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Title: The Young Surveyor; Or, Jack on the Prairies

Author: J. T. Trowbridge

Release date: May 4, 2009 [eBook #28680]
                Most recently updated: January 5, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Mary Meehan and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
        file was produced from images generously made available
        by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YOUNG SURVEYOR; OR, JACK ON THE PRAIRIES ***




Produced by David Edwards, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)









                           THE YOUNG SURVEYOR;

                                   OR,

                          JACK ON THE PRAIRIES.

                           BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE

              AUTHOR OF "JACK HAZARD AND HIS FORTUNES," ETC.

                          _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS._


BOSTON:
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY,
LATE TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO.
1875.

Copyright, 1875.
BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.

UNIVERSITY PRESS: WELCH, BIGELOW, & CO.,
CAMBRIDGE.




[Illustration: HOW THE BOYS WENT TO THE RIVER FOR WATER.]




CONTENTS.


       I. "NOTHING BUT A BOY"

      II. OLD WIGGETT'S SECTION CORNER

     III. THE HOMEWARD TRACK

      IV. A DEER HUNT, AND HOW IT ENDED

       V. THE BOY WITH ONE SUSPENDER

      VI. "LORD BETTERSON'S"

     VII. JACK AT THE "CASTLE"

    VIII. HOW VINNIE MADE A JOURNEY

      IX. VINNIE'S ADVENTURE

       X. JACK AND VINNIE IN CHICAGO

      XI. JACK'S NEW HOME

     XII. VINNIE'S FUTURE HOME

    XIII. WHY JACK DID NOT FIRE AT THE PRAIRIE CHICKEN

     XIV. SNOWFOOT'S NEW OWNER

      XV. GOING FOR A WITNESS

     XVI. PEAKSLOW GETS A QUIRK IN HIS HEAD

    XVII. VINNIE MAKES A BEGINNING

   XVIII. VINNIE'S NEW BROOM

     XIX. LINK'S WOOD-PILE

      XX. MORE WATER THAN THEY WANTED

     XXI. PEAKSLOW SHOWS HIS HAND

    XXII. THE WOODLAND SPRING

   XXIII. JACK'S "BIT OF ENGINEERING"

    XXIV. PREPARING FOR THE ATTACK

     XXV. THE BATTLE OF THE BOUNDARY FENCE

    XXVI. VICTORY

   XXVII. VINNIE IN THE LION'S DEN

  XXVIII. AN "EXTRAORDINARY" GIRL

    XXIX. ANOTHER HUNT, AND HOW IT ENDED

     XXX. JACK'S PRISONER

    XXXI. RADCLIFF

   XXXII. AN IMPORTANT EVENT

  XXXIII. MRS. WIGGETT'S "NOON-MARK"

   XXXIV. THE STRANGE CLOUD

    XXXV. PEAKSLOW IN A TIGHT PLACE.--CECIE

   XXXVI. "ON THE WAR TRAIL"

  XXXVII. THE MYSTERY OF A PAIR OF BREECHES

 XXXVIII. THE MORNING AFTER

   XXXIX. FOLLOWING UP THE MYSTERY

      XL. PEAKSLOW'S HOUSE-RAISING

     XLI. CONCLUSION




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


SETTING THE STAKES

JACK AND THE STRANGE YOUTH

UP-HILL WORK

"LORD BETTERSON"

TOO OBLIGING BY HALF

LINK DOESN'T CARE TO BE KISSED

SHOT ON THE WING

THE AMIABLE MR. PEAKSLOW

VINNIE'S STRATAGEM

LINK'S WOOD-PILE

HOW THE BOYS WENT TO THE RIVER FOR WATER

TESTING THE LEVEL

OLD WIGGETT

"STOP, OR I'LL SHOOT!"

RETURNING IN TRIUMPH

THE END OF THE CHASE

JACK AND HIS JOLLY PRISONER

THE TORNADO COMING

PEAKSLOW REAPPEARS

FOLLOWING THE WAR TRAIL UNDER DIFFICULTIES

THE WATER QUESTION SETTLED




THE YOUNG SURVEYOR.




CHAPTER I.

"NOTHING BUT A BOY."


[Illustration]

A young fellow in a light buggy, with a big black dog sitting composedly
beside him, enjoying the ride, drove up, one summer afternoon, to the
door of a log-house, in one of the early settlements of Northern
Illinois.

A woman with lank features, in a soiled gown trailing its rags about her
bare feet, came and stood in the doorway and stared at him.

"Does Mr. Wiggett live here?" he inquired.

"Wal, I reckon," said the woman, "'f he ain't dead or skedaddled of a
suddent."

"Is he at home?"

"Wal, I reckon."

"Can I see him?"

"I dunno noth'n' to hender. Yer, Sal! run up in the burnt lot and fetch
your pap. Tell him a stranger. You've druv a good piece," the woman
added, glancing at the buggy-wheels and the horse's white feet, stained
with black prairie soil.

"I've driven over from North Mills," replied the young fellow, regarding
her pleasantly, with bright, honest features, from under the shade of
his hat-brim.

"I 'lowed as much. Alight and come into the house. Old man'll be yer in
a minute."

He declined the invitation to enter; but, to rest his limbs, leaped down
from the buggy. Thereupon the dog rose from his seat on the
wagon-bottom, jumped down after him, and shook himself.

"All creation!" said the woman, "what a pup that ar is! Yer, you young
uns! Put back into the house, and hide under the bed, or he'll eat ye up
like ye was so much cl'ar soap-grease!"

At that moment the dog stretched his great mouth open, with a formidable
yawn. Panic seized the "young uns," and they scampered; their bare legs
and exceedingly scanty attire (only three shirts and a half to four
little barbarians) seeming to offer the dog unusual facilities, had he
chosen to regard them as soap-grease and to regale himself on that sort
of diet. But he was too well-bred and good-natured an animal to think of
snapping up a little Wiggett or two for his luncheon; and the fugitives,
having first run under the bed and looked out, ventured back to the
door, and peeped with scared faces from behind their mother's gown.

To hide his laughter, the young fellow stood patting and stroking his
horse's neck until Sal returned with her "pap."

"Mr. Wiggett?" inquired the youth, seeing a tall, spare, rough old man
approach.

"That's my name, stranger. What can I dew for ye to-day?"

"I've come to see what I can do for _you_, Mr. Wiggett. I believe you
want your section corner looked up."

"That I dew, stranger. But I 'lowed 't would take a land-surveyor for
that."

"I am a land-surveyor," said the young fellow, with a modest smile.

"A land-surveyor? Why, you're noth'n' but a boy!" And the tall old man,
bending a little, and knitting his gray eyebrows, looked down upon his
visitor with a sort of amused curiosity.

"That's so," replied the "boy," with a laugh and a blush. "But I think I
can find your corner, if the bearings are all right."

"Whur's your instruments?" asked the old man, leaning over the buggy.
"Them all? What's that gun to do with land-surveyin'?"

"Nothing; I brought that along, thinking I might get a shot at a rabbit
or a prairie hen. But we shall need an axe and a shovel."

"I 'lowed your boss would come himself, in place of sendin' a boy!"
muttered the old man, taking up the gun,--a light double-barrelled
fowling-piece,--sighting across it with an experienced eye, and laying
it down again. "Sal, bring the axe; it's stickin' in the log thar by the
wood-pile. Curi's thing, to lose my section corner, hey?"

"It's not a very uncommon thing," replied the young surveyor.

"Fact is," said the old man, "I never found it I bought of Seth
Parkins's widder arter Seth died, and banged if I've ever been able to
find the gov'ment stake."

"Maybe somebody pulled it up, or broke it off, to kill a rattlesnake
with," suggested the young surveyor.

"Like enough," said the old man. "Can't say 't I blame him; though he
might 'a' got a stick in the timber by walkin' a few rods. He couldn't
'a' been so bad off as one o' you surveyor chaps was when the gov'ment
survey went through. He was off on the Big Perairie, footin' it to his
camp, when he comes to a rattler curled up in the grass, and shakin' his
tarnal buzz-tail at him. He steps back, and casts about him for some
sort of we'pon; he hadn't a thing in his fist but a roll of paper, and
if ever a chap hankered arter a stick or a stun, they say he did. But it
was all jest perairie grass; nary rock nor a piece of timber within
three mile. Snake seemed to 'preciate his advantage, and flattened his
head and whirred his rattle sassier 'n ever. Surveyor chap couldn't
stan' that. So what does he dew, like a blamed fool, but jest off with
his boot and hurl it, 'lowin' he could kill a rattler that way? He
missed shot. Then, to git his boot, he had to pull off t' other, and
tackle the snake with that. Lost that tew. Then he was in a
perdickerment; snake got both boots; curled up on tew 'em, ready to
strike, and seemin' to say, 'If you've any more boots to spar', bring
'em on.' Surveyor chap hadn't no more boots, to his sorrow; and, arter
layin' siege to the critter till sundown, hopin' he'd depart in peace
and leave him his property, he guv it up as a bad job, and footed it to
the camp in his stockin's, fancyin' he was treadin' among rattlers all
the way."

The story was finished by the time the axe was brought; the old man
picked up a rusty shovel lying by the house, and, getting into the buggy
with his tools, he pointed out to his young companion a rough road
leading through the timber.

This was a broad belt of woodland, skirting the eastern side of a wide,
fertile river-bottom, and giving to the settlement the popular name of
"Long Woods."

On the other side of the timber lay the high prairie region, covered
with coarse wild grass, and spotted with flowers, without tree or shrub
visible until another line of timber, miles away, marked the vicinity of
another stream.

The young surveyor and the old man, in the jolting buggy, followed by
the dog, left the log-house and the valley behind them; traversed the
woods, through flickering sun and shade; and drove southward along the
edge of the rolling prairie, until the old man said they had better stop
and hitch.

"I don't hitch my horse," said the young surveyor. "The dog looks out
for him. Here, old fellow, watch!"

"The section corner, I ca'c'late," said the old man, shouldering his
axe, "is off on the perairie thar, some'er's. Come, and I'll show ye the
trees."

"Is that big oak with the broken limb one of them?"

"Wal, now, how did ye come to guess that?--one tree out of a hundred ye
might 'a' picked."

"It is a prominent tree," replied the youth, "and, if I had been the
surveyor, I think I should have chosen it for one, to put my bearings
on."

"Boy, you're right! But it took me tew days to decide even that. The
underbrush has growed up around it, and the old scar has nigh about
healed over."

The old man led the way through the thickets, and, reaching a small
clear space at the foot of the great oak, pointed out the scar, where
the trunk had been blazed by the axemen of the government survey. On a
surface about six inches broad, hewed for the purpose, the distance and
direction of the tree from the corner stake had, no doubt, been duly
marked. But only a curiously shaped wound was left. The growth of the
wood was rapid in that rich region, and, although the cut had been made
but a few years before, a broad lip of smooth new bark had rolled up
about it from the sides, and so nearly closed over it that only a
narrow, perpendicular, dark slit remained.

"What do you make of that?" said Mr. Wiggett, putting his fingers at the
opening, and looking down at his companion.

"I don't make much of it as it looks now," the young surveyor replied.

"Didn't I tell you 't would take an old head to find my corner? T' other
tree is in a wus shape than this yer. Now I reckon you'll be satisfied
to turn about and whip home, and tell your boss it's a job for him."

"Give me your axe," was the reply.

"Boy, take kere what you're about!"

"O, I will take care; don't be afraid!" And, grasping the axe, the young
surveyor began to cut away the folds of new wood which had formed over
the scar.

"I see what you're up tew," said the old man, gaining confidence at
every stroke. "Give me the axe; you ain't tall enough to work handy."
And with a few strokes, being a skilful chopper, he cleared the old
blaze, and exposed the blackened tablet which Nature had so nearly
enclosed in her casket of living wood.

There, cut into the old hewed surface, were the well-preserved marks of
the government survey:

    N. 48° 15' W.
    18 R. 10 L.

"What does that mean?" asked the old man, as the youth made a copy of
these marks in his notebook.

"It means that this tree is eighteen rods and ten links from your corner
stake, in a direction forty-eight degrees and fifteen minutes west of
north."

"I can understand your rods and links," said the old man; "for I know
your surveyor's chain is four rods long, and has a hundred links. But
banged if I know anything about your degrees and minutes."

"All that is just as simple," replied the young surveyor. "A circle is
supposed to be divided into three hundred and sixty degrees. Each degree
is divided into sixty minutes; and so forth. Now, if you stand looking
directly north, then turn a quarter of the way round, and look straight
west, you have turned a quarter of a circle, or ninety degrees; and the
angle where you stand--where the north line and the west line meet--is
called an angle of ninety degrees. Half as far is forty-five degrees.
Seen from the corner stake, wherever it is, this tree bears a little
more than forty-five degrees west of north; it is forty-eight degrees
and a quarter. Where's the other tree?"

That was ten or eleven rods away, still in the edge of the timber; and
it bore on its blazed trunk, facing the open prairie, the
inscription--laid bare by the old man's ready axe--

    N. 82° 27' w.
    16 R. 29 L.

"Eighty-two degrees twenty-seven minutes west of north, and sixteen rods
twenty-nine links, from your corner," the young surveyor read aloud, as
he copied the marks into his notebook. "The other tree is so surrounded
by undergrowth, it would take you and your axe an hour to cut a passage
through so that I could run a line; and I am going to try running a line
from this tree alone. Be cutting a few good stakes, while I go and bring
up my horse and set him to eating grass."




CHAPTER II.

OLD WIGGETT'S SECTION CORNER.


The horse was driven to a good shady place on the edge of the woods,
relieved of his bridle, and left in charge of the dog. In the mean while
the old man cut a few oak saplings and hewed them into stakes.

"Now, I want ye to give me a notion of how you're gwine to work," he
said, as the youth brought his compass and set it up on its tripod at
the foot of the tree. "For, otherwise, how am I to be sure of my corner,
when you say you've found it?"

"O, I think we shall find something to convince you! However, look here,
and I'll explain."

While waiting for the wavering needle to settle in its place, the youth
made a hasty diagram in a page of his notebook.

"Here we are on the edge of the timber. _A_ is your first tree. _B_ is
the one where we are. Now if the bearings are correct, and I run two
lines accordingly, the place where they meet will be the place for your
corner stake; say at _C_."

"That looks cute; I like the shape of that!" said the old man,
interested.

[Illustration: SETTING THE STAKES.]

"If the distance was short,--feet instead of rods,--all the instruments
we should want," said the young surveyor, with his peculiarly bright
smile, "would be a foot measure and two strings."

[Illustration]

"How so?" said the old man, who could not believe that science was as
simple a thing as that.

"Why, for instance, we will say the tree _A_ is eighteen feet from the
corner you want to find; _B_, sixteen feet. Now take a string eighteen
feet long, and fasten the end of it by a nail to the centre of the
blazed trunk, _A_; fasten another sixteen feet long to _B_; then stretch
out the loose ends of both until they just meet; and there is the place
for your stake."

"I declar'!" exclaimed the old man. "That's the use of the tew trees.
Banged if I dew see, though, how you're gwine to git along by runnin' a
line from jest one."

"If I run two lines, as I have shown you, where they meet will be the
point. Now if I run one line, and measure it, I shall find the point
where the other line ought to meet it. We'll see. Here on my compass is
a circle and a scale of degrees, which shows me how to set it according
to the bearings. Now look through these sights, and you are looking
straight in the direction of your section corner."

"Curi's, ain't it?" grinned the old man. "'Cordin' to that, my corner is
out on the perairie, jest over beyant that ar knoll."

"You're right. Now go forward to the top of it, while I sight you, and
we'll set a stake there. As I signal with my hands this way, or this,
move your stake to the right or left, till I make _this_ motion; then
you are all right."

The young surveyor had got his compass into position, by looking back
through the sights at the tree. He now placed himself between it and the
tree, and, sighting forward, directed the old man, who went on over the
knoll, where to set his stakes.

On the other side of the knoll, it was found that the line crossed a
slough,--or "slew," as the old man termed it,--which lay in a long,
winding hollow of the hills. This morass was partly filled with stagnant
water; and the old man gave it a bad name.

"It's the wust slew in the hull country. I've lost tew cows in 't. I
wouldn't go through it for the price of my farm. Couldn't git through; a
man would sink intew it up tew his neck."

"Then we may have to get a boat to find your section corner," laughed
the young surveyor.

"But it's noth'n' but a bog this time o' year; ye can't navigate a boat
thar. And it'll take till middle o' next week to build a brush road
acrost. Guess we're up a stump now, hey?"

"O, no; stumps are not so plenty, where I undertake jobs! Let's have a
stake down there, pretty near the _slew_; then we will measure our line,
and see how much farther we have to go."

The old man helped bear the chain; and a careful measurement showed that
the stake at the edge of the slough was still four rods and thirty links
from the corner they sought.

"Banged if it don't come jest over on t' other side of the slew!" the
old man exclaimed, computing the distance with his eye. "But we can't
measure a rod furder; and yer we be stuck."

"Not yet, old friend!" cried the young surveyor. "Since we can't cross,
we'll measure the rest of our distance along on this shore."

The old man looked down upon him with indignation and amazement.

"Think I'm a dog-goned fool?" he cried. "The idee of turnin' from our
course, and measurin' along by the slew! What's the good of that?"

Finding that the old man would not aid or abet what seemed to him such
complete folly, the young surveyor made another little diagram in his
notebook, and explained:--

[Illustration]

"Here is the end of our line running from the direction
_B_,--theoretically a straight, horizontal line, though it curves over
the knoll. You noticed how, coming down the slope ahead of you, I held
my end of the chain up from the ground, to make it horizontal, and then
with my plumb-line found the corresponding point in the ground, to start
fresh from. That was to get the measurement of a horizontal line; for if
you measure all the ups and downs of hills and hollows, you'll find your
surveying will come out in queer shape."

The old man scratched his bushy gray head, and said he hadn't thought of
that.

"Well," the young surveyor continued, "we are running our line off
towards _C_, when we come to the slew. Our last stake is at _D_,--say
this little thing with a flag on it. Now, what is to be done? for we
must measure four rods and thirty links farther. I measure that distance
from _D_ to _E_, along this shore, running my new line at an angle of
sixty degrees from the true course. Then, with my compass at _E_, I
sight another line at an angle of sixty degrees from my last. I am
making what is called an equilateral triangle; that is, a triangle with
equal sides and equal angles. Each angle must measure sixty degrees.
With two angles and one side, we can always get the other two sides; and
the other angle will be where those two sides meet. They will meet at
_C_. Now, since the sides are of equal length, the distance from _D_ to
_C_ is the same as from _D_ to _E_,--that is, four rods and thirty
links, just the distance we wish to go; _C_, then, is the place for your
corner stake."

"It looks very well on paper," said the old man, "but"--casting his eye
across the bog--"how in the name of seven kingdoms are ye ever gwine to
fix yer stake thar?"

"That is easy. Go round to the other side of the slew, get yourself in
range with our line from the tree, by sighting across the stakes, and
walk down toward the slew,--that is, on this dotted line. Having got my
angle of sixty degrees at _E_, I will sight across and stop you when I
see you at _C_. There stick your last stake."

"Banged if that ain't cute! Young man, what mout be your name?"

"I was only boy a few minutes ago," said the young surveyor, slyly.
"Now, if you are ready, we'll set to work and carry out this plan."

The line from _D_ to _E_ was measured off. Then the youth set his
compass to obtain the proper angle at _E_; while the old man, with his
axe and a fresh stake, tramped around to the eastern side of the slough.
Having got the range of the stakes, he was moving slowly back toward
them, holding his stake before him, when the youth signalled him to stop
just in the edge of the quagmire.

The new stake stuck, the young surveyor, taking up his tripod and
compass, went round to him.

"That stake," said he, "is not far from your corner. Are there any
signs?"

"I've been thinkin'," said the old man, "the 'arth yer looks like it had
been disturbed some time; though it's all overgrowed so with these
clumps of slew-grass, ye can't tell what's a nat'ral hummock and what
ain't. Don't that look like a kind of a trench?"

"Yes; and here's another at right angles with it. Surveyors cut such
places on the prairies, pile up the sods inside the angle, and drive
their corner stakes through them. But there must have been water here
when this job was done, which accounts for its not being done better.
We'll improve it. Go for the shovel. I'll get the bearings of those
trees in the mean while, and see how far wrong they make us out to be."

When the old man returned with the shovel, he found his boy surveyor
standing by the compass, with folded arms, looking over at the woodland
with a smile of satisfaction.

Sighting the trees, the tall, straight stems of which were both visible
over the knoll, he had found that their bearings corresponded with those
copied in his notebook. This proved his work to his own mind; but the
old man would not yet confess himself convinced.

"We may be somewhur _nigh_ the spot, but I want to be sure of the
_exact_ spot," he insisted.

"That you can't be sure of; not even if the best surveyor in the world
should come and get it from these bearings," replied the youth.
"Probably the bearings themselves are not exact. The government
surveyors do their work in a hurry. The common compass they use doesn't
make as fine angles as the theodolite or transit instrument does; and
then the chain varies a trifle in length with every variation of
temperature; the metal contracts and expands, you know. Surveying, where
the land is worth a dollar and a quarter a foot, instead of a dollar and
a quarter an acre, is done more carefully. Yet I am positive, from the
indications here, that we are within a few inches of your corner."

"A few inches, or a few feet, or a few rods!" muttered the old man,
crossly. "Seems like thar's a good deal of guess-work, arter all."

"I am sorry you think so," replied the young surveyor, quietly removing
his tripod. "If, however, you are dissatisfied with my work, you can
employ another surveyor; if he tells you I am far out of the way, why,
then, you needn't pay me."

The old man made no reply, but, seizing the shovel, began to level the
hummock a little, in order to prepare it for a pile of fresh sods. He
was slashing away at it, with the air of a petulant man working off his
discontent, when he struck something hard.

"What's that ar?" he growled. "Can't be a stone. Ain't a rock as big as
a hazel-nut this side the timber."

Digging round the obstacle, he soon exposed the splintered end of an
upright piece of wood. He laid hold of it and tried to pull it up. The
youth, with lively interest, took the shovel, and dug and pried.
Suddenly up came the stick, and the old man went over backwards with it
into the bog.

He scrambled to his feet, dripping with muddy water, and brandished his
trophy, exclaiming:--

"Dog my cats! if 't ain't the end of the ol' corner stake, left jest
whur't was broke off, when the rest was wanted to pry a wheel out o' the
slew, or to kill a rattler with!"

He appeared jubilant over the discovery, while the young surveyor
regarded it simply as a piece of good luck.




CHAPTER III.

THE HOMEWARD TRACK.


The new stake having been stuck in the hole left by the point of the old
one, and plenty of fresh turf piled up about it, the old man wiped his
fingers on the dry prairie-grass, thrust a hand into his pocket, and
brought forth an ancient leather wallet.

"My friend," said he, "shall I settle with you or with your boss?"

"You may as well settle with me."

"Nuff said. What's yer tax?"

"Two dollars and a half."

"Tew dollars and a--dog-gone-ation! You've been only tew hours and a
half about the job. I can hire a man all day for half a dollar."

"It is an afternoon's work for me," argued the young surveyor. "I've had
a long way to drive. Then, you must understand, we surveyors" (this was
said with an air of importance) "don't get pay merely for the time we
are employed, but also for our knowledge of the business, which it has
taken us time to learn. If I had been obliged to hire the horse I drive,
you see, I shouldn't have much left out of two dollars and a half."

"Friend, you're right. Tew 'n' a half is reasonable. And if I have
another job of land-surveyin', you are the man for my money."

"A man, am I, now?" And with a laugh the young surveyor pocketed his
fee.

"Good as a man, I allow, any time o' day. You've worked at this yer
thing right smart, and I'll give ye the credit on't. How long have ye
been larnin the trade?"

"O, two years, more or less, studying at odd spells! But I never made a
business of it until I came to this new country."

"What State be ye from?"

"New York."

"York State! That's whur I hail from."

"One wouldn't think so; you have a good many Southern and Western words
in your talk."

"I come by 'em honest," said the old man. "I run away from home when I
was a boy, like a derned fool; I've lived a'most everywhur; and I've
married four wives, and raised four craps of children. My fust wife I
picked up in ol' Kaintuck. My next was an Arkansaw woman. My third was a
Michigander. My present was born and raised in the South, but I married
her in Southern Illinois. She's nigh on to forty year younger 'n I be,
and smart as a steel trap, tell you! So you see we're kind of a mixed-up
family. My fust and second broods of children's married off, or
buried,--scattered to the four winds o' heaven! Tew boys o' the third
brood, and that ar Sal, is with me yit. Some of the present brood you've
seen. Thar's been twenty-one in all."

"Of the fourth brood?"

"No, of the lot. Whose hoss mout that be?"

"Mine; I brought him from the East with me."

"What do you have to pay for a beast like that, now, in York State?"

"I didn't pay anything for him."

"Somebody gi'n him tew ye?"

"Not exactly."

"Ye gambled for him?"

"No."

"Raised him from a colt, then?"

"No."

"Stole him?"

"Not much."

"Picked him up astray?"

The young surveyor, laughing, shook his head.

"Then how in the name o' seven kingdoms did ye come by him, if ye didn't
find him, nor steal him, nor raise him from a colt, nor buy him, nor
have him gi'n tew ye?"

"I borrowed him of a neighbor, and drove him to a show, where the old
elephant broke loose and had the handling of him for about a second and
a half. The owners of the elephant paid the damages; and I kept the
horse. Nobody thought he would get well; but he is now scarcely lame at
all. I can show you the scars where he was hurt."

The two had approached the wagon during this talk; and now the old man
examined the horse with a good deal of curiosity.

"That your dog tew?"

"Yes, sir. Here, Lion!"

"Cost ye suth'n, didn't it, to bring yer animals West with ye?"

"Not a great deal. When my friends wrote for me to come, they said good
horses were scarce and high-priced out here, and advised me to bring
mine. I couldn't leave my dog behind,--could I, old Lion?"

"Who mout your friends be?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Lanman, at North Mills; and Mrs. Lanman's brother,--my
boss, as you call him,--Mr. Felton, the surveyor. They came out last
year; and last winter they wrote to me, offering me a good chance if I
should come. It was in winter; I drove Snowfoot in a cutter, and crossed
the Detroit River on the ice just before it broke up. There the
sleighing left me; so I sold my cutter, bought a saddle, and made the
rest of the journey on horseback. That was rather hard on the dog, but I
got the stage-drivers to give him a lift once in a while."

"What did you say your name was?" the old man inquired.

"I don't think I said. But I will say now. My name is Ragdon,--Henry
Ragdon. My friends call me Jack."

"And it ain't yer name?"

"O, yes, it is, and yet it isn't! I was brought up to it. My friends
like it, and so I keep it."[1]

[Footnote 1: See "FAST FRIENDS"; also the previous volumes of this
series,--"JACK HAZARD AND HIS FORTUNES," "A CHANCE FOR HIMSELF," and
"DOING HIS BEST," in which is given a full account of the young
surveyor's early life and adventures.]

"Wal, Jack,--if you'll rank me with your friends, and le' me call ye
so," said the old man, with a cordial grip of his great, flat hand,--"I
s'pose we part yer, and say good by. I'll shoulder my tools, and take a
cow-path through the woods; you'll find a better road than the one we
come by, furder north. Jest keep along the edge of the perairie. I
sha'n't forgit this job."

"Nor I," said the young surveyor, with a curious smile.

It was the first work of the kind he had undertaken on his own account,
and without assistance; for which reason he felt not a little proud of
it. But he did not tell the old man so.

After parting company with him, he drove in the shade of the woods,
along a track so little travelled that the marks of wheels looked like
dark ruled lines in the half-trodden grass.

The pleasant summer afternoon was drawing to a close. The peculiar wild
scent of the prairie, which seems to increase as the cool evening comes
on, filled all the air. The shadows of the forest were stretching in a
vast, uneven belt over summit and hollow; while far away beyond, in
seemingly limitless expanse, swept the golden-green undulations of the
sunlit hills.

Jack--for I trust we shall also be entitled to call him so--kept his eye
out for game, as he drove leisurely along; stopped once or twice for a
rabbit on the edge of the woods; and, finally, pulled up sharply, as a
prairie-hen shot whirring out, almost from under his wheels.

He sprang to his feet and faced about, raising his gun; but before he
could take aim, the bird, at the end of a short, straight flight,
dropped into the prairie-grass a few rods away.

Jack followed on foot, holding his piece ready to fire. Knowing the shy
habits of the bird, he trampled the grass about the spot where she had
alighted, hoping to scare her up. He also sent his dog coursing about;
but Lion, though an intelligent animal, had no scent for birds.

Suddenly, from the very ground between the hunter's feet, with a
startling rush and thunder of wings, the hen rose. Up went gun to
shoulder. But instantly the dog gave chase, and kept so exactly in the
line of flight, that Jack durst not fire.

"You silly boy's dog!" he said; "don't you know better than that? You'll
get a stray shot some day, if you run before my gun-barrels in that
fashion. Now go to the horse, and stay."

The dog, who had fancied that he was doing good service, dropped ears
and tail at this rebuke, and retired from the field.

Jack was continuing the hunt, when all at once a strange spell seemed to
come over him. It found him on one foot, and he remained on one foot,
poising the other behind him, for several seconds. Then, softly putting
down the lifted leg, and lowering his gun, he stole swiftly back, in a
crouching attitude, to his wagon by the woodside.

Taking his horse by the bridle, he led him down into a little hollow.
Then, piercing the undergrowth, he hastened to a commanding position,
where, himself hidden by the bushes, he could look off on the prairie.

His heart beat fast, and his hand shook, as he drew the bird-shot out of
the two barrels of his fowling-piece, reloading one with buck-shot, the
other with an ounce ball.

All the while his eye kept glancing from his gun to the shadowy slope of
a distant hill, where were two objects which looked like a deer and a
fawn feeding.




CHAPTER IV.

A DEER HUNT, AND HOW IT ENDED.


They were a long way off,--more than half a mile, he thought. Evidently
they had not seen him. Though marvellously quick to catch scent or
sound, deer have not a fine sense of sight for distant objects.

"They have left the covert early, to go out and feed," thought he. "If
not frightened, they will browse around in the hollows there until
dark."

He was wondering how he should manage to creep near, and get a shot at
the shy creatures, when the dog barked.

"That won't do!" he muttered; and, hurrying to silence Lion, he saw a
stranger loitering along the prairie road.

Jack stepped out of the bushes into the hollow, and beckoned.

"I've sighted a couple of deer that I'm trying to get a shot at; if you
go over the hill, you'll scare 'em."

The stranger--a slender youth in soiled shirt-sleeves, carrying a coat
on his arm--looked at him saucily, with his head on one side and a quid
turning in the cheek, and said,--

"Well! and why shouldn't I scare 'em?"

"I can't hinder you, of course; but," said Jack, "if _you_ were hunting,
and _I_ should be passing by, I should think it a matter of honor--"

"Honor is an egg that don't hatch in this country," interrupted the
stranger; and the quid went into the other cheek, while the head went
over on the other side, as if to balance it. "But never mind; 'tain't my
cut to interfere with another feller's luck. Show me your deer."

Jack took him through the thickets to his ambush. There were the deer
still feeding; the old one lifting her head occasionally as if on the
lookout for danger. They seemed to be moving slowly along the slope.

The dark eyes of the strange youth kindled; then he said, with a low
laugh,--

"I'd like a cut-bore rifle for them fellers! You never can get 'em with
that popgun."

"I believe I can if you'll help me. You notice there's a range of hills
between us and them; and they are on the north slope of one. I've been
surveying a little of the country off south, and I think you can get
around the range that way, and come out beyond the deer, before they see
you. There's everything in our favor. The wind blows to us from them. At
the first alarm they'll start for the woods; and they'll be pretty sure
to keep along in the hollow. I'll watch here, and take them as they come
in."

Quid and head rolled again; and the strange youth said jeeringly, with
one eye half closed, looking at Jack,--

"So you expect me to travel a mile or two, and drive the deer in for
you?" He then pulled down the nether lid of the half-closed eye, and
inquired, somewhat irrelevantly, whether Jack saw anything green there.
"Not by this light!" he answered his own question, as he let up his
eyelid and snapped his thumb and finger. "Ye can't ketch old birds with
chaff. I've been through the lot. Parley-voo frong-say?"

Jack regarded him with astonishment, declaring that there was no catch
about it. "Only help me, and we will share the game together."

Still the fellow demurred. "I've walked my legs off to-day already;
you'll find 'em back in the road here! Had nothing to eat since morning;
wore myself down lean as a rail; felt for the last two hours as though
there was nothing but my backbone between me and eternity! No, sir-ree!
I wouldn't walk that fur out of my way for a herd of deer. If I had a
horse to ride I wouldn't mind."

Jack was greatly excited. He had never yet had a good shot at a deer;
and if, at the end of his day's work, he could carry home a good fat
doe, and perhaps a fawn, of his own shooting, it would be a triumph. So,
without a moment's reflection, he said,--

"You may ride mine. Then, if you don't want a share of the game, I'll
pay you for your trouble."

The strange youth took time to shift his quid and balance it; then
replied in a manner which appeared provokingly cool to the fiery Jack,--

"I'll look at him. Does he ride easy?"

"Yes. Hurry!"

Jack ran down to the horse, led him into the bushes, where the wagon
could be left concealed, and had already taken him out of the shafts,
before the stranger came lounging to the spot.

"Pull off the harness," said the latter, with the easy air of ordering a
nag at a stable. "And give me that blanket out of the buggy. I don't
ride bareback for nobody." And he spat reckless tobacco-juice.

Jack complied, though angry at the fellow for being so dilatory and
fastidious at such a time. The strange youth then spread his coat over
the blanket, laid his right hand on it, and his left on bridle and mane,
and with a leap from the ground threw himself astride the horse,--a
display of agility which took Jack by surprise.

"I see you have been on horseback before!"

"Never in my life," said the stranger, with a gleam in his dark eyes
which belied his words. And now Jack noticed that he had a little switch
in his hand.

"He won't need urging. Be sure and ride well beyond that highest hill
before you turn; and then come quietly around, so as not to frighten the
deer too much."

The fellow laughed. "I've seen a deer before to-day!" And, clapping
heels to the horse's sides, he dashed through the bushes.

Jack followed a little way, and from his ambush saw him come out of the
undergrowth, strike across the prairie, and disappear around the range
of hills.

[Illustration: JACK AND THE STRANGE YOUTH.]

The deer were still in sight, stopping occasionally to feed, and then,
with heads in air, moving a few paces along the slope. Jack waited with
breathless anxiety to see his horseman emerge from among the hills
beyond. Several minutes elapsed; then, though no horseman appeared, the
old deer, startled by sound or scent of the enemy, threw high her head,
and began to leap, with graceful, undulating movements, along the
hillside.

The fawn darted after her, and for a minute they were hidden from view
in a hollow. The stratagem had so far succeeded. They had started toward
the woods.

Jack, in an ague of agitation, waited for the game to show itself again,
and, by its movements, guide his own. At length the fawn appeared on the
summit of a low hill, and stopped. The doe came up and stopped too, with
elevated nostrils, snuffing. For a rifle, in approved hands, there would
have been a chance for a shot. But the game was far beyond the range of
Jack's gun.

To try his nerve, however, he took aim, or, rather, attempted to take
aim. His hands--if the truth must be confessed--shook so that he could
not keep his piece steady for an instant. Cool fellow enough on ordinary
occasions, he now had a violent attack of what is called the "buck
fever."

Fortunately, the deer had not seen the horseman; and, while they were
recovering from their first alarm, they gave the young hunter time to
subdue, with resolute good sense, his terrible nervous agitation.

They did not stop to feed any more, but moved on, with occasional
pauses, toward the woods; following the line of the hollows, as Jack had
foreseen.

All this time the dog lay whining at his young master's heels. He knew
instinctively that there was sport on foot, and could hardly be kept
quiet.

The deer took another and final start, and came bounding along toward
the spot where the wagon had stood. But for the excitement of the
moment, Jack must have felt a touch of pity at sight of those two
slender, beautiful creatures, so full of life, making for their covert
in the cool woods. But the hunter's spirit was uppermost. He took aim at
the doe, followed her movements a moment with the moving gun, then
fired. She plunged forward, and dropped dead.

The fawn, confused by the report and by the doe's sudden fall, stood for
an instant quite still, then made a few bounds up toward the very spot
where the young hunter was concealed. It stopped again, within twenty
paces of the levelled gun. There it stood, its pretty spotted side
turned toward him, so fair a mark, and so charming a picture, that for a
moment, excited though he was, he could not have the heart to shoot. Ah!
what is this spirit of destruction, which has come down to us from our
barbarous forefathers, and which gives even good-hearted boys like Jack
a wild joy in taking life?

The dog, rendered ungovernable by the firing of the gun, made a noise in
the thicket. The fawn heard, and started to run away. The provocation
was too great for our young hunter, and he sent a charge of buck-shot
after it. The fawn did not fall.

"Take 'em, Lion!" shouted Jack; and out rushed the dog.

The poor thing had been wounded, and the dog soon brought it down. Jack
ran after, to prevent a tearing of the hide and flesh. Then he set up a
wild yell, which might have been heard a mile away on the prairie,--a
call for his horseman, who had not yet reappeared.

Jack dragged the fawn and placed it beside its dam. There lay the two
pretty creatures, slaughtered by his hand.

"It can't be helped," thought he. "If it is right to hunt game, it is
right to kill it. If we eat flesh, we must take life."

