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Title: Fighting for fortune
or, Making a place for himself

Author: Roy Franklin

Release date: September 4, 2025 [eBook #76812]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Street & Smith Corporation, 1909

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76812

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIGHTING FOR
FORTUNE ***

“The true test is when they buy it a second time”
ALGER SERIES No. 175

Fighting for
Fortune
By Roy Franklin
Street & Smith Corp.
Publishers · New York

BOOKS THAT NEVER GROW OLD

Alger Series
Clean Adventure Stories for Boys

The Most Complete List Published
The following list does not contain all the books that Horatio Alger wrote,
but it contains most of them, and certainly the best.
Horatio Alger is to boys what Charles Dickens is to grown-ups. His work is
just as popular to-day as it was years ago. The books have a quality, the
value of which is beyond computation.
There are legions of boys of foreign parents who are being helped along the
road to true Americanism by reading these books which are so peculiarly
American in tone that the reader cannot fail to absorb some of the spirit of
fair play and clean living which is so characteristically American.
In this list will be included certain books by Edward Stratemeyer, Oliver
Optic, and other authors who wrote the Alger type of stories, which are
equal in interest and wholesomeness with those written by the famous
author after which this great line of books for boys is named.
ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

By HORATIO ALGER, Jr.

1—Driven from Home
2—A Cousin’s Conspiracy
3—Ned Newton
4—Andy Gordon
5—Tony, the Tramp
6—The Five Hundred Dollar Check
7—Helping Himself

8—Making His Way
9—Try and Trust
10—Only an Irish Boy
11—Jed, the Poorhouse Boy
12—Chester Rand
13—Grit, the Young Boatman of Pine Point
14—Joe’s Luck
15—From Farm Boy to Senator
16—The Young Outlaw
17—Jack’s Ward
18—Dean Dunham
19—In a New World
20—Both Sides of the Continent
21—The Store Boy
22—Brave and Bold
23—A New York Boy
24—Bob Burton
25—The Young Adventurer
26—Julius, the Street Boy
27—Adrift in New York
28—Tom Brace
29—Struggling Upward
30—The Adventures of a New York Telegraph Boy
31—Tom Tracy
32—The Young Acrobat
33—Bound to Rise
34—Hector’s Inheritance
35—Do and Dare
36—The Tin Box
37—Tom, the Bootblack
38—Risen from the Ranks
39—Shifting for Himself
40—Walt and Hope
41—Sam’s Chance
42—Striving for Fortune
43—Phil, the Fiddler
44—Slow and Sure

45—Walter Sherwood’s Probation
46—The Trials and Triumphs of Mark Mason
47—The Young Salesman
48—Andy Grant’s Pluck
49—Facing the World
50—Luke Walton
51—Strive and Succeed
52—From Canal Boy to President
53—The Erie Train Boy
54—Paul, the Peddler
55—The Young Miner
56—Charlie Codman’s Cruise
57—A Debt of Honor
58—The Young Explorer
59—Ben’s Nugget
60—The Errand Boy
61—Frank and Fearless
62—Frank Hunter’s Peril
63—Adrift in the City
64—Tom Thatcher’s Fortune
65—Tom Turner’s Legacy
66—Dan, the Newsboy
67—Digging for Gold
68—Lester’s Luck
69—In Search of Treasure
70—Frank’s Campaign
71—Bernard Brook’s Adventures
72—Robert Coverdale’s Struggles
73—Paul Prescott’s Charge
74—Mark Manning’s Mission
75—Rupert’s Ambition
76—Sink or Swim
77—The Backwoods Boy
78—Tom Temple’s Career
79—Ben Bruce
80—The Young Musician
81—The Telegraph Boy

82—Work and Win
83—The Train Boy
84—The Cash Boy
85—Herbert Carter’s Legacy
86—Strong and Steady
87—Lost at Sea
88—From Farm to Fortune
89—Young Captain Jack
90—Joe, the Hotel Boy
91—Out for Business
92—Falling in with Fortune
93—Nelson, the Newsboy
94—Randy of the River
95—Jerry, the Backwoods Boy
96—Ben Logan’s Triumph
97—The Young Book Agent

By EDWARD STRATEMEYER

98—The Last Cruise of The Spitfire
99—Reuben Stone’s Discovery
100—True to Himself
101—Richard Dare’s Venture
102—Oliver Bright’s Search
103—To Alaska for Gold
104—The Young Auctioneer
105—Bound to Be an Electrician
106—Shorthand Tom
107—Fighting for His Own
108—Joe, the Surveyor
109—Larry, the Wanderer
110—The Young Ranchman
111—The Young Lumberman
112—The Young Explorers
113—Boys of the Wilderness
114—Boys of the Great Northwest
115—Boys of the Gold Field

116—For His Country
117—Comrades in Peril
118—The Young Pearl Hunters
119—The Young Bandmaster
120—Boys of the Fort
121—On Fortune’s Trail
122—Lost in the Land of Ice
123—Bob, the Photographer

By OLIVER OPTIC

124—Among the Missing
125—His Own Helper
126—Honest Kit Dunstable
127—Every Inch a Boy
128—The Young Pilot
129—Always in Luck
130—Rich and Humble
131—In School and Out
132—Watch and Wait
133—Work and Win
134—Hope and Have
135—Haste and Waste
136—Royal Tarr’s Pluck
137—The Prisoners of the Cave
138—Louis Chiswick’s Mission
139—The Professor’s Son
140—The Young Hermit
141—The Cruise of The Dandy
142—Building Himself Up
143—Lyon Hart’s Heroism
144—Three Young Silver Kings
145—Making a Man of Himself
146—Striving for His Own
147—Through by Daylight
148—Lightning Express
149—On Time

150—Switch Off
151—Brake Up
152—Bear and Forbear
153—The “Starry Flag”
154—Breaking Away
155—Seek and Find
156—Freaks of Fortune
157—Make or Break
158—Down the River
159—The Boat Club
160—All Aboard
161—Now or Never
162—Try Again

In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books
listed below will be issued during the respective months in New York City
and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance promptly, on
account of delays in transportation.

To be published in July, 1926.
163—Poor and Proud By Oliver Optic
164—Little by Little By Oliver Optic
165—The Sailor Boy By Oliver Optic

To be published in August, 1926.
166—The Yankee Middy By Oliver Optic
167—Brave Old Salt By Oliver Optic

To be published in September, 1926.
168—Luck and Pluck By Horatio Alger, Jr.
169—Ragged Dick By Horatio Alger, Jr.

To be published in October, 1926.
170—Fame and Fortune By Horatio Alger, Jr.
171—Mark, the Match Boy By Horatio Alger, Jr.

To be published in November, 1926.
172—Rough and Ready By Horatio Alger, Jr.
173—Ben, the Luggage Boy By Horatio Alger, Jr.

To be published in December, 1926.
174—Rufus and Rose By Horatio Alger, Jr.
175—Fighting for Fortune By Roy Franklin
176—The Young Steel Worker By Frank H. MacDougal

A CARNIVAL OF ACTION

ADVENTURE LIBRARY
Splendid, Interesting, Big Stories
This line is devoted exclusively to a splendid type of adventure story, in the
big outdoors. There is really a breath of fresh air in each of them, and the
reader who pays fifteen cents for a copy of this line feels that he has
received his money’s worth and a little more.
The authors of these books are experienced in the art of writing, and know
just what the up-to-date American reader wants.
ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT

By WILLIAM WALLACE COOK
1—The Desert Argonaut
2—A Quarter to Four
3—Thorndyke of the Bonita
4—A Round Trip to the Year 2000
5—The Gold Gleaners
6—The Spur of Necessity
7—The Mysterious Mission
8—The Goal of a Million
9—Marooned in 1492
10—Running the Signal
11—His Friend the Enemy
12—In the Web
13—A Deep Sea Game
14—The Paymaster’s Special
15—Adrift in the Unknown
16—Jim Dexter, Cattleman

17—Juggling with Liberty
18—Back from Bedlam
19—A River Tangle
20—Billionaire Pro Tem
21—In the Wake of the Scimitar
22—His Audacious Highness
23—At Daggers Drawn
24—The Eighth Wonder
25—The Cat’s-paw
26—The Cotton Bag
27—Little Miss Vassar
28—Cast Away at the Pole
29—The Testing of Noyes
30—The Fateful Seventh
31—Montana
32—The Deserter
33—The Sheriff of Broken Bow
34—Wanted: A Highwayman
35—Frisbie of San Antone
36—His Last Dollar
37—Fools for Luck
38—Dare of Darling & Co.
In order that there may be no confusion, we desire to say that the books
listed below will be issued during the respective months in New York City
and vicinity. They may not reach the readers at a distance promptly, on
account of delays in transportation.
To be published in July, 1926.
39—Trailing The Josephine By William Wallace Cook
40—The Snapshot Chap By Bertram Lebhar
To be published in August, 1926.
41—Brothers of the Thin Wire By Franklin Pitt
42—Jungle Intrigue By Edmond Lawrence
43—His Snapshot Lordship By Bertram Lebhar

To be published in September, 1926.
44—Folly Lode By James F. Dorrance
45—The Forest Rogue By Julian G. Wharton
To be published in October, 1926.
46—Snapshot Artillery By Bertram Lebhar
47—Stanley Holt, Thoroughbred By Ralph Boston
To be published in November, 1926.
48—The Riddle and the Ring By Gordon MacLaren
49—The Black Eye Snapshot By Bertram Lebhar
To be published in December, 1926.
50—Bainbridge of Bangor By Julian G. Wharton
51—Amid Crashing Hills By Edmond Lawrence

Fighting for Fortune

OR,

Making a Place for Himself

BY

ROY FRANKLIN
Author of “The Lost Mine,” “On Fortune’s Trail,”
“Winning by Courage,” et cetera.

(Printed in the U. S. A.)

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1909

By STREET & SMITH

Fighting for Fortune

(Printed In the U. S. A.)
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages,
including the Scandinavian.

FIGHTING FOR FORTUNE.

CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. A BOYISH CHOICE.
CHAPTER II. LEFT BEHIND.
CHAPTER III. THE SLY HAND OF THE ENEMY.
CHAPTER IV. “MAN OVERBOARD!”
CHAPTER V. AN AMAZING DISCOVERY.
CHAPTER VI. THE EIGHT-THOUSAND-DOLLAR CHECK.
CHAPTER VII. THE NIGHT FIRE.
CHAPTER VIII. THE MORNING NEWS.
CHAPTER IX. TIM DEMANDS HIS DUES.
CHAPTER X. A TELEPHONE MESSAGE.
CHAPTER XI. UNDER SUSPICION.
CHAPTER XII. THE RACE BETWEEN THE STEAMERS.
CHAPTER XIII. THE FATE OF THE “WARRIOR.”
CHAPTER XIV. A LINK IN THE CHAIN OF MYSTERY.
CHAPTER XV. BEHIND PRISON BARS.
CHAPTER XVI. HELPLESS AND HOPELESS.
CHAPTER XVII. STRANGE MYSTERIES.
CHAPTER XVIII. TALK OF ESCAPE.
CHAPTER XIX. DIGGING THEIR WAY OUT.
CHAPTER XX. THE FLIGHT FROM PRISON.
CHAPTER XXI. MARCUS BECOMES A DETECTIVE.
CHAPTER XXII. ON THE TRAIL.
CHAPTER XXIII. AT MILLVILLE AGAIN.
CHAPTER XXIV. WORSE AND WORSE.
CHAPTER XXV. DEAN MERCER IN JAIL.
CHAPTER XXVI. CRAZY MEG’S MARK.
CHAPTER XXVII. A FRUITLESS SEARCH.
CHAPTER XXVIII. RELEASED ON BAIL.
CHAPTER XXIX. THE SECRET ENEMY.
CHAPTER XXX. MARCUS DISCOVERS A CLUE.
CHAPTER XXXI. WHAT THE BOYS FOUND.
CHAPTER XXXII. IN THE VALLEY.

CHAPTER XXXIII. IN OLD MEG’S CAVE.
CHAPTER XXXIV. IN A HARD PLIGHT.
CHAPTER XXXV. STARTLING ADVENTURES.
CHAPTER XXXVI. TIM DOWNEY ARRESTED.
CHAPTER XXXVII. THE RECKONING.

CHAPTER I.
A BOYISH CHOICE.
Dean Mercer drew a breath of relief as he stepped from the musty law
office of his former employer, Russell Montague, into the open air. He
knew that he had made the most momentous decision of his life—a decision
which was to shape his whole future course of action. In doing this he had
abandoned a promising law course, overcame the natural preference of his
parents and “struck out for himself,” as he put it.
“I can’t bear the stifling old place!” he exclaimed, giving vent to his
feelings with a low exclamation of exultation, as the fresh breeze from Lake
Seneca cooled his overheated temples. “Don’t that feel good—free, just as I
feel, free!
“I do not blame Mr. Montague for wanting to keep me, just as I was
becoming useful, and thinking, as he does, that he was doing father and
mother a great favor. I am grateful to him for his six months’ kindly
supervision of my fate, as he put it.
“Mother was loath to have me leave, but father could see more clearly than
she that my heart was not in it. They all have called it ‘a boyish choice.’
Strange they all should have used the same words. But I am in for it, and,
make or break, I am going to win. Sleepy old town, little do you realize that
you are about to be suddenly awakened.”
Again the youthful speaker laughed softly to himself, his handsome, manly
countenance showing a firmness of character not usually seen in a youth of
seventeen.
Suddenly a look of concern swept over his face, and he started on a smart
run toward the lake shore, murmuring as he ran:
“The Warrior is about to start. I shall miss my passage.”
Five minutes of his rapid advance brought Dean to within a few yards of
where one of the boats that plied on the lake, between that town and another

at the foot of the lake, was chafing at its moorings. Catching sight of her
commander, Dean asked:
“Is the Warrior about to start, Captain Weymouth?”
“Start? Bless you, lad, did you ever know the Warrior to start on time? It
will be a good two hours before we leave our moorings.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Then Dean added to himself:
“I shall have ample time to see Judge Oglesby, as I ought to, before leaving
for Springfield. Hello! what’s going on over yonder?”
If everything was quiet about the wharf, Dean had suddenly discovered that
there was excitement reigning but a short distance away, though nothing
could be seen to indicate trouble.
Still cries of distress came from near at hand, and a moment’s study of the
situation told Dean that they came from behind a pile of old boxes and
barrels.
Without further hesitation he sprang swiftly toward the spot, and in a
moment these bitter words, uttered in a revengeful tone, came to his ears:
“Stung again!”
Biff—whack—biff! rang on the air, mingled with the cries for “help!”
Then Dean Mercer abruptly came upon a sight which made his blood boil
with indignation. A burly-framed youth of eighteen had succeeded in
throwing to the ground a boy of nearly his age, but considerably smaller,
and was pummelling him most unmercifully.
“Sass me, will ye?” half questioned, half answered the belligerent bully,
continuing to pound his victim with unremitting vengeance.
“Stop, Tim Downey!” fairly shouted Dean, who had quickly recognized the
bully.
Then, without stopping for the other to cease his beating, if he would, Dean
seized the fellow by the collar and hurled him backward a dozen yards,
when the other whirled about on his feet like a top for a moment, to fall in a
heap at last.

The abused boy slowly staggered to his feet, rubbing his eyes and staring
stupidly upon Dean, as if he was too bewildered to speak, which in truth he
was. He was considerably smaller than Dean, and a stranger to him.
“Has he hurt you very much?” asked Dean.
“Broke me all up,” replied the latter. “And I was just walking along without
speaking to any one. I——”
“You crib every durned word you lisp!” cried Tim Downey fiercely,
regaining his feet at this juncture.
Then seeing and recognizing Dean, he snapped:
“So it’s you that hev durst to meddle in my ’fairs! Drat yer picter, I’ll fix ye
so ye won’t look in the glass fer one good spell!”
Tim had clenched his fists and was about to spring on Dean, when the latter
said, in a clear, ringing tone:
“Lay a hand on me if you dare, Tim Downey.”
“I do dare!” yelled the bully, suddenly making a dash for the other.
Tim could never tell just what took place in the next half minute. But he
soon found himself lying prone upon the ground again. He got up slower
than he had before, his eyes filled with dirt and a stinging sensation behind
the ear where Dean Mercer’s fist had landed. He stood glowering upon his
victor without speaking.
Dean, seeing he had quite knocked out the bully for the time, turned to
speak to the boy he had rescued from the other’s abuse.
“You look like a stranger in Millville?”
“I am, mister. My name is Marcus Ellison. I sha’n’t forget the good turn
you did me. I thank you, and, if you don’t mind, I’ll be going. Hope the
fellow won’t make you any trouble on my account.”
“Never fear for that.”
Seeing that the strange youth was anxious to be going his way, Dean said
nothing further to him, while he again faced his enemy.

“Mebbe ye think ye’ve done yerself up brown with that, Dean Mercer. But
I’ll do you up browner afore I’m through with yer miserable meddling. I
know a thing or two that you don’t think I know,” and with these words the
bully hastily left the place, Dean looking after him with a quizzical
expression upon his countenance.
“Didn’t take long to stop that fuss,” he mused. “But perhaps it isn’t ended
as far as I am concerned. Tim Downey has the reputation of being the worst
boy in town, but that does not mean that I need fear him. Wonder what
made that other boy in such a hurry.”
Dean then came out from the dark corner into the main street which ran
nearly parallel with the waterline.
Millville lacked but one quality to make it one of the most beautiful and
attractive places anywhere in the country. That quality was life, a very
essential element.
Situated at the head of one of the most beautiful sheets of water in our fair
land, its broad bosom dotted with fairy-like islands, it was located so as to
command the business of a long line of towns running up and down the
lake. Summer tourists had already been attracted here, and several villas
and groups of cottages had sprung up among the delightful groves that
covered its isles and lined its shore.
Dean had not gone a dozen steps before he stopped with a short whistle. He
had seen a man rapidly approaching him, and his name was called
anxiously. He saw at a glance that the newcomer was Mr. Montague, his
recent employer and master.
“Whew!” panted the lawyer, quite out of breath with his exertions, “I was
afraid I should miss you, Dean.”
“A delay in the starting of the steamer leaves me here, Mr. Montague. Is
there anything I can do for you?”
“You are going to Springfield?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I want you to do an errand for me. I forgot it when you left my
office, I was so flustered with your leaving.”

“Anything I can do for you, Mr. Montague, I will gladly do.”
“I thought you would. Come with me to a side street. It is something
important and confidential.”
Dean followed his friend away from the main thoroughfare, though not a
person was in sight at that moment.
“I am going to intrust you with an errand, Dean, I would not trust with
another. Here is this wallet for you to take to Springfield. It contains a
thousand dollars in money and papers that are more valuable than the
money. You remember the Ellison case?”
“Yes. You mean the Robert Ellison who was tried for murder?”
“Exactly. But we appealed, and he is to be given another chance. Well, I
have found new evidence that will clear him. The proof is in that wallet.
Take the papers and money to Mr. Durand, my associate at Springfield, and
hand him the package as soon as possible. Mind you, do not let anyone else
get it.”
“I will guard it with my life, Mr. Montague.”
“I know I can trust you, Dean. And I hope you will have reconsidered your
hasty leave of me, and resume your law studies.”
“I do not believe I ever shall, Mr. Montague.”
“Time will show. Everything is made clear in those papers, but if Mr.
Durand wants me, I will come to Springfield upon short notice. Good-day.
The Warrior must be about to start.”
“Good-day, sir.”
As the couple separated, each to go his way, the scowling face of Tim
Downey appeared around the corner of a near-by building, and the tall,
angular figure of the young bully came into full sight, while he watched the
departure of Dean Mercer, muttering under his breath as he did so:
“So the wise Rube has fallen into a big pile of money! A thousand dollars
and something a feller don’t understand. Guess he don’t size me up if he
thinks I’m going to slump on that.”

CHAPTER II.
LEFT BEHIND.
Tim Downey was the worst boy in Millville. Everybody in the village knew
it, and Tim himself knew it, and rather gloried in the fact.
His parents were worthless, dissolute characters, who lived on the sands
north of the village, where a low community of squatters and fishermen
resided.
Tim had been twice in jail for stealing, and was avoided by all respectable
boys in Millville.
Unconscious of the discovery his enemy had made, Dean Mercer walked
with rapid steps in the direction of the more attractive portion of the town,
where the better class of dwellings were to be found.
One of the finest of these was the residence of Judge Oglesby, and hither he
was shaping his course. He soon came in sight of the well-kept grounds
with groves of maples and birches, under whose cooling shade a brawling
stream ran zigzag across one corner. The owner of this beautiful estate had
left its surroundings in their natural state, as far as it had been possible
without sacrificing his convenience.
The concrete driveway ran under an iron arch hung with electric lights of
different colors and supported by two massive stone posts. A pair of huge
stone dogs, as if on guard duty, crouched near the entrance to the
magnificent retreat inside.
A bright boy of a dozen years was astride of one of these mute sentinels as
Dean approached, while a pretty miss of fifteen, his sister, was warning him
against falling from his perch.
At sight of the newcomer, the active youngster called out with boyish
friendliness that put to rout all pretension to polite manners:
“Hello, Dean! Papa is waiting for you.”

Nodding to the youthful speaker, Dean bowed courteously to the sister, as
he met her gaze with a look of admiration.
“Yes; you will find papa in the library, Dean,” she said, with a smile of
welcome. “He told me to tell you to come right in, though he has company.
He is such a strange-looking and acting man, too.”
“Indeed, Miss Eva. Did you learn his name?”
“No; but papa said he was a fine sailor. He looks and acts more like a big
brown bear. And don’t you think instead of ringing the door bell——”
“He yelled like a pirate to the servants: ‘Avast there, you lubbers! Ship
ahoy!’” broke in the boy, with enthusiasm.
“Do be still, Manly,” admonished his sister. “What is the mystery of all this,
Dean?” she asked. “I am sure you know, for papa hinted that he had enlisted
you in some new enterprise of his.”
“And he also pledged me to secrecy, Miss Eva. If you will watch the lake a
few days, I think you will discover the key to the mystery.”
As she did not seem inclined to reply to this, Dean continued his approach
to the fine residence of his wealthy friend.
The owner must have been watching for him, as he met him at the door and
ushered him into his spacious library without delay.
“I am glad to see you, Dean. There is an important matter of which I wish to
speak, and besides, I wish to introduce you to the captain of the Spray, who
is just now in the dining room doing justice to the viands spread before him.
You have notified Mr. Montague of your intentions?”
“I have, Mr. Oglesby, and I shall go down to Springfield on the Warrior,
which will start in a short time.”
“Good. When you have anything to do you attend to it at once. That is a
trait I like. I wonder what the colonel would say if he knew that two of his
passengers were about to become his rivals for traffic on the lake?”
“But you have a perfect right to enter into this undertaking, Judge Oglesby.
The people are clamoring for it. It is needed. Millville has been owned body
and soul too long by two men, neither of whom has shown any disposition
to do the right thing.”

“Brave for you, Dean Mercer!” cried the rich man, clasping the hand of his
youthful visitor with a hearty grip. “That’s the kind of spirit I want to see. It
is the kind that hews its way through the most dense obstruction. Only there
is one thing I want you never to say again. Don’t say ‘you,’ but say ‘we.’ It
is true I am furnishing the money, but there are fools that might do that. You
are furnishing the power to develop this work. So we make a partnership,
and it is we that are doing this.”
If Dean had made a bold assertion when he had said that Millville was
owned body and soul by two men, there were not many in the town who
would have denied its truth.
With all its natural features of advantage, its beautiful scenery, its fortunate
location, the dream of its founders that it might become a prosperous and
powerful centre of population and business had not been realized.
This was due mainly to two men. One of these was Squire David Littleton,
who owned and operated the line of stages running between Millville and
Springfield, the metropolis of that section of country. The other man was
Colonel Ebenezer Darringford, who owned and operated the line of packets
that plied up and down the lake, getting a share of the public patronage.
These lines were, in a way, rivals, and each operator hated and did all he
could against his competitor. Still this rivalry did not, as is sometimes the
case, improve the situation. If the squire’s coaches were miserable affairs,
unfit to carry passengers, the colonel’s boats were no better. Both had
grown rich out of their business, and the town had grown poor and helpless.
Mr. Montague had spoken of this to Dean before the latter had left him:
“The people may grumble at the old shaky coaches and the leaky, slow-
moving packets, but they gain nothing by their clamor, simply because this
couple of old-timers have got them by the throat.
“They have talked of railroads and better steamers upon the lake, and now
that Judge Oglesby has moved here with his money and political influence
this talk is revived. I do not see that the town is likely to profit by it. He has
only complicated the fight; given the community another leech to suck its
very life blood, without the inclination or ability to improve its condition.
“I can remember when Millville dreamed of being a great centre for the
trade of the surrounding country, and her future looked bright. Now she sits

in sackcloth and ashes, an old, hopeless, frayed-out community, looking
with dimming sight upon the prosperity of her sister towns.”
Judge Oglesby showed that he had been thinking of Mr. Montague when he
next spoke, saying:
“Mr. Montague has become a bit old-fashioned in his ideas, Dean. I
remember he told me, with a good deal of vinegar in his tone, when I
mentioned that you were to come with me: ‘Yes; you have filled his mind
with visions. This is called the age of the young man. It is wrong—it is
wrong. Does not the wisdom of years count for more than the illusions of
youth?’ Now all you have got to do is to show him that you are equal to
your opportunity.”
“I will, Judge Oglesby,” replied Dean firmly.
“If I did not think you would, I should not have selected you to carry out
my plans. But there is no need for me to review the situation. We have other
matters to talk of in the few minutes given us. I would not have you miss
your passage on the Warrior for considerable. The Spray must be brought
up in the morning. There are important reasons for this.”
“I await your directions, sir.”
“Please be seated while I write a letter for you to take along. Then we will
talk over our business.”
Judge Oglesby was a bright-faced man, whose kindly countenance showed
not only good nature, but the results of correct habits. His desk was piled
high with letters and documents, proving that he had a busy day before him.
In fact, all days were busy ones with Judge Oglesby.
While he was waiting for his friend to write the letter, Dean amused himself
by looking through an album, which he knew from the name on the flyleaf
belonged to Evaline Oglesby.
He recognized but few of the portraits, and among this limited number were
the pictures of two that he had strong reasons for disliking intensely. These
were the photographs of Rodney Darringford and Abner Littleton, sons of
the two men of whom he had spoken to Judge Oglesby with so much
decisiveness.

While this couple were not friendly to each other, he knew both fairly hated
him. He realized, too, that this hatred was likely to be increased within a
few days if the plans of Judge Oglesby and himself did not meet with
failure.
Somehow, Dean, as unmanly as he knew it was, could not help feeling
somewhat piqued to find their pictures in Evaline Oglesby’s album. But he
was, fortunately, interrupted in the midst of these unpleasant reflections by
the words of her father:
“There you are, Dean, at last,” he said, folding carefully the letter he had
written, and placing, not only that, but a check, in the envelope, which he
handed, unsealed, to him. The superscription read, written in a bold hand:
BROWN, SEWALL & CO.,
Shipbuilders,
Springfield.
By Dean Mercer.
“Be careful of it, Dean,” admonished the judge. “The check is for eight
thousand dollars, and is to pay the balance on the boat. You will attend to
this part of your business immediately upon reaching the city and take
possession of the boat.”
“I understand, sir. But I did not know I was to go alone.”
“Well, not exactly. While I cannot go, as I had planned, I have a man to
accompany you. You see, it was necessary to find a man to captain our boat,
so I sent to my lawyers to find me a man. He found us a full set, crew and
officers. One of them, at least, is a study for the character reader. His name
is Jack Carboy, and he is to be the man at the wheel. Ha! here he comes!
Note how he speaks of our lake as a mud puddle, and——”
Before Judge Oglesby had finished his sentence, the object of his remarks, a
typical tar of sailing days on the sea, entered the room with the peculiar
rolling gait of one used to a life upon shipboard.
“Shiver my toplights, admiral, ’tain’t every watch-eend ol’ Jack sets by sich
a feast. Ahoy! what strange craft is this?” The last words spoken in an
interrogative tone as the speaker caught sight of Dean.

“Your new commander, who is to manage our enterprise,” said the judge.
“Mr. Mercer, allow me to introduce to you Mr. Jack Carboy, who——”
“Avast there! who dubs this ol’ salt a ‘mister’? Reef yer flying jib and give
ol’ Jack Carboy his due. Pardin’, sir,” he quickly added, executing an
admirable naval salute, “I didn’t know it was the high admiral.”
“Your pardon, Jack,” said the judge good naturedly. “If your new captain is
young, he is quick to learn.”
“So he’s the skipper, is he?”
“Yes, Jack.”
Carboy tugged at a stray lock at his brow and scraped his foot backward in
grotesque politeness.
“Captain, sir!” he said half inquiringly.
“No, no!” laughed Dean.
“Yes, yes!” replied the judge spiritedly. “He’ll need a little posting, Jack,
but you and he must combine efforts and help each other along.”
“We’ll do that, sir!” cried Carboy. “His eye tells me that I shall like him. As
to bossing the boat, that’s mere jaw work. It’s the man at the wheel that is
the real genius of the boat. That’s me, ho! ho!”
Judge Oglesby talked with the twain for about five minutes.
“Now, then,” he said, “we understand just what is to be done, don’t we?”
“I think so, sir,” replied Dean. “The men to man the new steamer are
waiting for us at Springfield.”
“Exactly. You will find the Spray all ready for you.”
“What’s that—what’s that, sir?” cried Carboy, with a start of dismay.
“The Spray.”
“Is that the name of the steamer?”
“It is.”
“Sorry!” and Jack shook his head lugubriously.
“Why, Jack?” exclaimed the amazed judge.

“It’s a bad name.”
“Bad name?”
“Yes.”
“How so, Jack?”
“Because I’ve sailed on two Sprays—one to Australia, one to China, and
both were wrecked at sea.”
Judge Oglesby smiled at Carboy’s superstitious fears.
“This is a lake, Jack,” he said reassuringly.
But Carboy looked glum.
“You’ve got the check safe, Dean?” asked the judge.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then, good-by. I shall expect to see you back here by to-morrow night.”
“Surely, sir,” replied Jack Carboy. “Come, captain, we’re started on the
voyage at last!”
Seeing no reason for further delay in starting for the pier, Dean suggested
that they go aboard the Warrior at once. Accordingly, he and his quaint
companion bade the judge adieu and started toward the lake shore at a rapid
pace.
They had barely got in sight of the pier when Dean stopped with a low
exclamation of surprise.
“Look! See! We are too late!” he cried. “The Warrior has left her moorings
and is headed down the lake!”
“Ship ahoy!” bellowed Jack Carboy at the top of his stentorian lungs, while
he dashed madly toward the shore, closely followed by Dean Mercer.
A crowd of boys witnessed their hasty advance, and shouted after them in
derision and mirth.
“Hie, there, or your feet will run away with your heads!”
“See old brine roll along!”

CHAPTER III.
THE SLY HAND OF THE ENEMY.
After what we have said of Tim Downey, it is to be expected that he would
act promptly in doing what he could to baffle Dean Mercer in his purpose.
Unexpectedly he had come into possession of the other’s secret. He had
followed Dean Mercer to Judge Oglesby’s house, and by means of an open
window in the library he had overheard the conversation about the new
steamer.
If this had been no fault of Dean’s, it was Tim’s good fortune, and he
resolved to improve his advantage to the utmost. Fired with the spirit of this
discovery, he started toward the pier, his crafty eyes lighting with
satisfaction as he murmured the words which indicated his intentions:
“I’ll see Rodney Darringford!” he chuckled. “Won’t he be surprised? Won’t
the old colonel be kerflummixed? A new steamer! that cooks their dough
sure.”
Tim reached the pier. It was always a scene of bustle and activity at leaving
time. Juvenile Millville loved to haunt the shadow of the steamer, and,
besides, the Warrior carried considerable freight and many passengers on
its afternoon trip to Springfield.
“Hey, boy! come here!”
Tim had addressed a keen-eyed, ragged urchin.
“What is it?” demanded the latter, eying Tim with no great favor.
“Want to earn a nickel?”
“Yes, I do, but you haven’t got one!”
“Haven’t I? See here!” and Tim produced the designated coin. “Come with
me.”
He led the way to where a pile of lumber shut out a view of the boat.
“Now, then,” he said, “you go aboard the steamer.”

