CHAPTER XIX.

ASIATIC HONOR.

One quick movement with the lancet made an incision across the red

specks left by the fangs of the cobra, and into the opening he poured a

teaspoonful of the yellowish fluid, which was so much like liquid fire

and pepper that even the dusky scoundrel gasped with agony. Then he

was made to open his mouth and swallow something from a large bottle,

which, as regards strength and flavor, was a twin of that which was

consuming his flesh.

All at once the countenance of the physician expanded with a beaming

smile as he looked at his patient and said gently as if speaking to his

own child:

"All danger is past, Almos."

From the abundance of rags which fluttered about his person, the doctor

tore a piece and bandaged the wound. Then he said in a business-like

tone:

"I am through; now you and the rest of you may go."

Almos hesitated.

"You have saved my life: is there nothing I can do for you?"

"I have just told you what to do--_leave_?"

Probably there would have been less promptness in complying with the

command had there been less in uttering it. As it was, Almos, without

a word, motioned to the rest of his band, and led the way down the path

in the direction of the stream, the four tramping after him like so

many ragged phantoms.

Dr. Marlowe was more eager to leave the place than he would permit his

child to know. He had no faith in Almos's promise, knowing that the

Ghoojur chieftain would break his oath, which he and his brother

fanatics did not consider binding when made to infidels, and the only

hope, therefore, was for the fugitives to conceal themselves from the

miscreants--a thing which the physician's intimate knowledge of the

country would enable him to do.

Footfalls sounded along the path over which the two had just come, and

a minute later Almos, Mustad and their three companions emerged into

the opening and approached the couple, one of whom suspected nothing

until her father spoke.

"Well, Almos, what do you want?" demanded Dr. Marlowe, calmly looking

up at the Ghoojur chieftain, as he paused in front of him and made a

salaam.

"We have come for the infidel and his daughter; our deen commands us to

put them to death."

"What does the oath you gave me a little while ago command you to do?"

"That was made to an infidel; it is not binding upon a true son of the

Prophet."

"A true son of the devil!" exclaimed the physician, unable to repress

his rage.

Turning to his daughter, he said:

"My child, you have a pistol; when they make a move, shoot; leave Almos

to me and save your last bullet for yourself."

"The infidels shall be destroyed everywhere," said Almos; "none of the

Inglese loge shall be left in India. The faithful have risen and they

will crush them all, for so commands the Prophet----"

Dr. Marlowe had placed his hand on the butt of his revolver at his hip,

meaning to whip out the weapon and fire before the miscreant had

finished his high-sounding tomfoolery. His daughter had also grasped

hers, intending to obey to the letter the command of her parent, when

the Ghoojur chieftain abruptly paused in his speech, staggered for a

moment, and then sank to the ground like a bundle of rags, with the

breath of life gone from his body.

The incident would have been as inexplicable to parent and child as to

the Ghoojurs, had they not caught the faint, far-away report of a

rifle, which, if heard by the bandits, was not associated by them with

the startling thing that had taken place before their eyes. But the

doctor and Mary knew the connection.

And about half-a-mile away, on the top of that huge rock, hot enough

under the flaming sun to roast eggs, Jack Everson had assumed the same

position that he held the afternoon before on the bank of the Ganges,

when he checked the advance of the Ghoojur horsemen across the river.

With the aid of the glasses, he had descried the forms of his beloved

and her father when the bright eyes failed to detect his own. Then,

when about to start to join them, he observed their visitors, and the

glass again helped to identify them, after which he "proceeded to

business."

The instant he made his aim sure he pulled the trigger, came to a

sitting position, readjusted a cartridge, and placing the glasses to

his eyes that he might see the more plainly, watched the result of his

shot.

"By Jove; another bull's-eye!" he gleefully exclaimed, as he saw his

man stagger and fall almost at the feet of Dr. Marlowe. "I don't know

the gentleman's name, but a first-class obituary notice is in order.

That makes six, and now for the seventh. I really hope the doctor is

keeping score for me."

The professional eye of the physician saw where the pellet of lead had

passed through the chest of Almos, but it was not observed by Mustad or

the other Ghoojurs, who probably attributed it in some way to the bite

of the cobra, in spite of the miraculous cure that seemed to have been

wrought before their eyes. The three remained in the background, but

the fall of the leader appeared to add flames to the hatred of Mustad,

who, assuming the mantle of the fallen chieftain, stepped to the front.

"You shall not escape us!" he hissed; "all the Inglese loge shall die!"

"But before any more of them perish, you shall go to the infernal

regions to keep company with the imp that has just gone thither."

The doctor had learned from the exhibition of the preceding afternoon

the time required by Jack Everson to repeat his marvelous shots. He

knew, therefore, about the moment when a second was due, and he decided

to make its arrival as dramatic as possible.

"You stand almost on the same spot where stood Almos; he dropped dead

before me, and," raising his hand impressively, "I command you to do

the same."

Mustad obeyed.

Again the faint report swept across the extent of jungle, travelling

with almost the same speed as the bullet, which, like its predecessor,

bored through the dusky chest of the victim and lost itself in the

vegetation beyond. Mustad gasped, convulsively clasped one hand to his

breast, flung out both arms, groped blindly for an instant, and then

slumped down as dead as one of the mummies of the Pyramids.

And the young American, still reclining on that gray, blistering rock,

again rose to a sitting posture and clapped the glasses to his eyes to

observe more clearly the result of his last trial at markmanship.

"That makes seven bull's-eyes!" was his delighted exclamation, "but I

have done as well when the distance was twice as great. I must keep

the number in mind, for it will be like the doctor to insist that I

made but six out of a possible eight. I notice that three gentlemen

are left and require attention."

With the same care as before, he lay back and drew bead on the group,

but the next moment uttered an impatient exclamation and straightened

up again.

"They have fled; only Mary and her father are left, and there's no call

to send any bullets in their direction."

The fall of Mustad at the command of the wrathful physician was more

than the other Ghoojurs could stand. Suspecting no connection between

the almost inaudible reports and the terrifying incidents, they

believed their only hope was in headlong flight. Without a word they

dashed down the trail, quickly passing from sight, and were seen no

more.

Meanwhile Jack Everson, finding no demand for long shooting, sprang

from the rock and made all haste to the spot where he had recognized

his friends, and where they awaited his coming with an anxiety that

could not have been more intense. That others of their enemies were in

the neighborhood was certain, and their vengeance could not be

restrained or turned aside as had been that of the Ghoojurs. A

collision between them and the fugitives must be fatal to the latter.

Great, therefore, was the delight of father and daughter when the brave

fellow bounded into sight, his whole concern, as it seemed, being to

learn whether the score kept by the doctor agreed with his own. When

assured that it did, he announced that he was at the disposal of the

venerable physician and his daughter.

The three pushed steadily toward Nepaul, cheered by the knowledge that

with every mile passed their danger lessened. They were in great peril

more than once. Twice they exchanged shots with marauding bands, and

once their destruction seemed inevitable; but good fortune attended

them, and at the end of a week they entered the wild, mountainous and

sparsely-settled region, where at last all danger was at an end.

So it came about that when the young people took their final departure

down the Ganges for Calcutta, thence to return to the United States,

Dr. Marlowe went with them. He and his son-in-law formed a partnership

in the practice of their profession, and it is only a few years since

that the aged physician was laid to rest. He was full of years and

honors, and willing to go, for he knew that the happiness of his

daughter could be in no safer hands than those of Jack Everson.

LOST IN THE WOODS.

CHAPTER I.

THE CABIN IN THE WOOD.

Harvey Bradley had been superintendent of the Rollo Mills not quite a

year when, to his annoyance, the first strike in their history took

place.

Young Bradley was a college graduate, a trained athlete, and a bright

and ambitious man, whose father was president of the company in New

York which owned the extensive mills. It was deemed best to have a

direct representative of the corporation on the ground, and Harvey

qualified himself for the responsible situation by a six-months'

apprenticeship, during all of which he wrought as hard as any laborer

in the establishment.

He made his home in the remote village of Bardstown, where the Rollo

Mills had been built. He lived with his Aunt Maria, (who went all the

way from New York with her favorite nephew that she might look after

him), and his sister Dollie, only six years old. The plan was that she

should stay until Christmas, when her father was to come and take her

home. Aunt Maria, with the help of honest Maggie Murray, kept house

for Harvey, who found his hands and brains fully occupied in looking

after the interests of the Rollo Mills, which gave employment to two

hundred men, women and children.

All went well with the young superintendent for some months after the

assumption of his duties. He was alert, and surprised every one by his

practical knowledge. He was stern and strict, and, after warning

several negligent employes, discharged them. This did not help his

popularity, but, so long as the directors were satisfied, Harvey cared

for the opinion of no one else.

When dull times came, Superintendent Bradley scaled down the wages of

all, including his own. The promise to restore them, as soon as

business warranted the step, averted the threatened strike. Within a

month the restoration took place, but every employe was required to

work a half hour over time without additional pay.

A strike was averted for the time, but the friendly feeling and mutual

confidence that ought to exist between the employer and the employed

was destroyed. The latter kept at work, and the former felt that he

had not sacrificed his dignity nor his discipline.

