Ordinarily James would not have considered Deacon Miller worth any polite attention, but the knowledge of what had happened in the pasture had its effect upon him. He thought it necessary by a little attention to disarm the deacon's suspicions if he had any.
Good evening, Deacon Miller, he said politely. "Did you wish to see father?"
Wal, said the deacon deliberately. "I have a little business with him. Is he at home?"
I am pretty sure he is, answered James. "Come in with me, and I'll see."
The deacon smiled—an inscrutable smile—and followed James, who opened the front door and led him into the parlor.
You're very obligin', he said. "I had no idea you was so polite."
It is the duty of a gentleman to be polite! said James loftily.
So 'tis, so 'tis! returned the old man chuckling in an unaccountable manner. "I'm glad you think so. It's a great thing to be a boy, I had lots of fun when I was a boy. So do you, hey?"
Oh yes, answered James indifferently. "But not as much as I could have in the city."
But you couldn't go huntin' and fishin' in the city, said the deacon slyly.
James' heart gave a bound. What did the disagreeable old man mean? was it possible that he suspected?
I don't care much for either, he said. "But I'll go and call father."
Presently the squire appeared and invited Deacon Miller into the back room, which was used as the family dining and sitting-room.
Glad to see, you, deacon, said Mr. Collins, who, having political aspirations, thought it worth while to be polite to his neighbors.
I ain't so sure of that, squire, when you know what I come about, returned the deacon with a crafty smile.
No bad news, I hope, deacon.
Wal, it ain't good news. You know my cow, old Whitey?
Well? interrogated the squire, looking puzzled. He had heard nothing as yet of the accident in the pasture.
She was shot in the face this afternoon—her eyes totally destroyed. I shall have to kill her.
That's a pity! I sympathize with you, deacon. It must be a great disappointment to you. She was a good milker, wasn't she?
Fust-rate! I never had a cow that could beat her. She was worth fifty dollars easy.
Very likely, said the squire, innocently, quite unaware of the trap which the wily deacon was preparing for him. It will be observed that the deacon, finding he had a case against a rich man, had concluded to raise the value of the cow by five dollars. "Fifty dollars is a considerable loss."
So 'tis, but I haven't got to lose it. The one that shot old Whitey is responsible.
Who did shoot her? asked Squire Collins.
Your boy, James, answered the deacon, slowly.
Squire Collins was very disagreeably surprised. He was not a man who liked to part with money, and he saw how he had been trapped.
Did you see James shoot the cow? he demanded sharply.
N—o; I can't say I did, replied the deacon, cautiously.
I don't believe he did it then. Did he admit it to you?
N—o. I didn't ask him about it.
"Then, Deacon Miller, permit me to say that you have no case against him, and I am not responsible for your unfortunate loss. Somebody else saw it!"" remarked the deacon triumphantly.
"Who was it?
John Downie.
John Downie! Pooh, he is a mere boy, said the squire, contemptuously.
He's got as many eyes as you or I, squire, said the deacon, shrewdly.
This was unquestionably true, and the squire felt that he had made a foolish objection.
John Downie may not tell the truth, he said, angrily.
I'm willin' it should come before the court, said the deacon. "Wouldn't it be jest as well to ask your boy about it; he's out in the yard."
James was still in the yard. He had half a mind to go away, but was anxious about the deacon's errand. When he heard his father's voice calling him he turned pale.
Wait for me, Tom, he said. "If you're asked, don't say I did it."
Tom looked disturbed and uneasy, and did not reply.
James entered his father's presence with a perturbed spirit. He stole a glance at the deacon, who sat with his wizened face calm and imperturbable.
Did you want me, father? asked James.
James, said his father, abruptly, "Deacon Miller tells me that some one has shot his cow, old Whitey, this afternoon, and injured her so seriously that she will have to be killed."
I am sorry to hear it, said James, nervously.
Do you know who did it?
How should I? asked James, after a pause.
Wer'n't you out in the pastur' this afternoon? asked the deacon, pointedly.
Yes, answered James, "Tom Wyman and I crossed the pasture."
With guns on your shoulders?
Ye—es, admitted James.
Did you see anything of old Whitey? continued the deacon, persevering in his pointed interrogations.
There were some cows there I remember; I suppose old Whitey was among them.
Did your gun go off while you were in the pasture?
Ye—es, I believe it did. It went off accidentally.
And hit old Whitey?
I don't know about that. It may not have hit anything.
Then you don't know that you hit my cow?
I wasn't the only boy in the pasture this afternoon, said James, evasively.
I know all about that. Tom Wyman was with you.
Yes, and so was Mark Manning. He was out gunning most all the afternoon. Have you asked him whether he hit the cow?
Yes, answered the deacon; "he says he didn't."
Of course he would say so, sneered James, more confidently. "He's just as likely to have done it as I."
That's what I thought myself, returned the deacon; "though Mark's a middlin' keerful boy. But I changed my mind."
Because he denied it? asked James, with a return of the sneer.
Not exactly. There was a boy saw it done, and he told me who did it.
What boy saw it done? asked James, all his apprehensions reviving.
John Downie.
This was startling news to James.
And who does he say did it, he forced himself to ask.
You! answered Deacon Miller, laconically.
I don't believe I did it, said James, wavering.
He says after you shot the cow, you and Tom Wyman ran away as fast as your legs could carry you, added the deacon, chuckling.
James turned as red as scarlet, but said nothing. It was clear enough that he was guilty, and knew it.
Deacon Miller, said Squire Collins, "I will look into this matter, and if I find James shot your cow, we will make some arrangement about payment. Understand clearly, however, that I won't pay any fancy price, such as fifty dollars."
I won't argy the matter now, squire, said the deacon. "Good-evenin'."
