Try Again by Oliver Optic


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TRY AGAIN

Or

The Trials and Triumphs of Harry West

A Story for Young Folks

by

OLIVER OPTIC

Author of
"The Boat Club," "All Aboard," "Poor and Proud,"
"Hope and Have," "Now or Never," Etc.







[Illustration: "Harry was Startled by the Discovery of
a Bright Light."]



New York
The New York Book Company
1911



Contents

Chapter                                                          Page
            BIOGRAPHY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY                             4
      I     IN WHICH HARRY WEST AND SQUIRE WALKER DISAGREE ON AN
              IMPORTANT POINT                                      5
     II     IN WHICH HARRY FINDS A FRIEND, AND A PRACTICABLE
              SCHEME FOR RESISTANCE                               11
    III     IN WHICH HARRY LEAVES THE POORHOUSE, AND TAKES TO
              THE RIVER                                           19
     IV     IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT THE NAVIGATION OF THE
              RIVER IS DIFFICULT AND DANGEROUS                    26
      V     IN WHICH HARRY FIGHTS A HARD BATTLE, AND IS
              DEFEATED                                            33
     VI     IN WHICH HARRY CONCLUDES THAT A DEFEAT IS SOMETIMES
              BETTER THAN A VICTORY                               41
    VII     IN WHICH HARRY FINDS HIMSELF IN A TIGHT PLACE AND
              EXECUTES A COUNTER MOVEMENT                         48
   VIII     IN WHICH HARRY KILLS A BIG SNAKE, AND MAKES A NEW
              FRIEND                                              55
     IX     IN WHICH HARRY BREAKFASTS ON DOUGHNUTS, AND FINDS
              THAT ANGELS DO NOT ALWAYS HAVE WINGS                62
      X     IN WHICH HARRY FARES SUMPTUOUSLY, AND TAKES LEAVE
              OF THE LITTLE ANGEL                                 69
     XI     IN WHICH HARRY REACHES THE CITY, AND THOUGH OFTEN
              DISAPPOINTED, TRIES AGAIN                           76
    XII     IN WHICH HARRY SUDDENLY GETS RICH AND HAS A
              CONVERSATION WITH ANOTHER HARRY                     83
   XIII     IN WHICH HARRY BECOMES A STABLE BOY, AND HEARS
              BAD NEWS FROM ROCKVILLE                             90
    XIV     IN WHICH HARRY DOES A GOOD DEED, AND DETERMINES
              TO "FACE THE MUSIC"                                 97
     XV     IN WHICH HARRY MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF A VERY
              IMPORTANT PERSONAGE                                104
    XVI     IN WHICH HARRY GOES INTO THE DRYGOODS BUSINESS       111
   XVII     IN WHICH HARRY REVISITS ROCKVILLE, AND MEETS WITH
              A SERIOUS LOSS                                     117
  XVIII     IN WHICH HARRY MEETS WITH AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE AND
              GETS A HARD KNOCK ON THE HEAD                      124
    XIX     IN WHICH HARRY FINDS THAT EVEN A BROKEN HEAD MAY
              BE OF SOME USE TO A PERSON                         131
     XX     IN WHICH HARRY PASSES THROUGH HIS SEVEREST TRIAL,
              AND ACHIEVES HIS GREATEST TRIUMPH                  137
    XXI     IN WHICH HARRY IS VERY PLEASANTLY SITUATED, AND
              THE STORY COMES TO AN END                          147




BIOGRAPHY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY


William Taylor Adams, American author, better known and loved by boys
and girls through his pseudonym "Oliver Optic," was born July 30,
1822, in the town of Medway, Norfolk County, Massachusetts, about
twenty-five miles from Boston. For twenty years he was a teacher in
the Public Schools of Boston, where he came in close contact with boy
life. These twenty years taught him how to reach the boy's heart and
interest as the popularity of his books attest.

His story writing began in 1850 when he was twenty-eight years old and
his first book was published in 1853. He also edited "The Oliver Optic
Magazine," "The Student and Schoolmate," "Our Little Ones."

Mr. Adams died at the age of seventy-five years, in Boston, March 27,
1897.

He was a prolific writer and his stories are most attractive and
unobjectionable. Most of his books were published in series. Probably
the most famous of these is "The Boat Club Series" which comprises the
following titles:

"The Boat Club," "All Aboard," "Now or Never," "Try Again," "Poor and
Proud," "Little by Little." All of these titles will be found in this
edition.

Other well-known series are his "Soldier Boy Series," "Sailor Boy
Series," "Woodville Stories." The "Woodville Stories" will also be
found in this edition.




TRY AGAIN

CHAPTER I

IN WHICH HARRY WEST AND SQUIRE WALKER DISAGREE ON AN IMPORTANT POINT


"Boy, come here!"

Squire Walker was a very pompous man; one of the most notable persons
in the little town of Redfield, which, the inquiring young reader will
need to be informed, as it is not laid down on any map of
Massachusetts that I am acquainted with, is situated thirty-one miles
southwest of Boston.

I am not aware that Redfield was noted for anything in particular,
unless it was noted for Squire Walker, as Mount Vernon was noted for
Washington, and Monticello for Jefferson. No doubt the squire thought
he was as great a man as either of these, and that the world was
strangely stupid because it did not find out how great a man he really
was. It was his misfortune that he was born in the midst of stirring
times, when great energy, great genius, and the most determined
patriotism are understood and appreciated.

Squire Walker, then, was a great man--in his own estimation. It is
true, the rest of the world, including many of the people of Redfield,
had not found it out; but, as the matter concerned himself more nearly
than any one else, he seemed to be resigned to the circumstances of
his lot. He had represented the town in the legislature of the state,
was a member of the school committee, one of the selectmen, and an
overseer of the poor. Some men would have considered all these offices
as glory enough for a lifetime; and I dare say the squire would have
been satisfied, if he had not been ambitious to become one of the
county commissioners.

The squire had a very high and proper regard for his own dignity. It
was not only his duty to be a great man, but to impress other people,
especially paupers and children, with a just sense of his importance.
Consequently, when he visited the poorhouse, he always spoke in the
imperative mood. It was not becoming a man of his magnificent
pretensions to speak gently and kindly to the unfortunate, the
friendless, and the forsaken; and the men and women hated him, and the
children feared him, as much as they would have feared a roaring lion.

"Boy, come here!" said Squire Walker, as he raised his arm
majestically towards a youth who was picking up "windfalls" under the
apple trees in front of the poorhouse.

The boy was dressed in a suit of blue cotton clothes, extensively, but
not very skillfully patched. At last two-thirds of the brim of his old
straw hat was gone, leaving nothing but a snarly fringe of straws to
protect his face from the heat of the sun. But this was the least of
the boy's trials. Sun or rain, heat or cold, were all the same to him,
if he only got enough to eat, and time enough to sleep.

He straightened his back when Squire Walker spoke to him, and stood
gazing with evident astonishment that the distinguished gentleman
should condescend to speak to him.

"Come here, you sir! Do you hear?" continued Squire Walker, upon whom
the boy's look of wonder and perturbation was not wholly lost.

"This way, Harry," added Mr. Nason, the keeper of the poorhouse, who
was doing the honors of the occasion to the representative of the
people of Redfield.

Harry West was evidently a modest youth, and appeared to be averse to
pushing himself irreverently into the presence of a man whom his vivid
imagination classed with Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar, whose
great deeds he had read about in the spelling book.

Harry slowly sidled along till he came within about a rod of the great
man, where he paused, apparently too much overawed to proceed any
farther.

"Come here, I say," repeated Squire Walker. "Why don't you take your
hat off, and make your manners?"

Harry took his hat off, and made his manners, not very gracefully, it
is true; but considering the boy's perturbation, the squire was
graciously pleased to let his "manners" pass muster.

"How old are you, boy?" asked the overseer.

"Most twelve," replied Harry, with deference.

"High time you were put to work."

"I do work," answered Harry.

"Not much; you look as fat and lazy as one of my fat hogs."

Mr. Nason ventured to suggest that Harry was a smart, active boy,
willing to work, and that he more than paid his keeping by the labor
he performed in the field, and the chores he did about the house--an
interference which the squire silently rebuked, by turning up his nose
at the keeper.

"I do all they want me to do," added the boy, whose tongue seemed to
grow wonderfully glib under the gratuitous censure of the notable
gentleman.

"Don't be saucy, Master West."

"Bless you, squire! Harry never spoke a saucy word in his life,"
interposed the friendly keeper.

"He should know his place, and learn how to treat his superiors. You
give these boys too much meat, Mr. Nason. They can't bear it. Mush and
molasses is the best thing in the world for them."

If any one had looked closely at Harry while the functionary was
delivering himself of this speech, he might have seen his eye snap and
his chest heave with indignation. He had evidently conquered his
timidity, and, maugre his youth, was disposed to stand forth and say,
"I, too, am a man." His head was erect, and he gazed unflinchingly
into the eye of the squire.

"Boy," said the great man, who did not like to have a pauper boy look
him in the eye without trembling--"boy, I have got a place for you,
and the sooner you are sent to it, the better it will be for you and
for the town."

"Where is it, sir?"

"Where is it? What is that to you, you young puppy?" growled the
squire, shocked at the boy's presumption in daring to question him.

"If I am going to a place, I would like to know where it is," replied
Harry.

"You will go where you are sent!" roared the squire.

"I suppose I must; but I should like to know where."

"Well, then, you shall know," added the overseer maliciously; for he
had good reason to know that the intelligence would give the boy the
greatest pain he could possibly inflict. "You are going to Jacob
Wire's."

"Where, sir?" asked the keeper, looking at the squire with
astonishment and indignation.

"To Jacob Wire's," repeated the overseer.

"Jacob Wire's!" exclaimed Mr. Nason.

"I said so."

"Do you think that will be a good place for the boy?" asked the
keeper, trying to smile to cover the indignation that was boiling in
his bosom.

"Certainly I do."

"Excuse me, Squire Walker, but I don't."

The overseer stood aghast. Such a reply was little better than
rebellion in one of the town's servants, and his blood boiled at such
unheard-of plainness of speech to him, late representative to the
general court, member of the school committee, one of the selectmen,
and an overseer of the poor.

Besides, there was another reason why the temerity of the keeper was
peculiarly aggravated. Jacob Wire was the squire's brother-in-law; and
though the squire despised him quite as much and as heartily as the
rest of the people of Redfield, it was not fitting that any of his
connections should be assailed by another. It was not so much the
fact, as the source from which it came, that was objectionable.

"How dare you speak to me in that manner, Mr. Nason?" exclaimed the
squire. "Do you know who I am?"

Mr. Nason did know who he was, but at that moment, and under those
circumstances, he so far forgot himself as to inform the important
functionary that he didn't care who he was; Jacob Wire's was not a fit
place for a heathen, much less a Christian.

"What do you mean, sir?" gasped the overseer in his rage.

"I mean just what I say, Squire Walker. Jacob Wire is the meanest man
in the county. He half starves his wife and children; and no hired man
ever stayed there more than a week--he always starved them out in that
time."

"If you please, sir, I would rather not go to Mr. Wire's," put in
Harry, to whom the county jail seemed a more preferable place.

"There, shut up! I say you shall go there!" replied the squire.

"Really, squire, this is too bad. You know Wire as well as any man in
town, and--"

"Not another word, Mr. Nason! Have the boy ready to go to Jacob Wire's
to-morrow!" and the overseer, not very well satisfied with the
interview, hastened away to avoid further argument upon so delicate a
topic.

Harry stood watching the retreating form of the great man of Redfield.
The mandate he had spoken was the knell of hope to him. It made the
future black and desolate. As he gazed the tears flooded his eyes, and
his feelings completely overcame him.

"Don't cry, Harry," said the kind-hearted keeper, taking him by the
hand.

"I can't help it," sobbed Harry. "He will whip me, and starve me to
death. Don't let him put me there."

"I don't know as I can help it, Harry."

"I am willing to work, and work hard, too; but I don't want to be
starved to death."

"I will do what I can for you; but the other overseers do pretty much
as Squire Walker tells them to do."

"I can't go to Jacob Wire's," burst from Harry's lips, as he seated
himself on a rock, and gave way to the violence of his emotions.

"I will see the other overseers; don't cry, Harry. Hope for the best."

"No use of hoping against such a man as Jacob Wire. If he don't starve
me, he will work me to death. I would rather die than go there."

"Well, well; don't take on so. Perhaps something can be done."

"Something shall be done," added the boy, as he rose from his seat,
with an air of determination in keeping with the strong words he
uttered.

The keeper's presence was required in the barn, and he left Harry
musing and very unhappy about his future prospects. The thought of
becoming a member of Jacob Wire's family was not to be entertained.
The boy was a pauper, and had been brought up at the expense of the
town; but he seemed to feel that, though fortune and friends had
forsaken him, he was still a member of the great human family.

Jacob Wire, with whom it was proposed to apprentice him, had the
reputation of being a hard master. He loved money, and did not love
anything else. His heart was barren of affection, as his soul was of
good principles; and though he did not literally starve his family and
his help, he fed them upon the poorest and meanest fare that would
support human life. The paupers in the poorhouse lived sumptuously,
compared with those who gathered around the board of Jacob Wire.

The keeper knew this from experience, for years ago, before he had
been appointed to his present situation, he had worked for Wire; and
age and prosperity had not improved him. The more he got, the more he
wanted; the fuller his barn and storehouse, the more stingy he became
to those who were dependent upon him.

Harry West was a good boy, and a great favorite with the keeper of the
poorhouse. He was always good-natured, willing to work, and never
grumbled about his food. He was not only willing to take care of the
baby washing days, but seemed to derive pleasure from the occupation.
For all these reasons, Mr. Nason liked Harry, and had a deep interest
in his welfare; something more than a merely selfish interest, for he
had suggested to the overseers the propriety of binding him out to
learn some good trade.

Harry was sad and disheartened; but he had unlimited confidence in the
keeper, and felt sure that he would protect him from such a calamity
as being sent to Jacob Wire's. After he had carried the windfalls into
the shed, he asked Mr. Nason if he might go down to the river for a
little while. The permission given, he jumped over the cow yard wall,
and with his eyes fixed in deep thought upon the ground, made his way
over the hill to Pine Pleasant, as the beautiful grove by the river's
side was called.

The grove extended to the brink of the stream, which in this place
widened into a pond. Near the shore was a large flat rock, which was
connected with the mainland by a log, for the convenience of anglers
and bathers. This was a favorite spot with Harry; and upon the rock he
seated himself, to sigh over the hard lot which was in store for him.
It was not a good way to contend with the trials to which all are
subjected; but he had not yet learned that sorrow and adversity are as
necessary for man as joy and prosperity. Besides, it was a turning
point in his life, and it seemed to him that Jacob Wire's house would
be the tomb of all his hopes.




CHAPTER II

IN WHICH HARRY FINDS A FRIEND, AND A PRACTICABLE SCHEME FOR RESISTANCE


My young readers will probably desire to know something about Harry's
"antecedents"; and while the poor fellow is mourning over the hard
lot which Squire Walker has marked out for him, we will briefly review
his previous history.

Unlike the heroes of modern novels and romances, Harry did not belong
to an ancient, or even a very respectable family. We need not trace
his genealogy for any considerable period, and I am not sure that the
old records would throw much light on the subject if we should attempt
to do so. The accident of birth in our republican land is a matter of
very little consequence; therefore we shall only go back to Harry's
father, who was a carpenter by trade, but had a greater passion for
New England rum than for chisels and foreplanes.

The bane of New England was the bane of Franklin West; for he was a
kind-hearted man, a good husband and a good father, before he was
deformed by the use of liquor. He made good wages, and supported his
little family for several years; but the vile habit grew upon him to
such a degree that the people of Redfield lost all confidence in him.
As his business decreased, his besetting vice increased upon him, till
he was nothing but the wreck of the man he had once been. Poverty had
come, and want stared him in the face.

While everybody was wondering what would become of Franklin West, he
suddenly disappeared, and no one could form an idea of what had become
of him. People thought it was no great matter. He was only a nuisance
to himself and his family. Mrs. West was shocked by this sudden and
mysterious disappearance. He was her husband, and the father of her
children, and it was not strange that she wept, and even hoped that he
would come back. The neighbors comforted her, and put her in the way
of supporting herself and the children, so that she was very soon
reconciled to the event.

When West had been gone a month, his wife received a letter from him,
informing her that he had determined to stop drinking, and be a man
again. He could not keep sober in Redfield, among his old companions,
and he was at work in Providence till he could get money enough to
pay his expenses to Valparaiso, in South America, where a lucrative
place awaited him. He hoped his wife would manage to get along for a
few months, when he should be able to send her some money.

Mrs. West was easy again. Her husband was not dead, was not drowned in
the river, or lost in the woods; and her heart was cheered by the
prospects of future plenty, which the letter pointed out to her.

A year passed by, and nothing more was heard from Franklin West. The
poor, forsaken wife had a hard time to support her little family. The
most constant and severe toil enabled her to pinch her way along; but
it was a bitter trial. She had no relations to help her; and though
the neighbors were as kind as neighbors could be, life was a hard
struggle.

Then the baby sickened and died. This bereavement seemed to unnerve
and discourage her, and though there was one mouth less to feed, her
strength failed her, and she was unequal to the task. Care and sorrow
did their work upon her, and though people said she died of
consumption, Heaven knew she died of a broken heart and disappointed
hopes.

Harry was four years old when this sad event left him alone in the
world. There was none willing to assume the burden of bringing up the
lonely little pilgrim, and he was sent to the poorhouse. It was a hard
fate for the tender child to be removed from the endearments of a
mother's love, and placed in the cheerless asylum which public charity
provides for the poor and the friendless.

The child was only four years old; but he missed the fond kiss and the
loving caresses of his devoted mother. They were kind to him there,
but it was not home, and his heart could not but yearn for those
treasures of affection which glittered for him only in the heart of
his mother. There was an aching void, and though he could not
understand or appreciate his loss, it was none the less painful.

He was a favorite child, not only with the old paupers, but with the
keeper and his family; and this circumstance undoubtedly softened the
asperities of his lot. As soon as he was old enough, he was required
to work as much as the keeper thought his strength would bear. He was
very handy about the house and barn, more so than boys usually are;
and Mr. Nason declared that, for the three years before it was
proposed to send him away, he had more than earned his board and
clothes.

He had been at school four winters, and the schoolmasters were
unanimous in their praise. He was a smart scholar, but a little
disposed to be roguish.

The moral discipline of the poorhouse was not of the most salutary
character. Mr. Nason, though a generous and kind-hearted man, was not
as exemplary in his daily life as might have been desired. Besides,
one or two of the old paupers were rather corrupt in their manners and
morals, and were not fit companions for a young immortal, whose mind,
like plastic clay, was impressible to the forming power.

The poorhouse was not a good place for the boy, and the wonder is that
Harry, at twelve years of age, was not worse than we find him. He had
learned to love Mr. Nason, as he had learned to fear and to hate
Squire Walker. The latter seemed to have absolute power at the
poorhouse, and to be lord and master in Redfield. But when the
overseer proposed to place the boy in the family of a man whom even
the paupers looked down upon and despised, his soul rebelled even
against the mandate of the powerful magnate of the town.

Harry turned the matter over and over in his mind as he sat upon the
rock at Pine Pleasant. At first he tried to reconcile the idea of
living with Jacob Wire; but it was a fruitless effort. The poorhouse
seemed like a paradise to such a fate.

Then he considered the possibility and the practicability of resisting
the commands of Squire Walker. He could not obtain much satisfaction
from either view of the difficult problem, and as a happy resort under
the trials of the moment, he began to console himself with the
reflection that Mr. Nason might prevail with the overseers, and save
him from his doom.

He had not much hope from this direction, and while he was turning
again to the question of resistance, he heard footsteps in the grove.
He did not feel like seeing any person and wished he could get out of
sight; but there was no retreating without being observed, so he lay
down upon the rock to wait till the intruder had passed.

The person approaching did not purpose to let him off so easily; and
when Harry heard his step on the log he raised himself up.

"Hallo, Harry! What are you doing here? Taking a nap?"

It was Ben Smart, a boy of fourteen, who lived near the poorhouse.
Ben's reputation in Redfield was not A, No. 1; in fact, he had been
solemnly and publicly expelled from the district school only three
days before by Squire Walker, because the mistress could not manage
him. His father was the village blacksmith, and as he had nothing for
him to do--not particularly for the boy's benefit--he kept him at
school all the year round.

"O, is that you, Ben?" replied Harry, more for the sake of being civil
than because he wished to speak to the other.

"What are you doing here?" asked Ben, who evidently did not understand
how a boy could be there alone, unless he was occupied about
something.

"Nothing."

"Been in the water?"

"No."

"Fishing?"

"No."

Ben was nonplussed. He suspected that Harry had been engaged in some
mysterious occupation, which he desired to conceal from him.

"How long have you been here?" continued Ben, persistently.

"About half an hour."

Ben stopped to think. He could make nothing of it. It was worse than
the double rule of three, which he conscientiously believed had been
invented on purpose to bother school boys.

"You are up to some trick, I know. Tell me what you come down here
for."

"Didn't come for anything."

"What is the use of telling that. No feller would come clear down here
for nothing."

"I came down to think, then, if you must know," answered Harry, rather
testily.

"To think! Well, that is a good one! Ain't the poor-farm big enough to
do your thinking on?"

"I chose to come down here."

"Humph! You've got the blues, Harry. I should think old Walker had
been afoul of you, by your looks."

Harry looked up suddenly, and wondered if Ben knew what had happened.

"I should like to have the old rascal down here for half an hour. I
should like to souse him into the river, and hold his head under till
he begged my pardon," continued Ben.

"So should I," added Harry.

"Should you? You are a good feller, then! I mean to pay him off for
what he did for me the other day. I wouldn't minded being turned out
of school. I rather liked the idea; but the old muttonhead got me up
before all the school, and read me such a lecture! He thinks there
isn't anybody in the world but him."

"The lecture didn't hurt you," suggested Harry.

"No; it didn't. But that warn't the worst of it."

"What else?"

"My father give me a confounded licking when I got home. I haven't
done smarting yet. But I will pay 'em for it all."

"You mean Squire Walker."

"And the old man, too."

"If I only had a father, I wouldn't mind letting him lick me now and
then," replied Harry, to whom home seemed a paradise, though he had
never understood it; and a father and mother, though coarse and
brutal, his imagination pictured as angels.

"My father would learn you better than that in a few days," said Ben,
who did not appreciate his parents, especially when they held the rod.

Harry relapsed into musing again. He thought how happy he should have
been in Ben's place. A home, a father, a mother! We value most what we
have not; and if the pauper boy could have had the blessings which
crowned his reckless companion's lot, it seemed as though he would
have been contented and happy. His condescension in regard to the
flogging now and then was a sincere expression of feeling.

"What's old Walker been doing to you, Harry?" asked Ben, suspecting
the cause of the other's gloom.

"He is going to send me to Jacob Wire's to live."

"Whew! That is a good one! To die, you mean; Harry, I wouldn't stand
that."

"I don't mean to."

"That's right; I like your spunk. What do you mean to do?"

Harry was not prepared to answer this question. He possessed a certain
degree of prudence, and though it was easy to declare war against so
powerful an enemy as Squire Walker, it was not so easy to carry on the
war after it was declared. The overseer was a bigger man to him than
the ogre in "Puss in Boots." Probably his imagination largely
magnified the grandeur of the squire's position, and indefinitely
multiplied the resources at his command.

"What do you mean to do?" repeated Ben, who for some reason or other
took a deep interest in Harry's affairs.

"I don't know. I would rather die than go; but I don't know how I can
help myself," answered the poor boy, gloomily.

"I do."

Harry looked up with interest and surprise. Ben sympathized with him
in his trials, and his heart warmed towards him.

"What, Ben?"

"I daresn't tell you now," replied Ben after a short pause.

"Why not?"

"Can you keep a secret?"

"Of course I can. Did I ever blow on you?"

"No, you never did, Harry. You are a first rate feller, and I like
you. But you see, if you should blow on me now, you would spoil my
kettle of fish, and your own, too."

"But I won't, Ben."

"Promise me solemnly."

"Solemnly," repeated Harry.

"Well, then, I will get you out of the scrape as nice as a cotton
hat."

"How?"

"I guess I won't tell you now; but if you will come down here to-night
at eleven o'clock I will let you into the whole thing."

"Eleven o'clock! I can't come at that time. We all go to bed at eight
o'clock."

"Get up and come."

"I can do that; but perhaps Mr. Nason will persuade the overseers not
to send me to Jacob Wire's."

"I'm glad I didn't tell you, then. But promise me this, Harry: that,
whatever happens, you'll hold your tongue."

"I will, Ben."

"And if Nason don't get you off, be here at eleven o'clock. Put on
your best clothes, and take everything you want with you."

"Going to run away?"

"I didn't say so."

Ben made him promise again to be secret, and they separated. Harry had
an idea of what his companion intended, and the scheme solved all his
doubts. It was a practicable scheme of resistance, and he returned to
the poorhouse, no longer fearful of the impending calamity.




CHAPTER III

IN WHICH HARRY LEAVES THE POORHOUSE, AND TAKES TO THE RIVER


When Harry reached the poorhouse, Mr. Nason was absent, and one of the
paupers told him that he had taken the horse and wagon. He conjectured
that the keeper had gone to see the other overseers, to intercede with
them in his behalf. He did not feel as much interest in the mission as
he had felt two hours before, for Ben Stuart had provided a remedy for
his grievances, which he had fully decided to adopt.

It was nearly sunset before Mr. Nason returned; and when he came his
looks did not seem to indicate a favorable issue. Harry helped him
unharness the horse, and as he led him into the barn the keeper opened
the subject.

"I have been to see the other overseers, Harry," he began, in tones
which seemed to promise nothing hopeful.

"I thought likely you had gone."

"As I supposed, they are all afraid of Squire Walker. They daresn't
say their souls are their own."

"Then I must go to Jacob Wire's."

"The other overseers declare, if the squire says so, you must."

"It is a hard case, Mr. Nason," replied Harry, not much disappointed
at the result.

"I know it is, Harry. Perhaps you might try the place, and then, if
you found you couldn't stand it we might make another trial to get you
off."

"I don't want to go there, anyhow. I should like to help duck the
squire in the horse pond."

"Well, Harry, I have done all I can for you," continued Mr. Nason,
seating himself on a keg on the barn floor. "I wish I could help you."

"You have been very good to me, Mr. Nason. I shall always remember you
as the best friend I ever had," replied Harry, the tears streaming
down his sun-browned cheeks.

"Never mind that, Harry; don't cry."

"I can't help it; you have been so good to me, that I hate to leave
you," blubbered Harry.

"I am sorry you must leave us; we shall miss you about the place, and
I wish it was so that you could stay. But what makes it ten times
worse is the idea of your going to Jacob Wire's."

"Mr. Nason," said Harry, dashing down his tears, and looking earnestly
at the keeper, "I have made up my mind that I won't go to Wire's
anyhow."

"I don't blame you; but I don't see how you can fight the squire. He
carries too many guns for you, or for me, either, for that matter. I
have been thinking of something, Harry, though I suppose, if I should
speak it out loud, it would be as much as my place here is worth."

"I have been thinking of something, too," continued Harry, with a good
deal of emphasis.

"What?"

"I can't tell even you."

Mr. Nason, sympathizing deeply with his young friend, did not attempt
to obtain any knowledge whose possession might be inconvenient to him.
He was disposed to help the boy escape the fate in store for him; but
at the same time, having a family to support, he did not wish to lose
his situation, though, if the emergency had demanded it, he would
probably have been willing to make even this sacrifice.

"I was thinking, Harry, how astonished the squire would be, when he
comes over in the morning to take you to Jacob Wire's, if he should
not happen to find you here."