“What for?”
“And find Rodney Darringford.”
“All right, I know him!”
“Tell him that Tim Downey wants to see him, and bring him here.”
“All right. Gimme the nickel.”
“There it is.”
The urchin scampered off. Tim sat down and waited patiently for the result
of his experiment.
The place was secluded from the sight of people on the pier, the only
persons in sight being some children down the beach, playing with an old
box that had floated ashore.
It was, perhaps, ten minutes later when a shadow fell across the sand in
front of the waiting Tim. The latter looked up; a boy about his own age
stood before him.
He was better dressed than Tim; in fact, his garments were of the latest
style; but fine clothes did not conceal a face that bore fully as much of
craftiness and evil as that of his companion.
It was Rodney Darringford, the son of the wealthy colonel, and clerk of the
steamer Warrior.
Rodney Darringford had of late been given employment by his father as
clerk of the Warrior, and Dean, knowing this, was not at all in love with the
idea of a sail down the lake in his company.
He was a vicious and ill-tempered boy, a dandy in dress, prided himself as
being a full-fledged “dasher” in matters of juvenile dissipation, and had
sneered at Dean whenever he met him.
An actual fisticuff row had resulted about a week previously, in which
Rodney was worsted, and several Millville boys had informed Dean that
Rodney “had it in for him!”
Rodney’s brow was drawn in a deep furrow, and he looked angry enough to
fight Tim then and there.

“Well!” he ejaculated coarsely, “Tim Downey?”
“Yes, Tim Downey!” chuckled Tim, a little aggressively and defiantly, at
Rodney’s contemptuous words and manner.
“You haven’t got any check, have you!”
“Oh! enough to carry me through, I guess!” replied Tim carelessly.
“What did you send for me for?”
“Business!”
“I have none with you!”
“Oh! yes, you have. See here, Mr. Rodney Darrington! no airs with me,
because I won’t stand it. I sent for you because I wanted to see you, and I
want to see you because I want money.”
“Well, get it.”
“I intend to, and because I wanted to go to Springfield.”
“Well, go!”
“I intend to—on the Warrior. I want ten dollars and a free ride to
Springfield, and I want ’em from you, and no back talk about it!”
Tim Downey’s face grew sullen as he noticed the deepening scowl on
Rodney’s face.
“See here!” cried the latter angrily.
“No, see here!” interrupted Tim savagely. “You just do as I say, and no jaw
about it, or I’ll peach on you. You’ve been stealing! you have, and I know
all about it. You and Jem Vance, that drunken engineer of yours, robbed a
passenger, and stole two hundred dollars of your father’s money.”
“Shut up, you idiot,” gasped Rodney, with an alarmed glance about them.
“No, I won’t shut up. I know all about it. I’ll shout it out to all Millville, if
you don’t do as I say.”
Rodney Darringford stood pale and trembling with fear and rage, silent for
some moments.

He knew that Tim Downey spoke the truth. Tim shared the secret of the
crimes he had committed to secure money to play billiards and “cut a dash”
generally in Millville.
Secretly he chafed like a caged lion. He could scarcely speak for anger, but
he said finally:
“All right, Tim Downey. You have got me in your power, and I suppose you
intend to keep me there; but look out—you may go too far some day. Come
aboard when the boat starts, and I’ll pass you. Mind you, though, don’t you
come sneaking around me as if you knew me.”
“All right—and the money?”
“I’ll slip it to you during the trip. I hope you’re going to Springfield to
stay.”
“Well, I ain’t,” grinned Tim maliciously.
“Ain’t what?”
“Going to Springfield to stay.”
“What are you going for, then?”
“To get work.”
“You work!” sneered Rodney contemptuously.
“Yes; me work!”
“At what?”
“Steamboating.”
Rodney Darringford regarded Tim contemptuously.
“Who’ll hire you?”
“The new steamboat company.”
“Oh, at Springfield—down the river?”
“No; at Millville,” mimicked Tim, with the keenest satisfaction at
tormenting Rodney—“up the lake.”
“What!” ejaculated Rodney.

“Yes; up the lake.”
“The new steamboat company?”
“Precisely.”
“There ain’t any.”
“Ain’t there?”
“Not that I heard of.”
“You ain’t in the secret.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“A new company?”
“With new boats. Judge Oglesby owns it, and your dearest friend, Dean
Mercer, is to be captain of the first steamer, the Spray.”
Rodney Darringford stared at Tim Downey as if he found it impossible to
credit his amazing story.
He listened with an excited face as Tim proceeded to tell how he had
overheard the talk of the judge and Dean and Carboy.
“It ruins your business,” he said.
“Ruins it? Say, Tim, are you sure there’s no mistake? A new line of
steamers. I must see my father. Come aboard later,” and in a wild flutter of
excitement, Rodney darted away from the spot.
Tim Downey chuckled. He enjoyed witnessing the downfall of those above
him.
“You young scoundrel. Is it you that my boy came to see?”
Tim Downey, about to stroll toward the steamer at the pier, became
suddenly conscious of the intrusion of a portly form from behind the pile of
lumber.
At the same moment that the harsh tones sounded on his hearing, a rough
hand grasped his arm.

Tim looked up, somewhat startled. Colonel Ebenezer Darringford,
pompous, red-faced, and unmistakably intoxicated, glared down at him.
“Hello, colonel!” muttered Tim.
“Hello, colonel!” bellowed the wealthy shipowner. “You young thief, I’ll
cane you for your insolent familiarity. See here, I saw my boy come here.
He’s been getting into bad company lately, and I’ve been watching him. Did
he come here to see you?”
“He did, colonel.”
“What about?”
Tim drew a breath of relief. The colonel, then, had not overheard their
conversation.
“About—well, you see, I’m only a poor boy!” whined Tim hypocritically.
“A thief and vagabond, you mean.”
“Yes, sir,” murmured Tim humbly, dropping the vernacular in which he
usually spoke. “Rodney has got a kind heart in him, and he offered to take
me free to Springfield to get work.”
“Hum! You work! What else? Out with it, you reprobate. I can see by your
eye that you are lying to me.”
“Well, sir, I told him about the new line of steamers,” and in voluble words,
Tim Downey revealed Judge Oglesby’s scheme entire.
His crafty eye twinkled covertly as he did it. A deep plotter was Tim
Downey, and he watched his victims as he played his cards.
If the son had been amazed, the father was fairly petrified. He gasped,
roared and raved.
“A new line of steamers—Judge Oglesby—the interloper, the scoundrel!”
yelled the colonel, the liquor he had drunk making a madman of him.
He became quieted at last. Then he questioned Tim closely.
About to go, Tim approached him with an air of mystery. He decided to
make a bold move.

“Colonel,” he said, “if the new steamers run on the lake, it’s bad for you,
ain’t it?”
“Bad? it’s ruin!” groaned the colonel.
“All right, sir. You know your business. I know mine. You give me two
hundred dollars afore we reach Springfield, and the Spray don’t sail to-
morrow, nor next day, nor never.”
The colonel started violently and stared at the presumptuous boy who had
dared to add to the torture of dread of rivalry, a hint of dishonor and
scheming.
He uttered a cry of choleric rage, struck Tim a sounding blow with his cane,
and then in a passion, he stalked away toward the pier.
“So—ho!” exclaimed Tim, looking after the retreating figure of the colonel
with a wicked twinkle in has eye. “I’ll fetch ye yet, ol’ ‘boozer,’” and with
this thought in his mind he followed the colonel on board the packet.
Fuming over what he had heard from Tim Downey, no sooner had Colonel
Darringford gained the boat than he ordered that the Warrior start without
longer delay.
In vain did the captain ask for more time to complete the repairs he felt
were necessary. The owner would not brook the loss of any more time.
This was how the boat left her pier before Dean Mercer had expected her to
start.

CHAPTER IV.
“MAN OVERBOARD!”
Unmindful of the jeers and jibes hurled at their heads, Dean Mercer and
Jack Carboy stopped abruptly, as they saw that their efforts were in vain.
The Warrior was already moving steadily down the lake and beyond their
recall.
“Shiver my timbers!” yelled Jack, “ye hev shipped without your crew, ye
blasted shell o’ a land-locked sea.”
While Jack was greatly disturbed over the disappointment of losing passage
on the Warrior, Dean felt his defeat more keenly.
Besides the mortification of having been left behind by what looked like his
own negligence, he realized that for two or three reasons it was necessary
for them to get to Springfield that evening.
They were expected to bring up the new boat, and to fail at the outset
portended failure rather than success in their undertaking.
But of even more importance to Dean was the discharge of the errand
intrusted to him by Mr. Montague. In this case a human life was at stake. If
he should fail to reach Springfield in season to deliver the papers in his care
as they should be, it was possible that an innocent person would suffer for
his neglect.
The successful man is he who can act quickly in an emergency. That is the
one great secret of success.
Fortunately Dean Mercer was prompt in his decisions. While his companion
stormed like a September gale over their disappointment as he watched the
old steamer fast disappearing from his sight, Dean recollected that the stage
for the lower towns started about the same time as the boat.
“There is another chance for us, Jack!” he cried enthusiastically. “I think we
shall be in season to take the stage to Landlock, where we can take the
packet to Springfield, providing we can get there before the boat.”

“Avast there, younker—I mean high admiral!” and Jack, instead of
completing his sentence, executed a salute in token of his blunder.
Hurried, impatient, excited, Dean Mercer, knowing he had no time to waste
if he would accomplish his purpose, darted swiftly along the street, Jack
following as best he could.
But the latter soon found himself unequal to the gait set him by his young
companion, and, stopping short in his laborious advance, he bellowed at the
top of his lungs:
“Ship ahoy! reef yer topsails or this ol’ craft’ll ground!”
Dean Mercer, awakened to what he was doing, quickly came to a standstill,
turning an inquiring gaze upon his companion, who was puffing and
blowing like a porpoise.
“Shiver (puff) my (puff) toplights (puff), admiral (puff-uff-ff). Ye’ve left
(puff) crew, coxswain and man at the wheel (puff) in the weather eye.”
“Pardon me, Jack,” said Dean. “I was so anxious I forgot you could not
keep pace with me in this race. The fact is, we have got to hurry or we shall
miss the stage.”
“Then let her kite in the wind’s eye, and leave this ol’ craft ahind. Blast my
picter, lad—I mean, admiral, axin’ yeh pardin, didn’t I tell ye to h’ist yer jib
and kiter? Ol’ Jack’ll foller as soon as he gits his bearings and his ballast in
this land-lubbered v’yage.”
“Hello, Dean!” called out a familiar voice at Dean’s elbow, before he could
reply. “We’re in luck. But what’s up?”
It was Mr. Montague speaking, and as soon as he could recover his self-
composure, Dean saw the boy he had saved from the vengeance of Tim
Downey beside the latter.
“Excuse me, Mr. Montague. We have missed the Warrior, and we are on
our way to catch the stage for Landlock.”
“Missed the Warrior?” asked the lawyer incredulously. “That’s a pretty go.”
“It is, Mr. Montague. You see, she started before we expected. But I think
we can intercept her at Landlock by cutting across the country by the stage.
That is, if the stage has not got started.”

“So you can, Dean. And if the stage has got started you must take a team.
That will do it. Excuse me. This is Marcus Ellison, the son of Robert
Ellison, whose papers I gave you. The boy is anxious about his father, so he
has come to see me. Now you and he can go to Springfield together.”
Marcus Ellison held out his hand, saying frankly:
“I remember you, Mr. Mercer, if you do not me. I am the boy you saved
from the pummelling of that wharf bully.”
“I am glad to meet you again, and under more pleasant circumstances, Mr.
Ellison.”
“I told Marcus the papers were with you, and now I turn him over to your
care.”
“We will get to Springfield all right, Mr. Montague. I will now hand the
papers and money over to him.”
“You may keep them until we get to Springfield,” said Marcus, who was a
frank, pleasant youth for whom Dean quickly conceived a strong liking.
“I will see that you have them safely. But if Jack’s recovered his wind, we’ll
start again for the stage.”
“Heave ahead, ol’ lad—I mean admiral!” said Jack Carboy, bowing and
scraping in true nautical politeness to his companions. “This ol’ craft’s got
its bearings ag’in; square the yards for a fresh breeze.”
Dean, hastily bidding adieu to Mr. Montague, resumed his way, Marcus
keeping close beside him, while old Jack did his level best to keep along.
The Landlock stage left the stable of an old-time hostelry standing a little
south of the main street running away from the shore, and thither Dean
hastened.
“There’s the stage just starting!” he cried.
Marcus Ellison saw a lumbering vehicle drawn by a pair of horses coming
out of the yard in front of the dilapidated old stable.
“Here, driver! hold up a moment,” shouted Dean.
The grizzled stage driver was in the act of taking his whip from its socket to
swing the long lash in the air, as was his custom, winding up with a terrific

cracking of the lash, for which he was famous, when Dean’s voice rang on
his ears.
The horses seemed to know as well as their master what was wanted, and
they came to an immediate stop, while old Jim Dolittle looked askance
upon the approaching trio.
“We want passage to Landlock, Jim,” explained Dean.
“The hull of you?” asked the driver, as he ran his eye over the approaching
three.
“Yes, Jim. You can take us?”
“Not more’n one on ye. Stage full to running over now.”
From a hasty survey Dean saw that he had four passengers, which left room
for at least three more.
“You surely can take us all, Jim? We must all go.”
“Hang yer ‘musts’! I ain’t obleeged to take more passengers ’n I wanter.”
“This is a public conveyance and you——”
“Drat the public. I reckon I ain’t obleeged to over-load my hosses jess co’s’
there’s a public. Get up there, boys! Show a light heel, old Thunderbolt!
Rattle yer hoofs, Spotted Dan!”
Finding that the driver was not inclined to stop for him, Dean Mercer
sprang nimbly upon the crossbar of the whiffle-tree, and the next moment
took a seat beside Jim Dolittle, the old stager.
Marcus Ellison showed that he was not a whit less prompt or nimble than
his companion, for by this time he had gained a perch upon the top of the
vehicle.
In the midst of this scene, which called forth the wondering exclamations of
the regular passengers, to say nothing of the ejaculations of the old driver,
the stentorian call of Jack Carboy could be heard for half a mile:
“Ahoy! lay to, yer land lubbers.”
“Stop, Jim!” called out Dean smartly. “My friend has got to get to Landlock
with us. You can take us as well as not.”

Seeing that he was dealing with one who would not be stopped, muttering
over something about “hot-headed boys!” the stager pulled up his horses to
wait for the old sailor.
Puffing and snorting his rage over the race he had had, Jack Carboy soon
reached the side of the coach.
“Throw the life line,” he cried. “Blast yer picters, how’s a-one going to get
aboard this craft?”
Jack quickly swung himself upward to a seat beside Dean, when Jim
Dolittle whirled his long blacksnake whip with some avail, the horses
snorted after a manner which was music to his ears, and the old coach went
rattling and bouncing along the country road at a merry pace.
“This seems like business,” declared Dean. “Here we go, Jack.”
Jack Carboy, clinging to his seat with both hands, made no reply.
The road along which the old stage was drawn by the stout horses proved
rough and hilly, so that at times the coach was given fearful jolts.
Occasionally a cry would come from one of those within the vehicle calling
for moderation in speed where the condition of the highway was worst, but
the grim old driver, aroused by the addition of his late passengers, no doubt,
seemed determined to get his revenge, proof of which was given in his
muttered words:
“I’ll gin ’em ’nough on’t. As if I didn’t know when I had load ’nough.”
“Ho! reef yer topsails!” roared Jack, as they thundered down a long, sharp
descent. “By the harpoon o’ Neptune! these seas be the roughest I ever
sailed. Hi!”
They were turning an angle in the road, while the horses were pounding
furiously forward, when the old spring on the off side snapped like rotten
twine, and the body of the coach suddenly lurched in that direction, as if it
was going to collapse entirely.
A chorus of cries from the passengers inside rang above the furious sounds,
while the startled group was thrown into a struggling body of men and
women.

But it fared worst than this with Marcus Ellison, who was riding on top of
the reeling stage. The violence of the mishap caused him to lose his hold
upon the railing of the coach top, and before he could recover himself he
was flung through the air into the dense bushes fringing the highway.
Seeing his doubled-up form flying through the space, Jack Carboy bawled:
“Hi, there, skipper! man overboard!”

CHAPTER V.
AN AMAZING DISCOVERY.
Dean Mercer saw the tumble of his friend with dismay, thinking he would
be killed, but the stage driver did not seem to notice the catastrophe. In fact,
he seemed to be oblivious of the damage done to the old coach as he
continued to let his horses fly down the road at a headlong rate, his only
aim appearing to be to keep them along the middle of the highway.
Jack Carboy, however, was very much alive to the situation, and, as the
stage thumped along, he stormed out in no uncertain tone for him to stop.
Apparently enjoying the mad gait they were making, the driver paid no
heed to the command of the excited seaman. Then Jack awoke to action,
and proved himself equal to the occasion in his way.
“Avast there, ye dumbfounded landlubber! I say, a man overboard!”
Still that headlong gait was kept up.
Seizing upon the reins, Jack jerked them from the old stager’s grasp, at the
same time yelling:
“Throw over the anchor!”
Putting action to words, the excited sailor, half rising in his seat, tossed the
reins out over the dashboard into space.
So well did he calculate that they dropped over a mile stone beside the road,
proving a most effective “anchor.” The leather was strong, and the sudden
strain upon the bits of the horses brought the animals back upon their
haunches, and the next moment horses, passengers and coach were piled in
a promiscuous heap.
The vehicle was upset, so the passengers inside were flung into the midst of
the débris with fearful force.
The driver was thrown completely under the heels of the horses, while Jack
Carboy was a-straddle of the neck of the nigh horse.

Dean Mercer, younger and more nimble, landed squarely upon his feet in
the middle of the road, and, though roughly shaken up, he soon found he
had received no injuries.
“Port yer helm!” cried Jack. “We’re on the breakers!”
“Easy, there, Jack,” cried Dean, who quickly recovered his self-possession
enough to go to the rescue. “Keep their heads down and I will free them
from the stage.”
By this time the driver had managed to crawl out of his position, and,
having received only a few slight bruises, he lent his aid to the others.
Inside of as many minutes the three had freed the animals, when they
staggered to their feet, where they stood trembling and dazed.
“Drat that infernal ijit! Let me get my paw on him,” cried the driver,
starting toward Jack Carboy, who had precipitated the catastrophe.
It is difficult to say what would have happened had not Dean sprang
between the two.
“This is no time for personal quarrels,” he said. “We must see how it has
fared with those inside the coach, Mr. Dolittle.”
Perhaps the latter had begun to realize that he was likely to meet a Tartar in
the person of the brawny sailor, who seemed as willing to meet him in a
hand-to-hand struggle as he might be, for the driver quickly followed the
advice of Dean.
It was soon found that none of the passengers had sustained broken limbs,
or any injuries that might prove serious, though two at least had received
severe cuts, and all were badly shaken up.
“I think you can attend to them,” said Dean. “I must see what has happened
to the boy who was on top of the coach. I am afraid he has been killed.”
Dean was obliged to return over their course nearly a quarter of a mile
before he reached the place where Marcus Ellison had been thrown from
the top of the stage. He had no trouble in finding the spot, and, parting the
bushes growing by the wayside, he discovered the motionless form of the
boy lying in their midst.

“He is dead,” he thought, as he broke his way through the undergrowth to
the side of the unconscious youth.
“I do not find any evidence of his having been hurt, except his clothes are
torn and there are scratches on his face. The bushes must have broken the
force of his fall. Ha! he breathes; he lives!”
Dean managed to drag the other out into a small, cleared spot, where he
began a hasty examination of him.
Marcus was showing signs of recovering his senses, and in a few minutes
he lifted his head and stared around him.
“Where am I?” he murmured.
“Safe,” replied Dean, “and I hope suffering no more serious mishap than
sore joints and possibly a headache.”
It proved that the bushes had so broken the momentum of his involuntary
plunge from the top of the coach that he had come out of the adventure as
well as the others.
Jack was calling to them, so Dean dashed back into the road to answer the
summons.
“If you feel like it we had better join them,” said Dean.
“I do. In fact, I shall soon feel as well as ever.”
On their way to rejoin the group about the stage, Dean told Marcus what
had taken place.
Mr. Dolittle was examining the coach to see if it was injured so they could
not continue their journey, and he finally concluded that if they had a stout
stick to place under the body on that side, it would enable the vehicle to
carry the party. A small dry sapling was found in the woods, and this was
made to answer the purpose required.
While the other men, barring Jack Carboy, whose usefulness was rather
questionable at that time, were attending to this work, the driver hitched the
horses to the stage, so inside of fifteen minutes they were ready to resume
their journey.

If Jim Dolittle had his misgiving of the eccentric old seaman, so did the
latter have his misapprehensions of “the ol’ tug without a rudder.”
“Blamed if the fool shall set on the driver’s seat!” muttered the stager.
“Shiver my toplights, if Ol’ Jack Carboy straddles the lookout o’ thet craft,”
exclaimed the other.
A compromise was effected by having Jack stand on the step of the near
side, which he declared was more “shipshape.”
The balance of the trip to Landlock had to be made at a slow gait; so slow
that Dean and Marcus worried lest the Warrior should leave the place
before they could get there.
So she would if it had not been that her usual ill fortune followed the
Warrior.
It proved that sufficient repairs had not been made at Millville so that the
packet was two hours late at Landlock, and Dean’s party had over an hour
to wait.
Jack fumed and fretted over this suspense, declaring that when they got the
new boat to running there would be no such “land-lubberish doings.”
Landlock is most peculiarly situated where a cove of the inland sea known
as Lake Seneca cuts into the shore in the shape of a huge heart, high bluffs
on the opposing sides overhanging the water. The town, which does not
contain more than two thousand inhabitants, lies at the point of the shore
line.
When Jack Carboy had seemed to exhaust his vocabulary of invectives
against the tardy boat, it came into sight, and with provoking slowness
reached the pier.
In the bustle and excitement Dean caught sight of Colonel Darringford and
his scapegrace son, the former showing deeply the effects of his potations
of liquor and his anger at the delays already made in the passage.
The captain had declared that it would be impossible to continue the trip
without further repairs, and he had reluctantly consented to an hour’s stop at
Landlock for this purpose.

As Dean’s party went aboard Rodney Darringford stared insolently at them,
while Tim Downey, in the background, watched them as a cat watches a
mouse it is about to pounce upon.
“Wonder where they picked up that tenderfoot,” he asked aside of Rodney.
“Don’t know. Perhaps he is going to work on the new boat.”
“Mebbe. Say, don’t that miserable top of a Mercer carry a high head,
though?”
“Higher’n he will to-morrow, according to my calculations. Say, I have
given them stateroom Number 40.”
“The one with the secret opening?” asked Tim, while a look of delight
swept over his countenance.
“The same. I do not think I need to tell you what there is for you to do, if
you are going to follow this matter up.”
“I am. I’ll take stateroom Number 41,” and the youthful plotter turned away
with a wicked smile on his lips.
Keeping far enough away so as not to attract their attention, he watched the
three until they went to their quarters, when Tim Downey was not seen
again for more than an hour. Then he sought his associate in crime, Rodney
Darringford.
The Warrior was again moving laboriously toward her destination, with a
fair prospect of finishing the trip in safety.
“Well?” asked Rodney.
“That secret opening just let me overhear and see all they said and done,”
said Tim. “That strange kid is the boy of Rob Ellison, whose case has been
handled by ol’ Montague at Millville. It seems they hev got hold of some
papers that are going to clear the kid’s daddy, and Dean Mercer had ’em,
together with a thousand dollars.”
“A thousand dollars?” demanded young Darringford, a look of greed
coming into his eyes.
“Yes. Ye jess wait and hol’ yer tongue, fer there’s sumthin bigger’n thet
coming. Mercer has handed thet money and ’em papers over to the kid.”

“We must get the money,” affirmed Rodney, unable to remain silent.
“Shet yer jaw,” muttered Tim. “How do you think I’m going to chin so’s to
make mysel’ heard with your potato trap rattling all the time.”
This impudent speech succeeded in keeping the other quiet long enough for
Tim to say:
“Of course we are going to get it, and a bigger bundle o’ boodle along with
it. Now comes the hair-lifting part. Dean Mercer has in his pocket, for I see
him put it there a check for eight thousand dollars, with which to pay for
that new boat. Jess think o’ thet—eight thousand dollars!”
Tim’s eyes did not show greater expression of greedy anticipation than did
Rodney Darringford, as he caught him by the arm, saying in a husky tone:
“Is that all, Tim?”
“As if thet isn’t enough.”
“But did you find out how he is pay over this check and take possession of
the boat?”
“He’s to go to Brown, Sewall and Company, and pay over the check in the
morning. I think he and that ol’ salt are to stay on the steamer to-night, but
the Ellison kid is to go to his stopping place to-night, as soon as we get to
Springfield.”
Rodney Darringford was silent for what seemed a long time to Tim
Downey. Then he leaped to his feet, saying:
“I have it. Nothing could be easier. We’ll cooper the whole game.”
“I’m fixed for the kid,” remarked Tim, who did not intend that anyone
should get ahead of him in schemes redounding to his benefit.
“By jove! no better than I am for Dean Mercer. I once swore the day would
come when I would get even with him for his meddling with my affairs, and
that day, or rather night, has come.”

CHAPTER VI.
THE EIGHT-THOUSAND-DOLLAR CHECK.
The Warrior reached the city at ten o’clock that night, two hours overdue,
and Jack Carboy and Dean Mercer left the boat at once.
“Where going, Dean?” asked Jack.
“To a hotel, I guess.”
“Oh! no, to the boat.”
“The Spray?”
“Why not?”
“You know where it is?”
“Certain! The engineer is aboard now. I can’t sleep on land.”
“It is too late to see the shipbuilder or Mr. Durand, the lawyer, to-night,”
decided Dean. “Yes, we’ll sleep on the boat to-night. I am very anxious to
see it.”
“You will come with us, Marcus?”
“I do not feel as if I could. Mother will be anxious to see me, and I must
hasten home as quickly as I can.”
“That is right. You have the papers safely and the money. I hope there will
be no delay in setting your father free. Can’t you run down and see us in the
morning? The new boat will not start before nine or ten o’clock.”
“Yes, I will run down; thank you. Good night.”
“Good night.”
So the boys parted, little dreaming what would happen to both of them
before they should meet again, and under what circumstances that meeting
would take place.

In ignorance of the keen watch kept over their movements by their enemies
they went their ways, while the young plotters began to hastily carry into
action their plans.
“You say the kid lives on Grove Street. That is well out in the suburbs. By
cutting across we can intercept him. You do this and hold him up under
some pretext at the corner of Ash and Midland Streets. I will be on hand
with a couple of officers. He will just answer the descriptions given of that
boy who has run away from the State school for young criminals, and we
not only turn him over, but get the reward. That’s what I call making both
ends meet.”
“Now get busy,” said Tim, when the precious pair separated to carry out
their plans.
As Tim was about to leave the Warrior he was accosted by Colonel
Darringford. The usually austere owner of the boat appeared now very
much the worse for his liberal potations of liquor.
“See here, youngster,” he said, crooking his finger toward Tim. “I wanner
see you minute.”
“Yes, colonel,” replied Tim promptly, approaching the spot where the
colonel stood.
The latter was unable to stand alone, and held to the steamer rail.
“You boy who tol’ me ’bout new st—sthe—steamer, hey?”
“Correct, colonel!”
“Sure there’s one?”
“Dead sure!”
“Mustn’t be ’lowed to ’danger business prospix—pects, eh, boy?”
“No, sir.”
“You said you could stop boat, eh?”
“I did.”
“Do it, say nothing, and take the—that!”
The colonel made a dive for his pocket, and a lunge for Tim.

Tim allowed him to tumble pell-mell to the deck, once he had secured the
roll of banknotes that the colonel proffered him.
“I’ll fix the boat, never fear!” cried Tim. “Hooray! Two hundred! Crackey!
I’ll have a time of it!”
Rodney Darringford, curious to see what his father could want of his
confederate, whom he found useful but whom he detested as “a lowdown,
miserable wharf rat,” as he often called him, lingered while the above
conversation took place.
As he saw Tim about to hasten ashore, he called a deckhand to assist his
father to the cabin. A minute later, he had reached the wharf with Tim
Downey.
“Unlimber yer tongue,” said Tim, as soon as they reached the narrow street
into which Rodney had led the way.
“What did the governor say to you?”
“Ye don’t stop to think that it might be me who had something to say to
him,” replied Tom doggedly.
To speak the truth, he did not like this interference.
“You needn’t be so all-fired tongue-tied,” exclaimed the other. “I guess it is
as much for your interest as it is for mine to be sociable.”
“Jess as ye say, Rod. Only hadn’t we better ’tend to the kid fust. I’ll meet ye
at Jimson’s ’s soon ’s thet ’fair is done.”
“You are right, Tim. But don’t fail to be on hand. You know you will want
to get your divvy.”
Tim muttered something under his breath which the other did not hear, and
the couple separated each to do his part of the work they had planned.

“Isn’t she a beauty?”
The admiring speaker was Jack Carboy, addressing Dean Mercer, as the
twain came in sight of the new steamer.

“She is very promising. Won’t they look amazed at Millville when we reach
there to-morrow, Jack? You say the engineer is aboard?”
“He should be, lad—I mean admiral,” executing one of his characteristic
salutes.
“Never mind how you address me, Jack. In fact, I had rather you would call
me plainly by my name. The judge made his only mistake when he insisted
that I should take command of the new packet. But he fairly forced me into
it.”
“The jedge may be better at sailing a court than he is a ship, but he didn’t
miss his bearings when he ran ye inter port. With ol’ Jack at the wheel,
ships and seas! but won’t we swing a breeze when we run inter th’ basin up
yonder?”
Though less demonstrative than his free-hearted companion, Dean Mercer
felt greatly elated over the appearance of the new steamer.
Dean and Jack finally tired of looking the steamer over, and they sought the
captain’s cabin for a few words regarding their future plans before turning
in.
They were thus engaged when a stranger was ushered into their presence by
the steward of the boat.
The newcomer was a middle-aged man, well-dressed, and gentlemanly in
his manner.
“Captain Mercer, I think,” he said, bowing and extending his right hand.
“Glad to meet you, captain. Hope the new boat pleases you. I am Mr.
Sewall, of the firm of Brown, Sewall and Company. You see I got a letter
this morning from Judge Oglesby, who said you were en route here, and
that by coming here to the Spray this evening I might save you a lot of
trouble in the morning. He knew you must be pretty busy.”
While this announcement came most unexpectedly to the young
commander, he managed to greet the newcomer politely and invited him to
a seat.
“I was here about sundown, but the Warrior being late as usual, of course I
had my trouble for my pains. Tell you what it is, Captain Mercer, you are
bound to win with such a boat as this.”

“I think it is very satisfactory. Did you want me to pay you, Mr. Sewall?”
“Why, no; that is, suit your own pleasure. Of course it would save you a lot
of bother in the morning, when I calculate you will not have much time to
lose. Again, it would be very convenient for us. I make these as suggestions,
you know.”
Dean could see no harm in settling the matter then and there. It was true
that it would save him considerable time in the morning, when he would be
very busy.
“Judge Oglesby gave me a check with which to pay the amount due you.
This I will endorse if you will give me a receipt running to him in full for
the sum.”
“Very satisfactory. I like your way of doing business, Captain Mercer. I
prophesy that within a year we shall have an order to build another boat to
run on this line. Two boats would equip the line so that you could give the
service the public demands. Millville is bound to become a thriving
metropolis.”

CHAPTER VII.
THE NIGHT FIRE.
It was past midnight and the silence of the night was broken only by the
tread of some weary watchman on duty or the hurried step of some belated
traveler.
At this unusual time for boys to be abroad, Rodney Darringford and Tim
Downey met at the street corner designated by the former. The first looked
anxiously around him as if he expected to see an enemy suddenly spring
into his path. The second, more hardened in such nefarious work as they
had been doing, showed little, if any, trepidation, as he faced his companion
with the simple word:
“Well?”
“Where you going, Tim?”
“To a restaurant first to see if I cannot get a bite to eat, or mebbe a lunch
cart will answer us best.”
“All right; go ahead. I will pay the bill.”
“Guess I can afford it myself.”
“You got some money from father?”
“I stung him for two hundred,” was the cool reply.
“What’s for?”
“That’s telling.”
“Was it in regard to the new steamer?”
“Yep.”
“What about that?”
“Puff!” was the mysterious reply.

