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Title: The Gayton Scholarship: A School Story

Creator: Herbert Hayens

Release date: June 25, 2014 [eBook #46020]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GAYTON SCHOLARSHIP: A SCHOOL STORY ***




Produced by Al Haines.





                               THE GAYTON
                              SCHOLARSHIP

                            _A SCHOOL STORY_


                                   BY

                             HERBERT HAYENS

      Author of "At the Point of the Sword," "An Emperor’s Doom,"
                "Clevely Sahib," "Under the Lone Star,"
                                &c. &c.



                         THOMAS NELSON AND SONS
                   _London, Edinburgh, and New York_
                                  1904




                              *CONTENTS.*

      I. THE DEANERY CANDIDATES
     II. THE CHALLENGE SHIELD
    III. A NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPH
     IV. FURTHER NEWS OF THE "MORNING STAR"
      V. JIM STARTS WORK
     VI. THE EXAMINATION
    VII. "IT’S ALL MY FAULT"
   VIII. "DID I SAVE HIM?"
     IX. THE RESULT OF THE EXAMINATION
      X. GOING DOWN HILL
     XI. IS JIM A THIEF?
    XII. WHERE IS THE MISSING MONEY?
   XIII. AN AMATEUR DETECTIVE
    XIV. CURLY AND COMPANY
     XV. "WHEN THIEVES FALL OUT"
    XVI. A FRESH START
   XVII. A STARTLING SURPRISE




                       *THE GAYTON SCHOLARSHIP.*



                              *CHAPTER I.*

                       *THE DEANERY CANDIDATES.*


"Good-morning, Mrs. Hartland.  Isn’t Jim ready?  All right; I’ll wait
for him.  Do you think Susie would care for these wild flowers and
grasses?  I picked them this morning.  Rover and I have been for a
splendid run over the common, nearly as far as the forest."

"Thanks, Dick," said Mrs. Hartland, with a pleased smile; "Susie will be
delighted with them.  Poor girl! it’s little chance she has to see them
growing herself.  What a pretty white dog-rose!"

"Isn’t it a beauty?  I thought Susie would like that.—Hullo, Jim!" as
his chum appeared from an inner room; "come on, old lazy-bones.  I
expected to find you in a tremendous hurry this morning.—Good-bye, Mrs.
Hartland; I hope Susie will be pleased with the flowers."

Most people liked Dick Boden.  He was a comical youngster, fond of all
kinds of fun and frolic, and always keeping an eye on the bright side of
things. In school he was a regular pickle, and yet his teachers spoke
well of him, for there was nothing mean about Dick, and he was as honest
as the day.

"Full of animal spirits and a trifle impetuous, but a good little chap
at bottom," said Mr. Holmore, the head-master of the Deanery School.

He was a round-faced, curly-haired fellow, with laughing blue eyes, a
most engaging smile, and such an innocent expression that a lady artist
once painted his portrait as a study of an angel.  This greatly amused
the Deaneryites, who promptly dubbed him the Angel.

Of course he was very popular with his school-fellows, but his one
particular chum was Jim Hartland, a sailor’s son, and one of the head
boys in the school.

"Grinding for the exam.?" he asked, as they waved a last adieu to Mrs.
Hartland, who stood on the doorstep watching them as they went down the
street.

"Hardly," said Jim, "until we know who are to be the candidates."

"Oh, you’ll be one for certain, and Perce Braithwaite another."

"And you."

"If Holmore gives me the chance, I’ll work like a nigger for the honour
of the school.  The scholarship wouldn’t be any good to me though; it
only pays for the fees and books, and you have to stay till you are
sixteen.  Mother couldn’t afford to keep me at school as long as that."

There was at this time great excitement among the boys of the elementary
schools in the seaport town of Beauleigh.  The governors of Gayton
Public School had offered a scholarship, to be competed for by three
selected candidates from every school in the town, and the offer had
produced a feeling of intense rivalry.

The names of the chosen boys from the Deanery were to be made known that
morning, and every one was on the tiptoe of expectation.

"We’re late," said Dick, as the two boys turned into the long, straight
road leading to the school, "most of the fellows are in the playground.
I’ll race you to the gate.  Ready?  One, two, three—off!" and away they
sped for a good two hundred yards’ run.

Jim was the taller and stronger, but Dick was very nimble, and having
got the lead, he kept it. On they went, flushed, panting, and straining
every nerve, while a group of boys coming from the opposite direction
encouraged them with loud cries.

"Keep it up, Angel!"

"Another spurt, Jim; he’s nearly done!"

Dick’s legs were getting tottery, and Jim was close on his shoulder, but
the open gate was only ten yards off, and the plucky youngster pulled
himself together for a last effort.

"Jim’s got him!" "No, no; the Angel wins! the Angel wins!"

A yard from the gate they were neck and neck; but then, using up all his
remaining strength, Dick flung himself forward—the winner by scarcely
half a foot.

Unlucky Dick!  In the excitement of the last half-second he had gone
like stone from catapult straight against the vest pocket of a portly
gentleman who was strolling leisurely across the playground to the gate.
Jim’s onset completed the mischief, and the three rolled together on the
ground.

The boys in the road, unable to see the catastrophe, ran up with a brisk
"hurrah."  But suddenly every tongue was still.

If you have ever felt the shock of an earthquake, or been shipwrecked,
or in a railway collision, you will have some faint idea of the fright
which held the handful of Deanery boys spellbound.

"The inspector!" whispered Tompkins in a tone of awe, and a shiver ran
through the little crowd.

Then, as the gentleman and boys rose to their feet, Tompkins, with an
imbecile kind of smile, said, "Please, sir, it’s only the Angel!"

Only the Angel!  Had His Majesty’s Inspector been a Deanery boy he would
not have required any further information.  As it was, the look of
surprise in his face deepened.

Now Dick, with all his faults, was a little gentleman.  His face was
white and his voice husky, but, standing cap in hand, he said bravely,
"I am very sorry, sir.  We were racing, and Jim Hartland had almost
caught me, so I put on a last sprint, and—"

"And won?"

"Yes, sir," answered Dick modestly; "but Jim was close behind."

"Yes," observed the gentleman with a grim smile, "I am painfully aware
of the fact.  However, there is not much harm done.  Ask your master to
lend me a brush."

"Isn’t he a brick?" said one of the boys as they ran to their places.
"He didn’t even look angry. Have you hurt your leg, Jim?"

"It’s a bit painful—that’s all."

"I hope it will be right for the match to-morrow."  And then, at sound
of the bell, all talking stopped, and the boys marched into the assembly
hall.

After prayers, the inspector, looking none the worse for his mishap,
came into the room and talked with Mr. Holmore, who then proceeded to
make a little speech concerning the Gayton Scholarship.

"You know," he said, "that only one boy can win it, and there will be
candidates from nearly every school in the town.  We have three good
champions, and whether they obtain the great honour for the Deanery or
not, I am sure they will do their best.  Come to the desk as I call your
names.  Richard Boden."

There was a hum of pleasure as Dick went up, flushed with joy, yet
feeling rather uncomfortable at having to face the inspector a second
time that morning.

"Percy Braithwaite."

A well-dressed, spruce-looking boy, known as Dandy Braithwaite, came
forward with alacrity and, to the delight of the school, was followed by
James Hartland.

"Now, boys," said their master, "I hope your work will show we have made
a wise selection. Remember, once your names are given in, we cannot make
any alteration."  Then turning to the inspector, he added, "These are
our candidates, sir."

"Ah," exclaimed that gentleman genially, "I have made the acquaintance
of two of them, Mr. Holmore, and I can assure you they are tremendous
fellows—at a sprint.—Well, my lads, one thing is certain: this
scholarship won’t be gained without plenty of hard work.  The chosen
knights are buckling on their armour in every quarter of the town, and
the tournament will be a keen one."

Fortunately, school closed at noon for the day, as the boys were too
excited to pay much attention to lessons.  They were well satisfied with
their master’s selection, and many of them at once put down the
scholarship as a "good thing" for Jim Hartland.

Some thought Braithwaite might get it, others pinned their faith to Dick
Boden, "if the little beggar would work;" and when one wretched urchin
hinted that the St. Paul’s boys had won a lot of prizes lately, he was
promptly "sat on."

"It’s bound to come to the Deanery," declared Tompkins, who was himself
still struggling with the mysteries of long division.  "The only
question is, Who’s to get it?"

Then the talk turned to the great cricket match fixed for the next day,
which was to decide the possession of the challenge shield for the
following year. St. Paul’s held it, but the Deanery intended having a
good try to wrest it from their near and dear rivals.

"Hartland’s in fine form," said one.  "You should have seen him hit at
practice yesterday.  If he comes off we ought to stand a chance."

"And the Angel’s bowling a treat!  I don’t think the ’Magpies’" (as the
St. Paul’s boys were called) "will do much with his curly ones."

"He bowled the inspector out before school, didn’t he?"

They were still laughing at the recollection of Dick’s mishap when
Simpson, the reserve man of the team, came up, trying, but with poor
success, to look sorry.

"Heard the news, you fellows?" he asked.  "Hartland’s cricked his leg
and won’t be able to play."

The boys gazed at one another blankly, hoping against hope that the news
was not true.

"There he is," cried one suddenly; and sure enough there he was, leaning
on his chum’s arm, and hobbling slowly across the playground.

They crowded around him eagerly, asking more questions than could be
answered in a week.

"What’s the matter, Jim?"

"Can’t you play?"

"Are you hurt?"

"Hurt!" cried Dick scornfully.  "Of course not! He is doing this just
for fun, you silly duffers."

"It isn’t much," exclaimed Jim, "and I’ll play to-morrow if I can stand.
We’ll have that shield yet."

"Anyhow," said Dick, with a laugh, "if Jim can’t turn out, we have
Simpson to fall back on," at which the Deanery boys shook their heads
doubtfully.  They had no very high opinion of Simpson’s powers.

"I’m awfully sorry," said Dick ruefully, as the two chums went up the
road.  "There’ll be no practice for you this afternoon, at all events."

"No," agreed Jim.  "I’d better lie by till the morning.  Never mind, old
chap; it wasn’t your fault; and besides, I shall be all right.  Mother
will see to that, I’m glad the match is to-morrow.  We’ll have a good
try for the shield, and then peg away for the scholarship."

"Won’t the Magpies get their monkey up if we pull off both?  What a
beastly nuisance!  There’s Temple coming!"

Temple was the captain of the St. Paul’s team—a tall, nice-looking lad,
immensely proud of his school, and noted for playing the game like a
true sportsman.

"Hullo, Hartland!" he cried; "crippled?  I say, that’s hard lines on the
Deanery.  I wonder if the committee would put the game off for a week?"

"No, no," said Jim; "it isn’t much.  I shall turn up in the morning."

"You’re a brick, Temple," exclaimed Dick, "and a jolly good sort, though
you are a Magpie.  ’Pon my word, I’m half sorry we’re going to take that
shield from you."

"And you’re a little humbug," laughed Temple, giving him a playful dig
in the ribs.—"Take care of yourself, Jim.  I wouldn’t give a toss to
beat the Deanery if you’re out of the team."

"Proper sort of chap, ain’t he?" said Dick, when the Magpie passed on.
"Just fancy his proposing that the match should be put off!  My stars,
there aren’t many captains who would do that.  How’s the leg now?"

"Painful rather, but ’twill be better when I lie down."

Dick helped his chum home; and while Mrs. Hartland doctored the bruised
limb, he chatted gaily with Susie, telling her all about the match and
the scholarship, and making merry jokes for her to laugh at.

Owing to a weak spine, Susie spent most of her time lying on the sofa;
but she was a bright, intelligent girl, very fond of mischievous Dick,
and immensely proud of her brother.

She was very glad when her mother said Jim’s leg would soon be well, for
this cricket match was to be a great event in her life—a gleam of gold
in a gray sky.

Mrs. Hartland had hired an invalid chair, and the two boys had promised
to take her to the county ground, where the game was to be played.

"I do hope it will be fine," she exclaimed rather wistfully, for there
were few pleasures in her life.

"It’s bound to be," cried Dick, with a merry laugh.  "The sun will come
out on purpose to see you.  Now I must be off for the practice.  Give
Jim plenty of goose-grease, Mrs. Hartland, and make him stay in bed till
the last minute.—I’ll be round in good time in the morning, Susie.—Ta,
ta, Jimmy. This will teach you not to go about knocking inspectors over
in the future."

"I like that," said Jim.  "Why, you little fraud—"

But Dick had picked up his hat, and was outside the door before he could
finish.




                             *CHAPTER II.*

                        *THE CHALLENGE SHIELD.*


Susie’s eyes sparkled and her face beamed with pleasure as she lay in
the invalid-chair, with her head propped up by soft, cozy pillows.  The
boys had found a splendid spot for the carriage, while her mother and
Mrs. Boden sat beside her.  And to make her happiness complete, Jim had
declared that his leg was not in the least bit painful.

"Isn’t it prime?" said Dick, who had come over for a last word.  "You’d
never have guessed we could be such awful swells.  There’s the mayor in
the pavilion, and no end of big-wigs with him."

"Where’s Jim?"

"Oh, he’s tossing with Temple, and he’s lost too; our fellows are coming
out to field."

It was an ideal day for cricket.  The sun shone brightly, but a cool
breeze tempered its heat, making it pleasant for players and spectators
alike.  The ground was packed with people, who cheered heartily as Jim
led his team into the field.

Hundreds of boys were there, some sporting the Magpie colours, others
the blue and white favours of the Deanery, while many of the principal
men in the town had come with their wives and children to watch the
final struggle for the challenge shield.

Only one innings was to be played by each side, and Dick started the
bowling.  The opening was sensational: his first ball scattered the
batsman’s stumps, and in the same over another man was caught and
bowled.

Two wickets down and not a run scored!  The Deanery boys were wild with
delight.  They flung their caps in the air, and began debating where it
would be best to hang the shield.

Their joy did not last long, however.  Temple had gone in, and he was
hitting the ball to all parts of the field without giving a chance.  In
vain Jim changed his bowlers and rearranged his field.  Until he had
made 69, the doughty batsman defied every attempt to dislodge him.
Then, getting hold of a curly one from Dick, he sent it spinning high
and hard to the boundary.

The Magpies cheered and clapped their hands; but, as Dick afterwards
remarked, they were "a little too previous."  Jim was fielding "in the
country," and he did not often miss a catch.  He had hard work this time
though; but he just managed it, and a welcome roar burst from the
Deanery boys as he threw the ball into the air.

"Well caught! well caught, Hartland!" they cried, for Temple was their
most dangerous opponent, and now that he was gone they felt on better
terms with themselves.

Still the score gradually crept up, till, by the time the last man was
out, the board showed the respectable total of 157.

Susie had very hazy notions of cricket, and when Dick came over she
wanted to know if the Deanery had won the shield.

"Won!" echoed Dick, opening his eyes wide. "Why, the match isn’t over.
We have to go in yet. There’s Jim just walking to the wicket.  Did you
see that lovely catch he made?  Mr. Barrow, a regular cricketing
swell—plays for the county, you know—said it was as neat a bit of work
as he’d seen on the ground."

Susie still felt very hazy about it, but she understood Jim had done
something clever, and that was enough to make her happy.

Meanwhile the excitement over the match grew very keen.  The Deanery
innings opened well, fifty runs being scored for the loss of two
wickets; but after that matters went badly.

One after the other, the batsmen were caught or bowled; and it seemed as
if the captain could not get any one to stay with him for long.

When the seventh wicket fell for exactly a hundred, Dick began to
whistle comically.

"There’s only Archer to depend on now," said he, "and it isn’t often he
makes more than a dozen."

"Why don’t you go in?" asked Susie.

"Oh, I’m last man.  I’m no good with the bat. They only play me for
bowling.  Oh, well done, Archer!  That was a pretty cut for two.  I hope
he’ll get set."

"So do I," said the girl, though rather wondering what to ’get set’
meant; and then Dick mystified her more than ever by remarking that if
Archer got his eye in he might be good for a score.

"It makes all the difference if a fellow has his eye in, you know," he
said; and as this appeared reasonable, Susie agreed.

How the Deanery boys shouted when the board showed 120!  And what a roar
went up from the Magpies as, without another run added, Archer’s bails
went tumbling to the ground!

"A beastly yorker!" exclaimed Dick in a tone of deep disgust.  "Well, I
must be off.  That’s Crag going to the wicket now.  He’d make a lot of
runs, only he’s so jolly nervous."

"The poor boy looks very pale," said Mrs. Hartland.

"O my aunt!" shouted Dick in an ecstasy of delight, "he’s got a two off
his first ball.  Well done, Crag!"

The strain was intense now.  The spectators watched every ball, and
there were loud cries of "Play up, Deanery!" as the score kept creeping
up.

Mr. Holmore felt as much excited as any of his boys, and he clapped his
hands when 130 appeared on the board.

"Only twenty-eight to win," he said; "but I’m afraid the odds are too
great."

"Hartland’s good for these," said Mr. Laythorne Jim’s class-master; "he
is playing magnificently."

"Yes, whether we win or lose, it’s a great day for him.  Ah, I was
afraid of it!  Crag’s out, and we still want twenty-five.  Who is the
last in?"

"Boden!  I think we can abandon all hope of winning the shield this
year."

The Deanery boys looked glum, but the Magpies beamed with satisfaction,
for they all knew Dick. Though a good bowler, he had batting notions of
his own which generally brought him to grief.  He treated all balls
alike, banging at each with a mighty swipe till a crash in the
timber-yard told him it was time to retire.

"For goodness sake, be careful, Dicky," whispered Jim, as his chum
passed him; "block everything, and keep your wicket up for once.  I’ll
do the hitting."

"All right," grinned Dick.  "I will, if I can remember."

There was a deep hush as he stood facing the bowler, and the Deanery
boys hardly dared to breathe, for they knew too well that their erratic
schoolfellow had an unhappy knack of missing his first ball.  If Dicky
played up to his reputation, all hope of winning the shield was at an
end.

A profound sigh of relief broke from the friends of the Deanery, and
they looked at one another in astonishment.  Dicky had actually blocked
the ball! The next was the last of the over, and then Mr. Laythorne
beamed as Jim stood at the wicket.

A little luck and good management enabled Jim to take every ball in the
over and to score eight; but the Magpies, still feeling sure of winning
the match, whistled cheerfully.  Temple would have Dick out in less than
no time.

No boy needs to be reminded of the delightful uncertainty of cricket,
and here was a splendid example.  The Angel stood as if rooted to the
ground, and never once attempted one of his mighty but erratic swipes.
The cunning bowler tried every variety of dodge to tempt him, but Dicky
was not to be coaxed.

The Magpies became impatient, and perhaps a little bit anxious.  When
Dick pushed the ball away a foot or two they cheered ironically, crying,
"Well hit!" "Nearly a boundary!" etc., and advised him in sarcastic
tones to run it out.

Dick grinned.  He was enjoying himself immensely, and had no objection
to any amount of chaff.

As the game proceeded, a magnetic influence seemed to pervade the air.
A deep hush fell over the field; the spectators were afraid to turn
their eyes from the wicket a second.

Jim had the ball again, and was playing like a professional.  Twelve,
ten, eight to win!  A beautiful drive all along the ground reduced the
required number to four, and the Deanery boys burst into a roar of
cheering.

Mr. Holmore’s eyes brightened, and he turned with a smile to the St.
Paul’s master, who stood near him.

"Well, Hudson, we shall give you a fright, at least," he remarked.

"It looks as if we shall have to give you the shield," replied Mr.
Hudson ruefully.

Another cheer announced that two more runs had been knocked off; and
then, from the very last ball of the over, Jim made it a tie.

The excitement was too intense for the Deanery boys even to cheer; they
held their breath and waited.

What would Dicky do?

Mr. Laythorne, who was watching through his field-glass, sighed
dolefully.

"The strain’s too much for him," he said.  "He’s trembling fearfully.
He’ll lose his head and throw his wicket away."

Alas! there was a good deal of truth in the young class-master’s words.
It was not in Dick’s nature to stand for long poking quietly at the ball
as he had been doing.  His fingers tingled as they closed round bat, and
he longed to hit out at something.

Temple saw the youngster’s state and took his measures accordingly.  He
placed his men with great care for a catch, and then sent down a
tempting slow. Dick blocked it, and a second of the same sort.

Not a bit discouraged, Temple gave him a third; and this time, as the
master had prophesied, Dick lost his head.  His friends groaned when
they saw his bat go up, and decided it would be only a question of
caught or stumped.  Dicky afterwards confessed it should have been one
or the other.

"I couldn’t stand it any longer, and that’s the truth," said he.  "I
forgot all about the shield, and just went for the ball with all my
might."

Jim declared his chum shut his eyes before hitting out; but be that as
it may, the ball travelled through the air towards the boundary.
Travers, the Magpie stationed in that part, ran along the edge of the
field in a gallant attempt to bring off a fine catch; but he missed the
ball by a hair’s-breadth, and the coveted shield passed into the
possession of the Deanery for the next twelve months.

"I congratulate you," said the master of St. Paul’s, turning to Mr.
Holmore.  "It has been a splendid fight, and you deserved to win."

The last words were almost drowned in the roar that went up from the
field.  The Deanery boys swarmed in a mob across to the wicket.  Some
clutched Jim, others surrounded Dick, and lifting them shoulder-high,
carried them off in triumph.

Susie could not leave her chair, so her mother and Mrs. Boden wheeled it
over to the edge of the crowd which surrounded the pavilion.  Then, to
crown her happiness, some warm-hearted boys, whispering, "That’s
Hartland’s crippled sister," cleared a passage, and would not be
satisfied till the chair was wheeled right to the front where she could
see and hear everything. Susie will never forget that half-hour of her
life. The mayor made a pretty speech, and handed the shield to Mr.
Holmore amidst an outburst of cheering. Then the Magpies stepped on to
the platform to receive the medals which were given to the players on
each side; and Jim, carried away by enthusiasm, shouted, "Three cheers
for the good old Magpies!" which were given by every one on the ground.

Then it was the turn of the Deanery eleven, and fresh plaudits rang out,
especially when Jim went forward.  The spectators cheered almost as
loudly for Dick; and the ladies said what a pretty, innocent-looking boy
he was, with his rosy cheeks and crisp curls.

"Oh, it’s splendid! just splendid!" Susie kept saying.  In her eyes Jim
and his curly-haired chum were real heroes, and she was as proud as if
they had performed some glorious action.

It was over at last, and the crowd, still talking over the various
events of the day, began to disperse slowly.  Everywhere the girl heard
her brother’s name coupled with Dick’s, and her face flushed with real
pleasure.  Presently she saw the head-master shake Jim’s hand and pat
Dick on the back; then the two boys left the platform and ran quickly to
her side.

"Well, the Deanery’s got the shield, thanks to Jim," cried Dick, his
eyes sparkling.

"Don’t you believe him, Mrs. Boden," said Jim. "He had as much to do
with our winning as any one."

"Do let me see your medals," said Susie.  "Oh, how nice!  You will have
to take care of them."

"I’m going to buy a safe and lock mine up in it," said Dick,
laughing.—"Now, mother, you go on with Mrs. Hartland.  Jim and I will
take care of Susie. Hasn’t the fresh air done her good?  Why, her face
is as red as a rose."