James, said his father, "I won't scold you for a piece of carelessness, but whatever compensation is paid to the deacon must come from your account in the savings' bank."
This was a sad blow to James, he had a hundred and fifty dollars in the bank, and this would make a heavy draft upon it.
He went out into the yard without a word.
It's all up, Tom, he said. "John Downie has been telling tales about me. The first time I see him I'll give him a licking."
And serve him right, too, little tell-tale! said Tom.
Johnny did not expect what was in store for him, but he was soon to be enlightened.
Squire Collins succeeded in reducing the deacon's claim to thirty-eight dollars, and this sum James was obliged to withdraw from his savings in the bank. He thought it was very hard, as the shooting was merely an accident. He was fond of money, scarcely less so than Deacon Miller himself, and it went to his heart to find himself so much poorer than before.
It isn't as if I got any fun out of it, he complained to Tom. "It's just money thrown away."
It is a heavy sum to pay for a trifling carelessness, admitted Tom.
And I shouldn't have had a cent to pay but for John Downie. Why need the boy turn tell-tale?
It was mean.
Mean? I should say so. I mean to come up with the fellow. I mean to give him the worst licking he ever had.
Even if Tom disapproved of the intention, he at any rate did not express any disapproval, but left it to be understood that he considered it perfectly proper.
Three days later the opportunity came. Tom and James were crossing the pasture, which had been the scene of the tragedy, when John, whistling gayly, met them.
Now's my chance, said James, triumphantly. "There's the sneak that told of me. See how I'll serve him."
John Downie, seeing the boys approaching, nodded his head, saying in a friendly manner, "hello!"
Oh, it's you, is it? said James, in a hostile tone, stopping short.
Yes, it's me. Who did you think it was? returned John, laughing.
I've been wanting to meet you, John Downie.
What for? asked John. He could not help seeing now that the speaker spoke like an enemy.
To tell you that you are a sneak and a tell-tale.
What do you mean by that? demanded John, beginning himself to be angry.
You ought to know without asking. Wasn't it you that told about my shooting old Whitey?
Well, you did shoot her, didn't you?
Suppose I did. You needn't have blurted it out.
The deacon charged Mark Manning with it. I wasn't going to see him suffer for it when I saw you do it.
You're a great friend of Mark Manning, it seems, said James, with a sneer.
Yes, I am; but, even if I hadn't been, I would have told. His mother is poor, and couldn't afford to pay for the cow.
She'll be poorer yet before long, I'm thinking, said James. "Do you know what I'm going to do to you?"
Perhaps you'll tell me, said John Downie, calmly.
I'm going to give you a licking.
If I'll let you.
James laughed derisively; Johnny was two inches shorter than he, and so far as appearances went was not as strong. In a contest between the two, there was little doubt that James would come out the victor.
I don't think you'll have much to say in the matter, said James. "Just move out of the way, Tom, and give me a chance at him."
Tom did as requested, and James rushed at John with an impetuosity born of anger. John prepared to defend himself. The boys were soon grappling, trying to trip each other up. Neither knew much of the science of fighting, and victory naturally came to the stronger. In about two minutes John was on his back, with James kneeling over him, aiming blows at his face.
I told you I'd give you a licking, said James, closing his teeth, firmly.
Oh, let him off, James, said Tom. "This ought to satisfy you."
But it doesn't. I'm going to give him a lesson he'll remember all his life.
James undertook to belabor his fallen opponent, but he had been so preoccupied that he did not notice a boy running towards the scene of conflict, neither did Tom, who had his back turned.
Luckily for John, Mark Manning was on his way to call upon the hermit, when he became an indignant witness of James's brutality. He said nothing, but fairly flew across the pasture till he reached the battle-field. The first intimation James had of his presence was a vigorous grasp of his coat collar, and in an instant he was lying on his back close to his late victim, with Mark standing over him.
I'm ashamed of you, James Collins, he said, sternly. "You're a contemptible coward to attack a smaller boy like Johnny."
Knock him over, Tom, shrieked James, furiously. "I'll give him a licking, too."
It doesn't look much like it, said Mark, with his knee on James's breast.
Help, Tom! called James, struggling once more.
Tom felt obliged to take an active part in the fight, though it was by no means to his taste. He seized Mark by the shoulders, and tried to drag him away from his prostrate friend, but by this time John Downie was on his feet, and ran forward, giving Tom a push which sent him headlong on the other side of James.
Let me up, you low ruffian! screamed James.
Will you promise to behave yourself, then?
I will promise nothing.
Then you can stay here a little longer. What made you attack Johnny?
It's none of your business. I'll lick him as often as I please.
Not while I am around. Johnny, what made him attack you?
He said I was a tell-tale, because I told of his shooting the cow.
And so you are! Let me up, Mark Manning.
Will you promise?
No, I won't.
Let him up, Mark, said Johnny. "He won't dare to attack me while you are here."
No, I think not. Get up then, James, and take care how you pitch into Johnny again. Just as sure as you do, you'll have to settle accounts with me.
Released from the pressure that held him down, James rose, angry and humiliated. He would sooner have been worsted by any one than Mark, whom, for some reason not easy to divine, he especially hated.
You took me at advantage, he said, sullenly, "or you couldn't have thrown me."
Do you want to try it again? asked Mark, quietly. "Now we stand face to face, and you have as fair a chance as I."
I don't care to demean myself by fighting with such a low working boy as you.
I commend your prudence, James, said Mark, undisturbed by this taunt. "As for being a working boy, I am not ashamed of that."
You're only a common pegger.
Very true, I hope to rise higher some time.
You won't work much longer in my father's shop. I'll have you discharged.
Just as you please. I think I can earn a living in some other way. Come, Johnny, if James has no further business with you, we may as well go along.
James, appearing to have no wish to resume hostilities, Mark and Johnny walked away.
