“Wake up, there.”
The little boy stirred in his sleep, and finally opened his eyes. By
the faint light that entered through the window, he saw Abner
bending over him.
“What is it?” he asked, drowsily.
“The kitchen clock's just struck three,” whispered Abner. “You
haven't forgotten that we are going to run away, have you?”
“I'll get right up,” said Herbert, rubbing his eyes.
In two minutes the boys were dressed and ready for a start. It had
taken a great deal longer for Herbert to dress at home, but he had
become less particular as to his toilet now.
The boys took their shoes in their hands, and stole out in their
stocking feet. As they passed the door of the room in which Mr. and
Mrs. Barton slept, they heard the deep breathing of both, and knew
that they were not likely to be heard.
Outside the door they put on their shoes, and were now ready to
start.
“Wait a minute, bub,” said Abner.
He re-entered the house, and presently came out holding half a loaf
in his hand.
“That'll do for our breakfast,” he said. “We won't eat it now. We'll
wait till five o'clock. Then we'll be hungry.”
By five o'clock they were as many miles on their way. They had
reached the middle of the next town.
“Do you feel tired, bub?” asked Abner.
“A little. I feel hungry. Don't you think we can eat the bread now?”
“Yes, we'd better. I feel kind o' gone myself.”
They sat down under a tree, and Abner divided the bread fairly.
“You ought to have more than I,” protested Herbert. “You're bigger
than I, and need more.”
“Never mind that! You'll need it to keep up your strength.”
Abner was not naturally unselfish, but he was manly enough to feel
that he ought to be generous and kind to a boy so much smaller, and
he felt repaid for his self-denial by noticing the evident relish
with which Herbert ate his allowance of bread, even to the smallest
crumb.
They found a spring, which yielded them a cool, refreshing draught,
and soon were on their way once more. They had proceeded perhaps two
miles further, when the rumbling of wheels was heard behind them,
and a farm wagon soon came up alongside. The driver was a man of
about thirty--sunburned and roughly clad.
“Whoa, there,” he said.
The horse stopped.
“Where are you two goin'?” he asked.
“We're travelin',” answered Abner, noncommittally.
“Where's your home?”
“Some ways back.”
“Where are you goin'?”
“I'm after work,” answered Abner.
“Well, you'd orter be a good hand at it. You look strong. Is that
little feller your brother?”
“No; he's my cousin.”
Herbert looked up in surprise at this avowal of relationship, but he
thought it best not to say anything that would conflict with Abner's
statement.
“Is he after work, too?” asked the driver, with a smile.
“No; he's goin' to his father.”
“Where does he live?”
“Further on.”
“Have you walked fur?”
“Pretty fur.”
“Ef you want to ride, I'll give you a lift for a few miles.”
“Thank you,” said Abner, prompt to accept the offer. “I'll help you
in, bub.”
The two boys took their seats beside the driver, Herbert being in
the middle. The little boy was really tired, and he found it very
pleasant to ride, instead of walking. He had walked seven miles
already, and that was more than he had ever before walked at one
time.
They rode about three miles, when the driver pulled up in front of a
comfortable-looking house.
“This is where I stop,” he said. “My aunt lives here, and my sister
has been paying her a visit. I've come to take her home.”
The front door was opened, and his aunt and sister came out.
“You're just in time for breakfast, John,” said his aunt. “Come in
and sit down to the table. Bring in the boys, too.”
“Come in, boys,” said the young man. “I guess you can eat something,
can't you?”
“We've had---” Herbert began, but Abner checked him.
“Come along, bub,” he said. “What's a bit of bread? I ain't half
full.”
CHAPTER XXIV -- MRS. BARTON'S SURPRISE
A hearty breakfast, consisting of beefsteak, potatoes, corn bread,
fresh butter and apple sauce, made Abner's eyes glisten, for he had
never in his remembrance sat down at home to a meal equally
attractive. He wielded his knife and fork with an activity and
energy which indicated thorough enjoyment. Even Herbert, though in
the city his appetite had been delicate, and he had already eaten
part of a loaf of bread, did excellent justice to the good things
set before him. He was himself surprised at his extraordinary
appetite, forgetting the stimulating effect of a seven-mile walk.
After breakfast they set out again on their tramp. At sunset, having
rested several hours in the middle of the day, they had accomplished
twenty miles. Abner could have gone further, but Herbert was well
tired out. They obtained permission from a friendly farmer to spend
the night in his barn, and retired at half-past seven. Mr. Reynolds
would have been shocked had he known that his little son was
compelled to sleep on a pile of hay, but it may truthfully be said
that Herbert had seldom slept as soundly or felt more refreshed.
“How did you sleep, Abner?” he asked.
“Like a top. How was it with you, bub?”
“I didn't wake up all night,” answered the little boy.
“I wonder what dad and marm thought when they found us gone?” said
Abner, with a grin.
“Won't they feel bad?”
“Not much,” said Abner. “They ain't that kind. I reckon it won't
spoil their appetite.”
When they descended from the haymow, the farmer was milking his
cows.
“Well, youngsters,” he said, “so you're up and dressed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And ready for breakfast, I'll be bound.”
“I reckon I should feel better for eatin',” said Abner, promptly.
“Jest you wait till I get through milkin', and we'll see what Mrs.
Wiggins has got for us.”
Abner heard these words with joy, for he was always possessed of a
good appetite.