                             *CHAPTER III.*

                        *A NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPH.*


The members of that little party will long remember the walk home from
the county ground.  It was an ideal summer evening.  A few fleecy white
clouds flaked the blue of the sky, and the sun’s heat was tempered by a
gentle breeze blowing up pleasantly from the south.  Birds sang in the
gardens, and the fragrant odour of flowers filled the air.

Now and again the boys stopped the carriage, so that Susie, looking
through the gateways, might see the flowers in all their glory of
colour.  She did not talk much; she was rather tired by the unusual
excitement, and by her long stay in the open air.

Occasionally they passed a group of the Deanery boys, and then there
were cries of "Good old Hartland!" "Well done, Angel!" which made Susie
prouder than ever.

"I say, Dick," said one urchin, "is it true you’ve been asked to play
for the county?"

The Angel, who loved a joke, laughed back broadly.

"Nothing’s been settled yet," said he, "but I may give ’em a hand if
they’re hard pushed.  I can’t promise to play regularly, though—at least
this season."

"What a pity!" exclaimed the boy; "you would have been such a help."

The town was beginning to fill with the usual Saturday evening crowd
when they reached the main street, and the newsboys were lustily
shouting, "Evening paper!"

"We must have a paper," said Jim’s mother.

"Better wait a bit," observed Dick, with an air of wisdom; "the special
edition will be out soon."

Just then Temple, the captain of the Magpies, came along.  He was
reading a paper, and would have passed our friends had not Dick said,
"Hullo, old chap; anything about the match there?"

Temple glanced up hastily, and, with an odd look at Jim, answered
slowly,—

"Only the result, and there’s no need to tell you that."

"Come on, Dick," said Jim; "he’s got the hump."

The Angel was turning round to join his chum when Temple called him back
softly.

"Haven’t you heard the news?" he asked curiously.

"Haven’t heard anything," replied Dick.  "We’ve only just come from the
ground.  You look as solemn as an owl."

"I am thinking of Hartland."

"Why?  He’s all right."

Unfolding the paper, Temple pointed with his finger to the space
reserved for late news.

Dick read the short paragraph, and immediately his face became clouded.

"Oh, poor old Jim!" he exclaimed.  "And fancy, to-day of all the days in
the year."

"I’m awfully sorry too," remarked Temple.  "Better show him the paper,
so that he can tell his mother. Lucky the information came too late to
put on the placard."

"They’ll have it in big letters on the next lot," replied Dick, slipping
the paper inside his flannels.

"Hurry him home as fast as you can," said the other.  "Somebody may stop
Mrs. Hartland and blurt out the news.  There are plenty of fools about."

Dick was off at once, and, overtaking his friends, rather surprised his
mother by saying,—

"Step out, mother.  You forget it’s past tea-time, and Susie here is as
hungry as a hunter."

Now, of course Mrs. Boden had no suspicion of the truth, but she guessed
from Dick’s face that something was wrong, and, being a wise little
woman, quickened her pace.

"Fancy Temple taking the hump like that," said Jim as they turned into
Cedar Road, where he lived. "Shouldn’t have thought he was that sort."

"Oh, it wasn’t over the match.  But I’ll tell you all about it another
time."  And Dick nodded at the chair, as much as to say, "I don’t want
Susie to hear."

Jim took the hint, and being rather curious, pushed on quickly to the
house.  They were all near the little gate when his mother said,—

"How very odd!  Mrs. Hunt’s blinds are all down, and so are Mrs.
Pettifer’s.  There must be some one dead.  I didn’t know either of them
had any one ill."

"A relative has died suddenly, perhaps," suggested Dick’s mother; while
the boy, who trembled all over thought Jim would never get the front
door open.

At last it swung back, and the two boys lifted the carriage into the
passage.  Then, between them, they carried Susie into the back room and
laid her gently on the couch.

Meanwhile Mrs. Boden had gone on home, leaving word for Dick to follow;
so, after wishing Susie and her mother good-bye, he went out,
accompanied by Jim.

"Come outside," he whispered, "and pull the door to.  There’s bad news
in the town."

"Bad news!" echoed Jim, wondering why his chum trembled so.

"Yes, that’s what upset Temple.  It’s in the paper; but there’s only a
line or two, and it mayn’t be true."

"But what is it?" asked Jim, and, oddly enough, his voice sank to a
whisper, while his face was as white as Dick’s.

"It’s about the—the _Morning Star_," gasped the boy.

Then Jim understood in a flash what had happened, and why the neighbours
had darkened their windows.

"Give me the paper," said he, "and let me see what it says."

The paragraph was very brief, and ran thus:—

"It is reported at Lloyd’s that the barque _Morning Star_ has been lost
in a storm off Cape Horn.  Some of the crew, including the chief mate,
got ashore; but the captain, Robert Merritt, and the second mate, John
Hartland, went down with the ship.  The _Morning Star_ was owned at
Cardiff, and was making for San Francisco with a general cargo."

Jim read the paragraph over several times.  The letters seemed blurred
and running into one another; only the words, "the second mate, John
Hartland, went down with the ship," stood out clear and distinct, as if
raised above the surrounding type.

"There may be a chance yet," suggested Dick, who was hurt by the look of
pain on his chum’s face. "It isn’t certain that your father is drowned."

"No," said Jim absently; "it isn’t certain."

Then he put the paper into his pocket and turned to go in.

"Shall I tell my mother to come round?" asked Dick.

"Not to-night—thanks.  No, we shall be better by ourselves."

Nodding to Dick, he stepped into the passage and closed the door gently.
Then he went quietly to the room where his mother had laid tea.  There
was nothing of value in the house, for the family had been particularly
unfortunate during the last few years.  In spite of many obstacles Mr.
Hartland had worked his way up to the position of mate, but on his first
voyage as an officer had met with an accident which kept him in hospital
for months.  Then he found it hard to secure another berth, and during
the time of his enforced idleness the best of his furniture had been
parted with to buy food.  Few people knew this, however, as the
Hartlands, who were very proud, kept their troubles to themselves.

Mrs. Hartland was a notable housewife, and had a certain amount of
taste, which enabled her to make the house look nice.  The room which
Jim entered was quite attractive.  A few nicely-framed black-and-white
pictures hung on the walls; long curtains draped the window tastefully;
the grate shone by reason of many applications of elbow-polish;
everything was beautifully clean.  A cloth of snowy whiteness covered
the table, and the various articles set out for use showed evidence of
capable cleaning.

"Make haste, my boy!" exclaimed his mother cheerfully; "your tea is
poured out.  Dick and you have had a long gossip."

"Jim’s tired, and I don’t wonder at it," remarked Susie.

The boy sat down in his usual place and forced himself to eat and drink.
His mother, who was proud of the praise he had won, talked about the
match.

"There was only one thing wanted to make the day a complete success,"
said she.  "When you were on the platform with all those gentlemen I
could not help wishing that your father had been looking on."

Jim put down his cup, so that she should not see how his hand trembled,
and bit his lip to keep from crying out.  The paper seemed to rustle in
his pocket, and he made up his mind to tell her the truth at once.

But how?  He could not say, "Father will never know anything about it,
because he is lying at the bottom of the sea!"  Yet it must be done.
His mother must not be left to hear the terrible news from a stranger.

While he still hesitated, Susie, who had sharp ears, exclaimed, "Listen,
there’s the paper-boy.  I can hear him shouting, ’Latest Special!’"

"Run, Jim, quick!" cried his mother, taking a half-penny from her
pocket.  She was as excited as Susie at the thought of seeing her boy’s
name in print.

Jim tried to stand, but his limbs tottered, and he sat down again.

In an instant his mother, forgetful of the paper, was by his side.  "You
have overdone yourself, my boy," she said.  "All that running about has
been too much for you."

"No," said the boy, and he spoke with difficulty; "I am all right,
mother!" and then, with a wild cry, "O mother, mother, how can I tell
you?  It’s about the _Morning Star_, and—and father!"

Mrs. Hartland did not cry out or make a scene; only her lips twitched
painfully, and she laid a hand on the table to steady herself.

"Tell me the worst, Jim," she whispered bravely; and the boy drew the
paper from his pocket with trembling fingers.

"Read it," she said simply; and he tried hard, but his voice broke down
before the end of the first sentence.

Then she looked at it herself, but the letters seemed only black dots
which danced about and intermingled as if trying to hide from her.

"Give it to me, mother," said Susie.

For the moment they had forgotten her, but the sound of her voice sent a
fresh arrow of pain through the mother’s heart.  But Susie was used to
sorrow, and drew strength from her very weakness.  Steadily she read
through the paragraph from beginning to end, while her mother stood,
white-faced and tearless, drinking in every word.

"The second mate, John Hartland, went down with the ship!"

To the woman and children in that little room the words formed the whole
paragraph.

"Went down with the ship!"  A simple phrase enough, and not uncommon,
but perhaps it is as well that we do not always realize the misery and
sorrow lying behind it.

A deep hush fell as Susie finished reading.  The sun had gone down, the
evening shadows were gathering fast; soon it would be time to light the
lamp, but no one moved.

A loud rat-tat at the door startled them; and Jim, going out, found a
messenger boy with a telegram. It was from the owners of the _Morning
Star_, but contained no further information than had appeared in the
evening paper.

"It is very kind of them," said Mrs. Hartland "but I am glad you told me
first, Jim."

"We don’t know yet that father is drowned!" exclaimed Susie stoutly.
"He might have been picked up by another ship.  I have read of such
things."

Neither Jim nor his mother answered her; the idea was too wild to be
considered seriously.

The boy did not realize all that his father’s death meant to him, for he
was young, and his experience of life had not been great.  But his
mother, while grieving bitterly for the dead man who had loved her so
devotedly, had to think of the living.

Through the long night hours, while the children forgot their sorrow in
sleep, she lay thinking, thinking earnestly about their future.  She had
planned great things for Jim, had built splendid castles in the air for
him; and now, at a blow, they came tumbling about her ears.

"Poor boy!" she said softly to herself; "I fear it will change the whole
of his life."




                             *CHAPTER IV.*

                 *FURTHER NEWS OF THE "MORNING STAR."*


On the following Monday morning Dick called for his chum as usual, but
Jim was in no hurry to start.

"You go on," said he; "I’ll come presently."

As a matter of fact he dreaded the meeting with his school-fellows; it
would be so different from the scene he had pictured while walking home
from the cricket-ground.  He had looked forward to a regular triumph,
for it must be confessed that Jim was rather vain, though he had the
good sense to keep this failing, for the most part, to himself.

"All right!" exclaimed the Angel cheerfully; but he went only a short
distance, and waited till his chum came out.

"What a silly chap you are!" said Jim peevishly; "now you’ll be late."

"Never mind, my boy; better late than never, as they say in the
copy-books.  I said that to Laythorne the other day, but he gave me one
back. ’Better never late,’ said he, as I went to my place."

Prayers were over when they reached the school, but the master made no
remark as they passed to their places.  He had heard the sad news, and
easily understood why the boys were late.  At the interval he asked Jim
to remain, and told him how sorry he was for his great loss.

"Thank you, sir," said Jim, resolutely keeping the tears from his eyes.

"And, by the way, Hartland," continued the young master kindly, "if
there’s anything I can do, let me know."

Just then the Head entered the room, and he, too, expressed his sorrow
at what had happened, and Jim appreciated the kindness of his masters.

He had dreaded going back to school, but it was not very dreadful after
all.  Most of the boys looked at him curiously, but only one or two said
anything, and then matters resumed their usual course.

At home it was much worse, although Susie, with strange persistence,
still cherished the hope that her father had not been drowned.

"We don’t know," she argued stoutly—"no one knows.  The papers say some
of the crew got ashore."

"Don’t be stupid," said her brother.  "It says plainly enough that
father went down with the ship."

"But he might have been picked up afterwards, or got ashore somewhere
else."

Even Susie’s faith gave way, however, when a fuller account of the wreck
came to hand.  It was supplied by an A.B. named Davies, who had been
picked up by the steamship _Cormorant_.

"It was on a Friday night," the newspaper report of his narrative ran,
"and we were there or thereabout up to the latitude of Cape Horn.  I had
turned in ’all standing,’ for the weather was squally, and I didn’t
expect to get much of a nap.  Sure enough I’d hardly got my eyes shut
when there came a crash, and some one sang out, ’All hands, ahoy!’  We
tumbled up the ladder in a hurry, and I tell you there wasn’t a man
there who didn’t think Davy Jones was calling us.  It was a night!  The
rain was coming down full pelt, and you couldn’t keep your feet for the
wind.  Spars snapped like match-boxes, and the barque lay nearly on her
beam-ends.  It was dark as pitch just then, though it cleared up
afterwards.  We did what we could to save the ship; but, bless you, we
had no more chance than a parcel of babies.  She was settling down like
a stone, and the old man sung out that we’d better try the boats.  I ran
to help clear the port quarter boat, and got in, when a heavy sea broke
over her, smashing her in two.  Down I went a long way, but at last came
up to the surface again, and hammered my right hand against something
hard.  This turned out to be a top-gallant mast, so I took a firm grip.
I couldn’t see anything of the _Morning Star_, but there seemed to be a
lot of rigging about, and I heard some men shouting in the distance.  I
reckoned afterwards it must have been the first mate and the chaps who
got away in the other boat.  I hulloed back, but they couldn’t hear, and
I reckoned I was done.  Soon after that came another shout close to me,
and I yelled back, ’Ahoy, there!  Is that you, Mr. Hartland?’

"’Yes.  Who are you?’

"’Davies,’ I sings out—’on a mast.’

"’Can you hold on?’

"’Not much longer, I’m afeared.’

"’Keep your spirits up,’ says he, cheery like, and then it was all
quiet.  However, we must have drifted pretty close together, for,
directly day broke, there he was, not twenty yards off, with a lifebuoy
round him, and clinging to a light spar.

"’How goes it now?’ says he; and when I tells him I’m nearly done, he
says, ’I’ve a good mind to keep you company.  I’ve some rope here, and a
draw or two round the body will keep you tight.’  With that he swims
over and lashes me to the mast. Presently he says again, quiet as
anything, ’Look here, Davies; it’s no go!  This won’t hold us both; I
must take my chance.  Good-bye, and if you’ve the luck to be picked up,
just let ’em know over in England that I stood by the ship till she went
down.’

"Them were his last words.  He let go, and the last I saw of him he was
striking out towards the shore.  Of course he never reached it, though
he was a strong swimmer, too.  After that I lost count of things, and
don’t know anything more till my eyes opened aboard the _Cormorant_.
The lashings saved me, or I should have gone under as sure as fate."

The story of her husband’s bravery filled Mrs. Hartland with honest
pride; but, unfortunately it extinguished the last spark of hope that,
almost unknown, had lurked in the recesses of her mind. However, she
faced the matter bravely, and talked over her plans with Jim.

"We shall have to leave this house," she said, "and find a cheaper one.
Then I must get some kind of work to do."

"What about Susie?" asked Jim.

"Ah, that’s the trouble!  I can’t very well go out and leave her alone.
Perhaps I can get some plain sewing."

"Haven’t we any money at all, mother?" the boy asked presently.

"Only what is due from your father’s wages, and that won’t keep us
long."

Susie had gone to bed, and there was no one in the room but mother and
son.  Mrs. Hartland sat by the window with some needlework in her hand,
though it was too dark to sew; Jim stood by the mantelpiece, fumbling
nervously with a button on his jacket.

Presently he said bravely, "I must leave school and get a place
somewhere.  I daresay I can earn something, if only a little."

It cost him an effort to say this without breaking down, for he was very
ambitious, and had mapped out a great career for himself.  In the first
place he had made up his mind to win the Gayton Scholarship, which was
to be a stepping-stone to fortune. This was all done with now, for even
in the event of being successful he could not accept the scholarship.

Mrs. Hartland guessed a part of his thoughts, and, calling him to her
side, said,—

"We’ll talk about that another time, Jim.  There’s no need to give up
your school at present; I wouldn’t like you to do that.  I daresay we
shall be able to rub along somehow till the next examination."

"But there’s no good in trying for the ’Gayton.’"

"Not for yourself, but it would be an honour for your school if you won
it.  You would leave a good name behind you also."

So, after some further talk, it was decided that Jim should stay on at
school; and the next week the family moved to a little house in a much
poorer quarter of the town.

Of course Dick went to help, and his bright smile and cheerful humour
did much to cheer them.

"Isn’t it a poky place?" said Jim, pausing in the work of putting up his
sister’s bedstead.

"Well, you can’t call it exactly a palace," replied Dick, "but it might
be worse, you know.  O my aunt!"  And the Angel finished with a vigorous
howl.

"What’s the matter?"

"I nipped my hand under that iron bar."  And he sucked the tips of his
fingers as if they were sticks of sugar-candy.  "Just see if you can
twist this nut round; I can’t move it."

The two friends worked away with a will, making up in zeal what they
lacked in experience, and very soon had the room looking quite cozy and
comfortable. Then they went downstairs; and before night, as Dick’s
mother, who had come over to help, put it, "things were beginning to
look a bit straight."

Susie, of course, could do nothing herself; but she played the part of
superintendent, and ordered the boys about, especially Dick, who
good-humouredly obeyed all her commands.  He looked on it all as great
fun, and announced his intention of worrying his mother until they had a
move on their own account.

Mrs. Hartland had faced her trouble bravely, but before long Jim
recognized that things were much worse than he had guessed.  Beyond his
father’s wages and the donation of a few pounds from the "Shipwrecked
Mariners’ Society," they had absolutely no money, and there seemed
little prospect of his mother being able to earn sufficient to keep
them. Already they had to deny themselves everything in the shape of
luxury, and even Susie had to go without various little delicacies which
they had been in the habit of providing for her.

"I ought to give up school and go to work," he said; but to this his
mother was strongly opposed.

"If you leave school now you can only be an errand boy," she said; "and
without education, you will have no chance of doing anything in the
world."

Now I have no desire to put James Hartland forward as an uncommonly good
boy, because, as you will find for yourselves, he was nothing of the
sort; but in this particular case he certainly deserved some credit.

One evening he arrived home very late, which was such an unusual thing
that his mother wondered what had kept him.

"Awfully sorry, mother," he cried, looking at the clock; "but I’ve been
up in the town on business."

"For the master?"

"No," replied the boy, with rather a forced smile; "on my own account.
I’ve got a place.  Don’t be vexed.  I shan’t have to leave school; it’s
only mornings and evenings."

"What have you to do?"

"To take the papers to Mr. Broad’s customers; and if I help on Saturdays
too, he’ll give me five shillings a week.  What do you think of that?
Isn’t it splendid?"

"But you will have no time to study for the ’Gayton.’"

"I must work harder at school, and put in an hour extra in the morning.
I’ll manage, never fear, and the money will just pay the rent.  Wasn’t
it lucky I saw the card in the window?  Of course I shan’t be able to
play in the rest of the cricket matches, but they can easily get some
one to take my place."

He spoke cheerfully, but his mother knew what a sacrifice he had made,
and hoped, for his sake, that good might come of it.

"Jim," said Susie, plucking his sleeve nervously, "will you have to call
out ’Paper!’ like the boys who come round here at night?"

"No, you little goose," he laughed—"only to leave them at the different
houses.  And now, let me finish my tea.  I must have a good grind at
geography this evening."




                              *CHAPTER V.*

                           *JIM STARTS WORK.*


It wanted ten minutes to nine, and the Deanery boys were pouring into
the playground, ready to assemble for morning school.  Percy Braithwaite
stood just inside the gate talking to a little group of his chums.  He
was a good-looking, fair-skinned boy, with sharp, keen eyes.  Somehow he
was not a favourite with the majority, but as his father kept him well
supplied with pocket-money, he generally had a certain following which
petted and made much of him.

"I had a jolly lark this morning," he was saying. "What d’you think
Jimmy Hartland’s doing?  You’d never guess!  He’s selling papers.  He
brought ours round just now, and I answered the door.  You’d have died
to see him: he went as red as a turkey-cock.

"’Hullo!’ said I—’a fresh paper-boy?  You’re very late.  This won’t do,
you know.  Tell your master if you can’t come earlier than this we shall
have to make a change.’"

"Did you really say that?" asked Simpson, who was sucking one of
Braithwaite’s bull’s-eyes.  "He would be wild.  The beggar’s as proud as
Lucifer."

"I don’t see why he shouldn’t sell papers," said Alec Macdonald.
"There’s nothing to be ashamed of in that."

"Perhaps not for fellows of his class," said Braithwaite, with a
superior air, "but fancy a paper-boy trying for the ’Gayton’!  Why, if
he got it, all the school would cut him dead.  I call it a great piece
of cheek."

"Here he comes with the Angel," whispered Simpson, who had finished his
bull’s-eye, and was hoping to get another before the bell rang.  "I say,
let’s have a lark!"  And raising his voice, he cried, "Hevenin’ Noos!
Hextry Speshul!  Paper, sir?"

The others burst into a roar of laughter; and Braithwaite, who thought
it an excellent joke, laughed the loudest of all.

The Angel, scenting mischief, laid hold of his chum’s arm, saying,—

"Don’t take any notice, Jim; it’s only the ’Dandy’ and his gang."

This was an unfortunate remark, as it would have been safer just then to
wave a red flag before a bull than to mention Braithwaite’s name to Jim.
He was hot and tired and cross, angry with himself and the world in
general, and with Braithwaite in particular. The incident of the morning
had upset him, and this mocking laughter was, as Dick afterwards said,
"the last straw that broke the camel’s back."

"Want a hextry, sir?  Take the last one!"

Simpson was fairly earning another bull’s-eye.

Jim’s face was white with passion as he strode over to the group, in the
midst of which Braithwaite stood laughing.  Blinded by anger, he did not
stay to ask questions, but crying, "You beastly cad!" let out straight
from the shoulder.

The Angel, though rather alarmed, could not resist the chance of a joke.

"That’s a drop of _hextry speshul_ claret!" he sang out, as the blood
spurted from Braithwaite’s nose.

Instantly there arose a babel of voices.

"Give him one back, Dandy!"

"Off with your coat; I’ll hold it!"

"Who has a spare handkerchief?"

I trust my readers are not thirsting for a description of a fight,
because in that case they will be disappointed.  In the midst of the
hubbub the bell sounded, and the boys went to their places, Simpson
leading his friend along, and making a great show of the blood-stained
handkerchief.

The injured boy, who was in the same class as Jim and Dick, at once
attracted the attention of Mr. Laythorne, who asked what had happened.

"If you please, sir," said Braithwaite, "I was standing just inside the
gate when Hartland came along and hit me on the nose."

"Is this correct, Hartland?"

"He called me names, so I hit him, sir," answered Jim sulkily.  "And
I’ll hit him again, too, if he cheeks me."

"I am sorry to hear you talk in that way," said the young master calmly.
"Go to your place now, and stay behind during the interval.—Boden, take
that boy to the lavatory."

"Yes, sir," responded the Angel cheerfully, taking Braithwaite, not too
tenderly, by the arm.

Everything went wrong that morning with Jim. He made the most stupid
mistakes in class, and behaved so badly that Mr. Laythorne felt sorely
tempted to send him to the head-master.  He was kept in during the
interval, and again at noon, and accordingly looked on himself as a
martyr.  When he at last got out, the playground was empty except for
Dick, who would never have dreamed of going without his chum.

"Get your face straight, old man," cried he; "it’s as long as a fiddle.
I wish I had a looking-glass, so that you could see yourself.  Think of
the milkmen down your way!  You’ll turn all their milk sour!"