You won't hear the last of this very soon, said James, as a farewell shot.
Do you think he'll get his father to discharge you, Mark? asked Johnny.
I think very likely.
I am very sorry you have got into trouble on my account.
Don't worry, Johnny. I did right, and am ready to take the consequences.
The next day Mark, with some misgivings, repaired to the shoe manufactory as usual. He knew he had done a bold thing in defending Johnny against his employer's son, but he never thought of regretting it.
I would do it again, he said to himself. "Catch me standing by and seeing Johnny whipped by any boy, no matter who he is."
Mark laid aside his hat and coat, and went to his customary bench.
He had been at work fifteen minutes only, when Mr. Waite, the head of the room, entered, and went up to where he was standing.
Mr. Collins wants to see you, Mark, he said.
Do you know what for, Mr. Waite? Mark asked.
No, Mark, but I hope it is to raise your wages, said Mr. Waite, pleasantly, for he had always liked our hero.
I am afraid it is something quite different, said Mark, shaking his head.
No trouble, I hope, Mark?
I can tell you better when I return.
Mark put on his coat, and went downstairs to the office.
Squire Collins was seated at a desk, with his spectacles astride his nose. He looked up as Mark entered.
Mr. Waite tells me you wish to see me, Mr. Collins, said Mark.
Yes, said the squire, frowning. "I presume you can guess what I want to see you about."
Perhaps so, answered Mark.
I understand that you made a violent attack upon my son James in the pasture, yesterday afternoon.
We did have a little difficulty, Mark admitted.
Ha! I am glad you confess it. James says you made an unprovoked attack upon him.
That is not quite true, Squire Collins; I was very much provoked.
Did my son attack you first? demanded the squire, sharply.
No, sir.
So I thought. Then you have no excuse by your own confession.
I think I have an excuse.
I fail to understand what it can be. To me it appears like a high-handed outrage of which you were guilty.
I suppose James did not tell you what he was doing when I attacked him?
No, I cannot remember that he did. What does that signify?
He had John Downie upon the ground, and was beating him brutally.
Squire Collins was somewhat nonplussed at this revelation, as James had said nothing about Johnny.
Well? he said.
I ran up, and pulled him off, and prevented him from hurting Johnny.
Squire Collins was rather embarrassed. He saw clearly that his son had been in the wrong, yet he was inclined to stand by him. Moreover, it chafed him that a poor boy should have presumed to interfere with his son, much more use violence towards him.
He drew out his handkerchief and blew his nose, partly to gain time for consideration. At length he spoke.
My son feels very indignant at your presumption in assaulting him, he said, "and I wonder myself that you didn't see the impropriety of attacking the son of your employer."
Would you have had me stand by and see Johnny beaten? asked Mark, indignantly.
I do not feel disposed to argue with you, said the squire, in a dignified tone. "I feel compelled to take some action in the matter though I regret it. I cannot, of course, retain you in my employ. You are discharged. I have made up your account to date, and here is the sum due you."
Very well, sir, answered Mark, quietly, though his heart sank within him.
Squire Collins handed him a dollar and thirty-seven cents, and Mark, putting them into his pocket, bowed and withdrew.
He went back to the room where his hat hung, and taking it down, said to his fellow-workmen:
Good-bye, boys, I shan't be with you any longer.
Why, Mark, what's the matter! asked his next neighbor.
I'm discharged; that's all.
What for?
I'll tell you some other time—not now.
Mark, I'm really sorry for this, said Mr. Waite, pressing his hand warmly. "I wish you good luck!"
Thank you, Mr. Waite, answered Mark, his lip quivering a little. "I will hope for the best."
Mark walked home with a slow step. He dreaded to tell his mother of his discharge, for he knew that she would be still more depressed than himself. Youth is hopeful, but middle age is less sanguine.
I won't go home at once, thought Mark. "I will go to the wood and see the hermit. He may have some errand for me, and besides, he may be able to give me some advice."
One object which Mark had, however, was to delay breaking the unwelcome news to his mother.
He bent his steps towards the pasture, which he must cross in order to penetrate to the wood by the usual path.
In a few minutes he entered the cabin, the door of which he found open.
The hermit was no longer reclining, but was seated in a rocking-chair—the only article of luxury which the poor dwelling contained.
Good morning, sir! said Mark. "I hope you are better."
I am much better. But how does it happen that you come here in the morning? I supposed you were at work in the shoe factory.
I have lost my place there; I was discharged this morning.
Ha! how is that?
Upon this Mark told the story of his encounter with the boys in the pasture.
I suppose, he concluded, "that James got me discharged in revenge for my interfering with him."
Then you regret what you did? inquired the hermit.
No, I don't, answered Mark, warmly. "I couldn't stand by and see Johnny beaten."
You are right, and I respect you for what you did.
It is a grievous thing for me, though, said Mark. "It takes away my income, and I don't see how mother and I are going to live."
How much were you paid?
About three dollars and a half a week. Sometimes I made a little more by over-work.
You have no occasion to be disturbed. I was about to propose that you should leave your place.
Mark looked surprised.
I will take you into my own employ, added Anthony. "How long have you been coming to me?"
A week, sir.
You may retain five dollars in compensation from the money you hold of mine, and hereafter, as you will give me your whole time, you shall be paid at the rate of a dollar a day—that is, seven dollars a week.
But, sir, you are overpaying me, protested Mark, who thought this compensation magnificent.
Be it so. I can afford it. Let me know when you need more money.
I have still about fifteen dollars.
After paying yourself for the last week?
Yes, sir. Can I do anything for you now?
Yes. I feel like taking a walk. That shows I am better. You may come with me, and if I tire myself, I will lean upon your arm in returning.
With pleasure, sir. I am very glad that you feel better.
