Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Thirteen.The Alarm.A fortnight had glided by. The dam was kept more than full by hours of stormy weather high up in the hills many miles away; but the stream had resumed its gentle course, the trout were back in their old haunts, Manners had finished one of his landscapes and begun another, and one soft, sweet, very early autumn evening three busy pairs of hands where at work at the round table plainly visible in the light cast by Mrs Drinkwater’s shaded lamp.“No,” said Will, who was holding something in a pair of pliers in his left hand, and winding a thread of silk brought up from the mill round it with his right, “he hasn’t been near us yet. Josh and I keep running against him in the woods, or up one of the river paths; but, as soon as he sees us, he turns his back and goes in among the trees.”“Shies at us,” interpolated Josh.“Yes,” said Will, softly, as he wound away, his face screwed up and looking intent to a degree. “Shies! I say, Mr Manners, you, living here, see him every day, of course?”“No, I don’t,” said the artist. “He has his breakfast before I’m down, and goes off and doesn’t come back till after dark. The missus, poor soul, told me yesterday—crying away like your old mill-wheel—that he takes a bit of bread and cheese with him and goes off to sit and mope somewhere in the woods. He never hardly speaks to her. She said, poor thing, that she’d give anything to see him back at his regular work.”“Ha!” cried Will, holding up the something proudly upon which he had been at work. “Now, I call that something like a coachman.”“Not a bit,” said Josh. “How can a little hook, a thread of gut, a few small feathers, and some dubbing, be like a coachman?”“Get out, Clevershakes! What an old chop-logic you are! I didn’t christen that kind of artificial fly a coachman; but it’s a well-made one, isn’t it, Mr Manners?”“Well, yes, very nicely made; but it’s not a London maker’s idea of a jarvey.”“No,” said Will, “but it’s the sort that will catch the fish. You’d never guess whose make that is.”“Why, it’s yours, my lad.”“Yes; but you don’t know who taught me.”“Not I; but I should like you to make me half a dozen more.”“All right; I will; a dozen, if you like. They suit our waters fine. That’s old Boil O’s pattern. He taught me; he used to say that the proper way to make a fly was to watch the real one first, and make it as near as you could like that—not take a copy from somebody’s book.”“Quite right,” said the artist; “old Boil O’s a philosopher.”“I wish he was a sensible man instead,” said Will. “I’ve been thinking, Mr Manners, that as you live here and know him so well—”“That I don’t,” cried the artist. “I never knew less of any man in my life.”“Well, never mind that; you live here, and I think it would be very nice if you’d get hold of him and talk sensibly, like you can.”“Thank you for the compliment, my young judge.”“I say, don’t poke fun, Mr Manners; I want to talk seriously.”“That’s right; I like to hear you sometimes, my young joker. I wouldn’t give a sou for a fellow who was all fun.”“Well, look here, Mr Manners; I want you to let him see what a jolly old stupid he is making of himself. Of course father can’t come and ask him to return to work, but I know that dad would shake hands with him at once, and be as pleased as Punch.”“Well,” said the artist, dryly, “I can’t quite see in my own mind your grave and reverend parent looking as pleased as Punch; it doesn’t seem quite in his way.”“Of course not; but you know what I mean.”“Well, I guess at it, boy; and you mean what is quite right. I should be very glad to do anything for either of you, and to put an end to a melancholy state of affairs; but look here, my dear boy, I don’t think that I should be doing right as an outsider, such a bird of passage as I am, to say more to Drinkwater than I have already done. He knows what I think; but I want to be friends with everybody here, and I feel sure that by interfering further I should be turning ray landlord into an enemy. I am obliged to say ‘no.’ And now, if you please, we’ll go on with our fly-making, and get our tackle ready for another turn at the trout.”“Well, I am very sorry,” said Will, sadly, “and—”“Whatever’s that?” cried Josh, springing to his feet and staring wildly through the open window.“Eh? Whatever’s what?” said the artist, slowly, looking in the same direction. “Why, as Pat would say, it isn’t to-morrow morning, and the sun never rises in the west, or he’d be getting up now. Why, by all that’s wonderful, it’s—”“Fire! Fire!” shouted Will, wildly.“Yes,” cried Josh, in a husky voice, “and it’s at the mill.”

A fortnight had glided by. The dam was kept more than full by hours of stormy weather high up in the hills many miles away; but the stream had resumed its gentle course, the trout were back in their old haunts, Manners had finished one of his landscapes and begun another, and one soft, sweet, very early autumn evening three busy pairs of hands where at work at the round table plainly visible in the light cast by Mrs Drinkwater’s shaded lamp.

“No,” said Will, who was holding something in a pair of pliers in his left hand, and winding a thread of silk brought up from the mill round it with his right, “he hasn’t been near us yet. Josh and I keep running against him in the woods, or up one of the river paths; but, as soon as he sees us, he turns his back and goes in among the trees.”

“Shies at us,” interpolated Josh.

“Yes,” said Will, softly, as he wound away, his face screwed up and looking intent to a degree. “Shies! I say, Mr Manners, you, living here, see him every day, of course?”

“No, I don’t,” said the artist. “He has his breakfast before I’m down, and goes off and doesn’t come back till after dark. The missus, poor soul, told me yesterday—crying away like your old mill-wheel—that he takes a bit of bread and cheese with him and goes off to sit and mope somewhere in the woods. He never hardly speaks to her. She said, poor thing, that she’d give anything to see him back at his regular work.”

“Ha!” cried Will, holding up the something proudly upon which he had been at work. “Now, I call that something like a coachman.”

“Not a bit,” said Josh. “How can a little hook, a thread of gut, a few small feathers, and some dubbing, be like a coachman?”

“Get out, Clevershakes! What an old chop-logic you are! I didn’t christen that kind of artificial fly a coachman; but it’s a well-made one, isn’t it, Mr Manners?”

“Well, yes, very nicely made; but it’s not a London maker’s idea of a jarvey.”

“No,” said Will, “but it’s the sort that will catch the fish. You’d never guess whose make that is.”

“Why, it’s yours, my lad.”

“Yes; but you don’t know who taught me.”

“Not I; but I should like you to make me half a dozen more.”

“All right; I will; a dozen, if you like. They suit our waters fine. That’s old Boil O’s pattern. He taught me; he used to say that the proper way to make a fly was to watch the real one first, and make it as near as you could like that—not take a copy from somebody’s book.”

“Quite right,” said the artist; “old Boil O’s a philosopher.”

“I wish he was a sensible man instead,” said Will. “I’ve been thinking, Mr Manners, that as you live here and know him so well—”

“That I don’t,” cried the artist. “I never knew less of any man in my life.”

“Well, never mind that; you live here, and I think it would be very nice if you’d get hold of him and talk sensibly, like you can.”

“Thank you for the compliment, my young judge.”

“I say, don’t poke fun, Mr Manners; I want to talk seriously.”

“That’s right; I like to hear you sometimes, my young joker. I wouldn’t give a sou for a fellow who was all fun.”

“Well, look here, Mr Manners; I want you to let him see what a jolly old stupid he is making of himself. Of course father can’t come and ask him to return to work, but I know that dad would shake hands with him at once, and be as pleased as Punch.”

“Well,” said the artist, dryly, “I can’t quite see in my own mind your grave and reverend parent looking as pleased as Punch; it doesn’t seem quite in his way.”

“Of course not; but you know what I mean.”

“Well, I guess at it, boy; and you mean what is quite right. I should be very glad to do anything for either of you, and to put an end to a melancholy state of affairs; but look here, my dear boy, I don’t think that I should be doing right as an outsider, such a bird of passage as I am, to say more to Drinkwater than I have already done. He knows what I think; but I want to be friends with everybody here, and I feel sure that by interfering further I should be turning ray landlord into an enemy. I am obliged to say ‘no.’ And now, if you please, we’ll go on with our fly-making, and get our tackle ready for another turn at the trout.”

“Well, I am very sorry,” said Will, sadly, “and—”

“Whatever’s that?” cried Josh, springing to his feet and staring wildly through the open window.

“Eh? Whatever’s what?” said the artist, slowly, looking in the same direction. “Why, as Pat would say, it isn’t to-morrow morning, and the sun never rises in the west, or he’d be getting up now. Why, by all that’s wonderful, it’s—”

“Fire! Fire!” shouted Will, wildly.

“Yes,” cried Josh, in a husky voice, “and it’s at the mill.”

