"Get something important for her to do along Social Service lines. That

will keep her for a while at least."

"But what kin she do?"

"I cannot say now, but perhaps something will turn up. We must try to

work out a plan which will prove attractive."

"Say, you've got a shrewd head on ye'r shoulders, Miss. I guess you've

hit the bull's-eye, all right. Yes, we must git an anchor of some kind

that'll hold solid."

These two were now becoming firm friends, and they talked about various

matters. Belle explained about her life at the Seminary, and Abner told

about the proposed Orphan Home, and his conversation that morning with

Lawyer Rackshaw. He was somewhat surprised with himself for talking in

such a free and easy manner. But the girl was so sympathetic and

willing to listen, that he found it a great comfort to confide in her.

"Ye won't say a word about this to Tildy an' Jess, will ye?" he asked.

"They don't seem to understand sich things. But you do, an' that's why

I've said more to you than to anyone else."

"I'm good at keeping secrets, Mr. Andrews," was the reply, "and I thank

you for your confidence."

"It's them Denton kids I'm worryin' about," Abner explained. "They

should be put into a good home at once. I really don't know what will

become of 'em, to say nuthin' about the widder."

They were in sight of Ash Point now, and Abner directed Belle's

attention to his house some distance ahead, nestling among the trees.

"It ain't much of a place," he apologized, "but ye'll git a hearty

welcome, lots of room, an' plenty of fresh air. It's a mighty healthy

place, if I do say it."

He paused and a peculiar expression suddenly lightened his face. He

straightened himself up with a jerk, and brought the palm of his hand

down upon his knee with a whack.

"Anything wrong?" Belle enquired.

"Nuthin' but a kink. I have it sometimes an' it makes me kinder queer."

"Where does it affect you?"

"Ginerally in me head."

"That's serious, isn't it? What do you do for it?"

"Jist git out an' make it hustle."

"Make what hustle? The kink?"

"That's it, 'specially if it's a dandy."

"A dandy!"

"Yep; a dandy idea. That's what I've got. But here we are at home, an'

there's Tildy an' Jess waitin' at the door."

*CHAPTER X*

*AN UNEXPECTED JOLT*

It was a hot afternoon, and Zebedee Burns found the shade of the big

maple near his workshop very refreshing. He was sitting with his back

against the trunk of the tree, his eyes riveted upon the front page of

_The Live Wire_, which the mailman had just left. So intent was he upon

what he was reading that he did not notice a man walking toward him from

the road. It was Abner, who, when a few yards away, stopped and stood

for a few seconds studying his neighbor.

"Some people kin take life easy," Abner presently remarked. "Comes

nat'ral, I guess."

Zebedee merely glanced at his visitor, and without a word continued his

reading.

"What's the news, Zeb?" Abner asked, coming close and squatting down

upon the grass. "Must be mighty interestin' by the way ye keep ye'r

eyes glued upon that page."

Zebedee lowered the paper and looked quizzically at his companion.

"Say, Abner," he began, "what were ye doin' yesterday?"

"What was I doin' yesterday! What de ye mean? Wasn't I Abner Andrews?"

"Ye couldn't have been accordin' to this mornin's paper. Ye must have

been one o' them ancients ye've told me about so often, an' a mighty

savage one at that."

"Hey, what are ye givin' me? What's that dirty sheet sayin' about

decent people now?"

"Isn't it true?"

"What true?"

"That you acted like a fool or a lunatic in town yesterday; waylaid a

girl drivin' along Main street; that she beat you black an' blue with

her whip, an' then had you arrested?"

Abner was on his feet in an instant, greatly excited.

"Is that what it says?" he roared.

"Sure, haven't I jist told ye?"

"But doesn't it explain anythin'? Doesn't it tell who the gal was, an'

why I did what I did?"

"Here, read it fer ye'rself," and Zeb handed him the paper.

Slowly and carefully Abner read the article which occupied a prominent

position, and was featured in big headlines. The writer had made the

most of the incident, and the fact that the girl was the daughter of the

Attorney General added all the more to the interest. The story was

distorted beyond all semblance of reality and mingled with humor. It

ended by saying that the culprit was allowed to go owing to the girl,

who interceded on his behalf.

Abner's body trembled from the vehemence of his anger, and when he had

finished reading he thrust the paper under Zebedee's nose.

"De ye believe that?" he demanded.

"Ain't it true?" Zeb asked.

"True! True! Did ye ever see anythin' true in that rag? It's a lie, a

d--n lie, an' I'm goin' to punch the nose of that feller wot wrote it,

see if I don't."

"Ye better be careful," Zeb warned. "Ye might have to punch several

noses, the editor's included."

"An' de ye think I can't do it? I kin wipe up the hull bunch with one

hand. I'll make 'em take backwater, an' apologize right smart. Why

can't they leave decent honest people alone? They've got more ink than

brains. If they'd spend some of their energy writin' about Hen

Whittles' vile dump, an' how he wants to sell the place fer one thousand

dollars fer that Orphan Home, it 'ud be more sensible."

"Are they thinkin' of puttin' the Home on that dump?" Zeb asked in

surprise.

"That's jist it. An' they want my money to buy the hole, which is a dam

sight worse than that old Toefat of the Bible."

"Did they ask you fer the money?"

"Sure. Lawyer Rackshaw is doin' the bizness, an' when he asked me

yesterday fer the money, I burnt the end of his nose with the cigar I

was smokin'. It was too bad to spoil a good cigar on a thing like

that."

"An' what did he do?"

"Nuthin' 'cept tumble backwards on the floor, chair an' all. He got the

jolt of his life that time, all right."

"Ye better be careful," Zeb advised. "Lawyer Rackshaw's not likely to

fergit a thing like that, an' I've heard say that he never fergives."

"I hope he won't fergit his burnt nose, an' I don't care a blue divil if

he doesn't fergive."

"You must like to be in hot water, Abner."

"I don't mind at all, 'specially when others are in with me. I've got a

pretty tough skin, an' kin stand more'n most people."

"Guess ye'r right, Abner," Zeb agreed, as he rose to his feet. "I must

git to work now."

Abner went back to his haying, and worked with feverish energy. He was

more irritated than usual over the article which had appeared in _The

Live Wire_, and he vowed that the editor should apologize for the

insult.

"Mebbe they'll find that they can't take liberties with Abner Andrews,"

he muttered, "even though he doesn't wear biled shirts an' white

collars."

When he had worked for about half an hour he went into the house for a

drink of buttermilk. As he came out of the milk-room he heard a knock

upon the front door.

"Who in time kin that be, now?" he growled, as he shuffled through the

dining-room and into the hall-way. Glancing through the small window, he

saw an auto in front of the house, with a young man at the wheel.

The door was locked and when Abner tried to turn the key it stuck.

"Hang the thing," he growled. "What's the matter with it, anyway?"

After several minutes of desperate efforts, punctured by numerous

ejaculations of disgust and anger, the key turned, the lock moved, and

Abner pulled the door open with a savage yank. Great was his surprise

to see standing before him a smartly dressed woman, smiling in a most

pleasant manner.

"Excuse me," she began. "I am sorry to give you so much trouble. But

does Mr. Andrews live here?"

"Naw, he jist sleeps here, an' lives out of doors."

"But it's your place, isn't it?"

"Yes, I s'pose so, when Tildy's not around."

"I have come to see Miss Rivers," the woman explained. "She's staying

with you, is she not?"

"Yep, she's here all right, but jist now she's out pickin' berries with

Tildy an' Jess. So ye want to see her, eh?"

"Yes, if it's not too much trouble."

"'Tain't no trouble fer me, though it might be fer Belle. Come in an'

set down while I toot the horn."

Throwing open a door to the left, Abner ushered the visitor into the

parlor.

"Set right down, an' make ye'rself at home," he told her.

The woman smiled to herself as Abner left her. Then she studied the

room most critically, from the old-fashioned piano to the fresh flowers

in the vase upon the center-table.

"Strange that the Attorney General's daughter should be visiting here,"

she mused. "What an ignorant and uncouth man that farmer is. His

language was most profane when he was trying to open the door."

Presently the long-drawn blast of the tin horn sounded upon her ears,

and again she smiled, but it was the smile of contempt.

"How primitive," she meditated. "And to think of Miss Rivers picking

berries like an ordinary country girl! I wonder if her father knows

where she is, and what she is doing. I believe the Andrewses have a

daughter. I suppose I must invite her, too."

In a few minutes Abner returned, sat down upon a chair near the piano,

and crossed his legs.

"There, I guess that'll bring her," he remarked. "Tildy'll think the

house is on fire. She's most scared to death of fire, Tildy is."

"You have a beautiful place here," and the woman glanced out of the

window on her left as she spoke.

"'Tain't too bad, considerin' everythin'."

"And the view is magnificent, Mr. Andrews."

"So Ikey Dimock told me t'other day."

"Was Mr. Dimock here?"

"Yep. He called to see me when I was hoein' pertaters."

"He did! And what did he want?" The woman seemed unusually curious,

and this Abner noted.

"He wanted to buy my place," he explained.

"Buy your place!"

"Yep. Wanted it as a summer place fer his family, so he said."

"Did you come to any agreement?"

"Should say not. I ain't anxious to sell, 'specially to Ikey Dimock."

"Why?"

"Oh, me an' him don't jibe; never did."

"You have known him for some time, then?"

"Should say I have. Why, I knew Ikey Dimock when he was pickin'

pin-feathers off his mother's chickens when she was gittin' 'em ready

fer market."

At these words the bland expression suddenly left the woman's face, and

she straightened herself up haughtily in her chair.

"Mr. Dimock is of good family, so I understand," she challenged.

"'Deed he is," was Abner's unexpected agreement. "I knew Ikey's dad

well, an' he was the best man I ever saw at steerin' clear of a job.

Why, when he was with me on my old Flyin' Scud he spent most of his time

plannin' how to git clear of his work. He surely was great at that."

"But he was honest, at any rate, was he not?" the woman asked, now

visibly annoyed.

"Honest? He was the honestest man I ever sot eyes on. Why, he was so

honest that he was allus tryin' to take care of his neighbors' property.

Everythin' he could git his hands on he would take home. He was so

honest that at last his neighbors allus kept their barns an' stables

locked."

"Do you mean to tell me that he was a thief?" the woman demanded. "You

seem to have a very poor opinion of him."

"Yaas, almost as poor an opinion as old Judge Watkins, who sentenced him

to six months in jail fer stealin' oats from Bill Armstrong's barn. Ye

kin call that anythin' ye like, but the Judge called it stealin', an' he

ginerally knew what he was talkin' about."

The woman was evidently much annoyed at this candid portrayal of the

elder Dimock. She glanced toward the door as if meditating a speedy

departure. Abner noted this, and it amused him.

"I wonder what in time's keepin' Tildy," he remarked. "She ginerally

comes home like a steam engine, pantin' an' puffin', when I blow the

horn at this time of the day. I wish to goodness she'd come, fer I was

never any good at entertainin' company, 'specially women."

"You have certainly entertained me in a most unexpected, and, I might

add, unpleasant, manner," the woman retorted. "I am not fond of having

past histories raked up. It isn't pleasant."

"I reckon it ain't, 'specially sich a one as that of the Dimock family."

"But surely you should not blame Mr. Isaac Dimock for what his father

did. He, at any rate, is above reproach, and you can't bring any

unworthy charge against him."

"That's true," Abner assented. "It 'ud be no use bringin' any charge

aginst Ikey so long as he's hand an' glove with the Government. It 'ud

only be workin' fer nuthin'. Ye couldn't ketch him, not by a jugful."

"Why, what has the Government to do with Mr. Dimock?" the woman asked in

apparent surprise.

"It has a great deal to do with him, an' almost any fool could tell ye

that. The Government has made Ikey Dimock jist what he is, if ye want

to know the plain truth."

"It has! In what way?"

"H'm," and Abner shifted significantly. "Hasn't the Government been

feedin' him with pap fer years now? Supplyin' him with big contracts fer

hardware, an' givin' him great rake-offs in all sorts of government

work? That's the way Ikey Dimock made his money, an' he's nuthin'

more'n a chip off the old block. They called it stealin' when his dad

took the oats from Bill Armstrong's barn, but now they call it 'high

finance,' or some sich name. But it's stealin' jist the same. I could

tell ye a few things if I had a mind to."

The woman, however, could stand no more. She had risen to her feet, her

face pale, and her eyes blazing with anger.

"Do you know who I am?" she witheringly asked.

"Don't ye know ye'rself? If ye don't, how de ye expect me to?"

"I am Mrs. Isaac Dimock, that's who I am, and I shall tell my husband

what you have been saying about him and his father."

