Giving the pole a sharp thrust, she shoved it in under the bank, beneath the water. The trout! The precious trout! Ah, she could not leave them. Hastily she snatched them up, and thrust all three inside her gingham waist, dropping them in with a wrench at the neck-band.
"Ugh! how they squirm," she cried, softly.
Then, creeping to the water's edge, she dived in—neatly as any trout could have done it—and disappeared. One who did not know Bess Thornton might well have been alarmed now, for the child seemed to be lost. The surface of the brook where she had gone down remained unruffled. Then, clear across on the other side, one watching sharply might have seen a child's head appear out of the pool, at the edge of a clump of bull-rushes; might have seen her emerge half out of water, and hide herself from view of anyone on the opposite shore.
She had swum the entire width of the pool under water.
From her hiding-place she saw Farmer Ellison rush suddenly from cover upon the very place where she had sat, fishing. She saw him run, furiously, hither and thither, beating the underbrush with his cane, shaking the stick wrathfully. His face showed the keenest disappointment and chagrin.
Up and down the shore of the pool he travelled, searching every clump that might afford shelter.
"Well," he exclaimed finally, "I must be going wrong, somehow. First it's the mill I hear, when it isn't grinding, and now I see somebody fishing when there isn't anybody. I'll go and take some of them burdock bitters. Guess my liver must be out of order."
Farmer Ellison, shaking his head dubiously, and casting a backward glance now and then, strode up the hill, looking puzzled and wrathful.
When he was a safe distance out of the way, a little figure, dripping wet, scrambled in across the bog on the other side, and stole up through the fields to the old tumble-down house.
"What's that you're cooking, child?" called out a voice, some time later, as the girl stood by the kitchen stove.
"M-m-m-m gran', it's something awful good. Do you smell 'em?" replied the child, gazing proudly into the fry-pan, wherein the three fat trout sizzled. "Well, I caught 'em, myself."
"I do declare!" exclaimed Grannie Thornton. "I didn't know the trout would bite now anywhere but in Jim Ellison's pool."
The girl made no reply.
"You like 'em, don't you, gran'?" she said, gleefully, some moments later, as she stood watching the old woman eat her breakfast with a relish. Grannie Thornton had eaten one trout, and was beginning on the half of another.
"They're tasty, Bess," she replied. "Where did you catch 'em? I thought the fishing in the brook wasn't any use nowadays."
The girl stood for a moment, hesitating. Then she thought of the old woman's words of the night before.
"I caught 'em in the pool, gran'," she said.
The iron fork with which Grannie Thornton was conveying a piece of the trout to her mouth dropped from her hand. The last piece she had eaten seemed to choke her. Then she tottered to her feet with a wrench that made her groan.
"You got 'em from the pool!" she screamed. "From the pool, do you say? Don't yer know that's stealing? Didn't I bring you up better'n that? What do you mean by going and being so bad, just 'cause I'm crippled and can't look after yer? Would you grow up to be a thief, child?"
The old woman's strength failed her, and she fell back on the couch. The girl stood for a moment, silent, the tears rolling down her cheeks.
"But you said 'twas all ours, anyway, gran'," she sobbed. "Will I have to go to prison, do you think?"
"Nonsense!" cried Grannie Thornton. "But if Ellison found it out—"
Bess Thornton was darting out of the doorway.
"He'll find it out now," she said, bitterly. "I'll tell him. I don't care what happens to me."
Benjamin Ellison, James Ellison's nephew, a heavy-set, large-boned, clumsily-built youth, lounged lazily in the dooryard of the Ellison homestead as the girl neared the gate, a quarter of an hour later.
"Hello, Tomboy," he said, barring her entrance, with arms outstretched. "Don't know as I'll let you in this way. Let's see you jump the fence. Say, what's the matter with you? Ho! ho! Why, you look like that cat I dropped in the brook yesterday. You've got a ducking, somehow. Your clothes aren't all dry yet. Who—?"
The youth's bantering was most unexpectedly interrupted. He himself didn't know exactly how it happened. He only knew that the girl had darted suddenly forward, that he had been neatly tripped, and that he found himself lying on his back in a clump of burdocks.
"Here, you beggar!" he cried, spitefully, scrambling to his feet and making after her. "You'll get another ducking for that."
But the girl, as though knowing human nature, instinctively ran close beside another youth, of about the same size as Benjamin, who had just appeared from the house, caught him by an arm and said, "Don't let him hurt me, will you, John? I tripped him up. Oh, but you ought to have seen him!"
Her errand was forgotten for an instant and she laughed a merry laugh.
The boy thus appealed to, a youth of about his cousin's size, but of a less heavy mould, stood between her and the other.
"You go on, Bennie," he said, laughing. "Let her alone. Oh ho, that's rich! Put poor old Bennie on his back, did you, Bess? What do you want?"
The girl's mirth vanished, and her face flushed.
"I want to see your father," she said, slowly.
"All right, go in the door there," responded John Ellison. "He's all alone in the dining-room."
Farmer Ellison, finishing his third cup of coffee, and leaning back in his chair, looked up in surprise, as the girl stepped noiselessly across the threshold and confronted him.
"Well! Well!" he exclaimed, eying her somewhat sharply. "Why didn't you knock at the door? Forgotten how? What do you want?"
The girl waited for a moment before replying, shuffling her bare feet and tugging at her damp dress. Then she seemed to gather her courage. She looked resolutely at Farmer Ellison.
"I want a licking, I guess," she said.
Farmer Ellison's face relaxed into a grim smile.
"A licking," he repeated. "Well, I reckon you deserve it, all right, if not for one thing, then for something else."
"I guess I do," said Bess Thornton.
"Well, what do you want me to do about it?" queried Farmer Ellison, looking puzzled. "Can't old Mother Thornton give it to you?"
"No," replied the girl. "She's sick. And besides, she didn't know what I was going to do. I did it all myself, early this morning."
Farmer Ellison looked up quickly. An expression of suspicion stole over his face. He looked at the girl's bedraggled dress.
"What have you been up to?" he asked, sternly.
"I've been stealing," replied the girl. "'Twas—'twas—"
Farmer Ellison sprang up from his seat.
"'Twas you, then, down by the shore?" he cried. "Confound it! I knew I didn't need them burdock bitters all the time I was takin' 'em. Stealing my trout, eh? Don't tell me you caught any?"
"Only three."
The girl half whispered the reply.
Farmer Ellison seized the girl by an arm and shook her roughly.
"Bring them back!" he cried. "Where are they?"
"I can't," stammered the girl; "they're cooked."
He shook her again.
"You ate my trout!" he cried. "Pity they didn't choke you. Didn't you feel like choking—eating stolen trout, eh?"
"Gran' did," said the girl, ruefully. "But 'twas a bone, sir. She didn't know they were stolen till I told her."
The sound of Farmer Ellison's wrathful voice had rung through the house, and at this moment a woman entered the room. At the sight of her, Bess Thornton suddenly darted away from the man's grasp, ran to Mrs. Ellison, hid her face in her dress and sobbed.
"I didn't think 'twas so bad," she said. "I—I won't do it again—ever."