“I say, bub, I'm glad I run away,” he remarked, aside, to Herbert.
“We live enough sight better than we did at home.”
Leaving the boys to pursue their journey, we will return to the
bereaved parents, and inquire how they bore their loss.
When Mrs. Barton rose to commence the labors of the day, she found
that no wood was on hand for the kitchen fire.
“Abner's gittin' lazier and lazier,” she soliloquized. “I'll soon
have him up.”
She went to the foot of the stairs, and called “Abner!” in a voice
by no means low or gentle.
There was no answer.
“That boy would sleep if there was an earthquake,” she muttered.
“Come down here and split some wood, you lazy boy!” she cried, still
louder.
Again no answer.
“He hears, fast enough, but he don't want to work. I'll soon have
him down.”
She ascended the stairs, two steps at a time, and opened the door of
her son's room.
If Abner had been in bed his mother would have pulled him out, for
her arm was vigorous, but the bed was empty.
“Well, I vum!” she ejaculated, in surprise. “Ef that boy isn't up
already. That's a new wrinkle. And the little boy gone, too. What
can it mean?”
It occurred to Mrs. Barton that Abner and Herbert might have got up
early to go fishing, though she had never known him to make so early
a start before.
“I reckon breakfast'll bring 'em round,” she said to herself. “I
reckon I shall have to split the wood myself.”
In half an hour breakfast was ready. It was of a very simple
character, for the family resources were limited. Mr. Barton came
downstairs, and looked discontentedly at the repast provided.
“This is a pretty mean breakfast, Mrs. B.,” he remarked. “Where's
your meat and taters?”
“There's plenty of 'em in the market,” answered Mrs. Barton.
“Then, why didn't you buy some?”
“You ought to know, Joel Barton. You give me the money, and I'll see
that you have a good breakfast.”
“Where's all the money that man Ford gave you?”
“Where is it? It's eaten up, Mr. Barton, and you did your share. Ef
you'd had your way, you'd have spent some of the money for drink.”
“Why don't he send you some more, then?”
“Ef you see him anywheres, you'd better ask him. It's your business
to provide me with money; you can't expect one boy's board to
support the whole family.”
“It's strange where them boys are gone,” said Joel, desirous of
changing the subject. “Like as not, they hid under the bed, and
fooled you.”
“Ef they did, I'll rout 'em out,” said Mrs. Barton, who thought the
supposition not improbable.
Once more she ascended the stairs and made an irruption into the
boy's chamber. She lifted the quilt, and peered under the bed. But
there were no boys there. Looking about the room, however, she
discovered something else. On the mantelpiece was a scrap of paper,
which appeared to be so placed as to invite attention.
“What's that?” said Mrs. Barton to herself.
A moment later she was descending the staircase more rapidly than
she had gone up just before.
“Look at that,” she exclaimed, holding out a scrap of paper to Joel
Barton.
“I don't see nothin' but a bit of paper,” said her husband.
“Don't be a fool! Read what it is.”
“Read it aloud. I ain't got my specks.”
“The boys have run away. Abner writ it. Listen to this.”
Rudely written on the paper, for Abner was by no means a skillful
penman, were these words:
“Bub and I have runned away. You needn't worry. I reckon we can get
along. We're going to make our fortunes. When we're rich, we'll come
back. ABNER.”
“What do you think of that, Joel Barton?” demanded his wife.
Joel shrugged his shoulders.
“I shan't worry much,” he said. “They'll be back by to-morrer,
likely.”
“Then you'll have to split some wood to-day, Joel. You can't expect
a delicate woman like me to do such rough work.”
“You're stronger'n I be, Mrs. B.”
“Perhaps you'll find I am if you don't go to work.”
“I'll do it this afternoon.”
“All right. Then we'll have dinner in the even-in'. No wood, no
dinner.”
“Seems to me you're rather hard on me, Mrs. B. I don't feel well.”
“Nor you won't till you give up drinkin'.”
Much against his will, Mr. Barton felt compelled by the stress of
circumstances to do the work expected of him. It made him feel angry
with Abner, whom he did not miss for any other reason.
“I'll break that boy's neck when he comes back,” he muttered. “It's
a shame to leave all this work for his poor, old dad.”
To-morrow came, but the boys did not. A week slipped away, and still
they were missing. Mrs. Barton was not an affectionate mother, but
it did seem lonesome without Abner. As for Herbert, she did not care
for his absence. If Willis Ford did not continue to pay his board,
she felt that she would rather have him away.
On the sixth day after the departure of the boys there came a
surprise for Mrs. Barton.
As she was at work in the kitchen, she heard a loud knock at the
door.
“Can it be Abner?” she thought. “He wouldn't knock.”
She went to the door, however, feeling rather curious as to who
could be her visitor, and on opening it started in surprise to see
Willis Ford.
“Mr. Ford!” she ejaculated.
“I thought I would make you a call,” answered Ford. “How's the boy
getting along?”
“If you mean the boy you left here,” she answered, composedly, “he's
run away, and took my boy with him.”
“Run away!” ejaculated Ford, in dismay.
“Yes; he made tracks about a week ago. He and my Abner have gone off
to make their fortunes.”
“Why didn't you take better care of him, woman?” exclaimed Ford,
angrily. “It's your fault, his running away!”