"That won't be any news to Ikey; better tell him somethin' new. He

knows that already."

"Why, I never had anyone talk to me in such an insolent way before," the

woman protested. "I didn't come here to be insulted."

"Is tellin' the truth insultin' ye?" Abner asked, as he, too, rose to

his feet. "If the truth of many things was known it 'ud be better fer

all consarned. But, there, I hear the women now. I guess ye've had

enough of me."

Abner slipped out of the house as speedily as possible, after telling

his wife that a visitor was in the parlor. He sat down upon the

wood-pile, and meditated over what had just taken place.

"Ho! ho!" he chuckled. "Her ladyship got a jolt to-day, all right. She

thought I didn't know her, eh? I knew her the minute I sot eyes on her.

She didn't like what I said about the Dimocks. But I could have told

her somethin', too, about her own family-tree. My, wasn't she mad! Ho,

ho!"

*CHAPTER XI*

*TOWN RATS*

"It seems to me, Tildy," Abner remarked, "that your breakin' into

Society is somethin' like the time I broke through the ice skatin' up

river."

"In what way?" Mrs. Andrews asked, as she adjusted her hat.

Abner was stretched out upon the kitchen sofa, enjoying his evening

smoke, and watching his wife as she gave the final touches to her

toilet.

"Well, ye see," he explained, "my breakin' through the ice was very

sudden. It was as unexpected as you goin' to Mrs. Ikey Dimock's party."

"And as unpleasant, why don't you say, Abner?"

"That's jist what I was a-goin' to say, Tildy. I think your reception

will be about as cool as my duckin' in the river. Mrs. Ikey is not

anxious to have ye there, not by a jugful."

"Don't I know that," snapped Mrs. Andrews. "But you understand as well

as I do that the girls wouldn't go without me, and so Mrs. Dimock just

had to ask me. I tried to get out of going, but finally had to consent.

I'm sure I shan't enjoy myself one bit."

"Jist about as much as I did out in the river, with water up to me chin,

clingin' to the ice with me fingernails, an' yellin' blue-murder. I

hadn't any idea the water was so deep where I went in. Gee whiz! It

was easy to go in, but mighty hard to git out. Mebbe that'll be the way

with you, Tildy, eh?"

"What, do you think I'll want to keep this thing up, Abner? If you do,

then you're much mistaken. I'm sick of it already."

"That's all right, Tildy. I know ye've got enough common sense not to

want to be a society belle at ye'r time of life. But ye see, as Mrs.

Ikey has invited you to her party, she'll expect you to do somethin' in

return. Society, as I understand it, is jist ordinary trade. Ye don't

git things fer nuthin'. Mrs. Ikey invites you, then you must invite

her, an' that's the way it goes. How does that strike ye, Tildy?"

Before Mrs. Andrews could reply, Belle and Jess entered the kitchen.

Abner's eyes brightened as he saw them, and he viewed them with critical

eyes.

"My, my!" he exclaimed, "you two'll cut a dash tonight fer sure. Why,

all the young fellers in Glucom will be tumblin' over one another."

"So long as they don't tumble over us we won't care," Belle laughingly

replied. "We're not out for conquests, are we, Jess?"

"I'm not, anyway," the latter declared. "I haven't any time or

inclination to bother with such things."

Abner's eyes twinkled, and he turned to his wife.

"Guess it's up to you, Tildy, to do the grand tonight. These gals don't

want any fellers. But there's the car, so yez better hustle."

Abner accompanied the women to the road, and stood watching until the

car had disappeared from view.

"Well, well," he mused, "to think of Tildy goin' to a party at Mrs. Ikey

Dimock's, an' in Mrs. Ikey's ear, at that! What's goin' to happen next?

Wonders'll never cease."

Abner went back to the house, locked the door, and strolled over to

Zeb's. He wished to discuss his big idea with his neighbor, and learn

what he thought about it. He remained for over an hour, and when he at

length left he was much elated. Zeb had been more reasonable than

usual, and had agreed that his idea was a good one, and worth trying.

Abner had been home but a short time when he heard a noise at the back

door. Then children's voices fell upon his ears, accompanied by a

child's cry. Wondering what it could mean, Abner threw open the door,

and peered out. It was dark, but not dark enough to prevent his seeing

two little figures standing before him.

"Hello! Who in time are yez, an' what de yez want at this hour of the

night?" he demanded.

"Are you our uncle?" a little voice asked.

"Uncle! Guess ye've struck the wrong spot this time. Better move on."

"But you must be our uncle," the voice insisted. "The man wot left us

here said you are our Uncle Abner."

"Well, I ain't, so that's the end of it," was the curt reply.

At these words the two little creatures broke into a pitiful cry. Abner

was helpless and in a quandary.

"What are we to do?" came the wailing question. "The man is gone and

we're lost."

"Lost, eh? Well, come in, then, till I have a look at yez."

Quickly the children obeyed, and soon were standing in the middle of the

room, two forlorn objects of distress and misery. They were boys, one

about seven years of age, the other five. Their clothes were ragged and

their faces looked as if they had not been washed for days. But there

was something about them that appealed to Abner, whose heart was always

affected by the helpless and the unfortunate. The little visitors

showed no sign of fear, but stood watching Abner with big, beautiful

dark eyes.

"So ye're huntin' fer ye'r uncle, eh?" Abner queried.

"Yep," the older boy replied.

"Yeth," came the other.

"Who brought yez here?"

"A man."

"A man," came the echo.

"An' he gave me this," and the boy held out a piece of soiled paper,

which he had been clutching in his right hand.

Abner took the note, unfolded it, and holding it close to the light,

read the following:

"Abner Andrews:

"If you are determined to have a Home at Ash Point, you can begin work

at once. Here are two young town rats for your care. What do you think

of them?"

That was all, and as Abner stood staring at the note, the light of

comprehension dawned upon his mind. In fact he stood there so long that

he forgot the waiting lads. He was aroused, however, by a light touch

upon his arm, and a tired voice saying,

"We're hungry."

"We're hungry," came the response.

"Sure, sure, indeed yez must be hungry," Abner replied, as he turned

quickly around. "Rats are allus hungry, but yez must git some of that

scum off ye'r faces an' hands before yez eat in this house. Come over

here to the sink."

After a vigorous application of soap and water, the waifs presented a

more respectable appearance, and Abner stepped back and viewed them

critically.

"There," he panted, "guess that'll do fer the present. But yez sartinly

need a hoe an' a scrabbin-brush upon ye'r mugs. An' say, what's ye'r

names?"

"Mine's Tom," the older boy replied, "an' his is Billy."

"Tom an' Billy, eh? But Tom an' Billy what? What's ye'r other names?"

"Ain't got any. Jist Tom an' Billy."

"Jith Tom an' Billy," came the echo.

"Yes, I know that. But what's ye'r mother's name?"

"Sue."

"Thue."

"Oh, git out, that's not what I want to know. What do people call her?"

"Lazy."

"Lathy."

With a sigh of despair Abner gave up the attempt to gain any more

information, and went into the pantry. After he had fumbled about for

some time, and knocked down a number of pans and dishes, he returned

with two big slices of bread covered with butter and molasses.

"There, fall to," he ordered, "an' help ye'rselves."

The children needed no second bidding. They were ravenous, and ate more

like dogs than human beings. Not until they had devoured the third

helping were they satisfied, and breathed a sigh of relief. Tom wiped

his sticky mouth with his coat sleeve, and Billy did likewise.

"Yez needn't paint ye'r sleeves with molasses," Abner chided. "But I

guess by the look of things they're the only napkins yez ever use. Git

over to the sink there, till I give yez another scrubbin'."

When the molasses had been wiped away, Tom gave a deep yawn.

"I'm sleepy," he announced.

"Theepy," lisped Billy.

"Sleepy!" Abner fairly gasped the word, as he looked helplessly around.

What was he to do? He could not think of sending the waifs out into the

night, and where was he to put them to sleep?

"Confound it!" he muttered. "Wish to goodness the women folks was home;

they'd know what to do. Jess'd have a chance to try out her Social

Service plan. Wonder what she'd do? Mebbe she'd take 'em to sleep with

her."

He paused, his face brightened, and his eyes twinkled.

"Say, kids, come with me," he ordered. "I'll fix yez up fer the night.

Ye'r uncle won't send yez away, not by a jugful, skiddy-me-shins, if he

will."

Picking up the lamp, he strode through the dining-room into the

hall-way, and up the stairs, closely followed by the boys. Reaching the

top, he opened a door to the right, entered the room, and placed the

lamp upon the dressing-table. Tom and Billy stared around the room with

undisguised wonder, for it seemed to them like fairy-land.

"Hurry up an' strip," Abner commanded.

But alas! there was little to strip, for when the lads had removed their

outer clothing, there was little underneath except rags.

"Holy smoke!" Abner exclaimed. "Is that all yez have on? Well, I

declare! I can't see nuthin' but holes. But yez can't go to bed with

them things on. Peel off them rags at once, while I look around fer

somethin' fer yez to put on."

When the lads had obeyed and had wriggled out of their rags, Abner

seized a quilt from the bed and wrapped it about their bodies.

"Jist hold that close," he ordered, "while I look around fer some duds.

Let me see," and he scratched his head in perplexity. "I wonder where

Tildy keeps sich things."

Going into an adjoining room, he pulled out several bureau drawers, and

in a few minutes returned carrying triumphantly two spotless

pillow-slips in his left hand. Replacing the lamp upon the dresser, he

held the slips up for careful inspection.

"Pity to do it," he mused, "but it can't be helped."

Drawing a jackknife from his pocket, he opened it and deliberately began

to cut open the end of one of the slips, and also a hole in each side.

"Now come here, youngster, you big one, an' stand up straight."

Abner at once dropped the slip over the boy's head, and made him put his

arms through the holes in the sides. The gap in the top was small and

the boy's head stuck half way. This was overcome by Abner, who yanked

down the slip, which ripped wider, and then flopped down over Tom's

tousled head and brought up on the little shoulders.

"There now, guess that'll do all right for a nightgown," was Abner's

comment, as he stepped back and viewed his work. "Ye'r surely a queer

lookin' bird, but it's better'n nuthin'."

Billy was treated in a similar manner, and when he, too, was robed in

another of Mrs. Andrews' pillow-slips, Abner was quite satisfied.

"Now, say ye'r prayers," he ordered.

During the whole of this performance the waifs had not uttered a word.

They had been too much taken up with their strange surroundings, and

with watching their "uncle." They imagined that he was about to play

some new game with them, and when he ordered them to say their prayers

they both grinned in anticipation of the game they were expecting.

"Say ye'r prayers, I tell yez," Abner again ordered.

"We don't know that game," Tom explained.

"We don't know thad game," Billy echoed.

"Game!" Abner roared. "De ye think sayin' ye'r prayers is a game?"

"Don't know; never played it."

"Never played it," responded Billy.

"Didn't ye'r mother never learn yez ye'r prayers?"

"No. Guess she didn't know the game."

"Geth she didn't know the game."

Abner sighed and looked helplessly around.

"Well, I never!" he ejaculated. "An' this is a Christian land! S'pose

I'll have to leave that to Jess. It'll be a part of her Social Service

work. So git into bed with yez, an' don't let me hear a whimper out of

yez till mornin'."

Abner went downstairs and out into the kitchen. Having filled and

lighted his pipe, he picked up the note which had been lying on the

table, and read it again most carefully. Then stretching himself out

comfortably upon the sofa, he gave himself up to earnest thought. He

remained thus for about an hour. Then he arose and going to the

woodhouse brought in a large wire-cage rat-trap. This he baited with

considerable care, and, taking it outside, placed it near the pig pen.

"There, guess I ought to have one or two big fellers by mornin'," he

chuckled. "It takes more'n one to play a game, an' there's mighty good

reason why Abner Andrews, of Ash Pint, should have a hand in this game

which Lawyer Rackshaw has started."

*CHAPTER XII*

*BOTTLED DIVILS*

Abner was awakened early the next morning by light footsteps upon the

stairs and low whisperings. He did not hear his wife's voice, but

supposed that she was downstairs seeing that the cats were "put out,"

and that the back door was fastened. He expected that a tempest would

soon burst in the quiet house, and that in a few minutes he would be

called sharply to account. He did not mind Jess, but he did shrink at

the thought of what his wife would say about the mutilated pillow-slips,

and the putting of two dirty street urchins in a clean bed. As he thus

lay and listened for the storm to break, he cherished for an instant the

hope that in some way Tildy had fallen so much in love with Mrs. Ikey

Dimock that she had stayed with her all night.

Abner had little time, however, for such meditations, for a shriek of

fear and astonishment presently fell upon his ears. Then hurried

footsteps approached his room, and Jess appeared in the doorway.