After all, mused the old man, "it is pleasant to have human sympathy. I thought I was able to do without it, but I am more dependent than I supposed."
They walked for half an hour. When they returned to the cabin, the hermit said:
To-morrow morning I expect a visitor from the city. I wish you to meet him at the train, and conduct him here. He is a small man, with a sharp look, and will probably be dressed in black. In fact, he is my man of business. You need say nothing of this, however, but let people conjecture as they will.
And shall I speak of my arrangement with you, sir?
You may merely say that I have engaged you to do my errands. I shall not require you again to-day.
Mark's spirits were wonderfully improved when he left the hermit's cabin, and took his way homeward. So far from being injuriously affected by his discharge from the shoe-shop, his income was considerably increased. Not only this, but he had received five dollars for his past week's services over and above what he had been paid for his work in the shop.
Now, thought he. "I can tell mother without minding it."
But his mother had already heard of it. A neighbor, Mrs. Parker, who rather enjoyed telling bad news, had heard of it through her son, who also worked in the work-shop.
She at once left her work, and hurried over to Mrs. Manning's.
Good morning, Mrs. Parker, said the widow, cheerfully. "Take a chair, do."
Thank you, Mrs. Manning, I can't stop a minute. I left my kitchen at sixes and sevens, on purpose to condole with you. I declare, it's really too bad.
What is too bad? I don't understand you? said Mrs. Manning, perplexed.
About your son Mark, I mean.
What has happened to him? Is he hurt? asked the widow, with a pale face.
No, no; hasn't he been home?
He is at the shoe-shop, of course.
No, he is not. He was discharged by Squire Collins this morning.
Discharged? What for?
Don't you know? Some quarrel between Mark and James Collins, I believe.
I am glad he is not hurt.
But hasn't he been home? I wonder at that.
I have seen nothing of him since he started for the shop.
That's strange.
Poor boy! I suppose he doesn't like to tell me he is discharged, sighed the widow. "It will be a serious thing for us, for I don't know where else he will find work."
O, something will turn up, said Mrs. Parker, who could bear the misfortunes of her neighbors very cheerfully. "But I must run home, or my dinner will be late."
The more Mrs. Manning thought of Mark's loss of employment, the more troubled she felt. Three dollars and a half a week was not a large sum, but it was more than half their income, and how they were to make it up she could not conjecture. Perhaps she could induce Mark to apologize to James, in which case the squire might be induced to take him back. While her mind was busy with such thoughts, Mark entered the house whistling. His mother was considerably surprised at this evidence of light-heartedness under the circumstances.
He entered the room where his mother was at work.
Well, mother, is dinner almost ready? he asked.
It will be ready soon. But oh, Mark, what is this I hear about your being discharged from the shoe-shop?
It is all true, mother, but you needn't worry over it. We shall get along just as well.
I don't see how. There is no other shop in the village.
I have another job already, and a better one.
Mrs. Manning opened her eyes in astonishment.
What can it be? she asked.
Old Anthony has hired me to do his errands.
I am afraid, Mark, that will amount to very little.
I am to receive five dollars a week.
Do you really mean this? I thought he was very poor.
Quite the contrary, mother, but we mustn't say that to others. Let people think he is poor. Here are five dollars which he has paid me for the last week, though I have worked in the shop, and done very little for it. Take it, mother, and use as you need it.
Will this last, Mark? asked his mother, almost incredulously.
I think it will. The hermit seems to have taken a special fancy to me, and he says he can well afford to pay me this sum. I say, mother, suppose I invite him to take dinner with us next Sunday?
With all my heart, Mark. He seems to me like a good Providence who has come to our help at this juncture.
Do you need anything at the store this afternoon?
The butter and sugar are out, Mark.
Give me the five-dollar bill, then, mother, and I will buy some.
Shortly after dinner Mark started for the store. On the way he met several persons who condoled with him on his loss of place. They were surprised to find that Mark looked cheerful, and even gay.
Yes, he said, "I've retired from the shoe business on a fortune."
You don't seem to mind it!
No, I can stand it well enough, but I pity Squire Collins for losing my valuable services.
I thought you'd be down in the mouth. You don't seem to care.
Why should I? Care killed a cat.
Arrived at the store, Mark stepped up to the counter and called for two pounds of sugar and two pounds of butter.
Mr. Palmer, the grocer, had heard of Mark's dismissal, and being a cautious man, inquired:
Are you going to pay cash?
Certainly.
I heard you had lost your place at the shop.
Yes, answered Mark, smiling, "I discharged Squire Collins."
It'll be rather hard on you, won't it?
I guess I can pay my bills, Mr. Palmer. At any rate I can pay for what I am buying now.
The grocer put up the packages, and was surprised when Mark handed him a five-dollar bill in payment.
Seems to me you're flush, he said.
So it seems, answered Mark, but he volunteered no information.
I can't make out that boy, said the grocer to his assistant, after Mark had gone out. "He looks as if he had got a good place instead of losing it. I wonder if the widder's got any money?"
Not much, except what Mark brings in.
They'll be asking credit soon, Enoch. Don't trust them till you've referred to me.
No, sir, I won't.
On his way home Mark met the cause of his discharge, James Collins, accompanied as usual by his friend, Tom Wyman.
Hallo! said James, eying Mark, triumphantly.
Hallo!
Why ain't you at the shop?
Probably you know.
Yes, I do know. You've been discharged.
I suppose I am indebted to your kindness for that.
Yes, you are. Perhaps now you will be sorry for your impertinence to me in the pasture.
When I am I'll tell you so. At present I am glad, and would do the same thing again.
How do you expect to live?
On victuals and drink, thank you.
If you have money to buy them, supplemented James, with a malicious smile.
