Eh? Where was he? In mischief?” said the doctor sharply, as they entered the drawing-room.

“Mischief? No, papa: for shame!” cried Helen, with her arm resting on the boy’s shoulders. “In your study, working away at those terrible sides and angles invented by that dreadful old Greek Euclid.”

“Work, eh? Ha! that’s good!” cried the doctor jovially. “Bravo, Dexter! I am glad.”

If ever a boy felt utterly ashamed of himself, Dexter did then. He could not meet the doctor’s eye, but was on his way to get a book to turn over, so as to have something to look at, but this was not to be.

“No, no, you have had enough of books for one day, Dexter. Come and turn over the music for me. Why! what’s that?”

“That?” said Dexter slowly, for he did not comprehend.

“Yes, I felt it move. You have something alive in your pocket.”

He felt prompted to lie, but he could not tell a falsehood then, and he stood with his teeth set.

“Whatever have you got alive in your pocket?” said the doctor. “I know. A young rabbit, for a guinea.”

“Is it?” cried Helen. “Let me look: they are such pretty little things.”

“Yes, out with it, boy, and don’t pet those things too much. Kill them with kindness, you know. Here, let me take it out.”

“No, no!” cried Dexter hastily.

“Well, take it out yourself.”

A spasm of dread had run through the boy, as in imagination he saw the doctor’s hand taking out the letter in his pocket.

“It isn’t a young rabbit,” he faltered.

“Well, what is it, then? Come, out with it.”

Dexter hesitated for a few moments, and now met the doctor’s eye. He could not help himself, but slowly took out his pocket-handkerchief, as he held the note firmly with his left hand outside the jacket. Then, diving in again, he got well hold of Sam, who was snug at the bottom, and, with burning cheeks, and in full expectation of a scolding, drew the toad slowly forth.

“Ugh!” ejaculated Helen.

The doctor, who was in a most amiable temper, burst into a roar of laughter.

“Well, you are a strange boy, Dexter,” he said, as he wiped his eyes. “You ought to be a naturalist by and by. There, open the window, and put the poor thing outside. You can find plenty another time.”

Dexter obeyed, glad to be out of his quandary, and this time, as he put Sam down, the reptile crawled slowly away into the soft dark night.

He closed the window, and went back to find the doctor and Helen all smiles, and ready to joke instead of scold. Then he went to the piano, and turned over the music, the airs and songs making him feel more and more sad, and again and again he found himself saying—

“Why are they so kind to me now, just as I am going away?”

“Shall I stop!” he said to himself, after a time.

“No: I promised Bob I would come, and so I will.”