Jim stalked across the playground without deigning to reply.

"Whew!" whistled the Angel; "you ought to be marked _dangerous_, like a
magazine.  No wonder Laythorne was afraid to keep you inside any longer.
But I say, Jim, that was a lovely tap you gave Braithwaite.  He asked me
if I thought his nose was broken."

"I’ll break his head next time!" said Jim savagely.

The Angel clapped him on the back.

"There’s nothing like making a good job of a thing while you’re at it,"
he said.  "Going up the lane?  All right.  I’ll call for you after
dinner. And take that frown off your face, or you’ll frighten Susie into
a fit."

Mrs. Hartland saw there was something the matter with the boy, but
happily she did not worry him about it, and by the time Dick called he
was almost himself again.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you, mother," he said as he was going out, "you
needn’t wait tea for me.  I’m going to have mine at the shop.  It will
save time, Mr. Broad says."

"Have you to work all the evening, Jim?" asked Dick as they went down
the street.

"No, I shall be home by eight."

"That doesn’t leave you much time."

"Oh, I shall manage.  Laythorne is taking all the subjects at school,
and I can get in at least two hours extra every day."

As it happened, Jim found in a short time that he was reckoning without
his book.

At the close of afternoon school Jim stepped up to the master’s desk.

"Do you wish to speak to me?" asked Mr. Laythorne, looking rather
surprised.

"Yes, sir," replied Jim bravely.  "I want to beg your pardon for my
rudeness this morning.  Things seemed to go quite wrong somehow, and I
was in a bad temper."

"It’s very manly to come forward of your own account like this," said
Mr. Laythorne pleasantly, "and it does you credit.  But you must learn
to govern your temper, Hartland, or it will bring you into mischief.
How are you getting on for the ’Gayton’?  Don’t forget that if I can
help you in any way I shall be pleased to do so."

"Thank you, sir," replied Jim brightly.  "I am hoping to make a good
fight for it."

He left the room in good spirits, stopped a minute or two in the
playground to chat with Dick, and then ran off to town.

"’Twill be a scramble," he thought to himself, "but I’ll pull through.
I can put in from half-past eight till ten at night, and from five till
half-past six in the morning, besides an hour at dinner-time.  That
ought to be enough, and five shillings a week will be very useful to
mother."

"Pretty punctual, my boy," said the stationer as Jim entered the shop.
"I like to see that.  Your tea’s ready in the kitchen.  When you’ve
finished I’ve something here for you to do."

"Yes, sir," said Jim.

Eager to do his best, and being a smart, intelligent boy, he created a
favourable impression at once. Mr. Broad was delighted with him; and
that night after closing time, he told his wife that the new boy was a
treasure.

"You had better wait a bit before you judge," she replied.  "Don’t
forget that new brooms sweep clean."

Mr. Broad laughed, admitted there was a great deal of truth in the
proverb, but all the same maintained his opinion.

Meanwhile Jim had gone home, eaten his supper, and settled down to work.
To win this Gayton Scholarship was his one idea, and if he failed it
would not be for want of trying.  He had heard of the sneer about a
paper-boy going in for the "Gayton," and it nettled him.

"I’ll beat Perce Braithwaite, anyhow!" he said to himself.

This was the spur that goaded him on, and all that week he devoted every
minute of his spare time to study.

"Don’t bury yourself too deep," advised the Angel, who, on the Friday
evening, walked a part of the way with him, "or we mayn’t be able to dig
you up again."

"Oh, I’m all right," laughed Jim.  "I shall cut you out, Dicky, my boy.
I’ve made a big move this week."

"Glad to hear it," said the Angel cheerfully.  "It’s the history that
bothers me most.  I get mixed with the dates and things.  I don’t think
history ought to count: it’s mostly rubbish, anyway.  Who wants to know
about the old kings, and when they lived, and when they died, and who
their grandfathers were?"

"Or the Provisions of Oxford," added Jim slyly; at which his churn
roared with laughter, though the joke was against himself.

Not long before, Mr. Laythorne had asked his class to name the
"Provisions of Oxford," whereupon the Angel, though rather astonished at
such a simple question, replied blandly, "The chief provisions of
Oxford, like those of other English towns, are bread, meat, all kinds of
vegetables, poultry, fish—"  And he only pulled up when the suppressed
titter of his classmates broke into uncontrollable laughter.

"Laythorne told the Head of that," said Dick, when he had recovered his
breath, "and it went the round of the masters.  They chaffed me about it
at the cricket match; but I don’t call it a fair question. I hope I
shan’t come a cropper like that at the ’Gayton.’  Well, I’m off.  See
you Sunday."  And leaving his chum at the shop door, he went away
whistling.

That night when Jim was leaving, Mr. Broad said, "I shall want you to do
a double round in the morning, and to stay till ten o’clock in the
evening."

"Yes, sir," said the boy, though he was sorry at having to lose his own
time.

"But you won’t be wanted in the middle of the day," continued his
master.  "As soon as you have finished in the morning you can go till
tea-time."

"Oh," said Jim, brightening, "that will be capital," and at once
resolved to use the extra time for study. He felt very tired on the
Saturday night, but his heart was light and his face smiling when he got
home.  As a great treat Susie had been allowed to stay up, and Mrs.
Hartland had prepared a tasty if cheap supper.

"This is prime!" exclaimed Jim, sniffing at the savoury odour, "and I’m
as hungry as a hunter. But, first of all, you had better take my wages,
mother."  And he put down a tiny pile of silver on the table with the
air of a millionaire.

"There’s too much here by sixpence," said Mrs. Hartland, counting the
coins.  "Your master has made a mistake."

"It’s all right, mother," replied Jim proudly; "he gave me an extra
sixpence for doing my work so well."

"O Jim!" cried Susie, "isn’t it splendid?  Fancy earning all that
money!"

"It will come in handy," said he, "and in a few months I shall be able
to earn more.  But while we’re chattering the supper’s getting cold.
Sit down mother.  You look tired to death."

"Mother’s been sewing all day, and the fine work hurts her eyes,"
observed Susie.

"I’m not as young as I was," remarked their mother, trying to laugh,
"and my eyes feel the strain more."

"When I’m a bit older you won’t need to work at all," said Jim, who
meant what he said.  "I’ll earn enough for us all."

They lingered a long while over the simple meal, and then Jim helped his
mother to carry Susie to her bedroom.

"I shan’t call you early in the morning," said Mrs. Hartland, as Jim
kissed her good-night; "I think you’ve earned a rest."

"I wish that horrid exam. was over!" cried Susie; "then you’d have more
time to yourself."




                             *CHAPTER VI.*

                           *THE EXAMINATION.*


It really seemed as if fate was dead against Jim Hartland’s winning the
Gayton Scholarship For some time his mother, though saying nothing to
the children, had not felt well.  The shock of her husband’s death, and
the consequent change in circumstances, had done much to depress her,
and the hard struggle to earn a scanty living had made her worse.  She
had done her best to keep up as long as possible; but on the Monday
morning she was too ill even to get Jim’s breakfast.

"Never mind, mother," said he cheerfully; "you stay in bed.  I’ll see to
things.  The lessons must go for a bit."

Being a handy sort of fellow, he made breakfast, carried some up to his
mother and Susie, straightened things a bit downstairs, and then ran off
to his work.

There still remained three weeks till the day of the examination; but,
unfortunately for Jim, his mother’s illness lasted two-thirds of that
time. Mrs. Boden went in as often as she could, and a kindly neighbour
did several odd jobs; but there were so many things to be done that Jim
found all his time occupied.

"I should chuck the ’Gayton’ if I were you," said the Angel one morning.
"It will be no good to you if you win it, and with all these upsets you
can’t expect to be at your best."

"The fellows would think I was afraid of being beaten."

"What’s the odds?  Who cares what they think? There’s no sense in
working yourself half to death for nothing."

"Not a bit; but I’m going in all the same."

"Well, you are a stubborn beggar, and no mistake," said his chum, who
usually spoke his mind.

The examination was to be held in one of the rooms at the Gayton School,
and on the Monday morning the candidates assembled in the big
playground.

Jim, who had been granted leave for the day by Mr. Broad, went down with
Dick and Tom Moon, who was one of the Magpies.  He was feeling
wretchedly ill; his head ached, and his brains were all at sixes and
sevens.  He had worked like a horse all the week to make up for lost
time, and was paying the penalty.  He had lost all sense of proportion,
and it seemed to him that life would be worth nothing if he failed to
win this scholarship.

"Hullo!" cried Dick suddenly; "there’s Dandy Braithwaite!—Morning,
Dandy!  Why, you look as pleased as if you’d won the scholarship
already!"

"I’m going to have a good shot at it, anyhow."

"Bravo, my boy!—Hullo, Temple!  You here?"

"Why not?" asked Temple in surprise.

"I thought you’d more sense, ’pon my word! Now what is the use of you
fellows wasting your time when there are three of the Deaneryites in the
running?"

The boys who knew the Angel’s little ways greeted his remark with
good-humoured laughter; the others thought he was a conceited donkey,
and some said as much.

"Much plague in India just now, Dicky?" asked Temple mischievously.

"Wait till I’ve seen the geography questions."

"What’s the joke?" asked Tom Moon.

"Haven’t you heard of the Angel’s little dodge? Why, they fairly
screamed over it at the Deanery."

"Look here, Moon," said Dick, without a twinkle in his big blue eyes;
"it was a beastly shame, and they treated me most unfairly.  We had to
write an account of a trip up the Ganges and a visit to Benares. Well,
you know there was a horrible plague at Benares just then, and I
couldn’t afford to risk my valuable life in the town, so I skipped it,
stating my reasons. And what do you think they said?"

"Can’t guess."

"Why, that ’twas a fake, because I didn’t know anything about the
blessed old town."  And he looked so solemn that Moon was half inclined
to think he had been badly treated.

"Did you really put that down?" asked one of the boys in the group.

"Of course I did!" answered Dicky, in a tone of surprise.  "They
couldn’t expect me to go to a plague-spot like that!"

"Didn’t I hear some yarn, too, about a dead passenger?" asked Temple.

"Very likely," said the Angel calmly; "that was another misfortune.  You
see, we had to describe a voyage from London to Odessa, and a very nice
little trip, too.  Well, my passenger started in a yacht, and had a
jolly good time, jotting down his descriptions every night.  At last he
got into the Adriatic, and the poor fellow fell overboard.  The skipper
fished him out, but he was quite dead; and so, of course, the trip
ended.  Now, what do you think the inspector had the conscience to ask
me? ’Boden,’ said he, ’couldn’t you remember any more of the
coast-line?’  Just as if I’d play a trick like that!"

"Don’t cry, Dicky!" observed Temple.  "The inspector didn’t know you as
well as we do, or there would have been no need to ask such a
question"—an oracular speech with rather a doubtful meaning.

Jim did not join in the chaff—in fact, he scarcely heard it.  His whole
mind was absorbed in the forthcoming examination, and he waited
impatiently for the door to be opened.  When Temple and several of the
others spoke to him he answered briefly, and then relapsed into silence.

"What’s the matter with him, Dicky?" whispered the popular captain of
the Magpies, as they entered the building.

"Too much work.  He’s been overdoing it, and I shouldn’t wonder if he
breaks down.  He’s slaved like a nigger since the news of his father’s
loss came."

"Poor old chap!" said Temple.  "It was hard lines, and no mistake."

The boys passed along a broad corridor, mounted a staircase, and entered
a large room.  Above the door was a card bearing the words, "Candidates
for the Gayton Scholarship."

"Move quietly, please," said a spectacled gentleman standing at a desk.
"Each boy will find his name on the desk at which he is to sit."

They were arranged in alphabetic order, and Dick found himself just
behind Braithwaite.  Jim was in the middle of the room, and Temple at
the end.  In a short time they were all seated, and the examiner read
the rules and regulations.  Then his colleague went round with the
questions to be answered during the morning, and presently the only
sound to be heard was the scratching of busy pens.

After a rapid glance at the paper, Dick settled to work with a pleasant
smile; the questions were just to his liking, and he felt sure of doing
well in the morning at least.  Braithwaite, too, seemed satisfied, while
Temple used his pen as if he were master of the situation.

The one boy in the room who appeared ill at ease was Jim Hartland.  His
face was hot and flushed; there were drumming noises in his ears;
letters and figures, all jumbled together, danced wildly before his
eyes.  At the end of the first half-hour his paper was still blank.
Long afterwards, in talking about the examination, he told me that, but
for the examiner, he does not think he should have written a single
word.

That gentleman, seeing something was amiss, went over, and laying one
hand on the boy’s shoulder, said kindly, "Are you ill, my lad?"

The sympathetic tone seemed to break the spell, and looking up, Jim
answered, "My head aches a bit, sir, but it’s getting better now.  I
think I can make a start."

"That’s right, my boy.  Time’s flying; but you must do your best."

"Yes, sir," said Jim gratefully, and by a great effort he managed to
concentrate his attention on the questions.  Once started, he worked
feverishly to make up for the lost half-hour; but at one o’clock he had
to hand in his papers without having gone over them a second time.

Fortunately the interval was too short for comparing notes.  There was
scarcely time for more than a rush home, a hurried meal, and a run back
to be ready for the opening of the doors.

At the gate Jim overtook Braithwaite, who, much to his surprise, said in
quite a friendly way, "Done pretty well, Hartland?"

"Pretty well, thanks; how did you get on?"

"Prime!  The questions were just made for me."

Just then the Angel came along.

"I say, Dandy," he cried, "how came you to be doing Euclid this
morning?"

"Euclid?  I wasn’t!"

"What were you drawing, then?"

"Why, a map of the United States!"

"Oh!"  The blue eyes opened wide with assumed wonder.  "I thought ’twas
a figure in Euclid."

"Don’t be such a fool!" said Braithwaite testily, while the others
laughed.

"Wasn’t the arithmetic beastly stiff?" grumbled Tom Moon.  "Did anybody
do that thing about the two trains passing each other?"

"Oh, that was easy enough!" laughed Temple. "It worked out to
thirty-seven seconds and a half."

"I got that," said Braithwaite.

"So did I," cried Dick, throwing up his hat. "Well done, Boden, my boy;
you’ll pull this scholarship off yet!"

Jim said nothing, but his skin burned like fire as he remembered that
his answer was more than an hour and twenty minutes.

Just then the doors were opened and the boys trooped into their places.
While waiting for the papers to be given out he recalled the sum in
question, and soon found what a ridiculous mess he had made of it.

"It’s no use," he thought to himself bitterly; "as likely as not I’ve
made as big a hash of the rest."

Once he thought of pleading illness and giving up the struggle.  The
excuse would not have been without a backing of truth; but, after all,
Jim was no coward, and he thrust the idea aside.

"No," muttered he, "I’ll see the thing through."

The first subject in the afternoon was history, for which he had always
a liking; and when the paper was finished he felt that he had at last
done himself justice.  Encouraged by this success, he worked away at the
others, feeling more and more cheerful at the end of each subject.

"Well," said the examiner, when he came to collect the papers, "are you
satisfied?"

"With this afternoon’s work, sir," said Jim; "but I’m afraid I lost my
chance this morning."

"Oh, you mustn’t worry about that.  ’Never despair!’—that’s the motto,
you know!"  And the gentleman gave him a good-natured smile as he passed
to the next desk.

Outside, the boys clustered together, comparing notes and talking over
their doings.  Some smiled complacently, others looked rather miserable
as they discovered their mistakes.

"The algebra paper was a teaser," remarked Temple, "and as for the last
equation, I couldn’t do it at all.’

"I don’t believe it comes out," said Braithwaite, while Dick admitted
with a grin that he had left it untouched.

"Did you have a shot at it, Hartland?" asked Temple.

"Yes," said Jim; "it seemed easy enough, unless I misunderstood it."
And with paper and pencil he proceeded to work it out.

"O my aunt!" cried Dick, who was very fond of bringing that worthy
person into his conversation "I believe you’ve got it, Jimmy!"

"Yes," said Temple, "it certainly looks right.  That will give you a
lift, Hartland; it counts twenty marks."

"Well," replied Jim, thinking of the morning’s work, "I shall need them
all."

Presently the groups began to break up, and the boys to disperse.  Jim
still seemed very gloomy, and even his lively little chum found it
difficult to bring a smile to his face.

"You haven’t to go to the shop, have you?" he asked.

"Not to-night."

"That’s jolly; we’ll have a good game down at the Old Fort.  It’s ages
since you were down, and the fellows will be glad to see you.  Say
you’ll come, just to please me."

After a good deal of hesitation Jim promised, and the Angel went off
whistling merrily.  He little guessed what a terrible tragedy he was
thus, in an indirect way, helping to bring about.




                             *CHAPTER VII.*

                         *"IT’S ALL MY FAULT"*


The port of Beauleigh has a fine harbour and splendid docks generally
crowded with shipping. To the west of the harbour lies a sandy bay,
while still farther west the coast becomes rugged and dangerous.  When
the tide is out, the rocks form a favourite playground for the boys of
the neighbourhood, as also, at the time of our story, did the Old Fort.
This is a ruined tower standing well out in the bay, and approached at
low water by a stone bridge built up from the bottom of the sea.  The
width of this bridge is about sufficient to allow of two persons walking
abreast, and here and there pieces have been knocked off by the action
of the waves. At high tide it is covered to a height of several feet.
The tower itself is so old that its origin was a matter for dispute
among many learned men.  Some said it had been built as a lighthouse;
others that it was a real fort; while a third party declared that its
original purpose was to serve as a prison for the king’s enemies.  The
Beauleigh boys, without deciding on these abstruse matters, unanimously
voted that it was a jolly place for a good game.

Not having any business there, they found it the more attractive,
especially as there was a real element of danger in playing there at
dusk.  The notice-board marked "Dangerous" and the warning to
trespassers added spice to their enjoyment.  Now and again it was
proposed by the townspeople to demolish the tower, as it no longer
served any useful purpose; but somehow nothing was done.

Despite the danger, accidents rarely happened; the last one, in fact,
was beyond the memory of even the oldest inhabitant.

Before joining the ranks of the workers Jim had played many a game both
on the rocks and at the Fort, and his companions were glad to have him
back.

"Here’s Jim Hartland coming down with the Angel!" cried one.

Mrs. Hartland, thinking a good game would "blow the cobwebs," had urged
him to go with Dick. He had been gloomy enough on the way down, but he
brightened up at the boys’ welcome, and threw himself heartily into the
games.  Whether he had done well or badly, the examination was over, and
he might as well enjoy his brief holiday.

First they had their favourite military game.  For this they divided
into two parties—one, under Dick, defending the Fort; the second, led by
Jim, trying to force an entrance.  The besieged warriors performed
prodigies of valour; but the enemy were too strong, and after a
desperate fight succeeded in storming the outworks and putting the
garrison to the sword. Then the Angel, scorning to surrender, seized his
battered flag, and with a shout of defiance, leaped from the
battlements, taking particular care, however, to come down where the
sand was nice and soft.

After this some one proposed a game of "I spy!" among the rocks, to
which the others readily agreed.

As they were scampering along Dick cried out, "Hullo! there’s
Braithwaite!—Come on, Dandy, and have a game!  ’Twill do you good after
all that dry stuff at Gayton to-day!"

"All right," replied Braithwaite, who did not often join in these rough
sports; "where are you going?"

"Up to the rocks.  Come along; we’ll give the rest a breather!"  And off
he went, light of foot and heart and, I am afraid, somewhat light of
head.  Indeed it was partly owing to one of his mischievous pranks that
the incident which I am about to relate occurred.

After playing a considerable time on the rocks, they went back across
the bay.  It was getting dusk now, and the tide, though still some
distance out, was flowing shoreward.  Some of the boys, wishing their
companions good-night, started for home; five or six gathered at the
stone bridge for a chat.

Then it was that Dick Boden made his unfortunate proposal.

"I’ve thought of a ripping game," said he.  "See this knife?  I’ll hide
it somewhere in the Old Fort, and you can try to find it."

"It will soon be dark," objected Braithwaite.

"Not too dark to see the knife, for a bit."

"The tide’s coming in too, and you know how fast it comes in just here."

"Oh, go on, Dick!" cried Jim scornfully; "don’t take any notice of him:
he’s always showing the white feather!"

Braithwaite flushed.  "You think you’re very brave, Jim Hartland," he
said, "but you’re no braver than any one else.  I’m not afraid of going
to the Fort."

"Oh, not a bit!" sneered Jim; "you’d walk across to France if the sea
was all dry land.  Make haste, Dick; we’ll come on slowly.  Call out
when you’re ready."

Dick, who was now half-way across, soon disappeared in the ruin, and
presently they heard him shouting, "Come on!"

Perhaps the catastrophe might not have occurred even then; but,
unfortunately, Jim, who was eager to be first, put out his hand to push
Braithwaite aside; whereupon the latter, evidently thinking this a
challenge, ran forward.  Jim followed with young Moon, and two others
brought up the rear.

"Bravo, Dandy!" cried Dick, who was waiting for them.  "Now then, spread
yourselves out, my amateur detectives, and search for the lost property.
Well done, Dandy; you’re hot on the scent.  O Tommy Moon, O Tommy Moon,
I’m sure you’ll find it very soon."

Whether Braithwaite remembered the danger I cannot tell, but the others
forgot everything in hunting for the knife and listening to Dick’s
nonsense. Laughing and joking, he led them on, keeping their noses to
the grindstone, as it were, though without result.

"I don’t believe he’s hidden it at all!" grumbled Tom Moon at last,
stretching his cramped legs.

"You young fraud!" cried Jim suddenly; "I believe the knife’s in your
pocket."

"I told you ’twas a ripping game!" chuckled the Angel, preparing to run.
"Whoop!"  And he was off like a shot.

"After him!" cried Jim.  Then from those nearest the bridge came a shout
of "Make haste! Quick! quick!  The water’s in!"

A sudden gust of wind blew Jim’s cap into the dry well of the Fort, and
a considerable time passed before he could scramble out; then, for a
moment, he stood helpless and amazed.

The sky was dark and overcast with black clouds scudding in from the
sea; the tide had half filled the bay; the waves were washing the bridge
and increasing in violence every second.  Dick and the others were
racing along the slippery path, and had by this time almost gained
safety.

"Thank goodness they’re safe!" said he.  "Shall I risk it?  I think not.
I’ll climb to the top of the tower till the tide goes down, or perhaps a
boatman will take me off."

He was turning to go back when a yell from the shore attracted his
attention, and looking along the bridge again, he exclaimed, "Good
gracious! what’s that fool of a Braithwaite doing?  He’ll be washed off
for certain.—Hi, Braithwaite, Braithwaite! come back!  D’you hear?  Come
back!  You’ll be all right here in the Fort."

The boy in the middle of the pathway moved neither backward nor forward.
It was poor Braithwaite, who, though far from being a coward, was
overwhelmed by the startling suddenness of the danger.  He could not
swim, and the possibility of being drowned unnerved him.  Instead of
following the others, he had stopped short on the bridge, too dazed to
move, though the peril increased every moment.

Even now, with care and a little luck, he might have got safely through,
but he did not try.  In vain the boys on shore shouted; in vain Jim
yelled from the fort; he seemed not to hear.

"He’ll be drowned," groaned Jim—"he’s bound to be.  And," with a sudden
rush of memory, "it’s all my fault.  If I hadn’t chaffed him, he would
have been at home now."