I've got a little money left, and Mark drew out not only his own but the hermit's money. "You see I don't depend on work in the shoe-shop."
James was both amazed and annoyed.
Where did you get that money? he asked abruptly.
I am afraid I must leave your curiosity ungratified. I'll tell you, as it may interest you, that I should have resigned my place in the shop at the end of the week, even if you hadn't kindly got me discharged.
So saying, Mark walked away.
Where do you think he got that money, Tom? said James.
Blamed if I know!
The next morning Mark walked to the depot to meet the morning train.
When the morning train arrived, Mark was on hand. He watched carefully for the man he was sent to meet. As it happened, the business agent was the last man to leave the train. He stepped upon the platform, and began to look about him.
Mark advanced towards him, and raised his hat, politely.
Is this Mr. Hardy? he asked.
The small man regarded him sharply.
Yes, he answered. "Have you a message for me?"
Yes, sir. I am to conduct you to Mr. Taylor.
Just so. How is his health?
He has had an attack of rheumatism, but is better.
No wonder he is sick, living in that out-of-the-way place. Do you know him well?
Pretty well, sir. I am in his employ.
Ha! then he is living a little more as he should do. What is your name?
Mark Manning.
M. M. Just so. Sounds like a fancy name. Is it?
No, sir; it's all the name I have, said Mark smiling.
How long have you been in the employ of Mr. Taylor?
Only a little over a week.
Do you know anything about his history? demanded Mr. Hardy, with a sharp look of inquiry.
Yes, sir. He has told me something of it.
Humph! Then he must have confidence in you. Well, let us be starting. Is it far?
Nearly two miles, sir. Perhaps you will be tired.
In which case you will perhaps kindly carry me on your shoulders, suggested Mr. Hardy, quizzically.
I am afraid I shouldn't be able to do that, returned Mark, with a smile.
And yet, I don't believe I weigh much more than you. What is your weight?
One hundred and twenty-three pounds.
And I weigh one hundred and twenty-four. I have one pound the advantage of you.
Mark, who was a stout boy, was rather pleased to learn that he weighed within a pound as much as his companion. I suppose most boys are proud of their size.
They had commenced their walk and Mark found that his new acquaintance was a fast walker.
Does Mr. Taylor ever have any visitors? asked the lawyer, for such was his profession.
Not from the village, sir.
From any other quarter? asked Hardy.
He had a call from his nephew, lately.
Lyman Taylor?
Yes, sir.
Then he has found his uncle's place of concealment. What do you know of the interview?
Mark gave an account of Lyman's visit, his demand for money, and his threatened violence.
Did he suppose his uncle had money? inquired the lawyer, in an anxious tone.
He did not suppose he had much, but he wanted a part of it, however small.
Did he succeed in obtaining anything?
Mr. Taylor told me to give him five dollars.
Why you?
I had a sum of money belonging to the hermit, in my possession. I used to buy things for him in the village.
Then you think Lyman went away with the impression that my friend—the hermit, as you call him—had very little money?
Yes, sir; I am sure of it.
Are you under the same impression?
No, sir; Mr Taylor has told me that he is moderately rich.
That shows he has great confidence in you. Don't breathe a word of it, my boy, or this rascally nephew will persecute his uncle, and make his life a burden.
He will learn nothing from me, said Mark firmly.
You seem a good trustworthy boy—I think my friend made a good choice of a confidant.
Thank you, sir.
At length they reached the cabin in the wood. Old Anthony was already outside, waiting for their coming.
Good morning, my friend, said the lawyer; "the boy tells me you have been sick——"
Yes, I have had a visit from my old enemy, but I am much better.
To be sick in such a place! said the lawyer with a shudder.
I have not suffered, thanks to Mark—will you come in?
Let us rather bring chairs outside, if you are provided with such luxuries. We shall have several matters to discuss.
Mr. Hardy glanced significantly at Mark, who was leaning against a tree, and could of course hear the conversation.
Mark, said the hermit, "you may go farther away, but return in an hour. This gentleman and myself may have some things to speak of which are private."
Certainly, sir.
Well, old friend, Hardy began, "haven't you had enough of this strange existence? you are rich, and can afford all the comforts of life, yet you voluntarily surrender them, and bury yourself in this wilderness. Do you mean to stay here all your life?"
I did at one time think it probable, now I am beginning to feel a greater interest in life.
The boy tells me your nephew has found you out?
Yes; he came here in quest of money, but he went away convinced that I was nearly as poor as himself. If he knew the truth I should be in constant danger of robbery, or worse——
If you die without a will, is he not your heir?
He would be, but I shall make a will. It is partly to give you instructions on this point that I have sent for you.
You have no one else to leave your money to?
A part will go to charitable institutions, a part——
Well?
To one whom I hold in greater regard than my nephew—to the boy, who guided you hither.
Indeed! does he know anything of your purpose?
Nothing, and need not.
You have taken a fancy to him?
Yes; he is honest, manly, upright, just such a boy as I should have been glad to have for my son. Don't dissuade me, for the thought of doing something for him gives me a new interest in life.
I shall not dissuade you, Anthony, for I believe the boy to be all that you say. Of course if you had a blood relation who was deserving, I might make an objection. Has this boy relations?
Only a mother, who is mainly dependent upon him. By the way, have you invested the sum paid in lately?
No; but I have an application for it, or I should say, for four-fifths of it. Curiously, the applicant lives in this town.
Who is it?
Collins, the shoe manufacturer.
I am surprised at this. I thought he was rich.
He has lost money by investments in stocks, and finds himself hard up.
What does he offer?
Seven per cent, secured by a mortgage on his shop.
Let him have it.
Are you willing that your name should appear in the matter?
No; I shall transfer the sum to Mark, and make you his trustee or guardian.
I understand. Is he to know of his good fortune?