"Daddy! Daddy!" she called.

But Abner made no response. He was apparently sleeping the sleep of the

just.

"Daddy!" Again came the appeal, this time more urgent than before.

Still Abner made no reply.

For a few seconds Jess stood uncertain what to do. Then she crossed the

room, laid her hand upon her father's shoulder, and shook him gently.

"Daddy, daddy, wake up!" she urged.

"Hey, what's that?" Abner cried, starting suddenly up as if from a sound

sleep. "Who are ye, an' what de ye want?"

"It's me," Jess replied. "Come quick; there are two people in my bed."

"Two people in ye'r bed! Nonsense. Ye'r luney."

"But I tell you there are," Jess insisted.

"See here, Jess, de ye think I'm a fool? G'long to bed. What's

happened to ye, anyway?"

"Please, daddy, don't talk that way. Come and see for yourself."

"Where's ye'r mother?" Abner suddenly asked.

"Why, isn't she home?" Jess asked in surprise.

"Home! Guess not. I'd surely know it if she was."

"But she left before we did," Jess explained.

"She did! How's that? Didn't yez come in the same car?"

"No, you see----" Jess hesitated, and then stopped.

"I see, I see," and Abner nodded. "Ye needn't explain."

Deep in his heart Abner was pleased that his wife was not present at

this awkward moment, but he wondered what had become of her. Although

Jess worried about her mother, she was anxious to change the subject

which might lead to embarrassing questions.

"Won't you tell me about those boys in my bed?" she asked. "Surely you

must know where they came from."

Abner chuckled, and just then Belle appeared in the doorway.

"You do know," Jess insisted. "You're laughing. I know you are. Come,

confess everything."

It took Abner some time to relate his experience with the waifs of the

night, and when he was through he ordered the girls off to bed.

"Yez kin sleep together," he told them, "unless yez want to set up an'

watch them beauties in there. I guess yez both'll find some Social

Service work to do in the mornin'."

"But what about mother?" Jess anxiously enquired. "I'm afraid something

has happened to her."

"An' so yez didn't come with her, eh?"

"No," Jess somewhat reluctantly replied. "Mother left in Mrs. Dimock's

car ahead of us."

"An' you two walked, I s'pose? My, yez must be fond of walkin' all the

way from Glucom at this time of night. Fer the good of ye'r health, no

doubt. More Social Service idea, eh? I've heard of sich cases before.

Tildy used to be fond of walkin' before we was married. Said she liked

it, 'specially when a man was along."

"Don't make fun of us, daddy," Jess pleaded. "It is no time for joking

when mother may be lying injured somewhere along the road."

"She can't be between here an' town, or you'd have seen her," Abner

reasoned. "But mebbe yez didn't, fer there's a time in life when young

people are blind an' deaf, so I understand."

"Don't you think we had better go and look for mother?" Jess insisted.

"Oh, she'll turn up safe an' sound, never fear. Ye couldn't lose Tildy.

Anyway, if Mrs. Ikey's chafer has run away with her, he'll soon bring

her back. So git away to bed now, fer I'm most awful sleepy."

There was no more sleep, however, for Abner after the girls had left.

He was much concerned about his wife, and he lay there trying to imagine

what had happened to her. At length he rose, dressed, and went

downstairs. Closing the door between the kitchen and the dining-room, he

lighted the fire, and prepared a cup of coffee.

"I kin allus think better an' work better," he had often said, "when

I've had a cup of coffee. It's as stimulatin' to me as the yell of an

en-gine is to Jerry."

He next visited the trap he had set the previous evening, and a smile

overspread his face when he saw three large rats securely captured, and

vainly trying to escape.

"Good mornin', me beauties," he accosted. "How de yez like ye'r new

quarters? Rather cramped, I admit, but yez'll be a darn sight more

cramped than that before I'm through with yez. But if yez behave

ye'rselves as decent rats should, mebbe yez'll have fine new quarters

fer ye'r pranks, but not as wholesome, perhaps, as this hog-house."

He then went into his little workshop adjoining the woodhouse, and set

earnestly to work. The sun creeping in through the dust-covered window

found him giving the finishing touches to a stout tin-lined box.

"There, I guess that'll hold 'em," was his comment, as he stood and

viewed his handiwork. "Them holes ought to let in enough air to keep

'em alive an' in good fightin' condition. Now fer some fun."

Jess came downstairs early, and hearing a peculiar noise in the

workshop, went out to ascertain what was the matter. She was surprised

to see her father tieing a thick cord about a strong wooden box. He was

panting heavily, and the perspiration was streaming down his face. One

of his fingers was bleeding, and he was muttering a strange

conglomeration of words.

"For pity sakes! What are you doing?" Jess exclaimed. "And what have

you in that box?"

"Divils; that's what I've got."

"Devils!"

"Yep. Divils bottled up in rats. Three of 'em, an' they're straight

from hell."

"Oh, daddy, don't talk that way," Jess protested. "You make we shiver."

"Shiver, eh? Guess ye'd shiver in earnest if ye had one of them

critters at ye. Ye'd think there was a two-foot icicle slippin' down

ye'r spine. Look at that!" and Abner held out his damaged finger.

"What, did the rats do that?"

"Sure. Git me a rag, will ye, and tie it up? Then I must be off."

"Where are you going, daddy?"

"To look fer ye'r mother, of course."

"But where?"

"Guess I'll go to town first. I want to take them rats along. Mebbe

the Dimocks know somethin' about Tildy. They'll know, anyway, what's

happened to that chafer an' the car."

After the finger had been carefully bandaged, Abner went to the barn,

harnessed Jerry, hitched him to the wagon, and drove up to the back

door. Jess watched her father with considerable curiosity as he placed

the box in the bottom of the wagon.

"What in the world are you going to do with those rats?" she enquired.

"Jist a little tradin', that's all."

"But I never heard of people trading in rats, daddy."

"Ye didn't, eh? Well, this is jist an exchange of country rats fer town

rats, that's all. But, there, I must be off. Keep a sharp eye on them

kids when they wake, an' don't let 'em raise ructions. G'long, Jerry."

Abner made a record trip to town that morning. Having hitched his horse

to the usual post, and with the box under his arm, he sauntered into the

waiting-room, peered through the ticket-office window and saw the agent

reading _The Live Wire_.

"Say, Sam," he accosted, "are ye busy?"

"Not especially," was the reply. "What can I do for you, Mr. Andrews?"

"When does the express team go out, Sam?"

"Not until late this afternoon. Got something to send?"

"Sure. Jist see how much this'll cost, will ye?" and Abner motioned to

the box. "It's fer Lawyer Rackshaw."

"Why not drop it around there yourself, Mr. Andrews? It might not be

delivered until late, and, besides, you will save the express charge."

"Oh, the time don't signify. In fact I'd rather it got there a little

late. An' as fer the expense, that doesn't cut any ice."

When this matter had been settled, the agent looked curiously at Abner.

"How's your wife?" he enquired.

"Me wife! Ain't she all right? Why de ye ask?"

"Haven't you seen this morning's paper, Mr. Andrews?"

"Naw. But what's it sayin' now, I'd like to know?"

"Here it is," and Sam handed him his copy. "There, look at that. It

says that your wife met with an auto accident at Twin Creek while

running away from home with Isaac Dimock's chauffeur."

Abner's bronzed face turned a peculiar hue as he quickly seized the

paper and fixed his eyes upon the big staring headline:

"A SUSPICIOUS AFFAIR"

His hands trembled so violently that it was difficult for him to read.

Sam, watching, expected him to burst forth in wild language. In this,

however, he was mistaken, for when Abner had finished reading the

article, he folded up the paper and shoved it into his coat pocket.

"I'll pay ye fer this, Sam," and he threw down a coin as he spoke.

"Keep your money," the agent replied. "I'm through with it, anyway.

And say, Mr. Andrews," he continued, "I'm really sorry for you."

"I know ye are, Sam, an' I thank ye fer ye'r sympathy. Be sure an' send

that box this afternoon."

Without another word Abner turned and left the waiting-room. Sam

watched him from the window as he strode along the platform, and headed

up town.

"I wonder where he's bound for now?" he mused. "I wouldn't like to be

that chauffeur who ran away with his wife, nor the man who wrote that

article, for that matter. My, I never saw such a look upon any man's

face before. It sent the chills down my spine."

*CHAPTER XIII*

*THE JOY-RIDE*

The party was a complete revelation to Mrs. Andrews. She enjoyed herself

more than she had expected, and the time passed most pleasantly. It was

a wonderful change to her whose life for long years had been of a most

humdrum nature. The Dimocks exerted their utmost to make her feel

perfectly at her ease, and introduced her to several women of her own

age with whom she had delightful conversations.

But her greatest happiness was to watch Jess and Belle, and to note the

attention they received. They had plenty of admirers, but she

especially liked two young men who were agreeable to her, and talked in

such an affable and gentlemanly manner. But of the two, Thane Royden

was her choice. He was the young surveyor, so Jess laughingly

explained, who had tried to steal their gravel hill, and who had so

narrowly escaped a terrible death at her father's hands. He paid

special attention to Jess, and this met with Mrs. Andrews' silent

approval.

The other, Billy Lansing, centred his attention upon Belle, and

endeavored to keep her entirely to himself. But a girl of Belle's

disposition could not easily be cornered, and the fact that she was the

Attorney General's daughter made her in great demand. This was not at

all to Billy's liking, and he became sulky whenever Belle danced with

others. Billy was an auto agent, and had not been long at Glucom. But

during his short stay he had aroused considerable interest by his

fondness for parties, his boastful proclivities, and his fascination for

the fair sex.

As the night wore on, Mrs. Andrews became tired and longed to go home.

She said nothing to Jess, however, but the latter was quick to notice

the weary expression upon her mother's face, and felt it was her duty to

go home with her. But Mrs. Dimock would not listen to the idea of Jess

and Belle leaving at such an early hour, and suggested that Mrs. Andrews

should go alone.

"We have a most reliable chauffeur," she explained to Jess, "and he will

take good care of your mother. We have had him for only a week, but

have found him most trustworthy."

It did not take Mrs. Andrews long to get ready, and then she had to wait

about half an hour for the car to make its appearance. Mrs. Dimock was

surprised and apologized, however, for the delay, explaining that no

doubt the man had been asleep. When at length the auto arrived at the

front door, Jess accompanied her mother to the car and saw that she was

safe on board.

"Don't be too late in coming home," was Mrs. Andrews' parting

instruction. "I will leave the back door open. And see that you don't

let the cats in."

For about a mile the car sped smoothly on its way. Then it began to

gather speed, and at times surged dangerously near the ditch. Never had

Mrs. Andrews undergone such an experience. Auto-riding was a novel

sensation for her, anyway, and she had often remarked about the reckless

driving of so many people. But to be alone in the heart of night, on a

rough road, and with an unknown man in charge, was most disturbing. As

they sped forward, she clutched the side of the car with grim

desperation. Every bump lifted her clear of the seat, and so frequent

were the bumps that she was in the air most of the time. She was

terrified lest any minute she should be tossed out of the car among the

rocks by the side of the road.

Her only hope now lay in the near approach to her home. She accordingly

breathed a sigh of relief when the car, bounding around a curve in the

road, brought her in sight of the river gleaming silvery white beneath

the light of the rising moon.

Such a hope, however, was of short duration, for instead of the car

slowing up as it reached the Andrews' house, it increased in speed and

dashed by like a whirlwind. With a piercing scream Mrs. Andrews tried

to arrest the chauffeur's attention. But in vain. He paid no attention

to his agitated passenger, but bounced her more furiously than ever.

Mrs. Andrews was now certain that the driver was either drunk or mad,

and her consternation increased. She started to lean forward in an

effort to grasp the chauffeur by the shoulder, but no sooner did she

attempt to rise than she was flung in a confused heap against the side

of the car. And there she remained, clutching desperately at anything

on which she could lay her hands. She tried to think, but the wild

gyrations of the auto made any calm meditation out of the question.

Such was her position, which rendered her helpless and speechless. She

was at the mercy of a reckless driver, all the time being borne farther

and farther away from home. Uphill and down, and over long stretches of

level road the car raced, swaying and bounding more than ever, so the

unhappy woman thought.

So far Mrs. Andrews had sustained no serious injury. The bruises she had

received upon her hands and body were not noticed, owing to her intense

excitement. But when an extra heavy lurch pitched her violently against

the side of the car, her nose came into sudden contact with the door.

Fear was at once replaced by a burning anger, and with a spring, worthy

of a tigress, she was upon the chauffeur in an instant. With a

vise-like grip she seized him by the hair and jerked his head back so

violently that it was a wonder his neck was not broken. With a startled

yell the chauffeur released his right hand from the wheel and caught his

assailant by the wrist in a frantic attempt to tear away from the

tightening grip, while with the other he endeavored to steer the car.