So he tried to feel nothing but pure triumph at the sight. Yet I have
heard him say, in relating the adventure, that he could never afterwards
think of the dead doe and pretty fawn, lying there side by side, without
a pang.

He now backed his buggy out of the woods, set the seat forward in order
to make room for the deer behind, and waited for his horse.

"Where can that fellow have gone?" he muttered, with growing anxiety.

He went to a hill-top, to get a good view, and strained his vision,
gazing over the prairie. The sun was almost set, and all the hills were
darkening, save now and then one of the highest summits.

Over one of these Jack suddenly descried a distant object moving. It was
no deer this time, but a horse and rider far away, and going at a
gallop--in the wrong direction.

He gazed until they disappeared over the crest, and the faint sundown
glory faded from it, and he felt the lonesome night shutting down over
the limitless expanse. Then he smote his hands together with fury and
despair.

He knew that the horse was his own, and the rider the strange youth in
whose hands he had so rashly intrusted him. And here he was, five miles
from home, with the darkening forest on one side, and the vast prairie
on the other; the dead doe and fawn lying down there on the dewy grass,
the empty buggy and harness beside them; and only his dog to keep him
company.




CHAPTER V.

THE BOY WITH ONE SUSPENDER.


Jack's first thought, after assuring himself that his horse was
irrevocably gone, was to run for help to the line of settlements on the
other side of the grove, where some means of pursuit might be obtained.

He knew that the road which Mr. Wiggett had described could not be much
beyond the hollow where his wagon was; and, dashing forward, he soon
found it. Then, stopping to give a last despairing look at the billowy
line of prairie over which his horse had disappeared, he started to run
through the woods.

He had not gone far when he heard a cowbell rattle, and the voice of a
boy shouting. He paused to take breath and listen; and presently with a
crashing of bushes three or four horned cattle came pushing their way
through the undergrowth, into the open road, followed by a lad without a
jacket, with one suspender and a long switch.

"Boy," Jack cried, "how far is it to the nearest house?"

"Our house is jest down through the woods here," replied the boy,
stopping to stare.

"How far is that?"

"Not quite so far as it is to Peakslow's house."

"Where is Peakslow's house?"

"Next house to ours, down the river."

Seeing that this line of questions was not likely to lead to anything
very satisfactory, Jack asked,--

"Can I get a horse of anybody in your neighborhood,--a good fast horse
to ride?"

The boy whipped a bush with his switch, and replied,--

"There ain't any good horses around here, 'thout 'tis Peakslow's; but
one of his has got the spring halt, and t' other's got the blind
staggers; and he's too mean to lend his horses; and, besides, he went to
Chicago with 'em both this morning."

Jack did not stop to question the probability of a span thus afflicted
being driven on so long a journey; but asked if Mr. Wiggett had horses.

"No--yes. I believe his horses are all oxen," replied the boy; "not very
fast or good to ride either."

Thereupon Jack, losing all patience, cried out,--

"Isn't there a decent nag to be had in this region?"

"Who said there wasn't?" retorted the boy.

"Where is there one?"

"We've got one."

"A horse?"

"No; a mare."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"'Cause you asked for horses; you didn't say anything about mares."

"Is she good to ride?"

"Pretty good,--though if you make her go much faster 'n she takes a
notion to, she's got the heaves so folks'll think there's a small
volcano coming!"

"How fast will she go?"

"As fast as a good slow walk; that's her style," said the boy, and
whipped the bushes. "But, come to think, father's away from home, and
you'll have to wait till to-morrow night before you can see him, and get
him to let you take her."

"Boy," said Jack, tired of the lad's tone of levity, and thinking to
interest him by a statement of the facts in the case, "I've been
hunting, and a rascal I trusted with my horse has run off with him, and
I have a harness and a buggy and a couple of dead deer out there on the
prairie."

"Deer?" echoed the lad, pricking up his ears at once. "Did you shoot
'em? Where? Can I go and see 'em?"

Jack was beginning to see the hopelessness of pursuing the horse-thief
that night, or with any help to to be had in that region; and he now
turned his thoughts to getting the buggy home.

"Yes, boy; come with me," he said.

The boy shouted and switched his stick at the cattle browsing by the
wayside, and started them on a smart trot down the road, then hastened
with Jack to the spot where the wagon and game had been left, guarded by
Lion.

But Jack had another object in view than simply to gratify the lad's
curiosity.

"If you will hold up the shafts and pull a little, I'll push behind, and
we can take the buggy through the woods. After we get it up out of this
hollow, and well into the road, it will be down-hill the rest of the
way."

"You want to make a horse of me, do ye?" cried the boy. "I wasn't born
in a stable!"

"Neither was I," said Jack. "But I don't object to doing a horse's work.
I'll pull in the shafts."

"O good!" screamed the boy, making his switch whistle about his head.
"And I'll get on the seat and drive!" And he made a spring at the wagon.

But Lion had something to say about that. Having been placed on guard,
and not yet relieved, he would permit no hand but his master's to touch
anything in his charge. A frightful growl made the boy recoil and go
backwards over the dead deer.

"Here, Lion! down with you!" cried Jack, as the excited dog was pouncing
on the supposed intruder.

The boy scrambled to his feet, and was starting to run away, in great
terror, when Jack, fearing to lose him, called out,--

"Don't run! He may chase you if you do. Now he knows you are my friend,
you are safe, only stay where you are."

"Blast his pictur'!" exclaimed the boy. "He's a perfect cannibal! What
does anybody want to keep such a savage critter as that for?"

"I had told him to watch. Now he is all right. Come!"

"Me? Travel with that dog? I wouldn't go with him," the boy declared,
meaning to make the strongest possible statement, "if 't was a million
miles, and the road was full of sugar-candy!" And he backed off warily.

[Illustration: UP-HILL WORK.]

Jack got over the difficulty by sending the dog on before; and finally,
by an offer of money which would purchase a reasonable amount of
sugar-candy,--enough to pave the short road to happiness, for a boy of
thirteen,--induced him to help lift the deer into the buggy, and then to
go behind and push.

They had hard work at first, getting the wagon up out of the hollow; and
the boy, when they reached at last the top of the hill, and stopped to
rest, declared that there wasn't half the fun in it there was in going a
fishing; the justice of which remark Jack did not question. But after
that the way was comparatively easy; and with Jack pulling in the
shafts, his new acquaintance pushing in the rear, and Lion trotting on
before, the buggy went rattling down the woodland road in lively
fashion.




CHAPTER VI.

"LORD BETTERSON'S."


On a sort of headland jutting out from the high timber region into the
low prairie of the river bottom, stood a house, known far and near as
"Lord Betterson's," or, as it was sometimes derisively called, "Lord
Betterson's Castle," the house being about as much a castle as the owner
was a lord.

The main road of the settlement ran between it and the woods; while on
the side of the river the land swept down in a lovely slope to the
valley, which flowed away in a wider and more magnificent stream of
living green. It was really a fine site, shaded by five or six young
oaks left standing in the spacious door-yard.

The trouble was, that the house had been projected on somewhat too grand
a scale for the time and country and, what was worse, for the owner's
resources. He had never been able to finish it; and now its
weather-browned clapboards, unpainted front pillars, and general shabby,
ill-kept appearance, set off the style of architecture in a way to make
beholders smile.

"Lord Betterson took a bigger mouthful than he could swaller, when he
sot out to build his castle here," said his neighbor, Peakslow.

The proprietor's name--it may as well be explained--was Elisha Lord
Betterson. It was thus he always wrote it, in a large round hand, with a
bold flourish. Now the common people never will submit to call a man
_Elisha_. The furthest they can possibly go will be _'Lisha_, or
_'Lishy_; and, ten to one, the tendency to monosyllables will result in
_'Lishe_. There had been a feeble attempt among the vulgar to
familiarize the public mind with _'Lishe Betterson_; but the name would
not stick to a person of so much dignity of character. It was useless to
argue that his dignity was mere pomposity; or that a man who, in
building a fine house, broke down before he got the priming on, was
unworthy of respect; still no one could look at him, or call up his
image, and say, conscientiously, "'Lishe Betterson." He who, in this
unsettled state of things, taking a hint from the middle name,
pronounced boldly aloud, "LORD BETTERSON," was a public benefactor.
"Lord Betterson" and "Lord Betterson's Castle" had been popular ever
since.

The house, with its door-posts of unpainted pine darkly soiled by the
contact of unwashed childish hands, and its unfinished rooms, some of
them lathed, but unplastered (showing just the point at which the
owner's resources failed), looked even more shabby within than without.

This may have been partly because the house-keeper was sick. She must
have been sick, if that was she, the pale, drooping figure, sitting
wrapped in an old red shawl, that summer afternoon. She looked not only
sick, but exceedingly discouraged. And no wonder.

[Illustration: "LORD BETTERSON."]

At her right hand was an empty cradle; and she held a puny infant in her
arms, trying to still its cries. At her left was a lounge, on which lay
the helpless form of an invalid child, a girl about eleven years old.
The room was comfortless. An old, high-colored piece of carpeting half
covered the rough floor; its originally gaudy pattern, out of which all
but the red had faded, bearing witness to some past stage of family
gentility, and serving to set off the surrounding wretchedness.

Tipped back in a chair against the rough and broken laths, his knees as
high as his chin, was a big slovenly boy of about seventeen, looking
lazily out from under an old ragged hat-rim, pushed over his eyes.
Another big, slovenly boy, a year or two younger, sat on the doorstep,
whittling quite as much for his own amusement as for that of a little
five-year-old ragamuffin outside.

Not much comfort for the poor woman and the sick girl shone from these
two indifferent faces. Indeed, the only ray of good cheer visible in
that disorderly room gleamed from the bright eyes of a little girl not
more than nine or ten years old,--so small, in truth, that she had to
stand on a stool by the table, where she was washing a pan of dishes.

"O boys!" said the woman in a feeble, complaining tone, "do, one of you,
go to the spring and bring some fresh water for your poor, sick sister."

"It's Rufe's turn to go for water," said the boy on the doorstep.

"'T ain't my turn, either," muttered the boy tipped back against the
laths. "Besides, I've got to milk the cow soon as Link brings the cattle
home. Hear the bell yet, Wad?"

"Never mind, Cecie!" cried the little dish-washer, cheerily. "I'll bring
you some water as soon as I have done these dishes." And, holding her
wet hands behind her, she ran to give the young invalid a kiss in the
mean while.

Cecie returned a warm smile of love and thanks, and said she was in no
hurry. Then the child, stopping only to give a bright look and a
pleasant word to the baby, ran back to her dishes.

"I should think you would be ashamed, you two great boys!" said the
woman, "to sit round the house and let that child Lilian wait upon you,
get your suppers, wash your dishes, and then go to the spring for water
for your poor suffering sister!"

"I'm going to petition the Legislature," said Wad, "to have that spring
moved up into our back yard; it's too far to go for water. There come
the cattle, Rufe."

"Tell Chokie to go and head 'em into the barnyard," yawned Rufe, from
his chair. "I wonder nobody ever invented a milking-machine. Wish I had
one. Just turn a crank, you know."

"You'll be wanting a machine to breathe with, next," said the little
dish-washer.

"Y-a-as," drawled Rufe. "I think a breathing machine would be popular in
this family. Children cry for it. Get me the milk-pail, Lill; that's a
nice girl!"

"Do get it yourself, Rufus," said the mother. "You'll want your little
sister to milk for you, soon."

"I think it belongs to girls to milk," said Rufe. "There's Sal
Wiggett,--ain't she smart at it, though? She can milk your head off! Is
that a wagon coming, Wad?"

"Yes!" cried Wad, jumping to his feet with unusual alacrity. "A wagon
without a horse, a fellow pulling in the shafts, and Link pushing
behind; coming right into the front yard!"

Rufe also started up at this announcement, and went to the door.

"Hallo!" he said, "had a break-down? What's that in the hind part of
your wagon? Deer! a deer and a fawn! Where did you shoot 'em? Where's
your horse?"

"Look out, Rufe!" screamed the small boy from behind, rushing forward.
"Touch one of these deer, and the dog'll have ye! We've got two deer,
but we've lost our horse,--scamp rode him away,--and we want--"

"We do, do we?" interrupted Wad, mockingly. "How many deer did _you_
shoot, Link?"

"Well, I helped get the buggy over, anyway! And that's the savagest dog
ever was! And--say! will mother let us take the old mare to drive over
to North Mills this evening?"




CHAPTER VII.

JACK AT THE "CASTLE."


For an answer to this question, the person most interested in it, who
had as yet said least, was shown into the house. Rufe and Wad and Link
and little Chokie came crowding in after him, all eager to hear him talk
of the adventure.

"And, O ma!" cried Link, after Jack had briefly told his story, "he says
he will give us the fawn, and pay me besides, if I will go with him
to-night, and bring back the old mare in the morning."

"I don't know," said the woman, wrapping her red shawl more closely
about her, to conceal from the stranger her untidy attire. "I suppose,
if Mr. Betterson was at home, he would let you take the mare. But you
know, Lincoln,"--turning with a reproachful look to the small boy,--"you
have never been brought up to take money for little services. Such
things are not becoming in a family like ours."

And in the midst of her distress she put on a complacent smirk,
straightened her emaciated form, and sat there, looking like the very
ghost of pride, wrapped in an old red shawl.

"Did you speak of Mr. Betterson?" Jack inquired, interested.

"That is my husband's name."

"Elisha L. Betterson?"

"Certainly. You know my husband? He belongs to the Philadelphia
Bettersons,--a very wealthy and influential family," said the woman with
a simper. "Very wealthy and influential."

"I have heard of your husband," said Jack. "If I am not mistaken, you
are Mrs. Caroline Betterson,--a sister of Vinnie Dalton, sometimes
called Vinnie Presbit."

"You know my sister Lavinia!" exclaimed Mrs. Betterson, surprised, but
not overjoyed. "And you know Mr. Presbit's people?"

"I have never seen them," replied Jack, "but I almost feel as if I had,
I have heard so much about them. I was with Vinnie's foster-brother,
George Greenwood, in New York, last summer, when he was sick, and she
went down to take care of him."

"And I presume," returned Mrs. Betterson, taking another reef in her
shawl, "that you heard her tell a good deal about us; things that would
no doubt tend to prejudice a stranger; though if all the truth was known
she wouldn't feel so hard towards us as I have reason to think she
does."

Jack hastened to say that he had never heard Vinnie speak unkindly of
her sister.

"You are very polite to say so," said Mrs. Betterson, rocking the
cradle, in which the baby had been placed. "But I know just what she
has said. She has told you that after I married Mr. Betterson I felt
above my family; and that when her mother died (she was not _my_ mother,
you know,--we are only half-sisters), I suffered her to be taken and
brought up by the Presbits, when I ought to have taken her and been as a
mother to her,--she was so much younger than I. She is even younger by a
month or two than my oldest son; and we have joked a good deal about his
having an aunt younger than he is."

"Yes," spoke up Rufe, standing in the door; "and I've asked a hundred
times why we don't ever hear from her, or write to her, or have her
visit us. Other folks have their aunts come and see 'em. But all the
answer I could ever get was, 'family reasons, Rufus!'"

"That is it, in a word," said Mrs. Betterson; "family reasons. I never
could explain them; so I have never written to poor, dear
Lavinia--though, Heaven knows, I should be glad enough to see her; and I
hope she has forgiven what seemed my hardness; and--do tell me" (Mrs.
Betterson wiped her eyes) "what sort of a girl is she? how has she come
up?"

"She is one of the kindest-hearted, most unselfish, beautiful girls in
the world!" Jack exclaimed. "I mean, beautiful in her spirit," he added,
blushing at his own enthusiasm.

"The Presbits are rather coarse people to bring up such a girl," said
Mrs. Betterson, with a sigh--of self-reproach, Jack thought.

"But she has a natural refinement which nothing could make her lose," he
replied. "Then, it was a good thing for her to be brought up with George
Greenwood. She owes a great deal to the love of books he inspired in
her. You ought to know your sister, Mrs. Betterson."

The lady gave way to a flood of tears.

"It is too bad! such separations are unnatural. Certainly," she went on,
"I can't be accused of feeling above my family now. Mr. Betterson has
had three legacies left him, two since our marriage; but he has been
exceedingly unfortunate."

"Two such able-bodied boys must be a help and comfort to you," said
Jack.

"Rufus and Wadleigh," said Mrs. Betterson, "are good boys, but they have
been brought up to dreams of wealth, and they have not learned to take
hold of life with rough hands."

Jack suggested that it might have been better for them not to have such
dreams.

"Yes--if our family is to be brought down to the common level. But I
can't forget, I can't wish them ever to forget, that they have Betterson
blood in their veins."

Jack could hardly repress a smile as he glanced from those stout heirs
of the Betterson blood to the evidences of shiftlessness and
wretchedness around them, which two such sturdy lads, with a little
less of the precious article in their veins, might have done something
to remedy.

But his own unlucky adventure absorbed his thoughts, and he was glad
when Link vociferously demanded if he was to go and catch the mare.

"Yes! yes! do anything but kill me with that dreadful voice!" replied
the mother, waving him off with her trembling hand. "Don't infer from
what I have said," she resumed, gathering herself up again with feeble
pride, "that we are poor. Mr. Betterson will come into a large fortune
when an uncle of his dies; and he gets help from him occasionally now.
Not enough, however, to enable him to carry on a farm; and it requires
capital, you are aware, to make agriculture a respectable profession."

Jack could not forbear another hit at the big boys.

"It requires land," he said; "and that you have. It also requires bone
and muscle; and I see some here."

"True," simpered Mrs. Betterson. "But their father hasn't encouraged
them very much in doing the needful labors of the farm."

"He hasn't set us the example," broke in Rufe, piqued by Jack's remark.
"If he had taken hold of work, I suppose we should. But while he sits
down and waits for something or somebody to come along and help him,
what can you expect of us?"

"Our Betterson blood shows itself in more ways than one!" said Wad with
a grin, illustrating his remark by lazily seating himself once more on
the doorstep.

Evidently the boys were sick of hearing their mother boast of the
aristocratic family connection. She made haste to change the subject.

"Sickness has been our great scourge. The climate has never agreed with
either me or my husband. Then our poor Cecilia met with an accident a
year ago, which injured her so that she has scarcely taken a step
since."

"An accident done a-purpose!" spoke up Rufe, angrily. "Zeph Peakslow
threw her out of a swing,--the meanest trick! They're the meanest family
in the world, and there's a war between us. I'm only waiting my chance
to pay off that Zeph."

"Rufus!" pleaded the little invalid from the lounge, "you know he could
never have meant to hurt me so much. Don't talk of paying him off,
Rufus!"

"Cecie is so patient under it all!" said Mrs. Betterson. "She never
utters a word of complaint. Yet she doesn't have the care she ought to
have. With my sick baby, and my own aches and pains, what can I do?
There are no decent house-servants to be had, for love or money. O, what
wouldn't I give for a good, neat, intelligent, sympathizing girl! Our
little Lilian, here,--poor child!--is all the help I have."

At that moment the bright little dish-washer, having put away the
supper things, and gone to the spring for water, came lugging in a small
but brimming pail.

"It is too bad!" replied Jack. "You should have help about the hard
work," with another meaning glance at the boys.

"Yes," said Rufe, "we ought to; and we did have Sal Wiggett a little
while this summer. But she had never seen the inside of a decent house
before. About all she was good for was to split wood and milk the cow."

"O, how good this is!" said the invalid, drinking. "I was so thirsty!
Bless you, dear Lill! What should we do without you?"

Jack rose to his feet, hardly repressing his indignation.

"Would you like a drink, sir?" said Lill, taking a fresh cupful from her
pail, and looking up at him with a bright smile.

"Thank you, I should very much! But I can't bear the thought of your
lugging water from the spring for me."

"Why, Lilie!" said Cecie, softly, "you should have offered it to him
first."

"I thought I did right to offer it to my sick sister first," replied
Lill, with a tender glance at the lounge.

"You did right, my good little girl!" exclaimed Jack, giving back the
cup. He looked from one to the other of the big boys, and wondered how
they could witness this scene and not be touched by it. But he only
said, "Have these young men too much Betterson blood in them to dress
the fawn, if I leave it with you?"

"We'll fall back on our Dalton blood long enough for that," said Wad,
taking the sarcasm in good part.

"A little young venison will do Cecie so much good!" said Mrs.
Betterson. "You are very kind. But don't infer that we consider the
Dalton blood inferior. I was pleased with what you said of Lavinia's
native refinement. I feel as if, after all, she was a sister to be proud
of."

At this last display of pitiful vanity Jack turned away.

"The idea of such a woman concluding that she may be proud of a sister
like Vinnie!" thought he.

But he spoke only to say good by; for just then Link came riding the
mare to the door.

She was quickly harnessed to the buggy, while Link, at his mother's
entreaty, put on a coat, and made himself look as decent as possible.
Then Jack drove away, promising that Link, who accompanied him, should
bring the mare back in the morning.

"Mother," said the thoughtful Lill, "we ought to have got him some
supper."

"I thought of it," said the sick woman, "but you know we have nothing
fit to set before him."

"He won't famish," said Rufe, "with the large supply of sauce which he
keeps on hand! Mother, I wish you wouldn't ever speak of our Betterson
blood again; it only makes us ridiculous."

Thereupon Mrs. Betterson burst into tears, complaining that her own
children turned against her.

"O, bah!" exclaimed Rufe, with disgust, stalking out of the room,
banging a milk-pail, and waking the baby. "Be sharpening the knives,
Wad, while I milk; then we'll dress that fawn in a hurry. Wish the
fellow had left us the doe instead."




CHAPTER VIII.

HOW VINNIE MADE A JOURNEY.


Leaving Jack to drive home the borrowed mare in the harness of the
stolen horse, and to take such measures as he can for the pursuit of the
thief and the recovery of his property, we have now to say a few words
of Mrs. Betterson's younger sister.

Vinnie had perhaps thriven quite as well in the plain Presbit household
as she would have done in the home of the ambitious Caroline. The tasks
early put upon her, instead of hardening and imbittering her, had made
her self-reliant, helpful, and strong, with a grace like that acquired
by girls who carry burdens on their heads. For it is thus that labors
cheerfully performed, and trials borne with good-will and lightness of
heart, give a power and a charm to body and mind.

It was now more than a year since George Greenwood, who had been brought
up with her in his uncle's family, had left the farm, and gone to seek
his fortune in the city. A great change in the house, and a very unhappy
change for Vinnie, had been the result. It was not that she missed her
foster-brother so much; but his going out had occasioned the coming in
of another nephew, who brought a young wife with him. The nephew filled
George's place on the farm, and the young wife showed a strong
determination to take Vinnie's place in the household.

As long as she was conscious of being useful, in however humble a
sphere, Vinnie was contented. She did her daily outward duty, and fed
her heart with secret aspirations, and kept a brave, bright spirit
through all. But now nothing was left to her but to contend for her
rights with the new-comer, or to act the submissive part of drudge where
she had almost ruled before. Strife was hateful to her; and why should
she remain where her services were now scarcely needed?

So Vinnie lapsed into an unsettled state of mind, common enough to a
certain class of girls of her age, as well as to a larger class of boys,
when the great questions of practical life confront them: "What am I to
be? What shall I do for a living?"

How ardently she wished she had money, so that she could spend two or
three entire years at school! How eagerly she would have used those
advantages for obtaining an education which so many, who have them,
carelessly throw away! But Vinnie had nothing--could expect
nothing--which she did not earn.

At one time she resolved to go to work in a factory; at another, to try
teaching a district school; and again, to learn some trade, like that of
dress-maker or milliner. Often she wished for the freedom to go out into
the world and gain her livelihood like a boy.

In this mood of mind she received two letters. One was from Jack,
describing his accidental visit to her sister's family. The other was
from Caroline herself, who made that visit the occasion of writing a
plaintive letter to her "dear, neglected Lavinia."

Many tears she shed over these letters. The touching picture Jack drew
of the invalid Cecie, and the brave little Lilian, and of the sick
mother and baby, with Caroline's sad confession of distress, and of her
need of sympathy and help, wakened springs of love and pity in the young
girl's heart. She forgot that she had anything to forgive. All her
half-formed schemes for self-help and self-culture were at once
discarded, and she formed a courageous resolution.

"I will go to Illinois," she said, "and take care of my poor sister and
her sick children."

Such a journey, from Western New York, was no small undertaking in those
days. But she did not shrink from it.

"What!" said Mrs. Presbit, when Vinnie's determination was announced to
her, "you will go and work for a sister who has treated you so
shamefully all these years? Only a half-sister, at that! I'm astonished
at you! I thought you had more sperit."

"For anything she may have done wrong, I am sure she is sorry enough
now," Vinnie replied.

"Yes, now she has need of you!" sneered Mrs. Presbit.

"Besides," Vinnie continued, "I ought to go, for the children's sake, if
not for hers. Think of Cecie and the poor baby; and Lilian not ten years
old, trying to do the housework! I can do so much for them!"

"No doubt of that; for I must say you are as handy and willing a girl as
ever I see. But there's the Betterson side to the family,--two great,
lubberly boys, according to your friend's account; a proud, domineering
set, I warrant ye! The idee of making a slave of yourself for them!
You'll find it a mighty uncomf'table place, mark my word!"

"I hope no more so than the place I am in now,--excuse me for saying it,
Aunt Presbit," added Vinnie, in a trembling voice. "It isn't your fault.
But you know how things are."

"O, la, yes! _she_ wants to go ahead, and order everything; and I think
it's as well to let her,--though she'll find she can't run over _me_!
But I don't blame you the least mite, Vinnie, for feeling sensitive; and
if you've made up your mind to go, I sha'n't hender ye,--I'll help ye
all I can."

So it happened that, only four days after the receipt of her sister's
letter, Vinnie, with all her worldly possessions contained in one not
very large trunk, bid her friends good by, and, not without misgivings,
set out alone on her long journey.

She took a packet-boat on the canal for Buffalo. At Buffalo, with the
assistance of friends she had made on board the boat, she found the
captain of a schooner, who agreed to give her a passage around the lakes
to Chicago, for four dollars. There were no railroads through Northern
Ohio and across Michigan and Indiana in those days; and although there
were steamboats on the lakes, Vinnie found that a passage on one of them
would cost more money than she could afford. So she was glad to go in
the schooner.

The weather was fine, the winds favored, and the Heron made a quick
trip. Vinnie, after two or three days of sea-sickness, enjoyed the
voyage, which was made all the more pleasant to her by the friendship of
the captain and his wife.

She was interested in all she saw,--in watching the waves, the sailors
hauling the ropes, the swelling of the great sails,--in the vessels they
met or passed, the ports at which they touched,--the fort, the Indians,
and the wonderfully clear depth of the water at Mackinaw. But the voyage
grew tiresome toward the close, and her heart bounded with joy when the
captain came into the cabin early one morning and announced that they
had reached Chicago.

The great Western metropolis was then a town of no more than eight or
ten thousand inhabitants, hastily and shabbily built on the low level of
the plain stretching for miles back from the lake shore. In a short walk
with the captain's wife, Vinnie saw about all of the place she cared
to; noting particularly a load of hay "slewed," or mired, in the
mud-holes of one of the principal streets; the sight of which made her
wonder if a great and flourishing city could ever be built there!

Meanwhile the captain, by inquiry in the resorts of market-men, found a
farmer who was going to drive out to the Long Woods settlement that
afternoon, and who engaged to come with his wagon to the wharf where the
Heron lay, and take off Vinnie and her trunk.

"O, how fortunate!" she exclaimed. "How good everybody is to me! Only
think, I shall reach my sister's house to-night!"




CHAPTER IX.

VINNIE'S ADVENTURE.


In due time a rough farm-wagon was backed down upon the wharf, and a
swarthy man, with a high, hooked nose, like the inverted prow of a ship,
boarded the schooner, and scratched his head, through its shock of
stiff, coarse hair, by way of salutation to Vinnie, who came on deck to
meet him.

"Do' no's you'll like ridin' with me, in a lumber-wagon, on a stiff
board seat."

"O, I sha'n't mind!" said Vinnie, who was only too glad to go.

"What part of the settlement ye goin' to?" he asked, as he lifted one
end of the trunk, while the captain took up the other.

"To Mr. Betterson's house; Mrs. Betterson is my sister," said Vinnie.

The man dropped his end of the trunk, and turned and glared at her.

"You've got holt o' the wrong man this time!" he said. "I don't take
nobody in my wagon to the house of no sich a man as Lord Betterson. Ye
may tell him as much."

"Will you take me to any house near by?" said the astonished Vinnie.

"Not if you're a connection of the Bettersons, I won't for no money!
I've nothin' to do with that family, but to hate and despise 'em. Tell
'em that too. But they know it a'ready. My name's Dudley Peakslow."

And, in spite of the captain's remonstrance, the angry man turned his
back upon the schooner, and drove off in his wagon.

It took Vinnie a minute to recover from the shock his rude conduct gave
her. Then she smiled faintly, and said,--

"It's too bad I couldn't have a ride in his old wagon! But he wouldn't
be very agreeable company, would he?" So she tried to console herself
for the disappointment. She had thought all along: "If I can do no
better, I will take the stage to North Mills; Jack will help me get over
to my sister's from there." And it now seemed as if she might have to
take that route.

The schooner was discharging her miscellaneous freight of Eastern
merchandise,--dry goods, groceries, hardware, boots and shoes,--and the
captain was too much occupied to do anything more for her that
afternoon.

She grew restless under the delay; and feeling that she ought to make
one more effort to find a conveyance direct to Long Woods, she set off
alone to make inquiries for herself.

The first place she visited was a hotel she had noticed in her morning's
walk,--the Farmers' Home; and she was just going away from the door,
having met with no success, when a slim youth, carrying his head
jauntily on one side, came tripping after her, and accosted her with an
apologetic smile and lifted hat.

"Excuse me,--I was told you wanted to find somebody going out to Mr.
Betterson's at Long Woods."

"O yes! do you know of anybody I can ride with?"

"I am in a way of knowing,--why, yes,--I think there is a gentleman
going out early to-morrow morning. A gentleman and his daughter. Wife
and daughter, in fact. A two-seated wagon; you might ride on the
hind-seat with the daughter. Stopping at the Prairie Flower."

"O, thank you! And can I go there and find them?"

"I am going that way, and, if you please, I will introduce you," said
the youth.

Vinnie replied that, if he would give her their names, she would save
him the trouble. For, despite his affability, there was something about
him she distrusted and disliked,--an indefinable air of insincerity, and
a look out of his eyes of gay vagabondism and dissipation.

He declared that it would be no trouble; moreover, he could not at that
moment recall the names; so, as there was no help for it, she let him
walk by her side.

At the Prairie Flower,--which was not quite so lovely or fragrant a
public-house as the name had led her to expect,--he showed her into a
small, dingy sitting-room, up one flight of stairs, and went to speak
with the clerk.

"The ladies will be here presently," he said, returning to her in a few
minutes. "Meanwhile I thought I would order some refreshments." And he
was followed into the room by a waiter bringing a basket of cake and two
glasses of wine.

[Illustration: TOO OBLIGING BY HALF.]

"No refreshments for me!" cried Vinnie, quickly.

"The other ladies will like some," said the youth, carelessly. "Intimate
friends of mine. Just a little cake and sweet wine."

"But you have ordered only two glasses! And a few minutes ago you
couldn't think of their names,--those intimate friends of yours!"
returned Vinnie, with sparkling eyes.

The youth took up a glass, threw himself back in a chair, and laughed.

"It's a very uncommon name,--Jenkins; no, Judkins; something like that.
Neighbors of the Bettersons; intimate friends of _theirs_, I mean. You
think I'm not acquainted out there? Ask Carrie! ask the boys, hi,
hi!"--with a giggle and a grimace, as he sipped the wine.

"You do really know my sister Caroline?" said Vinnie.

The youth set down his glass and stared.

"Your sister! I wondered who in thunder you could be, inquiring your way
to Betterson's; but I never dreamed--Excuse me, I wouldn't have played
such a joke, if I had known!"

"What joke?" Vinnie demanded.

"Why, there's no Jenkins,--Judkins,--what did I call their names? I just
wanted to have a little fun, and find you out."

Vinnie trembled with indignation. She started to go.

"But you haven't found _me_ out," he said, with an impudent chuckle.

"I've found out all I wish to know of you," said Vinnie, ready to cry
with vexation. "I've come alone all the way from my home in Western New
York, and met nobody who wasn't kind and respectful to me, till I
reached Chicago to-day."

The wretch seemed slightly touched by this rebuke; but he laughed again
as he finished his glass.

"Well, it was a low trick. But't was all in fun, I tell ye. Come, drink
your wine, and make up; we'll be friends yet. Won't drink? Here goes,
then!" And he tossed off the contents of the second glass. "Now we'll
take a little walk, and talk over our Betterson friends by the way."

She was already out of the room. He hastened to her side; she walked
faster still, and he came tripping lightly after her down the stairs.

Betwixt anger and alarm, she was wondering whether she should try to run
away from him, or ask the protection of the first person she met, when,
looking eagerly from the doorway as she hurried out, she saw, across the
street, a face she knew, and uttered a cry of joy.

"Jack! O Jack!"

It seemed almost like a dream, that it should indeed be Jack, then and
there. He paused, glanced up and down, then across at the girlish figure
starting toward him, and rushed over to her, reaching out both hands,
and exclaiming,--

"Vinnie Dalton! is it you?"

In the surprise and pleasure of this unexpected meeting, she forgot all
about the slim youth she was so eager to avoid a moment before. When she
thought of him again, and looked about her, he had disappeared, having
slipped behind her, and skipped back up the stairs with amazing agility
at sight of Jack.




CHAPTER X.

JACK AND VINNIE IN CHICAGO.


Vinnie poured out her story to her friend as they walked along the
street.

Jack was so incensed, when she came to the upshot of the adventure, that
he wished to go back at once and make the slim youth's acquaintance. But
she would not permit so foolish a thing.

"It is all over now. What good would it do for you to see him?"

"I don't know; I'd like to tell the scamp what I think of him, if
nothing more. He wanted a little fun, did he?" And Jack stood, pale with
wrath, looking back at the hotel.

"If it hadn't been for him, I might not have seen you," said Vinnie.
"Maybe you can't forgive him that!"

Jack looked into her eyes, full of a sweet, mirthful light, and forgot
his anger.

"I'll forgive him the rest, _because_ of that. Besides, I've no time to
waste on him. I'm hunting for my horse."

He had written to Vinnie of his loss; and she was now eager to know if
Snowfoot had been heard from.

"Not a hair of him!" said Jack. "I got an old hunter and trapper to go
with me the next day; we struck his trail on the prairie, and after a
deal of trouble tracked him to a settler's cabin. There the rogue had
stopped, and asked for supper and lodgings, which he promised to pay for
in the morning. The man and his wife had gone to bed, but they got up,
fed him and the horse, and then made him up a bed on the cabin floor. He
pretended to be very careful of his horse, and he had to go out and make
sure that he was all right before he went to bed; and that was the last
they saw of him. He bridled Snowfoot, and rode off so slyly that they
never knew which way he went. He had struck the travelled road, and
there we lost all trace of him. I went on to Joliet, and looked along
the canal, and set stablemen to watch for him, while my friend took the
road to Chicago; but neither of us had any luck. I've hunted all about
the country for him; and now, for a last chance, I've come to Chicago
myself."

"How long have you been here?" Vinnie asked.

"Only about two hours; and I must go back to-morrow. I've not much hope
of finding Snowfoot here; but as I had a chance to ride in with a
neighbor, I thought best to take advantage of it. Lucky I did! Why
didn't you write and let somebody know you were coming?"

"I did write to my sister; but I didn't expect anybody to meet me here
in Chicago, since I couldn't tell just when I should arrive."

"Where are you stopping?"

"On board the schooner that brought me. She is lying quite near here, at
a wharf in the river."

"Can you stay on board till to-morrow?"

Vinnie thought the captain and his wife would be glad to keep her.

"Though it isn't very nice," she added, "now that they are discharging
the cargo."

"Perhaps you had better go to the Farmers' Home, where my friend and I
have put up," said Jack.

"You at the Farmers' Home! Why couldn't I have known it?" said Vinnie.
"It was there I went to inquire for Long Woods people, and met that
scape-grace. When do you go home?"

"We start early to-morrow morning. You can go with us as well as not,--a
good deal better than not!" said the overjoyed Jack. "Nothing but a
little load of groceries. You shall go home with me to North Mills; Mrs.
Lanman will be glad to see you. Then I'll drive you over to Long Woods
in three or four days."

"Three or four days!" exclaimed Vinnie, not daring to be as happy as
these welcome words might have made her. "I should like much to visit
your friends; but I must get to my sister's as soon as possible."

Jack's face clouded.

"Vinnie, I'm afraid you don't know what you have undertaken. I can't
bear the thought of your going into that family. Why do you? The Lanmans
will be delighted to have you stay with them."

"O, but I must go where I am needed," Vinnie answered. "And you mustn't
say a word against it. You must help me, Jack!"

"They need you enough, Heaven knows, Vinnie!" Jack felt that he ought
not to say another word to discourage her, so he changed the subject.
"Which way now is your schooner?"

Vinnie said she would show him; but she wished to buy a little present
for the captain's wife on the way. As they passed along the street, she
made him tell all he knew of her sister's family; and then asked if he
had heard from George Greenwood lately.

"Only a few days ago he sent me a magazine with a long story of his in
it, founded on our adventure with the pickpockets," replied Jack. "He
writes me a letter about once a month. You hear from him, of course?"

"O yes. And he sends me magazines. He has wonderful talent, don't you
think so?"

And the two friends fell to praising the absent George.

"I wonder if you have noticed one thing?" said Vinnie.