Chapter Fourteen.Good Servant—Bad Master.There was no stopping to put away artificial fly material. Hat and caps were snatched up, and the next minute all three were running as fast as the rugged stones and the dangerous nature of the path would allow, downward towards the mill, their faces suffused by the warm glow which rose from out of the valley beyond the trees.For a few moments the pat, pat of the runners’ feet, and the rattle and rush of the stones they dislodged were the only sounds to be heard. Then came a loud shout from below, a confused murmur of voices, the wild shriek of a woman, followed by the hoarse voice of a man, shouting “Fire! Fire!” the last time to be drowned by the loud clang of the mill’s big bell, whose tongue seemed to be giving its utterances in a wild, hysterical way, as rope and wheel were set in motion by a pair of lusty arms.There were a couple more zigzags to descend, which never had seemed so long to Will before, and meanwhile the buzz of voices, mingled with shouted orders, grew louder and more confused.“Shall we never get there?” panted Will.“Take it coolly, my boy,” cried the artist.“Steady! Cool! Steady!” snapped out Will. “Who can be cool at a time like this?”“You,” said Manners, “and you must. We don’t want to get there pumped out and useless in an emergency. We want to help.”“Ha!” panted Josh, as if satisfied with their friend’s utterance, and feeling that it exactly expressed his feelings.“Oh, the poor old mill!” cried Will, as the next minute they came full in sight of the long wooden range of buildings, up one end of which, as if striving to reach the bell turret, great tongues of fire were gliding steadily in a ruddy series, licking at board and beam as they pursued their way.Just then a thought struck Will, and he breathlessly shouted—“The engine! The engine! Who says my father was foolish now?”“I say he was a Solomon,” cried Manners. “Hurrah, boys! Let’s have the engine out! Plenty of water! Take it coolly; we’ll soon have her going now.”He had hardly finished speaking when John Willows’ voice rose loudly above the babble of the little crowd, giving orders; and, as the boys rushed up with their friend, an iron bar was heard to rattle, two doors were flung back, and the grinding and crushing sound of wheels over gravel followed, as the little engine was run out with a hearty cheer; the excited men who took the place of horses and pushed wherever they could find a place for their hands, running the machine along the mill front right up towards where the fire was blazing fast, and bringing to it a current of air as it rose, which made the flames burn moment by moment more fiercely, as they obtained a greater hold.“No, no, no!” yelled Will. “You’re wrong, you’re wrong, you’re wrong! Back with her at once!”“Nay, it’s all right, boys,” cried one of the men; “it’s all right; go on!”“It isn’t,” shouted Will. “Back with her close to the dam!”“Nay,” cried the same voice; “the fire’s here.”“I know that!” shouted Will, rushing at him and thrusting him aside. “Ah, here’s father! Give orders, father; it must be close to the water. The suction-pipe is short.”“Yes, of course,” cried Willows. “You’re wrong, men. Back with her to the pool there below the wheel! Mr Manners, take the lead, please, over getting out and connecting the hose. Will, see to the suction-pipe, and that its rose is well clear of the gravel. Get to work as soon as you can. Josh, my boy, follow and help me. I’m afraid the place is doomed, Mr Manners; I must go to the office and get out the safe and books.”“Right, sir; we will do our best,” cried the artist. “How did it occur?”“Goodness only knows,” was the reply, and each hurried to his appointed task.They worked well, but, as a matter of course, there was little discipline; every worker thought he knew best, gave his opinions, and hindered the progress of the rest; but at last the engine was in the most favourable place for operating, the suction-pipe attached and hanging down in a deep, dark hole, scooped lower year after year by tons of the water falling from the wheel; while forward, under the artist’s guidance, length after length of the hose had been unrolled and the gun-metal screws fitted together till it stretched out far in the glowing light towards the burning timbers. Here, as near as it was safe for man to go, the artist stood in shirt and trousers, sleeves rolled up over his massive arms, bending down, a picturesque object, like some gladiator fitting his weapon before doing battle with the fiery monster wreathing upwards above his head, as he screwed on the glistening copper branch.“Ready!” he roared, as Will’s father and Josh came out of the open office door laden with heavy ledgers.“All right!” shouted Will. “Now, boys, all together—pump!”Cling, clang! Cling, clang! Cling clang! Three times over, the handles rose and fell with a strange, weird sound, and then, as if moved by one impulse, the workers stopped, and, sounding strangely incongruous, a man whose voice was blurred by the north-west country burr shouted—“Why, t’owd poomp wean’t soock!”“Nay,” cried another; “I never had no faith in t’owd mawkin of a thing. She’s only fit to boon the roads.”“What’s the matter?” shouted Manners.“I don’t know,” cried Will, despondently; “it won’t go.”“Are the pipes screwed on right?” said Manners.“Yes.”“Is your end down in the water?”“Yes; three or four feet.”“We must have got something screwed on upside down.”“No,” said Will, firmly; “it’s all right, just as old Boil O put it together when it was done.”“But it isn’t all right,” cried Manners; “the suckers or something must have been left out.”“Oh, why didn’t we try it? Why didn’t we try it when it was done?” groaned Will. “I did want to, but Boil O said there was no time for me to be playing my games.”At that moment Mr Willows ran up.“Well,” he cried, “why don’t you pump?”“We did, father, but it won’t go.”“Then don’t waste time. Here, Manners!”“Catch hold,” shouted the artist, thrusting the copper branch into the nearest man hands and running up.“Yes!” he said.“Ladders and buckets,” continued Mr Willows.“Right, and form a double line. I say,” he whispered; “here’s treachery.”“I fear so; I fear so,” said Willows, in the same tone. “It’s revenge, and the engine has been purposely left out of gear. No,” he cried, as if in agony, his words having given him intense pain; “I won’t believe a man could be so base.”There was the scuffling rush of feet just then, and the object of his thoughts, wild and weird-looking from his dwarfish aspect, glistening head, and staring eyes, dashed up.“Here, fools! Idiots! Are you going to let the poor old mill burn down?”“Hurrah!” shouted Will; “here’s Boil O! Here, old fellow, what is there wrong? I can’t get the thing to go.”“Stand aside!” cried the man, fiercely; and the next moment he was down on his knees, rapidly examining the connections, valve, piston, and rod. “Yah!” he roared, savagely. “The pins are left out here.”Clang went a box, as he threw up a lid in the front, snatched out a screw hammer and a copper pin, and then, tap, tap, tap, some half-dozen sharply given blows were heard, the hammer was thrown with a crash back into the box, and the man’s hoarse, harsh voice rose in an angry roar.“Now, then, put your backs into it! Pump!”Clink, clank!Clink, clank!Clink, clonk!Clink, clunk!There was a whistling sound as the water forced the wind out of the leather tubes, rushed along spurting in fine threads out of a score of tiny holes, and from the joints where they were not tightly screwed up, and then, just as, seeing what was about to happen, Manners rushed forward and grasped the copper branch, a fountain as of golden rain darted out of the glistening branch, rose higher and higher, making the flames hiss and steam, and a roar of triumph rose above the thudding, steady clank of the engine, now doing well its work, while the north-country man who had spoken jeeringly before shouted lustily—“Three cheers, boys, for good old Boil O!”

There was no stopping to put away artificial fly material. Hat and caps were snatched up, and the next minute all three were running as fast as the rugged stones and the dangerous nature of the path would allow, downward towards the mill, their faces suffused by the warm glow which rose from out of the valley beyond the trees.

For a few moments the pat, pat of the runners’ feet, and the rattle and rush of the stones they dislodged were the only sounds to be heard. Then came a loud shout from below, a confused murmur of voices, the wild shriek of a woman, followed by the hoarse voice of a man, shouting “Fire! Fire!” the last time to be drowned by the loud clang of the mill’s big bell, whose tongue seemed to be giving its utterances in a wild, hysterical way, as rope and wheel were set in motion by a pair of lusty arms.

There were a couple more zigzags to descend, which never had seemed so long to Will before, and meanwhile the buzz of voices, mingled with shouted orders, grew louder and more confused.

“Shall we never get there?” panted Will.

“Take it coolly, my boy,” cried the artist.

“Steady! Cool! Steady!” snapped out Will. “Who can be cool at a time like this?”

“You,” said Manners, “and you must. We don’t want to get there pumped out and useless in an emergency. We want to help.”

“Ha!” panted Josh, as if satisfied with their friend’s utterance, and feeling that it exactly expressed his feelings.

“Oh, the poor old mill!” cried Will, as the next minute they came full in sight of the long wooden range of buildings, up one end of which, as if striving to reach the bell turret, great tongues of fire were gliding steadily in a ruddy series, licking at board and beam as they pursued their way.

Just then a thought struck Will, and he breathlessly shouted—

“The engine! The engine! Who says my father was foolish now?”

“I say he was a Solomon,” cried Manners. “Hurrah, boys! Let’s have the engine out! Plenty of water! Take it coolly; we’ll soon have her going now.”

He had hardly finished speaking when John Willows’ voice rose loudly above the babble of the little crowd, giving orders; and, as the boys rushed up with their friend, an iron bar was heard to rattle, two doors were flung back, and the grinding and crushing sound of wheels over gravel followed, as the little engine was run out with a hearty cheer; the excited men who took the place of horses and pushed wherever they could find a place for their hands, running the machine along the mill front right up towards where the fire was blazing fast, and bringing to it a current of air as it rose, which made the flames burn moment by moment more fiercely, as they obtained a greater hold.

“No, no, no!” yelled Will. “You’re wrong, you’re wrong, you’re wrong! Back with her at once!”

“Nay, it’s all right, boys,” cried one of the men; “it’s all right; go on!”

“It isn’t,” shouted Will. “Back with her close to the dam!”

“Nay,” cried the same voice; “the fire’s here.”

“I know that!” shouted Will, rushing at him and thrusting him aside. “Ah, here’s father! Give orders, father; it must be close to the water. The suction-pipe is short.”

“Yes, of course,” cried Willows. “You’re wrong, men. Back with her to the pool there below the wheel! Mr Manners, take the lead, please, over getting out and connecting the hose. Will, see to the suction-pipe, and that its rose is well clear of the gravel. Get to work as soon as you can. Josh, my boy, follow and help me. I’m afraid the place is doomed, Mr Manners; I must go to the office and get out the safe and books.”

“Right, sir; we will do our best,” cried the artist. “How did it occur?”

“Goodness only knows,” was the reply, and each hurried to his appointed task.

They worked well, but, as a matter of course, there was little discipline; every worker thought he knew best, gave his opinions, and hindered the progress of the rest; but at last the engine was in the most favourable place for operating, the suction-pipe attached and hanging down in a deep, dark hole, scooped lower year after year by tons of the water falling from the wheel; while forward, under the artist’s guidance, length after length of the hose had been unrolled and the gun-metal screws fitted together till it stretched out far in the glowing light towards the burning timbers. Here, as near as it was safe for man to go, the artist stood in shirt and trousers, sleeves rolled up over his massive arms, bending down, a picturesque object, like some gladiator fitting his weapon before doing battle with the fiery monster wreathing upwards above his head, as he screwed on the glistening copper branch.

“Ready!” he roared, as Will’s father and Josh came out of the open office door laden with heavy ledgers.

“All right!” shouted Will. “Now, boys, all together—pump!”

Cling, clang! Cling, clang! Cling clang! Three times over, the handles rose and fell with a strange, weird sound, and then, as if moved by one impulse, the workers stopped, and, sounding strangely incongruous, a man whose voice was blurred by the north-west country burr shouted—

“Why, t’owd poomp wean’t soock!”

“Nay,” cried another; “I never had no faith in t’owd mawkin of a thing. She’s only fit to boon the roads.”

“What’s the matter?” shouted Manners.

“I don’t know,” cried Will, despondently; “it won’t go.”

“Are the pipes screwed on right?” said Manners.

“Yes.”

“Is your end down in the water?”

“Yes; three or four feet.”

“We must have got something screwed on upside down.”

“No,” said Will, firmly; “it’s all right, just as old Boil O put it together when it was done.”

“But it isn’t all right,” cried Manners; “the suckers or something must have been left out.”

“Oh, why didn’t we try it? Why didn’t we try it when it was done?” groaned Will. “I did want to, but Boil O said there was no time for me to be playing my games.”

At that moment Mr Willows ran up.

“Well,” he cried, “why don’t you pump?”

“We did, father, but it won’t go.”

“Then don’t waste time. Here, Manners!”

“Catch hold,” shouted the artist, thrusting the copper branch into the nearest man hands and running up.

“Yes!” he said.

“Ladders and buckets,” continued Mr Willows.

“Right, and form a double line. I say,” he whispered; “here’s treachery.”

“I fear so; I fear so,” said Willows, in the same tone. “It’s revenge, and the engine has been purposely left out of gear. No,” he cried, as if in agony, his words having given him intense pain; “I won’t believe a man could be so base.”

There was the scuffling rush of feet just then, and the object of his thoughts, wild and weird-looking from his dwarfish aspect, glistening head, and staring eyes, dashed up.

“Here, fools! Idiots! Are you going to let the poor old mill burn down?”

“Hurrah!” shouted Will; “here’s Boil O! Here, old fellow, what is there wrong? I can’t get the thing to go.”

“Stand aside!” cried the man, fiercely; and the next moment he was down on his knees, rapidly examining the connections, valve, piston, and rod. “Yah!” he roared, savagely. “The pins are left out here.”

Clang went a box, as he threw up a lid in the front, snatched out a screw hammer and a copper pin, and then, tap, tap, tap, some half-dozen sharply given blows were heard, the hammer was thrown with a crash back into the box, and the man’s hoarse, harsh voice rose in an angry roar.

“Now, then, put your backs into it! Pump!”

Clink, clank!Clink, clank!Clink, clonk!Clink, clunk!

There was a whistling sound as the water forced the wind out of the leather tubes, rushed along spurting in fine threads out of a score of tiny holes, and from the joints where they were not tightly screwed up, and then, just as, seeing what was about to happen, Manners rushed forward and grasped the copper branch, a fountain as of golden rain darted out of the glistening branch, rose higher and higher, making the flames hiss and steam, and a roar of triumph rose above the thudding, steady clank of the engine, now doing well its work, while the north-country man who had spoken jeeringly before shouted lustily—

“Three cheers, boys, for good old Boil O!”