But as his eyes were gazing skyward instead of along the road, this was

a most difficult performance.

The outcome of this would have been most disastrous had not the auto

just then struck a small newly-made bridge, heaped up with mud. It

reared suddenly astern, like a balky mule, and sent Mrs. Andrews forward

right on top of the chauffeur. Letting go his hair, she grabbed him

about the neck in a last desperate effort to save herself from

destruction. Half-choked and bewildered by this unexpected embrace, the

chauffeur attempted to keep the car in the middle of the road. He

succeeded in reducing the speed, but so excited did he become that his

nerve deserted him, with the result that the auto swerved suddenly into

a shallow ditch to the right, plowed its way through a mass of tangled

bushes, and crashed into a big tree.

All this happened so quickly that for a few seconds the chauffeur was

completely dazed. But it was otherwise with Mrs. Andrews. Her senses

were keenly alive, and her anger intense. She was now an antagonist of

no inferior metal. Leaping from the car, she seized a dead fir bough

lying near, and made for the chauffeur. The latter saw her coming, and

his senses suddenly returned. With a yell he bounded from the seat, and

started to spring from the auto. But in doing so his foot tripped, and

he plunged headlong among the mass of bushes. With hands and face

scratched, and clothes torn he made frantic efforts to extricate himself

from his painful and humiliating position. But no sooner did he lift

his head than he was furiously belabored by the angry woman standing

before him.

"For God's sake, let up!" he implored. "You'll kill me."

"Kill you, eh?" was the reply. "Isn't that what you tried to do to me!

Take that, and that, you villain."

"I was only in fun," the culprit explained, as he vainly attempted to

dodge the rain of blows.

"Fun! Queer fun, you brute. But it isn't such fun now, is it?"

The stick was again about to fall, when with a howl the chauffeur reeled

back, tore his way through the bushes, and reached the shelter of the

dark woods beyond. From here he watched the irate woman, fully

expecting her to follow. To him she seemed unusually large and menacing

as she stood there drawn to her full height, the stick still in her

hand, and her eyes searching the darkness of the forest.

For about a minute she remained in this position, though it seemed much

longer to the trembling chauffeur. At length she turned and looked up

and down the road. Hesitating only for an instant, she moved swiftly

away, clutching the stick more firmly than ever, so as to be ready for

any emergency.

Not until the chauffeur was certain that she was some distance away did

he venture forth. Going cautiously to the auto, he brought from beneath

the seat a half-drained bottle of whiskey. Holding it up in his hand,

he looked in the direction Mrs. Andrews had taken.

"Here's to ye'r health, ye old she-cat, an' may the devil take me quick

if I ever try to play any pranks upon the likes of you again."

Placing the flask to his lips, he drained the contents with much relish,

and with a curse hurled the bottle among the trees. Then curling

himself up in the back seat, and pulling over his body a heavy robe, in

a few minutes he was fast asleep.

*CHAPTER XIV*

*SURPRISED AT HERSELF*

After the chauffeur's ignominious retreat Mrs. Andrews was uncertain

what to do. The place was strange to her, and she had no idea how far

she was from home. She looked up and down the road, but not a sign of a

human habitation could she behold. The only spark of hope was a break

in the forest a short distance ahead, and thinking that there might be a

house near, she hastened forward. She had not advanced far when a light

to the left attracted her attention. This was encouraging, so keeping

steadily on, she ere long reached a gateway. The light came from a

house over in a cleared field, and with this to guide her she soon

reached the building and rapped upon the door. It was opened by a

woman, who stared in amazement at the night visitor. A slight cry of

fear also escaped her lips, for Mrs. Andrews presented a somewhat

formidable appearance. Her hat was lop-sided, her hair dishevelled, her

clothes covered with dust, and her face strained and defiant.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" the woman in the door asked.

"I want the police," was the curt reply.

"The police!"

"Yes. An attempt has been made upon my life, and I only barely escaped.

Oh, it was terrible!"

"Isn't that awful!" and the woman held up her hands in fear, at the same

time glancing anxiously around. "But there are no policemen here."

"I know that. But isn't there a telephone somewhere near? I must send

word to town at once and have that villain arrested."

"We have a telephone at our store," the woman explained. "My husband

would phone for you, if he knew about your trouble."

"Don't you live here?".

"Oh, no. I live about half a mile up the road."

"Well, then, go at once and phone for the police," Mrs. Andrews ordered.

"I can't do that very well now," was the reply. "I'm looking after a

sick woman, and it would not do for me to leave."

"A sick woman! Here?"

"Yes. It's Mrs. Denton, poor soul. She's had a hard time of late, and

the strain has been too much for her, and so she took to her bed last

week. The women around here have taken turns staying with her. I do

not know what will become of her."

"Is she very ill?" Mrs. Andrews asked.

"I'm afraid so. It is a nervous breakdown. I am going to take two of

the children for a while, but what will happen to the other three the

Lord only knows. But dear me, I've been keeping you standing here all

this time. Come in and rest yourself, for you must be tired out after

your trying experience."

The room into which Mrs. Andrews was ushered was the kitchen. It was

spotlessly clean, and a fire was burning in the stove.

"She's in there," the woman whispered, pointing to a door on the left.

"The children are upstairs."

Mrs. Andrews at once removed her hat, arranged her dishevelled hair, and

brushed some of the dust from her dress. When she had accomplished

this, she announced her intention of remaining with the patient.

"But I don't mind staying," the woman informed her.

"Perhaps not, but I want you to go and phone to the police. Tell them

that Isaac Dimock's chauffeur ran away with Mrs. Abner Andrews, of Ash

Point, and nearly killed her by running the auto into a ditch. You will

do that, won't you? I hope it will not be too much trouble."

"Oh, I don't mind going," the woman replied.

"But----" Here she hesitated, and lowered her voice as she glanced

toward the bedroom. "I don't like to leave her."

"Can't I look after her as well as you?" Mrs. Andrews asked.

"Perhaps so. But you might not altogether understand her. She's

greatly worried about her children, and she's afraid they'll starve.

It's necessary to keep cheering her up and telling her that they'll be

all right."

"H'm, I guess you can leave that to me," Mrs. Andrews replied. "I'm

used to odd people, so you go along and telephone for the police. I

don't want that rascal to escape."

The woman at once obeyed, and when she returned several hours later it

was broad daylight. She was surprised to find Mrs. Denton asleep, and

Mrs. Andrews preparing breakfast for the children.

"How did you do it?" she asked, as she peeked into the bedroom.

"Do what?"

"Get her to sleep?"

"Oh, that was no trouble. I simply told her that her children would be

all right; that you were to take two and that I would be responsible for

the others."

"What! Do you mean to take three?"

"Certainly. What else is there to do? I shall look after them until

some other arrangement is made. You phoned to the police, I suppose?"

"Yes, and they said the matter would be attended to at once."

"That is good," and Mrs. Andrews gave a sigh of relief. "I must go home

now, and I wish to take these children with me. Is there anyone you can

get to drive us?"

"My husband will," the woman replied. "He is going to town right after

dinner, and will be glad to take you and the children along."

During the rest of the morning Mrs. Andrews found plenty to do in

tending the sick woman and looking after the children. Nevertheless,

the time passed all too slowly. She was anxious to get home, and yet

she dreaded going back with the little ones. She wondered what Abner

would say. She knew very well what she would have said had he done such

a thing. She was really surprised at herself, and almost repented of

her hasty action as she sat silently in the waggon that afternoon.

Where would she put the children to sleep? Where was the food to come

from for such an increase in the family? For months there had just been

herself and Abner, and they had lived very simply. Since Belle's

arrival they had fared more sumptuously than ever before. But now with

three extra mouths to feed, making seven in all to provide for, it would

mean a hard struggle. "I have been a fool," she told herself, "and have

let my heart run away with my head."

It seemed a long time to Mrs. Andrews before she reached home. When the

team at last stopped in front of the house she was surprised to see two

little boys perched upon the limb of an apple-tree near the back door.

Who could they be, and what were they doing there? Her attention was

diverted by the sudden appearance of Jess and Belle from the house, who

bore down upon her, and bombarded her with a stream of questions before

she had time to alight from the waggon.

"For pity sakes! Give me time to breathe," Mrs. Andrews gasped. "It

will take me a whole day to answer all your questions. Come, help these

boys down."

Instead of at once obeying, Jess and Belle looked at each, other in

consternation. Then they stared at the children.

"What's the matter?" Mrs. Andrews demanded. "Haven't you ever seen boys

before? They won't bite."

"Whose are they?" Jess found voice to ask.

"They're ours now; that is, for a time, anyway."

"And are we to keep them, mother?"

"Certainly; until Mrs. Denton gets better."

"But we have two already," and Jess turned and looked toward the lads

perched upon the apple-tree.

Mrs. Andrews also looked, and it was upon her face that an expression of

consternation now appeared. Intuitively she realized that something

unusual had taken place during her absence.

"Are they here to stay?" she demanded.

"It seems so," Jess replied.

"Where's your father?"

"He left home this morning in search of you, and we haven't seen him

since."

For a few minutes Mrs. Andrews sat perfectly still, staring straight

before her. Then she roused to action, sprang from the waggon and

fairly dragged down the children. Thanking the driver for his kindness,

she headed straight toward the house without once looking back. Jess

and Belle rounded up the boys and marched them to the back door. By

this time the two urchins of the night were down from the tree, eager to

make friends with the new-comers. Leaving the five in the yard, the

girls followed Mrs. Andrews into the house. Seating herself upon a

chair in the kitchen, the troubled woman began to fan herself furiously

with a copy of _The Family Herald and Weekly Star_. Her face was a

study. An expression of anger and consternation was depicted there, her

lips quivered and she was evidently making a great effort to control

herself. Seeing this, Jess' sympathy was aroused, and stepping quickly

forward, she placed her arms lovingly about her mother's neck.

"There, mother dear," she soothed, "don't feel so badly. There has been

some mistake, I am sure."

"Mistake! How could there be any mistake? Your father must have

planned to bring these boys here while I was away."

"Oh, no, he didn't," Jess explained. "They dropped upon him last

night." Then she related the story as her father had told it to her the

night before.

Mrs. Andrews said nothing for a while when Jess was through, but sat

lost in thought.

"I wonder why Abner hasn't come back," she at length remarked. "He has

had plenty of time to hunt for me all over town."

"Perhaps he is afraid to come," Jess suggested.

"Afraid to come!" Mrs. Andrews exclaimed in astonishment.

"Yes, afraid of what you might say."

"Oh, I see," and Mrs. Andrews looked meaningly at her daughter. "I

guess we're quits, then, for I was really afraid to meet him."

A merry ringing laugh from Belle followed this candid confession. The

humorous side of the situation had appealed to her from the moment of

Mrs. Andrews' arrival with the three boys. There was nothing tragic

about it to her, as she had no idea of the straitened circumstances of

the Andrews' household. It had never dawned upon her what a struggle

Mr. and Mrs. Andrews had made to eke out a precarious living from their

gravel hill of a farm, and to keep Jess at the Seminary. Had she known

this, and what an addition of five children would mean, she would have

seen nothing amusing in the situation. It was as well, however, that

she did not know at this critical moment, for her merriment dispelled

the clouds, causing Jess to laugh, and the semblance of a smile to lurk

about the corners of Mrs. Andrews' mouth.

"Well, I never!" the latter declared. "I believe that's just what's

keeping Abner away. I always knew he was afraid of my tongue, but I

never imagined it would cause him to run away from home."

"And were you really afraid to come home, mother?" Jess laughingly

asked.

"Oh, of course not afraid. Though I must confess I had serious qualms

of conscience as to what I had done. You see, when I promised Mrs.

Denton to take the children I let my heart run away with my head."

"What do you mean, mother?"

"Well, I should have carefully considered what we should do with the

boys, where we could put them to sleep, for instance. Perhaps it would

have been better if I had come home first and talked the matter over."

"It's lucky you didn't, mother. You never would have brought those boys

had you known there were two here already, would you?"

"Certainly not. But now that we have five on our hands where in the

world are we to put them? That's what I want to know."

"Why not let them sleep out in the woodshed?" Jess suggested.

"In the woodshed! That would never do."

"And why not? There is plenty of room there near the kitchen, and it is

clean and neat. It is just the place for them this warm weather."

"But we haven't enough beds for them all."

"Let them sleep on the floor; they will think it great fun. Then when

daddy comes home he can fix up little canvas bunks for them. He will

know the kind I mean."

"And would you let them sleep there all alone?"