"What, in particular?"

"That Grace Manton has been the heroine of all his last stories."

"I fancied I could see you in one or two of them," replied Jack.

"Perhaps. But I am not the heroine; I am only the goody-goody girl,"
laughed Vinnie. "When you see beauty, talent, accomplishments,--that's
Grace. I am glad they are getting on so well together."

"So am I!" said Jack, with an indescribable look at the girl beside him.

"Mr. Manton is dead,--I suppose you know it," said Vinnie.

Jack knew it, and was not sorry; though he had much to say in praise of
the man's natural talents, which dissipation had ruined.

The purchase made, they visited the schooner, where it was decided that
Vinnie should remain on board. Jack then left her, in order to make the
most of his time looking about the city for his horse.

He continued his search, visiting every public stable, making inquiries
of the hostlers, and nailing up or distributing a small handbill he had
had printed, offering a reward of twenty dollars for "a light, reddish
roan horse, with white forefeet, a conspicuous scar low down on the near
side, just behind the shoulder, and a smaller scar on the off hip."

In the mean time he kept a sharp lookout for roan horses in the streets.
But all to no purpose. There were roan horses enough, but he could see
and hear nothing of the particular roan he wanted.

In the evening he went to see Vinnie on board the schooner, and talked
of his ill success.

"A light roan? that's a kind of gray, ain't it?" said the captain of the
Heron. "That bearish fellow from Long Woods, who wouldn't take into his
wagon anybody connected with the Bettersons--"

"Dudley Peakslow,--I sha'n't soon forget his name!" said Vinnie.

"He drove such a horse," said the captain; "though I didn't notice the
forefeet or any scars."

Jack laughed, and shook his head.

"That's what everybody says. But the scars and forefeet are the main
points in my case. I wouldn't give a cent for a roan horse without 'em!"
Then he changed the subject. "It's a beautiful night, Vinnie; let's go
for a little stroll on the lake shore, and forget all about
roans,--light roans, dark roans, white feet, black, blue, green, yellow
feet! Perhaps your friends will go with us."

Jack hoped they wouldn't, I regret to say. But the night was so
pleasant, and the captain's wife had become so attached to Vinnie, that
she persuaded her husband to go.

The lake shore was charming; for in those early days it had not been
marred by breakwaters and docks. The little party strolled along the
beach, with the sparkling waves dashing at their feet, and the lake
spread out before them, vast, fluctuating, misty-gray, with here and
there a white crest tossing in the moon.

Singing snatches of songs with Vinnie, telling stories with the captain,
skipping pebbles on the lake,--ah, how happy Jack was! He was glad,
after all, that they had all come together, since there was now no
necessity of Vinnie's hastening back to the schooner, to prevent her
friends from sitting up for her.

"I've been in this port fifty times," said the captain, "but I've never
been down here before, neither has my wife; and I'm much obliged to you
for bringing us."

"I like the lake," said his wife, "but I like it best from shore."

"O, so do I!" said Vinnie, filled with the peace and beauty of the
night.

It was late when they returned to the schooner. There Jack took his
leave, bidding Vinnie hold herself in readiness to be taken off, with
her trunk, in a grocer's wagon early the next morning.




CHAPTER XI.

JACK'S NEW HOME.


In due time the wagon was driven to the wharf; and Vinnie, parting from
the captain and his wife with affectionate good-byes, rode out in the
freshness of the morning across the great plain stretching back from the
city.

The plain left behind, groves and streams and high prairies were passed;
all wearing a veil of romance to the eye of the young girl, which saw
everything by its own light of youth and hope.

But the roads were in places rough and full of ruts; the wagon was
pretty well loaded; and Vinnie was weary enough, when, late in the
afternoon, they approached the thriving new village of North Mills.

"Here we come to Lanman's nurseries," said Jack, as they passed a field
of rich dark soil, ruled with neat rows of very young shrubs and trees.
"Felton is interested in the business with him; and I work for them a
good deal when we've no surveying to do. They're hardly established yet;
but they're sure of a great success within a few years, for all this
immense country must have orchards and garden fruits, you know. Ah,
there's Lion!"

The dog came bounding to the front wheels, whining, barking, leaping
up, wagging his tail, and finally rolling over in the dirt, to show his
joy at seeing again his young master.

The Lanman cottage was close by; and there in the door was its young
mistress, who, warned by the dog of the wagon's approach, had come out
to see if Jack's horse was with him.

"No news of Snowfoot?" she said, walking to the gate as the wagon
stopped.

"Not a bit. But I've had good luck, after all. For here is--who do you
suppose? Vinnie Dalton! Vinnie, this is the friend you have heard me
speak of, Mrs. Annie Felton Lanman."

Vinnie went out of the wagon almost into the arms of Annie; so well had
both been prepared by Jack to know and to love each other.

Of course the young girl received a cordial welcome; and to her the
little cottage seemed the most charming in the world. It contained few
luxuries, but everything in it was arranged with neatness and taste, and
exhaled an atmosphere of sweetness and comfort which mere luxury can
never give.

"Lion has been watching for you with the anxiety of a lover all the
afternoon," Mrs. Lanman said to Jack, as, side by side, with Vinnie
between them, they walked up the path to the door. "And he is jealous
because you don't give him more attention."

"Not jealous; but he wants to be introduced to Vinnie. Here, old
fellow!"

Vinnie was delighted to make acquaintance with the faithful dog, and
listened eagerly to Annie's praise of him as they entered the house.

"He is useful in doing our errands," said Mrs. Lanman. "If I wish to
send him to the grocery for anything, I write my order on a piece of
paper, put it into a basket, and give the basket to him, just lifting my
finger, and saying, 'Go to the grocery, go to the grocery,' twice; and
he never makes a mistake. To-day, Jack, for the first time, he came home
without doing his errand."

"Why, Lion! I'm surprised at you!" said Jack; while Lion lay down on the
floor, looking very much abashed.

"I sent him for butter, which we wanted to use at dinner. As I knew,
when he came back, that the order, which I placed in a dish in the
basket, had not been touched, I sent him again. 'Don't come home,' I
said, 'till somebody gives you the butter.' He then went, and didn't
return at all. So, as dinner-time came, I sent my brother to look after
him. He found the grocery closed, and Lion waiting with his basket on
the steps."

"The grocer is sick," Jack explained; "his son had gone to town with me;
and so the clerk was obliged to shut up the store when he went to
dinner." And he praised and patted Lion, to let him know that they were
not blaming him for his failure to bring the butter.

"One day," said Annie, "he had been sent to the butcher's for a piece of
meat. On his way home he saw a small dog of his acquaintance engaged in
a desperate fight with a big dog,--as big as Lion himself. At first he
ran up to them much excited; then he seemed to remember his basket of
meat. He couldn't go into the fight with that, and he was too prudent to
set it down in the street. For a moment he looked puzzled; then he ran
to the grocery, which was close by,--the same place where we send him
for things; but instead of holding up his basket before one of the men,
as he does when his errand is with them, he went and set it carefully
down behind a barrel in a corner. Then he rushed out and gave the big
dog a severe punishing. The men in the grocery watched him; and, knowing
that he would return for the basket, they hid it in another place, to
see what he would do. He went back into the store, to the corner behind
the barrel, and appeared to be in great distress. He snuffed and
whimpered about the store for a while, then ran up to the youngest of
the men--"

"Horace,--the young fellow who came out with us to-day," commented Jack.
"He is full of his fun; and Lion knew that it would be just like him to
play such a trick."

--"He ran up to Horace," Annie continued, "and barked furiously; and
became at last so fiercely threatening, that it was thought high time to
give him the basket. Lion took it and ran home in extraordinary haste;
but it was several days before he would have anything more to do with
Horace."

"Who can say, after this, that dogs do not think?" said the admiring
Vinnie.

"Mr. Lanman thinks he has some St. Bernard blood," said Jack, "and that
is what gives him his intelligence. He knows just what we are talking
about now; and see! he hardly knows whether to be proud or ashamed. I
don't approve of his fighting, on ordinary occasions; and I've had to
punish him for it once or twice. The other evening, as I was coming home
from a hunt after my horse, I saw two dogs fighting near the saw-mill."

Jack had got so far when Lion, who had seemed to take pleasure in being
in the room till that moment, got up very quietly and went out with
drooping ears and tail.

"He knows what is coming, and doesn't care to hear it. There's a little
humbug about Lion, as there is about the most of us. It was growing
dark, and the dogs were a little way off, and I wasn't quite sure of
Lion; but some boys who saw the fight told me it was he, and I called to
him. But what do you think he did? Instead of running to greet me, as he
always does when he sees me return after an absence, he fought a little
longer, then pretended to be whipped, and ran around the saw-mill,
followed by the other dog. The other dog came back, but Lion didn't. I
was quite surprised, when I got home, to see him rush out to meet me in
an ecstasy of delight, as if he then saw me for the first time. His
whole manner seemed to say, 'I am tickled to see you, Jack! and if you
think you saw me fighting the sawyer's dog just now, you're much
mistaken.' I don't know but I might have been deceived, in spite of the
boys; but one thing betrayed him,--he was wet. In order to get home
before me, without passing me on the road, he had swum the river."

"Now you must tell the story of the chickens," said Annie.

"Another bit of humbug," laughed Jack. "Our neighbors' chickens trouble
us by scratching in our yard, and I have told Lion he must keep them
out. But I noticed that sometimes, even when he had been on guard, there
were signs that the chickens had been there and scratched. So I got Mrs.
Lanman to watch him for two or three days, while he watched the
chickens. Now Lion is very fond of company; so, as soon as I was out of
sight, he would let the chickens come in, and scratch and play all about
him, while he would lie with his nose on his paws and blink at them as
good-naturedly as possible. But he kept an eye out for me all the while,
and the moment I came in sight he would jump up, and go to frightening
away the chickens with a great display of vigor and fidelity. So you
see, Lion isn't a perfect character, by any means. I could tell you a
good deal more about his peculiarities; but I think you are too tired
now to listen to any more dog stories."

Jack carried Vinnie's trunk to a cosey little room; and there she had
time to rest and make herself presentable, before Mrs. Lanman came to
tell her that tea was ready.

"See here, Vinnie, a minute!" said Jack, peeping from a half-opened
door. "Don't make a noise!" he whispered, as if there were a great
mystery within. "I'll show you something very precious."

Mrs. Lanman followed, smiling, as Jack led Vinnie to a crib, lifted a
light veil, and discovered a lovely little cherub of a child, just
opening its soft blue eyes, and stretching out its little rosy hands,
still dewy with sleep.

"O how sweet!" said Vinnie, thrilled with love and tenderness at the
sight.

"She has a smile for you, see!" said the pleased young mother.

Of course Vinnie had never seen so pretty a baby, such heavenly eyes, or
such cunning little hands.

"The hands are little," said Jack, in a voice which had an unaccustomed
tremor in it; "but they are stronger than a giant's; they have hold of
all our heart-strings."

"I never knew a boy so fond of a baby as Jack is," said Annie.

"O, but I shouldn't be so fond of any other baby!" Jack replied, bending
down to give the little thing a fond caress.

As they went out to tea, there was a happy light on all their faces, as
if some new, deep note of harmony had just been struck in their hearts.

At tea Vinnie made the acquaintance of Annie's brother and husband, and
Jack's friends, Mr. Forrest Felton and Mr. Percy Lanman, and--so
pleasant and genial were their ways--felt at home in their presence at
once. This was a great relief to her; for she felt very diffident at
meeting men whom she had heard Jack praise so highly.

Any one could see that Vinnie was not accustomed to what is called
society; but her native manners were so simple and sincere, and there
was such an air of fresh, young, joyous, healthy life about her, that
she produced an effect upon beholders which the most artificially
refined young lady might have envied.

Jack watched her and Annie a good deal slyly; and there was in his
expression a curious mixture of pride and anxiety, as if he were trying
to look at each with the other's eyes, and thinking how they must like
each other, yet having some fears lest they might not see all he saw to
admire.

Vinnie was made to talk a good deal of her journey; and she told the
story with so much simplicity, speaking with unfeigned gratitude and
affection of the friendships she had made, and touching with quiet
mirthfulness upon the droll events, as if she hardly knew herself that
they were droll, that all--and especially Jack--were charmed.

But she had not the least idea of "showing off." Indeed, she thought
scarcely at all of what others thought of her; but said often to
herself, "What a beautiful home Jack has, and what pleasant
companions!"

After tea she must see more of the baby; then Jack wanted to show her
the greenhouses and the nurseries; and then all settled down to a social
evening.

"Vinnie is pretty tired," said Jack, "and I think a little music will
please her better than anything else."

And so a little concert was got up for her entertainment.

Forrest Felton was a fine performer on the flute; Mr. Lanman played the
violin, and his wife the piano; and they discoursed some excellent
music. Then, still better, there was singing. The deep-chested Forrest
had a superb bass voice; Lanman a fine tenor; Annie's voice was light,
but exceedingly sweet and expressive; and they sang several pieces
together, to her own accompaniment on the piano. Then Lanman said,--

"Now it is your turn, Jack."

"But you know," replied Jack, "I never play or sing for anybody, when
your wife or Forrest is present."

"True; but you can dance."

"O yes! a dance, Jack!" cried Annie.

Vinnie clapped her hands. "Has Jack told you," she said, "how, on the
steamboat going from Albany to New York, after they had had their
pockets picked, he and George Greenwood collected a little
money,--George playing the flute and Jack dancing, for the amusement of
the passengers?"

Jack laughed, and looked at his shoes.

"Well, come to the kitchen, where there's no carpet on the floor, and
I'll give you what I call the 'Canal Driver's Hornpipe.' Bring your
flute, Forrest."

So they went to the kitchen; and all stood, while Jack, with wild grace
of attitude and wonderful ease and precision of movement, performed one
of his most difficult and spirited dances.

When it was ended, in the midst of the laughter and applause, he caught
up a hat, and gayly passed it around for pennies. But while the men were
feeling in their pockets, he appeared suddenly to remember where he was.

"Beg pardon," he cried, sailing his hat into a corner, and whirling on
his heel,--"I forgot myself; I thought I was on the deck of the
steamboat!"

This closed the evening's entertainment.

When Vinnie, retiring to her room, laid her head on the pillow, she
thought of the night before and of this night, and asked her heart if it
could ever again know two evenings so purely happy.

Then a great wave of anxiety swept over her mind, as she thought of the
other home, to which she must hasten on the morrow.




CHAPTER XII.

VINNIE'S FUTURE HOME.


A lively sensation was produced, the next forenoon, when a youth and a
girl, in a one-horse wagon, with a big dog and a small trunk, arrived at
Lord Betterson's "castle."

Link dashed into the house, screaming, "They've come! they've come!"

"Who has come?" gasped poor Mrs. Betterson, with a start of alarm,
glancing her eye about the disordered room.

"Jack What's-his-name! the fellow that shot the deer and lost his horse.
It's Aunt Lavinny with him, I bet!"

And out the boy rushed again, to greet the new-comers.

Lill, who was once more washing dishes at the table, stepped down from
her stool, and ran out too, drying her fingers on her apron by the way.
Five-year-old Chokie got up from his holes in the earth by the doorstep,
and stood with dangling hands and sprawling fingers, grinning,
dirty-faced.

Vinnie, springing to the ground with Jack's help, at the side door
caught Lill in her arms, and gave her an ardent kiss.

"I have heard of you!" she said; for she had recognized the bright,
wistful face.

"Dear auntie!" said the child, with tears and smiles of joy, "I'm so
glad you've come!"

"Here is Link--my friend Link," said Jack. "Don't overlook him."

"I've heard a good deal about you too, Link!" said Vinnie, embracing him
also, but not quite so impulsively.

"Ye needn't mind kissing me!" said Link, bashfully turning his face.
"And as for him,"--as she passed on to the five-year-old,--"that's
Chokie; he's a reg'lar prairie gopher for digging holes; you won't find
a spot on him big as a sixpence clean enough to kiss, I bet ye two
million dollars!"

[Illustration: LINK DOESN'T CARE TO BE KISSED.]

Vinnie did not accept the wager, convinced, probably, that she would
lose it if she did. As she bent over the child, however, the report of a
kiss was heard,--a sort of shot in the air, not designed to come very
near the mark.

"I'm didding a well," said Chokie, in a solemn voice, "so the boys won't
have to go to the spring for water."

Mrs. Betterson tottered to the door, convulsively wrapping her red shawl
about her.

"Lavinia! Is it sister Lavinia?"

At sight of her, so pale and feeble, Vinnie was much affected. She could
hardly speak; but, supporting the emaciated form in her strong,
embracing arms, she led her back into the house.

"You are so good to come!" said Mrs. Betterson, weeping, as she sank in
her chair. "I am worse than when I wrote to you; and the baby is no
better; and Cecie--poor Cecie! though she can sit up but little, she
does more than any of us for the sick little thing."

Vinnie turned to the lounge, where Cecie, with the baby in her arms, lay
smiling with bright, moist eyes upon the new-comer. She bent over and
kissed them both; and, at sight of the puny infant,--so pitiful a
contrast to Mrs. Lanman's fair and healthy child,--she felt her heart
contract with grief and her eyes fill.

Then, as she turned away with an effort at self-control, and looked
about the room, she must have noticed, too, the painful contrast between
Jack's home and this, which was to be hers; and have felt a sinking of
the heart, which it required all her strength and courage to overcome.

"We are not looking fit to be seen; I know it, Lavinia!" sighed Mrs.
Betterson. "But you'll excuse it--you've already excused so many things
in the past! It seems a dreadful, unnatural thing for _our_ family to be
so--so very--yet don't think we are absolutely reduced, Lavinia. Mr.
Betterson's connections, as everybody knows, are very wealthy and
aristocratic, and they are sure to do something for him soon. This is my
husband, sister Lavinia." And, with a faint simper of satisfaction, she
looked up at a person who just then entered from an adjoining room.

He was a tall, well-made man, who looked (Vinnie could not help
thinking) quite capable of doing something for himself. He might have
been called fine-looking, but that his fine looks, like his gentility,
of which he made a faded show in his dress and manners, appeared to have
gone somewhat to seed. He greeted Vinnie with polite condescension, said
a few commonplace words, settled his dignified chin in his limp dicky,
which was supported by a high, tight stock (much frayed about the
edges), and went on out of the house.

"Now you have seen him!" whispered Mrs. Betterson, as if it had been a
great event in Vinnie's life. "Very handsome, and perfectly well-bred,
as you observe. Not at all the kind of man to be neglected by his
family, aristocratic as they are; do you think he is? Yes, my dear
Lavinia," she added, with a sickly smile, "you have seen a real, live
Betterson!"

These evidences of a foolish pride surviving affliction made poor Vinnie
more heartsick than anything else; and for a moment the brave girl was
almost overcome with discouragement.

In the meanwhile the real, live Betterson walked out into the yard,
where Jack--who had not cared to follow Vinnie into the house--was
talking with Link.

"Will you walk in, sir?" And the stately Betterson neck bent slightly in
its stiff stock.

"No, I thank you," replied Jack. "But I suppose this trunk goes in."

"Ah! to be sure. Lincoln,"--with a wave of the aristocratic Betterson
hand,--"show the young man where to put the trunk. He can take it to
Cecie's room."

"I can, can I? That's a privilege!" thought Jack. He was perfectly
willing to be a porter, or anything else, in a good cause; and it was a
delight for him to do Vinnie a service; but why did the noble Betterson
stand there and give directions about the trunk, in that pompous way,
instead of taking hold of one end of it? Jack, who had a lively spirit,
and a tongue of his own, was prompted to say something sarcastic, but he
wisely forbore.

"I'll place it here for the present," he said, and set the trunk down by
the doorstep. He thought it would be better for him to see Vinnie and
bid her good-by a little later, after the meeting between the sisters
should be well over; so he turned to Link, and asked where his big
brothers were.

"I d'n' know," said Link; "guess they're down in the lot hunting prairie
hens."

"Let's go and find 'em," said Jack.

Both Link and Lion were delighted with this proposal, and they set off
in high glee, boy and dog capering at each side of the more steady-going
Jack.




CHAPTER XIII.

WHY JACK DID NOT FIRE AT THE PRAIRIE CHICKEN.


"A well?" said Jack, as they passed a curb behind the house. "I thought
you had to go to the spring for water."

"So we do," said Link.

"Why don't you use the well?"

"I d'n' know; 't ain't good for anything. 'T ain't deep enough."

"Why wasn't it dug deeper?"

"I d'n' know; father got out of patience, I guess, or out of money. 'T
was a wet time, and the water came into it, so they stunned it up; and
now it's dry all summer."

They passed a field on the sunny slope, and Jack said, "What's here?"

"I d'n' know; _'t was_ potatoes, but it's run all to weeds."

"Why didn't you hoe them?"

"I d'n' know; folks kind o' neglected 'em, till 't was too late."

Beyond the potatoes was another crop, which the weeds, tall as they
were, could not hide.

"Corn?" said Jack.

"Meant for corn," replied Link. "But the cattle and hogs have been in
it, and trampled down the rows."

"I should think so! They look like the last rows of summer!" Jack said.
"Why don't you keep the cattle and hogs out?"

"I d'n' know; 't ain't much of a fence; hogs run under and cattle jump
over."

"Plenty of timber close by,--why don't your folks make a better fence?"

"I d'n' know; they don't seem to take a notion."

Jack noticed that the river was quite near, and asked if there was good
boating.

"I d'n' know,--pretty good, only when the water's too low."

"Do you keep a boat?"

"Not exactly,--we never had one of our own," said Link. "But one came
floating down the river, and the boys nabbed that. A fust-rate boat,
only it leaked like a sieve."

"Leaked? Doesn't it leak now?"

"No?" said Link, stoutly. "They hauled it up, and last winter they
worked on it, odd spells, and now it don't leak a drop."

Jack was surprised to hear of so much enterprise in the Betterson
family, and asked,--

"Stopped all the leaks in the old boat! They puttied and painted it, I
suppose?"

"No, they didn't."

"Calked and pitched it, then?"

"No, they didn't."

"What did they do to it?"

"Made kindling-wood of it," said Link, laughing, and hitching up his one
suspender.

Jack laughed too, and changed the subject.

"Is that one of your brothers with a gun?"

"That's Wad; Rufe is down on the grass."

"What sort of a crop is that,--buckwheat?"

Link grinned. "There's something funny about that! Ye see, a
buckwheat-lot is a great place for prairie hens. So one day I took the
old gun, and the powder and shot you gave me for carrying you home that
night, and went in, and scared up five or six, and fired at 'em, but I
didn't hit any. Wad came along and yelled at me. 'Don't you know any
better 'n to be trampling down the buckwheat?' says he. 'Out of there,
quicker!' And he took the gun away from me. But he'd seen one of the
hens I started light again on the edge of the buckwheat; so he went in
to find her. 'You're trampling the buckwheat yourself!' says I. 'No, I
ain't,' says he,--'I step between the spears; and I'm coming out in a
minute.' He stayed in, though, about an hour, and went all over the
patch, and shot two prairie chickens. Then Rufe came along, and he was
mad enough, 'cause Wad was treading down the buckwheat. 'Come out of
that!' says he, 'or I'll go in after ye, and put that gun where you
won't see it again.' So Wad came out; and the sight of his chickens made
Rufe's eyes shine. 'Did ye shoot _them_ in the buckwheat?' says he.
'Yes,' says Wad; 'and I could shoot plenty more; the patch is full of
'em.' Rufe said he wanted the gun to go and shoot ducks with, on the
river; but he didn't find any ducks, and coming along back he thought he
would try _his_ luck in the buckwheat,--treading between the spears! He
had shot three prairie chickens, when father came along, and scolded
him, and made him come out. 'I've heard you fire twenty times,' says
father; 'you're wasting powder and ruining the crop. Let _me_ take the
gun.' 'But _you_ mustn't ruin the crop,' says Rufe. Father's a splendid
shot,--can drop a bird every time,--only he don't like to go hunting
very often. He thought 't would pay for _him_ to go through the patch
_once_; besides, he said, if the birds were getting the buckwheat, we
might as well get the birds. He thought _he_ could tread between the
spears! Well, since then," said Link, "we've just made a hunting-ground
of that patch, always treading between the spears till lately; now it's
got so trampled it never'll pay to cut it; so we just put it through.
See that hen!"

There was a sound of whirring wings,--a flash, a loud report, a curl of
smoke,--a broken-winged grouse shooting down aslant into the buckwheat,
and a young hunter running to the spot.

"That's the way he does it," said Rufe, getting up from the grass.

He greeted Jack good-naturedly, inquired about Snowfoot, heard with
surprise of Vinnie's arrival, and finally asked if Jack would like to
try his hand at a shot.

"I should," replied Jack, "if it wasn't for treading down your
buckwheat."

"That's past caring for," said Rufe, with a laugh. "Here, Wad, bring us
the gun."

"Is that your land the other side of the fence?" Jack asked.

"That lot belongs to old Peakslow," said Rufe, speaking the name with
great contempt. "And he pretends to claim a big strip this side too.
That's what caused the feud between our families."

"He hates you pretty well, I should judge," replied Jack; and he told
the story, as Vinnie had told it to him, of her encounter with Peakslow
on the deck of the schooner.

"He's the ugliest man!" Rufe declared, reddening angrily. "You may thank
your stars you've nothing to do with him. Now take the gun,"--Wad had by
this time brought it,--"go through to the fence and back, and be ready
to fire the moment a bird rises. Keep your dog back, and look out and
not hit one of Peakslow's horses, the other side of the fence."

"He brought home a new horse from Chicago a day or two ago," said Wad;
"and he's just been out there looking at him and feeling for ringbones.
If he's with him now, and if you _should_ happen to shoot _one_ of 'em,
I hope it won't be the horse!"

Jack laughed, and started to go through the buckwheat. He had got about
half-way, when a hen rose a few feet from him, at his right. He was not
much accustomed to shooting on the wing; and it is much harder to hit
birds rising suddenly, at random, in that way, than when they are
started by a trained dog. But good luck made up for what he lacked in
skill; and at his fire the hen dropped fluttering in the grass that
bordered the buckwheat.

[Illustration: SHOT ON THE WING.]

"I'll pick her up!" cried Link; and he ran to do so; while Wad carried
Jack the powder and shot for another load.

"But I ought not to use up your ammunition in this way!" Jack protested.

"I guess you can afford to," replied Wad. "It was mostly bought with
money we sold that fawn-skin for."

Jack was willing enough to try another shot; and, the piece reloaded, he
resumed his tramp.

He had nearly reached the fence, when a bird rose between it and him,
and flew over Peakslow's pasture. Jack had brought the gun to his
shoulder, and was about to pull the trigger, when he remembered
Peakslow's horses, and stopped to give a hasty glance over the fence.

Down went the gun, and Jack stood astonished, the bird forgotten, and
his eyes fixed on an object beyond.

What Wad said of their neighbor having brought out a new horse from
Chicago, together with what the captain of the Heron said of one of
Peakslow's span being a light roan, rushed through his thoughts. He ran
up to the fence, and looked eagerly over; then gave a shout of joy.

After all his futile efforts to find him,--chasing about the country,
offering rewards, scattering hand-bills,--there was the lost horse, the
veritable Snowfoot, grazing quietly in the amiable Mr. Peakslow's
pasture!




CHAPTER XIV.

SNOWFOOT'S NEW OWNER.


Jack left the gun standing by the fence, leaped over, gave a familiar
whistle, and called, "Come, Snowfoot! Co' jock! co' jock!"

There were two horses feeding in the pasture, not far apart. But only
one heeded the call, lifted head, pricked up ears, and answered with a
whinny. It was the lost Snowfoot, giving unmistakable signs of pleasure
and recognition, as he advanced to meet his young master.

Jack threw his arms about the neck of his favorite, and hugged and
patted and I don't know but kissed him; while the Betterson boys went up
to the fence and looked wonderingly over.

In a little while, as they did not venture to go to him, Jack led
Snowfoot by the forelock up to the rails, which they had climbed for a
better view.

"Is he your horse?" they kept calling to him.

"Don't you see?" replied Jack, when he had come near enough to show the
white feet and the scars; and his face gleamed with glad excitement.
"Look! he and the dog know each other!"

It was not a Betterson, but a Peakslow style of fence, and Lion could
not leap it; but the two animals touched noses, with tokens of friendly
recognition, between the rails.

"I never expected such luck!" said Jack. "I've not only found my horse,
but I've saved the reward offered."

"You haven't got him yet," said Rufe. "I guess Peakslow will have
something to say about that."

"What he says won't make much difference. I've only to prove property,
and take possession. A stolen horse is the owner's, wherever he finds
him. But of course I'll act in a fair and open way in the matter; I'll
go and talk with Peakslow, and if he's a reasonable man--"

"Reasonable!" interrupted Wad. "He holds a sixpence so near to his eye,
that it looks bigger to him than all the rest of the world; he can't see
reason, nor anything else."

"I'll make him see it. Will you go and introduce me?"

"You'd better not have one of our family introduce you, if you want to
get anything out of Dud Peakslow!" said Rufe. "We'll wait here."

Jack got over the fence, and walked quickly along on the Betterson side
of it, followed by Lion, until he reached the road. A little farther
down was a house; behind the house was a yard; and in the yard was a
swarthy man with a high, hooked nose, pulling a wheel off a wagon, the
axletree of which, on that side, was supported by a propped rail. Close
by was a boy stirring some grease in a pot, with a long stick.

Jack waited until the man had got the wheel off and rested it against
the wagon; then said,--

"Is this Mr. Peakslow?"

"That happens to be my name," replied the man, scarcely giving his
visitor a glance, as he turned to take the stick out of the grease, and
to rub it on the axletree.

The boy, on one knee in the dirt, holding the grease-pot to catch the
drippings, looked up and grinned at Jack.

"I should like a few minutes' talk with you, Mr. Peakslow, when you are
at leisure," said Jack, hardly knowing how to introduce his business.

"I'm at leisure now, much as I shall be to-day," said Mr. Peakslow with
the air of a man who did not let words interfere with work. "I've got to
grease this wagon, and then harness up and go to haulin'. I haven't had
a hoss that would pull his share of a decent load till now. Tend to what
you're about, Zeph!"

"I have called to say," remarked Jack as calmly as he could, though his
heart was beating fast, "that there is a horse in your pasture which
belongs to me."

The man straightened his bent back, and looked blackly at the speaker,
while the grease dripped from the end of the stick.

"A hoss in my pastur' that belongs to you! What do ye mean by that?"

"Perhaps you haven't seen this handbill?" And Jack took the printed
description of Snowfoot from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to
the astonished Peakslow.

[Illustration: THE AMIABLE MR. PEAKSLOW.]

"'Twenty dollars reward,'" he read. "'Stolen from the owner--a light,
reddish roan hoss--white forefeet--scar low down on the near side, jest
behind the shoulder--smaller scar on the off hip.' What's the meanin' of
all this?" he said, glancing at Jack.

"Isn't it plain enough?" replied Jack, quietly standing his ground.
"That is the description of the stolen horse; the horse is down in your
pasture."

"Do you mean to say _I_'ve stole your hoss?" demanded Peakslow, his
voice trembling with passion.

"Not by any means. He may have passed through a dozen hands since the
thief had him. All I know is, he is in your possession now."

"And what if he is?"

"Why, naturally a man likes to have what is his own, doesn't he? Suppose
a man steals your horse; you find him after a while in my stable; is he
your horse, or mine?"

"But how do I know but this is a conspyracy to cheat me out of a hoss?"
retorted Peakslow, looking again at the handbill, with a terrible frown.
"It may have all been cut and dried aforehand. You've your trap sot,
and, soon as ever the animal is in my hands, ye spring it. How do I know
the hoss is yourn, even if ye have got a description of him? Anybody can
make a description of anybody's hoss, and then go and claim him.
Besides, how happens it a boy like you owns a hoss, anyway?"

In a few words Jack told his story, accounting at once for his
ownership, and for the scars on the horse's side and hip.

"There are two other scars I can show you, under his belly. I didn't
mention them in the handbill, because they are not noticeable, unless
one is looking for them."

"Ye may show me scars all over him, fur's I know," was Peakslow's reply
to this argument. "That may prove that he's been hurt by suth'n or
other,--elephant, or not; but it don't prove you ever owned him."

"I can satisfy you with regard to that," said Jack, confidently. "Do you
object to going down with me and looking at him?"

"Not in the least, only wait till I git this wheel on. Ye may go and
_see_ the hoss in my presence, but ye can't _take_ the hoss, without I'm
satisfied you've the best right to him."

"That's all I ask, Mr. Peakslow; I want only what belongs to me. If you
are a loser, you must look for redress to the man who sold you my
property; and he must go back on the next man."

"How's that?" put in Zeph, grinning over his grease-pot. "Pa thinks he's
got a good deal better hoss than he put away; and you ain't agoin' to
crowd him out of a good bargain, I bet!"

"Hold your tongue!" growled Peakslow. "I can fight my own battles,
without any of your tongue. I put away a pooty good hoss, and I gin
fifteen dollars to boot."

"What man did you trade with?" Jack inquired.

"A truckman in Chicago. He liked my hoss, and I liked hisn, and we
swapped. He wanted twenty dollars, I offered him ten, and we split the
difference. He won't want to give me back my hoss and my money, now; and
ye can't blame him. And the next man won't want to satisfy _him_. Grant
the hoss is stole, for the sake of the argyment," said Peakslow. "I
maintain that when an animal that's been stole, and sold, and traded,
finally gits into an honest man's hands, it's right he should stay
there."

"Even if it's your horse, and the honest man who gets him is your
neighbor?" queried Jack.

"I do'no'--wal--yes!" said Peakslow. "It's a hard case, but no harder
one way than t' other."

"But the law looks at it in only one way," replied Jack. "And with
reason. Men must be careful how they deal with thieves or get hold of
stolen property. How happens it that you, Mr. Peakslow, didn't know that
such a horse had been stolen? Some of your neighbors knew it very well."

"Some of my neighbors I don't have nothin' to say to," answered
Peakslow, gruffly. "If you mean the Bettersons, they're a pack of
thieves and robbers themselves, and I don't swap words with none of 'em,
without 't is to tell 'em my mind; that I do, when I have a chance."

"You use pretty strong language when you call them thieves and robbers,
Mr. Peakslow."

"Strong or not, it's the truth. Hain't they cheated me out o' the best
part of my farm?"

"The Bettersons--cheated you!" exclaimed Jack.

They were now on the way to the pasture; and Peakslow, in a sort of
lurid excitement, pointed to the boundary fence.

"My line, by right, runs five or six rod t' other side. I took up my
claim here, and Betterson bought hisn, 'fore ever the guv'ment survey
run through. That survey fixed my line 'way over yender in their
cornfield. And there I claim it belongs, to this day."

"But, Mr. Peakslow, how does it happen that a man like Mr. Betterson has
been able to rob a man like _you_,--take a part of your farm before your
very eyes? He is a rather slack, easy man; while you, if I'm not greatly
mistaken, are in the habit of standing up for your rights."

"I can gin'ly look out for myself," said Peakslow. "And don't suppose
that Lord Betterson took me down and put his hands in my pockets,
alone."

"Nine men, with masks on," cried Zeph, "come to our house one night, and
told pa they'd jest tear his ruf right down over his head, and drive him
out of the county, if he didn't sign a deed givin' Betterson that land."

"Hold your yawp, Zeph!" muttered Peakslow. "I can tell my own story.
There was nine of 'em, all armed, and what could I do?"

"This is a most extraordinary story!" exclaimed Jack. "Did you sign the
deed?"

"I couldn't help myself," said Peakslow.

"It seems to me I _would_ have helped myself, if the land was
rightfully mine!" cried Jack. "They _might_ tear my house down,--they
_might_ try to drive me out of the county,--I don't believe I would deed
away my land, just because they threatened me, and I was afraid."

"It's easy to talk that way," Peakslow replied. "But, come case in
hand,--the loaded muzzles in your face,--you'd change your mind."

"Didn't they pay for the land they took?"

"Barely nothin'; jest the guv'ment price; dollar 'n' a quarter an acre.
But jest look at that land to-day,--the best in the State,--wuth twenty
dollars an acre, if 't is a cent."

"What was Betterson's claim?" Jack asked; "for men don't often do such
things without some sort of excuse."

"They hild that though the survey gin me the land, it was some Betterson
had supposed belonged to his purchase. Meanwhile he had j'ined a
land-claim society, where the members all agreed to stand by one
another; and that was the reason o' their takin' sich high-handed
measures with me."

Jack was inclined to cross-question Peakslow, and sift a little this
astonishing charge against Betterson and the land-claim society. But
they had now reached the pasture bars, and the question relating to the
ownership of the horse was to be settled.

The Betterson boys were still sitting on the fence, where Jack had left
them; but Snowfoot had returned to his grazing.

"Call him," said Jack. "If he doesn't come for you, then see if he will
come for me."

Peakslow grumblingly declined the test.

"He doesn't always come when I call him," said Jack. "I'll show you what
I do then. Here, Lion!"

He took from his pocket an ear of corn he had picked by the way, placed
one end of it between the dog's jaws, saying, "Bring Snowfoot, Lion!
bring Snowfoot!" and let him through the bars.

Lion trotted into the pasture, trotted straight up to the right horse,
coaxed and coquetted with him for a minute, and then trotted back.
Snowfoot followed, leering and nipping, and trying to get the ear of
corn.

Lion brought the ear to Jack, and Jack gave it to Snowfoot, taking him
at the same time by the forelock.

"What do you think of that?" he said, looking round in triumph at
Peakslow.

