The masqueraders had separated for the night; Bab, however, had asked to speak with the major before he went to his room. For half an hour she was closeted with him in his library. The time had arrived to tell him everything she knew about José.
The major had listened to her attentively. He had felt reluctance to believe anything against a guest, just on a mere chance resemblance, but certainly the circle was closing in around José.
“Do you think we had better do anything about it to-night?” he asked the girl, almost childishly. He felt obliged to ask advice in this very difficult situation, and who could give any better counsel than this fine, young woman, who had been able to keep a secret, and who was so wholesome and sweet with all her reserve?
“I don’t see what you could do, Major, in case he admitted he was guilty. You couldn’t arrest him very well to-night, unless you wanted to bind his arms and feet and take him to the nearest town. I don’t believe he has any idea of running away, because he doesn’t know we suspect him. At least he only vaguely knows it.”
“And, after all,” said the kindly old major, “it’s a pity to rout him out of his comfortable bed to-night. We will give the poor fellow another good night’s rest, and take one ourselves, too. Shall we not, little woman?”
“Yes, indeed, Major,” agreed Barbara, looking into his kindly, troubled eyes with respect and admiration. “And who knows? Maybe, in the morning, he can explain everything.”
“Indeed, my dear, I hope so,” he replied, opening the door for her and bowing good-night as if she had been Miss Sallie herself.
As Barbara started up the long staircase she felt lonely. The hall below looked vast and dark. Only a dim light was burning and every door was closed. Emerging from the shadows around the staircase she might have been a ghost of one of the early Ten Eycks in her old-fashioned peach-colored silk, with its full trailing skirt and pointed bodice. She hurried a little and wished she had got over the long space of hall which lay between her and her room; but she had scarcely taken a dozen steps before the door behind her opened. She stopped and looked back, thinking perhaps it was one of the servants waiting to put out the lights.
Standing in the doorway was a very old man. He carried a candle in one hand, and was peering at her in the darkness with that same expression ofwonder and surprise on his face that she had remembered to have seen before, for this was their third encounter, once in the woods, once in the library, and now.
“Barbara! Barbara Thurston!” he called in a quavering voice. “I have been waiting for you so long, so many years. I am old now and you are still young.” He stretched out his arms and came toward her.
Bab flew and almost ran into José, who opened his door at that moment. When they recovered themselves the old man was gone.
“Which way did he go?” asked José.
Bab pointed to the door without speaking, and, still trembling from fright, burst into her own room, where a strange scene was taking place. Three high-backed chairs were arranged in a row. Ruth in a dressing gown was crouching behind them, while Mollie and Grace sat hand in hand on the bed, giving little gasps of excitement and horror.
“This is the clump of bushes,” Ruth was saying, “and the three fights took place here and here, and here,” she went on, marking the spots with her toe. “Stephen and his man, who was none other than the giant tramp, fought straight out from the shoulder like this,” and she hit the air furiously with her doubled fists. “Then came Alfred and his friend. They didn’t hit.They gripped and rolled over and over in the dust. And last of all, poor Jimmie, who, in five minutes, lay like a warrior taking his rest.”
“Why, Ruth Stuart,” interrupted Bab, “I thought we were not to tell.”
“Sh-h! Don’t make so much noise, Bab. Aunt Sallie thinks we were safe in bed long ago. I’m not betraying confidence. Stephen told me I could tell Mollie and Grace if he could tell Martin. But, Bab, dear, what is the matter? Have you seen a ghost?”
“Yes,” replied Bab, “or rather the next thing to one. Really, girls, I’m getting more than my fair share this time. Ruth was in the fight, of course, but none of you have seen the old man who haunts the place, and I have seen him three times. He seems to be a perfectly harmless old man, but it does give one a start to meet him at midnight in a dark hall.”
“Why, Barbara, are you dreaming? What does it mean?” cried Mollie, seizing her sister’s hand and pulling her over on the bed beside them. “Why haven’t you told us before?” she added with a sisterly reproach. “It’s no fair keeping secrets all the time.”
“I am tired of secrets, too,” said Bab, “I started with major and I’ll just finish the thing before I lay me down this night to rest.”
When Bab had concluded her ghostly tale thegirls were really frightened. They tried the doors, opened all the closets and wardrobes and peered under the beds of both rooms.
“No one could climb up to these windows,” exclaimed Mollie. “But suppose there should be a secret door into one of these rooms?”
“What a horrible idea, Mollie Thurston!” exclaimed Ruth.
There was a sharp tap on the door. The four girls jumped as if they had been shot, and rushed together like frightened chickens.
“Girls,” said Miss Sallie’s voice, “go to bed this instant!”
“Right away, Aunt Sallie, dear,” answered her niece. When they were comfortably tucked in for the night, Ruth said to Bab:
“How do you suppose he knew your name?”
“I don’t know,” replied her friend, “unless I had a twin ancestor.”
At eleven o’clock the next morning the major’s guests assembled for a late breakfast. The boys were stiff from their encounters with the tramps, and Jimmie, especially, was an object of pity. The major looked serious. He had a disagreeable duty to perform, and he wished to avoid it as long as possible. Miss Sallie, alone, was animated and talkative. She had been entrusted with no confidences, and she felt the burden of no secrets. Neither did she guessthat something was impending that was bound to surprise and horrify her.
José had not made his appearance and the major was relieved. The hour of reckoning was at hand, and he wished it over and done with. His old friend’s son! Was it possible that a child of José Martinez could have so far forgotten the laws of hospitality as to rob and intrigue, and play tricks on his fellow guests?
“What a quiet, dull lot of people you are,” exclaimed Miss Sallie, who at last began to notice the gloom that had settled on the party. “What is the matter?”
“I think it must be the weather, Miss Stuart,” replied Stephen, coming to the rescue of the others. “It’s a very oppressively warm day, and the air is so dry it makes me thirsty.”
“It’s the sort of weather, I imagine, they must have in plague-stricken southern countries,” observed Ruth, “where there’s no water,” she continued drawing the picture which held her imagination, “and people are dropping around with cholera or the bubonic plague.”
“Cheerful!” exclaimed Jimmie.
“I wonder where José is this morning,” said Stephen, voicing the thought of everybody in the room except the unconscious Miss Sallie.
“Suppose you run up and see,” suggestedthe major. “Tell him, Steenie,” he added, patting his nephew affectionately on the shoulder, “that I wish to see him in the morning room when he finishes his breakfast. And, Stephen, my boy, don’t be rough with him. Remember what an ordeal we’ll have to put him through later. Good heavens!” he groaned, “such a lovely boy! If it only had not happened in my house!”
