No words of mine can express the feeling that came over me as I read the superscription written on the envelope I had picked up in the old tool house.
Was it possible that this envelope contained the solution of the mystery that had taken away our good name and sent my father to prison? The very thought made me tremble.
The packet was not a thick one. In fact, it was so thin that for an instant I imagined the envelope was empty. But a hasty examination proved my fears groundless.
In nervous excitement I put the lantern down on the top of a barrel, and then drew from the envelope the single shoot of foolscap that it contained. A glance showed me that the pages were closely written in a cramped hand extremely difficult to read.
For the moment I forgot everything else—forgot that the Widow Canby's house had been robbed and that I was on the track of the robber—and drawing close to the feeble light the lantern afforded, strove with straining eyes and palpitating heart to decipher the contents of the written pages.
"I, Nicholas Weaver, being on the point of death from pneumonia, do make this my last statement, which I hereby swear is true in every particular."
This was the beginning of the document which I hoped would in some way free my father's character from the stain that now rested on it.
Exactly who Nicholas Weaver was I did not know, though it ran in my mind that I had heard this name mentioned by my father during the trial.
Beyond the opening paragraph I have quoted the handwriting was almost illegible, and in the dim light it was only here and there that I could pick out such words as "bank," "assumed," "risk," "name," and so forth, which gave but an inkling of the real contents of the precious document.
"It's too bad," was my thought. "I'd give all I possess to be able to read this right off, word for word."
Hardly had the reflection crossed my mind when a noise outside startled me. I had just time enough to thrust the paper into my pocket when the door was swung open and the tramp appeared.
He was evidently as much surprised as I was, for he stopped short in amazement, while the short pipe he carried between his lips fell unnoticed to the floor.
I rightly conjectured he had not noticed the light of the lantern and fully believed the tool house tenantless.
"You here!" he cried.
"It looks like it, doesn't it?" was all I could find to reply, and as I spoke my hand sought the pistol I carried.
"What brought you here?" he demanded roughly.
"I came after you," I returned as coolly as I could; and by this time I had the pistol where it could be brought into instant use.
"What do you want of me?"
"I want you to hand over the money you stole awhile ago."
"What are you talking about? I never stole any money."
"You did. You broke into the Widow Canby's house less than an hour ago. Come, hand over that money."
The fellow gave a coarse laugh. "Ha! ha! do you think I'm to be bluffed by a boy? Get home with you, before I hammer you for calling me a thief."
"That's just what you are, and I don't intend to go until you hand over the money, John Stumpy," I returned decidedly.
"Ha! you know my name?"
I bit my lip. I was sorry for the slip I had made. But I put on a bold front. "I know what you are called," I replied.
"What I am called?"
"Yes."
"What do you mean? Come, out with it."
"I will when I please. In the meantime hand over that money."
"You talk like a fool!" he cried.
"Never mind. You'll find I won't act like one."
"What do you know about me?" he went on curiously, believing, no doubt, that he was perfectly safe from attack.
"I know more than you think. I know you are a burglar, and may be worse."
"I'll kill you!" he cried, rushing forward.
"Stand where you are!" I returned, pulling out the pistol. "Don't stir a step."
He did not see the weapon until he was fairly upon me. The glint of the nickeled steel made him shiver.
"Don't shoot!" he cried in sudden terror, that showed he was a coward at heart. "Don't—don't shoot."
"I won't if you do as I tell you."
"Do what?"
"Give up the widow's money."
"See here, young fellow, you've made a mistake. I never was near the widow's house, 'cepting this morning."
"I know better. You just broke open her desk and stole over two hundred dollars."
"It's a mistake. Put down the pistol and I'll tell you all about it."
"I'm not such a fool, Mr. John Stumpy, or whatever your name is," was my decided reply.
The tone of my voice disconcerted the man, for he paused as if not knowing what to say next.
"Say, young feller, do you want to make some money?" he asked suddenly, after a short pause.
The change in his manner surprised me.
"How?" I asked, although I knew about what was coming.
"I've got nearly three hundred dollars in cash with me. I'll give you fifty of it if you'll go home and say you couldn't find me."
"Thank you; I'm not doing business that way," I rejoined coldly.
"Fifty dollars ain't to be sneezed at," he went on insinuatingly.
"I wouldn't care if you offered me fifty thousand," I cried sharply. "I'm no thief."
"Humph; don't you suppose I know who you are?" he went on. "You're the son of a thief. Do you hear that?—the son of a thief! What right have you got to set yourself up to be any better than your father was afore you?"
"Take care!" I cried, my blood fairly boiling as I spoke. He saw his mistake.
"I didn't mean no harm, partner. But what's the use of being high toned when it don't pay?"
"It always pays to be honest," I said firmly.
"There are those who don't think so any more than I," he replied.
"My father never was a thief. They may say all they please, I will always think him innocent."
"Humph!"
"If it hadn't been for men like you and Nicholas Weaver, my father would never be in prison."
The words were out before I knew it. They were most injudicious ones.
"What do you mean?" gasped the man. "What do you know about Nick Weaver?"
"More than you imagine. When he died he made a confession&—"
"It's false. Nick Weaver wasn't in his right mind when he died, anyhow."
"Perhaps he was."
"What you&—" began the man. Then he paused and began a rapid search in his pockets. "You've got that paper," he cried hoarsely. "Give it up," and as he spoke, John Stumpy took a threatening step toward me.
"Stand back!" and I raised the pistol.
I was trembling in every limb, but I actually believe I would have fired it if he had rushed upon me.
"I won't. Give up that paper."
"Never. I'll die first."
And die I would. His earnestness convinced me of the letter's worth. If it contained that which could clear my father's name, only death would be the means of parting me from it.
"Give it up, I say! Do you think I'm to be defeated by a boy?"
"Stand back!"
I raised the pistol on a level with his head. As I did so, he made a dash forward and caught up a stick which was lying near.
"I'll fix you!" he roared, and swinging the billet over his head, he brought it down with all his force on my arm, causing the pistol to fly from my hand into a corner beyond.
"Now we'll see who's master here," he cried exultingly. "You're a smart boy, but you don't know everything!" Rushing over to the corner, he secured the pistol and aimed it at me. "Now, we'll settle this matter according to my notions," he went on triumphantly.