"I dare say he would," answered Harry, with a meaning smile.

"By the way, have you heard from Charles Smith lately? You know he
went to Boston last spring, and they say he has got a place, and is
doing first rate there."

The keeper smiled as he spoke, and Harry understood him as well as
though he had spoken out the real thought that was in his mind.

"I suppose others might do as he has done."

"No doubt of it."

Mr. Nason took from his pocket the large shot bag purse, in which he
kept his change, and picked out four quarters.

"Here, Harry, take these; when you get over to Wire's, money will keep
you from starving. It will almost anywhere, for that matter."

"How good you are!" exclaimed Harry, as he took the four quarters.
"You have been a father to me, and one of these days I shall be able
to pay you this money back again."

"Don't trouble yourself about that. Keep it; and I wish I had a
hundred times as much to give you."

"I shall never forget you, Mr. Nason. I shall be a man one of these
days, and we shall meet again."

The supper bell rang, and they separated. Harry felt the spirit of a
man stirring within him. He felt that the world had cast him off, and
refused him a home, even in the poorhouse. He was determined to push
his way through life like a hero, and he nerved himself to meet
whatever hardships and trials might be apportioned to him.

After supper he went to his room, gathered up the few articles of
clothing which constituted his wardrobe, and tying them up in a
bundle, concealed them in a hollow stump back of the barn.

At eight o'clock he went to bed as usual. He felt no desire to sleep,
and would not have dared to do so if he had. He heard the old kitchen
clock strike ten. The house was still, for all had long ago retired to
their rest, and he could hear the sonorous snores of the paupers in
the adjoining rooms. His heart beat quick with anxiety. It was a
novel position in which he found himself. He had been accustomed to do
everything fairly and "above board," and the thought of rising from
his bed and sneaking out of the house like a thief was repulsive to
him. But it was a good cause, in his estimation, and he did not waste
much sentiment upon the matter. A conspiracy had been formed to cheat
him of his hopes and of his future happiness, and it seemed right to
him that he should flee from those with whom he could not successfully
contend.

Carefully and stealthily he crept out of bed, and put on his best
clothes, which were nothing to boast of at that, for there was many a
darn and many a patch upon the jacket and trousers. Stockings and
shoes were luxuries in which Harry was not indulged in the warm
season; but he had a pair of each, which he took under his arm.

Like a mouse he crept down stairs, and reached the back door of the
house without having disturbed any of its inmates. There were no locks
on the poorhouse doors, for burglars and thieves never invaded the
home of the stricken, forsaken paupers.

The door opened with a sharp creak, and Harry was sure he was
detected. For several minutes he waited, but no sound was heard, and
more carefully he opened the door wide enough to permit his passage
out.

He was now in the open air, and a sensation of relief pervaded his
mind. He was free. No man was his master in this world, and he had not
learned to think much of the other world. As he passed through the cow
yard he heard the old gray mare whinny, and he could not resist the
temptation to pay her a parting visit. They had been firm friends for
years, and as he entered the barn she seemed to recognize him in the
darkness.

"Good-by, old Prue. I am going away to leave you," said Harry, in low
tones, as he patted the mare upon her neck. "I hope they will use you
well. Next to Mr. Nason, you have been my best friend. Good-by, old
Prue."

The mare whinnied again, as though she perfectly comprehended this
affectionate speech, and wished to express her sympathy with her young
friend in her own most eloquent language. Perhaps Harry could not
render the speech into the vernacular, but he had a high appreciation
of her good feeling, and repeated his caresses.

"Good-by, old Prue; but, before I go, I shall give you one more feed
of oats--the very last."

The localities of the barn were as familiar to him as those of his own
chamber; and taking the half peck measure, he filled it heaping full
of oats at the grain chest as readily as though it had been clear
daylight.

"Here, Prue, is the last feed I shall give you"; and he emptied the
contents of the measure into the trough. "Good-by, old Prue; I shall
never see you again."

The mare plunged her nose deep down into the savory mess, and seemed
for a moment to forget her friend in the selfish gratification of her
appetite. If she had fully realized the unpleasant fact that Harry was
going, perhaps she might have been less selfish, for this was not the
first time she had been indebted to him for extra rations.

Passing through the barn, the runaway was again in the open air.
Everything looked gloomy and sad to him, and the scene was as solemn
as a funeral. There were no sounds to be heard but the monotonous
chirp of the cricket, and the dismal piping of the frogs in the
meadow. Even the owl and the whip-poor-will had ceased their nocturnal
notes, and the stars looked more gloomy than he had ever seen them
before.

There was no time to moralize over these things, though, as he walked
along, he could not help thinking how strange and solemn everything
seemed on that eventful night. It was an epoch in his history; one of
those turning points in human life, when all the works of nature and
art, borrowing the spirit which pervades the soul, assume odd and
unfamiliar forms. Harry was not old enough or wise enough to
comprehend the importance of the step he was taking; still he was
deeply impressed by the strangeness within and without.

Taking his bundle from the hollow stump, he directed his steps toward
Pine Pleasant. He walked very slowly, for his feelings swelled within
him and retarded his steps. His imagination was busy with the past, or
wandering vaguely to the unexplored future, which with bright promises
tempted him to press on to the goal of prosperity. He yearned to be a
man; to leap in an instant over the years of discipline, that yawned
like a great gulf between his youth and his manhood. He wanted to be a
man, that his strong arm might strike great blows; that he might win
his way up to wealth and honor.

Why couldn't he be a great man like Squire Walker. Squire West
wouldn't sound bad.

"One has only to be rich in order to be great," thought he. "Why can't
I be rich, as well as anybody else? Who was that old fellow that saved
up his fourpences till he was worth a hundred thousand dollars? I can
do it as well as he, though I won't be as mean as they say he was,
anyhow. There are chances enough to get rich, and if I fail in one
thing, why--I can try again."

Thus Harry mused as he walked along, and fixed a definite purpose
before him to be accomplished in life. It is true it was not a very
lofty or a very noble purpose, merely to be rich; but he had been
obliged to do his own philosophizing. He had not yet discovered the
true philosopher's stone. He had concluded, like the alchemists of
old, that it was the art of turning anything into gold. The paupers,
in their poverty, had talked most and prayed most for that which they
had not. Wealth was to them the loftiest ideal of happiness, and Harry
had adopted their conclusions. It is not strange, therefore, that
Harry's first resolve was to be a rich man.

"Seek ye _first_ the kingdom of heaven, and all these things shall be
added unto you," was a text which he had often heard repeated; but he
did not comprehend its meaning, and he had reversed the proposition,
determined to look out for "all these things" first.

The village clock struck eleven, and the peal of the clear notes on
the silent air cut short his meditations, and admonished him to
quicken his pace, or Ben would reach the place of rendezvous before
him. He entered the still shades of Pine Pleasant, but saw nothing of
his confederate. Seating himself on the familiar rock in the river, he
returned to his meditations.

He had hardly laid down his first proposition in solving the problem
of his future success, before he was startled by the discovery of a
bright light in the direction of the village. It was plainly a
building on fire, and his first impulse was to rush to the meeting
house and give the alarm; but prudence forbade. His business was with
the great world and the future, not with Redfield and the present.

A few moments later the church bell pealed its startling notes, and he
heard the cry of fire in the village. The building, whatever it was,
had become a mass of fierce flames, which no human arm could stay.

While he was watching the exciting spectacle, he heard footsteps in
the grove, and Ben Smart, out of breath and nearly exhausted, leaped
upon the rock.

"So you are here, Harry," gasped he.

"I am, Ben," replied Harry. "Where is the fire?"

"We have no time to waste now," panted Ben, rousing himself anew. "We
must be off at once."

Ben descended to the lower side of the rock, and hauled a small
flat-bottomed boat out of the bushes that grew on the river's brink.

"Where is the fire, Ben?" persisted Harry.

"Never mind the fire now; jump into the boat, and let us be off."

Harry obeyed, and Ben pushed off from the rock.

"Where are you going?" asked Harry, not much pleased either with the
imperative tone or the haughty reserve of his companion.

"Down the river. Take the paddle and steer her; the current will take
her along fast enough. I am so tired I can't do a thing more."

Harry took the paddle and seated himself in the stern of the boat,
while Ben, puffing and blowing like a locomotive, placed himself at
the bow.

"Tell me now where the fire is," said Harry, whose curiosity would not
be longer resisted.

"_Squire Walker's barn._"




CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT THE NAVIGATION OF THE RIVER IS DIFFICULT AND
DANGEROUS


Harry was astounded at this information. Ben was exhausted, as though
he had been running very hard; besides, he was much agitated--more so
than the circumstances of the occasion seemed to justify. In
connection with the threat which his companion had uttered that day,
these appearances seemed to point to a solution of the burning
building. He readily understood that Ben, in revenge for the indignity
the squire had cast upon him, had set the barn on fire, and was now
running away by the light of it.

This was more than he had bargained for. However ill-natured he felt
towards the squire for his proposal to send him to Jacob Wire's, it
never occurred to him to retaliate by committing a crime. His ideas of
Christian charity and of forgiveness were but partially developed; and
though he could not feel right towards his powerful enemy, he felt no
desire to punish him so severely as Ben had done.

His companion gave him a short answer, and manifested no disposition
to enlarge upon the subject; and for several minutes both maintained a
profound silence.

The boat, drifting slowly with the current, was passing from the pond
into the narrow river, and it required all Harry's skill to keep her
from striking the banks on either side. His mind was engrossed with
the contemplation of the new and startling event which had so suddenly
presented itself to embarrass his future operations. Ben was a
criminal in the eye of the law, and would be subjected to a severe
penalty if detected.

"I shouldn't have thought you would have done that," Harry observed,
when the silence became painful to him.

"Done what?" asked Ben, sharply.

"Set the barn afire."

"Who said I set it afire?"

"Well, I can see through a millstone when there is a hole in it."

"I didn't say I set the barn afire."

"I know you didn't; but you said you meant to pay the squire off for
what he had done to you."

"I mean to."

"Haven't you done it already?"

"I didn't say I had," answered Ben, who was evidently debating with
himself whether he should admit Harry to his confidence.

"But didn't you set the barn afire?"

"What if I did?"

"Why, I should say you run a great risk."

"I don't care for that."

"I see the reason now, why you wouldn't tell me what you was going to
do before."

"We are in for it now, Harry. I meant to pay off the squire, and--"

"Then you did set the barn afire?"

"I didn't say so; and, more than that, I don't mean to say so. If you
can see through a millstone, why, just open your eyes--that's all."

"I am sorry you did it, Ben."

"No whining, Harry; be a man."

"I mean to be a man; but I don't think there was any need of burning
the barn."

"I do; I couldn't leave Redfield without squaring accounts with Squire
Walker."

"Where are you going, Ben?"

"To Boston, of course."

"How shall we get there?"

"We will go by the river, as far as we can; then take to the road."

"But this is George Leman's boat--isn't it?"

"Yes."

"You hooked it?"

"Of course I did; you don't suppose I should mind trifles at such a
time as this! But he can have it again, when I have done with it."

"What was the use of taking the boat?"

"In the first place, don't you think it is easier to sail in a boat
than to walk? And in the second place, the river runs through the
woods for five or six miles below Pine Pleasant; so that no one will
be likely to see us. We shall get off without being found out."

"But the river is not deep enough. It is full of rocks about three
miles down."

"We won't mind them. We can keep her clear of the rocks well enough.
When I was down the river last spring, you couldn't see a single rock
above water, and we don't draw more than six inches."

"But that was in the spring, when the water was high. I don't believe
we can get the boat through."

"Yes, we can; at any rate, we can jump ashore and tow her down,"
replied Ben, confidently, though his calculations were somewhat
disturbed by Harry's reasoning.

"There is another difficulty, Ben," suggested Harry.

"O, there are a hundred difficulties; but we mustn't mind them."

"They will miss the boat, and suspect at once who has got it."

"We shall be out of their reach when they miss it."

"I heard George Leman say he was going a fishing in her to-morrow."

"Did you? Then why didn't you say so before?" retorted Ben, angrily.

"Because you didn't tell me what you were going to do. How could I?"

"Never mind; it is no use to cry for spilt milk. We will make the best
of it."

"We are in for it now."

"That we are; and if you only stick by me, it will all come out right.
If we get caught, you must keep a stiff upper lip."

"Never fear me."

"And, above all, don't blow on me."

"Of course I won't."

"Whatever happens, promise that you will stick by me."

"I will, Ben."

"That's a good fellow, Harry. On that, we will take a bit of luncheon,
and have a good time of it."

As he spoke, Ben drew out from under the seat in the bow a box filled
with bread and cheese.

"You see we are provisioned for a cruise, Harry," added Ben, as he
offered the contents of the box to his companion. "Here is enough to
last us two or three days."

"But you don't mean to keep on the river so long as that?"

"I mean to stick to the boat as long as the navigation will permit,"
replied Ben, with more energy than he had before manifested, for he
was recovering from the perturbation with which the crime he had
committed filled his mind.

"There is a factory village, with a dam across the river, six or seven
miles below here."

"I know it; but perhaps we can get the boat round the dam in the night
time, and continue our voyage below. Don't you remember that piece in
the Reader about John Ledyard--how he went down the Connecticut River
in a canoe?"

"Yes; and you got your idea from that?"

"I did; and I mean to have a first rate time of it."

Ben proceeded to describe the anticipated pleasures of the river
voyage, as he munched his bread and cheese; and Harry listened with a
great deal of satisfaction. Running away was not such a terrible
thing, after all. It was both business and pleasure, and his
imagination was much inflated by the brilliant prospect before him.
There was something so novel and exciting in the affair, that his
first experience was of the most delightful character.

He forgot the crime his companion had committed, and had almost come
to regard the burning of the squire's barn as a just and proper
retribution upon him for conspiring against the rights and privileges
of young America.

My young readers may not know how easy it is even for a good boy to
learn to love the companionship of those who are vicious, and disposed
to take the road which leads down to moral ruin and death. Those lines
of Pope, which are familiar to almost every school boy, convey a great
truth, and a thrilling warning to those who first find themselves
taking pleasure in the society of wicked men, or wicked boys:

    "Vice is a monster of so frightful mien
     As to be hated, needs but to be seen;
     But seen too oft, familiar with her face,
     We first endure, then pity, then embrace."

Now, I have not represented my hero, at this stage of the story, as a
very good boy, and it did not require much time to familiarize him
with the wickedness which was in Ben's heart, and which he did not
take any pains to conceal. The transition from enduring to pitying and
from that to embracing was sudden and easy, if, indeed, there was any
middle passage between the first and last stage.

I am sorry to say that an hour's fellowship with Ben, under the
exciting circumstances in which we find them, had led him to think Ben
a very good fellow, notwithstanding the crime he had committed. I
shall do my young reader the justice to believe he hopes Harry will be
a better boy, and obtain higher and nobler views of duty. It must be
remembered that Harry had never learned to "love God and man" on the
knee of an affectionate mother. He had long ago forgotten the little
prayers she had taught him, and none were said at the poorhouse. We
are sorry he was no better; but when we consider under what influences
he had been brought up, it is not strange that he was not a good boy.
Above every earthly good, we may be thankful for the blessing of a
good home, where we have been taught our duty to God, to our
fellow-beings, and to ourselves.

The young navigators talked lightly of the present and the future, as
the boat floated gently along through the gloomy forest. They heard
the Redfield clock strike twelve, and then one. The excitement had
begun to die out. Harry yawned, for he missed his accustomed sleep,
and felt that a few hours' rest in his bed at the poorhouse was even
preferable to navigating the river at midnight. Ben gaped several
times, and the fun was really getting very stale.

Those "who go down to the sea in ships," or navigate the river in
boats, must keep their eyes open. It will never do to slumber at the
helm; and Harry soon had a practical demonstration of the truth of the
proposition. He was so sleepy that he could not possibly keep his eyes
open; and Ben, not having the care of the helm, had actually dropped
off, and was bowing as politely as a French dancing master to his
companion in the stern. They were a couple of smart sailors, and
needed a little wholesome discipline to teach them the duty of those
who are on the watch.

The needed lesson was soon administered; for just as Ben was making
one of his lowest bows in his semi-conscious condition, the bow of the
boat ran upon a concealed rock, which caused her to keel over to one
side, and very gently pitch the sleeper into the river.

Of course, this catastrophe brought the commander of the expedition to
his senses, and roused the helmsman to a sense of his own delinquency,
though it is clear that, as there were no lighthouses on the banks of
the river, and the intricacies of the channel had never been defined
and charted for the benefit of the adventurous navigator, no human
forethought could have provided against the accident.

Harry put the boat about, and assisted his dripping shipmate on board
again. The ducking he had received did not operate very favorably upon
Ben's temper, and he roundly reproached his companion for his
carelessness. The steersman replied with becoming spirit to this
groundless charge, telling him he had better keep his eyes open the
rest of the night. Wet and chilly as he was, Ben couldn't help
growling; and both evidently realized that the affair was not half as
romantic as they had adjudged it to be an hour or two before.

"Never mind it, Ben. If we fail once let us try again--that's all."

"Try again? You want to drown me, don't you?" snarled Ben.

Harry assured him he did not, and called his attention to the sound of
dashing waters, which could now be plainly heard. They were
approaching the rocks, and it was certain from the noise that
difficult navigation was before them. Harry proposed to haul up by the
river's side, and wait for daylight; to which proposition Ben, whose
ardor was effectually cooled by the bath he had received, readily
assented.

Accordingly they made fast the painter to a tree on the shore, and
both of them disembarked. While Harry was gathering up a pile of dead
leaves for a bed, Ben amused himself by wringing out his wet clothes.

"Suppose we make a fire, Harry?" suggested Ben; and it would certainly
have been a great luxury to one in his damp condition.

"No; it will betray us," replied Harry, with alarm.

"Humph! It is easy enough for you to talk, who are warm and dry,"
growled Ben. "I am going to have a fire, anyhow."

In vain Harry protested. Ben had some matches in the boat, and in a
few minutes a cheerful fire blazed in the forest. As the leader of the
enterprise felt its glowing warmth his temper was sensibly impressed,
and he even had the hardihood to laugh at his late misfortune. But
Harry did not care just then whether his companion was pleasant or
sour, for he had stretched himself on his bed of leaves, and was in a
fair way to forget the trials and hardships of the voyage in the deep
sleep which makes it "all night" with a tired boy.

After Ben was thoroughly dried and warmed, he placed himself by the
side of his fellow-voyager, and both journeyed together through the
quiet shades of dreamland, leaving no wakeful eye to watch over the
interests of the expedition while they slumbered.




CHAPTER V

IN WHICH HARRY FIGHTS A HARD BATTLE, AND IS DEFEATED


The sun was high in the heavens when the tired boatmen awoke.
Unaccustomed as they were to fatigue and late hours, they had been
completely overcome by the exertion and exposure of the previous
night. Harry was the first to recover his lost senses; and when he
opened his eyes, everything looked odd and strange to him. It was not
the rough, but neat and comfortable little room in the poorhouse which
greeted his dawning consciousness; it was the old forest and the
dashing river. He did not feel quite at home; the affair had been
divested of its air of romance, and he felt more like a runaway boy
than the hero of a fairy tale.

"Hallo, Ben!" shouted he, to his sleeping companion.

Ben growled once, and then rolled over, as if angry at being
disturbed.

"Ben! We shall be caught if you don't wake up. There, the clock is
striking eight!" and to give Ben a better idea of where he was, he
administered a smart kick in the region of the ribs.

"What are you about?" snarled Ben, springing to his feet with clinched
fists.

"Time we were moving. Don't you see how high the sun is? The clock has
just struck eight."

"No matter for that. We are just as safe here as anywhere else. You
kick me again, and see where you will be!"

"Come, come, Ben; don't get mad."

"Don't kick me, then."

"What are you going to do now?"

"That's my business. You do what I tell you, that's all you have to do
with it," replied Ben, imperiously, as he walked to the bank of the
river to survey the difficulties of the navigation.

"_Is_ it?" asked Harry, not particularly pleased with this
interpretation of their relations.

"You better believe it is."

"I don't believe anything of the kind. I ain't your <DW65>, anyhow!"
added Harry, with spirit.

"I'll bet you are."

"I'll bet I ain't."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I'll let you know what I am going to do."

"If you don't mind what I tell you, I'll wallop you on the spot."

"No, you won't"; and Harry turned on his heel, and leisurely walked
off towards the thickest of the forest.

"Where are you going?"

"Off."

"Off where?"

"Do you think I'm going to stay with you, to be treated like a dog!"
replied Harry, as he continued his retreat.

Ben started after him, but Harry picked up a stick of wood and stood
on the defensive.

"Now, if you don't come back, I'll break your head!" said Ben.

"Look out that your own don't get broke"; and Harry brandished his
cudgel in the air.

Ben glanced at the club, and saw from the flash of Harry's bright eye
that he was thoroughly aroused. His companion was not to be trifled
with, and he was ready to abandon the point.

"Come, Harry, it's no use for us to quarrel," he added, with a forced
smile.

"I know that; but I won't be trod upon by you or anybody else."

"I don't want to tread on you."

"Yes, you do; you needn't think you are going to lord it over me in
that way. I will go back to the poorhouse first."

"Let's be friends again, Harry. Throw down your club."

"Yes, and let you lick me, then! No, you don't!"

"I won't touch you, Harry; upon my word and honor, I won't."

"Humph! Your word and honor ain't worth much. I'll go back, if you'll
behave yourself; but I shall keep the club handy."

"Anyway you like; but let us be off."

Ben changed his tone, and condescended to tell Harry what he meant to
do, even at the sacrifice of his dignity as commander of the
expedition. An appearance at least of good feeling was restored, and
after breakfasting on their bread and cheese, they embarked again, on
what promised to be a perilous voyage.

For a quarter of a mile below, the bed of the narrow river was spotted
with rocks, among which the water dashed with a fury that threatened
the destruction of their frail bark. For a time they seriously debated
the question of abandoning the project, Harry proposing to penetrate
the woods in a northeasterly direction. Ben, however, could not
abandon the prospect of sailing leisurely down the river when they had
passed the rapids, making the passage without any exertion. He was not
pleased with the idea of trudging along on foot for thirty miles, when
the river would bear them to the city with only a little difficulty
occasionally at the rapids and shoal places. Perhaps his plan would
have been practicable at the highest stage of water, but the river was
now below its ordinary level.

Ben's love of an easy and romantic time carried the day, and Harry's
practical common-sense reasoning was of no avail, and a taunt at his
cowardice induced him to yield the point.

"Now, Harry, you take one of the paddles, and place yourself in the
bow, while I steer," said Ben, as he assumed his position.

"Very well; you shall be captain of the boat, and I will do just as
you say; but I won't be bullied on shore," replied Harry, taking the
station assigned him.

"All right; now cast off the painter, and let her slide. Keep both
eyes open."

"Never fear me; I will do my share."

The boat floated out into the current, and was borne rapidly down the
swift-flowing stream. They were not very skillful boatmen, and it was
more a matter of tact than of strength to keep the boat from dashing
on the sharp rocks. For a little way they did very well, though the
passage was sufficiently exciting to call their powers into action,
and to suggest a doubt as to the ultimate result of the venture.

They soon reached a place, however, where the river turned a sharp
angle, and the waters were furiously precipitated down upon a bed of
rocks, which threatened them with instant destruction.

"We shall be smashed to pieces!" exclaimed the foolhardy pilot, as his
eye measured the descent of the waters. "Let's try to get ashore."

"Too late now," replied Harry, coolly. "Put her through, hit or miss."

But Ben's courage all oozed out, in the face of this imminent peril,
and he made a vain attempt to push the boat toward the shore.

"Paddle your end round, Harry," gasped Ben, in the extremity of fear.
"We shall be smashed to pieces."

"Too late, Ben; stand stiff, and make the best of it," answered Harry,
as he braced himself to meet the shock.

The rushing waters bore the boat down the stream in spite of the
feeble efforts of the pilot to check her progress. Ben seemed to have
lost all his self-possession, and stooped down, holding on with both
hands at the gunwale.

Down she went into the boiling caldron of waters, roaring and foaming
like a little Niagara. One hard bump on the sharp rocks, and Harry
heard the boards snap under him. He waited for no more, but grasping
the over-hanging branches of a willow, which grew on the bank, and
upon which he had before fixed his eyes as the means of rescuing
himself, he sprang up into the tree, and saw Ben tumbled from the boat
into the seething caldron.

"Save me, Harry!" shouted Ben.

But Harry had to save himself first, which, however, was not a
difficult matter. Swinging himself from branch to branch till he
reached the trunk of the willow, he descended to the ground, without
having even wet the soles of his shoes.

"Save me! save me!" cried Ben, in piteous accents, as the current bore
him down the stream.

"Hold on to the boat," replied Harry, "and I will be there in a
minute."

Seizing a long pole which had some time formed a part of a fence
there, he hastened down the bank to the water's edge. The water was
not very deep, but it ran so rapidly that Ben could neither swim nor
stand upon the bottom; and but for his companion's promptness he would
undoubtedly have been drowned. Grasping the long pole which Harry
extended to him, he was drawn to the shore, having received no other
injury than a terrible fright and a good ducking.

"Here we are," said Harry, when his companion was safely landed.

"Yes, here we are," growled Ben; "and it is all your fault that we are
here."

"It is my fault that _you_ are here; for if I had not pulled you out
of the river, you would have been drowned," replied Harry,
indignantly; and perhaps he felt a little sorry just then that he had
rescued his ungrateful commander.

"Yes, and if you had only done as I told you, and pushed for the shore
above the fall, all this would not have happened."

"And if you hadn't been a fool, we should not have tried to go through
such a hole. There goes your old boat"; and Harry pointed to the
wreck, filled with water, floating down the stream.

"Here they are!" shouted a voice, not far from them.

Harry started, and so did Ben.

"We are caught!" exclaimed Ben.

"Not yet," replied Harry, with some trepidation, as he broke off a
piece of the pole that lay at his feet, and retreated from the river.
"Take a club, for I am not going to be carried back without fighting
for it."

A survey of the ground and of the pursuers enabled him to prepare for
the future. He discovered at a glance the weakness of the assailants.

"Take a club, Ben. Don't you see there is only one man on this side of
the river? and we can easily beat him off."

Ben took the club; but he seemed not to have the energy to use it. In
fact, Harry showed himself better qualified to manage the present
interests of the expedition than his companion. All at once he
developed the attributes of a skillful commander, while his
confederate seemed to have lost all his cunning and all his
determination.

"Now, let us run; and if we are caught we will fight for it," said
Harry.

The boys took to their heels, and having a fair start of their
pursuer, they kept clear of him for a considerable distance; but Ben's
wet clothes impeded his progress, and Harry had too much magnanimity
to save himself at the sacrifice of his companion.

It was evident, after the chase had continued a short time, that
their pursuer was gaining upon them. In vain Harry urged Ben to
increase his speed; his progress was very slow, and it was soon
apparent to Harry that they were wasting their breath in running when
they would need it for the fight.

"Now, Ben, we can easily whip this man, and save ourselves. Be a man,
and let us stand by each other to the last."

Ben made no reply; but when Harry stopped, he did the same.

"Keep off! or we will knock your brains out," cried Harry, placing
himself in the attitude of defense.

But the man took no notice of this piece of bravado; and as he
approached Harry leveled a blow at his head. The man warded it off,
and sprang forward to grasp the little rebel.

"Hit him, Ben!" shouted Harry, as he dodged the swoop of his
assailant.

To his intense indignation and disgust, Ben, instead of seconding his
assault, dropped his club and fled. He seemed to run a good deal
faster than he had run before that day; but Harry did not give up the
point. The man pressed him closely, and he defended himself with a
skill and vigor worthy a better cause. But it was of no use; or, if it
was, it only gave Ben more time to effect his escape.

