CHAPTER XXI.

DAB AND HIS FRIENDS TURN THEMSELVES INTO COOKS AND WAITERS.

As for the Kinzers, that was by no means their first experience in such matters; but none of their friends had ever before been so near an out-and-out shipwreck.

It is quite possible, moreover, that they had never before been so nearly starved as they were that day. At least, something to that effect was remarked by Joe Hart and Fuz, more than a dozen times apiece, while "The Swallow" was threading the crooked inlet, and making her way to the landing.

"Ham," said Dab, "are you going right back again?"

"Course I am,—soon as I can get a load of eatables together, from the house and the village. You'll have to stay here."

"Why can't I go with you?"

"Plenty for you to do at the house and around while I'm gone. No, you can't go."

Dab seemed to have expected as much; for he turned to Ford with,—

"Then, Ford, I'll tell you what we must do."

"What's that?"

"We must see about the famine. Can you cook?"

"No."

"I can, then. Ham'll have one half of our house at work getting his cargo ready, and that baby'll fill up the other half."

"Mother won't be expecting us so soon, and our cook's gone out for the day. Annie knows something."

"She can help me, then. Those Hart boys'll die if they're not fed pretty soon. Look at Fuz. Why, he can't keep his mouth shut."

Joe and his brother seemed to know as if by instinct that the dinner question was under discussion, and they were soon taking at least their share of the talk. Oh, how they did wish it had been a share of something to eat, instead!

"The Swallow" was carefully moored, after discharging her passengers; but Dab did not start for the house with his mother and the rest. He even managed to detain some of the empty lunch-baskets, large ones too.

"Come on, Mr. Kinzer," shouted Joe Hart. "Let's put for the village.
We'll starve here."

"A fellow that'll starve here, just deserves to, that's all," said Dabney. "Ford, there's Bill Lee's boat and three others coming in. We're all right. One of 'em's a dredger."

Ford and Frank could only guess what their friend was up to, but Dab was not doing any sort of guessing.

"Bill," he shouted, as Dick Lee's father came within hearing,—"Bill! put a lot of your best panfish in this basket, and then go and fetch us some lobsters. There's half a dozen in your pot. Did those others have any luck?"

"More clams'n 'ysters," responded Bill.

"Then we'll take both lots."

The respect of the city boys for the resources of the Long-Island shore in a time of famine began to rise rapidly a few moments later; for, not only was one of Dab's baskets promptly laden with "panfish," such as porgies, blackfish, and perch, but two others received all the clams and oysters they were at all anxious to carry to the house. At the same time Bill Lee offered, as an amendment on the lobster question,—

"Yer wrong 'bout de pot, Dab."

"Wrong? Why"—

"Yes, you's wrong. Glorianny's been an' biled ebery one on 'em, an' dey're all nice an' cold by dis time."

"All right. I never did eat my lobsters raw. Just you go and get them,
Dick. Bring 'em right over to Ford's house."

Bill Lee would have sent his house and all, on a suggestion that the Kinzers or the Fosters were in need of it; and Dick would have carried it over for him.

As for "Glorianna," when her son came running in with his errand, she exclaimed,—

"Dem lobsters? Sho! Dem ain't good nuff. Dey sha'n't have 'em. I'll jes' send de ole man all roun' de bay to git some good ones. On'y dey isn't no kine ob lobsters good nuff for some folks, dey isn't."

Dick insisted, however; and by the time he reached the back door of the old Kinzer homestead with his load, the kitchen beyond that door had become almost as busy a place as was that of Mrs. Miranda Morris, a few rods away.

"Ford," suddenly exclaimed Dab, as he finished scaling a large porgy, "what if mother should make a mistake!"

"Make a mistake! How?"

"Cook that baby. It's awful!"

"Why, its mother's there."

"Yes, but they've put her to bed, and its father too. Hey, here come the lobsters. Now, Ford"—

The rest of what he had to say was given in a whisper, and was not even heard by Annie Foster, who was just then looking prettier than ever, as she busied herself around the kitchen-fire. The bloom that was coming up into her face was a sight worth seeing. As for the Hart boys, Mrs. Foster had invited them to come into the parlor and talk with her until dinner should be ready. She added, with her usual smile, that there were cooks enough in the kitchen.

Such a frying and broiling!

Before Ham Morris was ready with his cargo for his trip back to the wreck, and right in the midst of his greatest hurry, word came over from Mrs. Foster that "the table was waiting for them all."

Even Mrs. Kinzer drew a long breath of relief and satisfaction. There was nothing more in the wide world that she could do, just then, for either "that baby" or its unfortunate parents; and she was beginning to worry about her son-in-law, and how she should manage to get him to eat something. For Ham Morris had worked himself into a high state of excitement, in his benevolent haste, and did not seem to know that he was hungry. Miranda had entirely sympathized with her husband until the arrival of that message from Mrs. Foster.

"O Hamilton! And good Mrs. Foster must have cooked it all herself!"

"No, Miranda," said Ham thoughtfully. "Our Dabney went home with Ford and Annie. I can't stay more than a minute, but I think we'd better go right over. There's a good many things to come yet, from the village."