“Perhaps he can explain, in spite of everything,” replied Stephen.
Presently he returned to the library.
“José is not in his room. He didn’t sleep there last night. His bed is made up and there’s not a wrinkle on it.”
“Why, where can he be?” cried the major. “He couldn’t have run away, could he?”
“Perhaps he is taking a morning walk,” suggested Martin.
“Did he take anything with him!” asked Jimmie. “I mean are his things in his room?”
“I didn’t notice,” replied Stephen. “We’d better ask some of the servants, first, if they have seen him this morning, and then go back and have a look for ourselves.”
But the servants could give no information. On examining José’s room they found everything just as he had left it. He had taken nothing in his flight, not even a comb and brush.
“Even his pearl shirt studs are here,” said Jimmie.
“How about his leather motor clothes?” asked Stephen.
“Here they are,” replied his friend.
“How about his motor cycle?” asked the major with a sudden thought.
They ran down stairs and through the open door, followed by “The Automobile Girls,” who were filled with excitement. At the garage the chauffeur was busy cleaning the motor cars.
“Is Mr. Martinez’s motor cycle here, Josef?” demanded the major.
“Yes, sir,” answered the chauffeur looking up from his work, surprised at the visit of so many people at once.
“Have you see him this morning?”
“No, sir.”
“Strange,” said the major. “I can’t understand it. He must simply have slipped out of the house and gone for a long walk.”
“Uncle,” said Stephen, “suppose we wait until after lunch.”
“Wait for what, my boy?”
“Why, for José, I mean. And then, if he doesn’t turn up, we had better search for him.”
The party sat about listlessly until lunch time. It was too hot to talk and the oppressiveness of the atmosphere gave them an uneasy feeling.José had not taken even a hat, so Stephen said, and it turned out that only the day before the Spaniard had entrusted the major with a large sum of money to be locked in the family strong box until his visit was over.
“Stephen,” exclaimed the major, finally, as the afternoon began to wane, “I can’t stand this any longer. The boy may have wandered into the woods and been attacked by some of those tramp ruffians. Order the horses. We’ll ride to the Gypsy camp and take the road to town. Tell the girls to explain the situation to Miss Sallie while we are gone.”
Ruth and Barbara related to Miss Sallie their adventures of the day before. She went through a dozen stages of emotion, and fairly wrung her hands over the tramps. The part about José she could not believe.
“That nice boy!” she exclaimed. “It is impossible.” Then she grew indignant. “What does John Ten Eyck mean by bringing us into this lawless country, I should like to know?”
“But, auntie, the major declares it was never like this before. The woods have always beenperfectly safe. When Stephen and Martin were little boys they used to play in them with only Old Jennie to look after them.”
“Ruth,” cried Miss Sallie, “the major is one of the nicest men in the world, but he always would overlook disagreeable things. He runs away from anything that hurts. He may have overlooked the tramps and robbers, just as he has been blind to ugliness whenever he could.”
“He’s a dear,” said Mollie.
“Dear or no dear,” cried Miss Sallie, “this time we really must go. Tell the chauffeur to fix up the machine, Ruth, my child, for to-morrow we shall leave this barbarous place.”
“All right, auntie,” replied her niece, relieved that they were not to go immediately, since they all wanted to see the episode of José through.
Time passed, but the four horsemen did not return. The girls were sitting with Miss Sallie at the shady end of the piazza, watching the sun sink behind the forest. There was a smell of burning in the air that the sensitive nostrils of the chaperon had sniffed immediately.
“The wind must be blowing from the mountains to-day,” she observed. “I smell burning as plainly as if it were at our gates.”
“But, Miss Sallie,” said Grace, “remember that it smelt like this in New York last week.”
“My dear,” replied Miss Sallie, “I am perfectly familiarwith the smell of burning forests, I have smelt them so often in imagination. Why, see, the air is filled with fine ashes,” she exclaimed, shaking out her lavender skirts with disgust. She had hardly spoken before a tall figure was seen hurrying across the lawn.
“It’s blind Jennie,” cried Ruth. “Perhaps she can give us news of the major or José.”
As old Jennie approached they could see she was fearfully excited. Her face was working and several times she waved her stick wildly in the air. Just then a strange thing happened. Half a dozen terrified deer appeared from the direction of the forest, dashed madly across the lawn and disappeared in a grove on the other side. Squirrels and rabbits followed by the dozens, while distracted birds flew in groups and circled around and around the tops of the trees.
“What has happened, Jennie?” cried Ruth, shaking the blind woman by the arm.
Jennie seemed to scan the company with her sightless eyes, sniffing the air wildly.
“The woods are burning,” she said. “The flames are coming nearer. They are slow, but they are sure. Everything is so dry. You must hurry, if you would save the house!”
“Save the house?” repeated Miss Stuart mechanically. “Do you mean to say there is danger of this house being burned down? Isthe fire coming this way? Great heavens! Order the car at once, children. We must leave at any cost. This is the last straw!”
“But, Aunt Sallie,” urged Ruth, laying a detaining hand on her aunt’s arm, “you wouldn’t have us desert the major’s house, would you, and leave all these beautiful things to burn? Besides, we may be running away from the major and the boys. How do we know but that they are in the woods? They may need our help.”
“My child, we are not a fire department,” exclaimed Miss Sallie, “and if we are to save this beautiful house, how do you propose to do it?”
“If worse comes to worst,” cried Bab, “we can form a bucket brigade here, and keep the fire from getting to the house.”
“What about water?” demanded Miss Sallie.
“Don’t you remember the major said he had a well of water reserved for fires?” said Ruth.
“It may not be necessary to use the water,” Bab continued. “The first thing to do is to cut off the forest fire by having a trench dug on that side of the house. Everybody will have to get to work. Come on! We must not lose time.”
Miss Sallie ran into the hall and rang a bell violently. John, the butler, came at once.
“John,” she cried, speaking very rapidly, “the forest is on fire. Get every available personon the place as fast as you can, with shovels and hoes and help the young ladies dig a trench to protect the major’s house.”