“Explain,” cried Rodney, catching him by the arm, while a feeling of terror
he could not exactly understand took possession of him.
“The Spray goes up in smoke!”
The troubled look on Rodney’s countenance deepened.
“Did father want you to do that, Tim?”
“That’s what he paid me for.”
“That’s bad work.”
“What’s the odds? Needn’t trouble ye. ’Twill burn while ye sleep. Two
trusty fellers do the work. Who’s the wiser?”
Rodney shook his head, sorry that his father had fallen into the power of
such an unscrupulous person as his companion. He did not realize yet how
completely he was being drawn into the tangled web of crime.
“Let’s get our lunch as soon as we can. I have an appointment an hour
hence.”
“With the fellow who was to see Dean Mercer?”
“Yes.”
Half an hour later this same precious couple entered a miserable basement
saloon, where even at that unseemly hour the sound of coarse revelry
greeted their ears.
A man was waiting for them at the door—the same person who had met
Dean Mercer on the Spray and obtained Judge Oglesby’s check in payment
for the steamer.
“Have you got it?” demanded Rodney, eagerly.
“You bet,” handing the other the strip of paper which meant so much.
“Here’s your two hundred.”
“It’s not enough,” muttered the man. “I want an extra hundred.”
“But that is all I agreed to pay you.”
“Don’t care. It was risky business. Pay me another hundred or I’ll see——”
Rodney checked him by handing out a crisp hundred dollar bill.

It was fifteen minutes later when Rodney and Tim came out of the place,
and Rodney’s step was decidedly unsteady. Tim, more used to drinking,
walked off without showing the effects of his recent potations. Both were
elated over their success.
“See there!” exclaimed Tim, pointing excitedly down the street, where a
bright blaze illuminated the night sky.
“What is it?” asked Rodney.
“Where are yer eyes? They’ll hev to be sharper ’n they are now to find the
Spray in the morning.”
The truth suddenly dawned upon the clouded mind of Rodney Darringford.
The men hired for the miserable work had set the new steamer on fire!
There would be no rival to his father’s old-time packet.
The excitement attending this discovery quite overcame the effects of the
liquor, and Rodney felt frightened.
“Let’s see what that check looks like,” said the cunning Tim. “I hain’t
more’n got a glimmer of it.”
Glad to have his mind diverted from the object which had so disconcerted
him, Rodney brought forth from his pocket the envelope which had been
handed him by his accomplice in crime. It was the same one Judge Olgesby
had given Dean before starting for Springfield.
“I ain’t so big a fool as to give three hundred dollars for nothing,” declared
Rodney, triumphantly, producing the check.
“Come under the electric light where we can see it,” requested Tim, and the
other did as he was asked, though not without some misgivings.
“What if a policeman should see us?”
“Reading a check ain’t ag’in the law,” retorted Tim, his eye running over
the narrow strip of paper as he spoke.
“Good for a cool eight thousand dollars,” declared Tim.
“But the check is payable to Dean Mercer. How am I to get it?”
“Easiest thing in the world. Just sign—turn it over.”

Rodney did as he requested.
“It’s signed by Dean Mercer,” said Tim, with a ring of exultation in his
voice.
“But they won’t recognize me,” said Rodney. “If they did, I would not dare
to put my name on it.”
“What bank is it payable at?”
“The Atlas.”
“And you are sure they do not know you there?”
“Yes.”
“If they don’t know ye, it’s as easy as sliding down a greased pole. Ye are
Dean Mercer, see?”
Rodney either dared not or could not understand his companion.
“There’s something else in the envelope. Let me see.”
Tim quickly drew forth a sheet carefully folded. It was the letter Judge
Olgesby had written for Dean, and Tim asked his companion to read it.
Rodney then read in a low tone:
“Mr. James Rawlinson, Cashier Atlas Bank, Springfield.
“Dear Sir—Allow me to introduce to you the bearer, Mr. Dean
Mercer, my business manager in a new venture I am about to
undertake upon the lake. As he will doubtless call often to your
bank with checks, I have O. K’d. his signature at the end of this
letter so you will know it.”
Under the letter was the name of Dean Mercer in his own handwriting,
verified as genuine by the judge’s signature below.
“Don’t you see, everything is as clear as ice,” said Tim. “You go to the bank
in the morning as soon as it is opened, pretending you are Dean Mercer; get
the money, and we will divide the haul.”
“I—I think so,” replied Rodney, who had not reached the condition of mind
which his companion had gained.

“That’s easy enough, Rod. Now let’s look up a stopping place, and once
there, we will divide the money got from the kid.”
“You mean Marcus Ellison? You have that money?”
“Every cent—and the papers.”
“Where’s the boy?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Where he won’t trouble you and me any more.”
“Won’t he be missed?”
“Oh, mebbe. What if he is?”
“They will search for him.”
“But they won’t find him. I do nothing by the halves, Rod. It was really
another blow at Dean Mercer. He’d no business to be his friend. Then, there
was the money.”
“What have you done with him?” asked Rodney for the second time.
“Sometimes it’s better not to know too much,” replied Tim. “Jess as it is
’bout that burning boat. He’s gone, and thet settles it. I’ve got the wallet and
all there is in it.”
“There were papers concerning his father’s trial?”
“They were not intrusted to me. It is not my lookout what his old man does
or gets done to him. Come; going to the Raven with me?”
Five minutes the couple were safely in their room at the hotel.
“I do not see any signs of the fire,” commented Tim, as he prepared to retire
for the few hours of the night left. “But it is safe to say the Spray will not
make that trip to Millville to-morrow. I mean to-day.”

CHAPTER VIII.
THE MORNING NEWS.
The downward course of crime is a rapid descent, and becomes facile and
familiar to the victim of evil, once he is started on the steep grade.
At least so Rodney Darringford found it. When he awoke the morning after
the events depicted in the last chapter, it was in a room at a hotel, and with
him was his companion of the night previous—Tim Downey.
Rodney had a splitting headache, as he expressed it. There was a sense of
confusing, a frightened, all-gone feeling; a weight that caused him to close
his eyes and try to imagine what had really occurred to be a dream.
Wine! liquor! that he now discerned was the cause of all his boldness. He
had descended to the level of a common criminal. He had been a party to
the guilt of Tim Downey and his confederates.
How far had that guilt carried them?
“The new steamer—they set it on fire,” gasped Rodney, and then the terror
of the law and the enormity of the crime flashed over his mind with
crushing force and drove him from the bed with a groan.
“I’ll get away from Tim—I’ll hurry to the boat!” muttered Rodney. “What a
fool I was ever to be led by him into trouble—when he’d have done it
alone!”
Yes, that was it—not regret or remorse, but dread. Rodney Darringford
recked little that Judge Oglesby’s property had been destroyed. He simply
did not wish to be mixed up in it himself.
“Hallo! you awake?”
Tim was out of bed and dressing himself. He grinned coolly at Rodney, and
his hardened face expressed none of the pallor or worry that Rodney’s
features bore.
“Yes, I’m awake.”

“Don’t be in a hurry.”
“I want to get back to the boat.”
“The Warrior?”
“Yes.”
“It don’t sail until ten o’clock.”
“Well——”
“Well, you want to get away from me!” jeered Tim. “That don’t suit me.
Here, you’re trembling like a leaf. Take a swig. It will brace up your
nerves.”
Rodney shuddered with nausea as he bolted a drink from the flask of fiery
liquor that Tim handed him.
“Feel better?”
“Warmed up, yes.”
“That’s right. See here, Rod, don’t get so squeamish.”
“Tim, I’m scared,” confessed Rodney candidly.
Tim laughed derisively.
“What at?” he demanded.
“At getting caught.”
“Who by?”
“The—the police.”
“What for?”
“For—for burning the boat.”
“Did you burn it?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone burn it?”
“No.”

“Then, don’t worry. All you have to do is to keep your mouth shut. My pals
won’t squeal—never fear. The job is done. Just exactly all you have to do
about it is to be friendly to me. Your father hired me to burn the Spray.”
Rodney felt a thrill of horror and dread.
He and his father were both in this unscrupulous boy’s power completely.
“There’s no use to squeal now. The job was done mighty cheap. Yer father’s
got no rival now. And I’ve got rid of the meanest enemy a boy ever had.”
Tim’s manner seemed to express more than his words, so that Rodney
hastened to ask for an explanation.
“I don’t mind telling ye, seeing ye and yer dad are ’s deep in the mud ’s I
am in the mire. I hain’t afreed ye’ll blow on me, ’cos if yer do, I’ll drag yer
into the muddle. When the Spray went up in smoke last night, it carried
Dean Mercer with it!”
Rodney was truly frightened by this statement, made in the coolest tone
imaginable.
“Yes,” Tim went on; “my men were not only to go aboard the boat and
leave some cotton saturated with oil to be ignited at the proper time, but
they were to chloroform Dean Mercer and leave him helpless. The fire
would be set in his cabin, so there would be no chance to get him out. Oh,
I’m a deep one. ’Twas a big job at a mighty cheap price—two hundred
dollars.”
Again Rodney Darringford shivered. Then a new thought came into his
muddled brain.
“What if it is known that Dean Mercer was killed in that fire? How can I get
that check cashed?”
For the first time Tim Downey showed fear.
“They will not know it—so soon. How can they? The bank opens at nine. It
is now almost that. You must hurry. To fail in this part will be worse than ’s
if we had not undertaken it at all. Hurry, Rod, or you will be too late.”
Liquor had overcome the conscientious scruples of Colonel Darringford
sufficiently to induce him to pay Tim Downey to burn the new lake steamer,
the Spray.

Liquor also brought the courage of his unworthy son to a point where he
finally agreed to personate Dean Mercer at the bank.
“There’s no risk,” affirmed Tim Downey. “I’d go myself, only I look so
ragged and rough. See here, Rod, no one knows of the burning of the Spray,
or the disappearance of Dean Mercer at Millville yet. Get the money quick.
Leave the rest to me.”
“But search will be made for him?”
“As a thief, yes.”
Rodney started.
“Oh! that’s it,” he cried, a new light breaking on his mind.
“Yes. He disappears. They will probably say that he burned the boat. He got
the check from the judge cashed and sloped with that, too. See?”
Yes, Rodney did see. It was a glorious scheme, a splendid revenge. His rival
and enemy, Dean Mercer, would be disgraced—he would roll in riches!
It would be believed that Dean himself had drawn the money at the bank.
He, Rodney, was not known there. Still, he determined to act cautiously.
When, an hour later, he started for the bank, he had got Dean Mercer’s
signature down to perfection, and he had bought a pair of spectacles and
tried to throw into his face as much of false expression as was possible, so
as to make his features vague to the cashier, in view of a later identification.
The bank was a large and a busy one. The cashier accepted the check and
Judge Oglesby’s letter carelessly, glanced at them and said:
“Glad to know you, Mr. Mercer. How will you have the money?”
Then, as the false Dean Mercer, in a smothered tone of voice, stated that he
would take it in bills of a large denomination, the cashier waved him to the
paying teller, and passed on to the next customer of the bank as carelessly
as if the payment of eight thousand dollars was a mere bagatelle in the
immense affairs of the great Atlas Bank.
Rodney’s heart beat like a trip hammer as he thrust the big pile of bills into
his pocket and turned away to leave the bank.

He realized that he was a thief, a forger, as wicked as Tim Downey. Yes,
worse, for he knew better. Tim had been brought up in the midst of sin.
“Mr. Mercer,” called out one of the bank officials, coming forward to the
cashier’s window, “that’s a fine steamer you have had built.”
“Yes, sir,” faltered Rodney.
“I have been down to see her this morning, and I assure you there was never
her equal on Lake Seneca. Colonel Darringford’s old tub will be nowhere
now. Well, it is time some one woke up to the situation.”
Rodney’s heart was in his mouth, and fairly gasping for breath, he did not
dare to make a reply, but he hurried out into the open air with quickened
steps.
Chancing to glance down the street he received another shock greater than
the first.
Crossing the main street he saw Dean Mercer!

CHAPTER IX.
TIM DEMANDS HIS DUES.
Rodney Darringford was never so frightened in his life. He was puzzled,
too.
Was it possible the Spray had not been burned after what Tim had said?
The man in the bank had certainly spoken honestly, and he said he had been
on board that morning.
If further proof was needed, the fact that Dean Mercer was alive furnished
it.
Rodney hastened in the direction of the hotel, not daring to look to the right
or left. His hand in his pocket, he held fast to his ill-gotten gains, wishing
he had never seen it, and yet determined to hold on to it.
Tim was waiting for him expectantly at the room at the hotel.
“Got it?” he demanded breathlessly.
“Yes,” gasped Rodney, pale and unnerved.
“All of it?”
“Every dollar.”
“Glory! We’re, we’re millionaires! You and I will divide even. What’s the
trouble with ye?”
In a few words Rodney told what he had heard and seen.
Tim was scarcely less excited than Rodney, as soon as he had become
familiar with the situation.
“It can’t be that Daley and Spofford hev played me a trick.”
“What if Dean Mercer goes to the bank? They will be after me!”
“Reckon it won’t be any easy matter for ’em to prove anything,” muttered
Tim. “Fust thing I’m going to know is if that boat is burned or not. It must

hev burnt and somehow Dean Mercer slipped through those crazy Rube’s
fingers.”
“Yes,” assented Rodney. “It will be best to find out if the Spray has been
burned or not.”
“I’ll find out in a jiffy. Ye jess stay right here till I come back.”
“You will have to hurry, Tim, if we go back on the Warrior.”
“Don’t b’lieve I shall go back,” replied Tim.
The speech pleased Rodney, who felt that he would gladly get rid of his
associate.
“Will you stay here?”
“Not if I know myself. Too tame. I’ll go somewhere else, and with my
money I’ll start in business.”
“Well, come back and tell me what you learn of the Spray.”
“Reckon I shall come back as long as you hev my money. Let’s divide
now.”
“Wait till you get back. Come! hurry and find out all you can. Also when
the Warrior will start back to Millville.”
Tim did not offer any reply to this, but immediately left the hotel.
It seemed like a long time to Rodney, as he waited impatiently and
anxiously to learn the truth, before Tim Downey returned.
The latter’s countenance told before he had spoken a word the result of his
trip.
“The Spray hain’t burnt!” he muttered, as he sank into the nearest chair.
“Daley and Spofford that I paid to do the job got blooming drunk on the
money and are now in the lockup. That blaze we saw was only an old
shed.”
“Pretty mess you have made of it,” declared Rodney.
“Give me my share of the money—quick!”
“Are the officers coming?” asked Rodney in alarm.

“Dunno ’bout enny officers. I hain’t ennything to do with ’em. I’m jess
going to get out’n Springfield without enny longer stay. Don’t like the
blamed ol’ town.”
Rodney began to count out the money that he had received from the bank.
“There’s your half of the check. I ought to have more than half seeing I did
the work, and mighty risky——”
“Now, the half of the other,” broke in Tim, almost savagely. “Ye move
awful slow, and the Warrior, I forgot to tell ye, starts in ten minutes.”
“Seems to me you are all-fired uppish, seeing I’m the one who has done all
that has been done. Here’s your divvy on the Ellison haul.”
Tim Downey did not have much education, but his natural wit was sharp,
and he saw that the other had not given him an equal division of the money
obtained from Marcus Ellison.
“Ye hevn’t gin me a square deal, Rod,” he declared.
Rodney Darringford turned pale, exclaiming:
“I have, Tim. That is,” he added, “there’s all that belongs to you. As long as
you didn’t burn the Spray, I have just kept back the two hundred dad paid
you. I will hand that to him.”
Tim Downey’s face was black with rage.
“Ye will, will ye?” he gritted fiercely. “Ye hev nothing to do with the
business ’tween yer dad and me. Hand over that two hundred!”
Rodney Darringford hesitated, though trembling with fear. With a single
bound Tim Downey was beside him and his big, dirty hand was about his
neck.
“Hand it over, Rod Darringford, or I’ll choke the life out’n ye!”
“Yes, yes!” stammered Rodney.
“I want my half of thet divvy, and I’ll hev it, too.”
He got it.
But Tim noticed that his companion still held upon the papers the lawyer
had sent. They might not have any value to him, but the very fact that

Rodney was not disposed to let them go made him suspicious.
A little later, when their preparations were about completed for each to go
his way, Tim improved an opportunity when Rodney’s back was turned to
slip the parcel of papers into his own pocket.
Tim next produced a bottle and offered it to Rodney, who did not hesitate to
accept, and no sooner had he drunk the liquor than his attitude towards his
associate mellowed. He realized that he had money enough in his pocket to
pay off his most pressing obligations.
A vision of magnificent extravagance overcame him. He forgot the low
estate of his companion in crime.
“Tim!” he said exuberantly, “what are you going to do with your money?”
“Spend it.”
“Where?”
“In Columbus. Do you suppose I’d stay in this dead town?”
“No.”
“No; too risky for me.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Bully!”
“I’m sick of work on the steamer. Besides, I’m afraid we might be
suspected if we were seen with all this money.”
“Right you are!”
“So I’ll go with you.”
“When?”
“When you say.”
“To-night?”
“Can’t you wait until to-morrow?”
“What for?”

“I want to see my folks and make some kind of an excuse for leaving
Millville.”
“All right. I’ll meet you here to-morrow noon, and we’ll go to Columbus
together. I’ll show you what life is, my boy.”
So they separated, Rodney to go on board the Warrior, and Tim to visit one
of the saloons of the city.

CHAPTER X.
A TELEPHONE MESSAGE.
Dean Mercer had arisen from his berth early on that eventful morning, the
proudest in his life. As he went upon the deck of the Spray, realizing that he
was its commander, he felt as if his life work had truly begun.
Without dreaming of the work of his enemies, he was extremely happy.
At his first turn he was greeted by Jack Carboy with his characteristic
salute, and the cheery voice of the old sailor bidding him a cordial:
“Fine seas to ye, admiral.”
“A return of the compliment, Mr. Carboy,” replied Dean, gravely, purposely
imitating the manner of address of the other.
“Reef yer sails!” fairly roared Jack. “Ship yer picter, ain’t I tol’ yer never to
mister ol’ Jack Carboy?”
“Haven’t I told you not to admiral me?”
“Shiver my toplights, Dean,” cried the old tar, extending his hand. “My boy,
ye air honest and true. I’ll stand by ye till the seas run dry.”
“I know it, Jack,” replied Dean, as he grasped the sailor’s hand. “You and I
will get along famously together.
“I suppose we are to start at ten o’clock. Now, that I have fixed up the
matter with the builders of the Spray, that will not have to be attended to.
There are a few things to look after on shore. I will be back by nine sharp.”
“Aye, aye, lad, sharp.”
Dean felt anxious over the fortunes of Marcus Ellison, and he resolved to
visit him as soon as he had eaten breakfast at one of the restaurants.
He had no trouble in finding the humble home of his friend, and he was met
at the door by a sweet-faced woman whom he quickly learned was Marcus’
mother.

She greeted him with extreme kindness as soon as she had found that he
was her son’s friend, but to Dean’s dismay he was told that Marcus had not
come home.
Mrs. Ellison had not been worried over his non-appearance, as she would
have been had she known the truth. Attributing his prolonged absence to
some cause connected with his errand to Millville, she had not felt any great
uneasiness. But now she suddenly became alarmed.
“Something has happened to him—my boy! He would have come directly
to me if he had been able,” she declared, and Dean did not doubt the truth
of the assertion.
“Let us hope he is safe. Perhaps he has gone to see his father with the good
news.”
“He would have come to me first. Oh, my boy! my boy!”
“Can you think of any place where he would be likely to call? You know we
did not get into the city until nearly midnight.”
“I can think of no place where he would go before coming to me,” replied
the distracted mother. “Oh, when will our troubles end? We were so happy a
few years ago, and now——”
Dean soon started out to see if he could not get some trace of the missing
boy, but at half-past nine he had not got an inkling of his whereabouts. No
one had seen him after he had left the Warrior, and his disappearance was
shrouded in mystery.
So Dean Mercer went on board the Spray with a heavy heart. In the short
time he had known Marcus Ellison, he had come to regard him as a friend,
and the other’s sad story had awakened his pity.
News of the new steamer Spray had been heralded about Springfield and
vicinity, so that before seven o’clock people had begun to throng about the
pier, many of them anxious to make the initial trip, while the others came as
curious onlookers.
Jack Carboy watched this throng with keen interest, ever and anon giving
expression to his feelings in one of his quaint expressions. But finally he
grew anxious about Dean, and as the hour began to draw towards a close
without bringing the young commander, he became excited:

“By the horn of Neptune!” he stormed, “here’s a gale! Ship ready to sail and
no skipper.”
“Blow your trumpet, you water-soaked old salt, and be hanged,” exclaimed
a bystander. “Where under the sun did you get washed in here?”
Jack Carboy glowered upon the speaker with a look of contempt,
murmuring as he moved away something about a “pollywog in a mud
puddle.”
Then he hailed with joy the return of “Captain Mercer,” and preparations
for the start of the Spray was no longer delayed.
Amid wild shouts and prolonged huzzas the new steamer started upon her
first trip, carrying with her not only a big crowd of passengers, but the good
wishes of the thousands who would be only too glad to know that at last,
proper accommodations for travel had been secured on the lake.
Colonel Darringford, still under the influence of liquor, witnessed these
demonstrations.
“That boy!” thinking even then of his bargain with Tim Downey, “he has
betrayed me. Hallo, Rodney! Where are you going?”
“On board the Warrior, governor, of course. What a fuss they make over
that new boat. I can’t see that she is more than an ordinary tub.”
The Warrior was soon upon her way, following nearly in the wake of the
new steamer, which was soon lost to the sight of the lookout. Nor did the
old boat again come in sight of her rival upon the trip.
The Spray fulfilled the expectations of her master and crew, even Jack
Carboy gladly boasting that she was worthy of “bigger seas than the land-
locked puddle.”
The grandest sight was when they reached Millville. While her owner had
maintained silence in regard to his intentions, it was generally known that
the boat would soon be ready for its first trip, and that morning before Dean
had started with the steamer, a dozen telephone messages had been sent
over the wires, and the town was all agog over the new arrival.
Some one, determined that a reception fitting the occasion should be made,
hastily got the members of the local band together, and when the Spray

came in sight of the wharf, it seemed as if the whole town had poured out to
meet it.
The band was playing “See, the Conquering Hero Comes!” and everywhere
manifestations of pleasure and rejoicing were to be seen. There were few,
indeed, so stupid that they could not see that a new day had dawned for
Millville.
In all the town there was no prouder person than Judge Oglesby, who, from
the vantage ground of his own wide veranda, watched the scene. With him
were his wife and Evaline and Manly. In fact, this little group had been the
first to discover the appearance of the steamer, as they had looked down the
lake through the glass.
“Will Dean come up here?” asked Eva.
“Pardon me, my child, but Captain Mercer. Doubtless he will pay us his
respects.”
“I cannot quite get into the habit of calling Dean ‘captain’,” replied Evaline.
“How I wish I was down on the shore!” cried Manly, enthusiastically. “See
how many people there are all along the dock. Hear the band playing. Was
there ever such a day in Millville, papa?”
“Never, my son, never,” and if there was a ring of triumph in his voice, the
speaker certainly had a right to feel elated over the success of his plans.
“You may run down to the shore if you want to, Manly, and escort the hero
up here as soon as he is at liberty to come.”
Manly needed no urging to do this. With a cheer that would not have been
received without a rebuke under ordinary circumstances, he ran down the
pathway, soon disappearing from the view of the watchers.
It was half an hour later, a half-hour which seemed very long to the
impatient waiters, before Captain Mercer and his young escort were seen
coming toward the house.
The crowd had dispersed somewhat from the scene at the water’s edge, but
the band was still playing as Dean, proud, yet timid in the midst of these
honors, was met by Judge Oglesby and his family.

“Allow me to congratulate you, Captain Mercer, upon your successful
maiden trip. May it be an example of the many which are to follow. I felt
confident that we should succeed.”
“This is the happiest day of my life,” declared Eva, timidly, as she advanced
to offer her congratulations. “I think that all Millville has joined with us in
expressing their sincere gratitude over this event.”
Dean murmured his thanks for her kind words, as he clasped her hands, and
felt that her appreciation had made it the happiest day of his life.
Before more could be said, Mrs. Oglesby interrupted them by saying:
“There is a call at the telephone from Springfield, Martin.”
“Some trifling business matter. Do not let it interfere with the happiness of
this occasion while I answer it.”
While the judge was gone only a few minutes, when he returned to join the
little group his countenance had a serious expression in marked contrast to
its recent display of joy.
“It seems, Dean, you did not call upon Messrs. Brown, Sewall and
Company in regard to paying for the steamer as you were intending to do,”
he said.
Suddenly a vague fear came into the heart of Dean Mercer, as he hastened
to reply:
“I did, Judge Oglesby. That is, one of the firm came aboard the Spray and I
paid him there.”
“I felt sure you would not neglect so important a trust. There has been some
oversight in the affair. I will ’phone to them. Who was it called?”
“Mr. Sewall himself.”
“Then it must be all right. I will explain.”

CHAPTER XI.
UNDER SUSPICION.
An ominous silence fell upon the little group while Judge Oglesby carried
on his conversation with the person in Springfield. One and all listened with
deep interest to the answer he gave to the words of the unseen, and to them,
unheard speaker.
“Yes, he is here,” finally said the judge. “I will have him come to the
’phone if you wish.”
A moment later he said to Dean:
“They would like to talk with you, Dean. I do not understand this at all.”
Dean quickly stepped forward, and as he placed the receiver to his ear the
voice asked:
“Are you sure Captain Mercer paid the money to Mr. Sewall?”
“This is Captain Mercer talking now, sir. I paid Mr. Sewall the money by a
check made payable to me from Judge Oglesby,” replied Dean. “I endorsed
the check and he gave me a receipt signed by your firm.”
“Impossible, Captain Mercer. This is Brown talking, and Mr. Sewall is
present. He says he was not on board the Spray. We did not think it was
necessary to run after the money, as we knew Judge Oglesby was able to
pay.”
A five minutes’ conversation followed, but nothing could be learned to
explain the situation. If Messrs. Brown, Sewell and Company told the truth,
as no one doubted, Dean had been imposed upon by some dishonest person.
It was a trying situation for him.
“Let me see if I can get any one at the bank,” said Judge Oglesby. “Though
it is not bank hours, some one may be there.”
“Hello, is this the Atlas Bank?” he called, a few minutes later, after securing
a connection.

“It is.”
“Is Mr. Hume, the cashier, there?”
“He is. Hold the wire a moment and I will call him.”
“We are in luck,” declared the judge aside to Dean. “If that check has not
been presented for payment, I will stop it and we shall be all right.
“Hello! I am Mr. Hume, Judge Oglesby. What is it?” said a voice at the
other end of the wire.
“Has there been a check presented at your bank to-day signed by me, and
endorsed by Dean Mercer?”
“There has. Captain Mercer called in person this morning very soon after
the bank was open. He presented a letter from you, which we have, and
received the cash in large bills at his own request. I hope, judge, everything
is all right.”
“I am afraid there is something wrong about this. Captain Mercer is here
and says he did not call at your bank. The person must have been an
impostor.”
“I do not see how that could be, judge. I remember speaking to him myself,
congratulating him on the fine appearance of the new steamer. If there is
anything wrong we will try and help you straighten it. Young Mercer was a
stranger to us, but your letter seemed sufficient guarantee of his honesty.
Perhaps he has deceived you.”
“I am not ready to think that. How long shall you remain in the bank?”
“Half an hour.”
“I may call you up again within that time. Good-by.”
“Good-by.”
“There is something wrong about this, but what, I cannot tell,” said Judge
Oglesby, as he hung up the receiver and turned to converse with the anxious
party about him.
“I can see now I did wrong in paying the money to the man without further
proof of his identity,” acknowledged Dean.

“His receipt is made out on one of the company’s blanks,” said the judge.
“It is a serious situation, but until—Whew! here comes Montague. I wonder
what has put him into such a state of excitement.”
In the changing excitement of the preceding scenes, Dean had quite
forgotten about the disappearance of Marcus Ellison. But it came back to
him very vividly now, and he anticipated the purpose of the lawyer’s abrupt
appearance.
“I want to see Dean Mercer, if he is here,” cried Mr. Montague, as soon as
he could get his breath enough to speak.
“Here he is to answer for himself,” declared the judge.
“Durand has ’phoned me that those papers and money have not been given
to him, Dean,” cried the lawyer, without stopping to reply to the judge.
“I know it, Mr. Montague,” replied Dean. “I was coming to see you as soon
as I could. I did not have time to see Mr. Durand, or ’phone to you.”
“Why haven’t they been delivered, boy? Every day in this matter is of vital
importance.”
In as few words as possible Dean then told of the disappearance of Marcus
Ellison with the money and papers, while his listeners looked upon him in
silence until he had finished.
It is unnecessary to record the half-hour’s conversation that followed. Of
course, it threw no light upon the real situation. In this case no blame could
be attached to Dean, though he already felt that, in addition to the other
matter, unless some good reason should develop explaining Marcus
Ellison’s mysterious disappearance, the two singular and unfortunate
incidents were going to be connected.
The successful trip of the new steamer was overshadowed completely by
these unexpected matters.
“I must go down on the Spray to-morrow morning,” affirmed Judge
Oglesby. “I shall sift this affair to the bottom.”
“I must go to Springfield, too,” declared Mr. Montague. “The loss of that
money will be a serious handicap to me. But worse than that is the loss of

those papers, which mean the life of Robert Ellison. Unless I can find them,
he will go to the electric chair, though he is an innocent man.”
“I will do all in my power to help in this matter,” said Dean. “If there is
nothing further I can do here, I must return to the Spray, where I am
needed.”
“Yes; do not fail in your duty there,” said the judge.
Though it may have been simply the imagination of Dean in his nervous
state, he could not help thinking that there was a hidden meaning in the
remark to him.
The finger of suspicion was pointed at him.
Eva had disappeared from sight, as he left the house, but he was pleased to
find her waiting for him near the fountain at the turn of the walk. She
advanced with extended hands, saying:
“I am so sorry for you, Dean. I do not think papa really blames you, and we
will hope the affair will be explained soon.”
“Thank you, Miss Eva, for your kind words. Believe me, I shall do
everything in my power to solve the mystery. It is so strange such
misfortunes should come just as we were getting started.”
“Do not anticipate final disappointment, Dean. Remember misfortunes are
but opportunities to test our ability to conquer.”
Her words came to him like a prophecy, and through all of his trials he
often recalled them.
Nothing further was learned to throw any light on the situation, and
promptly the following morning the Spray was ready to return to her
destination at the other end of the lake.
Both Judge Oglesby and Mr. Montague were on hand as passengers, while a
good number of others had secured tickets for the round trip, showing that
the venture was certain to prove a success.
The day had started in damp and foggy, and in the bustle of getting under
way, Dean had not found opportunity to say much to the judge, whom he
could see was deeply impressed with the situation.

“Where is the Warrior? I could not see her as I came on board,” remarked
the judge.
“For some reason unknown to me,” replied Captain Mercer, “she started
this morning half an hour ahead of her schedule. It may have been on
account of the fog.”

CHAPTER XII.
THE RACE BETWEEN THE STEAMERS.
“Confound this infernal fog! Look ahere, pilot, can you see anything of that
new steamer?”
“Not yet in sight, colonel.”
“That does not say she is not within beam’s length.”
“What’s that you are saying, Colonel Darringford?”
“Is that you, Captain Bumpstead? Say, has the engineer got on all the steam
she will stand? This seems like a sail’s pace.”
“The fastest we’ve made, colonel. The Warrior has behaved unaccountably
well so far. God grant she may hold out until we reach Springfield.”
“How soon shall we make Landlock?”
“In an hour, colonel, if we can keep up this speed.”
“Put on all the steam you can. I have sworn that we would show the fools at
Millville that we have still the best boat. We win to-day, or Ebenezer
Darringford doesn’t own this boat. Do you hear me, Martin?”
The officer simply bowed, while the speaker sought his cabin.
Captain Martin Bumpstead went directly to the pilot house, muttering
something about “when liquor is in, wit is out.”
The above conversation took place on the Warrior in the midst of the
greatest excitement that had ever come upon the old boat.
Colonel Darringford, in the delirium of drink and the excitement caused by
the appearance of the rival steamer, had ordered that the Warrior make an
early start in order to keep ahead of the Spray and in reaching Springfield
first to show that she was the equal of the other.
But owing to the fog slower progress had been made than might have been
accomplished under more favorable conditions.