But the discontent increased. One day Hugh O'Hara, the chief foreman,

and Thomas Hansell, one of the most influential of the workmen, called

upon Mr. Bradley, and speaking for the employes, protested against the

new arrangement. They said every man, woman and child was willing to

work the extra half hour, but inasmuch as the need for such extra time

indicated an improvement in business, they asked for the additional pay

to which they were clearly entitled.

Harvey was looking for such protest and he was prepared. He said it

was an error to think there was an improvement in business. While in

one sense it might be true, yet the price of the manufactured goods had

fallen so low that the mills really made less money than before. The

wages that had been paid were better than were warranted by the state

of trade. Now, when the employes were asked to help in a slight degree

their employers who had done so much for them, they would not do so.

O'Hara and Hansell, showing a wish to discuss the matter, the

superintendent cut them short by saying that it was idle to talk

further. He would not make any reduction in their time, nor would he

pay any extra compensation.

That night 200 employes of the Rollo Mills quit work, with the

intention of staying out until justice was done them. Harvey asserted

that he would never yield; he would spend a few days in overhauling the

machinery and in making a few needed repairs; then, if the employes

chose, they could come back. All who did not do so would not be taken

back afterwards. New hands would be engaged and in a short time the

mills would be running the same as before.

O'Hara and Hansell warned the superintendent that serious trouble would

follow any such course. While making no threat themselves, they told

him that blood was likely to be shed. Harvey pooh-poohed and reminded

them that a few men and children would make sorry show in fighting the

whole state, for, in the event of interference by the strikers, he

meant to appeal to the authorities.

The repairs needed at the mills were soon made. Steam was gotten up

and the whistle called the hands to work. Only O'Hara and Hansell came

forward. They explained that all would be glad to take their places if

the superintendent would allow them a slight increase of pay for

overwork. They had held a meeting and talked over the matter, and now

abated a part of their first demand; they were willing to accept

one-half rate for overtime.

The superintendent would not yield a jot. The most that he would

consent to do was to wait until noon for them to go to work. The two

men went away muttering threats; not one of the hands answered the

second call to work.

Quite sure that such would be the result, Harvey had telegraphed to

Carville, fifty miles away, for sixty men, to take the place of those

who had quit work. He asked only for men, since it would have been

unwise to bring women and children to become involved in difficulties.

By some means this step became known, and, as is always the case, it

added fuel to the flames. Warning notices were sent to the

superintendent that if the new hands went to work they would be

attacked; Bradley himself was told to keep out of sight unless ready to

come to the terms of the strikers. Even in his own home, he could not

be guaranteed safety. His house as well as the mills would be burnt.

Harvey felt no special alarm because of these threats; he did not

believe that those who made them dare carry them out. But that night

the mills escaped destruction only by the vigilance of the extra

watchmen. The same evening Aunt Maria was stopped on the village

street and told that it was best she should lose no time in moving away

with her little niece Dollie, since it was more than likely the

innocent would suffer with the guilty. For the first time, Harvey

understood the earnestness of the men; but he clung to his resolution

all the same.

You can see how easily the trouble could have been ended. The employes

had abated their first demand and were willing to compromise. Had

Harvey spoken his honest thoughts, he would have said the men were

right, or at any rate he ought to have agreed to their proposal to

submit the dispute to arbitration; but he was too proud to yield.

"They will take it for weakness on my part," was his thought; "it will

make an end of all system and open the way for demands that in the end

will destroy the business."

The sixty new hands reached Bardstown and were about as numerous as the

men who wrought in the mills before the strike. They looked like a

determined band, who would be able to take care of themselves in the

troubles that impended.

The arrivals were received with scowls by the old employes, who hooted

and jeered them as they marched grimly to the mills. No blows were

struck, though more than once an outbreak was imminent. It was too

late in the day to begin work, but the new hands were shown through the

establishment, with a view of familiarizing them to some extent with

their new duties. Most of them had had some experience in the same

kind of work, but there was enough ignorance to insure much vexation

and loss.

The night that followed was so quiet that Harvey believed the strikers

had been awed by his threat to appeal to the law and by the determined

front of the new men.

"It's a dear lesson," he said to himself, "but they need it, and it is

high time it was taught to them."

The next morning the whistle sent out its ear-splitting screech, whose

echoes swung back and forth, like so many pendulums between the hills,

but to the amazement of Harvey Bradley, not a person was seen coming

toward the mills. The whistle called them again, and Hugh O'Hara and

Tom Hansell strolled leisurely up the street to the office, where Mr.

Bradley wonderingly awaited them.

"You'll have to blow that whistle a little louder," said O'Hara, with a

tantalizing grin.

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Those chaps all left town last night; they must be about forty miles

away; you see we explained matters to them; I don't think, if I was

you, I would feel bad about it; they believe they can get along better

at Carville than at Bardstown."

For the first time since the trouble began, Harvey Bradley lost his

temper. To be defied and taunted in this manner was more than he could

bear. He vowed over again that not one of the strikers should do

another day's work for him, even if he begged for it on his knees and

he was starving. He at once telegraphed to Vining, fully one hundred

miles away, where he knew there were many people idle, for one hundred

men who would not only come, but stay. He preferred those who knew

something about the business, but the first need was that the men would

remain at their posts, and if necessary fight for their positions. He

guaranteed larger wages than he had ever paid experienced hands, but he

wanted no man who would not help hold the fort against all comers. The

superintendent was on his mettle; he meant to win.

Having sent off this message, for which it cannot be denied, Harvey had

every legal and moral warrant, he set out on a long tramp through the

woods at the rear of Bardstown. It was a crisp autumn day, and the

long brisk walk did him much good. The glow came to his cheeks, his

blood was warmed, and his brain cleared by the invigorating exercise.

So much indeed did he enjoy it that he kept it up until, to his

surprise, he saw that it was growing dark, and he was several miles

from home.

It was snowing, though not heavily. He walked fast, but, when night

had fully come, paused with the uncomfortable discovery that he was

hopelessly lost in the woods.

"Well, this is pleasant!" he exclaimed, looking around in vain for some

landmark in the gloom. "I believe I shall have to spend the night out

doors, though I seem to be following some sort of path."

He struck a match, shading it with his hand from the chilly wind, and

stooped down. Yes; there was an unmistakable trail, and with renewed

hope he hurried on, taking care not to stray to either side. Within

the next ten minutes, to his delight, he caught the twinkle of a

star-like point of light among the trees, a short distance ahead.

While making his way hopefully forward, Harvey became aware of a

singular fact. The air around him was tainted with a peculiar odor,

such as he had never met before. It was of a rank nature, and, while

not agreeable, could not be said to be really unpleasant. It might

have interested him more, but for his anxiety to reach the shelter

which was now so near at hand.

Arriving at the cabin, he found the latch-string hanging out. A sharp

pull, the door was swung inward and Harvey stepped into a small room,

lit up by a crackling wood-fire on the hearth.

As he entered, two men who were smoking their pipes, looked up. The

visitor could not hide his expression of surprise, for they were Hugh

O'Hara and Thomas Hansell, the last persons in the world he wished to

see.

CHAPTER II.

A POINTED DISCUSSION.

Hugh O'Hara was in middle life. He was of Scotch descent, and, in his

younger days, had received a fair education. Even now he spent much

time over his books. He talked well, and was not without a certain

grace of manner founded, no doubt, on his knowledge of human nature,

which gave him great influence with others. It was this, as much as

his skill, that made him the leading foreman at a time when a score of

others had the right by seniority of service to the place.

But Hugh had dipped into the springs of learning just enough to have

his ideas of right and wrong turned awry and to form a distaste for his

lot that made his leadership dangerous. Besides, he had met with

sorrows that deepened the shadows that lay across his pathway. In that

little cabin he had seen a young wife close her eyes in death, and his

only child, a sweet girl of five years, not long afterward was laid

beside her mother. Many said that Hugh buried his heart with Jennie

and had not been the same man since. He was reserved, except to one or

two intimate friends. Shaggy, beetle-browed and unshaven, his looks

were anything but pleasing to those who did not fully know him.

Tom Hansell was much the same kind of man, except that he lacked the

book education of his companion and leader. He had strong impulses,

and was ready to go to an extreme length in whatever direction he

started, but he always needed a guiding spirit, and that he found in

Hugh O'Hara.

The latter, after burying his child, moved into the village, saying

that he never wanted to look again upon the cabin that had brought so

much sorrow to him. Most people believed he could not be led to go

near it, and yet on this blustery night he and Tom Hansell were seated

in the structure without any companions except the well known hound

Nero, and were smoking their pipes and plotting mischief.

Hugh and Tom were in their working clothes--coarse trousers, shirts,

and heavy shoes, without vest or coat. Their flabby caps lay on the

floor behind them, and their tousled hair hung over their foreheads

almost to their eyes. Tom had no side whiskers, but a heavy mustache

and chin whiskers, while the face of Hugh was covered with a spiky

black beard that stood out from his face as if each hair was charged

with electricity.

Nero, the hound, raised his nose from between his paws and looked up at

the visitor. Then, as if satisfied, he lowered his head and resumed

his nap.