John looked dazed, sniffed the air and ran without a word. Presently a bell thundered out in the stillness. It had not been rung for many years, but the employees on the place knew what it meant, and came running from their cottages, and the work of digging a trench beyond Ten Eyck Hall was begun. Each moment the air was growing more dense and a darkness was settling down which was lit up, toward the west, by a lurid glow. The heat was intense and fine ashes filled the toilers’ throats and nostrils. Birds, blinded by the smoke dashed past, almost hitting the workers’ faces. People came running from the burning forest, the old Gypsy woman and her granddaughter and other women from the Gypsy band. The men were bringing the wagons around by the road; old Adam and his wife, driving their wood cart and frantically beating the worn-out horse; and finally, the hermit, with his white locks flying. Ten Eyck Hall would seem to have been the refuge of all these terrified dwellers in the forest. They regarded it with pride and love. Even the Gypsies had sought its protection, and the gray, rambling old place appeared to stretch out its arms to them. Blind Jennie strode up and down thelawn, wildly waving her stick, while old Adam called to Miss Sallie:
“Where is the master? Where are the young masters?”
And where were the old master and the young ones? If ever they were needed, it was now!
In the meantime, the girls, leaving Miss Sallie to direct the digging of the trench, had run to the house.
“I think, Ruth,” called Bab, “we had better collect all the buckets and pails we can find.”
“Yes,” replied Ruth, “and the hose should be attached to the reserve well. John is attending to that. Mollie and Grace, run and get whatever blankets there are in the bed rooms, and close the windows all over the house.”
While John was attaching the hose to the faucet of the reserve well, Ruth and Bab invaded the enormous kitchen of the hall. The servants had fled. Only Mary and John could be depended upon. The pumping engine had been started and the tank was rapidly filling.
“O Ruth,” exclaimed Bab, “how careless of us to have forgotten the cars! The garage is nearest to the forest and the automobiles should be run out right off. We may need them if things get very bad.”
“Of course,” replied Ruth. “Where is thechauffeur? Did you ever know any of these people to be on hand when they were needed?”
Dashing to the garage, they cranked up the two machines and ran them out onto the lawn in an open space. José’s motor cycle came next.
“The fire has come,” cried Grace and Mollie running up with their arms full of blankets. They could hear the roaring, crackling sound as the flames licked their way through the dry underbrush.
“Where is Miss Sallie?” demanded Ruth. “She will faint in this terrible atmosphere.”
“There she is,” answered Grace; “she is overseeing the trench-digging. I think she has ordered them to make it broader.”
Miss Sallie, her lavender skirts caught up over her arm, was standing near the men, giving her orders as calmly as if she were in her own drawing room.
The line of forest about a quarter of a mile distant began to glow red. The girls clutched each other.
“There it is!” they cried. “And now to save the major’s house!”
Bab organized a bucket brigade with Mollie, Grace and the Gypsy women. John was ordered to manipulate the hose, while Bab and Ruth carried wet blankets over to the garage, the building nearest the line of fire. Then a crywent up from the men who were digging the trench. The flames, which had been steadily devouring the dried grass of the meadow dividing the garden from the wood, had reached the trench. A sudden gust of wind carried them over. Instantly a group of bushes caught fire; and, like an angry animal seeking its prey, a long, forked tongue licked the ground hungrily for a moment, paused at the gravel walk, followed its edge, eating up the short, dry grass in its path, and made for the garage. All this happened in much quicker time than it takes to tell it—too quickly, in fact for any precaution.
Never had “The Automobile Girls” displayed greater courage than at this critical moment. It was the time for quick action and quicker thought. The men who were digging the trench could not leave their work. They saw that, unless the trench were dug wider, it would be necessary to fight the flames back, and they were digging like mad to keep the fire from leaping the ditch again.
It was Mollie who saved them from a terribleexplosion by remembering the house where the gasoline was stored just behind the garage, and John and Adam rolled the tank to a distance temporarily safe at least.
Bab had found a ladder somewhere. Placing it against the garage she had scaled it like a monkey, carrying under one arm a wet blanket the weight of which she was too excited to notice. She never quite knew how she shinned up the roof, but presently she found herself astride the pinnacle. Zerlina had followed close behind, with more blankets and together the two girls spread them over the smoking shingles. When the roof was covered, they let themselves down and began dashing water on the smouldering walls. The bucket brigade was working well under the direction of Ruth, and the garage was saved.
Then a line of clipped bushes running from the garden to the forest, suddenly burst into flames. A cry went up from the workers at this terrifying spectacle. To the girls, it seemed like a gigantic boa constrictor racing toward them, and, for a moment, they turned cold with fear.
“All hands must help here!” cried Bab, taking command, as she naturally did in times of danger. “Zerlina, tell the men to come from the trench with their shovels. Bring pails ofwater, all of you,” she called to the Gypsies, “and the rest of the wet blankets.”
There was a rush and a scramble. They tried to beat down the angry little flames, dashed water on to them, choked them with wet blankets, trampled on them, and finally fell back, stifled and blinded with smoke and ashes, only to find the gasoline house a burning mass. It had gone up like a tinder box in an instant, and was reduced to ruins.
“If we have any more gusts of wind like that last, Bab, we are lost!” cried Ruth, sobbing a little under her breath. “But, of course, if the worst happens, we can always take the automobiles. They can run faster than the flames.”
Back of the garage they could see another line of flames advancing like a regiment of cavalry.
“Great heavens!” cried Grace. “What shall we do now?”
“Don’t despair, yet,” answered Bab. “Those dividing hedges are very dry, but the flames don’t spread from them so quickly; and, besides, I believe the trench will stop them.”
“O Bab,” exclaimed Ruth, “do you think there will ever be an end to this? We are too tired to dig trenches, and the water is getting alarmingly low.”
“But there are two more cisterns,” replied the undaunted Bab.
Just then the wind, which, up to this time, except for a few brief gusts, had been merely a breeze, gathered new strength. Sparks began to fly from the burning underbrush in the wood. It had been a ground fire, owing to the long drought, and the trees still waved their green branches over the ruins at their feet.
Ruth seized Bab’s hand convulsively.
“Young ladies!” called a voice behind them. Turning, they confronted the hermit. “I am a very old man, but, if you will permit me, I will make a suggestion. Save what water is left for the roof, which should be deluged as soon as possible. The trench will stop the fire, but it cannot keep back the sparks and I see a wind has come up that is most dangerous.”
“Oh, thank you,” cried the two girls, seeing the wisdom of his suggestion immediately.
Miss Sallie, a tragic spectacle, came from around the house; her white hair tumbling down her back, her face gray with ashes and her lavender garments torn and wet.
“Girls,” she murmured, her voice trembling, from fatigue and excitement, “we have done all we could do for the major. I think we had better give it up and go while we can get away.”
