Chapter XLVIII: Retribution Overtakes John Simpson (1)

It must be explained that Tom and his father, on reaching New York late in the evening, went to the Astor House to spend the night.

At the breakfast-table the next morning, Tom, in looking about him, to his great surprise recognized Darius Darke. Mr. Darke was equally surprised to meet Tom. It appeared that Mr. Darke had arrived from Europe on a Cunard steamer only two days previous.

He reported that he had a pleasant trip. During his absence his man of business, with whom he had left his funds, had managed by skillful manipulation to more than double his money, so that he found himself, even after deducting the expenses of his European trip, the possessor of twenty thousand dollars.

Tom, too, had his story to tell, and he received the hearty congratulations of Darius Darke for the energy, perseverance and pluck which had enabled him to succeed in the face of so many difficulties.

“And now, Tom,” said Mr. Darke, “we will form an alliance, go up to Wilton, and bring consternation and dismay to our common enemy, John Simpson.”

So it was agreed, but Mr. Darke was to stop over night at a town five miles distant from Wilton, and ride over in the morning.

John Simpson, with a pleasant sense of triumph in his heart, left his handsome dwelling to call upon Mrs. Thatcher, whom he considered now to be in his power.

He could not explain why it was that he hated the Thatchers so much, but it is generally the case that the victim is hated by the one who has injured him. Moreover, as long as Mrs. Thatcher remained in Wilton she recalled a scene in his life which he was anxious to forget.

Therefore, he desired by depriving her of her humble home to force her to leave Wilton for good.

When Mr. Simpson entered the cottage he found Mrs. Thatcher alone. Tom and his father and sister were together in an upper room.

“Well, widow, I’ve called to see you about the mortgage,” said the rich man, sinking into a rocking-chair.

At the words Mrs. Thatcher’s heart felt a thrill of happiness, for she was a widow no longer. She did not know, for it had not been revealed to her, that the man before her had tried to make her a widow, or she would not have been able to treat him with common politeness.

“Can’t you let me have more than four hundred dollars on the place, Mr. Simpson?” she asked, having been so instructed by Tom.

“No,” said the shoe manufacturer, decidedly.

“The place is worth a thousand dollars.”

“Nonsense, Mrs. Thatcher. It wouldn’t bring over six hundred.”

“I can hardly believe that.”

“I will strain a point and give you that sum,” said Mr. Simpson, who knew very well that he would be making an excellent bargain.

“I can’t decide upon so important a matter without consulting my son.”

To Mr. Simpson’s amazement she went to the foot of the stairs and called “Tom.”

“Has Tom got home?” asked the rich man, looking disturbed.

“He got home last night.”

Before Mr. Simpson had a chance to ask any further questions, Tom entered the room. He was looking healthy and manly, but he was shabbily dressed.

“He has returned as poor as he went,” thought John Simpson.

“So you’ve got home,” said he coldly.

“Yes, sir.”

“And you are probably convinced by this time that you were a fool to leave home.”

“No, sir; I have seen something of the world. Besides, there was nothing for me to do here.”

“Where did you go?”

“To California.”

Mr. Simpson started, and carefully scrutinized Tom’s face, but it told him nothing.

“There was nothing for me to do here,” continued Tom.

“Mr. Simpson said the other day that he would take you back into his shop,” said Mrs. Thatcher.

Tom looked inquiringly at the rich man, who said, coldly: “At present there is no vacancy. There may not be any for some months.”

“But how am I to live in the meantime?” asked Tom.

“On the money I will advance to your mother on the place.”

Mrs. Thatcher repeated the offer which Mr. Simpson had made, and asked: “Shall I accept, Tom?”

“No,” answered Tom, promptly.

“Do you propose to be guided by the advice of this young jackanapes, Mrs. Thatcher?” asked John Simpson, angrily.

“Tom knows more about business than I do.”

“He looks like it--a ragged tramp like him!” said the rich man, with a sneer. “After that display of impudence I refuse altogether to employ him. Now you can do as you please--accept my offer or starve with him.”

“Mother,” said Tom, quietly, “will you be kind enough to leave me alone with Mr. Simpson? I wish to speak to him in private.”

“Certainly, Tom.”

Very much to his surprise, Mr. Simpson found himself left alone with Tom, whose manner was self-possessed and grave.

“What does all this mean?” he asked, imperiously.

“Be patient, Mr. Simpson, I have something to say which you ought to hear. When I was in California I visited a place called Rocky Gulch.”

John Simpson’s ruddy face paled, and he made a visible start, but he recovered himself by an effort.

“That was foolish,” he said. “All the gold dust has been gathered long ago, and there could be no advantage in going there.”

“I wanted to find out something, if I could, about my poor father’s disappearance,” said Tom, gravely.

“Then you wasted your time,” said Simpson, nervously.

“No; I learned something.”

“What was it?” asked the rich man, in a voice slightly tremulous.

“I learned that while my father was asleep, one whom he supposed to be a friend stole upon him, attacked him, and left him for dead, carrying away a large sum belonging to my poor father.”

“That is a lie!” said Simpson, his face livid with dismay, rising from his chair.

The door opened and Tom’s father entered the room.

“It is true, John Simpson,” he said, sternly, “and you are the guilty man who stole in upon my unprotected slumbers, and sought to kill me.”

“Great heavens! Whence do you come?” demanded Simpson, hoarsely.

“I come from California, where for eight years and more I lived bereft of reason in consequence of your cruel assault.”