"We can take turns sleeping out there with them. That sofa behind you

will make a most comfortable bed. Oh, I think it will be great, don't

you, Belle?"

"Indeed, I do," was the enthusiastic reply. "Why, it's just like a

story, though much better, for this is the real thing."

"Well, I suppose there is nothing else to do," and Mrs. Andrews gave a

deep sigh. "We might as well get to work at once, as it will be supper

time before we know where we are. I wish to goodness Abner would come

home."

In a remarkably short time that part of the woodshed near the kitchen

was made ready. Boxes and barrels were moved, and beds spread down upon

the floor.

"There, I guess that is the finish," Jess declared, when the sofa had

been brought from the kitchen. "I shall sleep like a babe on that

to-night."

"Not to-night," her mother informed her. "I intend to take the first

turn, as I want to see for myself how the youngsters behave."

"And you won't be afraid, mother?"

"Afraid! Did you ever hear of me being afraid? Of course, I shall

fasten the door securely, and I'd like to see anyone try to get in

through that opening there. I've told Abner over and over again to fix

in that window which was blown out by that big gale last fall. But

maybe it's just as well as it is, for it will let in plenty of air,

which no doubt we'll need. I hope to goodness you gave those

street-Arabs a special scrubbing, Jess?"

"Yes, I tubbed them thoroughly this morning, and they certainly needed

it."

"And did you change everything on your bed?"

"Indeed I did, and the clothes are all out on the line yet."

"I looked after the 'sudden' night-gowns myself," Belle laughingly

remarked.

"Sudden night-gowns!" Mrs. Andrews repeated. "What do you mean?"

"Why, they were sudden, were they not? From pillow-slips to night-gowns

in a minute was rather a quick change, I should say. It was the finest

piece of conjuring I have ever seen," and in a few words she explained

what Abner had done.

"Oh, my poor pillow-slips!" and Mrs. Andrews sighed. "But, then, it

might have been much worse. You can never tell what Abner will do when

he starts on the rampage. I wonder where he can be."

The boys had been very busy playing that afternoon, and were thoroughly

tired when summoned to bed. They were delighted at the idea of sleeping

on the floor, and considered it great fun. While Jess and Belle looked

after their welfare Mrs. Andrews milked the two cows, and attended to

the milk, after which she fed the pigs, and fastened up the hens and

chickens. She was very tired after her trying experiences and the

sleepless night at Mrs. Denton's. In fact, she could have slept

anywhere, "even on a fence-pole without once rolling off," she informed

the girls as she bade them good-night. Trying the door to see that it

was securely fastened, and glancing at the two pails filled with water

near at hand, she blew out the light, and laid herself down upon the

sofa.

*CHAPTER XV*

*COUNTRY RATS*

Lawyer Rackshaw was in such an excellent frame of mind that he invited

Henry Whittles to spend an evening with him at his office. This was

something unusual, and as the two men sat down to a friendly game of

poker, Whittles wondered what scheme the lawyer had in his mind. That

there was some object he was quite sure, as Rackshaw never did anything

out of the ordinary unless for some definite purpose.

It was a cozy room, comfortably furnished, clean and neat. A large

greyhound lay at his master's feet, with his nose between his paws.

"Do you always bring that dog with you?" Whittles asked, as he shuffled

the cards.

"Only at night," the lawyer replied as he looked down fondly upon the

fine brute. "I like to have him along then--for company."

"For fear of what your enemies might do, eh?" and Whittles smiled

somewhat knowingly.

"Well, perhaps you're right. Pedro never has his supper before he comes

here, as I am always expecting him to get a good meal before he gets

home."

"One of your special enemies, I suppose."

"Sure."

"Has he eaten any yet?"

"Not a d--n one, though I expect he'll have a meal before long."

"To-night?"

"Oh, no," and the lawyer chuckled as he threw down a card. "The meal's

in cold storage to-night as far as I know. But, then, one can never

tell."

"Cold storage!" and Whittles' eyes opened wide as he paused in his play.

"Yes, in cold storage. Or, to be more exact, in jail. That's where the

special meal is to-night."

"In jail! Why, man, what do you mean? Who's in jail?"

"Ho, ho! That's one on you, Hen, isn't it? Didn't know why I invited

you here to-night, did you?"

"No; couldn't guess. Thought it must be something special, though."

"So it is, and I expected to have something special to drink, too.

Confound that express company! It's as slow as cold molasses. I

ordered something good for to-night, and it was to have been here before

this."

"Going to drink the health of your special friends, are you?" Whittles

queried, looking quizzically at the lawyer.

"To one friend only to-night, Hen. He's our mutual friend--a friend

that sticketh closer than a brother, as the Good Book says, and whose

tongue is as sharp as a razor, and stings like a hornet. That's the

friend whose health we are going to drink to-night."

"I know of only one person who answers to your description," Whittles

replied, "and that's Abner Andrews, of Ash Point. But he's no friend of

ours."

"You're mistaken, Hen. He's my special friend, and yours, too, for that

matter."

"Mine! H'm I guess you're astray there."

"Not at all. Didn't he offer a thousand dollars for that Orphanage?"

"A thousand be hanged! He offered it, but that's as far as it goes.

He'll never pay a cent."

"Won't he? Well, we'll see about that. Anyway, he's got two kids at

his home now. I sent them there last night so that he could start the

Orphanage at once at Ash Point."

"You did!"

"Yes, and sent a note along, asking him how he liked town rats. My,

they were a tough pair of youngsters, about as dirty as you'll find

anywhere. 'Sloppy' Sue's kids, you know."

"Ho, ho, that's a good one," Whittles roared. "Have you heard from

Abner since?"

"Sure. He did me a great favor this morning, and that's why I'm so

friendly to him now."

"What did he do?"

"Walked into the office of _The Live Wire_, and smashed up Joe Preston

so badly that he's in the hospital now getting patched up."

Whittles' eyes fairly started out of his head at this astounding piece

of news, and he dropped his cards upon the table.

"What was it all about?" he at length found voice to ask.

"Oh, merely over that article in the paper about Mrs. Andrews running

away with Ikey Dimock's chauffeur. I got the news from the police

station late last night, and phoned it to the _Wire_. I knew that Joe

would make the most of it, and get something in return. I'm mighty glad

he did, for he's been very bumptious of late, and has rapped me pretty

hard. Abner's saved me a nasty job."

"He did? Well, I declare!"

"Yes, and Abner's in jail, repenting, no doubt."

"Repenting? Not a bit of it. He's raging like a caged lion, if I'm not

mistaken. My, how I'd like to have seen him at Joe. I've had no love

for that fellow since he wrote that nasty skit about me last year. Did

he put up much of a fight?"

"Who? Abner?"

"No; Joe."

"He tried to, so I heard, but he hadn't the ghost of a chance against

that farmer giant. He came into the office, stuck a copy of the _Wire_

before Joe's nose, and asked him if he had written that article about

his wife. Joe got mad, blazed up, and consigned Abner to the hot place."

"Good Lord!" Whittles gasped. "Joe must have been crazy."

"If he wasn't crazy then, he was a few minutes later. Tom, the office

boy, said it was terrible. Abner gave a roar like thunder and sailed

into Joe. When the police arrived there wasn't much of Joe left,

according to Tom. He was unconscious, and the office was badly damaged."

"Did the police have any trouble with Abner?" Whittles asked almost

breathlessly.

"No, I guess not. He went like a lamb, though Tom said he had a wild

look in his eyes."

Whittles suddenly gasped; his face turned deathly pale, and his hands

trembled.

"What's wrong, Hen?" the lawyer asked, noting his companion's agitation.

"I didn't know you were subject to nervous trouble. This story has

upset you a bit. You need a stimulant. Why in thunder doesn't that

express team show up!"

"Say, Tom," and Whittles leaned over the table, "suppose it had been you

or me instead of Joe?"

"You or me! What do you mean?"

"Abner loves us about as much as he loved Joe this morning, doesn't he?"

"Oh, I see," and the lawyer rubbed his chin in a thoughtful manner. "I

never thought of that."

"I know you didn't. Now, suppose Abner gets out of jail and learns who

gave Joe that information, what then?"

Rackshaw shifted somewhat uneasily in his chair, and glanced down at the

dog. Then he laughed and picked up the cards he had dropped upon the

table.

"I guess Abner won't do any more of his wild stunts for a while," he

remarked. "He's in deep enough water now. He'll need a lawyer to

defend him, and I'm the only one in town."

"He won't come to you."

"Just you wait. He's in a trap and knows very well that I can get him

out; that is, if I want to."

"Want to! Won't you want to get him out? Won't you do everything for

him that you can if he engages you to defend him?"

"That all depends. If he comes to me I'll do all I can under certain

conditions."

"What are the conditions?"

The lawyer bit savagely at his cigar, but offered no explanation.

"D--n that express team!" he growled. "What can have happened to it?"

"Abner can't afford to engage a lawyer, can he?" Whittles asked, noting

Rackshaw's silence.

"Why not?"

"He hasn't any way of paying, has he?"

"He hasn't? What about his farm?"

"Farm! Why, that's nothing but a bed of gravel. I wouldn't have it as a

gift."

"You wouldn't, eh? But suppose the Government should want that same bed

of gravel for ballast, what then?"

Whittles' eyes opened wide, and he looked enquiringly at the lawyer.

Light was beginning to dawn upon his mind.

"Oh, I see your game, now," he at length replied. "You hope to get the

farm, and turn it over to the Government?"

"Yes, that's just what I expect to do."

"But you'll never do it."

"I won't? And why not?"

"Abner'll not engage you to defend him. He has little use for you, and

you should know by this time what a cranky cuss he is."

"Well, if he won't engage me, I shall take up Joe's case."

"Do what?"

"Didn't you hear what I said? I'll defend Joe."

"But how can you? You love Joe about as much as you do Abner."

"H'm, that's all right. Joe doesn't know what I think of him. And I

guess you've got to learn a few things yet, Hen. You're not as sharp as

I thought you were. But, say, here's the express team, now."

The next instant the door was pushed open, and a fair-sized box was

handed to the lawyer.

"What do you mean by being so late?" the latter demanded of the

expressman.

"Couldn't help it, sir," was the reply. "I'm all mixed up to-night.

There's only one team on the road."

Rackshaw carried the box to the table, cut the strings, and tore away

the paper wrapping. Then he turned to his desk and produced a hammer.

"Down, Pedro," he ordered, as the dog began to sniff excitedly at the

box. "Surely you're not thirsty, too."

"Following his master's example, eh?" Whittles smilingly queried.

"Queer box, that."

"Queer! I should say so," the lawyer growled, as he began to pry up the

cover. "I never got a box like this before. Down, Pedro, I say.

What's the matter with the dog, anyway? He's half crazy."

Scarcely had he finished speaking when a portion of the cover came off,

and at once a big gray rat leaped full into the lawyer's startled face.

With a yell of fright Rackshaw let go the box, dropped the hammer, and

staggered back. Trying to recover himself, he came into sudden contact

with the dog and was hurled over a chair full length upon the floor. He

endeavored to get up, and had reached a sitting position when Pedro

again landed on him like a catapult. Had a cyclone burst upon that room

the confusion could not have been more appalling. Frantic squeals of

terrified rats and the snapping yelps of the pursuing dog mingled with

the crash of falling chairs and tables. It was, as the lawyer

afterwards expressed it, "hell let loose."

When Rackshaw was at length able to crawl to his knees he looked around

the disordered room. Pedro was still cavorting here and there, first

after one rat and then another. Whittles was nowhere to be seen.

"Hen, where are you?" the lawyer called.

A groan from beneath one of the tables was the only response.

"Are you hurt, Hen?"

"Dying," was the feeble reply. "For God's sake, call off that dog!"

To "call off the dog" was easier to order than to do. Rackshaw staggered

to his feet, and shouted wildly to the excited brute. But the louder he

called, and the more furiously he swore, the more frantic did the

greyhound become. The rats had turned his brain, and he was a crazy

fool. Around and around the room he dashed, clearing chairs and tables

with great bounds, but not a rat could he catch.

Rackshaw started for the door. If he could get it open it would give

the rats an avenue of escape. He was but part way across the room when

Pedro, attempting to pass through the legs of an overturned chair, stuck

fast. With a howl he tried to extricate himself, but in vain. He had

now something more than rats to think of, and furiously he threshed from

side to side, breaking chairs, and damaging everything with which he

came into contact.

The lawyer was now desperate. The perspiration poured down his face,

while the shouts and curses he hurled at the dog were of no avail. With

a savage yank he tore open the door, and the dog, catching sight of the

opening, bounded for it like a tank going into battle.

