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Robert Coverdale's Struggle

by Jr. Horatio Alger · English · Gutenberg #30372 · 373,020 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Robert Coverdale's Struggle

Author: Jr. Horatio Alger


        
Release date: October 31, 2009 [eBook #30372]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROBERT COVERDALE'S STRUGGLE ***

Robert Coverdale’s Struggle

By HORATIO ALGER, Jr.

Author of “Tom Temple’s Career,”
“Tom Thatcher’s Fortune,” “Tom Turner’s Legacy,”
“The Train Boy,” Etc.


A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK




ROBERT COVERDALE’S STRUGGLE


CHAPTER I

A FISHERMAN’S CABIN


“Robert, have you seen anything of your uncle?”

“No, aunt.”

“I suppose he’s over at the tavern as usual,” said the woman
despondently. “He drinks up about all he earns, and there’s little
enough left for us. I hope you won’t follow in his steps, Robert.”

“You may be sure I won’t, Aunt Jane,” said the boy, nodding
emphatically. “I wouldn’t drink a glass of rum for a hundred dollars.”

“God keep you in that resolution, my dear boy! I don’t want my sister’s
son to go to destruction as my husband is doing.”

My story opens in a small fishing village on the coast of one of the New
England States. Robert Coverdale, whom I have briefly introduced, is the
young hero whose fortunes I propose to record.

He is a strong, well-made boy, with a frank, honest face, embrowned by
exposure to the sun and wind, with bright and fearless eyes and a manly
look. I am afraid his dress would not qualify him to appear to advantage
in a drawing-room.

He wore a calico shirt and well-patched trousers of great antiquity and
stockings and cowhide shoes sadly in need of repairs.

Some of my well-dressed boy readers, living in cities and large towns,
may be disposed to turn up their noses at this ragged boy and wonder at
my taste in choosing such a hero.

But Robert had manly traits, and, in spite of his poor clothes,
possessed energy, talent, honesty and a resolute will, and a boy so
endowed cannot be considered poor, though he does not own a dollar,
which was precisely Robert’s case.

Indeed, I may go further and say that never in the course of his life of
fifteen years had he been able to boast the ownership of a hundred
cents.

John Trafton, his uncle, was a fisherman. His small house, or cabin, was
picturesquely situated on the summit of a cliff, at the foot of which
rolled the ocean waves, and commanded a fine sea view.

That was perhaps its only recommendation, for it was not only small, but
furnished in the plainest and scantiest style. The entire furniture of
the house would not have brought twenty-five dollars at auction, yet for
twenty-five years it had been the home of John and Jane Trafton and for
twelve years of their nephew, Robert.

My readers will naturally ask if the fisherman had no children of his
own. There was a son who, if living, would be twenty-three years old,
but years before he had left home, and whether Ben Trafton was living or
dead, who could tell? Nothing had been heard of him for five years.

Mrs. Trafton’s affections had only Robert for their object, and to her
sister’s son she was warmly attached--nearly as much so as if he had
been her own son.

Her husband’s love of drink had gradually alienated her from him, and
she leaned upon Robert, who was always ready to serve her with boyish
devotion and to protect her, if need be, from the threats of her
husband, made surly by drink.

Many days she would have gone to bed supperless but for Robert. He would
push out to sea in his uncle’s boat, catch a supply of fish, selling a
part if he could or trade a portion for groceries. Indeed he did more
for the support of the family than John Trafton did himself.

“It’s about time for supper, Robert,” said his aunt; “but I’ve only got
a little boiled fish to offer you.”

“Fish is good for the brains. Aunt Jane,” said Robert, smiling.

“Well, I suppose it’s no use waiting for your uncle. If he’s at the
tavern, he will stay there until he is full of liquor and then he will
reel home. Come in and sit down to the table.”

Robert entered the cabin and sat down at a side table. His aunt brought
him a plate of boiled fish and a potato.

“I found just one potato in the cupboard, Robert,” she said.

“Then eat it yourself, aunt. Don’t give it to me.”

“No, Robert; I’ve got a little toast for myself. There was a slice of
bread too dry to eat as it was, so I toasted it and soaked it in hot
water. That suits me better than the potato.”

“Haven’t you any tea, aunt--for yourself, I mean?” Robert added quickly.
“I don’t care for it, but I know you do.”

“I wish I had some. Tea always goes to the right spot,” said Mrs.
Trafton; “but I couldn’t find a single leaf.”

“What a pity!” said Robert regretfully.

“Yes,” sighed Mrs. Trafton; “we have to do without almost everything. It
might be so different if Mr. Trafton wouldn’t drink.”

“Did he always drink?”

“He’s drank, more or less, for ten years, but the habit seems to have
grown upon him. Till five years ago two-thirds of his earnings came to
me to spend for the house, but now I don’t average a dollar a week.”

“It’s too bad, Aunt Jane!” said Robert energetically.

“So it is, but it does no good to say so. It won’t mend matters.”

“I wish I was a man.”

“I am glad you are not, Robert.”

“Why are you glad that I am a boy?” asked Robert in surprise.

“Because when you are a man you won’t stay here. You will go out into
the world to better yourself, and I shan’t blame you. Then I shall be
left alone with your uncle, and Heaven only knows how I shall get along.
I shall starve very likely.”

Robert pushed back his chair from the table and looked straight at his
aunt.

“Do you think, Aunt Jane,” he demanded indignantly, “that I will desert
you and leave you to shift for yourself?”

“I said, Robert, that I shouldn’t blame you if you did. There isn’t much
to stay here for.”

“I am sorry you have such a poor opinion of me, Aunt Jane,” said the boy
gravely. “I am not quite so selfish as all that. I certainly should like
to go out into the world, but I won’t go unless I can leave you
comfortable.”

“I should miss you, Robert, I can’t tell how much, but I don’t want to
tie you down here when you can do better. There isn’t much for me to
live for--I’m an old woman already--but better times may be in store for
you.”

“You are not an old woman, Aunt Jane. You are not more than fifty.”

“I am just fifty, Robert, but I feel sometimes as if I were seventy.”

“Do you know, Aunt Jane, I sometimes think that brighter days are coming
to both of us? Sometimes, when I sit out there on the cliff and look out
to sea, I almost fancy I can see a ship coming in laden with good things
for us.”

Mrs. Trafton smiled faintly.

“I have waited a long time for my ship to come in, Robert,” she said.
“I’ve waited year after year, but it hasn’t come yet.”

“It may come for all that.”

“You are young and hopeful. Yours may come in some day, but I don’t
think mine ever will.”

“Have you anything for me to do, aunt?”

“Not at present, Robert.”

“Then I’ll study a little.”

There was an unpainted wooden shelf which Robert had made himself and on
it were half a dozen books--his sole library.

From this shelf he took down a tattered arithmetic and a slate and
pencil, and, going out of doors, flung himself down on the cliff and
opened the arithmetic well toward the end.

“I’ll try this sum in cube root,” he said to himself. “I got it wrong
the last time I tried.”

He worked for fifteen minutes and a smile of triumph lit up his face.

“It comes right,” he said. “I think I understand cube root pretty well
now. It was a good idea working by myself. When I left school I had only
got through fractions. That’s seventy-five pages back and I understand
all that I have tried since. I won’t be satisfied till I have gone to
the end of the very last page.”

Here his aunt came to the door of the cabin and called “Robert.”

“All right, aunt; I’m coming.”

The boy rose to his feet and answered the summons.




CHAPTER II

ROBERT AND MRS. JONES


“Are you willing to go to the village for me, Robert?” asked his aunt.

“To be sure I am, aunt,” answered the boy promptly. “I hope you don’t
doubt it?”

“I thought you might be tired, as you were out all the forenoon in the
boat.”

“That’s sport, Aunt Jane. That doesn’t tire me.”

“It would if you were not very strong for a boy.”

“Yes, I am pretty strong,” said Robert complacently, extending his
muscular arms. “I can row the boat when the tide is very strong. What
errand have you got for me to the village, aunt?”

“I have been doing a little sewing for Mrs. Jones.”

“You mean the landlord’s wife?” questioned Robert.

“Yes; I don’t feel very friendly toward her husband, for it’s he that
sells strong drink to my husband and keeps his earnings from me, but I
couldn’t refuse work from her when she offered it to me.”

Mrs. Trafton spoke half apologetically, for it had cost her a pang to
work for her enemy’s family, but Robert took a practical view of the
matter.

“Her money is as good as anybody’s,” he said. “I don’t see why you
shouldn’t take it. She has enough of our money.”

“That’s true, Robert,” said his aunt, her doubts removed by her young
nephew’s logic.

“Is the bundle ready. Aunt Jane?”

“Here it is, Robert,” and the fisherman’s wife handed him a small
parcel, wrapped in a fragment of newspaper.

“How much is she to pay for the work?”

“I hardly know what to ask. I guess twenty-five cents will be about
right.”

“Very well, Aunt Jane. Any other errands?”

“If you get the money, Robert, you may stop at the store and buy a
quarter of a pound of their cheapest tea. I am afraid it’s extravagant
in me to buy tea when there’s so little coming in, but it cheers me up
when I get low-spirited and helps me to bear what I have to bear.”

“Of course you must have some tea, Aunt Jane,” said Robert quickly.
“Nobody can charge you with extravagance. Anything more?”

“You may stop at the baker’s and buy a loaf of bread. Then
to-morrow--please God--we’ll have a good breakfast.”

“All right, aunt!” and Robert began to walk rapidly toward the village,
about a mile inland.

Poor woman! Her idea of a good breakfast was a cup of tea, without milk
or sugar, and bread, without butter.

It had not always been so, but her husband’s intemperance had changed
her ideas and made her accept thankfully what once she would have
disdained.

It must be said of Robert that, though he had the hearty appetite of a
growing boy, he never increased his aunt’s sorrow by complaining of
their meager fare, but always preserved a cheerful demeanor in the midst
of their privations.

I have said that the settlement, which was known as Cook’s Harbor, was a
fishing village, but this is not wholly correct. A mile inland was a
village of fair size, which included the houses of several summer
residents from the city, and these were more or less pretentious.

Several comfortable houses belonged to sea captains who had retired from
active duties and anchored in the village where they first saw the
light.

The cabins of the fishermen were nearer the sea, and of these there were
some twenty, but they were not grouped together.

I have said that the main village was a mile away. Here was the tavern,
the grocery store and the shops of the tailor and shoemaker. Here was
centered the social life of Cook’s Harbor. Here, unfortunately, the
steps of John Trafton too often tended, for he always brought up at the
tavern and seldom came home with a cent in his pocket.

Robert was no laggard, and it did not take him long to reach the
village.

Just in the center stood the tavern, a rambling building of two stories,
with an L, which had been added within a few years.

During the summer there were generally boarders from the city, who
considered that the invigorating sea air, with its healthful influences,
counterbalanced the rather primitive accommodations and homely fare with
which they must perforce be content.

By hook or crook Nahum Jones--or Nick Jones as he was called--had
managed to accumulate a snug competence, but much of it was gained by
his profit on liquor.

He was a thrifty man, whose thrift extended to meanness, and his wife
was thoroughly selfish. They had but one child--a daughter--who bade
fair to be an old maid.

Though Robert had made no objection to carry the work to the tavern, he
didn’t enjoy his visit in anticipation.

He disliked both Mr. and Mrs. Jones, but felt that this must not
interfere with his aunt’s business.

He went round to a side door and knocked. The door was opened by the
daughter--Selina Jones.

“Well, Robert,” she said abruptly, “what’s wanted?”

“Is your mother at home?”

“I suppose she is.”

“Can I see her?”

“I don’t know--I guess she’s busy. Won’t I do as well?”

“I would rather see your mother.”

Upon this Selina summoned her mother, not thinking it necessary to
invite our hero into the house.

“Oh, I see!” said Mrs. Jones as she glanced at the bundle in Robert’s
hand. “You’ve brought back the work I gave your aunt.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Let me look at it.”

She took the bundle, opened it and ran her eye rapidly over it.

“It’ll do,” she said. “Might have been better done, but it’ll answer.”

She was about to close the door, as if her business with Robert was at
an end, but this did not suit our hero.

“It will be twenty-five cents,” he said in a business-like tone.

“Were you afraid I would forget to pay you?” asked Mrs. Jones rather
sourly.

“No, ma’am, but I supposed you would like to know how much it would
be.”

“Very well; now I know.”

If Robert had been easily abashed he would have dropped the matter there
and suffered her to take her time about paying, but he knew that his
aunt’s intended purchasing must be made with ready money and he
persisted.

“I would like the money now,” he said, “for I am going to the store to
buy something.”

“It seems to me you are in a great hurry,” said Mrs. Jones
unpleasantly.

“So would you be, Mrs. Jones,” said Robert bluntly, “if you were as poor
as my aunt.”

“Folks needn’t be poor if they are smart,” said the landlord’s wife.

“I suppose you know where my uncle’s money goes?” said Robert
pointedly.

Mrs. Jones did know, and, though she had not much of a conscience, she
felt the thrust and it made her uncomfortable and therefore angry. But
it also gave her an idea.

“Wait a minute,” she said and left Robert standing in the doorway.

When she returned, which was in a short time, her thin lips were
wreathed with satisfaction.

“You can tell your aunt there won’t be any money coming to her,” she
said.

“Why not?” demanded Robert in great surprise.

“Mr. Jones tells me that your uncle is indebted to him, and he will
credit him with twenty-five cents on account.”

“What does my uncle owe him for?” demanded the boy with flashing eyes.

“For drink, I suppose,” said Mrs. Jones rather reluctantly.

“For drink!” repeated our hero. “Are you not satisfied with taking all
my uncle’s earnings, but you must get my aunt to work her fingers to the
bone and then keep back her money in payment for your rum?”

“Upon my word, Robert Coverdale,” said Mrs. Jones sharply, “you are very
impudent! How dare you speak to me in that way?”

“How dare you treat my aunt so meanly?” retorted Robert with righteous
indignation.

“I won’t stand your impudence--so there! Your aunt needn’t expect any
more sewing to do,” said the angry landlady.

“She wouldn’t take any more of your work if that is the way you mean to
pay her.”

“I won’t stand here talking with you. I’ll get Mr. Jones to give you a
horsewhipping--see if I don’t!”

“He’d better not try it,” said Robert with flashing eyes.

The door was slammed in his face, and, angry and disappointed, he walked
slowly out of the tavern yard.




CHAPTER III

THE WIND BROUGHT GOOD LUCK


John Trafton was sitting out on the porch of the tavern when his nephew
came out of the side gate.

“There’s your nephew, Trafton,” said old Ben Brandon, who, like John
Trafton, frequented the barroom too much for his good. “Hasn’t come here
for his dram, has he?” added the old man, chuckling.

John Trafton’s curiosity was excited, for he had no idea of any errand
that could bring Robert to the tavern. A suspicion crossed his mind, the
very thought of which kindled his indignation. His wife might have sent
to request Mr. Jones not to sell him any more liquor. He did not think
she would dare to do it, but she might. At any rate he determined to
find out.

He hastily left the porch and followed Robert. Presently the boy heard
his uncle call him and he turned round.

“What’s wanted, uncle?” he inquired.

“Where have you been, Robert?”

“I called to see Mrs. Jones.”

“What did you want of Mrs. Jones?”

“It was an errand for Aunt Jane.”

“Will you answer my question?” said Trafton angrily. “What business has
your aunt got with Mrs. Jones?”

He still thought that his wife had sent a message to Mr. Jones through
the wife of the latter.

“She had been doing a little sewing for Mrs. Jones and asked me to carry
the work back.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said John Trafton, relieved. “And how much did
the work come to?”

“Twenty-five cents.”

“You may give me the money, Robert,” said the fisherman. “You might lose
it, you know.”

Could Robert be blamed for regarding his uncle with contempt? His
intention evidently was to appropriate his wife’s scanty earnings to his
own use, spending them, of course, for drink. Certainly a man must be
debased who will stoop to anything so mean, and Robert felt deeply
ashamed of the man he was forced to call uncle.

“I can’t give you the money, uncle,” said Robert coldly.

“Can’t, hey? What do you mean by that, I want to know?” demanded the
fisherman suspiciously.

“My aunt wanted me to buy a little tea and a loaf of bread with the
money.”

“What if she did? Can’t I buy them just as well as you? Hand over that
money, Robert Coverdale, or it will be the worse for you.”

“I have no money to hand you.”

“Why haven’t you? You haven’t had a chance to spend it yet. You needn’t
lie about it or I will give you a flogging!”

“I never lie,” said Robert proudly. “I told you I haven’t got the money
and I haven’t.”

“Then what have you done with it--lost it, eh?”

“I have done nothing with it. Mrs. Jones wouldn’t pay me.”

“And why wouldn’t she pay you?”

“Because she said that you were owing her husband money for drink and
she would credit it on your account.”

As Robert said this he looked his uncle full in the eye and his uncle
flushed a little with transient shame.

“So aunt must go without her tea and bread,” continued Robert.

John Trafton had the grace to be ashamed and said:

“I’ll fix this with Jones. You can go to the store and get the tea and
tell Sands to charge it to me.”

“He won’t do it,” said Robert. “He’s refused more than once.”

“If he won’t that isn’t my fault. I’ve done all I could.”

Trafton turned back and resumed his seat on the porch, where he remained
till about ten o’clock. It was his usual evening resort, for he did not
think it necessary to go home until it was time to go to bed.

Though Robert had no money to spend, he kept on his way slowly toward
the village store. He felt mortified and angry.

“Poor Aunt Jane!” he said to himself. “It’s a shame that she should have
to go without her tea. She hasn’t much to cheer her up. Mrs. Jones is
about the meanest woman I ever saw, and I hope Aunt Jane won’t do any
more work for her.”

It occurred to Robert to follow his uncle’s direction and ask for credit
at the store. But he knew very well that there would be little prospect
of paying the debt, and, though a boy, he had strict notions on the
subject of debt and could not bring his mind, even for his aunt’s sake,
to buy what he could not pay for.

When we are sad and discouraged relief often comes in some unexpected
form and from an unexpected quarter. So it happened now to our young
hero.

Walking before him was an elderly gentleman who had on his head a Panama
straw hat with a broad brim.

He was a Boston merchant who was spending a part of the season at Cook’s
Harbor. As his custom was, he was indulging in an evening walk after
supper.

There was a brisk east wind blowing, which suddenly increased in force,
and, being no respecter of persons, whisked off Mr. Lawrence Tudor’s
expensive Panama and whirled it away.

Mr. Tudor looked after his hat in dismay. He was an elderly gentleman,
of ample proportions, who was accustomed to walk at a slow, dignified
pace and who would have found it physically uncomfortable to run, even
if he could be brought to think it comported with his personal dignity.

“Bless my soul, how annoying!” exclaimed the merchant.

He looked about him helplessly, as if to consider what course it would
be best to pursue under the circumstances, and as he looked he was
relieved to see a boy in energetic pursuit of the lost hat.

This boy was Robert, who grasped the situation at once, and, being fleet
of foot, thought it very good fun to have a race with the wind.

He had a good chase, for the wind in this case proved to be no mean
competitor, but at last he succeeded and put his hand on the hat, which
he carried in triumph to its owner.

“Really, my boy, I am exceedingly indebted to you,” said Mr. Tudor, made
happy by the recovery of his hat.

“You are quite welcome, sir,” said Robert politely.

“You had a good run after it,” said Mr. Tudor.

“Yes, sir; the wind is very strong.”

“I don’t know what I should have done without you. I am afraid I
couldn’t have overtaken it myself.”

“I am afraid not,” said Robert, smiling at the thought of a man of the
merchant’s figure engaging in a race for a hat.

“I could run when I was a boy like you,” said Mr. Tudor pleasantly, “but
there’s rather too much of me now. Do you live in the village?”

“Out on the cliff, sir. My uncle is a fisherman.”

“And do you ever fish?”

“Sometimes--a little, sir.”

“But you don’t expect to be a fisherman when you grow up?”

“Not if I can find anything better.”

“A bright-looking lad like you ought to find something better. Please
accept this.”

He drew from his vest pocket a two-dollar bill, which he placed in
Robert’s hand.

“What!” exclaimed our young hero in astonishment. “All this for saving
your hat? It is quite too much, sir.”

Mr. Tudor smiled.

“You will no doubt be surprised,” he said, “when I tell you that my hat
cost me fifty dollars. It is a very fine Panama.”

“Fifty dollars!” ejaculated Robert.

He had not supposed it worth two.

“So you see it is worth something to save it, and I should undoubtedly
have lost it but for you.”

“I am very much obliged to you, sir,” said Robert. “I wouldn’t accept
the money if it were for myself, but it will be very acceptable to my
aunt.”

“I suppose your uncle does not find fishing very remunerative?”

“It isn’t that, sir; but he spends nearly all of his money at the
tavern, and----”

“I understand, my boy. It is a very great pity. I, too, had an uncle who
was intemperate, and I can understand your position. What is your
name?”

“Robert Coverdale.”

“There is my business card. If you ever come to Boston, come and see
me.”

Robert took the card, from which he learned that his new acquaintance
was Lawrence Tudor.




CHAPTER IV

ROBERT’S PURCHASES


When Robert parted from Mr. Tudor he felt as if he had unexpectedly
fallen heir to a fortune. Two dollars is not a very large sum, but to
Robert, nurtured amid privation, it assumed large proportions.

He began at once to consider what he could do with it, and it is to his
credit that he thought rather of his aunt than himself.

He would buy a whole pound of tea, he decided, and a pound of sugar to
make it more palatable. This would last a considerable time and take
less than half his money. As to the disposal of the remainder, he would
consider how to expend that.

In a long, low building, with brooms, brushes and a variety of
nondescript articles displayed in the windows and outside, Abner Sands
kept the village store.