Chapter Twenty Nine.An Act of Folly.Bedtime at last, and as Dexter bade the doctor and his daughter “good-night,” it seemed to him that they had never spoken so kindly to him, and the place had never appeared to be so pleasant and homelike before.His heart sank as he went up to his room, and he felt as if he could not go away. The lessons Mr Limpney had given him to write out were not done; but he had better stop and face him, and every other trouble, including the window he had broken, and never owned to yet.It was impossible to go away and leave everybody who was so kind. A harsh word would have kept him to the point; but now he wavered as he sat down on the edge of his bed, with his mind in a whirl.Then, as he sat there, he pictured in his own mind the figure of Bob Dimsted, waiting for him, laden with articles of outfit necessary for their voyage, and behind Bob loomed up bright sunny scenes by sea and land; and with his imagination once more excited by all that the boy had suggested, Dexter blinded himself to everything but the object he had in view.He had planned in his own mind what he would take with him, but now it had come to the point he felt a strange compunction. Everything he possessed seemed to him as if it belonged to the doctor, and, finally, he resolved to take nothing with him but the clothes in which he stood.He began walking about the room in a listless way, looking about at the various familiar objects that he was to see no more, and one of the first things to strike him was a teacup on the washstand, containing Mrs Millett’s infusion, bitter, nauseous, and sweetened to sickliness; and it struck Dexter that the mixture had been placed in a cup instead of a glass, so as to make it less objectionable in appearance.He could not help smiling as he took up the cup and smelt it, seeing at the same time the old dame’s pleasant earnest face—a face that suddenly seemed to have become very loving, now he was to see it no more.He set down the cup, and shook his head, and then, as if nerving himself for the task, he went to the drawers, took out a key from his pocket, and then, from the place where it lay, hidden beneath his clean linen, brought forth the old clothes-line twisted and knotted together—the line which had done duty in the loft as a swing.He listened as he crossed to the door, but all was still downstairs, and it was not likely that any one would come near his room that night; but still he moved about cautiously, and taking the line with his hands, about two feet apart, snapped it again and again with all his might, to try if it was likely to give way now beneath his weight.It seemed firm as ever, but he could not help a shiver as he laid it by the window, and thought of a boy being found in the shrubbery beneath, with a broken leg, or, worse still, neck.Then as he waited for the time to glide by, so that all might be in bed before he made his escape, a sudden chill ran through him.He had remembered everything, as he thought; and yet there was one thing, perhaps the simplest of all, forgotten. He was going to take no bundle, no money, nothing which the doctor had in his kindness provided for him; but he could not go without a cap, and that was hanging in the hall, close to the drawing-room door.The question arose whether he should venture down to get it now, or after the doctor had gone to bed.It took him some time to make up his mind; but when he had come to a decision he opened his door softly, listened, and stole out on to the landing.All was very still as he looked over the balustrade to where the lamp shed its yellow rays all round, and to his mind more strangely upon the object he wanted to obtain than elsewhere.It was a very simple thing to do, and yet it required a great deal of nerve, for if the drawing-room door were opened just as he reached the hat-stand, and the doctor came out, what should he say?Then there was the risk of being heard, for there were, he knew, two of the old oaken stairs which always gave a loud crack when any one passed down, and if they cracked now, some one would be sure to come out to see what it meant.Taking a long catching breath he went quickly to the top of the stairs, and was about to descend in a desperate determination to go through with his task, when an idea struck him, and bending over the balustrade he spread his hands, balanced himself carefully, and then slid down the mahogany rail, round curve after curve as silently as could be, and reaching the curl at the bottom dropped upon the mat.Only five or six yards now to the hat-stand, and going on tiptoe past the entrance to the drawing-room, he was in the act of taking down the cap, when the handle rattled, the door was thrown open, and the hall grew more light.In his desperation Dexter snatched down the cap, and stood there trying to think of what he should say in answer to the question that would be asked in a moment—“What are you doing there!”It was Helen, chamber-candlestick in hand, and she was in the act of stepping out, when her step was arrested by words which seemed to pierce into the listener’s brain:—“Oh, about Dexter!”“Yes, papa,” said Helen, turning.“What do you think about—”Dexter heard no more. Taking advantage of Helen’s back being turned as she bent over towards the speaker, the boy stepped quickly to the staircase, ran up, and had reached the first landing before Helen came out into the hall, while before she had closed the door he was up another flight, and gliding softly toward his own room, where he stood panting as he closed the door, just as if he had been running a distance which had taken away his breath.It was a narrow escape, and he was safe; but his ears tingled still, and he longed to know what the doctor had said about him.As he stood listening, cap in hand, he heard Helen pass his door singing softly one of the ballads he had heard that evening; and once more a curious dull sensation of misery came over him, as he seemed to feel that he would never hear her sing again, never feel the touch of her soft caressing hand; and somehow there was a vague confused sense of longing to go to one who had treated him with an affectionate interest he had never known before, even now hardly understood, but it seemed to him such gentleness and love as might have come from a mother.For a moment or two he felt that he must open the door, call to her, throw himself upon his knees before her, and confess everything, but at that moment the laughing, mocking face of Bob Dimsted seemed to rise between them, and his words buzzed in his ear—words that he had often said when listening to some account of Dexter’s troubles—“Bother the old lessons, and all on ’em! I wouldn’t stand it if I was you. They’ve no right to order you about, and scold you as they do.”The weak moments passed, and just then there was the doctor’s cough heard, and the closing of his door, while directly after came the chiming of the church clock—a quarter past eleven.Half an hour to wait and think, and then good-bye to all his troubles, and the beginning of a new life of freedom!All the freedom and the future seemed to be behind a black cloud; but in the fond belief that all would soon grow clear Dexter waited.Half-past eleven, and he wondered that he did not feel sleepy.It was time to begin though now, and he took the line and laid it out in a serpentine fashion upon the carpet, so that there should be no kinks in the way; and then the next thing was to fasten one end tightly so that he could safely slide down.He had well thought out his plans, and, taking one end of the line, he knotted it securely to the most substantial place he could find in the room, passing it behind two of the bars of the grate. Then cautiously opening his window, a little bit at a time, he thrust it higher and higher, every faint creak sending a chill through him, while, when he looked out upon the dark starlight night, it seemed as if he would have to descend into a black gulf, where something blacker was waiting to seize him.But he knew that the black things below were only great shrubs, and lowering the rope softly down he at last had the satisfaction of hearing it rustle among the leaves.Then he waited, and after a glance round to see that everything was straight, and the letter laid ready upon the table, he put out the candle.“For the last time!” he said to himself, and a great sigh came unbidden from his breast.A quarter to twelve.Dexter waited till the last stroke on the bell was thrilling in the air before setting his cap on tightly, and passing one leg over the sill.He sat astride for a few moments, hesitating for the last time, and then passed the other leg, and lowered himself down till he hung by his hands, then twisted his legs about the rope, seized it with first one hand then the other, and hung by it with his whole weight, in the precarious position of one trusting to an old doubled clothes-line, suspended from a second-floor window.It was hard work that descent, for he could not slide on account of the knots; and, to make his position more awkward, the rope began to untwist—one line from the other,—and, in consequence, as the boy descended slowly, he bore no small resemblance to a leg of mutton turning before a fire.That was the only mishap which occurred to him then, for after resting for a few moments upon the first-floor sill he continued his journey, and reached the bottom in the midst of a great laurel, which rustled loudly as he tried to get out, and then tripped over a horizontal branch, and fell flat.He was up again in an instant, and, trembling and panting, made a couple of bounds which took him over the gravel walk and on to the lawn, where he stood panting and listening.There was a light in the doctor’s room, and one in Helen’s; and just then the doctor’s shadow, looking horribly threatening, was thrown upon the blind.He must be coming, Dexter thought, and, turning quickly, he sped down the lawn, avoiding the flower-beds by instinct, and the next minute had reached the kitchen-garden, down whose winding green walk he rapidly made his way.

Bedtime at last, and as Dexter bade the doctor and his daughter “good-night,” it seemed to him that they had never spoken so kindly to him, and the place had never appeared to be so pleasant and homelike before.

His heart sank as he went up to his room, and he felt as if he could not go away. The lessons Mr Limpney had given him to write out were not done; but he had better stop and face him, and every other trouble, including the window he had broken, and never owned to yet.

It was impossible to go away and leave everybody who was so kind. A harsh word would have kept him to the point; but now he wavered as he sat down on the edge of his bed, with his mind in a whirl.

Then, as he sat there, he pictured in his own mind the figure of Bob Dimsted, waiting for him, laden with articles of outfit necessary for their voyage, and behind Bob loomed up bright sunny scenes by sea and land; and with his imagination once more excited by all that the boy had suggested, Dexter blinded himself to everything but the object he had in view.

He had planned in his own mind what he would take with him, but now it had come to the point he felt a strange compunction. Everything he possessed seemed to him as if it belonged to the doctor, and, finally, he resolved to take nothing with him but the clothes in which he stood.

He began walking about the room in a listless way, looking about at the various familiar objects that he was to see no more, and one of the first things to strike him was a teacup on the washstand, containing Mrs Millett’s infusion, bitter, nauseous, and sweetened to sickliness; and it struck Dexter that the mixture had been placed in a cup instead of a glass, so as to make it less objectionable in appearance.