Raising his voice, he once more shouted, "Braithwaite, Braithwaite, come
back; it’s quite safe here!" But it appeared as if the unhappy boy had
lost all power to move.

It was not only useless, it might be fatal, to wait longer.  Taking out
his pocket-knife, Jim cut the laces of his boots, slipped them off, and
put them in a safe place.  Then he laid his coat and waistcoat by them,
muttering, "Better go light, in case of accident."

"Keep your footing, Braithwaite!" he yelled; "I’m coming."

Full of their play, the boys had not noticed the signs of the coming
storm.  It was sweeping in now. The sky had darkened.  Across the bay
the great white sea-horses were leaping madly at the jagged rocks.  The
boys on shore had disappeared, but Jim knew the Angel would not desert
him.

Cautiously but swiftly he trod the path, over which the waves were
breaking with increased violence, leaping and dancing as if in glee.
Suddenly a clap of thunder pealed right overhead, and for an instant the
town was lit up by a vivid illumination. Jim staggered on, barely able
to keep his footing now, for the wash of the waves reached his waist,
and the path was deeply submerged.  He began to fear that, encumbered by
Braithwaite, he would never reach either shore or fort, but he did not
quite despair.

"Keep a firm hold, Braithwaite," he cried; "I’m coming!"

From first to last the incident lasted but a short time, though to Jim
it seemed a century.  He thought or his mother, scarcely recovered from
her illness, and of his helpless sister; but most of all he thought
that, but for his folly, poor Braithwaite would not now be in danger.
Again and again he said to himself, "It’s all my fault."

Once more he shouted, "Keep up, Dandy!" but in reply there came a
piercing cry—a cry so full of agony that Jim has never forgotten and is
never likely to forget it.  That which he dreaded from the first had
happened.  Unable to preserve his footing any longer, Braithwaite had
been swept into the water.

Heedless of his own danger, Jim pushed on rapidly, when another scream
reached him, and through the gathering dusk he caught sight for a moment
of the boy’s head above the waves.  He was taking a terrible risk, but
he could not see him drown; so with a cheery shout he sprang into the
sea, and with swift, powerful strokes swam to the aid of his drowning
companion.

"Don’t struggle, Dandy, and don’t catch hold of me," he cried; but the
advice was futile.  Braithwaite was sinking a second time, and not
realizing what he was doing, he clutched his rescuer tightly around the
throat.

Jim fought desperately to release himself, and at length succeeded in
unlocking the clinging arms. Then, dragging the almost lifeless boy, he
rose to the surface, but not before swallowing a large quantity of salt
water.

By this time Braithwaite’s struggles had ceased, and supporting him with
one hand, Jim turned over on his back.  Twice he called loudly for help,
but no voice replied; on shouting a third time he fancied he heard an
encouraging shout in reply.

Alone he would have felt little alarm, but this dead weight tired him.
He made scanty progress, and before long felt that he must go down.
Still, he never once thought of deserting Dandy; he would save him, or
perish in the attempt.

The waves were rolling fiercely, his breast was sore as if beaten with
heavy hammers, he gasped for breath, and the salt water poured into his
open mouth.

"Help!" he cried, "help!"  And surely that was Dicky’s voice he heard in
answer.

He strained his ears to listen, and the sound came again.  He recognized
the words now—"Jim!  Jim! where are you?"—and put all his remaining
strength into one last cry of despair.

Help must come quickly, or it would be too late. His strength was
failing, his mind wandering.

"It’s all my fault, Dandy," he murmured, "but I’ll do my best.  I’ll
stick to you.  Look at the star!  It’s getting bigger and brighter.
It’s coming this way.  Look! it’s dancing up and down!"  And he broke
into loud laughter.

He had ceased swimming now, and was merely keeping himself and his
silent companion afloat, almost without knowing that he did so.




                            *CHAPTER VIII.*

                          *"DID I SAVE HIM?"*


When Dick Boden ran from the Fort and raised the alarm, he waited till
his companions made their appearance; then, expecting they would all
follow, he dashed off across the stone bridge. In his opinion, as he
afterwards said, the worst that could happen for any one was a few
hours’ imprisonment in the old tower.

No one looked behind till reaching the shore, and then Tom Moon noticed
that Braithwaite had stopped.

"Unless he hurries up, he’ll get a jolly good wetting," said Dick, and
they all began to shout.

"What a muff the fellow is!" said Moon.  "Why doesn’t he come?  There’s
Jimmy Hartland just come out; he’ll bustle him along."

"Dick," suddenly said one of the other boys in a grave tone, "he’ll be
drowned, I’m sure."  His name was Spencer, and his father being a
fisherman, he was well acquainted with the bay.

"Look!" he continued; "just look how high the water is getting!  Jim
will have to stay in the Fort."

As soon as Dick grasped the danger he sent a boy for help, and with Moon
and Spencer ran down the beach.

"Here you are!" he cried, stopping at the boat nearest the incoming
tide.  "Unfasten her, Spencer.—Light the lantern, Tommy; here’s a match.
Are the oars there?  Right you are!—Now—one, two, three, and all
together, boys.  Push her along!  Now she’s riding!  In with you!—Give
me an oar, Spencer.—You steer, Tommy—straight for Braithwaite."

"No, no," said Spencer hastily; "steer for that rock with the
whitewashed top; then swing her round, and we’ll pick him up coming
back.  We should never reach there in a straight course."

"All right!" exclaimed Dick cheerfully; "you boss the show.  I don’t
mind as long as he’s saved."

The boys bent their backs with a will: but the boat was heavy, the tide
strong, and, as the Angel admitted, the rowing was hardly up to regatta
mark. Still they were making progress when Moon called out, "There’s
Hartland going for him!—Well done, Jim!—Pull, you fellows!"

They tugged away desperately, but suddenly a piercing shriek startled
them, and they knew that Braithwaite was fighting for life in the water.

Dick groaned, and pulled till it seemed as if his arms must come out.

"They’ll both be lost!" he cried, knowing well that Jim would not
hesitate a second in jumping to the rescue.

"There are some men on the shore," said Spencer; "they’re getting out
another boat."

"Too late!" muttered Dick gloomily.  "Listen! There’s Jim calling for
help.  Shout back.  Now again, and all together."

The sweat poured down their faces, their muscles ached terribly, their
throats were dry and parched, but they pulled on without a second’s
pause.

Again the cry for help rang out, this time much nearer, and soon they
discerned a dark object in the water.

"Keep her steady!" roared Spencer.  "Grab the other fellow, Dick!"  And
he himself caught Jim, and pulled him up so that he partly rested on the
gunwale.

The whole manoeuvre was full of danger, but they were taking risks that
night.  By degrees, Spencer, who was fortunately strong as a horse,
managed to pull Jim into the boat, and then helped to drag in
Braithwaite, who displayed no sign of life.

"Let’s put our coats over them, and that dry sail in the corner," said
Dick.  "Now, a pull for the shore.  Keep her head straight, Tommy!"

News of the desperate situation of the boys had spread rapidly.  Numbers
of people had assembled on the shore, and cheer after cheer greeted the
plucky rescuers as they beached and made fast the boat.

Two or three doctors were among the spectators. Some thoughtful soul had
hastily made and sent down a can of hot coffee, while a man from the
York Hotel arrived soon afterwards with warm blankets.

"Are they alive?" was the question on the lips of every one, as the
doctors ran down to the boat, and a few policemen kept the crowd back.

Dick had already unfastened his friend’s braces, and taken off his
shirt, in order to expose his chest fully, while Spencer and Tom Moon
were doing the same for Braithwaite.

"That’s right, my boy," said one of the doctors to Dick.  "Now, help me
to turn him face downwards. Place one of his arms under the forehead,
so, and hold it there while I wipe his mouth."

Dick was half wild with grief; but he did as he was told, though feeling
sure in his mind that Jim was dead.

Assisted by another man, the doctor presently turned the body gently on
one side, and then back again sharply, Dick supporting the head
meanwhile. This movement was repeated many times, and at last the doctor
exclaimed with a look of satisfaction, "We’ve got him; he’s beginning to
breathe.  Slip the trousers off and cover him with a blanket.  Now rub
his limbs upward, under the blanket.  You’ve saved him, my boy!"

"Is he alive, sir?" asked Dick, hardly able to believe the truth.

"Alive?  Yes; he’ll be as right as ninepence in a few hours."

As soon as Jim began to breathe he was carried to a hotel close by,
where the landlady busied herself to procure hot flannels and hot
water-bottles.  Then she brought a bottle of old wine, and gave Jim some
in a teaspoon, under the doctor’s orders.

"Now," said that gentleman, "there’s nothing but a few hours’ sleep
required.  Let this youngster stay in the room.  I’m going to see how
the other poor boy’s getting on."

So Dick sat beside the bed on which his friend lay, and wondered what
was happening on the beach. After a time Jim stirred uneasily, opened
his eyes, and recognized his chum.

"Dick!" he whispered faintly.

"Don’t try to talk, old chap.  It’s all right.  Go to sleep."

There was an uneasy look in Jim’s eyes, and his forehead puckered up as
if he were in thought.  Then he said in a whisper, "Did I save him?"

Jim had asked a question difficult to answer, but his chum thought it
best to soothe him.

"Yes," said he; "you kept him afloat till the boat came up.  Now go to
sleep—there’s a good chap—or I shan’t be allowed to stay with you."

Jim’s lips moved as if in speech, but no words passed them, and in a
short time he was fast asleep, with a peaceful smile on his face.

Meantime, news of the accident had reached Mrs. Hartland, who, getting a
neighbour to stay with Susie, hurried to the hotel, where she was
permitted to go into the boy’s room to satisfy herself that he was
really alive.

"I’m going to stay with him," said Dick, following her to the door, "and
the doctor says there’s no need at all to worry.  Does Susie know?"

"Yes; I couldn’t keep it from her.  How did it happen?"

Dick told the story briefly, and then, promising to bring Jim home in
the morning, he returned to the room.  An hour later the doctor came to
have another look at his patient, who was still sleeping nicely.

"Hum!" said he, rubbing his hands, "one’s better than none, though it is
a pity the other slipped past us."

"Is Braithwaite dead, sir?" asked Dick, sinking his voice to a whisper
lest Jim should hear him.

"Yes, my boy, I’m sorry to say he is.  We’ve tried hard to restore
breathing, but it’s no good.  How came he to get into the water?"

Dick told him.

"And this lad jumped in to save him?  Well, that was very plucky, but
none of you had any business there at all."

"No, sir," replied Dick humbly, "but I only thought to have a joke."

"Well, well, I don’t suppose you’re more to blame than the rest!"
exclaimed the doctor; and then, after making a note of Jim’s name and
address, he said he would call at his house in a day or two.

That was a wretched night for Dick.  The kind-hearted landlady brought
him in a good supper, and a servant made him a comfortable bed on the
floor, but he could not sleep.

"Poor old Dandy!" he murmured again and again, "but for me he would be
alive now."

Early in the morning Jim wakened, and in an instant Dick was by his
side.

"Feel better, old boy?" he asked.

"Yes, I’m all right.  Where’s Braithwaite?  What’s the matter?  Why are
you looking like that?  Is he—_dead_?"

"Yes," said Dick, and no one would have known it was the Angel speaking.

"Then I’ve killed him!  He only went because I called him a coward."

"’Twas as much my fault as yours," said Dick. "I started it.  Poor old
Dandy!"

Jim did not speak again; and even when, later in the day, he went home,
his mother could hardly get a word from him; but at the inquest he told
the story without hiding anything, and took all the blame on his own
shoulders.

"Braithwaite wouldn’t have gone," he said; "only I laughed at him for
being afraid."

The whole incident was so plain that the jury at once brought in a
verdict of "accidental death," adding a rider that, in their opinion,
the Old Fort and the bridge should be destroyed.

The event, of course, caused a tremendous sensation in the town.  Many
people spoke harshly of Jim, but all admired his courage both in
attempting to save the drowning boy and in frankly telling the truth
afterwards.

"The lad has grit," remarked the doctor who had brought him round.  "I
hope he won’t take it too much to heart."

He was a Scotsman named Stewart, a pleasant, cheery fellow, well known
in Beauleigh both for his ability and kindliness.

"I’ve a good mind to call and have a look at him," said he.  "What’s his
address?" pulling out his notebook.  "Hum!  Brook Street!  Not very much
burdened with this world’s goods, I expect."

That same evening Mrs. Hartland was startled by a loud rat-tat, and
going to the door, found the doctor there.

"Good-evening!" said he briskly; "are you Mrs. Hartland?  I am the
doctor who attended your boy, and I’ve come to have a look at him.  No,
no; don’t make a fuss.  I’ll come straight through, if you don’t mind."
And closing the door, he followed Mrs. Hartland into the sitting-room.

"Well, young shaver," said he, patting Jim on the back, "how do you feel
now?—better?  That was a very plucky thing you did.—You ought to be
proud of him, ma’am; he deserves the Society’s medal.  And who is this
young lady?" stooping to touch Susie’s hair.  "Can’t get up?  Dear me!
that is sad.  Any one attending her?"

"Not now, sir.  You see, the doctors—"

"Quite so; I understand.  Now, suppose I have a look at her in the
morning—eh?  I’ve had some experience in these cases.  I shan’t call
professionally—just as a friend of this young gentleman’s, you know."

"O sir, how can I thank you?" exclaimed Mrs. Hartland gratefully.

"No need of thanks to any one yet, ma’am; but if I can do the dear child
any good, she can thank her brother, because, but for him, I should not
be here to-night.  Eh, Pussy?"  And he pulled Susie’s ear playfully.

"Jim tried to save the other boy," said Susie with tears in her eyes.

"Yes, I know, and nearly lost his own life.  He was very silly in the
first place, but turned out a real hero after all.—Now, Jim, brighten up
and look cheerful.  You’ve had a hard lesson; show the world you’ve
learned something from it.  What’s done can’t be undone, and moping
won’t make things a bit better. Well, I must go.—Good-night, Pussy.
Shall we say ten o’clock in the morning?  That will suit me nicely."
And with a bright smile all round, and a last word of encouragement to
Jim, he took his leave.

"O mother," cried Susie, "isn’t he a nice man?"

"He is, my dear, and wonderfully clever too, I’ve heard," replied Mrs.
Hartland.  "Oh, what a good thing it will be if he can make you
stronger!"

They talked about it till bedtime, but Jim was very quiet.  He was still
thinking of the boy who had gone so suddenly to his death.




                             *CHAPTER IX.*

                    *THE RESULT OF THE EXAMINATION.*


There was a subdued air about Mr. Laythorne’s class the next morning,
and the boys could not keep their eyes from the desk which Percy
Braithwaite had occupied.  He had not been very popular, but the
startling tragedy had gripped their minds, making them feel really sorry
for the loss of their schoolmate.

As to Jim Hartland, opinion was divided.  Some of the boys rather pitied
him, others looked on him as a hero, while a few blamed him outright for
being the cause of Braithwaite’s death.

"He should have known better," said one.  "It might have been all very
well for him and the Angel, but ’twas a fool’s game to let Dandy into.
I don’t suppose he had ever gone to the Fort before, even in daylight."

"They must have been blind not to have seen the tide coming in,"
exclaimed another.  "And fancy Dick Boden, the little idiot, letting ’em
grub about there, while he had the knife in his pocket all the time!"

"Oh, that’s just like one of the Angel’s tricks! But he’s a good-hearted
little chap, and this business has cut him up dreadfully."

Somehow, in the eyes of his schoolfellows, Dick rarely did wrong; and
even those who looked askance at Jim were unwilling to say anything
against his popular chum.

All this chatter took place in the playground before either of the two
boys arrived, for Dick was rather late, while Jim did not get in till
after prayers.  He winced, too, on seeing the vacant desk, but
fortunately his mind was somewhat preoccupied by wondering what Dr.
Stewart would be able to do for Susie.

The morning seemed terribly long, but he stumbled through his lessons
without actual failure, and as soon as school was dismissed, started for
home at full speed.  Panting and blowing, he got to the door just as the
doctor was leaving.

"Hullo!" exclaimed Dr. Stewart kindly; "there’s no need to ask how you
are.  Well, I’ve seen your sister.  Mother will tell you all about it."
And stepping into his gig, he drove off.

Mrs. Hartland’s first words brought the blood to the boy’s face.

"O Jim," she cried, "he thinks there’s a chance for Susie.  He won’t
promise, of course, but he is quite hopeful about it.  He has been here
nearly two hours, though knowing perfectly well that I can’t pay him.
And what do you think he has offered to do?"

"I can’t guess," replied the boy.

"To get her into the private hospital for children. He’s going to send a
nurse and a proper invalid-chair in the morning, and attend to her
himself, just as if he were charging a big fee."

"He’s a real old brick!" exclaimed Jim enthusiastically.

"And he thinks—though, of course, I haven’t told Susie—that at the end
of six months she may be able to _walk_!  He says there was a girl
suffering just like Susie in a Scotch hospital, and she was cured.  But
there is only a chance, of course."

"What does Susie say about going?"

"Well, the poor child is rather timid and nervous but she is quite
willing.  It’s wonderful how she has taken to the doctor."

Before getting his dinner, Jim ran up to his sister, who was in bed, and
feeling rather weary after the medical examination.

"Has mother told you?" she asked, smiling bravely.

"Yes.  Isn’t it glorious?  You don’t mind going, do you?  I shall come
to see you on Sundays.  And oh, suppose—suppose you should be able to
walk some day!"

There was a suspicion of tears in her eyes as she answered, "Don’t talk
about that, Jim—not yet.  I try not to think of it, because it may never
happen."

"I believe it will, though," declared Jim stoutly. "The doctor would not
say there was a chance unless he felt pretty sure of it."

"Did he say that?" asked the girl eagerly.

"Yes; only you must keep up your spirits and go on hoping all the time.
Now I must run off, or I shall be late for school."

At the door she called him back, saying, "I should like to see Dick
before I go."

"So you shall.  I’ll tell him presently, and he’ll come in this evening.
Old Dick will be as happy as a sand-boy when he hears the news."

As it happened, Jim had no chance to speak to his chum till after
school, when, as usual, Dick went a part of the way to the shop with
him.

"I’ll go in directly after tea," he said, his eyes sparkling.  "Poor
little midge! ’twill be dreary enough in the hospital; but, I say, fancy
her walking!  Even if she has to use a crutch it will be something.
Well, I’ll turn off here and run straight home.  Good-night, in case I’m
gone when you get back."

True to his word, Dr. Stewart sent a nurse with the famous chair the
next morning, and also looked in himself to superintend the removal of
his little patient.

"There," said he, "now you’re comfortable—eh? Oh yes; mother’s coming
too.  Why, it’s quite a royal procession.  And on Sunday we shall have
our big brother to see how we’re getting on—eh, my lassie?"

Brook Street showed unwonted excitement over the child’s removal, and
discussed it volubly and freely, agreeing on the whole with the crushing
remark of Mrs. Archer, whose chief occupation in life was discussing the
affairs of her neighbours.

"As much fuss," said she scornfully, "as if she was a real lady!  An’
her brother goin’ round with papers!  It’s a wonder they don’t have a
carriage with houtriders and postillions, like the King!"

Meanwhile Susie was taken to the hospital and carried into a room
containing four beds.  Over one hung a card with "Susie Hartland"
written on it, and the child smiled with pleasure on seeing the snowy
sheets and soft white pillows and pretty counterpane.  Then, when she
was cozily tucked up, her mother sat and talked to her cheerfully, and a
nurse brought games and picture-books with which she could amuse herself
later on.

She cried a little when the time came for parting with her mother, but
the nurse was so kind and gentle that she soon dried her tears.

Mrs. Hartland felt the separation too, especially in the evening, when
she sat alone with her work. Although an invalid, Susie was always
bright and cheerful, and her good spirits had done much to lessen her
mother’s grief.

The excitement attending his sister’s going away had buoyed Jim up, and
kept him from moping, but now he began to brood over the unlucky
accident at the Old Fort.  Although a strong, healthy boy, he was
extremely sensitive, and conjured up all sorts things that existed only
in his imagination.  School no longer had any attraction for him; he cut
himself adrift from his old companions, even endeavouring to shake Dick
off, but the Angel stuck to him resolutely.

"You’re a silly duffer, Jim," said he, with charming frankness.  "What’s
the use of moping about like a barn owl?  You did your best to save
Braithwaite, and you can’t bring him back to life, anyhow.  I’m as sorry
as you, but pulling a long face won’t do any good."

"Every one’s down on me," answered Jim sulkily. "Laythorne hardly
speaks, and the fellows look as if I had committed a murder; and it’s
just the same in the town.  I’m sick of it.  I wish I’d been drowned
myself."

"Pooh!" said Dick; "you’re talking rubbish.  I’m ashamed of you, Jim,
’pon my word.  I thought you had more grit.  I’m sure no one could have
been kinder than Laythorne; and as for the fellows—why, half of them
think you’re a greater hero than Nelson. You should hear ’em talk!"

"I’ve a good mind to get a berth on board ship," said Jim gloomily.

"What? and leave your mother and sister?  Well you’re a bigger coward
than I ever took you for, Jim Hartland!"

This was the first unpleasantness that had occurred between the two
chums; but Dick was in dead earnest and did not mince his words.  Better
balanced than Jim, he took a more sensible view of things.  He admitted
they had acted foolishly, and without thought; but they had done their
best, Jim especially, to remedy the mistake.  They bitterly regretted
not being able to rescue their companion, but to Dick’s mind this was no
reason why they should spoil their own lives.

It is likely enough that Jim would have come round to this view, but for
an unexpected event which revived the interest in Braithwaite’s death.

One evening he had gone as usual into the shop directly after tea.  Mr.
Broad was absent when the papers arrived, so that Jim, after arranging
the bundle, had a few minutes to spare.

Opening one of the papers, he saw in big type—"The Gayton Scholarship."
His heart beat fast, and for a second or two he dared not look farther.
Then with feverish anxiety he read the paragraph at a glance, and stood
leaning over the counter like one dazed.  Was it possible?  Could it be
really true? Surely there must be some mistake!  Half mechanically his
eves wandered over the words again, but with the same result.

This is the announcement as it appeared in _The Beauleigh Evening
News_:—


"THE GAYTON SCHOLARSHIP.—The result of the examination for the Gayton
Scholarship is now to hand.  Forty-five candidates, the cream of the
elementary schools, were examined, and we give below the names of the
six highest, with the number of marks obtained by each out of a possible
thousand:—

         CANDIDATE.            SCHOOL.              MARKS.

    Braithwaite, Percy . . . . Deanery . . . . . . . 871
    Temple, Hugh . . . . . . . St. Paul's  . . . . . 868
    Carter, Robert . . . . . . Bath Street Board . . 839
    Boden, Richard . . . . . . Deanery . . . . . . . 810
    Jones, Samuel  . . . . . . Royal British . . . . 750
    Morris, William Charles  . Somerton Board  . . . 716

The honour of winning the scholarship thus goes to the Deanery School;
but, unhappily, the successful candidate cannot take advantage of his
victory.  Our readers will, no doubt, remember the sad accident which
recently occurred at the Old Fort, in which Percy Braithwaite lost his
life.  Great sympathy is felt for the sorrowing parents.  It is sad to
think of the early termination to what evidently might have been a
distinguished career.  The scholarship will therefore be awarded to the
candidate next on the list, Hugh Temple of St. Paul’s, who, it will be
noticed, is only three marks behind the leader."