Chapter Fifteen.It’s a Mystery.There was a desperate fight now for about a quarter of an hour between man’s two best slaves—fire and water; and John Willows looked anxiously on, asking himself the question, which was to win. At the end of the above-mentioned time, in spite of the inflammable nature of the old building, the matter was no longer in doubt. The men worked away nobly at the clanging pumps, and every now and then in her eager excitement, some sturdy, strong-armed woman made a run forward to thrust husband or brother aside and take his place, working with a will, and sending quite a hissing deluge to flood the untouched parts of the roof, and gradually fight back the flames foot by foot, till their farther progress was stopped, and the rest was easy.All through the fight, Manners held his post right in the forefront, his face shining in the golden glow as he distributed the water. Will and Josh kept close up after the books had been saved, always ready to help, and bringing refreshment, while Drinkwater raged about like some lunatic, thrusting the men here and there, urging them on to pump faster, and nearly getting himself crushed over and over again, as he dodged about with a small oil-can, seeking to lubricate the old and stiffened parts of the machinery.It was all to save the mill from destruction, and the master from injury from whom he had cut himself adrift, and there was the result at last. The ruddy light which had illumined the fern-hung sides and curtains of ivy of the great gorge began to fail.The great, black cloud of smoke which hung over from side to side began to turn from ruddy orange to a dull lead colour, and at last the word was given to cease pumping.“There’s nothing to do now, my lads, but to carry a few buckets inside and look out for sparks,” cried Willows. “I thank you all! You’ve worked grandly, and you have saved our old mill.”“There’ll be a big sore place upon it to-morrow, master,” said one of the men.“Nothing but what James Drinkwater and three or four workmen,” said Willows, speaking meaningly, “can put right within a month. The machinery at this end seems to be uninjured.”“I hope so,” said Manners, “but the lads here and I have given it a tremendous washing where we sent the stream in through yon hole and those broken windows. What about the silk? Will it be spoiled?”“There was little there to signify, and the loss will be comparatively small. Now then, everyone round to the big office, and let’s see what we can do in the way of finding you all something to eat and drink.”There was another burst of cheers, and soon after, while the men and women were partaking of the mill-owner’s cheer, he and his friends had been making such examination as the smoke, the darkness, and the water which had flooded the drenched part of the building would allow.“Terrible damage, Carlile,” he said. “Still nothing compared to what might have been. But what has become of Drinkwater? Who saw him last?”“I think I did, father,” cried Will. “He was busy with a lantern down there by the engine, wiping and oiling the different parts. I asked him to come in, but he only grunted and shook his head.”“That’s where I found him,” chimed in Josh, “when you sent me with a message, father.”“Yes, and I saw him there,” said Manners. “My word, how he kept the pumpers up to the mark! The water never failed once. Why, you got quite a bargain in the old engine, Mr Willows, and that fellow did it up splendidly.”“And worked gloriously,” cried Will. “I think, father, he felt ashamed of all he had said, and wanted to put matters right.”“I hope so,” said Mr Willows; “at any rate I do for my miserable suspicions when the fire broke out.”“Don’t worry about that,” said the Vicar. “It looked horribly black after his threatenings about revenge. But there, that’s all past, and thank Heaven you can congratulate yourself upon the good that has arisen out of to-night’s dark work.”“Dark!” said Manners, wiping his black face. “I think we had too much light.”“Not enough to show how that fire broke out,” said Mr Willows, gravely. “I cannot understand how it was caused.”“Couldn’t be a spark left by one of the flashes of lightning in the storms we have had lately, could it?” said Josh, innocently.“No,” said Will, mockingly; “but it might have been a star tumbled down.”“No, it couldn’t!” cried Josh, angrily. “Such stuff! It must have been started somehow.”“Yes, my boy,” said the Vicar, smiling; “but it is a mystery for the present.”“Let it rest,” said Mr Willows. “I don’t concern myself about that now. I have something else on my mind. I shall not rest, Carlile, till I have thanked that man for all he has done, and shaken him by the hand.”“Oh, he’ll turn up soon, I daresay,” said Manners. “Here, I know! he must have got himself drenched with water.”“Of course!” cried Will. “I saw him lower himself down into the hole to move the suction-pipe.”“That’s it,” said Manners, “and he’s gone up to the cottage to have a change.”“At any rate,” said the Vicar, “I feel thankful that the trouble has passed, and I shall be seeing him back at his work to-morrow; eh, Mr Willows?”“I hope so,” was the reply. “Now then, we must have three or four watchers for the rest of the night, and those of you who are wet had better see about a change.”“Well, I’m one,” said Manners, “for I feel like a sponge. I’m off to my diggings, but I shall be back in half an hour to join the watch.”“No, no,” cried Mr Willows, “you’ve done enough. I’ll see to that.”“Yes, yes,” cried the artist; “I want to come back and think out my plan for a new picture of the mill on fire. It’ll be a bit of history, don’t you see, and I want to get the scene well soaked into my mind.”“It ought to be burned in already,” said Will, laughing.“Perhaps it is,” said the artist, merrily; and he hurried away.So much time had been spent that, to the surprise of all, the early dawn was beginning to show, and as it broadened it displayed the sorry sight of one end of the mill blackened—a very mass of smoking and steaming timbers.“I say, Josh,” said Will, “only look here! If the fire had got a little more hold and the wind had come more strongly down, the flames would have swept everything before them: the mill would have been like a burnt-out bonfire.”“Yes,” said Josh; “and the house must have gone too.”“How horrid! But I say, why hasn’t old Boil O been back?”The man had his own reasons. Not only did he not show himself again after his work was done, but when in the course of the morning, impatient at his non-appearance, his employer left the busy scene where a clearance of the ruined part was going on, and walked up to the cottage with the Vicar, it was only to catch a momentary glimpse of the man they sought, as he glided across his garden and made for the woods, utterly avoiding all advances made by those who wished him well; and instead of the breach being closed by his conduct, the wound purified by the fire, his rage against his master and all friendly to the mill seemed to burn more fiercely than ever.

There was a desperate fight now for about a quarter of an hour between man’s two best slaves—fire and water; and John Willows looked anxiously on, asking himself the question, which was to win. At the end of the above-mentioned time, in spite of the inflammable nature of the old building, the matter was no longer in doubt. The men worked away nobly at the clanging pumps, and every now and then in her eager excitement, some sturdy, strong-armed woman made a run forward to thrust husband or brother aside and take his place, working with a will, and sending quite a hissing deluge to flood the untouched parts of the roof, and gradually fight back the flames foot by foot, till their farther progress was stopped, and the rest was easy.

All through the fight, Manners held his post right in the forefront, his face shining in the golden glow as he distributed the water. Will and Josh kept close up after the books had been saved, always ready to help, and bringing refreshment, while Drinkwater raged about like some lunatic, thrusting the men here and there, urging them on to pump faster, and nearly getting himself crushed over and over again, as he dodged about with a small oil-can, seeking to lubricate the old and stiffened parts of the machinery.

It was all to save the mill from destruction, and the master from injury from whom he had cut himself adrift, and there was the result at last. The ruddy light which had illumined the fern-hung sides and curtains of ivy of the great gorge began to fail.

The great, black cloud of smoke which hung over from side to side began to turn from ruddy orange to a dull lead colour, and at last the word was given to cease pumping.

“There’s nothing to do now, my lads, but to carry a few buckets inside and look out for sparks,” cried Willows. “I thank you all! You’ve worked grandly, and you have saved our old mill.”

“There’ll be a big sore place upon it to-morrow, master,” said one of the men.

“Nothing but what James Drinkwater and three or four workmen,” said Willows, speaking meaningly, “can put right within a month. The machinery at this end seems to be uninjured.”

“I hope so,” said Manners, “but the lads here and I have given it a tremendous washing where we sent the stream in through yon hole and those broken windows. What about the silk? Will it be spoiled?”

“There was little there to signify, and the loss will be comparatively small. Now then, everyone round to the big office, and let’s see what we can do in the way of finding you all something to eat and drink.”

There was another burst of cheers, and soon after, while the men and women were partaking of the mill-owner’s cheer, he and his friends had been making such examination as the smoke, the darkness, and the water which had flooded the drenched part of the building would allow.

“Terrible damage, Carlile,” he said. “Still nothing compared to what might have been. But what has become of Drinkwater? Who saw him last?”

“I think I did, father,” cried Will. “He was busy with a lantern down there by the engine, wiping and oiling the different parts. I asked him to come in, but he only grunted and shook his head.”

“That’s where I found him,” chimed in Josh, “when you sent me with a message, father.”

“Yes, and I saw him there,” said Manners. “My word, how he kept the pumpers up to the mark! The water never failed once. Why, you got quite a bargain in the old engine, Mr Willows, and that fellow did it up splendidly.”

“And worked gloriously,” cried Will. “I think, father, he felt ashamed of all he had said, and wanted to put matters right.”

“I hope so,” said Mr Willows; “at any rate I do for my miserable suspicions when the fire broke out.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said the Vicar. “It looked horribly black after his threatenings about revenge. But there, that’s all past, and thank Heaven you can congratulate yourself upon the good that has arisen out of to-night’s dark work.”

“Dark!” said Manners, wiping his black face. “I think we had too much light.”

“Not enough to show how that fire broke out,” said Mr Willows, gravely. “I cannot understand how it was caused.”

“Couldn’t be a spark left by one of the flashes of lightning in the storms we have had lately, could it?” said Josh, innocently.

“No,” said Will, mockingly; “but it might have been a star tumbled down.”

“No, it couldn’t!” cried Josh, angrily. “Such stuff! It must have been started somehow.”

“Yes, my boy,” said the Vicar, smiling; “but it is a mystery for the present.”

“Let it rest,” said Mr Willows. “I don’t concern myself about that now. I have something else on my mind. I shall not rest, Carlile, till I have thanked that man for all he has done, and shaken him by the hand.”

“Oh, he’ll turn up soon, I daresay,” said Manners. “Here, I know! he must have got himself drenched with water.”

“Of course!” cried Will. “I saw him lower himself down into the hole to move the suction-pipe.”

“That’s it,” said Manners, “and he’s gone up to the cottage to have a change.”

“At any rate,” said the Vicar, “I feel thankful that the trouble has passed, and I shall be seeing him back at his work to-morrow; eh, Mr Willows?”

“I hope so,” was the reply. “Now then, we must have three or four watchers for the rest of the night, and those of you who are wet had better see about a change.”

“Well, I’m one,” said Manners, “for I feel like a sponge. I’m off to my diggings, but I shall be back in half an hour to join the watch.”

“No, no,” cried Mr Willows, “you’ve done enough. I’ll see to that.”

“Yes, yes,” cried the artist; “I want to come back and think out my plan for a new picture of the mill on fire. It’ll be a bit of history, don’t you see, and I want to get the scene well soaked into my mind.”

“It ought to be burned in already,” said Will, laughing.

“Perhaps it is,” said the artist, merrily; and he hurried away.

So much time had been spent that, to the surprise of all, the early dawn was beginning to show, and as it broadened it displayed the sorry sight of one end of the mill blackened—a very mass of smoking and steaming timbers.

“I say, Josh,” said Will, “only look here! If the fire had got a little more hold and the wind had come more strongly down, the flames would have swept everything before them: the mill would have been like a burnt-out bonfire.”

“Yes,” said Josh; “and the house must have gone too.”

“How horrid! But I say, why hasn’t old Boil O been back?”

The man had his own reasons. Not only did he not show himself again after his work was done, but when in the course of the morning, impatient at his non-appearance, his employer left the busy scene where a clearance of the ruined part was going on, and walked up to the cottage with the Vicar, it was only to catch a momentary glimpse of the man they sought, as he glided across his garden and made for the woods, utterly avoiding all advances made by those who wished him well; and instead of the breach being closed by his conduct, the wound purified by the fire, his rage against his master and all friendly to the mill seemed to burn more fiercely than ever.