“Let us have one more chance. Aunt Sallie, dearest,” begged Ruth, “and if that fails there will still be time to get away in the motor car.”
“What are you going to do now, child?” asked the poor woman distractedly.
“You go and sit down in one of the long chairs on the piazza and rest,” replied her niece, patting her hand tenderly, “and leave everything to us.”
The girls could hear the throbbing of the pumping engine somewhere below, as they dashed up the steps. John had connected all the cisterns and the machinery was working in good order. The candles and lanterns they carried hardly made an impression in the blackness of the great empty garret, but an exclamation from John called attention to the fact that the sliding partition was down.
“I never knew it to happen before,” he said, “except once when I was too small to understand.”
“How are we going to manage?” asked Grace, looking overhead.
“Through the scuttle to the roof,” replied Barbara, pointing to a ladder leading to a trapdoor.
John climbed up first, opening the scuttle, and everybody lent a hand in lifting out the hose he had brought along. Barbara and Zerlina followed to the roof, which was steep and much broken by pinnacles and turrets; yet in contrast with the attic it was quite light outside,and the girls could see perfectly where to step without slipping.
Only two people were needed, it was decided. Bab would not hear of Ruth’s coming, on account of the latter’s horror of high places. It was certain that Mollie and Grace were not agile enough for the experiment, and Bab and Zerlina had already proved what they could do when they scaled the garage roof.
The three girls left behind climbed onto a balcony just outside one of the attic windows and watched, with tremulous interest, what was happening on the roof.
Thus Zerlina and Barbara, with old John, were left alone on top of Ten Eyck Hall. They had a wonderful view of the smoking forest, the tops of whose trees were waving in the steadily rising wind. The trench had, indeed, stopped the course of the flames which had run along the meadow hedges, and there were no more lines of fire to be seen; but there was a bright glow toward the back and a sound of crackling wood. Then came a burst of flames and the onlooker saw that the stable was burning. A spark lit on Bab’s wrist; another touched her on the cheek, and presently a gust of wind brought dozens of them twinkling like shooting stars at night. They fell on the shingled roof, smouldered for a moment and went out. Othersfollowed. It could be only a matter of a little while, thought Bab, before the hall would be in flames if they were not prompt with the water.
“It’s all right, Miss,” called John’s voice from behind the tank on the part of the roof over the attic. There was a gurgling noise and a swift jet of water burst from the nozzle of the hose.
With Zerlina’s assistance, Bab began watering the roof. But the tallest peak was beyond reach of the hose. There the sparks were smouldering into life and Bab distinctly saw a a little puff of flame lick out and then go back again like a cunning animal biding its time.
Bab ran over to the tank.
“John,” she called, “get a ladder and a pail.”
Together they unhooked the ladder attached to the tank and dragged it over to the high center peak of the roof. There was a pail, also, which they filled with water. While the old man held the ladder Bab climbed up, taking the pail from Zerlina. Several times the brave girl dashed water over the smoking shingles until every spark was dead. Then, standing on one foot, on the top rung of the ladder, Bab braced herself with a lightning rod running up the side of the turret, and leaned over to see if all were well on its other section. Below her she could see the girls on the balcony peering up at her with frightened eyes. Lifting herself entirely off the ladder, for an instant, Bab glanced around the turret. In slipping back, her foot missed the rung. The shock made her lose her grip on the lightning rod, and like a flash she slid down the steepest part of the roof now slippery from its recent wetting. There was nothing to hold to, nothing to cling to, and she closed her eyes from the horror that was before her.
Like a Flash She Slid Down the Steepest Part of the Roof.Like a Flash She Slid Down the Steepest Part of the Roof.
It is said that a great many things pass through one’s mind at such brief, tense moments as these, when death is almost certain.
The thought that came to Bab’s mind, however, was her mother’s prayer, “Heaven make me calm in the face of danger.”
There was, of course, a shudder of horror, a wild, ineffectual effort to save herself—a shock.
When she opened her eyes, three pairs of arms encircled her, and three sobbing faces hovered over her. She had landed upon the roof of the balcony where the girls were waiting. Except for a bruised arm, she had met with no harm.
“Why, girlies,” she said, smiling a little weakly, “were you so frightened?” and then closed her eyes again.
Zerlina and John came tumbling down the ladder. The Gypsy girl was as white as a sheet and old John was openly sobbing.
“I’m all right,” Bab assured them, standing up and shaking herself to bring her sensesback. She bathed her throbbing wrists and temples, and all climbed down into the lower regions of the house. It was decided to water the side of the house, and after that nothing more could be done. The whole place was lit up with the burning stable, and sparks were flying in every direction. The wind had risen to a gale and the skies were overhung with a black canopy of clouds kindled by occasional flashes of lightning. There was a low grumbling sound of thunder. Down the avenue came the clatter of horses’ hoofs. At the same time there was a terrific clap, and the rain poured down in torrents.
“Here they are!” cried the girls as Major Ten Eyck and the boys leaped from their horses and dashed up the piazza steps. José was not with them.
The major and his nephews were shocked at the appearance of their guests, who were hardly recognizable. Jimmie Butler retired behind a curtain and give vent to one little chuckle. He would not, for anything, have let them know how funny they looked.
“I shall never forgive myself for leavingyou,” groaned Major Ten Eyck. “Why did you not take the car and leave the old place to burn? How can the boys and I ever thank you?” he continued, with emotion.
Before Stephen would give an account of the search for José he made Ruth repeat the history of the afternoon from beginning to end. The major and the boys were filled with admiration and wonder for these four brave “Automobile Girls” and Miss Stuart.
“There is nothing we can do,” exclaimed Jimmie, “to show what we feel, except to lie down and let you walk over us.”
“And now for José,” prompted Ruth, when she had finished her story.
“Well,” replied Stephen, “we got news of José almost as soon as we had passed the Gypsy camp. A man on the road told us he had seen a boy who answered the description exactly, walking on the edge of the forest. We traced him back into the country to a farm house, where according to the farmer, he had stopped for a drink of water and turned back again toward the forest. It was necessary to come back by a roundabout way because of the cliffs on the outer edge, and not until we reached the hermit’s house did we realize there was a fire that must have been started by those tramps, for it was at its worst about where they were yesterday. Wewere frantic when we saw that it was blowing in the direction of the hall, but we couldn’t get through and had to go the whole way around. Our only comfort, when we saw the glow of the burning stable, was that you had taken the automobile and gone back to Tarrytown.”