Bradley, as I have said, was angry with himself for walking into such a

trap. It was not fear, but a deep dislike of the man who was the head

and front of the trouble at the mills. He was the spokesman and leader

of the strikers, and he was the real cause of the stoppage of the

works. Harvey looked upon him as insolent and brutal, and he was sure

that no circumstances could arise that would permit him to do a stroke

of work in the Rollo Mills again.

"Good evening," said Harvey stiffly, "I did not expect to find you

here."

Hansell nodded in reply to the salutation, but Hugh simply motioned

with the hand that held the pipe toward a low stool standing near the

middle of the apartment.

"Help yourself to a seat, Mr. Bradley; the presence of Tom and myself

here is no odder than is your own."

"I suppose not," replied Harvey with a half-laugh, as he seated

himself; "I started out for a walk to-day and went too far--that is, so

far that I lost my way. I had about made up my mind that I would have

to sleep in the woods, when I caught the light from your window and

made for it."

The glance that passed between Hugh and Tom--sly as it was--did not

elude the eye of Harvey Bradley. He saw that his explanation was not

believed, but he did not care; there was no love between him and them,

and, had it not looked as if he held them in fear, he would have turned

and walked away after stepping across the threshold. As it was, he

meant to withdraw as soon as he could do it without seeming to be

afraid.

"Is this the first time you have taken a walk up this way?" asked Hugh.

"The fact that I lost my way ought to answer that question; how far is

it, please, to Bardstown?"

"An even mile by the path you came."

"But I didn't come by any path, except for a short distance in front of

this place."

"Then how did you get here?"

"Is there no way of traveling through the woods except by the road that

leads to your door?"

The conversation was between Harvey and Hugh alone. Tom was abashed in

the presence of two such persons, and nothing could have led him to

open his mouth unless appealed to by one or the other. Neither made

any allusion to the strike. After the superintendent's rebuff, Hugh

scorned to do so, while Harvey would have stultified himself had he

invited any discussion. The repugnance between the two men was too

strong for them calmly to debate any question. Besides Hugh and Tom

were suspicious; they did not believe that the presence of the

superintendent was accidental; there was a sinister meaning in it which

boded ill for Hugh and his friends, and the former, therefore, was in a

vicious mood.

With the conditions named, a wrangle may be set down as one of the

certainties. But Harvey Bradley had defied the fury of half a hundred

men, and he meant to teach this marplot his proper place. There was a

threatening gleam in his eye, but he puffed a few seconds at his pipe,

and then, glaring through the rank smoke that curled upward from his

face said:

"There are a good many ways by which Hugh O'Hara's cabin can be found,

but those who come on honest errands stick to the path."

"Which explains why the path is so little worn," was the reply of

Harvey.

"Aye, and your feet have done mighty little to help the wearing of the

same."

"If those who live in the cabin were honest themselves, they would not

tremble every time the latch-string is pulled, nor would they be scared

if they saw a visitor stop to snuff the air in this neighborhood."

This was an ill-timed remark, and Harvey regretted the words the moment

they passed his lips. He saw Hugh and Tom glance at each other; but

the words, having been spoken, could not be recalled, nor did the

superintendent make any attempt to modify them. Before the others

could answer, he added:

"I have heard it said that Hugh O'Hara held this place in such strong

disfavor that nothing could lead him to spend a night here, yet he

smokes his pipe and plots mischief as if the cabin is the one place in

the world with which he is content."

These words were not soothing in their effect, nor did the speaker mean

that they should be. Hugh was insolent, and the superintendent

resented it.

The only proof of the rising anger in the breast of O'Hara was the

vigorous puffing of his pipe. Tom, as I have said, was too awed to say

anything at all.

"I am of age and free born," growled Hugh, looking into the glowing

embers and speaking as if to himself; "where I go and what I do

concerns no one but myself."

"Not so long as you go to the proper place and do only what is right,"

said Harvey, who, sitting back a few feet from the fire, looked calmly

at the fellow whose rough profile was outlined against the fiery

background behind him.

"Men interpret right according to their own ideas, and they seldom

agree, but most people will pronounce that person the worst sort of

knave who robs poor men of what they earn and looks upon them as he

looks upon the beasts of the field--worth only the amount of money they

bring to him."

CHAPTER III.

MISSING.

The conversation was taking a dangerous shape. Harvey saw that it

would not do for him to stay. Both these men were fierce enough to fly

at his throat. That little cabin in the woods was liable to become the

scene of a tragedy unless he bridled his tongue or went away.

Disdaining to say so much as "good-night," he rose to his feet, opened

the door, shut it behind him, and walked out in the blustery darkness.

"I would rather spend the night fighting tigers than to keep the

company of such miscreants. But the new hands will be here in a few

days, and the fellows will be taught a lesson which they will remember

all their lives. I suppose I ought to pity their dupes, but they

should have enough sense to see that these men are their worst enemies.

It will be a bright day for the Rollo Mills and for Bardstown when they

are well rid of them."

The superintendent did not pause to think where he was going when he

stepped into the open air. The cold wind struck his face and a few

fine particles touched his cheek. The sky had partly cleared, so that

he could see the fine coating of snow around him, but after all, very

little had fallen.

"If I can keep the path," he thought, "I will reach the village, but

that is no easy matter--ah! there it is again."

The peculiar odor that had mystified him before was in the air. He

recalled that Hugh and Tom had made an allusion to it that he did not

understand.

"It may come from their chimney and be caused by something burning; but

I looked closely at the wood on the hearth and saw nothing else."

A natural impulse led him, after walking a few rods, to look behind

him. He had heard nothing, but knowing the surly mood of the couple,

he thought it probable they might follow him.

The door of the cabin, was drawn wide open and the form of a man stood

out to view, as if stamped with ink on the flaming background made by

the fire beyond. His lengthened shadow was thrown down the path almost

to the feet of Harvey. The fellow no doubt was peering into the gloom

and listening.

"I wonder whether they mean to dog me," said Harvey; "it will be an

easy matter to do so, for they know every part of the wood, while I am

a stranger. They are none too good to put me out of the way; it is

such men who have no fear of the law, but they shall not take me

unawares."

While still looking toward the cabin, all became dark again. The door

was closed, but he could not be sure whether the man stood outside or

within.

"If he means to do me harm he will soon be at my heels."

But the straining eyes could not catch the outlines of any one, and the

only sound was the moaning wind among the bare branches.

"He has gone back into the house, but may come out again."

And so, while picking his way through the dim forests, you may be sure

that Harvey Bradley looked behind him many times. It makes one shiver

with dread to suspect that a foe is softly following him. Harvey had

buttoned his pea jacket to his chin and he now turned up the collar, so

that it touched his ears. His hands were shoved deep into the side

pockets and the right one rested upon his revolver that he had

withdrawn from its usual place at his hip. He was on the alert for

whatever might come.

He was pleased with one fact: the path to which so many references were

made, was so clearly marked that he found it easy to avoid going wrong.

"If I had had sense enough to take the right course when I first struck

it, I would have been home by this time."

After turning around several times without seeing or hearing anything

suspicious, he came to believe that however glad O'Hara and Hansell

might be to do him harm, they lacked the courage, unless almost sure

against detection.

"Hugh will stir up others to go forward, but he will take good care to

protect himself."

The dull roar that he once fancied he heard when tramping aimlessly

during the day, was now so distinct that he knew he must be near a

stream. The path crossed it at no great distance.

Sure enough, he had only turned a bend and gone down a little slope

when he reached the margin of a deep creek, fully twenty feet wide. It

flowed smooth and dark at his feet, but the turmoil to the left showed

that it tumbled over the rocks, not far away.

Harvey was anything but pleased, when he saw the bridge by which the

stream had to be passed. It was merely the trunk of a tree, that lay

with the base on the side where he stood, while the top rested on the

other bank. Whoever had felled the tree had trimmed the trunk of its

branches from base to top--the result being more ornamental than

useful, for the protuberances would have served to help the footing of

a passenger. The trunk in the middle was no more than six inches in

diameter, and being a little worn by the shoes that had trod its

length, the footing was anything but secure. With the sprinkling of

snow it was more treacherous than ever.

"Must I cross _that_?" Harvey said aloud, with a feeling akin to dismay.

"You can do so or swim, whichever you choose."

These words were spoken by a man standing on the other side, and who

was about to step on the support, when he paused on seeing another on

the point of doing the same from the opposite bank. In the dim light,

Harvey saw him only indistinctly, but judged that he himself was

recognized by the other.

"I suppose it's safe enough for those accustomed to it," said Harvey in

reply, "but I prefer some other means; do you intend to use it?"

"That I do; I want no better; if you are afraid, get out of the way,

for I am late."

Harvey moved to the right, and watched the other, who stepped upon the

support and walked over with as much certainty as if treading a

pavement on the street.

Harvey looked closely, and as the fellow came toward him, he recognized

him as one of his former employes. He was Jack Hansell--a brother of

Tom, and like him a close associate of Hugh O'Hara, the leader.

"You are out late, Jack," remarked the superintendent, as the other

left the log. To his surprise, Jack did not answer, but quickly

disappeared up the path by which the superintendent had reached the

spot.

"He is surly and ill-mannered, like all of them; no doubt he is on his

way to the cabin to plot mischief with the others."