“You need not tell me that,” said Simpson, with a bold inspiration. “Your story is evidently the tale of a crazy man, and will not be believed. I am glad you are alive, but your attempt to levy blackmail will not succeed,” and he sat down with a smile of gratified malice.

“If such is the case and my father’s story is untrue, why did you give five hundred dollars to Darius Darke to keep your secret, about a year ago?”

This was another surprise. How could Tom know this? Certainly not from the man who had received the money, for he had been burned in the old barn.

“Who told you this cock-and-bull story?” demanded Mr. Simpson, defiantly. “It is clearly a bold invention of yours.”

Another door opened, and John Simpson stared aghast at the man whom he had supposed to have been burned alive in the conflagration.

“It is no invention, John Simpson,” said the new-comer.

“Where do you come from?” asked Simpson, with staring eyes and parched lips.

“From Europe. You were very cunning, John Simpson, in your attempt, by destroying my life, to silence forever the tongue of one who might have appeared against you, but Providence did not suffer you to succeed. I did not sleep in the old barn; I passed the night in your stable, which I found more comfortable.”

“And set my barn on fire! That explains it,” said Simpson, desperately.

“No, it does not explain it. With my own eyes I saw you set the fire. I understood your motive. I meant you to believe that you had succeeded, and I left the village during the night. I went to New York, made a fortune in stocks, and went to Europe, but I gave the five hundred dollars I had wrung from your fears to this boy, and sent him to California, where he succeeded better than I expected. Your old crime and your new one are discovered, John Simpson. Your race is run.”

“You can’t do anything,” said Simpson, defiantly.

“We can procure your arrest on a double charge of attempted murder, if you wish to stand trial.”

“No, no!” exclaimed Simpson, with blanched face. “It isn’t true, but it would blast my reputation.”

“It is true, and you know it.”

“Can’t we compromise this thing?” asked Simpson, nervously.

“It is for this boy to determine. Tom, what will you accept?”

“How much money of my father’s did Mr. Simpson obtain?”

“Ten thousand dollars, at least.”

“Let him pay to my father ten thousand dollars, with interest for nine years, and I shall be willing to let him off.”

“And you, Mr. Thatcher?”

“I leave the matter in Tom’s hands.”

Before John Simpson left the cottage, which he had entered for a very different purpose, he had entered into a covenant to pay the sum demanded.

In a subsequent interview he offered Mr. Thatcher his house, furniture, and large manufactory, in lieu of the money, and, as they were amply worth that, the offer was accepted, Mr. Thatcher having a desire to return to his old business.

With the remnant of his fortune, Mr. Simpson left town, and established himself in a Western State. He couldn’t bear to see daily the man whom he had attempted to murder.

Here he was induced to engage in speculations, lost all his money in the course of a few years, and died of grief. Rupert, now reduced to penury, found his way back to Wilton, and obtained a position as workman in the shop which his father had once owned. His pride had had a severe fall.

Tom became his father’s junior partner, and at twenty-one is really acting-manager and responsible head of the great shop where he once worked for three dollars a week. Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Thatcher now live in the handsome house once owned by John Simpson, while Rupert, rather curiously, is a boarder in the humble cottage once occupied by the Thatchers.

No one in Wilton understands how this wonderful change was brought about, for Tom and his father kept Mr. Simpson’s guilt and restitution a secret. It is popularly supposed that Mr. Thatcher was very fortunate in California, and made his fortune there.

It is not certain that Tom will remain long in Wilton, or in his present business. He has a handsome offer from Samuel Perkins, of Pearl Street, New York, whose papers he restored, and as he would like a larger field of action he may remove to New York and become a commission merchant. Indeed, as his father is willing to retire from business it is likely that he will accept the first fair offer for his manufactory and establish himself in the city.

Mrs. Thatcher is well and happy, and it is needless to say proud of Tom, whose energy and pluck enabled him successfully to find the clew which restored to him in the end a father and a fortune.

HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS.

BY WILLIAM BENNETT.

The boy home for the holidays is always suspected of all manner of mischief.

I know that I, Charley Mitford, found it so when I was home for my last Christmas holidays. Everything that went wrong was sure to be my fault; sometimes I was blamed justly, but generally, I thought, unjustly. I will tell you about one scrape of mine.

My father had invited a middle-aged gentleman, who was a learned professor, and a terrible book-worm, to spend a week or two at our house.

I didn’t like Dr. Millbank, and he hated me and all other boys. I generally kept out of his way; but one day, the doctor being in a more friendly and talkative mood than ordinary, I ventured to accompany him into the library, taking care only to speak to him when he condescended to speak to me.

The doctor, however, soon became lost in a book, and altogether forgot my presence. I accordingly retired into the recess of a window, and also engaged myself with a book on old sports and pastimes. Dr. Millbank’s back was turned upon me, and he was thoroughly lost in his studies.

Now, learned as was the doctor in his special subjects--mostly of the dry-as-dust order--he knew but little of the natural history of magpies; and at the present moment my interest and the interest of my story is with one of those birds, Jack by name.

He was a tame magpie, a clever talker, and a great pet in our household, though he was as mischievous, almost, as they said I was.

He came hopping into the library, unseen by the doctor, but watched by my observant eyes. He stealthily posted himself on a chair; it seemed that there was something on his mind.

While he was ensconced in his citadel of the chair, he kept his cunning, twinkling eyes fixed on the doctor’s silver spectacles on his nose. Magpies are fond of pilfering bright or glittering articles, and with secret joy I saw that Jack was meditating a theft.