It was a dark, gloomy place, crowded with articles for family use. The
proprietor enjoyed a monopoly of the village trade, and, in spite of
occasional bad debts, did a snug business and was able every year to
make an addition to his store of savings in the county savings bank.

He was a cautious man, and, by being well acquainted with the
circumstances and habits of every man in the village, knew whom to trust
and to whom to refuse credit. John Trafton belonged to the latter
class.

Mr. Sands knew, as everybody else knew, that all his money was invested
in liquor and that the chance of paying a bill for articles needful for
the household was very small indeed.

When, therefore, Robert entered the store he took it for granted that he
meant to ask credit, and he was all ready for a refusal.

“What do you charge for your tea, Mr. Sands?” the boy asked.

“Different prices, according to quality,” answered the storekeeper, not
thinking it necessary to go into details.

“How much is the cheapest?”

“Fifty cents a pound.”

“Do you call it a pretty good article?” continued our hero.

“Very fair; I use it in my own family,” answered Abner, looking over his
spectacles at his young customer.

“I guess I’ll take a pound,” said Robert with the air of one who had
plenty of money.

“A pound?” ejaculated Abner Sands in surprise.

“Yes, sir.”

A pound of tea for one in John Trafton’s circumstances seemed to Mr.
Sands an extraordinary order. Considering that it was probably to be
charged, it seemed to the cautious trader an impudent attempt to impose
upon him, and he looked sternly at our young hero.

“We don’t trust,” he said coldly.

“I haven’t asked you to trust me, Mr. Sands,” said Robert
independently.

“You don’t mean to say you’re ready to pay for it cash down, do you?”
asked Abner, his countenance expressing amazement.

“Yes, I do.”

“Show me the money.”

“I’ll show you the money when I get my tea,” said Robert, provoked at
Mr. Sands’ resolute incredulity. “I’ve told you I will pay you before I
leave the store. If you don’t want to sell your goods, say so!”

“Come, come! there ain’t no use in gettin’ angry,” said the trader in a
conciliatory tone. “Your trade’s as good as anybody’s if you’ve got
money to pay for the goods.”

“I’ve already told you I have, Mr. Sands.”

“All right, Robert. You shall have the tea.”

He weighed out the tea and then asked:

“Is there anything more?”

“Yes, sir. How do you sell your sugar?”

“Brown sugar--eight cents.”

“I guess that will do. I will take a pound of brown sugar.”

“Your folks don’t generally buy sugar. I didn’t know you used it.”

“We are going to use a pound,” said Robert, who did not fancy the
trader’s interference.

“Well, I’d jest as soon sell you a pound as anybody as long as you’ve
got the money to pay for it.”

Robert said nothing, although this remark was made in an interrogative
tone, as if Mr. Sands still doubted whether our hero would be able to
pay for his purchases.

There was nothing to do, therefore, but to weigh out the sugar.

The two bundles lay on the counter, but Mr. Sands watched them as a cat
watches a mouse, with a vague apprehension that our hero might seize
them and carry them off without payment.

But Robert was better prepared than he supposed.

From his vest pocket he drew the two-dollar bill, and, passing it across
the counter, he said:

“You may take your pay out of this.”

Abner Sands took the bill and stared at it as if some mystery attached
to it. He scrutinized it carefully through his spectacles, as if there
was a possibility that it might be bad, but it had an unmistakably
genuine look.

“It seems to be good,” he remarked cautiously.

“Of course it’s good!” said Robert. “You don’t take me for a
counterfeiter, do you, Mr. Sands?”

“It’s a good deal of money for you to have, Robert. Where did you get
it?”

“Why do you ask that question?” asked our hero, provoked.

“I was a leetle surprised at your having so much money--that’s all. Did
your uncle give it to you?”

“I don’t see what that is to you, Mr. Sands. If you don’t want to sell
your tea and sugar, you can keep them.”

If there had been another grocery store in the village Robert would have
gone thither, but it has already been said that Abner Sands had the
monopoly of the village trade.

“You’re kind of touchy this evenin’, Robert,” said Abner placidly, for
he was so given to interesting himself in the affairs of his neighbors
that he did not realize that his curiosity was displayed in an
impertinent manner. “Of course I want to sell all I can. You’ve got
considerable money comin’ back to you. Don’t you want to buy something
else?”

“I guess not to-night.”

“As long as you’ve got the cash to pay, I’m perfectly ready to sell you
goods. Lemme see. Fifty-eight from two dollars leaves a dollar’n
thirty-two cents.”

“Forty-two,” corrected Robert.

“I declare, so it does! You are a good hand at subtraction.”

Robert felt that he could not truthfully return the compliment and
prudently remained silent.

“There is your money,” continued the trader, putting in Robert’s hand a
dollar bill and forty-two cents in change. “Your uncle must have been
quite lucky.”

He looked questioningly at our hero, but Robert did not choose to
gratify his curiosity.

“Is it so very lucky to make two dollars?” he asked, and with these
words he left the store.

“That’s a cur’us boy!” soliloquized Mr. Sands, looking after him. “I
can’t get nothin’ out of him. Looks as if John Trafton must have turned
over a new leaf to give him so much money to buy groceries. I hope he
has. It’s better that I should get his money than the tavern keeper.”

Mr. Sands did not have to wait long before his curiosity was partially
gratified, for the very man of whom he was thinking just then entered
the store.

“Has my nephew been here?” he inquired.

“Just went out.”

“I thought you might be willing to let him have what little he wanted on
credit. I’ll see that it’s paid for.”

“Why, he paid for the goods himself--fifty-eight cents.”

_“What!”_ exclaimed the fisherman, astonished.

“He bought a pound of tea, at fifty cents, and a pound of sugar, at
eight cents, and paid for ’em.”

“Where’d he get the money?” asked Trafton.

“I am sure I don’t know. I supposed you gave it to him. He’s got more
left. He paid for the articles with a two-dollar bill and he’s got a
dollar and forty-two cents left!”

“The young hypocrite!” ejaculated John Trafton indignantly. “All the
while he had this money he was worryin’ me for a quarter to buy some tea
and a loaf of bread.”

“Looks rather mysterious--doesn’t it?” said the grocer.

“Mr. Sands,” said the fisherman, “I’ve took care of that boy ever since
he was three year old, and that’s the way he treats me. He’s a young
viper!”

“Jes so!” said Mr. Sands, who was a politic man and seldom contradicted
his neighbors.

“The rest of that money belongs to me by rights,” continued the
fisherman, “and he’s got to give it to me. How much did you say it
was?”

“A dollar and forty-two cents, John; but, seems to me, you’d better let
him keep it to buy groceries with.”

“I must have the money!” muttered Trafton, not heeding this advice,
which was good, though selfish. “I guess I’ll go home and make the boy
give it to me!”

And he staggered out of the store, and, as well as he could, steered for
home.




CHAPTER V

“GIVE ME THAT MONEY”


From the village store Robert went to the baker’s and bought a loaf of
bread for six cents, making his entire expenditures sixty-four cents.

He was now ready to go home. He walked rapidly and soon reached the
humble cabin, where he found his aunt waiting for him.

She looked with surprise at the three bundles he brought in and asked:

“What have you got there, Robert?”

“First of all, here is a pound of tea,” said the boy, laying it down on
the kitchen table. “Here is a pound of sugar and here is a loaf of
bread.”

“But I didn’t order all those, Robert,” said his aunt.

“I know you didn’t,” answered her nephew, “but I thought you’d be able
to make use of them.”

“No doubt I shall, but surely you did not buy them all for twenty-five
cents?”

“I should say not. Why, the tea alone cost fifty cents! Then the sugar
came to eight cents and the loaf cost six cents.”

“Mrs. Jones didn’t pay you enough to buy all those, did she?”

“Mrs. Jones is about as mean a woman as you can find anywhere,” Robert
said warmly. “She didn’t pay me a cent.”

“Why? Didn’t she like the work?”

“She said uncle owed her husband money for drink and the work would part
pay up the debt.”

But for the presence of the groceries, this would have had a
discouraging effect upon Mrs. Trafton, but her mind was diverted by her
curiosity, and she said apprehensively:

“I hope you didn’t buy on credit, Robert? I never can pay so much
money!”

“Mr. Sands isn’t the man to sell on credit. Aunt Jane. No, I paid cash.
And the best of it is,” continued our hero, “I have some money left.”

Here he produced and spread on the table before his aunt’s astonished
eyes the balance of the money.

Mrs. Trafton was startled. The possession of so much money seemed to her
incomprehensible.

“I hope you came by the money honestly, Robert?”

“What have I ever done, Aunt Jane, that you should think me a thief?”
asked Robert, half amused, half annoyed.

“Nothing, my dear boy; but I can’t understand how you came to have so
much money.”

“I see I must explain, aunt. A strong wind blew it to me.”

“Then somebody must have lost it. You shouldn’t have spent it till you
had tried to find the owner.”

“I’ll explain to you.”

And he told her the story of the lost hat and the liberal reward he
obtained for chasing and recovering it.

“Think of a straw hat costing fifty dollars, aunt!” he said
wonderingly.

“It does seem strange, but I am glad it was worth so much or you
wouldn’t have been so well paid.”

“This Mr. Tudor is a gentleman, aunt. Why, plenty of people would have
given me only ten cents. I would have thought myself well paid if he had
even given me that, but I couldn’t have brought you home so much tea.
Aunt Jane, do me a favor.”

“What is it, Robert?”

“Make yourself a good strong cup of tea to-night. You’ll feel ever so
much better, and there’s plenty of it. A pound will last a long time,
won’t it?”

“Oh, yes, a good while. I shall get a good deal of comfort out of that
tea. But I don’t know about making any to-night. If you would like
some----”

“If you’ll make some, I’ll drink a little, Aunt Jane.”

Robert said this because he feared otherwise his aunt would not make any
till the next morning.

“Very well, Robert.”

“Don’t let uncle know I’ve brought so much money home,” said Robert with
a sudden thought.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want him to know I have any money. If he knew, he would
want me to give it to him.”

“I don’t think he would claim it. It was given to you.”

“I’ll tell you why I am sure he would.”

And Robert told how his uncle demanded the scanty pittance which he
supposed Mrs. Jones had paid for the sewing.

Mrs. Trafton blushed with shame for her husband’s meanness.

“Drink changes a man’s nature completely,” she said. “The time was when
John would have scorned such a thing.”

“That time has gone by, aunt. For fear he will find out that I have the
money, I believe I will go and hide it somewhere.”

“Shall I take care of it for you, Robert?” asked Mrs. Trafton.

“No, Aunt Jane; he would find it out, and I don’t want to get you into
any trouble. I know of a good place to put it--a place where he will
never find it. I will put it there till we need to use it.”

“You must buy something for yourself with it. The money is yours.”

Robert shook his head decidedly.

“I don’t need anything--that is, I don’t need anything but what I can do
without. We will keep it to buy bread and tea and anything else that we
need. Now, aunt, while you are steeping the tea, I will go out and
dispose of the money.”

Here it is necessary to explain that though John Trafton started for
home when he heard from Mr. Sands about Robert’s unexpected wealth, he
changed his mind as he passed the tavern. He thought he must have one
more drink.

He entered and preferred his request.

“Trafton,” said the landlord, “don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“Not quite. I want one more glass and then I’ll go home.”

“But you are owing me several dollars. Clear off that score and then you
may have as much as you will.”

“I’ll pay you a dollar on account to-morrow.”

“Do you mean it?”

“Yes. Bob’s got some money of mine--over a dollar. I’ll get it to-night
and bring it round to-morrow.”

“Of course, Trafton, If you’ll keep your credit good, I won’t mind
trusting you. Well, what shall it be?”

John Trafton gave his order and sat down again in the barroom. He felt
so comfortable that he easily persuaded himself that there was no hurry
about collecting the money in his nephew’s hands. Robert was at home by
this time and would have no way of spending the balance of his cash.

“It’s all right,” said the fisherman; “I’ll wait till ten o’clock and
then I’ll go home.”

Meanwhile Robert went out on the cliff and looked about him. He looked
down upon the waves as they rolled in on the beach and he enjoyed the
sight, familiar as it was, for he had a love of the grand and beautiful
in nature.

“I think if I were a rich man,” thought the poor fisherman’s boy, “I
would like to build a fine house on the cliff, with an observatory right
here, where I could always see the ocean. It’s something to live here,
if I do have to live in a poor cabin. But I must consider where I will
hide my money.”

At his feet was a small tin box, which had been thrown away by somebody,
and it struck Robert that this would make a good depository for his
money. Fortunately the cover of the box was attached to it.

He took the money from his vest pocket and dropped it into the box. Then
he covered it, and, finding a good place, he scooped out the dirt and
carefully deposited the box in the hole.

He carefully covered it up, replacing the dirt, and took particular
notice of the spot, so that there would be no difficulty in finding it
again whenever he had occasion.

Having attended to this duty, he retraced his steps to the cabin and
found that the tea had been steeped and the table was covered with a
neat cloth and two cups and saucers were set upon it.

“Tea’s all ready, Robert,” said his aunt cheerfully. “The smell of it
does me good. It’s better than all the liquor in the world!”

Robert did not like tea as well as his aunt, but still he relished the
warm drink, for the night was cool, and more than ever he rejoiced to
see how much his aunt enjoyed what had latterly been rather a rare
luxury.

About nine o’clock Robert went to bed and very soon fell asleep.

He had not been asleep long before he was conscious of being rudely
shaken.

Opening his eyes, he saw his uncle with inflamed face and thickened
utterance.

“What’s wanted, uncle?” he asked.

“Where’s that money, you young rascal? Give me the dollar and forty-two
cents you’re hiding from me!”




CHAPTER VI

MAN AGAINST BOY


As Robert, scarcely awake, looked into the threatening face of his uncle
he felt that the crisis had come and that all his firmness and manliness
were demanded.

Our hero was not disposed to rebel against just authority. He recognized
that his uncle, poor as his guardianship was, had some claim to his
obedience.

In any ordinary matter he would have unhesitatingly obeyed him. But, in
the present instance, he felt that his aunt’s comfort depended, in a
measure, upon his retention of the small amount of money which he was
fortunate enough to possess.

Of course he had thought of all this before he went to sleep, and he had
decided, in case his uncle heard of his good luck, to keep the money at
all hazards.

For a minute he remained silent, meeting calmly the angry and impatient
glance of his uncle.

“Give me that money, I tell you!” demanded the fisherman with thickened
utterance.

“I haven’t got any money of yours, Uncle John,” said Robert, now forced
to say something.

“You lie, boy! You’ve got a dollar and forty-two cents.”

“I haven’t got as much as that, but I have nearly as much.”

“Have you been spending any more money?”

“I bought a loaf of bread for six cents.”

“Then you’ve got a dollar and thirty-six cents left.”

“Yes, I have.”

“Give it to me!”

“You want to spend it for rum, I suppose, uncle.”

“Curse your impudence! What difference does it make to you what I do
with it?”

Robert rose to a sitting posture, and, carried away by just indignation,
he said:

“I mean to keep that money and spend it for my aunt. There ought to be
no need of it. You ought to support her yourself and supply her with all
she needs; but, instead of that, you selfishly spend all your money on
drink and leave her to get along the best way she can!”

“You young rascal!” exclaimed his uncle, half ashamed and wholly angry.
“Is that the way you repay me for keeping you out of the poorhouse?”

“I can support myself, Uncle John, and for the last two years I’ve done
it and helped Aunt Jane besides. There isn’t any danger of my going to
the poorhouse. I would leave Cook’s Harbor to-morrow if I thought Aunt
Jane were sure of a comfortable support, but I am afraid you would let
her starve.”

Robert had never spoken so plainly before and his uncle was almost
struck dumb by the boy’s bold words. He knew they were deserved, but he
was angry nevertheless and he was as firm as ever in his determination
to have the money.

“Boy,” he said, “you are too young to lecture a grown man like me. I
know what’s best to do. Where did you get the money?” he demanded with
sudden curiosity. “Did you find it in any of my pockets?”

“There wouldn’t be much use in searching your pockets for money. You
never leave any behind.”

“Where did you get it then?”

“Mr. Tudor, who boards at the hotel, gave it to me.”

“That’s a likely story.”

“He gave it to me because I ran after his hat, which was blown off by
the wind, and brought it back to him. It was a very expensive hat, so he
said.”

“I know; it is a Panama hat.”

“That’s what he called it.”

“Did you have that money when I saw you coming out of the tavern yard?”

“No.”

“When you got it, why didn’t you come and bring it to me?”

“Because it was my own money. You had no right to claim it,” said Robert
firmly.

“He is right, John,” said Mrs. Trafton, who had listened uneasily to the
conversation, but had not yet seen an opportunity to put in a word in
Robert’s favor.

“Shut up, old woman!” said the fisherman roughly. “Well,” said he,
turning to Robert, “I’ve heard what you’ve got to say and it don’t make
a bit of difference. I must have the money.”

“I refuse to give it to you,” Robert said, pale but firm.

“Then,” said John Trafton with a curse, “I’ll take it.”

He snatched Robert’s pants from the chair on which they were lying and
thrust his hand into one pocket after the other, but he found nothing.

He next searched the vest in the same manner, but the search was equally
unavailing.

“You needn’t search, for I haven’t got the money,” said Robert.

“Then where is it?”

“It is safe.”

“Did he give it to you, Jane?” demanded the fisherman, turning to his
wife.

“No.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“No.”

“Boy, where is that money?” demanded Trafton, his face flushed. “Go and
get it directly!”

“I can’t. It isn’t in the house.”

“Where is it then?”

“I hid it.”

“Where did you hide it?”

“I dug a hole and put it in.”

“What made you do that?”

“Because I was afraid you would get hold of it.”

“You were right enough there,” said John Trafton grimly, “for I will get
hold of it. Get right up and find it and bring it to me.”

Here Mrs. Trafton again interposed.

“How can you ask such a thing, John?” she said. “The night is as dark as
a pocket. How do you expect Robert is going to find the money in the
dark?”

Though John Trafton was a good deal under the influence of liquor, he
was not wholly deaf to reason and he saw the force of his wife’s
remark.

In fact, he had himself found sorry trouble in getting home from the
tavern, familiar as the path was to him, on account of the intense
darkness.

“Well, I guess it’ll do to-morrow morning,” he said. “I must have it
then, for I’ve promised to pay Jones a dollar on account. I said I
would, and I’ve got to keep my promise. Do you hear that, you young
rascal?”

“Yes, I hear it.”

“Then mind you don’t forget it. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

And the fisherman staggered into the adjoining room, and, without taking
the trouble of removing his garments, threw himself on the bed and in
five minutes was breathing loud in a drunken stupor.

Mrs. Trafton did not immediately go to bed. She was troubled in mind,
for she foresaw that there was only a truce and not a cessation of
hostilities.

In the morning her husband would renew his demand upon Robert, and,
should the latter continue to refuse to comply, she was afraid there
would be violence.

When her husband’s heavy breathing showed that he was insensible to
anything that was said, she began.

“I don’t know but you’d better give up that money to your uncle,” she
said.

“How can you advise me to do that, aunt?” asked Robert in surprise.

“Because I’m afraid you’ll make him angry if you refuse.”

“I can’t help it if he is angry,” answered Robert. “He has no right to
be. Don’t you know what he said--that he wanted to pay a dollar to the
tavern keeper?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Jones shall never get a cent of that money,” said Robert firmly.

“But, Robert,” said his aunt nervously, “your uncle may beat you.”

“Then I’ll keep my distance from him.”

“I would rather he would have the money than that you should get hurt,
Robert.”

“Aunt Jane, I am going to take the risk of that. Though he is my uncle
and your husband, there’s one thing I can’t help saying: It is a
contemptibly mean thing not only to use all his own earnings for drink,
but to try to get hold of what little I get for the same purpose.”

“I don’t deny it, Robert. I don’t pretend to defend my husband. Once he
was different, but drink has changed his whole nature. I never had any
reason to complain before he took to drink.”

“No doubt of it, aunt, but that don’t alter present circumstances. I
have no respect for my uncle when he acts as he has to-night. Come what
may, there’s one thing I am determined upon--he shan’t have the money.”

“You’ll be prudent, Robert, for my sake?” entreated Mrs. Trafton.

“Yes, I’ll be prudent. To-morrow morning I will get up early and be out
of the way till after uncle is gone. There is no chance of his getting
up early and going a-fishing.”

The deep and noisy breathing made it probable that the fisherman would
awaken at a late hour, as both Robert and his aunt knew.

She was reassured by his promise and prepared to go to bed. Soon all
three inmates of the little cabin were sleeping soundly.




CHAPTER VII

THE NEXT MORNING


Robert rose at six the next morning and half an hour later took his
breakfast. It consisted of fish, bread and a cup of tea, and though most
of my young readers might not be satisfied with it--especially as there
was no butter--Robert thought himself lucky to be so well provided for.

When his breakfast was finished he rose from the table.

“Now I’m off, Aunt Jane,” he said.

“Where are you going, Robert?”

“I’ll earn some money if I can. We’ve got a little, but it won’t last
long.”

“It won’t be very easy to find work, I am afraid.”

“I shall be ready for anything that turns up, aunt. Something turned up
yesterday when I didn’t expect it.”

“That’s true.”

Just then the fisherman was heard to stir in the adjoining room, and
Robert, not wishing to be near when he awakened, hastily left the cabin
to avoid a repetition of the scene of the previous night.

Mrs. Trafton breathed a sigh of relief when her nephew was fairly out of
the way.

About an hour later her husband rose and without needing to dress--for
he had thrown himself on the bed in his ordinary clothes--walked into
the room where his wife was at work.

“Where’s Robert?” he asked.

“He had his breakfast and went out.”

“How long ago?”

“About an hour ago.”

John Trafton scowled with disappointment.

“Is he round about home?”

“I don’t think he is.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“He said he would try to find a job.”