Mrs. Ellison, whose face expressed a tenderness in contrast to the hardness of her husband's, stroked the girl's hair softly, seated herself in a rocking chair, and drew the girl close to her.
"What made you take the fish?" she inquired softly.
"Well, gran' said we ought to have the whole place by rights—"
Mrs. Ellison directed an inquiring glance at her husband.
"She's been complaining that way ever since I bought it," he said.
"And gran' was sick and I thought she'd like some of the trout," continued the girl. "She's got rheumatics and can't work this week, you know."
"But wouldn't it have been better to ask?" queried Mrs. Ellison, kindly. "Didn't you feel kind of as though it was wrong, eating something you had no right to take?"
"I didn't," answered the girl, promptly. "I didn't eat any. I was going to, though, till gran' said what she did—"
"Then you haven't had anything to eat to-day?" asked Mrs. Ellison, feeling a sudden moisture in her own eyes.
"No," said the girl.
"And what makes your dress so wet? Did you fall in?"
"No-o-o," exclaimed the girl. "I swam the pool. And I did it all the way under water. I didn't think I could, and I almost died holding my breath so long. But I did it."
There was a touch of pride in her tone.
"James," said Mrs. Ellison. "Leave her to me. I'll say all that's needed, I don't think she'll do it again."
"Indeed I won't—truly," said Bess Thornton.
Farmer Ellison walked to the door, with half a twinkle in his eye. "Clear across the pool under water," he muttered to himself. "Sure enough, I didn't need them burdock bitters."
A few minutes later, Bess Thornton, seated at the breakfast table in the Ellison home, was eating the best meal she had had in many a day. A motherly-looking woman, setting out a few extra dainties for her, wiped her eyes now and again with a corner of her apron.
"She'd have been about her age," she whispered to herself once softly, and bent and gave the girl a kiss.
When Bess Thornton left the house, she carried a basket on one arm that made Grannie Thornton stare in amazement when she looked within.
"No, no," she said, all of a tremble, as the girl drew forth some of the delicacies, and offered them to her. "Not a bit of it for me. I'll not touch it. You can. And see here, don't go up on the hill again, do you hear? Keep away from the Ellisons'."
She had such a strange, excited, almost frightened way with her that the child urged her no further, but put the basket away, put of her sight.
"Mrs. Ellison asked me to come again," she said to herself, sighing. "I don't see why gran' should care."
It was early of a Saturday afternoon, warm and sultry. Everything in the neighbourhood of the Half Way House seemed inclined to drowsiness. Even the stream flowing by at a little distance moved as though its waters were lazy. The birds and the cattle kept their respective places silently, in the treetops and beneath the shade. Only the flies, buzzing about the ears of Colonel Witham's dog that lay stretched in the dooryard, were active.
They buzzed about the fat, florid face of the colonel, presently, as he emerged upon the porch, lighted his after-dinner pipe and seated himself in a big wooden arm-chair. But the annoyance did not prevent him from dozing as he smoked, and, finally, from dropping off soundly to sleep.
He enjoyed these after-dinner naps, and the place was conducive to them. The long stretch of highway leading up from Benton had scarcely a country wagon-wheel turning on it, to stir the dust to motion. In the distance, the mill droned like a big beehive. Near at hand only the fish moved in the stream—the fish and a few rowboats that swung gently at their ropes at the end of a board-walk that led from the hotel to the water's edge.
The colonel slumbered on. But, far down the road, there arose, presently, a cloud of dust, amid which there shone and glittered flashes of steel. Then a line of bicyclists came into view, five youths, with backs bent and heads down, making fast time.
On they came with a rush and whirr, the boy in front pointing in toward the Half Way House. The line of glistening, flying wheels aimed itself fair at Colonel Witham's dog, who roused himself and stood, growling hoarsely, with ears set back and tail between his legs.
Then the screeching of five shrill whistles smote upon the summer stillness, the wheels came to an abrupt stop, and the five riders dismounted at a flying leap at the very edge of Colonel Witham's porch. The colonel, startled from sweet repose by the combined noise of whistles, buzzing of machines, shouts of the five riders and the yelping of his frightened dog, awoke with a gasp and a momentary shudder of alarm. He was enlightened, if not pacified, by a row of grinning faces.
"Why, hello, Colonel Witham," came a chorus of voices. "Looks like old times to see you again. Thought we'd stop off and rest a minute."
Colonel Witham, sitting bolt upright in his chair, and mopping the perspiration from his brow with an enormous red handkerchief, glared at them with no friendly eyes.
"Oh, you did, hey!" he roared. "Well, why didn't you bring a dynamite bomb and touch that off when you arrived? Lucky for you that dog didn't go for you. He'll take a piece out of some of you one of these days." (Colonel Witham did not observe that the dog, at this moment, tail between legs, was flattening himself out like a flounder, trying to squeeze himself underneath the board walk.) "What do you want here, anyway?"
"Some bottled soda, Colonel," said the youngest boy, in a tone that would seem to indicate that the colonel was their best friend. "Bottled soda for the crowd. My treat."
"Bottled monkey-shines and tomfoolery!" muttered Colonel Witham, arising slowly from his chair. "I wish it would choke that young Joe Warren. Never saw him when he wasn't up to something."
But he went inside with them and served their order; scowling upon them as they drank.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Making a fifty mile run, Colonel," replied one of the boys, whose features indicated that he was an elder brother of the boy who had previously spoken. "Tom and Bob—you remember them—are setting the pace on their tandem for Arthur and Joe and me. Whew, but we came up a-flying. Well, good day, we're off. You may see Tim Reardon by and by. We left him down the road with a busted tire."
They were away, with a shout and a whirl of dust.
"Hm!" growled the colonel. "I'll set the dog on Tim Reardon if he comes up the way they did. Here, Cæsar, come here!"
The colonel gave a sharp whistle.
But Cæsar, a yellow mongrel of questionable breeds, did not appear. A keen vision might have seen this canine terror to evildoers poke a shrinking muzzle a little way from beneath the board walk, emit a frightened whine and disappear.
Colonel Witham dozed again, and again slumber overtook him. He did not stir when Grannie Thornton, recovered from her attack of rheumatism, appeared at a window and shook a table-cloth therefrom; nor when Bess Thornton, dancing out of the doorway, whisked past his chair and seated herself at the edge of the piazza.
The girl's keen blue eyes perceiving, presently, an object in the distance looking like a queer combination of boy and bicycle, she ran out from the dooryard as it approached. Tim Reardon, an undersized, sharp-eyed youngster, rather poorly dressed and barefoot, wheeling his machine laboriously along, was somewhat of a mournful-looking figure. The girl held up a warning hand as he approached.
"Hello," said the boy. "What's the matter?"
The girl pointed at the sleeping colonel.
"Said he'd set the dog on you if you came around the way the others did," replied Bess Thornton. "They woke him up. My! wasn't he mad? Here," she added, handing a small box to the boy, "George Warren left this for you. Said they wanted to make time. That's why they didn't stop for you."
"Thanks," said the boy. "Thought I'd got to walk clear back to Benton. But I was going to have a swim first. Guess I'll have it, anyway. It's hot, walking through this dust."
"I'll tell you where to go," said the girl. "Do you know what's fun? See that tree way up along shore there, the one that hangs out over the water? Well, I climb that till it bends down, and then I get to swinging and jump."