The unequal contest, however, soon terminated in the capture of our
resolute hero, and the man tied his hands behind his back; but he did
not dare to leave the young lion to go in pursuit of his less
unfortunate, but more guilty, confederate.

"There, Master Harry West, I think you have got into a tight place
now," said his captor, whose name was Nathan Leman, brother of the
person to whom the boat belonged. "We will soon put you in a place
where you won't burn any more barns."

Harry was confounded at this charge, and promptly and indignantly
denied it. He had not considered the possibility of being accused of
such a crime, and it seemed to put a new aspect upon his case.

"You did not set fire to Squire Walker's barn last night?" replied
Leman, incredulously.

"No, I did not."

"Perhaps you can make the squire believe it," sneered his captor.

"I didn't do it."

"Didn't steal my brother's boat, either, did you?"

"_I_ didn't."

"Who did?"

Harry thought a moment. After the mean trick which Ben Smart had
served him, he did not feel very kindly towards him, but he was not
yet prepared to betray him.

"I didn't," was his reply.

Nathan Leman then conducted his prisoner to the river's side. By this
time the other pursuer, who had been obliged to ascend the river for a
quarter of a mile before he could cross, joined him.

"Where is the other fellow?" he asked.

"Couldn't catch him. This one fought like a young tiger, and I
couldn't leave him," replied Nathan. "If you will take Harry up to the
village I will soon have him."

The other assented, and while Nathan went in search of Ben, Harry was
conducted back to the village.

The prisoner was sad and depressed in spirits; but he did not lose all
hope. He was appalled at the idea of being accused of burning the
barn; but he was innocent, and had a vague assurance that no harm
could befall him on that account.

When they entered the village, a crowd gathered around them, eager to
learn the particulars of the capture; but without pausing to gratify
this curiosity, Harry's conductor led him to the poorhouse, and placed
him in charge of Mr. Nason.




CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH HARRY CONCLUDES THAT A DEFEAT IS SOMETIMES BETTER THAN A
VICTORY


The keeper of the poorhouse received Harry in sullen silence, and
conducted him to the chamber in which he had been ordered to keep him
a close prisoner. He apparently had lost all confidence in him, and
regretted that he had connived at his escape.

Harry did not like the cold and repulsive deportment of his late
friend. Mr. Nason had always been kind to him; now he seemed to have
fallen in with Squire Walker's plans, and was willing to be the
instrument of the overseer's narrow and cruel policy. Before, he had
taken his part against the mighty, so far as it was prudent for him to
do so; now, he was willing to go over to the enemy.

The reverse made him sadder than any other circumstance of his
return--sadder than the fear of punishment, or even of being sent to
live with Jacob Wire.

"I've got back again," said Harry, when they reached the chamber in
which he was to be confined.

"I see you have," replied Mr. Nason, in freezing tones.

The keeper had never spoken to him in such tones, and Harry burst into
tears. His only friend had deserted him, and he felt more desolate
than ever before in his life.

"You needn't cry, now," said Mr. Nason, sternly.

"I can't help it," sobbed the little prisoner.

"Can't you?"

Mr. Nason sneered as he spoke, and his sneer pierced the heart of
Harry.

"O, Mr. Nason!"

"There--that will do. You needn't blubber any more. You have made your
bed, and now you can lie in it;" and the keeper turned on his heel to
leave the room.

"Don't leave me yet," pleaded Harry.

"Leave you? What do you want of me? I suppose you want to tell me I
advised you to burn the barn."

"I didn't set the barn afire!" exclaimed Harry, now for the first time
realizing the cause of his friend's displeasure.

"Don't lie."

"I speak the truth. I did not set it afire, or even know that it was
going to be set on fire."

Mr. Nason closed the door which he had opened to depart. The firm
denial, as well as the tone and manner of the boy, arrested his
judgment against him. He had learned to place implicit confidence in
Harry's word; for, though he might have told lies to others, he never
told them to him.

"Who did burn the barn?" asked the keeper, looking sternly into the
eye of the culprit.

Harry hesitated. A sense of honor and magnanimity pervaded his soul.
He had obtained some false notions; and he did not understand that he
could hardly be false to one who had been false to himself--that to
help a criminal conceal his crime was to conspire against the peace
and happiness of his fellow-beings. Shabbily as Ben Smart had used
him, he could not make up his mind to betray him.

"You don't answer," added Mr. Nason.

"I didn't do it."

"But who did?"

"I don't like to tell."

"Very well; you can do as you like. After what I had done for you, it
was a little strange that you should do as you have."

"I will tell you all about it, Mr. Nason, if you will promise not to
tell."

"I know all about it. You and Ben Smart put your heads together to be
revenged on the squire; you set his barn afire, and then stole Leman's
boat."

"No, sir; I didn't set the barn afire, nor steal the boat, nor help to
do either."

"You and he were together."

"We were; and if it wasn't for being mean to Ben, I would tell you all
about it."

"Mean to Ben! As soon as it was known that you and Ben were missing,
everybody in the village knew who set the barn afire. All you have got
to do is to clear yourself, if you can; Ben is condemned already."

"If you will hear my story I will tell you all about it."

Harry proceeded to narrate everything that had occurred since he left
the house on the preceding night. It was a very clear and plausible
statement. He answered all the questions which Mr. Nason proposed with
promptness, and his replies were consistent.

"I believe you, Harry," said the keeper, when he had finished his
examination. "Somehow I couldn't believe you would do such a thing as
set the squire's barn afire."

"I wouldn't," replied Harry, warmly, and much pleased to find he had
re-established the confidence of his friend.

"But it is a bad case. The fact of your being with Ben Smart is almost
enough to convict you."

"I shouldn't have been with him, if I had known he set the barn
afire."

"I don't know as I can do anything for you, Harry; but I will try."

"Thank you."

Mr. Nason left him, and Harry had an opportunity to consider the
desperate circumstances of his position. It looked just as though he
should be sent to the house of correction. But he was innocent. He
felt his innocence; as he expressed it to the keeper afterwards, he
"felt it in his bones." It did not, on further consideration, seem
probable that he would be punished for doing what he had not done,
either as principal or accessory. A vague idea of an all-pervading
justice consoled him; and he soon reasoned himself into a firm
assurance that he should escape unharmed.

He was in the mood for reasoning just then--perhaps because he had
nothing better to do, or perhaps because the added experience of the
last twenty-four hours enabled him to reason better than before. His
fine scheme of getting to Boston, and there making a rich and great
man of himself, had signally failed. He did not give it up, however.

"I have failed once, but I will try again," said he to himself, as the
conclusion of the whole matter; and he picked up an old school book
which lay on the table.

The book contained a story, which he had often read, about a man who
had met with a long list of misfortunes, as he deemed them when they
occurred, but which proved to be blessings in disguise.

    "Oft from apparent ills our blessings rise,
     Act well your part; there all the honor lies."

This couplet from the school books came to his aid, also; and he
proceeded to make an application of this wisdom to his own mishaps.

"Suppose I had gone on with Ben. He is a miserable fellow," thought
Harry; "he would have led me into all manner of wickedness. I ought
not to have gone with him, or had anything to do with him. He might
have made a thief and a robber of me. I know I ain't any better than I
should be; but I don't believe I'm as bad as he is. At any rate, I
wouldn't set a barn afire. It is all for the best, just as the parson
says when anybody dies. By this scrape I have got clear of Ben, and
learned a lesson that I won't forget in a hurry."

Harry was satisfied with this logic, and really believed that
something which an older and more devout person would have regarded as
a special providence had interposed to save him from a life of infamy
and wickedness. It was a blessed experience, and his thoughts were
very serious and earnest.

In the afternoon Squire Walker came down to the poorhouse to subject
Harry to a preliminary examination. Ben Smart had not been taken, and
the pursuers had abandoned the chase.

"Boy," said the squire, when Harry was brought before him; "look at
me."

Harry looked at the overseer with all his might. He had got far enough
to despise the haughty little great man. A taste of freedom had
enlarged his ideas and developed his native independence, so that he
did not quail, as the squire intended he should; on the contrary, his
eyes snapped with the earnestness of his gaze. With an honest and just
man, his unflinching eye would have been good evidence in his favor;
but the pompous overseer wished to awe him, rather than get at the
simple truth.

"You set my barn on fire," continued the squire.

"I did not," replied Harry, firmly.

"Yes, you did. How dare you deny it?"

"I did not."

He had often read, and heard read, that passage of Scripture which
says, "Let your communication be Yea, yea, Nay, nay; for whatsoever is
more than these cometh of evil." Just then he felt the truth of the
inspired axiom. It seemed just as though any amount of violent
protestations would not help him; and though the squire repeated the
charge half a dozen times, he only replied with his firm and simple
denial.

Then Squire Walker called his hired man, upon whose evidence he
depended for the conviction of the little incendiary.

"Is that the boy, John?" asked the squire, pointing to Harry.

"No, sir; it was a bigger boy than that," replied John, without
hesitation.

"Are you sure?"

"O, very sure."

"It must be that this is the boy," persisted the squire, evidently
much disappointed by the testimony of the man.

"I am certain it was a bigger boy than this."

"I feel pretty clear about it, Mr. Nason," added the squire. "You
see, this boy was mad, yesterday, because I wanted to send him to
Jacob Wire's. My barn is burned, and it stands to reason he burned
it."

"But I saw the boy round the barn night afore last," interposed John,
who was certainly better qualified to be a justice of the peace than
his employer.

"I know that; but the barn wasn't burned till last night."

"But Harry couldn't have had any grudge against you night before
last," said Mr. Nason.

"I don't know about that," mused the squire, who was apparently trying
to reconcile the facts to his theory, rather than the theory to the
facts.

John, the hired man, lived about three miles from the squire's house.
His father was very sick; and he had been home every evening for a
week, returning between ten and eleven. On the night preceding the
fire, he had seen a boy prowling round the barn, who ran away at his
approach. The next day, he found a pile of withered grass, dry sticks,
and other combustibles heaped against a loose board in the side of the
barn. He had informed the squire of the facts, but the worthy justice
did not consider them of much moment.

Probably Ben had intended to burn the barn then, but had been
prevented from executing his purpose by the approach of the hired man.

"This must be the boy," added the squire.

"He had on a sack coat, and was bigger than this boy," replied John.

"Harry has no sack coat," put in Mr. Nason, eagerly catching at his
evidence.

"It is easy to be mistaken in the night. Search him, and see if there
are any matches about him."

Undoubtedly this was a very brilliant suggestion of the squire's muddy
intellect--as though every man who carried matches was necessarily an
incendiary. But no matches were found upon Harry; and, according to
the intelligent justice's perception of the nature of evidence, the
suspected party should have been acquitted.

No matches were found on Harry; but in his jacket pocket, carefully
enclosed in a piece of brown paper, were found the four quarters of a
dollar given to him by Mr. Nason.

"Where did you get those?" asked the squire, sternly.

"They were given to me," replied Harry.

Mr. Nason averted his eyes, and was very uneasy. The fact of having
given this money to Harry went to show that he had been privy to his
escape; and his kind act seemed to threaten him with ruin.

"Who gave them to you?"

Harry made no reply.

"Answer me," thundered the squire.

"I shall not tell," replied Harry.

"You shall not?"

"No, sir."

The squire was nonplussed. The boy was as firm as a hero; and no
threats could induce him to betray his kind friend, whose position he
fully comprehended.

"We will see," roared the squire.

Several persons who had been present during the examination, and who
were satisfied that Harry was innocent of the crime charged upon him,
interfered to save him from the consequences of the squire's wrath.

Mr. Nason, finding that his young friend was likely to suffer for his
magnanimity, explained the matter--thus turning the squire's anger
from the boy to himself.

"So you helped the boy run away--did you?" said the overseer.

"He did not; he told me that money would keep me from starving."

"Did he?"

Those present understood the allusion, and the squire did not press
the matter any further. In the course of the examination, Ben Smart
had often been alluded to, and the crime was fastened upon him. Harry
told his story, which, confirmed by the evidence of the hired man,
was fully credited by all except the squire, who had conceived a
violent antipathy to the boy.

The examination was informal; the squire did not hold it as a justice
of the peace, but only as a citizen, or, at most, as an overseer of
the poor. However, it proved that, as the burning of the barn had been
planned before any difficulty had occurred between the squire and
Harry, he had no motive for doing the deed.

The squire was not satisfied; but the worst he could do was to commit
Harry to the care of Jacob Wire, which was immediately done.

"I am sorry for you, Harry," whispered Mr. Nason.

"Never mind; I shall _try again_," he replied, as he jumped into the
wagon with his persecutor.




CHAPTER VII

IN WHICH HARRY FINDS HIMSELF IN A TIGHT PLACE AND EXECUTES A COUNTER
MOVEMENT


"Jacob, here is the boy," said Squire Walker, as he stopped his horse
in front of an old, decayed house.

Jacob Wire was at work in his garden, by the side of the house; and
when the squire spoke, he straightened his back, regarding Harry with
a look of mingled curiosity and distrust. He evidently did not like
his appearance. He looked as though he would eat too much; and to a
man as mean as Jacob, this was the sum total of all enormities.
Besides, the little pauper had earned a bad reputation within the
preceding twenty-four hours, and his new master glanced uneasily at
his barn, and then at the boy, as though he deemed it unsafe to have
such a desperate character about his premises.

"He is a hard boy, Jacob, and will need a little taming. They fed him
too high at the poorhouse," continued the squire.

"That spoils boys," replied Jacob, solemnly.

"So it does."

"So, this is the boy that burnt your barn?"

"Well, I don't know. I rather think it was the Smart boy. Perhaps he
knew about it, though;" and the squire proceeded to give his
brother-in-law the particulars of the informal examination; for Jacob
Wire, who could hardly afford to lie still on Sundays, much less other
days, had not been up to the village to hear the news.

"You must be pretty sharp with him," said the overseer, in conclusion.
"Keep your eye on him all the time, for we may want him again, as soon
as they can catch the other boy."

Jacob promised to do the best he could with Harry, who, during the
interview, had maintained a sullen silence; and the squire departed,
assured that he had done his whole duty to the public and to the
little pauper.

"Well, boy, it is about sundown now, and I guess we will go in and get
some supper before we do any more. But let me tell you beforehand, you
must walk pretty straight here, or you will fare hard."

Harry vouchsafed no reply to this speech, and followed Jacob into the
house. His first meal at his new place confirmed all he had heard
about the penuriousness of his master. There was very little to eat on
the table, but Mrs. Wire gave him the poorest there was--a hard crust
of brown bread, a cold potato, and a dish of warm water with a very
little molasses and milk in it, which he was expected to imagine was
tea.

Harry felt no disposition to eat. He was too sad and depressed, and
probably if the very best had been set before him he would have been
equally indifferent.

He ate very little, and Jacob felt more kindly towards him than before
this proof of the smallness of his appetite. He had been compelled to
get rid of his last boy, because he was a little ogre, and it seemed
as though he would eat him out of house and home.

After supper Harry assisted Jacob about the barn, and it was nearly
eight o'clock before they finished.

"Now, boy, it is about bed time, and I will show you your rooms, if
you like," said Jacob. "Before you go, let me tell you it won't do any
good to try to run away from here, for I am going to borrow Leman's
bull-dog."

Harry made no reply to this remark, and followed his master to the low
attic of the house, where he was pointed to a rickety bedstead, which
he was to occupy.

"There, jump into bed afore I carry the candle off," continued Jacob.

"I don't care about any light. You needn't wait," replied Harry, as he
slipped off his shoes and stockings.

"That is right; boys always ought to be learnt to go to bed in the
dark," added Jacob, as he departed.

But Harry was determined not to go to bed in the dark; so, as soon as
he heard Jacob's step on the floor below, he crept to the stairway,
and silently descended. He had made up his mind not to wait for the
bull-dog. Pausing in the entry, he heard Jacob tell his wife that he
was going over to Leman's to borrow his dog; he was afraid the boy
would get up in the night and set his barn on fire, or run away. Jacob
then left the house, satisfied, no doubt, that the bull-dog would be
an efficient sentinel while the family were asleep.

After allowing time enough to elapse for Jacob to reach Leman's house,
he softly opened the front door and went out. It was fortunate for him
that Mrs. Wire was as "deaf as a post," or his suddenly matured plan
to "try again" might have been a failure. As it was, his departure was
not observed. It was quite dark, and after he had got a short distance
from the house, he felt a reasonable degree of security.

His first purpose was to get as far away from Redfield as possible
before daylight should come to betray him; and, taking the road, he
walked as fast as his legs would carry him towards Boston. Jacob's
house was on the turnpike, which was the direct road to the city, and
the distance which the squire had carried him in his wagon was so much
clear gain.

He did not feel very sentimental now. The sky was overshadowed with
clouds, so that he could not see any stars, and the future did not
look half so bright as his fancy had pictured it on the preceding
night. But he was free again; and free under more favorable
circumstances than before. This time he was himself commander of the
expedition, and was to suffer for no one's bad generalship but his
own. Besides, the experience he had obtained was almost a guarantee of
success. It had taught him the necessity of care and prudence.

The moral lesson he had learned was of infinitely more value than even
the lesson of policy. For the first time in his life he was conscious
of a deep and earnest desire to be a good boy, and to become a true
man. As he walked along, he thought more of being a good man than of
being a rich man. It was very natural for him to do so, under the
circumstances, for he had come very near being punished as an
incendiary. The consequences of doing wrong were just then strongly
impressed upon his mind, and he almost shuddered to think he had
consented to remain with Ben Smart after he knew that he burned the
barn. Ah, it was an exceedingly fortunate thing for him that he had
got rid of Ben as he did.

For two hours he walked as fast as he could, pausing now and then to
listen for the sound of any approaching vehicle. Possibly Jacob might
have gone to his room, or attic, to see if he was safe, and his escape
had been discovered. He could not be too wary, and every sound that
reached his waiting ear caused his heart to jump with anxiety.

He heard a clock strike eleven. It was not the Redfield clock, and it
was evident that he was approaching Rockville, a factory village eight
miles from his native place. But his legs were failing him. He was
exhausted by the labors and the excitement of the day and night, and
his strength would hardly hold out till he should get beyond the
village.

Seating himself on a rock by the side of the road, he decided to hold
a council of war, to determine what should be done. If he went
forward, his strength might fail him at the time when a vigorous
effort should be required of him. Somebody's dog might bark, and bring
the "Philistines upon him." He might meet some late walker, who would
detain him. It was hardly safe for him to go through the village by
night or day, after the search which had been made for Ben Smart.
People would be on the lookout, and it would be no hard matter to
mistake him for the other fugitive.

On the other hand, he did not like to pause so near Redfield. He had
scarcely entered upon the consideration of this side of the question
before his quick ear detected the sound of rattling wheels in the
direction from which he had come. His heart beat violently. It was
Squire Walker and Jacob Wire, he was sure, in pursuit of him; but his
courage did not fail him.

Leaping over the stone wall by the side of the road, he secured the
only retreat which the vicinity afforded, and waited, with his heart
in his throat, for the coming of his pursuers, as he had assured
himself they were. The present seemed to be his only chance of escape,
and if he failed now, he might not soon have another opportunity to
"try again."

The vehicle was approaching at a furious pace, and as the noise grew
more distinct, his heart leaped the more violently. He thought he
recognized the sound of Squire Walker's wagon. There was not much time
for his fancy to conjure up strange things, for the carriage soon
reached the place where he was concealed.

"Ur-r--woo!" said a big bull-dog, placing his ugly nose against the
wall, behind which Harry was lying.

"Whoa!" added a voice, which the trembling fugitive recognized as that
of George Leman.

"The dog has scented him," said another--that of Jacob Wire.

Harry's heart sank within him, and he felt as faint as though every
drop of blood had been drawn from his veins.

"I knew the dog would fetch him," said George Leman, as he leaped from
the wagon, followed by Jacob Wire. "At him, Tiger!"

In obedience to this command, Tiger drew back a few steps, and then
leaped upon the top of the wall. The prospect of being torn to pieces
by the bull-dog was not pleasant to Harry, and with a powerful effort
he summoned his sinking energies for the struggle before him. Grasping
two large stones, he stood erect as the dog leaped on the wall.
Inspired by the imminence of his peril, he hurled one of the stones at
Tiger the instant he showed his ugly visage above the fence. The
missile took effect upon the animal, and he was evidently much
astonished at this unusual mode of warfare. Tiger was vanquished, and
fell back from the wall, howling with rage and pain.

"Thunder! He has killed my dog!" exclaimed Leman, as he jumped over
the wall.

Harry did not wait any longer, but took to his heels, followed by both
pursuers, though not by the dog, which was _hors de combat_. Our hero
was in a "tight place," but with a heroism worthy the days of
chivalry, he resolved not to be captured.

He had not run far, however, before he realized that George Leman was
more than a match for him, especially in his present worn-out
condition. He was almost upon him, when Harry executed a counter
movement, which was intended to "outflank" his adversary. Dodging
round a large rock in the field, he redoubled his efforts, running now
towards the road where the horse was standing. Leman was a little
confused by this sudden action, and for an instant lost ground.

Harry reached the road and leaped the wall at a single bound; it was a
miracle that, in the darkness, he had not dashed his brains out upon
the rocks, in the reckless leap. The horse was startled by the noise,
and his snort suggested a brilliant idea to Harry.

"Go 'long!" he shouted; and the horse started towards Rockville at a
round pace.

Harry jumped into the wagon over the hind board, and grasping the
reins, put the high-mettled animal to the top of his speed.

"Go 'long!" hallooed Harry, mad with excitement.

The horse manifested no feeling of partiality toward either of the
parties, and seemed as willing to do his best for Harry as for his
master.

"Stop! Stop!" shouted George Leman, astounded at the new phase which
the chase had assumed. "Stop! and I will let you go."

That was quite reasonable. It was natural that he should prefer to let
the fugitive escape, to the alternative of losing his horse. George
Leman was noted for three things in Redfield--his boat, his ugly dog,
and his fast horse; and Harry, after stealing the boat and killing the
dog, was in a fair way to deprive him of his horse, upon which he set
a high value. The boy seemed like his evil genius, and no doubt he was
angry with himself for letting so mean a man as Jacob Wire persuade
him to hunt down such small game.

Harry did not deem it prudent to stop, and in a few moments had left
his pursuers out of sight. Then he began to breathe freer. He had
played a desperate game, and won the victory; yet he did not feel like
indulging in a triumph. The battle had been a bitter necessity, and he
even regretted the fate of poor Tiger, whose ribs he had stove in with
a rock.

He passed through Rockville. All was still, save the roaring of the
waters at the dam, and no one challenged him.

"I am safe, at any rate," said he to himself, when he had passed the
village. "What will be the next scrape, I wonder? Confound it! They
will have me up for stealing a horse next. But I didn't steal him.
George Leman is a good fellow, and only for the fun of the thing, he
wouldn't have come out on such a chase. I wouldn't steal anybody's
horse. Whoa!"

Harry hauled up by the roadside, and fastened the horse to the fence.

"There, George, you can have your horse again; but I will just put the
blanket over him, for he is all of a reeking sweat. It will just show
George, when he comes up, that I don't mean him any harm. I hope his
dog wasn't killed."

Taking the blanket which lay in the bottom of the wagon (for George
Leman was very careful of his horse, and though it was October, always
covered him when he let him stand out at night), he spread it over
him.

"Now, for Number One again," muttered Harry. "I must take to the
woods, though I doubt if George will follow me any farther."

So saying, he got over the fence, and made his way across the fields
to the woods, which were but a short distance from the road.




CHAPTER VIII

IN WHICH HARRY KILLS A BIG SNAKE, AND MAKES A NEW FRIEND


Harry was not entirely satisfied with what he had done. He regretted
the necessity which had compelled him to take George Leman's horse. It
looked too much like stealing; and his awakened moral sense repelled
the idea of such a crime. But they could not accuse him of stealing
the horse; for his last act would repudiate the idea.

His great resolution to become a good and true man was by no means
forgotten. It is true, at the very outset of the new life he had
marked out for himself, he had been obliged to behave like a young
ruffian, or be restored to his exacting guardians. It was rather a bad
beginning; but he had taken what had appeared to him the only course.

Was it right for him to run away? On the solution of this problem
depended the moral character of the subsequent acts. If it was right
for him to run away, why, of course it was right for him to resist
those who attempted to restore him to Jacob Wire.

Harry made up his mind that it was right for him to run away, under
the circumstances. His new master had been charged to break him
down--even to starve him down. Jacob's reputation as a mean and hard
man was well merited; and it was his duty to leave without stopping to
say good by.

I do not think that Harry was wholly in the right, though I dare say
all my young readers will sympathize with the stout-hearted little
hero. So far, Jacob Wire had done him no harm. He had suffered no
hardship at his hands. All his misery was in the future; and if he had
stayed, perhaps his master might have done well by him, though it is
not probable. Still, I think Harry was in some sense justifiable. To
remain in such a place was to cramp his soul, as well as pinch his
body--to be unhappy, if not positively miserable. He might have tried
the place, and when he found it could not be endured, fled from it.

It must be remembered that Harry was a pauper and an orphan. He had
not had the benefit of parental instruction. It was not from the home
of those whom God had appointed to be his guardians and protectors
that he had fled; it was from one who regarded him, not as a rational
being, possessed of an immortal soul--one for whose moral, mental, and
spiritual welfare he was accountable before God--that he had run away,
but from one who considered him as a mere machine, from which it was
his only interest to get as much work at as little cost as possible.
He fled from a taskmaster, not from one who was in any just sense a
guardian.

Harry did not reason out all this; he only felt it. What was Jacob
Wire to him? What was even Squire Walker to him? What did they care
about his true welfare? Nothing. Harry so understood it, and acted
accordingly.

The future was full of trials and difficulties. But his heart was
stout; and the events of the last chapter inspired him with confidence
in his own abilities. He entered the dark woods, and paused to rest
himself. What should he do next?

While he was discussing this question in his own mind he heard the
sound of voices on the road, which was not more than fifty rods
distant. It was George Leman and Jacob Wire. In a few minutes he heard
the sound of wagon wheels; and soon had the satisfaction of knowing
that his pursuers had abandoned the chase and were returning home.

The little fugitive was very tired and very sleepy. It was not
possible for him to continue his journey, and he looked about him for
a place in which to lodge. The night was chilly and damp; and as he
sat upon the rock, he shivered with cold. It would be impossible to
sleep on the wet ground; and if he could, it might cost him his life.
It was a pine forest; and there were no leaves on the ground, so that
he could not make such a bed as that in which he had slept the
previous night.

He was so cold that he was obliged to move about to get warm. It
occurred to him that he might get into some barn in the vicinity, and
nestle comfortably in the hay; but the risk of being discovered was
too great, and he directed his steps towards the depths of the forest.

After walking some distance, he came to an open place in the woods.
The character of the growth had changed, and the ground was covered
with young maples, walnuts and oaks. The wood had been recently cut
off over a large area, but there were no leaves of which he could make
a bed.

Fortune favored him, however; for, after advancing half way across the
open space he reached one of those cabins erected for the use of men
employed to watch coal pits. It was made of board slabs, and covered
with sods. Near it was the circular place on which the coal pit had
burned.

At the time of which I write, charcoal was carried to Boston from many
towns within thirty miles of the city. Perhaps my young readers may
never have seen a coal pit. The wood is set up on the ends of the
sticks, till a circular pile from ten to twenty feet in diameter is
formed and two tiers in height. Its shape is that of a cone, or a
sugar loaf. It is then covered with turf and soil. Fire is
communicated to the wood, so that it shall smoulder, or burn slowly,
without blazing. Just enough air is admitted to the pit to keep the
fire alive. If the air were freely admitted the pile would burn to
ashes. Sometimes the outer covering of dirt and sods falls in, as the
wood shrinks permitting the air to rush in and fan the fire to a
blaze. When this occurs, the aperture must be closed, or the wood
would be consumed; and it is necessary to watch it day and night. The
cabin had been built for the comfort of the men who did this duty.