“Why didn’t you keep him? Didn’t you know I wanted to see him?”

“You didn’t ask me to keep him,” said Mrs. Trafton nervously.

“I see how it is,” said the fisherman; “you’re in league with him.”

“What do you mean by that, John?”

“You know well enough what I mean. You don’t want him to give me that
money.”

Mrs. Trafton plucked up courage enough to say: “You ought not to ask for
it, John.”

“Why shouldn’t I ask for it?” he demanded, pounding forcibly on the
table.

“Because he means to spend it for things we need and you want it to
spend at the tavern.”

“There you are again--always twitting me because, after exposing myself
to storm and the dangers of the sea, I take a little something to warm
me up and make me comfortable.”

To hear John Trafton’s tone one might think him a grievously injured
man.

“For two years, John Trafton, you have spent three-fourths of your
earnings at the tavern,” said his wife quietly. “You have left me to
suffer want and privation that you might indulge your appetite for
drink.”

“You seem to be alive still,” he said with an ugly sneer. “You don’t
seem to have starved.”

“I might have done so but for Robert. He has brought me fish and bought
groceries with what little money he could earn in various ways.”

“Oh, it’s Robert always!” sneered Trafton. “He is an angel, is he? He’s
only done his duty. Haven’t I given him the shelter of my roof?”

“You haven’t given him much else,” retorted his wife.

“I’ve heard enough of that; now shut up,” said the fisherman roughly.
“What have you got for breakfast?”

Mrs. Trafton pointed to the table, on which, while her husband had been
speaking, she had placed his breakfast.

“Humph!” said he discontentedly, “that’s a pretty poor breakfast!”

“It is the best I can give you,” said his wife coldly.

“I don’t care for tea. I’d as soon drink slops.”

“What do you prefer?”

“I prefer coffee.”

“I have none in the house. If you will bring me home some from the
store, I will make you a cup every morning, but I don’t think you would
like it without milk.”

“Do you think I am made of money? How do you expect me to buy coffee?”

“With the money you would otherwise spend for drink.”

“Stop that, will you?” said Trafton angrily. “I’m tired of it.”

A moment later he said in a milder tone:

“When I get that money of Robert’s I will buy a pound of coffee.”

Mrs. Trafton said nothing.

“Do you know where he has hidden it?” asked her husband after drinking a
cup of the tea which he had so decried.

“No.”

“Didn’t he tell you where he was going to put it?”

“No.”

“You are sure he didn’t give it to you to keep?”

“I am very glad he didn’t.”

“Why are you glad?”

“Because you would have teased me till you got it.”

“And I’ll have it yet, Mrs. Trafton--do you hear that?” said the
fisherman fiercely.

“Yes, I hear you.”

“You may as well make up your mind that I am in earnest. What! am I to
be defied by a weak woman and a half-grown boy? You don’t know me, Mrs.
T.”

“I do know you only too well, Mr. Trafton. It was an unlucky day when I
married you.”

“Humph! There may be two sides to that story. Well, I’m going.”

“Where are you going? Shall you go out in the boat this morning?”

“Oh, you expect me to spend all my time working for my support, do you?
No, I am not going out in the boat. I am going to the village.”

“To the tavern, I suppose?”

“And suppose I am going to the tavern,” repeated the fisherman in a
defiant tone, “have you got anything to say against it?”

“I have a great deal to say, but it won’t do any good.”

“That’s where you are right.”

John Trafton left the cabin, but he did not immediately take the road to
the village.

First of all he thought he would look round a little and see if he could
not discover the hiding place of the little sum which his nephew had
concealed.

He walked about the cabin in various directions, examining carefully to
see if anywhere the ground had been disturbed.

In one or two places he thought he detected signs of disturbance, and,
bending over, scooped up the loose dirt, but, fortunately for our hero,
he was on a false scent and discovered nothing.

He was not a very patient man, and the fresh disappointment--for his
hopes had been raised in each case--made him still more angry.

“The young rascal!” he muttered. “He deserves to be flogged for giving
me so much trouble.”

From the window of the cabin Mrs. Trafton saw what her husband was about
and she was very much afraid he would succeed. She could not
help--painful as it was--regarding with contempt a man who would stoop
to such pitiful means to obtain money to gratify his diseased appetite.

“If I thought my wife knew where this money is I’d have it out of her,”
muttered the fisherman with a dark look at the cabin, “but likely the
boy didn’t tell her. I’ll have to have some dealings with him shortly.
He shall learn that he cannot defy me.”

John Trafton, giving up the search, took his way to the village, and, as
a matter of course, started directly for the tavern.

He entered the barroom and called for a drink.

Mr. Jones did not show his usual alacrity in waiting upon him.

“Trafton,” said he, “where is that dollar you promised to pay me this
morning?”

“Haven’t got it,” answered the fisherman, rather embarrassed. “I’ll
bring it to-morrow morning.”

“Then to-morrow morning you may call for a drink.”

“You ain’t going back on me, Mr. Jones?” asked John Trafton in alarm.

“You are going back on me, as I look at it. You promised to bring me a
dollar and you haven’t done it.”

“I’ll tell you how it is, Mr. Jones. My nephew, Robert, has the money,
but he was gone when I woke up this morning. I shall see him to-night
and give you the money.”

“You needn’t wait till then. I saw Robert pass here only half an hour
ago. He’s somewhere in the village. Find him and get the money and then
I’ll talk with you.”

There was no appeal from this decision and Trafton, angry and sullen,
left the tavern to look for Robert.




CHAPTER VIII

ROBERT BECOMES A PRISONER


One of the most tasteful houses in Cook’s Harbor was occupied in summer
by the family of Theodore Irving, a Boston lawyer, who liked to have his
wife and children in the country, though his business required him to
spend a part of the hot season in the city.

The oldest son, Herbert, was about a year younger than Robert, a lively
boy, fond of manly sports and thoroughly democratic in his tastes. He
had scraped acquaintance with our hero, making the first advances, for
Robert was not disposed to intrude his company where he was not sure it
would be acceptable.

When Robert came to the village to avoid meeting his uncle, in passing
by the house of Mr. Irving he attracted the attention of Herbert, who
was sitting on the edge of the piazza.

With him was another boy of about his own age, a cousin named George
Randolph. He had come to Cook’s Harbor to spend a fortnight with his
cousin, but the latter soon found that George was very hard to
entertain.

He was seldom willing to engage in any amusement selected by his cousin,
but always had some plan of his own to propose. Moreover, he was proud
of his social position and always looked down upon boys whose dress
indicated a humbler rank than his own.

The two cousins were sitting on the piazza doing nothing. Herbert had
proposed croquet, but George pronounced it too warm. He also declined
ball for a similar reason.

“It seems to me you are very much afraid of the sun,” said Herbert.

“I don’t care to get tanned up. It looks vulgar,” said George.

“I like to have a good time, even if I do get browned up,” said his
cousin.

“Then I don’t agree with you,” said George in a superior tone.

Just then Robert was seen approaching.

“There’s a boy that will play with me,” said Herbert, brightening up.

“What boy?”

“There--the one that is just coming along.”

“That boy? Why, he isn’t dressed as well as our coachman’s son!”

“I can’t help that; he’s a nice fellow. Bob, come here; I want you.”

“You surely are not going to invite that common boy into the yard?”
protested George hastily.

“Why not? He has been here more than once.”

By this time Robert had reached the gate.

Herbert jumped up and ran to open it.

“I am glad to see you, Robert,” said Herbert cordially. “Are you in a
hurry?”

“No, Herbert.”

“Then come in and have a game of croquet.”

“All right, but you’ll easily beat me.”

“Never mind; you’ll learn fast. Bob, this is my cousin, George Randolph.
George, this is my friend, Robert Coverdale.”

George made the slightest possible inclination of the head and did not
stir from where he was sitting.

“He doesn’t look very social,” thought Robert, greeting his friend’s
visitor politely.

“Here, Bob, select a mallet and ball. Shall I start first?”

“If you please. Won’t your cousin play?”

“I’m very much obliged, I’m sure, for the invitation,” said George, “but
I’d rather not.”

“George is afraid of being tanned by exposure to the sun,” explained
Herbert. “I hope you are not.”

“I don’t think the sun will make me any browner than I am already,” said
Robert, laughing.

“I agree with you,” said George in a sneering tone.

Robert looked at him quickly, struck by his tone, and decided that he
had no particular desire to become any better acquainted.

The game of croquet proceeded and Herbert was an easy victor.

“I told you I should be beaten, Herbert,” said Robert.

“Of course; I am much more used to the game than you. I will give you
odds of half the game. You shall start from the other stake on the
return course and I will try to overtake you.”

He came near succeeding, but Robert beat him by two wickets.

After three games Herbert proposed ball, and Robert, who felt more at
home in this game, agreed to it.

“You’d better join us, George,” said his cousin.

“No, I thank you. I have no inclination, I assure you.”

“I don’t see what fun there can be in sitting on the piazza.”

“You forget that I have an opportunity of witnessing your friend’s
superior playing.”

His tone made it clear to Robert that this was a sneer, but he had too
much self-respect and too much regard for Herbert to take offense at
it.

“You mean my awkwardness,” he said. “You are quite welcome to the
amusement it must afford you.”

George arched his brows in surprise.

“Really this ragged boy is talking to me as if he considered me his
equal,” he thought. “It is Herbert’s fault. He should not treat him so
familiarly. I really don’t care to be in such company.”

“You must excuse me, Herbert,” said George, rising with suitable
dignity. “As you are provided with company, you can spare me. I will go
into the house and read for a while.”

“Very well, George.”

“I hope I haven’t driven your cousin away, Herbert,” said Robert.

“I don’t care whether you have or not, Bob,” said Herbert, “I’m awfully
disappointed in him. Papa invited him to visit us, thinking he would be
company for me, but, instead of that, he objects to everything I
propose. I find it very hard to entertain him.”

“He doesn’t appear to fancy me,” said Robert.

“Don’t mind him, Bob. He’s a mean, stuck-up fellow, if he is my
cousin.”

“Perhaps he is not to blame. I am only a poor boy, belonging to a
fisherman’s family. I am afraid I am not a suitable associate for you or
him,” said Robert with proud humility.

“No more of that talk, Bob,” said Herbert. “You’re suitable for me,
anyhow, and I like you twice as much as my cousin. I don’t care how you
are dressed, as long as you are a good fellow.”

“At any rate, you are a good fellow, Herbert,” said Robert warmly. “I
liked you the very first day I saw you.”

“And I can say the same for you. Bob. Well, never mind about George.
Leave him to his book. We’ll amuse ourselves better.”

As Robert was playing he caught sight of his uncle on his way to the
tavern. He knew, therefore, that he could return home without danger of
annoyance, and he excused himself to Herbert. As it was doubtful whether
he could get anything to do in the village and as the boat would not be
in use, he concluded to go out and see if he could not catch a few fish
for his aunt’s dinner.

“Well, come and play with me again very soon, Bob,” said his friend.

“I will, Herbert. Thank you for inviting me.”

“Oh, I do that on my own account! I like your company.”

“Thank you!”

Robert went home and spent a short time with his aunt before setting out
on his fishing trip. He only meant to go out a short distance and there
was plenty of time before noon.

He was just getting out the boat when, to his dismay, he heard a
familiar but unwelcome voice hailing him.

“Where are you going?”

“I am going a-fishing. I thought you were not going to use the boat.”

“Well, I am,” said the fisherman shortly. “Are you ready to give me that
money?”

“No, uncle,” said Robert firmly.

“I have a right to it.”

“You don’t need it and aunt does,” answered our hero.

“Well, never mind about that now. You can go out with me.”

Considerably surprised at getting off so easily, Robert jumped into the
boat with his uncle and they pushed off.

“Pull for Egg Island,” said John Trafton.

Egg Island, so called from its oval shape, was situated about three
miles from the cliff on which the fisherman’s cabin stood and probably
did not comprise more than an acre of surface. It was rocky, partly
covered with bushes and quite unoccupied.

Robert was puzzled, but did not venture to ask his uncle why they were
going to this island.

In due time they reached the rocky isle and the boat was rounded to
shore.

“You may jump out and get me a good-sized stick,” said the fisherman.

Robert obeyed, though he feared the stick was to be used on his back.

He had scarcely scrambled up the bank than he heard the sound of oars,
and, looking back hastily, he saw his uncle pushing off from the
island.

“I’m going to leave you here, you young rascal, till you agree to give
me that money,” said John Trafton triumphantly. “I’ll let you know that
I won’t be defied by a boy.”

Already the boat was several rods distant.

Robert sat down on a rocky ledge and tried to realize his position. He
was a prisoner on Egg Island and there he must stay till his uncle chose
to release him.




CHAPTER IX

ALONE ON AN ISLAND


Of course our hero’s position was not to be compared with that of one
left on a lonely island in the Pacific, but it was not agreeable. He was
only three miles from the mainland, but there was no chance to cross
this brief distance. He had no boat, and though he could swim a little,
he would inevitably have been drowned had he undertaken to swim to
shore.

Robert had read “Robinson Crusoe,” and he naturally thought of that
famous mariner on finding himself in a similar position.

He had never been on Egg Island before and he knew it only as he had
seen it from the mainland or from a boat.

“That’s a mean trick of Uncle John,” said Robert to himself. “If I had
suspected what he was after I wouldn’t have got out of the boat.”

Just then he saw the boat turn, the fisherman pulling for the island.

Robert felt relieved. He was not to be left on the island after all. He
sat still and waited for the boat to approach.

“Well, how do you like it?” asked Trafton when he was within a few
rods.

“Not very well,” answered our hero.

“You wouldn’t care to stay here, I suppose?”

“No.”

“I will take you back into the boat if you will promise to give me that
money.”

It was a tempting proposal, and Robert was half inclined to yield. But,
he reflected, his uncle had no claim to the money, and, if he secured
it, would spend it for drink, while his aunt would lose the benefit of
it. He summoned all his courage and answered:

“You have no right to the money, uncle. I can’t give it to you.”

“If you don’t, I will row away and leave you.”

“Then you will be doing a very mean thing,” said Robert with spirit.

“That’s my lookout. Just understand that I am in earnest. Now, what do
you say?”

“I say no,” answered our hero firmly.

“Then you may take the consequences,” said his uncle, with a muttered
curse, as he turned the head of the boat and rowed rapidly away.

Robert watched the receding boat, and for an instant he regretted his
determination. But it was only for an instant.

“I have done what I thought to be right,” he said, “and I don’t believe
I shall have cause to repent it. I must see what is best to be done.”

He got up and set about exploring his small island kingdom.

It was very rocky, the only vegetation being some scant grass and some
whortleberry bushes. Luckily it was the height of the berry season and
there was a good supply on the bushes.

“I shan’t starve just yet,” he said cheerfully. “These berries will keep
me alive for a day or two, if I am compelled to remain as long.”

There was this advantage about the berries, that, in a measure, they
satisfied his thirst as well as his hunger.

Robert did not immediately begin to gather berries, for it was yet
early, and too short a time had elapsed since breakfast for him to have
gained an appetite. He wandered at random over his small kingdom and
from the highest portion looked out to sea.

Far away he saw several sails, but there was little chance of being
rescued by any. If he were seen, it would not be supposed that he was
confined a prisoner on an island so near the mainland. Still Robert did
not feel that he was likely to be a prisoner for a long time.

There were other fishermen, besides his uncle, at Cook’s Harbor, and by
next morning, at the farthest, he would be able to attract the attention
of some one of them as he cruised near the island.

But it would not be very pleasant to pass a night alone in such an
exposed spot.

Not long before a sloop had been wrecked upon the southwest corner of
the island, and though no lives were lost, the vessel itself had been so
injured that there had been no attempt to repair or remove it.

In coasting near the island Robert had often thought he would like to
examine the wreck, but he never had done so. It struck him now that he
had a capital opportunity to view it at his leisure. Of leisure,
unfortunately, he had too much on his hands.

There was a patch of sand at the corner where the sloop had run ashore
and the frame of the vessel had imbedded in it. A portion had been swept
away, but a considerable part still remained.

Robert clambered down and began to make an examination of the stranded
vessel.

“I suppose it belongs to me if I choose to claim it,” he said to
himself. “At any rate, no one else is likely to dispute my claim.
Wouldn’t it be jolly if I could find a keg of gold pieces hidden
somewhere about the old wreck? That would keep aunt and me for years and
we wouldn’t feel any anxiety about support.”

This was very pleasant to think about certainly, but kegs of gold pieces
are not often carried on sloops nowadays, as Robert very well knew.

The chief use the old wreck was likely to be to him was in affording
materials for a raft by which he might find his way to the mainland.

Our hero made a critical survey of the wreck and tried to pull it apart.
This was not easy, but finally he was enabled to detach a few planks.

“If I only had a saw, a hammer and some nails,” he thought, “I could
build a raft without much difficulty. But I don’t see how I am going to
get along without these.”

For the hammer he soon found a substitute in a hard rock of moderate
size. There were nails, but they were not easy to extricate from the
planks. As to a saw, there was no hope of getting one or anything that
would answer the purpose of one.

Robert worked hard for a couple of hours and in that time he had
accomplished something. He had extricated half a dozen planks of unequal
length, secured a supply of nails, more or less rusty, and thus had
already provided the materials of a raft.

The grand difficulty remained--to fashion them into a raft which would
convey him in safety to the shore of the mainland.

I have said that he had no saw. He had a jackknife, however, and this
was of some use to him, particularly in extricating the nails. It was
slow work, but he had all day before him.

When the two hours were over he began to feel hungry. It was not far
from the time when he was accustomed to take dinner, and he set about
satisfying his hunger.

He went from bush to bush, plucking the ripe berries and eating them.
They were very good, but not quite so hearty as a plate of meat and
potatoes. However, he would have had no meat if he had been able to sit
down at home.

After dinner--if his repast of berries can be dignified by such a
name--Robert sat down to rest a while before resuming his labors on the
raft.

He finally lay down with his head in the shadow of an unusually large
bush, and, before he was fully aware of the danger, he had fallen
asleep. When he awoke he saw by the position of the sun that it must be
about the middle of the afternoon.

He jumped up hastily, and, first of all, took a hasty glance around to
see if he could anywhere descry a boat. But none was to be seen.

“I must set about making my raft,” he decided. “It is getting late and I
don’t know how long it may take me.”

It proved to be slow and rather difficult work. Robert was pounding away
with his stone hammer when, to his great joy, he descried a boat
rounding the corner of the island.

It was rowed by a single boy. When he came near Robert recognized him as
George Randolph--the cousin of his friend Herbert.

It happened that George was very fond of rowing and had a boat of his
own, which he rowed a good deal in Boston Harbor.

He had long had an ambition to row to Egg Island and had selected this
day for the trip. He had not asked Herbert to accompany him, being
desirous of saying that he had accomplished the entire trip alone.

Though George had not seemed very friendly, Robert did not for a moment
doubt that he would be willing to help him in his strait, and he was
almost as delighted to see him as he would have been to see Herbert
himself. There would be no need now of the raft, and he gladly suspended
work upon it.

Rising to his feet, he called out:

“Hello, there!”

George paused in his rowing and asked--for he had not yet caught sight
of Robert:

“Who calls?”

“I--Robert Coverdale!”

Then George, turning his glance in the right direction, caught sight of
the boy he had tried to snub in the morning.




CHAPTER X

ROBERT COMPLETES THE RAFT


“What do you want of me?” asked George superciliously.

“Will you come to shore and take me into your boat?” asked Robert
eagerly.

“Why should I? You have no claims on me,” said George. “Indeed, I don’t
know you.”

“I was at Mr. Irving’s this morning, playing croquet with Herbert.”

“I am aware of that, but that is no reason why I should take you into my
boat. I prefer to be alone.”

If Robert had not been in such a strait he would not have pressed the
request, but he was not sure when there would be another chance to leave
the island, and he persisted.

“You don’t understand how I am situated,” he said. “I wouldn’t ask such
a favor if I were not obliged to, but I have no other way of getting
back. If you don’t take me in, I shall probably be obliged to stay here
all night.”

“How did you come here?” asked George, his curiosity aroused.

“I came in a boat with my uncle.”

“Then you can go back with him.”

“He has gone back already. He is offended with me because I won’t do
something which he has no right to ask, and he has left me here
purposely.”

“Isn’t your uncle a fisherman?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t care to associate with a fisherman’s boy,” said George.

Robert had never before met a boy so disagreeable as George, and his
face flushed with anger and mortified pride.

“I don’t think you are any better than Herbert,” he said, “and he is
willing to associate with me, though I am a fisherman’s boy.”

“I don’t think much of his taste, and so I told him,” said George. “My
father is richer than Mr. Irving,” he added proudly.

“Do you refuse to take me in your boat then?” asked Robert.

“I certainly do.”

“Although I may be compelled to stay here all night?”

“That’s nothing to me.”

Robert was silent a moment. He didn’t like to have any quarrel with
Herbert’s cousin, but he was a boy of spirit, and he could not let
George leave without giving vent to his feeling.

“George Randolph,” he broke out, “I don’t care whether your father is
worth a million; it doesn’t make you a gentleman. You are a mean,
contemptible fellow!”

“How dare you talk to me in that way, you young fisherman?” gasped
George in astonishment and wrath.

“Because I think it will do you good to hear the truth,” said Robert
hotly. “You are the meanest fellow I ever met, and if I were Herbert
Irving I’d pack you back to the city by the first train.”

“You impudent rascal!” exclaimed George. “I’ve a good mind to come on
shore and give you a flogging!”

“I wish you’d try it,” said Robert significantly. “You might find
yourself no match for a fisherman’s boy.”

“I suppose you’d like to get me on shore so that you might run off with
my boat?” sneered George.

“I wouldn’t leave you on the island, at any rate, if I did secure the
boat,” said Robert.