Go they did; while the charitable neighbors whom Ham had stirred up concerning the wreck, attended to the completion of the cargo of "The Swallow." More than that was true; for at least one other good and kind-hearted boat would be ready to accompany her on her return trip across the bay, laden with creature comforts of all sorts.

Even old Jock, the village tavern-keeper, not by any means the best man in the world, had come waddling down to the landing with a demijohn of old "apple-brandy;" and his gift had been kindly accepted, by the special advice of the village physician.

"That sort of thing has made plenty of shipwrecks around here," said the man of medicine; "and the people on the bar have swallowed so much salt water, the apple-jack can't hurt 'em."

Maybe the doctor was wrong about it; but the demijohn went over to the wreck in "The Swallow," very much to the gratification of old Jock.

Mrs. Foster's dining-room was not a large one: there were no large rooms in that house. Nevertheless, the entire party managed to gather around the table,—all except Dab and Ford.

"Dab is head cook, and I'm head waiter," had been Ford's explanation.
"Frank and the boys are company."

Certainly the cook had no cause to be ashamed of his work. The coffee was excellent. The fish was done to a turn. The oysters, roasted, broiled, or stewed, and likewise the clams, were all that could have been asked of them. Bread there was in abundance; and all things were going finely, till Mrs. Kinzer asked her son, as his fire-red face showed itself at the kitchen-door,—

"Dabney, you've not sent in your vegetables. We're waiting for them."

Dab's face grew redder, and he came near dropping a plate he held in his hand.

"Vegetables? Oh, yes! Well, Ford, we might as well send them in now.
I've got them all ready."

Annie opened her eyes, and looked hard at her brother; for she knew very well that not so much as a potato had been thought of in their preparations. Ford himself looked a little queer; but he marched right out, white apron and all. A minute or so later the two boys came in again, each bearing aloft a huge platter.

One of these was solemnly deposited at each end of the table.

"Vegetables?"

"Why—they're lobsters!"

"O Ford! how could you?"

The last exclamation came from Annie Foster, as she clapped her hands over her face. Bright-red were those lobsters, and fine-looking fellows, every one of them, in spite of Mrs. Lee's poor opinion; but they were a little too well dressed, even for a dinner-party. Their thick shoulders were adorned with collars of the daintiest material and finish, while every ungainly "flipper" wore a "cuff" which had been manufactured for a different kind of wrist.

There were plenty of cuffs and collars, and queer enough the lobsters looked in them. All the queerer because every item of lace and linen was variegated with huge black spots and blotches, as if some one had begun to wash it in ink.

Joe and Fuz were almost as red as the lobsters; and Mrs. Foster's face looked as severe as it could, but that is not saying a great deal. The Kinzer family knew all about those cuffs and collars, and Ham Morris and the younger ladies were trying hard not to laugh.

"Joe," said Fuz snappishly, "can't you take a joke? Annie's got the laugh on us this time."

"I?" exclaimed Annie indignantly: "no, indeed! That's some of Ford's work, and Dabney's.—Mr. Kinzer, I'm ashamed of you."

Poor Dab!

He muttered something about those being all the vegetables he had, and retreated to the kitchen.

Joe and Fuz, however, were not of the sort that take offence easily; and they were shortly helping themselves quite liberally to lobster, cuffs or no cuffs. That was all that was necessary to restore harmony at the table, but Dab's plan for "punishing the Hart boys" was a complete failure.

As Ford told him afterwards:

"Feel it? Not they. You might as well try to hurt a clam with a pin."

"And I hurt your sister's feelings instead of theirs," said Dab. "Well, I'll never try any thing like it again. Anyhow, Joe and Fuz ain't comfortable they ate too many roasted clams and a good deal too much lobster."

There was a certain degree of consolation to be had from such a fact as that.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE REAL MISSION OF THE JUG.

Ham Morris ate well, when he once got at it; but he did not linger long at the dinner-table, for his heart was in "The Swallow." Dab would have given more than ever for the privilege of going with him. Not that he felt so dreadfully charitable, but that he did not care to prolong his stay at Mrs. Foster's, as "cook" or otherwise. He had not by any means lost his appetite,—although he seemed disposed to neglect the lobsters; and when he had taken proper care of it he hurried away "on an errand for his mother," in the direction of the village. Nearly everybody he met had some question or other to ask him about the wreck, and it was not to have been expected that Jenny Walters would let her old acquaintance pass her without a word or so.

Dab answered as well as he could, considering the disturbed state of his mind; but he wound up with,—

"Jenny, I wish you'd come over to our house by and by."

"What for?"

"Oh! I've got something to show you—something you never saw before."

"Do you mean your new baby? the one you found on the bar?"

"Yes, but that baby, Jenny!"

"What's wonderful about it?"

"Why, it's only two years old, and it can squall in two languages.
That's a good deal more than you can do."

"They say your friend, Miss. Foster, speaks French," retorted Jenny.
"Was she ever shipwrecked?"

"In French? May be so; but not in German."