It so happened that just at this critical moment the expressman had

stepped to the door, carrying in his hands the long-expected box which

he had overlooked. He saw the grotesque object bounding toward him, and

before he had time to move aside, Pedro, now dragging the battered

chair, dashed full upon him. With a yell of terror, he fell backwards,

dropping as he did so the precious box upon the pavement. There was a

sudden crash of bottles, and a liberal flow of spirits such as the town

had never before known.

Half dazed, the expressman sat upon the sidewalk, and viewed the

shattered box lying in the path of light from the open door. The lawyer

approached and stood over the bewildered man.

"What's the meaning of all this?" he demanded.

"Meaning!" the man replied, rubbing his bruised right shoulder. "Why do

you ask me? What's on here to-night, anyway? A menagerie, or a

wild-west show?"

"Get up, and explain why you brought that box of rats here," Rackshaw

ordered, ignoring the other's question.

"Rats! Brought rats here! I don't understand."

"Yes, rats. That first box you brought was full of rats; big rats, gray

rats and all kinds of rats. They've turned hell loose in there."

"Good Lord!" the expressman gasped, as he leaned over to obtain a better

view of the office. "Did the rats do that?"

"Indeed they did."

"And was that one of them that knocked me down?"

"Get up," Rackshaw commanded. "What's the matter with you? Did you

ever see a rat the size of that? Don't you know a dog when you see it?"

"A dog! Good heavens! But you said something about rats."

"So I did, and you should know something about them, too. You left a

box here full of rats, and when I opened it the devils came out and

turned my dog's brain. Look at that room there. Isn't it a great mess?

Somebody'll have a nice bill to pay. Where in h--l did you get that

box, anyway?"

"Where I got the rest, of course. I didn't know it was full of rats.

But that wouldn't have made any difference. It's not my business to

know what the things are which I deliver. Guess you'll have to enquire

elsewhere."

The expressman rose slowly to his feet, and again rubbed his shoulder.

"Darn it!" he growled. "I'm going to sue for damages, see if I don't.

If a man can't attend to his business without being half-killed by a mad

dog, with a pile of furniture on his back, it's a strange thing."

Rackshaw stood and watched him as he climbed up into his waggon, and

drove off, grumbling and vowing vengeance upon everybody in general.

Then he turned and re-entered the building. He found Whittles sitting

on the floor, propped up against the office desk. His hair and clothes

were dishevelled, and his face was expressive of his deep misery.

"Oh, you've come back, have you?" he meaningly queried.

"Sure. Did you think I had run away?"

"I couldn't tell. I don't know what to expect next. Is that raging

devil gone yet?"

"What, the dog?"

"Yes."

"And the rats? Oh!" Whittles' body shivered.

"I guess they've gone, too. I don't see any of them. But get up and act

like a man."

"I'm nearly dead," Whittles wailed. "I'm sure I'll never get over this.

I'm all shaken to pieces, and I believe some of my bones are broken."

"Nonsense," the lawyer chided. "Get up, I say, and don't be a fool."

"Give me a drop to steady my nerves," Whittles implored. "The

expressman brought the stuff at last, didn't he?"

"You'll have to lick it up off the sidewalk, then."

"What! Was it all lost? Wasn't there a little saved?"

"Not a drop. But get up. You're head's turned topsy-turvy."

"And everything else as far as I can see. Look at the mess this room is

in. Isn't it a fright! Where do you suppose the rats came from?"

The lawyer made no reply, but picked up the box lying upon the floor,

and examined it carefully. Inside he found a small thin piece of wood

containing the following scrawl:

"These are country rats. What do you think of them?"

He stood for a few seconds, staring at these words. Then the light of

understanding flashed upon his mind, and with an oath he tossed the chip

to Whittles.

"Read that," he ordered. "It will explain matters."

A puzzled expression overspread Whittles' face as he read the writing.

"Don't you understand it?" Rackshaw asked.

"Blamed if I do," and Whittles scratched his head, as he again studied

the words. "Who would want to send rats to you, of all men?"

"Wouldn't the man who got my 'city rats'?"

"What, not Abner Andrews!"

"And why not?"

"Sure, sure; I might have known."

"Known what?"

"That you couldn't get ahead of him. He'll get more than even every

time. It's the touch of Abner, all right. You might have known what a

dangerous cuss he is, the old devil. Rats! Well, I declare! Ugh!"

*CHAPTER XVI*

*IN THE KLINK*

The police court room of Glucom was seldom a busy place, and as a rule

the police magistrate had little to do. A few drunks generally made up

the list for the week, with an occasional family "affair" to add a

little spice of excitement. It was, therefore, a welcome relief to the

monotony when Abner Andrews was brought into court, and charged with

assault upon the Editor of _The Live Wire_.

Abner felt keenly the position in which he was placed as he stood in the

dock and listened to the words of the sergeant who had arrested him. He

realized how serious was the nature of the charge against him, and he

clutched the rail of the dock firmly with both hands and carefully

studied the face of the magistrate. He did not regret what he had done,

neither was he much concerned about himself. It was of those at home he

thought, for he knew how badly they would feel, and how they would worry

when they heard of his arrest. He was anxious, too, about his wife. He

surmised that something unusual had happened to her, otherwise that

scurrilous article would not have appeared in the paper.

"You have heard the charge, Mr. Andrews?" It was the magistrate now

speaking. "Do you plead 'Guilty' or 'Not Guilty'?"

"Not guilty, ye'r Honor," was the prompt reply.

"Not guilty!" the magistrate repeated in surprise. "Why do you say that?

Didn't you make an assault upon Joseph Preston this morning?"

"Ye bet I did, and gave him a lickin' he won't fergit to the end of his

days."

"Well, then, if you acknowledge all that, why do you plead 'Not

guilty'?"

"But I'm not guilty. I don't feel one bit guilty. My conscience doesn't

bother me any more'n if I'd beat up a skunk that was after my chickens.

Joe got jist what was comin' to him. Somebody had to do it sooner or

later, and that's all there is about it."

If it had been anyone else than Aimer Andrews the magistrate would have

remanded him at once. But in truth he felt a certain sympathy for the

prisoner, as he well knew that Joe Preston had merely received a just

punishment. He himself had often mentally vowed vengeance upon the

editor for his mean attacks upon him as police magistrate. But he had

the dignity of his position to maintain, and it would not do for him to

give expression to his feelings, especially in the court room, of all

places.

"Did you not take a mean advantage of Mr. Preston?" he presently asked.

"You gave him no chance, so I understand, but sprang upon him and hit

him while he was sitting at his desk. Wasn't that rather a mean thing

to do?"

"Mean! Isn't there different ways of hittin', ye'r Honor? Some hit

with their eyes, an' some with their tongues. But Joe Preston hits with

that dirty sheet of his."

"And you hit with your fists, eh?"

"I sartinly do when it's necessary."

"They get you into a lot of trouble, don't they?"

"Mebbe so. But they save me from a darn lot of trouble, too. I'm

nat'rally a man of peace, an' mind me own bizness, but when a critter

like Joe Preston hits me a mean, nasty cut below the belt, well, he

won't do it no more. It saves one from doin' it to others, that's all."

The magistrate stroked his chin as he thoughtfully mused for a few

seconds. He was thinking of a story he would have to tell his wife when

he went home to dinner.

"But why did you take matters into your own hands?" he asked. "You

might have brought in an action for libel and receive damages."

"Receive damages! Good Lord! That's what I was afraid of. If I'd gone

to law with Joe Preston I wouldn't have had a ghost of a chance, an' you

know it. So that's why I was anxious fer Joe to receive all the damages

straight from my shoulder, an' with my special compliments. He's

welcome to sich damages, an' I guess they're the only kind he

understands."

"Perhaps your damages are yet to come," was the magistrate's reminder.

"Mr. Preston is not likely to forget the injuries he has received, that

is, providing he recovers."

A startled expression came into Abner's eyes at these words.

"Won't he recover?" he asked. "He's not as bad as that, is he?"

"The doctors are not certain, so I understand. Preston received a nasty

blow on the head when he fell against the desk. If he doesn't get

better it will go hard with you. But there, I guess that is all for

to-day. I shall have to remand you. I am sorry, but I cannot help it."

"Surely ye'r not goin' to send me back to that hole agin, are ye?" Abner

anxiously asked. "Why it's not a fit place fer a dog, let alone a human

bein'. There's a drunken brute in the cell next to mine who's cuttin'

up pretty lively."

"I can't help it, Mr. Andrews. You'll have to stay there unless you get

someone to bail you out."

"Bail me out! Good heavens! De ye think I'm a leaky old boat, or a

tub, an' need to be baled out?"

"It's not that kind I mean," the magistrate explained. He would have

another good story to tell his wife.

"Well, then, ye must think I've got water on the brain, or I'm a

bloomin' watered-stock company."

"I guess you know what I mean," and the magistrate smiled. "You're not

so thick-headed as you try to make out."

"I ought to be pretty thick-headed, ye'r Honor. Wouldn't anyone be that

way with more'n a dozen heads on his shoulders?"

"A dozen heads!"

"Sure. Sometimes I'm Abner Andrews, of Ash Pint, an' agin I'm old Baron

Rothschild, the Dook of Wellington, or some other guy. I guess I was

the Dook all right when I walked over Joe Preston, though now I feel

like old Boney Part when he was on that Island."

The magistrate looked curiously at the prisoner.

"Don't you often get mixed up?" he asked.

"Should say so. I'm never jist sure who I am. It gives me a lot of

trouble."

"Well, if that's the way you feel, Mr. Andrews, I think the proper place

for you to be is the lunatic asylum and not here. Anyway, we've got you

now, and so must keep you for a while. Sergeant, you may take the

prisoner down," he added, turning to the officer who had been standing

quietly by during this interview.

During the rest of the morning Abner paced up and down the room

adjoining his cell. He knew very well how people would regard his

imprisonment and how most of them would say it served him right. He

wondered how long he would have to stay in that hole. He had not the

remotest hope of getting out on bail, for he knew of no one interested

in his welfare who was able to put up the money whatever it might be.

He thought, too, of Joe Preston. Suppose the man should die, what then?

He would be tried for murder, perhaps convicted, and he would be either

hung or given a life-sentence in the penitentiary. The perspiration

stood out in beads on his forehead as he thought of this, and it was a

relief when the jailer brought him his dinner of bread and water.

"Is that the best this hotel kin afford?" he demanded, as he took the

mean meal.

"Hotel! This is no hotel," was the curt reply. "This is the Klink, and

that's the food fer birds that come here. It's more'n they deserve,

too."

Abner stepped up close to, the iron grate, and looked fiercely at the

jailor.

"De ye know who I am?" he roared.

"H'm, I have a pretty good idea."

"Ye think ye do, ye old goat. But I guess ye'r mistaken. I'm a public

benefactor, that's what I am."

"A public benefactor!"

"Sure. I did what many in this town were too cowardly to do. I gave

Joe Preston the lickin' he desarved, an' this is the way I'm treated fer

it. I can't eat this dry stuff. Hurry up an' bring me a piece of roast

chicken, with all the fixin's an' some plum puddin', an' don't fergit

the cigars, either. Them's the things fer a public benefactor."

Abner chuckled to himself as the jailor ambled away.

"They'll think I'm luney, fer sure, the magistrate, an' the hull dang

bunch, an' mebbe they'll not be fer astray. What's the use of bein' a

public benefactor if ye've got to eat this stuff?" He glanced at the

bread he was holding in his hands. "Ugh! What trash! Heavy as lead,

soggy, an' sure death. Well, I'm not goin' to commit suicide yit a

while. The rats kin if they want to."

Tossing the bread into a corner of the room, he went into his narrow

cell, and stretched himself out upon his hard rough cot.

"Might as well take life easy," he soliloquized. "What's the use of

worryin', anyway. Guess a nap'll do me good."

He had no intention of sleeping and was quite surprised when he at

length opened his eyes and saw a young man standing by his side.

"Where in h--l am I?" the visitor unceremoniously asked.

Abner looked curiously at the man without replying. He noted his

bloodshot eyes, unshaven, haggard face, unkempt hair, and dirty,

dishevelled clothes.

"Are you deaf?" the fellow demanded. "Didn't you hear what I said?"

"Oh, yes, I heard, all right," Abner drawled. "But I was merely tryin'

to figger out what part of the hot place you've jist come from."

The wild-eyed youth emitted a hoarse mirthless laugh. "I certainly have

come from a hot place, the hottest I ever struck."

"Well, ye don't tell! Ye sartinly look it. Run up aginst somethin'

pretty hard, eh?"

"Should say so. Greatest ever. A hen, a real livin' hen in the shape

of a woman; that's what it was."

"My, my," Abner commented, now becoming much interested. "An' de ye

consider ye'rself a man to be knocked out by sich a critter?"