He could not help smiling as he took up the cup and smelt it, seeing at the same time the old dame’s pleasant earnest face—a face that suddenly seemed to have become very loving, now he was to see it no more.

He set down the cup, and shook his head, and then, as if nerving himself for the task, he went to the drawers, took out a key from his pocket, and then, from the place where it lay, hidden beneath his clean linen, brought forth the old clothes-line twisted and knotted together—the line which had done duty in the loft as a swing.

He listened as he crossed to the door, but all was still downstairs, and it was not likely that any one would come near his room that night; but still he moved about cautiously, and taking the line with his hands, about two feet apart, snapped it again and again with all his might, to try if it was likely to give way now beneath his weight.

It seemed firm as ever, but he could not help a shiver as he laid it by the window, and thought of a boy being found in the shrubbery beneath, with a broken leg, or, worse still, neck.

Then as he waited for the time to glide by, so that all might be in bed before he made his escape, a sudden chill ran through him.

He had remembered everything, as he thought; and yet there was one thing, perhaps the simplest of all, forgotten. He was going to take no bundle, no money, nothing which the doctor had in his kindness provided for him; but he could not go without a cap, and that was hanging in the hall, close to the drawing-room door.

The question arose whether he should venture down to get it now, or after the doctor had gone to bed.

It took him some time to make up his mind; but when he had come to a decision he opened his door softly, listened, and stole out on to the landing.

All was very still as he looked over the balustrade to where the lamp shed its yellow rays all round, and to his mind more strangely upon the object he wanted to obtain than elsewhere.

It was a very simple thing to do, and yet it required a great deal of nerve, for if the drawing-room door were opened just as he reached the hat-stand, and the doctor came out, what should he say?

Then there was the risk of being heard, for there were, he knew, two of the old oaken stairs which always gave a loud crack when any one passed down, and if they cracked now, some one would be sure to come out to see what it meant.

Taking a long catching breath he went quickly to the top of the stairs, and was about to descend in a desperate determination to go through with his task, when an idea struck him, and bending over the balustrade he spread his hands, balanced himself carefully, and then slid down the mahogany rail, round curve after curve as silently as could be, and reaching the curl at the bottom dropped upon the mat.

Only five or six yards now to the hat-stand, and going on tiptoe past the entrance to the drawing-room, he was in the act of taking down the cap, when the handle rattled, the door was thrown open, and the hall grew more light.

In his desperation Dexter snatched down the cap, and stood there trying to think of what he should say in answer to the question that would be asked in a moment—

“What are you doing there!”

It was Helen, chamber-candlestick in hand, and she was in the act of stepping out, when her step was arrested by words which seemed to pierce into the listener’s brain:—

“Oh, about Dexter!”

“Yes, papa,” said Helen, turning.

“What do you think about—”

Dexter heard no more. Taking advantage of Helen’s back being turned as she bent over towards the speaker, the boy stepped quickly to the staircase, ran up, and had reached the first landing before Helen came out into the hall, while before she had closed the door he was up another flight, and gliding softly toward his own room, where he stood panting as he closed the door, just as if he had been running a distance which had taken away his breath.

It was a narrow escape, and he was safe; but his ears tingled still, and he longed to know what the doctor had said about him.

As he stood listening, cap in hand, he heard Helen pass his door singing softly one of the ballads he had heard that evening; and once more a curious dull sensation of misery came over him, as he seemed to feel that he would never hear her sing again, never feel the touch of her soft caressing hand; and somehow there was a vague confused sense of longing to go to one who had treated him with an affectionate interest he had never known before, even now hardly understood, but it seemed to him such gentleness and love as might have come from a mother.

For a moment or two he felt that he must open the door, call to her, throw himself upon his knees before her, and confess everything, but at that moment the laughing, mocking face of Bob Dimsted seemed to rise between them, and his words buzzed in his ear—words that he had often said when listening to some account of Dexter’s troubles—

“Bother the old lessons, and all on ’em! I wouldn’t stand it if I was you. They’ve no right to order you about, and scold you as they do.”

The weak moments passed, and just then there was the doctor’s cough heard, and the closing of his door, while directly after came the chiming of the church clock—a quarter past eleven.

Half an hour to wait and think, and then good-bye to all his troubles, and the beginning of a new life of freedom!

All the freedom and the future seemed to be behind a black cloud; but in the fond belief that all would soon grow clear Dexter waited.

Half-past eleven, and he wondered that he did not feel sleepy.

It was time to begin though now, and he took the line and laid it out in a serpentine fashion upon the carpet, so that there should be no kinks in the way; and then the next thing was to fasten one end tightly so that he could safely slide down.

He had well thought out his plans, and, taking one end of the line, he knotted it securely to the most substantial place he could find in the room, passing it behind two of the bars of the grate. Then cautiously opening his window, a little bit at a time, he thrust it higher and higher, every faint creak sending a chill through him, while, when he looked out upon the dark starlight night, it seemed as if he would have to descend into a black gulf, where something blacker was waiting to seize him.

But he knew that the black things below were only great shrubs, and lowering the rope softly down he at last had the satisfaction of hearing it rustle among the leaves.

Then he waited, and after a glance round to see that everything was straight, and the letter laid ready upon the table, he put out the candle.

“For the last time!” he said to himself, and a great sigh came unbidden from his breast.

A quarter to twelve.

Dexter waited till the last stroke on the bell was thrilling in the air before setting his cap on tightly, and passing one leg over the sill.

He sat astride for a few moments, hesitating for the last time, and then passed the other leg, and lowered himself down till he hung by his hands, then twisted his legs about the rope, seized it with first one hand then the other, and hung by it with his whole weight, in the precarious position of one trusting to an old doubled clothes-line, suspended from a second-floor window.