The faithful old butler appeared with lights, and informed the major that the other servants had returned very repentant, and if agreeable, dinner would be served in half an hour.
“But I think the ladies will be much too tired to come down again,” protested the major.
“Oh, no, we won’t,” answered Ruth. “If there’s enough water left to wash in I would rather dress and come downstairs for food.”
“So would we all,” chorused the others, except Miss Sallie, who took to her bed immediately, and dropped off to sleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
“Stephen,” asked Ruth at dinner, “do you believe poor José was caught in the fire?”
“It’s rather a horrible idea,” said Stephen, “yet I don’t know what else to think. He must have caught wind, somehow, that we had found him out and concluded to hide in the woods.”
“Old Jennie wishes to speak to you, sir,” announced John.
“Bring her in here,” ordered the major, and Jennie was ushered into the dining-room.“How are you, Jennie? I am glad to see you,” said the major, leading her to a chair. “I hope you were not injured by the fire?”
“Be there anyone here but friends?” whispered Jennie.
“No one, Jennie. What is it?”
“When the storm came up I went straight to the forest,” said the old woman. “Adam went with me and we took his horse and wagon. The fire had not touched the road and the ground was wet where we walked. As we passed by the place——” here she put her finger to her lips and gazed wildly about, “you remember, young ladies? I went over to see if all was well. The door was open and on the floor lay the young man. He is not dead, but he is very ill here,” old Jennie pressed her hand to her chest. “He has swallowed the smoke. We put him in the wagon and he is outside.”
“José here? Outside?” they all cried at once, rushing to the front door.
In the pouring rain, Zerlina and her grandmother were leaning over a young man stretched out prone in Adam’s wagon. He wore the green velveteen suit now so familiar to “The Automobile Girls,” and through his belt gleamed the dagger he had used to slash the tires with. When he was lifted out, they caught a glimpse of his face. José it was, but José grown thin andhaggard in a day and a night. The boys carried him tenderly upstairs and laid him on his own bed. Zerlina and her grandmother followed close at their heels.
“Do you know him, then?” asked Stephen of the Gypsy girl.
“Yes,” she replied defiantly. “He is my brother. Antonio is his name.”
“Whew-w-w,” whistled Stephen under his breath. “So José was an impostor after all. I must say I hoped till the last.”
“Well, well,” answered the major, “we won’t hit a man when he is down, my son, and this boy is pretty sick. The girl is his sister, you say? She and her grandmother had better nurse him, then. Send the old woman to me. I want to speak with her in the library.”
After being closeted with Granny Ann for half an hour the major flung wide the library door and called to the others to come in. His good-natured, handsome face was wrinkled into an expression of utter bewilderment, but relief gleamed through his troubled eyes.
“Children,” he cried, “come here, every one of you. José is vindicated. Thank heavens for that. The boy upstairs is not our José at all, but his half-brother, Antonio. Now, where do you suppose José has hidden himself? I trust, I earnestly hope, not in the woods.”
“It seems,” continued the major, “José’s father was married twice. A nice chap, José. I trust he is safe to-night, for his poor father’s sake as well as for his own.”
“And his second wife, uncle?” interrupted Stephen.
“Yes, yes, my boy,” continued the major, patting his nephew affectionately on the shoulder, “and the second wife was a beautiful Gypsy singer, who had two children, Zerlina and Antonio, the unfortunate young man now occupying José’s room. A Gypsy rarely marries outside her own people and this one longed to return to her tribe. One day she ran away taking her children with her, and Martinez never saw his wife again, for she died soon after. He has tried, in every way, to recover the children, but until now the Gypsies have always managed to hide them effectually. Since they were children Antonio has hated his half brother José and from time to time has threatened his life. Once, in Gibraltar, the brother almost succeeded in killing him.” (The girls remembered how much José had disliked the mention of Gibraltar.) “Antonio was a bad boy, utterly undisciplined. He ran about Europe and this country, seeing what harm he could do, but neither his father nor his brother could ever locate him. José finally heard that the childrenwere in America and came over to try to reason with the Gypsies to let Zerlina, at least, go to school. I do not suppose he reckoned on finding them so near, and, when Antonio tried to rob and murder, José was divided in his mind as to whether to give his brother up or let him go. He must have suffered a good deal, poor fellow. I wish José had confided his troubles to me. Now, maybe, it’s too late to help him.”
“And the knife?” asked Bab.
“There were two knives which belonged to the Martinez family. The Gypsy took one away with her when she left her husband.”
“Will Antonio stay here to-night, Major?” said Mollie, timidly, remembering the masked robber and his murderous weapon.
“He is too ill, now, to do any harm, little one,” replied the major, taking her hand. “Besides, his grandmother and sister will watch over him I feel certain, and who knows but the boy may have some good in him after all?” he added, always trying to see the best in everybody.
“Nevertheless, we’ll lock our doors,” exclaimed Ruth. “It’s not so easy to forget that our highwayman is sleeping across the hall.”
Bab had hardly reached her room before she was summoned to the door by Stephen, looking so serious and unhappy that she felt at once something had happened.
“Bab,” he said, “I am afraid you are not done with your day’s work yet for the Ten Eyck family. I am about to ask you a favor, and I must confide something to you that has been a secret with us now for three generations. First, are you afraid to go with me over to the right wing? John and Mary will go, too, and you need really have nothing to fear, but the dread——” he paused and bit his lip.
“Why, no, Stephen, I am not afraid,” replied Bab, “and I promise to guard faithfully any secret you want to tell me,” she added, giving him her hand in token of her pledge. She suspected they were going to visit the old man she had seen wandering about the house and forest.
“I will tell you the secret as we go along,” Stephen said, leading the way to the end of the hall, where they found Mary and John waiting. The four started down a long passage opening into the right wing of the building. “We aregoing, now,” continued Stephen, “to visit a very old man who lives in the right wing. He is my great-uncle, Stephen Ten Eyck. When he was quite a young man he met with a sorrow that unhinged his mind and he—well, he committed a crime. It was never proved that he had done it, but the Ten Eyck family knew he had. However, his most intimate friend took the blame upon his shoulders.”
“Why did he do that?” asked Bab.
“Because, Bab,” replied Stephen, “they both loved a girl, and the girl’s name was Barbara Thurston. She must have been your great-great-aunt. Did you ever hear of her?”
“If I ever did, I have forgotten,” answered Bab. “You see, after father’s death, we had no way to learn much about his family and mother knew very little, I suppose.”