“Where are we now?” demanded Captain Bumpstead, as he gained the pilot
house.
“Off Loon Point, sir. We would have been to Landlock if they had given us
all the steam I’ve called for,” exclaimed the grizzled man at the wheel.
“More likely we should have been in the air,” declared the captain. “I tell
you, Dan Dame, the old hulk can’t stand any more.”
“I believe I see the new steamer now!” broke in the lookout at this juncture.
Captain Bumpstead swore a round oath, as he demanded where.
“A mile in our rear.”
“We’re in for it,” cried the commander. “It all lies with you, boys.”
“Give me all the steam I call for and I’ll rip the lake but I’ll get the ol’ tub
in ahead.”
“The fog is lifting!” cried the lookout.
“I am afraid that will make it no better for us.”
“Give me all the steam I want and the fog will not run this race,” cried the
man at the wheel, showing by his manner that he was laboring under great
excitement.
The Warrior was plowing furiously through the water.
The passengers, without dreaming of the peril which the steamer was madly
courting, gathered in groups upon the decks, trying to penetrate the gloom
around them in vain.
So fifteen minutes passed without any material change in the situation,
except that the fog had continued to lift.
The Spray was now in plain sight to the lookout.
“Is she gaining on us?” asked the captain, “or does it look so because the
light is growing better?”
“We are holding our own, captain.” Under his breath he added:
“But we shan’t long, now the fog has lifted.”

For the next ten minutes the fog lifted so rapidly that the Spray was now in
plain sight and bearing swiftly down upon them.
“She’s gaining on us!” panted Captain Bumpstead.
“Gaining, did you say?” cried a voice at his elbow, and he turned to find
that Colonel Darringford had reached the pilot house.
“This is no place for you at this time, colonel,” said the captain.
“It’s just the place for me, and I’m going to stay here till we have run that
hound out of the race.”
The others knew it would be useless to argue with the maddened owner of
the boat, and so they contented themselves with their respective duties.
A silence fell on the speakers, save for the growls of the man at the wheel as
he called down the tube every other minute for more steam.
“Blow her to perdition and be spiked, but I must hev more steam.”
The Spray had begun to show greater life, and it was apparent to all that she
was rapidly overtaking the older boat. New machinery and improved
conditions made this easy. Had Captain Bumpstead known that even then
the Spray had not shown her best, he might have been more hopeless.
“She’ll make the Point first!” he exclaimed.
“Then it will be her ruin!” thundered Colonel Darringford.
The Warrior was trembling from fore to aft, groaning like a huge creature in
its dying agonies.
The captain had joined the group on the deck, though he was watching the
twain in the pilot house more than the oncoming steamer, that even he could
not help denying made a beautiful sight as she swept gracefully onward,
throwing out deep furrows of foaming water very much as a huge plow
would rend and throw out the mellow soil of the earth.
Almost before the commander realized it, the Spray was abreast of the
Warrior!
“We are lost!” he gasped. “She will win the right of way to the Point.”

Aye, at that very moment Jack Carboy had seized the handle on the cord
attached to the whistle, and was blowing a signal which in navigation
language said:
“The right of way is mine, and I am to cross your bows. Change your
course or shut down.”
Dan Dame at his post on the Warrior heard and understood. As reckless as
he was, he shrank from his foolhardy course.
At that moment Rodney Darringford reached his father’s side, and as he
realized their awful peril, cried:
“Come with me, father!”
The man at the wheel was in the act of signaling to the engineer to shut off
steam and reverse the power, when Colonel Darringford, as white as a
ghost, sprang forward and dashing Dan Dame aside seized the wheel in his
own frenzied clutch.
“Port your helm!” shrieked Jack Carboy in a voice heard by all of the
terrified spectators. “Hard-a-port, or we’ll run you down!”
The next moment he gasped in a husky voice:
“That madman will send us to the bottom!”
Seeing the inevitable fate in store for both steamers, Dean Mercer shouted:
“Shut off the power! Reverse——”
Jack Carboy, as true as steel, threw his giant strength to the lever in a wild
endeavor to save the steamer.
Too late!

CHAPTER XIII.
THE FATE OF THE “WARRIOR.”
The passengers on board the ill-fated steamers turned pale with terror. Wild
commands were shouted from both of the boats—commands no man could
obey.
Jack Carboy did his best to avert the catastrophe, and the Spray obeyed her
master as only a perfect piece of mechanism could.
But Colonel Darringford seemed to have suddenly been changed to a
madman. In spite of the iron-clad rule of navigation that he was breaking; in
spite of the doom that awaited him and all on his steamer, he bore madly
down across the path of the Spray.
In a moment a terrible crash sounded above the cries of human beings. A
shock—a mighty plunge—a downward sweep of the bows of the Warrior
and a swift sheering off of the Spray, and the collision was over.
The prompt action of the officers and crew of the new steamer averted what
at first seemed certain destruction to both boats. But as it was the older and
weaker craft was soon struggling helplessly in the pathway of the other.
Some of the passengers on the Warrior were flung headlong into the water;
others jumped overboard in their alarm, while those who remained on the
decks were thrown in heaps together.
Fortunately none was killed on the Spray, though many were injured to
greater or less extent. The steamer had received a jagged rent in her port
where the old steamer had struck. But it was nothing that could not be
repaired so they could keep on their way.
But it was soon evident that the Warrior would have to be overhauled
before she could run on another trip.
Boats were lowered and lines dropped to those in the water, and so rapidly
did the work of rescue go on that in less than half an hour after the shock of

the collision all of the passengers on the Warrior had been taken on the
Spray.
As far as could be ascertained no lives had been lost.
It was decided to try and get the Warrior into the dock at Landlock.
Rodney Darringford came on board the Spray, but his father, who showed
that he had recovered from the influence of the liquor, did not. He was bitter
in his denunciations of the rival boat.
“I’ll make you pay for this, Judge Oglesby, if there is law enough in the
land to do it. You have ruined my boat.”
No reply was made to this threat, and after temporarily repairing the hole
that had been made in the Spray, the steamer, with her double cargo of
passengers, once more steamed on her way.
No one censured the conduct of the officers of the Spray. In fact, many tried
to find Captain Mercer to extend their praise for his gallant conduct.
He was closeted in his cabin with Judge Oglesby and Mr. Montague, so that
he was not to be seen for the present.
“You behaved nobly, Dean,” declared the judge, dropping the official form
of address as he spoke.
“I do not see that I did anything unusual. If any praise is deserving it
belongs to Jack Carboy. But for his prompt and intelligent action our
steamer must have received more damage than she has, if not ruined
entirely.”
“The old seadog is a diamond in the rough. We can trust him. This will
probably make us an hour late at Springfield.”
“Better lose an hour than our lives,” said Mr. Montague, though he was as
anxious to reach the city as his companions.
Nothing further occurred to mar the trip to Springfield. A short stop was
made at Landlock, where the Warrior would have to remain.
So, leaving the veteran steamer slumbering at her dock, the Spray, still
carrying all of the through passengers, glided triumphantly on her way.

“It will be a month at least before the Warrior can be made serviceable
again, if she can be at all,” declared Judge Oglesby to the young
commander. “Colonel Darringford, through his folly, has sealed his own ill
fortune. Captain Mercer, you have a clear way now, and if this other matter
can be settled satisfactorily, your success is assured.”
“I suppose I am foolish,” thought the young captain, “but somehow I wish
Rodney Darringford had stayed with his father.”
Colonel Darringford meanwhile, having urged his son to go to Springfield
and find Tim Downey, was devoting all of his time and energies to
swallowing huge potations of fiery liquor.
As he drank he grew boisterous, so the men became alarmed. Near the close
of day he was seen to emerge from his cabin and stagger across the deck to
the gangway.
Then, drawing his heavy, gold watch from his vest pocket, he gazed
unsteadily at its face for a minute or more, when he suddenly blurted out:
“Five o’clock and the steamer at her dock here! Where is the crew?”
One of the men who had been left to keep watch over the boat while the
others were ashore upon one errand or another ventured to approach the
delirious speaker, saying:
“I am sorry, Colonel Darringford, but there ain’t no crew here but me and
the fireman.”
“No crew?” fairly roared the colonel. “And the steamer lying here with all
those passengers waiting to come aboard for a start. Wake up, you idiot!
summon the crew; let on the steam; ye gods! I’ll discharge every man of
you at Springfield!”
The watchman looked upon the crazed speaker and then glanced toward the
shore. A few boys were playing about the place, and in the distance he
could see three or four men going about their duties. Further away he saw
faintly the captain of the boat, but he was beyond his hail. There was not a
passenger in sight.
Colonel Darringford glowered upon him fiercely, and then yelled:

“To your post, you lubber! Order the men to lower the staging so all those
passengers can come aboard. They have paid their money, and they shall
have passage to their journey’s end.”
Then, as if a new thought had come into his bewildered brain, he
demanded:
“Where’s that new boat—that infernal——”
“You mean the Spray, Colonel? She’s gone on to Springfield.”
“And left the only decent boat on the lake here, with a thousand passengers
waiting to come aboard, and—and—and not—a—not—a—man——”
His rage making him speechless, Colonel Darringford made an attempt to
reach the watchman, muttering:
“I’ll choke the life out——”
In the midst of his incoherent speech he staggered to and fro, making a vain
attempt to maintain his equilibrium, but a moment later he sank upon the
deck unconscious. From thence he was carried to the cabin and left there to
sleep off the delirium and stupor of his protracted debauch.
The whole scene would have been ridiculous had not its price been a ruined
manhood.
Upon reaching Springfield, the first thing Judge Oglesby and Dean did was
to arrange for the needed repairs of the Spray, after which they sought the
bank officials to learn about the check that had been cashed there.
But that institution had been closed for over two hours, and the cashier had
been called out of town, and would not be back until the afternoon of the
following day.
Messrs. Brown and Sewall were found, but they could throw no light upon
the situation. They had not sent a man to represent them and so it was
evident some one had got possession of the check through deception.
“I assure you we are not worried about the money, Judge Oglesby,” said Mr.
Brown.
But there was more than the loss of money at stake.

While the judge and Dean were trying to solve this mystery, Mr. Montague
was meeting with keener disappointment elsewhere in his endeavor to find
what had become of Marcus Ellison.
Late the following evening not a single clew had been found to settle either
of these mooted questions.
Dean Mercer was fain to return to the steamer to spend the night, while the
judge went to one of the hotels and Mr. Montague accepted the invitation of
his colleague, Mr. Durand, to go to his home.
At the small hour of one only a few belated wayfarers were abroad, and a
comparative silence lay upon the town.
Then the stillness was suddenly broken by the most startling cry that robs
man of rest:
“Fire—fire—fire!”
The alarm had started down by the dock.

CHAPTER XIV.
A LINK IN THE CHAIN OF MYSTERY.
“The Spray is burning up!”
This astounding cry awoke Judge Oglesby from a sound sleep.
When he finally reached the pier the ill-fated steamer was beyond hope of
being saved.
“Where is Dean—Captain Mercer?” he asked, excitedly, as he looked upon
the doomed boat which had held out so much promise to him.
“He can’t be found!” replied a bystander. “He has been burned with the
steamer.”
“Shiver yer toplight! Let go the anchor there. I’ll find the lad if I die in the
flames.”
It took four strong men to hold Jack Carboy from rushing to what must
have proved certain death.
“Be calm, Jack,” admonished the judge. “We shall find the boy safe and
sound. No doubt he has done his best——”
“See him coming ashore,” said a bystander. “He ’peared to be running away
like a sneak thief.”
“He fired the boat and then skipped,” declared some one else.
But many believed that the missing youth had perished in the fire.
The Spray burned to the water’s edge, and the following morning only the
charred and dismantled hulk was left of the proud steamer.
A search failed to reveal any trace of Dean Mercer.
One man alone believed fully in the innocence of Dean. That was Jack
Carboy.
Filled with the wild hope that “his lad” had somehow, and he could not
have explained how, gone home, he started for Millville.

Judge Oglesby telephoned home, but, as he had expected, nothing had been
seen or heard of Dean.
Judge Oglesby arrived at a definite conclusion soon. The Spray had been
burned by an incendiary.
Who?
Where was Dean Mercer?
By nightfall a terrible suspicion assailed the judge’s mind.
On the morning of the third day after the fire, all Millville knew that Dean
Mercer had disappeared, taking with him, it was believed, nine thousand
dollars in stolen money.
On the morning of the fourth day, officers representing the judge’s interests,
started out to scour the country around in an endeavor to secure some trace
of the fugitive.
A reward of a thousand dollars was offered for the arrest of Dean, and two
thousand for the recovery of the money.
It took hours, weary and torturing, to fully convince Judge Oglesby that his
young protege, the boy he had so completely trusted, had proven an ingrate
and a criminal.
Evaline was dumbfounded—crushed.
“Oh, papa! it cannot be true!” she had gasped, pale with horror.
“He never did it,” affirmed Lawyer Montague stanchly.
But clue by clue fastened the network of guilt more completely around
Dean. The judge’s mind passed through all the graduations of stupefaction,
alarm, grief, and finally, stern, unrelenting justice.
Even Lawyer Montague at last agreed that the temptation of money had
been too much for Dean Mercer. He had been dazzled with the glare of
wealth—he had sold honor and respectability for a fortune, and forgetting
home and friends, had fled to some remote place to enjoy his stolen plunder.
“But what did he burn the Spray for?” muttered the perplexed Montague. “I
can’t understand that, judge?”

“Maybe he was hired.”
“Who by?”
“My rivals in business.”
“Dean wouldn’t do that.”
“A boy who would feign honesty and friendship, and betray a trust, and rob
a benefactor, would do anything evil,” replied Judge Oglesby bitterly. “We
have simply been deceived, and at a terrible cost.”
“A terrible cost, indeed,” sighed Montague. “I am comparatively a poor
man and the loss of the thousand dollars will fall heavily upon me. Dear!
dear! what is the world coming to?”
Yes, Judge Oglesby had lost, but he could afford it. As to Montague, the
missing thousand dollars and the papers meant beggary. Certainly a severe
blow to his prospects.
The money represented all that was possessed by Robert Ellison, a man
who had reposed the most implicit confidence in him.
It was a strange and mysterious case. He was charged with killing his uncle,
a miserly relative, who had led a lonely life back in the hills, and
circumstances almost proved his guilt.
Ellison had just returned from a two years’ sojourn to far Western mines. He
had left his son, Marcus, in charge of his uncle.
When he returned he had accumulated a little over a thousand dollars. This
he intended to invest in some little business, and take his son in with him.
To his surprise, when he went to his uncle, James Conroyd, for his boy, he
found Conroyd in the worst possible humor.
The latter stated that he had tired of caring for Marcus Ellison, and had sent
him adrift.
“Why?” asked the amazed Ellison.
“Because I did not hear from you.”
“I wrote you and sent money for his care.”
“I never got your letters!” snapped the ill-natured Conroyd.

There was an angry interview, for Ellison was provoked at Conroyd’s
heartlessness. The crabbed, irritable nature of the latter became more and
more resentful, as Ellison charged him with heartlessness.
They had a fierce quarrel, and Conroyd ordered Ellison out of his house,
and Ellison, wild with rage, vowed to “get even” with him.
That night, from Millville, he wrote his uncle that unless he put him on the
track of his missing boy he would make him trouble.
That night James Conroyd was found shot dead near his cabin. The next day
a pistol that Ellison had brought from the West with him was discovered
among some bushes near the house.
One chamber was empty. The missing bullet was found in James Conroyd’s
heart.
Of course Ellison was at once arrested. Conroyd’s hired man, a surly, low-
browed being named Manseur, swore that he had seen Ellison lurking
around the cabin.
The threatening letter that Ellison had written was also found. People
remembered his threats.
In jail Ellison sent for Lawyer Montague, an old-time friend, and told him
the truth. He was innocent. Montague believed him.
Ellison gave the lawyer his money, and engaged him to clear him from the
crime imputed to him.
He was taken to the jail at Springfield. Public opinion was against him, but
the shrewd Montague began to work up clue after clue toward proving his
innocence.
His suspicions became directed toward the hired man, Manseur, as the real
assassin. He watched him, questioned him, and discerned that the latter was
beginning to get suspicious of him and uneasy.
Montague believed that Manseur had murdered his employer to rob him,
and had taken advantage of his quarrel with Ellison, to involve the latter.
He saw that when the case came to trial he could entangle Manseur in
contradictory statements and weaken his fake story of having seen Ellison
lurking near the Conroyd cabin the night of the murder.

Then, again, he had secured a bit of evidence that in a measure corroborated
Ellison’s claim that the night of the murder he was forty miles away from
Millville in quest of his missing son, Marcus.
Old James Conroyd had sent him a letter telling him that the last he had
heard of Marcus was at Highcliffe, a town some distance away. The letter,
too, spoke of his being sorry for his unreasonable anger, and it was written
evidently only a few hours previous to the murder.
This letter, other evidence and the thousand dollars were contained in the
wallet that Lawyer Montague had given to Dean Mercer to take to Lawyer
Durand at Springfield.
Montague and everybody else believed that Dean had made off with the
money.
If he lost or destroyed James Conroyd’s evidence, or the other papers,
Ellison was doomed to the electric chair.
Without the money Ellison could not fight his case successfully, but
Montague determined to replace the thousand dollars, if it beggared him.
Then anxiously he began to advertise.
Such items as the following appeared in the city papers:
“D. M.—Return the papers and keep the money.”
“D. M.—You will not be prosecuted if you return the Conroyd letter and
papers.”
“D. M.—An innocent man is doomed if you lose or destroy the Conroyd
documents. For the sake of humanity, return them!”
Thus a week went by.
Drinking harder than ever, Colonel Darringford chuckled over the downfall
of a business rival and kept silent.
His son, Rodney, and Tim Downey had disappeared from Millville.
Judge Oglesby waited and hoped, and finally despaired of ever recovering
his stolen money.
The officers of the law found not the slightest traces of Dean Mercer.

The Conroyd papers were not returned, and Lawyer Montague gloomily
decided that his client was doomed.
Where was the missing Dean Mercer?
What had become of the bright-faced, ambitious boy, who had left Millville
one sunshiny day amid high hopes and golden promises, and had
disappeared as effectually as if the earth had engulfed him?
Where, indeed? Only the sinister plotters who had schemed for his ruin
could just then disclose the truth, and they were silent.

CHAPTER XV.
BEHIND PRISON BARS.
A series of adventures had befallen Dean Mercer that seem unaccountable.
He could not give any intelligent explanation and awoke, as it were, to the
horrible realization that he was the inmate of what seemed to him a prison,
but which he was soon to find was the State Reform School.
A new name had been given him, which was simply a number, and he had
entered upon a new phase of life hitherto unknown to him and undreamed
of.
To tell how it had come about will involve a brief narrative that shows
cruelty, scheming, audacity, almost inconceivable in these days of modern
progress.
The reader already knows how Tim Downey decided to destroy the Spray
and how he secured the co-operation of two former acquaintances and
desperate villains, named Spofford and Daley.
These men were professional thieves. Tim had once gone with them on a
predatory excursion among the farmhouses near Millville, and when he
came to Springfield it was with the intention of joining fortunes with them
again.
Daley and Spofford, released from the lockup after their spree, had been
found by Tim Downey, and threatened by him had agreed to do the job for
which they had been hired.
Tim saw that they did not get anything more to drink, and they managed to
get aboard the Spray while Dean Mercer slept. The boy was chloroformed,
and while Tim set fire to the boat the others bore the boy away.
Dean Mercer knew absolutely nothing for hours and hours. When he
awoke, it was to find himself being roughly jolted in a wagon.
His hands and feet were tied, and he lay in a pile of hay under a seat on
which he saw two men.

“Help! Where am I?”
One of the men, Daley, leaned back and glared at Dean with a savage
scowl.
“Shut up!” he ordered.
“Where am I?”
“I’ll gag you if you don’t! Drive on, Spofford. There’s the place yonder,
among the trees.”
To say that Dean was amazed, would be to express his emotions faintly.
He was mystified and alarmed. What had happened? Where was he? Who
were the two men on the wagon seat? Why was he bound and taken away?
The manner of Daley boded no good intent in his movements.
Dean was silent. He tried to think out the bewildering mystery of the
moment, but vainly.
“Here, boy, you drink!”
As the wagon came to a halt, Daley sprang over the seat and held a flask to
Dean’s lips.
“I am not thirsty.”
“Drink, I say.”
“I won’t.”
“Then I’ll make you.”
Daley did make him, and Dean wriggled and twisted vainly as the man
forced some burning liquid down his throat.
He moaned feebly as his senses seemed reeling once more, and he knew
that some powerful drug had been administered to him.
“Is he all right?” asked Spofford.
“I guess so,” replied Daley, who watched Dean until he saw his heavy
eyelids close. “Drive on.”
“That’s the house ahead?”

“Yes.”
“Will we find Justice Mullern there?”
“I guess we will. If he is in town we’ll wait for him. I don’t want to take the
case among people.”
The wagon was driven close to the gateway to quite a pretentious residence.
Upon its veranda sat a red-face, stupid-looking man, and Daley, springing
from the wagon, approached him.
“Good day, judge,” he said.
Justice Mullern stared at Daley curiously.
“Oh, yes, I know you now,” he said, after a pause. “You’re Daley.”
“Daley it is, judge. I’ve got a case for you.”
“What kind of a case?”
“Burglary.”
“Have to bring it to my town office.”
“That don’t suit me. I’m in a hurry. See here, judge, you can be
accommodating if you want to. I threw a hundred dollars in your way for
discharging me for larceny some time since.”
Mullern flushed slightly.
“Ahem! Yes, yes, well?”
“It’s fifty now, and a plain case. In the wagon there is a boy.”
“Your boy?”
“My nephew,” lied Daley glibly.
“Bad boy?”
“Terrible!”
“What’s he been doing?”
“Stealing. He’s the worst thief you ever saw. I’ve had to tie him hand and
foot to fetch him here. The evidence is plain—mine and a friend. You just
try the case informally.”

“It’s sort of irregular?” demurred the justice.
“Not at all. Who’s going to know the difference? You’re the law in this
district, ain’t you?”
“I reckon I am.”
“Take the case to town, and you make a few dollars in fees?”
“Ye-es.”
“Try it here, and it’s a fifty dollar note for you.”
“There ought to be a jury?”
“Nonsense!”
“I might get in trouble.”
“How?”
“Irregular proceedings.”
“We won’t say so.”
“The boy?”
“Send him to the reform school, and that’s the end of it. There’s your
money.”
The justice’s last qualms of conscience seemed to vanish at the sight of
money.
He went indoors, and Daley followed him. Mullern seated himself at a desk
and asked Daley to relate his story. The latter went through the details of the
false charge of theft.
“Boy’s name?” asked Mullern finally, selecting a legal blank and a pen.
“Robert Rawley.”
“Age?”
“Sixteen.”
“Committed——”
“Till twenty-one.”

Justice Mullern wrote out a blank.
“I’ve no court officer here to take the boy,” he said.
“Just give me the document. I’ll deliver him over to the reform school
authorities.”
The justice hesitated, but was finally prevailed upon to agree to Daley’s
desires. The mummery of justice was completed at last. Without even so
much as seeing the prisoner, the justice had sentenced Dean Mercer to a
living tomb.
“Got it?” asked Spofford, as Daley returned to the wagon.
“Yes. Drive on to Epson Springs—the State Reform School.”
They arrived there at dusk. The warden received the prisoner and the
document, Daley explaining that the former had in some way got liquor,
and was stupid from its effects.
“He’s a hard case,” he told the warden, “tricky and deceptive. He’ll tell you
a whole batch of his lies when he wakes up.”
“We’re used to that.”
“Watch him closely.”
“Never fear, we will,” answered the warden grimly.
The warden called an officer, and Dean, insensible, was removed to the
solitary—a dark cell, where new and refractory prisoners are placed in
penal institutions.
It was about midnight when he awoke. Not a ray of light permeated the
place, and the confused boy had no idea of his whereabouts.
He called aloud for aid, for a light. The cold stone walls gave back a
derisive echo, and no one came to his aid.
Then he felt his way around the place. He knew that he was shut up in a
strong barred cell, but had no idea that it was a prison.
Dean tried to think, to theorize as to his situation, but life was a blank for
the past seventy-four hours.

He was anxious, worried about the new steamboat; he wondered who his
enemies could be, for the two men in the wagon were certainly enemies.
“What does it all mean—what does it all mean?” he murmured agonizedly
time and time again, and then, parched with fever, he fell to sleep again.
The click of a lock awakened him. The door of the cell, a massive iron gate,
swung open.
Dean groped his way to the threshold. Outside was a stone-paved corridor.
A man in striped convict’s garb—the same who had unlocked the cell door
—was the only occupant of the place.
At him Dean stared eagerly.
“Where am I? Is this a jail?” he cried.
For reply, the man placed his fingers to his lips to indicate silence.
“But I want to know!” gasped Dean.
The man pointed to a framed circular. His finger rested on a certain line.
Gazing at it, Dean read that it comprised the rules and regulations for the
conduct of the prisoners in the State Reform School.
One line read:
“Any prisoner found conversing or signaling to others will be punished.”
And then were enumerated the various penalties for the offense and its
repetition.
“The State Reform School?” gasped Dean, white with dread and suspense.
“I am fifty miles away from Springfield!”
The convict interrupted his excited soliloquy by touching his shoulder and
making a gesture that said:
“Follow me!”
Dean, thrilling with vague perturbation, accompanied him down the
corridor. At its end the man unlocked the door and urged Dean over the
threshold.
At a desk sat a man writing, but not in prison uniform. A second man caught
Dean’s arm.

“New prisoner,” he said.
“What number?”
“No. 301.”
“Prisoner?” gasped Dean. “I am not——”
“Silence!” ordered the man at the desk, “or we’ll put you back in the dark
cell.”
“But, sir——”
“You’ll have a chance to talk all you want to when you see the warden.”
“Better keep quiet!” spoke Dean’s companion in a low tone of warning.
Dean acted like a person in a dream. The truth had flashed over his mind
with a rude shock.
Prisoner!
Prisoner, for what?
The man measured his height, weighed him, took a careful description of
his personal appearance, and received from the man at the desk an iron
check bearing the figures, in bronze:
“301.”
Then he led Dean to another door, opened it, pushed him though and
handed the iron check to a man in the room.
The latter pointed to a barber’s chair. Dean groaned in anguish of spirit.
The man began to cut his hair close to his head. That done, he touched a
bell, a man appeared, led Dean to another room, and here were a row of
bath tubs.
Dean chafed under the terrible silence of the place. Everywhere that
menacing printed order was displayed. When he emerged from the bath, to
his surprise his own clothes had been replaced by a striped suit—the
convict’s garb, such as the prisoners he had seen had worn.
“I won’t put them on!” he almost shrieked. “I must talk, if you kill me. I am
no convict—no prisoner!”

His companion was as implacable as stone. He pointed once again to the
clothes. There was a terrible shadow of severity in his face that awed Dean.
He shuddered as at last he donned the coarse garments.
“For pity’s sake!” he gasped, “let me see the warden—anybody I can talk
to. I shall go crazy if you don’t. It is all a mistake—I am no prisoner!”
The man handed Dean the iron check and pointed to a door.
Dean hastened to it, opened it and came face to face with a man whose
bearing and garb pronounced him to be some well-fed, indifferent official
of the place.
“Are you the warden?” queried Dean, trembling with the emotions of the
moment.
The portly man scowled at Dean, glanced at the iron check, wrote
something in a book, and said:
“Stand erect, eyes down. You are here to listen, not to speak. Pay attention!”
Poor Dean was nearly crying. He dared not speak. He decided to wait until
the man had spoken. Then, he would appeal to him.
The warden read several pages from a well-thumbed book. They were the
rules and regulations of the reform school. Dean scarcely comprehended
their import.
“That’s your guide,” spoke the man finally as he closed the book. “You will
find a copy in your cell. Behave yourself and you may win good-conduct
time and privileges.”
“One word, sir!”
The warden had tapped a bell.
“Well, what is it?”
“I don’t understand it all, sir. I don’t know how I came here. I’m an honest,
respectable boy——”
“Lower tier, north gallery!”
That was all the warden said. To him the frantic, incoherent words of Dean
Mercer were but a repetition of those of every new, frightened inmate of the

place.
“Oh, sir, please listen to me!”
“Boy, if you want the dark cell again, keep on breaking the rules,”
interrupted the warden sternly.
Blinded with tears, staggering, anguished, Dean Mercer followed the
convict the warden had summoned.
They went out into a large yard. Crossing it to a sombre-looking cell house,
a man with a cane, who was watching a band of about twenty boys picking
oakum, halted the convict.
“New prisoner?” he asked shortly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Let him work here then. We’re two short from sickness.”
Just then the prison noon bell rang.
Dean Mercer looked up at the man with the cane.
“Can I speak to you, sir?”
“What do you want?”
“I wish to send word——”
“Impossible.”
“Or write a letter——”
“’Gainst rules. Letter day in three weeks. Form ranks. March to your cells.
Number 301, no dallying there, or we’ll put you in the solitary.”
A moan of anguish parted Dean Mercer’s lips, and then, like one doomed,
he followed the prisoners with leaden steps—a convict.

CHAPTER XVI.
HELPLESS AND HOPELESS.
The arm of the law is strong—it crushes hope out of a man’s life
sometimes, in the worst class of prisons. In a reform school it deals even
more strictly than in a penitentiary, for here boyish shrewdness is feared
fully as much as more matured plotting.
The institution in which Dean Mercer found himself to be a prisoner was
noted for its severe regime.
Once its doors closed on a convict the warden claimed that by the legalized
act he became dead to the outside world.
Until his term expired he was entombed alive, and the four solid granite
walls that encompassed the place shut him in to all the world he was to
know until released.
They were used to protestations, threats, misrepresentations at the place,
and even had Dean told his entire story no one would have believed him.
“I am innocent,” a prisoner would say.
“Ah! indeed?”
“Unjustly sent here.”
“Sorry; but we are not a court of inquiry. We don’t try your case.”
“The judge was bribed to send me here.”
“Can’t help it. You’re here. Our duty is to see that you stay here until your
term expires.”
And that ended it.
Or——
“Can I write a letter to friends?”
“On letter day.”

“It is important.”
“On letter day.”
And that ended it, too.
The first night Dean Mercer slept in the narrow, confined cell to which he
was apportioned, he thought he would go mad with anxiety.
He had always led a free, roving life. Imprisonment was torture.
Worst of all, he was unjustly incarcerated, and he saw that he was unable to
send word to friends.
He now knew for a certainty that he was the victim of a plot, and the
possible object and results tormented him.
He chafed and wept, and the grim, silent walls seemed to mock his misery.
Toward morning he slept a few brief moments, and, wearied and depressed,
he heard the bell ring to announce that a new day of work had begun.
“Hold your cell door when locking, push it open at the signal,” sternly
ordered a guard to Dean.
The convicts, some six hundred of them, were marched to a room with long
tables.
As they passed them by, each boy would seize a large cup containing
coffee, and as much bread as he cared for.
Then, returning to their cells, they would dispatch this rude breakfast.
Half an hour later they formed in line, and were marched to the different
shops. Dean was taken with a gang of seventy to the oakum sheds.
Here a guard with a heavy cane kept a cat-like watch over the boys under
his charge.
Dean did as he saw the others do, and worked as a welcome deviation from
monotony, to occupy his mind.
Finally some visitors passed by. Dean chanced to glance at them as they
passed on.
“Number 301,” spoke the guard, sternly.

“Yes, sir.”
“You looked up just now?”
Dean looked guilty.
“Next offence—the solitary.”
That was dreadful. All that day, when not working, the convicts were
required to fold their arms and sit with eyes cast down on the ground.
That night Dean was glad to get to his cell. He was tired, and slept well, and
he began to count the days intervening before letter day.
Then he would write to his friends and tell them of his strange
imprisonment.
Ah! they would soon come to the rescue. He would be free, and his enemies
discovered and punished, as soon as Judge Oglesby or Lawyer Montague
knew of his whereabouts.
The next day Dean was removed to a new field of usefulness. He welcomed
the change gladly, for the occupation was more varied and congenial.
There was a large garden fenced in near the warden’s house, and here he
and four other boys were set at work weeding, pruning and transplanting.
There was no guard here. Only the sentinel on the wall above kept an
occasional watch over them.
Dean thrilled, as about noon the first friendly voice he had heard since
entering those gloomy walls fell on his ears.
A boy near him, while pretending to be tying up a rose-bush, spoke in a low
tone to Dean.
“You’re the new one!” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“Thought so. 301?”
“That’s my number.”
“What are you in for?”
“I don’t know.”