“Look here, Ford,” retorted Mrs. Barton; “don't you sass me, for I
won't stand it. Ef it hadn't been for you, Abner would be at home
now.”
“I didn't mean to offend you, my dear Mrs. Barton,” said Ford,
seeing that he had made a false step. “Tell me all you can, and I'll
see if I can't get the boys back.”
“Now you're talkin',” said Mrs. Barton, smoothing her ruffled
plumage. “Come into the house, and I'll tell you all I know.”
CHAPTER XXXV -- HERBERT BREAKS DOWN
“I don't think I can walk any further, Abner. I feel sick,” faltered
Herbert.
Abner, who had been walking briskly, turned round to look at his
young companion. Herbert was looking very pale, and had to drag one
foot after the other. Day after day he had tried to keep up with
Abner, but his strength was far inferior to that of the other boy,
and he had finally broken down.
“You do look sick, bub,” said Abner, struck by Herbert's pallid
look. “Was I walking too fast for you?”
“I feel very weak,” said Herbert. “Would you mind stopping a little
while? I should like to lie under a tree and rest.”
“All right, bub. There's a nice tree.” “Don't you feel tired,
Abner?”
“No; I feel as strong as hearty as a horse.”
“You are bigger than I am. I guess that is the reason.”
Abner was a rough boy, but he showed unusual gentleness and
consideration for the little boy, whose weakness appealed to his
better nature. He picked out a nice, shady place for Herbert to
recline upon, and, taking off his coat, laid it down for a pillow on
which his young companion might rest his head.
“There, bub; I reckon you'll feel better soon,” he said.
“I hope so, Abner. I wish I was as strong as you are.”
“So do I. I reckon I was born tough. I was brought up different from
you.”
“I wish I were at home,” sighed Herbert. “Is it a long way from
here?”
“I reckon it is, but I don't know,” answered Abner, whose
geographical notions were decidedly hazy.
An hour passed, and still Herbert lay almost motionless, as if rest
were a luxury, with his eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the clouds that
could be seen through the branches floating lazily above.
“Don't you feel any better, bub?” asked Abner.
“I feel better while I am lying here, Abner.”
“Don't you feel strong enough to walk a little further?”
“Must I?” asked Herbert, sighing. “It is so nice to lie here.”
“I am afraid we shall never get to New York if we don't keep goin'.”
“I'll try,” said Herbert, and he rose to his feet, but he only
staggered and became very white.
“I am afraid I need to rest a little more,” he said.
“All right, bub. Take your time.”
More critically Abner surveyed his young companion. He was not used
to sickness or weakness, but there was something in the little boy's
face that startled him.
“I don't think you're fit to walk any further today,” he said. “I
wish we had some good place to stay.”
At this moment a carriage was seen approaching. It was driven by a
lady of middle age, with a benevolent face. Her attention was drawn
to the two boys, and especially to Herbert. Her experienced eyes at
once saw that he was sick.
She halted her horse.
“What is the matter with your brother?” she said to Abner.
“I reckon he's tuckered out,” said Abner, tacitly admitting the
relationship. “We've been travelin' for several days. He ain't so
tough as I am.”
“He looks as if he were going to be sick. Have you any friends near
here?”
“No, ma'am. The nighest is over a hundred miles off.”
The lady reflected a moment. Then she said: “I think you had better
come to my house. My brother is a doctor. He will look at your
little brother and see what can be done for him.”
“I should like it very much,” said Abner, “but we haven't got any
money to pay for doctors and sich.”
“I shan't present any bill, nor will my brother,” said the lady,
smiling. “Do you think you can help him into the carriage?”
“Oh, yes, ma'am.”
Abner helped Herbert into the carriage, and then, by invitation, got
in himself.
“May I drive?” he asked, eagerly.
“Yes, if you like.”
The kind lady supported with her arm Herbert's drooping head, and so
they drove on for a mile, when she indicated that they were to stop
in front of a large, substantial, square house, built after the New
England style.
Herbert was taken out, and, after Abner helped him upstairs, into a
large, square chamber, with four windows.
“What is his name?” asked the lady.
“Herbert.”
“And yours?”
“Abner.”
“He had better lie down on the bed, and, as soon as my brother
comes, I will send him up.”
Herbert breathed a sigh of satisfaction, as he reclined on the
comfortable bed, which was more like the one he slept in at home
than the rude, straw bed which he had used when boarding with Mr.
and Mrs. Barton.
Half an hour passed, and the doctor came into the room, and felt
Herbert's pulse.
“The boy is tired out,” he said. “That is all. His strength has been
exhausted by too severe physical effort.”
“What shall we do to bring him round?” asked his sister.
“Rest and nourishing food are all that is required.”
“Shall we keep him here? Have you any objection?”
“I should object to letting him go in his present condition. He will
be a care to you, Emily.”
“I shall not mind that. We shall have to keep the other boy, too.”
“Certainly. There's room enough for both.”
When Abner was told that for a week to come they were to stay in Dr.
Stone's comfortable house, his face indicated his satisfaction.
“Ef you've got any chores to do, ma'am,” he said, “I'll do 'em. I'm
strong, and not afraid to work.”
“Then I will make you very useful,” said Miss Stone, smiling.
The next day, as she was sitting in Herbert's chamber, she said:
“Herbert, you don't look at all like your brother.”
“Do you mean Abner, Miss Stone?” Herbert asked.