Perched, however, in his elevated position, and seeing no hope for the present of purloining the spectacles, he stealthily took the leather case which the doctor had laid upon the table after taking the glasses therefrom. Then he stealthily hopped out of the room.

A few minutes later, the doctor, weary of his book, took his spectacles from his nose, and naturally enough, sought the case to place them in. The case was not to be found.

“This is most mysterious. I know I placed it on the table. Dear me! dear me! always something to annoy me!”

It was very wrong, no doubt, to laugh at the misfortunes or annoyances of other people, but I was home for the holidays, you know, and I really couldn’t help it. He laid down his spectacles on the table, while he took a walk round the room, frowning in his displeasure and mystification. Then he espied me lounging with outstretched legs in the recess with my book of sports.

“Ah, ah, Master Charles, and so you are the culprit, are you?”

“Sir!” I exclaimed, affecting to be ignorant of his meaning.

“My spectacle-case--where is it?”

“Spectacle-case? I have not got it.”

“What! Why, I laid it beside me on the table, and now it is gone! You should not take such liberties with your elders.”

“Why, sir, I have not moved from the spot where I am sitting, and it is a very hard case for me to be accused of removing it.”

“Your joke is impertinent at a time like this. You are the only person, as I said before, who has been in the library since I have been reading here----”

“Excuse me, doctor----”

“Do not interrupt me, Master Charles. I must ring the bell for your father. Boys home for the holidays take so much license nowadays that really they have become an intolerable nuisance. There should be no school holidays if I could have my way.”

As he spoke, the doctor advanced to the bell-rope. He walked with his back toward the door, and as he did so my old friend Jack, the magpie, came hop-hop-hopping in, and his thievish eye at once fell upon the silver specs, which the enraged man had laid down on the very spot on the table where before he had laid the case which had so disgraced me in his eyes.

Jack quietly hopped upon his old quarters in the armchair and as quickly possessed himself of the envied trophy, and I became the innocent witness of another theft much greater than the last.

Deeper disgrace to me, I thought; but as the doctor was evidently sure I was the culprit, and was not likely to accept any explanation from me, I thought it best to keep quiet, though by this I no doubt made myself Jack’s accessory.

A servant answered the bell, and he was requested to send my father hither, and, of course, my father came.

“Well, doctor, what can I have the pleasure of doing for you?” he inquired. “You appear agitated--what is the matter?”

“Look here, sir, if you please,” said the doctor to my father. “I laid my spectacle-case on the table where you see my glasses,” and here he pointed to the table, and my father looked on the spot indicated, and said:

“Where, doctor, where? I see no glasses.”

We were all standing some distance from the table, and the doctor could not see what was on it; he only spoke from the knowledge that he had placed his spectacles on the table, to which he now drew near, when, to his great surprise, and to my greater amusement, he made the same discovery that my father had done, that there were no glasses there.

“Why, sir, not five minutes ago I laid my glasses on this spot!” he exclaimed, giving the table rather a loud rap with his knuckles, which did not harm the table, though it did the knuckles, as the doctor’s screwed-up face indicated. “There, sir, exactly there--and now you see with your own eyes that both case and spectacles are gone!”

“It is a very mysterious occurrence, Dr. Millbank,” remarked my father.

“I cannot say that I see any mystery about it, sir; I am no believer in spiritualism, but I am in logic. I laid the spectacles and case there on that table. They are now gone--no one has been in the room but Master Charles.”

“_Ergo_, Master Charles must have them,” interrupted my father. “That is the true inference of your logic.”

Just then, another visitor came hopping into the room--no less than my father’s favorite, Jack, the magpie. My father was now seated by the side of the doctor, and the bird, as was his custom, hopped and flew to his shoulder, which was his favorite perch when he had the opportunity.

“Well pa,” said the cunning bird, bending his head and beak to my parent’s face.

“And what do you want, Master Jack?”

“Sho!” said the magpie, which was another daily phrase of his which he had picked up. Then he pretended to be sleepy, winking and blinking, and even yawning and crying, “Poor Jack! poor Jack!”

“A fine, rare bird, Mr. Mitford, is your magpie,” said the doctor, who would not have said so much had he known, as I did, that Jack was the author of his misery.

“By the by,” cried my father, “I wonder if the magpie has taken the things from the table!”

“Tell the truth!” I said, catching the bird up by his tail, much to his displeasure. “What have you done with the spectacles?”

“Sho!” screamed the bird, making divers pecks at my hands.

“Depend upon it, my friend,” said my father, “it is the magpie who is the thief.”

“Easier said than proved, dear sir,” replied the doctor. “I know this, however, that I would not keep a bird capable of such thefts. But I am surprised, Mr. Mitford, that you should suggest such a solution of the mystery. It is quite a vulgar error to suppose that magpies are thieves of anything but that which contributes to their sustenance. If a magpie will take one bright thing he will take another. There is a silver pencil-case,” said the incredulous doctor, placing it on the table, when, to his great surprise, the bird, that had hitherto been immovable, hopped from my father’s shoulder to the armchair. “Now, sir, if the bird took my glasses, and if it is his nature to steal, he will soon possess himself of the pencil-case.”

“Not when he is observed, perhaps. Jack, like human thieves, doesn’t like his evil propensities to be seen.”

“Then let us all three retire and leave the magpie with the pencil-case. What then?”

“Why, that when we return you will find the bird and the case both flown.”