Chapter Sixteen.Doings in the Dale.“It’s no use to bother,” said Josh, when the state of affairs was being canvassed. “Father says there’s only one cure for it.”“What’s that?” said Will.“Time.”“I think,” said Will, speaking seriously, “that your father, as he’s a clergyman, ought to give old Boil O a good talking to.”“What!” cried Josh. “Why, he’s been to the cottage nearly every day, trying to get the old man to listen; but it only makes him more wild. Father says that he shall give it up now, and let him come to his senses.”“Yes, I suppose that’s best,” said Will. “Everybody’s been at him. Old Manners says he got him one evening at the bottom of the garden, but, as soon as he began to speak, old Boil O turned upon him so fiercely that he had to cut away.”“Oh, yes, of course, I’m going to believe that!” said Josh. “Manners wouldn’t run away from a dozen of him.”“Well,” cried Will, “he pretty well startled me when I had a try. I’m not going to do it any more, I can tell you.”“My father’s right,” said Josh. “It only wants time.”But time went on, and the work-people from the nearest town were hard at work day by day rebuilding and restoring, so that by degrees the traces of the late fire began to disappear, while new woodwork, beams, boards and rafters, bearing ruddy, bright new tiles, gave promise that within another three months the night’s mishap would be a memory of the past.It was autumn—a splendid time for fishing; a better time for the painter, the artist declaring that the tints of the trees and bracken, the glow of the skies, and the lovely mists that floated down from the hills and up from the well-charged falls were more glorious than any he had ever seen before.His white mushroom, as Will called it, was always visible, and the boys spent much time with him when they were not reading with the Vicar up by the church, for Josh had declared that the message that had come from Worksop was about the jolliest piece of news he had ever heard. Doubtless, the headmaster and his subordinates did not think the same, the news being the breaking out of an exceedingly virulent epidemic of fever, necessitating the closing of the great school about the time when the bulk of the pupils were to return.Then rumours came that sanitary inspectors had condemned the whole of the arrangements there as being too old-fashioned to be tolerated, and instead of becoming once more a busy hive of study during the autumn term, the whole place had been put in the builders’ hands, and rumour said that the school would not reassemble until the spring, even if the builders were got rid of then.“Well, I don’t care,” said Will. “I didn’t want longer holidays, but it is much nicer reading and doing exercises up at the Vicarage than with old Buzfuz’s lexicon over there. I’m learning twice as much, and quite beginning to like Latin now.”“Of course,” said Josh, complacently. “My father used to be a famous college don before the Bishop gave him the living here.”“Yes, but he’s never been don enough to bring old Boil O back to his senses. He’s worse than ever now.”“Bring him back to his senses! I don’t believe he’s got any senses to bring back,” said Josh. “It wants a very clever college don to put something straight that isn’t there.”The boys were right about Drinkwater, for the man was more fiercely morose than ever. His efforts to avoid all who knew him, and spend the greater part of his time moping in the woodlands and high up the valley towards the headwaters of the stream, were so much waste of time, for all men and women too, and the children, for the matter of that, avoided him now as one who was ogreish and evil. Master, Vicar, the artist, and the two lads might cast away all idea of his guilt respecting the fire if they liked, but the work-people declared that his was the hand that fired the mill. Nothing would alter that in their stubborn minds, and no one knew better than James Drinkwater that this was so.Consequently, he nursed up his blind grudge against the little world in which he dwelt, and became what Will called him—a regular wild man of the woods.But a change was coming. The autumn rains were setting in, the woods were often dripping, the mosses holding the rain like so much sponge, and the shelter of a roof becoming an absolute necessity for the one who had sought it merely of a night.“Yes,” said Manners, one morning, “the cuckoo’s gone long ago, the swallows are taking flight, and it is getting time for me to pack up my traps and toddle south.”“Oh, what a pity!” cried Will.“Humph! Yes, for you. What will you chaps do? No one to play tricks with then.”“Oh, I say, Mr Manners, play fair!” cried Josh. “Why, I’m sure that we’ve behaved beautifully lately.”“Very,” cried the artist. “Why, you young dogs, I’ve watched you! You’ve both been sitting on mischief eggs for weeks. It isn’t your fault that they didn’t hatch.”“Doing what?” cried Josh.“Well, trying to scheme some new prank. Only you’ve used up all your stuff, and couldn’t think one out.”The boys exchanged glances, and there was a peculiar twinkle in their eyes, a look that the artist interpreted, and knew that he had judged aright.“But you’ll be down again in the spring, Mr Manners?” cried Will.“I hope so, my lad. I’ve grown to look upon Beldale as my second home. I say, you’ll come and help me pack my canvases?”“Of course! Are you going to stick up your toadstool to-day?”“No; it’s going to rain again. It has been raining in the night up in the hills.”“Yes,” said Josh; “the big fall is coming down with a regular roar.”“But what about the dam?” said the artist.“Full, as it ought to be; they’re going to open the upper sluice.”“When?” said Manners.“This afternoon,” cried Will.“Ah, I’ll come and see it done. And about my canvases: I must have some pieces of wood to nail round and hold them together.”“As you did last time?” said Will. “Well, old Boil O did that. Won’t you let him do it again?”“I’ve been after him twice, and whenever I spoke he turned away. Suppose I come down to the mill workshop. We can cut some strong laths there.”“Of course,” said Will; “this afternoon, when we’ve seen them open the sluice.”“Good,” said the artist. “I will be there; but look here, let’s carry the canvases down; there are only twelve. Nothing like the present. I’ll bring them now.”“You mean, we’ll take them now,” said Will, correctively.The matter was arranged by their taking four each.“Going to take them below to the mill to pack, Mrs Drinkwater,” said Manners, as they went down the path.“Dear, dear, sir,” said the woman, sadly; “it seems so early, and it’ll be very dull when you’re gone.”“Next spring will soon come, Mrs Drinkwater,” said Manners, cheerily; and the trio strolled on together, to come, at the angle of the second zig-zag, plump upon Drinkwater, with one arm round a birch trunk, his right hand to his shaggy brow, leaning away from the path as far as he could, as if gazing down at the dam.“Morning, Drinkwater,” cried Manners, cheerily.The man started violently, stared at the canvases, then at their bearer, and hurried away in amongst the trees.“Nice cheerful party that to live with, lads,” said the artist, laughingly. “Only fancy being his wife!”“Yes,” said Josh; “and now you see if he don’t turn worse than ever. I know.”“Know what?” said Will.“He’ll be as disagreeable as possible, because he’s not going to nail up the canvases, and lay it all on his poor wife.”“He’d better not let me hear him,” said Manners. “Surly brute! Wouldn’t do it himself, and now turns nasty. I saw his savage looks! I should just like to shake some of his temper out of him. Takes a lot of your father’s physic, Josh, to set him right.”“Time?” cried the boy. “Ah, he’ll have to have a stronger dose.”

“It’s no use to bother,” said Josh, when the state of affairs was being canvassed. “Father says there’s only one cure for it.”

“What’s that?” said Will.

“Time.”

“I think,” said Will, speaking seriously, “that your father, as he’s a clergyman, ought to give old Boil O a good talking to.”

“What!” cried Josh. “Why, he’s been to the cottage nearly every day, trying to get the old man to listen; but it only makes him more wild. Father says that he shall give it up now, and let him come to his senses.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s best,” said Will. “Everybody’s been at him. Old Manners says he got him one evening at the bottom of the garden, but, as soon as he began to speak, old Boil O turned upon him so fiercely that he had to cut away.”

“Oh, yes, of course, I’m going to believe that!” said Josh. “Manners wouldn’t run away from a dozen of him.”

“Well,” cried Will, “he pretty well startled me when I had a try. I’m not going to do it any more, I can tell you.”

“My father’s right,” said Josh. “It only wants time.”

But time went on, and the work-people from the nearest town were hard at work day by day rebuilding and restoring, so that by degrees the traces of the late fire began to disappear, while new woodwork, beams, boards and rafters, bearing ruddy, bright new tiles, gave promise that within another three months the night’s mishap would be a memory of the past.

It was autumn—a splendid time for fishing; a better time for the painter, the artist declaring that the tints of the trees and bracken, the glow of the skies, and the lovely mists that floated down from the hills and up from the well-charged falls were more glorious than any he had ever seen before.

His white mushroom, as Will called it, was always visible, and the boys spent much time with him when they were not reading with the Vicar up by the church, for Josh had declared that the message that had come from Worksop was about the jolliest piece of news he had ever heard. Doubtless, the headmaster and his subordinates did not think the same, the news being the breaking out of an exceedingly virulent epidemic of fever, necessitating the closing of the great school about the time when the bulk of the pupils were to return.

Then rumours came that sanitary inspectors had condemned the whole of the arrangements there as being too old-fashioned to be tolerated, and instead of becoming once more a busy hive of study during the autumn term, the whole place had been put in the builders’ hands, and rumour said that the school would not reassemble until the spring, even if the builders were got rid of then.

“Well, I don’t care,” said Will. “I didn’t want longer holidays, but it is much nicer reading and doing exercises up at the Vicarage than with old Buzfuz’s lexicon over there. I’m learning twice as much, and quite beginning to like Latin now.”

“Of course,” said Josh, complacently. “My father used to be a famous college don before the Bishop gave him the living here.”

“Yes, but he’s never been don enough to bring old Boil O back to his senses. He’s worse than ever now.”

“Bring him back to his senses! I don’t believe he’s got any senses to bring back,” said Josh. “It wants a very clever college don to put something straight that isn’t there.”

The boys were right about Drinkwater, for the man was more fiercely morose than ever. His efforts to avoid all who knew him, and spend the greater part of his time moping in the woodlands and high up the valley towards the headwaters of the stream, were so much waste of time, for all men and women too, and the children, for the matter of that, avoided him now as one who was ogreish and evil. Master, Vicar, the artist, and the two lads might cast away all idea of his guilt respecting the fire if they liked, but the work-people declared that his was the hand that fired the mill. Nothing would alter that in their stubborn minds, and no one knew better than James Drinkwater that this was so.

Consequently, he nursed up his blind grudge against the little world in which he dwelt, and became what Will called him—a regular wild man of the woods.

But a change was coming. The autumn rains were setting in, the woods were often dripping, the mosses holding the rain like so much sponge, and the shelter of a roof becoming an absolute necessity for the one who had sought it merely of a night.

“Yes,” said Manners, one morning, “the cuckoo’s gone long ago, the swallows are taking flight, and it is getting time for me to pack up my traps and toddle south.”

“Oh, what a pity!” cried Will.

“Humph! Yes, for you. What will you chaps do? No one to play tricks with then.”

“Oh, I say, Mr Manners, play fair!” cried Josh. “Why, I’m sure that we’ve behaved beautifully lately.”

“Very,” cried the artist. “Why, you young dogs, I’ve watched you! You’ve both been sitting on mischief eggs for weeks. It isn’t your fault that they didn’t hatch.”

“Doing what?” cried Josh.

“Well, trying to scheme some new prank. Only you’ve used up all your stuff, and couldn’t think one out.”

The boys exchanged glances, and there was a peculiar twinkle in their eyes, a look that the artist interpreted, and knew that he had judged aright.

“But you’ll be down again in the spring, Mr Manners?” cried Will.

“I hope so, my lad. I’ve grown to look upon Beldale as my second home. I say, you’ll come and help me pack my canvases?”

“Of course! Are you going to stick up your toadstool to-day?”