I was deeply chagrined at the unexpected turn affairs had taken, and I felt decidedly uncomfortable as John Stumpy levelled the weapon at my head. I could readily see that the battle of words was at an end. Action was now the order of the day. I wondered what the fellow would do next; but I was not kept long in suspense.
"Now, it's my turn, young fellow," he remarked, with a shrewd grin, as I fell back.
"Well, what do you want?" I asked, as coolly as I could recognizing the fact that nothing was to be gained by "stirring him up."
"You'll see fast enough. In the first place, hand over that paper."
I was silent. I did not intend to tell a falsehood by saying I did not have it, nor did I intend to give it up if it could possibly be avoided.
"Did you hear what I said?" continued Stumpy, after a pause.
"I thought you said the paper wasn't valuable," I returned, more to gain time than anything else.
"Neither it ain't, but, just the same, I want it. Come, hand it over."
He was getting ugly now, and no mistake. What was to be done?
As I have mentioned before, it would have been useless to call for help, as no one would have heard the calls.
Suddenly the thought struck me to try a bit of deception. I put my hand in my pocket and drew out the empty envelope.
"Is that what you want?" I asked, holding it up.
"Reckon it is," he returned eagerly. "Just toss it over."
Somewhat disappointed that he did not approach me and thus give me a chance of attacking him, I did as requested. It fell at his feet, and he was not long in transferring it to his pocket.
"Next time don't try to walk over a man like me," he said sharply. "I know a thing or two, and I'm not to be downed by a boy."
"Are you satisfied?" I asked calmly, though secretly exultant that he had not discovered my trick.
"Not yet. You followed me when you had no business to, and now you've got to take the consequences."
"What are you going to do?"
"You'll see soon enough. I ain't the one to make many mistakes. Years ago I made a few, but I ain't making no more."
"You knew my father quite well, didn't you?" I inquired in deep curiosity.
"As the old saying goes, 'Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies.' Maybe I didn't; maybe I did."
"I know you did."
"Well, what of it? So did lots of other people."
"But not quite as well as you and Nicholas Weaver and Mr. Aaron Woodward," I continued, determined to learn all I could.
"Ha! What do you know of them?" He scowled at me. "Reckon you've been reading that paper of Nick's putty closely. I was a fool for not tearing it up long ago."
"Why did you keep it—to deliver it to Mr. Wentworth?"
It was a bold stroke and it told. Stumpy grew pale in spite of the dirt that covered his face, and the hand that held the pistol trembled.
"Say, young fellow, you know too much, you do. I suppose you read that paper clear through, did you?"
"As you say: Maybe I didn't; maybe I did."
"Perhaps you wasn't careful of it. Maybe I'd better examine it," he added.
My heart sank within me. In another moment the deception I had practised would be known—and then?
He fumbled in his pocket and drew forth the envelope. He could not extract the letter he supposed it contained with one hand very well, and so lowered the pistol for a moment.
This was my chance. Unarmed I was evidently in his power. If I could only escape from the tool house!
The door still stood partly open, and the darkness of night—for the moon had gone down—was beyond. A dash and I would be outside. Still the tramp stood between me and liberty. Should I attack him or endeavor to slip to one side?
I had but an instant to think; another, and it would be too late. John Stumpy was fumbling in the envelope. His eyes were searching for the precious document.
With a single bound I sprang against him, knocking him completely off his feet. Then I made another jump for the door.
But he was too quick for me. Dropping the envelope and the pistol, he caught me by the foot, and in an instant both of us were rolling on the floor.
It was an unequal struggle. Strong as I was for a boy of my age, I was no match for this burly man. Turn and twist all I could, he held me in his grip while he heaped loud imprecations upon my head.
In our movements on the floor we came in contact with the lantern and upset it, smashing the frame as well as the glass.
For a moment darkness reigned. Then a tiny light from the corner lit up the place. The flames had caught the shavings.
"The place is on fire!" I cried in horror.
"Yes, and you did it," replied the tramp.
"It was you!" I returned stoutly, and, as a matter of fact, it may be as well to state that John Stumpy's foot had caused the accident.
"Not much; it was your fault, and you've got to take the blame."
As the rascal spoke, he caught me by the throat, squeezing it so tightly that I was in great danger of being choked to death.
"Let—let up!" I gasped.
The choking continued. My head began to grow dizzy, and strange lights danced before my eyes. I protested against this proceeding as vigorously as I could by kicking the man sharply and rapidly.
But Stumpy now meant to do me real injury. He realized that I knew too much for his future welfare. In fact, he, no doubt, imagined I knew far more than I really did. If I was out of the way for all time so much the better for him.
"Take that!" he suddenly cried, and springing up he brought his heel down with great force on my head.
I cannot describe the sensation that followed. It was as if a sharp, blinding pain had stung me to the very heart. Then my senses forsook me.
How long I lay in a comatose state I do not know. Certainly it could not have been a very long time—probably not over five or six minutes.
In the meantime the fire rapidly spread igniting the barrels that were stored in the tool house, and climbing up the walls of the building to the roof.
When I recovered my senses, my face was fairly scorched, and no sooner had I opened my eyes than they were blinded by smoke and flame.
By instinct rather than reason I staggered to my feet. I was so weak I could hardly stand, and my head spun around like a top. Where was the door?
I tottered to one side and felt around. There was the window tightly closed. The door I knew was opposite.
Reeling, I made my way through the smoke that now seemed to fill my lungs, to where I knew the door to be. Oh, horror! it was closed and secured!
"Heaven help me now!" burst from my parched lips. "Am I to be roasted alive?"
With all my remaining strength I threw myself against the door. Once, and again, and still it did not budge.
"Help! help!" I called at the top of my voice.
No answer came to my cry. The fire behind me became hotter and hotter. The roof had now caught, and the sparks fell down upon me in a perfect shower.
Another moment and it would be all over. With a brief prayer to God for help in my dire need, I attacked the door for the last time.
At first it did not budge. Then there was a creaking, a sharp crack, and at last it flew wide open.
Oh, how grateful was the breath of fresh air that struck me! I stumbled out into the clearing and opened wide my throat to take in the pure draught.