Harry's heart was filled with gratitude when he discovered the rude
hut. If it had been a palace, it could not have been a more welcome
retreat. It is true the stormy wind had broken down the door, and the
place was no better than a squirrel hole; yet it suggested a thousand
brilliant ideas of comfort, and luxury even, to our worn-out and
hunted fugitive.

He entered the cabin. The floor was covered with straw, which
completed his ideal of a luxurious abode. Raising up the door, which
had fallen to the ground, he placed it before the aperture--thus
excluding the cold air from his chamber.

"I'm a lucky fellow," exclaimed Harry, as he threw himself on the
straw. "This place will be a palace beside Jacob Wire's house. And I
can stay here a month, if I like."

Nestling closely under the side of the hut, he pulled the straw over
him, and soon began to feel perfectly at home. Only one consideration
troubled him. The commissary department of the establishment could not
be relied on. There were no pork and potatoes in the house, no
well-filled grain chest, no groceries, not even a rill of pure water
at hand. This was an unpromising state of things; and he began to see
that there would be no fun in living in the woods, where the butcher
and the baker would not be likely to visit him.

Various means of supplying the deficiency suggested themselves. There
were rabbits, partridges, and quails in the woods; he might set a
snare, and catch some of them. But he had no fire to cook them; and
Dr. Kane had not then demonstrated the healthy and appetizing
qualities of raw meat. The orchards in the neighborhood were
accessible; but prudence seemed to raise an impassable barrier between
him and them.

While he was thus considering these matters, he dropped asleep, and
forgot all about his stomach. He was completely exhausted; and no
doubt the owls and bats were astonished as they listened to the
sonorous sounds that came from the deserted cabin.

Long and deep was his sleep. The birds sang their mating songs on the
tree tops; but he heard them not. The sun rose, and penetrated the
chinks of the hut; but the little wanderer still slumbered. The
Rockville clock struck nine; and he heard it not.

I think it was Harry's grumbling stomach that finally waked him; and
it was no wonder that neglected organ grew impatient under the injury
put upon it, for Harry had eaten little or nothing since his dinner at
the poorhouse on the preceding day.

Jumping out of the heap of straw in which he had "cuddled" all night
scarcely without moving, he left the hut to reconnoitre his position.
So far as security was concerned, it seemed to be a perfectly safe
place. He could see nothing of the village of Rockville, though,
beyond the open space, he saw the top of a chimney; but it was at
least half a mile distant.

Just then he did not feel much interested in the scenery and natural
advantages of the position. His stomach was imperative, and he was
faint from the want of food. There was nothing in the woods to eat.
Berry time was past; and the prospect of supplying his wants was very
discouraging. Leaving the cabin, he walked towards the distant chimney
that peered above the tree tops. It belonged to a house that "was set
on a hill, and could not be hid."

After going a little way, he came to a cart path, which led towards
the house. This he followed, descending a hill into a swamp, which was
covered over with alders and birches. At the foot of the declivity he
heard the rippling of waters; but the bushes concealed the stream from
his view.

He had descended nearly to the foot of the hill when the sound of
footsteps reached his ears. His heart beat quick with apprehension,
and he paused to listen. The step was soft and light; it was not a
man's, and his courage rose. Pat, pat, pat, went the steps on the
leafy ground, so gently that his fears were conquered; for the person
could be only a child.

Suddenly a piercing shriek saluted his ears. Something had occurred to
alarm the owner of the fairy feet which made the soft pat, pat, on the
ground. Another shriek, and Harry bounded down the road like an
antelope, heedless of the remonstrances of his grumbling stomach.

"Mercy! help!" shouted a voice, which Harry perceived was that of a
little girl.

In a moment more he discovered the young lady running with all her
might towards him.

"Save me!" gasped the girl.

"What is the matter?"

But Harry had scarcely asked the question before he saw what had
alarmed her. Under other circumstances he would have quailed himself;
for, as he spoke, a great black snake raised his head two or three
feet from the ground directly in front of him. He was an ugly-looking
monster, and evidently intended to attack him. All the chivalry of
Harry's nature was called up to meet the emergency of the occasion.
Seizing a little stick that lay in the path, he struck sundry
vigorous blows at the reptile, which, however, seemed only to madden,
without disabling him. Several times he elevated his head from the
ground to strike at his assailant; but the little knight was an old
hand with snakes, and vigorously repelled his assaults. At last, he
struck a blow which laid out his snakeship; and the field was won,
when Harry had smashed his head with a large rock. The reptile was
about four feet and a half long, and as big round as a small boy's
wrist.

"There, miss, he won't hurt you now," said Harry, panting with his
exertions.

"Won't he? Are you sure he is dead?"

"Very sure."

The little girl ventured to approach the dead body of the snake, and
satisfied herself that he could not harm her.

"What an ugly snake! I was crossing the brook at the foot of the hill,
when he sprang out from beneath my feet and chased me. I never was so
frightened in all my life," said the little miss.

"I don't wonder," replied Harry.

"I am very much obliged to you. What is your name?" asked she, with
childish simplicity.

Harry did not like to answer that question, and made no reply.

"Do you live in Rockville?" she continued.

"No; I used to live in Redfield."

"Where do you live now?"

"I don't live anywhere."

The little girl wanted to laugh then, it seemed such a funny answer.

"Don't you? Who is your father?"

"I have no father."

"Who is your mother, then?"

"I have no mother."

"Poor boy! Then you are an orphan."

"I suppose so. But, little girl, I don't want you to tell any one that
you have seen me. You won't--will you?"

"Not father and mother?" asked the maiden, with a stare of
astonishment.

"If you please, don't. I am a poor boy, and have run away from a hard
master."

"I won't tell anybody."

"And I am very hungry."

"Poor boy! How lucky that I have lots of goodies in my basket!"
exclaimed she. "You shall eat all you can."

"I haven't eat anything since yesterday noon," replied Harry, as he
took a handful of doughnuts she handed him.

"Sit down on this rock, and do eat all you want. I never knew what it
was to be very hungry."

Harry seated himself, and proceeded to devour the food the
sympathizing little maiden had given him, while she looked on with
astonishment and delight as he voraciously consumed cake after cake,
without seeming to produce any effect upon the "abhorred vacuum."




CHAPTER IX

IN WHICH HARRY BREAKFASTS ON DOUGHNUTS, AND FINDS THAT ANGELS DO NOT
ALWAYS HAVE WINGS


Harry was very hungry, and the little girl thought he would never have
eaten enough. Since he had told her he had run away, she was deeply
interested in him, and had a hundred questions to ask; but she did not
wish to bother him while he was eating, he was so deeply absorbed in
the occupation.

"What a blessed thing doughnuts are!" laughed she, as Harry leveled on
the sixth cake. "I never thought much of them before, but I never
shall see a doughnut again without thinking of you."

Our hero was perfectly willing to believe that doughnuts were a very
beneficent institution; but just then he was too busily occupied to be
sentimental over them.

"What is your name, little girl?" asked Harry as he crammed half of
the cake into his mouth.

"I have a great mind not to tell you, because you wouldn't tell me
what yours is," replied she, roguishly.

"You see how it is with me. I have run away from--well, from
somewhere."

"And you are afraid I will tell? I won't though. But, as you killed
the snake, I shall tell you. My name is Julia Bryant."

"Mine is Harry West," replied he, unable to resist the little lady's
argument. "You must not tell any one about me for three days, for then
I shall be out of the way."

"Where are you going, Harry?"

"To Boston."

"Are you? They say that none but bad boys run away. I hope you are not
a bad boy." And Julia glanced earnestly at the fugitive.

"I don't think I am."

"I don't think you are, either."

It was a hearty endorsement, and Harry's heart warmed as she spoke.
The little maiden was not more than nine or ten years old, but she
seemed to have some skill in reading faces; at least, Harry thought
she had. Whatever might be said of himself, he was sure she was a good
girl. In short, though Harry had never read a novel in his life, she
was a little angel, even if she had no wings. He even went so far as
to believe she was a little angel, commissioned by that mysterious
something, which wiser and more devout persons would have called a
special providence, to relieve his wants with the contents of her
basket, and gladden his heart by the sunshine of her sweet smile.
There is something in goodness which always finds its way to the face.
It makes little girls look prettier than silks, and laces, and
ribbons, and embroidery. Julia Bryant was pretty, very pretty. Harry
thought so; but very likely it was the doughnuts and her kind words
which constituted her beauty.

"I am pretty sure I am not a bad boy," continued Harry; "but I will
tell you my own story, and you shall judge for yourself."

"You will tell me all of it--won't you?"

"To be sure I will," replied Harry, a little tartly, for he
misapprehended Julia's meaning.

He thought she was afraid he would not tell his wrong acts; whereas
her deep interest in him rendered her anxious to have the whole, even
to the smallest particulars.

"I shall be so delighted! I do so love to hear a good story!"
exclaimed Julia.

"You shall have it all; but where were you going? It will take me a
good while."

"I was going to carry these doughnuts to Mrs. Lane. She is a poor
widow, who lives over the back lane. She has five children, and has
very hard work to get along. I carry something to her every week."

"Then you are a little angel!" added Harry, who could understand and
appreciate kindness to the poor.

"Not exactly an angel, though Mrs. Lane says I am," replied Julia,
with a blush.

"Aunty Gray, over to the poorhouse, used to call everybody an angel
that brought her anything good. So I am sure you must be one."

"Never mind what I am now. I am dying to hear your story," interposed
Julia, as she seated herself on another rock, near that occupied by
Harry.

"Here goes, then"; and Harry proceeded with his tale, commencing back
beyond his remembrance with the traditionary history which had been
communicated to him by Mr. Nason and the paupers.

When he came to the period of authentic history, or that which was
stored up in his memory, he grew eloquent, and the narrative glowed
with the living fire of the hero. Julia was quite as much interested
as Desdemona in the story of the swarthy Moor. His "round, unvarnished
tale," adorned only with the flowers of youthful simplicity, enchained
her attention, and she "loved him for the dangers he had passed;"
loved him, not as Desdemona loved, but as a child loves. She was sure
now that he was not a bad boy; that even a good boy might do such a
thing as run away from cruel and exacting guardians.

"What a strange story, Harry! How near you came to being drowned in
the river! I wonder the man had not killed you! And then they wanted
to send you to prison for setting the barn afire!" exclaimed Julia,
when he had finished the story.

"I came pretty near it; that's a fact!" replied Harry, warming under
the approbation of his partial auditor.

"And you killed the big dog?"

"I don't know; I hope I didn't."

"But you didn't steal the horse?"

"I didn't mean to steal him."

"No one could call that stealing. But what are you going to do next,
Harry?"

"I am going to Boston."

"What will you do when you get there?"

"I can go to work."

"You are not big enough to work much."

"I can do a good deal."

For some time longer they discussed Harry's story, and Julia regretted
the necessity of leaving him to do her errand at Mrs. Lane's. She
promised to see him when she returned, and Harry walked down to the
brook to get a drink, while she continued on her way.

Our hero was deeply interested in the little girl. Like the "great
guns" in the novels, he was sure she was no ordinary character. He was
fully satisfied in relation to the providential nature of their
meeting. She had been sent by that incomprehensible something to
furnish him with food, and he trembled when he thought what might have
happened if she had not come.

"I can't be a very bad boy," thought he, "or she would not have liked
me. Mr. Nason used to say he could tell an ugly horse by the looks of
his eye; and the schoolmaster last winter picked out all the bad boys
at a glance. I can't be a very bad boy, or she would have found me
out. I _know_ I am not a bad boy. I feel right, and try to do right."

Harry's investigation invested Julia Bryant with a thousand poetical
excellences. That she felt an interest in him--one so good as she--was
enough to confirm all the noble resolutions he had made, and give him
strength to keep them; and as he seated himself by the brook, he
thought over his faults, and renewed his determination to uproot them
from his character. His meeting with the "little angel," as he chose
to regard her, was an oasis in the desert--a place where his moral
nature could drink the pure waters of life.

No one had ever before seemed to care much whether he was a good boy
or a bad boy. The minister used now and then to give him a dry
lecture; but he did not seem to feel any real interest in him. He was
minister, and of course he must preach; not that he cared whether a
pauper boy was a saint or a sinner, but only to do the work he was
hired to do, and earn his money.

Julia did not preach. Her sweet face was the "beauty of holiness." She
hoped he was not a bad boy. She liked a good boy; and this was
incentive enough to incur a lifetime of trial and self-sacrifice.
Harry was an orphan. To have one feel an interest in his moral
welfare, to have one wish him to be a good boy, had not grown stale by
long continuance. He had known no anxious mother, who wished him to be
good, who would weep when he did wrong. The sympathy of the little
angel touched a sensitive chord in his heart and soul, and he felt
that he should go forward in the great pilgrimage of life with a new
desire to be true to himself, and true to her who had inspired his
reverence.

Even a child cannot be good without having it felt by others. "She
hoped he was not a bad boy," were the words of the little angel; and
before she returned from her errand of mercy, he repeated them to
himself a hundred times. They were a talisman to him, and he was sure
he should never be a bad boy in the face of such a wish.

He wandered about the woods for two or three hours, impatient for the
return of the little rural goddess who had taken possession of his
thoughts, and filled his soul with admiration. She came at last, and
glad was the welcome which he gave her.

"I have been thinking of you ever since I left you," said Julia, as
she approached the place where he had been waiting her return.

Harry thought this was a remarkable coincidence. He had been thinking
of her also.

"I hope you didn't think of me as a bad boy," replied he, giving
expression to that which was uppermost in his mind.

"I am sure I didn't. I am sure you must be a good boy."

"I am glad you think so; and that will help me be a good boy."

"Will it?"

"I never had any one to care whether I was good or bad. If you do, you
will be the first one."

The little girl looked sad. She had a father and mother who loved her,
and prayed for her every day. It seemed hard that poor Harry should
have no mother to love him as her mother loved her; to watch over him
day and night, to take care of him when he was sick, and, above all,
to teach him to be good. She pitied the lonely orphan, and would
gladly have taken him to her happy home, and shared with him all she
had, even the love of her mother.

"Poor boy!" she sighed. "But I have been thinking of something," she
added, in more sprightly tones.

"What, Julia?"

"If you would only let me tell my father that you are here--"

"Not for the world!" cried Harry.

"O, I won't say a word, unless you give me leave; but my father is
rich. He owns a great factory and a great farm. He has lots of men to
work for him; and my father is a very good man, too. People will do as
he wants them to do, and if you will let me tell him your story, he
will go over to Redfield and make them let you stay at our house. You
shall be my brother then, and we can do lots of things together. Do
let me tell him."

"I don't think it would be safe. I know Squire Walker wouldn't let me
go to any place where they would use me well."

"What a horrible man he must be!"

"No; I think I will go on to Boston."

"You will have a very hard time of it."

"No matter for that."

"They may catch you."

"If they do, I shall try again."

"If they do catch you, will you let my father know it? He will be your
friend, for my friends are his friends."

"I will. I should be very glad to have such a friend."

"There is our dinner bell!" said Julia, as Harry heard the distant
sound. "I must go home. How I wish you were going with me!"

"I wish I was. I may never see you again," added Harry, sadly.

"O, you must see me again! When you get big you must come to
Rockville."

"You will not wish to see the little poorhouse boy, then."

"Won't I? I shall always be glad to see the boy that killed that
snake! But I shall come up after dinner, and bring you something to
eat. Do let me tell mother you are here."

"I would rather you wouldn't."

"Suppose she asks me what I am going to do with the dinner I shall
bring you? I can't tell a lie."

"Don't bring any, then. I would rather not have any dinner than have
_you_ tell a lie."

Harry would not always have been so nice about a lie; but for the
little angel to tell a falsehood, why, it seemed like mud on a white
counterpane.

"I won't tell a lie, but you shall have your dinner. I suppose I must
go now."

Harry watched the retreating form of his kind friend, till she
disappeared beyond the curve of the path, and his blessing went with
her.




CHAPTER X

IN WHICH HARRY FARES SUMPTUOUSLY, AND TAKES LEAVE OF THE LITTLE ANGEL


When Harry could no longer see the little angel, he fixed his eyes
upon the ground, and continued to think of her. It is not every day
that a pauper boy sees an angel, or even one whom the enthusiasm of
the imagination invests with angelic purity and angelic affections.

In the records of individual experience, as well as in the history of
the world, there are certain points of time which are rendered
memorable by important events. By referring to a chronological table,
the young reader will see the great events which have marked the
progress of civilized nations from the lowest depths of barbarism up
to their present enlightened state. Every individual, if he had the
requisite wisdom, could make up a list of epochs in his own
experience. Perhaps he would attach too little importance to some
things, too much to others; for we cannot always clearly perceive the
influences which assist in forming the character. Some trivial event,
far back in the past, which inspired him with a new reverence for
truth and goodness, may be forgotten. The memory may not now cherish
the look, the smile of approbation, which strengthened the heart, when
it was struggling against the foe within; but its influence was none
the less potent. "It is the last pound which breaks the camel's back;"
and that look, that smile, may have closed the door of the heart
against a whole legion of evil spirits, and thus turned a life of woe
and bitterness into a life of sunshine and happiness.

There are hundreds of epochs in the experience of every person, boy or
man--events which raised him up or let him down in the scale of moral
existence. Harry West had now reached one of these epochs in his
pilgrimage.

To meet a little girl in the woods, to kill a black snake, and thus
relieve her from a terrible fright, to say the least, was not a great
event, as events are reckoned in the world; yet it was destined to
exert a powerful influence upon his future career. It was not the
magnitude of the deed performed, or the chivalrous spirit which called
it forth, that made this a memorable event to Harry; it was the angel
visit--the kindling influence of a pure heart that passed from her to
him. But I suppose the impatient reader will not thank me for
moralizing over two whole pages, and I leave the further application
of the moral to the discretion of my young friends.

Harry felt strangely--more strangely than he had ever felt before. As
he walked back to the cabin everything seemed to have assumed a new
appearance. Somehow the trees did not look as they used to look. He
saw through a different medium. His being seemed to have undergone a
change. He could not account for it; perhaps he did not try.

He entered the cabin; and, without dropping the train of thought which
Julia's presence suggested, he busied himself in making the place more
comfortable. He shook up the straw, and made his bed, stuffed dried
grass into the chinks and crannies in the roof, fastened the door up
with some birch withes, and replaced some of the stones of the chimney
which had fallen down. This work occupied him for nearly two hours,
though, so busy were his thoughts, they seemed not more than half an
hour.

He had scarcely finished these necessary repairs before he heard the
light step of her who fed him, as Elijah was fed by the ravens, for it
seemed like a providential supply. She saw him at the door of the
cabin; and she no longer dallied with a walk, but ran with all her
might.

"O, Harry, I am so glad!" she cried, out of breath, as she handed him
a little basket, whose contents were carefully covered with a piece of
brown paper.

"Glad of what, Julia?" asked Harry, smiling from sympathy with her.

"I have heard all about it; and I am so glad you are a good boy!"
exclaimed she, panting like a pretty fawn which had gamboled its
breath away.

"About what?"

"Father has seen and talked with--who was he?"

Harry laughed. How could he tell whom her father had seen and talked
with? He was not a magician.

"The man that owned the dog, and the horse and the boat."

"O! George Leman," replied Harry, now deeply interested in the little
maiden's story. "Where did he see him?"

"Over at the store. But I have brought you some dinner; and while you
are eating it, I will tell you all about it. Come, there is a nice big
rock--that shall be your table."

Julia, full of excitement, seized the basket, and ran to the rock, a
little way from the cabin. Pulling off half a dozen great oak leaves
from a shrub, she placed them on the rock.

"Here is a piece of meat, Harry, on this plate," she continued,
putting it on an oak leaf; "here is a piece of pie; here is some bread
and butter; here is cheese; and here is a piece of cold apple pudding.
There! I forgot the sauce."

"Never mind the sauce," said Harry; and he could hardly keep from
bursting into tears, as he saw how good the little angel was.

It seemed as though she could not have been more an angel, if she had
had a pair of wings. The radiant face was there; the pure and loving
heart was there; all was there but the wings, and he could easily
imagine them.

And what a dinner! Roast beef, pudding, pie! He was not much
accustomed to such luxuries; but just then he did not appreciate the
sumptuousness of the feast, for it was eclipsed by the higher
consideration of the devotion of the giver.

"Come, eat, Harry! I am so glad!" added Julia.

"So am I. If you feed me as high as this, I shall want to stay here a
good while."

"I hope you will."

"Only to-day; to-morrow I must be moving towards Boston."

"I was hoping you would stay here a good long while. I shall be so
pleased to bring you your breakfast, and dinner, and supper every
day!"

"Your father would not like it."

"I don't know why he shouldn't. You are not very hungry; you don't eat
as you did this morning."

"I ate so much then. Tell me, now, what your father said, Julia."

"He saw George Leman; and he told him how you tied his horse to the
fence, and how careful you were to put the blanket on him, so that he
shouldn't catch cold after his hard run. That was very kind of you,
Harry, when you knew they were after you. Father said almost any one
would have run the horse till he dropped down. That one thing showed
that you were not a bad boy."

"I wouldn't have injured George Leman for anything," added Harry.
"He's a good fellow, and never did me any harm."

"He said, when he found his horse, he was so glad he wouldn't have
chased you any farther for all the world. He told father what Mr.
Nason said about you--that you were a good boy, had good feelings, and
were willing to work. He didn't blame you for not wanting to go to
Jacob Wire's--wasn't that the man?"

"Yes."

"And he didn't blame you for running away. Nobody believes that you
set the barn afire; and, Harry, they have caught the other boy--Ben
Smart, wasn't it?"

"Yes, that was his name."

"They caught him in the woods, over the other side of the river."

"Did you find out whether the dog was killed?" asked Harry.

"Mr. Leman said he thought he would get over it; and he has got his
boat again."

"I am glad of that; and if anybody ever catches me with such a fellow
as Ben Smart again, they'll know it."

"You can't think how I wanted to tell father where you were, when he
spoke so well of you. He even said he hoped you would get off, and
that you must be in the woods around here somewhere. You will let me
tell him now--won't you, Harry?"

"I think not."

"Why not, Harry?"

"He may hope I will get off, and still not be willing to help me off."

Julia looked very much disappointed; for she had depended upon
surprising her father with the story of the snake, and the little
fugitive in the woods.

"He will be very good to you," pleaded she.

"I dare say he would; but he may think it his duty to send me back to
Redfield; and Squire Walker would certainly make me go to Jacob
Wire's."

"But you won't go yet."

"To-morrow, Julia."

"I'm afraid you will never get to Boston."

"O, yes, I shall. I don't think it is safe for me to stay here much
longer."

"Why not? Hardly any one ever goes through the woods here at this time
of year but myself."

"Didn't your mother want to know what you were going to do with the
dinner you brought me?"

"No, I went to the store room, and got it. She didn't see me; but I
don't like to do anything unknown to her."

"You mustn't do it again."

"You must have something to eat."

"You have brought enough to last me while I stop here. To-morrow
morning I must start; so I suppose I shall not see you again. But I
shall never forget you," said Harry looking as sad as he felt.

"No, you mustn't go off without any breakfast. Promise me you will not
go till I have brought you some."

Harry assured Julia he had enough, and tried to persuade her not to
bring him any more food; but Julia was resolute, and he was obliged to
promise. Having finished his dinner, she gathered up the remnants of
the feast and put them in the cabin for his supper. She was afraid to
remain any longer, lest she might be missed at home and Harry
gallantly escorted her beyond the brook on her return home.

He busied himself during the greater part of the afternoon in
gathering dry grass and dead leaves for the improvement of his bed in
the cabin. About an hour before sundown, he was surprised to receive
another visit from Julia Bryant. She had her little basket in one
hand, and in the other she carried a little package.

"I didn't expect to see you again," said Harry, as she approached.

"I don't know as you will like what I have done," she began timidly;
"but I did it for the best."

"I shall like anything you have done," answered Harry promptly, "even
if you should send me back to Redfield."

"I wouldn't do such a mean thing as that; but I have told somebody
that you are here."

"Have you?" asked Harry, not a little alarmed.

"You will forgive me if I have done wrong--won't you?"

Harry looked at her. He mistook her anxious appearance for sorrow at
what she had done. He could not give her pain; so he told her that,
whatever she had done, she was forgiven.

"But whom have you told?"

"John Lane."

"Who is he?"

"Mrs. Lane's oldest son. He drives the baggage wagon that goes to
Boston every week. He promised not to lisp a word to a single soul,
and he would be your friend for my sake."

"Why did you tell him?"

"Well, you see, I was afraid you would never get to Boston; and I
thought what a nice thing it would be if you could only ride all the
way there with John Lane. John likes me because I carry things to his
mother, and I am sure he won't tell."

"How good you are, Julia!" exclaimed Harry. "I may forget everybody
else in the world; but I shall never forget you."

A tear moistened his eye, as he uttered his enthusiastic declaration.

"The worst of it is, John starts at two o'clock--right in the middle
of the night."

"So much the better," replied Harry, wiping away the tear.

"You will take the wagon on the turnpike, where the cart path comes
out. But you won't wake up."

"Yes, I shall."

"I am sorry to have you go; for I like you, Harry. You will be a very
good boy, when you get to Boston; for they say the city is a wicked
place."

"I will try."

"There are a great many temptations there, people say."

"I shall try to be as good as you are," replied Harry, who could
imagine nothing better. "If I fail once, I shall try again."

"Here, Harry, I have brought you a good book--the best of all books. I
have written your name and mine in it; and I hope you will keep it and
read it as long as you live. It is the Bible."

Harry took the package, and thanked her for it.

"I never read the Bible much; but I shall read this for your sake."

"No, Harry; read it for your own sake."

"I will, Julia."

"How I shall long to hear from you! John Lane goes to Boston every
week. Won't you write me a few lines, now and then, to let me know how
you prosper, and whether you are good or not?"

"I will. I can't write much; but I suppose I can--"

"Never mind how you write, if I can only read it."

The sun had gone down, and the dark shadows of night were gathering
over the forest when they parted, but a short distance from Mr.
Bryant's house. With the basket which contained provisions for his
journey and the Bible in his hand, he returned to the hut, to get what
sleep he might before the wagon started.




CHAPTER XI

IN WHICH HARRY REACHES THE CITY, AND THOUGH OFTEN DISAPPOINTED, TRIES
AGAIN


Harry entered the cabin, and stretched himself on his bed of straw and
leaves; but the fear that he should not wake in season to take the
wagon at the appointed place, would scarcely permit him to close his
eyes. He had not yet made up for the sleep he had lost; and Nature,
not sharing his misgiving, at last closed and sealed his eyelids.

It would be presumptuous for me to attempt to inform the reader what
Harry dreamed about on that eventful night; but I can guess that it
was about angels, about bright faces and sweet smiles, and that they
were very pleasant dreams. At any rate, he slept very soundly, as
tired boys are apt to sleep, even when they are anxious about getting
up early in the morning.

He woke, at last, with a start; for with his first consciousness came
the remembrance of the early appointment. He sprang from his bed, and
threw down the door of the cabin. It was still dark; the stars
twinkled above, the owls screamed, and the frogs sang merrily around
him. He had no means of ascertaining the time of night. It might be
twelve; it might be four; and his uncertainty on this point filled him
with anxiety. Better too early than too late; and grasping the basket
and the Bible, which were to be the companions of his journey, he
hastened down the cart path to the turnpike.