“Well, I won’t gratify you,” returned George, “I don’t care to have my
boat soiled by such a passenger.”

“You’ll get paid for your meanness some time, George Randolph.”

“I’ve taken too much notice of you already, you low fisherman,” said
George. “I hope you’ll have a good time staying here all night.”

He began to row away, and as his boat receded Robert saw departing with
it the best chance he had yet had of escape from his irksome captivity.

“I didn’t suppose any boy could be so contemptibly mean,” he reflected
as his glance followed the boat, which gradually grew smaller and
smaller as it drew near the mainland. “I don’t think I’m fond of
quarreling, but I wish I could get hold of that boy for five minutes.”

Robert’s indignation was natural, but it was ineffective. He might
breathe out threats, but while he was a prisoner his aristocratic foe
was riding quickly over the waves.

“He rows well,” thought our hero, willing to do George justice in that
respect. “I didn’t think a city boy could row so well. I don’t believe I
could row any better myself, though I’ve been used to a boat ever since
I was six years old.”

But it would not do to spend all the afternoon in watching George and
his boat or he would lose all chance of getting away himself before
nightfall.

With a sigh he resumed work on the raft which he had hoped he could
afford to dispense with and finally got it so far completed that he
thought he might trust himself on it.

Robert was a little solicitous about the strength of his raft. It must
be admitted that, though he had done the best he could, it was rather a
rickety concern. If the nails had been all whole and new and he had had
a good hammer and strong boards he could easily have made a satisfactory
raft.

But the materials at his command were by no means of the best. The nails
were nearly all rusty, some were snapped off in the middle and his stone
did not work with the precision of a regular hammer.

“If it will only hold together till I can get to shore,” he thought, “I
won’t care if it goes to pieces the next minute. It seems a little
shaky, though. I must try to find a few more nails. It may increase the
strength of it.”

There was an end of a beam projecting from the sand, just at his feet.

Robert expected that probably he might by unearthing it find somewhere
about it a few nails, and he accordingly commenced operations.

If he had had a shovel or a spade, he could have worked to better
advantage, but as it was he was forced to content himself with a large
shell which he picked up near the shore.

Soon he had excavated a considerable amount of sand and brought to the
surface a considerable part of the buried beam. It was at this point
that he felt the shell strike something hard.

“I suppose it is a stone,” thought Robert.

And he continued his work with the object of getting it out of the way.
It was not long before the object was exposed to view.

What was Robert’s surprise and excitement to find it an ivory
portemonnaie, very much soiled and discolored by sea water!

Now, I suppose no one can find a purse or pocketbook without feeling his
pulse a little quickened, especially where, as in Robert’s case, money
is so much needed.

He immediately opened the portemonnaie, and to his great delight found
that it contained several gold pieces.

As my readers will feel curious to know the extent of his good luck, I
will state definitely the amount of his discovery. There were two gold
ten-dollar pieces, two of five, one two-dollar-and-a-half piece and
fifty cents in silver. In all there were thirty-three dollars in gold
and silver.

Robert’s delight may be imagined. If he had felt in luck the day before,
when he had been paid two dollars, how much more was he elated by a sum
which to him seemed almost a fortune!

“I am glad George didn’t take me on board his boat,” he reflected. “If
he had, I should never have found this money. Now, I don’t care if I do
stay here all night. Uncle had little idea what service he was doing me
when he left me alone on Egg Island.”

Though Robert expressed his willingness to spend the night on Egg
Island, he soon became eager to get home so that he could exhibit to his
aunt the evidence of his extraordinary luck.

He anticipated the joy of the poor woman as she saw assured to her for
weeks to come a degree of comfort to which for a long time she had been
unaccustomed.

Robert examined his raft once more and resolved to proceed to make it
ready for service. It took longer than he anticipated, and it was nearly
two hours later before he ventured to launch it. He used a board for a
paddle, and on his frail craft he embarked, with a bold heart, for the
mainland.




CHAPTER XI

A FRIEND GOES TO THE RESCUE


Leaving Robert for a time, we will accompany George Randolph on his
homeward trip.

George did not at all enjoy the plain speaking he had heard from Robert.
The more he thought of it the more his pride was outraged and the more
deeply he was incensed.

“The low-lived fellow!” he exclaimed as he was rowing home. “I never
heard of such impudence before. He actually seemed to think that I would
take as a passenger a common fisherman’s boy. I haven’t sunk as low as
that.”

George was brought up to have a high opinion of himself and his
position. He really thought that he was made of a different sort of clay
than the poor boys with whom he was brought in contact, and his foolish
parents encouraged him in this foolish belief.

Probably he would have been very much shocked if it had become known
that his own grandfather was an honest mechanic, who was compelled to
live in a very humble way.

George chose to forget this or to keep it out of sight, as it might have
embarrassed him when he was making his high social pretensions.

Falsely trained as he had been, and with a strong tendency to
selfishness, George had no difficulty in persuading himself that he had
done exactly right in rebuking the forwardness of his humble
acquaintance.

“He isn’t fit to associate with a gentleman,” he said to himself. “What
business is it of mine that he has to stay on the island all night? If
his uncle left him there, I dare say he deserved it.”

George did not immediately land when he reached the beach, but floated
here and there at will, enjoying the delightful sea breeze which set in
from seaward. At length, however, he became tired and landed. The boat
did not belong to him, but was hired of a fisherman living near by, who
had an extra boat.

The owner of the boat was on hand when George landed. He was, though a
fisherman, a man of good, sound common sense, who read a good deal in
his leisure moments and was therefore well informed. Like many other New
England men of low position, he was superior to his humble station and
was capable of acquitting himself creditably in a much higher sphere. It
is from persons of his class that our prominent men are often
recruited.

It may be mentioned here that, though George’s father, as he liked to
boast, was a rich man, the boy himself was very mean in money matters
and seldom willing to pay a fair price for anything. He was not above
driving a close bargain, and to save five cents would dispute for half
an hour.

“So you’ve got back young man?” said Ben Bence, the fisherman. “Did you
have a pleasant trip?”

“Quite fair,” answered George in a patronizing tone. “I rowed over to
Egg Island and back.”

“That’s doing very well for a city boy,” said the fisherman.

“I should think it was good for any boy or man either,” said George,
annoyed at this depreciation of his great achievement.

Bence laughed.

“Why,” said he, “I’m out for four or five hours sometimes. I don’t think
anything of rowing from fifteen to twenty miles, while you have rowed
only six.”

“I don’t expect to row as far as a man,” said George, rather taken
down.

“The best rower round here among the boys is Bob Coverdale,” said the
fisherman.

“What can he do?” asked George with a sneer.

“He can row ten miles without feeling it,” said Bence.

“Does he say so?” asked George in a meaning tone.

“No, but I have seen him do it. He’s been out with me more than once.
He’s a muscular boy, Bob is. Do you know him?”

“I have seen him,” answered George distantly.

“He’s a great chum of your cousin, Herbert Irving,” said Bence, “and so
I thought you might have met him.”

This subject was not to George’s taste, and he proceeded to change it.

“Well, my good man,” he said patronizingly, “how much do I owe you?”

“So I am your good man?” repeated Ben Bence with an amused smile. “I am
much obliged to you, I am sure. Well, you were gone about two hours, I
reckon.”

“I don’t think it was quite as much as that,” said George.

“I guess twenty-five cents will about pay me.”

“Twenty-five cents!” repeated George, all his meanness asserting itself.
“I think that is a very high price!”

“Did you expect to get the boat for nothing?” asked the fisherman,
surprised.

“Of course not. I wouldn’t be beholden to a fisherman,” George said
haughtily.

“Indeed! How much did you calculate to pay?”

“I think twenty cents is enough.”

“Then the only difference between us is five cents?”

“Yes.”

“Then you can pay me twenty cents. I can live without the extra five
cents.”

George, pleased at gaining his point, put two ten-cent pieces in the
hands of the owner of the boat, saying:

“I don’t care about the five cents, of course, but I don’t like to pay
too much.”

“I understand, Master Randolph,” said the fisherman with a quizzical
smile. “In your position, of course, you need to be economical.”

“What do you mean?” asked George with a flushed face.

“Oh, nothing!” answered Ben Bence, smiling.

The smile made George uncomfortable. Was it possible that this common
fisherman was laughing at him? But, of course, that did not matter, and
he had saved his five cents.

George got home in time for supper, but it was not till after supper
that he mentioned to Herbert:

“I saw that young fisherman this afternoon.”

“What young fisherman?”

“The one you played croquet with this morning.”

“Oh, Bob Coverdale! Where did you see him?” asked Herbert with
interest.

“On Egg Island.”

“How came he there?” inquired Herbert, rather surprised.

“He went there in a boat with his uncle. I expect he’s there now.”

“Why should he stay over there so long?”

“It’s a rich joke,” said George, laughing. “It seems his uncle was mad
with him and landed him there as a punishment. He’s got to stay there
all night.”

“I don’t see anything so very amusing in that,” said Herbert, who was
now thoroughly interested.

“He wanted me to take him off,” proceeded George. “He was trying to
build a raft. I told him he’d better keep at it.”

If George had watched the countenance of his cousin he would have seen
that Herbert was very angry, but he was so amused by the thought of
Robert’s perplexity that he did not notice.

“Do you mean to say that you refused to take him off?” demanded Herbert
in a quick, stern tone that arrested George’s attention.

“Of course I did! What claim had he on me?”

“And you deliberately left him there, when it would have been no trouble
to give him a passage back?”

“Really, Herbert, I don’t like your way of speaking. It was my boat--or,
at least, I was paying for the use of it--and I didn’t choose to take
him as a passenger.”

“George Randolph, do you want to know my opinion of you?” asked Herbert
hotly.

“What do you mean?” stammered George.

“I mean this, that I am ashamed of you. You are the most contemptibly
mean fellow I ever met, and I am heartily sorry there is any
relationship between us.”

“I consider that an insult!” exclaimed George, pale with anger.

“I am glad you do. I mean it as such. Just tell my mother I won’t be
back till late in the evening.”

“Where are you going?”

“I am going to get a boat and row to Egg Island for Bob Coverdale,” and
Herbert dashed up the street in the direction of the beach.

“He must be crazy!” muttered George, looking after his cousin.

Herbert Irving reached the beach and sought out Ben Bence.

“Mr. Bence,” he said, “I want to go to Egg Island. If you can spare the
time, come with me and I’ll pay you for your time.”

“What are you going for, Master Herbert?”

Upon this Herbert explained the object of his trip.

“Now, will you go?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered the fisherman heartily, “I’ll go and won’t charge you a
cent for the boat or my time. Bob Coverdale’s a favorite of mine, and
I’m sorry his uncle treats him so badly.”

Strong, sturdy strokes soon brought them to the island.

“Bob! Where are you. Bob?” called Herbert.

There was no answer. The island was so small that he would have been
seen if he had been there.

“He must have got off,” said Herbert. “George said he was building a
raft.”

“Then I mistrust something’s happened to the poor boy,” said Bence
gravely. “He couldn’t build a raft here that would hold together till he
reached the mainland.”

Herbert turned pale.

“I hope it isn’t so bad as that,” he said. “Let us row back as quick as
we can!”




CHAPTER XII

A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE


As they were rowing back they scanned the sea in every direction, but
nowhere did they discover any signs of Robert or his raft.

“Perhaps,” suggested Herbert, breaking a long silence, “Bob is already
at home.”

He looked inquiringly in the face of his companion to see what he
thought of the chances.

“Mayhap he is,” said Ben Bence slowly, “but I mistrust he found it too
rough for the raft.”

“In that case----” said Herbert anxiously and stopped without answering
the question.

“In that case the poor boy’s at the bottom of the sea, it’s likely.”

“He could swim, Mr. Bence.”

“Yes, but the tide would be too strong for him. Just about now there’s a
fearful undertow. I couldn’t swim against it myself, let alone a boy.”

“If anything has happened to him it’s his uncle’s fault,” said Herbert.

“John Trafton will have to answer for it,” said the fisherman sternly.
“There ain’t one of us that don’t love Bob. He’s a downright good boy,
Bob Coverdale is, and a smart boy, too.”

“If he’s lost I will never have anything more to do with George
Randolph. I will ask mother to pack him back to Boston to-morrow.”

“George ain’t a mite like you,” said Ben Bence.

“I hope not,” returned Herbert hastily. “He’s one of the meanest boys I
ever met. He might just as well have taken poor Bob off the island this
afternoon, if he hadn’t been so spiteful and ugly.”

“It would serve him right to leave him there a while himself,” suggested
Bence.

“I agree with you.”

There was another pause. Each was troubled by anxious thoughts about the
missing boy.

When they reached the shore Herbert said:

“I’m going to Mr. Trafton’s to see if Bob has got home.”

“I’ll go with you,” said the fisherman briefly.

They reached the humble cabin of the Traftons and knocked at the door.

Mrs. Trafton opened it.

“Good evening, Mr. Bence,” she said. “I believe this young gentleman is
Master Herbert Irving? I have often heard Robert speak of him.”

“Is Robert at home?” asked Herbert eagerly.

“No, he has been away all day,” answered his aunt.

“Do you know where he is?” inquired Ben Bence soberly.

“Mr. Trafton wouldn’t tell me. He said he had sent him away on some
errand, but I don’t see where he could have gone, to stay so long.”

It was clear Mrs. Trafton knew nothing of the trick which had been
played upon her nephew.

“Tell her, Mr. Bence,” said Herbert, turning to his companion.

“Has anything happened to Robert?” asked Mrs. Trafton, turning pale.

They told her how her husband had conveyed Robert to Egg Island and then
treacherously left him there, to get off as he might.

“Was there any difficulty between Bob and his uncle?” asked Ben Bence.

“Yes; the boy had a little money which had been given him and my husband
ordered him to give it up to him. He’d have done it, if he hadn’t wanted
to spend it for me. He was always a considerate boy, and I don’t know
what I should have done without him. Mr. Bence, I know it’s a good deal
to ask, but I can’t bear to think of Robert staying on the island all
night. Would you mind rowing over and bringing him back?”

As yet Mrs. Trafton did not understand that any greater peril menaced
her nephew.

“Mrs. Trafton, we have just been over to Egg Island,” said the
fisherman.

“And didn’t you find him?”

“No; he was not there.”

“But how could he get off?”

“He was seen this afternoon making a raft from the old timbers he found
in the wreck. He must have put to sea on it.”

“Then why is he not here?”

“The sea was rough, and----”

Mrs. Trafton, who had been standing, sank into a chair with a startled
look.

“You don’t think my boy is lost?”

“I hate to think so, Mrs. Trafton, but it may be.”

From grief there was a quick transition to righteous indignation.

“If the poor boy is drowned, I charge John Trafton with his death!” said
the grief-stricken woman with an energy startling for one of her usually
calm temperament.

“What’s this about John Trafton?” demanded a rough voice.

It was John Trafton himself, who, unobserved, had reached the door of
the cabin.

Ben Bence and Herbert shrank from him with natural aversion.

“So you’re talking against me behind my back, are you?” asked Trafton,
looking from one to the other with a scowl.

His wife rose to her feet and turned upon him a glance such as he had
never met before.

“What have you done with Robert, John Trafton?” she demanded sternly.

“Oh! that’s it, is it?” he said, laughing shortly. “I’ve served him as
he deserved.”

“What have you done with him?” she continued in a slow, measured voice.

“You needn’t come any tragedy over me, old woman!” he answered with
annoyance. “I left him on Egg Island to punish him for disobeying me!”

“I charge you with his murder!” she continued, confronting him with a
courage quite new to her.

“Murder!” he repeated, starting. “Come, now, that’s a little too strong!
Leaving him on Egg Island isn’t murdering him. You talk like a fool!”

“Trafton,” said Ben Bence gravely, “there is reason to think that your
nephew put off from the island on a raft, which he made himself, and
that the raft went to pieces.”

For the first time John Trafton’s brown face lost its color.

“You don’t mean to say Bob’s drowned?” he ejaculated.

“There is reason to fear that he may be.”

“I’ll bet he’s on the island now.”

“We have just been there and he is not there.”

At length Trafton began to see that the situation was a grave one, and
he began to exculpate himself.

“If he was such a fool as to put to sea on a crazy raft it ain’t my
fault,” he said. “I couldn’t help it, could I?”

“If you hadn’t left him there he would still be alive and well.”

John Trafton pulled out his red cotton handkerchief from his pocket and
began to wipe his forehead, on which the beads of perspiration were
gathering.

“Of course I wouldn’t have left him there if I’d known what he would
do,” he muttered.

“Did you mean to leave him there all night?” asked Bence.

“Yes, I meant it as a lesson to him,” said the fisherman.

“A lesson to him? You are a fine man to give a lesson to him! You, who
spend all your earnings for drink and leave me to starve! John Trafton,
I charge you with the death of poor Robert!” exclaimed Mrs. Trafton with
startling emphasis.

Perhaps nothing more contributed to overwhelm John Trafton than the
wonderful change which had taken place in his usually gentle and
submissive wife. He returned her accusing glance with a look of
deprecation.

“Come now, Jane, be a little reasonable,” he said. “You’re very much
mistaken. It was only in fun I left him. I thought it would be a good
joke to leave him on the island all night. Say something for me,
Ben--there’s a good fellow.”

But Ben Bence was not disposed to waste any sympathy on John Trafton. He
was glad to see Trafton brought to judgment and felt like deepening his
sense of guilt rather than lightening it.

“Your wife is right,” he said gravely. “If poor Bob is dead, you are
guilty of his death in the sight of God.”

“But he isn’t dead! It’s all a false alarm. I’ll get my boat and row
over to the island myself. Very likely he had gone to sleep among the
bushes and that prevented your seeing him.”

There was a bare possibility of this, but Ben Bence had little faith in
it.

“Go, if you like,” he said. “If you find him, it will lift a great
weight from your conscience.”

John Trafton dashed to the shore, flung himself into his boat, and, with
feverish haste, began to row toward the island. He bitterly repented now
the act which had involved him in such grave responsibility.

He was perfectly sober, for his credit at the tavern was temporarily
exhausted.

Of course those who remained behind in the cabin had no hope of Robert
being found. They were forced to believe that the raft had gone to
pieces and the poor boy, in his efforts to reach the shore, had been
swept back into the ocean by the treacherous undertow and was now lying
stiff and stark at the bottom of the sea.

“What shall I ever do without Robert?” said Mrs. Trafton, her defiant
mood changing, at her husband’s departure, to an outburst of grief. “He
was all I had to live for.”

“You have your husband,” suggested Ben Bence doubtfully.

“My husband!” she repeated drearily. “You know how little company he is
for me and how little he does to make me comfortable and happy. I will
never forgive him for this day’s work.”

Ben Bence, who was a just man, ventured to represent that Trafton did
not foresee the result of his action; but, in the sharpness of her
bereavement, Mrs. Trafton would find no excuse for him.

Herbert, too, looked pale and distressed. He had a genuine attachment
for Robert, whose good qualities he was able to recognize and
appreciate, even if he was a fisherman’s nephew.

He, too, thought sorrowfully of his poor friend, snatched from life and
swept by the cruel and remorseless sea to an ocean grave. He, too, had
his object of resentment.

But for George Randolph, he reflected, Robert would now be alive and
well, and he resolved to visit George with his severest reproaches.

While all were plunged in a similar grief a strange thing happened.

The door of the cabin was closed by John Trafton as he went out.

Suddenly there was heard a scratching at the door, and a sound was heard
as of a dog trying to excite attention.

“It must be my dog Dash,” said Herbert. “I wonder how he found me out?”

He advanced to the door and opened it. Before him stood a dog, but it
was not Dash. It was a large black dog, with an expression of
intelligence almost human. He had in his mouth what appeared to be a
scrap of writing paper. This he dropped on the ground when he saw that
he had attracted Herbert’s attention.

“What does this mean?” thought Herbert in great surprise, “and where
does this dog come from?”

He stooped and picked up the paper, greatly to the dog’s apparent
satisfaction. It was folded in the middle and contained, written in
pencil, the following message, which, not being directed to any one in
particular, Herbert felt at liberty to read:

“Feel no anxiety about Robert Coverdale. He is safe!”

Herbert read the message, the dog uttered a quick bark of satisfaction,
and, turning, ran down the cliff to the beach.

Herbert was so excited and delighted at the news of his friend’s safety
that he gave no further attention to the strange messenger, but hurried
into the cabin.

“Mrs. Trafton--Mr. Bence!” he exclaimed, “Bob is safe!”

“What do you mean? What have you heard?” they asked quickly.

“Read this!” answered Herbert, giving Mrs. Trafton the scrap of paper.

“Who brought it?” she asked, bewildered.

“A dog.”

Ben Bence quickly asked:

“What do you mean?”

“I know nothing more than that a large black dog came to the door with
this in his mouth, which he dropped at my feet.”

“That is very strange,” said Bence.

He opened the door and looked out, but no dog was to be seen.

“Do you believe this? Can it be true?” asked Mrs. Trafton.

“I believe it is true, though I can’t explain it,” answered Ben. “Some
dogs are wonderfully trained. I don’t know whom this dog belongs to, but
whoever it is he doubtless has Robert under his care. Let us be thankful
that he has been saved.”

“But why don’t he come home?” asked Mrs. Trafton. “Where can he be?”

“He was probably rescued in an exhausted condition. Cheer up, Mrs.
Trafton. You will no doubt see your boy to-morrow.”

“I feel like giving three cheers, Mr. Bence,” said Herbert.

“Then give ’em, boy, and I’ll help you!” said old Ben.

The three cheers were given with a will, and Herbert went home, his
heart much lighter than it had been ten minutes before.




CHAPTER XIII

THE CRUISE OF THE RAFT


It is time we carried the reader back to the time when Robert, after
launching his rude raft, set out from the island of his captivity.