“Well, Barbara Thurston was engaged to marry my great-uncle. They were all staying at the same hotel, somewhere in the Italian lake country—Barbara and her mother and my great-uncle Stephen and his friend. One day the friend persuaded Barbara to go out rowing with him. There was a storm and the boat upset, and Barbara was drowned. It was said that the friend and the boatman swam ashore and left her, but that is hard to believe. Anyway, when my uncle got the news, something snappedin his brain and he killed the boatman with an oar. The friend made his escape and the flight proved to the authorities that he had committed the crime. The Ten Eycks all knew that Uncle Stephen had done it, but it seemed of little use, I suppose, to tell the truth, because the slayer, Uncle Stephen, had gone clean crazy, and his friend could not be found. They have never seen each other since, until——”
Stephen paused.
“Until when, Stephen?”
“Until to-night, Barbara. Can you guess who the friend is?”
“The hermit?” asked Barbara, with growing excitement.
“Yes,” replied Stephen; “the poor old hermit who has lived near his friend all these years without ever letting anybody know.”
“And your uncle has been living in the right wing ever since?” asked Bab.
“Yes. It was his father’s wish that the right wing be absolutely his for life and that the secret be kept in the family. The old fellow has never hurt a fly since the night he killed the Italian boatman. His attendant is as old as he, almost, and sometimes Uncle Stephen gets away from him. Have you ever seen him?” Stephen looked at her curiously.
“Yes,” replied Bab, “several times.”
“And never mentioned it? Really Bab, you are great.”
“Oh, I finally did tell the girls, only last night. I was just a little frightened. Your Uncle Stephen called me by name. But, by the way, none of you knew about the name before. How was that?”
“To tell the truth, I had never heard the girl’s name in my life, and it was so long ago that Uncle Stephen had forgotten it. It was the hermit who revealed the whole thing. He took refuge here from the fire, and after you girls had gone upstairs he sent for Uncle John. It seems the hermit has been with Uncle Stephen most of the afternoon, keeping him quiet and away from the fire. The poor old fellow was scared, he said, but he is himself again and they both want to see you. But that is not the chief reason you are sent for. Uncle Stephen insists that he has something he will tell only to you. All day long he has been calling for you, and Uncle John Ten Eyck thinks it may quiet him if you will consent to see him for a few minutes.”
The two had paused outside of a door at the end of the passage, to finish the conversation, while Mary and John had gone quietly inside. Presently John opened the door.
“It’s all right, sir,” he whispered. “You and the young lady may come in.”
They entered a large room, furnished with heavy old-fashioned chairs and tables. There were bowls of flowers about and Bab heard afterwards that the poor, crazed old man loved flowers and arranged them himself. Standing near the window was the hermit. When he saw Bab his face was radiated by such a beautiful smile that tears sprang to the girl’s eyes. Lying on a couch, somewhat back in the shadow, was Stephen’s uncle of the same name. His attendant, also an old man, who had been with him from the beginning, was sitting beside him.
Stephen Ten Eyck the elder opened his eyes when the door closed. He also smiled, as the hermit had done, and Bab felt that she could have wept aloud for the two pathetic old men.
“My little Barbara has come back at last,” Uncle Stephen said, taking her hand. “I am very happy. And my old friend Richard, too,” he went on, stretching the other hand toward the hermit. “Dick,” he went on, “I always loved you so. I don’t know which I loved the most, you or sweet Barbara here. Heaven is good to bring me all these blessings at once. Don’t cry, little girl,” he added, tenderly, for the tears were rolling down Barbara’s cheeks and dropping on his hand. “But I must not forget,” he exclaimed suddenly. “I have something to tell you, Barbara, before it clouds overhere,” he tapped his brow. “Go away all of you. This is for her ears alone. It is a secret.”
The others moved off to a corner of the room and the old man went on whispering mysteriously. “We were the last who saw him, you and I. He followed me that night. Do you remember? He fell. He is lying at the foot of the stairs now. There is a gash in his head and—blood!” “Press the panel in the attic——” The old man’s voice died away in a gasp.
“Which panel?” asked Bab, in an agony for fear he would not finish.
“The one with the knot hole in the right hand corner,” he added and fell back on the couch.
Bab tried to make him tell more, but his mind was clouded over and he had already forgotten she was there.
“Has he finished?” asked Stephen.
“Yes,” replied Bab, “but come quickly. We have no time to lose. José is lying somewhere, dead or half dead, in the secret passage.”
Too much excited and amazed to say good-night to the hermit, the callers rushed down the passage, followed by the two servants. At the foot of the attic stairs they waited while John brought lights, and for the second time that day Bab climbed into the vast old attic.
“Thank fortune the partition is down,” exclaimed Stephen. “I suppose Uncle Stephenforgot to slide it back, he was in such a hurry to get away from José.” Bab had explained the situation, to Stephen while they waited for the candles. “Which panel did he say, Bab?”
“This must be it,” she answered; “the panel in the right-hand corner that has a knot hole in it. Here is the knot hole all right. We are to press it, he said.”
They pressed, but nothing happened.
“Press the knot hole, why don’t you?” suggested Bab.
One touch was enough. The panel opened and disclosed a long passage cut apparently through the wall. There were several branch passages leading off from the main one, marked with faded handwriting on slips of paper, one “To the Cellar,” another “To the Library” and finally the last one “To the Right Wing.”
“This must be the one,” said Stephen, as they groped their way along single file. “Be careful,” he called; “there should be a flight of steps along here somewhere.”
Presently they came to the steps. Up through the dense blackness they could faintly hear a sound of moaning.
“All right, José, old fellow, we are coming to you,” cried Stephen, while Bab’s heart beat so loud she could not trust herself to speak.
Groping their way down the narrow stairway,they came to a landing almost on a level with the ceilings of the first floor rooms. At the far end of the passage they could hear a voice calling faintly.
“He probably fell the length of the steps, and dragged himself across,” exclaimed Stephen, holding his lantern high above his head.
They found José stretched out by a narrow door opening directly into the right wing. There was a gash just above his temple which he himself had bound with his handkerchief and his leg appeared to be broken at the ankle.
“José, my poor boy,” cried Stephen, “we have found you at last!”
José smiled weakly and fainted dead away.
The two men carried him back up the flight of steps, not daring to try the experiment of the passage leading to the library.
“I suppose Uncle Stephen has known these passages since he was a child,” said Stephen in a low voice to Bab as they passed through the attic, “and when his attendant is asleep, no doubt he steals off and wanders about the house. I believe he has always had a mania that he was being pursued by the Italian boatman; and when José followed him, right on top of his meeting with you, it was too much for the old fellow.”