Tim Reardon gave her an incredulous glance, with one eye half closed.
"Oh, I don't care whether you believe it or not," said the girl. "But I'll show you some time. Can't now. Got to wash dishes. Don't wake him up, or you'll catch it."
She disappeared through the doorway, and Tim Reardon, leaving his wheel leaning against a corner of the house, went up along shore. In another half hour he returned, took from his pocket the box the girl had given to him, got therefrom an awl, a bottle of cement and some thin strips of rubber, and began mending the punctured tire of the bicycle. The tire was already somewhat of a patched affair, bearing evidences of former punctures and mendings.
"It's Jack's old wheel," he remarked by way of explanation to Bess Thornton, who had reappeared and was interestedly watching the operation. "He's going to give me one of his new tires," he added, "the first puncture he gets."
"Why don't you put a tack in the road?" asked the girl promptly.
Tim Reardon grinned. "Not for Jack," he said.
"Say," asked the girl, "what's Witham mad with those boys about? Why did he send 'em out of the hotel the other night?"
"Oh, that's a long story," replied Tim Reardon; "I can't tell you all about it. Witham used to keep the hotel down to Southport, and he was always against the boys, and now and then somebody played a joke on him. Then, when his hotel burned, he thought the boys were to blame; but Jack Harvey found the man that set the fire, and so made the colonel look foolish in court."
But at this moment a yawn that sounded like a subdued roar indicated that Colonel Witham was rousing from his nap. He stretched himself, opened his eyes blankly, and perceived the boy and girl.
"Well," he exclaimed, "you're here, eh? Wonder you didn't come in like a wild Indian, too. What's the matter?"
"Got a puncture," said Little Tim.
The colonel, having had the refreshment of his sleep, was in a better humour. He was a little interested in the bicycle.
"Queer what new-fangled ideas they get," he said. "That's not much like what I used to ride."
Little Tim looked up, surprised.
"Why, did you use to ride a wheel?" he asked.
"Did I!" exclaimed Colonel Witham, reviving old recollections, with a touch of pride in his voice. "Well, now I reckon you wouldn't believe I used to be the crack velocipede rider in the town I came from, eh?"
Little Tim, regarding the colonel's swelling waist-band and fat, puffy cheeks, betrayed his skepticism in looks rather than in speech. Colonel Witham continued.
"Yes, sir," said he, "there weren't any of them could beat me in those days. Why, I've got four medals now somewhere around, that I won at county fairs in races. 'Twasn't any of these wire whirligigs, either, that we used to ride. Old bone-shakers, they were; wooden wheels and a solid wrought iron backbone. You had to have the strength to make that run. Guess some of these spindle-legged city chaps wouldn't make much of a go at that. I've got the old machine out in the shed there, somewhere. Like to see it?"
"I know where it is," said Bess Thornton. "I can ride it."
"You ride it!" exclaimed Colonel Witham, staring at her in amazement. "What?"
"Yes," replied the girl; "but only down hill, though. It's too hard to push on the level. I'll go and get it."
"Well, I vum!" exclaimed Colonel Witham, as the girl started for the shed. "That girl beats me."
"Look out, I'm coming," called a childish voice, presently.
The door of the shed was pushed open, and Bess Thornton, standing on a stool, could be seen climbing into the saddle of what resembled closely a pair of wagon wheels connected by a curving bar of iron. She steadied herself for a moment, holding to the side of the doorway; then pushed herself away from it, came down the plank incline, and thence on to the path leading from the elevation on which the shed stood, at full speed. Her legs, too short for her feet to touch the pedals as they made a complete revolution, stuck out at an angle; but she guided the wheel and rode past Tim Reardon and the colonel, triumphantly. When the wheel stopped, she let it fall and landed on her feet, laughing.
"Here it is, Colonel Witham," said she, rolling it back to where he stood. "Let's see you ride it."
Colonel Witham, grasping one of the handle-bars, eyed the velocipede almost longingly.
"No," he said. "I'm too old and stout now. Guess my riding days are over. But I used to make it go once, I tell you."
"Go ahead, get on. You can ride it," urged Tim Reardon. "It won't break."
"Oh no, it will hold me, all right," said Colonel Witham. "We didn't have any busted tires in our day. Good iron rim there that'll last for ever."
"Just try it a little way," said Bess Thornton.
"I never saw anybody ride that had won medals," said Tim Reardon.
Colonel Witham's pride was rapidly getting the better of his discretion.
"Oh, I can ride it," he said, "only it's—it's kind of hot to try it. Makes me feel sort of like a boy, though, to get hold of the thing."
The colonel lifted a fat leg over the backbone and put a ponderous foot on one pedal, while the drops of perspiration began to stand out on his forehead.
"Get out of the way," he shouted. "I'll just show you how it goes—hanged if I don't."
The colonel had actually gotten under way.
Little Tim Reardon doubled up with mirth, and rolled over on the grass.
"Looks just like the elephant at the circus," he cried.
"Sh-h-h, he'll hear you," whispered Bess Thornton.
Colonel Witham was certainly doing himself proud. A new thrill of life went through him. He thought of those races and the medals. It was an unfortunate recollection, for it instilled new ambitions within him. He had ridden up the road a few rods, had made a wide turn and started back; and now, as he neared the hotel once more, his evil genius inspired him to show the two how nicely he could make a shorter turn.
He did it a little too quickly; the wheel lurched, and Colonel Witham felt he was falling. He twisted in the saddle, gave another sharp yank upon the handle-bars—and lost control of the wheel. A most unfortunate moment for such a mishap; for now, as the wheel righted, it swerved to one side and, with increased speed, ran upon the board walk that led down to the boat-landing.
The walk descended at quite a decided incline to the water's edge. It was raised on posts above the level of the ground, so that a fall from it would mean serious injury. There was naught for the luckless colonel to do but sit, helpless, in the saddle and let the wheel take its course.
Helpless, but not silent. Beholding the fate that was inevitable, the colonel gave utterance to a wild roar of despair, which, together with the rumbling of the wheels above his head, drove forth his dog from his hiding-place. Cæsar, espying this new and extraordinary object rattling down the board walk, and mindful of the agonizing shrieks of his master, himself pursued the flying wheel, yelping and barking and adding his voice to that of Colonel Witham.
There was no escape. The heavy wheel, bearing its ponderous weight of misery, and pursued to the very edge of the float by the dog, plunged off into the water with a mighty splash. Colonel Witham, clinging in desperation to the handle bars, sank with the wheel in some seven feet of water. Then, amid a whirl and bubbling of the water like a boiling spring, the colonel's head appeared once more above the surface. Choking and sputtering, he cried for help.
"Help! help!" he roared. "I'm drowning. I can't swim."
"No, but you'll float," bawled Little Tim, who was darting into the shed for a rope.
Indeed, as the colonel soon discovered, now that he was once more at the surface, it seemed really impossible for him to sink. He turned on his back and floated like a whale.
And at this moment, most opportunely, there appeared up the road the line of bicyclists returning.
They were down at the shore shortly—Tom Harris, Bob White, George, Arthur and Joe Warren—just as Little Tim emerged from the shed, with an armful of rope.