Then for the first time I realized how nearly I had been overcome. I could no longer stand, and swooning, sank in a heap to the ground.
"He's alive, boys."
These were the words that greeted my ears on recovering my senses. I opened my eyes and saw that I was surrounded by a number of boys and men.
"How did you come here?" asked Henry Morse, a sturdy farmer who lived in the neighborhood.
I was too much confused to make any intelligent reply. Rising to a sitting position, I gazed around.
The tool house had burned to the ground, there being no means at hand to extinguish the fire. The glare of the conflagration had called out several dozens of people from Darbyville and the vicinity, several of whom had stumbled upon me as I lay in the clearing.
"What's the matter, Roger?" asked Larry Simpson, a young man who kept a bookstore in the town.
"The matter is that I nearly lost my life in that fire," I replied.
"How did you come here?"
As briefly as I could I related my story, leaving out all references to my personal affairs and the finding of Nicholas Weaver's statement. At present I considered it would do no good to disclose what I knew on those points.
"I think I saw that tramp yesterday," said Larry after I had finished. "He bought a sheet of paper and an envelope in my store, and then asked if he could write a letter there."
"And did he?" I asked in curiosity.
"Yes. At first I hated to let him do it,—he looked so disreputable,—but then I thought it might be an application for a position, and so told him to go ahead."
"Who did he write to? do you know?"
"Somebody in Chicago, I think."
"Do you remember the name?"
"He tried the pen on a slip of paper first. It wouldn't work very well. But I think the name was Holtzmann, or something similar."
I determined to remember the name, thinking it might prove of value sometime.
"The thing of it is," broke in Henry Morse, "what has become of this Stumpy? If he stole the Widow Canby's money, it's high time somebody was after him."
"That's true," ejaculated another. "Have you any idea which way the fellow went?"
Of course I had not. Indeed, I was hardly in condition to do any rational thinking, much less form an opinion. The thief might be in hiding close at hand, or he might be miles away.
"Some of us had better make a search," put in another. "Come, boys, we'll spread out and scour the woods."
"That's a good idea," said Tony Parsons, the constable of the town. "Meanwhile, Roger Strong, let us go to Judge Penfold's house and put the case in his hands. He'll get out a warrant, and perhaps a reward."
I thought this was a good idea, and readily assented, first, however, getting one of the boys to promise that he would call at the widow's house and quiet Kate's fears concerning my whereabouts.
It was now early morning, and we had no difficulty in making our way through the woods to the main road.
"Guess we won't find the judge up yet," remarked Tony Parsons as we hurried along. "I've never yet found him out of bed afore seven o'clock. It will make him mighty mad to get up afore this time."
"I'm sorry to disturb him," I replied, with something of awe at the thought of rousing a magistrate of the law.
"But it's got to be done," went on Parsons, with a grave shake of his head, "unless we all want to be murdered and robbed in our beds!"
"That's true. I'd give all I'm worth to catch that tramp."
"Reckon Widow Canby'll be dreadfully cut up when she hears about the robbery."
"I suppose so."
"She may blame you, Roger. You see if it was anybody else, it would be different. But being as it's you, why&—"
"I know what you mean," I returned bitterly. "No one in Darbyville believes I can be honest."
"I ain't saying nothing against you, Roger," returned Parsons, hastily. "I reckon you ain't no worse than any other boy. But you know what public sentiment is."
"So I do; but public sentiment isn't always right," was my spirited answer.
"Who did you say those boys were that tied you up?" went on the constable, to change the subject.
"Duncan Woodward was the principal one."
"Phew! Reckon he didn't think tying you up would prove such a serious matter."
"If it hadn't been for that, the robbery might have been prevented. I would have been home guarding the widow's property, as she expected me to do."
"Reckon so you would."
"In a certain sense I hold Duncan Woodward and his followers responsible for what has occurred."
"Phew! What will Mr. Woodward say to that, I wonder?"
"I can't help what he says. I'm not going to bear all the blame when it isn't my fault."
"No, neither would I."
At length we reached the outskirts of the town. Judge Penfold lived at the top of what was termed the Hill, the aristocratic district of the place, and thither we made our way.
"Indeed, but the judge ain't stirring yet!" exclaimed the Irish girl who came to answer our summons at the door.
"Then wake him at once," said Parsons. "Tell him there has been a most atrocious robbery and assault committed."
"Mercy on us!" said the girl, lifting up her hands in horror. "And who was it, Mr. Parsons?"
"Never mind who it was. Go at once."
"I will that! Robbery and assault. Mercy on us!"
And leaving us standing in the hall, the hired girl sped up the front stairway.
"The judge will be down as soon as he can," she reported on her return.
We waited as patiently as we could. While doing so I revolved what had occurred over in my mind, and came to the conclusion that the crime would be a difficult one to trace. John Stumpy had probably made good use of his time, knowing that even if I had lost my life in the fire my sister would still recognize him as the thief.
Suddenly I thought of the written confession that must yet remain in my pocket, and I was on the point of assuring myself that it was still safe when a heavy foot-step sounded overhead, and Judge Penfold came down.
The judge was a tall, slender men of fifty, with hollow cheeks, a pointed nose, and a sharp chin. His voice was of a peculiarly high and rasping tone, and his manner far from agreeable.
"What's the trouble?" he demanded, and it was plain to see that he did not relish having his early morning sleep broken.
"Widow Canby's house was robbed last night," replied the constable; and he gave the particulars.
Judge Penfold was all ears at once. Indeed, it may be as well to state that he was a widower and had paid Widow Canby much attention, which, however, I well knew that good lady heartily resented. No doubt he thought if he could render her any assistance it would help along his suit.
"We must catch the fellow at once," he said. "Parsons, you must catch him without fail."
"Easier said than done, judge," replied the constable, doubtfully. "Where am I to look for him? The country around here is pretty large."
"No matter. You are constable, and it is your duty to seek him out. I will sign the warrant for his arrest, and you must have him in jail by to-night, without fail."
"I'll do what I can, judge," returns Parsons, meekly.
"Strong, I'll have to bind you over as a witness."
"Bind me over?" I queried in perplexity. "What do you mean?"
"Hold you, unless you can give a bond to appear when wanted."