“Yes; have you any other brother?”
“Abner is not my brother at all.”
“How, then, do you happen to be traveling together?”
“Because we've both run away.”
“I am sorry to hear that. I don't approve of boys running away.
Where do you live?”
“In New York.”
“In New York!” repeated Miss Stone, much surprised. “Surely, you
have not walked from there?”
“No, Miss Stone; I was stolen from my home in New York about a month
ago, and left at Abner's house. It was a poor cabin, and very
different from anything I was accustomed to. I did not like Mr. and
Mrs. Barton; but Abner was always kind to me.”
“Is your father living?” asked Miss Stone, who had become
interested.
“Yes; he is a broker.”
“And no doubt you have a nice home?”
“Yes, very nice. It is a brownstone house uptown. I wonder whether I
shall ever see it again?”
“Surely you will. I am surprised that you have not written to tell
your father where you are. He must be feeling very anxious about
you.”
“I did write, asking him to send me money to come home. Abner was
going with me. But no answer came to my letter.”
“That is strange. Your father can't have received the letter.”
“So I think, Miss Stone; but I directed it all right.”
“Do you think any one would intercept it?”
“Mrs. Estabrook might,” said Herbert, after a pause for
consideration.
“Who is she?”
“The housekeeper.”
“What makes you think so? Didn't she like you?”
“No; besides, it was her nephew who carried me off.”
Miss Stone asked further questions, and Herbert told her all the
particulars with which the reader is already acquainted. When he had
finished, she said: “My advice is, that you write to your boy
friend, Grant Thornton, or tell me what to write, and I will write
to him. His letters will not be likely to be tampered with.”
“I think that will be a good idea,” said Herbert; “Grant will tell
papa, and then he'll send for me.”
Miss Stone brought her desk to the bedside, and wrote a letter to
Grant at Herbert's dictation. This letter she sent to the village
postoffice immediately by Abner.
CHAPTER XXXVI -- GRANT RECEIVES A LETTER
Mr. Reynolds had spared no expense in his efforts to obtain tidings
of his lost boy. None of his agents, however, had succeeded in
gaining the smallest clew to Herbert's whereabouts. Through the
public press the story had been widely disseminated, and in
consequence the broker began to receive letters from various points,
from persons professing to have seen such a boy as the one
described. One of these letters came from Augusta, Ga., and
impressed Mr. Reynolds to such an extent that he decided to go there
in person, and see for himself the boy of whom his correspondent
wrote.
The day after he started Grant, on approaching the house at the
close of business, fell in with the postman, just ascending the
steps.
“Have you got a letter for me?” he asked.
“I have a letter for Grant Thornton,” was the reply.
“That is my name,” said Grant.
He took the letter, supposing it to be from home. He was surprised
to find that it had a Western postmark. He was more puzzled by the
feminine handwriting.
“Have you heard anything from the little boy?” asked the postman,
for Mr. Reynolds' loss was well known.
Grant shook his head.
“Nothing definite,” he said. “Mr. Reynolds has gone to Georgia to
follow up a clew.”
“Two weeks since,” said the postman, “I left a letter here dated at
Scipio, Ill. It was in a boy's handwriting. I thought it might be
from the lost boy.”
“A letter from Scipio, in a boy's handwriting!” repeated Grant,
surprised. “Mr. Reynolds has shown me all his letters. He has
received none from there.”
“I can't understand it. I left it here, I am positive of that.”
“At what time in the day?” asked Grant, quickly.
“About eleven o'clock in the forenoon.”
“Can you tell to whom you gave it?”
“To the servant.”
“It is very strange,” said Grant, thoughtfully. “And it was in a
boy's handwriting?”
“Yes; the address was in a round, schoolboy hand. The servant
couldn't have lost it, could she?”
“No; Sarah is very careful.”
“Well, I must be going.”
By this time Grant had opened the letter. He had glanced rapidly at
the signature, and his face betrayed excitement.
“This is from Herbert,” he said. “You may listen, if you like.”
He rapidly read the letter, which in part was as follows:
“DEAR GRANT: I write to you, or rather I have asked Miss Stone, who
is taking care of me, to do so, because I wrote to papa two weeks
since, and I am afraid he did not get the letter, for I have had no
answer. I wrote from the town of Scipio, in Illinois--
“Just what I said,” interrupted the postman.
“I wrote that Mr. Ford had carried me away and brought me out West,
where he put me to board in a poor family, where I had scarcely
enough to eat. Mr. Barton had one son, Abner, who treated me well,
and agreed to run away with me to New York, if we could get money
from papa. But we waited and waited, and no letter came. So at last
we decided to run away at any rate, for I was afraid Mr. Ford would
come back and take me somewhere else. I can't tell you much about
the journey, except that we walked most of the way, and we got very
tired--or, at least, I did, for I am not so strong as Abner--till I
broke down. I am stopping now at the house of Dr. Stone, who is very
kind, and so is his sister, who is writing this letter for me. Will
you show papa this letter, and ask him to send for me, if he cannot
come himself? I do so long to be at home once more. I hope he will
come before Willis Ford finds me out. I think he has a spite against
papa, and that is why he stole me away. Your affectionate friend,
“HERBERT REYNOLDS.”
“Please say nothing about this,” said Grant to the postman. “I don't
want it known that this letter has come.”
“What will you do?”