"Here, you catch hold," he said, "while I make fast to the colonel." The next moment, he was overboard, swimming alongside Colonel Witham.
"Look out he don't grab you and drown you both," called George Warren.
Little Tim was too much of a fish in the water to be caught that way. The most available part of Colonel Witham to make fast to, as he floated at length, was his nearest foot. Tim Reardon threw a loop about that foot, then the other; and the boys ashore hauled lustily.
The colonel, more than ever resembling a whale—but a live one, inasmuch as he continued to bellow helplessly—came slowly in, and stranded on the shore. They drew him well in with a final tug.
"Here, quit that," he gurgled. "Want to drag me down the road?" The colonel struggled to his feet, his face purple with anger.
"Now get out of here, all of you!" he roared. "There's always trouble when you're around. Tim Reardon, you keep away from here, do you understand?"
"Yes sir," replied Tim Reardon, wringing his own wet clothes; and then added, with a twinkle in his eyes, "but ain't you going to show us those medals, Colonel Witham?"
It was lucky for Tim Reardon that he was fleet of foot. The colonel made a rush at him, but Tim was off down the road, leaping into the saddle of his mended wheel, followed by the others.
"Don't you want us to raise the velocipede, so you can ride some more?" called young Joe Warren, as he mounted his own wheel.
The colonel's only answer was a wrathful shake of his fist.
"Colonel Witham," said Grannie Thornton, as her employer entered the hotel, a few minutes later, "here's a note for you, from Mr. Ellison. Guess he wants to see you about something."
"Hm!" exclaimed the colonel, opening the note, and dampening it much in doing so, "Jim Ellison, eh? More of his queer business doings, I reckon. He's a smart one, he is," he added musingly, as he waddled away to his bed-room to change his dripping garments; then, spying his own face in the mirror: 'What's the matter with you, Daniel Witham? Aren't you smart, too? In all these dealings, isn't there something to be made?'
Colonel Witham, rearraying his figure in a dry suit of clothing, was to be seen, a little later, on the road to the mill, walking slowly, and thinking deeply as he went along. He was so engrossed in his reflections that he failed to notice the approach of a carriage until it was close upon him. He looked up in surprise as a pleasant, gentle voice accosted him.
"Good afternoon, Colonel Witham," it said.
The speaker was a middle-aged, sweet faced woman—the same that had appeased the wrath of her husband against Bess Thornton. She leaned out of the carriage now and greeted Colonel Witham with cordiality.
"Oh, how-dye-do," replied Colonel Witham abruptly, and returning her smile with a frown. He passed along without further notice of her greeting, and she started up the horse she had reined in, and drove away.
Only once did Colonel Witham turn his head and gaze back at the disappearing carriage. Then he glowered angrily.
"I don't want your smiles and fine words," he muttered. "You were too good for me once. Just keep your fine words to yourself. I don't want 'em now."
Colonel Witham, in no agreeable mood, went on and entered at the office door of the mill. A tall, sharp-faced man, seated on a stool at a high desk, looked up at his entrance. One might see at a glance that here was a man who looked upon the world with a calculating eye. No fat and genial miller was James Ellison. No grist that came from his mill was likely to be ground finer than a business scheme put before him. He eyed Colonel Witham sharply.
"Aha, Colonel," he exclaimed, in a slightly sneering tone, "bright and cheery as ever, I see. I thought I'd like to have you drop in and scatter a little sunshine. Sit down. Have a pipe?"
Colonel Witham, accepting the proffered clay and and the essentials for loading it, sat back in a chair, and puffed away solemnly, without deigning to answer the other's bantering.
James Ellison continued figuring at his desk.
"Well," said Colonel Witham after some ten minutes had passed, "Suppose you didn't get me down here just to smoke. What d'ye want?"
"Oh, I'm coming to that right away," replied Ellison, still writing. "You know what I want, I guess." He turned abruptly in his seat, and his keen face shaded with anger. He pointed a long lean finger in the direction of the town of Benton. "You know 'em, Dan Witham," he said, "as well as I do. Though you didn't get skinned as I did. You didn't go down to town, as I did twenty odd years ago, with eight thousand dollars, and come back cleaned out. You didn't invest in mines and things they said were good as gold, and have 'em turn out rubbish. You didn't lose a fortune and have to start all over again. But you know em, eh?"
Colonel Witham nodded assent, and added mentally, "Yes, and I know you, too. Benton don't have the only sharp folks."
"And now," added James Ellison, "when I've got some of it back by hard work, you know how I keep it from them, and from others, too. Well, here's some more of the papers. The mill and a good part of the farm and some more land 'round here go to you this time. All right, eh? You get your pay on commission. Here's the deeds conveying it all to you—for valuable consideration—valuable consideration, see?"
The miller gave a prodigious wink at his visitor, and laughed.
"You don't mind being thought pretty comfortably fixed, eh—all these properties put in your name? Don't do you any harm, and people around here think you're mighty smart. Your deeds from me are all recorded, eh? People look at the record, and what do they see? All this stuff in your name. Well, what do I get out of that? You know. There are some claims they don't bother me with, because they think I'm not so rich as I am. There's property out of their reach, if anything goes wrong with some business I'm in.
"Why? Well, we know why, all right, you and I. Here's the deeds of the same property which you give back to me. Only I don't have them put on record. I keep them hidden—up my sleeve—clear up my sleeve, don't I?"
"You keep 'em hidden all right, I guess," responded Colonel Witham; and made a mental observation that he'd like to know where the miller really did hide them.
"So here they are," continued the miller. "It's a little more of the same game. The property's all yours—and it isn't. You'll oblige, of course, for the same consideration?"
Colonel Witham nodded assent, and the business was closed.
And, some time later, as Colonel Witham plodded up the road again, he uttered audibly the wish he had formed when he had sat in the miller's office.
"I'd like to know where he keeps those deeds hidden," he said, apparently addressing his remark to a clump of weeds that grew by the roadside. The weeds withholding whatever information they may have had on the question, Colonel Witham snipped their heads off with a vicious sweep of his stick, and went on. "I don't know as it would do me any good to know," he continued, "but I'd just like to know, all the same."
And James Ellison, his visitor departed, wandered about for some time through the rooms of his mill. One might have thought, from the sly and confidential way in which he drew an eye-lid down now and again, as he passed here and there, that the wink was directed at the mill itself, and that the crazy old structure was really in its owner's confidence; that perhaps the mill knew where the miller hid his papers.
At all events, James Ellison, sitting down to his supper table that evening, was in a genial mood.
"Lizzie," he said, smiling across the table at his wife, "I saw an old beau of yours to-day—Dan Witham. He didn't send any love to you, though."
"No," responded Mrs. Ellison, and added, somewhat seriously, "and he has no love for you, either. I hope you don't have much business dealing with him."
"Ho, he's all right, is Dan Witham," returned her husband. "He's gruff, but he's not such a bad sort. Those old times are all forgotten now."
"I'm not so certain of that, James," said Mrs. Ellison.