Not at present. The boy was discharged only yesterday from the shop of this Collins, added Anthony, smiling.
A good joke! said the lawyer. "And now the boy lends him money. That is returning good for evil."
Without knowing it.
Precisely.
There is a further sum of a thousand dollars, suggested the lawyer. "What is your pleasure in regard to that?"
The boy is to have that too. Deposit it in some savings' bank in your own name as his trustee.
That makes the boy worth five thousand dollars—a large gift.
Exactly, but I know of no better use for it.
He is to remain ignorant of this also?
For the present, yes.
Now for your instructions concerning the will. I will note them down, and prepare the document for your signature.
These directions were given, one-half of the hermit's property being left to certain specified charities, the remaining half to Mark Manning.
The lawyer wrote in silence. Then, pausing, he said:
Will you allow me, in right of our long friendship, to make one suggestion?
Surely, John.
Then let me ask if you are sure that there is no one having a rightful claim upon you, and who ought to be considered in this matter?
Do you mean Lyman?
By no means. He has forfeited any claim he may once have possessed.
Then what is your meaning?
Are you sure that your daughter left no issue?
Anthony's brow contracted, not with anger but with pain. The old wound had not healed.
I never heard of any, he answered, after a pause.
Yet there may have been a child.
And if there were?
It would be your grandchild, said the lawyer, firmly.
And his child, said the hermit, bitterly.
You should not impute that to the child for blame.
What would you have me do, old friend?
Make provision for the child, if there should be one.
What would you suggest? asked Anthony, slowly.
I don't wish to injure the boy; I would only suggest that charity begins at home. Divide your estate into thirds; give one-third to Mark, one to the child, if there be one, and one to charity.
I have no objection to that. But suppose there be no child living?
Then divide that third between Mark and the charitable societies you have enumerated.
Wisely counseled, John, but why not give it to you?
Because I am moderately rich already, and need nothing more. Then, also, it would work against my interest to find the child. I might turn out to be as wicked and unprincipled as most lawyers are said to be, he concluded, with a smile.
I have no fear of that. So that is your only objection—
It isn't. Give it all to the boy in preference.
No, let it be as you proposed.
One thing more. Don't you think it is your duty to ascertain whether you have a grandchild? It may be living in poverty; perhaps in actual want.
You are right; I should have thought of that before. But what steps would you advise me to take?
Send some trusted messenger to the last place where you have information that your daughter lived. Have you tidings of her husband?
He died first. Both died of typhoid fever, as I learned.
Where did they die?
At a small place in Indiana—Claremont, I think.
Then you should send there, and make inquiries. It would be well to go yourself, if you could bring yourself to do it.
But I couldn't.
Then send a trusted messenger.
I have none whom I could trust—except that boy.
John Hardy looked thoughtful. He appeared to be pondering something. Finally he said: "Then send him. He is a boy, but he is faithful and discreet. Moreover, I could advise him."
Let it be so!
Can you spare him?
Yes, I am quite recovered, and he may not be gone many weeks. If I need help I can easily receive it.
I would suggest a delay of a week or two, or till the will is drawn up and signed, and some other business attended to.
I shall be guided entirely by your advice.
Now shall I leave you some money?
No, I have enough to last for some time to come.
You don't keep it in this cabin, do you? It would be imprudent. You would be exposed to robbery.
No, I have a place of concealment in the woods. I shall go this afternoon, taking Mark with me, to draw from it. It is my bank.
The bank of the woods, suggested Hardy, laughing.
Yes.
Presently Mark returned, and conducted the lawyer back to the station. Without the boy's remarking it, his elderly companion drew him out, weighed him mentally in the balance, and decided that his client was not, after all, rash in confiding in a mere boy.
He's smart and honest! was his mental verdict.
At the station, he handed Mark a card containing the address of his office.
Unless I am much mistaken, he said, "Mr. Taylor will have occasion to send you to my office in the city before long."
I shall be very glad to come, answered Mark, gladly. "I don't often get a chance to come to New York."
The lawyer shook hands with Mark, and boarded the train.
Turning to leave the station, Mark encountered the gaze of his two hunting companions, James Collins and Tom Wyman, fixed curiously upon him.
Who is that old file? asked James, with his usual want of ceremony.
A gentleman from New York, answered Mark, briefly.
What's his name?
John Hardy.
How did you run across him?
I didn't; he ran across me.
How did you get acquainted with him?
He asked me to be his guide. I walked about with him.
O, a tourist! Did he give you anything?
No.
Then all your time and trouble was thrown away, sneered James.
I don't know about that. He invited me to call at his office when I came to the city.
That is hardly likely to do you any good. Business doesn't call you to the city very often.
That is true, said Mark, his temper undisturbed.
A quarter would have helped you more, especially now that you are out of work.
I am glad you sympathize with me, James. Perhaps you will ask your father to take me back into the shop?
Not after the mean way in which you treated me. I swore I'd come up with you, and I have.
I hope you'll enjoy your revenge.
I do, you may be sure of that. If you had minded your own business, it would have been better for you.
I am not sure about that. It may surprise you, James, to hear that I wouldn't go back to the shop, if your father were to call and ask me to do so.
That's a likely story!
Likely or not, it's true.
I suppose you have come into a fortune, said James, with a sneer.
This was what had actually happened, but Mark had no more knowledge of his good fortune than James.
Later in the day Mark presented himself at the cabin in the woods.
I thought you might have an errand for me, he said.
So I have, returned the hermit. "Take yonder spade and come with me."
Mark was considerably surprised by the order he had received. What was he do with a spade? They were in the woods, and there was no arable land near. However, Mark was sensible enough to understand that it was his duty to obey, not to question.
All right, sir! he said, but there was a wonder in his look which old Anthony noticed with a smile. However, he did not immediately throw any light on the mystery.