It was hard work that descent, for he could not slide on account of the knots; and, to make his position more awkward, the rope began to untwist—one line from the other,—and, in consequence, as the boy descended slowly, he bore no small resemblance to a leg of mutton turning before a fire.

That was the only mishap which occurred to him then, for after resting for a few moments upon the first-floor sill he continued his journey, and reached the bottom in the midst of a great laurel, which rustled loudly as he tried to get out, and then tripped over a horizontal branch, and fell flat.

He was up again in an instant, and, trembling and panting, made a couple of bounds which took him over the gravel walk and on to the lawn, where he stood panting and listening.

There was a light in the doctor’s room, and one in Helen’s; and just then the doctor’s shadow, looking horribly threatening, was thrown upon the blind.

He must be coming, Dexter thought, and, turning quickly, he sped down the lawn, avoiding the flower-beds by instinct, and the next minute had reached the kitchen-garden, down whose winding green walk he rapidly made his way.

Chapter Thirty.Dark Deeds.It was very dark among the trees as Dexter reached the grass plot which sloped to the willows by the river-side, but he knew his way so well that he crept along in silence till he had one hand resting upon the trunk he had so often climbed, and stood there gazing across the starlit water, trying to make out the figure of his companion in the boat.All was silent, save that, now and then, the water as it ran among the tree-roots made a peculiar whispering sound, and once or twice there was a faint plash in the distance, as if from the feeding of a fish.“Hist! Bob! Are you there!”“Hullo!” came from the other side. “I was just a-going.”“Going?”“Yes. I thought you wasn’t a-coming, and I wasn’t going to stop here all night.”“But you said twelve.”“Well, it struck twelve an hour ago.”“No; that was eleven. There—hark!”As proof of Dexter’s assertion the church clock just then began to chime, and the heavy boom of the tenor bell proclaiming midnight seemed to make the soft night air throb.“Thought it was twelve long enough ago. Ready!”“Yes,” said Dexter, in an excited whisper. “Got the boat?”“No: course I haven’t. It’ll take two to get that boat.”“But you said you would have it ready.”“Yes, I know; but we must both of us do that. I waited till you come.”This was a shock; and Dexter said, in a disappointed tone—“But how am I to get to you!”“Come across,” said Bob coolly.“Come across—in the dark!”“Why, of course. You ain’t afraid, are you? Well, you are a chap!”“But it’s too deep to wade.”“Well, who said it wasn’t!” growled the boy. “You can swim, can’t you?”“But I shall get so wet.”“Yah!” ejaculated Bob in tones of disgust. “You are a fellow. Take your clothes off, make ’em in a bundle, and swim over.”Dexter was half-disposed to say, “You swim across to me,” but nothing would have been gained if he had, so, after a few minutes’ hesitation, and in genuine dread, he obeyed the wishes of his companion, but only to pause when he was half-undressed.“I say, though,” he whispered, “can’t you get the boat? It’s so cold and dark.”“Well, you are a fellow!” cried Bob. “Beginning to grumble afore we start. It’s no use to have a mate who’s afraid of a drop of water, and don’t like to get wet.”“But—”“There, never mind,” grumbled Bob; “we won’t go.”“But I didn’t say I wouldn’t come, Bob,” whispered Dexter desperately. “I’ll come.”There was no answer.“Bob.” Still silence.“I say, don’t go, Bob. I’m very sorry. I’m undressing as fast as I can. You haven’t gone, have you?”Still silence, and Dexter ceased undressing, and stood there in the cold night air, feeling as desolate, despairing, and forlorn as boy could be.“What shall I do?” he said to himself; and then, in a despondent whisper, “Bob!”“Hullo!”“Why, you haven’t gone!” joyfully.“No; but I’m going directly. It’s no use for me to have a mate who hasn’t got any pluck. Now then, are you coming, or are you not!”“I’m coming,” said Dexter. “But stop a moment. I’ll be back directly.”“Whatcher going to do!”“Wait a moment and I’ll show you.”Dexter had had a happy thought, and turning and running in his trousers to the tool-shed, he dragged out a small deal box in which seeds had come down from London that spring. It was a well-made tight box, and quite light, and with this he ran back.“Why, what are you doing?” grumbled Bob, as soon as he heard his companion’s voice.“Been getting something to put my clothes in,” whispered Dexter. “I don’t want to get them wet.”“Oh,” said Bob, in a most unconcerned way; and he began to whistle softly, as Dexter finished undressing, tucked all his clothes tightly in the box, and bore it down to the water’s edge, where it floated like a little boat.“There!” cried Dexter excitedly. “Now they’ll be all dry when I’ve got across. Ugh! how cold the water is,” he continued, as he dipped one foot. “I wish I’d brought a towel.”“Yah! what does a fellow want with a towel? You soon gets dry if you run about. Going to walk across!”“I can’t,” said Dexter; “it’s too deep.”“Well, then, swim. I could swim that with one hand tied behind.”“I couldn’t,” said Dexter, hesitating, for it was no pleasant task to plunge into the little gliding river at midnight, and with all dark around.“Now then! Look alive! Don’t make a splash.”“Oh!”“What’s the matter?”“It is cold.”“Yah! Then, get back to bed with you, and let me go alone.”“I’m coming as fast as I can,” said Dexter, as he lowered himself into the stream, and then rapidly climbed out again, as the cold water caused a sudden catching of the breath; and a nervous shrinking from trusting himself in the dark river made him draw right away from the edge.“Why, you ain’t swimming,” said Bob. “Here, look sharp! Why, you ain’t in!”“N–no, not yet,” said Dexter, shivering.“There’s a coward!” sneered Bob.“I’m not a coward, but it seems so dark and horrible to-night, and as if something might lay hold of you.”“Yes, you are a regular coward,” sneered Bob. “There, jump in, or I’ll shy stones at yer till you do.”Dexter did not speak, but tumbled all of a heap on the short turf, shrinking more and more from his task.“I shall have to go without you,” said Bob.“I can’t help it,” said Dexter, in a low, tremulous whisper. “It’s too horrid to get in there and swim across in the dark.”“No, it ain’t. I’d do it in a minute. There, jump in.”“No,” said Dexter sadly. “I must give it up.”“What, yer won’t do it!”“I can’t,” said Dexter sadly. “We must try some other way. I’m going to dress again. Oh!”“What’s the matter now!”“My clothes!”Splash!Rush!Dexter had rapidly lowered himself into the black deep stream and was swimming hard and fast, for as he rose and sought for his garments he suddenly recalled the fact that he had turned the box into a tiny barge, laden it with his clothes, and placed them in the river, while now, as he went to take them out, he found that the stream had borne the box away, and it was going down toward the sea.“Try if you can see them, Bob,” said Dexter, as he panted and struggled on through the water.“See what?”“My clothes. They’re floating down the river.”Bob uttered a low chuckling laugh, and trotted along by the edge of the river; but it was too dark for him to see anything, and Dexter, forgetting cold and dread, swam bravely on, looking well to right and left, without avail, till all at once, just in one of the deepest eddies, some fifty yards down below the doctor’s house, and where an unusually large willow spread its arms over the stream, he caught sight of something which blotted out the starlight for a moment, and then the stars’ reflection beamed out again.Something was evidently floating there, and he made for it, to find to his great joy that it was the floating box, which he pushed before him as he swam, and a couple of minutes later he was near enough to the edge on the meadow-side to ask Bob’s help.“Ain’t got ’em, have you?” the latter whispered.“Yes; all right. I’ll come out there. Give me a hand.”Dexter swam to the muddy overhanging bank, and seized the hand which Bob extended toward him.“Now then, shall I duck yer!” said Bob, who had lain down on the wet grass to extend his hand to the swimmer.“No, no, Bob, don’t. That would be cowardly,” cried Dexter. “Help me to get out my clothes without letting in the wet. It is so cold.”“But you swam over,” said Bob sneeringly.