Since nothing was to be gained by waiting, Harvey now stepped on the

trunk and began gingerly making his way across. It was a hard task,

and just beyond the middle, he lost his balance. He was so far along,

however, that a vigorous jump landed him on the other bank.

A little beyond he caught the twinkling lights of the village, and he

hastened his steps, now that, as it may be said, home was in sight. He

felt as if he was famishing, and the thought of the luscious supper

awaiting his return, gave him such speed that he was soon at his own

door.

Though it was late, he saw his aunt was astir, for the lights were

burning brightly. Before he could utter the greeting on his tongue, he

was terrified by the scared face of his relative.

"Why, aunt, what is the matter? Are you ill?"

"Oh, Harvey!" she wailed; "haven't you brought Dollie with you?"

"Dollie!" repeated the other; "I haven't seen her since I left home."

"Then you will never see her again," and, overcome by her terrible

grief, the good woman sank into the nearest chair, covered her face

with her apron and wept.

Harvey Bradley stood petrified. Bright-eyed Dollie, whom he had left a

few hours before, rosy, happy, overflowing with bounding spirits, was

gone, and the sobbing Aunt Maria declared she would never be seen again.

Stepping into the room, Harvey laid his hand on his aunt's shoulder and

in a trembling voice said:

"Why, aunt, what does this mean? Are you in earnest? What has become

of Dollie? Tell me, I beseech you."

"She is lost; she is lost! Oh, why did we ever bring her to this

dreadful country? I wish none of us had ever seen it."

"But what about Dollie? Where is she? How long has she been gone?

Compose yourself and tell."

It was not until he spoke sharply that the hysterical woman was able to

make known that the child had been absent for hours, no one knew where.

When she learned that noon that her big brother would not be back till

night, Dollie had pouted because he had gone off without telling her.

She was not sure she could ever forgive him. However, she ate her

dinner, and soon after went out to play. Some hours later her aunt

went to the door to call her, but she was not within sight or hearing.

Maggie was sent to look for her, but soon came back with word that she

could not be found.

The child had been seen a couple of hours before, running in the

direction of the path that led into the mountains, as if she was

fleeing from some one, Maggie had gone as far as she dared in quest of

her, but her loudest shouts brought no reply and she returned.

The word brought by the servant, as may well be believed, filled the

aunt with the wildest grief. Beyond all doubt, Dollie had formed a

sudden resolve to hunt up her brother Harvey, who had gone away and

left her at home. She had strayed so far into the mountains that she

was lost. Fortunately, she was warmly dressed at the time, but exposed

as she must be to the wintry winds and cold, she could not hold out

until morning unless rescued very soon.

Harvey was stricken with an anguish such as he had never known before,

but he knew that not a minute was to be lost. Dollie must be found at

once or it would be too late. It added a poignancy to his woe to know

that in coming down the mountain path, he must have passed close to

her, who was in sore need of the help he was eager to give.

"Have you made no search for her?" he asked.

"I could not believe she would not come back until it began to grow

dark. I thought she could not be far away; Maggie and I hunted through

the village, inquiring of every one whom we saw; many of the people

were kind, and two or three have gone to hunt for her; I started to do

so, but did not go far, when I was sure she had come back while I was

away, and I hurried home only to find she was not here."

"Are you sure any one is looking for her?"

"There are several."

"Well," said Harvey, impatient with the vacillation shown by his aunt,

"I shall not come back until she is found."

His hand was on the knob of the door when his distressed relative

sprang to her feet.

"Harvey;" she said in a wild, scared manner, "shall I tell you what I

believe?"

"Of course."

"Dollie did not lose herself: some of those awful men did it."

"Do you mean the strikers?"

"Yes; they have taken her away to spite you."

"Impossible!" exclaimed the young man, passing out the door and

striding up the single street that ran through the village.

But though unwilling to confess it to himself, the same shocking

suspicion had come to him at the moment he learned that Dollie was

lost. Could it be that some of the men, grown desperate in their

resentment, had taken this means of mortally injuring him? Was there

any person in the wide world who would harm an innocent child for the

sake of hurting a strong man? Alas, such things had been done, and why

should they not be done again? The words that he overheard between

Hugh O'Hara and Tom Hansell proved them capable of dark deeds. Could

it be that some of the hints thrown out by them during that brief

interview in the cabin bore any relation to the disappearance of Dollie.

At the moment Harvey turned away from his own house it was his

intention to rouse the village and to ask all to join in the hunt for

the child, but a feeling of bitter resentment led him to change his

purpose. No; they would rejoice over his sorrow; they would give him

no aid, and, if they had had a hand in her taking off, they would do

what they could to baffle him in his search. Slight as was his hope,

he would push on alone.

"O'Hara and Hansell know all about it; I will search the neighborhood

of the path all the way to their cabin and then compel them to tell

what they know; if they refuse----"

He shut his lips tight and walked faster than ever. He strove to fight

back the tempestuous emotions that set his blood boiling. He was moved

by a resolve that would stop at nothing; he would not believe that

there was no hope; he knew he could force the miscreants to give up

their secret, and had a hair of his little sister's head been harmed

the punishment should be swift and terrible.

"When Dollie is found," he muttered, determined to believe she must be

restored to him, "I will send her and Aunt Maria away, and then have it

out with these fellows; I'll make them rue the day they began the

fight."

These were dreadful thoughts, but there was excuse for them, his grief

made him half frantic.

The path over which he believed Dollie had either strayed or been led

or carried, entered the woods about a hundred yards from the village

and gradually sloped and wound upward for a mile, when it passed the

door of Hugh O'Hara's cabin and lost itself in the solitude beyond.

The sky had cleared still more during the interval since he came down

the mountain side, and he could not only see the course clearly, but

could distinguish objects several rods away, when the shadow of the

overhanging trees did not shut out the light. But the season was so

far along that few leaves were left on the limbs and it was easy,

therefore, for him to keep the right course.

He had not gone far when he stopped and shouted the name of Dollie.

The sound reached a long way, and he repeated the call several times,

but only the dismal wind among the limbs gave answer.

Striding forward, he stood a few minutes later on the margin of the

creek that was spanned by the fallen tree.

"She would not have dared to walk over," was his thought: "she must

have been on this side, if she wandered off alone."

A moment later he added:

"No; for the very reason that it is dangerous, Dollie would run across;

it would be no trouble for her to do so, and there is just enough peril

to tempt her. Could she have fallen in?"

He looked at the dark water as it swept forward and shivered.

"Rivers and lakes and seas and streams are always thirsting for human

life, and this may have seized her."

Tramping through the undergrowth that lined the bank he fought his way

onward until he stood beside the rocks where the waters made a foaming

cascade, as they dashed downward toward the mills far away.

"If she did fall in, she must be somewhere near this spot----"

His heart seemed to stop beating. Surely that dark object, half

submerged and lying against the edge of the bank, where the water made

an eddy, must be her body. He ran thither and stooped down.

"Thank God," was his exclamation, after touching it with his hands, and

finding it a piece of dark wood that had been carried there from the

regions above.

Back he came to where the fallen tree spanned the creek, and hurried

across. No snow was falling, but the earth was white with the thin

coating that had filtered down hours before.

"Had it come earlier in the day," he thought, "it would help us to

trace her, but now it will hide her footprints."

Hardly a score of steps from the creek his foot struck something soft,

and he stooped down. Straightening up, he held a small hood in his

hand, such as children wear in cold weather. Faint as was the light,

he recognized it as Dollie's; he had seen her wear it many times.

"What can it mean?" he asked himself; "I must have stepped over or on

that on my way down, but did not notice it. Yes, Dollie is on this

side the stream, but where?"

Aye, that was the question. Once more he raised his voice and shouted

with might and main, but as before no answer came back.

Harvey was now master of himself. He had recovered from the shock that

at first almost took away his senses and he was able to think and act

with his usual coolness. But with this, the belief that Hugh and Tom

had something to do with the disappearance of Dollie grew until at

times he was without any doubt at all. Occasionally, however, he

wavered in his belief.

Thus it was that two theories offered themselves. The first was that

Dollie had set out to find him and had wandered up the mountain path to

some point above the bridge and then had strayed from it and become

lost. Worn out, she had laid down and was at that moment asleep.

The corollary of this theory was that she had perished with cold, or

would thus perish before daylight. True, she was well clad when she

went out that afternoon to play, but her hood was gone and she could

not escape the biting wind that pierced the heavy clothing of Harvey

himself. Then, too, there was the danger from the wild beasts, of

which he had had too late an experience to forget.

Should it prove that Dollie went off in the manner named, then Harvey

made a great error in setting out alone to search for her. He ought to

have roused the village, and, with the hundreds scouring the mountains,

helped by torches and dogs, discovery could not be delayed long.

The other and darker theory was that she had been seen by some of his

enemies as she went into the woods and had been coaxed to some

out-of-the-way place, where her abductors meant to hold and use her as

a means of bringing the superintendent to terms. All must have known

that no method could be so effective as that.

It was hard to believe that the evil-minded men would go any further.

Yet it was easy for them to do so; they could make way with a little

child like her and have it seem that her death was caused by falling

over the rocks or by some other accident that might easily come to her.