At first, Jim could think of nothing but the blow to his own pride.
Most of the Deanery boys fully expected him to win the scholarship; they
had coupled his name with it as far back as the cricket match for the
Challenge Shield; they had looked up to him as their champion.  And now
the list was out, and he was not even in the first six!

I am sorry to admit it, but the truth must be told. Jim fairly broke
down.  He was angry, mortified, and ashamed.  He felt the blow with
bitter humiliation, and while doing his round that evening he had not
the courage to look any one in the face.  It seemed as if all the town
must be jeering at him as a dead failure.

He could have yielded pride of place to Temple, but to be beaten by
Braithwaite, and even by the light-hearted Angel!  This was where the
sting lay, because, knowing the extent of their abilities, he felt that
he was far superior to them.

Of course, he had had hard lines in his father’s death, in the necessity
for finding work, and again in his mother’s illness; but he could not
tell all the world that.  The Deanery fellows bothered little about his
misfortunes; in their eyes the thing would be simple enough: he had
failed even to get into the first six, and there was an end of it.

When he got home that night, he said nothing of the news; so that his
mother, who rarely bought a paper, did not know that the list was out.

"She will know soon enough," he thought bitterly, "and on Sunday I shall
have to tell Susie."




                              *CHAPTER X.*

                           *GOING DOWN HILL.*


Nowhere was the result of the examination received with greater surprise
than at the Deanery School.  It is safe to say that every boy looked
twice at the published list before admitting Jim Hartland’s name was not
there.

On the following morning the boys of the upper classes, gathering
together in the playground, discussed the matter excitedly.

"It’s just what I’ve always said," exclaimed Simpson; "the chap’s no
better than the rest of us.  Just because he can play cricket a bit, we
put him on the top of a monument, and now, down he comes—flop!"

"Well, you needn’t be afraid of tumbling," laughed little Macdonald,
"because you’ll never be put on the top of anything.  You’re always
having a dig at Hartland, because he wouldn’t have you in the cricket
eleven."

"Well said, Alec!" cried the Angel.  "That’s the truth.  Now look at me.
I came out fourth."

"So you did!"

"Good old Angel!"

"You’ll be first another time!"

"Oh, what rot!" exclaimed Dick.  "Can’t you let a fellow speak?  What I
want to say is that Jim Hartland’s twice as good as me."

"He didn’t make much show, anyhow," growled Simpson.

"No, he didn’t.  And why?  Because, when his father was drowned, he went
to work to help his mother.  If it hadn’t been for that, he’d have won
the ’Gayton’ easily."

"Well, he lost it!" growled Simpson; "and through him the Deanery lost
it, too!"

"How’s that?"

"How’s that!  Why, wasn’t it through his bounce that Dandy Braithwaite
got drowned?"

"Don’t listen to him, Angel," said Macdonald, for Dick had doubled up
his fists, and his eyes were flashing fire.

"Pooh!" said Simpson.  "I don’t care; everybody knows it’s true."

"He owned as much as that himself," chimed in Archer, who owed Jim a
grudge.

"Perhaps you think he wanted Braithwaite to get drowned," exclaimed Dick
sarcastically, "and that he and I put up the little job between us?"

"I’m not saying anything against you," replied Simpson; "but I do say
it’s Hartland’s fault we lost the ’Gayton,’ and you can take it how you
like."

This was the view held by many of the Deanery boys, who were very sore
that the scholarship had gone to St. Paul’s.  Thus the subject of the
tragedy was brought to the front again, and during the interval at
morning school Jim could not help overhearing some of the remarks.
Angry and miserable, he went to a corner of the playground, where Dick
followed him.

"Look here, Jim," said the Angel cheerily; "don’t mope about the
’Gayton.’  We’ve all seen the list, of course, and I’m awfully sorry you
aren’t in it.  It’s too ridiculous putting me above you.  I know that,
and so do the others.  It’s like turning you out of the eleven to put
Simpson in; but buck up, old chap—you’ll soon get over it."

"I wasn’t thinking about you, Dicky," replied his chum.  "I’m jolly glad
you’re high up."

"What are you looking so miserable about, then?"

"Oh, hang it all!" cried Jim excitedly; "can’t you hear what the fellows
are saying?  They look at me as black as thunder!"

"Let ’em," rejoined the Angel serenely; "that won’t hurt you."

"Oh," said Jim, jerking himself away savagely, "it’s easy for you to
talk!  I wish the place was at the bottom of the sea!"

"I don’t!" replied Dick.  "My mac’s worn out, and I shan’t get another
this side of Christmas. Here’s Macdonald coming; don’t eat him."

"I say, Hartland," began Alec, who was as red as a turkey-cock, "I’m
awfully sorry you didn’t get the ’Gayton.’  I know from what the Angel
has said that you’ve had jolly hard lines."

"Thanks!" growled Jim.  "But I wonder you aren’t afraid to be seen
speaking to me."

"I wish you didn’t feel so cut up about it," returned Macdonald,
ignoring Jim’s surliness.  "You’re looking at it through magnifying
glasses."

Unfortunately Jim did feel _cut up_, and by continual brooding made
himself more and more miserable.  From this time, I fear, he began to go
slowly down hill, and the only gleam of good feeling he displayed was
with regard to his mother and Susie.

"I’m very sorry, my boy," said his mother, when he told her; "and yet I
shall never think of this scholarship without feeling proud of you.  I
know you had a good chance of winning it, and threw it away for the sake
of helping me."

"No, no, mother," cried the boy cheerfully; "you mustn’t look at it that
way.  I mightn’t have won the scholarship at all; and anyhow, I couldn’t
have accepted it."

On Sunday, when at the hospital, he talked to Susie much in the same
way, making light of his disappointment so successfully that the girl
was quite deceived.

At school, however, he was very different, becoming surly and morose,
and making enemies of the boys who would willingly have remained his
friends.

Mr. Broad, too, noticed his altered manner; but knowing the
circumstances, he said nothing, thinking the trouble would soon blow
over; besides, Jim did not neglect his work.  He was always punctual,
and had such a quick grasp of his duties that he saved his employer a
great deal of labour.

His usefulness in the shop led Mr. Broad to engage the services of a
smaller boy for the evening round, while Jim was promoted to the dignity
of serving behind the counter.  This made him later at night, but he
generally found an opportunity of doing his lessons before going home.
His wages were raised to six shillings a week, and there was some talk
of his going into the business altogether when he left school.

"Keep steady, my boy," said his employer, "learn all you can here, and
there is no reason why you should not get on well."

Unfortunately Jim had drifted away from his schoolmates, seeing little
even of Dick.  To a certain extent this was inevitable, but Dick soon
discovered that his old chum was beginning to lose pleasure in his
company.

The truth was that Jim had picked up some new friends, with whom he knew
quite well that Dick would have nothing to do.  He himself was a little
ashamed of them, but he eased his conscience by saying he must have some
one to talk to.  One night on leaving the shop he found the Angel
outside.

"Hullo, Dick," he said; "anything wrong?"

"Oh no.  I had an hour to spare, so I thought I’d come and meet
you—that’s all.  We haven’t seen much of each other lately."

"That isn’t my fault."

"No; I’m not blaming you.  I was awfully disappointed last night,
though."

Jim’s face became red.

"How is that?" he asked.

"Oh, I came round last night just in time to see you going off with
Curly Peters and his chum."

"Why shouldn’t I?  What’s the matter with Curly?"

"Oh, nothing!" replied Dick airily—"only he’s a foul-mouthed little
blackguard.  Perhaps you’ll take him with you on Sunday to see Susie?"

That shot struck home, and Jim winced, but he answered sneeringly,—

"You’ll be getting another nickname soon: they’ll be calling you the
Saint."

"They might do worse," replied Dick cheerfully. "Anyhow, I’d make a
cleaner saint than Curly."

"That’s right!" exclaimed Jim, trying to work himself into a passion;
"you’re like all the rest. Just because the chap’s poor and has no
friends you’re down on him.  I’ve been through it myself."

The Angel laughed genially.

"There’s something in that," he agreed.  "You see, we Baxter’s Court
millionaires"—Dick lived in a tiny house in Baxter’s Court—"don’t care
much to mix up with poor people.  But Curly has a few extra points in
his favour.  He’s dirty, he loafs about the town cadging for coppers
instead of going to work, he thinks it big to swear, and I don’t know
that he’s over honest."

"Well, he hasn’t asked for your company," said Jim sullenly.

"No," replied the Angel with a smile; "perhaps that’s why I’m prejudiced
against him.  And now let’s talk about something else.  How’s Susie?"

"Better," said Jim, his face brightening.  "The doctor says he is more
than satisfied."

Let me hasten to place something to the credit side of Jim’s account.
Whatever evil habits he might have fallen into, he was a good brother.
At every opportunity he visited the hospital to cheer his sister. With
her he was always kind and bright and cheerful. For her sake he denied
himself many little pleasures, saving up his odd coppers in order to buy
some little present that would please and delight her.

As for Susie, she thought there was no one like her brother; to her he
was the one hero in the world, followed, though at a long distance, by
Dick.

On the subject of Susie, therefore, the boys could talk without
restraint; but when that was exhausted they became silent, both vaguely
realizing that, in some strange way, a barrier was rising up between
them, and that the good old times were gradually disappearing.

Both were sorry; yet the mischief appeared unavoidable.  Dick tried hard
to restore matters to their former footing.  He was really fond of Jim,
and could not see him drift without an effort to check him.  Frequently
he waited outside the shop till his chum left, thinking to entice him
away from his fresh associates.

One night as they walked away together Curly Peters came towards them.

"You aren’t going to stop, are you?" asked Dick anxiously.

"Why not?  D’you think he’ll give us the plague?"

"Oh, well," said Dick, "I’m off.  I’d be ashamed to be seen speaking to
him."

Now this was an unfortunate remark, as it reminded Jim of an incident
which occurred only the previous evening.  Mr. Broad, coming into the
shop unexpectedly, had seen Peters slinking out.

"What did that customer want, Hartland?" he asked sharply.

Jim felt cornered for a moment, but replied steadily,—

"He wanted to know if there was a chance of getting a paper job."

This was a lie; but I warned you Jim had sadly deteriorated, and he
dared not tell his master that the boy was his friend.

Thinking of this, he turned on Dick savagely, saying,—

"He’s good enough for me if he isn’t for you."

"All right," exclaimed Dick; "every one to his taste.  Some people I
know have a lot of taste—all bad.  Good-night, old man.  Hope you’ll
have a bath when you get home."

"My stars!" cried Curly, as Dick went off; "ain’t we getting proud?
Washing and charing must be goin’ up.  It ought to make you feel taller,
Jimmy, talking to a toff like that."

"Keep your chaff to yourself," said Jim crossly. "Dick Boden’s a heap
better than you or me."

Curly opened his eyes wide, but being a wise youth in his generation,
and having a particular object in view, he let the subject drop.

"You couldn’t lend me another sixpence, Jimmy, I suppose?" he said after
a time.

"No," said Jim shortly, "I couldn’t; and what’s more, I’d like the last
one back."

"You shall have it in a few days, but I’ve been awfully unlucky lately.
I’ll pay you back, never fear.  I wouldn’t like you to have to borrow
from the old man’s till; it’s dangerous."

"Borrow from the till?  What do you mean?"

"Nothin’; only I once knew a feller who did that. When he wanted any
money he used to take it from the till, and pay it back Saturday
nights."

"Why, he was just a common thief!" exclaimed Jim scornfully.  "I’d
rather starve than do that."

"Of course you would," said Curly approvingly, "and so would I.  Let us
be honest if we are poor; that’s my motto.  But it’s hard when a chap’s
starvin’, you know.  Where are you goin’?"

"Home," said Jim.  "I’m tired."

"All right.  I’ll pay you that tanner soon. Wouldn’t it be a lark to
march into the shop and ask the boss for my friend, Jim Hartland?"

"I don’t think you’d better," said Jim.  "He mightn’t like it."

"What did he say last night, then?"

"Oh, well, you see," replied Jim hesitatingly, "I didn’t tell him.  And
I say, Curly, you’d better give me the sixpence in the street."

"All right," replied Curly; "I’ll remember."  Then himself he added,
"Well, he is a blessed mug, and mistake.  One of the regular
old-fashioned sort."




                             *CHAPTER XI.*

                           *IS JIM A THIEF?*


Three weeks after the conversation recorded in our last chapter, Mr.
Broad wished Jim good-night, closed the shop door, and returned to his
desk.  As a rule he was a cheery, good-humoured man, easy-going, and
with an eye for the bright side of things.

On this particular evening he appeared moody and unsettled, and quite
unable to look through the pile of books which lay on the desk.
Presently, leaving his chair, he walked up and down the shop.

"I can’t believe it," he said half aloud.  "I don’t wish to believe it.
The boy has always seemed as honest as the day.  I must have made a
mistake."  And his face brightened.  Then it clouded again, and he went
on, "Why should I beat about the bush instead of going straight to the
point?  I know I am not mistaken.  Some one stole a florin from the till
last night, and Hartland must have been the thief."

For some time past Mr. Broad had had a vague suspicion that he was being
robbed—not on a large scale, and not regularly; but now and again he
fancied a piece of silver or a few coppers disappeared.

The incident which converted his suspicion into certainty was this.  On
the previous night he had left the shop with a friend.  Before going, he
placed a florin, the price of an article just sold, in the till. On his
return the florin was gone, and, according to Jim’s own words, no
customer had entered the shop.

It was very perplexing, but Mr. Broad did not like to tax the boy with
theft, and rather foolishly made no further remark.  It was just
possible, he told himself, that he only _intended_ to put the florin in
the till, but had really slipped it into his pocket. One thing he
knew—that after going out he had changed a florin in the town.

However, the subject worried him a good deal, especially as, on sober
reflection, he felt convinced that the coin had been left in the shop.

"I hate to do it," he muttered, "but it will be better even for the
boy’s own sake.  A sharp fright may do him good and teach him a useful
lesson.  If he isn’t found out now he is pretty certain to go from bad
to worse.  It’s an awful pity, too.  He’s a smart lad, and ought to do
well; but I shall never feel able to trust him again, and I shan’t feel
justified in recommending him to any one else."

The shopkeeper kept his suspicions to himself, saying nothing even to
his wife.  He had watched Jim closely, however, while affecting to be
busy in another part of the shop.  Nothing resulted from this amateur
detective work, but Mr. Broad noticed that several times during the
evening Jim cast glances toward the door.

This certainly seemed rather odd, but it was no proof of guilt; and the
stationer concluded his best plan was to lay a trap for Jim, and then go
off the premises, leaving him a clear field.

The opportunity came the next day when most of the shops closed early.
Mr. Broad was compelled to keep open because of the evening papers; but
as soon as they were dispatched, the gas was lowered, and there was
nothing to do beyond waiting for the errand-boy’s return.  As a rule the
master did this himself, and Jim had an hour or two off.

On this particular evening, however, Mr. Broad said, "Hartland, I am
going out, so you must stay till I return."

"Very good, sir," replied Jim, who really thought it was very bad, for
he had promised to meet Curly Peters at the bottom of the street.

Mr. Broad went round the shop, turned down the lights, except the one
over the desk, and went out, saying,—

"If I am not here by half-past nine, turn the gas off at the meter, lock
the door, and bring the keys to my house.  Most likely though I shall be
back."

"Yes, sir," said Jim, who earnestly hoped he would.

"Upon my word," muttered Mr. Broad to himself, as he stepped into the
street, "this business is horrible. I feel almost as if I were
committing some terrible crime.  But, after all, it will be a warning to
him. Some men would have him packed off to jail, and then he could never
hold his head up again."

He pulled out his watch and looked at the time.

"I’ll just run down and have a gossip at the club," said he.  "I feel as
nervous as if I had robbed the till myself.—-Bless my soul, boy, why
don’t you look where you are going?"

"Awfully sorry, sir," said the boy, who was no other than our lively
friend, Dick Boden.  "I hope you aren’t hurt?"

"No; but you startled me.  You might have been a policeman, you know,
or—or—Dear me, my nerves are in an extraordinary state!"

"Funny old gent," thought Dick; and then, stealing a second look at him,
he said to himself, "Why, it’s Mr. Broad.  It’s no use waiting for Jim,
then.  He has to mind the shop."

Remembering that it was early closing day, he had run up directly his
lessons were finished, thinking he might catch Jim and induce him to go
for a good game.  He went very rarely now, but he had not quite
abandoned the hope of rescuing Jim from the clutches of his new friends,
who, according to some of the boys, were doing him more harm than good.
Indeed, there were some curious tales floating about which made Dick
extremely anxious on his friend’s account.

"I’ve half a mind to call at the shop and ask him when he’ll be off
duty," he thought.  "Perhaps his master will be coming back in a few
minutes."

He still stood hesitating on the pavement, when he suddenly caught sight
of a little by-play which turned his thoughts in another direction.

"I wonder," he muttered, "what game those chaps are up to.  No good,
I’ll be bound."

A few paces off he saw Curly Peters and his mate gazing after the worthy
stationer, and presently they began talking together very earnestly.
Dick could not hear what passed, but he felt sure they were discussing
some scheme with which Mr. Broad was connected.

Now, as a rule, the Angel took little interest in his neighbours’
doings, but on this occasion he could not help watching closely.

"I mustn’t let them see me, though," he muttered, and crossed to the
other side of the road.

At last the two boys finished their conversation; and then, while Curly
lounged about the pavement, his companion, whose name was Bryant, ran
after Mr. Broad.

"Hum!" said Dick; "that’s a queer start.  I should like to watch this
little game, yet I don’t want to lose sight of Curly."

The whole affair was most perplexing; but in a few minutes Bryant
returned, laughing and evidently well pleased.  He said something to his
companion, who nodded approvingly, and then strolled up the street.

"Going to call on Jim, I’ll bet sixpence!" said Dick, who, by the way,
never bet sixpence or any other sum of money in his life.  "What an
idiot he is not to drop ’em.  Not much use in my going on, I suppose."

He has told me since that he had actually turned to go home, when a
queer thing happened.  The two boys had reached the shop, when Bryant
slipped into a doorway adjoining the stationer’s, and stood close
against the wall as if not wishing to be seen.  In this he was greatly
helped by the fact of the building being in darkness.

Without any definite object Dick did the same thing on his side of the
street.

"This is getting quite exciting," said Dick to himself.  "Why did he
slip in there, I wonder? Doesn’t he want Jim to see him?  But if not,
why not?  It doesn’t seem very clear."

As soon as Bryant had disappeared, Curly sauntered carelessly past the
shop window and back again. Then he looked up and down the street, which
was now nearly empty, and, appearing satisfied, approached the door.

Dick judged that he whistled softly and received no answer.  In a minute
or two he whistled again, when the door was opened partly, and he
appeared to be talking to some one inside.

"That must be Jim," thought Dick.  "I suppose they are making some
arrangement; but it’s odd the other fellow doesn’t show himself."

Presently Curly took what appeared to be a scrap of newspaper from his
pocket, and in order to see it better, Jim came right outside.  Then,
almost imperceptibly, Curly began to edge away till he manoeuvred Jim
from the doorway to the front of the shop.  The movement was so natural
and performed so dexterously that even the suspicious Dick thought
nothing of it.

But the instant the coast was clear, a dark figure glided swiftly
through the open door and disappeared in the shop.  Dick rubbed his eyes
and looked at Jim.  His head was bent over the paper, and, whether by
accident or design, Curly kept him engaged in animated conversation.

What was to be done?  Should he rush over and give the alarm?  For once
in his life he could not decide what to do, and while he hesitated the
opportunity was lost.

Jim was still talking earnestly when the dark figure reappeared in the
doorway, stole away with cat-like stealth by the side of the wall, and
vanished. The next moment some one coughed loudly; Jim looked up with a
start, returned the paper to Curly, and, with a parting word, went back
to the shop door. A dozen yards away Bryant waited for his companion.
There was not sufficient light for Dick to see what took place, but in a
minute or two Curly ran back quickly to where Jim was still standing.

This time Curly did not speak so quietly, and so Dick was able to hear
brief snatches of the conversation, such as, "Awfully sorry—wouldn’t do
you—now we’re square, aren’t we?"

"Yes," replied Jim, slipping something into his pocket, "and it comes in
very handy just now."

"All right," said Curly, walking away; and raising his voice, he added,
"You’ll be sure to come, won’t you?  We’ll have a rattling good time.
So long."

Dick was on the horns of a dilemma.  He felt eager to tell his chum what
he had seen, yet he had a vague idea that he ought to keep an eye on the
other two.

"I’ll follow them up," he said, "and then come back to meet Jim.  Unless
I’ve been dreaming with my eyes open, there’s something very rotten in
the state of Denmark."

Meanwhile, Jim remained at the door till the errand-boy returned, then
he went in and sat down at the desk.  He had finished his lessons, and
was in the midst of a very exciting story, but somehow he did not find
much pleasure in it.

As a matter of fact he was getting very tired of Curly Peters and
Company.  He knew quite well they were doing him no food.  On more than
one occasion they had forced him to lie to his employer and to do other
things of which he was heartily ashamed.

"I’ve a good mind to cut the whole concern," said he, "make a clean
breast of it to the gov’nor, and ask him to give me a fresh start.  I
really believe he would do it."

Then he turned to his book again, but it was useless trying to follow
the fortunes of the hero; he was thinking all the time what a fool he
had been in preferring Curly Peters to Dick Boden.

"The Angel’s a little brick," he said to himself. "He’s stuck to me like
a leech, though I’ve snubbed him awfully.  Never mind, Dicky; I’ll make
up for it, if you’ll let me."

Presently he closed the book, got down from the desk, and went to the
door, muttering, "I wish the gov’nor would make haste."

He little guessed the shame and agony which Mr. Broad’s return would
cause him.




                             *CHAPTER XII.*

                     *WHERE IS THE MISSING MONEY?*


"Hullo, Hartland! tired of waiting?"

"Rather, sir.  I thought I would come outside for a breath of fresh
air."

"Ah!  Everything all right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Any one been here?"

"Only Johnson."

Johnson was the boy who did the evening round.

"Just so.—Come inside, Farrant, will you?—Turn up the gas, Hartland.  I
want you to stay a few minutes longer."

"Yes, sir," replied Jim, who was getting his hat.

He thought his employer’s manner a trifle strange, and rather wondered
why Mr. Farrant, who was a frequent visitor, remained standing just
inside the door.  However, he turned the gas on full and waited.

"Sure no one has been here?" repeated the stationer.

"Quite sure, sir," answered Jim, who thought it was a very odd question.

"Then you haven’t sold anything, or given change?"

"No," said Jim, who was beginning to feel a trifle uneasy, though he
scarcely knew why.

"Hum," said his master; "that’s satisfactory in one sense, at least.  It
leaves no room for mistakes."  And going round the counter he opened the
till.

One glance was sufficient, and in a loud voice he added, "Lock the door,
Farrant, and bring me the key.—Hartland, come here."

"If he’s guilty, he’s a good actor," thought Mr. Farrant, who was
watching the puzzled look on the boy’s face.

"Count the money in the till, Hartland—it won’t take a century to do,"
said Mr. Broad, who intended to be sarcastic.

"Fourpence ha’penny, sir," said Jim promptly.