“Yes; but you don’t know how chilly it makes you feel. Mind the clothes.”Bob did mind, and the next minute Dexter and the barge of dry clothes were upon the grass together.“Oh, isn’t it cold?” said Dexter, with his teeth chattering.“Cold? no. Not a bit,” said Bob. “Here, whatcher going to do!”“Do? Dress myself. Here, give me my shirt. Oh, don’t I wish I had a towel!”“You leave them things alone, stoopid. You can’t dress yet.”“Not dress!”“No,” cried Bob loudly.“What do you mean!”“You come along and I’ll show yer. Why, we haven’t got the boat.”“No, but—”“Well, you’re all ready, and you’ve got to swim across and get it.”“I’ve got to get it!” cried Dexter in dismay. “Why, you said you would get the boat.”“Yes, but I didn’t know then that you were going to swim across.”“But you said it would take two to get it,” protested Dexter.“Yes, I thought so then, but you’re all ready and can swim across, and get it directly. Here, come along!”“But—but,” stammered Dexter, who was shivering in the chill night air.“What, you’re cold? Well, come along. I’ll carry the box. Let’s run. It’ll warm yer.”Dexter was ready with another protest, but he did not utter it. His companion seemed to carry him along with the force of his will, but all the same there was a troublous feeling forcing itself upon him that he had made a mistake, and he could not help a longing for his room at the doctor’s with its warm bed, comfort, safety, and repose.But he knew it was too late, and he was too much hurried and confused to do more than try to keep up with Bob Dimsted as he ran by his side carrying the box till they had reached the meadow facing Sir James Danby’s garden; and there, just dimly seen across the river, was the low gable-end of the boat-house beneath the trees.“Hush! don’t make a row,” whispered Bob. “Now then, slip in and fetch it. Why, you could almost jump it.”“But, Bob—I—I don’t like to go. I’m so cold.”“I’ll precious soon warm yer if you don’t look sharp,” cried Bob fiercely. “Don’t you try to make a fool of me. Now then, in with you!”He had put the box down and gripped Dexter fiercely by the arm, causing him so much pain that instead of alarming it roused the boy’s flagging spirit, and he turned fiercely upon his assailant, and wrested his arm free.“That’s right,” said Bob. “In with you. And be sharp, and then you can dress yerself as we float down.”Dexter’s instinct was to resist and give up, but he felt that he had gone too far, and feeling that his companion might consider him a coward if he refused to go, he lowered himself down into the water.“That’s yer sort,” said Bob, in a loud whisper. “You’ll soon do it.”“But suppose the chains are locked!”“They won’t be locked,” said Bob. “You go acrost and see.”In the eager desire to get an unpleasant task done, Dexter let himself glide down into the swift stream about a dozen yards above the boat-house, and giving himself a good thrust off with his feet, he swam steadily and easily across, the river there being about thirty yards wide, and in a very short time he managed to touch the post at the outer corner of the long low boat-house. Then, hardly knowing how he managed it, he found bottom as his hand grasped the gunwale of the boat, and walking along beside it he soon reached the chain which moored it to the end.Here in his excitement and dread it seemed as if his mission was to fail. It was dark enough outside, but in the boat-house everything seemed to be of pitchy blackness, and try how he would he could find no way of unfastening the chain.He tried toward the boat, then downwards, then upwards, and in the boat again, and again. His teeth were chattering, his chest and shoulders felt as if they were freezing, and his hands, as they fumbled with the wet chain, began to grow numbed, while, to add to his excitement and confusion, Bob kept on from time to time sending across the river a quick hissing—“I say; look sharp.”Then he heard a sound, and he splashed through the water in retreat toward the river, for it seemed that they were discovered, and some one coming down the garden.But the sound was repeated, and he realised the fact that it was only the side of the boat striking against a post.“I say, are you a-coming?” whispered Bob.“I can’t undo the chain,” Dexter whispered back.“Yer don’t half try.”Just then the clock chimed half-past twelve, and Dexter stopped involuntarily; but a fresh summons from his companion roused him to further action, and he passed once more along to the prow of the boat, and seizing the chain felt along it till this time he felt a hook, and, wondering how it was that he had missed it before, he began with trembling fingers to try and get it out from the link through which it was thrust.It was in very tightly, though, for the point being wedge-shaped the swaying about and jerking to and fro of the boat had driven it further and further in, so that it was not until he had been ready over and over again to give up in despair that the boy got the iron free.Then panting with dread and excitement he found the rest easy; the chain was passed through a ring-bolt in one of the posts at the head of the boat-house, and through this he drew it back slowly and cautiously on account of the rattling it made.It seemed of interminable length as he drew and drew, piling up the chain in the bows of the boat till he thought he must have obtained all, when there was a sudden check, and it would come no further.Simple enough in broad daylight, and to a person in the boat, but Dexter was standing waist deep in the water, and once more he felt that the case was hopeless.Another call from Bob roused him, and he followed the chain with his hand till he had waded to the post, and found that the hook had merely caught in the ring, and only needed lifting out, and the boat was at liberty.But just at this moment there was a furious barking, and a dog seemed to be tearing down the garden toward the boat-house.In an agony of horror Dexter climbed into the boat, and feeling the side of the long shed he thrust and thrust with so much effect that he sent the light gig well out into the stream and half-across the river. Then seizing an oar, as the dog was now down on the bank, snapping and barking more furiously than ever, he got it over into the water, and after a great deal of paddling, and confused counter-action of his efforts, forced the boat onward and along, till it touched the shore where Bob was waiting with the box.“No, no, don’t come out,” he whispered. “Here, help me get these in.”Dexter crept to the stern of the boat, and in his effort to embark the box nearly fell overboard, but the treasure was safe. Then Bob handed in a basket, and a bundle of sticks, evidently his rod, and leaping in directly after, gave the boat sufficient impetus to send it well out into the stream, down which it began to glide.“Ah, bark away, old un,” said Bob contemptuously, as the sound of the dog’s alarm notes grew more distant, and then more distant still, for they were going round a curve, and the garden side of the river was thick with trees.“Is that Danby’s dog!” whispered Bob.“I don’t know,” said Dexter, with his teeth chattering from cold and excitement.“Why! you’re a-cold,” said Bob coolly. “Here, I’ll send her along. You look sharp and dress. I say, where’s your bundle of things?”“Do you mean my clothes?”“No! Your bundle.”“I didn’t bring anything,” said Dexter, hurriedly slipping on his shirt.“Well, you are a chap!” said Bob sourly, but Dexter hardly heard him, for he was trying to get his wet body covered from the chill night air; and he could think of nothing but the fact that he had taken a very desperate step, and the boat was bearing them rapidly away from what seemed now to have been a very happy home—further out, further away from the doctor and from Helen, downward toward the sea, and over that there was a great black cloud, beyond which, according to Bob Dimsted, there were bright and glorious lands.At that moment, chill with the cold and damp, Dexter would have given anything to have been back in his old room, but it was too late, the boat was gliding on, and Bob had now got out the sculls. The town lights were receding, and they were going onward toward that dark cloud which Dexter seemed to see more dimly now, for there was a dumb depressing sensation of despair upon him, and he turned his eyes toward the river-bank, asking himself if he could leap ashore.