"O'Hara and Hansell must have known all about it when I was in their

cabin. They were afraid to assail me in the cabin, for I was prepared,

and the fear of the law kept them from following me after I left their

place."

Harvey was thinking hard when he caught the well-known light, among the

trees in the cabin.

"He, Tom and Jack, precious scamps all of them, are exulting over the

sorrow they have caused, but they shall pay for it."

The latch-string had not yet been withdrawn. Harvey gave it a jerk,

followed by a spiteful push that threw the door wide open.

Disappointment awaited him. Neither Hugh nor Tom was there, but Jack,

looking like a twin brother of Tom, was in the act of lighting the pipe

that his relative had probably left for his use. He was alone, not

even the hound being present.

Jack had partly risen to his feet to reach the pouch of tobacco on the

short mantel above the fireplace. He paused and looked over his

shoulder with a startled expression at the visitor who made such an

emphatic entrance.

"Why--why, Mr. Bradley," he stammered, "I didn't know it was you; will

you take a seat?"

"Where are Hugh and Tom?"

"They went out some time ago."

"Where did they go?" demanded Harvey in an angry voice.

"Down to--the--that is, I don't know."

"Yes, you do know. I want no trifling; I will not stand it."

The fellow, though flustered at first, quickly regained his

self-possession. He had evidently checked himself just in time to keep

back some important knowledge.

"Where have they gone?" repeated the superintendent, bursting with

impatience.

But Jack Hansell was himself again--sullen and insolent as ever. He

had an intense dislike of his employer--a dislike that had deepened

within the past few days. He slowly sat down and smoked a full minute

before making reply to Harvey, who felt like throttling him.

"I told you I didn't know," he finally said, looking into the embers

and speaking as if to the glowing coals.

"But you do know."

"So I do, but I know another thing as well, and that is that there

ain't any reason why I should tell you if I don't choose to."

It took a great effort of the will for Harvey to hold himself from

doing violence to the man who said he was not bound to tell what he

preferred to keep to himself: but the superintendent saw that nothing

could be gained by violence. The man who can keep cool during a

dispute has ten-fold the advantage over one who does not restrain

himself.

After all, Jack Hansell was of small account. It was O'Hara, his

master, and mayhap his companion, whom Harvey Bradley must see. If Tom

chose to tell the truth he could do so, but if he would not, no one

could force him to say the words.

All this was clear to the young man, who, checking his anger, added in

a lower tone:

"You are not bound to answer any question I ask you, even when you have

no reason for your refusal, but you cannot decline to say when they are

likely to be back."

"Yes, I can, for I don't know."

"I wish to see O'Hara on a matter of the first importance."

"But he may not want to see you, and I ain't the man to make things

unpleasant for a friend."

"You certainly expect them back to-night, do you not?"

Jack smoked his pipe a few seconds before giving heed to this simple

question. Then, turning slowly toward Harvey, who was still standing

in the middle of the room, he said:

"You had better sit down, for you won't find Hugh and Tom any sooner by

keeping your feet. What do you want to see 'em for?"

"That I can explain only to them, though it is Hugh whom I particularly

want to meet."

The superintendent took the seat to which he was invited. It was the

stool on which he sat when in the cabin before. It cost him a greater

effort than can be explained to defer to this defiant fellow, who a few

weeks or even days before would have cringed at his feet like a dog.

"That being the case," added Jack, between the puffs at his pipe, "why

you'll have to wait till they come back. That may be inside of five

minutes, and not for an hour; maybe," added Jack in the game

exasperating manner, "that nothing will be seen of 'em till daylight.

You see that since they have been cheated out of their work they have

plenty of time to loaf through the country."

"Any man who is too lazy to work can find time to turn his hand to

dishonest tricks," said the superintendent, meaning that the words

should not be misunderstood.

"Sometimes the tricks that you call dishonest pay better than working

for a superintendent who wants all the wages himself," was the impudent

reply of Jack Hansell.

"That is the excuse of the man who is bad at heart and who prefers

wrong to right. Our state prisons are full of that sort of people."

"Yes--and there are a good many people that ought to be in prison that

ain't there."

"I am sure no one is better qualified than you to speak on that matter."

"Except yourself."

It struck Harvey just then that he was doing an unworthy thing in

holding such a conversation with any man. If he had anything of the

kind to say, he ought to speak it openly. He now did so.

"There is not a particle of doubt, Jack Hansell, that you and your

brother and Hugh O'Hara are engaged in business that ought to place you

all behind the bars."

"If you think it safe to talk that way before Tom and Hugh you will now

have the chance."

"I will be glad to tell them to their faces what I have told you."

"All right; there they come."

Footsteps and voices in such low tones were heard outside that it was

clear the men brought important news with them. And such indeed proved

to be the case.

CHAPTER IV.

THE SEARCH BY HUGH AND TOM.

Never did one person do another a greater injustice than did Harvey

Bradley when he believed that either Hugh O'Hara or any one else had

aught to do with the absence of his little sister Dollie. No men had a

hand in the sad business, nor could any one have been led to harm a

hair of her head. Had Harvey asked for help, no one in the village

would have held back from doing all that could be done to restore the

child to her friends.

The first news that came to Hugh O'Hara's cabin of the loss of the

child was brought by Jack Hansell, who went thither on a far different

errand. After a long talk on business, he gave the tidings, adding:

"I met him at the creek, but thought I wouldn't tell him, for it would

do no good. I kept my eyes open for the gal, but seen nothing of her."

Hugh jerked the pipe from his mouth.

"What's that you are saying? The little girl lost?"

"That's it; she's been missing since noon; they think she come up the

path and got lost in the mountains."

"Good gracious!" gasped Hugh, starting to his feet, "that is bad; do

you know," he added, turning to Tom and speaking with a slight tremor,

"that that little girl Dollie is about the age my Jennie was when she

died?"

"I hadn't thought of that," replied Tom.

"And," continued Hugh, swallowing a lump in his throat, "she looks so

much like Jennie that I've often felt as if I would give all I

have--which ain't much--to hold the little one on my knee as I used to

hold my baby. She is a sweet child and likes me; we've had many a talk

together that no one beside us knows about. She's so gentle, so

innocent, so good that it seems to me I see my own darling before me

when she looks up in my face. Come, boys," he added, decisively, as he

walked to the farther end of the room, picked up a lantern and lit the

candle inside.

"Come where?" asked Tom, in amazement.

Hugh turned half angrily toward him.

"Do you think that I could rest while that child is lost in the

mountains? Mr. Bradley hasn't acted right toward us and I bear him no

good will, but this isn't _he_--it's a little child--she looks and acts

like my Jennie, that's dead and gone."

"But, Hugh, you forget--what about the place?"

"Let it go to the dogs for all I care! What does it amount to against

the life of the little one? But we'll let Jack stay; if any of the

boys come, send them out to help in the hunt; it'll do them more good

than to break the law."

"Suppose some that are strangers come?" said Jack with a grin.

Hugh O'Hara gave a hollow laugh.

"Send them out, too, to help in the search; we'll be sure to find her

when the whole country gets to work. If I was down in the village I

would have every man, woman and child in the woods, and wouldn't let

them eat or drink or sleep till she's found. Tom, there's no one that

knows the woods better than we and Nero. Let's be off!"

The door was drawn inward, and Jack Hansell was left alone. He lit his

pipe, smoked it out, refilled it and was in the act of refilling it,

when Harvey Bradley came in--as has been made known in another place.

While the man sat smoking and alone in the cabin, he fell to brooding

over the troubles at the mills. Thus it came to pass that his feelings

were so bitter at the time the superintendent entered that he kept back

every hint that the absent men were engaged in the most "honest"

business in the world--that is, they were looking for the missing child.

Meanwhile Hugh and Tom went at the task not only with zeal, but with a

sagacity that gave promise of good results. As Hugh had said, they

knew every foot of the mountains for miles, they were free from the

flurry that at first ran away with the judgment of the superintendent,

and they were used to prowling through the woods. Still further Nero

had been trained to follow the faintest footprints.

"Now, Tom," said the leader, when they had walked a short ways, "we

can't do anything till we get on the trail of the little one."

"What do you think has become of her?"

"She's somewhere in the woods asleep or dead, with the chances about

even for either."

"Jack says she was seen coming up the mountain path early this

afternoon."

"Well, she has kept to it till she has either slipped out of the path

without knowing it or she has done it on purpose. She has strolled

along until it became dark or she was tired. Then she has lain down on

the leaves and gone to sleep. Nero, find the trail of the little girl."

"But," said Tom, "the night is so cold."

"So it is, but if the girl went out to play she was well clad, and, if

she knew enough, she has crept under the lee of a rock or into the

bushes, where the wind can't reach her. If she did the same, she

hasn't frozen to death."

"But there are wild animals in these parts."

"I know that, and she would make a meal that any of them would be glad

to get; we can only hope they didn't find her."

Just then Nero, who had been nosing the path in front, uttered a whine

and turned aside. Hugh held up the lantern and saw that he had gone to

the right. He was following a trail of some kind; whether it was that

of the one whom they were seeking was to be learned. It would take a

fine scent to trace the tiny footsteps under the carpet of snow, but

such an exploit is not one-tenth as wonderful as that of the trained

dogs in Georgia, which will stick to the track of a convict when it has

been trampled upon by hundreds of others wearing similar dress and

shoes, and will keep to it for miles by running parallel to the trail

and at a distance of a hundred feet.