Tim Reardon, a barefoot, sunburned urchin, who might be perhaps twelve years old, judging from his diminutive figure, and anywhere from that to fifteen, by the shrewdness of his face, stood, with arms akimbo, gazing in rapturous admiration at a bill-board. It was a gorgeous and thrilling sight that met his eyes. Lines in huge coloured letters, extending across the top of the board, proclaimed the subject of the display:
The pictorial nightmare that bore evidence to the veracity of these assertions was indeed wonderful and convincing. A trapeze performer, describing a series of turns in the air that would clearly take him from one end of the long bill-board to the other, was in manifest peril, should he miss the swinging trapeze at the finish of his flight, of landing within the wide open jaws of an enormous hippopotamus—designated in the picture as, "The Behemoth of Holy Writ." An alligator, sitting upright, and bearing the legend that he was one of the "Sacred Crocodiles of the Nile, to which the Indian Mothers Throw Their Babes," was leering with a hopeful smile at the proximity of a be-spangled lady equestrian, balanced on the tip of one toe upon the back of a galloping horse.
The jungle element was generously supplied by troops of trumpeting elephants, tigers with tails lashing, bloated serpents dangling ominously from the overhanging tree branches, while bands of lean and angular monkeys jabbered and chattered throughout all the picture.
Little Tim heaved a sigh.
"Gee!" he exclaimed. "I'd like to see that Royal Bengal tiger that ate up three of his keepers alive."
Little Tim, fired with the very thought, and emulative of an athlete in distorted attitude and gaudy fleshings, proceeded to turn himself upside down and walk upon his hands, waving his bare feet fraternally at the pictured gymnasts. He found himself suddenly caught by the ankles, however, and slung roughly across someone's shoulder.
"Hello, Tim," said his captor, good naturedly, "going to join the circus?"
Little Tim grinned, sheepishly.
"Guess not, Jack," he replied. "Say, wouldn't you like to see that tiger eat up a keeper?"
Jack Harvey laughed, setting Tim on his feet again.
"I'll bet that tiger isn't as great a man-eater as old Witham," he said. "They put that in to make people think he's awful fierce, so they'll go to the show. You going?"
Tim Reardon, thrusting his hands into his pockets and closing his fingers on a single five cent piece, three wire nails and a broken bladed jack-knife, looked expressively at Harvey.
"I dunno," he replied. "P'raps so."
Jack Harvey took the hint.
"Come along with us," he said. "Where's the rest of the crew?"
"They're going—got the money," said Tim.
Harvey looked surprised. His crew, so called because the three other members of it besides Tim Reardon had sailed with him on his sloop in Samoset bay, were generally hard up.
"All right," said Harvey, "you can go with Henry Burns and George Warren and me. Come on. Let's go down town and see the parade."
The blare of trumpets and the clashing of brass was shaking the very walls of the city of Benton. A steam calliope, shrieking a tune mechanically above the music of the band and the roar of carts, was frightening farmers' horses to the point of frenzy. Handsome, sleek horses, stepping proudly, were bearing their gaily dressed riders in cavalcade. And the rumble of the heavy, gilded carts gave an undertone to the sound. Bagley & Blondin's great moral and scientific show was making its street parade, prior to the performance.
Tim Reardon stood between Henry Burns and Jack Harvey on a street corner, with George Warren close by. Tim Reardon's eyes seemed likely to pop clean out of his head.
"There he is! There he is, Jack!" he exclaimed all at once, fairly gasping with excitement.
"Who is?" asked Harvey.
"The man-eating tiger," cried Tim. "It says so on the cage."
Harvey chuckled. "I'd like to throw you in there, Tim," he said. "He'd be scared to death of you. Here's the real thing coming, though. Say, what do you think of that?"
The float that approached was certainly calculated to fire the brain of youth. On the platform, open to view from all sides, there was set up in the centre the trunk of a small tree, to which was securely bound, by hand and foot, the figure of a huntsman, clad in garb of skins, buckskin leggings and moccasins. A powder horn was slung picturesquely from one shoulder, and a great hunting-knife—alas useless to him now—stuck conspicuously in his belt.
Around this hapless captive there moved the figures of three savages, their faces streaked with various hues of paint, their war-bonnets of eagles' feathers flaunting, and wonderful to behold. Each bore in his right hand a gleaming tomahawk, which now and then was raised menacingly toward the unfortunate huntsman. Again one would put his hand to his lips, and a shrill war-whoop would rival the screaming of the steam calliope.
Close by, a wigwam, of painted skins thrown over a light frame-work of poles, added to the picture. At the entrance to this there stood now a man in ordinary dress, who thus addressed the crowd through a megaphone:
"Ladies and Gentlemen, this historical representation which you now see before you is a scene from real life. It represents the perils of the plainsman in the midst of bands of cruel savages. It shows a captive bound to the stake and about to be put to torture. (Increased activity on the part of the Indians, and a suggestive squirming on the part of the prisoner.)
"Ladies and Gentlemen, this daring scout was one of General Miles's most trusted and heroic followers. (Name not mentioned.) He was captured by these three chiefs, Leaping Panther, Crazy Bear and Red Bull—a kinsman of the famous Sitting Bull—after one of the most desperate struggles ever known, and after twice disarming his adversaries and nearly killing them all. (Revengeful gestures on the part of the three toward the captive.)
"Ladies and Gentlemen, the continuation of this thrilling adventure, the rescue of this famous scout and the capture of Leaping Panther, Crazy Bear and Red Bull, will be enacted under canvas at the great Bagley & Blondin moral and scientific show this afternoon and evening."
"Hi! yi!" yelled Little Tim, "Real Injuns, Jack. Look at the big one, with the red streak across his chin."
Tim's shrill voice rang out above the noise of the procession. Perhaps it may have penetrated, even, to the group upon the float; for, at that moment, the great chief, Red Bull—kinsman to the sitting variety—turned and shook his tomahawk in the direction of the group of boys. Little Tim squealed in an ecstasy of pleasurable alarm.
"Look out; he'll get you, Tim," said George Warren.
"Gee!" exclaimed Little Tim. "Bet I wouldn't like to be tied to that tree, though."
"Why not?" asked Jack Harvey, grinning at Tim's serious expression.
"Because, how'd I know they wouldn't forget some time and go ahead and really scalp me? Oh, they might do it, all right. You needn't laugh. I wouldn't like to be mas-sick-ered the way they were at that Fort some-thing-or-other in the Last of the Mohigginses."
"Ho, you mean the 'Last of the Mohicans,'—the book I told you about, eh?" said Henry Burns—"all about Uncas and the rest."
"That's it," cried Little Tim. "Wouldn't I like to be Un-cuss, though, and scalp Red Bull."
"Fine!" laughed Henry Burns. "Come on, we'll go up to the circus grounds."
To Little Tim the afternoon was one glorious dream; a dream through which there pranced horses in bright trappings, ridden by be-spangled men and women; chariots rumbled in mad races; bicyclists shot down fearful inclines; and the whole proceedings made glad to the heart of the youngster by the roaring of wild beasts.
The impending torture of Gen. Miles's scout was happily averted by the timely arrival of a band of mounted soldiers, whose cracking rifles laid in the dust the painted warriors—barely in time to save Little Tim, also, from utter collapse. He emerged from the tent, some hours later, wild eyed; so freighted down with red lemonade and peanuts that if dropped overboard he must surely have sunk without a struggle.