“No; it’s going to rain again. It has been raining in the night up in the hills.”

“Yes,” said Josh; “the big fall is coming down with a regular roar.”

“But what about the dam?” said the artist.

“Full, as it ought to be; they’re going to open the upper sluice.”

“When?” said Manners.

“This afternoon,” cried Will.

“Ah, I’ll come and see it done. And about my canvases: I must have some pieces of wood to nail round and hold them together.”

“As you did last time?” said Will. “Well, old Boil O did that. Won’t you let him do it again?”

“I’ve been after him twice, and whenever I spoke he turned away. Suppose I come down to the mill workshop. We can cut some strong laths there.”

“Of course,” said Will; “this afternoon, when we’ve seen them open the sluice.”

“Good,” said the artist. “I will be there; but look here, let’s carry the canvases down; there are only twelve. Nothing like the present. I’ll bring them now.”

“You mean, we’ll take them now,” said Will, correctively.

The matter was arranged by their taking four each.

“Going to take them below to the mill to pack, Mrs Drinkwater,” said Manners, as they went down the path.

“Dear, dear, sir,” said the woman, sadly; “it seems so early, and it’ll be very dull when you’re gone.”

“Next spring will soon come, Mrs Drinkwater,” said Manners, cheerily; and the trio strolled on together, to come, at the angle of the second zig-zag, plump upon Drinkwater, with one arm round a birch trunk, his right hand to his shaggy brow, leaning away from the path as far as he could, as if gazing down at the dam.

“Morning, Drinkwater,” cried Manners, cheerily.

The man started violently, stared at the canvases, then at their bearer, and hurried away in amongst the trees.

“Nice cheerful party that to live with, lads,” said the artist, laughingly. “Only fancy being his wife!”

“Yes,” said Josh; “and now you see if he don’t turn worse than ever. I know.”

“Know what?” said Will.

“He’ll be as disagreeable as possible, because he’s not going to nail up the canvases, and lay it all on his poor wife.”

“He’d better not let me hear him,” said Manners. “Surly brute! Wouldn’t do it himself, and now turns nasty. I saw his savage looks! I should just like to shake some of his temper out of him. Takes a lot of your father’s physic, Josh, to set him right.”

“Time?” cried the boy. “Ah, he’ll have to have a stronger dose.”

Chapter Seventeen.Mysterious Sounds.There was not much to see. The great pool was very full—a great, V-shaped sheet of water, or elongated triangle, whose shortest side was formed by the massive stone dam built across the narrow valley, standing some forty feet high from its base, to keep back the waters, and being naturally, when full, forty feet deep at its lower end.Mr Willows and two men were at one end of the wall when Manners and the boys climbed on to it that afternoon, to stand in the middle looking up the valley over the long sheet of water to where it dwindled from some fifty yards wide to less than as many feet.One of the upper sluices was opened, and though the great mill-wheel in its shed far below was going round at its most rapid rate, urged by the stream of water which passed along the chute, a good-sized fall was spurting out by the upper sluice.These two exits were, however, not enough to keep the water down, so rapid was the flow from the hills to swell the stream, and the water in the great pool still rose. Hence it was that the second sluice was to be opened, and in a few minutes a third rush added its roar to that of the other two. Mr Willows stood watching for a few minutes, till he had satisfied himself by observing the painted marks upon a post that the water had ceased to rise, and then he walked away, leaving the others to chat with the men, who hung back for a few minutes after securing the sluice door, before going down to resume their regular work in the mill.“Not much of a time for trout fishing, Mr Manners, sir,” said one of the men.“No,” was the reply; “it is all over for the season for me.”“Suppose so, sir. Have you young gents been below there to have a look at the eel-box?”“Eels?” said Manners. “Ah, I like eels.”“There’ll be plenty to-night, sir; they’ll be well on the move after sundown. I shouldn’t be surprised if there was a good take.”“We ought to be there to see,” said Will. “The rains will have brought them down. It’s rare fun catching the slippery beggars. You’ll help, won’t you, Mr Manners?”“Rather a slimy job,” was the reply; “but I’ll put on an old coat and pair of trousers, and come. What time?”“About eight o’clock. That’ll do,” said Will. “Then you can come in to supper afterwards with us.”“Right!” was the reply; and that night, prompt to their time, Josh, who had called at the cottage on his way down, presented himself at the Mill House garden-gate with Manners, both properly equipped for their slippery task, and finding Will awaiting their arrival.“Come on,” he cried; “I thought you didn’t mean to come. I hate waiting in the dark.”He led the way through the garden to the lower gate by the mill-yard, and then right along under the buildings to the huge shed built up over the wheel, which was turning rapidly to the hollow roar of the water descending the chute to pass into the many receptacles at the end of the great spokes, before falling with echoing splashes into the square, stone-built basin below.It was close to the exit here that a portion of the great shed had been devoted to the purpose of an eel-trap, which was most effective in warm, rainy times when the flooded waters were full of washed-out worms such as the fat eels loved, but for which they often had to pay very dear, for it came to pass that they were often carried by the swift waters into the great stone chute. Then, in all probability, their fate was sealed, for they would be borne along to the end, writhing and struggling in vain, only to be carried right over the turning wheel before falling into the great, square, stone opening below, where another rushing chute carried them onward into a stout, iron-barred cage whose bottom and sides were so closely set that only the very small could wriggle through. The larger collected in a writhing cluster just where an iron, cage-like door could be opened, and a basket held to receive the spoil.But this particular night, in spite of its promise, showed no performance. The little party, lantern bearing, descended a flight of steps, hardly able to make each other hear, so great was the echoing splash going on around, and stopped at the bottom in a dank, dripping, stone chamber, close to the floor of the iron cage.“How are you going to cook ’em, Mr Manners?” said Will, with his lips close to his companion’s ear.“Some stewed, some spitchcocked, and the rest in a pie.”“Then we’re not coming to dine,” cried Will, laughing, as he threw the light of the lantern upon the cage, where there was a wet gleam as something slowly glided round.“Oh, what a shame!” cried Josh. “Why, there’s only one!”“Yes, only one,” said Will, “and it isn’t worth while to open this nasty, wet, slimy door for him.”“Oh, but there’ll be some more,” cried Josh; “there’s plenty of time. In about an hour there’ll be as many as we can carry.”“But we are not going to wait in this dreary hole,” said Manners. “I don’t enjoy eels when I’ve got a cold.”“Oh, no,” cried Will; “we will go and have a bit of a walk, and come down again.”They drew back from the eel-trap, Will leading the way, and made for a door in the huge shed, where the lantern was carefully extinguished and put on a ledge, before they stepped out into the dark night, the closing of the door behind them shutting in a good deal of the hollow roar, with its whispering echoes. That which they listened to now was more splash, rush and hurry, as the wheel turned at greater than its usual speed, and the overladen dam relieved itself of its contents.Still there was too much noise for easy converse, and they tramped on, Will with the intention of climbing to one of the narrow paths that led in the direction of the upper stream.They were just on a level with the top of the stone dam, when Will stopped short. The spot he had chosen for his halt was dark as pitch, for a clump of bushes overhung the way.“What’s the matter?” said Josh, who came next.“Be quiet,” replied Will.“Anything wrong?” asked the artist, for they blocked his way.“N–no,” replied Will, dubiously; “only thought I heard something.”“Thought you heard something!” said Manners. “There’s not much think about it. My ears seem stuffed so full of sounds that I can hardly hear myself speak. The rushing water and its echoes from up above seem to fill the air. What did you think you heard?”“That’s what I don’t know,” said Will, thoughtfully, with his lips close to the speaker’s ear; “and I can’t hear it at all now. It was a dull, thumping sort of noise.”“Echo,” said Josh. “The wheel’s going so much faster round than usual.”“N–n–no,” said Will; “it wasn’t like that. I wish I could hear it again.”“What for?” said Josh. “What was the matter? Here, I say, which way shall we go? I know: let’s go and see if any of the old owls are out beating the ivy for birds.”“There,” cried Will, “that’s it! You can hear it now! Listen!”All stood perfectly still for a few moments.“Water, water everywhere, and far too much to drink,” said Manners, spoiling a quotation. “I can’t hear anything else.”“Oh, Mr Manners! Why, there it is, quite plain. You can hear it, can’t you, Josh?”“Thumpety, thumpety, thump, thump, thump!” said Josh. “Sounds like somebody beating a bit of carpet indoors. Why, it’s only echoes.”“Pooh! What could make echoes like that?”“The great axle of the wheel worked a little loose in its bearings through the weight of the water.”“Nonsense! Can’t be that.”“All right! What is it, then?”“Don’t know, don’t care. It’s a nocturnal noise, isn’t it, Mr Manners?”“Well, it’s a noise,” said the artist, “as if someone was hammering with a wooden mallet. I heard it quite plainly just now, and it seemed to come from below there, out of the darkness down at the bottom of the dam.”“Oh, no,” cried Josh, “it was from right up yonder, ever so high.”“No, no,” said Will; “it seemed to me to come from just opposite where we are standing now.”“Echo,” said the artist, laconically.“Yes,” said Will; “carried here and there by the wind.”“Well,” said the artist, “the water makes roaring noise enough, without our listening for echoes. Let’s go a bit higher where we can see the sky. It’s horribly dark down here, but the stars are very bright if we get out of the shadows. What’s the matter?” he said sharply, for Will caught his arm.“There it is again,” cried the boy. “Somebody must be hammering and thumping. What can it be?”“It’s what I said,” said Josh; “the bearings of the big wheel are a bit loose. Who could be hammering and thumping in the darkness? Wouldn’t he have a light?”“I don’t know,” said Will; “but if something’s got loose, it ought to be seen to.”“But you couldn’t do anything in the dark,” said Josh. “My word, what a game it would be if the old wheel broke away! What would happen then?”“Once started, I should say it would go spinning down the valley for miles,” said Manners, laughingly. “Just like a Brobdingnagian boy’s hoop gone mad.”“Ah, I should like to see that by daylight,” cried Josh.“I shouldn’t,” said Will, bitterly. “It wouldn’t be much fun. There! now, can you hear it? That thumping?”“Yes, I heard it then,” said Manners, “and I don’t think that there’s any doubt of its being the echo of something giving a thump as the wheel turns. Is it worth while to go and tell old Jack-of-all-trades Drinkwater to come and see if anything’s wrong?”“No,” said Josh. “I don’t believe he’d come.”“Perhaps it’s nothing to mind,” said Will, thoughtfully; “only, working machinery is such a ticklish thing. There, I can’t hear it now.”They stood listening for quite ten minutes, but the unusual sound was not renewed.“Perhaps it’s somebody in the mill,” said Will. “Let’s go down and look.”“All right; anything to fill up time,” said Manners, “before we get my eels. There’s no occasion to go up here.”They descended cautiously through the darkness to the mill-yard, following Will, who made straight for the door leading into the machine-room, the fastening yielding to his hand, for few precautions were used in the shape of bar or bolt in that quiet, retired place; and, as the door swung back, the three stood gazing into the darkness before them, listening and feeling. The whole building seemed to thrill with the vibration caused by the turning wheel, the weight of the water making the entire building quiver as if it were alive.“Rather weird,” said Manners. “I never was here before at such a time. Does the place always throb in this way?”“When the wheel is going fast,” replied Will, “it gently shakes the biggest beams.”“Sounds as if it might shake the place down in time.”“Oh, no,” said Will; “it’s too solid for that.”“Well,” said Josh, “there’s nobody doing anything here. If there was, there’d be a light. It was only echoes. Come along.”“But if it was echoes,” said Will, “why did they leave off?”“Not so much water coming down perhaps,” suggested Manners. “There, isn’t it nearly time to go and see if there are any more eels?”“Hardly,” replied Will, “but some might have come down. It’s just as it happens.”“Oh, yes,” said Josh. “Sometimes there won’t be one in a whole night, and another time there’ll be pounds and pounds in half an hour. It all depends upon whether they are on the move.”They made for the lower door again at the bottom of the cage shed, and entered the hollow, dismal place. Will felt for the lantern after closing the door, struck a match, and, to the artist’s satisfaction, the rays fell upon several slimy, gleaming objects beyond the bars; and after a good deal of splashing, writhing, and twining themselves in knots, the prisoners were secured in a dripping basket that had been held beneath the opening formed by drawing back the little grating.“Capital!” cried Manners, eagerly. “Why, there must be half a dozen pounds.”“Nearer a dozen,” said Will. “Look out, Josh! Hit that chap over the head, or he’ll be out.”Josh struck at the basket-lid, but a big, serpent-like creature had half forced its way through, to be down on the wet stone floor the next moment, making at once for the water a couple of yards away.“Stop him, Mr Manners! It’s the biggest one. I can’t leave the basket.”“And I can’t leave the light,” said Josh; but, as they spoke, the artist was in full pursuit, seeing as he did that a delicious morsel was going to save itself from being turned into human food.There was a quick trampling faintly heard on the wet stone floor, followed by a rush, a glide, a heavy bump, and a roar of smothered laughter.“Yes, it’s all very fine, young fellows,” growled the artist, as he gathered himself up; “a nasty, slimy beast! I tried to stop him with my foot, and it was like the first step made in a skate. Has it gone?”“Gone? Yes,” cried Josh. “Never mind; there are plenty left. They’re awful things to hold. He would have got away all the same.”“Not if I’d had a good grip,” said Manners.“I don’t know,” said Will. “He might have got a good grip of you. Those big ones can bite like fun. Are you very wet?”“Bah! Abominable mess. This floor’s covered with slime.”“Shall we stop any longer?”“No,” said the artist; “I’ve had enough for once. Let’s get out in the open air again, and try and find out what made your noise.”In a few minutes they were back on the top of the great stone wall that held the waters back, listening in the darkness amidst the rush and roar of sluices and chute, supplemented by the distant thunder of the heavy falls high up the stream, for the peculiar thumping whose repetitions had caught Will’s ears.But they listened in vain, and continued their way to Drinkwater’s cottage, where the basket with its living freight was placed, spite of the artist’s protests, in his landlady’s hands.“Well, I suppose I must keep them,” said Manners, “and I will, for this is about the finish up of our games, lads, for this year.”He spoke unconsciously. It was; for as soon as the trio had passed from the dam on their way to the first zig-zag, from out of the darkness at one end of the dam the strange, weird noise began again. It was as if heavy blows were being given upon some great iron tool. Now and then they would cease, but only to go on again for quite two hours, till all at once a fresh sound arose—a peculiar, whispering gurgle, which gradually gathered force, to go on increasing through the night; but not another blow was heard to fall.