But in the latter case the canines have an advantage at the start; they

are put upon the track or directed to hunt for it where it is known to

exist; they are given a clew in some form.

The hound Nero was skilful in taking a scent, but his ability was not

to be compared to that of the dogs to which I have referred, nor indeed

was it necessary that it should be. But he had great intelligence, and

acted as if he understood every word said to him by his master. He had

saved Hugh and his friends many a time by giving warning from afar of

the approach of strange parties. It may seem incredible that he should

know what was wanted of him, but there is the best reason for saying he

understood it all. Having no part of the little one's clothing to

help, he was without the clew which would appear to be indispensable.

His master, however, was satisfied the dog had struck the right trail.

"Stick to it, Nero," said Hugh, encouragingly, "not too fast, but be

sure you're right."

Without pause, the two followed the dog, Hugh in front with lantern in

hand. The woods were so cluttered with undergrowth that they could not

go fast, seeing which Nero suited his pace to theirs. Now and then he

ran ahead, as if impatient with the slow progress of the couple, and

then he calmly awaited their approach.

"Hark!"

The single word "_Dollie_!" rang through the arches of the woods. They

recognized the voice as that of the superintendent, who was hurrying

over the path they had left, and who was not far away. In fact, Hugh

held the lantern in front of him so as to hide its rays.

"I am sorry for him," he said, "but we don't want him with us."

"It cannot be," remarked Tom, after they had struggled further, "that

she has gone as far as this; Nero must be off the track."

At this moment the dog emitted a low, baying whine that would have

startled any one had he not known its meaning. It was the signal which

the remarkable animal always gave when close to the end of a trail.

"We shall soon know the worst," said Hugh, crashing through the wood

with such haste that Tom had to hurry almost into a trot to save

himself from dropping behind.

The singular call of the dog was heard again. He wanted his friends to

move faster. It came from a point slightly to the left.

"Here he is!" exclaimed Hugh, making a sharp turn and showing more

excitement than at any time during the evening.

"I see him! There he stands!" added Tom, stumbling forward.

With his right hand Hugh raised the lantern above his head, so that its

glare was taken from their eyes. The hound was close to a rock that

rose some six or eight feet above the ground, and his nose was pointed

toward the base of the black mass. At the same moment the men saw

something dark and light mixed together, like a bundle of clothing.

One bound and Hugh was on his knees, the lamp held even with his

forehead while he peered downward and softly drew the clothing aside.

Tom was also stooping low and leaning forward with bated breath.

There lay little Dollie Bradley, sleeping as sweetly as if nestling

beside her big brother in the warm bed at home. She must have wandered

through the woods until, worn out, she reached this spot. Then she had

thrown herself on the earth beside the rock and had fallen asleep.

Having lost her hood, her head was without any covering, except her own

native hair, which was abundant. Besides, rugged people do not need to

cover their heads while asleep, even in cold weather.

It was fortunate for Dollie that she was so warmly wrapped. One arm

was doubled under her head, and the cheek that rested on it was pushed

just enough out of shape to add to her picturesqueness. Her heavy coat

having been buttoned around her body, kept its form and could not have

been better arranged. The chubby legs were covered by thick stockings,

and the feet were protected by heavy shoes. True, she ran much risk in

lying upon the cold earth, with nothing between her and the ground, but

there was hope that no serious harm would follow.

The rock not only kept off the wind, but screened her from the snow.

It was almost certain that the little one had been asleep several hours.

Hugh gently examined the limbs and body to see whether there was any

hurt. Her peaceful sleep ought to have satisfied him, but he was not

content. Not a scratch, however, was found, though her clothing had

suffered a good deal.

"Take the lantern," said he in a husky voice to his companion. Then,

softly pushing his brawny arms under the dimpled form, he lifted it as

tenderly as its mother could have done. Tom smoothed the clothing so

as to cover the body as fully as possible. Hugh doffed his coarse cap

and covered the mass of silken tresses that streamed over his shoulder.

Dollie muttered as a child will do when disturbed in its slumber, but,

fitting her head to the changed position, she slept on as sweetly as

ever.

"Now lead the way," added Hugh, "and be careful where you step."

Tom was only too glad to do his part. Nero, as happy as the others,

walked in advance, in his dignified manner, now and then wagging his

tail and whining with delight. None knew better than he the noble work

he had done.

Tom used great care. When the bushes could not be avoided, Hugh shoved

them aside with one hand, that they might not brush against the face

resting so close to his own. Perhaps he held the velvety cheek nearer

his shaggy beard than was needed, but who can chide him when his heart

glowed with the sorrowful pleasure that came from the fancy that his

own Jennie, whom he had so often pressed to his breast, was resting

there again?

A tear dropped on the cheek of the little one. In that hour new

resolves entered the heart of O'Hara. He had been sullen,

discontented, and had long led a life that grieved his conscience.

By and by when they came back to the path they found the walking easier

than before.

"Hugh," said Tom, stopping short and facing about, "ain't you tired of

carryin' the kid? 'cause if you are, I'm ready to give you a lift."

"No; I wish I could carry her forever!"

All too soon the glimmer from the cabin window fell upon them, and they

paused at the door to make sure the clothing of the child was arranged.

They acted as if they were getting ready to go into the presence of

company.

"I don't know as I've done right in not carrying her home," said Hugh,

"but she has been out too long already in the night air; we'll take her

in and keep her while you run down to the village and let the folks

know she is safe."

"Is she still asleep?"

"Yes, hark! some of the boys seem to be inside," added Hugh, as the

sound of voices came to them from within.

The door was pushed open and the two men and dog entered.

Harvey Bradley had risen to his feet, and for one second he stared

angrily at the newcomers. You will recall that hot words had just

passed between him and Jack Hansell, and both were in an ugly mood.

Then Harvey quickly recognized the form in the arms of Hugh and rushed

forward.

"Is she alive?"

"Aye, alive and without a scratch," replied Hugh, deftly taking the hat

from the head of the little sleeper and placing her in the outstretched

arms.

"How thankful I am," exclaimed Harvey, kissing the cold red cheeks over

and over again, and pressing her to his heart; "yes--she is well--she

was lost and is found--she was dead and is alive again."

"What are you laughing at?" demanded Hugh, wiping his eyes and glaring

savagely at Jack Hansell, who, with open mouth, was looking on in a

bewildered way; "haven't you manners enough to know when gentlemen are

present?"

Jack seemed to think that the only way to behave was by keeping his

mouth closed. He shut his jaws with a click like that of a steel trap

and never said a word.

Harvey Bradley sat down on the stool from which he had arisen, first

drawing it closer to the fire, and unfastened the outer clothing of the

little one. He saw that all was well with her. Then he looked up with

moistened eyes and said in a tremulous voice:

"Hugh, tell me all about it."

The short story was soon told. The hardy fellow made light of what he

had done, but the superintendent, who kept his eyes fixed on his face,

saw the sparkle of tears that the speaker could not keep back. It was

hard for any one of the three to believe that only a brief while before

they were ready to fly at each other's throats. Harvey was melted not

only by the rescue of his sister, but by the remembrance of the

dreadful injustice done Hugh O'Hara and his friends, when he allowed

himself to think they had taken part in the disappearance of Dollie,

who, through all the talk, continued sleeping.

"I can never thank you for what you have done," said the

superintendent, hardly able to master his emotion, "but I shall show

you that the charge of ingratitude can never be laid at my door."

"That's all right," replied Hugh, in his off-hand fashion; "Tom and I

are glad to do a turn like that; nobody could want to see any harm come

to such a child, no matter how they might feel toward others related to

her. Do you mean to take her home to-night?"

"Yes; her aunt is frantic with grief."

"But Tom can run down there quicker than you can with the little one."

"No doubt, but we shall feel better to have her with us. She seems to

be well, and we can bundle her up warmly. There may, after all, be

serious results from this exposure, and it is best that we should have

her where we can give her every care."

And drawing the hood from his pocket he fixed it upon Dollie's head.

She opened her eyes for a moment and mumbled something, but sank into

sleep again. Harvey explained how it was he came to have the headgear

with him.

"I have a favor to ask of you, Mr. Bradley," said O'Hara, shifting from

one foot to another and as confused as a school-boy.

"Anything that you ask shall be granted, if it be in my power to grant

it," replied Harvey with a fervor that could leave no doubt of his

sincerity.

"It's a long distance to the village, and I will be glad if you will

let me carry her."

He made as if he simply wished to assist the superintendent. The

latter knew better, but he did not say so.

"I shall be glad to have your aid; you have had a rest for several

days, and a little exercise like this won't hurt you."

Hugh brought forth his best coat and gathered it around Dollie, as if

he was tucking her up in her trundle bed. Then Harvey placed her with

much care in his arms and made sure they were fully prepared to go out

doors.

The Hansell brothers quietly looked on during these proceedings. They

felt that there was no special use for them, and therefore they kept in

the background. The hound Nero showed much interest. He walked around

Hugh and Harvey, whining and wagging his tail as if he thought his

views ought to have some weight in the questions the couple were called

upon to consider.

