A "flocker" is a large, clumsy looking wooden machine, four or five feet in length, and just wide enough to take on the cloth, which at that mill was all made double width. It consists chiefly of heavy rollers, so arranged that the cloth passes between them. There is a deep pit at the bottom of the machine, which will hold several bushels of "flocks," in addition to the bulk of a large web of cloth, from forty to fifty yards in length.
"Your name is Carl, I believe," said Fred, by way of introducing himself.
"Yes, Carl; that's it."
"My name is Fred Worthington. I think we shall get along together."
"I hope so," returned Carl sincerely, and continued: "The first thing to do is to put the cloth into the machine and set it running."
Then, showing how to do this, he added:
"Now we start it up by switching this belt so" (moving the belt from the loose to the stationary pulley).
"What's the object in running cloth through here?" inquired Fred; for though he had alwayslived in Mapleton, yet in truth his knowledge of a woolen factory was very limited, and in this respect he did not differ much from the majority of the villagers.
"It is to make it weigh more, and to give it a body, so it can be finished," replied the boy, while he turned a basketful of flocks upon the revolving rollers between which the beaver cloth was now swiftly passing.
"But why do you call that stuff 'flocks'?" inquired Fred. "It looks like the fine dust that we find at the end of our pants and coats, where it settles down against the hems."
"Well, that's just what it is."
"I thought everybody called that shoddy."
"I know they do, and I used to do so myself before I came here."
"But what are the 'flocks' that we have here made of?"
"Old rags."
"I thought shoddy was made from old rags."
"They are both made from them. The best ones are put into shoddy, and the odds and ends into flocks."
"Well, if this stuff is flocks, how is shoddy made, and what does it look like?"
"It is something like wool. The rags are fed into a 'picker' up in the 'pick room,' and come out all torn apart."
"What is it used for then?"
"It is mixed with a little coarse wool, and carded into rope yarn, the same as wool, ready to be spun."
"The idea of weaving shoddy into cloth is new to me. It can't make very good cloth."
"Well, they only use it for the back of the cloth. Here, look at this piece! See; it is white on one side and brown on the other. The white side is the face, and is made from good wool. You see we are beating these flocks in on the back side."
"Yes, I see you are; and now as you've told me about shoddy, I'd like to know about flocks, for that's what I have got to handle, I suppose."
"I guess you'll know all you want to about them before you've been here long. I'm 'bout dead from being in this dust so much. It fills a feller all up. See how thick it is now, and you're drawing it in with every breath."
By this time the other machine was ready for action, and Carl, finding that they were short of flocks, gave Fred a basket, took another himself, and both boys started for a fresh supply. They went up stairs, passed through the "gig room," and across a long hall which opened into a little room by itself, where the rag grinders were humming away. This was their destination. Carl filled one of the baskets with flocksand the other with ground rags; then turning to Fred, said:
"You wanted to know about flocks and how they are made. This is the first machine they go through. You see that pile of rags and odds and ends. When they have been run through here, they will come out cut up fine, like those I just put in your basket. Now we will go back, and I will show you the next process they go through."
Each of the boys now shouldered his basket and returned down the stairs. There Carl turned his flocks upon the cloth that was rapidly being filled, and then emptied the contents of the other basket into a tub or tank, which was about five feet wide by fifteen long. It was full of thick, muddy looking water, which was rapidly going round the tank.
It struck Fred as a curious proceeding when he saw the fine cut rags thrown into that place; it looked to him very much like throwing them away, and he was about to ask an explanation when Carl satisfied his curiosity by saying:
"This is the wet grinder. We put the rags in here, and run them in water about three hours until they are ground up as fine as can be, and look just like porridge."
"What do you do with the porridge?"
"Do you see these little bags at this end of the tank? We bail it out into them, and after thewater strains out a little, we tie them up and load them on one of these cars and run them out to the 'extractor.'"
"What kind of a thing is an extractor?"
"It is something that shakes the water out. It has a big basket inside that goes around like lightning."
"I'd like to see it; where is it?"
"Come into this next room; here it is."
On entering the room Fred's eyes fairly stuck out with amazement. He had already seen more queer machines that morning than he had ever imagined had been made, but here was something that surpassed them all. It consisted of a large cast iron cylinder, about six feet in diameter and four feet high. Inside was a wire basket, which nearly filled up the vacant space. This rested on a pivot, and from the top of it extended upward a short shaft, the end of which was connected with a small pulley.