Notwithstanding his rather critical situation, he was in excellent
spirits. The treasure which he had unearthed from the wreck very much
elated him. It meant comfort and independence for a time at least, and
in his new joy he was even ready to forgive his uncle for leaving him on
the island and Randolph for not taking him off.

“I’ve heard of things turning out for the best,” was the thought that
passed through his mind, “but I never understood it so well before.”

Robert possessed a large measure of courage and he had been used to the
sea from the age of six, or as far back as he could remember, but when
he had rounded the Island and paddled a few rods out to sea he began to
feel serious.

There was a strong wind blowing, and this had roughened the sea and made
it difficult for him to guide his extemporized raft in the direction he
desired.

Had it been his uncle’s fishing boat and had he but possessed a good
pair of stout oars, he would have experienced no particular difficulty.

He would perhaps have found it rather hard pulling, but he was unusually
strong for his age, and, in the end, he would have reached the shore.
But with a frail raft, loosely put together, and only a board to row or
paddle with, his progress was very slow.

He did make a little progress, however, but it was so little that, at
the end of fifteen minutes, he seemed as far off from the little cabin
on the cliff as ever.

“It’s hard work,” said Robert to himself. “I wish I had a boat. If it
were smooth water, I could get along with a raft, but now----”

He stopped short, as the raft was lifted on the crest of a wave, and he
nearly slid off into the water.

He looked back to the island and began to consider whether it would not
be best, after all, to paddle back and trust to being taken off the next
morning by some fisherman’s boat.

No doubt that would have been the most sensible thing to do, but Robert
was very reluctant to relinquish his project.

Had he not devoted several hours to constructing the raft he was trying
to navigate and should he allow this time to be thrown away?

Again, the prospect of passing a night upon Egg Island was not very
inviting. There was nothing to fear, of course, for the island was too
small to be infested by wild animals or even snakes. He could no doubt
sleep some, even if his bed were not very comfortable.

Robert looked back. By this time he was half a mile, at a rough guess,
from Egg Island, and between his raft and the mainland there intervened
probably two miles and a half of rough sea.

“If I can get within half a mile of shore,” thought our young hero, “I
won’t care for the raft any longer. I will plunge into the waves and
swim to the shore.”

He looked toward the shore.

There, in plain view, was the humble cabin which he called home. Inside
doubtless was his aunt, worrying perhaps about his absence.

“How delighted she will be when I tell her of the money I have found!”
thought Robert joyfully. “Come, Bob, brace up now and push out boldly
for home.”

With his eyes fixed on the cabin, our young hero used his paddle with
such energy that, in the course of half an hour or thereabouts, he was
about a mile farther on his way.

He had gone half way, and though he was somewhat fatigued, he was strong
and muscular, and the chances were that he would be able to hold out
till he reached the boat landing.

But now a new danger threatened itself.

The assaults of the sea had strained heavily the raft, which he had not
been able, for want of nails, to make strong and secure.

Robert’s heart beat with quiet alarm as he realized that there was small
chance of his frail craft holding together till he reached shore.

The danger was hardly realized before it came.

A strong wave wrenched apart the timbers, and Robert Coverdale found
himself, without warning, spilled into the sea, a mile and a half from
land.

Instinctively he struck out and began to swim, but the distance was
great and he was impeded by his clothes.

Looking neither to the right nor to the left, but only straight ahead,
he swam with all the strength there was left to him, but he found
himself weakening after a while and gave himself up for lost.




CHAPTER XIV

THE HERMIT OF THE CLIFF


The last thing that Robert could remember was the singing of the waters
in his ears and a weight as of lead that bore him downward with a force
which he felt unable to resist.

But at the critical moment, when the doors of death seemed to be
swinging open to admit him, he was firmly seized by a slender, muscular
arm, extended from a boat shaped somewhat like an Indian canoe and rowed
by a tall, thin man with white hair and a long white beard.

In the dusk our hero had not seen the boat nor known that help was so
near at hand. But the occupant of the boat had, from a distance, seen
the going to pieces of the raft, and appreciated the peril of the brave
swimmer, and paddled his boat energetically toward him just in time to
rescue him when already insensible.

Pale and with closed eyes lay Robert in the bottom of the boat. The old
man--for so he appeared--rather anxiously opened the boy’s shirt and
placed his hand over his heart. An expression of relief appeared on his
face.

“He will do,” he said sententiously and turned his attention to the
boat.

Half a mile from the cliff on which stood the fisherman’s cabin was
another, rising to a greater height.

To this the stranger directed his boat. He fastened it and then, raising
our hero in his arms, walked toward the cliff.

There was a cavity as wide as a door, but less in height, through which
he passed, lowering his head as he entered. Inside the opening steadily
widened and became higher. This cavity was about ten feet above the
sandy beach and was reached by a ladder.

On he passed, guided amid the darkness by a light from a lantern hanging
from the roof. The front portion of the cavern seemed like a hall,
through which a narrow doorway led into a larger room, which was
furnished like the interior of a house. Upon a walnut table stood a
lamp, which the stranger lighted. He took the boy, already beginning to
breathe more freely, and laid him on a lounge, covered with a buffalo
skin, at the opposite side of the apartment. From a shelf he took a
bottle and administered a cordial to Robert, who, though not yet
sensible, mechanically swallowed it.

The effect was almost instantaneous.

The boy opened his eyes and looked about him in bewilderment.

“Where am I?” he inquired.

“What can you remember?” asked the old man.

Robert shuddered.

“I was struggling in the water,” he answered. “I thought I was
drowning.”

Then, gazing at the strange apartment and the majestic face of the
venerable stranger, he said hesitatingly:

“Am I still living or was I drowned?”

He was not certain whether he had made the mysterious passage from this
world to the next, so strange and unfamiliar seemed everything about
him.

“You are still in life,” answered the stranger, smiling gravely. “God
has spared you, and a long life is yet before you if He wills.”

“And you saved me?”

“Yes.”

“How can I thank you? I owe you my life,” said Robert gratefully.

“I am indebted to you for the opportunity once more to be of use to one
of my race.”

“I don’t understand how you could have saved me. When I went down I
could see no one near.”

“On account of the dusk. I was not far away in my boat. I saw your peril
and hastened to your assistance. Fortunately I was not too late. Do you
know who it is that has saved you?”

“Yes,” answered Robert.

“You have seen me before?”

“Yes, but not often.”

“How do people call me?”

“They call you ‘the hermit of the cliff.’”

“As well that as anything else,” said the old man. “What more do they
say of me?”

Robert seemed reluctant to tell, but there was something imperative in
the old man’s tone.

“Some say you are crazy,” he answered.

“I am not surprised to hear it. The world is apt to say that of one who
behaves differently from his fellows. But I must not talk too much of
myself. How do you feel?”

“I feel weak,” answered Robert.

“Doubtless. Swimming against such a current was a severe strain upon
your strength. Let me feel your pulse.”

He pressed his finger upon Robert’s pulse and reported that the action
was slow.

“It means exhaustion,” he said. “You must sleep well, and to-morrow
morning you will feel as well as usual.”

“But I ought to go home,” said Robert, trying to rise. “My aunt will
feel anxious about me.”

“Who is your aunt?”

“I am the nephew of John Trafton, who has a small house on the cliff.”

“I know. He is a fisherman.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t disturb yourself. Word shall be sent to your aunt that you are
safe. I will give you a sleeping draught, and to-morrow morning we will
speak further.”

Somehow Robert did not dream of resisting the will of his host. The old
man had an air of command to which it seemed natural to submit.
Moreover, he knew that to this mysterious stranger--the hermit of the
cliff, as the fishermen called him--he was indebted for his life, and
such a man must necessarily be his friend. Robert was, besides, in that
condition of physical languor when, if he had felt disposed, he would
have found it very difficult to make resistance to the will of another.

“First of all,” said the old man, “you must take off your wet clothes. I
will place them where they can dry, so that you may put them on in the
morning.”

With assistance Robert divested himself of his wet garments. As we know,
he had little to take off. The stranger brought out a nightgown and then
placed our hero in his own bed, wrapping him up in blankets.

“Now for the sleeping draught,” he said.

From a bottle he poured out a few drops, which Robert swallowed. In less
than three minutes he had closed his eyes and was in a profound
slumber.

The old man regarded him with satisfaction as he lay breathing
tranquilly upon the bed.

“He is young and strong. Nature has been kind to him and given him an
excellent constitution. Sleep will repair the ill effects of exposure. I
must remember my promise to the boy,” he said.

Turning to the table, he drew from a drawer writing materials and wrote
the brief message which, as we have already seen, was duly delivered,
and then walked to the entrance of the cavern.

He placed a whistle to his lips, and in response to his summons a black
dog came bounding to him from the recesses of the grotto and fawned upon
him.

“Come with me, Carlo; I have work for you,” he said.

The dog, as if he understood, followed his master out upon the beach.

They walked far enough to bring into clear distinctness the cabin on the
cliff.

“Do you see that house. Carlo?” asked his master, directing the dog’s
attention with his outstretched finger.

Carlo answered by a short, quick bark, which apparently meant “yes.”

“Carry this note there. Do you understand?”

The dog opened his mouth to receive the missive and trotted contentedly
away.

The hermit turned and retraced his steps to the cavern. He stood beside
the bed and saw, to his satisfaction, that Robert was still sleeping
peacefully.

“It is strange,” said he musingly, “that I should feel such an interest
in this boy. I had forsworn all intercourse with my kind, save to
provide myself with the necessaries of life. For two years I have lived
here alone with my dog and I fancied that I felt no further interest in
the affairs of my fellow men. Yet here is a poor boy thrown on my hands,
and I feel positive pleasure in having him with me. Yet he is nothing to
me. He belongs to a poor fisherman’s family, and probably he is
uneducated, and has no tastes in common with me. Yet he is an attractive
boy. He has a well-shaped head and a bright eye. There must be a
capacity for something better and higher. I will speak with him in the
morning.”

He opened a volume from his bookcase, to which reference has not as yet
been made, and for two hours he seemed to be absorbed by it.

Closing it at length, he threw himself upon the couch on which Robert
had at first been placed and finally fell asleep.




CHAPTER XV

THE HOME OF THE HERMIT


When Robert awoke the next morning he found himself alone. His strange
host was absent, on some errand perhaps.

After a brief glance of bewilderment, Robert remembered where he was,
and with the recovery of his strength, which had been repaired by sleep,
he felt a natural curiosity about his host and his strange home.

So far as he knew, he was the first inhabitant of the village who had
been admitted to a sight of its mystery.

For two years the hermit of the cliff had made his home there, but he
had shunned all intercourse with his neighbors and had coldly repelled
all advances and checked all curiosity by his persistent taciturnity.
From time to time he went to the village for supplies, and when they
were too bulky to admit of his carrying them, he had had them delivered
on the beach in front of the entrance to his cave dwelling and at his
leisure carried them in himself.

He always attracted attention, as with his tall, slender, majestic
figure he moved through the village, or paced the beach, or impelled his
frail boat. But speculation as to who he was or what had induced him to
become a recluse had about ceased from the despair of obtaining any
light upon these points.

No wonder then that Robert, admitted by chance to his dwelling, looked
about him in curious wonder.

Cavern as it was, the room was fitted up with due regard to comfort and
even luxury.

The bed on which our hero reposed was soft and inviting. The rough stone
floor was not carpeted, but was spread with Turkish rugs. There was a
bookcase, containing perhaps two hundred books; there was a table and
writing desk, an easy-chair and a rocking-chair, and the necessarily
dark interior was lighted by an astral lamp, diffusing a soft and
pleasant light. On a shelf ticked a French clock and underneath it was a
bureau provided with toilet necessaries.

No one in the village knew how these articles had been spirited into the
cavern. No one of the villagers had assisted. Indeed, no one, except
Robert, knew that the hermit was so well provided with comforts.

Our hero found his clothes on a chair at his bedside. They were drier
and suitable for wearing.

“I may as well dress,” thought Robert. “I won’t go away till I’ve seen
the hermit. I want to thank him again for taking such good care of me.”

He did not have to wait long, however. He had scarcely completed his
toilet when the hermit appeared.

“So, my young friend, you arc quite recovered from your bath?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That is well.”

“I think, sir, I had better go home now, for my aunt will be anxious
about me.”

“I sent a message to your aunt last evening. She knew before she went to
bed that you were safe.”

“Thank you, sir!”

“I am not apt to be curious, but I wish, before you leave me, to ask you
a few questions. Sit down, if you please.”

Robert seated himself. He felt that the hermit had a right to ask some
questions of one whom he had saved.

“How came you so far out at sea on a frail raft? If you had been
shipwrecked, that would explain it, but as you have not been to sea, I
cannot understand it.”

“I found myself on Egg Island, without any means of getting off. So I
made a raft from the timbers of the wreck and launched it. I thought it
would last long enough for me to reach land.”

“It was a hazardous enterprise. But how came you on the island? Surely
you did not swim there?”

“No, sir. My uncle carried me there in his boat. He refused to take me
off unless I would give up some money which I wanted to spend for my
aunt.”

“Was the money yours?”

“Yes, sir. It was given me by a gentleman living at the hotel.”

“Your uncle--John Trafton--is not a temperate man?”

“No, sir. He spends all the money he earns on drink, and my aunt and I
have to live as we can.”

“What a fool is man!” said the hermit musingly. “He alone of created
beings allows himself to be controlled by his appetites, while
professing to stand at the head of the universe!”

Robert felt that he was not expected to answer this speech and remained
respectfully silent till his host resumed his questioning.

“And you,” said the old man abruptly, “what do you do?”

“Sometimes I go out with my uncle’s boat and catch fish for use at home.
Sometimes I find jobs to do in the village which bring in a little
money. I am always glad of that, for we can’t buy groceries without
money, and my uncle never gives us any. My aunt is very fond of tea, but
once for three weeks she had to do without it.”

“That was a pity. There are some who find great comfort in tea.”

“It is so with Aunt Jane. She says it puts new life in her.”

“Have you any money now?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you of my good luck!” said Robert eagerly. “Just
before I left the wreck I dug up this,” and he displayed the purse with
the gold pieces in it. “It would have been a pity if I had been drowned
with all this in my pocket.”

“My poor boy, your young life would have outweighed a thousandfold the
value of these paltry coins. Still I do not depreciate them, for they
may be exchanged for comforts. But will not your uncle seek to take them
from you?”

“He will not know that I have this money. I shall not tell him.”

“It will be better.”

For a brief time the hermit gazed at Robert in thoughtful silence and
then said:

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen, sir.”

“Have you ever thought of life and its uses--I mean of the uses of your
own life? Have you ever formed plans for the future?”

“No, sir. It did not seem of much use. I have had to consider how to get
enough for my aunt and myself to live upon.”

“So your uncle’s burdens have been laid on your young shoulders? Have
you no aspirations? Are you willing to follow in his steps and grow up a
fisherman, like your neighbors?”

“No, sir. I should be very sorry if I thought I must always live here at
Cook’s Harbor and go out fishing. I should like to see something of the
world, as I suppose you have.”

“Yes, I have seen much of the world--too much for my happiness--or I
would not have come to this quiet spot to end my days. But for a young
and guileless boy, whose life is but beginning, the world has its
charms. Do you care for books?”

“I have never looked into many, sir, but that is not my fault. I have
half a dozen tattered books at home and I study in some of them every
day. I have been nearly through the arithmetic and I know something of
geography. Sometimes I get hold of a paper, but not often, for my uncle
takes none and does not care for reading.”

“Look among my books. See if there is any one you would like to read.”

Robert had already cast wistful glances at the rows of books in the
handsome bookcase.

He had never before seen so many books together, for Cook’s Harbor was
not noted for its literary men and book lovers. He gladly accepted the
hermit’s invitation.

His attention was quickly drawn to a set of the Waverley novels. He had
often heard of them, and an extract which he had seen in his school
reader from “Rob Roy” had given him a strong desire to read the story
from which it was taken.

“I should like to borrow ‘Rob Roy,’” he said.

“You may take it. When you have read it, you may, upon returning it,
have another.”

“Then I may call to see you, sir?”

“I shall be glad to have you do so. It is an invitation I never expected
to give, but you have interested me, and I may be able to serve you at
some time.”

“Thank you, sir. If you should ever want any one to run errands for you,
I hope you will call upon me. I should like to make some return for your
great kindness.”

“That is well thought of. You may come to me every Tuesday and Friday
mornings, at nine o’clock, and carry my orders to the village. I do not
care to go there, but have had no messenger I could trust. For this
service I will pay you two dollars a week.”

Robert was astonished at the mention of such liberal payment.

“But, sir, that is rather too much,” he began.

“Let it be so,” said the hermit. “I have money in plenty and it does not
bring me happiness. In your hands it may do good.”

“It will be a great help to me, sir.”

“It is understood then. I will not detain you longer. Go home and
gladden the heart of your aunt.”

Robert left the cavern, more than ever puzzled by his brief acquaintance
with the mysterious recluse.




CHAPTER XVI

THE FISHERMAN’S TEMPTATION


It is needless to say that Robert received a joyful welcome from his
aunt. Her joy was increased when her nephew showed her the gold which he
had found upon the island.

“You see, aunt,” he said, “it wasn’t such bad luck, after all, to be
left on the island.”

“God has so shaped events as to bring good out of evil,” answered Mrs.
Trafton, who was a religious woman and went regularly to church, though
her husband never accompanied her. “But I am afraid your uncle will try
to get the money away from you.”

“I don’t want him to know it, aunt.”

“I shall not tell him, Robert, but he may find out.”

“That is not all. I have got regular work to do which will bring me in
two dollars a week.”

Then Robert told his surprised aunt the story of his engagement by the
hermit, who for two years had been the mystery of the village.

“It never rains but it pours, you see, aunt,” he said cheerfully.

He wondered how his uncle would receive him and whether he would make a
fresh demand for the small sum of money which had been the cause of the
original trouble.

But John Trafton had been thoroughly alarmed by the consequences of his
former act and he had, besides, such experience of Robert’s firmness
that he concluded it would not be worth while to carry the matter any
further. He greeted Robert sullenly.

“So you are back?” he said gruffly.

“Yes,” answered the boy.

“Who took you off?”

“I put off on a raft and should have been drowned but for the hermit. He
saved me.”

“You deserved to be drowned for putting off on a raft.”

“Did you think I was going to stay on the island?” asked Robert with
spirit. “If I had been drowned it would have been your fault.”

“None of your impudence, boy!” said John Trafton.

And then he dropped the subject without referring to the money.

During the day Robert called on Herbert Irving to thank him for his
interest in his behalf.

George was in the yard, but his valise was in his hand and he seemed on
the point of departure. He scowled at Robert, but didn’t speak.

“I’m glad to see you back, Bob,” said Herbert warmly. “What an old
rascal your uncle is! Now tell me all about how you escaped.”

While Robert was telling the story the stage drove up and George got on
board.

“Good-by, George!” said Herbert.

George did not deign a reply and rode sullenly away.

“He doesn’t find that the climate of Cook’s Harbor suits him,” said
Herbert significantly.

“He doesn’t seem very happy about going,” said Robert. “I didn’t expect
he would notice me, but he did not bid you good-by.”

“The fact is George and I have had a flare-up,” said Herbert. “I was
disgusted with his heartlessness in refusing to take you from Egg
Island, and I told him so pretty plainly. He accused me of insulting him
and threatened to lay a complaint before my mother. I requested him to
do so. Considerably to his surprise, she took my part and reproved him
for his selfish and disagreeable pride. This was too much for the young
gentleman, and he gave notice that he should return to the city. No one
attempted to keep him, and he has felt compelled to carry out his
threat, a good deal to his disappointment.”

“I am sorry you are losing your visitor on my account, Herbert.”

“You needn’t. Though he is my cousin, I am glad to have him go.”

“But you will feel lonely.”

“Not if you come to see me every day, Bob.”

“If we didn’t live in a poor cabin, I would ask you to visit me.”

“Never mind about how you live; I will come. It isn’t the house I shall
come to see, but you. Some time when you are going out fishing I wish
you would take me along.”

“With all my heart, if you will come.”

To Herbert alone Robert confided his discovery of the purse of gold.

It was about a week before Robert had occasion to use any of his gold.
By that time he had spent the balance of the money given him by Mr.
Lawrence Tudor and was forced to fall back upon his gold, having as yet
received nothing from the hermit, who knew that he was not in immediate
want of money.

Abner Sands was standing behind the counter in his grocery when Robert
entered.

“What can I do for ye, Robert?” asked the trader.

“You may give me two pounds of tea and six pounds of flour.”

“I s’pose ye’ve got the money,” said Sands cautiously.

“Of course I have.”

“You’re doin’ well now, Robert, I take it?” said the trader.

“Better than I used to,” answered Robert.

He did not choose to make a confidant of Mr. Sands, who was a man of
great curiosity and an inveterate gossip.

When the goods were done up in separate parcels Robert took out the
two-dollar-and-a-half gold piece and passed it to the grocer.

“Why, I declare, it’s gold!” exclaimed Mr. Sands wonderingly.

“Yes, it is gold.”

“Of all things, I didn’t expect to get gold from you, Robert Coverdale.
I reckon you’ve found a gold mine!”

“Perhaps I have,” said Robert, smiling.

As he put his hand in his pocket another gold piece dropped to the floor
and he picked it up hastily, provoked at his carelessness, not, however,
before the astonished trader had seen it.

He was sorely puzzled to know how a poor boy like Robert could have so
much money in his possession and put one or two questions, which our
hero evaded.

“The tea and flour came to a dollar and a quarter,” said the shrewd
trader, “and that leaves a dollar and a quarter to come to you.”

He tendered Robert a one-dollar bill and twenty-five cents.

After Robert went home Mr. Sands searched his brain in trying to guess
where he could have obtained his gold, but the more he thought the
darker and more mysterious it seemed. While in this state of perplexity
John Trafton entered the store.