Without a word the stationer drew a notebook from his pocket, opened it,
and laid it on the table. On the top of the page was a circle with a
star in the centre, drawn in ink.  Underneath was written, "One florin,
1884.  One shilling, 1885.  One sixpence, 1861.  Sevenpence ha’penny in
coppers.  Silver all marked as above."

"That," said Mr. Broad, speaking very slowly and gravely, "is the amount
of money in the till when I left the shop.  Here"—pointing to the few
coppers—"is fourpence ha’penny.  Where is the rest?"

Jim’s face became white as death, and he trembled violently.  Beads of
perspiration stood on his forehead, a film gathered before his eyes, his
throat was parched, and he could not utter a word.

"Come," repeated his master sternly; "I must have an answer to my
question.  Where is the missing money?"

"I don’t know, sir," answered Jim huskily.

"That’s rubbish.  No one but you has been in the shop."

"Only Johnson."

"Was he near the till?"

"That is a foolish question," thought Mr. Farrant. "Of course he’ll
shift the blame to the errand-boy. Broad has given him a fine chance to
wriggle out of it."

The same idea flashed through Jim’s mind, but he rejected it scornfully.

"No," said he, with the utmost deliberation, "he did not go near the
counter.  I took the bag from him myself, and he went out again."

"Then, if you didn’t steal the money, where is it?" asked the stationer
testily.  He was really a kind-hearted man, and the miserable business
upset him terribly.

"Come, my boy," said Mr. Farrant; "this is a sad case, but you will do
no good by denying your guilt. Better make a clean breast of it, and
trust to your master’s leniency."

Now if I have drawn anything like an accurate picture of James Hartland,
you will not be surprised that this well-meant suggestion made him very
angry. The blood rushed to his face, his eyes glowed, and, as Dicky
would have said, "the monkey was up" with a vengeance.

"I don’t know that it is any business of yours," he exclaimed.  "I’m
responsible to my master, and not to you," which was very rude, and very
ill-advised.

"Oh, all right," said Mr. Farrant; "go your own way.  You’ll feel a
trifle less high and mighty when you’ve been in prison a week or two."

"It will be an awful disgrace, Hartland.  You’ll be ruined for life,"
observed Mr. Broad.  "Come, my boy, tell me the truth; I have no wish to
be severe with you.  Where is the money?"

"I haven’t seen it," answered Jim sullenly.

"This isn’t the first time, you know," continued his master.  "I have
missed money before when you were left in charge, but I did not like to
be positive. Unfortunately for you, there can be no question about it
this time.  If you will confess, I will forgive you, for your mother’s
sake; if not, I must ask my friend to fetch a policeman."

The boy shuddered at this threat.  He had a strong imagination, and he
instantly conjured up the whole pitiful scene.  He saw himself marched
to the station, and brought up next morning before the magistrates.  He
pictured the grief and horror in his mother’s face, and thought of Susie
when she should hear of what had happened.

Mr. Broad understood what was passing through his mind, and said in an
encouraging tone,—

"Come; which is it to be?"

"I really can’t confess anything," cried Jim hopelessly.  "I have not
been near the till."

"Wouldn’t it be as well to search him?" suggested Mr. Farrant.  "Of
course he may have got rid of it; but, on the other hand, it may be in
his pockets—that is," he added blandly, "assuming he is guilty of the
theft."

"That seems to be a very good idea," said the stationer.—"I suppose,
Hartland, you have no objection to turning out your pockets?  Of course
if you are innocent there can’t be any objection."

"No, sir," answered Jim eagerly.  "You can search me as much as you
like.  Shall I take my coat off?"

"Yes," said his master, "do."

They found nothing beyond a handkerchief and a few odds and ends such as
every schoolboy loves to carry; and a search of the trousers pockets
only revealed a knife, a piece of tarred string, a wire puzzle, and a
halfpenny, which might or might not have been taken from the till.

"Have you anything in your waistcoat pockets?" asked Mr. Broad.

"No," answered Jim promptly; "there’s nothing—"  He stopped suddenly,
and his face turned very red.

"Well?" observed his master, and the boy felt how stern the voice had
become.

"I forgot," he said; "there’s a sixpenny piece, but it is my own."

Mr. Farrant smiled slightly, as the stationer, producing the coin, laid
it on the counter.

"I notice that it is dated 1861," remarked he, "but that may be only a
coincidence."  Then he turned the coin over, and pointing to a spot at
the back of the Queen’s head, added sorrowfully, "This, however, is
hardly a coincidence."

Jim’s knees knocked together as he saw quite plainly the figure of a
circle with a starred centre, similar to the one in the notebook.  There
could be no doubt that the coin was one of those which his master had
marked.

"That settles it," remarked Mr. Farrant emphatically.  "Come, Broad; you
had better make short work of the matter.  Give him two minutes, and if
he doesn’t own up, let me go for a policeman."

"I am afraid I must," said the stationer sadly.—"You see, Hartland, the
thing’s as plain as a pikestaff; and here," tapping the coin, "is the
proof. You can’t explain that away."

Jim felt that he was in a desperate situation, and he doubted if even
the truth would save him now. Mr. Broad might believe the story—his
friend certainly would not—but, after all, it would throw no real light
on the mystery.

"Well," said his master, "are you going to confess that you took this
sixpence from the till?"

"No," said Jim, "because it wouldn’t be true."

"Good boy!" exclaimed Mr. Farrant sarcastically; "always stick to the
truth!"

By this time even Mr. Broad was inclined to lose patience; but,
controlling his temper, he said, "Perhaps you will tell me how it came
to be in your possession?"

"I’ll tell you all about it as far as I know, though I’m afraid it won’t
do much good.  Some weeks ago I lent a boy sixpence.  His name is
Peters. This evening, while you were away, he called me to the door.  He
came to pay back the money he had borrowed, because I had asked him for
it several times."

"Did he come into the shop?" interrupted Mr. Farrant sharply.

"No; we both stood talking outside.  He took the sixpence from his
pocket"—Jim was scarcely correct in this—"but we were so full of our
talk that he forgot to give it to me.  However, he ran back with it
directly he remembered, and I put it in my pocket."

"Any one with him?" asked Mr. Farrant, who was drumming softly on the
counter, and smiling at what he called a cock-and-bull story.

"No," answered Jim confidently; "he was by himself."

"What sort of chap is this Peters?  Respectable?"

"Well, he’s very poor, sir, so I suppose folks are down on him a bit."

"Rubbish!  You’re poor, aren’t you?  Nobody’s ’down’ on you!  Would you
take him home, now, if your mother was there?"

This was a poser; and Mr. Farrant, noticing Jim’s perplexity, began
quite a brilliant tune with his fingers.

"Better leave it to the police, Broad," he advised. "I daresay they’ll
be able to supply us with information concerning the other boy.  We
aren’t likely to get anything satisfactory in this quarter."

In truth Jim’s story did not go far toward clearing his character, and
of this he was fully aware. Curly Peters had given him the sixpence,
but, just as certainly, he had not entered the shop.  The more Jim
puzzled, the more mixed things became, until at length his brain was in
a perfect whirl.  Still he stuck stubbornly to the main points of his
statement, from which he could not be turned either by threats or
blandishments.

His employer implored him for the sake of his mother and sister to tell
the truth, while Mr. Farrant drew a vivid word-picture of the disgrace
and misery awaiting him; but to each of them he replied in the same
terms.

"I did not steal the money!" he exclaimed; "and I have told you all I
know."

Mr. Farrant ceased drumming.  "I’m tired of this farce, Broad," he
exclaimed, "and if you don’t make an end one way or another, I’m off!"

"Wait five minutes longer," pleaded Jim’s master. "Now, Hartland, here
is your last chance."  And he laid his watch on the counter.  "Tell the
whole truth, and I promise solemnly that nothing more shall be heard of
the business.  Beyond the three of us, no one shall be any the wiser.
If you still remain obstinate at the end of five minutes, I shall place
the matter in the hands of the police."

Jim is not likely ever to forget that tiny fraction of his life.  His
master stood by his side; Mr. Farrant seated himself on the counter; no
one spoke, and the only sound to break the silence was the monotonous
ticking of the watch.

Five minutes—and then?  The boy dared not think of it.  He was pale and
deadly cold, but he tried to stand firm, to hold himself erect, so that
his employer should not think he was afraid.

"Two minutes more," said the stationer gravely, and then—"One minute
more.  Now, Hartland, seize your chance before it is too late."

Mr. Farrant slid to the ground; evidently he had quite made up his mind
how the affair would end.  Mr. Broad took the watch from the counter,
replaced it in his pocket, and waited for the boy to answer.

Jim looked helplessly from one to the other of the two men.  What could
he say?  How could he prove his innocence?  No magistrate would believe
his story, and, as likely as not, Curly would deny it, in order to save
himself.  A boy of Curly’s doubtful character was not likely to admit
being in possession of a stolen sixpence.

"It is no good," said he wearily; "I have told the truth.  I am not a
thief, Mr. Broad.  I have never stolen a ha’penny in my life, either
from you or from any one else."




                            *CHAPTER XIII.*

                        *AN AMATEUR DETECTIVE.*


When Dick Boden set off after the two boys he had no definite object in
view beyond keeping them in sight.  As yet he did not quite grasp the
meaning of what he had seen, though his suspicions were fully aroused.

Curly and his companion displayed no particular hurry in getting clear
of the neighbourhood.  They strolled along quietly, and without
attracting attention, for the street was deserted, and the only light
was that thrown out by the public lamps.

At the first corner they stopped a moment, and then, turning to the
right, plunged into a narrow but busy street, much frequented by hawkers
and all kinds of barrow-merchants.  Quickening his steps, Dick followed,
but they were already swallowed up by the throng of people.

In the middle of the road a policeman stood on point duty, and Dick felt
a strong desire to accost him; but what could he say?  He had really
nothing to go on except his own suspicion that in some way the two boys
had been up to mischief, but the officer was not likely to interfere on
that account.

Putting this idea aside, Dick edged his way through the crowd, keeping a
sharp lookout for his quarry. For some time he saw nothing of them, and
began to fear they had dodged up one of the narrow courts, when he
caught sight of them standing by a hand-cart piled with bananas.

"All ripe! all ripe!" the owner was shouting at the top of his voice.
"Here you are!  Two for three-ha’pence.  The finest fruit in
Beauleigh.—Out o’ the way, matey, if you don’t want to buy; you’re
keeping off good customers.—Sold again, and got the money!  Come on;
it’s like giving ’em away at the price!"

"Let’s have four," said Bryant, "and don’t pick out all the little uns."

"Here ye are, sonny," cried the hawker, taking the three coppers; "we’re
in luck to-night.  Sold again!"

Bryant shared the bananas with his companion, and both fell to without
delay.  Evidently they were in high spirits, and enjoying themselves
thoroughly, only stopping in their feast to nudge each other playfully.

"It’s wonderful how flush of money they seem!" thought Dick.

While he stood watching them his mind was busy recalling the events of
the evening.  He pieced them all together, and, as a result, made up a
pretty correct picture.

"O my aunt!" said he, "I didn’t think Curly was so cute!  But the dodge
seems plain enough now.  While Curly was bamboozling Jim, the other
slipped into the shop and emptied the till.  Ah, ah, you artful dodgers;
that accounts for the milk in the cocoanut!"

Suddenly his satisfied smile vanished, and a shiver of fear ran through
him.  Why had Curly gone back? And what had he given Jim?  Was it
possible that his old friend formed one of the gang?  No, no; he would
not believe that!  Jim had acted foolishly, no doubt, in taking up with
these fellows, but he was not dishonest.  Besides, if he wished to rob
his employer, it could be done in a much simpler way.

Yet what did Curly mean by being, "square"? and why had Jim said, "It
comes in very handy just now"?  Had he shared the plunder without
knowing it?  It seemed to Dick that fifty thousand bees were buzzing in
his brain.

"Broad is sure to miss the money," he thought, "and, of course, he’ll
charge Jim with stealing it. I wish I knew what to do!  If I run back to
tell him, perhaps he’ll think it’s a pitched-up yarn.  Hullo, they’re
moving again."

Having finished their bananas the two boys walked on slowly, stopping
now and then to speak to an acquaintance or to look at the contents of
the various barrows.  They did not seem at all uneasy; only once, when a
policeman came their way, they separated, Bryant stepping on to the
pavement just in front of Dick.  A few yards farther he was rejoined by
Curly, who said something to his companion which Dick could not hear.

Presently they stopped outside a small tobacconist’s shop.  Dick did not
care to approach too closely, but he got near enough to hear that they
were discussing what to buy.

At last he heard Curly say, "Them’s the ones in the corner."

Apparently the other boy raised some objection which made Curly angry.

"What are you frightened of?" he said savagely. "Think I’m on the cross?
You change the bob, and we’ll square up afterwards."

Bryant went to the door reluctantly, but, as if unable to make up his
mind, returned and whispered something to his companion.  A scornful
laugh greeted his remark, and without further delay he entered the shop.

All this time Dick had stood a little distance off, thinking.  By a
lucky accident the boys had chosen the shop kept by a man named Martin,
for whom Dick had occasionally done a few odd jobs.

"I’ll tell Martin," said Dick to himself, "and ask his advice."

In a minute or two Bryant, still looking rather dissatisfied, came out
with a small packet of cigarettes; and, standing in the doorway of an
empty shop, he proceeded to share them with his companion.

This was Dick’s opportunity, and, screening himself from their view by
the aid of the passers-by, he slipped into the shop, which, save for the
proprietor, was fortunately empty.

"Hullo, Dick; what is it?" said the man behind the counter.  "You
haven’t taken to smoking, have you?"

"No," said Dick, who hardly knew how to begin his curious story.

"What is it then?  Anything wrong at home?"

"No; we’re all right, thanks.  I say, Mr. Martin, what did that chap buy
who was in here just now?"

"Packet of cigarettes," answered the man, looking in surprise at his
questioner.

"Would you know him again?"

"Pick him out of a thousand, if you like."

"Did he give you a shilling?"

"Eh?" said Martin, opening the till hastily, and taking out the coin.
"Is it bad?"  And he rang it on the counter.  "Sounds all right," he
added with a sigh of relief, "and there doesn’t seem anything the matter
with it.  But one is never safe with these young sharks."

He held the coin up to the light, turning it round and round, and
examining it attentively.

"Good enough," he decided, and was about to put it back, when something
again arrested his attention.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed, "some one has scratched a circle and star here.
Looks like a private mark."  And he handed it to Dick.

The boy was in such a state of excitement that he could hardly see.
What was the meaning of this? Had Mr. Broad, suspecting something wrong,
laid a trap for Jim?  It seemed very much like it.  But if he had marked
one coin he had probably marked others.

The very notion made Dick shudder.  He felt sure that Curly had passed
some money to Jim.  Suppose it happened to be marked too!  "Good
gracious!" he thought in despair; "they’ll take him to prison like a
common thief!  The disgrace will kill his mother!"

Noticing the agitation which Dick could not conceal, the shopkeeper
said,—

"What’s it all about, Dicky?  I hope you haven’t got mixed up in
anything wrong?"

"No," answered the boy.  "But trust me; I’ll tell you all about it
to-morrow.  I must be off now; and, I say, Mr. Martin, keep that
shilling by itself, will you?  I shouldn’t be surprised if the police
want to see it."

"All right, Dick.  It shall be ready for them."

"Thank you," said Dick, and left the shop.

"I wonder now," mused the shopkeeper, "what the game is.  Something
queer, by the youngster’s showing.  But he’s an honest little chap, and
sharp as a knife.  Well, I’ll put the shilling away."

Looking round, he discovered an empty tobacco tin, in which he placed
the coin, and then locked it up in one of the drawers.

"No doubt the youngster will be back again, presently," he said to
himself, "and I shall hear what it’s all about.  It’s very curious,
anyhow."

Meanwhile Dick, hot and flustered, was threading his way through the
side street.  He was too excited to steer very cautiously, but, after
numerous bumps and joltings, he found himself at the top, where the
traffic was less dense.

"Hullo, Dick Boden; you ought to be home and abed!  There’s your mother
down the road with a cane looking for you."  And Curly Peters, who stood
on the edge of the curb puffing away at a cigarette, laughed
boisterously.

Dick did not answer, but, being afraid of arousing suspicion, he walked
very leisurely till he had turned the corner and was out of sight.  Then
he ran at his topmost speed, reaching the stationer’s shop breathless
and exhausted.  He was approaching the door to knock when he noticed,
through the side window, that the shop was brilliantly lit.

"Broad must have returned," thought he, "and perhaps brought a
policeman.  I wonder if they are searching Jim."

He tried to peer in, but could see nothing.  Then, crouching close to
the door, he listened.  All was still; he could hear no sound.

"I may as well knock," he thought, and had raised his hand to do so when
a man inside began speaking. "That’s Broad," said Dick to himself, and
directly afterwards he heard his chum’s voice.  Then the key turned in
the lock, the door was flung open, and Dick found himself face to face
with Mr. Farrant.

"Hullo!" exclaimed the latter, who was just going for a policeman;
"who’s this?"

Dick was rather taken aback, but he answered boldly, "If you please, I
want to see Mr. Broad."

"Come again in the morning; he is busy now."

"But I can’t wait," pleaded Dick.  "I must see him now; it’s very
important."

"Let him in, Farrant," said the stationer; "he may know something of
this miserable business."

"Come along then," grumbled Farrant, pulling him roughly inside and
shutting the door.  "Now, what have you to say?  Make haste with your
yarn, whatever it is!"

Dick glanced around apprehensively, and felt relieved at finding no
policeman in the shop.  He smiled brightly at Jim, as if to say, "Cheer
up, old chap; I’ll soon get you out of this scrape!" and then walked
over to Mr. Broad.

"I fancy I have seen you before," said that gentleman.  "Aren’t you one
of Hartland’s friends?"

"Yes, sir," replied Dick promptly; "Jim and I are old friends."

"Oh!" exclaimed Mr. Farrant, showing a sudden interest in the
conversation; "is your name Peters?"

"No," replied Dick in surprise; "my name’s Boden, but Peters has
something to do with what I’ve come about.—Have you lost any money, Mr.
Broad?"

"I’ve been robbed of some," answered Jim’s employer sternly.

"Was there a shilling amongst it?"

"Yes.  Why?"

"I’ll tell you soon, sir," said Dick; "but I want to make sure of my
ground first.  I should like to ask if there was a circle with a starred
centre scratched on it?"

"Yes," replied the stationer, now thoroughly interested—"the same mark
as on the sixpence which has been found in your friend Hartland’s
pocket."

"I hope you don’t think Jim a thief, sir.  He wouldn’t steal a pin."

"We aren’t listening to testimonials of character," remarked Mr. Farrant
dryly; "they can be left to the magistrates.  But now, just tell us how
you come to know anything about this business."

Jim had not said a word.  On seeing his chum his face had become white,
and he hardly dared look at him.  By degrees, however, he became more
composed; and when Dick spoke so emphatically about his honesty, the
warm blood surged to his face. Somehow he felt that in some mysterious
way Dick would be able to prove his innocence, and his heart grew light
at the thought.

Mr. Farrant prepared to listen with a cynical smile, but Mr. Broad was
anxious to give a favourable hearing to anything that might help to
clear Jim’s character.




                             *CHAPTER XIV.*

                          *CURLY AND COMPANY.*


"Before Jim came here to work," began Dick, clearing his throat, "we
were generally together in the evenings.  Since then, of course, he
hasn’t had much time; but now and then I’ve been up to wait for him.
Coming up this evening I met Mr. Broad, and just afterwards Curly Peters
with a boy named Bryant."

"Is this Peters a friend of yours?" interrupted Mr. Farrant.

"No," replied Dick; "and I’ve never had anything to do with him.  I
thought a long time ago that he wasn’t up to much."

"All right; go on."

"Well, thinking they were going to see Jim, I turned back, and they
acted in such a funny way that I became curious.  First of all, Bryant
followed Mr. Broad, very likely to see where he went; then they walked
up to the shop."

"Where were you?"

"On the other side of the road.  Curly went to the shop, while the other
chap hid in the next doorway. Presently Jim came out; and, after a time,
Curly managed to draw him away from the door a bit. Then Bryant slipped
into the shop, and was back again almost before you could say ’Jack
Robinson!’"

"Why didn’t you call out?"

"That wouldn’t have done any good.  Besides, Curly was on the move
directly.  He joined his mate down the street, got something from him,
and ran back all in a breath to give it to Jim."

The two men exchanged significant glances.  Thus far, at any rate, the
story fitted in very well with the suspected boy’s assertions.

"But if you knew these boys had been thieving, I can’t understand why
you did not tell your chum," said Mr. Farrant.

"I didn’t know for certain," responded Dick promptly.  "Besides, I
thought the best thing was to keep an eye on them."

"That’s reasonable enough."

"And it was lucky I did, too.  I followed them into West Street, where
they bought three pennyworth of bananas.  Then they went on to a
tobacconist’s, and Bryant bought a packet of cigarettes.  He paid for
them with a shilling."

"How do you know that?"

"Because directly he came out I went in and asked the man.  His name’s
Martin, and he knows me.  He doesn’t know Bryant; but he could recognize
him."

"And what about the shilling?"

"Martin is taking care of it in case it’s wanted. And so, sir, the whole
thing’s as plain as anything, you see.  They just diddled Jimmy, and
there you are.—How came he to give you the sixpence, Jim?"

"To pay back one that I lent him a month ago."

Mr. Broad was quite satisfied of the truth of Dick’s story.  It cleared
Hartland.  Even with the marked coin before him he had somehow doubted
the boy’s guilt.  His friend showed himself rather more sceptical; but
he, too, admitted that the two stories fitted in admirably.

"We had better go to the tobacconist’s," said he, "and then give
information to the police.  I suppose there won’t be much chance of
tracing the florin."

"If Curly doesn’t know it’s marked," said Dick, "he’ll stick to it till
the shilling’s gone, and then I expect Bryant won’t get much of a
share."

"Then he mustn’t be allowed to suspect anything," said Mr.
Farrant.—"Broad, suppose you go along with this amateur detective and
identify the shilling. I’ll lock up and meet you later at the police
station."

"What about Hartland?"

"Hum!  If this Peters sees him with any of us the florin will soon be a
minus quantity.—Can you get home without his seeing you?"

"Yes; over Cannon Hill and round by the Park. He isn’t likely to be
there."

"Well, I suppose we must trust you, though I don’t half like it.
However, take care, for your own sake, that you do not meet him."

"Come as usual in the morning, Hartland," added his master.  "You will
be required to give evidence at the police-court."

"And thank your lucky stars," remarked Mr. Farrant, "that you won’t be
in the dock.  Your friend here has saved you from that."

Jim recognized this fact fully, and was never slow to acknowledge it
either to himself or to others. Slinking home by a roundabout way, he
entered the house, where his mother was awaiting him somewhat anxiously.

"You’re late, my boy," said she.  "I’m afraid your supper has got cold."

"It doesn’t matter, mother, thank you.  I’m not hungry."

His mother looked curiously at him, wondering what had happened.

"Don’t you feel well?" she asked.

"My head aches a bit.  There’s been a bother at the shop."

"Try to eat your supper," said she gently.  "You can tell me about it
afterwards."

Jim did his best in order to please her, but the attempt was not very
successful.  He was thinking of his marvellous escape, and how, but for
Dick, he would now be locked up in a prison cell.  His mother watched
him closely, and with something like fear in her heart; but, being a
tactful woman, she did not press him to tell her his story.