The tender of the machine had just put in two whole pieces of double width beaver cloth dripping wet from the washers, and was now starting up the machine slowly.
Pretty soon it commenced to whirl around rather rapidly, then the speed increased as the power was let on, until a buzz was heard, which quickly gave way to a singing, hissing sound; now followed a spark, then another and anotherin quick succession, and the whole rim of the extractor seemed a perfect blaze.
Fred thought it was going to pieces, and jumped backward for safety; but by the time he got where he supposed himself out of danger the tender had shifted the belt to the loose pulley, and by applying the brake had stopped the whirl of the basket.
Carl laughed at Fred's timidity, and said:
"What were you frightened about? The extractor 'most always does that way, only it was a little worse this time, because it probably wasn't loaded even. That's why the fire flew so. Just see how it took the water out of the cloth. That's the way it does to the flocks."
Fred felt the cloth, and, knowing that two minutes before it was sopping wet, now found it was only a little damp. The boys returned to the flockers and straightened out the cloth and got it running even; then Carl took a car load of the extracted flocks up to the drier, where they were spread thinly upon it.
The drier is simply a frame upon which is nailed a large surface of wire sieving, directly under which are coils of hot steam pipes. On this drier the flocks become baked dry, and are about as hard as dry mud.
"It seems to me that these rags have to go through different machines enough before theyget ready for use. I wonder what the next step is?" said Fred.
"Only one more machine—the one where you saw me fill my basket with flocks. I suppose you noticed that it had a big hopper on top? Well, we just turn these dry lumps right in here, and let them grind out as fast as they will."
"Then I've been the rounds of our work, have I?" asked Fred.
"Yes, unless Mr. Hanks makes you lug the cloth down."
"Am I supposed to obey him?"
"Yes, he's your boss; and you will be lucky if you have no trouble with him."
"I shall try to have no trouble, even if he is as disagreeable as he looks; but I will not be crowded too much."
"I wouldn't if I was strong like you," returned Carl sadly.
"I thought Mr. Farrington had charge of this room," said Fred, after a pause.
"He does; though I believe he had a lot of trouble to keep these flockers a-going; it is such bad, dirty work that no one would stay on them. So he made a trade with Mr. Hanks, and let him the job of making the flocks and putting them into the cloth, and agreed to furnish him two boys. I don't know how much pay he gets out of it, but Jack Hickey, that's scouring the woolthere in the other corner, says he is making money out of us every day; besides, he shirks the work upon us, and we have it almost all to do."
"Hanks—Christopher Hanks," said Fred to himself, with a curious drawl through his nose; "not a pleasant sounding name."
Though Matthew De Vere was much gratified at Fred's misfortunes, and especially pleased at his own renewed friendship with Nellie Dutton, he was nevertheless far from happy. Time was going by rapidly—almost flying—and no money had been raised to meet his promise to Jacob Simmons. The three hundred dollars was constantly in his mind. Where and how could it be raised?
The problem tormented him day and night, and he could see no solution to it. He did not dare to speak to his father about the money, for the latter would then find out everything, and would be sure to punish him severely. Matthew did not look upon such an outcome with any degree of favor. He considered himself a young man, and did not propose to be treated with the rod.
On the other hand, there stared him in the face Jacob Simmons' threat of exposure and arrest. The situation was desperate. The money must be got, whether or no, and yet how could it be procured?
If he failed in raising it, the boy he hatedwould be vindicated, while he would be shown up and disgraced before all the village. Nellie would have nothing more to do with him—would not so much as look at him—and she would, he reasoned, again become friendly with Fred, and then he would have no power to break it off as he had recently done. She would be lost to him, and his rival would reign in his stead.
"No, no! This shall not be!" he said angrily, and spurned the thought from him; but it as quickly returned. He tried to forget it, but could not. The pressure from Jacob Simmons forced it back upon his mind, and it remained there and tormented him till he was almost mad.
In this condition of mind he went to school next day, hoping that a pleasant greeting and a few smiles from Nellie would dissipate the vision that had so haunted him. Perhaps they would have done so, but he had not the pleasure of testing so desirable a remedy.
Nellie came late—after school had commenced.
"It is just my luck that she should be late to-day," he thought, "when she is always so punctual."
He often looked toward her seat, but could not catch her eye. She seemed unusually busy with her books.