"But I had nothing to do with the burglary."
"You are principal accuser of this John Stumpy."
"Well, I'll promise to be on hand whenever wanted."
"That is not sufficient. Your character is—is not—ahem! of the best, and&—"
"Why is my character not of the best?" I demanded.
"Well, ahem! Your father, you see&—"
"Is innocent."
"Perhaps—perhaps, but, nevertheless, I will have to hold you. Parsons, I will leave him in your charge."
"You have no right to arrest me," I cried, for I knew very little of the law.
"What's that?" demanded Judge Penfold, pompously. "You forget I am the judge of that."
"I don't care," I burst out. "I have done no wrong."
"It ain't that, Roger. Many innocent men are held as witnesses," put in Parsons.
"But I've got to attend to Mrs. Canby's business," I explained.
"I fancy Mrs. Canby would rather get on the track of her money," said Judge Penfold severely. "Can you furnish bail?"
I did not know that I could. The woman who had been robbed was my only friend, and she was away.
"Then you'll have to take him to the lockup, Parsons."
This news was far from agreeable. It would be no pleasant thing to be confined in the Darbyville jail, not to say anything of the anxiety it might cause Kate. Besides, I wanted to follow up John Stumpy. I was certain I could do it fully as well as the constable.
"Come, Roger, there is no help for it," said Parsons, as I still lingered. "It's the law, and it won't do any good to kick."
"Maybe not, but, nevertheless, it isn't fair."
We walked out into the front hall, the judge following us.
"Of course if you can get bail any time during the day I will let you go," he said; "I will be down in my office from nine to twelve and two to four."
"Will you offer a reward for the capture of the man?" I asked.
"I cannot do that. The freeholders of the county attend to all such matters. Parsons, no doubt, will find the scoundrel."
As the judge finished there was a violent ringing of the door bell. Judge Penfold opened the door and was confronted by Mr. Aaron Woodward, who looked pale and excited.
"Judge, I want you—hello! that boy! Judge, I want that boy arrested at once! Don't you let him escape!"
"Want me arrested?" I ejaculated in astonishment. "What for?"
"You know well enough. You thought to hide your tracks, but I have found you out. Parsons, don't let him get out of the door. He's a worse villain than his father was!"
I will not hesitate to state that I was nearly stunned by Mr. Aaron Woodward's unexpected statement. I knew that when he announced that I was a worse villain than my father he meant a good deal.
Yet try as hard as I could it was impossible for me to discover what he really did mean. I was not conscious of having done him any injury, either bodily or otherwise. Indeed, of late I had hardly seen the man. The Widow Canby was not partial to dealings with him, and I never went near him on my own account.
It was plain to see that the merchant was thoroughly aroused. His face was pale with anger, and the look he cast upon me was one of bitter resentment. For the instant he eyed me as if he intended to spring upon me and choke the life out of my body, and involuntarily I shrank back. But then I recollected that the minions of the law who stood beside me would not allow such a course of procedure, and this made me breathe more freely.
"Yes, sir; he's a worse villain than his father!" repeated Mr. Aaron Woodward, turning to Judge Penfold; "a most accomplished villain, sir." And he shook his fist within an inch of my nose.
"What have I done to you, Mr. Woodward?" I demanded, as soon as I could speak.
"Done, sir? You know very well what you've done, you young rascal!" puffed the merchant. "Oh, but I'll make you pay dearly for your villainy."
"I've committed no villainy," I returned warmly. "If you refer to the way I treated Duncan this morning, why all I've got to say is that it was his own fault, and I can prove it."
"Treated Duncan? Oh, pshaw! This is far more serious affair than a boy's quarrel. Don't let him escape, Parsons"—the last to the constable, who had his hand on my shoulder.
"No fear, sir," was Parson's reply. "He's already under arrest."
"Under arrest?" repeated the merchant quickly. "Then you've already heard&—"
"He is ahem—only under detention as a witness," spoke up Judge Penfold. "I do not think he had anything to do with the theft of the widow's money."
"Widow's money! What do you mean?"
In a few words Judge Penfold explained the situation. "Isn't this what you came about?" he asked then.
"Indeed, no, sir. My affair is far more important—at least to me. But you can make up your mind that Strong's story is purely fiction. He is undoubtedly the real culprit, undoubtedly. Takes after his father."
"My father was an honest man!" I cried out. "I don't care what you or any one may say! Some day he will be cleared of the stain on his name."
"Oh, undoubtedly," sneered Mr. Woodward. "Mean while, however, the community at large had better keep a sharp eye on his son. Whom do you assert stole the Widow Canby's money?"
"A tramp."
"Humph! A likely story."
"It's true. His name was John Stumpy."
"John Stumpy!"
As Mr. Aaron Woodwind uttered the name, all the color forsook his face.
"Yes, sir. And he claimed to know you," I went on, my curiosity amused over the merchant's show of feeling.
"It's a falsehood! I never heard of such a man," cried Mr. Woodward, but his face belied his words.
"Well, what is your charge against Strong?" asked Judge Penfold, impatiently, probably tired of being so utterly ignored in the discussion.
The merchant hesitated.
"I prefer to speak to you about the matter in private," he said sourly.
"That isn't fair. He ought to tell me what I am accused of," I cried, "Every one who is arrested has a right to know that. I have done no wrong and I am not afraid."
"All assumed bravery, Judge Penfold; quite assumed, sir."
"No, sir. Tell me why you want me locked up," I repeated.
But instead of replying Mr. Woodward drew Judge Penfold to the rear end of the hall and began to speak in so low a tone that I could not catch a word.
"You don't mean it!" I heard the judge say presently. "Come into the library and give me the particulars."
The two men passed into the room, closing the door tightly behind them. They were gone nearly quarter of an hour—a long wait for me. I wondered what could be the nature of Mr. Woodward's accusation against me, but failed to solve the mystery.
At length they came out. Judge Penfold's face was a trifle sterner than before. Mr. Woodward looked pleased, as if his argument had proven conclusive.
"You will take Strong to the jail at once," said the judge to Parsons "and tell Booth to be careful of his prisoner."
"Yes, sir."
"Don't let him escape," added Aaron Woodward, anxiously. "Don't let him escape, sir, under any circumstances."