It was very dark among the trees as Dexter reached the grass plot which sloped to the willows by the river-side, but he knew his way so well that he crept along in silence till he had one hand resting upon the trunk he had so often climbed, and stood there gazing across the starlit water, trying to make out the figure of his companion in the boat.

All was silent, save that, now and then, the water as it ran among the tree-roots made a peculiar whispering sound, and once or twice there was a faint plash in the distance, as if from the feeding of a fish.

“Hist! Bob! Are you there!”

“Hullo!” came from the other side. “I was just a-going.”

“Going?”

“Yes. I thought you wasn’t a-coming, and I wasn’t going to stop here all night.”

“But you said twelve.”

“Well, it struck twelve an hour ago.”

“No; that was eleven. There—hark!”

As proof of Dexter’s assertion the church clock just then began to chime, and the heavy boom of the tenor bell proclaiming midnight seemed to make the soft night air throb.

“Thought it was twelve long enough ago. Ready!”

“Yes,” said Dexter, in an excited whisper. “Got the boat?”

“No: course I haven’t. It’ll take two to get that boat.”

“But you said you would have it ready.”

“Yes, I know; but we must both of us do that. I waited till you come.”

This was a shock; and Dexter said, in a disappointed tone—

“But how am I to get to you!”

“Come across,” said Bob coolly.

“Come across—in the dark!”

“Why, of course. You ain’t afraid, are you? Well, you are a chap!”

“But it’s too deep to wade.”

“Well, who said it wasn’t!” growled the boy. “You can swim, can’t you?”

“But I shall get so wet.”

“Yah!” ejaculated Bob in tones of disgust. “You are a fellow. Take your clothes off, make ’em in a bundle, and swim over.”

Dexter was half-disposed to say, “You swim across to me,” but nothing would have been gained if he had, so, after a few minutes’ hesitation, and in genuine dread, he obeyed the wishes of his companion, but only to pause when he was half-undressed.

“I say, though,” he whispered, “can’t you get the boat? It’s so cold and dark.”

“Well, you are a fellow!” cried Bob. “Beginning to grumble afore we start. It’s no use to have a mate who’s afraid of a drop of water, and don’t like to get wet.”

“But—”

“There, never mind,” grumbled Bob; “we won’t go.”

“But I didn’t say I wouldn’t come, Bob,” whispered Dexter desperately. “I’ll come.”

There was no answer.

“Bob.” Still silence.

“I say, don’t go, Bob. I’m very sorry. I’m undressing as fast as I can. You haven’t gone, have you?”

Still silence, and Dexter ceased undressing, and stood there in the cold night air, feeling as desolate, despairing, and forlorn as boy could be.

“What shall I do?” he said to himself; and then, in a despondent whisper, “Bob!”