“He’s a dear old man,” returned Bab, “andhow he must have suffered all these years; that is, whenever his memory returned.”
“And think of the hermit, too, who sacrificed his entire career for you, Miss, just because you never learned to swim.”
Bab smiled. “If my Aunt Barbara had lived by the sea as I have, she would never have had to wait for boatmen and lovers to pull her out of the deep water. Swimming is as easy as walking to me.”
“I am glad you’ve learned wisdom in your old age,” replied Stephen as they paused at the door of the bedroom given to José.
“There is one thing I cannot believe,” declared Bab, “and that is that the hermit swam off and left Aunt Barbara to drown.”
“Who knows?” answered Stephen. “People lose their heads strangely sometimes.”
It was Alfred, destined to be a great doctor, who set José’s leg that night.
Four days had passed since the exciting happenings of that eventful day that had begun with the disappearance of José, and had ended with his discovery.
“I have much to be thankful for,” said themajor to Miss Sallie, who was reclining in a steamer chair on the piazza. She had not left her bed until the afternoon of the third day, and was still a little shaky and nervous.
“I can’t think what they are, John,” she replied severely. “You have had nothing but misfortunes since we came to stay under your roof. I hope they may end when we leave.”
“The first one,” said the major, smiling good-humoredly, “is that I have had the privilege of knowing how splendid American women can be in time of danger. I always admired the women of my country, but never so much as now,” he added, looking fondly at his old friend.
“Yes,” assented Miss Sallie proudly, “my girls are about as fine as any to be found in the world, I think. They are wholesome, sensible, and never cowardly. Undoubtedly they saved Ten Eyck Hall for you, Major, by their combined efforts, and by Bab’s bravery in watering the roof when the sparks began to fly.”
“You were just as wonderful as the girls, Sallie, my dear. They tell me you superintended the digging of the trench and managed your men with the coolness of a general; and that when the fire leaped over the trench you were there with the bucket brigade to put it out. The girls were no whit less courageous in your day than they are now, Sallie.”
“And what is the second blessing you have to be thankful for, John?” interrupted Miss Sallie.
“That José is the boy I took him to be—a good, honest, noble fellow.”
“I must say I liked him from the first moment I set eyes upon him,” said Miss Stuart.
“Yes,” continued the major; “his father might well be proud of him. He deserves the highest commendation for his forbearance and unselfishness in regard to that brother of his.”
“How is the brother, by the way?” asked Miss Sallie.
“You know he was taken to the hospital the day after he was brought here; well, the boys went over in the car yesterday. Antonio is much better. His sister is tending him. He is very repentant, she says, and has consented to go to school and turn over a new leaf. In fact, I myself have had a long talk with him. I can see that there is great good in the boy. It has simply been perverted by evil associations.”
“Ah, Major,” exclaimed his old friend, smiling indulgently as she tapped his arm with her fan, “you are truly the most optimistic soul in the world. I hope all your golden dreams about this wretched boy’s future will come true. But what about his sister!”
“José is anxious for her to go to a school in America. He believes she could not endure therestraint of a European school after her free, open-air life. She is only too anxious. She wants to cultivate her voice, and the old grandmother appears really relieved at the turn affairs have taken. She was willing to concede anything to keep the grandson out of jail.”
“Then my Ruth will not be able to gratify her whim to educate the Gypsy girl,” pursued Miss Sallie.
“Not exactly,” replied the major. “José’s father is very well-to-do, as the world goes, but Ruth is to take charge of Zerlina’s education and look after her generally. She has asked José to allow her that privilege, as she put it.”
Just then the girls came around the corner of the piazza, after a stroll in the garden.
“How fresh and delicious the air is since the rain!” exclaimed Barbara. “There is still a faint smell of burning. Do you think all the trees in the forest will die, Major?”
“Old Adam says they will not,” answered the major. “A three months’ unbroken drought will dry up almost anything but trees. Now, while the underbrush and dried fern burned like tinder, the fire hardly touched the trees. It was those dead bramble hedges dividing the fields and the dried meadow grass that did the most damage, because the sparks from them ignited the garage and the roof of the stable.”
“I am glad papa and Mrs. Thurston were not uneasy about us,” observed Ruth. “If they had read the papers before you telegraphed, Major, they would have been frantic, I suppose.”
“Make way for the Duke of Granada,” called Jimmie’s cheerful voice from the hall, and presently he appeared, pushing José, done up in bandages and lying flat on his back, on a rolling cot used by some invalid of the Ten Eyck family long since dead and gone.
“José, my boy,” exclaimed the major, going to the foot of the cot to ease it as it passed over the door sill, “do you think this is safe?”
“The doctor says it will not hurt him,” replied Jimmie. “He needs company, but we won’t let him stay long.”
José smiled up at the faces leaning over him.
“You have all been so good to me,” he said. “I want to thank you for your kindness and for believing in me when my character looked black enough to have condemned me without any more proof. And I want to thank you for my brother, too, and my poor little sister.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“There, there,” cried the major, pressing the boy’s hand. “It’s a little enough we have done, I’m sure. I only wish we could have saved you from your tumble,” he added, gazing sadly toward the right wing of Ten Eyck Hall.
“And is it really true that our friends are going to leave us this afternoon?” asked José.
“Yes,” answered the major; “all our girls and boys are going. We shall be lonesome enough when they are gone.”
There was the sound of a motor horn down the avenue.
“Ah, here comes Stephen at last. I was afraid he would be late,” said Major Ten Eyck, as his automobile pulled up at the door and Stephen, Martin and Alfred jumped out.
“I’ve got them, uncle,” cried Stephen. “They arrived this morning.” And he handed his uncle a registered package carefully done up and sealed with red sealing wax.
The major took the box and disappeared into the house while the boys exchanged significant looks.
“Stephen,” said Bab, as they strolled down to the end of the-piazza while the others were examining the morning papers and reading their mail, “did you ever ask José where he was the morning we went to see the hermit!”
“Oh, yes,” replied her friend; “or, rather, he told me without being asked. He was to meet his brother by appointment at the haunted pool. I suppose he was there too soon, because Antonio chose to inflict us with his antics before he went to see José, who heard a great deal of thenonsense, so he said, and there was a quarrel afterwards, a very bitter one, and José threatened to give Antonio over to the authorities unless he consented to give up his lawless life. Zerlina was hovering around later, and heard the pistol shots after the fight with the tramps. She thought, of course, it was a duel between her two brothers. That is why she paid you the mysterious visit and tried to read the note.”