There was no sound of approaching wheels to cheer him, and the clock
in the meeting house at Rockville obstinately refused to strike. He
reached the designated place; there was no wagon there. Perhaps he was
too late. The thought filled him with chagrin; and he was reading
himself a very severe lesson for having permitted himself to sleep at
all, when the church clock graciously condescended to relieve his
anxiety by striking the hour.

"One," said he, almost breathless with interest.

"Two," he repeated, loud enough to be heard, if there had been any one
to hear him.

"Three"; and he held his breath, waiting for more.

"No more!" he added, with disappointment and chagrin, when it was
certain that the clock did not mean to strike another stroke. "I have
lost my chance. What a fool I have been! Miss Julia will think that I
am a smart fellow, when she finds that her efforts to get me off have
been wasted. Why did I go to sleep? I might have known that I should
not wake;" and he stamped his foot upon the ground with impatience.

He had been caught napping, and had lost the wagon. He was never so
mortified in his life. One who was so careless did not deserve to
succeed.

"One thing is clear--it is no use to cry for spilt milk," muttered he,
as he jumped over the fence into the road. "I have been stupid, but
try again."

Unfortunately, there was no chance to try again. Like thousands of
blessed opportunities, it had passed by, never to return. He had come
at the eleventh hour, and the door was closed against him. With the
wagon it had been "now or never."

Harry got over his impatience, and resolved that Julia should not come
to the cabin, the next morning, to find he had slept when the
bridegroom came. He had a pair of legs, and there was the road. It was
no use to "wait for the wagon;" legs were made before wagon wheels;
and he started on the long and weary pilgrimage.

He had not advanced ten paces before pleasant sounds reached his ears.
He stopped short, and listened. A wagon was certainly approaching, and
his heart leaped high with hope. Was it possible that John Lane had
not yet gone? Retracing his steps, he got over the fence at the place
where John was to take him. Perhaps it was not he, after all. He had
no right to suppose it was; but he determined to wait till the wagon
had passed.

The rumbling noise grew more distinct. It was a heavy wagon, heavily
loaded, and approached very slowly; but at last it reached the spot
where the impatient boy was waiting.

"Whoa!" said the driver; and the horses stopped.

Harry's heart bounded with joy. Some lucky accident had detained the
team, and he had regained his opportunity.

"Harry West!" said he on the wagon.

"John Lane!" replied Harry, as he leaped over the fence.

"You are on hand," added John Lane.

"I am; but I was sure you had gone. It is after three o'clock."

"I know it. I don't generally get off much before this time," answered
John. "Climb up here, and let us be moving on."

It was a large wagon, with a sail-cloth cover--one of those regular
baggage wagons which railroads have almost driven out of existence in
Massachusetts. It was drawn by four horses, harnessed two abreast, and
had a high "box" in front for the driver.

Harry nimbly climbed upon the box, and took his seat by the side of
John Lane--though that worthy told him he had better crawl under the
cover, where he would find plenty of room to finish his nap on a bale
of goods.

"I thought likely I should have to go up to the cabin and wake you.
Julia told me I must, if you were not on the spot."

"I am glad I have saved you that trouble; but Julia said you would
start at two o'clock."

"Well, I get off by two or three o'clock. I don't carry the mail, so I
ain't so particular. What do you mean to do when you get to Boston?"

"I mean to go to work."

"What at?"

"Anything I can find."

John Lane questioned the little wanderer, and drew from him all the
incidents of his past history. He seemed to feel an interest in the
fortunes of his companion, and gave him much good advice on practical
matters, including an insight into life in the city.

"I suppose Squire Walker would give me fits, if he knew I carried you
off. He was over to Rockville yesterday looking for you."

"He won't find me."

"I hope not, my boy; though I don't know as I should have meddled in
the matter, if Julia hadn't teased me. I couldn't resist her. She is
the best little girl in the world; and you are a lucky fellow to have
such a friend."

"I am; she is an angel;" and when Harry began to think of Julia, he
could not think of anything else, and the conversation was suspended.

It was a long while before either of them spoke again, and then John
advised Harry to crawl into the wagon and lie down on the load.
Notwithstanding his agreeable thoughts, our hero yawned now and then,
and concluded to adopt the suggestion of the driver. He found a very
comfortable bed on the bales, softened by heaps of mattings, which
were to be used in packing the miscellaneous articles of the return
freight.

John Lane took things very easily; and as the horses jogged slowly
along, he relieved the monotony of the journey by singing sundry
old-fashioned psalm tunes, which had not then gone out of use. He was
a good singer; and Harry was so pleased with the music, and so
unaccustomed to the heavy jolt of the wagon, that he could not go to
sleep at once.

    "While shepherds watched their flocks by night,
      All seated on the ground,
    The angel of the Lord came down,
      And glory shone around."

Again and again John's full and sonorous voice rolled out these
familiar lines, till Harry was fairly lulled to sleep by the
harmonious measures. The angel of the Lord had come down for the
fortieth time, after the manner of the ancient psalmody, and for the
fortieth time Harry had thought of _his_ angel, when he dropped off to
dream of the "glory that shone around."

Harry slept soundly after he got a little used to the rough motion of
the wagon, and it was sunrise before he woke.

"Well, Harry, how do you feel now?" asked John, as he emerged from his
lodging apartment.

"Better; I feel as bright as a new pin. Where are we?"

"We have come about twelve miles. Pretty soon we shall stop to bait
the team and get some breakfast."

"I have got some breakfast in my basket. Julia gave me enough to last
a week. I shan't starve, at any rate."

"No one would ever be hungry in this world, if everybody were like
Julia. But you shall breakfast with me at the tavern."

"It won't be safe--will it?"

"O, yes; nobody will know you here."

"Well, I have got some money to pay for anything I have."

"Keep your money, Harry; you will want it all when you get to Boston."

After going a few miles farther, they stopped at a tavern, where the
horses were fed, and Harry ate such a breakfast as a pauper never ate
before. John would not let him pay for it, declaring that Julia's
friends were his friends.

The remaining portion of the journey was effected without any incident
worthy of narrating, and they reached the city about noon. Of course
the first sight of Boston astonished Harry. His conceptions of a city
were entirely at fault; and though it was not a very large city
twenty-five years ago, it far exceeded his expectations.

Harry had a mission before him, and he did not permit his curiosity to
interfere with that. John drove down town to deliver his load; and
Harry went with him, improving every opportunity to obtain work. When
the wagon stopped, he went boldly into the stores in the vicinity to
inquire if they "wanted to hire a hand."

Now, Harry was not exactly in a condition to produce a very favorable
impression upon those to whom he applied for work. His clothes were
never very genteel, nor very artistically cut and made; and they were
threadbare, and patched at the knees and elbows. A patch is no
disguise to a man or boy, it is true; but if a little more care had
been taken to adapt the color and kind of fabric in Harry's patches to
the original garment, his general appearance would undoubtedly have
been much improved. Whether these patches really affected his ultimate
success I cannot say--only that they were an inconvenience at the
outset.

It was late in the afternoon before John Lane had unloaded his
merchandise and picked up his return freight. Thus far Harry had been
unsuccessful; no one wanted a boy; or if they did, they did not want
such a boy as Harry appeared to be. His country garb, with the five
broad patches, seemed to interfere with the working out of his
manifest destiny. Yet he was not disheartened. Spruce clerks and
ill-mannered boys laughed at him; but he did not despond.

"Try again," exclaimed he, as often as he was told that his services
were not required.

When the wagon reached Washington Street, Harry wanted to walk, for
the better prosecution of his object; and John gave him directions so
that he could find Major Phillips's stable, where he intended to put
up for the night.

Harry trotted along among the gay and genteel people that thronged the
sidewalk; but he was so earnest about his mission, that he could not
stop to look at their fine clothes, nor even at the pictures, the
gewgaws, and gimcracks that tempted him from the windows.

"'Boy wanted'" Harry read on a paper in the window of a jeweler's
shop. "Now's my time;" and, without pausing to consider the chances
that were against him, he entered the store.

"You want a boy--don't you?" asked he of a young man behind the
counter.

"We do," replied the person addressed, looking at the applicant with a
broad grin on his face.

"I should like to hire out," continued Harry, with an earnestness that
would have secured the attention of any man but an idiot.

"Do you? Your name is Joseph--isn't it?"

"No, sir; my name is Harry West."

"O, I thought it was Joseph. The Book says he had a coat of many
colors, though I believe it don't say anything about the trousers,"
sneered the shopkeeper.

"Never mind the coat or the trousers. If you want to hire a boy, I
will do the best I can for you," replied Harry, willing to appreciate
the joke of the other, if he could get a place.

"You won't answer for us; you come from the country."

"I did."

"What did you come to Boston for?"

"After work."

"You had better go back, and let yourself to some farmer. You will
make a good scarecrow to hang up in the field. No crow would ever come
near you, I'll warrant."

Harry's blood boiled with indignation at this gratuitous insult. His
cheeks reddened, and he looked about him for the means of inflicting
summary vengeance upon the poltroon who so wantonly trifled with his
glowing aspirations.

"Move on, boy; we don't want you," added the man.

"You are a ----"

I will not write what Harry said. It was a vulgar epithet, coupled
with a monstrous oath for so small a boy to utter. The shopkeeper
sprang out from his counter; but Harry retreated, and escaped him,
though not till he had repeated the vulgar and profane expression.

But he was sorry for what he had said before he had gone ten paces.

"What would the little angel say, if she had heard that?" Harry asked
himself. "'Twon't do; I must try again."




CHAPTER XII

IN WHICH HARRY SUDDENLY GETS RICH AND HAS A CONVERSATION WITH ANOTHER
HARRY


By the time he reached the stable, Harry would have given almost
anything to have recalled the hasty expressions he had used. He had
acquired the low and vulgar habit of using profane language at the
poorhouse. He was conscious that it was not only wicked to do so, but
that it was very offensive to many persons who did not make much
pretension to piety, or even morality; and, in summing up his faults
in the woods, he had included this habit as one of the worst.

She hoped he was a good boy--Julia Bryant, the little angel, hoped so.
Her blood would have frozen in her veins if she had listened to the
irreverent words he had uttered in the shop. He had broken his
resolution, broken his promise to the little angel, on the first day
he had been in the city. It was a bad beginning; but instead of
permitting this first failure to do right to discourage him, he
determined to persevere--to try again.

A good life, a lofty character, with all the trials and sacrifices
which it demands, is worth working for; and those who mean to grow
better than they are will often be obliged to "try again." The spirit
may be willing to do well, but the flesh is weak, and we are all
exposed to temptation. We may make our good resolutions--and it is
very easy to make them, but when we fail to keep them--it is sometimes
very hard to keep them--we must not be discouraged, but do as Harry
did--TRY AGAIN. The strong Spirit may conquer the weak Flesh.

"Well, Harry, how did you make out?" asked John Lane, when Harry
joined him at the stable.

"I didn't make out at all. Nobody seems to want a boy like me."

"O, well, you will find a place. Don't be discouraged."

"I am not. To-morrow I shall try again."

"I don't know what I shall do with you to-night. Every bed in the
tavern up the street, where I stop, is full. I shall sleep with
another teamster."

"Never mind me! I can sleep in the wagon. I have slept in worse places
than that."

"I will fix a place for you, then."

After they had prepared his bed, Harry drew out his basket, and
proceeded to eat his supper. He then took a walk down Washington
Street, with John, went to an auction, and otherwise amused himself
till after nine o'clock, when he returned to the stable.

After John had left him, as he was walking towards the wagon, with the
intention of retiring for the night, his foot struck against something
which attracted his attention. He kicked it once or twice, to
determine what it was, and then picked it up.

"By gracious!" he exclaimed; "it is a pocketbook. My fortune is made;"
and without stopping to consider the matter any further, he scrambled
into the wagon.

His heart jumped with excitement, for his vivid imagination had
already led him to the conclusion that it was stuffed full of money.
It might contain a hundred dollars, perhaps five hundred; and these
sums were about as far as his ideas could reach.

He could buy a suit of new clothes, a new cap, new shoes, and be as
spruce as any of the boys he had seen about the city. Then he could go
to a boarding house, and live like a prince, till he could get a place
that suited him; for Harry, however rich he might be, did not think of
living without labor of some kind. He could dress himself up in fine
broadcloth, present himself at the jeweler's shop where they wanted a
boy, and then see whether he would make a good scarecrow.

Then his thoughts reverted to the cabin, where he had slept two
nights, and, of course, to the little angel, who had supplied the
commissary department during his sojourn in the woods. He could dress
himself up with the money in the pocketbook, and, after a while, when
he got a place, take the stage for Rockville. Wouldn't she be
astonished to see him then, in fine broadcloth! Wouldn't she walk with
him over to the spot where he had killed the black snake! Wouldn't she
be proud to tell her father that this was the boy she had fed in the
woods!

What would she say to him? He had promised to write to her when he got
settled, and tell her how he got along, and whether he was good or
not. What should he say? How glad she would be to hear that he was
getting along so finely!

"Stop!" said he to himself. "What have I been thinking about? This
pocketbook isn't mine."

I am sorry to say it, but Harry really felt sad when the thought
occurred to him. He had been building very pretty air castles on this
money, and this reflection suddenly tumbled them all down--new
clothes, new cap, boarding house, visit to Rockville--all in a heap.

"But I found it," Harry reasoned with himself.

Something within him spoke out, saying:

"You stole it, Harry."

"No, I didn't; I found it."

"If you don't return it to the owner, you will be a thief," continued
the voice within.

"Nobody will know that I found it. I dare say the owner does not want
it half so much as I do."

"No matter for that, Harry; if you keep it you will be a thief."

He could not compromise with that voice within. It was the real Harry,
within the other Harry, that spoke, and he was a very obstinate
fellow, positively refusing to let him keep the pocketbook, at any
rate.

"What am I about? She hoped I would be a good boy, and the evil one is
catching me as fast as he can," resumed Harry.

"Be a good boy," added the other Harry.

"I mean to be, if I can."

"The little angel will be very sad when she finds out that you are a
thief."

"I don't mean to be a thief. But this pocketbook will make me rich.
She never will know anything about it."

"If she does not, there is One above who will know, and his angels
will frown upon you, and stamp your crime upon your face. Then you
will go about like Cain, with a mark upon you."

"Pooh!" said the outer Harry, who was sorely tempted by the treasure
within his grasp.

"You will not dare to look the little angel in the face, if you steal
this money. She will know you are not good, then. Honest folks always
hold their heads up, and are never ashamed to face any person."

"I don't keep it!" replied the struggling, tempted Flesh. "Why did I
think of such a thing?"

He felt strong then, for the Spirit had triumphed over the Flesh. The
foe within had been beaten back, at least for the moment; and as he
laid his head upon the old coat that was to serve him for a pillow, he
thought of Julia Bryant. He thought he saw her sweet face, and there
was an angelic smile upon it.

My young readers will remember, after Jesus had been tempted, and
said, "Get thee behind, Satan," that "behold, angels came and
ministered unto him." They came and ministered to Harry after he had
cast out the evil thought; they come and minister to all who resist
temptation. They come in the heart, and minister with the healing balm
of an approving conscience.

Placing the pocketbook under his head, with the intention of finding
the owner in the morning, he went to sleep. The fatigue and excitement
of the day softened his pillow, and not once did he open his eyes till
the toils of another day had commenced around him. I question whether
he would have slept so soundly if he had decided to keep the
pocketbook.

But the tempter was not banished. He had only been conquered for the
moment--subdued only to attack him again. The first thought of the
treasure, in the morning, was to covet it. Again he allowed his fancy
to picture the comforts and the luxuries which it would purchase.

"No one will know it," he added. "Why shouldn't I keep it?"

"God will know it; you will know it yourself," said the other Harry,
more faithful and conscientious than the outside Harry, who, it must
be confessed, was sometimes disposed to be the "Old Harry."

"No use of being too good. I will keep it."

"_She_ hoped you would be a good boy," added the monitor within.

"I will--that is, when I can afford it."

"Be good now, or you never will."

One hundred dollars!--perhaps five hundred! It was a fortune. The
temptation was very great. But the little angel--the act would forever
banish him from her presence. He would never dare to look at her
again, or even to write the letter he had promised.

"Be true to yourself, Harry. Good first, and rich next."

"I will," exclaimed Harry, in an earnest whisper; and again the
tempter was cast out.

Once more the fine air castles began to pile themselves up before
him, standing on the coveted treasure; but he resolutely pitched them
down, and banished them from his mind.

"Where did you lose it?" said a voice near the wagon.

"I don't know. I didn't miss it till this morning; and I have been to
every place where I was last night; so I think I must have lost it
here, when I put my horse up," replied another.

The first speaker was one of the ostlers; and the moment Harry heard
the other voice he started as though a rattlesnake had rattled in his
path. Was it possible? As the speaker proceeded, he was satisfied
beyond the possibility of a doubt that the voice belonged to Squire
Walker.

"Was there much money in it?" asked the ostler.

"About a hundred and fifty dollars; and there were notes and other
papers of great value," replied Squire Walker.

"Well, I haven't seen or heard anything about it."

"I remember taking it out of my great-coat pocket, and putting it into
a pocket inside of my vest, when I got out of the wagon."

"I don't think you lost it here. Some of us would have found it, if
you had."

Here was a dilemma for Harry. He had determined to restore the
pocketbook; but he could not do so without exposing himself. Besides,
if there had been any temptation to keep the treasure before, it was
ten times as great now that he knew it belonged to his enemy. It would
be no sin to keep it from Squire Walker.

"It would be stealing," said the voice within.

"But if I give it to him, he will carry me back to Jacob Wire's. I'll
be--I'll be hanged if I do."

"She hopes you will be a good boy."

There was no resisting this appeal; and again the demon was put down,
and the triumph added another laurel to the moral crown of the little
hero.

"It will be a dear journey to me," continued Squire Walker. "I was
looking all day yesterday after a boy that ran away from the
poorhouse, and came to the city for him. I had better let him go."

"Did you find him?"

"No. I brought that money down to put in the bank. It is gone, I
suppose. Confound the boy!"

Harry waited no longer; but while his heart beat like the machinery in
the great factory at Rockville, he tumbled out of his nest, and slid
down the bale of goods to the pavement.

"Ah, Master Harry West! You are here--are you?" exclaimed Squire
Walker, springing forward to catch him.

Harry dodged, and kept out of his reach.

"Catch him!" shouted the squire to the ostler.

"Wait a minute, Squire Walker," said Harry. "I won't go back to Jacob
Wire's, anyhow. Just hear what I have got to say; and then, if you
want to take me, you may, if you can."

It was evident, even to the squire, that Harry had something of
importance to say; and he involuntarily paused to hear it.

"I have found your pocketbook, squire, and--"

"Give it to me, and I won't touch you," cried the overseer, eagerly.

It was clear that the loss of his pocketbook had produced a salutary
impression on the squire's mind. He loved money, and the punishment
was more than he could bear.

"I was walking along here, last night, when I struck my foot against
something. I picked it up, and found it was a pocketbook. I haven't
opened it. Here it is;" and Harry handed him his lost treasure.

"By gracious!" exclaimed he, after he had assured himself that the
contents of the pocketbook had not been disturbed. "That is more than
ever I expected of you, Master Harry West."

"I mean to be honest," replied Harry, proudly.

"Perhaps you do. I told you, Harry, I wouldn't touch you; and I
won't," continued the squire. "You may go."

The overseer was amazed. He had come to Boston with the intention of
catching Harry, cost what it might,--he meant to charge the expense to
the town; but the recovery of his money had warmed his heart, and
banished the malice he cherished toward the boy.

Squire Walker volunteered some excellent advice for the guidance of
the little pilgrim, who, he facetiously observed, had now no one to
look after his manners and morals--manners first, and morals
afterwards. He must be very careful and prudent, and he wished him
well. Harry, however, took this wholesome counsel as from whom it
came, and was not very deeply impressed by it.

John Lane came to the stable soon after, and congratulated our hero
upon the termination of the persecution from Redfield, and, when his
horses were hitched on, bade him good bye, with many hearty wishes for
his future success.




CHAPTER XIII

IN WHICH HARRY BECOMES A STABLE BOY, AND HEARS BAD NEWS FROM ROCKVILLE


Harry was exceedingly rejoiced at the remarkable turn his affairs had
taken. It is true, he had lost the treasure upon which his fancy had
built so many fine castles; but he did not regret the loss, since it
had purchased his exemption from the Redfield persecution. He had
conquered his enemy--which was a great victory--by being honest and
upright; and he had conquered himself--which was a greater victory--by
listening to the voice within him. He resisted temptation, and the
victory made him strong.

Our hero had won a triumph, but the battlefield was still spread out
before him. There were thousands of enemies lurking in his path, ready
to fall upon and despoil him of his priceless treasure--his integrity.

"She had hoped he would be a good boy." He had done his duty--he had
been true in the face of temptation. He wanted to write to Julia then,
and tell her of his triumph--that, when tempted, he had thought of
her, and won the victory.

The world was before him; it had no place for idlers, and he must get
work. The contents of the basket were not yet exhausted, and he took
it to a retired corner to eat his breakfast. While he was thus
engaged, Joe Flint, the ostler, happened to see him.

"That is cold comfort," said he. "Why don't you go to the tavern and
have your breakfast like a gentleman?"

"I can't afford it," replied Harry.

"Can't afford it? How much did the man that owned the pocketbook give
you?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing! I'm blamed if he ain't a mean one!" exclaimed Joe, heartily.
"I don't wonder you run away."

"I didn't want anything. I was too glad to get clear of him to think
of anything else."

"Next time he loses his pocketbook, I hope he won't find it."

And with this charitable observation, Joe resumed his labors. Harry
finished his meal, washed it down with a draught of cold water at the
pump, and was ready for business again. Unfortunately, there was no
business ready for him. All day long he wandered about the streets in
search of employment; but people did not appreciate his value. No one
would hire him or have anything to do with him. The five patches on
his clothes, he soon discovered, rendered it useless for him to apply
at the stores. He was not in a condition to be tolerated about one of
these; and he turned his attention to the market, the stables, and the
teaming establishments, yet with no better success. It was in vain
that he tried again; and at night, weary and dispirited, he returned
to Major Phillips's stable.

His commissariat was not yet exhausted; and he made a hearty supper
from the basket. It became an interesting question for him to
consider how he should pass the night. He could not afford to pay one
of his quarters for a night's lodging at the tavern opposite. There
was the stable, however, if he could get permission to sleep there.

"May I sleep in the hay loft, Joe?" he asked, as the ostler passed
him.

"Major Phillips don't allow any one to sleep in the hay loft; but
perhaps he will let you sleep there. He was asking about you to-day."

"How should he know anything about me?" said Harry, not a little
surprised to find his fame had gone before him.

"He heard about the pocketbook, and wanted to see you. He said it was
the meanest thing he ever heard of, that the man who lost it didn't
give you anything; and them's my sentiments exactly. Here comes the
major; I will speak to him about you."

"Thank you, Joe."

"Major Phillips, this boy wants to know if he may sleep in the hay
loft to-night."

"No," replied the stable keeper, short as pie crust.

"This is the boy that found the pocketbook, and he hain't got no place
to sleep."

"O, is it? Then I will find a place for him to sleep. So, my boy, you
are an honest fellow."

"I try to be," replied Harry, modestly.

"If you had kept the pocketbook you might have lodged at the Tremont
House."

"I had rather sleep in your stable, without it."

"Squire Walker was mean not to give you a ten-dollar bill. What are
you going to do with yourself?"

"I want to get work; perhaps you have got something for me to do. I am
used to horses."

"Well, I don't know as I have."

Major Phillips was a great fat man, rough, vulgar, and profane in his
conversation; but he had a kind of sympathizing nature. Though he
swore like a pirate sometimes, his heart was in the right place, so
far as humanity was concerned.

He took Harry into the counting room of the stable, and questioned him
in regard to his past history and future prospects. The latter,
however, were just now rather clouded. He told the major his
experience in trying to get something to do, and was afraid he should
not find a place.

The stable keeper was interested in him and in his story. He swore
roundly at the meanness of Jacob Wire and Squire Walker, and commended
him for running away.

"Well, my lad, I don't know as I can do much for you. I have three
ostlers now, which is quite enough, and all I can afford to pay; but I
suppose I can find enough for a boy to do about the house and the
stable. How much wages do you expect?"

"Whatever you think I can earn."

"You can't earn much for me just now; but if you are a-mind to try it,
I will give you six dollars a month and your board."

"Thank you, sir; I shall be very glad of the chance."

"Very well; but if you work for me, you must get up early in the
morning, and be wide awake."

"I will, sir."

"Now, we will see about a place for you to sleep."

Over the counting room was an apartment in which two of the ostlers
slept. There was room for another bed, and one was immediately set up
for Harry's use.

Once more, then, our hero was at home, if a mere abiding place
deserves that hallowed name. It was not an elegant, or even a
commodious, apartment in which Harry was to sleep. The walls were
dingy and black; the beds looked as though they had never been clean;
and there was a greasy smell which came from several harnesses that
were kept there. It was comfortable, if not poetical; and Harry soon
felt perfectly at home.

His first duty was to cultivate the acquaintance of the ostlers. He
found them to be rough, good-natured men, not over-scrupulous about
their manners or their morals. If it does not occur to my young
readers, it will to their parents, that this was not a fit place for
a boy--that he was in constant contact with corruption. His companions
were good-hearted men; but this circumstance rendered them all the
more dangerous. There was no fireside of home, at which the evil
effects of communication with men of loose morals would be
counteracted. Harry had not been an hour in their society before he
caught himself using a big oath--which, when he had gone to bed, he
heartily repented, renewing his resolution with the promise to try
again.

He was up bright and early the next morning, made a fire in the
counting room, and had let out half the horses in the stable to water,
before Major Phillips came out. His services were in demand, as Joe
Flint, for some reason, had not come to the stable that morning.

The stable keeper declared that he had gone on a "spree," and told
Harry he might take his place.

Harry did take his place; and the ostlers declared that, in everything
but cleaning the horses, he made good his place. The knowledge and
skill which he had obtained at the poorhouse was of great value to
him; and, at night, though he was very tired, he was satisfied that he
had done a good day's work.

The ostlers took their meals at the house of Major Phillips, which
stood at one side of the stable yard. Harry did not like Mrs. Phillips
very well; she was cross, and the men said she was a "regular Tartar."
But he was resolved to keep the peace. He afterwards found it a
difficult matter; for he had to bring wood and water, and do other
chores about the house, and he soon ascertained that she was
determined not to be pleased with anything he did. He tried to keep
his temper, however, and meekly submitted to all her scolding and
grumbling.

Thus far, while Harry has been passing through the momentous period of
his life with which we commenced his story, we have minutely detailed
the incidents of his daily life, so that we have related the events of
only a few days. This is no longer necessary. He has got a place, and
of course one day is very much like every other. The reader knows him
now--knows what kind of boy he is, and what his hopes and expectations
are. The reader knows, too, the great moral epoch in his history--the
event which roused his consciousness of error, and stimulated him to
become better; that he has a talisman in his mind, which can be no
better expressed than by those words he so often repeated, "She hoped
he would be a good boy." And her angel smile went with him to
encourage him in the midst of trial and temptation--to give him the
victory over the foes that assailed him.

We shall henceforth give results, instead of a daily record, stopping
to detail only the great events of his career.

We shall pass over three months, during which time he worked
diligently and faithfully for Major Phillips. Every day had its trials
and temptations; not a day passed in which there were none. The habit
of using profane language he found it very hard to eradicate; but he
persevered; and though he often sinned, he as often repented and tried
again, until he had fairly mastered the enemy. It was a great triumph,
especially when it is remembered that he was surrounded by those whose
every tenth word at least was an oath.