“Oh! pshaw.”
“I don’t; they call it larceny or burglary, but I didn’t steal anything, or break
into anybody’s house.”
“Didn’t larce?” chuckled the boy.
“No, I didn’t!”
“Nor burgle?”
“I don’t know how.”
“Come off the perch! What are you giving me? You look a regular tough
one.”
This conversation, slangy and careless, disheartened Dean.
His next prison acquaintance struck him more favorably. He proved to be a
pale-faced, sad-looking boy, who whispered to Dean as the guard walked
down the wall, and they were unobserved.
“Ain’t you cell 44?”
“I think so,” responded Dean.
“I thought so. Are you onto the ventilator?”
“The ventilator?” asked Dean in surprise. “What about the ventilator?”
“It’s up in the corner. You can take it out and talk to the boy in the next cell.
I used to have that cell, and I tell you it was mighty fine to be able to say a
word or two without being sent to solitary.”
“Who’s in the next cell?” asked Dean.
“Don’t know. He’s a new one. Escaped from some institution, and was
caught and brought here.”
“How do you work the ventilator?”
“It lifts out. Hist! The guard is watching us.”
After supper that night Dean sat on his bunk until the guard had passed.
Then he carefully lifted out the ventilator and peered into the tin aperture.
“Hist!” he whispered.

There was no response, and again he called, this time a trifle louder. Then
he heard a slight sound in the next cell, and a low voice asked:
“What is it? Who calls?”
“Take out your ventilator,” said Dean, “and then we can talk.”
The other boy fumbled at the ventilator in the next cell and presently
succeeded in removing it. Dean, who was peering through the dark hole,
managed to make out dimly a face at the other end of the opening.
“Hello,” said the unknown.
“Hello,” replied Dean, “thought you might like to talk a little. It’s pretty
lonely here.”
“Who are you?” asked the other boy.
“My name is Dean Mercer.”
“What! Dean Mercer? How came you here Dean?” cried the unknown,
raising his voice to a dangerous pitch in his evident excitement.
“And who are you?” asked Dean quickly realizing that he was talking with
some one who knew him.
“I’m Marcus Ellison!”
It was only by a great effort that Dean kept from crying out in surprise.
“Marcus,” he whispered. “How came you here?”
“I was shanghaied and turned over to the police as a boy who had made his
escape from some reformatory, and I have not been able to make anyone
listen to me.”
“It’s the same way with me.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know?” said Marcus in surprise.
“No. I went to sleep on the Spray, and the next thing I knew I was bound
hand and foot in a wagon. Two men whom I didn’t know were in the

wagon, and one of them forced me to drink some stuff that put me to sleep
again. When I came to I was in this cell.”
“Strange. And you do not know who is responsible?”
“No; as I say, I did not know the men who had me captive.”
“I don’t care so much about myself, but it is a shame that I should have lost
those papers and money of father’s,” said Marcus.
“You lost them?”
“They were stolen from me by the men who captured me.”
“But they were officers, weren’t they?”
“No. They pretended to recognize me as the boy who had escaped, and they
turned me over to an officer and claimed the reward for my capture. Hist! I
think I hear the guard coming. We better quit talking for to-night. It would
be too bad to have them find out the ventilator scheme. Want a paper?”
“A paper?”
“Yes, a newspaper.”
“I thought they only let you read the library books?”
“One of the boys who works in the warden’s house manages to swipe a
paper now and then, and we pass it around. This is the Millville Journal,
and it may interest you. I got it from the next cell to-day, and have not had a
chance to look at it yet. But I am in no hurry, and it will interest you more
than it will me.”
“Thank you.”

CHAPTER XVII.
STRANGE MYSTERIES.
Dean grasped the newspaper eagerly, replaced the ventilator and was soon
seated on his bunk and looking over the columns of the journal that was
welcome as a friend from home.
The gas jet in his cell was burning and he estimated that it would be half an
hour before the regulation time for its extinguishment would arrive.
He looked over the paper with deep interest.
“Hello!” he gasped. “Marcus will see this. It is worse than ever. What does
all this muddle mean?”
It was veritably a muddle to Dean Mercer, the allusions in the paper he read
to his own case, some vague, some definite.
The first thing he saw was an item from Springfield. It read:
“The case of Robert Ellison, accused of the murder of James
Conroyd, is again postponed for trial. A claim is now made by
the defence that proofs of the entire innocence of Ellison were
sent by a messenger by Mr. Montague, of Millville, to Mr.
Durand, the Springfield lawyer. These proofs, they aver, have
disappeared with the messenger, and time is asked to find him
and procure them.”
The next item startled Dean still more deeply. It appalled him. It seemed as
if a network was closing in upon him.
“The owner of the lake steamer, the Spray, burned mysteriously
night before last at the wharf at Springfield, will not build a new
craft this season. Judge Oglesby, however, is in the field of lake
traffic to stay, and it is hinted that a railroad around its shores is
contemplated.”
“The Spray—burned!” gasped Dean. “Is this another plot, all these strange
happenings? What is this?”

It was one of Lawyer Montague’s advertisements:
“D. M.—Keep the money, but for humanity’s sake, return the
proofs of R. E.’s innocence!
M.”
“My initials, and evidently signed by Montague!” breathed Dean wildly,
more and more mystified. “And he thinks I have disappeared with the
money and papers purposely. Oh, this must all be some dreadful plot
against me!”
This last discovery overwhelmed him. He knew the worst at last—knew the
full extent of what had happened since he last saw the Spray.
He was a thief, a fugitive—disgraced, condemned by all reputable people!
“It’s awful!”
Yes, and mystifying, too. Dean Mercer felt like beating at his prison walls
and demanding release.
He was falsely accused; circumstances had encircled him in the deepest
guilt. His good name was gone forevermore.
No, no, he was innocent, and all the prison bars and contumely in
Christendom cannot long subdue the noble soul that, unjustly accused,
looks to heaven for counsel and aid.
The night must break some time—patience! patience!
Gradually a calmer sense of hopefulness and confidence ensued.
Then, through the long and weary vigils of the night, Dean Mercer sought
to learn whose the evil hand could be; whence the motive that had wrought
all this ruin and disaster, and had laid it to his charge.

CHAPTER XVIII.
TALK OF ESCAPE.
“No. 301!”
“That’s me,” murmured Dean.
“No. 1017!”
“Here, sir!” spoke Marcus Ellison.
Both boys looked concerned, and exchanged glances. They mutually feared
that the broken ventilator had been discovered, but they were mistaken.
“Report to the warden for duty,” ordered the guard, and he passed on.
The two boys went to the office. The warden regarded them carelessly.
“You understand gardening, you two,” he said. “The guard reports excellent
work. Do you like it?”
Marcus answered for both.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, so long as you obey rules, you two may have the exclusive work.
When it rains you can patch up the trellises in the tool shed.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Deserve the favor, that’s all. It’s the easiest and pleasantest work in the
place.”
The boys found it so. They were delighted. That morning they plodded in
the garden so faithfully that the sentinel on the wall ceased to watch them.
About one o’clock it began to rain. Marcus told the sentinel of the warden’s
order.
“All right,” he said.
“What luck!” ejaculated Dean as they entered the tool shed. “Here we can
talk unwatched and undisturbed.”

“Yes, but talk low.”
“And you sort of watch out for fear some one might come upon us
unexpectedly.”
They were out of sight completely of the guard. Dean began to pleat some
cord into trellis-nets, and Marcus sharpened the pruning knives on a
whetstone.
And they talked as they worked, casually at first, but finally Dean said, in
an explosive tone of voice:
“Marcus!”
“Well, Dean.”
“No chance to smuggle out a letter from here?”
“I fear not.”
“We must wait until letter day?”
“Yes.”
“And that will be?”
“In three weeks.”
“And then?”
“It may or may not go, just as the deputy warden pleases.”
Dean looked worried and thoughtful.
“If it wasn’t for father I shouldn’t care so much,” said Marcus. “It seems
rough on us both; you just as you were getting started and I with the papers
and money in my possession to clear father.”
“Who could have robbed you?”
“It must have been done by enemies of my father. You, too, are the victim
of a plot.”
“Who could have so worked against me?”
“I could find your enemies easier than I could mine.”
“I have no enemies.”

“None at all?”
“A few boyish foes, maybe, as all boys have.”
“Who are they?”
“Why, I suppose about the only boys at Millville who really dislike me are
Abner Littleton——”
“Much?”
“He wasn’t very bad, but Rodney Darringford——”
“Go ahead,” said Marcus thoughtfully.
“And Tim Downey——”
“Are they chums?”
“N-no. Say, Marcus!” exclaimed Dean with a start, “what makes you ask
me that question?”
“Answer me! Are they chums?”
“Not exactly; but, come to think of it, they both owe me a grudge, and they
were on the same boat—the Warrior—that brought Jack Carboy and myself
from Millville to Springfield.”
“Ah! they were, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Note anything suspicious?”
“Not particularly.”
“Anything not particularly?”
“They spoke to one another.”
“What else?”
“I thought I saw Rodney give Tim some money.”
“And the Darringfords hate Judge Oglesby, don’t they?” persisted the
shrewd Marcus, a growing suspicion in his excited eye.
“They don’t like him.”

“And his new steamer would hurt their business?”
“Immensely.”
“I thought so. Dean Mercer, those boys had a hand in the burning of the
Spray. When we get away from here we’ll try and find out.”
“Eh?”
“When we get away.”
“When we do!”
“Which will be soon.”
“You’re joking!”
“I ain’t.”
“Get away from here?”
“Yes.”
“Escape?”
“Escape.”
“That will not be very soon, I fear,” sighed Dean dejectedly.
“Oh, yes, it will!” replied Marcus with a strangely excited face.
“If we only could!”
“We can.”
“But——”
“Have you pluck?”
“Lots of it.”
“Endurance?”
“Try me.”
“Then we’ll escape!”
“When?”
“To-night!”

CHAPTER XIX.
DIGGING THEIR WAY OUT.
Dean Mercer stared at his companion in startled wonderment.
“To-night?” he repeated vaguely. “Escape from here to-night?”
“Yes,” reaffirmed Marcus deliberately.
“But the guard—the walls?”
“I’ll attend to all that. I mean it, Dean! I’ve been planning at it a score of
ways. To-day I made a great discovery. What you have told me decides me.
My father needs my help. I’m going to escape to try and find the papers that
will prove his innocence. Are you with me?”
“Am I?” cried the excited Dean. “Oh! if we only could escape! Look here!”
“No; look there!”
Marcus had pointed to one corner of the tool shed. A large round wooden
cover lay there.
“What is it?” asked Dean curiously.
“A well cover.”
“And the well?”
“Was dried up long ago. I peered in to-day. There’s the first move toward
escape!”
Dean Mercer was greatly excited as Marcus detailed his hopes and plans.
The well, he said, was dry at the bottom, twenty feet down. What he
proposed to do was to throw in two shovels, jump in themselves, and after
pulling the cover back into place, dig.
“Dig? Where to?” asked the dubious Dean.
“To liberty.”
“How?”

“Straight under the wall of the yard. We are within ten feet of it. Then, once
past it, we dig upward, burrow to the surface and run for it. Hist! Some one
is coming!”
A burly form blocked the entrance to the shed a minute later. It was the
warden, and he glanced commendingly at the two busy boys.
“Sort of damp and cold here, ain’t it, boys?” he asked.
“We don’t feel it, sir,” replied Marcus.
“Well, there’s a lot of new flower-seeds in the library to sort; so you can go
there and finish the day at it.”
Marcus looked disappointed, and Dean realized that their schemes were
nipped in the bud, for that day at least.
There was nothing left but to obey. They passed through the hospital ward,
where the nurse was attending to one of the sick boy convicts, and put in
the afternoon in grim silence at a table in the library, sorting out the new
garden seeds.
“Get all the bread you can,” whispered Marcus as they went for their supper
and then to their cells.
Then they were again at the ventilator, in low and cautious tones discussing
the vital theme of the hour—escape.
Marcus had a determination that even Dean could not equal.
“Get more bread in the morning and stow it in your clothes,” said Marcus.
“What for?”
“We may need it.”
“In the well?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your plan?”
“We will probably be sent to the garden in the morning.”
“I suppose so.”

“The warden will not follow us to see if we go there. Then all depends on
our reaching the tool house without the sentinel seeing us.”
“What’s that for?”
“If we can slip into the tool house without his seeing us, he will suppose
that we were not sent to work in the garden.”
“I understand.”
“We get into the well with the shovels at once.”
“Yes.”
“And begin work.”
“But we will be missed?”
“At noon probably.”
“And search be made?”
“I expect that.”
“They may look in the well.”
“Possibly.”
“And then?”
“We can wait, then.”
“We will be safe in the tunnel we have dug by that time.”
“But we can’t escape until dark?”
“We can wait, then.”
“And if they discover us——”
“We’ve tried our best, that’s all, and that ends it!” replied Marcus
philosophically.
“To the garden!” was the order of the two boys the next morning, and
Marcus led the way toward it.
“Wait!” he whispered. “Now, then, the sentinel is walking in the opposite
direction.”

“To the tool house?”
“Yes.”
The boys reached the shed. Glancing from its window Marcus said:
“He never saw us. Now then, off with the cover!”
This was removed.
“Throw in the shovels.”
This, too, was done.
“Get in!”
“It’s terribly, dark!”
“So much the better.”
“And close!”
“We must stand that!”
Five minutes later the two boys were at the bottom of the well, and Marcus
had in his descent pulled the cover into place.
They at once attacked the side of the well, removing the loose bricks and
mortar, and then digging west, covered them up with the earth.
By noon, although nearly suffocated and pained from their position, they
had dug some fifteen feet to the west.
Then there was a forced wait and a careful estimate of time and a wonder as
to how far the quest for them would be pursued.
They lunched on the bread that Dean had brought, and crept back to the end
of the tunnel nearest to the well shaft to get as much fresh air as was
possible, and to decide on fading daylight from the chinks in the well cover.
No one seemed to visit the well. They had no indication as to the fact that
their escape had been discovered.
What had really occurred was that the warden had that day gone away until
evening.
The sentinel supposed that the boys had not been sent to work in the garden
that day, the deputy warden imagined them to be at work there, and when

they did not appear at dinner, the guard naturally supposed that they were
remaining away under the warden’s orders.
At six o’clock the warden returned, however, and the boys were missed.
The garden was first visited, and the tool shed glanced into, but nothing
more, for the sentinel affirmed that he had seen nothing of the fugitives in
that locality that day.
A general alarm was given, a general search made, every nook and corner
of the prison yard was looked into, but no trace of the boys could be found.
All the evening the quest was kept up, but it proved to be a fruitless one.
About an hour after dusk Marcus Ellison uttered a gasp of relief and
excitement.
His spade had pierced the ground over his head. The dirt rained down over
them and he looked up and peered around.
The grim walls of the prison showed near at hand, the road beyond, and at
its edge a thicket.
“We must creep or run across the road without the sentinels on the walls
seeing us,” he said to Dean.
“Can we do it?”
“Yes; the darkness favors us.”
“I am ready!”
“Come on!”
They made a quick dash across the road and paused in the shadow of the
trees beyond.
The prison looked silent and serene. Dimly they made out sentinels here
and there on the walls, facing the blustering wind and partially blinded by it
from viewing the road.
“Safe!” murmured Marcus in thrilling tones.
“Free!” breathed Dean wildly.
Then they sped through the forest, and the distant lights of the reform
school faded further and further away.

In the eyes of the law they were fugitive criminals, seeking to baffle justice.
In reality they were two brave, undaunted boys, seeking liberty only to
work out a destiny that demanded their attention—two loyal hearts with a
great motive in life, the righting of a great wrong, a battle against villainy,
in the interests of innocence and the right!

CHAPTER XX.
THE FLIGHT FROM PRISON.
Dean Mercer was older and better educated than Marcus Ellison, and yet
the latter took the lead in the first stage of their hurried flight from the
vicinity of the reform school as he had done in the initial steps of the plan
of escape from its gloomy precincts.
“I’ve thought it all out,” he told Dean as they ran along. “You just trust in
me and we’ll soon be safe from pursuit.”
They met no one in their flight. There was a reason for this. As they came to
the end of the thicket a rocky waste showed, and sterile and difficult to
traverse as it was, Marcus insisted on crossing it.
“You see, Dean,” he explained, “no one will think that we went this way. Of
course the warden and his men will search for us, but they will think that
we went citywards.”
“Or west?”
“Exactly. Once we cross this waste we come to the marshy lowlands along
the river, and beyond that is a still more desolate waste. We must try to get
other clothes and gradually change our appearance so that we wouldn’t be
recognized on description. In a week or two we can dare to venture back to
civilization——”
“A week or two?” repeated the dismayed Dean.
“Yes.”
“Lose all that time?”
“From what?”
“From—from——”
“I know what you are going to say,” interrupted Marcus sagely. “You think I
ought to be on the track of those papers and you after your enemies. Now I
think different. What good is it if we are captured again?”

“That’s so, but if I could once reach my friends——”
“They wouldn’t dare to recapture you?”
“No.”
“You think so?”
“I do.”
“You are very much mistaken. You don’t think far enough, Dean; you
believe too fully in human nature. Why, your friends all believe you to be a
thief.”
Dean sighed dejectedly.
“If you dared to go back to Millville or Springfield you would at once be
arrested.”
“And convicted?”
“Circumstances are against you.”
“But I could prove——”
“What?”
“That I was carried away.”
“How?”
Aye, how, indeed? Dean Mercer confessed that his companion had thought
further than he had.
He was in a bad dilemma. He did not know of a certainty who his enemies
were. He could prove that he had been kept from appearing at Millville
because he was mysteriously a prisoner in the State reform school.
But suppose that the same deft plotters who had undoubtedly placed him
there had also so cunningly covered their tracks that every statement Dean
might make would be refuted by circumstances?
Who would believe his story? He was adjudged a thief, and——
“Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?” he moaned in actual distress as his
true situation dawned upon him.
“Work out your own salvation?” cried Marcus heroically.

“How?”
“Just abide by my plans for a few days. I have a scheme to work light out of
darkness. I am as impatient as you are to aid my father, to see him, but I
know the risk. There is plenty of time. We must first remove the risk of
recapture then we can work.”
“Can we remove that risk?”
“You shall see,” replied Marcus confidently.
It was about two o’clock in the morning when for the first time since
leaving the vicinity of the prison they rested.
In the near distance a whole host of fireflies seemed to line the landscape
near the river, but Marcus soon explained what these were.
“A charcoal camp,” he said.
“Where they burn the wood?” asked Dean.
“Yes. Now, then, you wait here. I want to reconnoiter a little.”
Marcus was gone for over an hour. When he returned he bore quite a large
bundle.
“Come on,” he said.
“Where to?”
“Into the swamp. We mustn’t be seen here.”
“Weren’t you seen?”
“No.”
“But the bundle?”
“Clothes.”
“Clothes?” repeated the mystified Dean.
“Yes.”
“Where did you get them?”
“I’m sorry to say that I took them,” replied Marcus with a grimace.
“They’re old and worn out, black as soot, and no good; but I suppose they

belonged to somebody. I found them near a furnace. We had to have them,
Dean. These prison suits of ours would betray us, even this far from
civilization.”
Marcus seemed untiring in his resolve to make escape certain. It was
daylight when they waded through the last of a score of bogs and landed on
a sort of island, well sheltered by reeds and willows.
“No one likely to follow or find us here,” he laughed. “We’re safe at last.
This is our home for a day or two, Dean.”
“We’ll starve!”
“I guess not. Come! a shelter first, and then sleep. I’m dead to the world.”
“So am I.”
They soon built a sort of hut out of branches and reeds under a tree, and
then sunk into an exhausted slumber.
“Noon! Wake up!” cried a cheery voice to Dean, and he sprung to his feet,
aroused from a horrible dream of recapture and the solitary cell at the
reform school.
Marcus had matches, and directed Dean how to make a fire without much
smoke.
Then he went off on an exploring expedition, and returned with a
triumphant shout, bearing some kind of fowl in his hand.
“What is it?” queried the amazed Dean.
“A wild duck.”
“You killed it?”
“With a stone. The swamp is full of them. Come, the rest of the bread and
broiled fowl won’t make such a bad meal, eh, Dean?”
They enjoyed the repast immensely.
“Now, to business,” said Marcus after it was over. “We will disrobe, put on
these charcoal burner’s garments, burn the old convict suits—shoes, cap
and all—for they might betray us, and grime our faces.”

An hour later they had indeed altered their personal appearance
wonderfully.
The old blue canvas suits and begrimed faces gave the boys the look of
regular charcoal burners.
They saw the last vestige of the shameful livery of crime, the prison suits,
consumed to ashes.
Before abandoning his, however, Marcus drew from various pockets several
articles.
He revealed to the amazed Dean evidences of his patient ingenuity in
imprisonment, and his provision for just such a contingency as the present
one.
“I made them out of bits of hair I picked up in the prison barber shop,” he
explained to Dean. “See; here are two mustaches and wigs and side
whiskers, and a patch for the eye.”
The mustaches had been made by pasting individual pieces of hair upon a
piece of buckskin from the prison glove shop.
Marcus insisted that both he and Dean should wear one, and after cutting
and pasting it, the appearance of wig and mustache, with the blue clothes
and grimed faces, actually disguised the boys so that even the prison
officials would not have known them.
“Now, then,” said Marcus, “we had better stay here until to-morrow.”
“And then?”
“Proceed slowly and cautiously west.”
“Toward Springfield?”
“Yes, quite near to it, first.”
“Have you some definite point in view?”
“I have. Wait till we leave here, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
They caught some fish for supper with a thorn fish-hook, and were
undisturbed in their hermit-like occupation of the island that night.
“We’ll start on now,” said Marcus the next morning.

He glanced over a piece of paper in his hand as he spoke.
“What’s that, Marcus?” asked Dean curiously.
“A memoranda from the prison register.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Copied it when I was in the library sorting garden seeds.”
“What is it about?”
“You.”
“Me!” ejaculated Dean surprisedly.
“Yes.”
“Why——”
“It’s the chronicle of your case.”
“Read it.”
Marcus did so.
Dean listened interestedly.
It ran:
“Convict No. 301: Name, Robert Rawley; charge, burglary;
term, five years; complainant, James Rawley, uncle; committing
officer, Justice Mullern; county, Wayne; township, Daleford.”
“Well, well!” gasped Dean. “Robert Rawley! Does that mean me?”
“I reckon it does.”
“Uncle James Rawley?”
“Yes.”
“I’m stunned.”
“I ain’t.”
“You make it out?”
“Plainly, and I’m going to find the man who had you arrested, and the
justice who committed you at once. How lucky that I know somebody at

Daleford. Once there, Dean Mercer, we are fairly on the trail of our
enemies.”

CHAPTER XXI.
MARCUS BECOMES A DETECTIVE.
Marcus’ manner as well as words showed that he was in earnest, and Dean
felt a higher degree of hope than he had at any time.
“Our interests are mutual,” the first resumed, “and by working together I
believe we can outwit our enemies and obtain justice.”
“You have some plan, Marcus?”
“Simply this: We must go back over the trail by which you were brought
here step by step, to discover, if possible, the men and their motives in
taking you away.”
“I have no definite idea of even the way we came.”
“We have a clue. The justice who convicted you was named Mullern and he
lived in Daleford. Then there was claimed to be an uncle to you in the
background. We must find out if he was a real person or a guy got up for the
occasion. With such clues as these we shall not go it blind.”
“Marcus, you are developing traits that are decidedly of the Sherlock
Holmes order. At any rate I am going to let you take the lead in this matter.”
“Only for the present. I happen to know a boy in Daleford, and we will try
and find him.”
At nightfall the two boys reached an eminence, two miles beyond which lay
the peaceful hamlet of Daleford.
They had not sought to hide from passers-by on the road thither.
“We can trust to our disguises,” remarked Marcus confidently, and to all
seeming they were considered to be poor charcoal burners in quest of work
by those who saw them.
It was dusk when they reached the town proper, and Marcus, leaving his
companion in a field, went toward the residence portion of the village.

“Did you find your friend?” asked Dean anxiously, when Marcus returned
after the lapse of an hour.
“Yes, and he didn’t know me. He don’t know me anyway by my right
name.”
“No?”
“No; I lived with a farmer near here once named Grant, and people got
calling me Bob Grant, my friend among them, and I never undeceived them
so I run no risk of being seen by him. It’s all arranged. He will find out all
there is to be found out by to-morrow at noon. He knows the justice, and,
best of all, his hostler got his job through my friend’s father’s
recommendation, so if there’s any tricky work on the part of the justice we
shall soon find him out.
“You are a trump, Marcus, and I am getting to depend on you altogether. So
go ahead and I will do what I can to help you.”
Marcus’ friend loaned them some money, and the boys bought food at the
country store and camped in the woods at night.
The time hung pretty heavily on them, and when the boy did not come as he
had promised, Dean began to fear that he had proved faithless. Then Marcus
went in quest of him, when the suspense grew doubly hard to bear with
Dean.
When Marcus came back his countenance was wreathed in smiles.
“Eureka, Dean!” he said, “I have got good news. The boy has learned all
about the treatment given you by Justice Mullern through the hostler. The
man who pretended to be your uncle was a man by the name of Daley, who
lives in Springfield. He had another man with him whose name was
Spofford.”
“That is news worth waiting for,” declared Dean. “What next?”
“I am going to call on this precious scamp who deals out justice in pieces
that you can cut. Have patience with me long enough to see if I can beard
the lion in his den.”
Half an hour later Marcus Ellison boldly rang the door bell of the Mullern
mansion.

A servant answered the summons.
“I wish to see Justice Mullern,” explained Marcus.
“This way.”
The justice sat at his desk in the library writing. He stared wonderingly at
Marcus’ uncouth figure.
“Well, boy?” he frowned.
“Are you Judge Mullern?”
“I am.”
“I wanted to find a gentleman you know, sir.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Daley.”
The justice started and looked alarmed.
“Who?” he demanded huskily.
“Daley.”
“Don’t know him.”
“Oh, yes, you do, judge,” replied Marcus audaciously.
“You insolent——”
“Hold on, judge.”
“How dare you?”
“I know you know him, and there’s no use denying it,” said Marcus firmly.
“See here, judge, there’s trouble.”
“Trouble—trouble?” stammered Mullern vaguely.
“Yes, sir.”
“For who?”
“For you.”
“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t want to give away any secrets, but I’ve got to see Daley, and
quick, too, or the whole Robert Rawley case will come out on you.”
Justice Mullern was very pale now. He stammered and reflected, and then
said:
“Daley lives in Springfield. I think he once told me at Boyer’s Hotel.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Hold on.”
“Well, sir?”
“What—what trouble is anticipated?” asked Mullern uneasily.
“None for you, I reckon, if I see Daley.”
“Sure?”
“I reckon not,” and Marcus, with a chuckle of delight, hastened to the spot
where Dean was waiting for him.
They chatted cheerily as they followed the road toward Springfield, which
they reached the next morning, just before daylight.
“Don’t you feel afraid to go about the streets here?” asked Dean timidly.
“No; we’re safer in the busy, crowded city than in the country,” responded
Marcus. “Besides, we are safe anywhere in our disguise.”
Marcus at once set about locating Boyer’s Hotel. It proved to be the very
place whence Tim Downey had brought Daley and Spofford the night of the
burning of the Spray.
It had an all-night saloon in the basement, and rooms overhead, and both
boys decided that it was a resort for loafers and rough characters.
They went boldly down into the basement. There was a sign outside which
read: “Coffee, 5 cents; coffee and rolls, 10 cents.”
“We’ll buy a lunch just to look around,” said Marcus.
The place was crowded, and no one seemed to pay any particular attention
to them.

The boys dispatched their breakfast and then sat down at a table in a dark
corner of the saloon.
They kept eyes and ears wide open, but an hour passed by and nothing had
occurred to indicate that the men they sought were in the place.
“I had better make some inquiries,” said Marcus finally.
In an ante-room to the rear they could discern that a lot of men were playing
at cards.
Finally, just as Marcus was about to speak to some one in the room about
Daley, a man hastened into the saloon from the street.
“Where’s Spofford?” he asked of the bartender.
Marcus and Dean observed the man closely. They felt an intuition that he
would interest them, and his query for Spofford was indicative of a further
knowledge of Daley.
“In the cardroom, Daley,” replied the man at the bar.
“It’s our man—it’s Daley!” murmured Dean Mercer excitedly.

CHAPTER XXII.
ON THE TRAIL.
The man who had entered the basement drinking place at once centered the
attention of both Dean and Marcus, although he did not appear to notice
them.
He went straight to the door of the room behind the main apartment and
tried the door.
It was locked, but he knocked vigorously, and then, as it was opened, he
called in to the crowd gathered about a card table:
“Spofford, come out here!”
A man left the inner room somewhat reluctantly, and the man the boys
supposed to be Daley led the way to a table just around a jog in the wall,
from that at which sat Dean and Marcus.
Thus the boys could not see the men, but Marcus, by tilting back in his
chair, could hear what they were saying.
“You ought to know better, drinking and playing cards, when we need our
wits and cash for the venture we’re on,” said Daley, rather irritably. “Come
now, Spofford, this won’t do.”
“Pshaw! I’ve got to pass the time some way.”
“Then do it sleeping—you’ll need it before we end this affair.”
“Is it settled?”
“Yes.”
“Found your man?”
“I have.”
“Where?”
“Ask no questions. The work will come soon enough. The last affair about
that boy——”

“Rawley?”
“The Spray fellow, yes, paid us well enough, but the money is all gone.
Downey gave me a hint about a rich fellow who always keeps lots of
money in the house.”
“Near here?”
“A brief journey. So I’ve made inquiries. I believe we can break into his
strong box and carry off a fortune.”
“When do we go?”
“About noon.”
“Need tools?”
“Yes, and the best, and a boy, too.”
Some of this conversation Dean overheard distinctly. The allusion to
Downey, undoubtedly Tim Downey, startled him greatly. It verified the
shrewd suspicions of Marcus.
The latter heard all that the two men said, and his eyes glowed intelligently.
He hoped they would talk more in detail, or allude in more definite terms to
“the boy, Rawley,” but they did not.
They were bad men, common criminals, and they now meditated a new
crime—burglary!
They intended, their conversation showed, to break into some rich man’s
house for the purpose of theft.
Marcus believed that their share in the abduction of Dean Mercer had been
that of hired emissaries. They were not the principals.
“We want a boy, eh?” muttered Spofford.
“Yes.”
“What for?”
“To climb in at a window and unfasten the door to the house we are going
to rob.”
“Well, we can find one.”

“Where?”
“Oh, there’s lots of them.”
“Not experts, and not to be trusted, though,” replied Daley. “I wish we had
Downey.”
“Yes, Tim was a good one.”
“Anyway, you try and find one.”
“Are you going?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“To get some satchels. I intend to leave the country if we make a big haul
to-night.”
“When will you return?”
“About noon.”
“All right.”
Daley left the place, and Spofford, after seeing him fairly away, returned
deliberately to the card room.
The two boys looked at one another curiously. The parts of the conversation
Dean had not heard, his companion explained to him.
“We are getting along famously,” declared Marcus. “Now for a bold push
and we will come out with flying colors.”
“Shall you have the fellows arrested?” asked Dean.
“Not ready for that,” replied Marcus. “At this stage in the game we might
not get hold of those papers. I must have those. No, Dean, I think I have a
better plan.”
“Name it.”
“You notice that precious pair of scamps want to get a boy to help them. I
am going to apply for that job.”
“Will it do?”

“It must. You are afraid I will get mixed up in something worse than the
reform school. Trust me to keep a level head. Only I would like to have you
near at hand when the crisis comes, as I may need you in rounding up the
rogues.”
Marcus talked and acted like a skilled detective, instead of a mere boy. He
was bold and venturesome, and Dean feared too much so, for it seemed as if
their investigations were leading them into peril, uncertainty and contact
with crime in all its hideousness.
“Wickedness got you in all your trouble,” said Marcus, “and we must not
hesitate to invade its dark domains. Now, then, you go to some other part of
the room, or even outside.”
“What for?”
“So we won’t seem to be together.”
“Is that necessary?”
“To my plan, yes. Here is some of my money. Take it. You may need it.
Keep watch of me, but don’t pretend to know me. If you see me get
acquainted with Spofford, watch out for any note that I may write you, or
follow us wherever we go.”
“All right,” answered Dean, a little dubious of his own skill as a detective.
“I may go away with them.”
“On their robbing excursion?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll get in trouble?”
“No, I won’t. I’ll block their game without their knowing it. I only want to
learn about your enemies, who has the papers they stole proving my father’s
innocence. Now, then, leave me.”
Dean went to another portion of the room, and Marcus sat where he was,
watching the door of the card room for Spofford’s expected appearance.
Presently the latter came out. He flung himself into a chair at the next table
to that where Marcus sat, calling to the bartender to bring him a drink of
liquor.