"No fear," was Parsons's ready answer. "I never had one of 'em give me the slip yet."
And with great gravity he drew from his pocket a pair of ancient handcuffs, one of which he attached to my wrist and the other to his own.
"Come, Roger. Better take it easy," he said. "No use of kicking. March!"
"But I'd like to know something about this," I protested. "What right&—"
"It is all quite legal," put in Judge Penfold, pompously. "I understand the law perfectly."
"But&—"
"Say no more. Parsons, take him away."
"I shall see you later," whispered Mr. Woodward in my ear as the constable hurried me off.
The next instant we were on the street. Arrests in Darbyville were rare, and by the time we reached the jail we had a goodly following of boys and idle men, all anxious to know what was up.
"He stole the Widow Canby's money," I heard one man whisper, to which another replied:&—
"Light fingered, eh? Must take after his father. I always knew the Strongs couldn't be trusted."
The jail was a small affair, being nothing more than the loft over a carpenter shop. The jailer was a round-faced man named Booth, who filled in his spare time by doing odd jobs of carpentering in the shop downstairs. We found him hard at work glueing some doors together. I knew him tolerably well, and he evinced considerable surprise at seeing me in custody.
"What, Roger; arrested! What for?"
"That's what I would like to know," I returned.
In a few words Parsons told him what was to be done, and Booth led the way upstairs.
"'Tain't a very secure place," he returned. "Reckon I'll have to nail down some of the windows unless you'll give me your word not to run away."
"I'll promise nothing," was my reply. "I'm being treated unfairly, and I shall do as I think best."
"Then I'll fasten everything as tight as a drum," returned Booth.
Going below, he secured a hammer and some nails, with which he secured the windows and the scuttle on the roof.
"Reckon it's tight enough now," he said. "Just wait, Parsons, till I get him a bucket of water."
This was done, and then the two men left me, closing and locking the door of the enclosed staircase behind them.
The loft was empty, saving a nail keg that stood in one corner of the floor. Pulling this out, I sat down to think matters over.
Try my best I could not imagine what charge Mr. Aaron Woodward had brought against me. Yet such had been his earnestness that for the nonce everything else was driven from my mind.
The sounds of talking below interrupted my meditations. I recognized Kate's voice, and the next moment my sister stood beside me.
"Oh, Roger!" was all she could say, and catching me by the arm she burst into tears.
"Don't take it so hard, Kate," I said. "Make sure it will all come out right in the end."
"But to be arrested like—like a thief! Oh, Roger, it is dreadful!"
"Never mind. I have done no wrong, and I'm not afraid of the result. Have they heard anything of John Stumpy yet?"
"Dick Blair says not. Mr. Parsons and the rest are after him, but he seems to have disappeared for good—and Mrs. Canby's money with him."
"Have you heard from her yet?"
"No; but I've written her a letter and just posted it to Norfolk."
"She won't get it till day after to-morrow."
"What will she say? Oh, Roger, do you think&—"
"No, I don't. The widow always trusted me, and I know she'll take my word now. She is not so narrow-minded as the very folks who look down on her."
"But it is awful! Over two hundred dollars! We can never make it up. We've only got twenty-eight!"
"We can't exactly be called upon to make it up&—" I began.
"But we'll want to," put in Kate, hastily.
"I'd feel better if we did. The widow has always been so kind to us."
"How long must you stay here?"
"I don't know. As long as Judge Penfold sees fit, I suppose."
"If only they could catch this John Stumpy."
"I hope so—for other reasons than those you know, Kate."
"Other reasons?"
"Yes; very important ones, too. John Stumpy knew father well. And he was mixed up in that—that miserable affair."
"Oh, Roger, how do you know?"
"I heard him say so. Besides, he dropped a letter that proved it. I have the letter in my pocket now. It's the dying statement of one Nicholas Weaver&—"
"Nicholas Weaver! He was a clerk with father!"
"So I thought. Who Stumpy is, though, I don't know. Do you?"
"No; but his face I'm sure I've seen before. Let me see the letter. Have you read it?"
"No; I hadn't time to spell it out, it is so badly written. Maybe you can read it."
"I'll try," replied Kate. "Hand it over."
I put my hand in my pocket to do so. The statement was gone!
Puzzled and dismayed, I made a rapid search of my clothes—first one pocket and then another. It was useless. Beyond a doubt the statement was nowhere about my person.
I was quite sure it had not been taken from me. Strange as it may seem, neither Parsons nor Booth had searched me. Perhaps they deemed it useless to take away the possessions of a poor country boy. My jack-knife and other odds and ends were still in their accustomed places.
"It's gone!" I gasped, when I was certain that such was a fact.
"Gone?" repeated Kate.
"Yes, gone, and I don't know where. They didn't take it from me. I must have lost it."
"Oh, Roger, and it was so important!"
"I know it, Kate. It must have dropped from my pocket down at the tool house. Perhaps if I go down I can find it."
"Go down?" she queried.
"Oh, I forgot I was a prisoner."
"Never mind, Roger. I'll go down myself."
"Aren't you afraid?"
"Not now. I wouldn't have been of this Stumpy only he came on me so suddenly. I'll go at once."
"You'd better," said a voice behind her. "Your five minutes is up, Miss Kate." And Booth appeared at the head of the stairs and motioned her down.
"Good-by, Roger. I'm so sorry to leave you here alone."
"It's not such a dreadful place," I rejoined lightly. "If you discover anything, let me know at once."
"Be sure I will." And with this assurance Kate was gone.
I was as sorry for her as I was for myself. I knew all she would have to face in public—the mean things people would say to her, the snubbing she would be called on to bear.
The loss of the statement rendered me doubly downhearted. Oh, how much I had counted on it, assuring myself over and over again that it would surely clear my father's name!
Hardly had my sister left me than there were more voices below, and I heard Mr. Woodward tell Booth that he had an order from Judge Penfold for a private interview with me.
"Better go right upstairs then, Mr. Woodward," was the jailer's reply. "He's all alone."
I wondered what the merchant's visit could portend, but had little time for speculation.
"So, sir, they've got you fast," said Mr. Woodward sharply as he faced me. "Fast, and no mistake."