"But you should have seen her. My G--d, it was awful! When she caught

me by the hair with both hands, and pulled with all her might, I was

sure my neck would be broken or my head would come off.

"That sartinly was some doin's, young man."

"Indeed it was, ye bet ye'r boots. And when she added her

blood-curdling screeches to her claws, I thought for sure a whole bunch

of wild cats was on my back."

"Look here, young man," Abner remarked, rousing to a sitting position.

"You've had the D.T.'s; that's what's wrong with you. Guess ye've been

seein' things."

"But it's Gospel truth, I tell you," the other insisted. "It was only

last night, when I was taking a joy-ride in Dimock's car that it

happened. I only meant a little fun at the old hen's expense, but,

Lord! it proved the other way round."

The mention of Dimock's car made Abner fully alert, and in an instant he

surmised that this was the chauffeur who had run away with his wife.

His first feeling was one of anger, accompanied by a strong impulse to

give the fellow a threshing. He banished this idea, however, as another

method of punishment flashed upon his mind.

"So ye got more'n ye looked fer, eh?" he at length queried.

"Should say so. I didn't expect to find such a wild cat in that old

hen."

"Easy, go easy there," Abner warned, as he slowly doubled up his fists.

"Leave out all sich flourishes. They ain't becomin' when ye'r speakin'

of a woman. Mebbe she's somebody's wife an' mother."

"I pity them, then, whoever they are," the young man replied. "Why,

that she-devil ought to be put in a cage and placed on exhibition. When

the car went into the ditch, because I couldn't see to steer, she

bounded out like a rocket, seized a stick, and flew upon me like a

whirlwind. My head and body are black and blue from her blows. It's a

wonder I'm alive to tell the story."

"It sartinly is, young man, it sartinly is," Abner assented. "Ye'r

lucky to be alive, though perhaps it'd have been better if she'd

finished ye outright."

"I almost wish she had," was the mournful agreement. "I'm sick, nearly

dead, and in jail, as far as I can see."

"Oh, cheer up, young man, ye'r troubles are jist beginnin'. The worst

is yit to come. Ye'r in jail, all right, an' most likely ye'll stay

here fer some time. But that ain't the worst that's comin' to ye."

"What do you mean?" and a look of fear came into the chauffeur's eyes.

"Oh, you'll find out later when the Queen of Sheby brings in damages.

Then ye'll squirm, let me tell ye that."

"The Queen of Sheby! Who in the devil is she?"

"Why, the woman ye took fer a joy-ride last night. Ye see, she doesn't

know much about autos. She's used to travellin' on camels, so I

believe, an' they didn't go so fast."

"Travel on camels!" the other gasped.

"Sure. She travelled over hundreds of miles on them hump-backed

critters to see old King Solomon several thousand years ago."

"Say, what are you giving me?" the chauffeur demanded. "Do you think

I'm a fool? That wild cat is no queen and never was. She's the wife of

Abner Andrews, a queer cuss, so I've heard, who lives at Ash Point. Do

you know him?"

"Y'bet I do. Better'n his own brother. I've known him fer several

thousand years."

The chauffeur did not reply, but stood staring at the man before him.

He was trying to make out whether he was a fool or a madman.

"Yes," Abner continued, enjoying the other's astonishment. "I knew that

old feller well when he was rich old Baron Rothschild, the Dook of

Wellington, old Boney Part, an' the husband of the Queen of Sheby."

The chauffeur was now certain that Abner was making fun of him, and he

was in no mood for any pleasantries.

"You must be a pretty old bird yourself," he retorted, "if you knew all

of those guys. It's no wonder you've lost your brains, that is, if you

ever had any. Who the devil are you, anyway?"

"Me? Oh, it doesn't matter much who I am. But if ye want to know, I'll

tell ye as a great secret that I'm the Queen of Sheby's husband."

"The devil!"

"No, I ain't his Satanic majesty. I'm jist the Queen of Sheby's

husband. She's allus ruled me, ye see, an' kept me to black her boots,

button up her dress, an' do sich odd jobs that husbands are generally

called upon to do. I have allus done as she said except that time

several thousand years ago when she started to pay a visit to King

Solomon. She had heard of his wisdom, an' thought she'd like to see

him, an' hear some of his wise sayin's. But, my lands, when I bucked

up, an' said she couldn't go, she landed upon me jist like she did upon

you last night. I had to be put to bed, rubbed with palm-olive oil, an'

fed like a baby fer a hull month. By the time I was able to set up the

Queen was somewheres out in the desert on her way to the wise old king.

I kin sartinly sympathize with you, young feller, fer I've been there

meself, an' know what the Queen of Sheby is like when she gits roused."

"Look here," the chauffeur demanded, "are you kidding me or are you a

blooming fool? I can't see any connection between that old queen and

the creature that landed on me last night." He paused and a sudden look

of fear leaped into his eyes. "Say," he gasped, "surely you're not

Abner Andrews, are you?"

"I am an' I ain't. I was an' I isn't, so there ye are. Now kin ye jist

tell me who I am, anyway?"

But the chauffeur did not wait to reply. He had retreated, and was out

in the adjoining room when Abner had finished.

"Don't be skeered, young man," the latter remarked. "Ye can't run very

fer in this hole, anyway, an' I kin ketch ye whenever I want ye."

"Oh, Lord!" the unhappy chauffeur groaned. "It's her husband, and he's

crazy! What am I to do?"

"Hold ye'r tongue, that's what ye kin do," Abner roared. "De ye think

I'm goin' to kill ye right off? That'd be too good fer the likes of you.

Come in here an' set down, an' tell me why ye ran off with my queen."

"Your queen! Good heavens! Why didn't you tell me she belonged to you?

Are you sure you're not crazy?"

"I will be soon if ye don't stop ye'r gab and set down. There, that's

better," he continued, when the other had perched himself gingerly upon

the edge of the cot. "Now, look here, young feller, I want to know why

ye chose my queen fer ye'r joy-ride last night? It wasn't fer her

beauty, or attractive manner, was it?"

"Oh, Jerusalem, no!"

"Well, why was it? Out with it."

But the young man held down his head, and made no reply. Abner studied

him for a few minutes in silence.

"Did somebody put ye up to that job?" he presently enquired. "Don't be

afraid to tell me. But if ye don't, I'll be as tender with ye as a cat

with a mouse. Somebody set ye on, didn't he?"

"Yes," the chauffeur finally blurted out.

"Ah, I thought so. We're gittin' on nicely now with our little teeter

game, you at one end, me at the other, an' someone in the middle. Now,

who was that someone?"

"It was Lawyer Rackshaw; that's who it was."

"H'm, I guessed as much. I s'pose he paid ye fer the job?"

"Yes; money and whiskey."

"Ho, ho, money an' whiskey, eh? Well, I declare! An' all fer the sake

of givin' the Queen of Sheby a joy-ride. He was sartinly kind. I wish

he'd been along too."

"So do I, the mean devil. He got me into the fix, and he'll snap his

fingers at me now."

"Will he?"

"Certainly. That's the kind he is."

"But can't you do somethin'?"

"Do! What can I do?"

"Swear to what ye've jist told me."

"Oh, yes, I'll swear to that at any old time. But what good will it

do?"

"It might do ye a lot of good, an' me too."

"You!"

"Sure. I'm in this hole fer bein' a public benefactor, an' if you'll

jist swear to what ye've told me, it might help us both out, see?"

"Have you something against Rackshaw?"

"Yes, a few things, more or less."

"Then I'll swear. But say, you'll not do anything to me for giving your

wife that joy-ride last night, will you?"

"No, no, that's all right, now that I know who put ye up to it. But

look here, young feller, take an old man's advice and let whiskey alone

after this. It's put a good many more chaps than you in the ditch when

they were joy-ridin' with women. Yes, whiskey an' women have sartinly

got many a fine bright chap into trouble, as ye know from experience.

Women ain't allus what they seem, an' it's hard sometimes to tell the

difference between the Queen of Sheby an' Tildy Andrews, of Ash Pint."

*CHAPTER XVII*

*FRIENDLY ADVICE*

It seemed to Abner that all his friends had forsaken him. He paced up

and down the room outside his cell most of the evening. The chauffeur

was asleep, and his deep breathing was the only sound which broke the

intense stillness which prevailed. The nap he had taken that afternoon

drove all sleep from Abner's eyes. In fact, he could not have slept,

anyway, as the story the chauffeur had told gave him food for much

thought. So Rackshaw was at the bottom of it all, he mused. He had

surmised as much, but he had no means of proving it until he had heard

it from the lips of the wild-eyed youth. Perhaps the lawyer was

responsible, too, for the article in _The Live Wire_. How could the

editor have obtained the information unless someone had communicated

with him? The police, of course, could have done so, but they would not

have twisted the story beyond all semblance of reality. He felt that

Joe Preston was guilty, and deserved all that he had received. But was

Rackshaw in league with him?

He was lost in such thoughts when he heard the jailor's approaching

footsteps. The man was coming, no doubt, to lock him in his cell for

the night. The thought of being confined in that narrow stuffy place

for long hours angered him, so when he heard the key rattle in the lock

he was in a most dangerous frame of mind. Accustomed as he was from

childhood to unbounded freedom, and an abundance of fresh air, this

close confinement in such poorly-ventilated quarters was most galling.

He had started to walk back to the other end of the room as the key

turned in the lock. He could hardly trust himself then, and he needed a

few seconds to calm his feelings.

As the door swung open the jailor called to him, and demanded why he was

running away. Fiercely Abner wheeled around, but the words of wrath

which were glowing hot on his tongue suddenly cooled when he beheld Zeb

Burns standing before him. For an instant he stood as if he had seen an

apparition, staring hard at his neighbor. Zeb saw the look of

astonishment, and the faint semblance of a smile lurked about the

corners of his mouth.

"What's the matter, Abner?" he asked. "Ye look scared."

"So I am."

"What about?"

"You."

"Me! Why are you scared about me?"

"What have ye been doin', Zeb?"

"Doin'! What de ye mean?"

"But why are ye here? Have they got you, too?"

"Ho, ho, I see," and Burns laughed outright. "Ye think that because

you're in the Klink everybody else is headin' the same way. But I guess

there are a few sensible people left yit in the world, which is a mighty

lucky thing."

"An' they're not goin' to lock you up too?" Abner asked in surprise.

"Ye haven't been beatin' anybody up, eh?"

"Certainly not. What's the matter with ye, anyway, Abner? I'm here to

take you out of this hole, so git a hustle on an' come with me at once.

There now, never mind talkin'," he added. "We've got lots of time fer

that later. I want to git away."

Like a child Abner followed Zeb out of the jail, and not until they had

reached the street did he open his lips. Then he stopped, looked

around, and drew in a long, deep breath of fresh air.

"My, that feels good!" he exclaimed. "The Lord never meant a man to be

shut up in a place like that."

"I know he didn't," Zeb replied. "Neither did He intend that a man in

his common sense should act the fool."

"De ye think I have?" Abner demanded.

"It looks very much like it. But, let's hurry up. I guess the judge

will settle whether you are a fool or a lunatic, so it's no use fer us

to spend our time arguin' about it."

"Where are ye goin'?" Abner asked.

"Home, of course. Where else would we go?"

"Did ye walk to town, Zeb?"

"Sure; I've no other means of conveyance, have I?"

"An' ye're goin' to walk home?"

"Guess so from present appearance."

"But Jerry's here," Abner explained. "Sam must know where he is."

"That's good. We'll hustle there at once an' git the old nag."

They moved rapidly along the street leading to the railway station.

This route led them by Rackshaw's office, and as they were about to pass

they glanced in at the open door. The sight which met their eyes filled

them with astonishment, causing them to stop and look into the room. To

Zeb the scene of chaos was puzzling, but Abner surmised the cause in an

instant. His face brightened, and his mouth expanded into a grin when

he saw Whittles upon the floor and the lawyer standing before the box.

"Evenin', gentlemen," he accosted, "an' may the Lord fergive me fer

miscallin' yez. Havin' a pink tea, eh?"

Rackshaw stood staring at Abner as if he could not believe his eyes.

"Good Lord!" he ejaculated. "Are you that devil, Andrews, or his ghost?

I thought you were in jail."

"H'm," Abner sniffed. "I'm St. Peter now. This is me angel in the

shape of Zeb Burns, who came to-night an' brought me out of prison.

Look's to me as if you an' Hen have been holdin' a prayer meetin'. Guess

ye'r prayers must have been answered, fer here I be."

"You're no saint," Rackshaw roared. "You're Beelzebub, the prince of

devils; that's who you are. What did you mean by sending me those

rats?"