“Hullo!”

“Why, you haven’t gone!” joyfully.

“No; but I’m going directly. It’s no use for me to have a mate who hasn’t got any pluck. Now then, are you coming, or are you not!”

“I’m coming,” said Dexter. “But stop a moment. I’ll be back directly.”

“Whatcher going to do!”

“Wait a moment and I’ll show you.”

Dexter had had a happy thought, and turning and running in his trousers to the tool-shed, he dragged out a small deal box in which seeds had come down from London that spring. It was a well-made tight box, and quite light, and with this he ran back.

“Why, what are you doing?” grumbled Bob, as soon as he heard his companion’s voice.

“Been getting something to put my clothes in,” whispered Dexter. “I don’t want to get them wet.”

“Oh,” said Bob, in a most unconcerned way; and he began to whistle softly, as Dexter finished undressing, tucked all his clothes tightly in the box, and bore it down to the water’s edge, where it floated like a little boat.

“There!” cried Dexter excitedly. “Now they’ll be all dry when I’ve got across. Ugh! how cold the water is,” he continued, as he dipped one foot. “I wish I’d brought a towel.”

“Yah! what does a fellow want with a towel? You soon gets dry if you run about. Going to walk across!”

“I can’t,” said Dexter; “it’s too deep.”

“Well, then, swim. I could swim that with one hand tied behind.”

“I couldn’t,” said Dexter, hesitating, for it was no pleasant task to plunge into the little gliding river at midnight, and with all dark around.

“Now then! Look alive! Don’t make a splash.”

“Oh!”

“What’s the matter?”

“It is cold.”

“Yah! Then, get back to bed with you, and let me go alone.”

“I’m coming as fast as I can,” said Dexter, as he lowered himself into the stream, and then rapidly climbed out again, as the cold water caused a sudden catching of the breath; and a nervous shrinking from trusting himself in the dark river made him draw right away from the edge.

“Why, you ain’t swimming,” said Bob. “Here, look sharp! Why, you ain’t in!”

“N–no, not yet,” said Dexter, shivering.

“There’s a coward!” sneered Bob.

“I’m not a coward, but it seems so dark and horrible to-night, and as if something might lay hold of you.”

“Yes, you are a regular coward,” sneered Bob. “There, jump in, or I’ll shy stones at yer till you do.”

Dexter did not speak, but tumbled all of a heap on the short turf, shrinking more and more from his task.

“I shall have to go without you,” said Bob.

“I can’t help it,” said Dexter, in a low, tremulous whisper. “It’s too horrid to get in there and swim across in the dark.”

“No, it ain’t. I’d do it in a minute. There, jump in.”

“No,” said Dexter sadly. “I must give it up.”

“What, yer won’t do it!”

“I can’t,” said Dexter sadly. “We must try some other way. I’m going to dress again. Oh!”

“What’s the matter now!”

“My clothes!”Splash!Rush!

Dexter had rapidly lowered himself into the black deep stream and was swimming hard and fast, for as he rose and sought for his garments he suddenly recalled the fact that he had turned the box into a tiny barge, laden it with his clothes, and placed them in the river, while now, as he went to take them out, he found that the stream had borne the box away, and it was going down toward the sea.

“Try if you can see them, Bob,” said Dexter, as he panted and struggled on through the water.

“See what?”

“My clothes. They’re floating down the river.”

Bob uttered a low chuckling laugh, and trotted along by the edge of the river; but it was too dark for him to see anything, and Dexter, forgetting cold and dread, swam bravely on, looking well to right and left, without avail, till all at once, just in one of the deepest eddies, some fifty yards down below the doctor’s house, and where an unusually large willow spread its arms over the stream, he caught sight of something which blotted out the starlight for a moment, and then the stars’ reflection beamed out again.

Something was evidently floating there, and he made for it, to find to his great joy that it was the floating box, which he pushed before him as he swam, and a couple of minutes later he was near enough to the edge on the meadow-side to ask Bob’s help.

“Ain’t got ’em, have you?” the latter whispered.

“Yes; all right. I’ll come out there. Give me a hand.”

Dexter swam to the muddy overhanging bank, and seized the hand which Bob extended toward him.

“Now then, shall I duck yer!” said Bob, who had lain down on the wet grass to extend his hand to the swimmer.

“No, no, Bob, don’t. That would be cowardly,” cried Dexter. “Help me to get out my clothes without letting in the wet. It is so cold.”

“But you swam over,” said Bob sneeringly.

“Yes; but you don’t know how chilly it makes you feel. Mind the clothes.”

Bob did mind, and the next minute Dexter and the barge of dry clothes were upon the grass together.

“Oh, isn’t it cold?” said Dexter, with his teeth chattering.

“Cold? no. Not a bit,” said Bob. “Here, whatcher going to do!”

“Do? Dress myself. Here, give me my shirt. Oh, don’t I wish I had a towel!”

“You leave them things alone, stoopid. You can’t dress yet.”

“Not dress!”

“No,” cried Bob loudly.

“What do you mean!”

“You come along and I’ll show yer. Why, we haven’t got the boat.”

“No, but—”

“Well, you’re all ready, and you’ve got to swim across and get it.”

“I’ve got to get it!” cried Dexter in dismay. “Why, you said you would get the boat.”

“Yes, but I didn’t know then that you were going to swim across.”

“But you said it would take two to get it,” protested Dexter.

“Yes, I thought so then, but you’re all ready and can swim across, and get it directly. Here, come along!”

“But—but,” stammered Dexter, who was shivering in the chill night air.

“What, you’re cold? Well, come along. I’ll carry the box. Let’s run. It’ll warm yer.”

Dexter was ready with another protest, but he did not utter it. His companion seemed to carry him along with the force of his will, but all the same there was a troublous feeling forcing itself upon him that he had made a mistake, and he could not help a longing for his room at the doctor’s with its warm bed, comfort, safety, and repose.