“A bargain, sir!” said the doctor, quite pleased that he should soon have the satisfaction of proving my father in the wrong.

We all retired to the dining-room, and had a little agreeable talk about magpies, and the plot that had been laid to discover whether Jack was a thief or not.

An hour later I asked whether I should go and look after the bird and the case.

“No, thanks, Master Charles,” said the doctor, “I object to that; you are home for the holidays. We will all go together when your father is prepared.”

“I am quite ready, sir.”

So we all three went to the library and to the table. Bird and pencil-case had vanished! The doctor was astonished; I and my father were not, but laughed to each other at the doctor’s expression of surprise.

“What do you say now, doctor?” quizzed my delighted parent.

“That they are gone!” he replied.

“It could not be by ‘the boy home for the holidays,’ now, could it?”

“But the bird, sir--where is the bird?” exclaimed the doctor, who fairly felt himself in a dilemma.

“Gone to his storehouse,” replied my father.

“And where is that?”

“I have not been able to discover.”

“Have you taken any means to do so?”

“I have not. Can you suggest any?” inquired my father.

“Watch him,” was the laconic but sensible reply.

“But the cunning fellow has committed his depredations when he has not been seen.”

“Plant some temptation for him, as now, and then place three or four persons to watch where he takes it.”

“A very good idea, and I will follow it out now, if you please.

“I should like very much, for my curiosity is now deeply excited. Ah! Master Charles, you are a boy of an excellent temper to bear so well as you have done with my petulance and hasty conclusions.”

“Now,” said my father, “I will place my gold pencil-case on the spot where you placed your silver one, and then wait the return of the sly old bird.”

This was done, and it was not many minutes before the bird entered, no doubt to see if there were any more bright things to be taken away. What! another pencil-case for Jack! No one was in the room but the doctor, who this time pretended to be deeply engaged in a book, as I had before done, while I and my father planted ourselves in unseen places outside the room. The bird was not slow in accomplishing his theft, and as quickly hopped out of the library with the pencil-case.

“Seeing is believing!” exclaimed the doctor, closing the book with a loud bang. “I wouldn’t keep a magpie for the world.”

Then he made his way to the courtyard, where I and my father had stationed ourselves. We had not been long here before the bird came hopping along with the pencil-case in his beak, and he flew to the top of a loft.

The doctor’s countenance expressed indescribable surprise, while I and my father laughed heartily as Jack flew up to his hiding place.

We all ascended the ladder, and when we had got to the roof, there, in a leaden valley between two angles, we discovered a hoard of bright things, among others the cases and spectacles belonging to Dr. Millbank!

“What do you say now, doctor?” triumphantly asked my father, extending his hands over the magpie’s storehouse and handing him back his property.

“That I will never keep a magpie,” he returned, shaking his head, placing his hands behind the tail of his long clerical-cut coat, and blushing and laughing.

During a little conversation between us on the top of the loft the saucy bird returned, looking unutterable things and screaming when he saw us there and his hoard disturbed.

When the doctor held up his glasses, and was about to admonish him, the bird turned tail upon us and flew off, croaking “Sho! Sho!” and we did not see him for two days afterward. He was evidently deeply offended; indeed, Jack was not the same bird afterward, and was even cold and indifferent to the caress of my father; as for “Master Charles,” he dare not touch Jack’s tail.

On taking his departure, the doctor, smiling good-naturedly, remarked:

“I assure you, Mr. Mitford, until now I set down all these wonderful stories of animals that we meet with as fabulous. But your bird, sir, has taught me a wholesome lesson, that things may nevertheless be true, whether we believe them or not; and, further, I have had a warning not to be too hasty in coming to conclusions with boys home for the holidays upon circumstantial evidence; and still further, that as long as I wear spectacles I will never keep a magpie.”

We each and all had a hearty laugh, a shake of the hand, and the doctor took his departure. When he next loses his spectacles he will inquire if there is a magpie around.

THAT BELL!

BY PAUL BLAKE.

Berry was a boy of many characteristics. The most notable were an amazing love of sleep and a desperate activity when awake. He seemed to lay in a fresh stock of energy every time he had a nap, and although the most difficult boy in the world to waken, when he was awake he was irrepressible.

It was winter. Berry found that season of the year did not agree with his constitution.

“This getting up in the middle of the night is killing me,” he remarked one day to a group of sympathizers. He had the whole school on his side in this particular matter, for work before breakfast in winter was decidedly unpopular. At half-past seven every boy had to be at his desk “putting in” an hour at mathematics before prayers and breakfast.

It was pitch dark at seven, when the big bell rang as a signal to rise. It is curious how difficult it was to hear that bell in winter. Berry never heard it, or rather never heeded it. He scorned to rise till twenty minutes past seven. He could “do it,” as he termed dressing, in ten minutes, and had been known to do it in five. On such occasions his personal ablutions were apt to be rather neglected.

“That old bell is at the bottom of it,” remarked Culverwell, another boy, who found that the heavy clang disturbed his slumbers.

“It’s John who’s at the bottom of the bell,” put in Millward.

“I wish he’d resign,” said Berry. “It’s time they pensioned him off and sent him to a hospital for incurables.”

“He’s a hopeless job,” said Millward. “I spent half an hour one day trying to make him understand that I was willing to stand him a shilling if he’d give us a few minutes’ grace in the morning. But he’s as deaf as a post and though he took my shilling he rang us up more punctually than ever next morning.”

“I wish he’d hang himself with his bell-rope,” said Culverwell.