Matthew did not know what to make of it.He looked at his watch—a handsome gold one that his father had given him as a birthday present. It wanted only fifteen minutes of recess time.
"I will see her then," thought Matthew.
The bell rang, and the scholars left their seats and passed out into the anteroom—all save those who wished to remain and study.
Matthew grew anxious as Nellie did not come out with the other girls. Recess was half gone. He made an excuse to go to his seat on the pretense of getting something, but really to try and speak to Nellie. She was with the teacher, however, who was assisting her to work a difficult example.
Matthew returned to the anteroom angry. He could not bear the disappointment gracefully.
"She avoids me for some cause," he said to himself, and then wondered what it could be. "Last night," he reflected, "we were the best of friends. Can it be possible that Simmons has already told the secret? He threatened yesterday that he would unless I made a payment."
The thought made him wretched. He was unfit for study, and wanted to get out to learn if any such report had actually been circulated.
On the reassembling of school he obtained a dismissal for the day on the plea of feeling ill. He was ill—very ill at ease in his mind, beset asit was with fears, and troubled over the sudden change in Nellie's manner toward him.
On his way from school he met Tim Short. He was glad to see him, and yet shuddered for fear he would say it was all up with them.
"What brings you here at this time?" finally asked Matthew.
"I was going up to school to see you."
"What has happened that you want to see me?" queried Matthew, dreading the answer.
"I have been discharged."
"Is that all?" drawing a long breath of relief.
"Isn't that enough?" asked Tim indignantly.
"It might be worse; but what were you discharged for?"
"Discharged to give Fred Worthington my place, I suppose," answered Tim, with evident ill feeling toward Fred.
"Is it possible? And has he your place?"
"Yes, he went to work this morning."
"I think you have as much cause now as I have to be down on him."
"Yes, and more too," returned Tim savagely.
"On his account we got into this trouble with Simmons, and are liable to be exposed any day," said Matthew.
Tim turned pale. "I thought you promised to fix that," he replied.
"So I did, but I have not been able to raise the money. Now, something has got to be done at once. Let us go up to the pines and decide what it shall be."
Tim assented, and the two boys soon found themselves quite alone in the thick pine grove just outside of the village.
Now the change Nellie Dutton showed toward Matthew was not caused, as he supposed, by any disclosure from Jacob Simmons, but by the letter she had received from Fred in the morning before going to school.
It made a deep impression upon her. She was impulsive, like nearly all girls of her age, and did not stop to reason much about Fred's case, especially since Matthew urged his opinions upon her with such assurance. Her intimacy with Matthew was not from any great regard that she had for him, but because her nature seemed to demand some favorite, and when her friendship with Fred ceased, for reasons with which the reader is already familiar, she accepted Matthew's attentions with a little more than ordinary courtesy.
Now she saw she had judged Fred hastily, and the statement in his letter, that she had not proved as good a friend as Grace Bernard, touched her as nothing else had ever done. She admitted the truth of his assertion, and felt truly sorry that she had not been more loyal to him.
"I shall regret my present intimacy with one who has no honor," she mused. "He must have meant Matthew, and I wonder if he referred to him in saying, 'when I was led to your house on that wretched night by a certain person.'" This thought once having taken shape grew upon her.
Nellie studied over Fred's letter, reading it again and again. "You know he is my enemy." She did not notice this before, but now it recalls the night of the party. "Yes, Fred, I do know it," she said to herself almost audibly, "but I had almost forgotten the spite he showed you."
This thought placed Matthew under suspicion, and went far toward helping Fred's cause, though he was now so thoroughly under a cloud.
Nellie found herself repeating over this sentence: "Grace Bernard stood by me while you did not." She could hardly drive it from her thoughts, but why it clung so to her she did not suspect. That evening she wrote an answer to Fred's letter, and sealed it ready to mail in the morning.
The night was cloudy and dark. A cold November wind from the northeast swept over the little village—so icy and damp that none cared to venture out.
There was no trade for the merchants, andthey closed their stores early and hurried shivering to their homes. By ten o'clock not a light was anywhere to be seen.
All had retired, and nearly all had entered into happy dreamland when they were suddenly awakened by the shrill cry of "Fire! fire! fire!"
Soon the words were taken up by others and yet others till every person in the village was aroused and startled by the sound.
A fire in a country village is a great event. There is but one other attraction that approaches it in importance, and that is the annual circus.