“I shall start for the West myself to-night.”
“Mrs. Estabrook intercepted that letter,” said Grant to himself. “I
am sure of it.”
CHAPTER XXXVII -- WILLIS FORD FINDS THE RUNAWAYS
“I shall be absent for a few days, Mrs. Estabrook,” said Grant to
the housekeeper, as he entered the house.
“Where are you going?” she inquired.
“I can't tell you definitely.”
“Hadn't you better wait till Mr. Reynolds gets back?”
“No; business is not very pressing in the office, and I can be
spared.”
The housekeeper concluded that Grant was going to Colebrook, and did
not connect his journey with the lost boy.
“Oh, well, I suppose you understand your own business best. Herbert
will miss you if he finds you away when his father brings him back.”
“Do you think he will?” asked Grant, eyeing the housekeeper sharply.
“I'm sure I don't know. I suppose he expects to, or he would not
have traveled so far in search of him.”
“Shall you be glad to see him back, Mrs. Estabrook?”
“Of course! What makes you doubt it?” demanded the housekeeper,
sharply.
“I thought you didn't like Herbert.”
“I wasn't always petting him. It isn't in my way to pet boys.”
“Do you often hear from Willis Ford?”
“That is my business,” answered Mrs. Estabrook, sharply. “Why do you
ask?”
“I was wondering whether he knew that Herbert had been abducted.”
“That is more than we know. Very likely the boy ran away.”
Grant called on the cashier at his private residence, confided to
him his plan, and obtained a sum of money for traveling expenses. He
left the Grand Central Depot by the evening train, and by morning
was well on his way to Chicago.
Meanwhile, Willis Ford had left no stone unturned to obtain news of
the runaways. This he did not find difficult, though attended with
delay. He struck the right trail, and then had only to inquire, as
he went along, whether two boys had been seen, one small and
delicate, the other large and well-grown, wandering through the
country. Plenty had seen the two boys, and told him so.
“Are they your sons, mister?” asked a laborer of whom he inquired.
“Not both of them--only the smaller,” answered Ford, with unblushing
falsehood.
“And what made them run away now?”
“My son probably did not like the boarding place I selected for
him.”
“Why didn't he write to you?”
“He didn't know where to direct.”
“Who is the other lad?”
“The son of the man I placed him with. I think he may have induced
Sam to run away.”
Finally Ford reached Claremont, the town where the boys had actually
found refuge. Here he learned that two boys had been taken in by Dr.
Stone, answering to the description he gave. One, the younger one,
had been sick, but now was better. This information he obtained at
the hotel.
Ford's eyes sparkled with exultation. He had succeeded in his quest,
and once more Herbert was in his hands, or would be very soon.
He inquired the way to Dr. Stone's. Everybody knew where the doctor
lived, and he had no trouble in securing the information he sought.
Indeed, before he reached the house, he caught sight of Abner,
walking in the same direction with himself, but a few rods ahead.
He quickened his pace, and laid his hand on the boy's shoulder.
Abner turned, and an expression of dismay overspread his face.
“Ha, my young friend! I see that you remember me,” said Ford,
ironically.
“Well, what do you want?” asked Abner, sullenly.
“You know well enough. I want the boy you have persuaded to run away
with you.”
“I didn't persuade him.”
“Never mind about quibbling. I know where the boy is, and I mean to
have him.”
“Do you want me, too?”
“No; I don't care where you go.”
“I reckon Herbert won't go with you.”
“And I reckon he will. That is Dr. Stone's, isn't it? Never mind
answering. I know well enough it is.”
“He'll have bub sure,” said Abner, disconsolately. “But I'll follow
'em, and I'll get him away, as sure as my name's Abner Barton.”
CHAPTER XXXVIII -- FORD TAKES A BOLD STEP, BUT FAILS
“I wish to see Miss Stone,” said Willis Ford, to the servant.
“I'll tell her. What name shall I say?”
“Never mind about the name. I wish to see her on business of
importance.”
“I don't like his looks,” thought the maid. “Shure he talks as if he
was the boss.”
She told Miss Stone, however, that a gentleman wished to see her,
who would not tell his name.
Miss Stone was in Herbert's chamber, and the boy--now nearly well,
quite well, in fact, but for a feeling of languor and weakness--heard
the message.
“What is he like?” he asked, anxiously.
“He's slender like, with black hair and a black mustache, and he
talks like he was the master of the house.”
“I think it is Willis Ford,” said Herbert, turning pale.
“The man who abducted you?” ejaculated Miss Stone.
“Yes, the same man. Don't let him take me away,” implored Herbert.
“I wish my brother were here,” said Miss Stone, anxiously.
“Won't he be here soon?”
“I am afraid not. He has gone on a round of calls. Bridget, tell the
young man I will be down directly.”
Five minutes later Miss Stone descended, and found Willis Ford
fuming with impatience.
“I am here, sir,” she said, coldly. “I understand you wish to see
me.”
“Yes, madam; will you answer me a few questions?”
“Possibly. Let me hear what they are.”
“You have a boy in this house, named Herbert Reynolds?”
“Yes.”
“A boy who ran away from Mr. Joel Barton, with whom I placed him?”
“What right had you to place him anywhere, Mr. Ford?” demanded the
lady.
“That's my business. Permit me to say that it is no affair of
yours.”