They eyed the offending bell, which hung idly in its turret, built over what was once a stable, but was now part of the school building.

“I wish we could muffle the old thing,” said Millward, looking wistfully up. “It’s freezing hard, and ’twill be deadly work getting up to-morrow.”

“I believe I could shy a stone up and crack it,” suggested another.

Berry had been silently inspecting the building.

“Tell you what, you fellows,” he said at last, “I believe I could get up there if I had a ladder. Out of the small class-room window, jump on the ledge, then creep up the roof by the chimney, then a ladder over the space to the turret. If you fellows will hand me up the ladder I’ll go!”

They were all dumb for a moment at his audacity. Then Millward said:

“How are you going to get into the small class-room? It’s always locked in play-time.”

“So ’tis,” assented Culverwell.

“Then I must get up to the ledge with a ladder, and then pull it up after me.”

“You’re a plucky beggar!” exclaimed Millward, in admiration. “Shouldn’t we have a jolly snooze in the morning if you could stop that old bell’s jaw!”

“I will, too,” said Berry. “There must be a ladder somewhere about.”

“There’s the one John uses to clean the outside of the windows,” suggested Millward, “but it isn’t long enough.”

“It may do,” said Berry. “Come along, let’s get hold of it. This is just the time; it’s dark, and ’tisn’t tea-time for half an hour.”

It was just five o’clock and nearly every boy was indoors; few cared for sliding on a worn slide in the dark, and a game was out of the question. So the three boys had small fear of being discovered as they prowled about in search of John’s ladder.

That worthy was having his tea, and was not likely to be disturbed by any noise, for he was stone deaf. The boys hauled out his ladder almost from under his nose without his hearing a sound. Culverwell kept “cave” while Millward held the ladder for Berry to ascend.

It was a plucky if not perilous feat to attempt in the dark. But Berry was abounding in pluck, and the spirit of the adventure made him keep his nerve. He soon found himself on the ledge, and managed to haul up the ladder after him. It was an assistance instead of an incumbrance in crossing the roof, and he soon was within a dozen feet of the turret.

The boys below anxiously waited for his reappearance. But he had a job before him. His idea was to unship the tongue of the bell. He had a glorious reward if he could succeed, _for John would never know if the bell rang or not_!

It would be superb to have the old factotum pulling away at his rope and fancying he was fulfilling his duty when the tongueless bell was swinging silently on its pivot.

Berry worked the tongue this way and that, but it was a difficult job. The inside of the bell was as dark as the inside of a wolf, to use a hunter’s simile; he had to feel everything, and the metal was terribly cold.

However, at last he managed to unhitch it. He deliberated what to do with it, now he had it. He put it in his pocket, and descended as quickly as was consistent with security.

“Off with the ladder,” was his first order.

They soon had that in its place again. Then they felt safe from detection.

“What are you going to do with it?” asked Millward, alluding to the rusty tongue which Berry exhibited.

“I think I shall leave it at the bottom of the turret. If I take it away they’ll know some one’s been up, but if we leave it here they’ll think it’s dropped down.”

“Let’s hope they will,” said Culverwell, dubiously.

“At any rate, I’ll chance it,” continued Berry. “So you fellows will be able to have a tall time to-morrow morning; we sha’n’t get called till half-past eight, at the earliest.”

The sequel proved the correctness of Berry’s prophecy. Old John sought his bell-rope punctually at seven, as usual, rang away steadily for three minutes, and then retired to his den to commence his never-ending job of shoe-cleaning. One or two boys awoke from sheer habit, but, hearing no bell, went to sleep again. The rest slumbered peacefully on, little thinking to whom they owed their unwonted repose.

The whole household were asleep. The big bell was the signal for rising to every one, servants included, with the exception of John and his wife. Her duty was to light the schoolroom fires, after which she retired to her own part of the house to prepare her husband’s breakfast. These two almost useless pensioners on the doctor’s bounty inhabited two rooms apart from the rest of the house.

How long every one would have slept can not be known, perhaps till nine, for when one depends on a bell for waking, one waits for the accustomed sound. But dogs are not like human beings, and Fido, who always had his breakfast at eight, began making a great disturbance at a quarter past.

Fido woke his mistress, the doctor’s wife. She looked at her watch--8:15. She was surprised beyond measure, as there was a strange silence everywhere. But the clock on the mantelpiece confirmed her watch, and two minutes later bells were ringing in a manner which brought the servants out of their beds with a jump.

By half-past eight, every one, boys and all, had been awakened, informally, for the bell refused to make a sound. John was summoned, and was at last made to understand what was the matter. He asseverated warmly that he had rung the bell, and went on a tour of inspection. He found the tongue on the ground, and obtaining a ladder from the gardener, next door, fastened it in its place again before it was time to ring for school.

“Never had such a gorgeous sleep in my life,” said Millward, warmly, to Berry. “We’ll vote you a silver tankard as a reward of merit.”

“Pity the trick can’t be played twice,” remarked Culverwell. “They don’t seem to suspect anything this time, but if it were to happen again, there’d be an inquisition.”

Berry heaved a regretful sigh. It was hard to think that at seven next morning the inexorable bell would toll out as usual the knell of departing night.

Something that day put him in a peculiarly reckless mood. More than that, he did not get his usual afternoon nap; he was disturbed by an inconsiderate master, who wanted to know when his exercises were going to be handed in to him. So five o’clock found Berry ready for any deed requiring more cheek than usual.