They walked possibly a quarter of a mile till they reached a comparatively open space near the center of which stood a tall tree.
We will stop here, said Anthony.
Mark lowered the spade, which he had been carrying on his shoulder, and waited further instructions.
Old Anthony produced a compass to make sure of his bearings, and a tape measure. One end of this he gave to Mark, saying: "Stand by the tree."
Mark, wondering as much as ever, took his position beside the tree.
A little more on that side! was the next direction.
When Mark was placed to suit him, Anthony took the other end of the tape measure, and measured due east sixteen feet.
Yes, he said musingly, "this must be the spot."
Marking the spot with a stone, he said:
Bring the spade to me, Mark.
Mark did so.
I suppose you wonder what I am going to do? said the hermit with a smile.
Yes, sir, Mark admitted.
This is my bank, explained Anthony.
Mark wondered whether the hermit was in his right mind. He stood by curious and attentive, while Anthony began to disturb the soil, throwing up one spadeful of dirt after another.
He continued at his task for ten minutes, and then desisted.
I get fatigued easily, he said; "here, Mark, take your turn."
Mark took the spade, and continued the excavation. He was young and strong, and bore the fatigue better than his employer. At length he felt the spade striking something hard.
I have struck something, he said.
Very well, now proceed more carefully, so as not to break the vessel. Uncover it, and then I will tell you what to do——
The hole was now about eighteen inches deep. Mark cleared away some of the dirt, and disclosed an earthen pot which appeared to be provided with a cover.
What shall I do now? he asked.
Stoop down, and remove the cover, and take out what you find inside.
Mark got down on his knees, and bending over, accomplished what was asked of him. To his surprise he saw that the bottom of the pot was covered with gold pieces.
Take them out, and hand them to me, said old Anthony.
All of them, sir?
Yes, I may as well remove them to another place. Besides the balance must be small.
The hermit counted the gold pieces, as they were placed in his hands.
There are but three hundred and fifty dollars left! he said.
To Mark this seemed considerable, though it was evident the pot would have contained, if full, many times as much.
What shall I do with the pot? asked Mark.
You can leave it where it is. Anyone is welcome to it, now that it is empty. Put the cover on, and some one will one day stumble upon treasure.
Mark filled up the hole, and disposed leaves over it so as to conceal the work that had been done.
Very well done, Mark! The last time I did all the work myself, but that was before I had the rheumatism. It has stiffened my joints, and weakened me as I find. Now let us go back.
Mark once more shouldered the spade, and the two walked back side by side.
I may as well explain how I came to deposit my money there, said old Anthony. "I was sensible that it would be dangerous to leave a large sum in my cabin, and it was not convenient or agreeable for me to make visits to the city from time to time to draw money from my agent. I was in the habit of going but once in a year or two, and then bringing with me enough to last me for a considerable period. I could, of course, have hidden my money under the flooring of my cabin, but that is the very place where burglars would have searched, had they done me the honor to look upon me as a miser, hiding concealed treasures. It was for this reason that I selected a hiding-place so far away from my dwelling. Fearing that I might forget the exact place, I chose a particular tree as a guide, and then measured a distance of sixteen feet due east. Of course there would be no danger of my mistaking the place then."
Somebody might have seen you digging there, sir.
True; I used to go early in the morning when no one was likely to be in the wood. Besides, I carefully looked about me before beginning to dig, to make all secure.
We didn't look about us this afternoon.
No, it was not necessary. There is no money left, and as for the earthen pot, any one is welcome to it, who will take the trouble to dig for it. I fancy it would hardly repay the labor.
There is still considerable gold; are you not afraid of being robbed?
There is a chance of it. I shall therefore give you half of it to keep for me.
I am glad you have so much confidence in my honesty, Mr. Taylor. But I hope that no one will suspect that I have so much money, or I might be attacked.
Better give the greater part to your mother to lock up in a trunk or bureau drawer.
I think I will, sir. It seems odd to have you choose me as a banker, Mr. Taylor.
I don't think I shall have any cause to repent it, Mark.
Nor I, so far as honesty goes, but I might be robbed.
We will take our chance of that.
Mark and his employer supposed themselves alone when they were engaged in disinterring the golden treasure, but they were mistaken. Two pairs of very curious eyes watched them from behind a clump of bushes. These eyes belonged to James Collins and Tom Wyman.
They were in the wood with their guns, looking for squirrels, when they saw the approach of Mark and the hermit.
I wonder what they are going to do, said James. "Mark has got a spade."
I don't know. Suppose we hide, and then we'll find out.
This proposal struck James favorably, and they concealed themselves behind a clump of low trees, as already described. With eager eyes they watched the preliminary measurement, and the subsequent excavation.
The old man's a miser, whispered James. "He's got gold hidden there."
Just what I think, responded Tom, also in a whisper.
I wonder if there's much.
Hush! We'll soon see.
They were not near enough to hear what passed between Mark and Anthony, but they saw the gold coins which the boy passed to his employer. Then they saw the dirt replaced, and the spot made to look as before.
When Mark and Anthony had gone, they emerged from their hiding-place, eager and excited.
Well, said James, drawing a long breath, "we've found the hermit's secret. He must be a miser. I wonder how much more gold there is in the hole."
Thousands of dollars, very likely, said Tom, who had a vivid imagination. "You know it doesn't take a very big pile of gold to make a thousand dollars."
Mark Manning is pretty thick with old Anthony. He trusts him more than I would.
Mark'll rob him someday. See if he don't.
I shouldn't wonder. I say, Tom, don't you tell a living soul of what we've seen this afternoon. If Mark steals the money, we can expose him. He little thinks we know his secret.
Tom agreed to this, and the two boys went home. When they next saw Mark, they regarded him with a knowing look that puzzled him.