It came out at last, little by little, and the boy did not spare
himself.  After all, beyond the folly of associating with unprincipled
companions, he had done little of which to be really ashamed.

His mother did not interrupt him once; but Jim will never forget the
look in her eyes when he told her of the finding of the marked coin, and
of his narrow escape from prison.

"Where is Dick now?" she asked when he had finished.

"Gone with the master to give information to the police.  I expect he
will come in on his way home; but don’t you think we ought to tell his
mother? She may be fidgeting about him."

"Yes; I will go round at once."

Putting on her hat and jacket, she went out, leaving Jim to wonder if
the marked florin would be found in Curly’s possession.  A great deal
might depend on that.

Meanwhile, Dick having piloted the worthy stationer to the tobacconist’s
shop, where the shilling was at once identified, accompanied him to the
police station.  Here they were shown into a sparsely-furnished room,
where an inspector sat at a table writing.

After Mr. Broad had given an outline of the case, Dick was called on for
his story, which he related in the most straightforward and convincing
manner.

"Simple enough," remarked the police inspector, "especially if we can
find the florin;" and, ringing a bell, he ordered the man who answered
it to send Pedder to him.

Pedder was a short, stout, bull-necked man in plain clothes, who, in
answer to his superior, said: "Curly Peters?  Oh yes, I know the young
gentleman quite well.  I’ve been expecting to put my hand on his
shoulder for a long time."

"And a lad named Bryant?" asked the inspector, reporting Dick’s
description of him.

Pedder shook his head.  "I’ve seen a chap with Curly, but don’t know
anything of him, good or bad."

"Well, take a man with you and bring them both here.  Be sure that
Peters has no chance to get rid of any money."

"Very good, sir," said Pedder, looking at the clock. "The round trip
oughtn’t to take more than half an hour, if I’ve any luck."

"Sit down, Mr. Broad—and you, my boy," said the inspector, who
immediately resumed his writing, and did not look up again till Mr.
Farrant was shown into the room.

Five minutes after the half-hour there was a scuffling noise in the
passage, the door was thrown open, and in marched Curly Peters and
Bryant in the custody of the two plain-clothes policemen.

Curly looked about him with easy self-assurance. His companion, on the
contrary, was white and trembling, and would have fallen but for the
officer’s support.

"Search them!" said the inspector briefly.

"You won’t find anything on me but my own money," said Curly defiantly.
"I’ve only a two-shilling piece, which I worked hard enough for, too. I
earned it yesterday, carrying boxes on the quay."

"You’d better keep a still tongue," advised the inspector gruffly.  "All
you say may be used as evidence against you."

"I ain’t afraid of telling the truth," responded Curly boldly.

Presently the search was over, and Dick heaved a sigh of satisfaction
when Pedder placed a florin on the table.  Bryant’s share of the plunder
had dwindled to twopence halfpenny.

"Can you identify this coin, Mr. Broad?"

"Yes," said the stationer, after examining it carefully; "here is my
private mark quite plain."

"And the tobacconist can identify the boy from whom he received the
marked shilling?"

"I took him to the shop," said the second officer, "and he knew him in
an instant."

When all the formalities were concluded, the two boys were marched off,
Curly throwing a savage glance at Dick, and muttering, "I’ll pay you out
for this!" as he passed.

"I think there is nothing further now," said the inspector to Mr. Broad.
"Of course you will be present in the morning.  As to the shop-boy, I
hardly know whether he should not have been charged with the others; but
no doubt we shall get at the truth when the case comes before the
magistrates."

"Jim Hartland didn’t know anything about it, sir!" cried Dick, who was
bold as a lion in defence of his friend.

"Perhaps not, perhaps not!" replied the inspector testily.  "However, we
shall soon see."

As soon as he could get away, Dick ran off to Brook Street, knowing that
his chum would be anxiously awaiting him.  As a matter of fact Jim stood
at the gate, and on seeing Dick he cried eagerly, "Did you catch them?
Had Peters spent the money?"

"Make yourself easy, old chap!" laughed Dick; "it’s all right.  Curly
had the florin, and he gave himself away before knowing it was marked."

"Did he try to drag me into it?"

"No.  Don’t pull such a long face.  The truth is bound to come out.  I
shall be surprised if Bryant doesn’t own up; he’s nearly frightened to
death. Well, I must be off; mother will think I’m lost."

"She knows where you are; we told her."

"That’s a good chap.  She’s been awfully fidgety since Dandy Braithwaite
was drowned.  Well, ta-ta! See you in the morning, as the fisherman said
when he popped the trout into his basket."

"You won’t come in?"

"I’d rather not.  Wait till this affair’s done with, and we’ll celebrate
the event in fine style."

"Good-night, then.  I can’t thank you properly just now, but I shan’t
forget in a hurry what you’ve done for me."

"All right, old fellow!  _I_ know."  And Dick went off whistling.

Jim closed the gate softly, but did not go into the house for some time.
Thus far—thanks to Dick—all had gone well; but there was still a
prospect of danger.  Suppose Curly, finding himself trapped, endeavoured
to throw the blame on him.  He might even assert that he, Jim, had
planned the robbery, and had knowingly shared the plunder.

The magistrates might doubt such a tale, but some people would believe
it, and in their eyes he would be a thief.

"Oh yes," they would say, "that’s the lad who was mixed up in the till
robbery.  Nothing was proved against him, you know, but—"  And then
there would be expressive glances and waggings of heads.

Again, he could hardly expect Mr. Broad to continue to employ him.  Of
course he would be dismissed, and no one would care to engage a boy who
had lost his situation under such suspicious circumstances.  It seemed
to him just then that he had recklessly spoiled his career before it had
fairly begun.  His thoughts were very, very bitter; but he had not
altogether lost his moral courage, and readily confessed that he was
only reaping what he had sown.  This, however, was but poor consolation,
and it was with a heavy heart that he at last went into the house.

"Dick has brought good news, mother," he cried, trying to speak
cheerfully: "the police have caught Peters with the money on him.  I am
going to bed now.  We shall have to be up early in the morning."  And he
kissed her good-night.




                             *CHAPTER XV.*

                       *"WHEN THIEVES FALL OUT."*


Fortunately for Jim’s peace of mind the next day was not a particularly
busy one at the police court.  He and Dick sat with Mr. Broad and the
tobacconist in the space reserved for witnesses, while in the public
portion of the building only a few people besides his mother and Mrs.
Boden had assembled.

Presently a small side-door was opened, and the two youthful prisoners
took their places in the dock. Curly was still smiling and cheerful, but
his companion in misfortune looked even more miserable than on the
preceding night.

When the charge had been read over, Mr. Broad proceeded to make his
statement, describing how he had marked the coins and placed them in the
till, and how, on returning to the shop, he had found they were gone.

Then Jim went into the witness-box, feeling horribly uncomfortable.  He
thought the two magistrates regarded him contemptuously, and as if they
thought his proper place was in the dock with the prisoners. However, he
managed to give a connected account of what had passed, and was stepping
down again when one of the magistrates observed, "If this witness speaks
the truth, it is clear that the prisoner Peters could not have been in
the shop."

"I wasn’t, sir," spoke up Curly.  "I never put my foot inside it."

"We suggest that he was acting as a blind," said the inspector—"that he
engaged the shop-boy’s attention while the other prisoner stole the
money. I think the next witness will make that clear."

"Very well," said the magistrate; "let him he called."

"Richard Boden!"

Dick stepped into the box, took the oath, and began his story without
the least hesitation.  As he proceeded Curly’s confident smile began to
fade: the witness was not leaving him a single loophole for escape.  The
evidence was so clear and simple and yet so conclusive that, as one
constable remarked in a whisper, the prisoners had not "the ghost of a
chance."

"Uncommon smart boy that," he added graciously. "Ought to join the force
when he’s old enough."

When Dick had finished, Sir Thomas Arkell, the senior magistrate, a
tall, stout man with bristling moustache, leaning forward, said, "I
congratulate you on the way in which you have given your evidence, my
lad."  And the compliment was well deserved.

Martin, the tobacconist, then identified Bryant as the boy who had paid
him the marked shilling, and the officers deposed to searching the
prisoners and finding the florin on Peters.  No one had any doubt of
their guilt, but several people thought Jim very lucky in not having
been placed with them.

However, Curly did not quite despair of getting off.  Certainly he would
leave his accomplice in the lurch, but that misfortune he was prepared
to bear philosophically.

"I didn’t steal the money!" he protested energetically, "and I didn’t
know it was stole.  It will teach me a lesson, though, to mind who I
takes up with another time.  This all comes of being pals with Sam
Bryant.  Last night I met him in West Street. He said he had won some
money on a race, and asked me to mind a two-shilling piece.  He said he
durstn’t take it home for fear his father would nab it.  And that’s the
solemn truth, gentlemen!  Why, I’d no more think of stealing a penny
than of swallowing it!"

Now, fortunately for Jim, Curly’s frantic effort to save himself roused
Bryant from his stupor.  Hitherto he had displayed no interest in the
proceedings, but now, glaring savagely at his companion, he exclaimed in
a shrill voice, "Oh, that’s it, is it?  I am to bear all the blame, am
I?  Well, then, I’ll just tell the truth.  Curly made friends with Jim
Hartland on purpose to get him to rob the till.  Curly sounded him
several times, but could make nothing of him, so we agreed to do it
ourselves.  We went in two or three times before, but didn’t get much.
Last night seemed a good chance, and Curly agreed to get Hartland out of
the way.  I got three and ninepence altogether, and out of that Curly
gave Hartland sixpence that he owed him.  I ain’t going to prison by
myself, when Curly Peters had more to do with it than me!"

"I told you it would come out!" whispered Dick to his chum.

The magistrates consulted together for a few minutes, and then the two
prisoners were remanded, with a view to being sent to a reformatory.

As this was the last case set down for hearing, the people began to
leave the court; and Mr. Broad, turning to Jim with a smiling face,
said,—

"I am glad you have come out of it so well, Hartland.  I am sorry I
suspected you at all, but at one time things looked rather black against
you, eh?  However, you’ve had your lesson, and I hope you will profit by
it.  By the way, I shall be glad if you can come an hour earlier this
afternoon.  This wretched business has thrown the work back a good
deal."

"Are you going to keep me on, sir?" asked Jim, who could scarcely
believe his own ears.

"Keep you on?  Of course!  Why not?  You’ve been a pretty silly chap in
choosing your friends, but that won’t happen again.  There, there; don’t
thank me."  And the worthy stationer bustled away, leaving Jim with
flushed face and sparkling eyes.  This was a greater piece of good
fortune than he had dared hope for.

In the corridor he found his mother with Mrs. Boden; and directly
afterwards Dick, who had suddenly disappeared, ran up waving his cap and
hardly able to keep from hurrahing.

"O my aunt!" cried he; "here’s a stroke of good luck!  Let’s go outside,
where I can tell you all about it.  You’ll never guess where I’ve been."

"You had better tell us, then," said his mother.

"So I will.  Don’t get too excited, now.  What do you think of an
interview with Sir Thomas Arkell in the magistrates’ room?  I thought
you’d open your eyes.  O my—"

"Never mind your aunt," said Jim, laughing; "we’re dying to hear about
the interview."

"Well, while you were talking to Mr. Broad, a policeman came up and
asked if I was Richard Boden.  When I told him I was, he said, ’Come
this way.  Sir Thomas wishes to speak to you.’  He was a solemn old
chap, and marched along like a mute at a funeral.  I began to feel
frightened."

"I wish I’d been there to see you, Dicky," said Mrs. Hartland.

"Well, it really was enough to make me nervous," declared Dick.
"However, at last he knocked at a door; some one said, ’Come in,’ and
there was Sir Thomas standing with his back to the fire.

"’Ah,’ said he—and he isn’t half as fierce as he looks—’are you Richard
Boden?’

"’Yes, sir.’

"’Well, I wanted to say I was very pleased with you this morning.  Where
do you go to school?’  And when I told him, he said, ’I suppose your
master can give you a good character?’

"’I think he will, sir,’ I answered; and then he wrote down my name and
the name of the school in a notebook.

"’I will see Mr. Holmore,’ he said; ’and should the result be
satisfactory, as I have no doubt it will, I shall find a berth for you
in my business.’"

"O Dick!" exclaimed his mother, "it sounds too good to be true!"

"It’s true enough," cried Dick gaily, throwing his cap into the air.
"Don’t you hear the bells, ’Turn again, Richard, Lord Mayor of
Beauleigh’?  Why, it’s as simple as anything: just like going upstairs.
Office-boy, clerk, confidential clerk, manager, partner—Arkell and
Boden!  We’ll hang out a big signboard when that time comes.  Hurrah!
Trot along, Jimmy!"

"You might both run on," suggested Mrs. Hartland, "and get a cup of tea
ready for us."

"Rather a drop from the Lord-Mayor business, isn’t it?" laughed Dick
good-humouredly.  "Still, it’s as well to make use of me while you can."

That afternoon has often been talked of since. Every one was in good
spirits, and Dick rattled on like a merry madcap, building, half in
jest, half in earnest, golden castles in the air.  To judge by his
remarks when Mrs. Hartland began talking of his kindness to Jim, the
whole affair had been got up specially for his benefit.

"It’s I who have to thank Jim," he laughed. "But for him I shouldn’t
have had an interview with Sir Thomas!" adding solemnly, "I won’t forget
you, Jim; you shall have a ticket for my mayoral banquet, and shall sit
near me."

"Thanks," replied Jim humbly; "I shall be satisfied with a seat at the
bottom of the table."

"What a rattle-pate you are, Dick!" laughed Mrs. Hartland.  "How poor
Susie would enjoy being here now!"

"Is the doctor really doing her good?" asked Dick’s mother.

"He thinks so.  He is trying a wonderful new discovery of some foreign
doctor, and the nurse told me on Sunday he’s more than satisfied with
the result."

"Hurrah for Dr. Stewart!" cried Dick; "he’s a fine fellow.  I’ll keep a
place for him on my visiting-list."

Thus they laughed and chattered, enjoying themselves in an innocent way,
and endeavouring to banish the disagreeable incidents of the morning,
until it was time for Jim to start for work.

"I may as well walk with you as far as the shop," said Dick, going out
with him; "I feel like a fish out of water, not being at school to-day.
Won’t there be a buzz when the fellows hear the news?"

"Too much for me.  I don’t think I shall go back."

"What?"  Dicky turned and looked his chum full in the face.  "Surely you
aren’t going to show the white feather, old man.  Why, that would be
just giving the fellows a stick to beat you with."

"It is easy to talk," said Jim, "but I don’t want to see sour looks and
hear sneering remarks every day.  I know what chaps like Simpson will
say."

"And I know what they’ll say if you don’t turn up."

For some distance the two boys walked in silence. Jim was thinking.  His
chum was right, of course. It would be much braver and more manly to
"face the music;" but he shrank, and perhaps naturally, from the ordeal.
Besides, he would be leaving in any case at the end of a few weeks, and
why should he go out of his way to suffer misery for the sake of a fad?

"Here we are nearly at the shop," cried Dick, stopping suddenly.  "You
will come in the morning, won’t you?"

"I won’t promise," said Jim slowly.

I think that at this juncture it was the boy’s master who proved his
guardian angel.  He greeted him cheerily, and showed by every means in
his power that he had confidence in his honesty.  This absolute trust
brought back Jim’s self-respect.  If his employer believed in his
innocence, why should he trouble himself about the sneers of others?
His courage gradually rose; he threw off the gloom that hung about him.
He determined to hold up his head and bear himself bravely, whatever
happened.

"’Twill be jolly hard, I know," he said to himself; "but I’ll live it
down."  And his heart grew lighter as he registered the resolve.

"By the way, Hartland," remarked his employer later in the evening, "I
have been thinking we might make a fresh arrangement.  I should like you
to stay all day, and you might start on Monday."

"I’d rather not begin till the holidays, sir," said Jim, with an effort.

"Why not?"

"Because, because—well, they might say I was afraid to go back to
school."

"Well, it won’t be particularly pleasant," replied Mr. Broad, "and that
is partly why I made the offer. But yours is the better plan, and I wish
you luck, my boy."

"Thank you, sir," returned Jim, brightly, though in his heart he could
not help wishing that the next day was safely over.




                             *CHAPTER XVI.*

                            *A FRESH START.*


The police-court proceedings created a great sensation at the Deanery,
and were canvassed with characteristic schoolboy freedom.  Dick, of
course, received much praise; and on his arrival, just before opening
time, he was surrounded by an admiring group.  However, he bore his
blushing honours meekly, remarking that he had done nothing in
particular.

"Your being there was a lucky thing for Jim Hartland, though," observed
Alec Macdonald.

"A good many people think there’s more in it than came out!" sneered
Simpson.  "_I_ shouldn’t like to be caught with a marked sixpence in my
pocket!"

"You’re just a cad!" cried Dick hotly, "and no one cares a brass button
what you say.  As to Hartland, he showed more grit in five minutes than
you’d show in five centuries."

"How’s that?" cried several boys eagerly.

"That’s part of what Simpson says didn’t come out.  Of course you know
old Broad found the sixpence on him.  Well, he’s a good sort, though at
first he did think Jim guilty.  ’Look here, Hartland,’ said he; ’you’d
better own up.  You’re certain to be sent to prison, because, even if
you’re innocent, you can’t prove it.’  Well, what did Jim answer?"

"He wasn’t likely to give the show away, anyhow!" said Simpson.

"Broad didn’t ask him to.  ’Just admit you stole the money, and you’ll
hear no more of it,’ said he. ’I’ll hush it up, and no one will be any
the wiser.’"

"That was handsome," remarked several of the boys.

"Yes," agreed Dick, "but Jim wasn’t taking any ’Send me to prison for
life if you like,’ said Jim; ’I shan’t confess to what I didn’t do!’"

"Good old Jim!" cried Alec Macdonald.  "He always was a plucky beggar."
And the others echoed his cry.

Few of them believed he was mixed up in the robbery, and Dick’s story
was received with acclamation.  A sudden revulsion of feeling took
place, and those who had looked rather coldly on Jim since the fatal
accident to Braithwaite now spoke loudly in his defence.

Just as the bell rang he was seen coming in at the gate, and quite a
number of boys ran across to meet him.

Once more Alec Macdonald voiced the general sentiment.

"We’re jolly glad you got out of that mess, Jim," he exclaimed, "and we
know it wasn’t your fault."

Jim blushed like a peony; his eyes were suspiciously moist, and he felt
a choking sensation in his throat.  This reception differed altogether
from what he had expected.  He looked at the group of boys and tried to
answer, but his words were very stammering.

"This is—very—kind—of you chaps," he managed to say, "and I didn’t
expect it."

"Come on!" cried Dick; "there’s Mr. Laythorne! He’ll be giving us an
extra half-hour’s grind."  And they scudded away to their places like so
many rabbits into a warren.

Jim’s class-fellows were not alone in expressing their belief in his
innocence.  After prayers, and before beginning morning work, Mr.
Laythorne, standing before his class, said, "I am glad to see you in
your place again, Hartland.  We have all heard of your trouble, and we
all rejoice that you have come through it so triumphantly.  I am
speaking not only for myself and the boys, but for all the masters,
including Mr. Holmore.  Let me say for all of us that we are quite
convinced of your honesty."

"Yes, yes!" murmured the class approvingly.

"Thank you, sir," said Jim.  "I’m—"  But he got no farther.  Cold looks
he had steeled himself to meet, and angry words he would have thrown
back with interest, but this kindness broke him down utterly.  The tears
would come into his eyes, and he covered his face with his hands.  The
young master said nothing further, thinking it best not to disturb him.
He had always felt great interest in Jim, and no one had been more
disappointed at his failure to gain a high place in the Gayton
Scholarship list.

Several times recently he had endeavoured to save him from drifting, but
without success; now he resolved to make another effort.

"He is a clever boy, and ought to do well," he said to himself
thoughtfully, "but lately he seems to have got into a set of cross
currents.  One would think he had thrown that Gayton Scholarship away
deliberately."

Mr. Laythorne was not aware how very severely Jim had been handicapped;
but that same afternoon, during a talk with Dick Boden on quite another
subject, he learned the truth.  When school was dismissed, he called
Dick to him and said, "By the way, Boden, I have to congratulate you.
Sir Thomas Arkell has been to see the head-master, who referred him to
me.  I was glad to be able to report favourably on your conduct, and he
has decided in consequence to take you on at his place as soon as the
holidays begin."

"Thank you, sir," answered Dick gratefully. "Mother meant me to stay a
little longer, but we can’t afford to miss this chance, and I shall be
able to attend the continuation school."

"I hope you will.  Well, it appears we shall both be leaving the dear
old Deanery together."

Dick glanced up hastily, saying, "Are you going away from Beauleigh,
sir?"

"Yes.  It will soon be known now.  I have been appointed to a school in
Portsmouth."

"The boys will be sorry," exclaimed Dick, "and glad too—sorry on their
own account, and glad on yours."

"I think," said the master, smiling, "we have got on very comfortably
together.  By the way, I am sorry about your chum Hartland.  I had hoped
he would do better."

"Jim’s had very hard lines lately, sir.  Things have all gone wrong,
somehow, and he took the result of the ’Gayton’ very much to heart."

"So I should imagine," exclaimed the master dryly.

"It wasn’t his fault coming out so low down," said Dick.  "You can’t
sprint very fast with a heavy load on your shoulders, and Jim was
carrying too much weight.  A lot of his time was taken up at the shop,
morning and evening; then his mother fell ill, and he had to work like a
nigger keeping things straight at home.  Why, for weeks he had hardly a
minute to breathe in!"

"He did not mention this to me when I spoke to him about his position."

"No," responded Dick with a twinkle; "Jim isn’t built that way.  He’s
too proud to let the world into his little secrets."

"Oh!" said the master thoughtfully, "that puts a very different
complexion on the case."

That same evening Jim’s mother was surprised by a visit from Mr.
Laythorne, who, by a few skilful questions, soon discovered that Dick
had not overstated the case.  It was plain that, despite his folly
elsewhere, Jim had behaved splendidly at home; and the class-master’s
good opinion of his scholar was more than restored.

"What are you going to make of the boy?" he asked.

"Well," replied Mrs. Hartland, "had his father lived we should have
tried to start him as a pupil-teacher, but I fear he must give up that
idea now. Mr. Broad has been very kind, and has offered to take him into
the shop altogether."

"And what does Jim think of the proposal?"

"He doesn’t really like it, but he is a good boy, and raises no
objection."

Mr. Laythorne was more than ordinarily thoughtful that evening.  For
more than an hour he sat in his room, thinking deeply, too absorbed even
to open one of his favourite books.

"It’s a quixotic scheme," he muttered once, "but upon my word I’ve a
good mind to try it.  The lad has brains, and, properly trained, should
do well. He’ll do no good here if his heart isn’t in the work and he may
slip back.  It would remove him from temptation, too.  Well, I’ll sleep
on it, and ask Holmore’s advice."

The result of these cogitations, and of an interview with the
head-master, became apparent at the end of the week, when he once more
called at the house in Brook Street; but this time late in the evening,
when Jim had returned from work.

He was not a man given to much beating about the bush, and he introduced
the object of his visit at once.

"Hartland," he began quietly, "I understand from your mother that you
would like to be a pupil-teacher?"