He had seen Robert going out with two large parcels, and he came in to
learn what he could about them.

“How d’ye do, Sands?” he said. “Has Bob been in here?”

“Yes.”

“Did he buy anything?”

“Two pounds of tea and half a dozen pounds of flour. Seems to have
considerable money.”

“Does he?” inquired Trafton eagerly.

“I thought you knew. Why, he paid me in gold!”

“In gold?” ejaculated Trafton.

“To be sure! He give me a two-and-a-half gold piece, and that wasn’t
all. He dropped a ten-dollar gold piece by accident, but picked it right
up.”

“You don’t mean it?” said the fisherman, astounded.

“Yes, I do. But I s’posed you knew all about it.”

“I only know what you’ve told me. The fact is that boy hasn’t a spark of
gratitude. It seems he’s rolling in wealth and leaves me to get along as
I can.”

“Nephews ain’t generally expected to provide for their uncles,” said
Abner Sands dryly.

But John Trafton did not hear him. As he left the store an idea entered
his mind. He knew that Robert had found a friend in the hermit, and he
decided that the gold came from him.

If that was the case, the hermit must be rich. Who knows but he might
have thousands of dollars in the cave? The fisherman’s eyes sparkled
with greed and he was assailed by a powerful temptation. His credit at
the tavern was about exhausted. What a pity he could not get some of the
gold, which appeared to do its possessor so little good!




CHAPTER XVII

JOHN TRAFTON’S NEW PLAN


With the new but unlawful purpose which he had begun to entertain John
Trafton resolved to find out all he could about the hermit, and he
rightly judged that Robert could give him more information than anybody
else.

He decided to go home early and question his nephew cautiously. If he
could find out something about the hermit’s habits and peculiarities it
would help him in his plan, for there was no beating about the bush
now.

He acknowledged to himself that he meant to enter the cave, and if he
could only find the gold, which he was persuaded the occupant owned in
large quantities, to enrich himself at his expense.

His imagination was dazzled at the prospect. All his life he had been
working for a bare living. Probably, in his most prosperous year, not
over three hundred dollars in money had come into his hands as the
recompense of his toil.

Probably there are few people who do not, at some time, indulge in
dreams of sudden wealth. This time had come to John Trafton, and,
unfortunately, the temptation which came with it was so powerful as to
confuse his notions of right and wrong and almost to persuade him that
there was nothing very much out of the way in robbing the recluse of his
hoards.

“It don’t do him any good,” argued the fisherman, “while it would make
me comfortable for life. If I had ten thousand dollars, or even five,
I’d go away from here and live like a gentleman. My wife should be
rigged out from top to toe, and we’d jest settle down and take things
easy.”

John Trafton was not very strict in his principles, and his conscience
did not trouble him much. Even if it had, the dazzling picture which his
fancy painted of an easy and luxurious future would probably have
carried the day.

It was only eight o’clock in the evening when the fisherman lifted the
latch of the outer door and entered the cabin.

His wife and Robert looked up in surprise, for it was about two hours
earlier than he generally made his appearance.

Another surprise--his gait and general appearance showed that he was
quite sober. This was gratifying, even if it was the result of his
credit being exhausted.

During the preceding week it may be mentioned that he had worked more
steadily than usual, having made several trips in his boat, and had thus
been enabled to pay something on his score at the tavern.

John Trafton sat down before the fire.

His wife was mending stockings by the light of a candle which burned on
the table at her side and Robert was absorbed by the fascinating pages
of Scott’s “Rob Roy.”

A side glance showed the fisherman how his nephew was employed, and,
rightly judging where the book came from, he seized upon it as likely to
lead to the questions he wanted to ask.

“What book have you got there, Bob?” he inquired.

“It Is a story by Sir Walter Scott, uncle.”

“Never heard of him. Does he live in Boston?” asked Trafton.

“No, he was a Scotchman.”

“Some Scotchmen are pretty smart, I’ve heard tell.”

“Scott was a wonderful genius,” said Robert, glowing with enthusiasm.

“I dare say he was,” said the fisherman placidly. “Where did you get the
book?”

“I borrowed it of the hermit.”

This was the name which Robert used, for even now he had no knowledge of
his mysterious friend’s name.

“Has he got many books?”

“A whole bookcase full.”

“He must be a rich man,” suggested John Trafton with apparent
carelessness.

“I think he is,” said Robert, wondering a little at his uncle’s newborn
interest in his new acquaintance, but suspecting nothing of his design
in asking the question.

“It stands to reason he must be,” continued the fisherman. “He doesn’t
do anything for a living.”

“No.”

“Then, of course, he’s got enough to live on.”

“Besides, all his furniture is very nice,” cried Robert, falling into
the trap. “He seems not to mind money and talks as if he was always used
to it.”

“I s’pose he pays you for running of errands for him,” said Trafton.

“Yes,” answered Robert reluctantly, for he feared that his uncle would
ask to have the money transferred to him. But the next words of Trafton
reassured him.

“That’s all right,” he said. “You can spend the money as you please. I
don’t ask you for any of it.”

“Thank you, uncle,” said Robert warmly.

Mrs. Trafton regarded her husband in surprise. He was appearing in a
character new to her. What could his sudden unselfishness mean?

“I only asked because I didn’t want you to work for nothing, Bob,” said
his uncle, not wishing it to appear that he had any other motive, as his
plan must, of course, be kept secret from all.

“I wouldn’t mind working for nothing, uncle. It would be small pay for
his saving my life,” Robert said with perfect sincerity.

“He wouldn’t want you to do it--a rich man like him,” returned the
fisherman complacently. “It’s the only money he has to spend, except
what he pays for victuals. I’m glad you’ve fallen in with him. You might
as well get the benefit of his money as anybody.”

“Uncle seems to think I only think of money,” Robert said to himself
with some annoyance. “I begin to like the hermit. He is very kind to
me.”

He did not give utterance to this thought, rightly deeming that it would
not be expedient, but suffered his uncle to think as he might.

“Does the hermit always stay at home in the evening?” asked the
fisherman after a pause.

“Sometimes he goes out in his boat late at night and rows about half the
night. I suppose he gets tired of being alone or else can’t sleep.”

John Trafton nodded with an expression of satisfaction.

This would suit his plans exactly. If he could only enter the cave in
one of these absences, he would find everything easy and might
accomplish his purpose without running any risk.

It was clear to him now that the gold of which the trader spoke was
given to his nephew by the hermit. He was justified in thinking so, as
there was no other conceivable way in which Robert could have obtained
it. He coveted the ten-dollar gold piece, but he was playing for a
higher stake and could afford to let that go for the present at least.

The fisherman lit his pipe and smoked thoughtfully.

His wife was not partial to the odor of strong tobacco, but tobacco, she
reflected, was much to be preferred to drink, and if her husband could
be beguiled from the use of the latter by his pipe then she would gladly
endure it.

John Trafton smoked about ten minutes in silence and then rose from his
chair.

“I guess I’ll go out on the beach and have my smoke there,” he said as
he took his hat from the peg on which he had hung it on entering the
cabin.

“You’re not going back to the tavern, John?” said his wife in alarm.

“No, I’ve quit the tavern for to-night. I’ll just go out on the beach
and have my smoke there. I won’t be gone very long.”

When Trafton had descended from the cliff to the beach he took the
direction of the hermit’s cave.

Of course he had been in that direction a good many times, but then
there was nothing on his mind and he had not taken particular notice of
the entrance or its surroundings.

It was a calm, pleasant moonlight night and objects were visible for a
considerable distance. Trafton walked on till he stood at the foot of
the cliff containing the cave. There was the rude ladder leading to the
entrance. It was short. It could be scaled in a few seconds, and the box
or chest of gold, in whose existence Trafton had a thorough belief,
could be found. But caution must be used. Possibly the hermit might be
at home, and if he were, he would, of course, be awake at that hour.
Besides, the cave was dark and he had no light.

“When I come I will bring matches and a candle,” thought the fisherman.
“I can’t find the gold unless I can see my way. What a fool this hermit
must be to stay in such a place when with his money he could live
handsomely in the city! But I don’t find fault with him for that. It’s
so much the better for me.”

He turned his eyes toward the sea, and by the light of the moon he saw
the hermit’s slender skiff approaching. The old man was plainly visible,
with his long gray hair floating over his shoulders as he bent to the
oars.

“He mustn’t see me,” muttered the fisherman. “I had better go home.”




CHAPTER XVIII

A DESPERATE CONFLICT


About eight o’clock the next evening John Trafton sat in the barroom at
the tavern enjoying himself in the manner characteristic of the place.

All day long his mind had been dwelling upon the plan which he had so
recently formed, and he felt a feverish desire to carry it out.

“One bold stroke,” he said to himself, “and I am a made man. No more
hard work for me. I will live like a gentleman.”

It was rather a strange idea the fisherman had--that he could live like
a gentleman on the proceeds of a burglary--but there are many who, like
him, consider that nothing is needed but money to make a gentleman.

That very night John Trafton decided to make the attempt, if
circumstances seemed favorable. He shrank from it as the time approached
and felt that he needed some artificial courage. For this reason he
visited the tavern and patronized the bar more liberally than usual.

Trafton had prudently resolved to keep his design entirely secret and
not to drop even a hint calculated to throw suspicion upon him after the
event.

But there is an old proverb that when the wine is in the wit is out,
and, though the fisherman indulged in whisky rather than wine, the
saying will apply just as well to the one as to the other.

Among the company present in the barroom was one man who had been in the
village a day or two, but was a stranger to all present.

He was a short, powerfully made man, roughly dressed, with a low brow
and quick, furtive eyes that had a look of suspicion in them.

He had naturally found his way to the tavern bar and proved himself a
liberal patron of the establishment. Therefore the landlord--though he
did not fancy the looks of his new guest--treated him with politeness.

Somehow the conversation on that particular evening drifted to the
probable wealth of city people who made their homes at Cook’s Harbor
during the summer. It was afterward remembered that the roughly dressed
stranger had introduced the subject in a casual way.

“It’s my opinion,” said Ben Barton, “that Mr. Irving is our richest
man.”

“What makes you think so, Ben?” asked the landlord.

“The way he lives partly. He’s got everything that money can buy.
Besides, I heard his boy say that his father’s watch cost him five
hundred dollars. Now, it stands to reason that a man don’t wear a watch
like that unless he’s got the money to back it.”

“There’s something in that,” the landlord admitted.

The stranger seemed interested.

“Does this Irving stay down here himself?” he asked.

“No, he only comes down Saturday to stay over Sunday.”

“Does he have much silver in the house?”

“I don’t know. Why?” inquired Ben Barton, turning a surprised look upon
the stranger.

“Because a real, tiptop rich man generally has plenty of plate,”
answered the man after a pause.

“I guess he doesn’t keep it down here,” said Barton. “It’s likely he’s
got plenty in the city.”

The stranger shrugged his shoulders.

“Does his wife wear diamonds?” he asked.

“Not down here. There wouldn’t be any occasion.”

“Does he get his groceries here or in the city?”

“He sends them down here by express.”

The stranger seemed to lose all interest in the Irving family.

Two or three summer residents were mentioned who were supposed to be
rich, but it did not appear that any of them kept valuables at their
summer homes.

John Trafton had not taken any part in the conversation hitherto, and if
he had been prudent he would have continued to remain silent, but a man
excited by drink is not likely to be discreet.

He broke silence when there came a lull in the discussion.

“There’s one man you haven’t mentioned,” he said, “who keeps more money
on hand than Mr. Irving or any one else you have spoken of.”

“A man in the village here?” asked the landlord.

“He means you, Mr. Jones,” said Ben Barton jocosely. “Ain’t we all of us
bringing you money every day? You ought to have a pile by this time.”

“So I might if all that were owing me would pay up,” retorted the
landlord.

As Ben was one of his debtors, this was felt to be a fair hit, and there
was a laugh at his expense.

“P’r’aps Trafton means himself,” suggested Ben by way of diversion.

“I wish I did,” said the fisherman. “Well, I may be rich some time;
stranger things have happened.”

“I can’t think of any stranger thing than that,” said Ben.

And the laugh now was at Trafton’s expense, but he didn’t seem to mind
it.

By this time the general curiosity was aroused.

“Who is this rich man you’re talkin’ about, Trafton?” asked Sam
Cummings.

“The hermit of the cliff,” answered the fisherman.

There was a general rustle of surprise.

“What reason have you for saying that?” asked Mr. Jones, the landlord.

By this time, however, John Trafton began to suspects that he had been
imprudent and he answered with a mysterious shake of the head:

“I’ve no call to tell you that, but I’ve got my reasons.”

“Can’t you tell us, John?” asked Ben Barton.

“I might, but I won’t; but I stand by what I’ve said.”

“Doesn’t your boy do errands for the hermit?” asked the landlord.

“Suppose he does?”

“And he goes into the hermit’s cave?”

“Perhaps he does and perhaps he doesn’t.”

“I know he does, for I was on the beach a day or two ago and I see him
a-climbin’ the ladder and goin’ in,” said Ben Barton.

“You’ll have to ask him about that,” said the fisherman.

“Whereabouts is his cave?” asked the stranger, who had listened intently
to what had been said.

One of the party described its location fully.

“Then I’ve seen it,” said the other. “I was walking on the beach this
morning and I wondered what the ladder was for.”

He asked various questions about the hermit and his mode of life, which
excited no wonder, as the curiosity about the hermit was shared by all.

John Trafton allowed himself to say one thing more that increased this
feeling.

“I won’t tell all I know,” he said, “but I can tell you this hermit
lives like a prince. He’s got handsomer furniture than there is in any
house in Cook’s Harbor.”

No one had told the fisherman this, but he knew the statement would make
a sensation and chose to embellish what he had heard from Robert.

“That’s a strange idea to furnish a cave that way,” said the stranger.

“It may be strange, but it’s true.”

“Do you think he keeps a good deal of money by him?” asked the stranger
with evident interest.

John Trafton nodded significantly.

The conversation now drifted into other channels. The stranger ordered
another glass of whisky and went out.

“Where is that man staying?” asked Cummings.

“Not here,” answered the landlord. “I don’t like his looks and don’t
care where he stays as long as he don’t ask for a room here.”

“You don’t mind selling him drink, landlord?”

“Not as long as he’s got money to pay. That’s a different matter.”

A few minutes later John Trafton left the tavern.

He had drunk considerable, but not enough to make him incapable of
action. The drink excited him and nerved him for the task he had in
view, for upon this very evening he had decided to force an entrance
into the hermit’s mysterious residence, and he hoped to be well paid for
his visit.

He had to pass his own cabin on the way. He glanced toward it and saw a
light shining through the window, but he took care to keep far enough
away so that he might not be seen.

Half a mile farther and he stood opposite the cavern. There was the
ladder making access to the cave easy. He looked for the hermit’s boat,
which was usually kept fastened near the entrance to the cave, and to
his joy he saw that it was missing.

“The old man must be out in his boat,” he said to himself. “All the
better for me! If I am quick, I may get through before he gets back.”

With a confident step he ascended the ladder and entered what might be
called the vestibule of the cave.

He halted there to light the candle he had brought with him. He was
bending over, striking the match against his foot, when he was attacked
from behind and almost stunned by a very heavy blow.

He recovered himself sufficiently to grasp his assailant, and in an
instant the two were grappling in fierce conflict.

“I never thought the old man was so strong,” passed through the
fisherman’s mind as he found himself compelled to use his utmost
strength against his opponent.




CHAPTER XIX

A TRAGEDY ON THE BEACH


It is hardly necessary to say that the man with whom the fisherman was
engaged in deadly conflict was not the hermit. It was the stranger who,
in the tavern, had manifested so much curiosity on the subject of the
rich residents of Cook’s Harbor.

He was a desperado from New York, who, being too well known to the
police of that city, had found it expedient to seek a new field, where
he would not excite suspicion.

He had arrived at the cave only a few minutes before the fisherman and
had already explored the inner room in search of the large sum of money
which Trafton had given him to understand the hermit kept on hand.

He had no candle, but he found a lamp and lighted it.

He was in the midst of his search when he heard the entrance of the
fisherman. He concluded, very naturally, that it was the hermit, and he
prepared himself for an attack.

He instantly extinguished the lamp and stole out into the vestibule. It
was his first thought to glide by the supposed hermit and escape, but
this would cut him off from securing the booty of which he was in
quest.

He resolved upon a bolder course. He grappled with the newcomer,
confident of easily overcoming a feeble old man, but, to his
disagreeable surprise, he encountered a vigorous resistance far beyond
what he anticipated.

Neither of the two uttered a word, but silently the fierce conflict
continued.

“I must be weak if I cannot handle an old man,” thought the professional
burglar, and he increased his efforts.

“If he masters me and finds out who I am, I am lost!” thought John
Trafton; and he, too, put forth his utmost strength.

The fisherman had the disadvantage in one respect. He was wholly unarmed
and his opponent had a knife.

When he found that Trafton--who was of muscular build--was likely to
gain the advantage, with a muttered oath he drew his knife and plunged
it into his opponent’s breast.

They were struggling just on the verge of the precipice, and Trafton,
when he felt the blow, tottered and fell, his antagonist with him.

“The old fool’s dead, and I must fly,” thought the burglar.

With hasty step he fled along the sands till he came to a point where he
could easily scale the cliff. Reaching the top, he walked quickly away
from Cook’s Harbor.

Half an hour later the hermit beached his boat, fastened it and
proceeded to his quarters. He was plunged in thought and observed
nothing till he stumbled against the fisherman’s body.

“Some drunken fellow probably,” he said to himself.

He lit a match, and, bending over, was horror-stricken to see the fixed
features and the blood upon the garments of the unfortunate fisherman.

“There has been murder here! Who can it be?” he exclaimed.

He lit another match and took a closer look.

“As I live, it is Trafton, Robert’s uncle!” he cried. “What mystery is
here? How did the unhappy man come to his death?”

He was not long left to wonder alone, for Robert, as was not unusual
with him, had been taking an evening stroll on the beach, and, seeing
his employer, came up to speak to him.

“Good evening, sir,” he said, as yet innocent of the sad knowledge which
was soon to be his. “Is anything the matter?”

“Robert,” said the hermit solemnly, “prepare yourself for a terrible
surprise. A man has been killed and that man is----”

“My uncle!” exclaimed our hero in dismay.

“Yes, it is he!”

“How did it happen, sir?” asked Robert, a frightful suspicion entering
his mind.

“I know no better than you, my boy. I have just arrived from an evening
trip on the water. I was about to enter my quarters when I stumbled over
your uncle’s body.”

“What could have brought him here?”

“I cannot tell, nor can I conjecture who killed him.”

“It can’t be he,” thought Robert, dismissing his fleeting suspicion.
“What shall I do, sir?” he asked, unprepared, with his boyish
inexperience, to decide what to do under such terrible circumstances.

“Go and summon some of your neighbors to carry the poor man to his home.
Meanwhile break the news to your aunt as you best can,” said the hermit
in a tone of quiet decision.

“But should I not call the doctor?”

“It will be of no avail. Your uncle is past the help of any physician.
Go, and I will stay here till you return.”

The startling news which Robert brought to the fishermen served to bring
men, women and children to the spot where John Trafton lay, ghastly with
blood.

Well known as he was, the sight startled and agitated them, and, in
their ignorance of the real murderer, suspicion fastened upon the
hermit, who, tall and dignified, with his white hair falling upon his
shoulders, stood among them like a being from another world.

Trafton’s habits were well known, but the manner of his death enlisted
public sympathy.

“Poor John!” said Tom Scott. “I’ve known him, man and boy, for a’most
fifty years, and I never thought to see him lying like this.”

“And what will you do with his murderer?” asked his wife in a shrill
voice.

Mrs. Scott was somewhat of a virago, but she voiced the popular thought,
and all looked to Scott for an expression of feeling.

“He ought to be strung up when he’s found,” said Scott.

“You won’t have to look far for him, I’m thinkin’,” said Mrs. Scott.

“What do you mean, wife?” asked Scott, who was not of a suspicious
turn.

“There he stands!” said the virago, pointing with her extended finger to
the hermit.

As this was a thought which had come to others, hostile eyes looked upon
the hermit, and two or three moved forward as if to seize him.

The old man regarded the fishermen with surprise and said with dignity:

“My friends, what manner of man do you think I am that you suspect me of
such a deed?”

“There’s no one could have done it but you,” said a young man doggedly.
“Here lies Trafton at the foot of your ladder, with no one near him but
you. You was found with him. It’s a clear case.”

“To be sure!” exclaimed two or three of the women. “Didn’t Robert find
you here, standin’ by the dead body of his uncle?”

The hermit turned to our hero, who stood a little in the background, and
said quietly:

“Robert, do you think I killed your uncle?”

“I am sure you didn’t,” said Robert, manfully meeting the angry glances
which were now cast upon him.

“I am glad to have one friend here,” said the hermit--“one who judges me
better than the rest of my neighbors.”

“He doesn’t know anything about you and he’s only a boy!” said Mrs.
Scott, thrusting herself forward with arms akimbo. “I allus said there
was something wrong about you or you wouldn’t hide yourself away from
the sight of men in a cave. Like as not you’ve committed murder
before!”

“My good woman,” said the hermit with a sad smile, “I am sorry you have
so poor an opinion of me.”

“Don’t you call me good woman!” said Mrs. Scott, provoked. “I’m no more
a good woman than yourself! I tell you, friends and neighbors, you’ll do
wrong if you let this man go. We may all be murdered in our beds!”

She was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Trafton, who had not been
apprised of the tragedy from considerations for her feelings, but
hearing the stir and excitement, had followed her neighbors to the spot
and just ascertain what had happened.

“Where is my husband?” she cried.