“How does Antonio strike you?” asked Bab.
“Just as a mischievous boy might. I think he will outgrow his vicious tendencies now that he has been taken hold of. For one thing he no longer hates poor old José. I told him, plainly, what a fine fellow his brother was, and that it was only on José’s account we were not going to have him arrested. He seemed to be a good deal impressed, I think.”
“A note for you, Miss,” said John, handing Bab a three-cornered missive on a tray.
“Will Miss Barbara Thurston grant one last interview to an old admirer?” the note ran.
“It’s from your great-uncle,” exclaimed Bab, giving Stephen the note to read.
Stephen smiled as his eye took in the crabbed, old-fashioned handwriting.
“The poor old fellow can’t quite get the proper focus as to who you really are,” he said. “You appear to represent two Barbarasto him. But you will go over for a few minutes, won’t you, Bab? I doubt if Uncle Stephen will last much longer, and seeing you may be a great comfort to him.”
“Of course I will,” Bab replied. “If seeing me can bring a ray of pleasure into his life, I am glad enough to be able to do it. I should like to take him a few flowers. I know he loves them. Suppose we get some honeysuckle and late roses out of the garden before we go.”
Together they strolled toward the major’s garden, which the flames had spared, partly because it was protected by a high brick wall on three sides, and partly owing to a daily watering it had received from the gardener.
With Stephen’s penknife they clipped a bunch of dewy white roses with yellow centers, and a few sprays of honeysuckle whose fragrance was overpoweringly sweet.
The old man was watching for the young people at the window when the attendant opened the door for them. He came forward with some of the major’s grace and took Barbara’s hand in his.
“It was very good of you to come,” he said. “I heard you were going, and I wanted to say a last good-bye. I feel happier than I have felt in many years. You have forgiven me, have you not, little Barbara?” he went on, his mindconfusing her again with that other Barbara whose tragic death had bereft him of his reason. “And you have brought me the roses, too?”
She nodded her head.
“Did they come from the bush near the arbor?”
“Yes,” she replied, wondering a little.
“Don’t you remember that it was our bush, the one we chose when you were here on a visit? Our white rose bush, Barbara. That you should not have forgotten, after all these years!” Then his memory came back. “But what am I saying?” he exclaimed. “My mind often gets confused. It was the likeness, I suppose. I want you to see this portrait of your grand-aunt.”
He went over to a desk near the window and drew from one of its drawers an old daguerreotype.
“It is very, very like,” he murmured, as he handed it to Barbara.
It was, indeed, even more like the present Bab than the miniature which the hermit had treasured during his years of solitude.
“I want you to keep this picture, Barbara,” said Stephen’s uncle. “I have another one, and it will be a pleasure to me, at the last, to know that it belongs to another Barbara Thurston.This ring must also be yours.” He drew from the desk a little black velvet case. “It was a ring I gave to her after we were engaged. Will you wear it for me!”
Barbara opened the case and slipped the ring on her finger. It was a very old ring of beaten silver with a sapphire setting.
“Thank you,” she said and gave him her hand.
“Good-bye, little Barbara!” cried the old man. “You have brought peace to me at last. You and my dear friend, Richard. I have changed a great deal, you see,” he was lapsing back into the old mania, “but you are as young and pretty as ever, Barbara.”
“It is time to go,” whispered Stephen, hurriedly. The attendant had already opened the door for them and they slipped out together.
“The hermit has promised to come and see him every day,” said Stephen, as they hastened through the passage. “Indeed, Uncle John has invited the hermit to live at Ten Eyck Hall for the rest of his days, and he has all but consented. He is a wonderful old man, I think, and whether he swam off and left ‘you’ or not, he has atoned for it after all these years.”
“Stephen,” replied Barbara, “I shall never believe that he did that, no matter if he were to tell me so himself.”
They reached the piazza just in time to hear Miss Sallie saying:
“Girls, I think we had better go up and get ready for the trip, before luncheon is announced. We want to start promptly, this time, even if we shall have such an excellent guard of young men. José, I am sorry you are not well enough to come in to our last meal,” she added, turning to the sick boy and taking his hand. “But we shall run up and say good-bye to you before we leave, and if ever you go as far west as Chicago, I want you to come and see us. Perhaps Ruth and I shall see you and your father this autumn when we are in Europe.”
“Indeed, I hope you will come to Madrid and visit at my home,” cried José. “Will you not arrange it?”
“That would be delightful” said Miss Sallie, “but we shall be over only for six weeks. We must return in time for Ruth’s school, you know.”
The last luncheon at Ten Eyck Hall was a very gay one. The dangers of the previous week were over and the mysteries cleared away.
The major fairly beamed on his guests across the hospitable board.
“It must have been Miss Sallie’s fault,” thought Mollie, watching his handsome face with a secret admiration. “He is certainly thedearest old man alive. I wonder if she isn’t sorry now?”
And as if in answer to her unspoken question, she heard Miss Sallie saying:
“John, I hope this is not the last visit you will let us make to Ten Eyck Hall. In spite of its fires and tramps I should like to come again.”
“I should be the happiest man in the world if you only would,” he answered. “I am greatly relieved that you haven’t got an everlasting prejudice against it.”
“When I settle down for the winter,” Jimmie Butler was heard to remark above the hum of conversation, “I mean to take up a certain study and not leave off studying it until I have graduated with diploma and honors.”
“What is it, Jimmie?” demanded the others.
“Prize fighting,” he replied. “I intend to learn wrestling and boxing, likewise just plain hair-pulling and scratching. Prize fighting in all its varieties for me before another year rolls round.”
“You will have to go into training, then, Jim,” exclaimed Alfred. “You will not be permitted to eat anything you like and not too much of anything else.”
“No more hot bread for you, Jimmie,” continued Stephen. “No more waffles and Johnnie-cakes. You will have to punch the bagmornings, when you would rather be sleeping, and give up theatres in the evenings for early bedtime. It’s a fearful life, my boy.”
“Be that as it may,” persisted Jimmie, “I’m going to learn how to deal a blow that will give a man a black eye the first time, and if ever I get hold of that wiry individual who gave me these in the woods, yonder,” he pointed to his red nose and discolored eye, “he’ll get such a ‘licking’ as he’ll remember to his last hour. Even Stephen’s giant won’t be a match for me.”