There was not much to see. The great pool was very full—a great, V-shaped sheet of water, or elongated triangle, whose shortest side was formed by the massive stone dam built across the narrow valley, standing some forty feet high from its base, to keep back the waters, and being naturally, when full, forty feet deep at its lower end.

Mr Willows and two men were at one end of the wall when Manners and the boys climbed on to it that afternoon, to stand in the middle looking up the valley over the long sheet of water to where it dwindled from some fifty yards wide to less than as many feet.

One of the upper sluices was opened, and though the great mill-wheel in its shed far below was going round at its most rapid rate, urged by the stream of water which passed along the chute, a good-sized fall was spurting out by the upper sluice.

These two exits were, however, not enough to keep the water down, so rapid was the flow from the hills to swell the stream, and the water in the great pool still rose. Hence it was that the second sluice was to be opened, and in a few minutes a third rush added its roar to that of the other two. Mr Willows stood watching for a few minutes, till he had satisfied himself by observing the painted marks upon a post that the water had ceased to rise, and then he walked away, leaving the others to chat with the men, who hung back for a few minutes after securing the sluice door, before going down to resume their regular work in the mill.

“Not much of a time for trout fishing, Mr Manners, sir,” said one of the men.

“No,” was the reply; “it is all over for the season for me.”

“Suppose so, sir. Have you young gents been below there to have a look at the eel-box?”

“Eels?” said Manners. “Ah, I like eels.”

“There’ll be plenty to-night, sir; they’ll be well on the move after sundown. I shouldn’t be surprised if there was a good take.”

“We ought to be there to see,” said Will. “The rains will have brought them down. It’s rare fun catching the slippery beggars. You’ll help, won’t you, Mr Manners?”

“Rather a slimy job,” was the reply; “but I’ll put on an old coat and pair of trousers, and come. What time?”

“About eight o’clock. That’ll do,” said Will. “Then you can come in to supper afterwards with us.”

“Right!” was the reply; and that night, prompt to their time, Josh, who had called at the cottage on his way down, presented himself at the Mill House garden-gate with Manners, both properly equipped for their slippery task, and finding Will awaiting their arrival.

“Come on,” he cried; “I thought you didn’t mean to come. I hate waiting in the dark.”

He led the way through the garden to the lower gate by the mill-yard, and then right along under the buildings to the huge shed built up over the wheel, which was turning rapidly to the hollow roar of the water descending the chute to pass into the many receptacles at the end of the great spokes, before falling with echoing splashes into the square, stone-built basin below.

It was close to the exit here that a portion of the great shed had been devoted to the purpose of an eel-trap, which was most effective in warm, rainy times when the flooded waters were full of washed-out worms such as the fat eels loved, but for which they often had to pay very dear, for it came to pass that they were often carried by the swift waters into the great stone chute. Then, in all probability, their fate was sealed, for they would be borne along to the end, writhing and struggling in vain, only to be carried right over the turning wheel before falling into the great, square, stone opening below, where another rushing chute carried them onward into a stout, iron-barred cage whose bottom and sides were so closely set that only the very small could wriggle through. The larger collected in a writhing cluster just where an iron, cage-like door could be opened, and a basket held to receive the spoil.

But this particular night, in spite of its promise, showed no performance. The little party, lantern bearing, descended a flight of steps, hardly able to make each other hear, so great was the echoing splash going on around, and stopped at the bottom in a dank, dripping, stone chamber, close to the floor of the iron cage.

“How are you going to cook ’em, Mr Manners?” said Will, with his lips close to his companion’s ear.

“Some stewed, some spitchcocked, and the rest in a pie.”

“Then we’re not coming to dine,” cried Will, laughing, as he threw the light of the lantern upon the cage, where there was a wet gleam as something slowly glided round.

“Oh, what a shame!” cried Josh. “Why, there’s only one!”

“Yes, only one,” said Will, “and it isn’t worth while to open this nasty, wet, slimy door for him.”

“Oh, but there’ll be some more,” cried Josh; “there’s plenty of time. In about an hour there’ll be as many as we can carry.”

“But we are not going to wait in this dreary hole,” said Manners. “I don’t enjoy eels when I’ve got a cold.”

“Oh, no,” cried Will; “we will go and have a bit of a walk, and come down again.”

They drew back from the eel-trap, Will leading the way, and made for a door in the huge shed, where the lantern was carefully extinguished and put on a ledge, before they stepped out into the dark night, the closing of the door behind them shutting in a good deal of the hollow roar, with its whispering echoes. That which they listened to now was more splash, rush and hurry, as the wheel turned at greater than its usual speed, and the overladen dam relieved itself of its contents.

Still there was too much noise for easy converse, and they tramped on, Will with the intention of climbing to one of the narrow paths that led in the direction of the upper stream.

They were just on a level with the top of the stone dam, when Will stopped short. The spot he had chosen for his halt was dark as pitch, for a clump of bushes overhung the way.

“What’s the matter?” said Josh, who came next.

“Be quiet,” replied Will.

“Anything wrong?” asked the artist, for they blocked his way.

“N–no,” replied Will, dubiously; “only thought I heard something.”

“Thought you heard something!” said Manners. “There’s not much think about it. My ears seem stuffed so full of sounds that I can hardly hear myself speak. The rushing water and its echoes from up above seem to fill the air. What did you think you heard?”

“That’s what I don’t know,” said Will, thoughtfully, with his lips close to the speaker’s ear; “and I can’t hear it at all now. It was a dull, thumping sort of noise.”

“Echo,” said Josh. “The wheel’s going so much faster round than usual.”

“N–n–no,” said Will; “it wasn’t like that. I wish I could hear it again.”

“What for?” said Josh. “What was the matter? Here, I say, which way shall we go? I know: let’s go and see if any of the old owls are out beating the ivy for birds.”

“There,” cried Will, “that’s it! You can hear it now! Listen!”

All stood perfectly still for a few moments.

“Water, water everywhere, and far too much to drink,” said Manners, spoiling a quotation. “I can’t hear anything else.”

“Oh, Mr Manners! Why, there it is, quite plain. You can hear it, can’t you, Josh?”

“Thumpety, thumpety, thump, thump, thump!” said Josh. “Sounds like somebody beating a bit of carpet indoors. Why, it’s only echoes.”

“Pooh! What could make echoes like that?”

“The great axle of the wheel worked a little loose in its bearings through the weight of the water.”

“Nonsense! Can’t be that.”

“All right! What is it, then?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. It’s a nocturnal noise, isn’t it, Mr Manners?”

“Well, it’s a noise,” said the artist, “as if someone was hammering with a wooden mallet. I heard it quite plainly just now, and it seemed to come from below there, out of the darkness down at the bottom of the dam.”

“Oh, no,” cried Josh, “it was from right up yonder, ever so high.”

“No, no,” said Will; “it seemed to me to come from just opposite where we are standing now.”

“Echo,” said the artist, laconically.

“Yes,” said Will; “carried here and there by the wind.”

“Well,” said the artist, “the water makes roaring noise enough, without our listening for echoes. Let’s go a bit higher where we can see the sky. It’s horribly dark down here, but the stars are very bright if we get out of the shadows. What’s the matter?” he said sharply, for Will caught his arm.

“There it is again,” cried the boy. “Somebody must be hammering and thumping. What can it be?”

“It’s what I said,” said Josh; “the bearings of the big wheel are a bit loose. Who could be hammering and thumping in the darkness? Wouldn’t he have a light?”

“I don’t know,” said Will; “but if something’s got loose, it ought to be seen to.”

“But you couldn’t do anything in the dark,” said Josh. “My word, what a game it would be if the old wheel broke away! What would happen then?”

“Once started, I should say it would go spinning down the valley for miles,” said Manners, laughingly. “Just like a Brobdingnagian boy’s hoop gone mad.”

“Ah, I should like to see that by daylight,” cried Josh.

“I shouldn’t,” said Will, bitterly. “It wouldn’t be much fun. There! now, can you hear it? That thumping?”

“Yes, I heard it then,” said Manners, “and I don’t think that there’s any doubt of its being the echo of something giving a thump as the wheel turns. Is it worth while to go and tell old Jack-of-all-trades Drinkwater to come and see if anything’s wrong?”

“No,” said Josh. “I don’t believe he’d come.”

“Perhaps it’s nothing to mind,” said Will, thoughtfully; “only, working machinery is such a ticklish thing. There, I can’t hear it now.”