Both bring out the entire village, but the fire draws the better of the two. It is a free show, while the circus is not, and here it has an immense advantage over the latter—an advantage that can hardly be overcome by the clowns and menagerie. It gives the men, the boys too, a chance to be brave—to do daring deeds and a large number of foolish ones. Then there is the mystery of how it caught, and whether it was the work of an incendiary or not. Why, a good sized fire in a village will often serve for months as a theme for discussion when other subjects are scarce.
This particular fire was the largest Mapleton had ever known. Every one had hurriedly dressed, and rushed down the street to see John Rexford's store burn. Women and children insufficiently wrapped for the chilly air of this cold November night stood there watching theangry flames as they shot high in the air, fed by barrels of oil and lard. It was a grand sight to witness, as the blackness of the night made the flames doubly brilliant.
Nothing could be done to save the store, and the men directed their efforts to keeping the flames from spreading. In this they did a good work. John Rexford did not arrive at the scene until the building was a sheet of flame and the roof had fallen in. The sight almost crazed him. He flew at the door as if to enter amid the burning goods and secure certain valuables, but the fierce flames drove him back. He reluctantly yielded, and in his helplessness seemed the picture of despair as he saw before him his store—his idol—a mass of blazing timbers and half burned goods.
He was now without a store, even as Fred was without a clerkship, and could perhaps realize to some extent how the latter felt at being suddenly thrown out of his chosen vocation.
Fred was there too. He stood a little back from the front of the crowd, and at one side, intently watching the progress of the flames, and seemingly wrapped in thought. Finally he turned his head, and a little to the right of him saw Nellie and her mother. Nellie was looking directly at him, evidently studying his face. When his eyes met hers and she found that shewas discovered, a blush, plainly visible by the light of the flames, covered her pretty face.
Fred felt his heart beat faster. He longed to speak with her and learn her thoughts, and yet he did not dare approach her. The peculiar look she gave him, and that vivid blush—what did it mean? He could not make up his mind upon these points, and yet there was a fascination in studying them, for he sometimes persuaded himself that they meant one thing, and then again perhaps its very opposite.
Presently she and her mother returned home, and Fred saw no more of them.
The fire was now under control. All danger of its spreading was passed, and the crowd returned to their several homes well nigh chilled through. A few men remained to watch the fire as it died away, and to see that no sparks were carried to other buildings by the strong east wind.
Among those who remained was John Rexford. He was pale and haggard, and shivered, while the cold wind seemed to penetrate his very bones, yet he clung to the spot as if he would pluck the mystery—the cause of the fire—from the burning mass before him. Finally he approached Mr. Coombs, the sheriff, and said:
"Who was the first to discover this fire?"
"I was," replied the sheriff proudly, with afeeling that he must be looked upon as something of a hero.
"Did you see it from your house?"
"No; I saw it just as I turned the corner, coming toward the stable."
"Coming which way?" asked the merchant, trying to learn something that might give him a clew to work upon.
"Coming from the Falls, of course, where I had been attending court."
"What time was that?"
"Nigh on to eleven o'clock."
"And you saw no one here?"
"No."
"Nor any one on the street?"
"Not a soul stirring, except Jim, the stable boy."
"Where was he?"
"Sound asleep."
"He couldn't have been stirring very much then," said the merchant, with a show of disgust.
"Well, I mean he was the only one about, and I had to wake him up."
"And you raised the alarm?"
"I should think I did."
"Then you didn't come directly here?"
"Yes, I did, but I yelled fire pretty lively all the same, and started the stable boy up the street to wake everybody up."
"Where was the fire burning then?"
"On the back end of the store. A blaze was just starting up through the roof."
"It was on the back end, you say?"
"Yes; and just as I got here the back windows burst out, and the way the flames rolled up was a caution."
"Was there no fire in the front store then?"
"No, there didn't seem to be when I first got here, but after I went round to the rear end to see how it was there, and came back, the flames had come through, and everything was ablaze. I tell you what, I never saw anything burn like it."
"It must have started in the back store, then," said Mr. Rexford thoughtfully.
"No doubt of it," returned officer Coombs.
"This is important evidence," said the merchant, after a pause.
The sheriff brightened up at this, and his eyes snapped with delight. Here was a case for official service.
"To be sure it is, sir," he replied.
"There is some mystery about this."
"'Pears to me so."
"We had no stove in the back store."