Evening came, and with it the night performance. Night found Little Tim again on the grounds. True, he had no money for a ticket, but it was a delight to wander about the grounds; to climb upon the great carts and be chased off by angry circus men. The gaudy canvases, stretched here and there, reminded him of what he had seen inside; and he eyed them affectionately.
Once there was a thrill of excitement for him, when the Indian warriors, their evening act over, hurried past him in a group and disappeared within the opening of a small tent, on the outskirts of the grounds.
Time passed, and it had struck nine o'clock a half hour ago. The show would be over in half an hour more. Young Joe Warren, who had seen the main circus in the afternoon and who was strolling in and about the side-shows, suddenly found himself accosted by Tim Reardon, who gasped out a greeting as though the words choked him.
"Hello, Tim," replied Joe, eying him with astonishment. "Say, what's the matter? Any of the snakes got loose? You look as though they were after you."
Tim was breathless, sure enough, as though he were being pursued. His very eyes seemed to have grown larger, and he was hardly able to stand still long enough to reply.
"Come on, Joe," he whispered. "I'll show you something. Better'n snakes, a big sight. Easy now, don't talk. Follow me."
Young Joe Warren, a boy slightly taller than Tim and perhaps a year older, ready at all times for a lark, followed his barefoot guide, but on the look-out, half suspecting it was one of Tim's tricks. They threaded their way through a maze of carts and circus paraphernalia, out to the edge of the grounds; past a line of small tents, used as the encampment of the performers, to a grove of maple trees skirting the field.
"I say, Tim, what's up, anyway?" inquired Joe Warren presently. "You needn't think you can fool me—"
"Sh-h-h," warned Tim, turning and raising a hand to silence his companion. "Here he is."
He took a few steps forward, grasped Joe Warren's arm, brought him to a stand-still and pointed toward a figure that reclined upon a blanket spread beneath a tree.
"Well, what of it—what is it?" asked Joe Warren, "I don't see anything but somebody asleep."
Tim Reardon again gestured for silence and induced his companion to approach nearer. Whereupon he pointed gleefully at the face of the sleeper. Young Joe, bending down softly, beheld the painted features of the great chief, Red Bull.
"Hmph!" he exclaimed. "It's only one of the Injuns. Saw 'em at the show this afternoon."
Little Tim, in reply, seized Young Joe mysteriously by an arm, drew him away a few paces and whispered something, excitedly.
Young Joe gave a subdued roar.
"Cracky!" he cried, doubling up. "Tim, you're the craziest youngster. What put it into your head? We couldn't do it."
"No, you and I couldn't," answered Tim; "but the whole of us could—Jack Harvey and Henry Burns, and the rest of the fellers. Gee! Joe, just think of it. A real live Injun—a live one-'twould be just like the Last of the Mohigginses."
"What would we do with him if we got him?" asked Joe.
"Nothin'," replied Little Tim—"Oh, yes, we could,—take him off up stream to the camp and—dance 'round him, like they do in the show."
"Come on," said Joe Warren. "Let's find Jack and Henry Burns and George. They won't do it, though."
If one could have seen Henry Burns's eyes twinkle, when they had found the three a few moments later, however, they would have thought differently.
"Tim, you're all right," he said. "But how could we get him away from here?"
"Why, get the wagon," said Young Joe. "Come on, George, will you? I'll go down to the house for it, if you'll join. 'Twon't take more'n half an hour. You find Tom and Bob; they're 'round somewhere. Then wait here till I come back."
Young Joe, reading a half consent in his elder brother's hesitation, darted away. George Warren was not keen for it, however.
"Tim, you and Joe are a couple of young idiots," he exclaimed. "We're not going to do any such fool thing as that. We couldn't do it, in the first place."
"Yes we can," argued Little Tim. "He ain't got his tomahawk nor any scalping knife. And he ain't very much bigger than Jack."
Harvey drew himself up and felt of his muscle.
"Tom and Bob could lick him, without the rest of us," continued Little Tim.
Tom and Bob, who had been added to the group, likewise flexed their biceps and thought how strong they were.
"I ain't afraid," said Harvey.
"Nor I," said Tom and Bob, respectively.
Thus they argued. A half hour went by, and the band inside the tent was making loud music as a youth darted up to them, out of breath with running.
"Come on," cried Young Joe, softly. "I've got the wagon over back in the grove, and some ropes, and some cloth. Come and take a look."
To look was to yield. The sleeping, snoring figure of the great chief, Red Bull, gave no signs of suspicious dreams when, some moments later, a band of boys approached noiselessly the place where he lay. The moment could not have been timed more opportunely for success. The circus was about breaking up for the night, and the great tent was buzzing and resounding with noise.
A half dozen figures suddenly sprang forward upon the slumbering chieftain. The arms of the dread Red Bull, seized respectively by Jack Harvey and Tom Harris, were quickly bound behind him. A light rope, wound securely about his ankles by George Warren, and made fast in sailor fashion, rendered him further helpless; while, at the same time, a long strip of cloth, procured by Young Joe for the purpose, and swathed about his head, stifled his roars of rage and fright. Red Bull, the great Indian chief, the terror of the plains, was most assuredly a captive—an astounded and helpless Indian, if ever there was one.
Borne on the sturdy shoulders of his pale-face captors, Red Bull, bound and swathed, uttering smothered ejaculations through the cloth, was conveyed to the waiting wagon and driven away.
A little less than an hour from this time there arrived at the shore of Mill Stream a strange party, the strangest beyond all doubt that had come down to these shores since the days when the forefathers of circus chiefs had skimmed its waters in their birch canoes, carrying their captives not to pretended but to real torture.
Two canoes, brought down from an old shed, were launched now and floated close to shore. Into one of these was carried the helpless and enraged Red Bull, where he was propped up against a thwart. In front of him, on guard, squatted Little Tim. Jack Harvey and Henry Burns took their places, respectively, at stern and bow, equipped with paddles. The second canoe was hastily filled with the four others. They made a heavy load for each canoe, and brought them down low in the water.
"Easy now," cautioned Tom Harris, as the party started forth. "We're well down to the gunwales. No monkeying, or we'll upset."
They proceeded carefully and silently up stream, with the moon coming up over the still water to light them on their way.
A mile and a half up the stream, they paused where a shabby structure of rough boards, eked out with odds and ends of shingle stuff, with a rusty funnel protruding from the roof, showed a little back from shore, on a cleared spot amid some trees.
"Here's the camp," cried Harvey; and they grounded the canoes within its shadow.
The chief, Red Bull, clearly not resigned to his fate, but squirming helplessly, was conveyed up the bank and set down against a convenient stump. The canoes were drawn on shore, and the party gathered about him.
"What are we going to do with him, anyway, now we've got him?" inquired George Warren.
"Oh, he's got to be tried by a war council," said Henry Burns; "and all of us are scouts, and we've got to tell how many pale-faces he's scalped, and then he's got to be sentenced to be put to torture and scalped and—and all that sort of thing. And then we'll dance around him and—and then by and by—well, I suppose we'll have to let him go. I don't know just how, but we'll arrange that. But we've got to have a fire first, to make it a real war council."
They had one going shortly, down near the shore, and casting a weird glare upon the scene.