“I judge differently. The boy is sick and under my charge.”
“I am his natural guardian, madam.”
“Who made you so, Mr. Ford?”
“I shall not argue that question. It is enough that I claim him as
my cousin and ward.”
“Your cousin?”
“Certainly. That doubtless conflicts with what he has told you. He
was always a liar.”
“His story is, that you beguiled him from his home in New York, and
brought him against his will to this part of the country.”
“And you believe him?” sneered Ford.
“I do.”
“It matters little whether you do or not. He is my sister's child,
and is under my charge. I thought fit to place him with Mr. Joel
Barton, of Scipio, but the boy, who is flighty, was induced to run
away with Barton's son, a lazy, shiftless fellow.”
“Supposing this to be so, Mr. Ford, what is your object in calling?”
“To reclaim him. It does not suit me to leave him here.”
Ford's manner was so imperative that Miss Stone became alarmed.
“The boy is not fit to travel,” she said. “Wait till my brother
comes, and he will decide, being a physician, whether it is safe to
have him go.”
“Madam, this subterfuge will not avail,” said Ford, rudely. “I will
not wait till your brother comes. I prefer to take the matter into
my own hands.”
He pressed forward to the door of the room, and before Miss Stone
could prevent it, was on his way upstairs. She followed as rapidly
as she could, but before she could reach him, Ford had dashed into
the room where Herbert lay on the bed.
Herbert was stricken with terror when he saw the face of his enemy.
“I see you know me,” said Ford, with an evil smile. “Get up at once,
and prepare to go with me.”
“Leave me here, Mr. Ford. I can't go with you; Indeed, I can't,”
said Herbert.
“We'll see about that,” said Ford. “I give you five minutes to rise
and put on your clothes. If you don't obey me, I will flog you.”
Looking into his cruel face, Herbert felt that he had no other
resource. Trembling, he slipped out of bed, and began to draw on his
clothes. He felt helpless, but help was nearer than he dreamed.
“Mr. Ford, I protest against this high-handed proceeding,” exclaimed
Miss Stone, indignantly, as she appeared at the door of the chamber.
“What right have you to go over my house without permission?”
“If it comes to that,” sneered Ford, “what right have you to keep my
ward from me?”
“I am not his ward,” said Herbert, quickly.
“The boy is a liar,” exclaimed Ford, harshly.
“Get back into the bed, Herbert,” said Miss Stone. “This man shall
not take you away.”
“Perhaps you will tell me how you are going to help it,” retorted
Ford, with an evil smile.
“If my brother were here---”
“But your brother is not here, and if he were, I would not allow him
to interfere between me and my cousin. Herbert, unless you continue
dressing, I shall handle you roughly.”
But sounds were heard upon the stairs, and Ford, as well as Miss
Stone, turned their eyes to the door.
The first to enter was Abner.
“Oh, it's you, is it?” said Ford, contemptuously.
He had thought it might be Dr. Stone, whom he was less inclined to
face than he professed.
“Yes, it is. What are you doing here?”
“It is none of your business, you cub. He's got to come with me.”
“Maybe you want me, too?”
“I wouldn't take you as a gift.”
“Ho, ho,” laughed Abner, “I reckon you'd find me a tough customer.
You won't take bub, either.”
“Who is to prevent me?”
“I will!” said a new voice, and Grant Thornton, who had fallen in
with Abner outside, walked quietly into the room.
Willis Ford started back in dismay. Grant was the last person he
expected to meet here. He had no idea that any one of the boy's home
friends had tracked him this far. He felt that he was defeated, but
he hated to acknowledge it.
“How are you going to prevent me, you young whippersnapper?” he
said, glaring menacingly at Grant.
“Mr. Willis Ford, unless you leave this room and this town at once,”
said Grant, firmly, “I will have you arrested. There is a local
officer below whom I brought with me, suspecting your object in
coming here.”
“Oh, Grant, how glad I am to see you! Is papa with you?” exclaimed
Herbert, overjoyed.
“I will tell you about it soon, Herbert.”
“You won't let him take me away?”
“There is no danger of that,” said Grant, reassuringly. “I shall
take you home to New York as soon as this good lady says you are
well enough to go.”
Ford stood gnawing his nether lip. If it had been Mr. Reynolds, he
would not have minded so much; but for a mere boy, like Grant
Thornton, to talk with such a calm air of superiority angered him.
“Boy,” he said, “it sounds well for you to talk of arrest--you who
stole my aunt's bonds, and are indebted to her forbearance for not
being at this moment in State's prison.”
“Your malicious charge does not affect me, Mr. Ford,” returned
Grant. “It was proved before you left New York that you were the
thief, and even your stepmother must have admitted it. Mr. Reynolds
discharged you from his employment, and this is the mean revenge you
have taken--the abduction of his only son.”
“I will do you an injury yet, you impudent boy,” said Ford,
furiously.
“I shall be on my guard, Mr. Ford,” answered Grant. “I believe you
capable of it.”
“Don't you think you had better leave us, sir?” said Miss Stone.
“I shall take my own time about going,” he answered, impudently.
But his words were heard by Dr. Stone, who had returned sooner than
he anticipated, and was already at the door of the room. He was a
powerful man, and of quick temper. His answer was to seize Ford by
the collar and fling him downstairs.
“This will teach you to be more polite to a lady,” he said. “Now,
what does all this mean, and who is this man?”