"I don't see as it's anything to make sich a fuss over," said Peakslow,
looking angrily across at the spectators on the boundary fence, as they
cheered the success of the man[oe]uvre. "It shows you've larnt your dog
tricks,--nothin' more. 'Most any hoss would foller an ear of corn that
way."

"Why didn't your hoss follow it?"

"The dog didn't go for my hoss."

"Why didn't he go for your horse, as soon as for mine?" urged Jack.

To which Peakslow could only reply,--

"Ye needn't let down the top bar; ye can't take that hoss through! I
traded for him, and paid boot, and you've got to bring better evidence
than your say-so, or a dog's trick, 'fore I give up my claim."

"I'll bring you evidence," said Jack, turning away in no little
impatience and disgust.

He hastened back to Mr. Betterson's house, and was met by the boys as he
came into the yard.

"What did I tell you?" said Rufe. "Couldn't get him, could you?"

"No, but I will!" replied Jack, untying the horse, which he had left
hitched to an oak-tree. "I'm going for a witness." He backed the wagon
around. "Get in, if you like,"--to Rufus.

Rufus did like; and the two rode off together, to the great
dissatisfaction of Wad and Link, who also wanted to go and see the fun.




CHAPTER XV.

GOING FOR A WITNESS.


"Did Peakslow say anything to you about our folks?" Rufe asked.

"I rather think he did!" said Jack; and he repeated the story of the
land robbery.

Rufe showed his contempt for it by a scornful laugh. "I'll tell you just
what there is in it; and it will show you the sort of man you have to
deal with. We haven't an inch of his land. Do you think father is a man
to crowd a neighbor?"

"And a neighbor like Peakslow! That's just what I told him," said Jack.

"You see," said Rufe, "these claims through here were all taken up
before the government survey. Most of the settlers were decent men; and
they knew that when the survey came to be made, there would be trouble
about the boundaries, if they didn't take measures beforehand to prevent
it. So they formed a society to protect each other against squatters and
claim-jumpers, and particularly to settle disputed boundary questions
between themselves. They all signed a paper, agreeing to 'deed and
redeed,'--that is, if your land adjoined mine, and the government survey
didn't correspond with our lines, but gave you, for instance, a part of
the land I had improved, then you agreed to redeed that part to me, for
the government price; just as I agreed to redeed to my neighbors what
the survey might give me of their claims."

"I understand," said Jack.

"Well, father and almost everybody in the county joined the society; but
there were some who didn't. Peakslow was one."

"What were his objections?"

"He couldn't give any good ones. All he would say was, 'I'll see; I'll
think about it.' He was just waiting to see if there was any advantage
to be gained over his neighbors by _not_ joining with them. Finally, the
survey came through; and the men run what they called a 'random line,'
which everybody thought, at first, was the true line. According to that,
the survey would have given us a big strip of Peakslow's farm, including
his house and barn. That frightened him. He came over, and shook his
fist in father's face, and threatened I don't know what, if he took the
land.

"'You really think I ought to redeed to you all your side of our old
line?' says father.

"'Of course I do!' says Peakslow. 'It's mine; you never claimed it; and
I'll shoot the fust man who sets foot on 't, to take it away from me.'

"'Then,' says father, 'why don't you join the society, and sign the
agreement to redeed, with the rest of us? That will save trouble.'

"So Peakslow rushed off in a fearful hurry, and put his name to the
paper. Then--what do you think? The surveyors, in a few days, run the
correct line, and that gave Peakslow a strip of _our_ farm."

"Capital!" laughed Jack.

"It wasn't capital for us! He was then, if you will believe it, more
excited than when the boot seemed to be on the other leg. He vowed that
the random line was a mere pretence to get him to sign the agreement;
that it was all a fraud, which he never would submit to; that he
wouldn't redeed, but that he would have what the survey gave him. That's
the kind of man he is," added Rufus.

"But he did redeed?"

"Yes, in some such way as he told you. The dispute came before the
society for arbitration, and of course the decision was in father's
favor. But Peakslow still held out, and talked of shooting and all that
sort of thing, till the society got tired of his nonsense. So, one
night, nine men did give him a call; they had called on a claim-jumper
down the river a few nights before, and made kindling-wood of his
shanty; Peakslow knew it, and knew they were not men to be trifled with.
They told him that if he expected to live in the county, he must sign
the deed. And he signed it. My father wasn't one of the men, but
Peakslow turned all his spite against him."

"He imagines he has been wronged," said Jack.

"I suppose so, for he is one of that kind who never can see any side to
a quarrel but their own. The land is growing more valuable every year;
he covets it accordingly, and so the ferment in his mind is kept up. Of
course," Rufe confessed, "we have done, or neglected to do, a good many
things which have kept adding fuel to the fire; for it's impossible to
live peaceably alongside of such a selfish, passionate, unreasonable
neighbor. We boys have taken up the quarrel, and now I owe that Zeph a
cudgelling, for hurting Cecie."

"How did he hurt her?"

"We had a swing up in the woods. The Peakslows are always interfering in
our affairs, and, one day, when Link and the girls went to swing, they
found a couple of little Peakslows there. Link drove 'em away, and they
went off bellowing to their big brothers. In a little while Zeph came
along, when Cecie happened to be in the swing; and he pushed her so hard
that she fell out."

"I shouldn't think cudgelling him would give you much satisfaction,"
said Jack. "It was a dreadful thing to happen! But did he intend it?"

"I don't think he is sorry for it. Father went to see Mr. Peakslow about
it; but he got nothing but abuse from him. What do you think he said?
'The swing,' says he, 'is on a part of the land you robbed me of; if you
had gin me what the guv'ment survey did, then your children wouldn't
have been there, and the thing wouldn't have occurred.' That is the man
who has got your horse."

Meanwhile, they had driven past Peakslow's house, proceeding down the
river road; and now once more Jack reined up before old Wiggett's cabin.

At the sight of the wagon approaching three or four half-naked little
barbarians ran into the house, like wild creatures into their hole,
giving an alarm which brought out old Wiggett himself, stooping through
the low doorway.

"Mr. Wiggett, do you remember me?" said Jack.

"Wal, I reckon!" said the old man, advancing to the wagon, reaching up,
and giving Jack's hand a hearty shake. "You're the young chap that found
my section corner."

"And do you remember my horse?"

"I 'low I oughter; for your elephant story, and the scars you showed me,
was drea'ful curi's. I heard the hoss was stole."

"He _was_ stolen. But I have found him; and I want you to go with me and
identify him, if you will be so good. Mr. Peakslow has him."

"Peakslow?" said the old man, with a dubious shake of the head. "It's
nigh about the easiest thing in the world to git into trouble with Dud
Peakslow. I gener'ly go my way, and let Peakslow go hisn, and waste few
words on him. But I don't mind gwine with ye, if ye say so. How did
Peakslow come by him?"

Jack told the story, whilst driving back to Peakslow's house. There he
left Rufus in the wagon, and walked on with Mr. Wiggett into the
barnyard.




CHAPTER XVI.

PEAKSLOW GETS A QUIRK IN HIS HEAD.


Peakslow had finished greasing his wheels, and was about harnessing a
pair of horses which Zeph held by their halters at the door of a
log-stable. One of the horses was Snowfoot.

"Please wait a minute, Mr. Peakslow," said Jack, turning pale at the
sight. "I've brought a witness to prove my property."

Peakslow looked at his neighbor Wiggett, and gave a grunt.

"So you've come to interfere in this business, hey?"

Mr. Wiggett made no reply, but walked up to Snowfoot, stroked his sides,
examined the scars, looked at him before and behind, and nodded slowly
several times. Then he spoke.

"I hain't come over to interfere in nobody's business, Mr. Peakslow. But
I happen to know this yer young man; and I know this yer hoss. At his
request, I've come over to say so. I could pick out that animal, and
sw'ar to him, among ten thousan'."

"What can you swear to?" Peakslow demanded, poising a harness.

"I can sw'ar this is the hoss the young man druv the day he come over to
find my section corner."

"That all?"

"Isn't that enough?" said Jack.

"No!" said Peakslow, and threw the rattling harness upon Snowfoot's
back. "It don't prove the hoss belonged to you, if ye did drive him.
And, even though he did belong to you, it don't prove but what ye sold
him arterward, and then pretended he was stole, to cheat some honest man
out of his prop'ty. Hurry up, boy! buckle them hames." And he went to
throw on the other harness.

Jack stepped in Zeph's way. "This is my horse, and I've a word to say
about buckling those hames."

"Ye mean to hender my work?" roared Peakslow, turning upon him. "Ye mean
to git me mad?"

Jack had before been hardly able to speak, for his rising wrath and
beating heart; but he was now getting control of himself.

"I don't see the need of anybody's getting mad, Mr. Peakslow. There's a
right and a wrong in this case; and if we both want the right, we shall
agree."

"Every man has his own way o' lookin' at the right," said Peakslow,
slightly mollified. "The right, to your notion, is that I shall give ye
up the hoss. I've got possession of the hoss, and I mean to keep
possession; and that's what's about right, to my notion."

"I want only what is lawfully my own," Jack answered, firmly. "If you
want what isn't yours, that's _not_ right, but wrong. There's such a
thing as justice, aside from our personal interest in a matter."

Probably Peakslow had never thought of that.

"Wal, what ye goin' to do about it?" he asked.

"I am going to have my horse," replied Jack. "If you let me take him
peaceably, very well. If you compel me to go to law, I shall have him
all the same, and you will have the costs to pay."

Peakslow winced. The threat of costs touched him in his tenderest spot.

"How's that?" he anxiously asked.

"I haven't been about the country looking for my horse, without knowing
something of the law for the recovery of stolen property," replied Jack.
"If I find him in your hands, and you give him up, I've no action
against you. If you hold on to him, I can do one of two things. I can go
to a magistrate, and by giving bonds to an amount that will cover all
damages to you or anybody else if I fail to make good my claim, get out
a _writ of replevin_, and send a sheriff with it to take the horse. Or I
can let you keep him, and sue you for damages. In either case, the one
who is beaten will have the costs to pay," Jack insisted, turning the
screw again where he saw it pinch.

The swarthy brow was covered with perspiration, as Peakslow answered,
making a show of bluster,--

"I can fight ye with the law, or any other way, 's long's you want to
fight. I've got money. Ye can't scare me with your sheriffs and writs.
But jest look at it. I'm to be throwed out of a hoss at a busy time o'
year. _You_ wouldn't like that, Mr. Wiggett--you nor nobody else."

"No," said Mr. Wiggett, who stood looking on in an impartial way, "it
moutn't feel good, I allow. And it don't seem like it would feel much
better, to have to stan' by and see a hoss that was stole from me, bein'
worked by a neighbor. This yer young man tells a straightfor'ard story,
and there's no doubt of its bein' his hoss. You've no doubt on't in your
own mind, Dudley Peakslow. If he goes to law, he'll bring his
proofs,--he's got friends to back him,--and you'll lose. Then why not
come to a right understanding and save right smart o' trouble and cost.
I 'low that'll be best for both."

"Wal, what's your idee of a right understandin'?" said Peakslow, flushed
and troubled, turning to Jack. "_My_ hoss is in Chicago--that is, if
_this_ hoss ain't mine. I might go in and see about gittin' on him back,
but I don't want to spend the time, 'thout I can take in a little jag o'
stuff; and how can I do that, if you break up my team?"

"Mr. Peakslow," replied Jack, quickly making up his mind what he would
do, "while I ask for my rights, I don't wish to put you or any man to an
inconvenience." He took Snowfoot by the bridle. "Here is my horse; and,
with Mr. Wiggett for a witness, I make you this offer: you may keep him
one week, and do any light work with him you please. You may drive him
to Chicago, and use him in recovering your horse from the truckman. But
mind, you are to be responsible for him, and bring him back with you. Is
that a fair proposal?"

"Wal, I do'no' but what 't is; I'll think on 't."

"I want you to say now, in Mr. Wiggett's presence, whether you accept
it."

"I'll agree to bring him back; but I do'no' 'bout deliverin' on him up
to you," said Peakslow.

"Leave it so, then," replied Jack, with a confident smile. "I call you
to witness, Mr. Wiggett, that the horse is in my possession now" (he
still held Snowfoot by the bridle), "and that I lend him to Mr.
Peakslow. Now you can buckle the hames, Zeph," letting go the bridle,
and stepping back.

"Gi' me a copy o' that handbill," said Peakslow. "I shall want that, and
I ought to have a witness besides, to make the truckman hear to reason."

"If he happens to be an unreasonable man," said Jack, with a smile, "you
have the same remedy which I have,--a suit for damages. I don't believe
he will wait for that. I'll see you in one week. Good-day, Mr.
Peakslow."

"Looks like you was takin' a big resk, to let him drive the hoss to
Chicago," Mr. Wiggett remarked confidentially, following Jack out of the
yard.

"I don't see that it is," Jack replied, wiping the sweat from his
forehead. "I didn't wish to be hard on him. It does men good, sometimes,
to trust them."

"Mabbe. But Dud Peakslow ain't like no other man ye ever see. He's got
some quirk in his head, or he never'd have agreed to be responsible for
the hoss and bring him back; ye may bet on that. He means to take some
advantage. Now I'm interested in the case, and I shall hate to see you
swindled."

Jack thanked the old man warmly; but he failed to see what advantage
Peakslow could hope to gain.

"I know him a heap better 'n you dew," said Mr. Wiggett. "Now, it struck
me, when he said he might need a witness, I'd offer to go with him to
Chicago. I could help him with the truckman, and mabbe find out what new
trick he's up tew. Anyhow, I could look arter your hoss a little."

"That would oblige me ever so much!" exclaimed Jack. "But I see no
reason why you should take that trouble for me."

"I take a notion tew ye, in the fust place. Next place, I've been gwine
to Chicago for the past tew weeks, but couldn't somehow git started.
Now, banged if I won't go in with Peakslow!"

Having parted with Jack, the old man returned to propose the arrangement
to his neighbor. He was just in time to hear Peakslow say to his son,--

"I see a twist in this matter 't he don't, shrewd as he thinks he is. If
I lose a good bargain, I'm bound to make it up 'fore ever this hoss goes
out of my hands. You ag'in, Wiggett?"

It was Mr. Wiggett, who concluded that he was quite right in saying that
Peakslow had a quirk in his head.




CHAPTER XVII.

VINNIE MAKES A BEGINNING.


Vinnie learned only too soon why Jack had dreaded so much to have her
enter the Betterson household; and, in a momentary depression of
spirits, she asked herself whether, if she had known all she was
undertaking, she would not have shrunk from it.

The sight of the sick ones, the mother enfeebled in mind as well as in
body, Lord Betterson pompous and complacent in the midst of so much
misery, little Lill alone making headway against a deluge of
disorder,--all this filled her with distress and dismay.

She could think of no relief but in action.

"I shall stifle," thought she, "unless I go to work at once, setting
things to rights."

And the thought of helping others cheered herself.

She needed something from her trunk. That was at the door, just where
Jack had left it. She went out, and found that Chokie had changed his
mind with regard to digging a well, and was building a pyramid, using
the door-yard sand for his material, a shingle for a shovel, and the
trunk for a foundation.

"Why, Chokie!" she said; "what are you doing?"

"I makin' a Fourth-of-Duly," replied Chokie, flourishing his shingle.
"After I dit it about twice as bid as the house, I doin' to put some
powder in it, and tout'th it off."

"O dear!" said Vinnie; "I'm afraid you'll blow my trunk to pieces; and I
must have my trunk now!"

"I doin' to blow it to pieces, and you tan't have it," cried Chokie,
stoutly.

"But I've something for you in it," said Vinnie, "and we never can get
it for you, if you touch off your Fourth-of-July on it."

"O, wal, you may dit it." And he began to shovel the sand off, throwing
it into his clothing, into the house, and some into Vinnie's eyes.

Lord Betterson, who was walking leisurely about his castle, now came
forward, and, seeing Vinnie in some distress, inquired, in his lofty
way, if he could do anything for her.

"If you please," she replied, laughing, as she brushed the sand away
from her eyes, "I should like to have this trunk carried in."

Betterson drew himself up with dignified surprise; for he had not meant
to proffer any such menial service. Vinnie perceived the little mistake
she had made; but she was not so overpoweringly impressed by his
nobility as to think that an apology was due. She even permitted herself
to be amused; and, retiring behind the sand in her eyes, which she made
a great show of winking and laughing away, she waited to see what he
would do.

He looked around, and coughed uncomfortably.

"Where are the boys?" he asked. "This--hem--is very awkward. I don't
know why the trunk was left here; I directed that it should be taken to
Cecie's room."--

Vinnie mischievously resolved that the noble Betterson back should bend
beneath that burden.

"It is quite light," she said. "If you want help, I can lift one end of
it."

The implication that it was not greatness of character, but weakness of
body, which kept him above such service, touched my lord. As she, at the
same time, actually laid hold of one handle, he waived her off, with
ostentatious gallantry.

"Permit me!" And, with a smile of condescension, which seemed to say,
"The Bettersons are not used to this sort of thing; but they can always
be polite to the ladies," he took up the trunk by both handles, and went
politely _backward_ with it into the house, a performance at which Jack
would have smiled. I say _performance_ advisedly, for Betterson showed
by his bearing, lofty and magnificent even under the burden, that this
was not an ordinary act of an ordinary man.

Having set down the trunk in its place, he brushed his fingers with a
soiled handkerchief, and retired, exceedingly flushed and puffy in his
tight stock.

Vinnie thanked him with charming simplicity; while Cecie, on her lounge,
laughed slyly, and Mrs. Betterson looked amazed.

"Why, Lavinia! how did you ever dare?"

"Dare what?"

"To ask Mr. Betterson to carry your trunk?"

[Illustration: VINNIE'S STRATAGEM.]

"Why not?" said Vinnie, with round eyes.

"A gentleman like him! and a Betterson!" replied Caroline, in a whisper
of astonishment and awe.

"Who should have done it?" said Vinnie, trying hard to see the enormity
of her offence. "I couldn't very well do it alone; I am sure you
couldn't have helped me; and my friend who brought me over, he has done
so much for me already that I should have been ashamed to ask him.
Besides, he is not here, and I wanted the trunk. Mr. Betterson seems
very strong. Has he the rheumatism?"

"O Lavinia! Lavinia!"--and Caroline wrapped her red shawl despairingly
about her. "But you will understand Mr. Betterson better by and by. You
are quite excusable now. Arthur, dear! what do you want?"

"In her trunt, what she's doin' to dive me, I want it," said the boy,
invading the house for that purpose.

"Yes, you shall have it," cried Vinnie, skilfully giving his nose a wipe
behind the mother's back (it needed it sadly). "But is your name Arthur?
I thought they called you Chokie."

"Chokie is the nickname for Arthur," Lill explained.

Vinnie did not understand how that could be.

"It is the boys' invention; they are full of their nonsense," said
Caroline, with a sorrowful head-shake. "It was first Arthur, then Artie,
then Artichoke, then Chokie,--you see?"

Vinnie laughed, while her sister went on, in complaining accents,--

"I tell them such things are beneath the dignity of our family; but they
will have their fun."

Vinnie took from her trunk a barking dog and a candy meeting-house,
which made Chokie forget all about his threatened Fourth-of-July. She
also had a pretty worsted scarf of many colors for Lill, and a copy of
Mrs. Hemans's Poems--popular in those days--for Cecie.

"For you, sister Caroline," she added, laughing, "I have
brought--myself."

"This book is beautiful, and I love poetry so much!" said Cecie, with
eyes full of love and gratitude. "But you have brought mother the best
present."

"O, you don't know about that!" replied Vinnie.

"Yes, I do," said Cecie, with a smile which seemed to tremble on the
verge of tears. And she whispered, as Vinnie bent down and kissed her,
"I love you already; we shall all love you so much!"

"Dear Cecie!" murmured Vinnie in the little invalid's ear, "that pays me
for coming. I am glad I am here, if only for your sake."

"I dot the bestest pwesents," cried Chokie, sitting on the floor with
his treasures. "Don't tome here, Lill; my dod will bite!" He made the
little toy squeak violently. "He barks at folks doin' to meetin'. Dim me
some pins."

"What do you want of pins?" Vinnie asked, taking some from her dress.

"To make mans and womans doin' to meetin'. One dood bid black pin for
the minister," said Chokie.

Vinnie helped him stick up the pins in the floor, and even found the
required big black one to head the procession. Then she pointed out the
extraordinary fact of the dog being so much larger than the entire
congregation; at which even the sad Caroline smiled, over her sick babe.
Chokie, however, gloried in the superior size and prowess of the
formidable monster.

Lill was delighted with her scarf,--all the more so when she learned
that it had been wrought by Vinnie's own hand.

"O Aunt Vinnie!" said Cecie; "will you teach me to do such work? I
should enjoy it so much--lying here!"

"With the greatest pleasure, my dear!" exclaimed Vinnie, her heart
brimming with hope and joy at sight of the simple happiness her coming
had brought.

She then hastened to put on a household dress; while Cecie looked at her
book, and Lill sported her scarf, and Chokie earned himself a new
nickname,--that of Big-Bellied Ben,--by making a feast of his
meeting-house, beginning with the steeple.




CHAPTER XVIII.

VINNIE'S NEW BROOM.


Returning from his interview with Mr. Peakslow, Jack drove up on the
roadside before the "castle," asked Rufe to hold the horse a minute, and
ran to the door to bid Vinnie good by.

"Here, Link!" Rufe called, "stand by this horse!"

"I can't," answered Link from the wood-pile, "I've got to get some wood,
to make a fire, to heat some water, to dip the chickens, to loosen their
feathers, and then to cook 'em for dinner."

"Never mind the wood and the chickens and feathers! Come along!"

"I guess I _will_ mind, and I guess I _won't_ come along, for you, or
anybody, for _she_ asked me to."

"She? Who?"

"Aunt Vinnie; and, I tell you, she's real slick." And Link slashed away
at the wood with an axe; for that was the Betterson style,--to saw and
split the sticks only as the immediate necessities of the house
required.

Rufe might have hitched the horse, but he was not a fellow to give
himself any trouble that could well be avoided; and just then he saw Wad
coming out of the yard with two pails.

Wad, being cordially invited to stay and hold the horse, also declined,
except on condition that Rufe should himself go at once to the spring
for water.

"Seems to me you're in a terrible pucker for water!" said Rufe. "Two
pails? what's the row, Wad?" For it was the time-honored custom of the
boys to put off going for water as long as human patience could endure
without it, and never, except in great emergencies, to take two pails.

"_She_ asked me to, and of course I'd go for _her_," said Wad. "She has
gone into that old kitchen, and, I tell you, she'll make things buzz!"

Meanwhile Jack had gone straight to the said kitchen,--much to Mrs.
Betterson's dismay,--and found Vinnie in a neat brown dress, with apron
on and sleeves pinned up. He thought he had never seen her look so
bright and beautiful.

"At work so soon!" he exclaimed.

"The sooner the better," she replied. "Don't look around you; my sister
is sick, you know."

"I won't hinder you a minute," Jack said. "I just ran in to tell you the
good news about my horse,--though I suppose you've heard that from the
boys,--and to say good by,--and one word more!" lowering his voice. "If
anything happens,--if it isn't pleasant for you to be here, you
know,--there is a home at Mrs. Lanman's; it will be always waiting for
you."

"I thank you and Mrs. Lanman very much!" said Vinnie, with a trembling
lip. "But I mean to _make_ things pleasant here," a smile breaking
through the momentary trouble of her face.

Jack declined an urgent invitation to stay and see what sort of a dinner
she could get.

"By the way," he whispered, as she followed him to the door, "who
carried in that trunk?" When she told him, he was hugely delighted. "You
will get along! Here comes Rufe. Rufus, this is your Aunt Vinnie."

Rufus (who had finally got Chokie to hold the horse's halter) blushed to
the roots of his hair at meeting his relative, and finding her so very
youthful (I think it has already been said that the aunt was younger
than the nephew), and altogether so fresh and charming in her apron and
pinned-up sleeves.

She smilingly gave him her hand, which he took rather awkwardly, and
said,--

"How d' 'e do, Aunt Lavinia. I suppose I must call you _aunt_."

"Call me just Vinnie; the idea of my being _aunt_ to young men like
you!"

There was a little constraint on both sides, which Link relieved by
pushing between them with a big armful of wood.

"Well, good by," said Jack. "She will need a little looking after,
Rufus; see that she doesn't work too hard."

"_You_ are not going to work hard for _us_!" said Rufus, with some
feeling, after Jack was gone.

"That depends," Vinnie replied. "_You_ can make things easy for me, as I
am sure you will."

"Of course; just let me know if they don't go right. Call on Link or Wad
for anything; make 'em stand round."

Vinnie smiled at Rufe's willingness to have his brothers brought into
the line of discipline.

"They are both helping me now. But I find there are no potatoes in the
house, and I've been wondering who would get them. Lill says they are to
be dug in the field, and that she digs them sometimes; but that seems
too bad!"

"That's when Wad and Link--there's no need of _her_--I don't believe in
girls digging potatoes!" Rufe stammered.

"O, but you know," cried Lill, "sometimes we shouldn't have any potatoes
for dinner if I didn't go and dig them! I don't care, only it's such
hard work!"

Vinnie looked admiringly at the bright, brave little girl. Rufe colored
redder than ever, and said,--

"Don't _you_, now, do such a thing! Only let me know in season what's
wanted; I'll be after those boys with a sharp stick!"

Vinnie couldn't help laughing.

"So, when we're going to want a handful of wood, a pail of water, or a
basket of potatoes, I am to go for you, and you will go for the boys,
and drive them up with your sharp stick! I don't think I shall like
that. Wouldn't it be better for you to see that there are always
potatoes in the bin, and wood in the box, and other things on hand that
you know will be needed?"

It was perhaps quite as much her winning way as the good sense of this
appeal which made it irresistible.

"Of course it would be better! I'll get you a basket of potatoes now,
and some green corn, and I'll look out for the water and wood."

"O, thank you!" said Vinnie. "That will make things so much easier and
pleasanter for all of us!"

The potatoes and corn were got with a cheerful alacrity which quite
astonished Rufe's mother and sisters.

The inertia of a large body being thus overcome, that well-known
property of matter tended to keep Rufus still in motion; and while
Vinnie, with Lill's help, was getting the dinner ready, he might have
been seen approaching the wood-pile with an eye to business.

"See here, Wad! This wood is pretty dry now; don't you think it had
better be cut up and got in before there comes a rain?"

"Yes, s'pose 't would be a good idea."

"We ought to be ashamed," Rufe went on, "to have _her_ calling for a
handful of wood every time it's wanted, or going out to hack a little
for herself, if we're not around; for she'll do it."

"I s'pose so," Wad assented. "Why don't you go to work and cut it up?
I'll sit down on a log and whittle, and keep you company."

"Pshaw! don't talk that way. I'll go to work at it if you will. Come!
Will you saw, or split?"

Wad laughed, and said he would split,--perhaps because the sawing must
be done first.

"This saw is in a frightful condition!" Rufe said, stopping to breathe
after sawing a few sticks.

"So is this axe; look at the edge! It's too dull even to split with,"
said Wad. "A small boy might ride to mill on it without suffering any
very great inconvenience."

"If father would only file and set this saw, I'd help you grind the
axe," said Rufe.

The paternal Betterson was just then returning from a little walk about
his estate. As he approached, hat in hand, wiping his noble forehead,
under the shade of the oaks, Rufe addressed him.

"We've got to have wood in the house; now _she_'s come, it won't do to
get it by little driblets, and have her waiting for it and worrying
about it. I'll saw it, if you'll only set the saw; you know how, and I
don't; we'll do the hard work if you'll furnish a little of your skill."

Rufe knew how to appeal to the paternal vanity. The idea of furnishing,
not labor, but skill, flattered my lord.

"Ah! let me look at the saw. And bring me the file. And set out the
shave-horse. I'll show you how the thing is done."

When Link, who in the mean while had been dressing the prairie chickens
behind the house, came round and saw his pompous papa sitting under an
oak-tree, astride the "shave-horse," filing away at the saw held in its
clumsy jaws, and Wad turning the grindstone close by, while Rufe held on
the axe, he ran into the house laughing.

"Mother! just look out there! Father and Rufe and Wad all at work at
once! Guess the world's coming to an end!"

"I hope some of our troubles are coming to an end," sighed poor Mrs.
Betterson, who sat nursing her babe with a bottle. "It's all owing to
_her_. A new broom sweeps clean. She brings a very good influence; but I
can't hope it will last."

"O mother!" said Cecie, from her lounge, "don't say that. I am sure it
will last; she is so good! You'll do all you can for her, won't you,
Link?"

"I bet!" was Link's laconic response. "If _they_ only will, too, for
there ain't much fun in doing chores while father and Rufe and Wad are
just loafing round."

He hastened to Vinnie with his chickens.

"Just look out there once! All at it! Ain't it fun?"

It was fun to Vinnie, indeed.




CHAPTER XIX.

LINK'S WOOD-PILE.


The dinner, though late that day, was unusually sumptuous, and Betterson
and his boys brought to it keen appetites from their work. Vinnie's
cooking received merited praise, and the most cordial good-will
prevailed. Even little Chokie, soiling face and fingers with a
"drum-stick" he was gnawing, lisped out his commendation of the repast.

"I wish Aunt Vinnie would be here forever, and div us dood victuals."

"I second the motion!" cried Link, sucking a "wish-bone," and then
setting it astride his nose,--"to dry," as he said.

"One would think we never had anything fit to eat before," said Mrs.
Betterson; while my lord looked flushed and frowning over his frayed
stock.

"You know, mother," said Lill, "I never could cook prairie chickens. And
you haven't been well enough to, since the boys began to shoot them."

"Lincoln," said Mrs. Betterson, "remove that unsightly object from your
nose! Have you forgotten your manners?"

"He never had any!" exclaimed Rufe, snatching the wish-bone from its
perch.

"Here! give that back! I'm going to keep it, and wish with Cecie bimeby,
and we're both going to wish that Aunt Vinnie had come here a year
ago--that is--I mean--pshaw!" said Link, whose ideas were getting rather
mixed.

Poor Mrs. Betterson complained a great deal to her sister that afternoon
of the impossibility of keeping up the style and manners of the family
in that new country.

Vinnie--who sat holding the baby by Cecie's lounge--asked why the family
had chosen that new country.

"Mr. Betterson had been unfortunate in business at the East, and it was
thought best that he should try Illinois," was Caroline's way of stating
that after her husband had run through two small fortunes which had
fallen to him, and exhausted the patience of relatives upon whom he was
constantly calling for help, a wealthy uncle had purchased this farm for
him, and placed him on it to be rid of him.

"I should think you might sell the farm and move away," said Vinnie.

"There are certain obstacles," replied Caroline; the said uncle, knowing
that Lord could not keep property from flying away, having shrewdly tied
this down by means of a mortgage.

"One thing," Caroline continued, "I have always regretted. A
considerable sum of money fell to Mr. Betterson after we came here; and
he--wisely, we thought at the time, but unfortunately, as it
proved--put it into this house. We expected to have a large part of it
left; but the cost of building was such that all was absorbed before the
house was finished."

Such was Caroline's account of the manner in which the "castle" came to
be built. Vinnie was amazed at the foolish vanity and improvidence of
the lord of it; but she only said,--

"There seems to be a great deal of unused room in the house; I should
think you might let that, and a part of the farm, to another family."

Caroline smiled pityingly.

"Lavinia dear, you don't understand. _We_ could never think of taking
another family into _our_ house, for the sake of _money_! though it
might be well to let the farm. Besides, there is really one more in the
family than you see. I think I haven't yet spoken to you of
Radcliff,--my husband's nephew."

"You mentioned such a person in your letter to me," replied Vinnie.

"Ah, yes; when I was giving some of the reasons why we had never had you
come and live with us. Well off as we were at one time,--and are now in
prospect, if not in actual appearance,--we could not very well take you
as a child into our family, if we took Radcliff. He was early left an
orphan, and it was thought best by the connections that he should be
brought up by my husband. I assure you, Lavinia, that nobody but a
Betterson should ever have been allowed to take your place in _our_
family."

Vinnie pictured to herself a youth of precious qualities and great
promise, and asked,--

"Where is Radcliff now?"

"He is not with us just at present. He is of age, and his own master;
and though we make a home for him, he's away a good deal."

"What is his business?"

"He has no fixed pursuit. He is, in short, a gentleman at large."

"What supports him?"

"He receives a limited allowance from our relatives on the Betterson
side," said Caroline, pleased with the interest her sister seemed to
take in the illustrious youth. "He is not so stylish a man as my
husband, by any means; my husband is a Betterson of the Bettersons. But
Radcliff has _the blood_, and is _very_ aristocratic in his tastes."

Caroline enlarged upon this delightful theme, until Cecie (who seemed to
weary of it) exclaimed,--

"O mother, do see how Aunt Vinnie soothes the baby!"

Indeed, it seemed as if the puny thing must have felt the flood of
warmth and love from Vinnie's heart bathing its little life.

That afternoon Rufe and Wad sawed and split the wood, and Link (with
Chokie's powerful assistance) carried it into an unfinished room behind
the kitchen,--sometimes called the "back-room," and sometimes the
"lumber-room,"--and corded it up against the wall. An imposing pile it
was, of which the young architect was justly proud, no such sight ever
having been seen in that house before.

[Illustration: LINK'S WOOD-PILE.]

Every ten or fifteen minutes he called Vinnie or Lill to see how the
pile grew; and at last he insisted on bringing Cecie, and letting her be
astonished.

Cecie was only too glad of any little diversion. She could walk with a
good deal of assistance; Vinnie almost lifted the poor girl in her
loving arms; Link supported her on the other side; and so they bore her
to the back-room, where she leaned affectionately on Vinnie, while Link
stood aside and pointed proudly at his wood-pile.

"We never could get him to bring in a stick of wood before, without
teasing or scolding him," said Lill.

"This is different; there's some fun in this," said Link. "Rufe and Wad
have been at work like sixty; and we wanted to see how big a pile we
could make."

All praised the performance; and Mrs. Betterson so far forgot herself as
to say she felt rich now, with so much nice, dry, split wood in the
house.

"But what a remark," she added immediately, turning to Vinnie, "for one
of _our_ family to make!"

"I was never so proud of my brothers!" said Cecie. "If I was only well
enough, how I should like to help pile up that wood!"

"Dear Cecie!" cried Vinnie, embracing her, "I wish you _were_ well
enough! And I hope you will be some time."

The wood was all disposed of that afternoon, and the boys concluded that
they had had a pretty good time over it.

"Now we can loaf for a whole week, and make a business of it," said Wad.

"There's one more job that ought to be done," said Rufe. "That
potato-patch. We can't keep the pigs out of it, and it's time the
potatoes were dug."

"I s'pose so," said Wad. "Wish we had a hired man."

"It isn't much of a job," said Rufe. "And we don't want to be seen
loafing round, now _she's_ here."

"We can go up in the woods and loaf," said Wad.

"Don't talk silly," said Rufe. "Come, I'll go at the potatoes to-morrow,
if you will. We'll dig, and make Link pick 'em up."

"I was going to shoot some more prairie chickens to-morrow. We've no
other meat for dinner."

"We'll get father to shoot them. Come, Wad, what do you say?"

Wad declined to commit himself to an enterprise requiring so large an
outlay of bone and muscle. All Rufe could get from him was a promise to
"sleep on the potatoes" and say what he thought of them in morning.

The next morning accordingly, before the cattle were turned out of the
yard, Rufe said,--

"Shall we yoke up the steers and take the wagon down into the
potato-patch? We can be as long as we please filling it."

"Yes, we may as well take it down there and leave it," Wad assented; and
the steers were yoked accordingly.

Lord Betterson was not surprised to see the wagon go to the
potato-patch, where he thought it might as well stay during the rest of
the season, as anywhere else. But he _was_ surprised afterward to see
the three boys--or perhaps we should say four, for Chokie was of the
party--start off with their hoes and baskets.

"We are going to let _you_ shoot the prairie chickens this forenoon,"
said Rufe. "You'll find the gun and ammunition all ready, in the
back-room. We are going at the potatoes."

Link went ahead and pulled the tops, and afterward picked up the
potatoes, filling the baskets, which his brothers helped him carry off
and empty into the wagon-box; while Chokie dug holes in the black loam
to his heart's content.

"We might have had a noble crop here," said Rufe, "if it hadn't been for
the weeds and pigs. Wad, we mustn't let the weeds get the start of us so
another year. And we'll do some repairs on the fences this fall. I'm
ashamed of 'em!"




CHAPTER XX.

MORE WATER THAN THEY WANTED.


A doctor from North Mills came once a week to visit Cecie and the sick
mother and baby. One afternoon he brought in his chaise a saddle and
bridle, which he said a young fellow would call for in a day or two. The
boys laughed as they put the saddle away; they knew who the young fellow
was, and they hoped he would have a chance to use it.

Snowfoot's week was up the next forenoon; and at about ten o'clock Jack,
accompanied by Lion, and carrying a double-barrelled fowling-piece, with
which he had shot a brace of prairie hens by the way, walked into the
Betterson door-yard.

He found the boys at the lower end of the house, with the steers and
wagon.

"What's the news?" he asked.

"The news with us is, that we're out of rainwater," Rufe replied.

"I should think so," said Jack, looking into a dry hogshead which stood
under the eaves-spout.

"It's too much of a bother to bring all our water by the pailful. So we
are going to fill these things at the river and make the steers haul
'em."

There were three wash-tubs and a barrel, which the boys were putting up
on the bottom boards of the wagon-box, from which the sides had been
removed.