He was tempted to lie, tempted to neglect his work, tempted to steal,
tempted in a score of other things. And often he yielded; but the
remembrance of the little angel, and the words of the good Book she
had given him, cheered and supported him as he struggled on.

Harry's finances were in a tolerably prosperous condition. With his
earnings he had bought a suit of clothes, and went to church half a
day every Sunday. Besides his wages, he had saved about five dollars
from the "perquisites" which he received from customers for holding
their horses, running errands, and other little services a boy could
perform. He was very careful and prudent with his money; and whenever
he added anything to his little hoard, he thought of the man who had
become rich by saving up his fourpences. He still cherished his
purpose to become a rich man, and it is very likely he had some
brilliant anticipations of success. Not a cent did he spend foolishly,
though it was hard work to resist the inclination to buy the fine
things that tempted him from the shop windows.

Those who knew him best regarded him as a very strange boy; but that
was only because he was a little out of his element. He would have
preferred to be among men who did not bluster and swear; but, in spite
of them, he had the courage and the fortitude to be true to himself.
The little angel still maintained her ascendency in his moral nature.

The ostlers laughed at him when he took out his little Bible, before
he went to bed, to drink of the waters of life. They railed at him,
called him "Little Pious," and tried to induce him to pitch cents, in
the back yard, on Sunday afternoon, instead of going to church. He
generally bore these taunts with patience, though sometimes his high
spirit would get the better of his desire to be what the little angel
wished him to be.

John Lane put up at the stable once a week; and, every time he
returned to Rockville, he carried a written or a verbal account of the
prosperity of the little pauper boy. One Sunday, he wrote her a long
letter all about "being good"--how he was tempted, and how he
struggled for her sake and for the sake of the truth.

In return, he often received messages and letters from her, breathing
the same pure spirit which she had manifested when she "fed him in the
wilderness." These communications strengthened his moral nature, and
enabled him to resist temptation. He felt just as though she was an
angel sent into the world to watch over him. Perhaps he had fallen
without them; at any rate, her influence was very powerful.

About the middle of January, when the earth was covered with snow, and
the bleak, cold winds of winter blew over the city, John Lane informed
Harry, on his arrival, that Julia was very sick with the scarlet fever
and canker rash, and it was feared she would not recover.

This was the most severe trial of all. He wept when he thought of her
sweet face reddened with the flush of fever; and he fled to his
chamber, to vent his emotions in silence and solitude.




CHAPTER XIV

IN WHICH HARRY DOES A GOOD DEED, AND DETERMINES TO "FACE THE MUSIC"


While Harry sat by the stove in the ostlers' room, grieving at the
intelligence he had received from Rockville, a little girl, so lame
that she walked with a crutch, hobbled into the apartment.

"Is my father here?" she asked, in tones so sad that Harry could not
help knowing she was in distress.

"I don't know as I am acquainted with your father," replied Harry.

"He is one of the ostlers here."

"Oh, Joseph Flint!"

"Yes; he has not been home to dinner or supper to-day, and mother is
very sick."

"I haven't seen him to-day."

"O, dear! What will become of us?" sighed the little girl, as she
hobbled away.

Harry was struck by the sad appearance of the girl, and the desponding
words she uttered. Of late, Joe Flint's vile habit of intemperance had
grown upon him so rapidly that he did not work at the stable more than
one day in three. For two months, Major Phillips had been threatening
to discharge him; and nothing but kindly consideration for his family
had prevented him from doing so.

"Have you seen Joe to-day?" asked Harry of one of the ostlers, who
came into the room soon after the departure of the little girl.

"No, and don't want to see him," replied Abner, testily; for, in Joe's
absence, his work had to be done by the other ostlers, who did not
feel very kindly towards him.

"His little girl has just been here after him."

"Very likely he hasn't been home for a week," added Abner. "I should
think his family would be very thankful if they never saw him again.
He is a nuisance to himself and everybody else."

"Where does he live?"

"Just up in Avery Street--in a ten-footer there."

"The little girl said her mother was very sick."

"I dare say. She is always sick; and I don't much wonder. Joe Flint is
enough to make any one sick. He has been drunk about two-thirds of the
time for two months."

"I don't see how his family get along."

"Nor I, either."

After Abner had warmed himself, he left the room. Harry was haunted by
the sad look and desponding tones of the poor lame girl. It was a
bitter cold evening; and what if Joe's family were suffering with the
cold and hunger! It was sad to think of such a thing; and Harry was
deeply moved.

"She hoped I would be a good boy. She is very sick now, and perhaps
she will die," said Harry to himself. "What would she do, if she were
here now?"

He knew very well what she would do, and he determined to do it
himself. His heart was so deeply moved by the picture of sorrow and
suffering with which his imagination had invested the home of the
intemperate ostler that it required no argument to induce him to go.

But he must go prepared to do something. However sweet and consoling
may be the sympathy of others to those in distress, it will not warm
the chilled limbs or feed the hungry mouths; and Harry thanked God
then that he had not spent his money foolishly upon gewgaws and
gimcracks, or in gratifying a selfish appetite.

After assuring himself that no one was approaching, he jumped on his
bedstead, and reaching up into a hole in the board ceiling of the
room, he took out a large wooden pill box, which was nearly filled
with various silver coins, from a five-cent piece to a half dollar.
Putting the box in his pocket, he went down to the stable, and
inquired more particularly in relation Joe's house.

When he had received such directions as would enable him to find the
place, he told Abner he wanted to be absent a little while, and left
the stable. He had no difficulty in finding the home of the drunkard's
family. It was a little, old wooden house, in Avery Street, opposite
Haymarket Place, which has long since been pulled down to make room
for a more elegant dwelling.

Harry knocked, and was admitted by the little lame girl whom he had
seen at the stable.

"I have come to see if I can do anything for you," said Harry, as he
moved forward into the room in which the family lived.

"Have you seen anything of father?" asked the little girl.

"I haven't; Abner says he hasn't been to the stable to-day. Haven't
you any lights?" asked Harry, as he entered the dark room.

"We haven't got any oil, nor any candles."

In the fireplace, a piece of pine board was blazing, which cast a
faint and fitful glare into the room; and Harry was thus enabled to
behold the scene which the miserable home of the drunkard presented.

In one corner was a dilapidated bedstead, on which lay the sick woman.
Drawn from under it was a trundle bed, upon which lay two small
children, who had evidently been put to bed at that early hour to keep
them warm, for the temperature of the apartment was scarcely more
comfortable than that of the open air. It was a cheerless home; and
the faint light of the blazing board only served to increase the
desolate appearance of the place.

"Who is it?" asked the sick woman, faintly.

"The boy that works at the stable," replied the lame girl.

"My name is Harry West, marm; and I come to see if you wanted
anything," added Harry.

"We want a great many things," sighed she. "Can you tell me where my
husband is?"

"I can't; he hasn't been at the stable to-day."

"Oh, God! what will become of us?" sobbed the woman.

"I will help you, marm. Don't take on so. I have money! and I will do
everything I can for you."

When her mother sobbed, the lame girl sat down on the bed and cried
bitterly. Harry's tender heart was melted; and he would have wept also
if he had not been conscious of the high mission he had to perform;
and he felt very grateful that he was able to dry up those tears and
carry gladness to those bleeding hearts.

"I don't know what you can do for us," said the poor woman, "though I
am sure I am very much obliged to you."

"I can do a great deal, marm. Cheer up," replied Harry, tenderly.

As he spoke, one of the children in the trundle bed sobbed in its
sleep; and the poor mother's heart seemed to be lacerated by the
sound.

"Poor child," wailed she. "He had no supper but a crust of bread and a
cup of cold water. He cried himself to sleep with cold and hunger. Oh,
Heaven! that we should have come to this!"

"And the room is very cold," added Harry, glancing around him.

"It is. Our wood is all gone but two great logs. Katy could not bring
them up."

"I worked for an hour trying to split some pieces off them," said
Katy, the lame girl.

"I will fix them, marm," replied Harry, who felt the strength of ten
stout men in his limbs at that moment. "But you have had no supper."

"No."

"Wait a minute. Have you a basket?"

Katy brought him a peck basket, and Harry rushed out of the house as
though he had been shot. Great deeds were before him, and he was
inspired for the occasion.

In a quarter of an hour he returned. The basket was nearly full.
Placing it in a chair, he took from it a package of candles, one of
which he lighted and placed in a tin candlestick on the table.

"Now we have got a little light on the subject," said he, as he began
to display the contents of the basket. "Here, Katy, is two pounds of
meat; here is half a pound of tea; you had better put a little in the
teapot, and let it be steeping for your mother."

"God bless you!" exclaimed Mrs. Flint. "You are an angel sent from
Heaven to help us in our distress."

"No, marm; I ain't an angel," answered Harry, who seemed to feel that
Julia Bryant had an exclusive monopoly of that appellation, so far as
it could be reasonably applied to mortals. "I only want to do my duty,
marm."

Katy Flint was so bewildered that she could say nothing, though her
opinion undoubtedly coincided with that of her mother.

"Here is two loaves of bread and two dozen crackers; a pound of
butter; two pounds of sugar. There! I did not bring any milk."

"Never mind the milk. You are a blessed child."

"Give me a pitcher, Katy. I will go down to Thomas's in two shakes of
a jiffy."

Mrs. Flint protested that she did not want any milk--that she could
get along very well without it; but Harry said the children must have
it; and, without waiting for Katy to get the pitcher, he took it from
the closet, and ran out of the house.

He was gone but a few minutes. When he returned he found Katy trying
to make the teakettle boil, but with very poor success.

"Now, Katy, show me the logs, and I will soon have a fire."

The lame girl conducted him to the cellar, where Harry found the
remnants of the old box which Katy had tried to split. Seizing the
axe, he struck a few vigorous blows, and the pine boards were reduced
to a proper shape for use. Taking an armful, he returned to the
chamber; and soon a good fire was blazing under the teakettle.

"There, marm, we will soon have things to rights," said Harry, as he
rose from the hearth, where he had stooped down to blow the fire.

"I am sure we should have perished if you had not come," added Mrs.
Flint, who was not disposed to undervalue Harry's good deeds.

"Then I am very glad I came."

"I hope we shall be able to pay you back all the money you have spent;
but I don't know. Joseph has got so bad, I don't know what he is
coming to. He is a good-hearted man. He always uses me well, even when
he is in liquor. Nothing but drink could make him neglect us so."

"It is a hard case, marm," added Harry.

"Very hard; he hasn't done much of anything for us this winter. I have
been out to work every day till a fortnight ago, when I got sick and
couldn't do anything. Katy has kept us alive since then; she is a good
girl, and takes the whole care of Tommy and Susan."

"Poor girl! It is a pity she is so lame."

"I don't mind that, if I only had things to do with," said Katy, who
was busy disposing of the provisions which Harry had bought.

As soon as the kettle boiled, she made tea, and prepared a little
toast for her mother, who, however, was too sick to take much
nourishment.

"Now, Katy, you must eat yourself," interposed Harry, when all was
ready.

"I can't eat," replied the poor girl, bursting into tears. "I don't
feel hungry."

"You must eat."

Just then the children in the trundle bed, disturbed by the unusual
bustle in the room, waked, and gazed with wonder at Harry, who had
seated himself on the bed.

"Poor Susy!" exclaimed Katy; "she has waked up. And Tommy, too! They
shall have their supper, now."

They were taken up; and Harry's eyes were gladdened by such a sight as
he had never beheld before. The hungry ate; and every mouthful they
took swelled the heart of the little almoner of God's bounty. If the
thought of Julia Bryant, languishing on a bed of sickness, had not
marred his satisfaction, he had been perfectly happy. But he was
doing a deed that would rejoice her heart; he was doing just what she
had done for him; he was doing just what she would have done, if she
had been there.

"She hoped he would be a good boy." His conscience told him he had
been a good boy--that he had been true to himself, and true to the
noble example she had set before him.

While the family were still at supper, Harry, lighting another candle,
went down cellar to pay his respects to those big logs. He was a stout
boy, and accustomed to the use of the axe. By slow degrees he chipped
off the logs, until they were used up, and a great pile of serviceable
wood was before him. Not content with this, he carried up several
large armfuls of it, which he deposited by the fireplace in the room.

"Now, marm, I don't know as I can do anything more for you to-night,"
said he, moving towards the door.

"The Lord knows you have done enough," replied the poor woman. "I hope
we shall be able to pay you for what you have done."

"I don't want anything, marm."

"If we can't pay you, the Lord will reward you."

"I am paid enough already. I hope you will get better, marm."

"I hope so. I feel better to-night than I have felt before for a
week."

"Good night, marm! Good night, Katy!" And Harry hurried back to the
stable.

"Where have you been, Harry?" asked Abner, when he entered the
ostler's room.

"I have been out a little while."

"I know that. The old man wanted you; and when he couldn't find you,
he was mad as thunder."

"Where is he?" said Harry, somewhat annoyed to find that, while he had
been doing his duty in one direction, he had neglected his duty in
another.

"In the counting room. You will catch fits for going off."

Whatever he should catch, he determined to "face the music," and left
the room to find his employer.




CHAPTER XV

IN WHICH HARRY MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF A VERY IMPORTANT PERSONAGE


Major Phillips was in the counting room, where Harry, dreading his
anger, presented himself before him. His employer was a violent man.
He usually acted first, and thought the matter over afterwards; so
that he frequently had occasion to undo what had been done in haste
and passion. His heart was kind, but his temper generally had the
first word.

"So you have come, Harry," exclaimed he, as our hero opened the door.
"Where have you been?"

"I have been out a little while," replied Harry, whose modesty
rebelled at the idea of proclaiming the good deed he had done.

"Out a little while!" roared the major, with an oath that froze the
boy's blood. "That is enough--enough, sir. You know I don't allow man
or boy to leave the stable without letting me know it."

"I was wrong, sir; but I--"

"You little snivelling monkey, how dared you leave the stable?"
continued the stable keeper, heedless of the boy's submission. "I'll
teach you better than that."

"Will you?" said Harry, suddenly changing his tone, as his blood began
to boil. "You can begin as quick as you like."

"You saucy young cub! I have a great mind to give you a cowhiding,"
thundered the enraged stable keeper.

"I should like to see you do it," replied Harry, fixing his eyes on
the poker that lay on the floor near the stove.

"Should you, you impertinent puppy?"

The major sprang forward, as if to grasp the boy by the collar; but
Harry, with his eyes still fixed on the poker, retreated a pace or
two, ready to act promptly when the decisive moment should come.
Forgetting for the time that he had run away from one duty to attend
to another, he felt indignant that he should be thus rudely treated
for being absent a short time on an errand of love and charity. He
gave himself too much credit for the good deed, and felt that he was a
martyr to his philanthropic spirit. He was willing to bear all and
brave all in a good cause; and it seemed to him, just then, as though
he was being punished for assisting Joe Flint's family, instead of for
leaving his place without permission. A great many persons who mean
well are apt to think themselves martyrs for any good cause in which
they may be engaged, when, in reality, their own want of tact, or the
offensive manner in which they present their truth, is the stake at
which they are burned.

"Keep off!" said Harry, his eyes flashing fire.

The major was so angry that he could do nothing; and while they were
thus confronting each other, Joe Flint staggered into the counting
room. Intoxicated as he was, he readily discovered the position of
affairs between the belligerents.

"Look here--hic--Major Phillips," said he, reeling up to his employer,
"I love you--hic--Major Phillips, like a--hic--like a brother, Major
Phillips; but if you touch that boy, Major Phillips, I'll--hic--you
touch me, Major Phillips. That's all."

"Go home, Joe," replied the stable keeper, his attention diverted from
Harry to the new combatant. "You are drunk."

"I know I'm drunk, Major Phillips. I'm as drunk as a beast; but I
ain't--hic--dead drunk. I know what I'm about."

"No, you don't. Go home."

"Yes, I dzoo. I'm a brute; I'm a hog; I'm a--dzwhat you call it? I'm a
villain."

Joe tried to straighten himself up, and look at his employer; but he
could not, and suddenly bursting into tears, he threw himself heavily
into a chair, weeping bitterly in his inebriate paroxysm. He sobbed,
and groaned, and talked incoherently. He acted strangely, and Major
Phillips's attention was excited.

"What is the matter, Joe?" he asked; and his anger towards Harry
seemed to have subsided.

"I tell you I am a villain, Major Phillips," blubbered Joe.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Haven't I been on a drunk, and left my family to starve and freeze?"
groaned Joe, interlarding his speech with violent ebullitions of
weeping. "Wouldn't my poor wife, and my poor children--O my God," and
the poor drunkard covered his face with his hands, and sobbed like an
infant.

"What is the matter? What do you mean, Joe?" asked Major Phillips, who
had never seen him in this frame before.

"Wouldn't they all have died if Harry hadn't gone and fed 'em, and
split up wood to warm 'em?"

As he spoke, Joe sprang up, and rushed towards Harry, and in his
drunken frenzy attempted to embrace him.

"What does this mean, Harry?" said the stable keeper, turning to our
hero, who, while Joe was telling his story, had been thinking of
something else.

"What a fool I was to get mad!" thought he. "What would she say if she
had seen me just now? Poor Julia! perhaps she is dead, even now."

"My folks would have died if it hadn't been for him," hiccoughed Joe.

"Explain it, Harry," added the major.

"The lame girl, Katy, came down here after her father early in the
evening. She seemed to be in trouble and I thought I would go up and
see what the matter was. I found them in rather a bad condition,
without any wood or anything to eat. I did what I could for them, and
came away," replied Harry.

"Give me your hand, Harry!" and the major grasped his hand like a
vise. "You are a good fellow," he added, with an oath.

"Forgive me, Mr. Phillips, for saying what I did; I was mad," pleaded
Harry.

"So was I, my boy; but we won't mind that. You are a good fellow, and
I like your spunk. So you have really been taking care of Joe's family
while he was off on a drunk?"

"I didn't do much, sir."

"Look here, Harry, and you, Major Phillips. When I get this rum out of
me I'll never take another drop again," said Joe, throwing himself
into a chair.

"Bah, Joe! You have said that twenty times before," added Major
Phillips.

"You dzee!" exclaimed Joe, doubling his fist, and bringing it down
with the intention of hitting the table by his side to emphasize his
resolution; but, unfortunately, he missed the table--a circumstance
which seemed to fore-shadow the fate of his resolve.

Joe proceeded to declare in his broken speech what a shock he had
received when he went home, half an hour before--the first time for
several days--and heard the reproaches of his suffering wife; how
grateful he was to Harry, and what a villain he considered himself.
Either the sufferings of his family, or the rum he had drunk, melted
his heart, and he was as eloquent as his half-paralyzed tongue would
permit. He was a pitiable object; and having assured himself that
Joe's family were comfortable for the night, Major Phillips put him to
bed in his own house.

Harry was not satisfied with himself; he had permitted his temper to
get the better of him. He thought of Julia on her bed of suffering,
wept for her, and repented for himself. That night he heard the clock
on the Boylston market strike twelve before he closed his eyes to
sleep.

The next day, while he was at work in the stable, a boy of about
fifteen called to see him, and desired to speak with him alone. Harry,
much wondering who his visitor was, and what he wanted, conducted him
to the ostlers' chamber.

"You are Harry West?" the boy began.

"That is my name, for the want of a better," replied Harry.

"Then there is a little matter to be settled between you and me. You
helped my folks out last night, and I want to pay you for it."

"Your folks?"

"My name is Edward Flint."

"Then you are Joe's son."

"I am," replied Edward, who did not seem to feel much honored by the
relationship.

"Your folks were in a bad condition last night."

"That's a fact; they were."

"But I didn't know Joe had a son as old as you are."

"I am the oldest; but I don't live at home, and have not for three
years. How much did you pay out for them last night?"

"One dollar and twenty cents."

"As much as that?"

"Just that."

Edward Flint manifested some uneasiness at the announcement. He had
evidently come with a purpose, but had found things different from
what he had expected.

"I didn't think it was so much."

"What matters how much?" asked Harry.

"Why, I want to pay you."

"You needn't mind that."

"The fact is, I have only three dollars just now; and I promised to go
out to ride with a fellow next Sunday. So, you see, if I pay you, I
shall not have enough left to foot the bills."

Harry looked at his visitor with astonishment; he did not know what to
make of him. Was he in earnest? Would a son of Joseph Flint go out to
ride--on Sunday, too--while his mother and his brothers and sisters
were on the very brink of starvation? Our hero had some strange,
old-fashioned notions of his own. For instance, he considered it a
son's duty to take care of his mother, even if he were obliged to
forego the Sunday ride; that he ought to do all he could for his
brothers and sisters, even if he had to go without stewed oysters,
stay away from the theatre, and perhaps wear a little coarser cloth on
his back. If Harry was unreasonable in his views, my young reader will
remember that he was brought up in the country, where young America is
not quite so "fast" as in the city.

"I didn't ask you to pay me," continued Harry.

"I know that; but, you see, I suppose I ought to pay you. The old man
don't take much care of the family."

Harry wanted to say that the young man did not appear to do much
better; but he was disposed to be as civil as the circumstances would
permit.

"You needn't pay me."

"Oh, yes, I shall pay you; but if you can wait till the first of next
month, I should like it."

"I can wait. Do you live out?"

"Live out? What do you mean by that? I am a clerk in a store
downtown," replied Edward, with offended dignity.

"Oh, are you? Do they pay you well?"

"Pretty fair; I get five dollars a week."

"Five dollars a week! Thunder! I should think you did get paid pretty
well!" exclaimed Harry, astonished at the vastness of the sum for a
week's work.

"Fair salary," added Edward, complacently. "What are you doing here?"

"I work in the stable and about the house."

"That's mean business," said Mr. Flint, turning up his nose.

"It does very well."

"How much do you get?"

"Six dollars a month and perquisites."

"How much are the perquisites?"

"From one to two dollars a month."

"Humph! I wonder you stay here."

"It is as well as I can do."

"No, it isn't; why don't you go into a store? We want a boy in our
store."

"Do you?"

"We do."

"How much do you pay?"

"We pay from two to four dollars a week."

"Can't you get me the place?" asked Harry, now much interested in his
companion.

"Well, yes; perhaps I can."

"What should I have to do?"

"Make the fires, sweep out in the morning, go on errands, and such
work. Boys must begin at the foot of the ladder. I began at the foot
of the ladder," answered Mr. Flint, with an immense self-sufficiency,
which Harry, however, failed to notice.

"I should like to get into a store."

"You will have a good chance to rise."

"I am willing to do anything, so that I can have a chance to get
ahead."

"We always give boys a good chance."

Harry wanted that mysterious "we" defined. As it was, he was left to
infer that Mr. Flint was a partner in the concern, unless the five
dollars per week was an argument to the contrary; but he didn't like
to ask strange questions, and desired to know whom "he worked for."

Edward Flint did not "work for" anybody. He was a clerk in the
extensive dry goods establishment of the Messrs. Wake & Wade, which,
he declared, was the largest concern in Boston; and one might further
have concluded that Mr. Flint was the most important personage in the
said concern.

Mr. Flint was obliged to descend from his lofty dignity, and compound
the dollar and twenty cents with the stable boy by promising to get
him the vacant place in the establishment of Wake & Wade, if his
influence was sufficient to procure it. Harry was satisfied, and
begged him not to distress himself about the debt. The visitor took
his leave, promising to see him again the next day.

About noon Joe Flint appeared at the stable again, perfectly sober.
Major Phillips had lent him ten dollars, in anticipation of his
month's wages, and he had been home to attend to the comfort of his
suffering family. After dinner he had a long talk with Harry, in
which, after paying him the money disbursed on the previous evening,
he repeated his solemn resolution to drink no more. He was very
grateful to Harry, and hoped he should be able to do as much for him.

"Don't drink any more, Joe, and it will be the best day's work I ever
did," added Harry.

"I never will, Harry--never!" protested Joe.




CHAPTER XVI

IN WHICH HARRY GOES INTO THE DRYGOODS BUSINESS


Mr. Edward Flint's reputation as a gentleman of honor and a man of his
word suffered somewhat in Harry's estimation; for he waited all day,
and all evening, without hearing a word from the firm of Wake & Wade.
He had actually begun to doubt whether the accomplished young man had
as much influence with the firm as he had led him to suppose. But his
ambition would not permit him longer to be satisfied with the humble
sphere of a stable boy; and he determined, if he did not hear from
Edward, to apply for the situation himself.

The next day, having procured two hours' leave of absence from the
stable, he called at the home of Joe Flint to obtain further
particulars concerning Edward and his situation. He found the family
in much better circumstances than at his previous visit. Mrs. Flint
was sitting up, and was rapidly convalescing; Katy was busy and
cheerful; and it seemed a different place from that to which he had
been the messenger of hope and comfort two nights before.

They were very glad to see him, and poured forth their gratitude to
him so eloquently that he was obliged to change the topic. Mrs. Flint
was sure that her husband was an altered man. She had never before
known him to be so earnest and solemn in his resolutions to amend and
lead a new life.

But when Harry alluded to Edward, both Katy and her mother suddenly
grew red. They acknowledged that they had sent for him in their
extremity, but that he did not come till the next morning, when the
bounty of the stable boy had relieved them from the bitterness of
want. The mother dropped a tear as she spoke of the wayward son; and
Harry had not the heart to press the inquiries he had come to make.

After speaking as well as he dared to speak of Edward, he took his
leave, and hastened to the establishment of Wake & Wade, to apply for
the vacant place. He had put on his best clothes, and his appearance
this time was very creditable.

Entering the store, he inquired for Edward Flint; and that gentleman
was summoned to receive him.

"Hallo, Harry West!" said Edward, when he recognized his visitor. "I
declare I forgot all about you."

"I thought likely," replied Harry, willing to be very charitable to
the delinquent.

"The fact is, we have been so busy in the store I haven't had time to
call on you, as I promised."

"Never mind, now. Is the place filled?"

"No."

"I am glad to hear that. Do you think there is any chance for me?"

"Well, I don't know. I will do what I can for you."

"Thank you, Edward."

"Wait here a moment till I speak with one of the partners."

The clerk left him, and was absent but a moment, when Harry was
summoned to the private room of Mr. Wake. The gentleman questioned him
for a few moments, and seemed to be pleased with his address and his
frankness. The result of the interview was that our hero was engaged
at a salary of three dollars a week, though it was objected to him
that he had no parents residing in the city.

"I thought I could fix it," said Edward, complacently, as they left
the counting room.

"I am much obliged to you, Edward," replied Harry, willing to humor
his new friend. "Now I want to get a place to board."

"That is easy enough."

"Where do you board?"

"In Green Street."

"How much do you pay a week?"

"Two dollars and a half."

"I can't pay that."

"Well, I suppose you can't."

"I was thinking of something just now. Suppose we should both board
with your mother."

"Me?"

"Yes."

"What, in a ten-footer!" exclaimed Edward, starting back with
astonishment and indignation at the proposal.

"Why not? If it is good enough for your mother, isn't it good enough
for you?"

"Humph! I'll bet it won't suit me."

"We can fix up a room to suit ourselves, you know. And it will be much
cheaper for both of us."

"That, indeed; but the idea of boarding with the old man is not to be
thought of."

"I should think you would like to be with your mother and your
brothers and sisters."

"Not particular about it."

"Better think of it, Edward."

The clerk promised to think about it, but did not consider it very
probable that he should agree to the proposition.

Harry returned to the stable, and immediately notified Major Phillips
of his intention to leave his service. As may be supposed, the stable
keeper was sorry to lose him; but he did not wish to stand in the way
of his advancement. He paid him his wages, adding a gift of five
dollars, and kindly permitted him to leave at once, as he desired to
procure a place to board, and to acquaint himself with the localities
of the city, so that he could discharge his duty the more acceptably
to his new employers.