The explanation was given.
“I wish I had been here before,” said the doctor.
“You were in good time,” said Grant, smiling. “I see that Herbert
has found powerful friends.”
Willis Ford, angry and humiliated, picked himself up, but did not
venture to return to the room he had left so ignominiously. Like
most bullies, he was a coward, and he did not care to encounter the
doctor again.
Within an hour, Grant telegraphed to the broker at his office: “I
have found Herbert, and will start for New York with him to-morrow.”
Mr. Reynolds had only just returned from his fruitless Southern
expedition, weary and dispirited. But he forgot all his fatigue when
he read this message. “God bless Grant Thornton!” he ejaculated.
CHAPTER XXXIX -- THE HOUSEKEEPER'S RETRIBUTION
The train from Chicago had just reached the Grand Central Depot.
From the parlor car descended two boys who are well known to us,
Grant Thornton and Herbert Reynolds.
Herbert breathed a sigh of satisfaction.
“Oh, Grant,” he said, “how glad I am to see New York once more! I
wonder if papa knows we are to come by this train?”
The answer came speedily.
The broker, who had just espied them, hurried forward, and his lost
boy was lifted to his embrace.
“Thank God, I have recovered you, my dear son,” he exclaimed,
fervently.
“You must thank Grant, too, papa,” said the little boy. “It was he
who found me and prevented Mr. Ford stealing me again.”
Mr. Reynolds grasped Grant's hand and pressed it warmly.
“I shall know how to express my gratitude to Grant in due time,” he
said.
On their way home Grant revealed to Mr. Reynolds for the first time
the treachery of the housekeeper, who had suppressed Herbert's
letter to his father, and left the latter to mourn for his son when
she might have relieved him of the burden of sorrow.
As Mr. Reynolds listened, his face became stern.
“That woman is a viper!” he said. “In my house she has enjoyed every
comfort and every consideration, and in return she has dealt me this
foul blow. She will have cause to regret it.”
When they entered the house Mrs. Estabrook received them with false
smiles.
“So you are back again, Master Herbert,” she said. “A fine fright
you gave us!”
“You speak as if Herbert went away of his own accord,” said the
broker sternly. “You probably know better.”
“I know nothing, sir, about it.”
“Then I may inform you that it was your stepson, Willis Ford, who
stole my boy--a noble revenge, truly, upon me for discharging him.”
“I don't believe it,” said the housekeeper. “I presume it is your
office boy who makes this charge?” she added, pressing her thin lips
together.
“There are others who are cognizant of it, Mrs. Estabrook. Grant
succeeded in foiling Mr. Ford in his attempt to recover Herbert, who
had run away from his place of confinement.”
“You are prejudiced against my son, Mr. Reynolds,” said Mrs.
Estabrook, her voice trembling with anger.
“Not more than against you, Mrs. Estabrook. I have a serious charge
to bring against you.”
“What do you mean, sir?” asked the housekeeper, nervously.
“Why did you suppress the letter which my boy wrote to me revealing
his place of imprisonment?”
“I don't know what you mean, sir,” she answered, half defiantly.
“I think you do.”
“Did Master Herbert write such a letter?” “Yes.”
“Then it must have miscarried.”
“On the contrary, the postman expressly declares that he delivered
it at this house. I charge you with concealing or suppressing it.”
“The charge is false. You can't prove it, sir.”
“I shall not attempt to do so; but I am thoroughly convinced of it.
After this act of treachery, I cannot permit you to spend another
night in my house. You will please pack at once, and arrange for a
removal.”
“I am entitled to a month's notice, Mr. Reynolds.”
“You shall have a month's wages in lieu of it. I would as soon have
a serpent in my house.”
Mrs. Estabrook turned pale. She had never expected it would come
to this. She thought no one would ever be able to trace the
suppressed letter to her. She was not likely again to obtain so
comfortable and desirable a position. Instead of attributing her ill
fortune to her own malice and evil doing, she chose to attribute it
to Grant.
“I am to thank you for this, Grant Thornton,” she said, in sudden
passion. “I was right in hating you as soon as I first saw you. If
ever I am able I will pay you up for this.”
“I don't doubt it, Mrs. Estabrook,” said Grant, quietly, “but I
don't think you will have it in your power.”
She did not deign to answer, but hurried out of the room. In half an
hour she had left the house.
“Now I can breathe freely,” said the broker. “That woman was so full
of malice and spite that it made me uncomfortable to feel that she
was in the house.”
“I am so glad that she has gone, papa,” said Herbert.
That evening, after Herbert had gone to bed, Mr. Reynolds invited
Grant into his library.
“My boy,” he said, “I have settled accounts with Mrs. Estabrook; now
I want to settle with you.”
“Not in the same way, I hope, sir,” said Grant.
“Yes, in the same way, according to your deserts. You have done me a
service, that which none can be greater. You have been instrumental
in restoring to me my only son.”
“I don't want any reward for that, sir.”
“Perhaps not; but I owe it to myself to see that this service is
acknowledged. I shall raise your salary to fifteen dollars a week.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Grant, joyfully. “How glad my mother will
be.”
“When you tell her this, you may also tell her that I have deposited
on your account in the Bowery Savings Bank the sum of five thousand
dollars.”
“This is too much, Mr. Reynolds,” said Grant, quite overwhelmed.