"What do you want?" I demanded boldly, coming at once to the front.
"What do I want?" repeated the merchant, looking behind him to make sure that Booth had not followed him. "What do I want? Why, I want to help you, Strong, that's what I want."
I could not help but smile. The idea of Mr. Woodward helping any one, least of all myself!
"The only way you can help me is to set me free," I returned.
"Oh, I can't do that. You are held on the Canby charge solely."
"But you told me you wanted me arrested."
"So I did, but I intend to give you a chance—that is, if you will do what I want."
"But why did you want me arrested?"
"You know well enough, Strong."
"On the contrary, I haven't the least idea."
"Stuff and nonsense. See here, if you want to get off without further trouble, hand over those papers."
"What papers?"
"The papers you took last night," replied Mr. Woodward, sharply.
I was truly astonished. How in the world had he found out about the statement dropped by Stumpy? Was it possible there had been a meeting between the two? It looked like it.
"I haven't got the papers," I rejoined.
"Don't tell me a falsehood sir," he thundered.
"It's true."
"Do you deny you have the packet?"
"I do."
"Come, Strong, that story won't answer. Hand it over."
"I haven't it."
"Where is it?"
"I lost it," I replied, before I had time to think.
"Lost it!" he cried anxiously.
"Yes, sir," I returned boldly, resolved to make the best of it, now the cat was out of the bag. "Either that or it was stolen from me."
He looked at me in silence for a moment.
"Do you expect me to believe all your lies?" he demanded finally.
"I don't care what you believe," I answered. "I tell the truth. And one question I want to ask you, Aaron Woodward. Why are you so anxious to gain possession of Nicholas Weaver's dying statement?"
The merchant gave a cry of astonishment, nay, horror. He turned pale and glared at me fiercely.
"Nicholas Weaver's dying statement!" he ejaculated. "What do you know of Nicholas Weaver?"
Now I had spoken I was almost sorry I had said what I had. Yet I could not but notice the tremendous effect my words had produced.
"Never mind what I know," I replied. "Why do you take an interest in it?"
"I? I don't know anything about it," he faltered. "I hardly knew Nicholas Weaver."
"Indeed? Yet you want his statement."
"No, I don't. I don't know anything about his statement," he continued doggedly. "I want my papers. I don't care a rap about any one else's."
It was now my turn to be astonished. Evidently I had been on the wrong track from the beginning.
"If you don't want his statement, I'm sure I don't know what you do want," I rejoined, and I spoke the exact truth.
"Don't tell lies, Strong. You know well enough. Hand them over."
"Hand what over?"
"The packet of papers."
"I haven't any packet."
"Strong, if you don't do as I demand, I'll send you to prison after your father."
"I can't help it. I haven't any papers. If you don't believe me, search me."
"Where have you hidden them?"
"I never had them to hide."
"I know better, sir, I know better," he fumed.
I made no reply. What could I say?
"Do you hear me, Strong?"
For reply I walked over to the slatted window and began to whistle. My action only increased the merchant's anger.
"For the last time, Strong, will you give up the papers?" he cried.
"For the last time, Mr. Woodward, let me say I haven't got them, never had them, and, therefore, cannot possibly give them up."
"Then you shall go to prison, sir. Mark my word,—you shall go to prison!"
And with this parting threat the merchant hurried down the loft steps and rapped loudly for Booth to come and let him out.
When he was gone, I sat down again to think over the demand he had made upon me. To what papers did he refer? In vain I cudgelled my brain to elicit an answer.
He spoke about sending me to prison, and in such tones as if it were an easy matter to do. Assuredly he must have some grounds upon which to base so positive an assertion.
No doubt he was now on his way to Judge Penfold's office to swear out the necessary papers. I did not know much about the law, but I objected strongly to going to prison. Once in a regular lockup, the chances of getting out would be indeed slim.
I reasoned that the best thing to do was to escape while there was a chance. Perhaps I was wrong in this conclusion, but I was only a country boy, and I had a horror of stone walls and iron bars.
Escape! No sooner had the thought entered my mind than I was wrapped up in it. Undoubtedly it was the best thing to do. Freedom meant not only liberty, but also a chance to hunt down John Stumpy and clear my father's name.
I looked about the loft for the best means of accomplishing my purpose. As I have said, the place was over a carpenter shop. The roof was sloping to the floor, and at each end was a small window heavily slatted.
The distance to the ground from the window was not less than fifteen feet, rather a long drop even if I could manage to get the slats loose, which I doubted, for I had no tools at hand.
I resolved to try the door, and was about to do so when I heard the bolts shoot back and Booth appeared.
For an instant I thought to trip him up and rush past him, but he stood on the steps completely blocking the way.
"All right, Roger?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Quite com'table, boy?"
"As comfortable as any one could be in such a place," I rejoined lightly.
"'Tain't exactly a parlor," he chuckled. "No easy chairs or sofys; but the food's good. I'm a-going to get it for you now. Then after that maybe the judge will call around. I'll bring the dinner in a minute."
He climbed downstairs, bolting the door after him.
In five minutes—or ten at the most—I knew he would be back. After that there was no telling how long he would stay.
Now, therefore, was the proper time to escape, now or never!
No time must be lost. Booth lived but a short hundred feet from the jail, if such it might be called, and if his wife had dinner ready it would not take him long to bring it.
I surveyed the room in which I was incarcerated critically. Escape by either window was, as I have intimated, out of the question. On account of its height, the scuttle was also not to be considered.
Apparently nothing remained to try but the door. Running down the steps, I looked it over. It was of solid oak planking, an inch thick, and fastened at both top and bottom.
It was a hard thing to tackle, especially with no tools, and, after surveying it, I went upstairs again to search for something that might do as a pry.
I could see nothing but the empty nail keg, and I could discover no use at first in this until the idea struck me of wedging it between one of the lower steps and the door, and, by jumping upon it, forcing the bottom bolt.
With some difficulty I placed the keg in position and brought down my full weight upon it. The first time the bolt merely creaked, but the second there was a snap, and the lower part of the door burst outward several inches.
The bottom bolt had yielded, and now only the top one remained. But to reach this was a difficult matter, as no purchase could be had against it.