When Lyman Taylor left his uncle and returned to the city, he felt that his visit had been a failure. His traveling expenses had amounted to about two dollars, and he only carried back five dollars with him. Added to this, his prospects of remunerative employment were by no means brilliant. To work, indeed, he was an enemy, and always had been.
Blessed if I know how I'm coming out, he said to himself, ruefully; "if Uncle Anthony had showed any enterprise, he ought to be well off, and able to lend me a helping hand. Instead of which he is settled down in a tumble-down shanty in the woods, and isn't doing any good to anybody."
Lyman resented it as a wrong done to himself that his uncle was not in a condition to help him.
If he were only living in the city now, he might quarter himself upon him. As matters stood, it was out of the question. It made him shudder to think of becoming a joint tenant of the lonely cabin, with nothing to look to but the homely fare, which no doubt contented his uncle.
I shall have to shift for myself, he reflected with a sigh; "I always was unlucky. Other fellows are born with a silver spoon in their mouths, and have rich fathers or uncles to provide for them, while I may go to the poorhouse for all the help I am likely to get from Uncle Anthony."
Arrived in New York, however, his prospects rose a little. He met an old acquaintance on the Bowery, and turned into a billiard saloon, where he succeeded in a series of games in raising his small capital to ten dollars.
This gave him a hint of a new way to make a living—a way, as he considered, infinitely preferable to a life of toil. Henceforth he frequented billiard saloons, and occasionally varied his pleasant labors by a game of cards. In spite, however, of his praiseworthy efforts to make an honest livelihood, there came a time when he was reduced to his last quarter of a dollar.
He was sitting moodily in a cheap downtown hotel, when he was addressed by a bearded man dressed in rough miner's costume, a type of man more frequently met in California or Colorado, than in an Atlantic city.
Have a cigar, stranger? asked the bearded man socially.
Thank you; I don't care if I do, said Lyman with alacrity.
I'm a stranger in York, said the other, "only arrived yesterday. You've got a right smart city here; beats 'Frisco higher'n a kite!"
Do you come from San Francisco? asked Lyman with interest.
I'm from Californy—was up in the mines mostly.
Did you have much luck?
Wal, I made two or three piles, an' lost 'em agin. However, I've got a little left. I've always wanted to see York, and thought I might as well come on and see it before I lost the last.
I'm glad to meet you, said Lyman, who was speculating as to whether he couldn't make a little something out of his new friend, before his "pile" was wholly reduced in size. "I'm an old Californian myself."
You don't say so? when was you there?
Lyman mentioned the time, and the country where he had courted fortune.
You don't say, stranger? returned the miner. "Why, I was at that identical place myself. I bought a mine—leastways me and my partner did—of an old man, named Taylor."
Anthony Taylor? asked Lyman, eagerly.
That was the old fellow's name. Did you know him, stranger?
I should say I did. He is my uncle. Did you—pay much for the claim?
We paid five thousand dollars cash down.
Lyman Taylor whistled in amazement.
Was it worth it? he added.
We took out ten thousand dollars, and I heerd that the old man took out as much before selling it to us.
What month did you buy it? asked Lyman, breathless.
Let me see, it was in September. You seem to be interested, stranger?
I should say I was. That claim was half mine, and my uncle never gave me a cent of the purchase money.
Where were you all the time?
I left in disgust, for we'd worked a long time without making it pay.
You left too soon. The old man struck it rich some time early in August, and carried away ten thousand dollars, besides what we gave him. We didn't make so much of a spec, for too much had been taken out already. Where is your uncle now?
Living in the country. I went up to see him two or three weeks since.
How's he fixed? Did he hang on to his pile?
He's hanging on to it now, answered Lyman, with an oath. "He made out he was poor, and sent me off with a beggarly five-dollar note."
Perhaps he's lost his money.
More likely he's keeping it out of the way. He ought to give me half he made out of the claim.
I don't know about that, stranger. You gave up and left, and all he made afterwards, went of right to him.
Lyman Taylor, however, did not regard the matter in that light. Discreetly losing sight of the circumstances under which he left his uncle, carrying off all the gold dust he had then accumulated, he persuaded himself that he had suffered a great wrong in not having shared in the subsequent rich development.
Just my luck! he said to himself, moodily.
If I'd only waited a couple of months I'd have left California a rich man. How was I to guess how the claim was going to pan out. I didn't think Uncle Anthony would have treated me so meanly. I wonder how much he's got left?
This was an interesting subject of consideration, but unfortunately, Lyman had no data to go upon; or, rather, what data he had, were not calculated to favor the presumption that his uncle was a rich man.
It did not look very likely that a rich man, or even one moderately well-to-do, would voluntarily make his home in a poor cabin, like that which old Anthony occupied.
Lyman began to fear that his uncle had managed to lose by bad investments the money he had obtained from the claims, and was really as poor as appearances would seem to indicate.
Are you livin' in this hotel? asked the miner.
I'm not living anywhere in particular, answered Lyman. "Fact is, I'm rather down on my luck. There are no 'piles' to be made in New York."
I've been there myself, stranger. Here, take this, and pay it back when it's convenient.
Lyman eagerly accepted the twenty-dollar gold piece offered him by his liberal new acquaintance, and leading the way to the bar, they cemented their new-born friendship by a drink in true California style. He then proposed a game of cards, but the miner declined.
I never cared much for keerds, he said. "Excuse me! I don't mind playing a game of pool if you're agreeable."
When the two parted, they were sworn friends. Lyman, however, found that his miner friend had all his wits about him, and that the twenty dollar loan was all he was likely to extract from him.
I must make another visit to that uncle of mine, said Lyman to himself, as he sauntered down the Bowery. "He ought to pay me half the money he got for that claim."