“Why, I shall feel like a man of fortune.”
“So you will be in time, if you continue as faithful to business as
in the past.”
“It seems to me like a dream,” said Grant.
“I will give you a week's leave of absence to visit your parents,
and tell them of your good fortune.”
CHAPTER XL -- CONCLUSION
There were anxious hearts in the parsonage at Colebrook. For some
weeks the minister had shown signs of overwork. His appetite had
failed, and he seemed weary and worn.
“He needs change,” said the doctor. “A run over to Europe would do
him good. He has no disease; he only wants change.”
“A trip to Europe,” said Mr. Thornton, shaking his head. “It is
impossible. It has been the dream of my life, but a country minister
could not, in half a dozen years, save money enough for that.”
“If your brother Godfrey would lend you the money, Grant might, in
time, help you to pay it.”
Godfrey never had forgiven Grant for running counter to his plans.
“I wish I could spare the money myself, Mr. Thornton,” said the
doctor. “Five hundred dollars would be sufficient, and it would make
a new man of you.”
“It might as well be five thousand,” said the minister, shaking
his head. “No, my good friend, I must toil on as well as I can, and
leave European trips to more favored men.”
It was noised about through the parish that the minister was sick,
and the doctor recommended a European trip.
“It's ridikilus,” was Deacon Gridley's comment. “I work harder than
the minister, and I never had to go to Europe. It's just because
it's fashionable.”
“Mr. Thornton is looking pale and haggard,” said Mrs. Gridley.
“What if he is? He ought to work outdoors like me. Then he'd know
what work was. Ac-cordin' to my notion, ministers have a pooty easy
time.”
Mr. Tudor was of the same opinion.
“It's all nonsense, deacon,” he said. “Father wanted me to be a
minister, and I'd have had a good deal easier time if I had followed
his advice.”
“You wouldn't have had so much money, Mr. Tudor,” said Miss Lucretia
Spring, who heard this remark.
“Mebbe not; but what I've got I've worked for.”
“For my part, although I am not near as rich as you are, I'd give
twenty dollars toward sending the minister abroad,” said kindly Miss
Spring.
“I wouldn't give a cent,” said Mr. Tudor, with emphasis.
“Nor I,” said Deacon Gridley. “I don't believe in humorin' the
clergy.”
Saturday came, and the minister was worse. It seemed doubtful if he
would be able to officiate the next day. No wonder he became
dispirited.
Just before supper the stage drove up to the door, and Grant jumped
out.
“I am afraid he has been discharged,” said Mr. Thornton, nervously.
“He does not look like it,” said Mrs. Thornton, noticing Grant's
beaming countenance.
“What is the matter with father?” asked Grant, stopping short as he
entered.
“He is not feeling very well, Grant. He has got run down.”
“What does the doctor say?”
“He says your father ought to take a three-months trip to Europe.”
“Which, of course, is impossible,” said Mr. Thornton, smiling
faintly.
“Not if your brother would open his heart, and lend you the money.”
“He would not do it.”
“And we won't ask him,” said Grant, quickly, “but you shall go, all
the same, father.”
“My son, it would cost five hundred dollars.”
“And for twice as much, mother, could go with you; you would need
her to take care of you. Besides she needs a change, too.”
“It is a pleasant plan, Grant; but we must not think of it.”
“That's where I don't agree with you. You and mother shall go as
soon as you like, and I will pay the expenses.”
“Is the boy crazy?” said the minister.
“I'll answer that for myself, father. I have five thousand dollars
in the Bowery Savings Bank, in New York, and I don't think I can
spend a part of it better than in giving you and mother a European
trip.”
Then the explanation came, and with some difficulty the minister was
made to understand that the dream of his life was to be realized,
and that he and his wife were really going to Europe.
“Well, well! who'd have thought it?” ejaculated Deacon Gridley.
“That boy of the minister's must be plaguey smart. I never thought
he'd be so successful. All the same, it seems to me a mighty poor
investment to spend a thousand dollars on racin' to Europe. That
money would buy quite a sizable farm.”
Others, however, less narrow in their notions, heartily approved of
the European trip. When three months later the minister came home,
he looked like a new man. His eye was bright, his face bronzed and
healthy, his step elastic, and he looked half a dozen years younger.
“This all comes of having a good son,” he said, smiling, in reply to
congratulations, “a son who, in helping himself, has been alive to
help others.”
Half a dozen years have passed. Grant Thornton is now a young man,
and junior partner of Mr. Reynolds. He has turned his money to good
account, and is counted rich for one of his age. He has renewed his
acquaintance with Miss Carrie Clifton, whom he met for the first
time as a summer boarder in Colebrook, and from their intimacy it
wouldn't be surprising if Grant should some day become the wealthy
jeweler's son-in-law.
Uncle Godfrey has become reconciled to Grant's following his own
course. It is easy to become reconciled to success.
Willis Ford is confined in a penitentiary in a Western State, having
been convicted of forgery, and there is small chance of his
amendment. He has stripped his stepmother of her last penny, and she
is compelled to live on the charity of a relative, who accords her a
grudging welcome, and treats her with scant consideration. The
bitterest drop in her cup of humiliation is the prosperity of Grant
Thornton, toward whom she feels a fierce and vindictive hatred. As
she has sown, so she reaps. Malice and uncharitableness seldom bring
forth welcome fruit.
THE END