The ostlers, too, were sorry to part with him--particularly Joe Flint,
whose admiration of our hero was unbounded. In their rough and honest
hearts they wished him well. They had often made fun of his good
principles; often laughed at him for refusing to pitch cents in the
back yard on Sunday, and for going to church instead; often ridiculed
him under the name of "Little Pious"; still they had a great respect
for him. They who are "persecuted for righteousness' sake"--who are
made fun of because they strive to do right--are always sure of
victory in the end. They may be often tried, but sooner or later they
shall triumph.

After dinner, he paid another visit to Mrs. Flint, in Avery Street. He
opened his proposition to board in her family, to which she raised
several objections, chief of which was that she had no room. The plan
was more favorably received by Katy; and she suggested that they could
hire the little apartment upstairs, which was used as a kind of lumber
room by the family in the other part of the house.

Her mother finally consented to the arrangement, and it became
necessary to decide upon the terms, for Harry was a prudent manager,
and left nothing to be settled afterwards. He then introduced the
project he had mentioned to Edward; and Mrs. Flint thought she could
board them both for three dollars a week, if they could put up with
humble fare. Harry declared that he was not "difficult," though he
could not speak for Edward.

Our hero was delighted with the success of his scheme, and only wished
that Edward had consented to the arrangement; but the next time he saw
him, somewhat to his surprise, the clerk withdrew his objections, and
entered heartily into the scheme.

"You see, Harry, I shall make a dollar a week--fifty-two dollars a
year--by the arrangement," said Edward, after he had consented.

He evidently considered that some apology was due from him for
condescending from the social dignity of his position in the Green
Street boarding house to the humble place beneath his mother's roof.

"Certainly you will; and that is a great deal of money," replied
Harry.

"It will pay my theatre tickets, and for a ride once a month besides."

"For what?" asked Harry, astonished at his companion's theory of
economy.

Edward repeated his statement.

"Why don't you save your money?"

"Save it? What is the use of that? I mean to have a good time while I
can."

"You never will be a rich man."

"I'll bet I will."

"You could give your mother and Katy a great many nice things with
that money."

"Humph! The old man must take care of them. It is all I can do to take
care of myself."

"If I had a mother, and brothers and sisters, I should be glad to
spend all I got in making them happy," sighed Harry.

On the following Monday morning, Harry went to his new place. He was
in a strange position. All was untried and unfamiliar. Even the
language of the clerks and salesmen was strange to him; and he was
painfully conscious of the deficiencies of his education and of his
knowledge of business. He was prompt, active and zealous; yet his
awkwardness could not be concealed. The transition from the stable to
the store was as great as from a hovel to a palace. He made a great
many blunders. Mr. Wake laughed at him; Mr. Wade swore at him; and all
the clerks made him the butt of their mirth or their ill nature, just
as they happened to feel.

What seemed to him worse than all, Edward Flint joined the popular
side, and laughed and swore with the rest. Poor Harry was almost
discouraged before dinner time, and began very seriously to consider
whether he had not entirely mistaken his calling. Dinner, however,
seemed to inspire him with new courage and new energy; and he hastened
back to the store, resolved to try again.

The shop was crowded with customers; and partners and clerks hallooed
"Harry" till he was so confused that he hardly knew whether he stood
on his head or his heels. It was, Come here, Go there, Bring this,
Bring that; but in spite of laugh and curse, of push and kick, he
persevered, suiting nobody, least of all himself.

It was a long day, a very long day; but it came to an end at last. Our
hero had hardly strength enough left to put up the shutters. His legs
ached, his head ached, and, worst of all, his heart ached at the
manifest failure of his best intentions. He thought of going to the
partners, and asking them whether they thought he was fit for the
place; but he finally decided to try again for another day, and
dragged himself home to rest his weary limbs.

He and Edward had taken possession of their room at Joe Flint's house
that morning; and on their arrival they found that Katy had put
everything in excellent order for their reception. Harry was too much
fatigued and disheartened to have a very lively appreciation of the
comforts of his new home; but Edward, notwithstanding the descent he
had made, was in high spirits. He even declared that the room they
were to occupy was better than his late apartments in Green Street.

"Do you think I shall get along with my work, Edward?" asked Harry,
gloomily, after they had gone to bed.

"Why not?"

"Everybody in the store has kicked and cuffed me, swore at and abused
me, till I feel like a jelly."

"Oh, never mind that; they always do so with a green one. They served
me just so when I first went into business."

"Did they?"

"Fact. One must live and learn."

"It seemed to me just as though I never could suit them."

"Pooh! Don't be blue about it."

"I can't help it, I know I did not suit them."

"Yes, you did."

"What made them laugh at me and swear at me, then?"

"That is the fashion; you must talk right up to them. If they swear at
you, swear at them back again--that is, the clerks and salesmen. If
they give you any 'lip,' let 'em have as good as they send."

"I don't want to do that."

"Must do it, Harry. 'Live and learn' is my motto. When you go among
the Romans, do as the Romans do."

Harry did not like this advice; for he who, among the Romans, would do
as the Romans do, among hogs would do as the hogs do.

"If I only suit them, I don't care."

"You do; I heard Wake tell Wade that you were a first-rate boy."

"Did you?" And Harry's heart swelled with joy to think that, in spite
of his trials, he had actually triumphed in the midst of them.

So he dropped the subject, with the resolution to redouble his
exertions to please his employers the next day, and turned his
thoughts to Julia Bryant, to wonder if she were still living, or had
become an angel indeed.




CHAPTER XVII

IN WHICH HARRY REVISITS ROCKVILLE, AND MEETS WITH A SERIOUS LOSS


The next evening Harry was conscious of having gained a little in the
ability to discharge his novel duties. Either the partners and the
clerks had become tired of swearing and laughing at him, or he had
made a decided improvement, for less fault was found with him, and
his position was much more satisfactory. With a light heart he put up
the shutters; for though he was very much fatigued, the prestige of
future success was so cheering that he scarcely heeded his weary,
aching limbs.

Every day was an improvement on the preceding day, and before the week
was out Harry found himself quite at home in his new occupation. He
was never a moment behind the time at which he was required to be at
the store in the morning. This promptness was specially noted by the
partners; for when they came to their business in the morning they
found the store well warmed, the floor nicely swept, and everything
put in order.

When he was sent out with bundles he did not stop to look at the
pictures in the shop windows, to play marbles or tell long stories to
other boys in the streets. If his employers had even been very
unreasonable, they could not have helped being pleased with the new
boy, and Wake confidentially assured Wade that they had got a
treasure.

Our hero was wholly devoted to his business. He intended to make a man
of himself, and he could only accomplish his purpose by constant
exertion, by constant study and constant "trying again." He was
obliged to keep a close watch over himself, for often he was tempted
to be idle and negligent, to be careless and indifferent.

After supper, on Thursday evening of his second week at Wake & Wade's,
he hastened to Major Phillips' stable to see John Lane, and obtain the
news from Rockville. His heart beat violently when he saw John's great
wagon, for he dreaded some fearful announcement from his sick friend.
He had not before been so deeply conscious of his indebtedness to the
little angel as now, when she lay upon the bed of pain, perhaps of
death. She had kindled in his soul a love for the good and the
beautiful. She had inspired him with a knowledge of the difference
between the right and the wrong. In a word, she was the guiding star
of his existence. Her approbation was the bright guerdon of fidelity
to truth and principle.

"How is Julia?" asked Harry, without giving John time to inquire why
he had left the stable.

"They think she is a little grain better."

"Then she is still living?" continued Harry, a great load of anxiety
removed from his soul.

"She is; but it is very doubtful how it will turn. I went in to see
her yesterday, and she spoke of you."

"Spoke of me?"

"She said she should like to see you."

"I should like to see her very much."

"Her father told me, if you was a mind to go up to Rockville, he would
pay your expenses."

"I don't mind the expenses. I will go, if I can get away."

"Her father feels very bad about it. Julia is an only child, and he
would do anything in the world to please her."

"I will go and see the gentlemen I work for, and if they will let me,
I will go with you to-morrow morning."

"Better take the stage; you will get there so much quicker."

"I will do so, then."

Harry returned home to ascertain of Edward where Mr. Wake lived, and
hastened to see him. That gentleman, however, coldly assured him if he
went to Rockville he must lose his place--they could not get along
without a boy. In vain Harry urged that he should be gone but two
days; the senior was inflexible.

"What shall I do?" said he to himself, when he got into the street
again. "Mr. Wake says she is no relation of mine, and he don't see why
I should go. Poor Julia! She may die, and I shall never see her again.
I must go."

It did not require a great deal of deliberation to convince himself
that it was his duty to visit the sick girl. She had been a true
friend to him, and he could afford to sacrifice his place to procure
her even a slight gratification. Affection and duty called him one
way, self-interest the other. If he did not go, he should regret it as
long as he lived. Perhaps Mr. Wake would take him again on his
return; if not, he could at least go to work in the stable again.

"Edward, I am going to Rockville to-morrow," he remarked to his
"chum," on his return to Mrs. Flint's.

"The old man agreed to it, then? I thought he wouldn't. He never will
let a fellow off even for a day."

"He did not; but I must go."

"Better not, then. He will discharge you, for he is a hard nut."

"I must go," repeated Harry, taking a candle, and going up to their
chamber.

"You have got more spunk than I gave you credit for; but you are sure
of losing your place," replied Edward, following him upstairs.

"I can't help it."

Harry opened a drawer in the old broken bureau in the room, and from
beneath his clothes took out the great pill box which served him for a
savings bank.

"You have got lots of money," remarked Edward, as he glanced at the
contents of the box.

"Not much; only twelve dollars," replied Harry, taking out three of
them to pay his expenses to Rockville.

"You won't leave that box there, will you, while you are gone?"

"Why not?"

"Somebody may steal it."

"I guess not. I can hide it, though, before I go."

"Better do so."

Harry took his money and went to a bookstore in Washington Street,
where he purchased an appropriate present for Julia, for which he gave
half a dollar. On his return, he wrote her name in it, with his own as
the giver. Then the safety of his money came up for consideration; and
this matter was settled by raising a loose board in the floor and
depositing the pill box in a secure place. He had scarcely done so
before Edward joined him.

Our hero did not sleep much that night. He was not altogether
satisfied with the step he was about to take. It was not doing right
by his employers; but he compromised the matter in part by engaging
Edward, "for a consideration," to make the fires and sweep out the
next morning.

At noon, on the following day, he reached Rockville, and hastened to
the house of Mr. Bryant.

"How is she?" he asked, breathless with interest, of the girl who
answered his knock.

"She is better to-day. Are you the boy from Boston?"

"Yes. Do they think she will get well?"

"The doctor has more hope of her."

"I am very glad to hear it."

Harry was conducted into the house, and Mr. Bryant was informed of his
presence.

"I am glad you have come, Harry. Julia is much better to-day," said
her father, taking him by the hand. "She has frequently spoken of you
during her illness, and feels a very strong interest in your welfare."

"She was very good to me. I don't know what would have become of me if
she had not been a friend to me."

"That is the secret of her interest in you. We love those best whom we
serve most. She is asleep now; but you shall see her as soon as she
wakes. In the meantime you had better have your dinner."

Mr. Bryant looked very pale, and his eyes were reddened with weeping.
Harry saw how much he had suffered during the last fortnight; but it
seemed natural to him that he should suffer terribly at the thought of
losing one so beautiful and precious as the little angel.

He dined alone with Mr. Bryant, for Mrs. Bryant could not leave the
couch of the little sufferer. The fond father could speak of nothing
but Julia, and more than once the tears flooded his eyes, as he told
Harry how meek and patient she had been through the fever, how loving
she was, and how resigned even to leave her parents, and go to the
heavenly Parent, to dwell with Him forever.

Harry wept, too; and after dinner he almost feared to enter the
chamber, and behold the wreck which disease had made of this bright
and beautiful form. Removing the wrapper from the book he had
brought--a volume of sweet poems, entitled "Angel Songs"--he followed
Mr. Bryant into the sick girl's chamber.

"Ah, Harry, I am delighted to see you!" exclaimed she, in a whisper,
for her diseased throat rendered articulation difficult and painful.

"I am sorry to see you so sick, Julia," replied Harry, taking the
wasted hand she extended to him.

"I am better, Harry. I feel as though I should get well now."

"I hope you will."

"You don't know how much I have thought of you while I lay here; how I
wished you were my brother, and could come in every day and see me,"
she continued, with a faint smile.

"I wish I could."

"Now tell me how you get along in Boston."

"Very well; but your father says I must not talk much with you now. I
have brought you a little book," and he placed it in her hand.

"How good you are, Harry! 'Angel Songs.' How pretty! Now, Harry, you
must read me one of the angel songs."

"I will; but I can't read very well," said he, as he opened the
volume.

But he did read exceedingly well. The piece he selected was a very
pretty and a very touching little song; and Harry's feelings were so
deeply moved by the pathetic sentiments of the poem and their
adaptation to the circumstances of the case, that he was quite
eloquent.

When he had finished, Mrs. Bryant interfered to prevent further
conversation; and Julia, though she had a great deal to say to her
young friend, cheerfully yielded to her mother's wishes, and Harry
reluctantly left the room.

Towards night he was permitted to see her again, when he read several
of the angel songs to her, and gave her a brief account of the events
of his residence in Boston. She was pleased with his earnestness, and
smiled approvingly upon him for the moral triumphs he had achieved.
The reward of all his struggles with trial and temptation was lavishly
bestowed in her commendation, and if fidelity had not been its own
reward, he could have accepted her approval as abundant compensation
for all he had endured. There was no silly sentiment in Harry's
composition; he had read no novels, seen no plays, knew nothing of
romance even "in real life." The homage he yielded to the fair and
loving girl was an unaffected reverence for simple purity and
goodness; that which the True Heart and the True Life never fail to
call forth whenever they exert their power.

On the following morning, Julia's condition was very much improved,
and the physician spoke confidently of a favorable issue. Harry was
permitted to spend an hour by her bedside, inhaling the pure spirit
that pervaded the soul of the sick one. She was so much better that
her father proposed to visit the city, to attend to some urgent
business, which had been long deferred by her illness; and an
opportunity was thus afforded for Harry to return.

Mr. Bryant drove furiously in his haste, changing horses twice on the
journey, so that they reached the city at one o'clock. On their
arrival, Harry's attention naturally turned to the reception he
expected to receive from his employers. He had not spoken of his
relations with them at Rockville, preferring not to pain them, on the
one hand, and not to take too much credit to himself for his devotion
to Julia, on the other. After the horse was disposed of at Major
Phillips's stable, Mr. Bryant walked down town with Harry; and when
they reached the store of Wake & Wade, he entered with him.

"What have you come back for?" asked the senior partner, rather
coldly, when he saw the delinquent. "We don't want you."

Harry was confused at this reception, though it was not unexpected.

"I didn't know but that you might be willing to take me again."

"No, we don't want you. Ah, Mr. Bryant! Happy to see you," continued
Mr. Wake, recognizing Harry's friend.

"Did I understand you aright? Did you say that you did not want my
young friend, here?" replied Mr. Bryant, taking the offered hand of
Mr. Wake.

"I did say so," said the senior. "I was not aware that he was your
friend, though," and he proceeded to inform Mr. Bryant that Harry had
left them against their wish.

"A few words with you, if you please."

Mr. Wake conducted him to the private office, where they remained for
half an hour.

"It is all right, Harry," continued Mr. Wake, on their return. "I did
not understand the matter."

"Thank you, sir!" ejaculated our hero, rejoiced to find his place was
still secure. "I would not have gone if I could possibly have helped
it."

"You did right, my boy, and I honor you for your courage and
constancy."

Mr. Bryant bade him an affectionate adieu, promising to write to him
often until Julia recovered, and then departed.

With a grateful heart Harry immediately resumed his duties, and the
partners were probably as glad to retain him as he was to remain.

At night, when he went to his chamber, he raised the loose board to
get the pill box, containing his savings, in order to return the money
he had not expended. To his consternation, he discovered that it was
gone!




CHAPTER XVIII

IN WHICH HARRY MEETS WITH AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE AND GETS A HARD KNOCK ON
THE HEAD


It was in vain that Harry searched beneath the broken floor for his
lost treasure; it could not be found. He raised the boards up, and
satisfied himself that it had not slipped away into any crevice, or
fallen through into the room below; and the conclusion was inevitable
that the box had been stolen.

Who could have done it? The mystery confused Harry, for he was certain
that no one had seen him deposit the box beneath the floor. No one
except Edward even knew that he had any money. He was sure that
neither Mrs. Flint nor Katy would have stolen it; and he was not
willing to believe that his room-mate would be guilty of such a mean
and contemptible act.

He tried to assure himself that it had not been stolen--that it was
still somewhere beneath the floor; and he pulled up another board, to
resume the search. He had scarcely done so before Edward joined him.

"What are you about, Harry?" he asked, apparently very much astonished
at his chum's occupation. "Are you going to pull the house down?"

"Not exactly. You know my pill box?" replied Harry, suspending
operations to watch Edward's expression when he told him of his loss.

"The one you kept your money in?"

"Yes. Well, it is gone."

"Gone!" exclaimed Edward, starting back with surprise.

"It is either lost or stolen."

"What did you do with it?"

"Put it here, under this loose board."

"It must be there now, then. I will help you find it."

Edward manifested a great deal of enthusiasm in the search. He was
sure it must be where Harry had put it, or that it had rolled back out
of sight; and he began tearing up the floor with a zeal that
threatened the destruction of the building. But the box could not be
found, and they were obliged to abandon the search.

"Too bad, Harry."

"That is a fact; I can't spare that money, anyhow. I have been a good
while earning it, and it is too thundering bad to lose it."

"I don't understand it," continued Edward.

"Nor I either," replied Harry, looking his companion sharp in the eye.
"No one knew I had it but you."

"Do you mean to say I stole it?" exclaimed Edward, doubling his fist,
while his cheek reddened with anger.

"I don't say so."

"Humph! Well, you better not!"

"Don't get mad, Edward. I didn't mean to lay it to you."

"Didn't you?" And Edward was very glad to have the matter compromised.

"I did not; perhaps I spoke hastily. You know how hard I worked for
this money; and it seems hard to lose it. But no matter; I will try
again."

Mrs. Flint and Katy were much grieved when Harry told of his loss.
They looked as though they suspected Edward, but said nothing, for it
was very hard to accuse a son or a brother of such a crime.

Mrs. Flint advised Harry to put his money in the savings bank in
future, promising to take care of his spare funds till they amounted
to five dollars, which was then the smallest sum that would be
received. It was a long time before our hero became reconciled to his
loss. He had made up his mind to be a rich man; and he had carefully
hoarded every cent he could spare, thus closely imitating the man who
got rich by saving his fourpences.

A few days after the loss he was reading in one of Katy's Sunday
school books about a miser. The wretch was held up as a warning to
young folks by showing them how he starved his body and soul for the
sake of gold.

"That's why I lost my money!" exclaimed Harry, as he laid the book
upon the window.

"What do you mean, Harry?" asked Katy, who sat near him.

"I have been hoarding up my money just like this old man in the book."

"You are not a miser, Harry. You couldn't be mean and stingy if you
tried."

"Yes, I could. I love money."

"So does everybody."

"A miser wouldn't do what you did for us, Harry," added Mrs. Flint.
"We ought to be careful and saving."

"I have been thinking too much of money. After all, perhaps it was
just as well that I lost that money."

"I am sorry you lost it; for I don't think there is any danger of your
becoming a miser," said Katy.

"Perhaps not; at any rate, it has set me to thinking."

Harry finished the book; and it was, fortunately, just such a work as
he required to give him right and proper views in regard to the value
of wealth. His dream of being a rich man was essentially modified by
these views; and he renewedly resolved that it was better to be a good
man than a rich man, if he could not be both. It seemed to him a
little remarkable that the minister should preach upon this very topic
on the following Sunday, taking for his text the words, "Seek ye first
the kingdom of heaven and all these things shall be added unto you."
He was deeply impressed by the sermon, probably because it was on a
subject to which he had given some attention.

A few days after his return from Rockville, Harry received a very
cheerful letter from Mr. Bryant, to which Julia had added a few lines
in a postscript. The little angel was rapidly recovering, and our hero
was rejoiced beyond expression. The favorable termination of her
illness was a joy which far outbalanced the loss of his money, and he
was as cheerful and contented as ever. As he expressed it, in rather
homely terms, he had got "the streak of fat and the streak of lean."
Julia was alive; was to smile upon him again; was still to inspire him
with that love of goodness which had given her such an influence over
him.

Week after week passed by, and Harry heard nothing of his lost
treasure; but Julia had fully recovered, and for the treasure lost an
incomparably greater treasure had been gained. Edward and himself
continued to occupy the same room, though ever since the loss of the
money box Harry's chum had treated him coldly. There had never been
much sympathy between them; for while Edward was at the theatre, or
perhaps at worse places, Harry was at home, reading some good book,
writing a letter to Rockville, or employed in some other worthy
occupation. While Harry was at church or at the Sunday school, Edward,
in company with some dissolute companion, was riding about the
adjacent country.

Mrs. Flint often remonstrated with her son upon the life he led, and
the dissipated habits he was contracting; and several times Harry
ventured to introduce the subject. Edward, however, would not hear a
word from either. It is true that we either grow better or worse, as
we advance in life; and Edward Flint's path was down a headlong steep.
His mother wept and begged him to be a better boy. He only laughed at
her.

Harry often wondered how he could afford to ride out and visit the
theatre and other places of amusement so frequently. His salary was
only five dollars a week now; it was only four when he had said it was
five. He seemed to have money at all times, and to spend it very
freely. He could not help believing that the contents of his pill box
had paid for some of the "stews" and "Tom and Jerrys" which his
reckless chum consumed. But the nine dollars he had lost would have
been but a drop in the bucket compared with his extravagant outlays.

One day, about six months after Harry's return from Rockville, as he
was engaged behind the counter, a young man entered the store and
accosted him.

"Halloo, Harry! How are you?"

It was a familiar voice; and, to Harry's surprise, but not much to his
satisfaction, he recognized his old companion, Ben Smart, who, he had
learned from Mr. Bryant, had been sent to the house of correction for
burning Squire Walker's barn.

"How do you do, Ben?" returned Harry, not very cordially.

"So you are here--are you?"

"Yes, I have been here six months."

"Good place?"

"First rate."

"Any chance for me?"

"No, I guess not."

"You have got a sign out for a boy, I see."

It was true they had. There were more errands to run than one boy
could attend to; besides, Harry had proved himself so faithful and so
intelligent, that Mr. Wake wished to retain him in the store, to fit
him for a salesman.

"You can speak a good word for me, Harry; for I should like to work
here," continued Ben.

"I thought you were in--in the--"

Harry did not like to use the offensive expression, and Ben's face
darkened when he discovered what the other was going to say.

"Not a word about that," said he. "If you ever mention that little
matter, I'll take your life."

"But how was it?"

"My father got me out, and then I ran away. Not a word more, for I had
as lief be hung for an old sheep as a lamb."

"There is Mr. Wake; you can apply to him," continued Harry.

Ben walked boldly up to Mr. Wake, and asked for the place. The senior
talked with him a few moments, and then retired to his private office,
calling Harry as he entered.

"If you say anything, I will be the death of you," whispered Ben, as
Harry passed him on his way to the office.

Our hero was not particularly pleased with these threats; he certainly
was not frightened by them.

"Do you know that boy, Harry?" asked Mr. Wake, as he presented himself
before the senior.

"I do, sir."

"Who is he, and what is he?"

"His name is Benjamin Smart. He belongs to Redfield."

"To Redfield? He said he came from Worcester."

"I believe Mr. Bryant told you the story about my leaving Redfield,"
said Harry.

"He did."

"That is the boy that run away with me."

"And the one that set the barn afire?"

"Yes, sir."

"That is enough." And Harry returned to his work at the counter.

"What did he say to you?" asked Ben.

Before Harry had time to make any reply, Mr. Wake joined them.

"We don't want you, young man," said he.

With a glance of hatred at Harry, the applicant left the store. Since
leaving Redfield, our hero's views of duty had undergone a change; and
he now realized that to screen a wicked person was to plot with him
against the good order of society. He knew Ben's character; he had no
reason, after their interview, to suppose it was changed; and he could
not wrong his employers by permitting them ignorantly to engage a bad
boy, especially when he had been questioned directly on the point.

Towards evening Harry was sent with a bundle to a place in Boylston
Street, which required him to cross the Common. On his return, when he
reached the corner of the burying ground, Ben Smart, who had evidently
followed him, and lay in wait at this spot for him, sprang from his
covert upon him. The young villain struck him a heavy blow in the eye
before Harry realized his purpose. The blow, however, was vigorously
returned; but Ben, besides being larger and stronger than his victim,
had a large stone in his hand, with which he struck him a blow on the
side of his head, knocking him insensible to the ground.

The wretch, seeing that he had done his work, fled along the side of
the walk of the burying ground, pursued by several persons who had
witnessed the assault. Ben was a fleet runner this time, and succeeded
in making his escape.




CHAPTER XIX

IN WHICH HARRY FINDS THAT EVEN A BROKEN HEAD MAY BE OF SOME USE TO A
PERSON


When Harry recovered his consciousness, he found himself in an
elegantly furnished chamber, with several persons standing around the
bed upon which he had been laid. A physician was standing over him,
engaged in dressing the severe wound he had received in the side of
his head.

"There, young man, you have had a narrow escape," said the doctor, as
he saw his patient's eyes open.

"Where am I?" asked Harry, faintly, as he tried to concentrate his
wandering senses.

"You are in good hands, my boy. What is your name?"

"Harry West. Can't I go home now?" replied the sufferer, trying to
rise on the bed.

"Do you feel as though you could walk home?"

"I don't know; I feel kind of faint."

"Does your head pain you?"

"No, sir; it feels numb, and everything seems to be flying round."

"I dare say."

Harry expressed an earnest desire to go home, and the physician
consented to accompany him in a carriage to Mrs. Flint's residence. He
had been conveyed in his insensible condition to a house in Boylston
Street, the people of which were very kind to him, and used every
effort to make him comfortable.

A carriage was procured, and Harry was assisted to enter it; for he
was so weak and confused that he could not stand alone. Ben had struck
him a terrible blow; and, as the physician declared, it was almost a
miracle that he had not been killed.

Mrs. Flint and Katy were shocked and alarmed when they saw the
helpless boy borne into the house; but everything that the
circumstances required was done for him.

"Has Edward come home?" he asked, when they had placed him on the bed.

"No, not yet."

"They will wonder what has become of me at the store," continued the
sufferer, whose thoughts reverted to his post of duty.

"I will go down to the store and tell them what has happened," said
Mr. Callender, the kind gentleman to whose house Harry had been
carried, and who had attended him to his home.

"Thank you, sir; you are very good. I don't want them to think that I
have run away, or anything of that sort."

"They will not think so, I am sure," returned Mr. Callender, as he
departed upon his mission.

"Do you think I can go to the store to-morrow?" asked Harry, turning
to the physician.

"I am afraid not; you must keep very quiet for a time."

Harry did not like this announcement. He had never been sick a day in
his life; and it seemed to him just then as though the world could not
possibly move on without him to help the thing along. A great many
persons cherish similar notions, and cannot afford to be sick a single
day.

I should like to tell my readers at some length what blessings come to
us while we are sick; what angels with healing ministrations for the
soul visit the couch of pain; what holy thoughts are sometimes kindled
in the darkened chamber; what noble resolutions have their birth in
the heart when the head is pillowed on the bed of sickness. But my
remaining space will not permit it; and I content myself with
remarking that sickness in its place is just as great a blessing as
health; that it is a part of our needed discipline. When any of my
young friends are sick, therefore, let them yield uncomplainingly to
their lot, assured that He who hath them in his keeping "doeth all
things well."