Marcus devised a speedy plan for approaching Spofford and engaging him
in conversation. He took bold risks, but he succeeded in his venture.
He went to the next table and sat down opposite to Spofford.
“Say, mister,” he said, “could you help me to a few cents?”
“Eh? Who are you? What did you say?” muttered Spofford, arousing
himself from a fit of abstracted thought.
“I’m in hard luck.”
“Why don’t you work?”
“What at?”
“Your trade.”
“They don’t pick oakum here,” said Marcus.
“Hey?” and Spofford started intelligently. “So you’re a graduate, eh?”
“Yes.”
“From the reform school?”
“I am, for a fact,” replied Marcus, affecting a brazen recklessness.
“Aha! and need money, and out of work?” murmured Spofford reflectively.
“That’s just it.”
Spofford studied the grimed, ragged specimen of humanity before him
keenly.
Marcus chuckled to himself. He had completely deceived Spofford, he felt
sure, and he knew what the latter was thinking about—hiring him to help
him in his schemes of robbery just as Marcus had planned.
“See here, boy,” he said finally, “what’s your name?”
“Call me Bob—Bob Grant.”
“Can a fellow trust you?”
“What about?”
“Oh, in a little work.”

“What kind of work?”
“Well, making money.”
“At cracking a box? Ha! ha!”
“I guess you’ll do,” said Spofford. “Are you willing to come along with me,
help me and ask no questions?”
“That suits me!” replied Marcus briskly.
“All right. Be ready at noon. Here’s some change to buy food if you need
it.”
Then Spofford, after handing Marcus some silver coins, arose and left the
place.
The latter went over to where Dean was seated, and explained what he had
done.
“I’m to go with them at noon,” he said.
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Am I to follow you?”
“Yes; keep us in view. Something will develop. You keep us in sight.”
“I’ll try to.”
About eleven o’clock Spofford returned to the place. He went up to Marcus
and said:
“We’re ready. Come on!”
They left the place together and Dean followed them at a distance.
They walked down the street for several squares, and then at the corner met
the man Daley, who stood with two satchels in his hands, evidently
awaiting them.
He glanced sharply at Marcus and then gave him the satchels to carry, while
he walked ahead with Spofford.
Finally the two men paused and entered a small shop. In front of it stood a
stagecoach, and Dean at once recognized it.

It was one of the coaches owned by Squire Littleton, and ran to and from
Springfield and Millville.
He saw Daley purchase some tickets. Then he and Spofford and Marcus got
into the coach, the latter placing the satchels near the driver’s seat.
There were several other passengers aboard, and the man in charge of the
stage office seemed to give directions to the driver to start on his journey.
Dean was dismayed and anxious. He scarcely knew what to do. These men
were going to Millville, or at least in that direction.
It was a dangerous route for Dean. He knew the driver incidentally,
recognized several of the passengers, and feared that if he attempted also to
ride on the stage he might be seen and recognized.
In no other way, however, could he keep the men in sight, as Marcus had
told him to do.
“I’ll risk it!” he said finally. “My disguise must be a good one. The stage
agent knows me well. I’ll go and buy a ticket to the first station. If he
recognizes me, I won’t venture on the coach. If he don’t I’ll go.”
“Ticket to Blue Pond.”
“Twenty cents.”
The agent never noticed Dean, except as a stranger.
Dean went to the coach and boldly clambered on top. He saw Daley glance
out at him carelessly. He did not evince any interest in him, and if he had
ever seen him before, did not realize it at that moment.
“All aboard!” sang out the driver.
“Hold on, Jerry.”
Dean thrilled vaguely.
From the stage office at that moment a boy, dressed in the height of fashion,
ran out.
It was Abner Littleton, son of the man who owned the stagecoach line.
He knew Dean well, and did not like him over-well, either. But, to Dean’s
relief, he only glanced at him and then sat down beside the driver.

The coach started on its journey.
“Where will this adventure end, I wonder?” mused the bewildered and
anxious Dean.

CHAPTER XXIII.
AT MILLVILLE AGAIN.
The stagecoach left Springfield behind, and reached the first outlying
station without incident.
At Blue Pond, Daley and his companions did not leave the coach, and
Dean, in order to continue his journey, was compelled to pay more money.
He managed to catch a glimpse of the tickets that the driver had collected,
and he saw that three of them were marked for Millville.
The discovery worried him. The men were going to his former home. Their
plot led them to the most dangerous place for Dean that the latter could
possibly venture to.
“I wonder who they are going to rob? I wonder if I dare go to Millville?”
mused the troubled Dean. “Abner Littleton did not recognize me, though,
and we’ll reach the town after dark.”
It took all the money that Marcus had given Dean to pay the fare of the
latter the remainder of the journey.
At one place, five miles from Blue Pond, Dean had a great shock.
It was an academy town, and as the stage passed the school, four boys and
the old steward of the place glanced up at him.
They all knew Dean Mercer, but they did not recognize him, although one
of them stared at Dean, as if puzzled over some familiar token in his
appearance.
“Say, Abner?” Dean heard the driver ask as the journey was resumed,
“Millville is pretty dead nowadays, eh?”
Dean pricked up his ears, hoping that the conversation might afford some
information about friends he longed to hear about.
It did.

“Yes,” drawled young Littleton, “since Tim Downey went away there’s no
rows, and since Rodney Darringford cut out, life ain’t worth living.”
“Ha! ha! Why not?”
“Oh, there’s no one for me to annoy with new clothes and fine jewelry.”
“Where did Rodney go?”
“Blamed if I know.”
“It’s sort of mysterious.”
“Not very. You see, since the burning of the new steamer and the accident to
the Warrior, steamboating has ended on the lake for this season. That is
why we have so many passengers to-day. They say Judge Oglesby is
working for a charter to build a railroad around the lake.”
“Sho! but won’t that knock this old stage higher’n a kite.”
“It isn’t built yet. That sly covey, Dean Mercer, kind of knocked the wind
out of three or four. Duped the judge, as shrewd as he is, out of about eight
thousand, and he soaked Montague out of a lot.”
“Can’t they get any trace of him?”
“Nope. Oh, he’s sly enough not to come within a thousand miles of
Millville. Gracious! how they’d like to get sight of him.”
Dean could scarcely keep still as he listened to the conversation, learning
beyond doubt that everybody at Millville believed him guilty of the crime
which made him a fugitive from justice.
It was a sorry homecoming—disguised and disgraced.
The coach made a more rapid journey than usual, and due at Millville at
eight o’clock, it rounded the last hill at the limits of the village at dusk.
“Stop the wagon!” ordered a voice from the inside, that Dean recognized as
that of Daley.
“Want to get off here?” demanded the driver, checking the horses.
“Yes. Hand down the satchels!”
Dean did not dismount. He decided that such a move might arouse the
suspicions of Daley and Spofford.

Besides, as he saw them go toward a dilapidated, deserted shanty near the
river, he knew that they must intend to make a transient rendezvous of it.
“I’ll ride on to the first line of timber,” he decided, “and then get off where
they cannot see me.”
“Who are they?” asked Abner Littleton of the driver.
“Dunno.”
“Strangers?”
“I reckon. Hello! Look there!”
Dean looked, too.
Walking in the timber, and with rather unsteady steps, were two familiar
figures.
“Yes,” laughed Abner, “my governor and the colonel.”
“Why, I thought they were bitter enemies?” exclaimed the driver amazedly.
“They were.”
“But——”
“Affliction makes friends!”
“How’s that?”
“Well, you see, since Judge Oglesby talks of running a railroad——”
“Yes.”
“It means ruin to both the stage line and the lake steamers.”
“Sure!”
“Therefore, dad and the colonel have joined forces to try and outwit Judge
Oglesby.”
“And seem to have been celebrating it?”
“Yes, they are a little over the bay,” replied Abner, the graceless. “They are
scheming to beat the judge.”
“Can they do it?”

“Yes.”
“How?”
“They intend to buy narrow strips of land all around the lake, and when the
judge tries to get the right of way for his railroad, block him in a dozen
places.”
“Ho! ho! clever schemers, eh?”
“I should say so.”
Dean Mercer dropped from the coach noiselessly, and glided to the timber.
Neither the driver nor Abner Littleton noticed his departure.
Glancing ahead amid the gathering dusk, Dean could see Daley, Spofford
and his friend Marcus Ellison, just entering the old hut by the river.
“I need be in no hurry,” he said. “They probably intend to stay there for
some little time. Hello! I mustn’t be seen by these men, either.”
Dean glided behind a tree. Mr. Littleton and the colonel were coming
through the woods, and at that moment sat down on a fallen tree.
Both were slightly intoxicated, and turbulent and maudlin.
It was a strange sight to Dean to see these old-time enemies apparently the
best of friends. He realized that it was, however, as Abner had insinuated,
the result of mutual hatred for their new business rival, and Dean’s best
friend and benefactor, Judge Oglesby.
“Well, squire,” maundered Colonel Darringford. “It’s all settled, eh?”
“You bet,” hiccoughed Squire Littleton.
“We combine to beat the judge?”
“Anything to beat Judge Oglesby.”
“He’ll run no railroad.”
“Not if we know it.”
“He can’t kill off our valuable business interests?”
“No, sir-ree.”

“If he does, squire——”
“But he won’t.”
“If he tries it——”
“Well, colonel?”
“We’ll—we’ll do something desperate. He tried to run a boat, ha! ha!”
“And it was burned.”
“Yes, and Tim Downey——”
“Hey?”
“I mean—some one will burn up his railroad, too,” stammered the colonel.
“I won’t have it, squire. I have friends to help me, and when I say smash
him——”
“Smash he goes.”
“You bet. No railroad for us.”
The two men staggered to their feet, and soon left the woods.
Dean stood staring reflectively after them.
“Tim Downey,” he murmured. “Why did Colonel Darringford speak of
him? Is it possible that he could be bad enough to hire him to burn the
Spray? I can’t believe it.”
But the more that Dean reflected on the developments of the day the more
suspicious he became.
He wondered if, after all, he had not been made the victim of a deep plot,
engineered by rich men. In striking at a rival, they had ruined him.
“Patience,” he told himself, as he got nearer to the hut near the river. “I
must keep track of Marcus, and through him Daley and Spofford. We shall
surely learn something to-night.”
Dean got nearer to the cabin. He could see a light within it. Then, after an
hour, Daley came out and walked away in the direction of the village.
Dean secreted himself in a pile of dead brush, and kept his eyes on the
cabin.

One—two—three hours passed monotonously by.
Then he saw Daley reappear hastily from the direction of the village. He
walked straight to the door of the hut, but he did not enter it.
Instead, he seemed to call to Spofford, for that individual appeared outside a
minute later, and with Daley walked to and fro in front of the cabin,
apparently discussing something of interest and importance.
“I wish I could hear what they are saying. I wish I knew their plans,”
murmured Dean.
He decided to attempt to get nearer to them. Stealthily he crept from bush to
bush, from tree to tree, until he was within ear-shot of the two plotters.
Then he listened intently.
“No need to tell the boy anything about our plans until we arrive on the
ground,” Daley was saying.
“Bob Grant?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Are you ready?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“We’ll bring the tools?”
“We may need them.”
“Where is the house?”
“Over near the lake.”
“Rich man?”
“Very.”
“Money in the house?”
“Lots of it, Tim said.”
“Who is he?”
“Judge Oglesby.”
Dean Mercer now knew the plans of the robbers.

They intended to rob his benefactor, the judge.
By a singular combination of circumstances, Dean Mercer was enabled to
warn and save from pillage the man he was accused of robbing himself.
Dean acted on impulse.
There seemed to be only one correct thing to do—hasten to the judge’s
residence, tell him all his wretched story, and warn him of the intended
robbery of the night.
As the men reëntered the cabin, Dean Mercer dashed off on a keen run in
the direction of the palatial house of Judge Oglesby.

CHAPTER XXIV.
WORSE AND WORSE.
Marcus Ellison had only one thought in view as he rode in the stagecoach
from Springfield with Daley and Spofford, and later entered the hut near the
river at Millville, and that was to learn what they knew of the robbery and
imprisonment of his friend, Dean Mercer.
He saw the latter on the coach, and felt complacent. During the journey, of
course he could not talk to Spofford, but when they reached the cabin he
determined to question him deftly.
Daley went away toward the village, after lighting a lantern taken from one
of the satchels.
Then Spofford produced a lunch, invited Marcus to partake of it, and then
lighting his pipe, proceeded to examine the contents of the satchels.
They contained a variety of burglars’ tools for forcing doors and the like,
and Marcus inspected them curiously.
Several times he endeavored to engage Spofford in conversation with a
view to leading him to speak of Tim Downey, but the burglar was engrossed
in examining the tools, and answered gruffly, and finally stretched himself
on the floor and dozed placidly until Daley returned.
Then, after a conversation outside with the latter, he returned to the cabin,
took up one of the satchels, directed Marcus to carry the other, and said:
“Come on, Bob; we are ready.”
Marcus was in despair. He had so far utterly failed of his mission. He was
far-sighted enough, too, to discern that the time for learning anything of the
plot against Dean Mercer from these men had passed by.
Furthermore, he was in a bad dilemma. These men were now on the verge
of crime. He had accompanied them so far, and they would not be likely to
allow him to leave their company until the crime they meditated was
committed.

Thus he would be forced into crime, as he had not contemplated.
The men would execute their iniquitous designs of burglary, would secure
the money they coveted and then would fly to some remote spot, leaving
him behind, and destroying all trace of their whereabouts and all clue to the
Dean Mercer mystery.
He had gained nothing by his last bold venture, Marcus disappointedly
confessed. He might get into very serious trouble. Violence might be
necessary. They might all be arrested.
“I’ll warn the house at the last moment!” decided Marcus grimly. “I must
go on with these men now. They’d kill me if I showed treachery, or tried to
run away.”
So he trudged along with them.
“Here, boy! carry my coat!” ordered Daley finally. He tossed Marcus his
light overcoat as he spoke. As he did so, a memorandum book and several
letters fell on the ground.
Marcus recovered and replaced them in the pocket of the coat.
“See here, Daley,” said Spofford.
“Well?”
“When we get through here, what’s the programme?”
“New York—Europe.”
“That is, if we get a heap of money?”
“Yes.”
“And if not?”
“Springfield again.”
“Why not Downey?”
“Tim?”
“Yes.”
“I never thought of that!”
Marcus listened intently.

“There’s money in it, Tim says,” continued Spofford.
“Yes, his letter to me says so.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Yes; he paid us well for the Robert Rawley affair. We’ll see. We might go
to him. We’re near the place. Yonder it is. That fine mansion among the
trees. Post the boy and scare him, Spofford.”
Spofford began to talk to Marcus. He showed him a pistol—told him that he
would be made independently rich if he obeyed them, killed if he attempted
treachery or flight.
They scaled a fence and approached a house. It was enveloped in darkness,
as if its inmates were asleep.
“There’s the small window in the pantry,” said Daley. “The boy is to creep
through it and unlock the door beyond.”
“In with you, and be cautious,” ordered Spofford.
Marcus was compelled to obey. He placed the satchel and the coat on the
ground, and was hoisted through the window.
Daley held a dark-lantern after him, so that its rays kept him in sight.
Marcus’ plan was to open not the door leading to the outside, but one that
led into the living portion of the house, and dashing through it and out of
sight of his companions, alarm the people.
In this he was baffled, however, for as he touched the knob of the inside
door he found that it was locked on the other side, and at the same moment
Daley at the other window called out gruffly:
“Here! not that door—this one!”
Marcus unlocked the outside door.
“You’re a good one!” murmured Daley. “Now go outside under the window
and keep watch, and warn us if anyone comes.”
“All right!” replied Marcus relievedly.
“You, Spofford, turn the key in the inner door. Stay here, and I’ll go in quest
of the cash.”

Marcus Ellison, the minute he was outside and out of sight of the two men,
did not delay a moment.
He seized the satchel and overcoat and dashed as fast as he could run for the
nearest house.
Its lights showed him the way. Glancing in through its windows, he saw that
some kind of a social gathering was in progress.
He did not wait to ring at the front door bell. Dashing in, he electrified the
people in the parlors with the announcement:
“Burglars have just broken in at the big house next here! Hurry up and catch
them!”
A minute later half a dozen excited men were rushing toward Judge
Oglesby’s mansion, Marcus bringing up the rear, lugging the satchel and
Daley’s overcoat, and wondering what the outcome of the adventures of the
night would be.
They were tragic for one person at least—Dean Mercer. He had reached the
mansion in advance of the burglars; but as he gained the garden, and was
about to ring the door bell and arouse the sleeping Judge Oglesby, he
hesitated.
Vague fears assailed him, and he suddenly remembered that Marcus had
warned him duly to follow out his instructions, keep himself and his
companions in view, and leave it to him to strike a decisive blow.
By warning the judge, Dean realized now he might upset all Marcus
Ellison’s plans—perhaps involve Marcus in trouble and arrest.
So, waveringly, he waited, and as he saw the two burglars and Marcus
appear, trembled with direful apprehension.
“They may murder the judge,” gasped Dean.
He ran around to the library. To his surprise, he found a window up a few
inches, although the inside blinds were closed.
Dean pushed the window up and opened the blinds. He now stood in the
library, and began groping his way about in the dark.

He had considerable knowledge of the lay-out of the house, and had an idea
of reaching the staircase, creeping up it, and, gaining the chambers, arouse
the sleeping inmates.
Halfway across the room he paused. Some one seemed just to have entered
the room.
Dean uttered a startled, cry as this person brushed against him.
A hand seized his throat.
“Who are you?” a gruff voice demanded.
Then the intruder flashed a dark-lantern from under his coat.
It was Daley. The clothes Dean wore were of precisely the same material as
those of Marcus Ellison.
His appearance completely deceived the excited burglar.
“I thought I told you to stay outside?” he growled.
“I—I——”
“Be cautious. Follow me, I’ve got the box of cash.”
He had put up the lantern again, but not before Dean saw that in his hand he
bore a small tin box.
A desperate resolve came into Dean’s mind. Through him, though
innocently, Judge Oglesby had already lost a small fortune.
The tin box probably contained several thousand dollars.
“I’ll rescue it. I’ll give the alarm, come what may,” breathed Dean
excitedly.
With a quick move, the venturesome boy placed his impulsive plan in
operation.
He glided forward and suddenly wrenched the tin box from the hand of the
amazed Daley. Then he dashed for the next room.
“You scoundrel! What do you mean?”
“Thieves! murder! help! help! help!”
In ringing tones the wild alarm echoed on the silent air of the house.

Dean ran recklessly forward. Daley, confused at his strange proceedings,
yet suspicious and alarmed, stumbled after him.
Overhead suddenly sounded footsteps and alarmed voices.
Crash!
Dean Mercer came to the floor with a shock. He was pinned there, held
there by some heavy object.
A light glowed in the hall, then in the next room. He made out Daley, raving
and baffled, hastening from the house.
A strange accident had happened to Dean Mercer. He had run against a
marble pedestal, holding a rare and expensive urn.
This had upset, and falling on him, held him pinned to the floor.
He now tried to extricate himself. He tore himself loose, and clinging to the
box of money, arose to his feet.
At that moment the judge and several members of his family, alarmed,
terrified, rushed into the room.
Dean was terribly excited.
“Judge! judge!” he gasped, “the burglars have fled.”
His tones betrayed his identity, as his disguised appearance would never
have done, though the last was now certain to be another link in the chain of
circumstantial evidence against him.
“Dean Mercer!” exclaimed Judge Oglesby. “Is it possible you have sunk to
this?”

CHAPTER XXV.
DEAN MERCER IN JAIL.
It would be impossible to describe the consternation and alarm that
overwhelmed Dean at the words of Judge Oglesby.
He essayed to refute the terrible charge, and could not speak. In a flash, he
saw the position he was in.
Disguised, already branded as a thief, he had been found by the judge with
a box of valuables in his hand.
The real thieves had escaped. Who would believe Dean Mercer’s story of
the true facts of the case?
There had come a thundering knock at the front door of the house, and the
judge hastened to open it, to admit a half a dozen excited men—the ones
Marcus Ellison had just called to his aid.
Then there was hubbub and confusion. In horror they regarded Dean
Mercer, and then just as Dean in a transport of anguish tried to shout out his
story and avow his innocence, he was seized and borne from the house.
Ten minutes later he was locked up in the corridor of the little town jail, and
in the outer room he could hear excited voices discussing the events of the
night.
“Worse and worse!” wailed Dean, utterly crushed and frightened. “Oh, this
is terrible!”
Yes, it was terrible. Circumstances were against him. He was doubly
condemned now, and he sat down on a bench in the corridor and tried to
think it all over and wonder what the outcome of it all would be.
The town marshal came in. He glanced at Dean with a stern face.
“Well, boy, you’re in a pretty bad fix,” he said.
“I am innocent, sir!” he gasped wildly.

The marshal shrugged his shoulders incredulously. “Don’t try to lie out of
it,” he said harshly.
“But the real burglars——”
“Nonsense! a fiction!”
“Can I see Judge Oglesby?”
“He don’t want to see you.”
Dean was left to himself again.
An hour went by—two. The jail became quiet and deserted again.
“Hist—Dean! Dean!”
Dean Mercer could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses.
From a barred window some one had spoken his name. He approached it
and peered forth.
The window looked out on the rear of the jail lot. There stood Marcus
Ellison.
“Marcus!” gasped Dean.
“Yes. Hist! don’t talk. We have work to do. I know all about it. There’s only
one thing—escape!”
“But they believe me guilty?”
“Stop talking, I tell you,” persisted Marcus. “You are lost if you don’t
escape before daylight.”
Without fully dreaming of the weight his decision was to have on his whole
future life, Dean Mercer hesitated before accepting the alternative held out
to him by his friend. It was the crucial moment in his career.
While he knew that Marcus Ellison was sincere in his determination to help
him, he did not like the idea of running away under such circumstances as
he must if he escaped from the jail. It seemed far worse to him than his
flight from the reform school.
“I—I do not believe I had better do it, Marcus,” he finally said.
“Do what?”

“Why, run away from here—break jail.”
“Oh, fudge! it isn’t breaking jail in the real sense. You are innocent, you
know.”
“Then I need not fear the result if I stay.”
“But you can’t prove your innocence at present. Remember you are leaving
here just to get the evidence you need. I’ve got trace of Tim Downey and
we can run him to earth. Once we’ve got him cornered the rest will be
easy.”
“But if I leave here in this way, everybody will feel sure that I am guilty.
Marcus, I prefer to remain and fight it out.”
“Whew! I didn’t know but you had more common sense,” replied the other,
showing by his words and manner that he was disgusted by this flat refusal
to accept his assistance.
“Pardon me, Marcus. I know you mean all right. But I could never lift up
my head again if I should do it. It seems so cowardly. I know I am already a
fugitive, but I prefer not to try an escape from here in the way you suggest.”
“It is easy enough. I have the tools with which to do it. I can saw a couple
of bars in short order. Once you are free, you and I can bend our wits
toward running our enemies to earth. But we are losing valuable time, and I
am taking a lot of risk in doing this.”
“I know it, Marcus, and I shall never forget it.”
“Obey me in this and you will come out O. K. If you’d done it at the house
when they were robbing the judge, you would not have been in this box.”
“I know it, Marcus. But don’t take any more chances for me. I am resolved
to stay here and meet my fate.”
“Then it’s because you haven’t the sand in you I thought you had. Good
night and pleasant dreams.”
“Good night, Marcus. I wish you well. Take good care of yourself.”
A moment later the form of Marcus disappeared from the narrow orbit of
Dean’s range of vision, and he knew his last friend had left him alone.

“The worst of it is he is provoked at my action,” thought the young
prisoner. “I hope I have done what is for the best. I wonder what will
happen to me next.”
With these far from pleasant thoughts, Dean sank back upon his rude couch,
but not to sleep.
His mind was too active with the peril hanging over him. In the long,
painful hours that dragged away on leaden wings he thought of many
things.
Breakfast had been eaten the following morning at the home of Judge
Oglesby and he had repaired to his study, when Eva and Manly, who were
discussing the new development in regard to Dean Mercer, discovered a
man coming hastily toward the dwelling.
A second glance disclosed the identity of the early caller, as he advanced at
the peculiar rolling gait of one used all his life to being on board of a sailing
vessel.
“It’s Jack Carboy!” exclaimed Manly. “I am so glad he is coming.”
“So am I,” declared Eva. “Among them all he seems to be the only one who
has faith that Dean Mercer is innocent.”
“Besides you and me, sister.”
“Yes, Manly. But I can’t understand this last affair.”
“Avast there, shipmates, I mean, lad and lass,” greeted the newcomer.
“These air hard seas to sail.”
“What is the trouble now, Jack? And what has brought you here so early?”
“The b’y, lass. Is it true they hev run down his sloop and moored him here
in this landlocked harbor?”
“You mean Dean Mercer, Jack?”
“Ay, ay, miss. I heerd o’ it. He’s in prison. Lass, he hain’t done nothing to
deserve this.”
“I believe it, Jack. What can be done to save him?”
“Throw a rope to leeward.”

“I do not understand you, Jack. Tell us in plain English what you know
about Dean. You have heard how they have arrested him for breaking into
our house, and that he is now in the lockup. Oh, Jack! what can we do to
save him?”
Half an hour’s consultation followed during which Eva got a more complete
account from Jack Carboy of the burning of the Spray than she had ever
obtained before. At its conclusion she said:
“I tell you what I am going to do. Father is too much worked up over the
whole affair to give Dean any consideration. So I am going to see Mr.
Montague. I do not believe he thinks Dean wholly to blame. Come, Manly,
let’s go at once.”
Having come to this decision Eva started immediately to visit the lawyer at
his office, accompanied by Manly and Jack.
They found Mr. Montague alone and willing to talk with them. In fact the
lawyer was glad to have some one willing to speak of his young friend in a
sympathetic manner.
“They are all against him,” he declared. “I cannot yet think he could have
been so lost to the teachings of his good mother, to say nothing of the
example set him by all of us. Go ahead, Miss Oglesby, and tell me all you
know of the unfortunate affair.”

CHAPTER XXVI.
CRAZY MEG’S MARK.
Let us see what that pair of young schemers, Tim Downey and Rodney
Darringford, are doing all this time.
When the money was received, and after Tim had paid off Daley and
Spofford, he and Rodney decided to join forces, and go off “on a good
time” to Columbus, a large city west of Springfield.
“Life is too slow and risky here,” Tim had remarked, “and we would be
suspected if seen with all this money.”
It was, indeed, a large amount for two boys to handle.
The boys left Springfield with the idea of going to Columbus, but did not.
Ten miles from Springfield they made a change in their plans. Here was
located a noted summer resort, known as Eagle Cliff, and Rodney insisted
on spending a day or two there.
“What for?” asked Tim.
“To cut a dash.”
“Who’s there?”
“A lot of snobs from the academy I used to go to. I’d just like to show them
that I’ve got more cash than any of them.”
“All right, I’m willing,” assented Tim.
Both boys had rigged themselves up in the finest of clothes, and the amount
of gaudy jewelry that Tim wore was enormous.
They tired of the humdrum life at Eagle Cliff in a day, and both decided to
go on to Columbus.
“Suppose we drive there, and take in the fair at Chester and the races at
Dover on the way?” suggested Tim.
“All right.”

The result was that they made an arrangement with a liveryman to supply a
double team, and one morning they started for Columbus by way of a fine
road lined by charming villages.
They drove recklessly, and in crossing a narrow bridge were so precipitate
that they crowded several boys standing there to its extreme edge.
One little fellow fell over into the stream and was with difficulty rescued,
but the indifferent Tim and Rodney only laughed at the anger and
indignation of the boy’s companions.
Late that afternoon Tim Downey and his companion arrived at a place
called Ridgeton, where they lingered long enough to get quite intoxicated.
The tavern keeper bluntly told them that they were not in a condition to
pursue the journey, and that the horses were nearly exhausted.
“We’ll load up with a dozen bottles of champagne and go on to the fair at
Chester,” persisted Tim.
Five miles on the road they became uproariously, intoxicated and wandered
off from the road, finding themselves pursuing a sandy and yielding course
along the shores of a lake.
A girl calling home the cows told them that they had better retrace their way
to the road, but they were stubbornly determined to cross a swampy reach
of land by a short cut, and kept on.
Darkness overtook them at last. They kept drinking more and more,
quarreled, had a fist fight, and then Rodney, at last overcome with the wine,
lay in the bottom of the carriage unconscious.
Tim, angry at the slow progress of the horses, lashed them with the whip.
The animals became frightened and unmanageable.
They tore the reins from his hands, ran away, and colliding with a tree, the
frail vehicle was dashed to fragments and both boys landed insensible
among a wreck of wood and wine bottles in the swamp.
It was about midnight when Tim awoke. It was raining hard, and he lay in a
puddle of water. Every garment he wore was soaked through and through.
To his stupefied mind, at last came the light, and he groped around and tried
to make out his surroundings.

He stumbled over a wheel and other portions of the wrecked carriage, and
finally found the lamp that was formerly attached to the whip socket.
About the only dry thing about him, except his parched tongue, was the
inside of his tin match safe.
He managed to light the lamp. Then its rays showed that the carriage was a
hopeless wreck, the horses gone, and that Rodney Darringford was lying in
a stupid slumber in a water-filled rut near by.
Four of the bottles in the basket were intact, and Tim drained one feverishly.
“Here, wake up, Rodney!” he shouted to his companion, shaking him
vigorously.
“Eh? Lemme be!”
“Wake up!”
“Won’t!”
But Tim maliciously switched Rodney until he aroused to wakefulness.
Then he gave him a bottle of wine, pocketed the two others, and taking up
the carriage lamp, said:
“Come on!”
“Where are you going?” asked Rodney irritably.
“To find shelter. We’re in an awful fix.”
“Yes—clothes are spoiled.”
“And rig wrecked. It will cost us something.”
“If the man ever sees us again, yes. Ha! ha!”
The remaining wine buoyed up the flagging spirits of the two reckless boys
and made them forget the chill and rain.
They floundered in and out of the swamp and finally reached the higher
ground.
No lights showed anywhere.
Finally, between two hills where the uplands began, Rodney said:

“We’ll stay here.”
“Oh, no!”
“Must; I’m tired.”
“But it’s raining!”
“Don’t care.”
“We must find shelter.”
“Find it, then! I’m comfortable here,” replied Rodney obstinately.
Tim went on a little way. He made a discovery, and shouted back to his
companion:
“Come on, Rodney!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Found a cabin.”
“All right.”
Rodney staggered after Tim. In a little grove a dismantled hut showed. It
had no door, and the window apertures were sashless, but it was a shelter.
Tim entered it. The carriage lamp showed a bare interior, a broken bench, a
stool, a three-legged table and an enormous fireplace.
Rodney lay down on the bench with a grunt of relief, but Tim, shivering
with the dampness and cold, proceeded to gather a lot of wood outside.
He soon had a rousing fire in the fireplace, and found the door that had been
broken off its hinges outside and propped it into place to keep out the wind
and rain.
“Come, Rodney,” he said to his sleepy companion, “take off some of your
clothes and spread them out to dry.”
Rodney reluctantly obeyed, and Tim did the same, and their coats, vests,
hats and shoes and stockings were soon steaming before the fire.
“Where’s your money, Rodney?” asked Tim.
“In my pocket.”

“Hand it out.”
“What for?”
“Take it out and see.”
Rodney did so. He now knew what Tim meant. The roll of bills and even
the interior of the wallet that contained them were a mass of wet rags,
almost reduced to a pulp.
The new, crisp bills were matted together and discolored so much that he
looked alarmed.
“Same way with mine,” said Tim. “We’ll have to separate and dry them.”
“You do it. I’m sleepy.”
“No; you must do your share,” retorted Tim.
They soon had the broad stone in front of the fireplace covered with the
water-soaked bank notes.
“Hello! these papers are pretty nearly done for,” said Tim, as he drew a
large envelope containing documents from his pocket.
“What’s that, Tim?” asked Rodney curiously.
“Some papers I took from young Ellison on board the Spray.”
“What are they?”
“Oh, something about the Ellison murder. They’re no good.”
“Hold on.”
Tim had made a motion as if to throw them in the fire.
“What’s the trouble?”
“Don’t destroy them.”
“Why not?”
“They may be important.”
“They’d prove we were thieves if they found them on us.”
“Well, dry them with the rest, and I’ll see what they are in the morning.”