After a preliminary dance about their captive, in which they lent colour to the picture by brandishing war-clubs and improvised tomahawks, they sat in solemn council on the chief.
"Fellow scouts," said Henry Burns, addressing his assembled followers, "this is the great Indian chief, Magua, the dog of the Wyandots—"
"Whoopee!" yelled Little Tim, "that's him. He killed Un-cuss, didn't he, Henry?"
"The brave scout has spoken well," replied Henry Burns. "This is the cruel dog of the Wyandots; slayer of the brave Uncas; shot at by Hawkeye, the friend of the Delawares—"
"I thought you said he killed him—in the book," cried Little Tim.
"Shut up, Tim," said Joe Warren.
"He's alive again," declared Henry Burns, solemnly. "He was only wounded.
"Here is the cruel Huron," continued Henry Burns, "delivered into our hands by that daring scout who knows no fear."
Little Tim grinned joyously at this praise from his leader.
"What shall we do with our captive?" solemnly inquired Henry Burns. "Shall we show mercy to the slayer of the brave Uncas? Shall we be women and let him go, to roam the forests and ravage the homes of our settlers, or shall he be put to death?"
"He must die," growled Scout Harvey. "The daring leader has spoken well. Is it not so, men?"
The doom of Red Bull, otherwise Magua, the dog of the Wyandots, was declared.
The death of the captive followed swiftly—in pantomime—the brave scouts, under the leadership of Henry Burns, performing a series of dances about the helpless one, accomplishing his end with imaginary tomahawk blows.
"Now he must be scalped," said Henry Burns. "What say you, men, shall we cast the lot to see who takes the scalp of Magua, the great chief of the Hurons?"
It was done. The short stick was drawn by Little Tim—to his inexpressible joy.
"Take the scalping-knife, brave scout," said Henry Burns, handing him a huge wooden affair, whittled out for the purpose. "The scalp of Magua the chief shall hang at the cabin of Swift Foot, the scout who captured him."
Swift Foot advanced to perform the last act in the drama. It was a weird and dreadful moment. The fire-light cast its flickering glow upon the doomed chief, his captors and the executioner. The form of Magua was seen to quiver, as though life was indeed not all extinct.
Swift Foot performed his grim office with a flourish. The wooden scalping-knife descended upon the gorgeous head-piece of the victim, which the scout grasped with his other hand and pulled as he drew the knife.
But at this moment the form beneath the knife wriggled in the hands of the executioner; lurched to one side, and the head-piece fell away, so true to life that an involuntary shudder went through the group, as though the act had really been accomplished. The flaunting head-piece of eagle feathers fell indeed away, clutched in the hand of Little Tim. And, at the same instant, by some loosening of the cloth, that, too, dropped down, freeing the jaws of the Indian chief.
To their amazement, the fire-light shone now not on the straight black hair of an Indian, but upon a towsled top-knot of unmistakable red. While from the parted lips of the figure there issued a sound that was not of the child of the forest.
"Tim Reardon, yer little divvle," cried the victim, glaring at the astounded youth with unfeigned rage, "it's yerself I'll be takin the hair off—yer little scallerwag—an the hide of yer, too. Sure an ye'll be doin some lively dancin' around when I git me two hands on yer. Scoutin' is it ye'll be doin? I'll scout ye and the likes of all er ye. Lemme go, I tell yer,—"
The scalping knife dropped from the palsied hand of Swift Foot, the scout. He stood, glaring wildly at the outraged captive.
"Danny O'Reilly!" he exclaimed, gasping for breath. "Oh, gimminy crickets!"
"Yes, an it's Danny O'Reilly that'll be scalpin' ye all over from head to foot to-morrow," cried the captive, wriggling in his bonds. "Lemme out er this, I tell yez. Sure an I've got a hand out now, and in a minnit I'll be showin' the likes of ye what it is to take an honest man away from his job with the circus."
True enough, in some way, by his wriggling, Danny O'Reilly was rapidly emerging, not only from his disguise as an Indian chief, but from his bonds as well. Panic seized upon the brave scouts—a panic born of dread of what might be in store in days to come. There was a rush to the canoes; a hasty scrambling aboard; a frenzied launching of the craft, and an ignominious flight from the place of execution.
Five minutes later, one walking the highway leading up from Benton might have beheld a strange figure, striding in to the city, breathing words of wrath upon the night air; a figure clad in Indian finery, but bearing the likeness beneath his war-paint of Daniel O'Reilly, a stalwart labourer of Benton, for the time being a valuable accession to the Bagley & Blondin great moral and scientific show.
The circus remained two days longer in Benton, but there were certain youths who kept away from it. A solemn oath of secrecy bound them as to the reason why. Only Tim Reardon and Joe Warren couldn't resist the temptation of stealing in among the wagons and watching for the appearance of Danny O'Reilly in all the glory of his paint and feathers; and, when they beheld a crowd of farmers gaze upon him admiringly as he passed in for the Wild West performance, they nearly choked to death with laughter, and couldn't have run if he had espied them.
"Guess we won't get licked, after all," whispered Little Tim. "Not if we keep dark, we won't. Danny's going on with the show up the state. He told Jimmy Nolan, his cousin, and Jimmy told me. 'You'd never guessed he wasn't an Injun,' says Jimmy to me, 'unless I'd told yer. Don't you ever let on,' he says—and I like to died—hello, who's that coming?"
Looking in the direction pointed out by Tim Reardon, Young Joe beheld an old wagon, drawn by a lean horse, the seat of the wagon nearly bent down to the axles on one side by the weight of the occupant.
"Well, if it isn't Colonel Witham!" exclaimed Young Joe. "Didn't suppose he'd pay to go to a circus."
It seemed, however, that Colonel Witham had no immediate intention of entering the main tent, for he proceeded to walk along the line of smaller pavilions, where the side-shows proclaimed their many and monstrous attractions. The canvas of one of these presently attracted the colonel's attention, for he paused in front of it and stood studying it contemplatively.
Little Tim and Young Joe, stealing around in the rear of Colonel Witham, beheld the object of his curiosity. There was a full length portrait on the canvas, painted in brilliant colours, of a woman standing before an urn from which vague vapours were arising. She held in one hand a wand, with which she seemed in the act of conjuring forth a shadowy figure from within the vapours. A little black satanic imp peered coyly over her right shoulder. The inscription beneath her portrait read:
Something about the gaudy and pretentious sign seemed to fascinate Colonel Witham. He walked past it once, reading it out of the corner of one eye; but he went only a little way beyond, then turned and stopped and surveyed it once more. He edged up to the canvas, sidled into the entrance and disappeared.
"Cracky!" cried Young Joe. "Isn't that rich? The colonel's going to have his fortune told. Wow! wow! Suppose he's fallen in love?"
"Not much," said Little Tim. "He wants to know where he's lost a dollar, probably. Hello, Allan, come over here."
Little Tim, in high glee, bawled out a greeting to a comrade, Allan Harding, and conveyed the great news. The three stood awaiting the colonel's reappearance.