The bell! It struck him directly after he had written his last line. Whatever might happen, he would have one more good sleep.

He did not confide his intentions this time to his two friends. He knew his way now. In five minutes he had captured the ladder and placed it against the wall.

He was just stepping off it on to the ledge, when he heard footsteps beneath him, perilously near. If he attempted to draw up the ladder, the noise must attract attention. His only chance was to keep quite still, in the hope that the ladder wouldn’t be noticed in the dark.

But it was. Old John happened to have finished his tea earlier than usual, and was on his way to fetch an armful of wood.

“Now, who’s been taking my ladder!” he said to himself. “Suppose it’s one of them boys wanting to get their balls off the ledge.”

He put the ladder on his shoulder and marched off with it.

Berry listened in horror. He did not know it was John who had captured his only means of retreat; whoever it was, he must throw himself on his mercy.

“Hi!” he called out, in a voice meant to combine a shout and a whisper.

“Hi! you there!”

It was a shout this time and no mistake. But it had no effect.

Berry knew now it must be John. It was no use to shout. He tore off a piece of plaster, and shied it in the direction of the retreating figure.

It struck the ground close to John, but he did not hear it. Poor Berry was left alone on the ledge, fourteen feet from the ground.

He couldn’t drop, for there was a nasty grating just beneath him; besides, he could not lower himself from the narrow ledge. He might have done it in daylight, but not in darkness. Even his pluck must draw the line somewhere.

It was an uninviting night, and not a boy was out of doors. There was nothing for it but to accept the inevitable, and remain where he was until something happened.

He knew well enough what would happen. After tea there would be calling over; he would be unable to say “Adsum,” and inquiry would be made, resulting in his capture and punishment.

Once more he proved himself a true prophet. Everything fell out exactly as he had anticipated. And by the time he was assisted down he was so cramped and frozen he would have welcomed a caning on the spot to warm him.

Intentionally or unintentionally, the authorities did not connect his being on the ledge with the outrage on the bell of the day before. He received the usual punishment for missing calling over, but beyond that nothing was done.

Probably the master who captured him considered he had already received punishment enough. At any rate, Berry was of opinion that he had bought his extra hour’s sleep rather dearly.

A. L. Burt’s Catalogue of Books for Young People by Popular Writers, 52-58 Duane Street, New York

BOOKS FOR BOYS.

=Joe’s Luck=: A Boy’s Adventures in California. By HORATIO
ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.

The story is chock fell of stirring incidents, while the
amusing situations are furnished by Joshua Bickford, from
Pumpkin Hollow, and the fellow who modestly styles himself the
“Rip-tail Roarer, from Pike Co., Missouri.” Mr. Alger never
writes a poor book, and “Joe’s Luck” is certainly one of his
best.

=Tom the Bootblack=; or, The Road to Success. By HORATIO ALGER,
JR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.

A bright, enterprising lad was Tom the Bootblack. He was not at
all ashamed of his humble calling, though always on the lookout
to better himself. The lad started for Cincinnati to look up
his heritage. Mr. Grey, the uncle, did not hesitate to employ
a ruffian to kill the lad. The plan failed, and Gilbert Grey,
once Tom the bootblack, came into a comfortable fortune. This
is one of Mr. Alger’s best stories.

=Dan the Newsboy.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.

Dan Mordaunt and his mother live in a poor tenement, and the
lad is pluckily trying to make ends meet by selling papers
in the streets of New York. A little heiress of six years is
confided to the care of the Mordaunts. The child is kidnapped
and Dan tracks the child to the house where she is hidden,
and rescues her. The wealthy aunt of the little heiress is so
delighted with Dan’s courage and many good qualities that she
adopts him as her heir.

=Tony the Hero=: A Brave Boy’s Adventure with a Tramp. By
HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.

Tony, a sturdy bright-eyed boy of fourteen, is under the
control of Rudolph Rugg, a thorough rascal. After much abuse
Tony runs away and gets a job as stable boy in a country hotel.
Tony is heir to a large estate. Rudolph for a consideration
hunts up Tony and throws him down a deep well. Of course Tony
escapes from the fate provided for him, and by a brave act, a
rich friend secures his rights and Tony is prosperous. A very
entertaining book.

=The Errand Boy=; or, How Phil Brent Won Success. By HORATIO
ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.

The career of “The Errand Boy” embraces the city adventures of
a smart country lad. Philip was brought up by a kind-hearted
innkeeper named Brent. The death of Mrs. Brent paved the way
for the hero’s subsequent troubles. A retired merchant in New
York secures him the situation of errand boy, and thereafter
stands as his friend.

=Tom Temple’s Career.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.

Tom Temple is a bright, self-reliant lad. He leaves Plympton
village to seek work in New York, whence he undertakes an
important mission to California. Some of his adventures in the
far west are so startling that the reader will scarcely close
the book until the last page shall have been reached. The tale
is written in Mr. Alger’s most fascinating style.

=Frank Fowler, the Cash Boy.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.

Frank Fowler, a poor boy, bravely determines to make a living
for himself and his foster-sister Grace. Going to New York
he obtains a situation as cash boy in a dry goods store. He
renders a service to a wealthy old gentleman who takes a fancy
to the lad, and thereafter helps the lad to gain success and
fortune.

=Tom Thatcher’s Fortune.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.

Tom Thatcher is a brave, ambitious, unselfish boy. He supports
his mother and sister on meagre wages earned as a shoe-pegger
in John Simpson’s factory. Tom is discharged from the factory
and starts overland for California. He meets with many
adventures. The story is told in a way which has made Mr.
Alger’s name a household word in so many homes.