“Just as you say,” and Tim spread the papers out to dry alongside of the
bank notes.
It was a curious picture that the interior of the rude cabin presented half an
hour later.
A fortune lay on the hearth, and near it slumbered the stupefied boys.
The scene had an outside spectator, although the boys little suspected it.
At the window, just as they began talking about the bank notes and the
papers, and spreading them out to dry, a strange, weird face had appeared.
A wild pair of eyes gleamed in at the scene, and the same eyes peered in at
the door as it was stealthily lifted out of place half an hour later.
At the door appeared a strange figure. It was that of a woman, old, haggard,
with bedraggled attire, and face and eyes that seemed to indicate that she
was some homeless wanderer, bereft of her reason, and accidentally strayed
here.
For all that, there seemed to be a purpose in her visit. She moved about
stealthily, and her gleaming glance was fixed on the papers and bank notes
on the hearth.
Chuckling, muttering, she gathered up the last one of them, thrust them into
a bundle under her shawl, and then stole toward the door again.
Halfway to it she paused. An elfish, crooning laugh escaped her lips. She
drew a bottle filled with blood-red liquid from beneath her shawl, dipped
her finger in it, and then deliberately marked an X on the forehead of each
of the sleeping boys.
“Blood!” she muttered. “I’ll mark them, too, for they spoke that name,
Ellison. Money and papers! ho! ho! Crazy Meg will go to the bad man with
the knife who scared her so, ho! ho!”
Then the woman disappeared as silently as she had come to the cabin.
It was broad daylight when Rodney Darringford awoke. He gazed around
stupidly. The door was out of place, and the fire was out.
He looked startled as he glanced at the hearth, and recalled the night
previous.

“Tim! Tim!” he cried. “Wake up. Say, did you gather up the money?”
“What money?”
“The bank notes we spread on the hearth to dry.”
“Not I. They’re there.”
“Well, they ain’t.”
“What?”
“No.”
Tim sat bolt upright and stared blankly at the hearth.
“You’re joking, Rodney?”
“I ain’t.”
“Just wake up?”
“Yes.”
“Wind blew them into the corner of the room.”
“None there, and the door is down. Some one has been here.”
“The money is gone?”
“Yes, stolen.”
“We’re beggars.”
“Worse—thieves!”
The worst was soon known. The money was gone.
The only plausible theory was one admitting that some dishonest prowler
had discovered the money, and taken it.
The blow was a terrible one to the boys, so much so, that when Rodney
noticed a blazing red X on Tim’s forehead, he did not even remark it, and
Tim was too dejected and overcome to notice that on his companion’s brow.
They donned their coats, and made a hasty scurry around the cabin, but no
trace of the thief or booty was found.

Then they grew irritable, and fell to quarreling, and then again began
planning what they would do.
“I’m dying of hunger,” said Tim, “and I’m going to find some place to get
something to eat at.”
“Where?”
“Portsmouth must be near here.”
“Yes; only a few miles, I guess. I’m going back home.”
“And leave me?”
“We’ve got no money. We can’t even get a meal.”
“Yes, we can. The thief has taken all our money, but I’ve got my jewelry. I
can sell that.”
The boys finally left the hut. In an hour they came to a crossroads tavern,
beyond which lay the little hamlet of Portsmouth.
The tavern keeper was busy at his bar arranging some bottles, when Tim
entered the place, followed by Rodney.
“Say, mister,” he said, “can we get a meal here?”
“I reckon so.”
“We’ve got no money.”
“No trust to strangers.”
“But I’ve got a watch and chain here,” pursued Tim. “We were robbed last
night of all our money. We want to stay here a day or two, and if you’ll give
us a meal and something to drink first, I’ll send my friend to the town
yonder to sell the watch and pay you.”
The landlord hesitated, but finally said:
“I guess it’s all right. No games, now.”
“Oh, no; you can keep the watch for security and send to town yourself, if
you like.”
“No, I’ll trust you, only one of you stay here while the other goes for the
money.”

“That’s all right.”
“Sit down at one of the tables. I’ll order your breakfast for you.”
The boys did so, removing their hats.
As the tavern keeper came back with some dishes, he stared strangely at
them.
“Hello!” he ejaculated. “So you’ve seen Crazy Meg, eh?”

CHAPTER XXVII.
A FRUITLESS SEARCH.
The landlord stared first at Tim’s head and then at that of Rodney
Darringford, and both boys at once discovered that he was very much
startled.
“What’s that?” demanded Tim sharply.
“Crazy Meg, I say. You must have seen her!”
“Who’s Crazy Meg?”
“Don’t know her?”
“I do not.”
“Never heard of her?”
“Never.”
“You must be strangers hereabouts, then?”
“We are.”
The landlord smiled.
“Well,” he said confidently, “you may not have seen her, but she has seen
you. Robbed, too, eh? Up to her old tricks again. Well, well!”
Tim Downey started violently. He was shrewd enough to trace a clue of
importance as to the thief of the bank notes in the tavern keeper’s words,
and he replied eagerly:
“Yes, we were robbed, and you seem to know something about it.”
“I can surmise,” laughed the landlord; “anyone hereabouts could from your
appearance.”
Rodney looked mystified.
“Our appearance?” he gasped.

“’Zactly.”
“How so?”
“You’ve got the mark.”
“What mark?”
“Crazy Meg’s mark.”
“What do you mean?”
“Go, both of you, and look in the mirror yonder and see.”
Both boys, impelled by a sense of mystery, hurried to a large looking-glass
near by.
In amazement they discerned the blood-red X that showed prominently on
their features.
They instinctively tried to rub it off.
“You’ll have to scrub to do that,” chuckled the tavern keeper.
Tim Downey was consumed with curiosity.
“See here, landlord!” he said half angrily, “what does this mean?”
“That Crazy Meg has seen you, I tell you.”
“But we didn’t see her.”
“Were you robbed?”
“We were.”
“When?”
“When—when we were asleep in a cabin near here last night.”
“That explains it, then.”
“How?”
“Well, she discovered you, robbed you and marked you, as she does
everybody she don’t like.”
Then the man proceeded to tell what he knew of Crazy Meg.

She had been known as a wild and harmless wanderer in the district for
years. Where she came from, no one knew, but it was believed that she had
escaped from some insane asylum.
The reason of this was that often she would frantically denounce the bad
men who had shut her up in a stone building with iron bars, whence she had
escaped.
When she owned the world, she said, she would hire an army to go and tear
down all the cruel insane asylums.
People would give her money out of charity, and this she hoarded and
secreted in some one of her many hiding places among the hills, until she
should get enough to hire her boasted army.
Often, too, she would drive away a whole flock of geese or chickens, and
even cattle, and they would be found where she had penned them in, at
some sequestered nook among the hills.
Whenever she met a person she did not like she would take out a bottle
containing some red liquid, and make just such a mark on their clothing or
house or hand or face as that on the faces of Tim and Rodney.
This had only been in the past year, and people said that she had in her
wanderings seen some terrible crime and been frightened by its perpetrator.
The landlord told how one night recently Meg had secretly stolen into the
tavern, visited the room of his two boys and gathered up all their school-
books under her shawl to cart away, when the elder boy had discovered her.
Her great mania seemed to be to accumulate a vast amount of
miscellaneous property, and hoard up what money she could steal or beg, to
finally employ to hire her army of men to burn up or tear down all the
insane asylums in the country.
“She just lives around the hut you say you slept in out of the storm last
night,” said the tavern keeper.
“Where can we find her?” asked Tim.
“Ha! ha! find Meg? That’s a hard task, boys. Whenever she steals anything,
she’s shrewd enough to keep out of the way for a time, and sometimes
disappears for whole weeks. When she is around, she’s like a sprite, so

quick and fleet-footed, and knowing a score of caves where she can hide
when pursued. I guess the breakfast is cooking,” and the landlord went back
to the kitchen of the tavern to attend to the meal for his guests.
The eyes of the two boys met in mutual excited questioning.
“Rodney!” exclaimed Tim, “there’s some hope.”
“About the money?”
“Yes.”
“You mean?”
“Crazy Meg.”
“She certainly took it.”
“Of course.”
“And we must find her.”
“We must.”
They dispatched the meal. Then Tim went off to Portsmouth, leaving
Rodney at the tavern. He managed to sell what jewelry he had for forty
dollars, and they decided to make their headquarters at the tavern.
They now set their wits to work to find Crazy Meg, as the sole object of
their lives.
They even paid the tavern keeper’s boy ten dollars to assist them in the
quest.
It proved of no avail. Here and there they got a trace of the crazy woman,
but they could not locate her.
So the days drifted by, and then it occurred to Tim to call to his aid his two
trusty friends of the past—Daley and Spofford.
He wrote the letter that had been alluded to by Daley in his conversation
with Spofford, and which now had fallen into the hands of Marcus Ellison.
“It’s no use,” said Rodney one evening, after a day of fruitless tramping,
“the woman has disappeared.”
“She’ll come back.”

“We’ll never get our money.”
“I don’t give up so easily.”
“I’ve a good mind to go back home.”
“All right; then you give up all claim on the money if you do. Wait until my
friends, Daley and Spofford, arrive.”
“What will they do?”
“Soon find crazy Meg, you can depend on that.”
“Two gentlemen to see you, Downey,” said the tavern keeper, as the boys
entered the place an hour later.
The landlord indicated a table where two men sat.
“Daley and Spofford,” murmured Tim joyfully.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
RELEASED ON BAIL.
Encouraged by the kind words of Mr. Montague, Evaline Oglesby began at
once to tell the story Jack Carboy had told her, piecing together the parts the
old sailor had described in his broken, graphic manner.
“Stop, Miss Eva,” broke in the lawyer, as he listened with rapt interest to
her straightforward recital. “You say Jack detected the fumes of some
drug?”
“Didn’t you say so, Jack?” asked Eva.
“Rock o’ Gibraltar! it struck my bowsprit and knocked me over seas!”
“There were indications that some one had set the fire?”
“Beyond doubt, Mr. Montague. And the fumes that so nearly overpowered
Jack came from chloroform, which had been used to overcome Dean.”
“So you think he was carried off?”
“I do, Mr. Montague.”
“Who could have done it?”
“I cannot tell, sir.”
“How can we find out?”
“I would suggest that you go and see Dean and hear his story, Mr.
Montague.”
“But last night’s work looks bad.”
“Does it look reasonable that he would come back here to rob his old
friend? Does it look reasonable that Dean Mercer has turned to a common
burglar?”
“I cannot tell. I never thought he would burn the steamer of his best friend.”
“Has it been proved that he did?”

“Miss Eva, you should have been a lawyer. I see your idea. You would have
me see Dean Mercer and get his account of the affair?”
“Yes.”
“What then?”
“Will he be tried to-day?”
“He will doubtless be given a preliminary hearing and if found guilty bound
over to appear at the higher court.”
“And put back in jail?”
“If he does not get bail.”
“If he should get bail?”
“He would be allowed his freedom until the time the court sits.”
“Will you go and see him?”
“Certainly. The State will allow him a lawyer. I will take care of his case.”
“Please accept my thanks, Mr. Montague. I shall want to see you as soon as
you return.”
“You can see me here if you wish. I will not be gone over half an hour.”
With these words Mr. Montague put on his hat and left the office to go upon
his errand.
He may not have been gone more than the specified thirty minutes, but they
seemed long ones to the impatient waiters, but Eva saw by the look of
satisfaction upon the old lawyer’s countenance that he had good news to
impart before he had spoken a word.
“Well, Mr. Montague?” she asked.
“I am glad I went,” he replied. “The boy was glad to see me and I am to
defend him.”
“What about his account of the burning of the Spray?” she asked eagerly.
“It is not as clear as I could wish it to be. He does not seem to have any idea
of what happened to him until he found himself miles away from
Springfield.”

“Which shows that my theory was correct. He was drugged and kidnapped.
Didn’t it prove so?”
“Ye—es. He has been through some thrilling experiences, but got into an
uncomfortable association with a couple of bad men according to his story.
He appears innocent.”
“He is. And I am going to make father furnish his bail.”
“If you will I will do all in my power to save him.”
“I thank you, Mr. Montague. I hope you did not tell him that I sent you to
see him.”
“Not exactly that, Miss Eva. But I did tell him you thought he was innocent,
and that seemed to give him new courage. The boy has been through a
trying ordeal.”
“When will the hearing come off?”
“At ten o’clock.”
“Then I have no time to lose. I will see you as soon as I have won father
over to our side.”
“I wish you success.”
As the old lawyer watched his departing visitors, he murmured to himself:
“She is a brave girl, but she has undertaken more now than she can
accomplish. Get Judge Oglesby to sign Dean Mercer’s bond! The idea is
absurd, though I am beginning to think the boy is not guilty of any
wrongdoing.”
“We shall succeed in getting father interested; we must!” declared Eva, as
she hastened homeward after leaving Mr. Montague. But she preferred to
see her father alone, so Jack and Manly remained in the background while
she sought the judge in his library.
It was nearly an hour before Eva reappeared to join her anxious
companions, and then her countenance, radiant with a look of happiness,
told before she had spoken that she had been successful.
“I had a long tussle with papa,” she said, “before he would listen to such ‘a
silly idea,’ as he expressed it. But when I had gone through all of your story,

Jack, and showed him how unreasonable it was to think that Dean had come
back here to rob us, he relented.”
“And he will save him?” asked Manly hopefully.
“He will furnish his bail, which will give Dean his liberty for a time. I am
so anxious to hear his story.”
A good-sized crowd gathered at the hearing of Dean Mercer, expecting a
sensation in its developments. Those that did were disappointed, while his
friends were treated to a genuine surprise.
Mr. Montague appeared as his counsel, and simply pleaded “not guilty,”
waived an examination, with an appeal to the higher court. Bond was then
fixed at one thousand dollars, when the most unexpected thing happened.
Judge Oglesby, who had caused his arrest and was the complainant,
promptly furnished the bail which gave Dean his freedom.
The public was agog then, wondering what it meant.
Dean was the most surprised person of them all.
“You have only Eva to thank,” said the judge, as Dean pressed forward to
his side to express his thanks for the other’s generous act. “If you are
innocent, as she believes, you have thirty days in which to prove it.”
“Thank you, sir, I will.”
If Dean had desired to speak for a moment with his deliverer he was
accorded the privilege, for he had no sooner escaped the crowd than he was
met by Eva, Manly and Jack Carboy, all of whom were profuse in their
congratulations.
“I could not think you did it, Dean,” declared Eva.
“I did not, Miss Oglesby, and what is more I hope to prove it.”
“I do hope you will. You must not blame father for still feeling that you are
guilty. You must remember it has cost him dear, for besides losing the
money that was to pay for the steamer he has lost the boat itself. I finally
got him to sign your bail, and he has done it so you may have time to prove
your innocence.”

“You are both very kind. I appreciate it. I am so sorry to have caused you so
much trouble and anxiety. But within a month I believe I shall be able to
clear up the whole mystery.”
“You have my wishes for your success.”
The others expressed their pleasure, and Dean knew Jack Carboy felt
disappointed when he gently declined his aid in his effort to ferret out his
enemies.
He felt that he could work better alone, though he did promise to call on
Jack the moment he should be needed.
Some of the people came forward to speak to him and Dean was glad when
he could break away and truly feel that he was free.
The vital question for him to decide upon then was his method or way of
proceeding.

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE SECRET ENEMY.
Among those at the hearing when Dean so unexpectedly obtained his
freedom for a time was Colonel Darringford, his countenance showing his
disappointment and displeasure as the young prisoner was allowed his
liberty.
Prefacing his bitter speech with an oath he exclaimed to a bystander:
“That’s the biggest piece of imposition I ever heard of. But it is just like
Judge Oglesby, and if he can stand it I suppose I can. But the people should
rise up in justice and hang the young miscreant.”
Dean heard this cutting remark, but did not catch the reply.
In his anxiety to start upon his quest, he did not give the matter a second
thought, taking it as a natural product of the enmity of the other.
He knew the Warrior was undergoing expensive repairs and had heard that
Colonel Darringford threatened to sue the owner of the ill-fated Spray for
damages, but nothing had come of the threat. In fact, it could be shown that
the commander of the Warrior had been in the wrong.
Two or three small boats plied between Millville and Landlock, and as the
stage had left an hour before, Dean decided to take passage on one of these
boats.
He found that a small gasoline launch would start in ten minutes, and
having nothing better to do he went aboard at once.
Not over ten passengers could be accommodated, according to the rules,
and as Dean made the ninth person he considered himself fortunate.
Dean Mercer had been aboard the little craft with the fanciful name of the
Buoyant a few minutes, when half a dozen persons were seen to be
approaching at rapid steps.

“They know only one more can be taken on,” remarked the captain, with a
smile, as in common with the others he began to watch the newcomers.
Presently two were seen to break away from the rest and approach at a run.
Then one of this couple began to outdistance the other, and soon he was
within hearing of the boat.
By this time Dean Mercer was excited. The foremost person was Marcus
Ellison!
“I want passage on the boat!” he cried.
“No; it belongs to me!” shouted the man close at his heels.
“By Jove!” cried the elated commander of the Buoyant, “it’s a handsome
race, but the lad has outrun you, sir. Old Cap’n Dodge is detarmined to see
fair play. The Buoyant can’t take but one passenger more, and he must be
the boy.”
The man may not have heard the last portion of this reply, or if he did he
did not heed its meaning, for he continued to advance without abating his
speed.
Marcus also continued as fast as he could run, and chuckling over his
triumph, no sooner had the youth gained the boat, than Captain Dodge
ordered that the gangplank be taken up.
“Full number of passengers; can’t take any more. Let on the power,
engineer.”
“Hold!” yelled the newcomer, as he heard the command of Captain Dodge.
“Don’t you start that boat till you have read this order from its owner,
Captain Darringford.”
The next moment the man came quickly aboard, and no sooner had he
stepped over the rail than the captain cried:
“I can’t take you both. It’s agin’ the law.”
“Put off the boy then!” cried the man. “I must and shall go. Colonel
Darringford says so.”
This statement evidently had some weight with the officer, and it seemed as
if Marcus would be ordered to leave the boat. But the youth met him
unflinchingly.

“I was here ahead of him,” cried Marcus, “and if anybody gets off it must
be him.”
By this time the crowd had reached the dock, and others, attracted by the
cries, had begun to collect upon the shore.
Possibly fearing that he might have yet other passengers to get rid of,
Captain Dodge ordered the plank to be taken up, and in a moment there was
no chance for another to board the Buoyant.
The engineer had obeyed orders, and the boat was starting upon her trip.
“One can’t make much difference,” muttered the captain. “If there is a
complaint I reckon I can show how you fellers were to blame.”
Marcus showed no surprise at sight of Dean, though he did not attempt to
get near him and did not speak to him. Something in his manner warned
Dean that he had better remain silent, so the greeting he was about to make
was not spoken.
Wondering what it all could mean, Dean watched and waited for a word or
hint from the other. This did not come until they had been an hour on the
water, and the little craft was bowling merrily along her way.
Marcus had managed to get a seat near to his friend, and finally he
whispered:
“Glad to see you, Dean, but we have got to be awful careful how we act and
what we say.”
“What’s up?”
“Notice that man who came aboard right at my heels?”
“Yes.”
“He’s Colonel Darringford’s spy, sent to watch you and get you into
trouble.”
Dean started slightly, but managed to take the bit of news without betraying
any evidence of having been surprised.
“How?”
Five minutes later, Marcus found opportunity to whisper:

“I overheard the colonel telling him he would give this fellow five hundred
dollars if he would stop you in what you are doing. The man has agreed to
do it, if he has to kill you!”
Another silence between the young friends lasted longer than before, when
Marcus said in the same cautious tone:
“After I left you last night I sort of hung round to see how you would come
out. You were right and I was wrong. But Colonel Darringford is awful mad
to think you are free. I knew you had gone to this boat, but I got snarled up
and couldn’t come as quick as I wanted to. But it was well I didn’t for I ran
across the colonel and that man, and heard it all fixed up between them to
get rid of you. He is ready to do anything he can to beat you. You have got
to look out awful sharp when you get to Landlock.”
“I believe he is watching us,” whispered Dean, and it was not until they
came in sight of their destination that the boys dared to exchange words
again.
Five minutes later the Buoyant touched lightly at the pier of Landlock, and
the small party of passengers went hastily ashore, glad to have reached the
end of their trip.
Dean and Marcus did not fail to see that Darringford’s spy was watching
them closely, though the boys had not sought each other’s company.
Dean had not gone far from the landing when the man accosted him,
saying:
“Pardon me, young man, but may I ask a favor of you?”
If surprised by the boldness of this request, Dean did not show it, while he
answered the other politely:
“Certainly, if it is possible for me to do it.”
“It is. You will stop in town to-night?”
“I think I might fare worse, sir.”
“Good. If you are willing to patronize a friend of mine, I wish you might
stop at the Wilkins House. I am sure you will be well treated.”
“I thank you, sir.”

“I may not be there, as I have considerable to attend to. If you will walk
along with me I will show you the way.”
“But I have a little matter that needs my attention now. A little later I will
try and find the place.”
Dean had discovered a couple of blue-coated officials in the distance, who
seemed to be waiting for some one.
He quickly imagined that they were lying in wait for him!

CHAPTER XXX.
MARCUS DISCOVERS A CLUE.
Dean Mercer’s heart beat with unwonted rapidity as he saw the officers and
anticipated that they were intending to arrest him. Arrest again at that stage
of his work meant defeat to all his plans. Instinctively he glanced around to
see if Marcus was near, but his friend was nowhere in sight.
“It will take but a minute to go to the house,” said the man. “Once you have
engaged your room you can attend to—think those officers are after you?”
The sudden break in his speech was occasioned by the fact that the officials
had started toward them.
Perhaps the man employed by Colonel Darringford was afraid his prey
would escape him, for, without further warning, he seized Dean by the
collar, hissing between his clenched teeth:
“You don’t get away!”
At this critical moment, just as Dean was about to try and break away from
the clutch of the man, some one shouted from the next street:
“Help! murder! thieves!”
The officers stopped, looking wildly in the direction of the cries:
“Help! I’ve got him!” came the voice. “Hel—lp!”
The two officers, thinking it was their quarry, no doubt, ran in that
direction. The hand upon Dean Mercer’s shoulder relaxed its hold, and in
the excitement Dean slipped away.
It is surprising how quickly a crowd will collect. Inside of a minute, as it
seemed to the main actors, a hundred persons had appeared upon the scene.
Wild questions were asked, one after another, and wilder answers were
given. The appeals for help had stopped, but some one declared he had seen
an individual fleeing along a cross street. Thither the officers sped in hot
haste.

Dean had not gone more than a square, when he heard Marcus say:
“This way—quick!”
Dean followed his friend, and the two sped across the town in the direction
taken by the crowd, but soon running at right angles.
“There is a boat at the lower landing,” panted Marcus, “and we can get it by
running fast.”
A launch, somewhat similar to the one they had come on from Millville,
was just about to clear the pier.
“We are barely in time,” said Marcus, as he and Dean motioned for the boat
to wait for them.
The confusion attending the scene in the other part of the town had not
reached here, and the captain simply thinking the boys had been sprinting to
catch his launch, willingly waited for them to come aboard.
“Another minute, boys, and you would have missed us,” he greeted,
cheerily. “Want to go to Springfield?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Marcus.
A few minutes later, when he felt that they were safe from pursuit by their
enemies, Marcus said aside to his friend:
“A close call.”
“It was,” replied Dean, “and I must confess I do not understand now just
what took place. The officers were about to arrest me, though for what I do
not know, when that alarm came and in the excitement I managed to get
away.”
“I created the outcry,” declared Marcus proudly. “I did it to give you a
chance to get away in the confusion. You see Colonel Darringford had
telephoned down here for the officers to be in readiness to arrest you as an
escaped inmate of the reform school.”
“I did not think of that. I see his scheme. Do you suppose they will
telephone ahead to Springfield?”
“No doubt; but forewarned is forearmed, you know. We’ll give them the
slip there.”

The confidence of his companion gave Dean courage, and they continued
their trip to the city with good courage.
“By the way,” said Marcus a little later, “I am awfully sorry for getting mad
with you last night when you would not escape from that old lockup as I
wanted you to do. I can see now that you were wiser than I.”
“It is all forgiven, Marcus, if there was really anything to forgive. But have
you any plan of action when we get to Springfield?”
“No, but I think I have something here that will help us to lay our plans. I
have found out who your worst enemy is.”
“Who?”
“Tim Downey. Here is proof of it in a letter that Daley dropped on his way
to Millville and I picked up. It is postmarked Portsmouth.”
“That’s south of here.”
“Yes; fifty miles down the river. He writes that he is in trouble. He says that
if Daley will come to Portsmouth, he will put him in the way of making
another thousand dollars.”
“Do you think he has spent all of that money?”
“I don’t know what to make of it. Read for yourself and tell me what you
think of it.”
The letter read:
“You see we were chumps in not going to the city. We had
money enuff to fly high. The cash is safe, but we haven’t got it,
for cash and papers were lost in a strange way. We know where
it is, but you must come and help us get it.”
“We?” said Dean, “then there are two of them?”
“Yes.”
“And they had the money?”
“At least a portion of it.”
“And the papers?”
“It looks so.”

“And they are at Portsmouth?”
“Near there, or there, yes,” replied Marcus.
“Will we go there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When?”
“To-night. Hold on, Dean, read the rest of the letter.”
Dean did so.
It concluded:
“If you come, do it at once, or else we will go off on the search for the
money alone—me and my friend——”
“Why!” cried Dean, as he read the name that followed, “the boy with him is
Rodney Darringford!”
“Yes. They must make a pair of precious scamps. And we must be on hand
by the time Daley and Spofford arrive. Let us hope that we can round up the
entire gang at once.”
“If I can dodge the officers at Springfield.”
“We must manage that somehow. I have an idea that we had better leave the
launch at the small place a few miles this side of the city. From thence we
can in some way manage to get to Portsmouth. I want to see mother, but I
shall have to put it off. Poor mother! how much worry I have given her, but
I do not think it was my fault wholly. Somehow things have gone hard with
me, but I hope the end is near. Once I can get those papers and free father, I
can clear my own name.”
“Success to you, Marcus. We must stand together a little longer. What’s that
the captain is saying? We are getting close down to Turtle-back.”
“Where we must leave the boat. We have a long trip before us, but we must
show that we are equal to it.”

CHAPTER XXXI.
WHAT THE BOYS FOUND.
The journey to Portsmouth was unmarked by any incident of importance or
excitement. They had, after abandoning the boat, crossed the country on
foot, and reached the village from which the letter to Daley had been
directed.
They lost several hours in looking around the village for some traces of Tim
Downey and Rodney Darringford.
The discovery from Tim’s letter by Dean Mercer that the latter was Tim’s
companion, opened a perfect gateway of revelation to both the boys.
Tim Downey might plot against Dean to secure money, but the knowledge
that a representative of rival business interests to the Spray was in the field,
indicated to Dean that even Colonel Darringford himself might be in the
scheme that had resulted in the burning of the lake steamer.
“We’ll soon know,” affirmed Marcus confidently. “Certain it is that these
boys took the money and the papers.”
“But they have lost them?”
“All the same they seem to know how to regain them. We must be prompt
and cautious, and we shall succeed in outwitting them.”
They finally began to make inquiries at Portsmouth about two strange boys,
and this resulted in the obtaining of a definite clue to the whereabouts of
Tim and Rodney, for the former had made himself conspicuous at the
village by getting intoxicated, and even had not attempted to conceal his
real name.
The man who directed Marcus and Dean to the crossroad tavern, was a
woodchopper at the edge of the town, and he smiled as he said:
“Downey, eh? He’s a wild one and in considerable demand just now.”
“How so?” asked Marcus curiously.

“Two men looking for him here to-day.”
“Who were they?”
“Strangers.”
“Can you describe them?”
“I’ll try to.”
The woodchopper did describe them.
“Daley and Spofford!” ejaculated Dean as they walked on.
“Yes, it’s them.”
“And here.”
“The four plotters in the case, yes.”
“We must be very cautious.”
“I should say so; particularly with those two men,” replied Marcus. “You
see they have come here to help Downey.”
“Do what?”
“Something about the stolen money and papers.”
“I wish I knew what.”
“We must find out.”
They did not venture near the crossroad tavern until toward dusk.
Near it Dean waited in a thicket, while Marcus reconnoitered. He returned
shortly, and with a serious face.
“Well, they’re there, Dean!” he responded.
“I supposed they were. Is Rodney Darringford there?”
“Yes; he and Tim, and Daley and Spofford. They are carousing, and seem to
be friends with everybody about the tavern. I couldn’t dare to venture near
enough to them to listen to them. Here, Dean, quick! Stand a little more out
in the road.”
“What’s up, now?”

“See that boy?”
“Coming whistling down the road?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“One of the tavern keeper’s boys. He must know something about Tim and
Rodney and their plans, for they’ve been at the tavern several days.”
“What of it?”
“Wait and see!”
The boy came down the road. He stopped whistling as he observed Marcus
and Dean, and stared curiously at them.
“I tell you, the name of those two boys is Danvers and Lance!” cried
Marcus in a loud tone of voice. “I’ll leave it to this boy. Say, bub!”
“Hello!”
“Do you know the tavern people?”
“Belong there.”
“There’s two boys staying there?”
“Yes.”
“Named Danvers and Lance?”
“No, they ain’t.”
“What then?”
“Tim Downey and Rodney.”
“Rodney what?”
“Dunno.”
“Sure that’s their names?”
“Yes.”
Marcus had purposely led on to this conversation, to get the tavern keeper’s
boy to talk.

“Who are they, anyway?” he asked.
“They come from Springfield, I reckon. They got robbed near here a few
nights ago, and they’re looking for the thief.”
“Why, how was that?” asked Marcus.
“Well, you see, we have a woman living round here, named Crazy Meg.”
“Yes.”
“She robbed them,” and then, to the satisfaction and delight of Marcus and
Dean, the boy volubly detailed the episode of the cabin as far as he
understood it, and even went on to relate how Tim Downey had sent for two
friends to help him find Crazy Meg.
Marcus Ellison acted all through the interview as if he was only casually
interested in the boy’s story.
“I reckon they won’t find Crazy Meg, if a sharp boy like you couldn’t do
it.”
“They’re going to try, anyway,” replied the boy.
“Indeed!”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“To-night. The two men with the boys think they know all about the
country,” and then the boy walked on.
“What luck!” cried Dan delightedly, the moment they were alone.
“Yes, Dean, we know all about the case now.”
“The money and papers are in possession of Crazy Meg?”
“It looks so.”
“And whoever finds her first——”
“Probably gets them.”
“We must!”
“We’ll try,” responded the indomitable Marcus grimly.

An hour later four persons, somewhat exhilarated from too many potations
of wine, came from the tavern and proceeded in the direction of the forest
and hills.
In their wake, at a safe distance, followed Marcus and Dean.
“We must keep them in sight,” remarked the former. “They are going, the
boy said, first to the cabin of the hunter who may know where Crazy Meg
is, and we must learn what he says.”

CHAPTER XXXII.
IN THE VALLEY.
“This is the way. Come on, Spofford. You boys want to hustle if we expect
to do any work to-night.”
Daley spoke, and his auditors were not alone his three companions.
They were pursuing a tortuous path along a dry river course in a valley, and
it was not difficult to keep them in view and be near to them at the same
time, and Marcus and Dean plodded on directly on the trail of their
enemies.
“The hunter said that we had better go to what he calls the bowl. He says
that Crazy Meg has a regular haunt near there.”
“Well, we’re near it now; only a little further, I reckon,” responded Daley to
Spofford’s remark.
It was less than an hour later when the quartette of plotters found
themselves in a spot that was strange and weird in the extreme.
The valley narrowed, then widened, circling out and forming a place that
bore a resemblance to a sugar bowl.
Stunted trees and underbrush covered the rocks, and there was only one
path leading to the cliffs above, a narrow ledge of stone that seemed too
frail and irregular for travel.
“The hunter said that Meg comes here every night to talk in her insane way
to the witches. We must hide ourselves and keep perfectly quiet,” said
Daley.
Daley and his companions bestowed themselves among the shrubbery, and
Dean and Marcus just where the outlet to the indentation was located
crouched down among some vines, their proximity all unsuspected by the
plotters.