"I know it—that's so, Mr. Rexford. It looks bad."
"And I closed up the store myself tonight,and went into the back room, as usual, to see that everything was all right."
"I dare say it was. You are a careful man."
"Yes, it was all right. I'm certain of that."
"Good evidence, too. Capital evidence, Mr. Rexford," said the officer, rubbing his hands together with evident delight.
"You are sure there was no fire in the front room when you first got here?"
"I am positive there was none."
"I may want your testimony."
"I hope so, sir, for crime should be punished."
"I hope it will, in this case, at least," said the merchant; "for I believe this store has been fired, and perhaps robbed."
"Shouldn't wonder if it had been robbed—more than likely it was, now I think of it."
"But as everything is burned up, it will be almost impossible to find this out, as I can't really miss anything."
"There will be a chance for some pretty sharp detective work, I should say."
"You are good at that, I believe," said the merchant.
"Well, I fancy they can't fool me much, if I do say it."
"Then I want you to go to work on this case."
"I will commence at once, Mr. Rexford.The guilty party can't escape me when I give my whole mind to it."
"I hope you will put your whole mind on it, then."
"I shall indeed, sir. I will go home now and form my theory. I have the facts to work on. Early in the morning I will see you, and we will compare notes and get ready for business—active business, I assure you."
After being out during the night at the fire, and consequently having had his rest broken, Fred found it rather irksome to spring out of bed at five o'clock, get his breakfast, and be ready to respond to the factory whistle on a wintry morning.
He had now got sufficient knowledge of his work, and found very little difficulty in performing it. Whenever he wanted any instruction or help, Carl seemed ready and glad to aid him, so the two boys soon became friends.
"How long have you been on these flockers, Carl?" asked Fred the morning after the fire.
"Only two months."
"Where did you work before that? I don't remember ever having seen you till yesterday morning, and I don't know what your last name is now. I heard Mr. Hanks call you Carl, so I suppose that is your given name?"
"Yes, my name is Carl Heimann; I have been in here ever since I came to Mapleton."
"Where did you come from?"
"My father and mother came from Germanywhen I was a small boy, and they lived in Rhode Island; but they both got sick and died, so I came here to live with my uncle."
"What is your uncle's name?" Fred went on to inquire.
"His name is Frank Baumgarten."
"Oh, I've seen him plenty of times. I used to take goods to his house from the store. It seems queer that I never saw you."
"I don't go out any nights, for I get tired out by working in here eleven hours and a half every day, I can tell you," said Carl.
"Yes, I should think you would; you don't look very strong."
"Well, I guess I can get along better now that you are here; but Tim Short used to shirk and crowd me. If Mr. Hanks would do his part of the work it wouldn't be so hard; but he won't do it, and is cross and finds fault if we don't hurry things up."
When Fred's eyes first fell upon the pale, sad face of Carl, and he noticed his dwarfed and disfigured form, he had a feeling of pity for him. There was that about his manner which at once interested him. The boy's features were good, and yet they had that sharp, shrunken appearance which may be said to be characteristic of the majority of those afflicted with spinal trouble. He was a little humpback, who, from his size,would be taken for a lad of not more than thirteen, though he was then seventeen, one year older than Fred, as the latter afterward learned.
The interest our hero felt in Carl had gradually increased as he noticed how intelligent he appeared, and when he said that he had no father nor mother, and told how he had been treated, Fred's sympathy was touched, and he said to himself, almost unconsciously, "I'm glad I'm here, for now I can do the heavy work, and will protect him from the abuse of this man Hanks!" Then he said to the boy (for he seemed but such beside his own sturdy form), "Yes, I think you will get along better now, for I am strong and well, and will do all the heavy work for you."
"Oh, I'm so glad!" replied Carl, with a sense of gratitude which showed itself in his bright eyes, "for it hurts my back every time I lift one of the heavy bags of wet flocks, and almost makes me think I will have to give up the job. Then I think my uncle can't support me, and so I keep on."
"You shall not lift any more of them while I am here. I would rather do that, any way, than stay here in the dust."
"How long will you be here?" asked the little humpback, anxious lest the brighter prospect might last but a short time.
"I don't know. I don't want to stay in the factory any longer than I am obliged to; but that may be forever," replied Fred, with a clouded brow, as his mind reverted to the cause that brought him down to such work.
"I don't see why you need to stay in here. You have been clerk in a store, and have a good education, I suppose. If I only had an education——"
"Haven't you ever been to school?"