All made way for her, feeling that hers was the foremost place, and she
stood with startled gaze before her dead husband. Ill as he had provided
for her and unworthy of her affections as he had proved, at that moment
she forgot all but that the husband of her youth lay before her, bereft
of life, and she kneeled, sobbing, at his side.

The hermit took off his hat and stood reverently by her side.

“Oh, John!” she sobbed, “I never thought it would come to this! Who
could have had the heart to kill you?”

“That’s the man! He murdered him!” said Mrs. Scott harshly, pointing to
the hermit.

The widow lifted her eyes to the man of whom she had heard so much from
Robert with a glance of incredulity.

He was too proud to defend himself from the coarse accusation and
returned her look with a glance of sympathy and compassion.

“I never can believe that!” said the widow in utter incredulity. “He has
been kind to my boy. He never would lift his hand against my husband!”

The hermit looked deeply gratified.

“Mrs. Trafton,” he said, “you are right. I had no cause to harm your
husband, nor would I have killed him for Robert’s sake, whatever wrong
he might have done me. But, in truth, I know of no reason why I should
seek to injure him.”

“If you are an innocent man,” persisted Mrs. Scott, “tell us who you are
and what brought you here.”

“Yes, tell us who you are!” echoed two others who had always felt
curious about the hermit.

“I do not choose to declare myself now,” said the hermit gravely. “The
time may come when I shall do so, but not now.”

“That’s because you’re a thief or murderer!” exclaimed Mrs. Scott,
exasperated.

“Wife, you’re goin’ too far!” said her husband.

“Mind your own business, Tom Scott!” retorted his wife in a tone with
which he was only too familiar. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself
tryin’ to screen the murderer of your next-door neighbor.”

“I am doing nothing of the kind. There’s no proof that the hermit of the
cliff murdered John Trafton.”

“You must be a fool if you can’t see it,” said Mrs. Scott.

Robert Coverdale was shocked to hear his friend so abused and he said
boldly:

“Mrs. Scott, I don’t know who murdered my poor uncle, but I know the
hermit did not. He has been a good friend to me, and he is no
murderer.”

“Go home and go to bed, boy!” said Mrs. Scott violently. “You take that
man’s part against your poor uncle.”

Robert was provoked and answered with energy:

“I would sooner suspect you than him. I never heard the hermit say a
word against my uncle, while only yesterday you called him a drunken
vagabond.”

This so turned the tables on Mrs. Scott that she was unable to return to
the attack.

“Well, if I ever!” she ejaculated. “Tom Scott, are you goin’ to see your
wife sassed by a boy?”

“It seems to me, wife, that the boy is in the right in this instance,”
answered Tom, who had a sense of justice.

“So you turn against your lawful wife, do you?” exclaimed Mrs. Scott
violently. “I’ll come up with you yet. See if I don’t.”

Tom Scott shrugged his shoulders with resignation.

“I’ve no doubt you will,” he answered with a half smile.

“My friends,” said the hermit with calm dignity, “as it appears that
some of you suspect me of this dastardly deed, I am quite willing to
submit to any restraint you may desire till the groundlessness of the
charge appears. You may leave a guard here in the cave or I will
accompany you to any of your own houses. I certainly have no desire to
escape while such suspicions are entertained.”

Robert indignantly protested against such a step, but the hermit stayed
his words.

“Robert,” he said, “it is better. It will do me no harm, and, under the
circumstances, while the matter is involved in mystery, I admit that it
is perfectly justifiable and proper. My friends, I am in your hands.
What will you do with me?”

Mrs. Scott expressed her opinion that he should be strung up
immediately, but no one seconded her.

It was decided that two of the fishermen should remain at the cave that
night to prevent any attempt at escape on the part of the hermit.

The body of the murdered fisherman was carried to his own cabin and
properly cared for till the coroner, who must be brought from a
neighboring town, should make his appearance.




CHAPTER XX

MR. JONES MAKES A CALL


When morning dawned a new face was put upon the matter. Steps were
discovered leading from the scene of the murder along the beach and up
the cliff. There were also discovered signs of a struggle in the cave,
and it became clear that there had been a conflict and that one of the
two concerned had escaped.

Of course it could not have been the hermit, for he was now in custody.
Moreover, a fisherman who had been out in his boat in the evening
remembered meeting the hermit rowing at about the time the murder must
have been committed.

These discoveries cleared the hermit, but the question arose:

“Who was this other man?” There was no difficulty in solving this
question. There were plenty who remembered the stranger who had spent a
part of the previous evening in the barroom of the tavern, and his
evident curiosity as to the wealth of the hermit was also remembered.

The real state of the case was now pretty well understood. This stranger
had suddenly resolved to rob the hermit and had secretly found his way
to the cavern.

But how did he happen to find the fisherman there and what was the
object of the latter?

Then it was remembered that Trafton also had seemed much interested in
the supposed hoards of the hermit, and, when his own want of money was
considered, it was suspected that he, too, went on an errand similar to
the burglar.

But he was dead, and his neighbors, who knew that he must have yielded
to the force of a sudden and new temptation, did not care to speculate
upon his object.

They were disposed to spare their old neighbor and charitably drop a
veil over his attempted crime, which had brought upon him such fearful
retribution.

Of course the hermit was released from custody, and there was not a
person in the village who did not acquit him of all wrong except Mrs.
Scott, who could not forgive him for proving her suspicions groundless.

“You may say what you will,” she said perversely, “I know the man’s a
burglar, or a murderer, or something else bad.”

“He couldn’t have murdered John Trafton, for we traced the murderer’s
steps on the beach. There is no doubt it was that stranger we saw in the
barroom.”

So said her husband.

“I don’t care whether he murdered John Trafton or not,” said Mrs. Scott.
“I’m sure he’s murdered somebody, and I’m ready to take my Bible oath of
it.”

“What makes you so prejudiced against the poor man? He hasn’t done you
any harm, Mrs. Scott.”

“I don’t like the airs he puts on. He looks at you jest as if you were
dust beneath his feet. What right has he to look down upon honest
people, I want to know?”

But Mrs. Scott did not succeed in creating a prejudice against the
hermit, whose courageous and dignified bearing had impressed all who
observed his manner in this trying crisis.

When the funeral was over the hermit called in the evening upon the
widow of John Trafton. It was the first he had ever made upon any of his
neighbors and it excited surprise.

Robert brought forward the rocking-chair and invited the visitor
cordially to sit down.

“Mrs. Trafton,” said the hermit, “I want to thank you and Robert for the
confidence you showed in me at a time when all others suspected me of a
terrible deed. You were the ones most affected, yet you acquitted me in
your hearts.”

“Just for a moment I suspected you when I saw you standing by the dead
body of my uncle,” said Robert, “but it was only for a moment.”

“I respect you for your fearless candor, my boy. You were justified in
your momentary suspicion.”

“I am ashamed of it. You had been such a kind friend.”

“It was only natural. And now, my friends, what are your plans? How will
you be able to maintain yourselves?”

“I don’t think it will make much difference,” began Robert
hesitatingly.

“My husband did very little for our support,” said Mrs. Trafton. “Not
more, certainly, than his own food amounted to. You know, sir, I think
Robert must have told you the unfortunate habits of my poor husband. He
was enslaved by drink, and he spent nearly all he earned in the
barroom.”

“Yes, I knew what your husband’s habits were,” said the hermit gently.
“It is a great pity he could not have lived to change them.”

“I am afraid he never would,” said the widow.

“They had grown upon him from year to year, and he seemed to get weaker
and weaker in purpose.”

“I had a brother who was equally unfortunate,” said the hermit. “There
are few families who are wholly free from the evils of intemperance. But
have you formed any plans?”

“I suppose we can get along as we have,” answered Mrs. Trafton. “With
what you kindly pay Robert, and what he can pick up elsewhere, and the
sewing I do, I think we can get along.”

“Do you own this cottage?” inquired the hermit.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you will have no rent to pay.”

“No, I don’t know how we could do that.”

The hermit looked thoughtful.

“I will see you again,” he said as he rose to go.

On the whole, Mrs. Trafton and Robert were likely to get along as well
as before John Trafton’s death. Robert could use his uncle’s boat for
fishing, selling what they did not require, while regularly every week
two dollars came in from the hermit.

It was a great source of relief that no rent must be paid. The
fisherman’s cabin and lot originally cost about five hundred dollars and
the household furniture was of little value. The taxes were small and
could easily be met. So there seemed nothing to prevent their living on
in the same way as before.

Some time Robert hoped and expected to leave Cook’s Harbor. He was a
smart, enterprising, ambitious boy, and he felt that he would like a
more stirring life in a larger place.

He was not ashamed of the fisherman’s business, but he felt qualified
for something better. It did not escape his notice that most of his
neighbors were illiterate men, who had scarcely a thought beyond the
success of their fishing trips, and he had already entered so far into
the domain of study and books as to feel the charm of another world--the
great world of knowledge--which lay spread out before him and beckoned
him onward. But he was not impatient.

“My duty at present,” he reflected, “Is to stay in Cook’s Harbor and
take care of my aunt. I am young and strong, and I don’t mean that she
shall want for any comforts which I can get for her.”

He soon learned, however, that there was one great mistake in his
calculations.

Robert was sitting by the door reading, after his return from a fishing
trip, about a week after his uncle’s funeral, when he heard the steps of
some one approaching.

Looking up, he saw advancing toward their humble residence the stout,
ponderous figure of Nahum Jones, the landlord of the village inn.

It was not often that Mr. Jones found his way to the beach. Usually he
kept close to the tavern, unless he rode to some neighboring town.
Therefore Robert was surprised to see him.

Nahum Jones nodded slightly, and, taking off his straw hat, wiped the
perspiration from his forehead.

“Here, you, Bob,” he said, “Is your aunt at home?”

“Yes, sir!” answered Robert, but not cordially, for he felt that Mr.
Jones had been no friend of his uncle.

“Well, tell her I’ve come to have a talk with her, do you hear?”

“Yes, I hear,” answered the boy coolly.

He rose from his chair and entered the house.

“Aunt Jane,” he said, “here is Mr. Jones come to see you.”

“What? The tavern keeper?” asked his aunt in great surprise.

“Yes, aunt.”

“What can that man want of me?”

The question was answered, not by Robert but by Nahum Jones himself.

“I want to have a little talk with you, ma’am,” said the burly landlord,
entering without an invitation and seating himself unceremoniously.

“I will listen to what you have to say, Mr. Jones,” said the widow, “but
I will not pretend that I am glad to see you. You were an enemy to my
poor husband.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Trafton. Did he ever tell you that I
was his enemy?”

“No, but it was you who sold him liquor and took the money which he
should have spent on his own family.”

“All nonsense, ma’am. You women are the most unreasonable creatures. I
didn’t ask him to drink.”

“You tempted him to do it.”

“I deny it!” said the landlord warmly. “I couldn’t refuse to sell him
what he asked for, could I? You must be a fool to talk so!” said the
landlord roughly.

“I’ll trouble you to speak respectfully to my aunt, Mr. Jones,” said
Robert with flashing eyes.

“Mind your own business, you young rascal!” said Nahum Jones, whose
temper was not of the best.

“I mean to,” retorted Robert. “My business is to protect my aunt from
being insulted.”

“Wait till you’re a little bigger, boy,” said Jones with a sneer.

Robert involuntarily doubled up his fist and answered:

“I mean to protect her now.”

“Mrs. Trafton,” said Nahum Jones, highly irritated, “you’d better
silence that young cub or I may kick him out of doors!”

“You appear to forget that you are not in your own house, Nahum Jones,”
said the widow with dignity. “My nephew has acted perfectly right and
only spoke as he should.”

“So you sustain him in his impudence, do you?” snarled Jones, showing
his teeth.

“If that is all you have come to say to me, Mr. Jones, you may as well
go.”

“By George, ma’am, you are mighty independent!”

“I am not dependent on the man who ruined my poor husband.”

“No, but you’re dependent on me!” exclaimed the landlord, pounding the
floor forcibly with his cane.

“Will you explain yourself, sir?”

“I will,” said Mr. Jones emphatically. “You talk about my not being in
my own house, but it’s just possible you are mistaken.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Trafton, startled.

“I mean this, that I hold a mortgage on this house for two hundred
dollars, and that’s as much as it will fetch at auction. What do you say
to that?”

Robert looked and felt as much troubled as his aunt. On his young
shoulders fell this new burden, and he was at an utter loss what could
be done.

“I thought I’d shut you up, you young cub!” said the landlord, glancing
maliciously at Robert.

“You haven’t shut me up!” retorted Robert with spirit.

“What have you got to say, hey?”

“That you ought to be ashamed to take all my uncle’s earnings and then
steal his home. That’s what I’ve got to say!”

“I’ve a great mind to give you a caning,” said Mr. Jones in a rage.

“You’d better not!” said Robert.

He was as tall as the landlord, and though not as strong, considerably
more active, and he did not feel in the least frightened.

Nahum Jones was of a choleric disposition, and his face was purple with
rage, but he hadn’t yet said all he intended.

“I give you warning, Mrs. Trafton,” he said, shaking his cane at our
hero, “that I’m going to foreclose this mortgage and turn you into the
street. You’ve got yourself to thank, you and this young rascal. I came
here thinking I’d be easy with you, but I don’t mean to stand your
insulting talk. I’ll give you four weeks to raise the money, and if you
don’t do it, out you go, bag and baggage. Perhaps when you’re in the
poorhouse you may be sorry you didn’t treat me better.”

“Oh, Robert, what shall we do?” asked the poor woman, her courage
failing as she reflected on the possibility that the landlord’s
prediction might be fulfilled.

“Don’t be alarmed, Aunt Jane; I’ll take care of you,” said Robert more
cheerfully than he felt.

“Oh, you will, will you?” sneered Mr. Jones. “Anybody’d think to hear
you that you were worth a pile of money. If your aunt depends on you to
keep her out of the poorhouse, I would not give much for her chance.”

“You won’t have the satisfaction of seeing either of us there,” said
Robert defiantly.

“You needn’t expect my wife to give you any more sewing,” said Mr.
Jones, scowling at the widow.

“I don’t think my aunt wants any, considering she hasn’t been paid for
the last work she did,” said Robert.

“What do you mean by that? I credited your uncle with twenty-five cents
on his score.”

“Without my aunt’s consent.”

Mr. Jones was so incensed at the defiant mien of the boy that he rocked
violently to and fro--so violently that the chair, whose rockers were
short, tipped over backward and the wrathful landlord rolled
ignominiously on the floor.

“Here’s you hat, Mr. Jones,” said Robert, smiling in spite of himself as
he picked it up and restored it to the mortified visitor.

“You’ll hear from me!” roared the landlord furiously, aiming a blow at
Robert and leaving the room precipitately. “You’ll repent this day, see
if you don’t!”

After he had left the room Robert and his aunt looked at each other
gravely. They had made an enemy out of a man who could turn them out of
doors.

The future looked far from bright.




CHAPTER XXI

THE HERMIT’S SECRET


Mr. Jones, in his anger at Robert, regretted that he must wait four
weeks before he could turn him and his aunt out of the house. It would
be a great satisfaction to him to see the boy without a roof to shelter
him, reduced to becoming a tramp or to take refuge in the poorhouse.

“By George, I’ll humble the young beggar’s pride!” exclaimed Mr. Jones
as he hastened homeward from his unsatisfactory interview.

It must be admitted that Robert had not been exactly respectful, but, on
the other hand, it is quite certain that the landlord had been rude and
rough in manner and speech.

Why, then, did not Mr. Jones foreclose the mortgage instantly and
gratify his resentment? Because in the instrument there was a proviso
requiring a notice of four weeks.

However, he felt that it would make little difference.

“They can’t raise the money in four weeks,” he reflected. “There’s
nobody round here who will lend them the money, and they don’t know
anybody anywhere else.”

So, on the whole, he was satisfied. Four weeks would soon pass, and then
his thirst for revenge would be sated.

“What makes you so sober, my boy?” asked the hermit when Robert made his
regular call upon him the next day.

“I feel anxious,” answered the boy.

“But why need you? You told me your uncle did very little for the
family. I think you will be able to take care of your aunt. If not, I
will help you more.”

“Thank you, sir; you are very kind. But we thought when you called the
other day that we owned the house and would have no rent to pay.”

“Were you mistaken about this?” asked the hermit quickly.

“It seems so. Mr. Jones, the tavern keeper, has a mortgage on the
property and threatens to foreclose in four weeks unless the money is
paid. Of course, we can’t pay him, and I suppose we shall be turned
out.”

“How large is this mortgage?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

“That is not a very great sum.”

“It is very large to us. You know how poor we are.”

“But have you no friend who will lend you the money?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you sure of that?” asked the hermit with a peculiar smile, which
inspired new hope in Robert. Then, without waiting for a reply, the man
continued:

“If you are willing, I will pay this mortgage when the time comes, and I
will be your creditor instead of Mr. Jones.”

“How can I thank you?” exclaimed Robert joyfully. “My aunt will be
delighted.”

“Tell her then, but no one else. It will give Mr. Jones a surprise.”

“It won’t be a pleasant one. He was very rude and impolite and said he
hoped to see us in the poorhouse.”

“I don’t believe you will ever go there, Robert,” said the hermit,
looking earnestly at the strong, energetic face of the boy before him.

“No, sir, I don’t believe we will. But you are doing a great deal for
us, sir. How can I ever repay you? If there was anything I could do for
you I should be glad.”

“Perhaps you can,” said the hermit in a musing tone.

“Let me know what it is, sir, and I’ll be glad to do it.”

“Have you ever wondered,” asked the hermit abruptly, “why I have left
the haunts of men and retired to this out-of-the-way spot?”

“Yes, sir. I have thought of that often.”

“Your curiosity is natural. I am not a poor man--in fact I should be
called rich. Poverty and pecuniary troubles, therefore, have nothing to
do with my strange act--as the world considers it. In my life there have
been two tragedies. I was married, at the age of thirty, to a very
beautiful young lady, whom I tenderly loved. I made my home in a city of
considerable size and lived as my means warranted. One evening, as my
wife stood before the open grate, dressed for a party, her dress caught
fire, and before help could arrive she was fatally injured. Of course
the blow was a terrible one. But I had a child--a boy of five--on whom
my affections centered. A year later he mysteriously disappeared, and
from that day I have never heard a word of him. When search proved
unavailing, I became moody and a settled melancholy took possession of
me. I could not endure the sight of other parents happy in the
possession of children, and I doomed myself to a solitary life,
wandering here and there till, two years since, I chanced to find this
cave and made my home here.”

“How old would your son be now?” asked Robert with interest.

“About your own age--perhaps a little older. It was this and a fancied
resemblance which attracted me toward you.”

“Had you any suspicion that your son was stolen?” asked Robert.

“Yes. In particular I suspected a cousin who would be my probable heir
in case my boy died. But I could never prove anything, and the man
expressed so much sympathy that I was ashamed to avow any suspicions.
But Charles Waldo was a covetous man, insatiable in his greed of money
and absolutely cold and unsympathetic, though his manner was plausible.
He hoped that this second blow would kill me, but he has been
disappointed.”

“If the boy is living, perhaps he knows where he is,” said Robert.

“If he abducted him--yes. He would not kill him, for he is too cautious
a man and has too great fear of the law.”

“Where is Mr. Waldo now living?”

“In Ohio. He has a large farm and a moderate amount of money
invested--some twenty thousand dollars perhaps--so that he is able to
live at ease. He was disappointed because I would not give him the
charge of my property, but with the lingering suspicion in my mind I
could not make up my mind to do it. He also sought a loan of ten
thousand dollars, which I refused.”

“How then does he expect to be your heir?” asked Robert.

“Two-thirds of my property is entailed and must be left to him if my boy
is dead.”

“If he really stole your son, he must be a wicked man,” said Robert with
boyish indignation at the thought.

“Yes, for he has wrecked two lives--mine and my boy’s.”

“Have you no hope of ever again seeing your son?”

“Only a slight one. I have thought of a plan in which I need your
help.”

“If I can help you, sir,” said Robert heartily, “I will do so gladly.”

“I do not doubt it, Robert,” said the hermit kindly. “I will explain my
meaning. If Charles Waldo knows anything of my lost boy, he must, from
time to time, hold communication with him, and if he is watched he may
some day reveal his hiding place.”

“Why do you not go out to where he lives and watch him?”

“It would do no good. It would only put him on his guard. I intend this
office for you.”

“For me?” exclaimed Robert in amazement.

“Yes, you are young, but you have natural ability, and shrewdness. At
any rate, you are the only one I have to send. It is a desperate chance,
but I shall feel better satisfied when I have tried it.”

“I will follow your instructions whenever you wish,” said Robert, his
heart beating at the prospect of seeing something of that world of which
he had seen so little and heard so much.

“My instructions will be few. I must trust much to your shrewdness. You
will need to visit the town where my cousin lives to observe his habits
and any unusual visitors he may have--in fact, try to arrive at the
knowledge of the secret, if there is one, connected with my boy’s
disappearance.”

“What was your son’s name?”

“Julian Huet. My own name is Gilbert Huet, but this information is for
your ear alone.”

“I will not mention it, sir.”

“You need not feel anxious about leaving your aunt. I will see that her
wants are provided for during your absence.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And the mortgage shall be paid when it comes due.”

“I wish I could be here to see Mr. Jones disappointed.”

“You can hardly be back so soon. It may take you six months. The task is
one that will require time. By the way, I do not wish you to mention to
your aunt the nature of your errand. Merely tell her that you are
traveling on business for me.”

“Very well, sir. How soon do you wish me to start?”

“At the beginning of next week.”

“I am afraid, sir, I have no clothes that are fit to wear,” said Robert
with hesitation.

“You will provide yourself in Boston with a suitable outfit. You will be
supplied with an ample sum of money, and I will instruct my bankers to
honor any drafts you may make.”

“You will be spending a great deal of money for me, Mr. Huet.”