Then there was entire silence for over an hour, during which Dean and
Marcus awaited developments anxiously.
They came at last.
From some near spot on the cliffs overhead, suddenly and startlingly, rang
out a piercing shriek of insane, mocking laughter.
Then at the point where the ledge of rocks descended, appeared a light.
It was borne by a woman, elfish in face and form—Crazy Meg.
She answered the description given of her by the tavern people too
accurately to be mistaken.
She bore a flaming pine-wood torch in her hand, and she began to descend
the narrow ledge of rocks with the ease and carelessness of a sure-footed
antelope.
As she did so she waved the torch to and fro slowly and seemed to chant a
weird gibberish-like incantation to the dark spirits her demented fancy
evidently believed haunted the spot.
At the lowest and last rock of the ledge and just within a few feet of the
lurking Daley she paused.
Her eyes gleamed fitfully, and she glanced wildly all about her.
“White witch, black witch, red, green, yellow, all of you, come here!” she
cried in shrill, unnatural tones.
She waved the torch fiercely, and looked around more quietly as it seemed
that she imagined the witches she had summoned to be near her.
“Now, then,” she said, “we are all here. Ah, you love old Crazy Meg, for
Meg is sharp and faithful. Soon her army is to be ready. Soon she will batter
down all the asylum doors. She has her captain to lead the men on. Ha! ha!
she has her captive, and he screams for liberty, and begs for liberty, and
offers to pay for liberty, but he cannot go free. Why, my bonny witches?
Because he is just the man to lead an army to victory. Such a strong arm,
such a quick way, such a bold heart. I saw him kill a man like a flash. He
can kill all the asylum people so, too. I followed him and made him my
captive. Ha! ha! And I have money now—thousands and thousands of

dollars, and I know great secrets. My captive fears me. I could send him to
the dark, cold jail. Ha! ha! ha! ha!”
The weird effect of the words on the listening Dean and Marcus was
indescribable.
They little dreamed the dark mystery that underlay the rambling soliloquy.
They were only startled, terribly awed at the mystic scene.
Not so Daley. Evidently he thought only of recovering the stolen money,
and believed that the moment for action had arrived.
Of a sudden he sprang up from his covert and grasped the woman’s arm,
with a quick order for help to his companion.
“Woman, you are our prisoner.”
A wild cry escaped the lips of Crazy Meg.
She jerked her arm loose. She dashed the flaming torch direct in the face of
her captor.
With a scream of pain and rage, Daley recoiled. Then, like a flash, Crazy
Meg dashed up the ledge and disappeared.
“After her!” shouted Daley, frenzied with pain.
“We can’t climb that ledge,” demurred Spofford.
“Then hasten to the cliffs beyond here. Quick, she must not escape.”
So electrified by all the exciting scene had Marcus and Dean been, that they
had not thought of their enemies coming suddenly their way.
Before they could move aside or retreat, a strange thing happened.
Spofford, rushing away in obedience to Daley’s orders, fell directly over
them, struggled to his feet, seized them, and with a cry of amazement and
suspicion, dragged them into the flare of the torch, which had fallen among
a lot of dry brush that had blazed fiercely, illuminating the vicinity plainly.
“What’s this?” gasped Daley aghast.
“Spies!”
“No! Hold them! hold them!” shouted Daley, as Dean and Marcus
endeavored to wrest themselves from Spofford’s strong grasp. “Why, one of

them is—you young traitor. It’s Bob Grant.”
Marcus Ellison stood condemned. Daley glared fiercely at him, then in
stupefaction at his companion, so like him in dress.
“Dean, now run for it.”
For once, in impulsive excitement, Marcus Ellison had done two unwise
things.
He had counted confidently on being able to escape.
He had inadvertently shouted out Dean Mercer’s real name.
As he spoke he tried to trip Spofford up. The latter was too wary for him,
however, and the attempt failed signally.
“Dean?” repeated Rodney Darringford, coming forward and staring at the
captives. “Tim, look at that boy.”
Tim Downey peered sharply into the face of Dean.
His suspicions aroused by Marcus’ words, he seemed to recognize him.
“It’s Dean Mercer!” he gasped.
“What?” cried Daley, “the boy we sent to the reform school?”
“The same.”
“Impossible!”
“It’s him,” affirmed Tim stoutly. “My, what a get up. Say, Rodney, what
does this mean, with him, of all persons, on the same trail as ourselves?”
The episode of the capture of the boys acted as a complete divertisement
from the quest of the hour, to the plotters.
They secured both boys with ropes. They discussed their capture, the
mystery of their being there, and their possible motives, in low, suspicious
tones.
“We’re in a bad fix, Dean,” whispered Marcus, as they lay side by side on
the ground.
“I fear so.”

“Daley does not know which of us gave the alarm at the judges’s house at
Millville, but he does know that I have played traitor to him.”
“And that I would not be here if it did not mean trouble for him and his
friends.”
Daley was indeed, mystified and suspicious. He could not comprehend how
Dean Mercer had escaped from the reform school.
He talked with Tim confidentially, while he sent Spofford and Rodney to
scour the cliffs for some trace of Crazy Meg.
“See here, Tim,” Marcus heard him say, “what does this all mean?”
“What! Those boys?”
“Yes.”
“Trouble. That fellow Mercer has found out all our plans, that is sure.”
“Maybe he’s told others?”
“I don’t think he’d dare to—he’s afraid of being arrested.”
“What shall we do?”
“I know what I’m going to do.”
“What is that?”
“Make myself scarce.”
“Not run away?”
“Yes. Some time the truth will come out, and of course the burning of the
Spray and the robbing of Mercer will be traced to me. As to Rodney, he
must take care of himself. His father hired me to burn the Spray, and
Rodney cashed the check for the eight thousand dollars. I shall make myself
scarce.”
“When?”
“As soon as we recover the money from Crazy Meg.”
“And these boys?”
“Keep them prisoners.”

“We can’t do that very long.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too much trouble.”
“We can for a day or two, until we find this woman again.”
“And then?”
“Send Mercer back to the reform school, and get some of your friends in
Springfield to take care of the other boy until we are safe out of the
country.”
Just then Spofford and Rodney returned from an unavailing quest for Crazy
Meg.
“No use to-night, Daley,” said Spofford.
“We’ll wait till morning, then.”
Two hours later the quartette was asleep, trusting to the stout bonds that
secured their captives to prevent their escape.
The two boys did not sleep, however. They strained and tugged at their
bonds, but it was no use. They withstood all efforts to sever them.
Finally Dean spoke cautiously.
“Marcus.”
“Yes, Dean?”
“Look there.”
“Where?”
“On the ledge.”
“A moving figure?”
“Yes.”
“It’s the woman.”
“Yes; it must be Crazy Meg.”
In the dim light they watched breathlessly the stealthy form that began to
descend the ledge of rocks.

It reached the last rock, and moved to where the boys were.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
IN OLD MEG’S CAVE.
“Don’t speak!” whispered a low voice.
The woman leaned over and bodily seized Marcus, lifting him in her
powerful arms as if he were a mere child.
She bore him up the ledge of rocks and disappeared, reappeared, and
carrying Dean quite as easily, landed him on the cliff overhead by the side
of Marcus.
Both boys were too astonished to speak. The manner of the woman
indicated an entire absence of any vicious or insane idea. She seemed to be
acting from a friendly and coherent motive.
She cut their bonds with a knife, and glanced fixedly at the boys.
“Do you know me?” she asked.
“Yes,” replied Marcus.
“Who am I?”
“They call you Crazy Meg.”
“Ha! ha! Crazy! Yes, yes, they say so, and those men who tied you up are
bad men?”
“Terribly bad,” replied Marcus.
“They want to rob Meg?”
“Yes. They stole a lot of money and you got it.”
“Did I? Ha! ha! You must get away from here. Do you want to?”
“Yes.”
“Then follow me.”
Meg led the way along a particularly dangerous cliff path. It ended at a
cave-like opening.

“I have been your friend,” she said, “and to send you safely out of the way
of those men to the other side of the valley I must take you through one of
Meg’s houses in the hills.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you be bad enough to say anything about it or lead those bad men
here?”
“No, indeed.”
“Meg will trust you. She had boys once herself, but they died and it broke
her heart, and then they put her in a cruel asylum. But—ha! ha! Meg will
raise an army to batter down its walls. She has her captain now.”
She took up and lit a pine knot, and bade her companions follow her,
leading the way through a dark, underground corridor.
Finally it widened, and here, to the amazement of the boys were evidences
of living, for several articles of furniture and a lot of food on a table
showed.
Piled around, too, were various articles, evidently the result of Meg’s
predatory raids on farmhouses.
At one side was a small aperture in the rock, and chained to a ring in the
solid stone was a man laying asleep.
“Come on! come on!” cried Meg excitedly. “Meg did not mean that you
should see her captain. Come, hasten!”
Dean Mercer obeyed readily enough, but Marcus Ellison was startled. He
had recognized the man chained to the rock, and the fact had been a terrible
revelation to him.
They finally reached an opening some distance on.
“You are now far away from the bad men,” said Meg. “Promise not to
betray her secrets.”
“I promise,” said Marcus. “Can I say a word to you, Meg?”
“What is it?”
“Those bad men locked this boy up in a jail.”

“Bad, bad. Bars, too?”
“Yes; in a dark, cold cell.”
Meg shuddered.
“They stole all his money—the money you got. He dare not go home to his
family; he will be put in jail again because he cannot get the money.”
The simple words seemed to affect Meg deeply. She was silent for several
moments.
“Are you trying to deceive Meg?” she said.
“No.”
“It is his money?”
“Yes, and there were some papers,” continued Marcus earnestly. “Meg, I
know your captain; he is a bad man.”
“But strong, and he would kill the asylum men quick.”
“No, he would kill you, Meg. You know all about him. You know his secret.
You know who killed James Conroyd. My father, Robert Ellison, is accused
of the crime. I am his son. Won’t you help me?”
Dean Mercer stared at Marcus in blank bewilderment. The scene mystified
him.
Marcus had seized the mad woman’s hand and his tears fell upon it.
That wild face softened. Meg seemed battling with strange emotions.
“Boy,” she said finally, “look around you.”
“Yes, Meg.”
“Would you know this place again?”
“Yes.”
“Come here to-night at dusk.”
“I will—I will!”
“Then, when Meg has talked with the witches she will see, she will see.
Now, go.”

The boys walked from the spot.
“Marcus,” cried Dean, “for Mercy’s sake, what did all your wild talk
mean?”
“About my father?”
“Yes.”
“The truth.”
“Meg knows all about James Conroyd’s murder?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Why?”
“Because that prisoner of hers—her captain, she calls him——”
“Yes, yes?”
“Is James Conroyd’s old hired man, Manseur, and his murderer.”
The minute the two boys were gone the demented woman began feeling in a
cranny in the rock near the exit from the cave.
Her bright eyes gleamed as she groped about, and drew forth first parts of
some dried meat and then pieces of string and paper.
Some birds fluttered away as she did this, as if they had discovered this
cranny in Meg’s storehouse, and had been pillaging its contents.
“Gone!” muttered the woman in some dismay. “The package that had the
money and the papers is not here.”
She groped vainly in the cavity. Evidently she had there secreted the money
and the papers that she had taken from Tim and Rodney in the old cabin.
Now they were gone.
“Who has taken it?” she gasped. “Ah! maybe the witches sent the eagles for
it. Those boys! they make me feel sad. But Meg has her captive. Meg must
think of herself and her army.”
Meantime, the boys had left the vicinity of the cave, and they thought it best
to hide in a thicket near the road until the time for again seeing Meg
arrived.

Marcus Ellison had explained his suspicions to Dean.
“That woman certainly knows something about the murder for which my
father has been arrested,” he said.
“She may not have known the value of the papers.”
“Oh, I do not judge from that.”
“What then?”
“Her talk about crime and her captive.”
“You are sure you know him?”
“Yes, James Conroyd’s old hired man.”
“That’s the man Lawyer Montague believed was the murderer.”
“I think so, too.”
“He tried to cast the guilt on your father?”
“I know that.”
“And as soon as Lawyer Montague began watching him, Manseur ran
away.”
“He didn’t run far, it seems,” remarked Marcus.
“No, Meg has him.”
“Yes; and she has some secret about him that she boasts of, as you heard
her. Oh! I am certain she knows everything about him and Conroyd’s
murderer.”

CHAPTER XXXIV.
IN A HARD PLIGHT.
They were hungry and sleepy, but about eight o’clock that morning several
vehicles passed down the road near them, and a boy came by with a basket
of apples, and Dean ventured to steal forth and beg some of him.
Then he and Marcus slept until noon. Then they talked and worried, and
finally Marcus said:
“Dean, I’m going back to the cave.”
“What for?”
“To see Meg.”
“But she said not to come until night.”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t find the way at night.”
Dean was quite as anxious as Marcus, and they retraced their way to the
hills.
Without much difficulty they located the entrance to the cave. Here Marcus
paused.
“What had we better do?” he asked of Dean.
“Wait here for Meg.”
“Until night?”
“Yes; she said so.”
“I’m afraid she’ll forget all about us.”
“Then let us seek her.”
“Come on.”
It was a venturesome and dubious experiment threading the mazy labyrinths
of the cave.

They groped on and on, and finally emerged into an open space, but the
darkness was intense.
“I am sure that this is the main room in the cave,” said Marcus.
“Have you a match?”
“Yes.”
“Light it.”
Marcus did so. Its rays revealing some pine knots near by, he ignited one.
“Yes; this is the central cave,” he affirmed.
“Where the captive was?”
“Exactly.”
“But he?”
“Gone. There is the chain and the ring in the rock.”
The man Marcus had recognized as Manseur had disappeared.
There was, furthermore, no trace of Meg.
The boys stared wonderingly about the place.
“Dean,” said Marcus finally, after a pause, “it looks queer here.”
“Like a struggle.”
“Yes, or some one throwing things about.”
“There’s been some kind of trouble since we were here.”
“What do you think?”
“Those men.”
“Our enemies?”
“Yes.”
“You think they have been here?”
“I fear so,” replied Dean. “It looks as if some one had been searching for
something all over the cave, and in so doing had disturbed things.”

“Shall we go on?”
“I guess so.”
The boys now pursued the other corridor leading from the cave toward the
witches’ sugar bowl.
Soon they came to where daylight showed and extinguished the torch.
Dean was in the lead, and just as he reached the opening he started back
with a cry of dismay.
“What is it, Dean?” asked Marcus excitedly.
“Look yonder.”
“Not the woman?”
“No, Daley and Tim.”
Both boys peered toward a little hollow where a small campfire burned.
Seated near it were two figures, recognized by the startled Marcus as Tim
Downey and Daley.
They seemed to be engaged in earnest conversation, and a grim, resolute
expression came into the face of Marcus Ellison, as he realized that a
knowledge of its details would prove of the utmost importance to them.
“You wait here, Dean,” he said.
“What for; what are you going to do?”
“Get nearer to those fellows.”
“Don’t try it, Marcus.”
“I must.”
“You’ll certainly be seen.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Some of the others may return!”
“You watch out, and whistle if they do.”
Marcus crept on the ground to a clump of thick bushes that lined the hollow,
in which sat Tim and Daley.

He listened intently, all unsuspected by the talkers.
The latter was indeed discussing themes of vital interest to Marcus and
Dean.
“Yes, we’ll leave here,” Daley was saying.
“When?” asked Tim.
“As soon as the others return. We’re beat all around.”
“Yes, Meg is done for.”
“Drowned, sure! We almost had her.”
Marcus was filled with dismay.
Meg drowned!
If this was true, farewell to all hopes of ever establishing the innocence of
his father.
“You see,” continued Daley, “we were too precipitate.”
“We found the cave here and went in. In the centre we found a man chained
to a ring in the solid rock.”
“Who was he, I wonder?”
“Some victim of Meg’s crazy plan,” he said. “Anyway, he offered to show
us all her hiding places he knew of if we released him, and we did it.”
“And we searched everywhere?”
“Yes, and found nothing. Then we came outside. The man told us of another
cave by the river yonder, and ran away.”
“We went there.”
“And found Meg.”
“She ran.”
“We pursued her, and she fell over the cliff into the river. I saw her sink.
Spofford and Rodney have gone to try and find her body, in the hopes that
the stolen money may be on her, but the current is swift, and I guess it is a
hopeless task.”

“I guess so, too,” replied Tim. “We may as well say good-by to the money.”
“Sure!”
“And we’re paupers?”
“It looks so.”
“I’m bound to have money, I’m bound to leave the country. That fellow
Mercer is free, and he certainly knows our plots. Perhaps he has already
gone to the police with his story.”
“That’s so,” muttered Daley uneasily.
“So I say, we must get money and leave the country.”
“That’s easily said.”
“And easily done.”
“How?”
“I have a plan.”
“To get money?”
“Lots of it.”
“Tell it to me. You’re a keen ’un, Tim,” Tim’s eyes glowed cunningly.
“Will you help me?” he asked.
“Certainly.”
“And do as I say?”
“Yes.”
“I shall scheme to get ten thousand dollars.”
“That’s a heap.”
“I intend to get it.”
“Who from?”
“Colonel Darringford.”
Daley started.

“Rodney’s father?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I’ll tell you,” replied Tim with a mysterious chuckle.

CHAPTER XXXV.
STARTLING ADVENTURES.
Tim Downey was full of schemes, and his present confident manner
indicated that he had one that promised more than ordinary results, to his
way of thinking.
“I’ve got a good one,” he said. “I’ve thought it all out.”
“What is it?” queried the eager Daley.
“I go quietly to Springfield.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Necessary?”
“Particularly so. I keep very shady, for that Mercer may have the police
looking for me; so I dare not venture to Millville. In the first place, I must
have a quiet and safe room for a day or two.”
“Take mine.”
“At Boyer’s Hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Got the key?”
“Here it is, and rent paid ahead for a month.”
“Good! That just suits me. What’s the matter?”
Daley looked somewhat troubled, as, after producing the key, he continued
to grope in his pockets.
“I’ve lost something,” he muttered.
“What?”
“My little change-wallet. In the cave, I guess.”

“Much in it?”
“No; a few dollars. Go on.”
“Well, I get the room and write a letter to Colonel Darringford, at Millville,
or to the steamer, in Springfield.”
“Yes, yes!”
“I tell him if he is wise and wishes to save trouble he will come at once to
Boyer’s Hotel.”
“Will he do it?”
“I’ll give him a hint that will make him.”
“And Spofford and I?”
“Stay here.”
“And Rodney?”
“Keep him with you, at all hazards. If he gets restive and wants to leave, tie
him up; but keep him, for his being here is a part of my plot.”
“I see.”
“Tell him that I’ve gone to get some money you had in bank in the city.”
“All right.”
“When Colonel Darringford comes to my room I tell him that I’m in
trouble, all on account of him; make up a great story about Rodney being a
forger and the like, and say that unless I can get money to leave the country,
I shall go to the police and turn State’s evidence, and swear that he hired me
to burn the Spray, and that Rodney stole the eight thousand dollars.”
“Capital!” cried Daley enthusiastically.
“Then I shall demand——”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“Will he pay it?”
“If he don’t, I’ll tell him that a villain——”

“Meaning me?” grinned Daley.
“Exactly.”
“Well, what then?”
“I’ll tell him that you have Rodney locked up in a horrible dungeon, and
that you will never release him except to hand him over to the police as a
forger, unless he pays me the ten thousand dollars.”
“Tim, you’re a genius!” exclaimed Daley admiringly.
“I guess that will fetch the colonel.”
“Without a doubt.”
“You can wait here, and maybe yet find the money.”
“We’ll try it.”
“And keep Rodney?”
“Never fear.”
“I must have some money.”
“I’ll give you a hundred.”
Just then Dean Mercer, peering from the cave opening, made a discovery.
Some distance down the valley he saw two forms.
Spofford and Rodney were returning to the camp in the hollow.
Marcus was so engrossed in listening to the conversation of the two
plotters, and so situated that he did not see their returning allies.
Dean wished to warn him, but he feared that if he whistled as agreed upon,
it might attract Daley’s attention.
He groped about for a piece of loose stone to throw at Marcus.
As he did so, his fingers clutched at something soft and yielding lying on
the floor of the cave.
“A purse!” he murmured surprisedly.
It was Daley’s lost purse.

Dean pocketed it, and picked up a small stone.
This he flung with such accuracy at Marcus that the latter turned in his
crouching attitude and looked at him.
Dean made violent motions, indicating trouble, and Marcus crept back to
the cave.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Spofford and Rodney are coming.”
“Glad you warned me. Oh, yes, I see them. Wait; we are safe to watch them
for a time.”
Dean could see by Marcus’ face that he had discovered something
unfavorable to their plans.
On the arrival of Spofford and Rodney there was a conference and then Tim
left them, and the other three came toward the cave as if intending to take
up their quarters there, Daley glancing all about him in evident quest of the
lost purse.
“Come, Dean,” said Marcus hurriedly, “we must retreat. They are coming
this way.”
The boys did not talk as they hastened back the way they had come.
It was only when they had gone clear through the cave again and come out
at its other exit that Marcus spoke.
He led the way to a thicket and sat down on a fallen tree, with a gloomy
sigh.
“You look discouraged, Marcus,” said Dean anxiously.
“I am.”
“Bad news?”
“The very worst.”
“Oh, I hope not.”
“Yes, Meg is dead.”
“Dead! oh, that cannot be!” cried the startled Dean.

“Yes, drowned.”
“Then our hopes——”
“Of ever recovering the lost papers and money die with her. Those
scoundrels pursued her and drove her to her death. They have searched for
the money in the cave and could not find it, and no more might we, even if
they did not intend to remain there for several days. No, Meg’s body is
probably beyond recovering, and the papers and money hidden in some out-
of-the-way place, never to be found again.”
“It’s terrible!” gasped Dean.
“Yes, for my father. But I must not despair. That man, Manseur, has fled. I
believe him to be the real murderer of James Conroyd. The trial comes off
in two weeks. Dean, we must separate. You must go to Springfield at once.
There is nothing but heroic measures left to us now. I must do alone what I
can to aid my father. Failing, I shall appear in court on the day of the trial,
tell my story, and hope to have some effect upon the decision of the jury.”
“And me, Marcus?”
“You must now think only of proving your own innocence and baffling the
villains who have robbed and disgraced you,” and then, to Dean’s
astonishment, Marcus told of Tim Downey’s latest scheme to secure money.
He told Dean what he must do—go to the city and keep track of Tim, day
and night, until he saw Colonel Darringford.
At any moment that he thought propitious he was to have Tim arrested—if
possible, when he got the money from Colonel Darringford.
He was also to send officers to arrest Daley and the others at the cave.
“Arrested, some one of them will confess the truth to save himself,” said
Marcus confidently, “and circumstances will make your claims plausible.”
“But I myself will be arrested!”
“Never fear if you are. I will be on hand later to add my evidence to yours
to convict these villains. You, at least, will come out triumphant.”
“And you, Marcus?”

“If I save you and my father, I don’t care if they send me back to the reform
school for life!” cried Marcus doughtily.
They walked on for over a mile. Dean told of the purse he had found. It
contained nearly twenty dollars in silver.
“We need it, and we won’t hesitate to use it,” said Marcus as they divided
its contents. “Now then, Dean, you to the city, I to the quest of Manseur. Be
wary, and act just at the right minute.”
“I’ll try.”
They passed some boys quarreling over some stolen pears in a field,
ascended a hill, and at its summit Marcus said:
“There’s your road to Springfield, I shall return to Portsmouth.”
“Hold on!” exclaimed Dean as they were about to say adieu. “Look over
yonder, Marcus!”
“Hello! that boy is in trouble.”
“I should say so!”
“Shall we help him?”
“I guess we had better.”
At the edge of a cliff they discovered a strange and startling scene.
Four boys had attempted to reach an eagle’s nest by lowering a rope over
the ledge.
They had lowered one of their number and he had just reached the nest
when the mother bird came flying to the spot and attacked him.
The boys above threw sticks and stones at the bird, and Dean and Marcus,
reaching the spot, helped to draw the imperilled adventurer, badly
frightened, to the top of the cliff.
“Couldn’t hold on to the young eagle, the old one pecked at me so!” he
said.
“I guess you won’t try again, youngster,” laughed Dean.
“Yes, I will. I saw something else down there.”

“What was that?”
“A lot of money.”
“Nonsense!”
“I tell you, I did.”
“Money?”
“Yes.”
“Gold, you mean?”
“No, greenbacks.”
Marcus looked curious and incredulous.
He peered over the ledge of the cliff:
“Dean,” he said, “there is certainly a package down there that looks like
money.”
“But it can’t be.”
“I’ve a mind to climb down and see.”
“Take care of the eagle.”
Marcus grasped a short cudgel in one hand and descended the rope.
He uttered a startled cry as he saw lying among the litter about the rock, a
package secured in manilla paper.
One end had been pecked out so as to show the ends of bank notes.
Near it lay a large envelope, discolored and torn, but he made out on it the
address:
“Mr. Durand, Attorney, Springfield.”
Near it lay a lot of pieces of paper, evidently its inclosure, but the eagles
had so picked it to pieces that only fragments of the original papers
remained.
Marcus Ellison gathered up every scrap of paper and secured them, the
envelope and the money package, in his coat.
He was very pale as he again reached the cliff.

He gave one of the boys a silver coin, and said to Dean:
“Come on!”
At a safe distance from the boys, Marcus took out pieces of paper. Dean
watched him in wonderment.
“Dean,” spoke Marcus huskily at last, “I have found the papers that prove
my father’s innocence.”
“What?” cried Dean.
“Yes, but torn to pieces. Here a word, there a letter. They are useless. That
proof has gone forever, for the eagles have eaten away whole portions of it,
but from the envelope I know that I must be right.”
Yes, Marcus was right, but the discovery was of no avail, for the fragments
could not be connected, and with a sigh of despair Marcus threw them
away.
“The eagle must have carried the package here from some of Meg’s hiding
places,” theorized Dean.
This was true. In the crevice near the exit from the cave Meg kept a lot of
dried meat. In this she had placed the package for safe-keeping, and the
eagle had rifled it, and strangely brought it to the nest where Marcus had
found it.
The money was safe, only a few bills being torn. They counted it—seven
thousand two hundred and fifty dollars.
Then they discussed new plans. Dean secured the money in his coat, bade
Marcus an unwilling adieu, and the next day reached Springfield, on the
track of Tim Downey.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
TIM DOWNEY ARRESTED.
Two days later, just at dusk, some startling occurrences were to be
witnessed in the vicinity of Boyer’s Hotel in Springfield.
Since the day previous, a strangely dressed boy had occupied Daley’s room.
It was the scheming Tim Downey.
Tim had replaced his old clothes with new ones, and having an opportunity
to secure cheap the discarded suit of a lackey, he presented a decidedly
comical appearance in his attire, and fancied that no one would recognize
him in it.
He at once wrote a letter to Colonel Darringford at Millville as soon as he
reached the city.
It was a vaguely worded epistle, and hinted that the colonel would save
serious trouble for himself and his son by coming alone to a certain room at
Boyer’s Hotel that night.
At the hotel was a close spy on Tim, although he little suspected it.
Dean Mercer had acted wisely and cautiously, and had secured the very
next room to that occupied by Tim.
He had cut a small hole in the partition between the two rooms, and so
closely did he watch Tim and overhear his hopeful soliloquies, that he knew
that the latter expected Colonel Darringford that night.
He did not, however, know where Tim intended to meet him, and at dusk
Dean went to a doorway near the hotel entrance and lingered there,
determined, if Tim came out, to follow him wherever he went.
Dean had resolved on a definite plan of action now, in pursuance of Marcus
Ellison’s suggestions.
He resolved to learn the result of Tim’s interview with Colonel Darringford,
then he would hasten to the police and demand his arrest, and if the colonel

gave Tim a large sum of money as he expected, its possession by Tim
would go to prove Dean’s assertions.
Dean lingered in the doorway watching the hotel entrance, but Tim did not
come out.
“I guess if he expects the colonel it is at his room” decided Dean at last.
“Hello! there is the very man.”
Yes, Colonel Darringford came slowly down the street at that moment.
He was not alone. A companion, who seemed to be only walking his way,
was with him.
“It’s the town marshal at Millville,” murmured Dean somewhat
concernedly. “They shake hands, and Morton goes on, but the colonel has
entered the hotel. I must get to my room and see all that goes on—stop, sir!
What do you mean?”
“Well! well! it is Dean Mercer!”
Dean struggled in a strong grasp. He had crossed the road, forgetting all
about the town marshal.
The latter had seen him, stared at him, and now he held him firmly—a
prisoner.
Dean was too overcome to speak.
“Disguised yet, eh? But I know you. How lucky I chanced to walk this way
with the colonel from the steamer!” chuckled Morton. “Dean, you’ve led us
a troublesome chase. But I’ve got you now!”
“Mr. Morton!” gasped Dean.
“Well?”
“You mean to arrest me?”
“Ha! ha! I should say so!” cried the marshal exultantly.
“Please don’t!”
“Ho! ho!”
“That is, just now,” pleaded Dean desperately. “I won’t try to escape, honest
I won’t. I never burned the Spray, I never robbed Judge Oglesby!”

“Oh, you didn’t? Well, you will come on to jail!”
“Do you want to learn the truth—do you want to recover the money that
was stolen?” asked Dean.
“Certainly.”
“Then come with me, only for a minute, Mr. Morton. I promise you I won’t
try to escape, only you must come with me into that hotel, and I will prove
to you that I am innocent.”
The marshal hesitated.
“No tricks!” he said sternly. “Lead the way.”
“Cautiously, sir.”
Morton clutched Dean tighter as the latter led the way to his room and then
to the hole in the partition that looked into Tim Downey’s room.
“Now, sir, look and listen!”
In amazement Morton peered into the adjoining apartment.
“Incredible!” he gasped.
For within the next half-hour he heard Tim Downey accuse Colonel
Darringford of having hired him to burn the Spray.
He heard the colonel admit it.
Tim told how Dean had been drugged and robbed, and how Rodney had
cashed the eight thousand dollar check.
The craven colonel promised to pay Tim’s demand to free his son and
remove the possibility of arrest for his share in the burning of the Spray.
“The villains!” gasped Morton. “Dean, you are indeed an innocent,
wronged victim of a terrible plot.”
“Will you arrest them, sir?” asked Dean eagerly.
“The colonel, no. We must proceed cautiously.”
“But, Tim?”
“Yes.”

Colonel Darringford left the hotel. A minute later the astounded Tim
Downey was confronted by the Millville marshal.
He slept in the city jail that night. Before morning he had confessed
everything, under a promise of light punishment for his share in the plot
against Dean Mercer.
That night, too, several policemen left Springfield to arrest Daley, Spofford
and Rodney at the cave near Portsmouth.
And the next morning a messenger left for Millville to bring Judge Oglesby
and Lawyer Montague at once to Springfield.

CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE RECKONING.
The news of the happening of the last few days flew rapidly, as news good
and bad usually does. The papers in Springfield devoted columns with
flaring headlines, to the developments of affairs which effected so many.
“See!” cried pretty Eva Oglesby, running to her father and mother with the
paper in her hand, “Dean has found out the whole cause of the trouble
against him, and caught the wicked persons.
“Tim Downey has confessed to his wrongdoings and confirmed Dean’s
story. Rodney Darringford—only think of it!—was with him in his crimes.
And Colonel Darringford actually hired Tim to burn the Spray! Can you
realize that, papa? Tim hired two men to do his nasty work, and Dean has
captured them.”
“A wonderful boy indeed,” said Judge Oglesby, with a smile, for secretly he
felt as glad as his daughter that his favorite had proved himself of sterling
truth and worth.
A few days later the trial of Tim Downey and his associates came on the
docket at Springfield. That is, Daley and Spofford were tried, but Colonel
Darringford and his son had disappeared and they were never seen in that
vicinity again. So they escaped trial by the court, but we feel certain they
had learned a lesson which lasted them through life.
Tim was sent to the reform school and his confederates to the penitentiary.
In the midst of this trial Marcus Ellison appeared, accompanied by the
woman who had been known as Crazy Meg. Manseur, who was wanted so
much, had been found by Marcus, but he was suffering from a fall and
could not come hither. In fact, he had but a few days to live.
Marcus had found Meg near to the river nearly dead and he had nursed her
back to life. Her reason had returned and her story of the murder of James
Conroyd, with the confession of the man who did it, Manseur, vindicated
Robert Ellison of all charges.

The details of this trial need not be given. It is sufficient to say that Dean
Mercer was shown to be innocent of any wrongdoing and all charges
against him were removed.
At a sale of the effects of the missing Colonel Darringford, Judge Oglesby
bought the steamer Warrior, which was then being repaired. He caused the
boat to be given a thorough overhauling and the result was that Dean
Mercer found himself in command of a steamer that did good service.
Finding that at last they would be accommodated satisfactorily, the people
began to patronize the boat, and it wasn’t long before a second was needed.
Judge Oglesby had prepared for this and the result was something
marvelous to the inhabitants of Millville. Business immediately revived;
summer tourists came there to spend their vacations, and traffic of one kind
and another immediately sprang up.
Marcus Ellison was given employment and he joined with Dean in the
upbuilding of the Lake Shore Line.
Of course Jack Carboy became the man at the wheel on the Warrior, until
he and Captain Mercer were transferred to the new Spray, which is now in
the midst of a splendid career.
THE END.

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Transcriber’s Notes:
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.
Table of contents has been added and placed into the public domain by the transcriber.

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