Harry was obliged to learn this lesson; and when the pain in his head
began to be almost intolerable, he fretted and vexed himself about
things at the store. He was not half as patient as he might have been;
and, during the evening, he said a great many hard things about Ben
Smart, the author of his misfortune. I am sorry to say he cherished
some malignant, revengeful feelings towards him, and looked forward
with a great deal of satisfaction to the time when he should be
arrested and punished for his crime.

Both Mr. Wake and Mr. Wade called upon him as soon as they heard of
his misfortune. They were very indignant when they learned that Harry
was suffering for telling the truth. They assured him that they should
miss him very much at the store, but they would do the best they
could--which, of course, was very pleasant to him. But they told him
they could get along without him, bade him not fret, and said his
salary should be paid just the same as though he did his work.

"Thank you! thank you! You are very good," exclaimed Harry.

"Yes," Mr. Wade continued; "and, as it will cost you more to be sick,
we will raise your wages to four dollars a week. What do you say,
Wade?"

"Certainly," replied the junior, warmly.

There was no possible excuse for fretting now. With so many kind
friends around him, he had no excuse for fretting; but his human
nature rebelled at his lot, and he made himself more miserable than
the pain of his wound could possibly have made him. Mrs. Flint, who
sat all night by his bedside, labored in vain to make him resigned to
his situation. It seemed as though the great trial of his lifetime had
come--that which he was least prepared to meet and conquer.

The next day he was very feverish. His head ached, and the pain of his
wound was very severe. His moral condition was, if possible, worse
than on the preceding night. He was fretful, morose, and unreasonable
towards those kind friends who kept vigil around his bedside. Strange
as it may seem, and strange as it did seem to himself, his thoughts
seldom reverted to the little angel. Once, when he thought of her
extended on the bed of pain as he was then, her example seemed to
reproach him. She had been meek and patient through all her
sufferings--had been content to die, even, if it was the will of the
Father in heaven. With a peevish exclamation, he drove her--his
guardian angel, as she often seemed to him--from his mind, with the
reflection that she could not have been as sick as he was, that she
did not endure as much pain as he did. For several days he remained in
pretty much the same state. His head ached, and the fever burned in
his veins. His moral symptoms were not improved, and he continued to
snarl and growl at those who took care of him.

"Give me some cold water, marm; I don't want your slops," fretted he,
when Mrs. Flint brought him his drink.

"But the doctor says you mustn't have cold water." It was twenty-five
years ago.

"Confound the doctor! Give me a glass of cold water, and I will--"

The door opened then, causing him to suspend the petulant words; for
one stood there whose good opinion he valued more than that of any
other person.

"Oh, Harry! I am so sorry to see you so sick!" exclaimed Julia Bryant,
rushing to his bedside.

She was followed by her father and mother; and Katy had admitted them
unannounced to the chamber.

"Julia! is it you?" replied Harry, smiling for the first time since
the assault.

"Yes, Harry; I hope you are better. When I heard about it last night,
I would not give father any peace till he promised to bring me to
Boston."

"Don't be so wild, Julia," interposed her mother. "You forget that he
is very sick."

"Forgive me, Harry; I was so glad and so sorry. I hope I didn't make
your head ache," she added, in a very gentle tone.

"No, Julia. It was very good of you to come and see me."

Harry felt a change come over him the moment she entered the room. The
rebellious thoughts in his bosom seemed to be banished by her
presence; and though his head ached and his flesh burned as much as
ever, he somehow had more courage to endure them.

After Mr. and Mrs. Bryant had asked him a few questions, and expressed
their sympathy in proper terms, they departed, leaving Julia to remain
with the invalid for a couple of hours.

"I did not expect to see you, Julia," said Harry, when they had gone.

"Didn't you think I would do as much for you as you did for me?"

"It was rather different with you. I am only a poor boy, and you are a
rich man's child."

"Pooh, Harry! Our souls are all of a color. You can't think how bad I
felt when father got Mr. Wake's letter."

"It's a hard case to be knocked down in that way, and laid up in the
house for a week or two."

"I know it; but we must be patient."

"Can't be patient. I haven't any patience--not a bit. If I could get
hold of Ben Smart, I would choke him. I hope they will catch him and
send him to the state prison for life."

Julia looked sad. These malignant words did not sound like those of
the Harry West she had known and loved. They were so bitter that they
curdled the warm blood in her veins, and the heart of Harry seemed
less tender than before.

"Harry," said she, in soft tones, and so sad that he could not but
observe the change which had come over her.

"Well, Julia."

"You don't mean what you said."

"Don't mean it?"

"No, I am sure you don't. Do you remember what the Bible says?"

"What does it say?" asked he, deeply impressed by the sad and solemn
tones of the little angel.

"'Forgive your enemies,' Harry."

"Forgive Ben Smart, after he has almost killed me?" Julia took up the
Bible, which lay on the table by the bedside--it was the one she had
given him--and read several passages upon the topic she had
introduced.

Harry was ashamed of himself. The gentle rebuke she administered
touched his soul, and he thought how peevish and ill-natured he had
been.

"You have been badly hurt, Harry, and you are very sick. Now, let me
ask you one question: Which would you rather be, Harry West, sick as
you are, or Ben Smart, who struck the blow?"

"I had rather be myself," replied he, promptly.

"You ought to be glad that you are Harry West, instead of Ben Smart.
Sick as you are, I am sure you are a great deal happier than he can
be, even if he is not punished for striking you."

"You are right, Julia. I have been very wicked. Here I have been
grumbling and growling all the time for four days. I have learned
better. It is lucky for me that I am Harry, instead of Ben."

"I am sure I have been a great deal better since I was sick than
before. When I lay on the bed, hardly able to move, I kept thinking
all the time; and my thoughts did me a great deal of good."

Harry had learned his lesson, and Julia's presence was indeed an
angel's visit. For an hour longer she sat by his bed, and her words
were full of inspiration; and when her father called for her he could
hardly repress a tear as she bade him good night.

After she had gone Harry begged Mrs. Flint and Katy to forgive him for
being so cross, promising to be patient in the future. And he kept his
promise. The next day Julia came again. She read to him, conversed
with him about the scenes of the preceding autumn in the woods, and
told him again about her own illness. In the afternoon she bade him a
final adieu, as she was to return that day to her home.

The patience and resignation which he had learned gave a favorable
turn to his sickness, and he began to improve. It was a month,
however, before he was able to take his place in the store again.
Without the assistance of Julia, perhaps, he had not learned the moral
of sickness so well. As it was, he came forth from his chamber with
truer and loftier motives, and with a more earnest desire to lead the
true life.

Ben Smart had been arrested; and, shortly after his recovery, Harry
was summoned as a witness at his trial. It was a plain case, and Ben
was sent to the house of correction for a long term.




CHAPTER XX

IN WHICH HARRY PASSES THROUGH HIS SEVEREST TRIAL, AND ACHIEVES HIS
GREATEST TRIUMPH


Three years may appear to be a great while to the little pilgrim
through life's vicissitudes; but they soon pass away and are as "a
tale that is told." To note all the events of Harry's experience
through this period would require another volume; therefore I can only
tell the reader what he was, and what results he had achieved in that
time. It was filled with trials and temptations, not all of which were
overcome without care and privation. Often he failed, was often
disappointed, and often was pained to see how feebly the Spirit warred
against the Flesh.

He loved money, and avarice frequently prompted him to do those things
which would have wrecked his bright hopes. That vision of the grandeur
and influence of the rich man's position sometimes deluded him,
causing him to forget at times that the soul would live forever, while
the body and its treasures would perish in the grave. As he grew
older, he reasoned more; his principles became more firmly fixed; and
the object of existence assumed a more definite character. He was an
attentive student, and every year not only made him wiser, but better.
I do not mean to say that Harry was a remarkably good boy, that his
character was perfect, or anything of the kind. He meant well, and
tried to do well, and he did not struggle in vain against the trials
and temptations that beset him. I dare say those with whom he
associated did not consider him much better than themselves. It is
true, he did not swear, did not frequent the haunts of vice and
dissipation, did not spend his Sundays riding about the country; yet
he had his faults, and captious people did not fail to see them.

He was still with Wake & Wade, though he was a salesman now, on a
salary of five dollars a week. He still boarded with Mrs. Flint,
though Edward was no longer his room-mate. A year had been sufficient
to disgust his "fast" companion with the homely fare and homely
quarters of his father's house; and, as his salary was now eight
dollars a week, he occupied a room in the attic of a first-class
hotel.

Harry was sixteen years old, and he had three hundred dollars in the
Savings Bank. He might have had more if he had not so carefully
watched and guarded against the sin of avarice. He gave some very
handsome sums to the various public charities, as well as expended
them in relieving distress wherever it presented itself. It is true,
it was sometimes very hard work to give of his earnings to relieve the
poor; and if he had acted in conformity with the nature he had
inherited, he might never have known that it was "more blessed to give
than to receive." As he grew older, and the worth of money was more
apparent, he was tempted to let the poor and the unfortunate take care
of themselves; but the struggle of duty with parsimony rendered his
gifts all the more worthy.

Joe Flint had several times violated his solemn resolution to drink no
more ardent spirits; but Harry, who was his friend and confidant,
encouraged him, when he failed, to try again; and it was now nearly a
year since he had been on a "spree."

Our hero occasionally heard from Rockville; and a few months before
the event we are about to narrate he had spent the pleasantest week of
his life with Julia Bryant, amid those scenes which were so full of
interest to both of them. As he walked through the woods where he had
first met the "little angel"--she had now grown to be a tall girl--he
could not but recall the events of that meeting. It was there that he
first began to live, in the true sense of the word. It was there that
he had been born into a new sphere of moral existence.

Julia was still his friend, still his guiding star. Though the freedom
of childish intimacy had been diminished, the same heart resided in
each, and each felt the same interest in the other. The correspondence
between them had been almost wholly suspended, perhaps by the
interference of the "powers" at Rockville, and perhaps by the growing
sense of the "fitness of things" in the parties. But they occasionally
met, which amply compensated for the deprivations which propriety
demanded.

But I must pass on to the closing event of my story--it was Harry's
severest trial, yet it resulted in his most signal triumph.

Edward Flint was always short of money. He lived extravagantly, and
his increased salary was insufficient to meet his wants. When Harry
saw him drive a fast horse through the streets on Sundays, and heard
him say how often he went to the theatre, what balls and parties he
attended--when he observed how elegantly he dressed, and that he wore
a gold chain, a costly breastpin and several rings--he did not wonder
that he was "short." He lived like a prince, and it seemed as though
eight dollars a week would be but a drop in the bucket in meeting his
expenses.

One day, in his extremity, he applied to Harry for the loan of five
dollars. Our hero did not like to encourage his extravagance, but he
was good-natured, and could not well avoid doing the favor, especially
as Edward wanted the money to pay his board. However, he made it the
occasion for a friendly remonstrance, and gave the spendthrift youth
some excellent advice. Edward was vexed at the lecture; but, as he
obtained the loan, he did not resent the kindly act.

About a fortnight after, Edward paid him the money. It consisted of a
two-dollar bill and six half dollars. Harry was about to make a
further application of his views of duty to his friend's case, when
Edward impatiently interrupted him, telling him that, as he had got
his money, he need not preach. This was just before Harry went home to
dinner.

On his return Mr. Wake called him into the private office, and when
they had entered he closed and locked the door. Harry regarded this as
rather a singular proceeding; but, possessing the entire confidence of
his employers, it gave him no uneasiness.

"Harry," Mr. Wake began, "we have been losing money from the store for
the last year or more. I have missed small sums a great many times."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Harry, not knowing whether he was regarded as a
confidant or as the suspected person.

"To-day I gave a friend of mine several marked coins, with which he
purchased some goods. These coins have all been stolen."

"Is it possible, sir!"

"Now, we have four salesmen besides yourself. Which stole it?"

"I can form no idea, sir," returned Harry. "I can only speak for
myself."

"Oh, well, I had no suspicion it was you," added Mr. Wade, with a
smile. "I am going to try the same experiment again; and I want you to
keep your eyes on the money drawer all the rest of the afternoon."

"I will do so, sir."

Mr. Wade took several silver coins from his pocket and scratched them
in such a way that they could be readily identified, and then
dismissed Harry, with the injunction to be very vigilant.

When he came out of the office he perceived that Edward and Charles
Wallis were in close conversation.

"I say, Harry, what's in the wind?" asked the former, as our hero
returned to his position behind the counter.

Harry evaded answering the question, and the other two salesmen, who
were very intimate and whose tastes and amusements were very much
alike, continued their conversation. They were evidently aware that
something unusual had occurred, or was about to occur.

Soon after, a person appeared at the counter and purchased a dozen
spools of cotton, offering two half dollars in payment. Harry kept his
eye upon the money drawer, but nothing was discovered. From what he
knew of Edward's mode of life, he was prepared to believe that he was
the guilty person.

The experiment was tried for three days in succession before any
result was obtained. The coins were always found in the drawer; but on
the fourth day, when they were very busy, and there was a great deal
of money in the drawer, Harry distinctly observed Edward, while making
change, take several coins from the till. The act appalled him; he
forgot the customer to whose wants he was attending, and hastened to
inform Mr. Wake of the discovery.

"Where are you going, Harry?" asked Edward, as he passed him.

"Only to the office," replied he; and his appearance and manner might
have attracted the attention of any skillful rogue.

"Come, Harry, don't leave your place," added Edward, playfully
grasping him by the collar, on his return.

"Don't stop to fool, Edward," answered Harry, as he shook him off and
took his place at the counter again.

He was very absent-minded the rest of the forenoon, and his frame
shook with agitation as he heard Mr. Wake call Edward shortly after.
But he trembled still more when he was summoned also, for it was very
unpleasant business.

"Of course, you will not object to letting me see the contents of
your pockets, Edward," said Mr. Wake, as Harry entered the office.

"Certainly not, sir;" and he turned every one of his pockets inside
out.

Not one of the decoy pieces was found upon him, or any other coins,
for that matter; he had no money. Mr. Wake was confused, for he fully
expected to convict the culprit on the spot.

"I suppose I am indebted to this young man for this," continued
Edward, with a sneer. "I'll bet five dollars he stole the money
himself, if any has been stolen. Why don't you search him?"

"Search me, sir, by all means," added Harry; and he began to turn his
pockets out.

From his vest pocket he took out a little parcel wrapped in a shop
bill.

"What's that?" said Edward.

"I don't know. I wasn't aware that there was any such thing in my
pocket."

"I suppose not," sneered Edward.

"But you seem to know more about it than Edward," remarked Mr. Wade,
as he took the parcel.

"I know nothing about it."

The senior opened the wrapper, and to his surprise and sorrow found it
contained two of the marked coins. But he was not disposed hastily to
condemn Harry. He could not believe him capable of stealing; besides,
there was something in Edward's manner which seemed to indicate that
our hero was the victim of a conspiracy.

"As he has been so very generous towards me, Mr. Wake," interposed
Edward, "I will suggest a means by which you may satisfy yourself. My
mother keeps Harry's money for him, and perhaps, if you look it over,
you will find more marked pieces."

"Mr. Wake, I'm innocent," protested Harry, when he had in some measure
recovered from the first shock of the heavy blow. "I never stole a
cent from anybody."

"I don't believe you ever did, Harry. But can you explain how this
money happened to be in your pocket?"

"I cannot, sir. If you wish to look at my money, Mrs. Flint will show
it to you."

"Perhaps I had better."

"Don't let him go with you, though," said Edward, maliciously.

Mr. Wake wrote an order to Mrs. Flint, requesting her to exhibit the
money, and Harry signed it. The senior then hastened to Avery Street.

"Now, Master Spy!" sneered Edward, when he had gone. "So you have been
watching me, I thought as much."

"I only did what Mr. Wade told me to do," replied Harry, exceedingly
mortified at the turn the investigation had taken.

"Humph! That is the way with you psalm-singers. Steal yourself, and
lay it to me!"

"I did not steal. I never stole in my life."

"Wait and see."

In about half an hour Mr. Wake returned.

"I am sorry, Harry, to find that I have been mistaken in you. Is it
possible that one who is outwardly so correct in his habits should be
a thief? But your career is finished," said he, very sternly, as he
entered the office.

"Nothing strange to the rest of us," added Edward. "I never knew one
yet who pretended to be so pious that did not turn out a rascal."

"And such a hypocrite!"

"Mr. Wake, I am neither a thief nor a hypocrite," replied Harry, with
spirit.

"I found four of the coins--four half dollars--which I marked first,
at Mrs. Flint's," said the senior, severely.

Harry was astounded. Those half dollars were part of the money paid
him by Edward, and he so explained how they came in his possession.

"Got them from me!" exclaimed Edward, with well-feigned surprise. "I
never borrowed a cent of him in my life; and, of course, never paid
him a cent."

Harry looked at Edward, amazed at the coolness with which he uttered
the monstrous lie. He questioned him in regard to the transaction, but
the young reprobate reiterated his declaration with so much force and
art that Mr. Wake was effectually deceived.

Our hero, conscious of his innocence, however strong appearances were
against him, behaved with considerable spirit, which so irritated Mr.
Wake that he sent for a constable, and Harry soon found himself in
Leverett Street Jail. Strange as it may seem to my young friends, he
was not very miserable there. He was innocent, and he depended upon
that special Providence which had before befriended him to extricate
him from the difficulty. It is true, he wondered what Julia would say
when she heard of his misfortune. She would weep and grieve; and he
was sad when he thought of her. But she would be the more rejoiced
when she learned that he was innocent. The triumph would be in
proportion to the trial.

On the following day he was brought up for examination. As his name
was called, the propriety of the court was suddenly disturbed by an
exclamation of surprise from an elderly man, with sun-browned face and
monstrous whiskers.

"Who is he?" almost shouted the elderly man, regardless of the dignity
of the court.

An officer was on the point of turning him out; but his earnest manner
saved him. Pushing his way forward to Mr. Wake, he questioned him in
regard to the youthful prisoner.

"Strange! I thought he was dead!" muttered the elderly man, in the
most intense excitement.

The examination proceeded. Harry had a friend who had not been idle,
as the sequel will show.

Mr. Wake first testified to the facts we have already related, and the
lawyer, whom Harry's friends had provided, questioned him in regard to
the prisoner's character and antecedents. Edward Flint was then
called. He was subjected to a severe cross-examination by Harry's
counsel, in which he repeatedly denied that he had ever borrowed or
paid any money to the accused.

Mr. Wade was the next witness. While the events preceding Harry's
arrest were transpiring, he had been absent from the city, but had
returned early in the afternoon. He disagreed with his partner in
relation to our hero's guilt, and immediately set himself to work to
unmask the conspiracy, for such he was persuaded it was.

He testified that, a short time before, Edward had requested him to
pay him his salary two days before it was due, assigning as a reason
the fact that he owed Harry five dollars, which he wished to pay. He
produced two of the marked half dollars, which he had received from
Edward's landlady.

Of course, Edward was utterly confounded; and, to add to his
confusion, he was immediately called to the stand again. This time his
coolness was gone; he crossed himself a dozen times, and finally
acknowledged, under the pressure of the skillful lawyer's close
questioning, that Harry was innocent. He had paid him the money found
in Mrs. Flint's possession, and had slipped the coins wrapped in the
shop bills into his pocket when he took him by the collar on his
return from the office.

He had known for some time that the partners were on the watch for the
thief. He had heard them talking about the matter; but he supposed he
had managed the case so well as to exonerate himself and implicate
Harry, whom he hated for being a good boy.

Harry was discharged. His heart swelled with gratitude for the kindly
interposition of Providence. The trial was past--the triumph had come.

Mr. Wake, Mr. Wade, and other friends, congratulated him on the happy
termination of the affair; and while they were so engaged the elderly
man elbowed his way through the crowd to the place where Harry stood.

"Young man, what is your father's name?" he asked, in tones tremulous
with emotion.

"I have no father," replied Harry.

"You had a father--what was his name?"

"Franklin West; a carpenter by trade. He went from Redfield to
Valparaiso when I was very young, and we never heard anything from
him."

"My son!" exclaimed the stranger, grasping our hero by the hand, while
the tears rolled down his brown visage.

Harry did not know what to make of this announcement.

"Is it possible that you are my father?" asked he.

"I am, Harry; but I was sure you were dead. I got a letter, informing
me that your mother and the baby had gone; and about a year after I
met a man from Rockville who told me that you had died also."

"It was a mistake."

They continued the conversation as they walked from the court room to
the store. There was a long story for each to tell. Mr. West confessed
that, for two years after his arrival at Valparaiso, he had
accomplished very little. He drank hard, and brought on a fever, which
had nearly carried him off. But that fever was a blessing in disguise;
and since his recovery he had been entirely temperate. He had nothing
to send to his family, and shame prevented him from even writing to
his wife. He received the letter which conveyed the intelligence of
the death of his wife and child, and soon after learned that his
remaining little one was also gone.

Carpenters were then in great demand in Valparaiso. He was soon in a
condition to take contracts, and fortune smiled upon him. He had
rendered himself independent, and had now returned to spend his
remaining days in his native land. He had been in Boston a week, and
happened to stray into the Police Court, where he had found the son
who, he supposed, had long ago been laid in the grave.

Edward Flint finished his career of "fashionable dissipation" by being
sentenced to the house of correction. Just before he was sent over, he
confessed to Mr. Wade that it was he who had stolen Harry's money,
three years before.

The next day Harry obtained leave of absence, for the purpose of
accompanying his father on a visit to Redfield. He was in exuberant
spirits. It seemed as though his cup of joy was full. He could hardly
realize that he had a father--a kind, affectionate father--who shared
the joy of his heart.

They went to Redfield; but I cannot stop to tell my readers how
astonished Squire Walker, and Mr. Nason, and the paupers were, to see
the spruce young clerk come to his early home, attended by his
father--a rich father, too.

We can follow our hero no farther through the highways and byways of
his life-pilgrimage. We have seen him struggle like a hero through
trial and temptation, and come off conqueror in the end. He has found
a rich father, who crowns his lot with plenty; but his true wealth is
in those good principles which the trials, no less than the triumphs,
of his career have planted in his soul.




CHAPTER XXI

IN WHICH HARRY IS VERY PLEASANTLY SITUATED, AND THE STORY COMES TO AN
END


Perhaps my young readers will desire to know something of Harry's
subsequent life; and we will "drop in" upon him at his pleasant
residence in Rockville, without the formality of an introduction. The
years have elapsed since we parted with him, after his triumphant
discharge from arrest. His father did not live long after his return
to his native land, and when he was twenty-one, Harry came into
possession of a handsome fortune. But even wealth could not tempt him
to choose a life of idleness; and he went into partnership with Mr.
Wade, the senior retiring at the same time. The firm of Wade and West
is quite as respectable as any in the city.

Harry is not a slave to business; and he spends a portion of his time
at his beautiful place in Rockville; for the cars pass through the
village, which is only a ride of an hour and a half from the city.

Mr. West's house is situated on a gentle eminence not far distant from
the turnpike road. It is built upon the very spot where the cabin of
the charcoal burners stood, in which Harry, the fugitive, passed two
nights. The aspect of the place is entirely changed, though the very
rock upon which our hero ate the sumptuous repast the little angel
brought him may be seen in the centre of the beautiful garden, by the
side of the house. Mr. West often seats himself there to think of the
events of the past, and to treasure up the pleasant memories connected
with the vicinity.

The house is elegant and spacious, though there is nothing gaudy or
gay about it. Let us walk in. It is plainly furnished, though the
articles are rich and tasteful. This is the sitting room. Who is that
beautiful lady sitting at the piano-forte? Do you not recognize her,
gentle reader? Of course you do. It is Mrs. West, and an old
acquaintance. She is no longer the little angel, though I cannot tell
her height or her weight; but her husband thinks she is just as much
of an angel now as when she fed him on doughnuts upon the flat rock in
the garden.

Ah, here comes Harry! He is a fine-looking man, rather tall; and
though he does not wear a mustache, I have no doubt Mrs. West thinks
he is handsome--which is all very well, provided he does not think so
himself.

"This is a capital day, Julia; suppose we ride over to Redfield, and
see friend Nason," said Mr. West.

"I shall be delighted," replied Julia.

The horse is ordered; and as they ride along, the gentleman amuses his
wife with the oft-repeated story of his flight from Jacob Wire's.

"Do you see that high rock, Julia?" he asked, pointing over the fence.

"Yes."

"That is the very one where I dodged Leman, and took the back track;
and there is where I knocked the bull-dog over."

They arrived at the house of Mr. Nason. It is a pleasant little
cottage, for he is no longer in the service of the town. It was built
by Mr. West expressly for him. Connected with it is a fine farm of
twenty acres. This little property was sold to Mr. Nason by his
protege, though no money was paid. Harry would have made it a free
gift, if the pride of his friend would have permitted; but it amounts
to the same thing.

Mr. West and his lady are warmly welcomed by Mr. Nason and his family.
The ex-keeper is an old man now. He is a member of the church, and
considered an excellent and useful citizen. He still calls Mr. West
his "boy," and regards him with mingled pride and admiration.

Our friends dine at the cottage; and, after dinner, Mr. Nason and Mr.
West talk over old times, ride down to Pine Pleasant, and visit the
poorhouse. Great changes have come over Redfield. Squire Walker, Jacob
Wire, and most of the paupers who were the companions of our hero, are
dead and gone, and the living speak gently of the departed.

At Pine Pleasant, they fasten the horse to a tree, and cross over to
the rock which was Harry's favorite resort in childhood.

"By the way, Harry, have you heard anything of Ben Smart lately?" asks
Mr. Nason.

"After his discharge from the state prison, I heard that he went to
sea."

"He was a bad boy."

"And a bad man."

"I believed he killed his mother. They say she never smiled after she
gave him up as a hopeless case."

"Poor woman! I pity a mother whose son turns out badly. What a wreck
of fond hopes!"

"Just so," added Mr. Nason.

After visiting various interesting localities, Mr. West and his lady
returned home. In their absence, a letter for Julia from Katy Flint
has arrived. The Flint family are now in good circumstances. Joe is a
steady man, and, with Harry's assistance, has purchased an interest in
the stable formerly kept by Major Phillips, who has retired on a
competency.

"What does she say, Julia?" asked Harry, as she broke the seal.

"They have heard from Edward."

"Bad news, I am afraid. He was a hard boy."

"Yes; he has just been sent to the Maryland penitentiary for
housebreaking."

"I am sorry for him."

"Katy says her mother feels very badly about it."

"No doubt of it. Mrs. Flint is an excellent woman; she was a mother to
me."

"She says they are coming up to Rockville next week."

"Glad of that; they will always be welcome beneath my roof. I must
call upon them to-morrow when I go to the city."

"Do; and give my love to them."

And, here, reader, I must leave them--not without regret, I confess,
for it is always sad to part with warm and true-hearted friends; but
if one must leave them, it is pleasant to know that they are happy,
and are surrounded by all the blessings which make life desirable, and
filled with that bright hope which reaches beyond the perishable
things of this world. It is cheering to know that one's friends, after
they have fought a hard battle with foes without and foes within, have
won the victory, and are receiving their reward.

If my young friends think well of Harry, let me admonish them to
imitate his virtues, especially his perseverance in trying to do well;
and when they fail to be as good and true as they wish to be, to TRY
AGAIN.

THE END

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and the books are better than many of the higher-priced editions.

SOLD BY DEALERS EVERYWHERE. ASK FOR THE N. Y. BOOK CO.'S OUR GIRLS
BOOKS AND FAMOUS FICTION BOOKS.

THE NEW YORK BOOK COMPANY

PUBLISHERS, 147 FOURTH AVENUE

NEW YORK, N. Y.



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