Jack was pleased with this appearance of enterprise; he also noticed
with satisfaction that the yard had been cleared up since he last saw
it.

He asked about Vinnie, and learned from the looks and answers the boys
gave him that she was popular.

"Your saddle came yesterday," said Wad; "so I s'pose you expect to ride
home."

"I feel rather inclined that way. How is our friend Peakslow?"

"Don't know; he went to Chicago, and he hasn't got back."

"Hasn't got back!" said Jack, astonished. "That's mean business!"

He smothered his vexation, however, and told the boys that he would go
with them to the river, after he had spoken with Vinnie.

Entering the house, he was still more surprised at the changes which had
taken place since his last visit.

"Her coming has been the greatest blessing!" said Caroline, detaining
him in the sitting-room. "We are all better,--the doctor noticed it
yesterday; Cecie and baby and I are all better. Lavinia dear will see
you presently; I think she is just taking some bread out of the oven."

"Let me go into the kitchen--she won't mind me," said Jack.

Vinnie, rosy-red from her baking, met him at the door. He had been very
anxious about her since he left her there; but a glance showed him that
all had gone well.

"You have survived!" he said.

"Yes, indeed!" she replied. "I told you I would make things pleasant
here."

"The boys like you, I see."

"And I like them. They do all they can for me. Rufus even helped me
about the washing,--pounded and wrung out the clothes. You must stay to
dinner to-day."

"I think I may have to," said Jack; "for my horse hasn't come back from
Chicago yet, and I don't mean to go home without him."

When he went out he found the boys waiting, and accepted a seat with
Wad and Link on a board placed across two of the tubs. Rufe walked by
the cattle's horns; while in the third tub sat Chokie.

"You can't sit in that tub going back, you know," said Link.

"Yes, I can! I will!" And Chokie clung fast to the handles.

"O, well, you can if you want to, I suppose!" said Link; "but it will be
full of water."

They passed the potato-patch (Jack smiled to see that the potatoes had
been dug), crossed a strip of meadow-land below, and then rounded a bend
in the river, in the direction of a deep place the boys knew.

"I always hate to ride after oxen,--they go so tormented slow!" said
Link. "Why don't somebody invent a wagon to go by steam?"

"Did you ever see a wagon go by water?" Jack asked.

"No, nor anybody else!"

"I have," said Jack. "I know a man in this county who has one."

"What man? I'd go five miles to see one!"

"You can see one without going so far. The man is your father, and this
is the wagon. It is going by water now."

"By water--yes! By the river!" said Link, amused and vexed.

"Link," said Jack, "do you remember that little joke of yours about the
boys stopping the leak in the boat? Well, we are even now."

Rufe backed the hind-wheels of the wagon into the river, over the deep
place, and asked Wad which he would do,--dip the water and pass it up by
the pailful, or stay in the wagon and receive it.

"Whoever dips it up has to stand in the river above his knees," said
Wad; "and I don't mean to get wet to-day."

"Very well; stay in the wagon, then. You'll get as wet as I shall; for
I'm going to pull off my shoes and roll up my trousers. Chokie, you keep
in that tub, just where you are, till the tub is wanted. Link, you'd
better go into the river with me, and dip the pails, while I pass 'em up
to Wad."

"I never can keep my trousers-legs rolled up, and I ain't going to get
wet," said Link. Then, whispering to Jack: "There's leeches in this
river; they get right into a fellow's flesh and suck his blood like
sixty."

Wad proposed to begin with the barrel, and to have Link stand at the end
of the wagon, receive the pails, pass them to him, and pass them back to
Rufe empty.

"Why not move the barrel to the end of the wagon, and fill it about two
thirds full, and then move it back again? I'll help you do that," said
Link.

"All right; I'll fill the barrel and one of the tubs; then you shall
fill the other two tubs."

Link agreed to this; while Jack smiled to hear so much talk about doing
so small a thing.

Rufe went in bare-legged, and stood on the edge of the deep hole, where
the water was hardly up to his knees. Much as he disliked, ordinarily,
to set about any work, he was strong and active when once roused; and
the pails of water went up on the wagon about as fast as Wad cared to
take them.

"Hullo! Don't slop so! You're wetting my feet!" cried Wad.

"I can't keep from spilling a drop once in a while. You might have taken
off your shoes and rolled up your trousers as I did."

The barrel was soon two thirds full, and Wad called upon Link to help
him move it forward. Link left his seat by Jack's side, and walked back
to the rear of the wagon. Wad, as we know, was already there. So was the
barrel of water, standing just back of the rear axletree. So also was a
fresh pail of water, which Rufe had placed at the extreme end, because
Wad was not ready to take it.

At that moment the oxen, hungry for fresh grass, and having nipped all
within reach of their noses, started up a little. Jack, thinking to
prevent mischief by running to their heads, leaped from the front of the
wagon.

This abrupt removal of weight from one end, and large increase of
avoirdupois at the other, produced a natural but very surprising result.
Chokie in his tub, though at the long end of the beam, so to speak (the
rear axletree being the fulcrum), was not heavy enough to counterbalance
two brothers and a barrel of water at the short end.

He suddenly felt himself rising in the air, and sliding with the empty
tubs. His brothers at the same moment felt themselves sinking and
pitching. There was a chorus of shrieks, as they made a desperate effort
to save themselves. Too late; the wagon-bottom reared, and away went
barrel, boys, tubs, everything.

The oxen, starting at the alarm, helped to precipitate the catastrophe.
Fortunately, Jack was at hand to stop them, or the dismantled wagon
might have gone flying across the lot, even fast enough to suit Link's
notion of speed.

Rufe made one quick effort to prevent the boards from tipping up, then
leaped aside, while the discharged load shot past him.

Chokie, screaming, held fast to the sides of his tub with both hands.
Wad, intending to jump, plunged into the deepest part of the river. Link
made a snatch at the barrel, and, playing at leap-frog over it (very
unwillingly), went headlong into the deep hole.

Chokie met with a wonderfully good fortune; his tub was launched so
neatly, and ballasted so nicely by him sitting in the bottom, that it
shipped but a splash of water, and he floated away, unhurt and scarcely
wet at all, amidst the general ruin.

The wagon-boards, relieved of their load, tumbled back upon the wheels.
To add to the confusion, Lion barked furiously.

Jack, frightened at first, finally began to laugh, when he saw Chokie
sailing away, under full scream, and Wad and Link scrambling out of the
water.

"So you were the fellows that were not going to get wet!" cried Rufe.
"Pick out your barrel and empty tubs, while I catch Chokie!"

The river, even in the deepest place, was not very deep; and Wad and
Link came wading out, blowing water from their mouths, flirting water
from their hair, and shaking water from their rescued hats, in a way
that made Rufe (after he had stranded Chokie in his tub) roll upon the
grass in convulsions.

"Laugh, then!" cried Wad in a rage; "I'll give you something to laugh
at!" And, catching up a tub partly filled with water, he rushed with it
to take wet vengeance on his dry brother.

Before Rufe, helpless with laughter, could move to defend himself, tub,
water, and Wad, all together, were upon him,--the tub capsizing over his
head and shoulders, Wad tumbling upon the tub, and the water running out
in little rivulets below.

Rufe was pretty wet, but still laughing, when he crawled out, like a
snail from under his shell, and got upon his feet, clutching the tub to
hurl it at Wad, who fled.

"You are the only one who has got any dry fun out of this scrape!" Rufe
said, trying to brush the water out of his neck and breast.

His words were addressed to Jack, and they proved more strictly true
than he intended; for just then Chokie, trying to get out of his
stranded tub, tipped it over, and went out of it, upon his hands and
knees, into the river. By the time he was pulled out and set upon dry
ground, the boys were all pretty good-natured.

"How about those leeches, Link? Did you find any?" said Jack.

"I'm too dizzy yet, to think about leeches," replied Link. "I turned a
somerset out of that wagon so quick, I could see the patch on the seat
of my trousers!"

"I thought I was going through to China," said Wad, "and expected, when
I came up, to see men with pigtails."

He stood on the edge of the water, holding another tub for Rufe, if he
should come too near.

"Quit your nonsense now!" cried Rufe, "and hand up that barrel."

"I'll quit if you will,--as the poultry-thief said when the old gobbler
chased him. 'Quit, quit!' says the turkey. 'Quit your ownself!' says the
thief. And I'm just of his way of thinking," said Wad.

"Well! help me put this wagon into shape," said Rufe. "Then we'll fill
our tubs and barrel without any more fooling."

The wagon-boards were replaced and loaded without any further accident.
The well-filled tubs were set one upon another, and Wad stood holding
them; while Link, having placed the board seat over the barrel of water,
sat upon it. They found it a pretty sloppy ride; but they could laugh
defiance at a little water now. Chokie, it need hardly be said, did not
ride in a tub of water, but walked between Jack and Rufe beside the
oxen.




CHAPTER XXI.

PEAKSLOW SHOWS HIS HAND.


"Hullo!" cried Link from his perch, as the wagon passed the
potato-patch, "there comes Peakslow down the road through the
woods,--just turning the corner for home!"

Jack started with sudden excitement.

"Can you see his team?"

"Yes; one of the horses looks like yours; and he has an extra horse led
behind."

Jack ran up to the road to get a look, and came laughing back to the
house, where the boys and their load of water had by that time arrived.

"He is driving my horse, and leading one of his own. I am going to get
my bridle, and call on him."

"You'll come back to dinner?" said Rufe.

"Yes, if you'll have my prairie chickens cooked."

And, leaving the boys to astonish the family with their wet clothes,
Jack, with the bridle on his arm, walked down the road.

Just as he was entering Peakslow's yard, he met Mr. Wiggett coming out
with his arms full of brown-paper parcels.

"Mr. Wiggett! glad to see you!"

"Same to yourself," replied the old man. "Got my arms full o' this yer
stuff, or I'd shake hands. I've a lot more o' comforts for wife and
young uns in the wagon; but I thought I'd lug along suthin, or they
wouldn't be glad to see me."

"Is it all right about the horse?"

"I 'low it's all right."

"Is Peakslow up to any trick?"

"Nary, as I kin diskiver; and I pumped him, tew, right smart, a-comin'
over the perairie."

"Did he have much trouble getting back his horse?"

"Not sich a dog-goned sight. Truckman's a straightfor'ard, honest chap.
Says he guv eighty dollars for your hoss; thinks he had him of the thief
himself; and 'lows he knows the rascal. He stuck out a little at fust,
and you should 'a' heard Peakslow talk tew him! 'Twas ekal to gwine to
preachin'."

"What did he say?"

"Said none but a fool or a scoundrel would ca'c'late he could hang ontew
a piece o' prop'ty that had been stole, or traded for what had been
stole. Talked, of course, just t' other way from what he did when he
talked to you. Truckman didn't mind his gab, but when he was satisfied
the hoss he put away had been stole, he guv up Peakslow's, and the
fifteen dollars to boot. Now, how in the name of seven kingdoms
Peakslow's gwine to turn it about to make anything more, beats all my
understandin'!"

Jack thanked the old man warmly for the interest he had taken in the
affair, and asked how he could pay him for his trouble.

"I haven't looked for no pay," replied the old man. "But one thing I
should like to have ye dew for me, if ever ye come my way agin with yer
compass. My woman guv me right smart of her jaw for forgittin' it when
ye was thar before. She wants a noon-mark on our kitchen floor."

"All right," said Jack. "She shall have it."

The old man went on with his bundles, while Jack entered Peakslow's
yard.

Peakslow, who was unharnessing his team, with the help of two stout
boys, looked up and said, in a tone which he meant should be
friendly,----

"How are ye? On hand, I see," with a grim smile at the bridle.

"I was on hand a little before you were," replied Jack. "Your week was
up an hour ago. Though I don't care about that. You've got your horse, I
see."

"That's the main thing I went for; course I've got him. Here's a paper,
with the truckman's name wrote on 't; he wants you to come and see him
when you go to town, pervided he don't come to see you fust."

"Did he say anything about a bridle and a blanket that were on the horse
when he was stolen?"

"He's got 'em," Peakslow coolly replied; "but as no reward was offered
for anything but the hoss, I didn't take 'em."

Jack didn't quite see the logic of this remark.

"Never mind; they are trifles," he said. "It's glory enough for one
while, to get my horse again. I've a bridle here for him; I'll slip it
on, Zeph, if you'll slip yours off."

"You can slip your bridle on that hoss, and take him away, when you've
fulfilled the conditions; not before," said Peakslow.

"What conditions? You don't pretend to claim my horse now you've got
your own back?"

"I've got a claim on him," Peakslow replied. "Here's your own handbill
for it. Twenty Dollars Reward! I've got back your hoss for ye, and I
demand the reward."

This, then, after all, was the quirk in Peakslow's head. The boys
grinned. Jack was astounded.

"Peakslow," he exclaimed indignantly, "you know that's an absurd claim!
You didn't find my horse and deliver him to me; I found him in your
hands, and you even refused to give him up! The truckman has a better
claim for the reward than you have, for he had him first; and then I
don't see but the thief himself has a prior claim to either."

"You talk like a fool!" said Peakslow.

"You _act_ like a fool and a knave!" Jack retorted, in a sudden blaze.
"I won't have any more words with you. Sue for the reward, if you think
you can get it. I'm just going to take my horse!"

"Not till the reward is paid, if I live!" said Peakslow, his black eyes
sparkling. "Zeph, step and hand out the old gun!"




CHAPTER XXII.

THE WOODLAND SPRING.


Very pale, with the bridle dangling from his arm, and Lion walking
dejectedly by his side (the sympathetic dog always knew when his master
was in trouble), Jack returned to the "castle."

Lord Betterson, meeting him in the door-yard, touched his hat and bowed.

"Where--is--your--quadruped?" he asked, with a cool, deliberate
politeness, which fell upon Jack's mood like drops of water on red-hot
steel.

"That villain! he claims the reward for him! But I never'll pay it in
the world!"

Betterson smiled and said, "Ah! Peakslow! Highly characteristic!"

"He threatened to shoot me!"

"Very likely. He has threatened to shoot _me_, on one or two occasions.
I said, 'Shoot!'" (Jack wondered whether he said it with that
condescending smile and gracious gesture.) "It isn't agreeable to have
dealings with a person who talks of shooting his fellow-men; but I
imagine there's no danger, if you keep cool."

"I couldn't keep cool," said Jack. "I got as mad as he was. I could have
shot _him_."

"That, my friend," Lord Betterson replied, with a wave of the hand, "was
an error,--quite natural, but still an error. You stay to dinner?"

"Thank you, I have promised myself that pleasure."

Jack was ashamed of having given way to his anger; and he determined
from that moment, whatever happened, to keep calm.

As he threw his useless bridle down, and left Lion to guard it, he saw
Wad starting off with a pail, and asked where he was going.

"For water," said Wad.

"More water? I should think you all had enough for one day!"

"Yes, for the outer man," drawled Wad. "Where's your horse?"

"I concluded to let Peakslow keep him a little longer. He seemed willing
to; and I am not ready to ride home. May I go with you?"

"Glad to have ye," said Wad.

They walked a little way along the road toward Peakslow's house, then
entered the woodland, descended into a little ravine, and, on the slope
beyond, found a spring of running water in the shade of an oak grove.

Jack was not inclined to talk of Snowfoot, but he had a good deal to say
about the spring.

"Why, this is charming! What a clear basin of water! Is it always
running over?"

"Always, even in the driest season. We first noticed that little stream
trickling down into the ravine; and that's about all there was to be
seen, till Rufe and I hollowed out this basin."

"Why don't you come here with your wagon and tubs, instead of going to
the river?"

"There's no good way to get in here with a wagon; and, besides, we can't
dip up more than two or three pailfuls at a time,--then we must wait for
the spring to fill."

"You could sink a barrel," said Jack, "and always have that full, to
start upon. Now dip your pail, and let's see how long it takes for the
basin to fill."

The experiment was tried, and Jack grew quite enthusiastic over the
result.

"See! how fast the water comes in! I say, Wad, you've got something
valuable here."

"Yes," said Wad. "I only wish the house had been built somewhere near.
This is part of the land Peakslow pretended to claim. The swing, where
Cecie got hurt, is in the grove, just up here."

The place was so cool and pleasant that Jack let Wad return alone with
the water, and walked about the spring and the swing, and up into the
woods beyond, calming his inward excitement, until dinner-time.

At table he gave a humorous account of his late interview with Peakslow.

"He was so very cordial in his request that I should leave Snowfoot,
that I couldn't well refuse,--though I _did_ decline to trouble him,
till he brought out a double-barrelled argument,--stub twist, percussion
lock,--which finally persuaded me. He is one of the most urgent men I
ever saw," added Jack, mashing his potato.

Vinnie smiled, while the others laughed; but her eyes were full of
anxiety, as they beamed on Jack.

"Isn't it possible," she said, "to meet such arguments with kindness? I
didn't think there was a man so bad that he couldn't be influenced by
reason and good-will."

"It might rain reasons on Peakslow, forty days and forty nights,--he
would shed 'em, as a duck does water," Jack replied. "Isn't it so, Mr.
Betterson?"

"I have certainly found him impervious," said my lord.

"I might have stopped to argue with him, and threaten him with the law
and costs of court, and perhaps have settled the matter for five or ten
dollars. But the truth is," Jack confessed, "I lost patience and temper.
I am not going to have any more words with him. Now let's drop Peakslow,
and speak of something more important. That spring over in your woods,
Mr. Betterson,--I've been looking at it. Is it soft water?" (Jack lifted
a glass and sipped it;) "as good for washing as it is for the table?"

"It is excellent water for any purpose," said Mr. Betterson. "There is
only one fault in that spring,--it is too far off."

"We are going to move the house up there, so as to have it handy," said
Link.

"That is one of my young friend's jokes," said Jack. "But, seriously,
Mr. Betterson, instead of moving the house to the spring, why don't you
bring the spring to the house?"

"How do you mean? It doesn't seem quite--ah--practicable, to move a
spring that way."

"I don't mean the spring itself, of course, but the water. You might
have that running, a constant stream, in your kitchen or back-room."

"I apprehend your drift," said Betterson, helping Jack to a piece of
prairie chicken. "You mean, bring it in pipes."

"Thank you. Precisely."

"But I apprehend a difficulty; it is not easy to make water run up
hill."

Jack smiled, and blushed a little, at Betterson's polite condescension
in making this mild objection.

"Water running down hill may force itself up another hill, if confined
in pipes, I think you will concede."

"Most assuredly. But it will not rise again higher than its source. And
the spring is lower than we are,--lower than our kitchen sink."

"I don't quite see that," replied Jack, with the air of a candid
inquirer. "I have been over the ground, and it didn't strike _me_ so."

"It certainly looks to be several feet lower," said Betterson; and the
boys agreed with him.

"We generally speak of going _down_ to the spring," said Rufe. "We go
down the road, then down the bank of the ravine, and then a little way
up the other bank. I don't know how we can tell just how much lower it
is. We can't see the spring from the house."

"If I had my instruments here, I could tell you which is lower, and how
much lower, pretty soon. While I am waiting for Snowfoot, (I can't go
home, you know, without Snowfoot!) I may, perhaps, do a bit of
engineering, as it is."




CHAPTER XXIII.

JACK'S "BIT OF ENGINEERING."


The boys got around Jack after dinner, and asked him about that bit of
engineering.

"In the first place," said Jack, standing outside the door, and looking
over toward the spring, hidden by intervening bushes on a ridge, "we
must have a water-level, and I think I can make one. Get me a piece of
shingle, or any thin strip of wood. And I shall want a pail of water."

A shingle brought, Jack cut it so that it would float freely in the
pail; and, having taken two thin strips of equal length from the sides,
he set them up near each end, like the masts of a boy's boat.

"Now, this is our level," he said; "and these masts are the sights. To
see that they are exact, we will look across them at some object, then
turn the level end for end, and look across them again; if the range is
the same both ways, then our sights are right, are they not? But I see
we must lay a couple of sticks across the pail, to hold our level still
while we are using it."

The boys were much interested; and Link said he didn't see what anybody
wanted of a better level than that.

[Illustration: TESTING THE LEVEL.]

"It will do for the use we are going to make of it," said Jack; "but it
might not be quite convenient for field service; you couldn't carry a
pail of water, and a floating shingle with two masts, in your
overcoat-pocket, you know. We'll aim at a leg of that grindstone. Go and
stick your knife where I tell you, Link."

Jack soon got his level so that it would stand the test, and called the
boys to look.

"Here! you stand back, Chokie!" cried Link; while Rufe and Wad, one
after the other, got down on the ground and sighted across the level at
the knife-blade.

"Now," Jack explained, "I am going to set this pail of water in your
kitchen window, by the sink. That will be our starting-point. Then I
want one of you boys to go, with a long-handled pitchfork, in the
direction of the spring, as far as you can and keep the pail in sight;
then set up your fork, and pin a piece of white paper on it just where I
tell you. As I raise my hand, you will slide the paper up; and, as I
lower my hand, you will slip it down."

Wad and Link both went with the fork, which they set up on the borders
of the woodland, back from the road. Then Wad, wrapping a piece of
newspaper about the handle, held it there as high as his head, with a
good strip of it visible above his hand.

Jack, standing in the kitchen, looked across the sights of his level
placed in the open window, and laughed.

"What do you think, Rufe? Is the paper high enough?"

"It ought to be a foot or two higher," was Rufe's judgment.

"_I_ say _a foot_ higher," remarked Lord Betterson, coming up behind.

"What do you say, Vinnie?"

"I think the paper is too high."

"Now look across the level," said Jack.

All were astonished; and Lord Betterson could hardly be convinced that
the level was constructed on sound principles. It showed that the top of
the paper should be just below Wad's knee.

"Now we will take our level," said Jack, after the paper was pinned in
its proper place, "and go forward and make another observation."

He chose a place at the top of the ridge beyond Wad, where, after
cutting a few bushes, he was able to look back and see the fork-handle,
and also to look forward and see the spring. There he set his pail on
the ground, waited for the water to become still, adjusted his level,
and caused a second strip of paper to be pinned to the fork-handle, in
range with the sights.

The boys then gathered around the fork, while Jack, taking a pocket-rule
from his coat, ascertained that the second paper was six feet and an
inch above the first.

"Which shows that our level is now six feet and an inch higher than it
stood on the kitchen window," said he. "Now let's see how much higher it
is than the spring."

Link was already on his hands and knees by the pail, turning the sights
in range with the spring on the farther side of the little ravine. He
suddenly flapped his arms and crowed.

"No need of setting the fork over there," he said. "The spring is
_almost_ as high as the pail!"

"Let's be exact," said Jack; and he went himself and thrust the fork,
handle downward, into the basin of the spring. "Now, Link, you be the
engineer; show your skill; tell me where to fix this paper."

Link was delighted with the important part assigned him.

"Higher!" he commanded, from behind the pail. "Not quite so high. Not
quite so low. Now just a millionth part of an inch higher--there!"

"A millionth part of an inch is drawing it rather fine," said Jack, as
he pinned the paper.

Afterward, going and looking across the level, he decided that Link had
taken a very accurate aim. Then, his pocket-measure being once more
applied, the paper was found to be only seven inches higher than the
water in the basin.

"Seven inches from six feet one inch, leaves five feet six inches as the
height of the spring water above the level of our sights at the kitchen
window. Now, I measured, and found they were there thirteen inches
higher than the bottom of the sink; which shows that if you carry this
water in pipes, you can have your spout, or faucet, thirteen inches
higher than the bottom of your sink, and still have a head of water of
five feet and six inches, to give you a running stream."

The boys were much astonished, and asked how it happened that they had
been so deceived.

"You have unconsciously based all your calculations on the fact that you
go _down_ to Peakslow's. The road falls a little all the way. But it
doesn't fall much between your house and the place where you turn into
the woodland. There you take a path among the bushes, which really rises
all the way, though quite gradually, until you pass the ridge and go
down into the ravine. Vinnie hasn't been accustomed to talk of going
down to the spring, as you have; and so, you see, she was the only one
who thought Wad at first placed his paper too high. Perhaps this doesn't
account for your mistake; but it is the best reason I can give."

"How about the pipes?" Rufe asked.

"You can use pump-logs for pipes."

"But we have no pump-logs!"

"You have enough to reach from here to North Mills and return. They are
growing all about you."

"Trees!" said Wad. "They are not pump-logs."

"Pump-logs in the rough," replied Jack. "They only need cutting, boring,
and jointing. All pump-logs were once trees. These small-sized oaks are
just the thing for the purpose; you have acres of them, and in places
the timber needs thinning out. You can use the straight stems for your
aqueduct, and the limbs and branches for firewood."

"That's an idea!" said Rufe, rubbing his forehead and walking quickly
about. "But how are we going to turn our tree-trunks into pump-logs? We
have no tools for boring and jointing."

"No, and it would cost a good deal to get them. You want an iron rod, or
auger-shaft, long enough to bore half-way through your longest log; then
a bit,--an inch bore would be large enough, but I suppose it would be
just as easy, perhaps easier, to make a two-inch bore,--the auger would
be more apt to get clogged and cramped in a smaller hole; then a reamer
and a circular joint-plane, to make your joints,--the taper end of one
log is to be fitted into the bore of the next, you know. You will also
need some apparatus for holding your log and directing the rod, so that
you sha'n't bore out, but make your holes meet in the middle, when you
bore from both ends; and I don't know what else. I've watched men boring
logs, but I don't remember all the particulars about it."

"You seem to remember a good deal," said Wad. "And I like the idea of a
stream from this spring running in our back-room,--think of it, Rufe!
But it _can't be did_,--as the elephant said when he tried to climb a
tree. No tools, no money to buy or hire 'em, or to hire the work done."

"You boys can do a good deal of the work yourselves," said Jack. "You
can cut the logs, and get them all ready for boring. Then you can get
the pump-maker at the Mills to come over with his tools and help you
bore them by hand; or you can haul your logs to him, and have them bored
by machinery,--he has a tread-mill, and a horse to turn it. In either
case, I've no doubt you could pay for his labor by furnishing logs for
his pumps."

"I believe we can!" said Rufe, by this time quite warmed up to the
subject. "But how about laying the logs? They have to be put pretty deep
into the ground, don't they?"

"Deep enough so that the water in them won't freeze. A trench four feet
deep will answer."

"How wide?"

"Just wide enough for a man to get into it and lay the logs and drive
the joints together. And, by the way, you'd better be sure that there
are no leaks, and that the water comes through all right, before you
cover your logs."

"But there's work in digging such a trench as that!" said Wad, shaking
his head.

"So there is work in everything useful that is ever accomplished. Often
the more work, the greater the satisfaction in the end. But you boys
have got it in you,--I see that; and, let me tell you," said Jack, "if I
were you, I would take hold of things on this place in downright
earnest, and make a farm and a home to be proud of."

"I never could get in love with work," replied Wad. "I'm
_constitutionally tired_, as the lazy man said. The thought of that
trench makes my back ache."

"It won't be such a back-aching job as you suppose. You've only to take
one stroke with a pick or shovel at a time. And as for that
constitutional weariness you complain of, now is the time in your lives
to get rid of it,--to work it out of your blood,--and lay the
foundations of your manhood."

"I must say, you preach pretty well!" observed Wad.

"I'm not much of a preacher," replied Jack; "but I can't help feeling a
good deal, and saying just a word, when I see young fellows like you
neglecting your opportunities."

"If father and Rad would take hold with us, we would just straighten
things," said Rufe.

"Don't wait for your father to set you an example," replied Jack. "I
don't know about Rad, though I've heard you speak of him."

"Our cousin, Radcliff," said Rufe. "He's a smart fellow, in his way, but
he don't like work any better than we do, and he's off playing the
gentleman most of the time."

"Or playing the loafer," said Wad.

"Let him stay away," said Jack. "You'll do better without any gentlemen
loafers around."

"Did _you_ ever do much hard work?" Wad asked.

"What do you think?" replied Jack, with a smile.

"I think you've seen something of the world."

"Yes, and I've had my way to make in it. I was brought up on the Erie
Canal,--a driver, ignorant, ragged, saucy; you wouldn't believe me if I
should tell you what a little wretch I was. All the education I have, I
have gained by hard study, mostly at odd spells, in the last three
years. I had got a chance to work on a farm, and go to school in winter;
then I took to surveying, and came out here to be with Mr. Felton. So,
you see, I must have done something besides loafing; and if I talk work
to you I have earned the right to."

"I say, boys!" cried Link, "le's put this thing through, and have the
water running in the house."

"It will do for you to talk," said Wad; "mighty little of the work
you'll do."

"You'll see, Wad Betterson! Hain't I worked the past week as hard as
either of you?"

"This thing isn't to be pitched into in a hurry," said Rufe, more
excited than he wished to appear. "We shall have to look it all over,
and talk with the pump-maker, and do up some of the farm-work that is
behindhand."

"Why don't you take the farm of your father," said Jack, "and see what
you can make out of it? I never knew what it was to be really interested
in work till I took some land with another boy, and we raised a crop on
our own account."

Rufe brightened at the idea; but Wad said he wasn't going to be a
farmer, anyway.

"What are you going to be?"

"I haven't made up my mind yet."

"Till you do make up your mind, my advice is for you to take hold of
what first comes to your hand, do that well, and prepare yourself for
something more to your liking."

"I believe that's good advice," said Rufe. "But it is going to be hard
for us to get out of the old ruts."

"I know it; and so much the more credit you will have when you succeed."

Jack moved away.

"Where are you going now?" Rufe asked.

"To reconnoitre a little, and see what Peakslow has done with my horse.
I ride that horse home, you understand!"




CHAPTER XXIV.

PREPARING FOR THE ATTACK.


The boys showed Jack a way through the timber to a wooded hill opposite
Peakslow's house. There Link climbed a tree to take an observation.

[Illustration: OLD WIGGETT.]

"I can look right over into his barnyard," he reported to his companions
below. "There's old Wiggett with his ox-cart, unloading something out
of Peakslow's wagon; and there's Peakslow with him. Hark!" After a
pause, Link laughed and said: "Peakslow's talking loud; I could hear him
say, 'That air hoss,' and 'Not if I live!' Now old Wiggett's hawing his
oxen around out of the yard."

"I must head him off and have a word with him," said Jack. And away he
dashed through the undergrowth.

Reaching a clump of hazels by the roadside, he waited till the old man
and his slow ox-team came along.

"What's the news, Mr. Wiggett?" Jack said, coming out and accosting him.

"Whoa! hush! back!" the old man commanded, beating his cattle across the
face with a short ox-goad. He shook with laughter as he turned to Jack.
"It's dog-gone-ation funny! He had a quirk in his head, arter all.
Hankers arter that reward of twenty dollars!"

"What did you say to him?"

"Told him he had no shadder of a claim,--he might sue ye through all the
courts in seven kingdoms, he couldn't find a jury to give him the reward
for stolen prop'ty found in his hands. He said for that reason he meant
to hold ontew the hoss till you'd agree to suthin."

"Where is the horse now?"

"In Peakslow's stable. He wants to turn him out to pastur', but he's
afraid you're hangin' round. He has set his boys to diggin' taters over
ag'in Betterson's lot, where they can watch for ye. What he re'ly wants
is, for you to come back and make him an offer, to settle the hash; for
he's a little skittish of your clappin' the law ontew him."

"I wonder he didn't think of that before."

"He did, but he says you'd showed yerself a kind of easy, accomodatin'
chap, and he'd no notion o' your gettin' so blamed riled all of a
suddint."

"That shows how much good it does to be easy with a man like him!" And
Jack, thanking old Wiggett for his information, disappeared in the
woods.

He found the boys waiting for him, and told them what he had learned.
"Now my cue is," said he, "to make Peakslow think I've gone home. So I
may as well leave you for the present. Please take care of my saddle and
bridle and gun till I call for them. Good by. If you _should_ happen to
come across the Peakslow boys--you understand!"

Rufe carelessly returned Jack's good-by. Then, leaving Wad and Link to
go by the way of the spring and take care of the pail and fork, he
walked down through the woods to the road, where he found Zeph and his
older brother Dud digging potatoes in Peakslow's corner patch.

"Hullo!" Dud called out, so civilly that Rufe knew that something was
wanted of him.

"Hullo yourself and see how you like it," Rufe retorted.

"Where's that fellow that owns the hoss?"

"How should I know?"

"He stopped to your house."

"That's so. But he's gone now."

"Where?"

"I don't know. He told us to keep his saddle and bridle and gun till he
called for 'em, and went off. You'll hear from him before many days."

Rufe's tone was defiant; and the young potato-diggers, having, as they
supposed, got the information they wanted, suffered their insolence to
crop out.

"We ain't afraid of him nor you either," said Zeph, leaning on his hoe.

"Yes, you are afraid of me, too, you young blackguard! I'll tie you into
a bow-knot and hang you on a tree, if I get hold of you."

"Le's see ye do it!"

Rufe answered haughtily: "You wouldn't stand there and sass me, if you
didn't have Dud to back you. Just come over the fence once, and leave
Dud on the other side; I'll pitch you into the middle of next week so
quick you'll be dizzy the rest of your natural life." And he walked on
up the road.

"Here! come back! I'll fight you! You're afraid!" Zeph yelled after him.

"I'll come round and 'tend to your case pretty soon," Rufe replied.
"I've something of more importance to look after just now; I've a pig to
poke."

Dud went on digging potatoes; but Zeph presently threw down his hoe and
ran to the house. Shortly after, he returned; and then Jack, who had sat
down to rest in a commanding position, on the borders of the woodland,
was pleased to see Peakslow lead Snowfoot down the slope from the barn,
and turn him into the pasture.

Rufe got home some time before his brothers, who seemed to linger at the
spring.

"There they are!" said Lill; "Link with the fork on his shoulder, and
Wad bringing the pail."

Rufe was sitting on the grindstone frame, as they came into the yard.

"Did you hear me blackguard the Peakslow boys? They think Jack--Hullo!"
Rufe suddenly exclaimed. "I thought you was Wad!"

"I am, for the present," said Jack, laughing under Wad's hat. "Do you
think Peakslow will know me ten rods off?"

"Not in that hat and coat! Lill and I both took you for Wad."

"I am all right, then! Where's your father? I wonder if he wouldn't like
to try my gun."

Lord Betterson now came out of the house, fresh from his after-dinner
nap, and looked a good deal of polite surprise at seeing Jack in Wad's
hat and coat.

"Mr. Betterson," said Jack, "Peakslow thinks I have gone home, and he
has turned Snowfoot out to grass. Now, if I _should_ wish to throw down
a corner of the fence between his pasture and your buckwheat, have you
any objection?"

"None whatever," replied my lord, with a flourish, as if giving Jack the
freedom of his acres.

"And perhaps," said Jack, "you would like to go down to the
buckwheat-lot with me and try my gun. I hear you are a crack shot."

"I can't boast much of my marksmanship nowadays; I could fetch down a
bird once. Thank you,--I'll go with pleasure."

"You are not going to get into trouble, Jack?" said Vinnie, with lively
concern, seeing him tie the halter to his back.

"O no! Mr. Betterson is going to give me a lesson in shooting on the
wing. I'll take the bridle, so that if Snowfoot should happen to jump
the fence when he sees me, I shall be ready for him, you know. Now I
wonder if we can take Lion along without his being seen. He is tired of
sitting still."

"We can take him to the farther side of the cornfield, easily enough."

"That will answer. Come, Lion!" The dog bounded with joy. "Keep right by
my heels now, old fellow, and mind every word I say. Don't be anxious
about us, Vinnie. And, Rufe, if you could manage to engage the Peakslow
boys in conversation, about the time we are shooting hens pretty near
the fence, you might help the sport."

"I'll follow you along, and branch off toward the potato-patch, and ask
Zeph what he meant by offering to fight me," said Rufe.

"I'm going to get up on the cow-shed, and see the battle," said Link.
"On Linden when the sun was low, and the buckwheat-patch was all in
blow,--I'm a poet, you know!"




CHAPTER XXV.

THE BATTLE OF THE BOUNDARY FENCE.


The little party set off, watched by Vinnie with a good deal of anxiety.
The dog was left in the edge of the corn; and Jack, with a good milky
ear in his pocket, followed Mr. Betterson into the buckwheat-field.

"There's Wad and his dad after prairie chickens," said Zeph.

"Yes," said Dud, "and here comes Rufe after you. He'll give you _Hail
Columby_ one of these days, when I ain't round."

"I'll resk him," muttered Zeph.

"Look here, you young scape-grace!" Rufe called from over the fence,
"I've come to take you at your word. Want to fight me, do ye? I'm ready,
if you're particular about it."

"Come near me, and I'll sink a stun in your head!" said Zeph,
frightened.

"You've got that phrase from the Wiggett boys," said Rufe. "I'd fight
with something besides borrowed slang, if I was you."

Betterson meanwhile brought down a prairie chicken with a grace of
gesture and suddenness of aim which Jack would have greatly admired if
he had not had other business on his mind.

The bird fell in the direction of the boundary fence. Jack ran as if to
pick it up, at the same time giving a low whistle for his dog. He
stooped, and was for a minute hidden by the fence from the Peakslow
boys,--if, indeed, Rufe gave them leisure just then to look in that
direction.

Darting forward to the fence, Jack took down the top rails of a corner,
and made a motion to Lion, who leaped over.

"Catch Snowfoot! catch Snowfoot!" said Jack, quickly placing the ear of
corn in the dog's mouth.

The horse was feeding some six rods off, near Peakslow's pair, when the
dog, singling him out, ran up and began to coquet with him, flourishing
the ear of corn.

The boys were talking so loud, and Jack had let down the rails so
gently, and Lion had sped away so silently, that the movement was not
observed by the enemy until Snowfoot started for the fence. Even then
the excited boys did not see what was going on. But Peakslow did.