"Yes, sir," answered Jim readily, "but," trying to smile, "that’s out of
the question now."

"I’m not so sure of that.  You know I am going to Portsmouth?"

"Yes, sir; Dick Boden told me, and very pleased I was to hear it."

"How would you like to go with me?"

Jim sprang to his feet, his cheeks flushed, his eyes sparkling, and
every fibre of his body quivering with excitement.  Then he shook his
head mournfully, saying, "We can’t afford it, sir."

"Your mother and I will discuss that part of the business," remarked Mr.
Laythorne quietly.  "But if you go, I shall expect you to work hard, to
pass your examinations high up, and, generally speaking, to do me
credit."

"I would do my very best!" exclaimed the lad earnestly.

"I believe you would.  Well, now run away, while I have a talk with your
mother."

The boy went out to the front door, and stood looking into the dingy
street.  Now and again he turned toward the room, straining his ears,
not to hear what was said, but just to make sure that Mr. Laythorne was
really there.  It seemed altogether too wonderful; he feared almost to
dwell on it.

Presently he heard the visitor stand up, and come into the passage.
What had been decided?  His heart beat fast at the question.  Here was
Mr. Laythorne shaking his hand.  What did he say?  What strange noises
buzzed in his head!  Ah, the words became plain.

"I hope, my boy, that this will be putting your foot on the first rung
of the ladder."

So the wonderful thing had come to pass, and he was really to go!  I
cannot write down Jim’s answer because neither his mother nor Mr.
Laythorne understood his broken words; but it is certain that he was
extremely grateful and supremely happy.

"By the way," said their visitor, before taking leave, "it will not be
necessary to inform the world of our private arrangement.  It will be
sufficient to say that Jim is coming with me."  For Mr. Laythorne was a
gentleman, and had no sympathy with the blowing of trumpets at street
corners.

Jim and his mother had little to say when they were left alone.  They
were overwhelmed with surprise, and their happiness was too great for
words. But when the boy had gone to his room, he knelt by his bedside
and asked for strength to prove himself worthy of his benefactor’s
generosity; and many times over, before falling asleep, he said to
himself, "I will not disappoint him!"

Of course, Mr. Broad had to be told of the contemplated change, and he
was really sorry to have to part with Jim.

"I should have liked to keep you, Hartland," he said, "but I mustn’t
stand in your light; and, by the way, don’t buy any lesson-books.  Ask
your master to write out a list of what you will require for next two
years, and I will get them."

"Why," exclaimed the Angel delightedly, when he heard the news, "there’s
such a lot of silver lining that very soon you won’t be able to see the
black cloud at all!"

Dick was prophesying better than he knew.  But we must not anticipate.

On Sunday Jim went with his mother to the Children’s Hospital.  Susie
still kept her bed, and her back was encased in plaster of Paris; but
she had grown decidedly stronger, and the nurse spoke most hopefully of
her case.

"And if she does walk," said she, "you will have to thank Dr. Stewart.
I have never known any one take such an interest in a case."

Mrs. Hartland left Jim to reveal his great secret, and it was charming
to observe the look of delighted surprise steal into the girl’s face.

"Do you know," she said thoughtfully, after congratulating her brother
on his good fortune, "I think people have been very kind to us."

"Yes," exclaimed her mother, kissing her fondly; "and I hope we shall
never forget it."




                            *CHAPTER XVII.*

                        *A STARTLING SURPRISE.*


The next fortnight was about the happiest time Jim had passed since the
news arrived of his father’s death.  Thanks in some part to his wages,
they had tided over the worst of the crisis; and his mother, who was
really a skilful needlewoman, had now no lack of employment.

At the Deanery School he had quite recovered his popularity.  The boys
sought his advice as in the old days; and one half-holiday the Football
Committee begged him to assist the team in an important match. Mr. Broad
readily granted him an extra hour’s leave, and much to the delight of
his numerous admirers, he had the satisfaction of kicking the winning
goal for the school.

"There’s an end to my football in Beauleigh," he said, as he left the
field with his chum.

"And a very good finish!" laughed the Angel. "The Deanery fellows will
miss you at cricket next season."

"I expect they’ll miss us both.  I hope, though, they’ll keep the
shield."

"They’re bound to!" said Dick, with a grin. "Haven’t they got Simpson?"

"Of course; I’d forgotten him.  Have you heard from Sir Thomas Arkell?"

"Yes; I’m to begin work on the morning they reopen after the holidays.
I can hardly believe it now."

"I understand the feeling.  D’you know, I think we’ve been awfully
lucky, Dick."

"The reward of merit!" murmured the Angel; and a stranger, judging by
the tone of his voice, would have thought he really meant it.

Jim, however, knew him better, and greeted the remark with a laugh,
saying, "Well, every one who deserves the reward doesn’t get it,
anyhow."

"Only one week more," cried Dick, flying off at a tangent—a by no means
unusual proceeding on his part.  "I’m counting the days now."

That week seemed a long time to the eager boys; but it came to an end at
last, and the Deanery scholars assembled in the large hall for
dismissal. It was the head-master’s custom to speak a few words before
they separated, and he did so now.

That part of the speech which met with the greatest attention referred
to Mr. Laythorne’s approaching departure.  The boys were sorry to lose
him, as he was very popular, and they punctuated every sentence with
ringing cheers.  But the greatest applause was reserved for the
unveiling of the handsome presents which boys and masters alike had
subscribed for; and when Mr. Laythorne stepped forward to express his
thanks, the cheering became deafening.

"Three cheers for Mr. Laythorne, and one cheer more!" yelled the Angel.
"Hurrah!"

It was a breaking-up scene such as had rarely occurred at the Deanery,
and one to be long remembered.  Mr. Laythorne made a modest little
speech, and then, unchecked by the masters, the Angel led off with "For
he’s a jolly good fellow!" and was strenuously backed up by the vocal
powers of three hundred enthusiastic boys.  It was not, perhaps,
strictly orthodox, but it was undoubtedly genuine; I fancy Mr.
Laythorne, though not a demonstrative man himself, was rather pleased by
the warmth of his reception.  When the boys were dismissed, he called
Jim, to give him his final instructions.

"My arrangements are quite complete," said he, "but I shall write in the
course of a week or two. Most likely I shall want you to come over a few
days before school begins."

"I shall be ready, sir, whenever you send."

"Well, good-bye!  Have a good holiday, because there will be plenty of
work when you get to Portsmouth."

A good holiday!  How surprised both would have been had they known the
kind of holiday which was in store for Jim!

Instead of going straight to work, the boy ran home with his bag of
books, and stayed a few minutes with his mother, chatting of the
splendid send-off to Mr. Laythorne.

"Dick led the cheering," said he, "and we all sang, ’For he’s a jolly
good fellow!’"

"So he is," said Mrs. Hartland, smiling—"none better, as far as we are
concerned."

"Well, I must be off," remarked Jim, "or Mr. Broad will wonder if I’m
lost."

They were very busy at the shop, and the boy worked away with a will.
Perhaps the breaking-up scene had put him in good spirits; at any rate,
the stationer remarked on his cheerfulness.  While they were waiting for
the evening papers, Jim, anxious not to waste time, sat down in a recess
and began addressing a pile of labels.

Suddenly he saw a man pass the window, stop as if hesitating, and then
enter the shop.  Knowing his employer was at the counter, he went on
with his work, not thinking he would be required.

"I can polish these things off to-night if I peg away at them," he said
to himself.  "Where’s that other book of addresses, I wonder?  Oh, I
see!"

He got up to fetch the volume.  From where he stood he could just see
the top of Mr. Broad’s head, but nothing of the customer.  He heard his
employer say "Good-evening," to which the stranger replied in a tone
that made Jim jump.

He placed the book on the table, and sat down. It was no business of
his, but he felt compelled to listen to the conversation.  The first
words brought the blood to his face with a rush.

"Have you a boy named Hartland employed here?" asked the stranger.

"I have."

"James Hartland?"

"That is his name.  Why?"

"I should like to speak to him for a minute, if I may."

"Is it anything important? because he is busy at present."

Jim thought the man laughed; but he said aloud, "I think it’s important
enough for me to see him."

"Hartland!" cried his master, "here’s a gentleman wishes to see you!"
And Jim, half dazed by surprise and doubt and fear, moved slowly toward
the counter.

The man on the other side of the counter was of medium height, well
proportioned on the whole, but with a great breadth of chest.  He was
dressed in heavy serge of a dark-blue colour, and wore a peaked cap.
His hair was short and curly; a few silver threads sprinkled the tawny
brown of an ample beard.  His eyes were gray; his face was white, and
rather drawn.  An observant critic would probably have called him a
strong man just recovered or recovering from a severe illness.

For a moment he looked hard at the boy; then a tender smile overspread
his face, his lips parted, and in a soft voice he whispered, "Jim!"

I do not know that the stationer ever complained; he might have done so
with reason.  Jim was a good all-round athlete, who, on ordinary
occasions, could vault over the counter with ease.  Now, dizzy with
excitement, he made an erratic kick, sweeping papers, books, and
stationery to the floor.  Neither did he stop to repair the mischief,
but flung himself with a cry of joy into the man’s outstretched arms.

Presently the man looked round on the pile of wreckage, and smiled.

"Come, Jim," said he, "let us put this straight."  And while Mr. Broad
looked on in undisguised amazement, the pair proceeded to pick up the
fallen articles.

"If," said the stationer, slowly rubbing his hands, "I were in the habit
of guessing, I should say you are Mr. John Hartland, who was drowned off
Cape Horn."

"Right you are, sir!" returned the man, smiling pleasantly; "I am John
Hartland, and this is my boy.  I’m just down from London.  I heard Jim
was up here, and I’ve come to borrow him.  You see, he has to tell his
mother.  I’ve kept it out of the papers, and no one but the owners of
the _Morning Star_ know I’m still in the land of the living."

"Take him, my good sir!" said the delighted stationer.  "Take him, and
good luck to you both! But come to see me, Jim; come to see me!"

"I’ll tide you over the busy time, sir!" exclaimed Jim; "I won’t leave
you in the lurch.  But I must go now.  Oh, _how_ shall I tell mother?"

People stopped to look at them in the streets—they were so patently, so
undeniably happy.  John Hartland clutched his boy’s arm tightly, and
every now and then Jim smiled up into his father’s face.

"We’re living in Brook Street now, father," he remarked.

"Yes, I know.  I’ve made inquiries," replied his father.  "How is
Susie?"

"She’s in the Children’s Hospital, and getting better.  The doctor says
she is going to walk in a few months.  O father, I can hardly believe
you are here!"

"Can’t you?  Just feel this!"  And he squeezed the boy’s arm.  "How is
mother living?"

"By her needle.  She does beautiful needlework."

"I know!  I know!" said the man abruptly. "Isn’t this Brook Street?  You
go on, and I’ll wait here a bit.  But don’t be long, Jim, don’t be long!
My patience will soon bubble over.  I’ve been burning to get a peep at
her."

Jim smiled brightly, ran a few yards, and then walked soberly to the
house.  His mother was busy with her work, and she looked up at him in
surprise.

"What is it, my boy?" she asked.  "Why aren’t you at the shop?"

"It’s all right, mother," answered the lad; "there’s no bad news.  Mr.
Broad said I might come.  I’ve something to tell you—something pleasant,
that will make you very happy."

"Yes?" she said wonderingly, and looking straight into his eyes.

"A marvellous thing, mother—more marvellous than you ever dreamed of.
Only Susie said it could be true, and even her faith failed."

The woman had put down her work.  Her face was white, her lips twitched
nervously.

"Jim," she said pathetically—"Jim, this can only be one thing.  Tell me
quickly!  O Jim, I can’t bear it!"

"It’s true, mother!" cried the boy.  "It is the one thing.  Yes, father
is alive; there’s news of him.  He’s coming home—coming to Beauleigh!"

Mrs. Hartland slipped to the floor, clasped her hands, and offered up a
silent prayer to Heaven. She could not speak, but the joy and the praise
and the thanksgiving were all there.

And then!  Then they heard a click at the little gate, and a firm step
on the path, and the front door was gently pushed open.

"O mother," cried Jim, "try to bear up!  It is father!"

He came along, slowly and with even steps at first; but, in his own
words, his patience bubbled over, his feet broke into a run, and the
next instant he was within the kitchen clasping his wife in his arms.

"Mary!"

"John!"

Nothing more than that was heard for a long time, but no words were
required to express their joy.  Later in the evening there were numerous
questions to be asked and answered, and the returned sailor’s account of
his wonderful escape to be given.

I cannot set the story down in his own words, though it was full of
interest to his eager listeners, but the outline is simple enough.  The
man Davies’s account proved correct in the main, though John Hartland
was astonished to find he had survived. As for himself, being a good
swimmer, he had struck out for the shore, which, for a time, it appeared
he would in all likelihood reach.  Then his strength failed, and he
could do no more than turn on his back and endeavour to float in the
rough sea.

The waves tossed him where they listed; he was worn out and exhausted by
the prolonged struggle; but for the thought of the loved ones at home,
he would have sunk down, down to the depths, like a weary child laying
its head on the pillows.  Only for the sake of his wife and children he
fought on, though with ever-increasing weakness, until the roar of the
sea was meaningless in his ears, and his upturned eyes gazed at the sun,
without sight.

Death was then very close at hand.  He never knew the exact manner of
his rescue or the period of his unconsciousness.  He came back to life
in a wretched hut on a desolate coast.  Several natives stood around
him.  They were ill clothed, miserably poor, and, to our way of
thinking, absolutely without the necessities of life.  However, they
treated the white man to the best of their ability, lighting a fire for
him, gathering shell-fish for him, even giving up to his wants their
greatest dainty—an occasional bird.

From this savage condition he was rescued by an American whaler; and
afterwards, joining a Chilian ship at Valparaiso, he worked his way
round to Rio. Thence he got to the West Indies, where, by a fortunate
accident, he secured a mate’s berth in a homeward-bound vessel.

Then Mrs. Hartland had to tell her story; and as she praised Jim’s
unselfishness, the sailor kept patting him on the shoulder and
murmuring, "Good boy!  Good boy, Jimmy!  You did well!"

"As to this young schoolmaster," said he, "he’s a regular brick!  Thank
goodness we can pay him for Jim’s upkeep and all that, but we can never
repay his generous thoughtfulness.  Money’s no good for that part of the
case."

"No," remarked his wife; "and money will not repay Dr. Stewart either.
We have had much to be thankful for, John."

"’Pon my word!" exclaimed the sailor, bringing his great fist down on
the table with a mighty bang, "I did not think, lass, there was so much
kindness in the world.  When shall I be able to see Susie?"

"We must consult the doctor," said his wife. "The sudden shock may not
be good for her."

"Ah," said he with a sigh, "we must be careful; but my heart’s sore to
see the little lass."

True to his promise, Jim was early at the shop next morning, and for
several days he toiled early and late until his employer’s busy time was
over. It was one way of showing his gratitude, and he had no thought of
reward.

The news of his father’s return quickly spread through Beauleigh, and he
received the congratulations of all kinds of people.  Dick Boden, of
course, found his way to Brook Street, where, it is perhaps hardly
necessary to state, he was warmly welcomed.

"I shan’t forget you in a hurry, my son!" exclaimed the jovial sailor,
"nor what you did for Jim.  I’ve heard the yarn.  Just wait till I come
back from my next voyage."

"I hope," observed Dick, with the usual innocent expression on his face,
"that it won’t take quite as long as the last."  And the sailor laughed.

He would have felt quite happy now, had his little girl been at home.
His heart yearned for the lass, but he was buoyed up by a wonderful
hope. With the doctor’s permission, he had seen her at the hospital, and
had come away with the profound conviction that she was gradually
growing stronger. Indeed, Dr. Stewart had said as much, and more also.

"Next summer," he had said, "in all human probability, Pussy will walk,
and before the end of the year even go a short distance without the aid
of crutches."

Mr. Laythorne had left the town at the beginning of the holidays, and
Jim could not communicate with him; but at last his letter arrived,
directing the boy to join him at 7 Mortimer Gardens, Portsmouth, on the
following morning.  Accordingly, Mrs. Hartland packed his things, Jim
paid a farewell visit to his sister, went to see Dick, who was now
installed in Sir Thomas Arkell’s business, and then spent a quiet hour
with his parents.

"I’ll come with you, my boy," said his father. "I wish to thank this Mr.
Laythorne, and to have a little talk with him."

The schoolmaster was naturally somewhat surprised by the appearance of
the sturdy, deep-chested sailor; but Jim soon explained matters, and
then his father said,—

"I am a plain man, sir, and not much used to figures of speech, but I
want to thank you from my heart for your kindness.  You’ve been a real
Samaritan to my boy, and none of us will ever forget it.  There is just
one thing to be said.  I mustn’t trade on your generosity.  The owners
of the _Morning Star_ have behaved very handsomely, so that I can well
afford to pay Jim’s shot.  Now that his father is home again, the boy
mustn’t be a burden on you, sir.  You see that?"

"Very well," said Mr. Laythorne; "that shall be as you please."  And
before Jim’s father left, the two drew up a fresh and eminently
satisfactory arrangement.

"And now," said the sailor, "I’ll just slip my moorings and run
back.—Good-bye, my boy.  Write often to your mother, and try to show
this gentleman you’re worth the care he has bestowed on you.—Good-bye,
sir.  If Jim comes to be worth anything in the world we shall have you
to thank for it."

They watched him go down the street; and then, turning to the boy, Mr.
Laythorne said,—

"This is a happier start than I expected.  Now let us go to the school;
there are several things to be done before the boys return."

"Yes, sir," replied Jim, anxious to make himself useful, and to begin
his fresh start in life.


                                L’ENVOI.

Seven years have gone by since the events just recorded.  It is
Christmas Eve, and the streets of Beauleigh are ablaze with light.

People are hurrying to and fro, laughing, talking, pausing now and again
to wish each other the compliments of the season.  Children stand at the
shop windows, gazing in wonder and delight at the gorgeous toys, the
pretty picture-books, and the numerous games which make them look like
fairyland.  The bright red berries of the holly shine and sparkle in the
brilliant light, the mistletoe hangs temptingly overhead, the turkeys
and geese are garlanded with ribbons and decked with green.

Inside the shop of Messrs. Gotch and Parker, the eminent jewellers, a
young man is buying an exquisite brooch.

"I think, mother, that this will please her," he remarks to the
well-dressed woman seated close by.

Look at the laughing blue eyes, the fresh-coloured cheeks, the winning
smile.  Surely this young gentleman is an old acquaintance.  Mr. Boden,
the shopman calls him; but to us he is Dick, or Dicky, or the Angel,
just as memory prompts.

"Thanks," he says, placing the tiny packet in his pocket.  "Now, mother,
lean on my arm."

Yes, it certainly is our light-hearted Dick, whom we will take the
liberty of following, as he pilots his mother through the crowded
streets, then into the quieter part of the town, and so to the foot of a
fairly steep hill facing the sea.

He is evidently well known in Beauleigh, and respected, too, one would
imagine.  Many people stop to shake his hand, and to wish him a "merry
Christmas."  Some are poor, other well-to-do; but their wealth or
poverty makes no difference in the warmth of his greeting.  It is easy
to see that things have prospered with him, but he is just as kind and
generous and simple-hearted as in the old days.

"O my aunt!" he exclaims with a boyish laugh, looking at the hill;
"fancy having this to climb! You’ll need a rest, mother, by the time we
reach the top!"

Mrs. Boden smiles, and glances proudly at the handsome young fellow on
whose arm she is leaning. It must needs be a steep hill she could not
climb with him to help her.

They are up at last, and a stream of light comes from the open doorway
of a large, old-fashioned house.

"There he is!" cries Dick excitedly; and the next instant he is shaking
hands with another young fellow, who pulls him laughingly inside.

"Come along, old man!—Come along, Mrs. Boden!" he exclaims.  "A merry
Christmas to you both!"

"The same to you, Jim, and many of ’em.  You’re looking well, old chap,
considering that heavy grind.—A merry Christmas, Mrs. Hartland!  See,
you have half killed mother!  How?  Why, by living up in the clouds.
You ought to keep a special tramway for your guests—’pon my word you
ought."

"Quite right, Dick, my boy!" exclaims a deep voice; and a tanned,
bearded man comes into the room with a sailor-like roll.

"Let me congratulate you on your appointment, Mr. Hartland," cries Dick.
"No more ploughing the salt seas for you!"

John Hartland has just procured the berth of traffic manager to the
harbour board.

"It’s almost a pity, though," says Mr. Hartland with a laugh, "that the
house is perched up so high.  I tell the wife we live in a sort of
eagle’s nest.  Still, it suits Susie remarkably well; I must admit
that."

"Isn’t Susie here?" asks Dick innocently, looking round as if he had
only just discovered her absence.

"She’s upstairs," laughs her father, "putting on a few more fal-lals, I
expect.  The lasses are all alike in that respect."

Dick whispers to Mrs. Hartland, at the same time slipping something into
her hand, and the others smile at one another as she glides out of the
room.  She reappears presently, followed by a young girl, the neck of
whose dress is fastened by an exquisite brooch.

"O Dick!" she exclaims, running forward, "thank you very much.  It is
just lovely!"

Dick, looking a trifle shamefaced, murmurs some reply, while Jim can
hardly take his eyes from his sister’s face.  He has not been at home
much of late years, and he can never quite restrain a thrill of surprise
on seeing the beautiful girl as she passes before him with all the grace
of a young fawn.

Presently, when they are all quietly seated, Dick says, with a joyous
laugh,—

"By the way, I have a surprise packet for you. Barton, our manager, has
resigned, and Mr. Leverton has been appointed in his place.  That leaves
the under-manager’s berth vacant, and—"

"You haven’t got it, Dick?"

"How can a fellow tell his yarn if he’s interrupted in this fashion?
But, just to relieve your suspense, I beg to state that the new
under-manager for Sir Thomas Arkell is Mr. Richard Boden, whom his
friends call Dick, and sometimes Dicky."

How they laugh, and cheer, and congratulate him—almost like a parcel of
school-boys!  It certainly is a memorable Christmas Eve.

"That partnership is decidedly drawing nearer!" laughs Jim.  "I shall
soon begin to look for the altered sign."

He himself has not done badly.  He has passed through college with
flying colours, has earned the right to place "B.A. (Lond.)" after his
name, and now, on returning to Beauleigh, has been appointed one of the
masters at the Deanery School.

They are very proud of him at home, for he has more than fulfilled their
expectations, and has brought some amount of credit to the good old
town.

"Sometimes," he exclaims thoughtfully, "it all seems like a dream, and I
pinch myself to make sure that I am awake.  I little imagined, dad, when
we heard of the loss of the _Morning Star_, that things would turn out
like this.  We have been very fortunate in finding good friends, and the
best one of all, as far as I am concerned, sits here," he says, pointing
to Dick.

                     *      *      *      *      *

Draw the curtains now, light the gas, heap more logs on the roaring
fire, and let us, before saying our final word of farewell, take one
more glance at the merry party.  For the elders, the stress and storm of
life’s battle has abated; they have glided into a peaceful haven, where
they hear only the echo of the thundering waves outside.

As to the younger ones, who shall prophesy? Life holds many storms and
tempests for them yet; but their barks are well manned and stoutly
built, and, I think, are likely to ride triumphantly through life’s
seas, until they, too, come to a peaceful anchorage.

And so, farewell.



                                THE END.




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