"Come, Nero," said his master, as he drew the door inward. The dog

shot through like a flash and the tramp to the village was begun.

Hardly a word was spoken on the way, but when the house was reached

Hugh handed his burden over to Harvey and, refusing to go in, started

to move off. The superintendent put out his free hand.

"Hugh, I want you to come and see me to-morrow afternoon; will you do

so?"

"I will. Good-night."

"Good-night."

Hugh O'Hara had walked but a short distance up the mountain path when

he was caught in a driving snow-storm. He cared little for it,

however, and reached the cabin in due time, there to perform a strange

duty.

CHAPTER V.

A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM.

When Hugh O'Hara came to the door of Harvey Bradley, he was in his best

dress--the same that he wore to church on Sundays. Aunt Maria met him

on the threshold, and, in tremulous tones, thanked him. Then she led

the way to the back parlor, where the young superintendent awaited him.

The moment he entered, there came a flash of sunshine and a merry

exclamation, and with one bound, little Dollie (none the worse,

apparently, for her adventure the night before) landed in the iron-like

arms and kissed the shaggy-bearded fellow, who laughingly took a chair

and held her a willing captive on his knee.

Harvey sat smiling and silent until the earthquake was over. Then, as

his chief foreman looked toward him, he said:

"As I said last night, Hugh, the service you have done is beyond

payment. You know what a storm set in just after Dollie was brought

home, she never could have lived through that."

"It would have gone hard with her, I'm afraid," replied the embarrassed

visitor; "does the little one feel no harm?"

"We observe nothing except a slight cold, which the doctor says is of

no account. I have made up my mind to give to you, Hugh----"

The latter raised his hand in protest. He could accept money for any

service except that of befriending the blue-eyed darling on his knee.

"Never refer to that again."

Harvey laughed.

"I looked for something of the kind; I have a few words to add. I

found out this morning that there was a mortgage of $600 against your

little home in the village. I don't believe in mortgages, and that

particular one has now no existence. If you see any way to help undo

what I have done go ahead, but I beg you not to refuse another small

present that I have prepared for you."

And Harvey turned as if about to take something from his desk, but

stopped when he saw Hugh shake his head almost angrily.

"I would do a good deal to oblige you, Mr. Bradley, but you must not

ask that. I would have been better pleased had you let the mortgage

alone; my wife and little one are under the sod, and it matters nought

to me whether I have a place to lay my head. But," he added with a

faint smile, "what's done can't be undone, and, since you have asked

me, I will drop the matter, but nothing more, I pray you, on the other

subject."

"Hugh," said the superintendent, like one who braces himself for a duty

that has its disagreeable as well as its pleasant features, "you know

that I had sent to Vining for men to take the places of those who are

on strike?"

"I heard something of the kind, sir."

"They were to start for Bardstown to-night and are due to-morrow."

"Yes, sir."

"I countermanded the order by telegraph this morning; not a man will

come."

"Yes, sir."

"The whistle will blow to-morrow as usual, ten minutes before 7

o'clock, and I shall expect every one of you to be in place; I have

agreed to your terms."

Hugh looked at the superintendent a moment and then asked a singular

question:

"Is it because I found Dollie that you agree to our terms?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"Because, if that is the reason, I will not accept the terms, for you

would be doing out of gratitude an act which your judgment condemned."

Harvey Bradley felt his respect for this man increase tenfold. Such

manliness was worthy of all admiration. He hastened to add:

"There's where, I am glad to say, you are in error. Now you know as

well as I do that in order to keep discipline the employer must insist

upon his rights. If he were to give all that is asked his business

would be destroyed. But, on the other hand, labor has rights as well

as capital, and the two can never get along together until this truth

is respected by both. In all disputes, there should be an interchange

of views, a full statement of grievances by those who are dissatisfied,

and a fair consideration of them by the party against whom they exist."

O'Hara was not afraid to look his employer in the face and say:

"That has been my opinion all along, Mr. Bradley, and had it been yours

this lock-out would never have come."

"I admit it. You came to me from the employes and asked for a

discussion of the differences between us. I thought you insolent, and

refused to listen to you. Therein I did you all an injustice, for

which I apologize."

"It gives me joy to hear you speak thus, Mr. Bradley."

"Seeing now my mistake, there is but the one course before me. I am

convinced that in all cases of trouble like ours the court of first

resort should be arbitration. The wish to be just is natural to every

one, or at least to the majority of mankind. If the parties concerned

cannot agree, they should appeal to those in whom both have confidence

to bring about an agreement between them; that is according to the

golden rule. Employer and employed, labor and capital, should be

friends, and arbitration is the agent that shall bring about that happy

state of things."

"But I do not see that there has been any arbitration in this dispute."

"But there has been all the same."

"Where is the arbitrator?"

"She sits on your knee wondering what all this talk means. I tell you,

Hugh, there is a good deal more in those little heads than most people

think. Yesterday morning, when Dollie sat in her high chair at the

breakfast-table, she heard her aunt and me talking about the strike.

Though she could not understand it all, she knew there was trouble

between me and my employes. I was out of patience and used some sharp

words. She listened for a few minutes while busy with her bread and

milk, and then what do you think she said?"

"I am sure I have no idea," replied O'Hara, patting the head of the

laughing child, "but whatever it was, it was something nice."

"She says, 'Brother Harvey, when I do anything wrong, you take me on

your knee and talk to me and that makes me feel so bad that I never do

that kind of wrong again. Why don't you take those bad men on your

knee and talk to them, so they won't do so again?' I showed her that

such an arrangement was hardly practicable, and then she fired her

solid shot that pierced my ship between wind and water: 'Brother

Harvey, maybe it's _you_ that has done wrong; why don't you sit down on

their knees _and let them give you a talking to_? Then you won't be

bad any more."

Hugh and Harvey broke into laughter, during which Dollie, who had

become tired of sitting still full two minutes, slid off O'Hara's knee

and ran out of the room.

"We smile at the odd conceits of the little ones," continued Harvey,

"but you know that the truest wisdom has come from the mouths of babes.

I hushed her, but what she said set me thinking--'_Why don't you let

them give you a good talking to_?' _That_ was the very thing you had

asked and I had refused. I set out to take a long walk, and was absent

most of the day. Her question kept coming up to me, and I tried to

drive it away. The effort made me angry and ended in a decision to be

sterner than ever. I would not yield a point; I would import a body of

men at large expense and keep them at work, just because I was too

proud to undo what I knew was wrong.

"Still my conscience troubled me, but for all that I don't think I

would have yielded. Pride, the greatest of all stumbling-blocks, was

in my way. Reaching home, I learned that Dollie was lost; then, of

course, every other thought went from my head. Nothing else could be

done until she was found."

Harvey was about to tell his guest his suspicion that he had had a hand

in the abduction of the child, but he was ashamed, and really there was

no call for such a confession.

"Well, it was you who found her. I repeat that my debt to you can

never be paid. And yet I do not believe that that obligation would

have led me to yield, where I felt that a principle was at stake. It

was the words of Dollie, spoken yesterday, that stuck to me. They kept

me awake most of the night and played a part in the dreams that I had

about her being lost in the woods and eaten up by panthers and all

sorts of creatures. When I awoke this morning, the mists had cleared

away. I saw my error, and fully made up my mind to do all I could to

correct it. I went to the telegraph office before breakfast and sent a

message to Vining countermanding the order for the men. Then I came

back and had just finished my meal when a message was brought to my

house. Odd, wasn't it?"

"I see nothing odd in a telegram for you."

"I mean in the telegram itself."

"I could not answer that unless I saw it."

"Of course," said Harvey with a laugh, wheeling about in his chair and

picking up one of the yellow slips of paper which the Western Union

furnishes its patrons gratis.

"There, read _that_," he added, passing it to Hugh O'Hara, who looked

at it with no little curiosity.

It was dated in the city of New York and signed by Johnson W. Bradley,

father of Harvey, and President of the Rollo Mills Company. This was

the body of the telegram:

"Don't lose sight of the interests of your men. Before hiring other

hands _try arbitration_."

"That _is_ rather odd," said Hugh; leaning forward, so as to hand the

telegram back to his employer, "but it is sound wisdom all the same."

"Undoubtedly; but are you convinced that I agree to your terms not

because of gratitude, but because I believe them right?"

"I am satisfied," said Hugh; "have you sent the notice to the hands?"

"Yes. I wonder that you did not hear of it on the way here."

Hugh smiled.

"Of course I heard of it. I knew it long ago, but I did not know _why_

you had decided to restore our time to what it was and to pay the same

wages; _that_ I have learned from yourself. And now that you have done

your part so well," added Hugh, rising to leave, "I assure you that we

shall do ours; we shall give you the best service we can. No one shall

misinterpret your action or try to take advantage of it."

The superintendent was wise enough to avoid a mistake to which persons,

placed as was he, are liable--that is, he did not overdo his part. He

was so happy over the return of his little sister that he was willing

not only to give the old wages and time asked for by his employes, but

he felt like adding to them. He meant to make the pay of O'Hara

greater than before, but changed his purpose at the last moment.

