.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 46020
   :PG.Title: The Gayton Scholarship
   :PG.Released: 2014-06-25
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Hebert Hayens
   :DC.Title: The Gayton Scholarship
              A School Story
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1904
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE GAYTON SCHOLARSHIP
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      THE GAYTON
      SCHOLARSHIP

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      *A SCHOOL STORY*

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      BY

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      HERBERT HAYENS

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

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      THOMAS NELSON AND SONS
      *London, Edinburgh, and New York*
      1904  

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   CONTENTS.

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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`_





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.. _`THE DEANERY CANDIDATES`:

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   THE GAYTON SCHOLARSHIP.

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CHAPTER I.

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THE DEANERY CANDIDATES.

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"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.





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.. _`THE CHALLENGE SHIELD`:

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   CHAPTER II.


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   THE CHALLENGE SHIELD.

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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."





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.. _`A NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPH`:

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   CHAPTER III.


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   A NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPH.

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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."





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.. _`FURTHER NEWS OF THE "MORNING STAR"`:

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   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   FURTHER NEWS OF THE "MORNING STAR."

.. vspace:: 2

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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`JIM STARTS WORK`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium bold

   JIM STARTS WORK.

.. vspace:: 2

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."





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.. _`THE EXAMINATION`:

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   CHAPTER VI.


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   THE EXAMINATION.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`"IT'S ALL MY FAULT"`:

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   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   "IT'S ALL MY FAULT"

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"DID I SAVE HIM?"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   "DID I SAVE HIM?"

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE RESULT OF THE EXAMINATION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE RESULT OF THE EXAMINATION.

.. vspace:: 2

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*:—

.. vspace:: 2

"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."

.. vspace:: 2

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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`GOING DOWN HILL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X.


.. class:: center medium bold

   GOING DOWN HILL.

.. vspace:: 2

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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IS JIM A THIEF?`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   IS JIM A THIEF?

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`WHERE IS THE MISSING MONEY?`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   WHERE IS THE MISSING MONEY?

.. vspace:: 2

"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."





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.. _`AN AMATEUR DETECTIVE`:

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   CHAPTER XIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   AN AMATEUR DETECTIVE.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





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.. _`CURLY AND COMPANY`:

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   CHAPTER XIV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   CURLY AND COMPANY.

.. vspace:: 2

"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.





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.. _`"WHEN THIEVES FALL OUT"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   "WHEN THIEVES FALL OUT."

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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.





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.. _`A FRESH START`:

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   CHAPTER XVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A FRESH START.

.. vspace:: 2

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."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A STARTLING SURPRISE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A STARTLING SURPRISE.

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center

L'ENVOI.

.. vspace:: 1

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.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



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.

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center

   THE END.

.. vspace:: 4

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Illustrations.

.. vspace:: 2

Archie Digby; or, An Eton Boy's
Holidays.  By G. E. WYATT,
Author of "Harry Bertram and
his Eighth Birthday."

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As We Sweep Through the
Deep.  A Story of the Stirring
Times of Old.  By GORDON
STABLES, M.D., R.N.  With
Illustrations.

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At the Black Rocks.  A Story
for Boys.  By the Rev. EDWARD
A. RAND, Author of "Margie
at the Harbour Light," etc.

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The Battle of the Rafts.  And
Other Stories of Boyhood in
Norway.  By H. H. BOYESEN.

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A Fortune from the Sky.  By
SKELTON KUPPORD, Author of
"The Uncharted Island," etc.
Illustrated by ROBERT HOPE.

.. vspace:: 2

Great Explorers.  An Account
of Exploration and Travel in
many Lands.  With Thirty-two
Full-page Illustrations.

.. vspace:: 2

Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
and other Stories for Boys.
By HAROLD AVERY, FRED.
WHISHAW, and R. B. TOWNSHEND.
With Fourteen Illustrations.

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Lost in the Wilds of Canada.
By ELEANOR STREDDER, Author
of "The Merchant's Children," etc.

.. vspace:: 2

The Lost Squire of Inglewood;
or, Adventures in the Caves of
Robin Hood.  A Boy's Story of
Adventure.  By Dr. JACKSON.
Illustrated by WALTER G. GRIEVE.

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The Romance of the South
Pole.  Antarctic Voyages and
Explorations.  By G. BARNETT
SMITH.  With Twelve Illustrations.

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Soldiers of the Queen; or, Jack
Fenleigh's Luck.  A Story of
the Dash to Khartoum.  By
HAROLD AVERY, Author of
"Frank's First Term," etc.

.. vspace:: 2

Vandrad the Viking; or, The
Feud and the Spell.  A Tale of
the Norsemen.  By J. STORER
CLOUSTON.  With Six Illustrations
by HUBERT PATON.

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The Willoughby Boys.  By
EMILY C. HARTLEY.

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.. class:: center

   \T. NELSON AND SONS, London, Edinburgh, and New York.

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