"Rats!" and again Abner grinned. "Oh, I see," and his eyes surveyed the

room. "Country rats, eh?"

"Indeed, they were," was the emphatic reply. "And look what they've

done to my office. You'll have a nice sum to pay for all this damage."

"Me! Me pay?"

"Yes, you I mean!" the lawyer yelled, now fairly beside himself. "You

are the cause of all this, an' I'll skin you alive, see if I don't, you

miserable devil."

The grin vanished from Abner's face, his form suddenly straightened, and

his eyes blazed. Walking slowly across the room, he stood before the

angry lawyer.

"Jist say them words agin," he warned, in that drawling tone which

betokened danger. "If ye're thinkin' of skinnin' me alive, as no doubt

ye'll try to do, I might as well have my full satisfaction now. I'm in

deep water as it is over Joe Preston, an' I feel jist in the mood to

have another scalp scored to my credit. Another skunk like you won't

make much difference, so jist say them words agin, will ye?"

Rackshaw was in a trap and knew it. His body shook and his eyes blazed

fire. But he was an arrant coward, and the huge form bulked very large

before him just then. He knew that Abner would not hesitate to deal

with him as he had with Joe Preston, and he did not relish the thought

of going to the hospital for repairs. As the two men thus faced each

other, Zeb approached and laid a firm hand upon Abner's arm.

"Come along out of this," he commanded. "You're in enough trouble now.

Don't be a fool. I'm losin' faith in this ancestor business of yours.

St. Peter never acted like you're actin' to-night."

For an instant only Abner hesitated. He did long to give the lawyer

something that was coming to him. But he knew that Zeb was right, and

he followed him to the door. He couldn't refrain, however, from giving

a parting shot ere he left.

"Don't fergit, Rackshaw," he reminded, "that country rats are not to be

fooled with, no matter whether they walk on four legs or two. Keep ye'r

city rats where they belong, and let them mind their own bizn'ess, an'

ye'll have no trouble with country rats."

"Fer heaven's sake, hold ye'r tongue, an' come along," Zeb ordered.

"I'm sick an' tired of all this confounded fuss."

"But would ye put up with sass from a thing like that?" Abner asked. "I

wish I had punched his head."

"It's lucky ye didn't."

"Why?"

"You ought to know as well as I do. What kin you do aginst a lawyer?

He'll make it hot fer you as it is. I don't know what's comin' over ye,

Abner. I always knew that you were a queer critter, but I thought ye

had some brains left."

For a wonder Abner made no reply, but walked along silently until the

station house was reached. It was locked, and Sam was nowhere to be

found. Upon enquiry from a man who was standing upon the platform, they

learned that the agent had gone to a party out in the country, and had

taken Jerry with him.

"Confound that feller!" Abner growled. "What right has he to run off

with my hoss, I'd like to know?"

"He looked after him, though, when you were in the pen, didn't he?" Zeb

queried.

"Sure, sure he did, an' I s'pose I must fergive him."

"Now you're beginnin' to talk like a reasonable man, Abner. It's the

first sensible thing I've heard ye say to-night. But we've got to git

home, so I guess there's nothin' else to do but to foot it. What de ye

say?"

"I'm game, so let's git on."

They made their way through the town, and when they were at last out

into the country, they filled and lighted their pipes as they trudged

along. So far little had been said, but the soothing effect of the

tobacco seemed to make them more communicable, and they discussed the

affairs of the evening. Abner was unusually fierce in his denunciation

of everything in general. He believed that he had been unjustly

treated, and he longed for suitable retaliation. Zeb listened to him

for some time without arguing. He knew that Abner must unburden his

soul before he could feel better. At length, however, he stopped and

laid his hand upon his companion's sleeve.

"Look here, Abner," he solemnly began, "I don't like ye to talk that

way. It doesn't do any good."

"But it does me a lot of good to blow off steam," Abner retorted.

"Yes, mebbe it does. But remember, there's a great difference between

blowin' off steam and bustin' ye'r biler, an' that's what you're in

danger of doin'."

"But de ye think I'm goin' to put up with a hull bunch of rogues who are

tryin' to down me?"

"An' ye'r helpin' them with ye'r actions, ain't ye?"

"What else am I to do? They'll walk over me rough shod if I don't put

up a fight. If ye run away from a little snappin' cur he'll run after

ye, an' bite ye'r heels, an' bark like mad. But turn around, face the

critter, an' give it a good kick, an' then ye'll see how it'll scoot

away with its tail between its legs."

"But suppose it isn't a cur, Abner, but a big bulldog, what then?"

"Why, I'd use a stick, or mebbe somethin' else."

"Yes, that's jist it. You'd do somethin' that ye'd regret all ye're

life. Now, look here. You've got to stop all this. What you need is a

change of heart."

"Change of heart!" Abner repeated. "Good Lord, what de ye mean by that?

Ye haven't been attendin' a revival meetin', have ye, Zeb?"

"No, I haven't, an' don't intend to. But common sense tells me that a

man won't accomplish much in this world when he is always rubbin' people

the wrong way. Even a cat won't stand it fer long."

"The way I rubbed Rackshaw, Ikey Dimock an' Joe Preston, eh?" Abner

asked.

"That's what I mean. It makes the sparks fly, an' soon there's a big

fire which is hard to put out."

"What de ye expect me to do, then?"

"Rub people the other way, fer instance, and see how it'll work."

"Ho, ho," and Abner laughed outright. "Imagine me rubbin' Ikey Dimock

an' Rackshaw, an' pattin' 'em on the back an' callin' 'em 'me dear

friends.' No, I guess I'm too old a bird fer that. Never had the

trainin', ye see. Anyway, it's no use now; it's too late. Everybody's

dead set aginst me, an' is tryin' to do me."

"Everybody is not, Abner. I'm not, anyway, or else I wouldn't have

taken all the trouble to walk to town to git ye out of jail."

"Sure, sure, I know you'd stand by me, Zeb. But, say, how did ye do

it?"

"Do what?"

"Git me out of jail, of course."

"Oh, bailed ye out, that was all."

"But where did ye git the money?"

"Never mind where I got it. That's my own business, so don't say

anythin' more about it."

Abner was silent for a few minutes as he plodded along.

"Say," he presently began, "does Tildy an' the gals know about this?"

"Can't say fer sure," was the reply. "But I don't believe they do. I

jist heard of it by chance, but I never said a word to ye'r folks."

"That's good of ye, Zeb." And once more Abner became silent.

The night was dark, and when the men were about a mile from their homes

it began to rain, first a gentle drizzle, then a steady downpour. They

hastened their steps, but the roads became muddy and slippery, which

made progress slow.

"Say, Zeb," Abner at length panted, "an' ye really think I need a change

of heart?"

"Don't ye think so ye'rself?" was the evasive reply. "Is this rain

softenin' ye up? It is me, at any rate, an' I'm gittin' soaked."

"But how kin I begin the change, Zeb?"

"Guess ye'll have to work out that sum ye'rself, Abner, if it's not too

hard."

"Now, that's jist the trouble. It is too hard. Ye see, me ancestors

are to blame. They were all fightin' men, an' so that spirit has come

down to me."

"H'm," Zeb sniffed. "The trouble with you is that ye've chosen ye'r own

ancestors."

"Chosen me own ancestors! How could a man do that?"

"Easy enough. Ye've got a quarrelsome spirit, Abner, an' ye naturally

choose sich dead men as suit ye. Ye kin go to the past fer anythin', it

seems t' me, jist as people go to the Bible to find what agrees with

their way of thinkin'. Now, isn't that so?"

"But what am I to do, Zeb?"

"Think of men who have followed peace instead of war; men who have

served their country an' sacrificed themselves. If ye kin do that,

perhaps ye'll git their spirit, which, in my opinion, will do ye a great

deal of good."

"Mebbe ye'r right, Zeb," Abner agreed. "But darn it all, I don't know

nuthin' about men of peace who sacrificed themselves fer others. I've

already sacrificed much fer Glucom by lookin' after Joe Preston. If

that wasn't a good deed fer the welfare of the community, then I'd like

to know what it was."

"But ye'r heart wasn't right, Abner," Zeb explained. "There was anger

there, an' when ye knocked Joe out ye never thought of the public good,

but of ye'r own personal injury. That's not the way. Git them good

ancestors to work, then ye'll know what I mean, an' ye'll begin to rub

people the right way. Life will be much more pleasant, see if it

isn't."

"Good ancestors, rubbin' people the right way," Abner muttered, as he

plodded along. "I'd like to know how to begin, skiddy-me-shins if I

wouldn't."

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*A MOIST RECEPTION*

Abner was somewhat uneasy as to the reception he would be likely to

receive at home. What would his wife say about the two waifs he had

sheltered for the night and the ruined pillow-slips? Judging from past

experiences, he felt quite sure that a lively time lay ahead of him, and

he knew that he would need the combined spirits of all his peace-loving

ancestors to aid him in keeping calm.

Thinking of such things, he walked slowly to the back door after he had

parted from Zeb at the gate. He had no idea what time of the night it

was, though he was sure that it was late, for the house was wrapped in

complete darkness. He decided to slip in unnoticed and occupy the sofa

in the kitchen for the night. And glad would he be to rest, for he was

very tired after such a trying day and his long walk home.

Reaching the back door, he gently tried the latch, but it was firmly

secured from within. He had partly expected this, as he knew how

particular his wife was about fastening the doors before going to bed.

She had often told about a robbery which had once taken place at a

certain house because the back door had been left open. Abner thought

she might have departed from her strict rule for this night, at least,

in case of his return. It annoyed him to think how little his absence

was considered by his own family.

Failing to find an entrance here, he at once remembered the window in

the woodshed.

"Lucky fer me," he mused, "that I didn't fix that winder. That's a time

when I was right, an' I won't fergit to remind Tildy of it, neither."

It was so dark that he made considerable noise as he walked around the

end of the woodshed. He tripped over a pail, and when he had with

difficulty recovered himself, the clothes-line, which had been drawn

taut by the rain, caught him under the chin, and gave his head such a

jerk that he was sure his neck was cracked. These mishaps by no means

sweetened his temper, but he managed to restrain his feelings so far as

speech was concerned, though, as he afterwards expressed it, he was

"bilin' within."

It took him several minutes to find the window, and this he accomplished

by feeling his way along the side of the building. When his hands at

length reached the opening, which was about up to his shoulders, he gave

a spring, caught his elbows upon the sill and pulled himself up. This

was somewhat hard to do as Abner's body almost filled the opening.

After two or three frantic wriggles he progressed far enough to balance

himself upon his stomach upon the sill. Another wriggle and he would be

through. But just at this critical juncture there was a sudden movement

within the shed, a rush was heard, and then a flood of cold water was

dashed into his face. With a half-smothered yell of surprise Abner

recoiled, and ere he could regain himself, he lost his balance and fell

sprawling upon the ground.

For a few seconds he lay there puzzled and half dazed. What did it all

mean? he asked himself. Who could be in the woodshed at that hour of

the night? Why had the water been thrown into his face? Then the

terrible thought flashed into his mind that something must have happened

to his family, that robbers might be in control of the house, who had

committed some terrible deed. The silence of the house lent color to

this suspicion, and a wild fury filled Abner's soul. He scrambled to his

knees, then to his feet. He would teach the villains a lesson they

would not soon forget. They would not escape his wrath, and he must be

quick.

Hurrying around the building as fast as possible, he reached the door,

and was about to force it open, when the sound of splashing water fell

upon his ears, accompanied by a heavy thump upon the floor, as if

somebody had fallen. Instantly a woman's wild shriek rent the air,

mingled with children's cries of distress. Certain now that something

was seriously wrong within, Abner put his shoulder to the door, which

immediately gave way with a crash. This only tended to cause the cries

and shrieks to grow louder than ever, and Abner was completely confused

by the din. He could see nothing, and he did not know which way to

step. He felt around through the blackness, but could touch nothing.

"Shet up ye'r yellin'," he roared, "an' tell me what's the matter."

This command had the desired effect, for the babel lessened.

"Abner, oh, Abner, is that you?" came a voice from his left, which he

recognized as belonging to his wife.

"Sure, it's me," was the reply. "What in the divil does all this mean?"

"I thought you were a pack of robbers," Mrs. Andrews moaned. "Get a

light, quick; I'm afraid I've killed one of the boys."

As Abner turned toward the kitchen a light suddenly illumined the

darkness. Jess was coming, carrying a lamp in her hand, closely

followed by Belle. Both girls were clad in their dressing-gowns, and

their faces were white with fear.

"Daddy, daddy, what is the matter?" Jess asked.

"Look out, there, ye'll let that lamp fall," Abner warned. "Give it to

me. My, ye're tremblin' all over."