If they could have seen within the tent, they might have beheld Colonel Witham, seated at a table upon which a light was thrown, its object being not so much to illuminate the occupant of the seat as to obscure his vision. It served to render more shadowy a vague figure that occupied a little booth across which a gauze curtain hung, and from which a voice now issued:
"I see a dusty road, with fields running back from it," droned the voice, with mysterious monotony, while the person behind the veil scrutinized keenly the figure and dress of her visitor. "I see a great house a little way back from the road, with—with what seems to be a porch in front."
"Yes, yes," said Colonel Witham, beginning to be impressed, ignoring the fact that his person indicated his occupation and that the description would answer almost every farmhouse along the road from Benton.
"I see a figure sitting on the porch, and it resembles—yes, it is yourself. You are thinking. There is something that you want to know. You do not seem to be in love—"
Colonel Witham snorted—and the hint to the sorceress was sufficient.
"The stars are very clear on that point," continued the voice. "Your mind is bent on more serious things. You have a business matter that troubles you."
"Wonderful!" ejaculated Colonel Witham, under his breath. "What else do you see?" he inquired, eagerly.
"Let me read the stars," continued the voice. "I see what looks like another man."
"Yes, yes," said Witham, forgetting in his eagerness that he had come in, half skeptical, and meant to reveal nothing on his own part. "Is he hiding anything?"
"Wait—not so fast," replied the voice. Then, after a pause, "No, he is not hiding anything."
Colonel Witham's jaw dropped.
"But," continued the sorceress, "there is something strange about him. Wait, until I ask the spirits. They will tell something. Yes, he has something already hidden. It is secreted. He has hidden something away. Let me see, are they papers? They look like papers, but it is vague—"
"And where are they hidden?" cried Colonel Witham, rising from his seat eagerly.
"The spirits will not say," answered the voice. "They seem to be angry at something. Ah, they say they must have more money."
"But I paid at the door," protested Colonel Witham.
"Yes, but they are angry," said the voice. "They are angry at me for taking so little for all I impart. They will have two dollars more, or—yes, they are already disappearing—quick, or you will be too late."
Colonel Witham groaned in anguish; slowly produced a shabby wallet, took therefrom two greasy dollar bills and passed them across the table to an outstretched hand.
"Ah, they are coming back," said the voice. "Another moment and it would have been too late. Now the stars are coming out clearer also. What is it they tell? Ah, they say—listen—they say the man has concealed papers that are wanted by you—concealed themin his place of business."
"Yes, yes, but where?" cried Colonel Witham. "In the safe, or around the machinery—where-abouts?"
"Listen," said the voice. "The spirits seem angry again—"
"Let 'em be angry!" bellowed Colonel Witham. "They'll not get another cent, confound 'em!"
"Softly, softly," said the voice soothingly, "The spirits are greatly agitated by loud words. And the stars are growing dim once more. The spirits want no more money. They will tell you all; that is, all you need to know. Listen: They say you will find the papers. But you must be patient. They are hidden in a building where there are wheels turning rapidly. And the spirits say the noise hurts their ears. They say, though, that you must wait a little while, and then you will go into the building and find them. That is all now. You will certainly get them. The spirits are gone. They will not come back again to-day."
The voice became silent; and Colonel Witham sat sheepishly in his chair. Then he arose and walked slowly to the doorway. Had he been fooled? He did not know. It was certainly strange: how the voice had described his hotel—a big house with a porch—and he looking out—and the other man—the man that had hidden the papers. No, there was something remarkable about it all. He would surely get them. Colonel Witham emerged from the tent.
A chorus of three young voices greeted him:
"Hello, Colonel Witham, been having your fortune told? Tell us what the witch said, will you, colonel?"
The colonel, gazing at the grinning faces of Tim and Joe Warren and Allan Harding, flushed purple and raised his cane, wrathfully.
"You little ras—" he began, but bethought himself and halted. "Ho, ho," he said, looking half ashamed. "That was only a joke. Just took a notion to see how funny it was. Here boy, give these lads some peanuts." The colonel produced a dime from his trousers pocket.
"Say, Tim," said Joe Warren some moments later, "I guess the colonel is in love, after all. Ten cents' worth of peanuts! My, he's got it bad. Let's go tell Henry Burns."
A day or two following, toward the end of a pleasant afternoon, Tim Reardon and his friend, Allan Harding, sat by the shore of Mill stream watching a small fleet of canoes engaged in active manoeuvring. It was at a point on the stream opposite the scene of the execution of the great Indian chief, where the small cabin stood. Back from this a few rods was an old barn, of which the boys of Benton rented a small section for the storage of canoes and paddles.
There were four canoes now upon the stream, each containing two occupants. The eight canoeists were stripped for the work, showing a gorgeous, if somewhat worn, array of sleeveless jerseys. The boys were bronzed and healthy looking. Back and forth they darted across the stream from shore to shore; or again, tried short spurts up and down stream.
"What are they going to do, Tim?" inquired his companion.
"Don't you know?" queried Tim, by way of reply. "Say, it's going to be the dandiest race ever. Start to-morrow morning right after breakfast from in front of the cabin, and go straight up stream all day long. Only when Jack blows the horn at noon everybody's got to stop and go ashore and eat something. Then they start again when Jack blows for 'em to. And paddle like everything all the afternoon till six o'clock. Then stop again when Jack blows, and leave every canoe just where it is.
"Then they get together and pitch tents and camp all night, and race back next day. And everybody has got to come up to where the first canoe is before they turn back. Henry Burns, he got it up. I'll bet he and Jack win the race, too."
"What'll you bet?" demanded Allan Harding, who had been eying the canoeists sharply.
"Thousand dollars," replied Tim, promptly, shoving his grimy hands into pockets that contained several marbles, a broken-bladed knife and other valuables.
"Well," replied Allan Harding, cautiously, "mebbe you're right, but I guess those fellows in the green canoe stand a good chance. Look how strong they are. Say, who are they, anyway?"
"Hm! Jack Harvey's stronger'n any of them," asserted Jim loyally, eying his stalwart friend, as a canoe passed containing Harvey and Henry Burns. "Those other chaps are Jim and John Ellison. They live up on the farm above here. That's what makes 'em strong. But you know Jack. Didn't he make us stand around, aboard theSurprise?"
"Well, who's going to win, Tim?" called Tom Harris, as he skilfully turned the canoe paddled by himself and Bob White, to avoid collision with one which held George and Arthur Warren.
"'Spose you think you are," answered Tim, "because you and Bob know how to paddle best. Look out for Jack, though."
Tom Harris laughed. "You'd bet on Jack if he had a broken arm," he said.
"Count us last, I guess," said George Warren, good-naturedly. "We're pretty new at it. Going in for the fun of it. Hello, who's this coming?"
"Look out, Jim, it's Benny," exclaimed the elder of the Ellison brothers.
"I don't care. I won't stand any nonsense from him," replied his brother, a handsome young fellow, athletic, but slightly smaller than the other.
Just what he meant by this remark was best explained when Benjamin Ellison, strolling lazily down to the shore, paused in the process of devouring a huge piece of molasses cake and said, in a sneering tone:
"My, Johnnie, don't you and Jim look fine though, with city chaps? What'll Uncle Jim say when I tell him—"
He didn't get much further, for a canoe shot in to shore, and from the bow of it sprang John Ellison. He seized his cousin by the shoulder.