While considering the situation, I imagined I heard my jailer returning, and my heart jumped into my throat. What if Booth should see the damage I had done? I reckoned that things would go hard with me if it became known that I had attempted to break jail. Judge Penfold would surely give me the full penalty of the law.
But the approach of Booth was only imaginary, and, after a brief interval of silence, I breathed freer.
I ascends the stairs once more to see if I could not find something besides the keg to assist me. If only I had a plank or a beam, I might use it as a battering-ram.
The thought of a plank led me to examine the floor, and, going over it carefully, I soon came to a short board, one end of which was loose. Raising it, I pulled with all my might, and the board came up.
I was astonished to see that it made an opening into the shop below. I had imagined that the floor or ceiling was of double thickness.
This gave me a new idea. Why not escape through the floor? To pry up another board would perhaps be easier than to force the door.
I tried the board next to the opening. The end was somewhat rotted, and it came up with hardly an effort.
In another moment the opening would be large enough to allow the passage of my body. Putting the first board under the edge of the second, I bore down upon it.
As I did so I heard a noise that alarmed me greatly. It was the sound of Booth returning, and the next instant the carpenter had opened the outer door and entered.
In one hand he carried a tray containing my dinner. He crossed the floor directly under me without looking up. Then his eyes caught the shattered door and he gave a loud exclamation.
"By ginger! If that boy ain't gone and escaped!"
He set down the tray with a rattle and tried to pull the door open. But the top bolt had become displaced, and it was several seconds before it could be shot back.
Meanwhile I was not idle. As quietly as I could I tore up the second board. The deed was done just as Booth stumbled over the keg on his way up the stairs.
As my jailer appeared at the top, I let my body through the opening. It was a tight squeeze, especially when accomplished in a hurry. I landed in a heap on a pile of shavings.
"Stop! stop!" called out Booth. "Roger, don't you hear me?"
I certainly did hear him, but paid no attention to his words. My one thought was to get away as quickly as possible.
"If you don't stop, I'll shoot you," went on Booth at the top of his voice. "Don't you know breaking jail is a—a felony?"
I did not know what kind of a crime it was. I had made up my mind to escape, and intended to do so, even if such a deed constituted manslaughter. I made a break for the door and passed out just as Booth came tramping down the stairs.
I ran across the yard that separated the carpenter shop from the house. As I did so, Mrs. Booth appeared at the back door. Upon seeing me she held up her hands in horror.
"Mercy on us! Roger Strong! Where be you a-running to? 'Zekel! 'Zekel! the prisoner's broke loose!"
"I know it, Mandy!" I heard Ezekiel Booth answer. "Dunno how he did it, though. Stop, Roger, it's best now; jest you mark my word!"
I heard no more. Jumping the side fence, I ran through a bit of orchard and across a stony lot until I reached the Pass River.
At this point this body of water was several hundred feet wide. The bank sloped directly to the water's edge. Near at hand were several private boat-houses, one belonging to Mr. Aaron Woodward, he having built it to please Duncan.
At the end of the boat-house pier lay a skiff, the oars resting upon the seats. I knew it was wrong to make use of the craft, but "necessity knows no law," and my need was great.
Running down to the end of the pier, I dropped into the boat and shoved off. As I did so, Duncan Woodward, accompanied by Pultzer, came out of the boat-house.
"Hi, there, what are you doing in my boat?" he sang out. "What, Roger Strong!" he continued as he came nearer.
"You must lend me the boat, Duncan," I returned. "I've got to cross the river in a hurry."
"Not much! I thought you were in jail."
"Not just now," I replied. "You can get your boat on the other side."
"Hold up! You shan't have her. Come back!"
But I was already pulling out into the stream. He continued to shout after me, and presently I saw the two joined by Booth, and all watched me in dismay as I made for the opposite shore.
Reaching the bank, I beached the boat high up and then climbed to the roadway that ran beside the stream. Trees and bushes were thick here, and I had but little difficulty in hiding from the view of those opposite.
For a moment I hesitated as to which way to proceed. A number of miles down the stream lay Newville, of which I have already spoken. Probably my pursuers would think I had gone in that direction. If so, they would hasten to the bridge below, with the intention of cutting me off.
I therefore started immediately on my way up the river road, resolved to put as much ground as possible between myself and my pursuers. I had no definite destination in view, but thought to gain some hiding-place where I might rest secure and think things over.
It was now going on to two o'clock in the afternoon, and as I had not had anything to eat since the noon previous, I began to feel decidedly hungry. I felt in my pocket and discovered that I was the possessor of sixty-five cents, and with this amount of cash I did not see any reason for my remaining hungry any longer.
Presently I came to a small, white cottage, upon the front porch of which was displayed the sign
BOARDING
Ascending the steps, I knocked at the door, and a comely, middle-aged woman answered my summons.
"I see that you take boarders here," I said, "I am hungry, and several miles from any restaurant. Can you furnish me with dinner?"
She looked me over rather sharply before replying. Then I realize for the first time that my appearance was not of the best. My clothes were considerably the worse for having rolled over and over in the old tool house, and in escaping from my prison I had made several rents in my coat.
"I will pay you whatever you charge," I added hastily, "and I would like to wash and brush up, too; I have had a tumble," which was literally true.
"I can let you have dinner for twenty-five cent," she said finally. "I won't charge you anything for cleaning up," she added, with something like a smile. "Will you mind paying in advance?"
"No, ma'am," and I handed over the money. "I suppose I won't have to wait very long."
"Oh, no, the regular boarders have just finished. You can sit right down."
"If you don't mind, I'll take a wash first."
The woman led the way to an ante-room, in which were placed a bowl of water, towel, and soap, as well as a dust brush. It did not take me long to fix myself up, and then I flattered myself I did not present an unbecoming appearance.
The dinner that the woman served was not as good as that which my sister Kate helped to prepare at the Widow Canby's, but it was wholesome food, and my sharpened appetite made it disappear rapidly.
As I ate I reflected upon my situation. For the life of me I did not know what to do next. I longed to see my sister and tell her that I was safe. This done, I intended to devote my time to hunting up the man who I firmly believed held my father's reputation in his hand. I was sure I would discover him sooner or later, and this accomplished, I would not let him out of my sight until he had confessed his secret. I wondered if Kate had succeeded in finding that precious statement I had lost. Heartily did I reproach myself for not having taken better care of it.