But he knew it was too late, and he was too much hurried and confused to do more than try to keep up with Bob Dimsted as he ran by his side carrying the box till they had reached the meadow facing Sir James Danby’s garden; and there, just dimly seen across the river, was the low gable-end of the boat-house beneath the trees.

“Hush! don’t make a row,” whispered Bob. “Now then, slip in and fetch it. Why, you could almost jump it.”

“But, Bob—I—I don’t like to go. I’m so cold.”

“I’ll precious soon warm yer if you don’t look sharp,” cried Bob fiercely. “Don’t you try to make a fool of me. Now then, in with you!”

He had put the box down and gripped Dexter fiercely by the arm, causing him so much pain that instead of alarming it roused the boy’s flagging spirit, and he turned fiercely upon his assailant, and wrested his arm free.

“That’s right,” said Bob. “In with you. And be sharp, and then you can dress yerself as we float down.”

Dexter’s instinct was to resist and give up, but he felt that he had gone too far, and feeling that his companion might consider him a coward if he refused to go, he lowered himself down into the water.

“That’s yer sort,” said Bob, in a loud whisper. “You’ll soon do it.”

“But suppose the chains are locked!”

“They won’t be locked,” said Bob. “You go acrost and see.”

In the eager desire to get an unpleasant task done, Dexter let himself glide down into the swift stream about a dozen yards above the boat-house, and giving himself a good thrust off with his feet, he swam steadily and easily across, the river there being about thirty yards wide, and in a very short time he managed to touch the post at the outer corner of the long low boat-house. Then, hardly knowing how he managed it, he found bottom as his hand grasped the gunwale of the boat, and walking along beside it he soon reached the chain which moored it to the end.

Here in his excitement and dread it seemed as if his mission was to fail. It was dark enough outside, but in the boat-house everything seemed to be of pitchy blackness, and try how he would he could find no way of unfastening the chain.

He tried toward the boat, then downwards, then upwards, and in the boat again, and again. His teeth were chattering, his chest and shoulders felt as if they were freezing, and his hands, as they fumbled with the wet chain, began to grow numbed, while, to add to his excitement and confusion, Bob kept on from time to time sending across the river a quick hissing—

“I say; look sharp.”

Then he heard a sound, and he splashed through the water in retreat toward the river, for it seemed that they were discovered, and some one coming down the garden.

But the sound was repeated, and he realised the fact that it was only the side of the boat striking against a post.

“I say, are you a-coming?” whispered Bob.

“I can’t undo the chain,” Dexter whispered back.

“Yer don’t half try.”

Just then the clock chimed half-past twelve, and Dexter stopped involuntarily; but a fresh summons from his companion roused him to further action, and he passed once more along to the prow of the boat, and seizing the chain felt along it till this time he felt a hook, and, wondering how it was that he had missed it before, he began with trembling fingers to try and get it out from the link through which it was thrust.

It was in very tightly, though, for the point being wedge-shaped the swaying about and jerking to and fro of the boat had driven it further and further in, so that it was not until he had been ready over and over again to give up in despair that the boy got the iron free.

Then panting with dread and excitement he found the rest easy; the chain was passed through a ring-bolt in one of the posts at the head of the boat-house, and through this he drew it back slowly and cautiously on account of the rattling it made.

It seemed of interminable length as he drew and drew, piling up the chain in the bows of the boat till he thought he must have obtained all, when there was a sudden check, and it would come no further.

Simple enough in broad daylight, and to a person in the boat, but Dexter was standing waist deep in the water, and once more he felt that the case was hopeless.

Another call from Bob roused him, and he followed the chain with his hand till he had waded to the post, and found that the hook had merely caught in the ring, and only needed lifting out, and the boat was at liberty.

But just at this moment there was a furious barking, and a dog seemed to be tearing down the garden toward the boat-house.

In an agony of horror Dexter climbed into the boat, and feeling the side of the long shed he thrust and thrust with so much effect that he sent the light gig well out into the stream and half-across the river. Then seizing an oar, as the dog was now down on the bank, snapping and barking more furiously than ever, he got it over into the water, and after a great deal of paddling, and confused counter-action of his efforts, forced the boat onward and along, till it touched the shore where Bob was waiting with the box.

“No, no, don’t come out,” he whispered. “Here, help me get these in.”

Dexter crept to the stern of the boat, and in his effort to embark the box nearly fell overboard, but the treasure was safe. Then Bob handed in a basket, and a bundle of sticks, evidently his rod, and leaping in directly after, gave the boat sufficient impetus to send it well out into the stream, down which it began to glide.

“Ah, bark away, old un,” said Bob contemptuously, as the sound of the dog’s alarm notes grew more distant, and then more distant still, for they were going round a curve, and the garden side of the river was thick with trees.

“Is that Danby’s dog!” whispered Bob.

“I don’t know,” said Dexter, with his teeth chattering from cold and excitement.

“Why! you’re a-cold,” said Bob coolly. “Here, I’ll send her along. You look sharp and dress. I say, where’s your bundle of things?”

“Do you mean my clothes?”

“No! Your bundle.”

“I didn’t bring anything,” said Dexter, hurriedly slipping on his shirt.

“Well, you are a chap!” said Bob sourly, but Dexter hardly heard him, for he was trying to get his wet body covered from the chill night air; and he could think of nothing but the fact that he had taken a very desperate step, and the boat was bearing them rapidly away from what seemed now to have been a very happy home—further out, further away from the doctor and from Helen, downward toward the sea, and over that there was a great black cloud, beyond which, according to Bob Dimsted, there were bright and glorious lands.

At that moment, chill with the cold and damp, Dexter would have given anything to have been back in his old room, but it was too late, the boat was gliding on, and Bob had now got out the sculls. The town lights were receding, and they were going onward toward that dark cloud which Dexter seemed to see more dimly now, for there was a dumb depressing sensation of despair upon him, and he turned his eyes toward the river-bank, asking himself if he could leap ashore.

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