If Snowfoot had been in his usual spirits he would have soon been off
the Peakslow premises. But his long pull from Chicago had tamed him; and
though hunger induced him to follow the ear of corn, it was at a pace
which Jack found exasperatingly slow,--especially when he saw Peakslow
running to the pasture, gun in hand, and heard him shout,--

"Let that hoss alone! I'll shoot you, and your dog and hoss too!"

Jack answered by calling, "Co' jock! co' jock! Come, lion! Come,
Snowfoot! Co' jock!"

At the same time Zeph and Dud took the alarm, and ran toward the gap
Jack had made,--they on one side of the fence, while Rufe raced with
them on the other. Meanwhile Betterson, having coolly reloaded his
discharged barrel, walked with his usual quiet, dignified step to the
broken fence.

"Better keep this side," he said with deliberate politeness to Jack.
"You are on my land; you've a right here."

"Oh! but that horse never will come!" said Jack. "Co' jock! co' jock!"

"He is all right; keep cool, keep cool!" said Betterson.

On came Peakslow, the inverted prow of his hooked nose cutting the
air,--both hands grasping the gun, ready for a shot.

Jack did not heed him. Snatching the corn from Lion's mouth, he held it
out to Snowfoot: in a moment Snowfoot was crunching corn and bits, and
the bridle was slipping over his ears.

"Head him off, boys!" shouted Peakslow. Then to Jack, "Stop, or I'll
shoot!"

"If there's any shooting to be done," said Betterson, without for a
moment losing his politeness of tone and manner, "I can shoot as quick
as anybody; and, by the powers above, I will, if you draw trigger on
that boy!"

"Take care of him,--go!" cried Jack, giving Lion the bridle-rein and
Snowfoot a slap. Then confronting Peakslow, "I've got my horse; I'm on
Mr. Betterson's land; what have you to say about it?"

[Illustration: "STOP, OR I'LL SHOOT!"]

"I'll shoot your dog!"

"No, you won't!" And Jack sprang between the infuriated man and Lion
leading off the horse.

Dud and Zeph were by this time on Betterson's side of the fence,
hurrying to head off Snowfoot.

"Keep out of our buckwheat!" cried Rufe. "By George, Zeph, now I've got
you where I want you."

"Help! Dud, Dud--help!" screamed Zeph.

But Dud had something else to do. He sprang to seize Snowfoot's bridle;
when Lion, without loosing his hold of it, turned with such fury upon
the intruder, that he recoiled, and, tripping his heels in the trodden
buckwheat, keeled over backward.

Meanwhile Rufe had Zeph down, and was rubbing the soft black loam of the
tilled field very thoroughly into his features, giving especial
attention to his neck and ears. Zeph was spitting the soil of the
country, and screaming; and Rufe was saying,--

"Lie still! I'll give your face such a scouring as it hasn't had since
you was a baby and fell into the soft-soap barrel!"

Jack backed quietly off, as Peakslow, cocking his gun, pressed upon him
with loud threats and blazing eyes. The angry man was striding through
the gap, when Betterson stepped before him, courteous, stately, with a
polite but dangerous smile.

"Have a care, friend Peakslow!" he said. "If you come upon my premises
with a gun, threatening to shoot folks, I'll riddle you with small shot;
I'll fill you as full of holes as a pepper-box!"




CHAPTER XXVI.

VICTORY.


Peakslow halted in the gap of the fence, his fury cooling before Lord
Betterson's steady eyes and quiet threat.

Betterson went on, speaking deliberately, while his poised and ready
barrels gave emphasis to his remarks,--

"You've talked a good deal of shooting, one time and another, friend
Peakslow. I think it is about time to have done with that foolishness.
Excuse my frankness."

"I've a right to defend my property and my premises!" said Peakslow,
glowing and fuming, but never stepping beyond the gap.

"What property or premises, good neighbor? The horse is this young
man's; and nobody has set foot on your land."

"That dog was on my land."

"And so was the horse," put in Jack.

"Take him off, pa! he's smotherin' on me!" shouted Zeph.

"Your boy is abusin' mine. I'll take care o' _him_!" And Peakslow set a
foot over the two lower rails left in the gap.

"You'd better stay where you are,--accept a friend's disinterested
advice," remarked Betterson. "If your boy had been on the right side of
the fence, minding his own business,--you will bear with me if I am
quite plain in my speech,--my boy would have had no occasion to soil his
hands with him."

Peakslow appeared quite cowed by this unexpected show of determination
in his easy-going neighbor. He stood astride the rails, just where
Betterson had arrested his advance, and contented himself with urging
Dud to the rescue of his brother.

"Why do ye stan' there and see Zeph treated that way? Why don't ye pitch
in?"

"That's a game two can play at," said Jack. "Hands off, Dud, my boy."
And he stood by to see fair play.

"My boy had a right on that land; it's by good rights mine to-day!"
exclaimed Peakslow.

"We won't discuss that question; it has been settled once, neighbor,"
replied Betterson. "Rufus, I think you've done enough for that boy; his
face is blacker than I ever saw it, which is saying a good deal. Let him
go. Mr. Peakslow,"--with a bow of gracious condescension over the frayed
stock,--"you are welcome to as much of this disputed territory as you
can shake out of that youngster's clothes,--not any more."

"That seems to be a good deal," said Jack, laughing to see Zeph scramble
up, gasping, blubbering, flirting soil from his clothes and hair, and
clawing it desperately from his besmeared face.

"That's for daring me to fight you," said Rufe, as he let him go. "I'll
pay you some other time for what you did to Cecie"; while Zeph went off
howling.

"No more, Rufus," said Betterson. "Come and put up this fence."

"I'll do that," said Jack. "I'm bound to leave it as I found it; if Mr.
Peakslow will please step either forward or back."

Peakslow concluded to step back; and Jack and Rufe laid up the corner,
rail by rail.

"Don't you think you've played me a perty shabby trick?" said Peakslow,
glaring at Jack.

"You are hardly the man to speak with a very good grace of _anybody's_
shabby tricks," Jack replied, putting up the top rail before the hooked
nose.

"I didn't think it of you!" And Peakslow cast longing eyes after the
horse.

"You must have forgotten what you thought," said Jack. "You didn't dare
turn the horse out till Zeph told you I'd gone home; and it seems you
kept pretty close watch of him then."

Peakslow choked back his wrath, and muttered,--

"Ye might 'a' gi'n me suthin for my trouble."

"So I would, willingly, if you had acted decently."

"Gi' me suthin now, and settle it."

"I consider it already settled,--like your land-claim dispute," said
Jack. "But no matter; how much do you want? Don't bid too high, you
know."

"Gi' me a dollar, anyhow!"

Jack laughed.

"If I should give you enough to pay for the charge in your gun, wouldn't
that satisfy you? Though, as you didn't fire it at me, I don't quite see
that I ought to defray the expense of it. Good day, Mr. Peakslow."

Jack went to find the chicken that had been shot; and Peakslow vented
his rage upon his neighbor across the fence.

"What a pattern of a man you be! stuck-up, struttin',--a turkey-gobbler
kind of man, I call ye. Think I'm afraid o' yer gun?"

"I have no answer to make to remarks of that nature," said Lord
Betterson, retiring from the fence.

"Hain't, hey?" Peakslow roared after him. "Feel above a common man like
me, do ye? Guess I pay _my_ debts. If I set out to build, guess I look
out and not bu'st up 'fore I get my paintin' and plasterin' done.
Nothin' to say to me, hey?"

Betterson coolly resumed his slow and stately march across the
buckwheat, looking for prairie chickens.

"You puffed-up, pompous, would-be 'ristocrat!" said Peakslow, more and
more furious, "where'd you be if your relations didn't furnish ye money?
Poorer 'n ye be now, I guess. What if I should tell ye what yer
neighbors say of ye? Guess ye wouldn't carry yer head so plaguy high!"

Two chickens rose from before Betterson's feet, and flew to right and
left. With perfect coolness and precision of aim he fired and brought
down one, then turned and dropped the other, with scarce an interval of
three seconds between the reports.

"This is a very pretty piece of yours," he observed smilingly, with a
stately wave of the hand toward Jack.

"I never saw anything so handsomely done!" exclaimed Jack, bringing the
chicken previously shot.

At the same time he could not help glancing with some apprehension at
Peakslow, not knowing what that excitable neighbor might do, now that
Betterson's two barrels were empty.

"I think I will stay and have one or two more shots," said Betterson. "A
very pretty piece indeed!"

The muttering thunder of Peakslow's wrath died away in the distance, as
he retired with his forces. Rufe picked up the last two prairie chickens
and followed Jack, who ran to overtake the dog and horse.

Lion still held the bridle-rein, letting Snowfoot nip the grass that
grew along the borders of the corn, but keeping him from the corn
itself. Jack patted and praised the dog, and stroked and caressed the
horse, looking him all over to see if he had received any fresh injury.

Then Rufe joined him; and presently Wad came bounding down the slope
from the barn, laughing, carrying Jack's coat; and Link appeared,
running and limping, having hurt his ankle in jumping down from the
cow-shed. Behind came Chokie, trudging on his short legs, and tumbling
and sprawling at every few steps.

The boys were jubilant over the victory, and Jack was the object of loud
congratulations; while Lion and Snowfoot formed the centre of the little
group.

"Much obliged to you, Wad," said Jack, as they re-exchanged coats and
hats. "Thanks to you, I've got my horse again. Thanks to all of you.
Boys, I was perfectly astonished at your father's pluck!" And he could
not help thinking what a really noble specimen of a man Betterson might
have made, if he had not been standing on his dignity and waiting for
legacies all his life.

"Not many folks know what sort of a man father is," replied Rufe.
"Peakslow would have found out, if he had drawn a bead on you. How quick
he stopped, and changed countenance! He can govern his temper when he
finds he must; and he can cringe and crawl when he sees it's for his
interest. Think of his asking you at last,--after you had got your horse
in spite of him, and at the risk of your life,--think of his begging you
to give him a dollar!"

Jack said, "Look at that galled spot on Snowfoot's neck! Peakslow has
got all he could out of him the past week,--kept him low and worked him
hard in a cruel collar. Never mind, old Snowfoot! better times have come
now, for both of us. Here, Link, you are lame; want a ride?"

Link did want a ride, of course,--who ever saw a boy that didn't? Jack
took hold of his foot and helped him mount upon Snowfoot's back; then
called to Chokie, who was getting up from his last tumble (with loud
lamentations), a few yards off.

"Here, Chokie; don't cry; fun isn't all over yet; you can ride too."
Tossing the urchin up, Jack set him behind Link. "Hold on now, Chokie;
hug brother tight!"

[Illustration: RETURNING IN TRIUMPH.]

Both chubby arms reaching half around Link's waist, one chubby cheek
pressed close to Link's suspender, and two chubby legs sticking out on
Snowfoot's back, Chokie forgot his griefs, and, with the tear-streaks
still wet on his cheeks, enjoyed the fearful pleasure of the ride.

Vinnie's bright face watched from the door, the delighted Lill clapped
her hands, and Mrs. Betterson and Cecie looked eagerly from the window,
as the little procession approached the house,--Lion walking sedately
before, then Link and Chokie riding the lost horse, and Jack and Rufe
and Wad following with the prairie chickens.

More congratulations. Then Lord Betterson came from the field with
another bird. Then Snowfoot was saddled, and Jack, with dog and gun, and
two of the prairie chickens, took leave of his friends, and rode home in
triumph.




CHAPTER XXVII.

VINNIE IN THE LION'S DEN.


When Link the next morning went to the spring for water he found that
the Peakslow boys (it could have been nobody else) had, by a dastardly
trick, taken revenge for the defeat of the day before.

Link came limping back (his ankle was still sore) with an empty pail,
and loud complaints of the enemy.

"They've been and gone and filled the spring with earth and leaves and
sticks, and all sorts of rubbish! It will take an hour to dig it out,
and then all day for the water to settle and be fit to drink."

"Those dreadful Peakslow boys! what _shall_ we do?" Caroline said
despairingly. "No water for breakfast, and no near neighbors but the
Peakslows; but their well is the last place where we should think of
going for water."

"I'll tell you what _I_'ll do!" said Link. "I'll go to-night and give
'em such a dose in their well, that they won't want any water from it
for the next two months! I know where there's a dead rabbit. The
Peakslows don't get the start of us!"

"I don't see but that one of the boys will have to go to Mr. Wiggett's
for water," said poor Caroline, bemoaning her troubles.

"Rufe and Wad are doing the chores," said Link, "and I'm lame. Besides,
you don't catch one of us going to old Wiggett's for water, for we
should have to pass Peakslow's house, and it would please 'em too well."

"Let me take the pail; I will get some water," said Vinnie.

"Why, Lavinia dear!" Caroline exclaimed, "what are you thinking of?
Where are you going?"

"To Mr. Peakslow's," Vinnie answered with a smile.

"Going into the lion's den! Don't think of such a thing, Lavinia dear!"

"No, by sixty!" cried Link. "I don't want them boys to sass you! I'd
rather go a mile in the other direction for water,--bother the lame
foot!"

But Vinnie quietly persisted, saying it would do no harm for her to try;
and putting on her bonnet, she started off with the empty pail.

I cannot say that she felt no misgivings; but the consciousness of doing
a simple and blameless act helped to quiet the beating of her heart as
she approached the Peakslow door.

It was open, and she could see the family at breakfast within, while the
loud talking prevented her footsteps from being heard.

Besides Dud and Zeph, there were three or four younger children, girls
and boys, the youngest of whom--a child with bandaged hands and
arms--sat in its father's lap.

Vinnie remembered the swarthy face, bushy beard, and hooked nose; and
yet she could hardly believe that this was the same man who once showed
her such ruffianly manners on the wharf in Chicago. He was fondling and
feeding the child, and talking to it, and drumming on the table with his
knife to amuse it and still its complaining cries.

"Surely," thought Vinnie, "there must be some good in a man who shows so
much affection even toward his own child." And with growing courage she
advanced to the threshold.

Mrs. Peakslow--a much-bent, over-worked woman, with a pinched and
peevish face--looked up quickly across the table and stared at the
strange visitor. In a moment all eyes were turned upon Vinnie.

"I beg your pardon," she said, pausing at the door. "I wish to get a
pail of water. Can I go to your well and help myself?"

The children--and especially Dud and Zeph--looked in astonishment at the
bright face and girlish form in the doorway. As Mr. Peakslow turned his
face toward her, all the tenderness went out of it.

"What do Betterson's folks send here for water for? And what makes 'em
send a gal? Why don't they come themselves?"

"They did not send me," Vinnie answered as pleasantly as she could. "I
came of my own accord."

Peakslow wheeled round on his chair.

"Queer sort of folks, they be! An' seems to me you must be queer, to be
stoppin' with 'em."

"Mrs. Betterson is my sister," replied Vinnie in a trembling voice. "I
came to her because she is sick, and Cecie--because I was needed," she
said, avoiding the dangerous ground of Zeph's offence.

"I've nothin' pa'tic'lar ag'in Mis' Betterson as I know on," said
Peakslow, "though of course she sides with him ag'in me, an' of course
_you_ side with _her_."

"I've nothing to do with Mr. Betterson's quarrels," Vinnie answered,
drawing back from the door. "Will you kindly permit me to get a pail of
water? I am sorry if I give you any trouble."

"No trouble; water's cheap," said Peakslow. "But why don't they have a
well o' their own, 'ste'd o' dependin' on their neighbors? What makes
'em so plaguy shif'less?"

"They have a well, but it is dry this summer, and--"

"Dry every summer, ain't it? What a way to dig a well that was!"

"They have a very good spring," Vinnie said, "but something happened to
it last night." At which Dud and Zeph giggled and looked sheepish.

"What happened to the spring?"

"Somebody put rubbish into it."

"Who done it, did you hear 'em say?"

"I don't know who did it; and I should be sorry to accuse any person of
such an act," Vinnie answered with firm but serene dignity.

The boys looked more sheepish and giggled less.

"I know who put stuff in the spring," spoke up a little one, proud of
being able to convey useful information; "Dud and Zeph--"

But at that moment Dud's hand stopped the prattler's mouth.

"I don't believe my boys have done anything of the kind," said Peakslow;
"though 't wouldn't be strange if they did. See how that great lubberly
Rufe treated our Zeph yist'day! rubbed the dirt into his skin so 't he
hain't got it washed out yit."

"I am sorry for these misunderstandings," said Vinnie, turning to Mrs.
Peakslow with an appealing look. "I wish you and my sister knew each
other better. You have a sick child, too, I see."

"'T ain't sick, 'xac'ly," replied the mother in a peevish, snarling
tone. "Pulled over the teapot, and got hands and arms scalt."

"O, poor little thing!" Vinnie exclaimed. "What have you done for it?"

"Hain't done nothin' much, only wrapped up the blistered places in Injin
meal; that's coolin'."

"No doubt; but I've some salve, the best thing in the world for burns. I
wish you would let me bring you some."

"I guess Bubby'll git along 'thout no help from outside," said Peakslow,
his ill-natured growl softened by a feeling of tenderness for the child
which just then came over him. "He's weathered the wust on 't."

But Bubby's fretful cries told that what was left was bad enough.

"I will bring you the salve," said Vinnie, "and I hope you will try it;
it is so hard to see these little ones suffer."

She was retiring, when Peakslow called after her,--

"Goin' 'ithout the water?"

"I--thought--you had not told me I could have it."

"Have it! of course you can have it; I wouldn't refuse nobody a pail o'
water. Ye see where the well is?"

"O yes; thank you." And Vinnie hastened to the curb.

"She can't draw it," snickered Zeph. "Handle's broke; and the crank'll
slip out of her hands and knock her to Jericho, if she don't look out."

"Seems to be a perty spoken gal," said Peakslow, turning to finish his
breakfast. "I've nothin' ag'in _her_. You've finished your breakfast;
better go out, Dudley, and tell her to look out about the crank."

With mixed emotions in his soul, Dud went; his countenance enlivened at
one and the same time with a blush of boyish bashfulness and a malicious
grin. As he drew near, and saw Vinnie embarrassed with the windlass,
which seemed determined to let the bucket down too fast (as if animated
with a genuine Peakslow spite toward her), the grin predominated; but
when she turned upon him a troubled, smiling face, the grin subsided,
and the blush became a general conflagration, extending to the tips of
his ears.

"How does 't go?"

"It's inclined to go altogether too fast," said Vinnie, stopping the
windlass; "and it hurts my hands."

"Le' me show ye."

And Dud, taking her place by the curb, let the windlass revolve with
moderated velocity under the pressure of his rough palms, until the
bucket struck the water. Then, drawing it up, he filled her pail.

The grin had by this time faded quite out of his countenance; and when
she thanked him sweetly and sincerely for helping her, the blush became
a blush of pleasure.

"It is more than I can carry," she said. "I shall have to pour out
some."

Thereupon Dud Peakslow astonished himself by an extraordinary act of
gallantry.

"I'll carry it for ye as fur as the road; I'd carry it all the way, if
't was anywhere else." And he actually took up the pail.

"You seem to have a very bad opinion of my relations," Vinnie said.

"Good reason! They hate us, too!"

"And think _they_ have good reason. But I'm sure you are not so bad as
they believe; and _you_ may possibly be mistaken about _them_. Let me
take the pail now. You are very kind."

Dud gave up the pail with reluctance, and gazed after her up the road,
his stupid mouth ajar with an expression of wistful wonder and pleasure.

"Hurry now and git up the team, Dud!" his father called from the door.
"What ye stan'in' there for? Didn't ye never see a gal afore?"

When Vinnie reached home with her pail of water, all gathered around,
eager to hear her adventure.

"The lions were not very savage, after all," she said, laughing.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

AN "EXTRAORDINARY" GIRL.


After breakfast Vinnie left Lill to "do the dishes," and went with her
box of salve to fulfil her promise to Mrs. Peakslow. Dud and Zeph were
off at work with their father; and she was glad to find the mother alone
with the younger children.

"Oh! you ag'in?" said Mrs. Peakslow, by the chimney, looking up from a
skillet she was stooping over and scraping. "Ye need n't 'a' took the
trouble. Guess Bubby's burns 'll git along."

But Vinnie was not to be rebuffed.

"I have brought some linen rags to spread the salve on. Will you let me
do it myself? I wish you would; the poor thing is suffering so."

And Vinnie knelt down beside the girl who was holding Bubby in her arms.

"Is 't any o' the Betterson folks's sa'v'?" Mrs. Peakslow inquired,
scraping away at her skillet.

"No; it is some I brought from the East with me, thinking I should find
a use for it in my sister's family; it is good for various things."

"Better keep it for her family!" snarled Mrs. Peakslow. Scrape, scrape.

"There's plenty and to spare," said Vinnie, unrolling her rags. "And my
sister will be only too glad if it can be of any service to you."

"Think so?" Mrs. Peakslow stopped her scraping and scowled at Vinnie.
"Her folks hain't never showed us none too much good-will."

"They have never known you,--you have never understood each other," said
Vinnie. "It is too bad that the troubles between the men should prevent
you and her from being on neighborly terms. Can I use a corner of this
table to spread the salve? And can I see the little thing's burns, so as
to shape the plasters to cover them?"

"He tol' me not to use the sa'v', if ye brought it," said Mrs. Peakslow
doubtfully, laying down the skillet.

"When he sees the good effect of it I am sure he won't complain; he is
too fond of his little boy," said Vinnie, placing rags and salve on the
table. "Will you let me take a case-knife and a pair of scissors?"

"Got rags enough of my own. Needn't trouble yourself to cut and spread
plasters. _Try_ the sa'v', 'f ye say so."

Vinnie did say so, and dressed Bubby's burns with her own hands, doing
the work so deftly and tenderly, talking now to the child, now to the
mother, who had taken him into her lap, and showing in every look and
tone so cheerful and sweet a spirit that poor Mrs. Peakslow's peevish
heart warmed and softened toward her.

"I do declare," she said, as the outer bandages were going on, "Bubby
feels comforted a'ready. Must be dreffle good sa'v'! _Much_ obleeged to
ye, I'm sure. How _is_ yer sister?"

"Much better than she was; and the baby is better too. Indeed," said
Vinnie, "I think the baby will get well as soon as the mother does."

"And Cecie--how's Cecie?" Mrs. Peakslow timidly asked.

"O, Cecie is in very good spirits! She is the most gentle, patient,
beautiful girl you ever saw! She never complains; and she is always so
grateful for any little thing that is done for her!"

"S'pose the folks feel hard to our Zeph; don't they?"

"I believe the boys do, and you can hardly wonder at it, Mrs. Peakslow,"
said Vinnie; "their own dear sister! crippled for life, perhaps. But
Cecie won't allow that your son _meant_ to hurt her; she always takes
his part when the subject is brought up."

"Does she?" exclaimed Mrs. Peakslow, surprised into sudden tears. "I
wouldn't 'a' believed that! Must _be_ she's a good gal. Truth is, Zeph
hadn't no notion o' hurtin' on her. It's re'ly troubled me,--it's
troubled all on us, though I don't s'pose her folks'll believe it."

And Mrs. Peakslow, not finding it convenient to get at her apron, with
Bubby in her lap, wiped her eyes with a remnant of Vinnie's rags.

"Isn't it too sad that this quarrel is kept up?" said Vinnie.

"O dear me! nobody knows," said Mrs. Peakslow, in a quavering voice,
"what a life it is! Our folks is _some_ to blame, I s'pose. But the
Bettersons have been _so_ aggravatin'! Though I've nothin' ag'in the
gals. They're as perty gals as I'd ask to have play with my children. My
children is sufferin' for mates. I want society, too, for it's a dreffle
life,--a dreffle life!" And the quavering voice broke into sobs.

Vinnie was surprised and pained at this outburst, and hardly knew what
reply to make.

"Lyddy, wipe them dishes!" Mrs. Peakslow went on again, sopping her eyes
with the remnant of rags. "Lecty Ann! here, take Bubby. Scuse me, miss;
I d'n' know what sot me goin' this way; but my heart's been shet up so
long; I've _so_ wanted sympathy!" And now the apron did service in place
of the rags.

"Yes, I know," said Vinnie. "This is a lonesome country, unless you have
friends around you. There seem to be a few nice people here,--people
from the East; you are from the East, I suppose?"

"O yes; but _he_ ain't a very social man, an' he's dreffle sot in his
way. He don't go out nowheres, 'thout he has business, an' he don't
think there's any need of a woman's goin' out. So there it is. The
Wiggetts, our neighbors on one side, ain't our kind o' people; then
there's the Bettersons on t'other side. An' there's allus so many things
a wife has to put up with, an' hold her tongue. O dear! O dear! Keep to
your work, gals! hear?"

There was something almost comical in this sharp and shrill winding-up
of the good woman's pathetic discourse; but Vinnie never felt less like
laughing.

"I am glad you can speak freely to me," she said. "I'll come and see you
again, if you will let me; and I want you some time to come and see my
sister."

"I d'n' know! I d'n' know!" said Mrs. Peakslow, still weeping. "_You_
may come _here_,--like to have ye,--only it'll be jest as well if you
time your visits when me an' the gals is alone; you know what men-folks
be."

"You are really an extraordinary girl, Lavinia dear!" Caroline said,
when Vinnie went home and told her story. "Did you know it?"

Vinnie laughed.

"Why, no; I never thought of such a thing; what I do comes so very
natural."

"Extraordinary!" Caroline repeated, regarding her admiringly. "I'm proud
of such a sister. I always told Mr. Betterson there was good blood on
our side too. I wonder what Radcliff would think of you."

Vinnie sincerely believed that so fine a young gentleman would not think
anything of her at all, but feared it might seem like affectation in him
to say so.

"And I wonder," Caroline continued, with the usual simper which her
favorite theme inspired, "what you would think of Radcliff. Ah, Lavinia
dear! it is a comfort for me to reflect that it was a Betterson--nobody
less than a thoroughbred Betterson--who took the place in our family
which you would otherwise have filled."

Evidently Caroline's conscience was not quite easy on the subject of her
early neglect of so "extraordinary" a sister; for she often alluded to
it in this way. Vinnie now begged her not to mention it again.

"And you really cherish no hard feelings?"

"None whatever."

"You are _very_ good. And pretty; did you know it? Quite pretty."

Vinnie laughed again.

"Mrs. Presbit brought me up to the wholesome belief that I was quite
plain."

"That was to prevent you from becoming vain. Vanity, you know," said
Caroline, with her most exquisite simper, "spoils so many girls! I'm
thankful it doesn't run in _our_ family! But didn't your glass undeceive
you?"

"On the contrary, I used to look in it and say to myself, 'It is a very
_common_ face; I _wish_ it was pretty, but Aunt Presbit is right; I'm a
homely little thing!'"

"And you felt bad?"

"I never mourned over it; though, of course, I should have much
preferred to be handsome."

"And hasn't anybody ever told you you _were_ handsome?"

Vinnie blushed.

"Of course I've heard a good deal of nonsense talked now and then."

"Lavinia dear, you _are_ extraordinary. And handsome, though not in the
usual sense of the word. Your face _is_ rather common, in repose, but it
lights up wonderfully. And, after all, I don't know that it is so much
your face, as the expression you throw into it, that is so enchanting.
What _would_ Radcliff Betterson say to you, I wonder?"




CHAPTER XXIX.

ANOTHER HUNT, AND HOW IT ENDED.


Jack had one day been surveying a piece of land a few miles east of Long
Woods. It was not very late in the afternoon when he finished his work;
and he found that, by going a little out of his way and driving rather
fast, he could, before night, make Vinnie and her friends a call, and
perhaps give Mrs. Wiggett the promised noon-mark on her kitchen floor.

Leaving in due time the more travelled thoroughfare, he turned off upon
the neighborhood road, which he knew passed through the woods and struck
the river road near Betterson's house. Away on his left lay the rolling
prairie, over a crest of which he, on a memorable occasion, saw Snowfoot
disappear with his strange rider; and he was fast approaching the scene
of his famous deer-hunt.

Jack had his gun with him; and, though he did not stop to give much
attention to the prairie hens which now and then ran skulkingly across
the track, or flew up from beside his buggy-wheels, he could not help
looking for larger game.

"I'd like to see another doe and fawn feeding off on the prairie there,"
thought he. "Wonder if I could find some obliging young man to drive
them in!"

He whipped up Snowfoot, and presently, riding over a swell of land,
discovered a stranger walking on before him in the road.

"No deer or fawn," thought he; "but there's possibly an obliging young
man."

As he drove on, fast overtaking the pedestrian, Jack was very much
struck by his appearance. He was a slender person; he walked at a
loitering pace; and he carried his coat on his arm. There was something
also in the jaunty carriage of the head, and in the easy slouch of the
hat-brim, which startled Jack.

"I vow, it's my obliging young man himself!" he muttered through his
teeth,--"or a vision of him!"

Just then the stranger, hearing the sound of wheels, cast a quick glance
over his shoulder. It was the same face, and Jack could almost have
taken his oath to the quid in the cheek.

He was greatly astonished and excited. It seemed more like a dream than
anything else, that he should again meet with the person who had given
him so much trouble, so near the place where he had seen him first, in
precisely similar hat and soiled shirt-sleeves, and carrying (to all
appearances) the same coat on his arm!

The stranger gave no sign of the recognition being mutual, but stepped
off upon the roadside to let the buggy pass.

"How are you?" said Jack, coming up to him, and drawing rein; while Lion
snuffed suspiciously at the rogue's heels.

"All right, stranger; how are you yourself?" And a pair of reckless dark
eyes flashed saucily up at Jack.

"Better than I was that night after you ran off with my horse!" Jack
replied.

"Glad you're improving. Wife on the mending hand? And how are the little
daisies? Which is the road to Halleluia Corners? I branch off here; good
day, fair stranger."

These words were rattled off with great volubility, which seemed all the
greater because of their surprising irrelevancy; while the head, thrown
gayly to one side, balanced the quid in the bulged cheek.

Before Jack could answer, the youth with a wild laugh struck off from
the road, and began to walk fast toward the woodland. Jack called after
him,--

"Hold on! I want to speak with you!"

"Speak quick, then; I'm bound for the Kingdom,--will you go to glory
with me?" the rogue shouted back over his shoulder, with a defiant grin,
never slacking his pace.

Jack gave Snowfoot a touch of the whip, reined out of the track, and
drove after him.

The fellow at the same time quickened his step to a run, and before he
could be overtaken he had come to rough ground, where fast driving was
dangerous.

Jack pulled up unwillingly, revolving rapidly in his mind what he
should do. Though he had recovered his horse, he felt the strongest
desire to have the thief taken and punished. Moreover, he had lately
seen the truckman to whom the stolen animal was sold, and had promised
to do what he could to help him obtain justice.

He might have levelled his gun and threatened to shoot the fugitive; but
he would not have felt justified in carrying out such a threat, and
recent experience had disgusted him with the shooting business.

He would have jumped from the wagon, and followed on foot; but, though a
good runner, he was convinced that his heels were no match for the
stranger's. There was then but one thing to do.

"Stop, or I'll let the dog take you!" Jack yelled.

For reply, the fugitive threw up his hand over his shoulder, with
fingers spread and thumb pointing toward the mid-region of countenance
occupied by the nose; which did not, however, take the trouble to turn
and make itself visible.

Lion was already eager for the chase; and Jack had only to give him a
signal.

"Take care of him, Lion!" And away sped the dog.

Fleet of foot as the fellow was, and though he now strained every nerve
to get away, the distance between him and the dog rapidly diminished;
and a hurried glance behind showed him the swift, black, powerful
animal, coming with terrible bounds, and never a bark, hard at his
heels.

The thickets were near,--could he reach them before the dog reached him?
Would they afford him a refuge or a cudgel? He threw out his quid, and
_leaned_.

Jack drove after as fast as he could, in order to prevent mortal
mischief when Lion should bring down his game; for the dog, when too
much in earnest with a foe, had an overmastering instinct for searching
out the windpipe and jugular vein.

The rogue had reached the edge of the woods, when he found himself so
closely pursued that he seemed to have no resource but to turn and dash
his coat into the dog's face. That gave him an instant's reprieve; then
Lion was upon him again; and he had just time to leap to the low limb of
a scraggy oak-tree, and swing his lower limbs free from the ground, when
the fierce eyes and red tongue were upon the spot.

Lion gave one leap, but missed his mark; the trap-like jaws snapping
together with a sound which could not have been very agreeable to the
youth whose dangling legs had been actually grazed by the passing
muzzle.

With a wistful, whining yelp, Lion gave another upward spring; and this
time his fangs closed upon something--only cloth, fortunately; but as
the thief clambered up out of their range, it was with a very good
chance for a future patch upon the leg of his trousers.

Leaping from his wagon, Jack rushed to the tree, and found his obliging
young man perched comfortably in it, with one leg over a limb; while
Lion, below, made up for his long silence by uttering frantic barks.

[Illustration: THE END OF THE CHASE.]

"What are you up there for?" said Jack.

"To take an observation," the fellow replied, out of breath, but still
cheerful. "First-rate view of the country up here. I fancy I see a doe
and a fawn off on the prairie; wouldn't you like a shot at 'em?"

"I've other game to look after just now!" Jack replied.

"Better look out for your horse; he's running away!"

"My horse isn't in the habit of running away without help. Will you come
down?"

"I was just going to invite you to come up. I'll share my lodgings with
you,--give you an upper berth. A very good tavern; rooms airy, fine
prospect; though the table don't seem to be very well supplied, and I
can't say I fancy the entrance. 'Sich gittin' up stairs I never did
see!'"

Jack checked this flow of nonsense by shouting, "Will you come down, or
not?"

"Suppose not?" said the fellow.

"Then I leave the dog to guard the door of your tavern, and go for a
warrant and a constable, to bring you down."

"What would you have me come down for? You seem to be very pressing in
your attentions to a stranger!"

"Don't say stranger,--you who drove the deer in for me! I am anxious to
pay you for that kindness. I want you to ride with me."

"Why didn't you say so before?" cried the rogue, rolling a fresh quid
in his cheek. "I always ride when you ask me to, don't I? Say, did you
ever know me to refuse when you offered me a ride? Which way are you
going?"

"Down through the woods," said Jack, amused, in spite of himself, at the
scamp's reckless gayety.

"Why, that's just the way I am going! Why didn't you mention it? I never
should have put up at this tavern if I had thought a friend would come
along and give me a lift in his carriage. Please relieve the guard, and
I'll descend."

The dog was driven off, and the youth dropped from the branches to the
ground.

"Pick up your coat," said Jack, "and do pretty much as I tell you now,
or there'll be trouble. None of your tricks this time!"

He held the reins and the gun while he made the fellow get into the
buggy; then took his seat, with the prisoner on his left and the gun on
his right, drove on to the travelled track, and turned into the woods;
the vigilant Lion walking close by the wheel.




CHAPTER XXX.

JACK'S PRISONER.


For a second time Jack now travelled that woodland road under odd
circumstances; the first occasion being that on which he himself had
pulled in the shafts, while Link pushed behind. He laughed as he thought
of that adventure, of which the present seemed a fitting sequel. Before,
he had been obliged to go home without his horse; what a triumph it
would now be to carry home the thief! But to do this, great care and
vigilance would be necessary; and he calculated all the chances, and
resolved just what he would do, should his captive attempt to escape.
The rogue, on the contrary, appeared contented with his lot.

"Young man," said he, "I can't call your name, but let me say you
improve upon acquaintance. This is galorious! better by a long chalk
than a horseback gallop without a saddle. I suppose you will call for me
with a barouche next time!"

"At all events, I may help you to free lodgings,--not up in a tree,
either!" Jack said, as he touched up Snowfoot.

He had, of course, abandoned the idea of giving Mrs. Wiggett her
noon-mark that day. But he could not think of passing the "castle"
without stopping at the door.

"What will Vinnie say?" thought he, with a thrill of anticipation. And
it must be confessed that he felt no little pride at the prospect of
showing his prisoner to Lord Betterson and the boys.

Descending the long declivity, the fellow was strangely silent, for one
so rattle-brained, until the "castle" appeared in sight through an
opening of the woods. "He's plotting mischief," Jack thought. And when
suddenly the rogue made a movement with his arms, Jack started, ready
for a grapple.

"Don't be excited; I'm only putting on my coat."

"All right," said Jack; and the garment was put on. "Anything else I can
do for you?"

"I'm dying with thirst; they had nothing to drink at that tavern where
you found me."

"May be we can get some water at this house," Jack said.

"Are you acquainted here?" the prisoner inquired, with a curious, sober
face.

"Yes, well enough to ask for a glass of water." And Jack drove into the
yard.

The rogue kept on his sober face, but seemed to be laughing prodigiously
inside.

As Jack reined up to the door, Lill came out, clapped her hands with
sudden surprise, and screamed, "O mother!" Then Vinnie appeared, her
face radiant on seeing Jack, but changing suddenly at sight of his
companion. Mrs. Betterson followed, and, perceiving the faces in the
buggy, uttered a cry, tottered, and clung to Vinnie's shoulder.

Link at the same time ran out from behind the house, dropped a dirty
stick, wiped his hands on his trousers, and shouted, "Hullo! by sixty!
ye don't say so!" while Rufe and Wad came rushing up from the barn. Jack
had rather expected to produce a sensation,--not, however, until he
should fairly have shown his prisoner; and this premature commotion
puzzled him.

The rogue's suppressed laughter was now bubbling freely; a frothy and
reckless sort of mirth, without much body of joy to it.

