The arrest of Mary Little for theft at Deacon Cornhill’s was a bitter
blow to her friends, none of whom could believe her guilty.
Rob lost no time in going to the Cornhill home, hoping that he could
enlist the folks in her favor, or, at least, get at the truth of the
matter. But he found Mrs. Cornhill fully convinced of Mary’s guilt, and
severely blaming herself that she had ever let the “idle hussy into the
house.”
It was in vain that Rob pleaded that Mary had been a faithful servant.
The fact remained that Mrs. Cornhill had been missing article after
article from the household ever since the girl had come to work for
her. She had not spoken of this at first, as she had been so favorably
impressed by her that she had hesitated about accusing her of such
misdoings. Finally, after watching and waiting for weeks, she had felt
obliged to act in the matter.
Deacon Cornhill was now so far recovered from his recent illness as
to sit up in his great easy-chair, though he was but a shadow of his
former genial self.
“Don’t be hard on the gal, Mandy,” he said, compassionately. “No doubt
she was driven to it. The articles were not worth very----”
“Tweren’t the wurth, but the principle in it,” snapped his wife. “Arter
the way I treated her, to hev the idle hussy turn on us just at this
time of all others,” and the good woman fell to crying.
“Don’t break down, Mandy,” said he, but his own voice was husky and Rob
was sure there were tears in his eyes.
Mistaking the cause of this emotion Rob spoke more hopefully, when he
learned that he and his friends were not alone in their misfortunes, as
disaster had overtaken this family. It proved that Deacon Cornhill had
become responsible for large sums of money through another individual,
and this person proving worthless, he was held for the full amount.
When paid, practically every dollar would be swept away, and he and his
family would be turned out of their home penniless.
“The earnings of two lives, my father’s and mine, are thus lost, and
Mandy and I are homeless and friendless; for, at this time, when we
need our friends most, there is not one to speak a consoling word. I
eenamost wish the fever had done its work, for I had rather been laid
in my grave than to have lived to see this day.”
“Oh, Elihu! it is wicked to talk like that,” said his wife. “But it is
dreadful to be robbed of our home at this time in life.”
Rob went away feeling that he was not alone in his misfortunes, and
when he told the others at Break o’ Day good Deacon Cornhill had
several sincere sympathizers, if they were helpless to aid him.
The arrest of Mary, who was then taken to jail, where she must remain
until her trial, nearly two months later, cast a gloom over the entire
party, as they could do nothing for her.
Rob returned to work at Deacon Cornhill’s, where he was greatly needed,
every other hand having deserted him at this critical time, on the
ground that he could not pay them. As much as he needed his wages,
Little Hickory resolved to take his chances, pitying the unfortunate
man in his distress, and believing he would eventually pay him all that
was due to him.
Larry remained at Mr. Howlitt’s, probably the happiest of the entire
number who had come to Basinburg.
So far Tom and Jerry had not found situations to work, and had remained
at home. But Rob secured a chance for employment in a portable sawmill,
where they went to work.
This was a severe “breaking in” for them, and more than once both were
on the verge of throwing up their jobs. Probably the only thing that
kept them at work was the fear that Little Hickory would send them
back. Their task was to take away boards after they had been thrown
from the carriage by the sawyer, and at times they had to hustle to
keep the “run” clear. Not a night but found them glad to seek their
rude bunks at an early hour, where they slept “like Turks,” as the
expression goes.
As the mill was located more than three miles from home, and stood in
the midst of the timber-lot, they did not go home oftener than once a
week.
They boarded with the rest of the hands in the “shanty,” but, as there
was not room enough for them there to sleep, they had to make up
“shake-downs” in the mill. As it was warm weather they rather liked
this arrangement.
They were reasonably faithful to their employer, and everything
appeared to be going on well, until one afternoon, while the sawyer was
crowding them uncommonly hard with boards, they got behind, so that the
course got completely filled.
Now, it is always easier to keep square with one’s work than to catch
up, once any time is lost. The fault, such as it was, was really Tom’s,
as he had taken half an hour’s rest, saying it would be an easy matter
to clear the run.
But the time lost could not be recovered, and in vain they worked to
gain what they had neglected to keep. The sawyer was a crusty old man,
who shouted angrily to them to clear the way. Unfortunately, the boss
happened along just then, and, seeing the situation, he ordered that
another hand should be put on the work.
Tom resented this, and answered back somewhat hastily. Bitter words
followed, and almost before he knew it, Tom had lost his situation and
Jerry was frightened over the affair.
It was then nearly night, and, having a dread of going home, Tom
resolved to remain with his brother until morning, intending then to
acknowledge his fault and beg of the boss to be allowed to return to
his post. Had he done this then and there it would have saved him an
ordeal of which he little dreamed.
It could not have been far from midnight, as he was tossing uneasily
on his rough couch, while he pondered upon his recent mistake, when he
heard some one moving about the mill. Then he discovered two youths a
little older than himself moving cautiously about the premises.
One of the couple carried a lighted torch in his hand, and which he
kept moving to and from as he led his companion over the place.
“Look out, Phil,” said the latter, “or you will set the old shell on
fire.”
“Sho! this wouldn’t burn, it’s so green,” and, as if to prove his
words, he thrust the burning brand into the midst of a pile of
combustible matter. To his dismay, the dried material instantly
ignited, and the flames sprang upward with a suddenness and fury that
frightened the newcomers.
“You have set the mill on fire!” gasped the other.
“Quick!” exclaimed the one who had done the mischief, dropping the
torch in his terror, “run for your life, Nate. We must not be found
here.”
By this time Tom had sprung from his couch, but he was too late to stop
the runaway boys, though he did reach the scene of the fire and just
picked up the smoldering torch as one of the millmen, who had been
attracted by its light, appeared on the scene.
“Here, you little devil!” he roared. “Trying to burn up the mill, are
you? It’s lucky I have caught you at your devilish work.”
Tom was powerless to flee, if he had wished to, and in a moment he
found himself flung to the floor by a pair of strong arms, and just as
his brother reached the spot he was tied hands and feet.
Jerry was then seized and treated in the same manner.
Though others came speedily to the scene the fire had gained such
headway in a short time that the mill was burned down in spite of all
that could be done to save it.
In vain Tom and Jerry pleaded their innocence. The latter had not seen
the two boys prowling about the place, and Tom’s story was ridiculed
until he held his tongue in bitter silence. His quarrel with the boss
of the previous afternoon was retold, and, with the hatred of their
former associates raised against them, the hapless brothers were taken
as prisoners, on the serious charge of incendiarism.
“That’s good for twenty years apiece,” said ’Squire Hardy, rubbing his
hands in a pleased manner. “We’re picking them off, one by one, and now
the deacon has got shut off, the work will be easier.”