“I am rich, and living as I have each year this made me richer. I will
not grudge ten, twenty, fifty thousand dollars if you find my boy or
bring me a clew which will lead to his discovery.”

Robert was dazzled. It was evident that the hermit must be very rich. He
walked home in high spirits. He was on the eve of an exciting journey
and he enjoyed the prospect.




CHAPTER XXII

TWO PERSONS ARE SURPRISED


“Aunt,” said Robert, his face aglow with excitement, “I am going to make
a journey. I hope you won’t feel lonely while I am away.”

“A journey!” exclaimed Mrs. Trafton in astonishment.

“Yes, I am going away on business for the hermit.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Boston first.”

“To Boston? Land’s sake! How can a boy like you find your way round in
such a great city as Boston?”

“A boy of my age ought to be able to take care of himself.”

“Why, child, you’ll lose your way! There’s ever so many streets and
roads. I went to Boston once, and I got so puzzled I didn’t know whether
I stood on my head or my heels. If there was some older person going
with you, now----”

“Aunt, don’t make a baby of me. I guess I can get along as well as
anybody.”

“Well, you can try it. When will you be back?”

“When I get my business done.”

“You won’t be gone over two days, I calculate.”

“I may be gone two months or more.”

“Well, I never!” exclaimed the astonished woman, staring at Robert as if
she thought his mind was wandering. “What sort of business is it that’s
going to take so long?”

“The hermit wants it kept secret, Aunt Jane.”

“But how am I going to get along without you?” asked his aunt in dismay.
“I can’t go out fishing, and the money I earn by sewing is almost
nothing.”

Robert smiled, for he knew he could allay his aunt’s fears.

“The hermit will pay you five dollars a week while I am gone, and here
is the first week’s pay,” he said, drawing from his pocket a bill.

“Well, I must say your friend the hermit is a gentleman. Five dollars a
week is more than I can spend.”

“Then save a part of it if you like, aunt.”

“But what shall I do, Robert, if Mr. Jones comes upon me to pay the
mortgage when you arc gone?” said his aunt, with new alarm.

“The hermit has agreed to pay off the mortgage and take one himself for
the same amount.”

“He is very kind, Robert. Don’t you think that I ought to call and thank
him?”

“What! Call at the cave?”

“Yes!”

“No, aunt,” said Robert hastily. “He would not like to have you. You can
wait till you see him. But mind you don’t tell anybody--least of all,
Mr. Jones--that you will be able to pay the mortgage. As he is so mean,
we want to give him a surprise.”

“Just as you say, Robert. I am glad we’ll be able to disappoint him, for
he is certainly a very mean man. Now, when do you want to start for
Boston?”

“To-morrow.”

“But how am I going to get ready your shirts and socks so soon?”

“I shall not take any of them.”

“Robert Coverdale, you must be crazy. You can’t wear one shirt for two
months if you’re going so long.”

“I don’t expect to, aunt,” said the boy, smiling. “I am going to buy a
whole outfit of new things when I get to Boston. The hermit wants me
to.”

“He must be awful rich!” said the good woman, whose ideas on the subject
of wealth were limited.

“All the better for us, Aunt Jane, as he is willing to spend some of his
money for us.”

Mrs. Trafton was considerably excited by the prospect of Robert’s
journey, and, notwithstanding what he had said, occupied herself in
washing his clothes and making a small bundle for him to carry, but
Robert declined taking them, with a smile.

“You see, aunt, my clothes wouldn’t be good enough to wear in Boston,”
he said. “Just keep them till I get back. Perhaps I may need them
then.”

“I’ll lay ’em away carefully, Robert. When you get a little larger I
guess you’ll be able to wear some of your uncle’s clothes. His best suit
might be made over for you. He hadn’t had it but six years, and there’s
a good deal of wear in it yet. I might cut it over myself when you’re
gone.”

“Better wait till I come back, aunt,” said Robert hastily.

He knew the suit very well. It was snuff-colored and by no means a good
fit, even for his uncle, while under his aunt’s unpracticed hands it
would probably look considerably worse when made over for him.

It must be confessed that Robert’s ideas were expanding and he was
rapidly growing more fastidious. He instinctively felt that he was about
to turn a new leaf in his book of life and to enter on new scenes, in
which he was to play a less obscure part than had been his hitherto in
the little village of Cook’s Harbor.

But no such change had come to his aunt. She still regarded Robert as
the same boy that he always had been--born to the humble career of a
fisherman--and she examined her husband’s best suit with much
complacency, mentally resolving that, in spite of Robert’s objection,
she would devote her leisure time to making it over for him.

“He can wear it for best for a year or two,” she thought, “and then put
it on every day. I am sure it will look well on him.”

In the evening Robert went to the cave to have a farewell interview with
the hermit--or Gilbert Huet, to give him the name which was properly
his.

“You may write to me about once a week if you have anything to say,
Robert,” said the hermit.

“How shall I direct you, sir? Shall I use your name?”

“How am I known in the village?”

“They call you ‘the hermit of the cliff.’”

“Then direct your letters to ‘The Hermit of the Cliff.’ They are not
likely to go astray.”

Mr. Huet gave Robert his instructions and finally produced a roll of
banknotes.

“You will find two hundred dollars in this roll, Robert,” he said. “You
can buy a wallet to keep it in when you reach Boston.”

“Two hundred dollars!” exclaimed the boy in amazement.

“You won’t find it so large a sum as you suppose when you are required
to pay traveling expenses. You need not try to be over-economical. I
prefer that you should stop at good hotels and put on a good appearance.
But I warn you to keep your mouth shut and tell your business to no one.
I depend upon your discretion not to fall into the hands of knaves or
adventurers. I know that I am putting unusual confidence in a boy of
your limited experience, but I have no one else to trust, and I feel
that you may be relied upon.”

“I hope I shall not disappoint you, Mr. Huet.”

“Well, Robert, I will bid you good night and God bless you! We don’t
know what lies before us, but if you succeed, I will take care that your
career shall be a fortunate one.”

Robert walked slowly back to his humble home, almost wishing that the
night were over and his journey actually begun.

There was but one way out of Cook’s Harbor--that is, by land. A stage
left the village every morning for Kaneville, six miles distant, a small
station on a road which terminated many miles away in Boston.

The stage started at seven o’clock, so Robert was forced to get up
betimes, take an early breakfast and walk up to the tavern.

Mr. Jones, the landlord, was standing on the piazza when Robert made his
appearance.

He had no proprietary right in the stage line, but the driver generally
stopped overnight at the tavern and the horses were kept in his stable,
so that he had come to assume a certain air of proprietorship.

As Robert was climbing up to take a seat by the driver Mr. Jones, with a
frown, called out:

“Look here, you young rascal, come right down!”

“Why am I to come down, Mr. Jones?” said Robert independently.

“Because I tell you to. We can’t have any boys stealing rides.”

“Is this stage yours?” asked Robert, surveying the landlord with
provoking coolness.

“No matter whether it is or not,” retorted Jones, red in the face. “I
tell you to come down. Do you hear?”

“Yes, I hear.”

“Then you’d better come down double quick or I’ll give you a taste of a
horsewhip.”

“I advise you to mind your own business, Mr. Jones,” said Robert hotly,
“and not interfere with the passengers by this stage.”

“You’re not a passenger, you young beggar!”

“I am a passenger--and now you’d better stop talking.”

“Have you got money to pay your fare?” asked the landlord, beginning to
suspect he had made a fool of himself.

“When the driver calls for the fare it will be time enough to tell.”

“Luke,” said Mr. Jones to the driver, “you’d better take that boy’s fare
now. He wants to swindle you out of a ride.”

“You may take it out of this,” said Robert, tendering a five-dollar
bill.

“I guess we’ll let it stand till we get to Kaneville,” said Luke,
gathering up the reins.

Robert darted a glance of triumph at the discomfited and bewildered
landlord, and his journey was begun.

The latter, on Luke’s return, learned to his further surprise that
Robert had gone to Boston. On reflection, he concluded that Mrs. Trafton
must have some relatives in the city from whom they hoped to borrow
enough money to raise the mortgage.

“But he won’t succeed, and in four weeks I shall turn him and his aunt
out of doors,” Mr. Jones complacently reflected.




CHAPTER XXIII

AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE


When Robert arrived in Boston he was at first bewildered by the noise
and bustle to which, in the quiet fishing village, he was quite
unaccustomed. All that he knew about the city was the names of the
principal streets.

It was not necessary, however, that he should go in any particular
direction. He decided, therefore, to walk along, keeping a good lookout,
and, when he saw a clothing store, to go in and provide a new outfit.

He was sensible that he was by no means dressed in city style. His
clothes were coarse, and being cut and made by his aunt--who, though an
excellent woman, was by no means an excellent tailor--looked countrified
and outlandish.

The first hint Robert had of this was when two well-dressed boys,
meeting him, simultaneously burst out laughing.

Robert was sensitive, but he was by no means bashful or timid.
Accordingly he stepped up to the boys and demanded with kindling eyes:

“Are you laughing at me?”

“Oh, no, of course not,” answered one of the boys, rolling his tongue in
his cheek.

“Certainly not, my dear fellow,” said the other, winking.

“I think you were,” said Robert firmly. “Do you see anything to laugh at
in me?”

“Well, to tell the truth,” said the first boy, “we were wondering
whether you import your clothes from Paris or London.”

“Oh, that’s it,” said Robert good-humoredly, for he was aware that his
clothes were of strange cut. “My clothes were made in the country and I
don’t think much of them myself. If you’d tell me where I can get some
better ones I will buy a suit.”

The boys were not bad-hearted and were won over by Robert’s good humor.

“You’re a good fellow,” said the first speaker, “and I am sorry I was
rude enough to laugh at you. There is a store where I think you can find
what you want.”

He pointed to a clothing store. In front of which was a good display of
ready-made clothing.

“Thank you,” said Robert.

He entered and the boys walked on.

If Robert had been better dressed he would have received immediate
attention. As it was, he looked like a poor boy in want of work and not
at all like a customer.

So, at all events, decided a dapper-looking clerk whose attention was
drawn to the new arrival.

“Well, boy, what do you want?” he demanded roughly, approaching Robert.

“Civil treatment to begin with,” answered Robert with spirit.

“If you’ve come for a place, we don’t want any scarecrows here.”

It appears that the firm had advertised for an errand boy that very
morning, and it was naturally supposed that Robert was an applicant.

“Are you the owner of this shop?” asked Robert coolly.

“No,” answered the clerk, lowering his tone a little.

“I thought so. I’ll tell my business to somebody else.”

“You’d better not put on airs!” said the clerk angrily.

“You are the one who is putting on airs,” retorted Robert.

“What’s the matter here?” asked a portly gentleman, walking up to the
scene of the altercation.

“I was telling this boy that he would not do for the place,” answered
the clerk.

“I believe, Mr. Turner, that you are not commissioned to make a
selection,” said the gentleman.

And Turner retired, discomfited.

“So you want a place?” he said inquiringly to Robert.

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“Mr. Turner said you did.”

“I never told him so.”

“Here, Turner,” said the gentleman. “Why did you tell me this boy wanted
a place?”

“I supposed he did. He looked like it, sir.”

“I don’t want a place. I want to buy a suit of clothes,” said Robert.
“If that young man hadn’t treated me so rudely, I should have asked him
to show me some.”

“Look here, Mr. Turner,” said the gentleman sternly, “If you have no
more sense than to insult our customers, we can dispense with your
services. Mr. Conway, will you wait on this young man?”

Turner was mortified and slunk away, beginning to understand that it is
not always safe to judge a man or boy by the clothes he wears.

Mr. Conway was more of a gentleman and civilly asked Robert to follow
him.

“What kind of a suit would you like?” he added.

“A pretty good one,” answered Robert.

He was shown several suits and finally selected one of gray mixed cloth
of excellent quality.

“That is one of our most expensive suits,” said Conway doubtfully.

“Will it wear well?”

“It will wear like iron.”

“Then I will take it. How much will it cost?”

Conway named the price. Robert would have hesitated about paying so
much, but that he was acting under instructions from the hermit.

“Shall we send it to you anywhere?” asked Mr. Conway, a little surprised
at Robert’s readiness to pay so high a price.

“No, I should like to put it on here.”

“You can do so--that is, after paying for it.”

Robert drew out a wallet and from his roll of bills took out sufficient
to pay for the new suit.

Mr. Conway went to the cashier’s desk. The two had a conversation
together. Then the stout gentleman was called to the desk. Robert saw
them open a copy of a morning paper and read a paragraph, looking at him
after reading it. He wondered what it all meant.

Presently Conway came back and asked him to walk up to the desk.

Robert did so, wonderingly.

“You seem to have a good deal of money with you,” commenced the stout
gentleman.

“Yes, sir,” answered Robert composedly.

“A great deal of money for a boy dressed as you are,” continued the
speaker pointedly.

Robert began to understand now, and he replied proudly:

“Do you generally ask your customers how much money they have?”

“No, but yours is a peculiar case.”

“The money is mine--that is, I have a right to spend it. I am acting
under orders from the gentleman who employs me.”

“Who is that?”

“No one that you would know. He lives at Cook’s Harbor. But I didn’t
come in here to answer questions. If you don’t want to sell me a suit of
clothes, I will go somewhere else.”

“To be plain with you, my boy,” said the stout gentleman, not unkindly,
“we are afraid that you have no right to this money. The _Herald_ of
this morning gives an account of a boy who has run away from a town in
New Hampshire with three hundred dollars belonging to a farmer. You
appear to be the age mentioned.”

“I never stole a dollar in my life,” said Robert indignantly.

“It may be so, but I feel it a duty to put you in charge of the police,
who will investigate the matter. James, call an officer.”

Robert realized that he was in an unpleasant situation. It would be hard
to prove that the money in his hands was really at his disposal.

Help came from an unexpected quarter.

A young man, fashionably dressed, had listened to the conversation of
which Robert was the subject.

He came forward promptly, saying:

“There is no occasion to suspect this boy. He is all right.”

“Do you know him?” asked the proprietor politely.

“Yes, I know him well. He is in the employ of a gentleman at Cook’s
Harbor, as he says. You can safely sell him the clothes.”

The young man spoke so positively that all suspicion was removed.

“I am glad to learn that it is all right,” said the clothing merchant.
“My young friend, I am sorry to have suspected you. We shall be glad to
sell you the suit, and to recompense you for the brief inconvenience we
will take off two dollars from the price.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“It would not do for us to receive stolen money, hence our caution.”

Robert did not bear malice, and he accepted the apology and dressed
himself in the suit referred to, which very much changed his appearance
for the better.

In fact, but for his hat and shoes, he looked like a city boy of a
well-to-do family.

He felt fortunate in getting off so well, but he was puzzled to
understand where he could have met the young man who professed to know
him so well.

He left the store, but almost immediately was tapped on the shoulder by
the young man in question.

“I got you off well, didn’t I?” said the young man with a wink.

“I am much obliged to you, sir,” said Robert.

“You don’t seem to remember me,” continued the young man, winking
again.

“No, sir.”

“Good reason why. I never saw you in my life before nor you me.”

“But I thought you said you had met me at Cook’s Harbor?” said Robert in
surprise.

The young man laughed.

“Only way to get you off. You’d have been marched off by a policeman if
I hadn’t.”

This seemed rather irregular to our hero. Still he knew that he was
innocent of any wrongdoing, and as the young man appeared to have acted
from friendly motives he thanked him again.

“That’s all very well,” said the young man, “but, considering the scrape
I’ve saved you from, I think you ought to give me at least twenty-five
dollars.”

“But the money isn’t mine,” said Robert, opening his eyes, for he could
hardly have expected an application for money from a young man so
fashionably dressed.

“Of course it isn’t,” said the young man, winking again. “It belongs to
the man you took it from. I’m fairly entitled to a part. So just give me
twenty-five and we’ll call it square.”

“If you mean that I stole the money, you’re quite mistaken,” said Robert
indignantly. “It belongs to my employer.”

“Just what I thought,” said the other.

“But I have a right to spend it. I am doing just as he told me to do.”

“Come, young fellow, that won’t go down! It’s too thin!” said the young
man, his countenance changing. “You don’t take me in so easily. Just
hand over twenty-five dollars or I’ll hand you over to the police!
There’s one coming!”

Robert certainly did not care to have the threat executed, but he did
not choose to yield.

“If you do,” he said, “I’ll tell him that you did it because I would not
give you twenty-five dollars.”

This did not strike his new acquaintance as desirable, since it would
be, in effect, charging him with blackmail. Moreover, he could bring
nothing tangible against our young hero. He changed his tone therefore.

“I don’t want to harm you,” he said, “but I deserve something for
getting you out of a scrape. You might spare me five dollars.”

“I got my suit two dollars cheaper through what you said,” said Robert.
“I’ll give you that sum.”

“Well, that will do,” said the other, finding the country boy more
unmanageable than he expected. “I ought to have more, but I will call it
square on that.”

Robert drew a two-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to the
stranger.

“That I can give,” he said, “because it was part of the price of my
suit.”

“All right. Good morning!” said the young man, and, thrusting the bill
into his vest pocket, he walked carelessly away.

Robert looked after him with a puzzled glance.

“I shouldn’t think a young man dressed like that could be in want of
money,” he reflected. “I am afraid he told a lie on my account, but I
thought at the time he had really seen me, even if I couldn’t remember
him.”

Soon Robert came to a hat store, where he exchanged his battered old hat
for one of fashionable shape, and a little later his cowhide shoes for a
pair of neat calfskin. He surveyed himself now with natural
satisfaction, for he was as well dressed as his friend Herbert Irving.

He had by this time reached Washington Street and had just passed Milk
Street when he met George Randolph, who looked as consequential and
conceited as ever.

“Good morning, George,” said Robert.

George looked at him doubtfully.

How could he suppose that the boy before him, dressed as well as
himself, was the poor fisher boy of Cook’s Harbor?

“I don’t seem to remember you,” said George civilly.

Robert smiled.

“You met me at Cook’s Harbor,” he explained. “I am Robert Coverdale.”

“What! not the young fisherman?” ejaculated George incredulously.

“The same.”

“You haven’t come into a fortune, have you? What brings you here?”
demanded the city boy in great amazement.

“I am in the city on business. No, I haven’t come into a fortune, but I
am better off than I was. Can you recommend me a good hotel?”

“I don’t know about the cheap hotels.”

“I don’t care for a cheap hotel. I want a good one.”

More and more surprised, George said:

“You might go to Young’s.”

“I will go there. Thank you for telling me.”

“I don’t understand how a boy like you can afford to go to such a hotel
as that,” said George, looking very much puzzled.

“No, I suppose not,” returned Robert, smiling.

“If you don’t mind telling me----”

“I am sorry I can’t, but my errand is a secret one.

“Did my uncle send you?”

“No, neither he nor Herbert knows of my coming. I didn’t have time to
see Herbert before I came away.”

“Are you going to stay long in Boston?”

“No, I think not. I am going to New York or Albany.”

“It seems queer to me.”

“Very likely. Good-by! Thank you for directing me.”

George had been remarkably civil, but in a boy like him that is easily
explained. He was civil, not to Robert, but to his new suit and his new
prosperity.

“It’s the strangest thing I ever heard of,” he muttered as he walked
away. “Why, the young fisherman is dressed as well as I am!”




CHAPTER XXIV

ON LONG ISLAND SOUND


Had he possessed plenty of leisure, Robert would have been glad to
remain in Boston long enough to see the principal objects of interest in
the city and its vicinity, but he never for a moment forgot that his
time was not his own.

He had entered the service of the hermit, and every day’s delay was so
much additional expense to his employer. True, Gilbert Huet was a rich
man, as he had himself acknowledged, but Robert was conscientious, and
felt that this would not justify him in gratifying himself at the
expense of the man who had so trusted him.

Robert felt proud of this trust--this very unusual proof of confidence
in a boy so young and inexperienced as he was--and he was ambitious to
justify it. I am sure, therefore, that he would have had little
satisfaction in postponing it out of regard to his own pleasure.

There were two ways of going to the West, which, it will be remembered,
was his destination--by the way of Albany or New York City.

Finding that it would not matter much how he went, Robert decided upon
the latter. It would enable him to see the great city of which he had
heard so much, and who knows but, in this great metropolis, which
swallows up so many, he might hear something of the lost boy?

He decided, therefore, to go at once to New York, and, after some
inquiry, he fixed upon the Fall River route.

This includes railroad travel to Fall River, a distance of about fifty
miles, where the traveler embarks on a great steamer and arrives in New
York after a night on Long Island Sound.

Guided by an advertisement in the daily papers, Robert made his way to
the Old State House, at the head of State Street, and, entering the
office of the steamboat line, asked for a ticket.

“Will you take a stateroom also?” asked the clerk.

“Is that necessary?” asked Robert, who was unused to traveling.

“No, it’s not necessary. Your ticket will entitle you to a comfortable
berth, but in a stateroom you have greater privacy.”

“What is a stateroom?” asked our hero.

The clerk was rather surprised by this question, but decided that Robert
was not accustomed to traveling and answered politely enough:

“It is very much like a room in a hotel, only much smaller. There is a
berth and a washstand, and you can lock yourself in. There is greater
security against robbery, for you hold the key and no one can enter it
without your knowledge.”

As Robert carried considerable money belonging to Mr. Huet, he felt that
he ought to take this precaution, if it were not too expensive.

“How much must I pay for a stateroom?” he asked.

“You can get a good one for a dollar.”

“Then I will take one.”

“Number fifty-six,” said the clerk, handing him a card with the number
penciled on it. “What’s your name?”

“Robert Coverdale.”

So Robert walked out of the office with his passage engaged.

This was on the morning after his arrival, and as the steamboat train
did not start till afternoon, this afforded him a chance to spend
several hours in seeing the city.

First he went to the Common and walked across it, su

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