They stood listening for quite ten minutes, but the unusual sound was not renewed.

“Perhaps it’s somebody in the mill,” said Will. “Let’s go down and look.”

“All right; anything to fill up time,” said Manners, “before we get my eels. There’s no occasion to go up here.”

They descended cautiously through the darkness to the mill-yard, following Will, who made straight for the door leading into the machine-room, the fastening yielding to his hand, for few precautions were used in the shape of bar or bolt in that quiet, retired place; and, as the door swung back, the three stood gazing into the darkness before them, listening and feeling. The whole building seemed to thrill with the vibration caused by the turning wheel, the weight of the water making the entire building quiver as if it were alive.

“Rather weird,” said Manners. “I never was here before at such a time. Does the place always throb in this way?”

“When the wheel is going fast,” replied Will, “it gently shakes the biggest beams.”

“Sounds as if it might shake the place down in time.”

“Oh, no,” said Will; “it’s too solid for that.”

“Well,” said Josh, “there’s nobody doing anything here. If there was, there’d be a light. It was only echoes. Come along.”

“But if it was echoes,” said Will, “why did they leave off?”

“Not so much water coming down perhaps,” suggested Manners. “There, isn’t it nearly time to go and see if there are any more eels?”

“Hardly,” replied Will, “but some might have come down. It’s just as it happens.”

“Oh, yes,” said Josh. “Sometimes there won’t be one in a whole night, and another time there’ll be pounds and pounds in half an hour. It all depends upon whether they are on the move.”

They made for the lower door again at the bottom of the cage shed, and entered the hollow, dismal place. Will felt for the lantern after closing the door, struck a match, and, to the artist’s satisfaction, the rays fell upon several slimy, gleaming objects beyond the bars; and after a good deal of splashing, writhing, and twining themselves in knots, the prisoners were secured in a dripping basket that had been held beneath the opening formed by drawing back the little grating.

“Capital!” cried Manners, eagerly. “Why, there must be half a dozen pounds.”

“Nearer a dozen,” said Will. “Look out, Josh! Hit that chap over the head, or he’ll be out.”

Josh struck at the basket-lid, but a big, serpent-like creature had half forced its way through, to be down on the wet stone floor the next moment, making at once for the water a couple of yards away.

“Stop him, Mr Manners! It’s the biggest one. I can’t leave the basket.”

“And I can’t leave the light,” said Josh; but, as they spoke, the artist was in full pursuit, seeing as he did that a delicious morsel was going to save itself from being turned into human food.

There was a quick trampling faintly heard on the wet stone floor, followed by a rush, a glide, a heavy bump, and a roar of smothered laughter.

“Yes, it’s all very fine, young fellows,” growled the artist, as he gathered himself up; “a nasty, slimy beast! I tried to stop him with my foot, and it was like the first step made in a skate. Has it gone?”

“Gone? Yes,” cried Josh. “Never mind; there are plenty left. They’re awful things to hold. He would have got away all the same.”

“Not if I’d had a good grip,” said Manners.

“I don’t know,” said Will. “He might have got a good grip of you. Those big ones can bite like fun. Are you very wet?”

“Bah! Abominable mess. This floor’s covered with slime.”

“Shall we stop any longer?”

“No,” said the artist; “I’ve had enough for once. Let’s get out in the open air again, and try and find out what made your noise.”

In a few minutes they were back on the top of the great stone wall that held the waters back, listening in the darkness amidst the rush and roar of sluices and chute, supplemented by the distant thunder of the heavy falls high up the stream, for the peculiar thumping whose repetitions had caught Will’s ears.

But they listened in vain, and continued their way to Drinkwater’s cottage, where the basket with its living freight was placed, spite of the artist’s protests, in his landlady’s hands.

“Well, I suppose I must keep them,” said Manners, “and I will, for this is about the finish up of our games, lads, for this year.”

He spoke unconsciously. It was; for as soon as the trio had passed from the dam on their way to the first zig-zag, from out of the darkness at one end of the dam the strange, weird noise began again. It was as if heavy blows were being given upon some great iron tool. Now and then they would cease, but only to go on again for quite two hours, till all at once a fresh sound arose—a peculiar, whispering gurgle, which gradually gathered force, to go on increasing through the night; but not another blow was heard to fall.

Chapter Eighteen.Danger.Will returned to the Mill House that night rather later than he should have been, after a long chat with the artist, and the first thing he learned was that his father had gone to bed with a bad headache.It was his own time, too, and he hurried up to his bedroom, when, like a flash, came the recollection of the strange sounds he had heard. It was too late to go out again, so he opened the window and leaned there, listening; but from that position he could hear the roar of many waters—nothing more.As a rule, Will’s habit was to bang his head down on the pillow and draw one very deep, long, restful breath, as he stretched himself at full length, and the next moment he was asleep.Somehow, on this particular night, when he went through his customary movements, the result was that he was more wide-awake than ever. Then for quite two hours he twisted, turned, stretched himself, yawned, got out of bed and drank cold water, bathed his face, walked up and down, tried to count a hundred forwards, then backwards, counting sheep going through a gap, did everything he could think of, and even thought of standing upon his head to see if that would do any good; but sleep would not come.“Am I going to be ill?” he asked himself, and while he was waiting for the answer he dropped off soundly.But for no pleasant rest, for it was into nightmare-like dreams of some great trouble. While he was trying to sleep, all recollection of the mysterious sounds was in abeyance; but they attacked him again in his dreams, with this peculiarity, that he seemed to know now exactly where they were. He was able to locate them precisely. There they were—hammer, hammer, hammer, throb, throb, throb, till it was almost maddening.He tried to escape from them; he longed to get away; but there they were in the deep darkness, hemmed in by the deep booming chorus of the falling waters—the only part of his dreams that was real.For during the whole night, through the sluices, along the chute, and over the wheel, the waters continued their course, keeping down the overburdened pool to the same level, for once more heavy rains in the hills rushed along the stream to augment the supply.It was with a feeling of intense relief that the boy woke at last in the faint dawn of morning, sprang from the bed, and rushed to the open window again, to thrust his burning brow out into the cool, fresh air. The beating in his brain was gone, his mind was clear, and he strained out to try whether he could hear through the roar of falling waters the hammering that had tormented him all through the night.“No,” he said, “it’s impossible to hear it from this window;” and he hurriedly dressed, to make his way out and up to the spot where he had stood with his friends.“Nothing now,” he said. “Could it have been fancy?”He listened for a few minutes longer, and then mounted the rough steps, to stand on the top of the great stone wall to listen from there once more, before gazing up the valley and noticing that there were two little clusters of wild-ducks busily feeding just at the mouth of the stream where it entered the pool. There was a faint glow in the east, and flecks of gold high towards the zenith, promises of a glorious day, and he turned slowly, hesitating as to whether he should go back to bed.“No! Rubbish!” he said. “I’ll go and rouse up old Josh. Yes, and wake up Mr Manners, too. He’d like to see this glorious sky—ah! what’s that?”That was something unusual which had just caught his eye, for as he spoke he turned to look right along the top of the dam, where he seemed to see a strange disturbance on the surface of the water just at the end where the wall joined the rugged cliff.“It must be a great trout,” he said, “one that’s being beaten against the stones, and is half-dead. No; I believe it’s an otter.”He ran along the top of the wall and looked down in wonder, to see that a strange whirlpool seemed to have been formed, where twigs of dead wood, bits of grass, and autumn leaves were sailing round and round, before being sucked down a central hole.“What does that mean?” he thought; but he acted as well as thought, going quite to the edge of the wall, and then descending the steep built-up slope of stones and cemented earth, to where at the base of the dam-wall he found himself face to face with a sight so suggestive of peril that he turned at once and ran for the mill.For there below, gushing as it were from the bottom of the wall, was a little stream—a little fount equalling in bulk the tube-like shape formed by the swirling water he had noticed far above.The quantity was small, and quite a tiny stream ran down the valley, cutting itself a channelled course; but Will knew enough—knew the power of water, and what such a tiny stream could do. In short, in those brief moments he had grasped the fact that a dangerous flaw had been formed in the dam, which, if unchecked, might mean destruction to them all.“Father! Father!” cried Will, rushing into his father’s bedroom.“I’m afraid it’s worse, my boy,” was the reply. “I’ll lie still for a few hours and see if my headache passes off.”“Father, wake up; you don’t understand—the water’s breaking through the dam!”There was a heavy bump on the floor, which made the wash-hand jug rattle in the basin, as Mr Willows sprang out of bed, with his headache quite cured by the nervous shock.“Do you mean it? Are you sure?”“Yes, father, it’s twice as big now as it was when I saw it first.”“Ah!” ejaculated Mr Willows, and he stood for a moment with brow knit and fists clenched, like a man gazing inwards.“Run to the big bell, boy, and pull with all your might!”“Yes, father. Is it very dan—”“Run! Act!” was the reply, and in a few seconds the great bell was sending its notes in what seemed to the boy a harsh jangle, such as he had never heard before.Rung at such a time and in such a manner, it carried but one message to those who heard—Danger!—and in a very short time the work-people came hurrying from the cottages which formed a scattered village down the vale, to where their master was standing on a block of stone where he could be well seen, waiting to give his orders.“You, Dacey,” he shouted to the first man, “take one of the horses—don’t stop to saddle—and gallop right down the vale, giving the warning. Stop nowhere—shout as you go by each cottage, ‘The dam bursts!’”The man was off, and, while Willows was giving fresh orders, the clatter of the horse’s hoofs was heard, and the man passed out of sight. Meanwhile, from the directions Willows was giving, the alarm was spreading fast, men’s voices giving it everywhere.There were a few women’s shrieks heard, children began to cry, and there was wild excitement about the Mill House. Women’s voices, too, were heard remonstrating, and words were uttered about saving this or that; but Willows rushed up to the first group, and shouted—“Silence, there! Save your lives! Up the sides as fast as you can, and as high as you can climb. At any moment the dam may be washed away like so much salt. Think of nothing but your lives!”A wild yearning cry full of despair arose at this, but the master’s words went home, and the next minute the hurried scrambling of feet was heard, as women, carrying their children, began to climb up the sides of the vale, dragged and pushed up by the menfolk, in whose faces were seen reflected the looks of their chief; but to a man they were grim and stern; and all the while, harsh, wild and strange, bringing down as it were a shower of echoes of its tones, the great bell rang on, swung to and fro, and over and over under the feverish impulse given by Will’s untiring arms.So effective were the commands, so deeply imbedded in every breast was the knowledge of what might happen, that the time seemed short before Mr Willows could draw breath and feel satisfied that the weaker portion of the community were in safety.“Now,” he cried, “you who are old, and all you boys, follow the women. No words—Go! Now, my lads, you who are ready to work, let’s see what we can save. But, mind, it must be one eye for what you are doing and one for yon tottering wall.”“Why, master,” shouted the north-country man, “I don’t see nowt. She’ll stand for long after we are passed away. Aren’t this all a skear?”“No!” cried Willows, fiercely. “The strong dam is wounded, and the place is bleeding fast. Here, Will,” he shouted, “leave that bell!”“Oh, father,” cried the boy, as he ran up, “don’t send me away at a time like this.”“I am not going to, my boy; I want you to be my strong right hand. Now then, I shall not be with you, so watch for your safety and that of those who are with you. Take four men, and save the books first, then the chest, and all you can that is easiest to move. Scatter the things anywhere that they will lodge, as soon as they are higher than the dam. Off with you! Work for your lives! One more word of warning! When the wall goes, if go it does, it will be with one mighty rush, sweeping everything away. Now, six men with me!”All the rest rushed to him, and he told off the number he required.“You others,” he cried, “you have heard what I’ve said. Off with you, and try to save your most treasured possessions—byyour, I mean those of your neighbours and yourselves. At a time like this all must be in common, as it shall be when, if, please God, we escape, I will try to make up to you for what you have lost. Off! Now, my lads, every man lift and bear as big a stone as you can. Follow me!”The next minute, headed by their chief, a line of men, like ants from a disturbed hill, were seen staggering beneath their burdens up the rugged steps to the top of the dam.“Phew! This here’s a heavy one!” panted the north-country man as they reached the top. “Say, maister, it’ll be dangerous to be safe for us if the wall goes now.”The words were uttered in such a cheery tone, that, in spite of their peril, a hearty laugh rose from the party, and, as Mr Willows paused for a moment to gaze downward and see how on both the steep sides of the valley his commands were being carried out, a grim smile for a moment relaxed his tightened lips.“Now,” he cried, “do as I do,” as he bent himself to his task, and stepping to the end of the wall where the whirlpool seen first by Will had begun to look more worthy of its name—for it was three times as swift and mighty as at its birth—he leaned forward and softly dropped in the great stone he carried, and stood back to let the others follow suit.“It seems a mere nothing,” he said, as the last stone was cast, “but it is all that we can do, and we must keep on.”“Ahoy, there!” came from the opposite end just then. “What’s the matter, Mr Willows?” and the burly figure of the artist came hurrying across the dam. “Not safe?”There was another hail, and the Vicar came hurrying down the path, preceded by his son.“Why, Willows,” he cried, breathlessly, “surely the dam is not giving way?”“Oh, father!” faltered Josh. “It must be that—that—”“What do you mean, boy? Speak!”“It is something to do with the noise we all heard last night.”At that moment, with the rising sun shining full upon his fierce, contracted face and glistening bald head, Drinkwater stood leaning out from the farther bank, holding tightly with one hand to an overhanging birch, and if ever countenance wore a fiendish smile, it was his.