"How are ye all?" he cried. "Don't faint at sight of me, Aunt Carrie.
This is an unexpected pleasure!" and he bowed gayly to Vinnie.

"O Radcliff! you again? and in _this_ style!" said poor Caroline. "Where
_did_ you come from?"

"From up a tree, at last accounts. Hullo, boys! I'd come down on my
trotters, and hug you all round, but my friend here would be jealous."

Jack was confounded.

"Is _this_ your Cousin Rad?" he cried, as the boys crowded near. "I'm
sorry to know it, for he's the fellow who ran off with my horse. Where
did _you_ ever see him before, Vinnie?"

"He is the one I told you about,--in Chicago," said Vinnie, astonished
to find her waggish acquaintance, the elegant Radcliff Betterson, and
this captive vagabond, the same person.




CHAPTER XXXI.

RADCLIFF.


Lord Betterson now came out of the house, calm and stately, but with
something of the look in his eye, as he turned it upon his nephew, which
Jack had observed when it menaced Peakslow at the gap of the fence.

"Ah, Radcliff! you have returned? Why don't you alight?" And he touched
his hat to Jack.

"Your nephew may tell you the reason, if he will," Jack replied.

"The long and the short of it is this," said Radcliff, betraying a good
deal of trouble, under all his assumed carelessness: "When I was on my
way home, a few weeks ago, this young man asked me to drive in some deer
for him. He gave me his horse to ride. I made a mistake, and rode him
too far."

"You, Radcliff!" said Lord Betterson, sternly; while Mrs. Betterson went
into hysterics on Vinnie's shoulder, and was taken into the house.

"We thought of Rad when you described him," Rufe said to Jack. "But we
couldn't believe he would do such a thing."

[Illustration: JACK AND HIS JOLLY PRISONER.]

"'Twas the most natural thing in the world," Rad explained. "I was
coming home because I was hard up. I didn't steal the horse,--he was put
into my hands; it was a breach of trust, that's all you can make of it.
Necessity compelled me to dispose of him. With money in my pocket, what
was the use of my coming home? I took my clothes out of pawn, and was
once more a gentleman. Money all gone, I spouted my clothes again,--fell
back upon this inexpensive rig,--took to the country, remembered I had a
home, and was making for it, when this young man overtook me just now,
and gave me a seat in his buggy."

"The matter appears serious," said Lord Betterson. "Am I to understand
that you have taken my nephew prisoner?"

"He can answer that question," said Jack.

"Well, I suppose that is the plain English of it," replied Radcliff.
"Come, now, Uncle Lord! this ain't the first scrape you've got me out
of; fix it up with him, can't you?"

"It is my duty to save the honor of the name; but you are bent on
destroying it. Will you please to come into the house with my nephew,
and oblige me?" Betterson said to Jack.

"Certainly, if you wish it," Jack replied. "Get down, Radcliff. Be
quiet, Lion! I was never in so hard a place in my life," he said to the
boys, as they followed Rad and his uncle into the house. "I never
dreamed of his being your cousin!"

"He's a wild fellow,--nothing very bad about him, only he's just full
of the Old Harry," said Rufe. "I guess father'll settle it, somehow."

Meanwhile, Mrs. Betterson had retired to her room, where Vinnie was
engaged, with fan and hartshorn, in restoring--not her consciousness,
for that she had not lost, but her equanimity.

"Lavinia!" she said brokenly, at intervals, "Lavinia dear! don't think I
intended to deceive you. It was, perhaps, too much the ideal Radcliff I
described to you,--the Betterson Radcliff, the better Betterson
Radcliff, if I may so speak; for he is, after all, you know, a--but that
is the agony of it! The name is disgraced forever! Fan me, Lavinia
dear!"

"I don't see how the act of one person should disgrace anybody else,
even of the same name," Vinnie replied.

"But--a Betterson!" groaned Caroline. "My husband's nephew! Brought back
here like a reprobate! The hartshorn, Lavinia dear!"

Hard as it was freely to forgive her sister for holding up to her so
exclusively the "ideal Radcliff" in her conversations, Vinnie continued
to apply the fan and hartshorn, with comforting words, until Link came
in and said that Jack wished her to be present in the other room.

"Don't leave me, Lavinia dear!" said Caroline, feeling herself utterly
helpless without Vinnie's support.

"If we open this door between the rooms, and you sit near it, while I
remain by you,--perhaps that will be the best way," said Vinnie.

The door was opened, showing Jack and Rad and Mr. Betterson seated, and
the boys standing by the outer door. Rad was trying hard to keep up his
appearance of gay spirits, chucking Chokie under the chin, and winking
playfully at Rufe and Wad. But Jack and Lord were serious.

"I have reasons for wanting you to hear this talk, Vinnie," said Jack.
"I was just telling Mr. Betterson that you had met his nephew before,
and he was quite surprised. It seems to me singular that you never told
your friends here of that adventure."

"I suppose I know what you mean," spoke up Caroline. "And I confess that
_I_ am at fault. Lavinia dear did tell me and the girls of a young man
beguiling her to a public-house in Chicago, and offering her wine; and
Cecie whispered to me that she was sure it must have been Radcliff; but
I couldn't, I wouldn't believe a Betterson could be guilty of--Fan me,
Lavinia dear!"

Vinnie fanned, and Caroline went on,--

"'T was I who cautioned the children against saying anything disparaging
of Radcliff's character in Lavinia dear's presence. I had such faith in
the stock! and now to think how I have been deluded! The hartshorn,
Lavinia dear!"

"Seems to me you make a pile of talk about trifles!" Radcliff said with
a sneer. "I owe an apology to this young lady. But she knows I meant no
harm,--only my foolish fun. As for the horse, the owner has got him
again; and so I don't see but it's all right."

"It's all right enough, as far as I am concerned," said Jack. "I won't
say a word about the trouble and expense you put me to. But, whether
taking my horse as you did was stealing or not, you sold him, you
obtained money under false pretences, you swindled an honest man."

"Well, that can't be helped now," said Radcliff, with a scoffing laugh.
"A feller is obliged sometimes to do things that may not be exactly on
the square."

"I don't know about anybody's being obliged to go off and play the
gentleman (if that's what you call it), and have a good time (if there's
any good in such a time), at somebody else's expense. I call such
conduct simply scoundrelism," said Jack, his strong feeling on the
subject breaking forth in plain speech and ringing tones. "And I
determined, if I ever caught you, to have you punished."

"O, well! go ahead! put it through! indulge!" said Radcliff, folding his
arms, and stretching out his legs with an air of easy and reckless
insolence, but suddenly drawing up one of them, as he noticed the tear
Lion's teeth had made. "Guess I can stand it if the others can. What do
you say, Uncle Lord? Give me up as a bad job, eh?"

"Hem!" Lord coughed, and rubbed his chin with his palm. "If this sort of
conduct is to continue, the crisis may as well come now, I suppose, as
later; and, unless you give a solemn pledge to alter your course, I
shall let it come."

"O, I'll give the solem'est sort of a pledge!" Radcliff replied.

"You will notice--ahem!--a change in our family," Lord went on. "The
boys have applied themselves to business,--in plain terms, gone to work.
Although I have said little on the subject, I have silently observed,
and I am free to confess that I have been gratified. Since our
circumstances are what they are, they have done well,--I may add, they
have done nobly."

"Fan me, Lavinia dear!" whispered Caroline.

"Hey, boys? what's got into you?" said Radcliff, really astonished.

Lord put up his hand, to prevent the boys from answering, and
continued,--

"Your unusually long absence, I am persuaded, has had a wholesome
effect. But to the presence of new elements in the family I attribute
the better state of things, in a large measure." Lord indicated Lavinia,
by a gracious wave of the hand, adding, "Though a man of few words, I am
not blind, and I am not ungrateful."

This recognition of her influence, before Jack and the whole family,
brought the quick color to Vinnie's cheeks and tears to her eyes. She
was surprised by what Lord said, and still more surprised that any words
of his could touch her so. He had hitherto treated her with civil,
quiet reserve, and she had never been able to divine his secret thought
of her. Nor had she cared much, at first, what that might be; but day by
day she had learned to know that under all his weaknesses there was
something in his character worthy of her esteem.

"If you choose to fall into the new course of things, Radcliff, you will
be welcome here, as you always have been. Not otherwise."

And again Jack was reminded of the look and tone with which he had seen
Lord Betterson confront Peakslow at the gap of the fence.

"Of course I'll fall in, head over heels," said Radcliff, with a laugh,
and a look at Vinnie, which Jack did not like. "I think I shall fancy
the new elements, as you call 'em."

Jack started up, with sparkling eyes; but, on an instant's reflection,
bridled his tongue, and settled down again, merely giving Vinnie a swift
glance, which seemed to say, "If he has any more of his _fun_ with you,
I'll--"

"No more trifling," said Betterson. "If you stay, you will come under
the new _régime_. That means, in plain speech--work; we all work."

"Oh!" gasped poor Caroline, and reached out helplessly to her sister.
"The hartshorn, Lavinia dear!"

"I'll stay, and I'll work,--I'll do as the rest do," said Radcliff. "But
when the Philadelphia partners pony up, of course I have my dividend."

"A word here," said Lord, "is due to our friends. By the Philadelphia
partners, my nephew means the relatives who occasionally send us money.
Now, as to his dividend: when he came into our family, it was with the
understanding that he would be clothed and educated at the expense of
those connections. Accordingly, when money has been sent to me, a
portion has always gone to him. As soon as he gets money, it burns him
till he goes off and squanders it. When it is gone, he comes home here,
and waits for another supply."

Then Jack spoke up.

"I say, when the next supply comes, eighty dollars of it--if there's as
much--should be paid over to that truckman he swindled. I insist upon
that."

Radcliff snapped his fingers. "That's a foolish way of doing business!"

"Foolish or not," cried Jack, "you shall agree to it."

"You have anticipated me," remarked Betterson, with a high courtesy
contrasting with Jack's haste and heat. "I was about to propose a
similar arrangement. Radcliff's money passes through my hands. I will
see to it,--the truckman shall be paid. Do you agree, Radcliff? If not,
I have nothing more to urge."

"Of course I agree, since I can't help myself. But next time I have a
horse to dispose of," Radcliff added with a derisive smile at Jack, "I
shall go farther. So take care!"

"No need of giving me that warning," Jack made answer, rising to his
feet. He went over and stood by Vinnie, and looked back with strong
distrust upon the jeering Radcliff. "I don't know that I do right, Mr.
Betterson; but I'll leave him here, if you say so."

"I think it best, on the whole," Mr. Betterson replied.

"O, bosh!" cried Radcliff, giving Jack a sinister look. "You and I'll be
better acquainted, some day! Come, boys, show me what you've been about
lately. And, see here, Rufe,--haven't I got a pair of pants about the
house somewhere? See how that dog tore my trousers-leg! I'll pay _him_
my compliments, too, some time!"

As he was walking out of the house, Lion at the door gave a growl. Jack
silenced the dog, and then took leave. Vinnie urged him to stay to
supper.

"It will be ready in five minutes," she said; "I was just going to set
the table when you came."

But Jack replied, with a bitter smile, that he believed his appetite
would be better after a ride of a few miles in the open air.

"Look out for the scamp!" he whispered in her ear; and then, with brief
good-byes to the rest, he sprang into the buggy, called Lion to a seat
by his side, and drove away.




CHAPTER XXXII.

AN IMPORTANT EVENT.


Radcliff resumed his place in the family. But he soon found that his
relations to it were no longer what they had been before the days of
Vinnie and Jack.

The "new elements" had produced a greater change than he supposed. He no
longer possessed the boundless influence over the boys which his wild
spirits formerly gave him. They saw him in the light of this last
revelation of his character, and contrasted his coarse foolery, once so
attractive, with the gentle manners and cheerful earnestness of Vinnie
and Jack; in which comparison this flower of the Betterson stock
suffered blight.

The boys did not take a holiday in honor of Rad's return, but went
steadily on with their tasks. Lord Betterson himself seemed suddenly to
have changed his views of things, for he now offered to assist the boys
in repairing the fences, for which they had been cutting poles in the
woods.

Rad worked a little, but, seeing how things were going, sulked a good
deal more. He tried to be very gallant toward Vinnie, but her quiet
dignity of manner was proof against all his pleasantries. Even Cecie
and Lill could not somehow enjoy his jests as they used to; and
Caroline--there was no disguising the fact--had ceased to view his
faults through the golden haze of a sentimental fancy.

So Radcliff found himself out of place, unappreciated; and discontent
filled his soul. At length an event occurred which blew his smouldering
restlessness into a flame.

The "Philadelphia partners" were heard from.

Rufe and Wad, who had been over to the Mills one day, completing their
arrangements with the pump-maker for boring the logs of their aqueduct,
brought home from the mail one of those envelopes whose post-mark and
superscription always gladdened the eyes of the Bettersons.

It was from Philadelphia, and it contained a draft for two hundred and
fifty dollars.

One third of this sum was for Radcliff's "benefit."

It would have been wise, perhaps, to keep from him the knowledge of this
fact; but it would have been impossible.

"A pittance, a mere pittance," said Lord, holding the precious bit of
paper up to the light. "Uncle George could just as well have made it a
thousand, without feeling it. However, small favors gratefully
received." And he placed the draft in his pocket-book with calm
satisfaction.

Joy overflowed the family; Caroline began to build fresh castles in the
air; and Vinnie heard Radcliff say to the boys,--

"You can afford to lay by now, and have a good time, with that money."

"Radcliff Betterson!" cried Vinnie, "you provoke me!"

"How so, my charmer?" said Rad, bowing and smiling saucily.

"With your foolish talk. But I hope--yes, I know--the boys will pay no
attention to it. To stop work now, and go and play, just because a
little money has come into the house,--I should lose all my respect for
them, if they were to do so silly a thing."

"Well, I was only joking," said Rad.

"We could very well spare some of your jokes," Vinnie replied.

"And me too, I suppose you think?"

"You might be more useful to yourself and others than you are; it is
easy to see that."

"Well, give me a smile now and then; don't be so cross with a feller,"
said Rad. "You don't show me very much respect."

"It isn't my fault; I should be glad to show you more."

Such was about the usual amount of satisfaction Radcliff got from his
talk with Vinnie. She was always "up to him," as the boys said.

When he walked off, and found them laughing at his discomfiture, he
laughed too, with a fresh quid in his cheek, and his head on one-side,
but with something not altogether happy in his mirth.

"Uncle Lord," said he in the evening, "if you'll put your name to that
draft, I'll go over to the Mills in the morning and cash it for you."

"Thank you, Radcliff," said his uncle. "I've some bills to pay, and I
may as well go myself."

"Let the bills slide, why don't you, and get some good out of the
money?" said Radcliff. "And see here, uncle,--what's the use of paying
off that truckman in such a hurry? I want some of that money; it was
intended for me, and I ain't going to be cheated out of it."

"As to that," replied Lord, "you entered into a certain agreement, which
seemed to me just; and I do not like now to hear you speak of being
cheated,--you, of all persons, Radcliff."

"O, well, I suppose you'll do as you like, since you've got the thing
into your hands!" And Radcliff walked sulkily out of the house.

The next day Mr. Betterson drove over to the Mills, cashed the draft,
made some necessary purchases, paid some bills which had been long
outstanding, and called to hand Jack eighty dollars, on Radcliff's
account, for the swindled truckman.

Jack was off surveying with Forrest Felton, and was not expected home
for a day or two. Mr. Betterson hardly knew what to do in that case, but
finally concluded to keep the money, and leave Jack word that he had it
for him.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

MRS. WIGGETT'S "NOON-MARK."


Jack returned home, unexpectedly, that night. He jumped for joy when
told of Mr. Betterson's call and the message he had left. The promise of
money due himself could not have pleased him so much as the prospect now
presented of justice being done to the truckman.

He felt some concern, it must be owned, lest the money should, after
all, be diverted from its course; he determined, therefore, to act
promptly in the matter, and go to Long Woods the next day.

He and Forrest were laying out town lots somewhere up the river; and he
was closely occupied all the next forenoon and a part of the afternoon
with his calculations and drawings.

At last he leaped up gayly, with that sense of satisfaction and relief
which comes from the consciousness of work well done.

He harnessed Snowfoot, put his compass into the buggy, thinking he would
give Mrs. Wiggett her noon-mark this time without fail, winked assent at
Lion, eager to accompany him, and drove off with a feeling of enjoyment,
to which the thought of some one he was going to meet gave a wonderful
zest.

As it was getting late in the day when he reached the settlement, he
stopped only a moment at the "castle," to speak with Vinnie, and leave
word that he would call and see Mr. Betterson on his way back; then
drove on to Mr. Wiggett's log-cabin.

His reception there was most cordial, especially when it was found that
he had come with his compass, prepared to make the noon-mark.

"House don't front no sort of a way," said the old man; "and I reckon
you'll have to give us a kin' of a slantin'diclar line from 'bout this
yer direction," indicating a wood-pile by the road.

The little Wiggetts meanwhile thronged the doorway, staring at Jack and
his strange machine, and their old acquaintance, the dog.

"Cl'ar the kitchen, you young uns!" the mother stormed after them,
cuffing right and left. "Noon-mark'll cut ye plumb in tew, 'f ye don't
scatter! It's comin' into this yer door, like it was a bullet from pap's
rifle!"

The grimy faces and bare legs "scattered"; while Mrs. Wiggett called to
Jack,--

"How long 'fore ye gwine to shute that ar thing off? 'Low I oughter
scoop up a little fust."

"Scoop up?" Jack repeated, not quite taking her meaning.

"Right smart o' dirt on the floor yer; it'll be in your way, I reckon."

"Not at all," said Jack. "My line will cut through; and you can _scoop_
down to it, at your leisure. I must get you to remove these iron
wedges, Mr. Wiggett; the needle won't work with so much iron near."

The wedges removed, the needle settled; and Jack, adjusting the sights
of his compass to a north-and-south line, got Mr. Wiggett to mark its
bearings for him, with a chalk pencil, on the floor of the open doorway.

"All creation!" shrieked the woman, suddenly making a pounce at the
kneeling old man; "we don't want a noon-mark thar, cl'ar away from the
jamb, ye fool! We want it whur the shadder o' the jamb 'll hit it plumb
at noon."

The old man looked up from his position on "all-fours," and parried her
attack with his lifted hand.

"Ye mout wait a minute!" he said; "then you'll see if me an' this yer
youngster's both fools. I had a lesson that larnt me onct that he knows
better 'n I dew what he's about; an' I 'lowed, this time, I'd go by
faith, an' make the marks 'thout no _re_marks o' my own."

"The line will come just where you want it, Mrs. Wiggett," Jack assured
her, hiding a laugh behind his compass.

Having got the old man to mark two points on his north-and-south line,
one at the threshold and the other a little beyond, Jack put his rule to
them and drew a pencil-line; Mrs. Wiggett watching with a jealous scowl,
not seeing that her mark was coming where she wanted it,--"right ag'in
the jamb,"--after all.

Then, by a simple operation, which even she understood, Jack surprised
her.

He first measured the distance of his line from the jamb. Then he set
off two points, on the same side, at the same distance from the line,
farther along on the floor. Then through these points he drew a second
line, parallel to the first, and touching the corner of the jamb, by
which the noon shadow was to be cast. Into this new line Jack sank his
noon-mark with a knife.

"There," said he, "is a true noon-mark, which will last as long as your
house does,"--a prediction which, by a very astonishing occurrence, was
to be proved false that very afternoon.

"I reckon the woman is satisfied," said the old man; "anyhow, I be; an'
now what's the tax for this yer little scratch on the floor?"

"Not anything, Mr. Wiggett."

"Hey? ye make noon-marks for folks 'thout pay?"

"That depends. Sometimes, when off surveying, I'm hailed at the door of
a house, and asked for a noon-mark. I never refuse it. Then, if
convenient, I take my pay by stopping to dinner or supper. But I never
accept money."

"Sartin!" cried the old man. "Yer, ol' woman!" (it must be remembered
that Mrs. Wiggett was forty years younger than her husband), "fly
round,--make things hum,--git up a supper as suddent as ye kin, an' ax
our friend yer. Whur's that Sal?"

Mrs. Wiggett, who had appeared all pride and sunny smiles regarding her
noon-mark (particularly after hearing it was not to be paid for), fell
suddenly into a stormy mood, and once more began to cuff the children
right and left.

Jack hastened to relieve her mind by saying that Mr. Wiggett had quite
mistaken his meaning; that he had an engagement which must deprive him
of the pleasure of taking supper with her and her interesting family.
Thereupon she brightened again. The old man shook him warmly by the
hand; and Jack, putting his compass into the buggy, drove back up the
valley road.

Vinnie had told him that the Betterson boys were cutting logs for their
aqueduct; and hearing the sound of an axe on his way back, Jack tied
Snowfoot to a sapling by the road, and went up into the woods to find
them.

"What! you coming too, Lion?" he said, after he had gone several rods.
"Didn't I tell you to watch? Well, I believe I didn't. Never mind;
Snowfoot is hitched."

He found Rufe and Wad cutting trees with great industry, having
determined to have the logs laid from the spring to the house without
delay.

"We've taken the farm of father, as you suggested," said Wad. "He is
helping us do the fall ploughing while we get out our logs. He and Link
are at it with the oxen, over beyond the house, now."

"And where's that precious cousin of yours?"

"I believe he has gone to the house to see if supper is about ready,"
said Rufe. "He's smart to work, when he does take hold, but his interest
doesn't hold out, and the first we know, he is off."

Jack stopped and talked with the boys about their water-works for about
half an hour. Then Rad came up through the woods, by way of the spring,
and announced that supper was ready, greeting Jack with a jeering laugh.

"You'll take tea with us, of course," Rufe said to Jack.

"I suppose your father will be at the house by this time; I'll stop and
see him, at any rate," was Jack's reply.

Rufe went with him down through the woods to where Snowfoot was left
hitched. As they were getting into the buggy, Rufe noticed Zeph Peakslow
coming out of some bushes farther down the road, and going towards home.

"See him slink off?" said Rufe. "He's afraid of me yet; but he needn't
be,--I've promised Vinnie not to meddle with him."

Then, on the way home, Rufe surprised Jack by telling him how Vinnie had
made acquaintance with the Peakslow family, and how Mrs. Peakslow,
taking advantage of her husband's absence from home, had called on the
Bettersons, under pretence of returning Vinnie's box of salve.

Mr. Betterson had not yet come to the house; and Jack, having hitched
Snowfoot to an oak-tree, and told of his business with the Wiggetts,
asked Vinnie and her sister if they would not like a noon-mark on their
floor. "It will be a good thing to set your clock by when it goes
wrong," he explained.

Vinnie gladly accepted the offer.

"And, O Jack!" she said, "I wish you would give Mrs. Peakslow one too."

"I would, certainly," said Jack; "but" (his pride coming up) "wouldn't
it look as if I was anxious to make my peace with Peakslow?"

"Never mind that; I think even he will appreciate the kindness. I wish
you would!"

"I will--to please you," said Jack. "This afternoon, if I have time."
And he went to the buggy for his compass.

He fumbled in the blanket under the seat, looked before and behind, and
uttered an exclamation.

"What's the trouble, Jack?" Rufe asked.

"It is gone! my compass is gone!" said Jack. "Somebody has taken it."

"That Zeph--we saw him, you know!" said Rufe. "It's one of his tricks."

"I'll overhaul that Zeph!" said Jack; "I'll teach him to play his tricks
on me!"

Vinnie ran after him as he was starting off.

"Jack! don't be hasty or unkind!"

"O no! I won't be unkind," said Jack, with something bitter in his
laugh. "I just want my compass, that's all." And he hurried down the
road.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE STRANGE CLOUD.


Jack's call on the Peakslows was brief and unsatisfactory. He returned
to the "castle" without his compass, and looking flushed and disturbed.

"I didn't accuse Zeph of stealing," said Jack, fearful of being blamed
by Vinnie. "They were at supper; and I just said, 'Zeph, my boy, what
did you do with my compass?' He denied having touched it. I explained.
Great commotion. Mamma Peakslow looked frightened out of her wits, and
papa blazed away at me like a seventy-four-gun ship. In short, you will
have to wait for your noon-mark, Mrs. Betterson. So will Mrs. Peakslow.
I didn't tell her I was going to make her one, if Zeph hadn't stolen my
compass."

"But you don't know he stole it," said Vinnie.

"We don't know that he and Dud put rubbish in our spring," Rufe made
answer for Jack, "and yet we know it as well as we know anything we
don't know."

"I can't tell what I was thinking of," said Jack, "to leave any property
of mine unguarded, within reach of the Peakslows. Lion was up in the
woods with me before I knew it."

"Where are you going now?" Vinnie asked.

"To look for my compass in the bushes. Zeph must have hid it somewhere,
for he didn't have it when we saw him."

"Wait till after supper, and I will go with you," said Rufe. "Father is
here now."

Mr. Betterson was coming up from the stable, accompanied by Radcliff.
Rad had hastened to waylay him, and make a last appeal for the money
which he knew Jack was waiting to receive. He talked and gesticulated
earnestly; but Lord shook his head and compressed his lips with great
firmness, whereupon Rad, instead of coming to supper with the rest,
wandered sulkily away.

When Mr. Betterson had washed his hands and face, and brushed his hair,
and put on his threadbare black coat and frayed stock, the family sat
down at the table. Jack waited unwillingly, and soon excused himself,
saying he must look for his compass before dark.

"I'll attend to our truckman's little matter when I come back," he said,
and hurried away.

Link jumped up from the table and went with him; Rufe and Wad promising
to follow as soon as they were through with their supper.

Careful search was made all about the roadside bushes where the wagon
had been partially concealed when the compass was taken. Lion was also
set to hunt. But all in vain. Some faint footprints were found, but Jack
could not be sure that they were not either his own or Rufe's.

"Lion don't know what we are looking for; he's after rabbits," said
Link. "Was this all the compass you had?"

"The only surveyor's compass; and the worst of it is, 't was a borrowed
one. It belongs to Forrest Felton. He has a theodolite which we use for
fine work; and I've a little pocket-compass, given me by an old lady a
few years ago. I wouldn't have lost this for twice its value,--it's a
most exasperating trick!" Jack muttered. "And now it is suddenly growing
dark."

It was very suddenly growing very dark. A strange cloud was blackening
the sunset sky. "Did you ever see anything so funny?" said Link.

"It is like the lower half of an immense balloon, the top spreading
out," said Jack. "See that long, hanging, pear-shaped end!"

"I wonder if the folks at the house see it!" Link exclaimed, growing
excited. "It looks like an elephant's trunk! By sixty, it's growing!"

"It's moving this way," said Jack. "Fast, too! and roaring,--hear it?
There's an awful storm coming!"

"Oh!" cried Link, "see the lightning-forks! It will be here in a jiffy."

The "elephant's trunk," which had seemed to be feeling its way up the
valley, now swung toward the line of timber; the roar which accompanied
it became deafening; and suddenly the cloud, and all the air about it,
seemed filled with whirling and flying objects, like the broken boughs
and limbs of trees. It was like some living monster, vast, supernatural,
rushing through the sky, and tearing and trampling the earth with fury.
The mysterious swinging movement, the uproar, the gloom, the lightnings,
were appalling. And now Lion set up a fearful, ominous howl.

"A whirlwind!" Jack exclaimed, shrieking to make himself heard. "I must
go to my horse."

"Let's put for the house!" Link yelled.

But hardly had they reached the road when the storm was upon them.

Shortly after Jack and Link had left the table, Lord Betterson gave
Rufus a small key, and told him to bring a certain pocket-book from the
till of the family chest in the next room.

"We will have our friend's eighty dollars ready for him, against his
return," Lord said; and, counting out the money, he placed it under the
pocket-book, beside his plate.

Rufe and Wad were now ready to go and help Jack search for his compass;
but a discussion which had been going on at intervals, ever since the
draft came, was now renewed, and they stopped to take part in it.

"If I am going to get out to Divine service again, I _must_ have a silk
dress," said Caroline. "And, Mr. Betterson, _you_ need a new suit; and
you know--we all know--nothing becomes you but broadcloth, and the
finest broadcloth. What do you think, Lavinia dear?"

"I am sure broadcloth is becoming to him," Vinnie replied quietly. "And
I should like to see you come out in silk. And Cecie and Lilian need new
things. But--how much of the two hundred and fifty dollars is left, Mr.
Betterson?"

"Deducting Radcliff's share, one hundred and twenty odd dollars," said
Lord, touching the pocket-book by his plate.

"One hundred and twenty dollars will go but a little way, in a family
where so many things are absolutely needed!" said Vinnie. "It seems to
me I should want to get this room and your room plastered, the first
thing,--merely for comfort, in the cold weather that is coming."

"And carpeted, Lavinia dear," simpered Caroline.

"And if the house is ever to be painted," spoke up Rufe, "it must be
done soon. It won't be worth painting if it is neglected much longer."

"And we need so many things in the kitchen!" said Lill. "Vinnie knows
it, but she won't say anything."

"And lots of things on the farm," said Wad. "If Rufe and I are going to
do anything, we must have conveniences. The idea of having such a house
as this, and nothing but a miserable log-barn and stable!"

"We can't build a new barn for a hundred and twenty dollars," said Mr.
Betterson. "And we can't buy farming tools, and kitchen utensils, and
carpets, and silk, and broadcloth, and tea and sugar, and clothing for
the children, and paint and plaster the house, all with so limited a
sum. The question then arises, just _what_ shall we do with the money?"

"O dear! just a little money like that is only an aggravation!" Caroline
sighed, discouraged. "And I had hoped some of it would be left for
Lavinia dear; she deserves it if anybody does."

"O, never mind me," Vinnie replied. "However, if I might suggest--"

But the family had been so long deciding this question, that Fortune
seemed now to take it out of their hands, and decide it for them.

It suddenly grew dark, and an outcry from the boys interrupted Vinnie.
The tornado was coming.

All rose, save Cecie,--who remained seated where she had been placed at
the table,--and pressed to the door and windows.

The baby wakened in the next room, and began to cry, and Caroline went
to take it up. The boys rushed out of the house. Vinnie turned pale and
asked, "Where are they? Jack and Link!"

"As well off as they would be here probably," replied Lord Betterson.
"Shut doors and windows fast. That horse should have been taken care
of."

"Jack wouldn't let us put him up. I'll do it now," cried Rufe.

But he had hardly begun to undo the halter, when he saw the utter
impossibility of getting the horse to the stable before the storm would
be upon them. So, to prevent Snowfoot from breaking away and dashing the
buggy to pieces, he determined to leave him tied to the tree, and stand
by his head, until the first whirl or rush should have passed. This he
attempted to do; and patted and encouraged the snorting, terrified
animal, till he was himself flung by the first buffet of the hurricane
back against the pillar of the porch, where he clung.

"Oh! what is that?" screamed Lill, watching with Vinnie from the window.

[Illustration: THE TORNADO COMING.]

Some huge, unwieldy object had risen and rolled for an instant in the
dim air, over Peakslow's house, then disappeared as suddenly.

At the same time Jack and Link appeared, half running, half blown by the
tempest up the road. Vinnie watched them from the window, and saw the
enormous sloping pillar of dust and leaves, and torn boughs, whirling
above their heads, and overwhelming everything in its roaring cloud.

The last she remembered was Jack and Link darting by the corner of the
house, and Snowfoot tugging at his halter. Then a strange electric
thrill shot through her, the house shook with a great crash, and all was
dark.




CHAPTER XXXV.

PEAKSLOW IN A TIGHT PLACE.--CECIE.


The storm could not have been two minutes in passing. Then it suddenly
grew light, the tempest lulled, the heavens cleared, and in not more
than ten minutes the sunset sky was smiling again, a sea of tranquil
gold, over the western woods.

Fortunately, only the skirt of the storm had swept over Betterson's
house, doing no very serious damage.

When Vinnie looked again from the window, she saw Snowfoot, still tied
by the halter, standing with drooping head and tail, wet with rain.
Jack, hat in hand, his hair wildly tumbled, was already at the horse's
head, laughing excitedly, and looking back at Rufe and Link, who were
coming to his side. The buggy, he noticed, had been whirled half-way
round by the wind, so that the rear end was turned toward the porch.

Through it all, Lill had clung in terror to Vinnie, whose arms were
still about her. Cecie sat in her chair by the supper-table, white and
speechless from the electric shock which all had felt, and she more
sensibly than the rest. Caroline was in the next room with the child,
whose cries, for a while drowned in the terrible uproar, now broke
forth again, strenuous and shrill. Mr. Betterson, holding the frightened
Chokie, opened the door, and calmly asked the boys if they were hurt.

"We are all right, I guess," cried Rufe. "Wad put for the barn, to make
room for the horse and buggy, which I didn't have time to get there. I
don't know where Rad is."

Wad now appeared; and at the same time the cattle, started homeward by
the storm, came cantering down the woodland road, with the rattling
cowbell, and ran for refuge to the barnyard.

"The big oak behind the house, there,--have you seen it?" cried Wad.
"It's twisted off. And where's the well-curb?"

"That flew to pieces, and the boards went up into the air like kites,--I
saw them," said Link. "Where's the dog?"

"He's in the bushes, or under a log somewhere," Jack replied. "He was
shot at once, with a gun held close to his head,--luckily, there was no
lead in it. For a long time he was afraid of a gun; and thunder, or any
big noise, frightens him even now."

"Some of our fences look pretty flat,--rails tumbled every which way!"
said Rufe. "A good deal of damage must have been done south of us."

"Something looks odd over there toward Peakslow's,--what is it?" cried
Link.

"Some of the tree-tops by the road have been lopped off," replied Jack.

"That isn't all," said Lord Betterson. "Sure as fate, something has
happened to Peakslow's buildings."

"That is what I saw!" Vinnie exclaimed. "Something turned over in the
air like the roof of a house."

"I thought just now I heard cries in that direction," said Jack. "Hark a
moment!"

"There comes somebody," said Rufe, as a girl of twelve years, barefoot,
bonnetless, wild with fright, came running up the road. "It's 'Lecty
Ann!"

Out of breath, almost out of her wits, the girl ran as far as the
door-yard fence, then stopped, as if unable or afraid to go farther,
caught hold of the pickets, and, putting her pale face between them,
gasped out something which nobody could understand.

"What is it?--what's the matter?" cried Jack, advancing toward her.

"House--blowed down--covered up!" was all she could articulate.

"Who is covered up?"

"Don't know--some of the folks--pa, I guess."

Jack did not stop to hear more; but, fired with a generous impulse to
aid the unfortunate, whoever they might be, gave one backward look,
threw up his hand as a signal, shouted "Help, boys!" ran to a length of
fence which the wind had thrown down, bounded over like a deer, and was
off.

Vinnie followed; but was soon overtaken by Mr. Betterson and the boys,
who passed her, as if running a race. Then she heard screams behind;
and there was Chokie, sprawling over the prostrate fence, which he had
rashly taken, in his eagerness to keep up with Lill.

By the time Chokie was extricated Mrs. Betterson appeared, babe in arms,
tottering out of the door, and hastening, in the excitement of the
moment, to learn what dreadful catastrophe had overtaken their
neighbors.

"Stay with Arthur and your mother," Vinnie said to Lill; "_I_ may do
something to help." And away she sped.

'Lecty Ann, met by Mrs. Betterson at the gate, was now able to tell more
of her story; and so strange, so tragical it seemed, that Caroline
forgot all about her ill health, the baby in her arms, and Cecie left
alone in the house, and brought up the rear of the little
procession,--Lill and 'Lecty Ann and Chokie preceding her down the road.

They had not gone far, when Lion came out of the woods, with downcast
ears and tail, ashamed of his recent cowardly conduct. And so,
accompanied by the dog and the children,--Lill lugging the baby at
last,--Caroline approached the scene of the disaster.

The whole force of the tornado seemed to have fallen upon Peakslow's
buildings. The stable was unroofed, and the barn had lost a door.

The house had fared still worse: it was--even as 'Lecty Ann had
said--almost literally "blowed down."

It had consisted of two parts,--a pretty substantial log-cabin, which
dated back to the earliest days of the settlement, and a framed
addition, called a lean-to, or "linter." The roof of the old part had
been lifted, and tumbled, with some of the upper logs, a mass of ruins,
over upon the linter, which had been crushed to the ground by the
weight.

Mrs. Peakslow and the girls and younger children were in the log-house
at the time; and, marvellous as it seemed, all had escaped serious
injury.

The boys were in the field with their father, and had run a race with
the tornado. The tornado beat. Dud was knocked down within a few rods of
the house. Zeph was blown up on a stack of hay, and lodged there; the
stack itself--and this was one of the curious freaks of the
whirlwind--being uninjured, except that it was canted over a little, and
ruffled a good deal, as if its feathers had been stroked the wrong way.

Mr. Peakslow was ahead of the boys; and they thought he must have
reached the linter.

Zeph, slipping down from his perch in the haystack, as soon as the storm
had passed, and seeing the house in ruins, and his mother and sisters
struggling to get out, had run screaming for help down the road toward
Mr. Wiggett's. Dud remained; and by pushing from without, while the
imprisoned family lifted and pulled from within, helped to move a log
which had fallen down against the closed door, and so aided the escape
from the house.

'Lecty Ann ran to the nearest neighbor's up the river. The rest stayed
by the ruins; and there Lord Betterson and Jack--the earliest on the
spot--found them, a terrified group, bewildered, bewailing, gazing
hopelessly and helplessly at the unroofed cabin and crushed linter, and
calling for "Pa."

"Where is your husband, Mrs. Peakslow?" cried Jack.

"O, I don't know where he is, 'thout he's there!" said the poor woman,
with a gesture of despair toward the ruined linter.