Having satisfied myself upon the substantial things set before me, I finished my meal with a small cut of apple pie.
As I was swallowing the last mouthful I glanced out of the window up the road, and gave a cry of surprise. And no wonder, for coming toward the house was Mr. Aaron Woodward, and beside him walked John Stumpy!
I could hardly believe the evidence of my senses when I saw Mr. Aaron Woodward coming up the road with John Stumpy beside him. It would have astonished me to have seen the merchant alone, but to see him in company with the very man I was looking for was more than I had thought possible.
Yet I reflected that the tramp—or whatever the man was—had evinced a determination to secure an interview with Mr. Woodward before quitting Darbyville. There was important business to be transacted between them. Mr. John Stumpy intended to have his say, whatever that might mean.
What was to be done? It would never do for me to be seen. Nothing short of arrest would follow. I must get out of the way as quickly as possible.
During the time I had been eating, the sky had become overcast as if a shower was imminent. Taking advantage of this fact I rose quickly and reached for my hat.
"Guess we're going to have a thunder shower," I remarked. "Hope it holds off. I don't want to get wet."
"Then you'll have to hurry," rejoined the woman as she looked out of the door. "Looks as if it would be here in less than quarter of an hour."
"Then I'm off. Good day."
"Good day. Come again."
I slipped out of the door, and passing behind a hedge, made my way to the road. As I did so, Mr. Woodward and Stumpy turned from the highway and walked directly up the gravel path that led to the house!
I was dumfounded by this movement. What did they mean by going to the very place I had just vacated? Was it possible they had seen me?
I earnestly hoped not; for if so, it would spoil a little plan that had just come to me, which was to follow them, see what they were up to, and, if possible, overhear whatever might be said.
I was soon convinced that neither of the men was aware of my presence. They were talking earnestly and stepped up on the porch just as ordinary visitors would have done. In a moment the woman let them in and the door closed behind them.
My curiosity was aroused to its highest pitch, and at the risk of being discovered by any one who might chance to be passing by I walked cautiously back along the hedge until I reached a clump of rose bushes that grew directly under one of the dining-room windows.
The window was open, and by a little manoeuvring I easily managed to see and hear what was going on within.
"You came for the rent, I suppose, Mr. Woodward," the woman was saying. "Joel was going to bring it up to-night. He would have brought it over this morning, only he thought it was going to rain and he had some hay he wanted to get in."
"Yes, I did come for the rent, Mrs. Decker," replied the merchant. "It's due several days now."
"I have it here—thirty dollars. Here is the receipt book."
There was the rustle of bills and the scratching of a pen.
"Here you are, Mrs. Decker."
"Thank you, sir. Now we'll be worry free for another month."
"So you are. Nothing like being prompt."
"My husband was going to speak to you about the roof. It leaks dreadfully."
"Pooh! That can't be. Why, it was patched only two years ago."
"You are wrong, Mr. Woodward. It is four years, and then but very little was done to it."
"It cost near twelve dollars," growled the merchant. "You can't expect me to be fixing up the house all the time."
"It leaks very badly."
"Then your husband will have to attend to it. I can't spend any more money this year."
"I don't know what we'll do. I wish you would just step outside and look up at the shingles. Nearly all of them are ready to fall off."
I was alarmed by Mrs. Decker's request. Suppose the trio should come out? I would surely be discovered. But my fears were groundless, as the next words of Mr. Woodward proved.
"I can't go out now, madam, not now. I haven't time. I have a little business to transact with this man, and then I must return to Darbyville."
"I'm sorry&—" began the woman.
"So am I; but it cannot be helped. Can I use this room for a while?"
By the look upon Mrs. Decker's face it was plain to see she wanted to say, "No, you can't," but she hardly dared to speak the words, so she gave an icy assent and withdrew.
The merchant followed her to the door and saw that it was closed tightly behind her. Then he strode across the room and faced John Stumpy.
"Wall, sir, now we'll have an accounting," he began in an authoritative voice.
"So we will, Woody," returned John Stumpy, in no wise abashed by the other's manner.
The merchant winced at the use of a nickname, but after an instant's hesitation passed it over.
"What do you mean by coming to Darbyville, sir, when I have repeatedly written you to stay away?"
"Oh, come, Woody, don't get on your high horse," was Stumpy's response, as he swung back in the rocker he occupied. "You know I never could stand your high-toned ways."
"I flatter myself I am a trifle above common people," returned Mr. Woodward, and it was plain to see where Duncan got his arrogant manner.
"Oh, pshaw! don't make me tired," yawned Stumpy. "Come, let's to business."
"I am at business. Why did you come here?"
"You know well enough. Didn't I write to you?"
"Yes, and got my answer. We've squared up accounts, sir."
"Don't 'sir' me,—it don't go down," cried Stumpy, angrily. "We haven't squared up, not by a jugful,—not till you hand over some more cash."
"I've handed over enough now."
"No, you hain't. Do you think I'm going to do all your work for nothing?"
"You were well paid."
"It's only you as thinks so; I don't."
"How much more do you want?"
"A thousand dollars."
The largeness of the demand fairly took away my breath. As for Mr. Aaron Woodward, he was beside himself.
"A thousand dollars!" he said. "Why, you're crazy, sir."
"No, I ain't; I mean just what I say."
"You expect me to pay you a thousand dollars?"
"Of course I do. I wouldn't ask it if I didn't."
"See here, Fer&—"
"Sh!—John Stumpy, if you please."
"That's so, I forgot. But see here, a thousand dollars! Why, I've already paid you that."
"So you have. Now I want another thousand and then we'll cry quits."
Mr. Aaron Woodward grew white with rage. "I never heard of such an outrageous demand," he cried. "I'll never pay it."
"Oh, yes, you will," rejoined the other, coolly. "Aaron Woodward never yet acted rashly."
"Suppose I refuse to pay?"
"Better not; I'm a bad man when I am aroused."
"I don't fear you. You can do nothing to me."
"Oh, yes, I can. I can tell ugly stories about Mr. Aaron Woodward; stories concerning his doings when he was collector for Holland & Mack."