"I went to school a little in the old country, and three terms in Rhode Island; then I went into the factory. My father was sick, and couldn't work. After I had been in there about a year, my coat caught one day in the shafting and wound me round it so they had to shut down the water wheel to get me off. Everybody thought I was dead. That's what hurt my back and made it grow the way it is now."
"How long ago was that?" inquired Fred sympathetically.
"It was six years ago that I got hurt, but I did not get out of bed for almost two years afterward."
"Does your back trouble you now?"
"Yes, it aches all the time; but I've got rather used to it. Only when I do a lot of lifting here, it bothers me so I can't sleep."
"That's too bad. I'm sorry for you, and, as Isaid, will do all the heavy work. Then you didn't go to school any after you got out again?"
"No; I went back into the mill and stayed until my mother died; then I came here."
"Did you say your father was dead?"
"Yes; he died while I was sick."
"Have you any brothers or sisters?"
"No; I have no one but my uncle."
"I suppose he is kind to you?"
"Yes, he is; but Aunt Gretchen don't seem to like me very well, she has so many children of her own."
"I should think you would board somewhere else, then."
"My uncle wants me to stay with him. If I boarded at the factory boarding house my wages wouldn't more than pay my board, and I shouldn't have anything left to buy my clothes with. If I should leave him and then get sick he wouldn't take care of me, and I should have to go to the poorhouse. I have always dreaded that since the city helped us when we were all sick."
"Well, you will soon be strong enough, I hope, to get another job, where there is more pay."
This conversation was now interrupted by the appearance of Hanks, who said to Fred:
"Come along up stairs with me, Worthington; I want yer ter help me lug some cloth down. I'll show yer where ter find it; then yer kin git ityerself erlone. Yer look stout 'nuff ter handle it 's well as me."
Each shouldered a web of cloth which made a bundle about two feet through and six feet long—rather a heavy burden for a boy; still, Fred handled it easily and quickly, deposited it by the flockers, and turned to his superior for further orders.
"Take out them pieces next; they have run long enough. Carl will help you about doing it; then you may go up and bring down two more pieces."
With these orders he vanished, and the boys went to their work.
"How long do these have to be run?" asked Fred of the little humpback.
"About three hours. If they stayed in longer than that they would get too heavy."
"This light stuff don't make them so very much heavier, does it?"
"Oh, yes; we can beat in flocks enough to double the weight of the cloth."
"Is that so?" exclaimed the new hand incredulously; and then added, after a moment's thought, "But I should think they would all tumble out."
"I suppose they would if the cloth wasn't fulled as soon as we get through with it; but that sort of sets them in."
"Where do they full it?"
"Out in the fulling mills, near the extractor. Didn't you see those long wooden things with the covers turned back, and the cloth going up through them so fast?"
"Yes, I saw them, but didn't know what they were. I don't see how going through those fulls the cloth."
"It's the stuff they put in—fuller's earth and soap; they pile the soft soap in by the dishful, and it makes a great lather. I s'pose the fuller's earth is what does the most of the work. After the cloth comes out of the fulling mills it's 'bout twice as thick as when it goes in, and feels all stiff and heavy. It's no more like what it is now than nothing."
"What's the next process it goes through?"
"It goes into the washers next, and is washed as clean as can be."
"How did you learn so much about finishing cloth? You have been here but a little while."
"My father worked in a mill, and I have heard him talk about it. Then I have been in a factory enough myself to know pretty nearly everything that is done."
"Do we take the cloth direct from the weave room? It doesn't look as though anything had been done to it when it reaches us."
"It is 'burled' first; then we get it."
"'Burled'? What do you mean by that?"
"Why, the knots are all cut off. You see the weavers have to tie their warp on the back side when it breaks, and that is what makes the knots."
"I don't see what harm those little things would do, as you say they are on the back of the cloth."
"They are the worst things there are, for if one of them gets in by accident it is sure to make a hole through the cloth when it runs through the shears."
Thus, with work and talk, the day flew by almost before Fred was aware of it. In fact, the hours seemed shorter to him than any he had passed for weeks. Now there was something new to occupy his attention, and work enough to keep his hands busy. The many curious machines before him, of which Carl had told him a little, interested him much—so much, indeed, that even at the end of the first day he felt no small desire to know more of them.