=The Train Boy.= By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth,
illustrated, price $1.00.

Paul Palmer was a wide-awake boy of sixteen who supported his
mother and sister by selling books and papers on the Chicago
and Milwaukee Railroad. He detects a young man in the act of
picking the pocket of a young lady. In a railway accident
many passengers are killed, but Paul is fortunate enough to
assist a Chicago merchant, who out of gratitude takes him into
his employ. Paul succeeds with tact and judgment and is well
started on the road to business prominence.

=Mark Mason’s Victory.= The Trials and Triumphs of a Telegraph
Boy. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
$1.00.

Mark Mason, the telegraph boy, was a sturdy, honest lad, who
pluckily won his way to success by his honest manly efforts
under many difficulties. This story will please the very large
class of boys who regard Mr. Alger as a favorite author.

=A Debt of Honor.= The Story of Gerald Lane’s Success in the
Far West. By HORATIO ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
$1.00.

The story of Gerald Lane and the account of the many trials
and disappointments which he passed through before he attained
success, will interest all boys who have read the previous
stories of this delightful author.

=Ben Bruce.= Scenes in the Life of a Bowery Newsboy. By HORATIO
ALGER, JR. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.

Ben Bruce was a brave, manly, generous boy. The story of his
efforts, and many seeming failures and disappointments, and his
final success, are most interesting to all readers. The tale is
written in Mr. Alger’s most fascinating style.

=The Castaways;= or, On the Florida Reefs. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo,
cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.

This tale smacks of the salt sea. From the moment that the
Sea Queen leaves lower New York bay till the breeze leaves
her becalmed off the coast of Florida, one can almost hear
the whistle of the wind through her rigging, the creak of her
straining cordage as she heels to the leeward. The adventures
of Ben Clark, the hero of the story and Jake the cook, cannot
fail to charm the reader. As a writer for young people Mr. Otis
is a prime favorite.

=Wrecked on Spider Island=; or, How Ned Rogers Found the
Treasure. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.

Ned Rogers, a “down-east” plucky lad ships as cabin boy to
earn a livelihood. Ned is marooned on Spider Island, and while
there discovers a wreck submerged in the sand, and finds a
considerable amount of treasure. The capture of the treasure
and the incidents of the voyage serve to make as entertaining a
story of sea-life as the most captious boy could desire.

=The Search for the Silver City=: A Tale of Adventure in
Yucatan. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.

Two lads, Teddy Wright and Neal Emery, embark on the steam
yacht Day Dream for a cruise to the tropics. The yacht is
destroyed by fire, and then the boat is cast upon the coast of
Yucatan. They hear of the wonderful Silver City, of the Chan
Santa Cruz Indians, and with the help of a faithful Indian
ally carry off a number of the golden images from the temples.
Pursued with relentless vigor at last their escape is effected
in an astonishing manner. The story is so full of exciting
incidents that the reader is quite carried away with the
novelty and realism of the narrative.

=A Runaway Brig=; or, An Accidental Cruise. By JAMES OTIS.
12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.

This is a sea tale, and the reader can look out upon the wide
shimmering sea as it flashes back the sunlight, and imagine
himself afloat with Harry Vandyne, Walter Morse, Jim Libby and
that old shell-back, Bob Brace, on the brig Bonita. The boys
discover a mysterious document which enables them to find a
buried treasure. They are stranded on an island and at last are
rescued with the treasure. The boys are sure to be fascinated
with this entertaining story.

=The Treasure Finders=: A Boy’s Adventures in Nicaragua. By
JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.

Roy and Dean Coloney, with their guide Tongla, leave their
father’s indigo plantation to visit the wonderful ruins of
an ancient city. The boys eagerly explore the temples of an
extinct race and discover three golden images cunningly hidden
away. They escape with the greatest difficulty. Eventually
they reach safety with their golden prizes. We doubt if there
ever was written a more entertaining story than “The Treasure
Finders.”

=Jack, the Hunchback.= A Story of the Coast of Maine. By JAMES
OTIS. Price $1.00.

This is the story of a little hunchback who lived on Cape
Elizabeth, on the coast of Maine. His trials and successes are
most interesting. From first to last nothing stays the interest
of the narrative. It bears us along as on a stream whose
current varies in direction, but never loses its force.

=With Washington at Monmouth=: A Story of Three Philadelphia
Boys. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, ornamental cloth, olivine edges,
illustrated, price $1.50.

Three Philadelphia lads assist the American spies and make
regular and frequent visits to Valley Forge in the Winter
while the British occupied the city. The story abounds with
pictures of Colonial life skillfully drawn, and the glimpses of
Washington’s soldiers which are given shown that the work has
not been hastily done, or without considerable study. The story
is wholesome and patriotic in tone, as are all of Mr. Otis’
works.

=With Lafayette at Yorktown=: A Story of How Two Boys Joined
the Continental Army. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, ornamental cloth,
olivine edges, illustrated, price $1.50.

Two lads from Portmouth, N. H., attempt to enlist in the
Colonial Army, and are given employment as spies. There is no
lack of exciting incidents which the youthful reader craves,
but it is healthful excitement brimming with facts which every
boy should be familiar with, and while the reader is following
the adventures of Ben Jaffrays and Ned Allen he is acquiring a
fund of historical lore which will remain in his memory long
after that which he has memorized from textbooks has been
forgotten.