Had he added to the pay of his chief foreman it would have changed the

ratio between that and the wages of the others, unless theirs, too, was

increased. In that event, a reproof was likely to come from the

directors, and he would find it hard to retrace his steps.

Justice called for him to do just what he had done; it would be weak to

do more. "Hugh," said he, also rising to his feet, "I am not quite

through with you; I am now going to ask you to do _me_ a favor."

"I guess it's safe to promise in advance that I will do it--that is, of

course, if it be in my power to do it."

"It is in your power. Last night, when I was in the woods near your

cabin, I noticed a strange odor in the air; I could not imagine its

cause, but I know now what it was."

"What was it?" asked O'Hara, turning crimson.

"You and some of your friends have been illicitly making whiskey. You

have a distillery somewhere in the mountains, and, while working in the

mills during the day, you have taken turns in running the still at

night. I will not ask you to tell me how long you have been doing

this, but you know as well as I that it is a crime."

The two men were silent a moment and then Hugh, without any appearance

of agitation, said:

"You have spoken the truth; the still was not more than a hundred feet

from the cabin, and caused the smell you noticed."

"How could you three attend to it when you were in the cabin?"

"Some one was generally close by. The pipe that carried off the fumes

ran into the chimney of our cabin and mixed with the smoke. We took

turns in looking after it. Tom and I had been there earlier in the

evening, and Jack was to look in now and then against our coming back.

But," added Hugh, "you said you had a favor to ask of me."

"So I have; I ask you to destroy that still, root and branch, and never

take a hand in anything of the kind again."

"I cannot do that."

"Why not? You are engaged in breaking the laws of your country, for

which there is a severe penalty. Now that you will have steady work,

you cannot make the plea that would have been yours if the strike

continued. Why can't you do as I ask you to do?"

"Because it has already been done. After I got back to the cabin last

night, Tom and Jack and I went out and wound up the business. The worm

has been thrown down the rocks, where it can never be found, the mash

has been scattered to the four winds, and everything smashed to general

flinders. It took us nearly to daylight to finish it, but we stuck to

it till the job was done."

"I am delighted to hear that, what was the cause of all this?"

"I guess it must have been the little arbitrator," said O'Hara, with a

smile; "they say that when a man does a bad act he feels like doing

others. That may or may not be true, but I know that when a man does a

good deed, the impulse to do more is awakened, and whatever good there

is in him is strengthened. I have been a bad man; I grew desperate

after the death of Jennie; but when I held your Dollie in my arms it

seemed that some of her goodness found its way into my heart. I

resolved with the help of heaven to be a better man. The first step

toward becoming so was to stop the unlawful work in which I had been

engaged only a short time.

"I thought that Tom and Jack would make trouble, but I didn't care, for

I could manage them. To my surprise, however, they seemed to feel just

as I did. So they fell to work with a will, and the job couldn't have

been done more thoroughly. Now, if you will allow me to kiss Dollie,

who has come back, I will bid you both good day."

Harvey Bradley shook hands with his visitor, during which he handed him

a liberal sum of money for Tom Hansell, who had taken part in the

search for Dollie. He sent naught to Jack, for he deserved none. Then

he went with Hugh to the outer door, giving him a number of encouraging

words on the way.

The whistle of the Rollo Mills never screeched more cheerily than it

did the next morning, and there was never a happier band of employes

than the 300, young and old, who took their places again in the works.

A short time afterward Harvey Bradley opened and furnished a room where

the best of reading was given free to all who chose to accept the

privilege. Still later in the season a night school was started, and

the skilled teacher who took charge was liberally paid by the board of

directors, who never made a better investment of money.

The interest shown by the superintendent in the welfare of his employes

proved to be seed sowed in good ground. All wrought faithfully and

well, and when on the 1st of January the balance sheet was made up, lo!

the net profits of the Rollo Mills were greater than ever before.

IN THE NICK OF TIME.

It may sound like slander for me to say that the elephant, which is

admittedly one of the most intelligent members of the animal creation,

is also one of the most vicious and treacherous. But it is a fact all

the same. I have seen one of those beasts, that had been fed and

treated with the greatest kindness for years by his keeper, turn upon

him like a tiger, and, seizing him with that wonderful trunk of his,

dash him to death before he could do more than utter a cry of protest

and terror.

I have seen another, after waiting weeks for the opportunity, suddenly

grasp an innocent person, and, kneeling upon him with his beam-like

legs, knead him out of all semblance of humanity.

Columbus, who was the main attraction of Barnum's establishment some

forty years ago, killed several keepers, and was likely to start on one

of his terrible rampages at any moment. The giving away of a bridge in

New England so injured him that he died, long before any of my young

readers were born.

An elephant, fully as bad as Columbus, was Vladdok, who was brought to

this country when quite young. A glimpse at his enormous ears told his

African nativity at once, those from Asia and Ceylon having much

smaller ears. He belonged to the old traveling circus of Blarcom &

Burton, and made several journeys through our country in the days when

those establishments found no use for the railways, but patiently

plodded from town to town, delighting the hearts and eyes of our

grandfathers and grandmothers when they were children just as we are

now.

Vladdok had killed two keepers, besides badly wounding a couple of

spectators in Memphis, when he yielded to one of his vicious moods. He

had been fired upon and wounded more times than any one could remember,

and Mr. Blarcom, who always traveled with his show, had been on the

point more than once of ordering his destruction; but he was of such

large size and possessed such extraordinary intelligence, that he

constituted the main attraction of the exhibition and he hesitated,

well aware that sooner or later, the wicked fellow would die "with his

boots on."

It was after an afternoon performance in one of the Western States that

Vladdok indulged in his last rampage. His sagacious keeper had come to

understand the animal so well, that he knew the outbreak was coming.

While Vladdok was unusually tractable and obedient, there was a

dangerous glitter in his small eyes, and an occasional nervous movement

of his head, which proved that he was only biding his time and waiting

for the grand chance to present itself.

Fortunately, he did not rebel until after the exhibition was over, and

the crowds had departed. Then, with a fierce trumpeting and one vast

shiver of his enormous bulk, he made a dash which snapped his chains

like so much whip-cord and went through the side of the tent as though

it were cardboard.

On his wild charge, which set all the rest of the animals in a panic,

he reached for his keeper, who with prodding spear and shouts,

interposed himself in his path and tried to check him. But the man's

inimitable dexterity and good fortune enabled him to dodge the beast

and escape by a hair's breadth. The next minute, the elephant reached

the public highway, down which he swung awkwardly but swiftly, on an

excursion that was destined to be the most tragic in his whole career.

The first object on which he vented his wrath was a team of horses,

driven by a farmer, whose wife was sitting beside him on the front

seat. Neither they nor the team knew their danger until the avalanche

of fury was upon them. The animals screamed in an agony of fright, and

were rearing and plunging, when Vladdok grasped one with his trunk,

lifted him in the air and dashed him to death. The other broke loose

and plunged off at such headlong speed, that the elephant followed him

only a few paces, when he turned to attack the man and woman.

But they were nowhere in sight, and, with a trumpet of disgust, he

wheeled about, and turning from the highway, took to the woods.

The couple were saved by a singular occurrence. The violent rearing

and backing of the horses overturned the wagon body, and the farmer and

his better half were caught beneath it, before they could escape. They

had sense enough to remain quiet, until the brute left, when they crept

out, none the worse for their mishap.

"Consarn his pictur!" exclaimed the husband; "if that don't beat all

creation! I allers said that circuses and shows was a burnin' shame,

and now I _know_ it; I'll make the owner of that elephant pay ten

thousand dollars for the damage he done us, for he scart you and me so

bad Betsy, that we'll never grow another inch."

Meanwhile, the runaway kept things moving. He knew his keeper and

attendants were hot on his trail, and his sudden change of course was

undoubtedly with a view of misleading them. It is hardly to be

supposed that he expected to find any "game" in the woods, but

nevertheless he did.

It so happened that Jack Norton and Billy Wiggins, a couple of boys not

more than fourteen years of age, were engaged on a little hunt that

same afternoon. The teachers had sent such bad reports home about them

that their parents inflicted the most awful kind of punishment; they

did not permit them to attend the circus, to which they had been

looking forward for weeks. The father of Billy was specially stern,

and forbade his hopeful to take his gun, when he joined Jack on a

little hunting ramble in the woods. Mr. Norton felt some slight

compunctions, when he noted how patiently his boy accepted his fate,

and relented to that degree that he permitted him to take his rifle,

though he knew there was little chance of his securing any game.

The boys had walked about a mile, and, coming to a fallen tree, sat

down to rest awhile, for the day was warm and the gun which they had

taken turns in carrying, was heavy.

"I guess this hunt ain't agoin' to amount to much," sighed Jack, as he

leaned the rifle against the prostrate trunk, on which they were seated.

"Why not?" asked Billy.

"'Cause there ain't nothin' to hunt; I heerd Budge Jones say that when

he was a boy, these woods used to be full of bears and deers and tigers

and lions and giraffes and that sort of thing."

"Yes, and the folks were so mean they killed 'em all, but I've the

idea, Jack, that maybe some of the lions or tigers has hid somewhere in

the woods and we might find 'em."

"Golly! I don't know whether I'd want to find 'em or not," replied

Jack, looking about him, with a scared expression.