Will returned to the Mill House that night rather later than he should have been, after a long chat with the artist, and the first thing he learned was that his father had gone to bed with a bad headache.

It was his own time, too, and he hurried up to his bedroom, when, like a flash, came the recollection of the strange sounds he had heard. It was too late to go out again, so he opened the window and leaned there, listening; but from that position he could hear the roar of many waters—nothing more.

As a rule, Will’s habit was to bang his head down on the pillow and draw one very deep, long, restful breath, as he stretched himself at full length, and the next moment he was asleep.

Somehow, on this particular night, when he went through his customary movements, the result was that he was more wide-awake than ever. Then for quite two hours he twisted, turned, stretched himself, yawned, got out of bed and drank cold water, bathed his face, walked up and down, tried to count a hundred forwards, then backwards, counting sheep going through a gap, did everything he could think of, and even thought of standing upon his head to see if that would do any good; but sleep would not come.

“Am I going to be ill?” he asked himself, and while he was waiting for the answer he dropped off soundly.

But for no pleasant rest, for it was into nightmare-like dreams of some great trouble. While he was trying to sleep, all recollection of the mysterious sounds was in abeyance; but they attacked him again in his dreams, with this peculiarity, that he seemed to know now exactly where they were. He was able to locate them precisely. There they were—hammer, hammer, hammer, throb, throb, throb, till it was almost maddening.

He tried to escape from them; he longed to get away; but there they were in the deep darkness, hemmed in by the deep booming chorus of the falling waters—the only part of his dreams that was real.

For during the whole night, through the sluices, along the chute, and over the wheel, the waters continued their course, keeping down the overburdened pool to the same level, for once more heavy rains in the hills rushed along the stream to augment the supply.

It was with a feeling of intense relief that the boy woke at last in the faint dawn of morning, sprang from the bed, and rushed to the open window again, to thrust his burning brow out into the cool, fresh air. The beating in his brain was gone, his mind was clear, and he strained out to try whether he could hear through the roar of falling waters the hammering that had tormented him all through the night.

“No,” he said, “it’s impossible to hear it from this window;” and he hurriedly dressed, to make his way out and up to the spot where he had stood with his friends.

“Nothing now,” he said. “Could it have been fancy?”

He listened for a few minutes longer, and then mounted the rough steps, to stand on the top of the great stone wall to listen from there once more, before gazing up the valley and noticing that there were two little clusters of wild-ducks busily feeding just at the mouth of the stream where it entered the pool. There was a faint glow in the east, and flecks of gold high towards the zenith, promises of a glorious day, and he turned slowly, hesitating as to whether he should go back to bed.

“No! Rubbish!” he said. “I’ll go and rouse up old Josh. Yes, and wake up Mr Manners, too. He’d like to see this glorious sky—ah! what’s that?”

That was something unusual which had just caught his eye, for as he spoke he turned to look right along the top of the dam, where he seemed to see a strange disturbance on the surface of the water just at the end where the wall joined the rugged cliff.

“It must be a great trout,” he said, “one that’s being beaten against the stones, and is half-dead. No; I believe it’s an otter.”

He ran along the top of the wall and looked down in wonder, to see that a strange whirlpool seemed to have been formed, where twigs of dead wood, bits of grass, and autumn leaves were sailing round and round, before being sucked down a central hole.

“What does that mean?” he thought; but he acted as well as thought, going quite to the edge of the wall, and then descending the steep built-up slope of stones and cemented earth, to where at the base of the dam-wall he found himself face to face with a sight so suggestive of peril that he turned at once and ran for the mill.

For there below, gushing as it were from the bottom of the wall, was a little stream—a little fount equalling in bulk the tube-like shape formed by the swirling water he had noticed far above.

The quantity was small, and quite a tiny stream ran down the valley, cutting itself a channelled course; but Will knew enough—knew the power of water, and what such a tiny stream could do. In short, in those brief moments he had grasped the fact that a dangerous flaw had been formed in the dam, which, if unchecked, might mean destruction to them all.

“Father! Father!” cried Will, rushing into his father’s bedroom.

“I’m afraid it’s worse, my boy,” was the reply. “I’ll lie still for a few hours and see if my headache passes off.”

“Father, wake up; you don’t understand—the water’s breaking through the dam!”

There was a heavy bump on the floor, which made the wash-hand jug rattle in the basin, as Mr Willows sprang out of bed, with his headache quite cured by the nervous shock.

“Do you mean it? Are you sure?”

“Yes, father, it’s twice as big now as it was when I saw it first.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Mr Willows, and he stood for a moment with brow knit and fists clenched, like a man gazing inwards.

“Run to the big bell, boy, and pull with all your might!”

“Yes, father. Is it very dan—”

“Run! Act!” was the reply, and in a few seconds the great bell was sending its notes in what seemed to the boy a harsh jangle, such as he had never heard before.

Rung at such a time and in such a manner, it carried but one message to those who heard—Danger!—and in a very short time the work-people came hurrying from the cottages which formed a scattered village down the vale, to where their master was standing on a block of stone where he could be well seen, waiting to give his orders.

“You, Dacey,” he shouted to the first man, “take one of the horses—don’t stop to saddle—and gallop right down the vale, giving the warning. Stop nowhere—shout as you go by each cottage, ‘The dam bursts!’”

The man was off, and, while Willows was giving fresh orders, the clatter of the horse’s hoofs was heard, and the man passed out of sight. Meanwhile, from the directions Willows was giving, the alarm was spreading fast, men’s voices giving it everywhere.

There were a few women’s shrieks heard, children began to cry, and there was wild excitement about the Mill House. Women’s voices, too, were heard remonstrating, and words were uttered about saving this or that; but Willows rushed up to the first group, and shouted—

“Silence, there! Save your lives! Up the sides as fast as you can, and as high as you can climb. At any moment the dam may be washed away like so much salt. Think of nothing but your lives!”

A wild yearning cry full of despair arose at this, but the master’s words went home, and the next minute the hurried scrambling of feet was heard, as women, carrying their children, began to climb up the sides of the vale, dragged and pushed up by the menfolk, in whose faces were seen reflected the looks of their chief; but to a man they were grim and stern; and all the while, harsh, wild and strange, bringing down as it were a shower of echoes of its tones, the great bell rang on, swung to and fro, and over and over under the feverish impulse given by Will’s untiring arms.

So effective were the commands, so deeply imbedded in every breast was the knowledge of what might happen, that the time seemed short before Mr Willows could draw breath and feel satisfied that the weaker portion of the community were in safety.

“Now,” he cried, “you who are old, and all you boys, follow the women. No words—Go! Now, my lads, you who are ready to work, let’s see what we can save. But, mind, it must be one eye for what you are doing and one for yon tottering wall.”

“Why, master,” shouted the north-country man, “I don’t see nowt. She’ll stand for long after we are passed away. Aren’t this all a skear?”

“No!” cried Willows, fiercely. “The strong dam is wounded, and the place is bleeding fast. Here, Will,” he shouted, “leave that bell!”

“Oh, father,” cried the boy, as he ran up, “don’t send me away at a time like this.”

“I am not going to, my boy; I want you to be my strong right hand. Now then, I shall not be with you, so watch for your safety and that of those who are with you. Take four men, and save the books first, then the chest, and all you can that is easiest to move. Scatter the things anywhere that they will lodge, as soon as they are higher than the dam. Off with you! Work for your lives! One more word of warning! When the wall goes, if go it does, it will be with one mighty rush, sweeping everything away. Now, six men with me!”

All the rest rushed to him, and he told off the number he required.

“You others,” he cried, “you have heard what I’ve said. Off with you, and try to save your most treasured possessions—byyour, I mean those of your neighbours and yourselves. At a time like this all must be in common, as it shall be when, if, please God, we escape, I will try to make up to you for what you have lost. Off! Now, my lads, every man lift and bear as big a stone as you can. Follow me!”

The next minute, headed by their chief, a line of men, like ants from a disturbed hill, were seen staggering beneath their burdens up the rugged steps to the top of the dam.

“Phew! This here’s a heavy one!” panted the north-country man as they reached the top. “Say, maister, it’ll be dangerous to be safe for us if the wall goes now.”

The words were uttered in such a cheery tone, that, in spite of their peril, a hearty laugh rose from the party, and, as Mr Willows paused for a moment to gaze downward and see how on both the steep sides of the valley his commands were being carried out, a grim smile for a moment relaxed his tightened lips.

“Now,” he cried, “do as I do,” as he bent himself to his task, and stepping to the end of the wall where the whirlpool seen first by Will had begun to look more worthy of its name—for it was three times as swift and mighty as at its birth—he leaned forward and softly dropped in the great stone he carried, and stood back to let the others follow suit.

“It seems a mere nothing,” he said, as the last stone was cast, “but it is all that we can do, and we must keep on.”

“Ahoy, there!” came from the opposite end just then. “What’s the matter, Mr Willows?” and the burly figure of the artist came hurrying across the dam. “Not safe?”

There was another hail, and the Vicar came hurrying down the path, preceded by his son.

“Why, Willows,” he cried, breathlessly, “surely the dam is not giving way?”

“Oh, father!” faltered Josh. “It must be that—that—”

“What do you mean, boy? Speak!”

“It is something to do with the noise we all heard last night.”

At that moment, with the rising sun shining full upon his fierce, contracted face and glistening bald head, Drinkwater stood leaning out from the farther bank, holding tightly with one hand to an overhanging birch, and if ever countenance wore a fiendish smile, it was his.

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