"This rubbish must be removed," said Lord Betterson. "If friend Peakslow
is under it, he can't be taken out too soon."

And with his own hands he set to work, displaying an energy of will and
coolness of judgment which would have astonished Jack, if he had not
once before seen something of what was in the man.

Jack and the boys seconded their father; and now Dud came and worked
side by side with Wad and Rufe.

A broken part of the roof was knocked to pieces, and the rafters were
used for levers and props. The main portion of the roof was next turned
over, and got out of the way. Then one by one the logs were removed; all
hands, from Lord Betterson down to Link, working like heroes.

Meanwhile, Vinnie did what she could to aid and comfort Mrs. Peakslow;
and Caroline and her little company came and looked on.

Mr. Wiggett also arrived, with Zeph, and helped get away the last of the
logs.

Under the logs was the crushed shell of the linter; and all looked
anxiously, to see what was under that.

A good many things were under it,--pots and kettles, wash-tubs,
milk-pans (badly battered), churn and cheese-press, bed and
trundle-bed,--but no Peakslow.

It was a disappointment, and yet a relief, not to find him there, after
all. But where was he? Dud ran back to the field, to look for him; while
the others rested from their labors.

"Did the wind do you much damage, Mr. Wiggett?" Lord inquired.

"Not so much as it mout," replied the old man. "It was mighty suddent.
Banged if I knowed what in seven kingdoms was a-gwine to happen. It
roared and bellered that orful, I didn't know but the etarnal smash-up
had come."

"It must have passed pretty near your house,--I saw it swing that way,"
said Jack.

"Wal, I reckon you're right thar, young man. It jest took holt o' my
cabin, an' slewed one corner on't around about five or six inches; an'
done no more damage, in partic'lar, fur's I can diskiver; only, of
course, it discomfusticated that ar' noon-mark. I left the ol' woman
mournin' over that!"

Jack laughed, and promised to replace the noon-mark.

"There's Dud a-yelling!" said Link.

[Illustration: PEAKSLOW REAPPEARS.]

The roof of the shed--which must have been the object Vinnie saw rise
and turn in the air--had been taken off very neatly, with the two gable
pieces, whirled over once or more, and then landed gently, right side up
with care, on the edge of the potato-patch, two or three rods away. Dud,
hunting for his father, passed near it, and heard stifled cries come
from under it. He was yelling, indeed, as Link said.

In a moment a dozen feet rushed to the spot, and a dozen hands laid hold
of one side of the roof, under which Jack thrust a lever. Some lifted on
the lever, while some lifted on the edge of the roof itself; and out
crawled--bushy head and hooked nose fore-most--the shaggy shape of the
elder Peakslow.

The roof was let down again as soon as Peakslow's legs were well
from under it, and a wondering group--men, boys, women, and
children--gathered round to see if he was hurt.

"Wal!" said Peakslow, getting upon his feet, giving his clothes a brush
with his broad hand, and staring about him, "this is a mighty perty
piece of business! Didn't none on ye hear me call?"

"Did you call?" said Mrs. Peakslow, trembling with joy and fright.

"Call?" echoed Peakslow, feeling his left shoulder with his right hand.
"I believe I b'en callin' there for the last half-hour. What was ye
knockin' that ruf to pieces for? I could hear ye, an' see ye, an' I
wanted to put a stop to 't. Hadn't the wind damaged me enough, but you
must pitch in?"

"We thought you were under the ruins," Mr. Betterson replied with
dignity.

"Thought I was under the ruins! What made ye think that?" growled
Peakslow.

"I thought so--I told them so," Mrs. Peakslow explained; while Lord
Betterson walked away with calm disgust.

"Ye might 'a' knowed better'n that! Here I was under this ruf all the
time. It come over on to me like a great bird, knocked me down with a
flop of its wing,--mos' broke my shoulder, I believe; an' when I come to
myself, and peeked through a crack, there was a crew knockin' the ruf o'
the house to flinders. I was too weak to call very loud, but, if you'd
cared much, I should think ye might 'a' heard me. Look a' that house,
now! look a' that shed! It's the blastedest luck!"

Jack couldn't help smiling. Peakslow turned upon him furiously.

"You here? So ye think my boy's a thief, do ye?"

"Come, Lion! come, boys!" said Jack, and started to follow Mr.
Betterson, without more words.

"Come here and 'cuse my boy o' stealin'!" said Peakslow, turning, and
looking all about him, as if he had hardly yet regained his senses. "I
had a hat somewheres. Hundred dollars--no, nor two hundred--won't pay
the damage done to me this day."

"But the children, they are all safe," said Mrs. Peakslow, "and we ought
to be thankful."

"Thankful! Look a' that linter! _Three_ hundred won't do it!"

"O pa!" cried Zeph, "you've got a great gash on the back o' your head!"

"Never mind the gash," said Peakslow, putting up his hand. "That'll
heal itself. Holes in the buildin's won't."

Vinnie meanwhile conferred with Jack and Mr. Betterson, as they were
about going away; and also called her sister, and afterward Mrs.
Peakslow, to the consultation.

"O, I don't know, Lavinia dear!" said Caroline in great distress of
mind.

But Lord Betterson spoke out manfully,--

"Lavinia is right. Mrs. Peakslow, we have plenty of spare room in our
house, which you are welcome to till you can do better."

"O Mr. Betterson!" the poor woman sobbed out, quite overcome by this
unexpected kindness, "you are too good!"

"I beg your pardon," replied Lord Betterson, in his most gracious
manner. "We wish simply to do as we might wish neighbors to do by us
under similar circumstances. Our boys will help yours get your things
over to my house,--whatever you want, Mrs. Peakslow."

Lord did not much mind the woman's outburst of tears and thanks; but
when he observed the look of admiration and gratitude in Vinnie's deep
eyes, fixed upon him, he felt an unaccustomed thrill.

Mrs. Peakslow went weeping back to her husband.

"I am sorry you spoke as you did," she said. "We all thought you was
under the linter; and they was all workin' so hard--as if they had been
our best friends--to get you out."

"Best friends!" repeated Peakslow, with a snort of angry contempt.

"Yes, pa; and now,--will you believe it?--now that we haven't a ruf to
our heads, they offer us shelter in _their_ house!"

"In the castle?--huh!" sneered Peakslow. "I never thought 't would come
to that!"

"Where else _can_ we go?" said Mrs. Peakslow. "It's 'most night,--nights
are beginnin' to be cold,--and think o' the children! 'T will be weeks,
I s'pose, 'fore ye can rebuild."

"If I couldn't rebuild in all etarnity, I wouldn't set foot in Lord
Betterson's castle!" said Peakslow. He looked again at the ruined house,
then at the children, and added: "Me an' the boys, we can stop in the
stable, or dig holes in the stack, to make ourselves comf'table. Do what
you're a min' ter, for the rest. But don't say _I_ told ye to ask or
accept a favor of _them_."

The Bettersons, Vinnie, and Jack were waiting between the ruined house
and the road; and Mrs. Betterson was saying, "Lillie, you and I _must_
be going back; remember, we left Cecie all alone; and the evening air is
too chill for the baby," when Link cried,--

"Who's that coming down the road?"

All turned; and Vinnie and Jack and Link ran out to look. They could
scarcely believe their eyes.

"It can't be!" said Vinnie.

"Yes, it is," exclaimed Link; "it's her--it's her!"

"Who?" Caroline inquired anxiously, dreading some new calamity.

"Cecie! Cecie, sure as the world!" said two or three at once.

It was indeed the little invalid, who, though she had scarcely taken a
step without help for many months, was actually coming down the road,
walking, and walking fast, without even the crutch she had sometimes
tried to use!

She was beckoning and calling. Jack and Vinnie and the boys ran to meet
her. She was pale and very much excited, and it was some time before she
could speak coherently.

"Radcliff!" was almost her first word.

"What about Radcliff? where is he?" Vinnie asked.

"Gone!"

"Gone where?"

"I don't know. He came into the house--he saw the pocket-book and money
on the table--I told him he mustn't take them!"

"And did he?" said Rufe.

"Yes. He only laughed at me. He said his chance had come."

"Which way did he go?"

"He drove up through the woods."

"Drove?" echoed Jack.

"He took the horse and buggy."

"_My_ horse and buggy!" And Jack, followed by Lion and Rufe and Link,
started up the road.

Though shocked at Radcliff's conduct, Vinnie thought less of the loss of
the money, and of the horse and buggy, than of the seeming miracle in
Cecie's case.

"How could you walk so, Cecie?"

"I don't know. I suppose it was the excitement. Strength came to me. I
called, but could not make anybody hear, and I thought you ought to
know."

Mr. Betterson would have carried her home in his arms, but she would not
let him.

"I can walk better and better! That numbness of my limbs is almost gone.
I believe I am going to be cured, after all!"




CHAPTER XXXVI.

"ON THE WAR TRAIL."


There could be no mistake about it,--pocket-book and money, and horse
and buggy, were gone with Radcliff.

"He has taken the road to Chicago," said Jack, easily tracking the
wheels after the recent rain. "But he'll find it not so easy selling the
horse there a second time."

"But he'll spend all that money," said Rufe. "He'll find it easy enough
to do that."

"I wish it wasn't night," said Jack. "I would track him! And I will as
it is. Have you a lantern?"

"Yes--I'll go with you! Shall we take the mare and one-horse wagon?"

"If you like. But, Rufe, if you go with me, you'll have to travel all
night. I am on the war trail!"

"I'm with you!" said Rufe; and he gave an Indian war-whoop.

Mr. Betterson, coming up, approved of this resolution. "And, boys," he
said, "if you _should_ lay hands on Radcliff, you may as well bring him
back with you. We'll try to have a more satisfactory settlement with him
this time."

Jack left his friends to harness the mare to the wagon, and went on
alone, with Lion and the lantern, up through the woods.

For a while he had no trouble in following the fresh marks of hoofs and
wheels over the wet ground. But when he reached the prairie, an
unforeseen difficulty appeared. The rain had not extended so far, and
the tracks were not easily distinguished.

It was nearly dark when Rufe, following in the wagon, emerged from the
woods. Lonesome and gloomy stretched the great prairie before him, under
a sky of flying clouds. The insects of the autumn night filled the air
with their shrill, melancholy notes. An owl hooted in the forest; a pair
of whippoorwills were vociferating somewhere in the thickets; and far
off on the prairie the wolves howled. Now and then a rift of dark blue
sky and a few wildly hurrying stars were visible through the flocking
clouds. No other light, or sign of life, until Rufe descried far before
him in the darkness a waving, ruddy gleam, and knew it was the ray from
the lantern swinging in Jack's hand.

Driving on as fast as the mare's somewhat decrepit paces would allow, he
found Jack waiting for him at a point where the road divided, one branch
taking a northerly direction, the other trending easterly, toward the
great road to Chicago.

"Here's a puzzle," said Jack, as Rufe drove up. "I've tracked the fellow
as far as here, notwithstanding he has tried the trick of driving off on
the prairie in two or three places. But here, instead of taking the
direct road to Chicago, as we supposed, he has taken this by-road, if my
eyes are good for anything. Lion says I am right; for I believe I've
made him understand we are hunting Snowfoot."

Rufe jumped down from the wagon, and saw by the light of the lantern the
imperfect and yet peculiar marks of Snowfoot's rather smooth-worn shoes,
and of the narrow wheel-tires.

"It is a game of his to mislead us," said Rufe. "I believe if we follow
him on to where this by-road crosses the main road, we shall find he has
there turned off toward the city."

"Go ahead, Lion; find Snowfoot!" cried Jack, and jumped into the wagon
with Rufe.

They got on as fast as they could; but the pursuit was necessarily slow,
for not only was the mare a creature of very indifferent speed, but the
boys found it useful to stop every now and then and examine the tracks
by the light of the lantern.

"The dog is right; and we are right so far, sure!" said Jack, after they
had proceeded about half a mile in this way. "_Slow and sure_ is our
policy. We've all the fall before us, Rufe; and we'll overhaul your
pretty cousin, unless something breaks. Now, drive straight on to the
main road, and we'll see what we can discover there."

To the surprise of both again, the fugitive, instead of turning
cityward, kept the northerly road.

"He is cunning," said Rufe. "He knows Chicago is the first place where
one would be apt to look for him; and, besides, I think he is getting
too well known in Chicago."

"He is bound for Wisconsin," cried Jack. "Whip along. This road passes
through the timber, and brings us to the river again; we shall soon find
settlements, where we can inquire for our game."

"If you can speak Dutch, and if it wasn't too late when Rad passed
through," Rufe replied. "There is a colony of _meinheers_ up here; they
go to bed a little after sundown."

As they drove on from the crossing, Jack said, "That left-hand road goes
to North Mills. But I sha'n't see North Mills to-night, nor for a good
many nights, I'm afraid."

Jack, however, as we shall see, was mistaken.

The road above the crossing was much more travelled than below; and for
a while the boys found it very difficult to make out Snowfoot's tracks.
But soon again fortune favored them.

"Rain--it has been raining here!" said Jack, examining the road where it
entered the skirts of the timber, "and raining hard! We must be nearing
the path of the whirlwind again."

They passed through a belt of woods, where the storm had evidently
passed but without doing much damage; for it was a peculiarity of that
elephant of a cloud that it appeared to draw up its destroying trunk
once or twice, and skip over a few miles in its course, only to swing it
down again with greater fury.

The road was now drenched all the way, and the trail they followed was
so distinct that the boys did not stop to make inquiries at the log-huts
which began to appear before they were well through the woods.

They made comparatively rapid progress up the valley, until they came to
a point where the river, in its winding course, was crossed by the road.
There, again, the tornado had done a brisk business; the bridge was
destroyed, the side of the road gullied, and the river swollen.

Both boys alighted and examined the track.

"Here is where he stopped and hesitated, finding the bridge gone," said
Jack. "And see! here are his own tracks, as if he had got out of the
buggy and gone ahead to reconnoitre."

"As well he might," Rufe answered. "Look at these tree-tops, and the
timbers of the bridge lodged in the middle of the river!"

"He seems to have got through, and I guess we can," said Jack. "I've
forded this stream, below the bridge, before now, when I've wanted to
water my horse; but it was free from all this sort of rubbish then.
There must have been a great fall of rain up here!"




CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE MYSTERY OF A PAIR OF BREECHES.


Jack went out with the lantern upon the ruined abutment of the bridge,
and showed a space beside the drift-wood, in the turbid and whirling
current, where fording seemed practicable.

Then the boys got into the wagon again, and the mare was driven
cautiously forward, by the glimmering light which the lantern shed
faintly before and around them. Lion swam ahead, throwing up his muzzle
and barking loud, like a faithful pilot showing the safest way. The
wheels went in over the hubs; the water came into the bottom of the
wagon-box; the flood boiled and plashed and gurgled, and swept away in
black, whirling eddies; and Jack said, "This wouldn't be a very nice
place to break down, eh,--would it?"

But they got safely through; and on the farther bank they were pleased
to find again the trail of the horse and buggy.

They were now in high spirits. The whirlwind having passed up the river,
the road lay aside from its direct path, but still within the area of
rain.

"This is gay!" said Jack. "He thinks he has baffled us; and he will put
up somewhere for the night; and we won't! We shall circumvent Master
Radcliff!"

[Illustration: FOLLOWING THE WAR TRAIL UNDER DIFFICULTIES.]

But soon the boys were again puzzled. Reaching another cross-road, and
bringing the lantern to bear upon the trail, they found that, instead of
continuing northward, toward Wisconsin, or turning to the right, in the
direction of Chicago, it turned at a sharp angle to the left, in the
direction of North Mills.

"This move is a perfect mystery to me!" Jack exclaimed. "It seems as if
he had thought the thing all over, and finally chosen the very last
place one would expect him to make for."

"Are you sure this road leads to North Mills?"

"Perfectly sure; I've been this way three or four times. But another
road branches from it, and passes a mile north of the Mills; he has
probably taken that."

But no; after a good deal of trouble--the road appearing once more dry
and much trodden--they discovered that the horse and buggy had not taken
the branch, but kept the direct route to the Mills!

"It doesn't seem possible! there must be some mistake here," said Jack.
And every rod of their progress seemed now to increase the boys' doubts.

The road, long before they reached the Mills, became a mere bed of brown
dust, in which it required a pretty vivid imagination to distinguish one
track from another. The boys' spirits sank accordingly. Lion still led
them boldly on; but his guidance could no longer be trusted.

"He's bound for home now," said Jack, "and he'll go straight there."

"If Rad _did_ come this way," said Rufe, "he was shrewd, after all. He
knew that by passing through a busy place like the Mills, he would hide
his tracks as he couldn't in any other way."

"To find 'em again," Jack replied, rather gloomily, "we shall have to
examine every road going out of this place."

It must have been near midnight when they entered the village. The
houses were all dark and still; not a ray at a window, not even the bark
of a dog, gave sign of life as they passed.

"This looks discouraging," said Jack.

"A needle in a haystack is no comparison," replied Rufe. "The lantern is
almost out."

"I can get another at our house," said Jack. "We may as well follow the
dog now. What did I tell you? He is going straight home!"

The dog trotted up to the gate before Mr. Lanman's cottage, and the
wagon turned up after him.

"What's that ahead of us?" said Jack, as the mare came to a sudden stop.

"Seems to be a wagon standing," said Rufe, shading his eyes from the
lantern and peering into the darkness.

Jack jumped out, ran forward, and gave a shout. The wagon was a buggy,
and the horse was Snowfoot, standing before the gate, waiting patiently
to be let in.

Quite wild with delight and astonishment, Jack took the lantern and
examined horse and vehicle.

"Old Lion! you were right," he exclaimed. "The scamp must have let the
horse go, and taken to his heels. And the horse made for home."

"The most he cared for was to get off with the money," said Rufe, not
quite so abundantly pleased as his friend. "What's this thing under the
seat?"

"The compass!" said Jack, if possible, still more surprised and
overjoyed, "which I accused Zeph of stealing!"

Rufe continued rummaging, and, holding the lantern with one hand, lifted
up a limp garment with the other.

"What in thunder? A pair of breeches! Rad's breeches! Where can the
scamp have gone without his breeches? See what's in the pocket there,
Jack."

Jack thrust in his hand, and brought out some loose bank-notes. He
thrust in his hand again, and brought out a pocket-book, containing more
bank-notes. It was Mr. Betterson's pocket-book, and the notes were the
stolen money.

Jack was hastily turning them over--not counting them, he was too much
amazed and excited to do that--when the candle in the lantern gave a
final flicker and went out, leaving the boys and the mystery of the
compass and the money and Rad's pantaloons enveloped in sudden
darkness.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE MORNING AFTER.


Bright rose the sun the next morning over the leafy tops of Long Woods,
and smiled upon the pleasant valley.

It found many a trace of the previous day's devastation,--trees uprooted
or twisted off at their trunks, branches and limbs broken and scattered,
fences blown down, and more than one man's buildings unroofed or
demolished.

It found Peakslow, accompanied by the two older boys, walking about his
private and particular pile of ruins, in a gloomy and bewildered state
of mind, as if utterly at a loss to know where the repair of such
tremendous damages should begin. And (the sun itself must have been
somewhat astonished) it found Mrs. Peakslow and the younger children,
five in number, comfortably quartered in Lord Betterson's "castle."

It also had glimpses of Rufe, with light and jolly face, driving home by
prairie and grove, alone in the one-horse wagon.

Link ran out to meet him, swinging his cap and shouting for the news.

"Good news!" Rufe shouted back, while still far up the road. "Tell the
folks!" And he held up the pocket-book.

It was good news indeed which he brought; but the mystery at the bottom
of it all was a mystery still.

The family gathered around, with intense interest, while he told his
story and displayed Rad's pantaloons.

"The eighty dollars, which you had counted out,--you remember,
father,--was loose in the pocket. I left that with Jack; he will send it
to Chicago to-day. The rest of the money, I believe, is all here in the
pocket-book."

"And you've heard nothing of Radcliff?" said Mr. Betterson.

"Not a word. Jack made me stop with him over night; and I should have
come home the way we went, and looked for Rad, if it hadn't been so far;
we must have driven twelve or fifteen miles in that roundabout chase."

"Some accident must certainly have happened to Radcliff," said Mr.
Betterson. And much wonder and many conjectures were expressed by the
missing youth's not very unhappy relatives.

"I bet I know!" said Link. "He drove so fast he overtook the tornado,
and it twisted him out of his breeches, and hung him up in a tree
somewhere!"

An ingenious theory, which did not, however, obtain much credence with
the family.

"One thing seems to be proved, and I am very glad," said Vinnie. "It
was not Zeph who took Jack's compass."

"Rad must have taken that, to spite Jack, and hid it somewhere near the
road in the timber, where it would be handy if he ever wanted to make
off with it; that's what Jack thinks," said Rufe. "Then, as he was
driving past the spot, he put it into the buggy again."

"Maybe he intended to set up for a surveyor somewhere," Wad remarked.
"He must have taken another pair of trousers with him."

"I am sure he didn't," said Cecie.

"And even if he did," said Rufe, "that wouldn't account for his leaving
the money in the pocket."

The family finally settled down upon a theory which had been first
suggested by Jack,--that in fording the river Rad had caught his wheels
in the tree-tops or timbers of the ruined bridge, and, to keep his lower
garments dry, had taken them off and left them in the buggy, while he
waded in to remove the rubbish, when the horse had somehow got away from
him, and gone home. It also seemed quite probable that Rad himself had
become entangled in drift-wood, and been drowned.

"Feed the mare, boys," said Lord Betterson. "As soon as she is well
rested, I'll drive up to the broken bridge, and see if any discoveries
can be made."

Meanwhile, whatever Radcliff's fate, it did not prevent the family from
rejoicing over the recovery of the lost money. And now Rufe's attention
was called to another happy circumstance, one which promised to be to
them a source of deeper and more lasting satisfaction.

Cecie could walk!

Yes, the marvellous effects of the previous day's events were still
manifest in the case of the little invalid. Either the tremendous
excitement, thrilling and rousing her whole system, or the electric
shock which accompanied the whirlwind, or the exertions she felt
compelled to make when Rad ran off with the money,--or all combined (for
the doctors were divided in opinion on the subject),--had overcome the
paralysis of her limbs, which a long course of medical treatment had
failed to remove.

The family physician, who chanced to come over from the Mills that day,
maintained that what he had been doing for the injured spine, the source
of Cecie's troubles, had prepared the way for this result; while
neighbor Peakslow, when he heard the news, grunted, and said he "guessed
the gal could 'a' walked all the time if she had only thought she could,
or wanted to very much." All which made Cecie smile. She only knew that
she was cured, and was too proud and glad to care much what was said of
her.




CHAPTER XXXIX.

FOLLOWING UP THE MYSTERY.


In the course of the day Mr. Betterson and Rufe visited the supposed
scene of Rad's disaster, and there met by chance Jack and his friend
Forrest Felton, who for a similar object had driven up from North Mills.

The river had gone down almost as rapidly as it had risen, and fording
it now by daylight was no such difficult matter. But there still were
the timbers and tree-tops amidst which the vehicles had passed the night
before.

Jack showed marks on one of his wheels where the spokes had been sharply
raked, and told how, examining Snowfoot by daylight, he had found muddy
splashes on his flank, as if he had been struck there by a bough or
branch drenched in turbid water.

"I think," said he, "that as Rad was getting the buggy clear, the limb
of a tree turned over and hit the horse. That started him, and away he
went. I don't believe Rad is drowned."

Search was made among the rubbish at the bridge, and for some distance
down the river; but no traces of Rad were discovered.

"Maybe he has gone home by water," was Rufe's rather too playful way of
saying that the drowned body might have floated down stream.

"If he got out alive," said Jack's friend Felton, "he must have found
his way to some house near by, in quest of pantaloons." And the party
now proceeded to make inquiries at the scattered huts of the Dutch--or
rather German--settlers along the edge of the timber.

At the first two doors where they stopped they found only women and
children, who could speak no English. But at the next house they saw a
girl, who eagerly answered "Yah! yah!" to their questions, and ran and
called a man working at the back door.

He was a short, thick-set man, with a big russet beard and serious blue
eyes.

"Goot morgin," he said, coming to the road to greet the strangers. "Der
been some vind dis vay,--you see some?--vas las' ebening."

The strangers acknowledged that they had experienced some effects of the
wind the night before, and repeated their questions regarding Radcliff.

"Young man,--no priches,--yah! yah!" replied Meinheer. "He come 'long
here, vas 'pout nine hours, may pe some more."

"A little after nine o'clock last night?" suggested Jack.

"Yah, yah! I vas bed shleepin', somebody knock so loud, I git some
candle light, and make de door open, and der vas some young feller, his
face sick, his clo'es all so vet but his priches,--his priches vas not
vet, for he has no priches, only some shoes."

"Where did he come from?"

"He say he come from up stream; he pass de pridge over, and der vas no
pridge; and he dhrive 'cross de vaser, and he cannot dhrive 'cross; so
he git out, only his priches not git out, for de vaser vas vet, and his
priches keeps in de vagon, vile he keeps in de vaser; he make some lift
on some logs, and someding make de hoss fright, and de hoss jump and
jerk de vagon, and de vagon jerk someding vat jerk him; and de priches
rides off, and he shtop in de vaser, and dhink some, and git sick, and
he say de log in his shtomach and so much vaser was pad, and I mus' give
him some dhink viskey and some dry priches, and I gives 'em."

"A pair of _your_ breeches?" cried Rufe, eying the baggy proportions of
Meinheer's nether garments.

"I have no oder; I fetch 'em from faderland; and I gives him some. He
stick his legs in, and some of his legs come too much under; de priches
vas some too vide, and some not long genoof. He dhink more viskey, and
feel goot, and say he find his team and bring back my priches to-morrow,
and it is to-morrow yet, and he not come."

Even the grave uncle of the luckless nephew had to laugh as he thought
of the slim legs pursuing their travels in the short but enormous
"priches" fetched from fatherland.

"How much were your breeches worth?" Lord said, taking out some money.

"I don't know--I don't keeps priches to sell; may pe vun tollar."

Betterson gave the German a dollar, saying,--

"Allow me to pay for them; for, if I mistake not, you will never see the
young man or your breeches again."

He was quite right: the German never did.

Neither--it may as well be said here--did Radcliff's own relatives see
him again for many years. What various adventures were his can only be
surmised, until one of the "Philadelphia partners," settling up his
accounts with the world, left him a legacy of six thousand dollars, when
he once more bloomed out as a fine gentleman, and favored his Western
friends with a visit.

He ran through his little fortune in a few months, and once more
disappeared from view, to turn up again, five or six years later (when
Jack and Vinnie saw him for the last time), as a runner for one of the
great Chicago hotels.




CHAPTER XL.

PEAKSLOW'S HOUSE-RAISING.


"Mercy on me!" said Caroline, hearing an unusual noise in the front part
of the house; "now we are to have the racket of those Peakslow children!
What could you have been thinking of, Lavinia dear? I'm sure _I_ didn't
know what I was saying when I gave _my_ consent to their coming. The
idea of their turning our library into a kitchen! Not that I blame
_you_, Lavinia dear. _I_ ought to have considered."

"Surely you wouldn't have denied the houseless family a shelter?" Vinnie
replied. "That would have seemed too bad, with those great chambers
unoccupied. As for the _library_,"--Vinnie smiled, for the unfurnished
room called by that choice name had nothing in it but a fireplace,--"I
don't think any harm can happen to that."

Vinnie had a plan regarding the Peakslow children, which she laid before
Mrs. Peakslow as soon as the new inmates were fairly settled in the
house.

"Since my sister and the baby have been so much better, I have begun a
little school, with only two scholars,--Cecie and Lilian. Wouldn't your
children like to join it? I think it would be pleasant."

"Whuther they would or not, I'd like to have 'em," replied Mrs.
Peakslow, gratefully. "The chances for schoolin' is dreffle slim in this
country; we've no school-house within nigh two mile. But how shall I pay
ye?"

"You needn't mind about that."

"Yes, I shall mind too. We must do somethin' for you in return."

"Well, then," said Vinnie, "if you like, you may let one of the girls
help a little in my sister's kitchen, to make up for the time I spend
with them."

"I'll do it, sartin! You shall have Lyddy. She's a good smart hand at
housework, and you may git all out of her you can."

So it was arranged. The little school of two was increased to five; the
"parlor"--used only to store grain in hitherto--was turned into a
school-room; and Lyddy worked in Mrs. Betterson's kitchen.

"Lavinia dear, you _are_ an extraordinary girl!" said Caroline. "It
seems the greatest miracle of all to see one of the Peakslows washing
_our_ dishes!"

No one was better pleased with this arrangement than Jack, who could
never be reconciled to seeing Vinnie--with all her health and strength
and cheery spirits--doing the hardest of the housework.

Jack took early occasion, on visiting Long Woods, to go and see Mr.
Peakslow, and make him a frank apology for having once suspected Zeph of
taking his compass. But he got only an ugly scowl and surly grunt for
his pains.

For a while Peakslow did not go near his family, quartered in his
enemy's house; but slept in the haystack, with Dud and Zeph, and ate the
meals his wife cooked and sent to him three times a day.

But soon Dud went to sleep at the "castle," and found he had nothing
more formidable to meet than Vinnie's bright eyes,--for Dud had suddenly
developed into a bashful youth.

Zeph in a night or two followed his example, and Peakslow was left alone
in his haystack.

And the nights were growing chill; and the repair of the buildings went
on slowly, carpenters being scarce; and Peakslow, who had a heart for
domestic comforts, began to yearn for the presence of his family at
mealtime and bedtime.

At length he stole into the house after dark one evening, and stole out
again before light the next morning. That did not seem to hurt him; on
the contrary, it suited Peakslow; his neighbor's house was better than a
haystack. Then he came to supper and stayed to breakfast. Then there was
no good reason why he should not come to dinner; and he came
accordingly.

Then he stopped after dinner one day to see how Vinnie conducted her
little school, and went away looking wonderfully thoughtful. The boys
remembered that he did not scold them so sharply that afternoon as he
had been wont to do since the tornado disturbed his temper.

One morning, as he was going out, Peakslow saw Lord Betterson in the
yard, and advanced awkwardly toward him, holding his hat in one hand and
scratching his head with the other. There was, after all, a vein of
diffidence in the rough quartz of the man's character; and somehow, on
this occasion, he couldn't help showing his neighbor a good deal of
respect.

"I'm a-gun to have a bee this arternoon,--a raisin',--gun to try to git
the logs back on to the house, an' the ruf on to the shed,--everything
ready,--some o' the neighbors comin' to help,--and if you an' your boys
can lend a hand, I'll do as much for you some time."

"Surely; very glad to serve you, Neighbor Peakslow," Lord Betterson
replied, in his magnificently polite way, much as if he had been a
monarch dismissing a foreign ambassador.

Jack came over to Long Woods that afternoon, and, having rectified Mrs.
Wiggett's noon-mark, stopped at Peakslow's raising on his way back up
the valley.

He found a group of men and boys before the house, partaking of some
refreshments,--sweetened whiskey and water, passed round in a pail with
a tin dipper by Zeph, and "nut-cakes" and "turn-overs," served by Mrs.
Peakslow and 'Lecty Ann.

The sight of Snowfoot tied to his fence made Peakslow glare; nor was his
ruffled spirit smoothed when he saw Jack come forward with a cheery face
and a compass in his hand.

Jack greeted the Bettersons, Mr. Wiggett, and one or two others he
knew, and was talking pleasantly with them, when Peakslow pushed the
inverted cut-water of his curved beak through the crowd, and confronted
him.

"So that air's the compass, is it?"

"This is the compass, Mr. Peakslow."

"Keep it in yer hand, now'days, do ye? Don't trust it in the wagon? Good
idee! No danger of its bein' stole, an' your comin' agin to 'cuse my
boys of the theft!"

Peakslow's ancient wrath rekindled as he spoke; his voice trembled and
his eyes flamed.

Jack kept his temper admirably, and answered with a frank and honest
face,--

"I have made the best amends I could for that mistake, by apologizing to
you for it, Mr. Peakslow. I don't keep the compass in my hand because I
am afraid it may be stolen. I have called--as I promised Mrs. Peakslow
the other day that I would do--to give her a noon-mark on her kitchen
floor."

"How's this?--promised her?--I don't understand that!" growled Peakslow.

"Yes, pa!" said Mrs. Peakslow, with a frightened look. "I seen him to
Mis' Betterson's. He'd made a noon-mark for Mis' Wiggett, and Mis'
Betterson's sister asked me if I wouldn't like one, as he was comin' to
make them one some day."

Off went Peakslow's hat, and into his bushy hair went his fingers again,
while he stammered out,--

"But he can't make no noon-mark this arternoon,--we're all in a mess an'
litter, so!"

"Just as well now as any time," said Jack. "The doorway is clear. I
sha'n't interfere with anybody."

"What'll be to pay?" Peakslow asked.

"O, I don't charge anything for a little job like this,--to one of Mr.
Betterson's neighbors."

"That's jes' so; he didn't charge me nary red," said Mr. Wiggett. "An'
he's done the job for me now tew times,--fust time, the tornado come and
put the noon-mark out o' j'int, 'fore ever a noon come round."

Jack adjusted his compass, while the house-raisers looked on, to see how
the thing was done, Peakslow appearing as much interested as anybody.

Jack got Link to make the first marks for him on the floor, and laughed,
as he looked through the sights of the compass, to hear Mr. Wiggett
describe the finding of his section corner,--"runnin' a line plumb to
the old stake, out on the open perairie,"--and praise the boy-surveyor's
skill.

The mark was made with quickness and precision; friends and strangers
crowded around Jack with kind words and questions; and he was surprised
to find himself all at once a person of importance.

Peakslow puffed hard at his pipe. His face was troubled; and two or
three times he pulled the pipe out of his mouth, thrust his knuckles
under his hat, and took a step toward the young surveyor. He also
cleared his throat. He evidently had a word to say. But the word would
not come.

When at last he let Jack go off without offering him even a syllable of
thanks, the bystanders smiled, and somebody might have been heard to
mutter, "Peakslow all over! Just like his hoggishness!"

Jack smiled too as he went, for he had shrewdly observed his enemy, and
he knew it was not "hoggishness" which kept Peakslow's lips closed, but
a feeling which few suspected in that grasping, hard, and
violent-tempered man.

Peakslow was abashed!




CHAPTER XLI.

CONCLUSION.


The house made once more inhabitable, Peakslow's family moved back into
it. But this change did not take Lyddy away from the "castle," nor break
up Vinnie's school.

The "castle" now underwent some renovation. The long-neglected
plastering was done, and the rooms in daily use were made comfortable.

Meanwhile the boys were full of ambition regarding their water-works.
The project had cost them a good deal more trouble than they had
anticipated at first; but they were amply repaid for all on the day when
the water was finally let on, and they saw it actually run from the
spout in the back-room! Such a result had seemed to them almost too good
ever to come true; and their joy over it was increased ten-fold by the
doubts and difficulties overcome.

Jack had come over to be present when the water was brought in, and he
was almost as happy over it as they.

"No more trouble with the old well!" said Rufe.

"No more lugging water from the grove!" said Wad.

"Or going into the river head-first after it, as you and I did!" said
Link.

Vinnie was proud of her nephews, and Caroline and Lord were proud of
their sons.

[Illustration: THE WATER QUESTION SETTLED.]

"How fine it will be for your dairy, in summer,--this cold, running
water!" said Vinnie.

But Chokie seemed best pleased, because he would no longer be dependent
upon precarious rains filling the hogshead, but would have a whole
tankful of water--an ocean in the back-room--to sail his shingle boats
on.

The boys had also acted on another suggestion of Jack's, and taken the
farm to work. This plan also promised to succeed well. The prospect of
doing something for themselves, roused energies which might have lain
dormant all their lives, if they had been contented to sit still and
wait for others to help them.

As Vinnie's school became known, other pupils appeared from up and down
the river, and by the first snowfall she had more than a dozen scholars.
Among these were Sal Wiggett and two big boys belonging to the paternal
Wiggett's "third crap" of children, and Dud and Zeph Peakslow.

The Betterson boys also attended the school, Wad and Link as pupils, and
Rufe partly as a pupil and partly as an assistant. Vinnie could teach
him penmanship and grammar, but she was glad to turn over to him the
classes in arithmetic, for which study he had a natural aptitude.

The Peakslow children, both boys and girls, had a good deal in them that
was worth cultivating; and amid the genial associations of the little
school they fast outgrew their rude and uncouth ways. It was interesting
to see Zeph and Cecie reciting the same lessons side by side, and Rufe
showing Dud about the sums that bothered him.

Caroline had very much objected to Vinnie's enlarging her school, and
especially to her receiving the big boys. The success of the experiment
surprised her. Vinnie had a charming way with the younger children, and
a peculiarly subduing influence over the big boys.

"Lavinia dear," said Caroline "what have I always said? You are a most
extraordinary girl!"

And now things came round curiously enough; and an event occurred of
which nobody could have dreamed when Vinnie set out alone, with a brave
heart, to do her simple duty to her sister's family.

It was found that she had a happy faculty for interesting and
instructing the young. So when, in the spring, a girls' school was
opened at North Mills, she was offered a place in it as assistant
teacher, which her friends there--Jack's friends--prevailed on her to
accept.

Leaving Long Woods cost her many regrets. But the better order of things
was now well established at the "castle" (which was fast ceasing to be a
castle, in the popular speech); and she felt that its inmates could
spare her very well,--if they would only think so!

Other considerations also consoled her for the change. She would still
be where she could see her relatives often; and now Jack's delightful
home was to be her own.

THE END.







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