In the evening, after Fred's second day in the factory, as he sat with his parents in their pleasant home, and the thought of Carl and of his sad deformity and still sadder story recurred to him, he could not help contrasting the circumstances of the little humpback with his own.
Two mornings before, as he entered the mill, he had felt that his burden was almost greater than he could bear. He was disgraced and thrown out of his position, and was about entering upon a cheerless life, where there was but little opportunity for advancement.
But now, as he reflected upon his surroundings, he saw that he was much better off than many others. He had both father and mother, who loved and cared for him, who provided for him a cheerful home, and who would at any time sacrifice their own pleasures and comforts for his. Moreover, he was well and strong, and had the advantage of attending school, while Carl had been obliged to go into the mill at a little more than ten years of age, in order to earn something toward the support of his mother and invalidfather. It was while thus employed that he met with the terrible accident that so deformed him and blighted his young life.
"No wonder he looks so sad," said Fred to himself. "Perhaps he may be as ambitious to make a success in the world as I am, and yet he is thrown into the factory, and is probably glad of even such a place, and maybe he works hard at times when he is really unable to do anything. Poor boy! I don't see what prospects he can see ahead to cheer him on. He has neither friends, education, nor health, and with so small a chance as there is in the factory for advancement, I should think he might as well give up first as last; but as he has no home, I suppose he must earn a living somehow or starve. If he only had friends to take care of him, it would not be so hard on him; but I don't see how he can be very happy with a woman like his aunt, who is always spluttering about somebody or something."
Fred secretly determined to do all he could to help the little cripple, and made up his mind that Hanks should not abuse him in the future if he could help it. Then calling to mind Carl's remark that morning, which showed so clearly his desire for a better education, he felt he could aid him, and decided to do so.
"Any new evidence?" asked Sheriff Coombs,as he met Mr. Rexford early in the morning at the scene of the fire.
"No, nothing except what we discussed last night."
"That is good as far as it goes."
"Well, it goes far enough to convince me," replied the merchant tartly.
"To be sure, sir, but we must convince the court. A mere suspicion, sir, is not good in law."
"You said last night you were the first one here, and that the fire started in the back store."
"So I did, but I can't say what caused the fire."
"It shows that it did not catch from the stove."
"That is so, and it leads us to suspect the store was set on fire—in fact, that is my belief. We stand agreed on this point; but the court must have evidence or we can't make out a case."
"Then we must search for evidence," said the merchant.
"My official duty, sir, is to bring the wrongdoer to justice, and I assure you I take a special interest in this case. I shall do my best work on it; but, by the way, there will be some slight expense connected with it."
"I don't understand you," replied the merchant nervously, for he caught the word "expense."
"Nothing of any consequence, to be sure, but of course you know a detective can't work without means."
"How much will it cost me?" asked the merchant, after a pause.
"I will make it light—for you almost nothing," answered the sheriff, who began to fear he would lose the opportunity to perform official service.
"Very well, then, you may go ahead; but I warn you not to come back on me with a heavy charge for this business."
"Your wishes shall be heeded, sir. I will commence now. By the way, do you suspect any one in particular?"
"Yes, I have one or two reasons for believing I know who did it."
"Good! That will give us an idea to work on; but first let me look around and see what I can discover for evidence."
On the rear side of the back room was a window. A few feet from this window part of a load of sawdust lay upon the ground. Here the sheriff found several footprints.
"How long has this sawdust been here?" he called out to Mr. Rexford.
"It was put there several days ago," he replied.
"I wish you would look here. I have made an important discovery."
The merchant quickly approached the spot.
"Do you see those footprints? When do you think they were made?"
"Last night about dark I shoveled up several basketfuls and carried them into the stable. These tracks must have been made since then."
"Do you feel sure of this?"
"I do, and I notice the prints point exactly to where the back window was."
"That is a good point, sir; but do you notice that whoever made that track must have had a small foot?"
"Yes, I see it is small, and that goes to strengthen my suspicions."
"It measures ten inches long and three wide," said the sheriff, applying his rule to the footprint.
In about an hour from this time Sheriff Coombs entered the woolen factory, and a minute or two later went to the flockers.
"Do you want to see me?" asked Fred, as he saw the officer fasten his eyes on him.
"Yes; I have a warrant for your arrest."
"For my arrest!" exclaimed Fred in amazement. "What for?"
"On complaint of John Rexford, for setting fire to his store," replied the sheriff, in a pompous manner.