=At the Siege of Havana.= Being the Experiences of Three Boys
Serving under Israel Putnam in 1762. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo,
ornamental cloth, olivine edges, illustrated, price $1.50.

“At the Siege of Havana” deals with that portion of the
island’s history when the English king captured the capital,
thanks to the assistance given by the troops from New England,
led in part by Col. Israel Putnam.

The principal characters are Darius Lunt, the lad who,
represented as telling the story, and his comrades, Robert
Clement and Nicholas Vallet. Colonel Putnam also figures to
considerable extent, necessarily, in the tale, and the whole
forms one of the most readable stories founded on historical
facts.

=The Defense of Fort Henry.= A Story of Wheeling Creek in
1777. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, ornamental cloth, olivine edges,
illustrated, price $1.50.

Nowhere in the history of our country can be found more heroic
or thrilling incidents than in the story of those brave men and
women who founded the settlement of Wheeling in the Colony of
Virginia. The recital of what Elizabeth Zane did is in itself
as heroic a story as can be imagined. The wondrous bravery
displayed by Major McCulloch and his gallant comrades, the
sufferings of the colonists and their sacrifice of blood and
life, stir the blood of old as well as young readers.

=The Capture of the Laughing Mary.= A Story of Three New York
Boys in 1776. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, ornamental cloth, olivine
edges, price $1.50.

“During the British occupancy of New York, at the outbreak
of the Revolution, a Yankee lad hears of the plot to take
General Washington’s person, and calls in two companions to
assist the patriot cause. They do some astonishing things, and,
incidentally, lay the way for an American navy later, by the
exploit which gives its name to the work. Mr. Otis’ books are
too well known to require any particular commendation to the
young.”--=Evening Post.=

=With Warren at Bunker Hill.= A Story of the Siege of Boston.
By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, ornamental cloth, olivine edges,
illustrated, price $1.50.

“This is a tale of the siege of Boston, which opens on the day
after the doings at Lexington and Concord, with a description
of home life in Boston, introduces the reader to the British
camp at Charlestown, shows Gen. Warren at home, describes what
a boy thought of the battle of Bunker Hill, and closes with
the raising of the siege. The three heroes, George Wentworth,
Ben Scarlett and an old ropemaker, incur the enmity of a young
Tory, who causes them many adventures the boys will like to
read.”--=Detroit Free Press.=

=With the Swamp Fox.= The Story of General Marion’s Spies. By
JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.

This story deals with General Francis Marion’s heroic struggle
in the Carolinas. General Marion’s arrival to take command of
these brave men and rough riders is pictured as a boy might
have seen it, and although the story is devoted to what the
lads did, the Swamp Fox is ever present in the mind of the
reader.

=On the Kentucky Frontier.= A Story of the Fighting Pioneers of
the West. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.

In the history of our country there is no more thrilling
story than that of the work done on the Mississippi river by
a handful of frontiersmen. Mr. Otis takes the reader on that
famous expedition from the arrival of Major Clarke’s force at
Corn Island, until Kaskaskia was captured. He relates that part
of Simon Kenton’s life history which is not usually touched
upon either by the historian or the story teller. This is one
of the most entertaining books for young people which has been
published.

=Sarah Dillard’s Ride.= A Story of South Carolina in 1780. By
JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.

“This book deals with the Carolinas in 1780, giving a wealth of
detail of the Mountain Men who struggled so valiantly against
the king’s troops. Major Ferguson is the prominent British
officer of the story, which is told as though coming from a
youth who experienced these adventures. In this way the famous
ride of Sarah Dillard is brought out as an incident of the
plot.”--=Boston Journal.=

=A Tory Plot.= A Story of the Attempt to Kill General
Washington. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
$1.00.

“‘A Tory Plot’ is the story of two lads who overhear something
of the plot originated during the Revolution by Gov. Tryon to
capture or murder Washington. They communicate their knowledge
to Gen. Putnam and are commissioned by him to play the role
of detectives in the matter. They do so, and meet with many
adventures and hairbreadth escapes. The boys are, of course,
mythical, but they serve to enable the author to put into very
attractive shape much valuable knowledge concerning one phase
of the Revolution.”--=Pittsburgh Times.=

=A Traitor’s Escape.= A Story of the Attempt to Seize Benedict
Arnold. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.

“This is a tale with stirring scenes depicted in each chapter,
bringing clearly before the mind the glorious deeds of the
early settlers in this country. In an historical work dealing
with this country’s past, no plot can hold the attention closer
than this one, which describes the attempt and partial success
of Benedict Arnold’s escape to New York, where he remained as
the guest of Sir Henry Clinton. All those who actually figured
in the arrest of the traitor, as well as Gen. Washington, are
included as characters.”--=Albany Union.=

=A Cruise with Paul Jones.= A Story of Naval Warfare in 1776.
By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price $1.00.

“This story takes up that portion of Paul Jones’ adventurous
life when he was hovering off the British coast, watching
for an opportunity to strike the enemy a blow. It deals more
particularly with his descent upon Whitehaven, the seizure of
Lady Selkirk’s plate, and the famous battle with the Drake.
The boy who figures in the tale is one who was taken from a
derelict by Paul Jones shortly after this particular cruise was
begun.”--=Chicago Inter-Ocean.=

=Corporal Lige’s Recruit.= A Story of Crown Point and
Ticonderoga. By JAMES OTIS. 12mo, cloth, illustrated, price
$1.00.