"Well, Dabney, I don't propose to squall in any thing. Are your folks going to burn any more of their barns this year?"

"Not unless Samantha gets married. Jenny, do you know what's the latest fashion in lobsters?"

"Changeable green, I suppose."

"No: I mean after they're boiled. It's to have 'em come on the table in cuffs and collars. Lace around their necks, you know."

"And gloves?"

"No, not any gloves. We had lobsters to-day, at Mrs. Foster's, and you ought to have seen 'em."

"Dabney Kinzer, it's time you went to school again."

"I'm going, in a few days."

"Going? Do you mean you're going away somewhere?"

"Ever so far; and Dick Lee's going with me."

"I heard about him, but I didn't know he meant to take you along. That's very kind of Dick. I s'pose you won't speak to common people when you get back."

"Now, Jenny"—

"Good-afternoon, Dabney. Perhaps I'll come over before you go, if it's only to take a look at that shipwrecked baby."

A good many of Mrs. Kinzer's lady friends, young and old, deemed it their duty to come and do that very thing within the next few days. Then the sewing-circle took the matter up, and both the baby and its mother were provided for as they never had been before. It would have taken more languages than two, to fairly express the gratitude of the poor Alsatians. As for the rest of them, out there on the bar, they were speedily taken off, and carried to "the city," none of them being seriously the worse for their sufferings, after all. Ham Morris declared that the family he had brought ashore "came just in time to help him out with his fall work, and he didn't see any charity in it."

Good for Ham!

It was the right way to feel about it, but Dab Kinzer thought he could see something in it that looked like "charity" when he met his tired-out brother-in-law on his late return from that second trip across the bay.

Real charity never cares to make an exhibition of itself.

They were pretty thoroughly worn out, both of them; but they carefully moored "The Swallow" in her usual berth before they left her.

She had effectually "discharged her cargo," over on the sand-island; but they Had enough of a load to carry home, in the shape of empty baskets and things of that sort.

"Is every thing out of the locker, Dab?" inquired Ham.

"All but the jug. I say, did you know it was nearly half full? Would it do any hurt to leave it here?"

"The jug? No, not if you just pour out the rest of the apple-jack over the side."

"Make the fish drunk."

"Well, it sha'n't do that for anybody else, if I can help it."

"Well, if it's good for water-soaked people, I guess it can't hurt the fish."

"Empty it, Dab. Empty it, and come along. The doctor wasn't so far wrong, and I was glad to have it with me. Seemed to do some of 'em a power of good. But medicine's medicine, and I only wish some people I know of would remember it."

"Some of 'em do a good deal of that kind of doctoring."

The condemned liquor was already gurgling from the mouth of the demijohn into the salt water, and neither fish nor eel came forward to get a share of it. They were probably all feeling pretty well that night. When the demijohn was empty and the cork replaced, it was set down again in the "cabin;" and that was left unlocked, for there was no more danger in it for anybody. Dab and Ham were altogether too tired to take any pains there was no call for.

Dab's mind must have been tired, as well as his body; for he decided to postpone until the morrow the report he had to make about the tramp. He was strongly of the opinion that the latter had not seen him to recognize him; and, at all events, the matter could wait.

So it came to pass that all the shore, and the road that led away from it, and the village the road led into, were deserted and silent, an hour or so later, when a stoutly-built "cat-boat," with her one sail lowered, was quietly sculled up the inlet.

There were two men on board, a tall one and a shorter one; and they ran their boat right alongside "The Swallow," as if that were the precise thing they had come to do.

"Burgin," remarked the tall man, "wot ef we don't find any thin', arter all this sailin' and rowin' and scullin'? Most likely he's kerried it to the house. In course he has."

The keenly watchful eyes of Burgin had noted the arrival of that apple-jack at the island; and they had closely followed its fortunes, from first to last. He had more than half tried, indeed, to work himself in among the crowd, as one of the "sufferers," but with no manner of success.

The officers of the ship knew every face that had any right to a spoonful, and Burgin's failed to pass him. He had not failed, however, to note that his coveted "medicine" was by no means exhausted, and to see Ham stow the demijohn carefully away, at last, under the half-deck of "The Swallow." That information had given all the inducement required to get old Peter and his boat across the bay; and the ancient "wrecker" was as anxious about the result as the tramp himself could be. It was hard to say, now, which of them was the first on board "The Swallow."

"It ain't locked!"

"Then the jug ain't thar."

"Wall, it is," exclaimed Burgin triumphantly, as he pulled it out; but his under jaw dropped a little when he felt "how light it lifted."

"Reckon they helped themselves on thar way hum."

It was a good deal worse than that; and an angry and disappointed pair were they when the cork and the truth came out.

"Thar's jest a good smell!"

That was old Peter's remark; and it sounded as if words failed him to add to it, but Burgin's wrath exploded in a torrent of bitter abuse of the man or men who had emptied that demijohn. He gave old Peter a capital chance to turn upon him morosely with,—

"Look a-yer, my chap, is this 'ere your boat?"

"No: I didn't say it was, did I?"

"Is that there your jug? I don't know if I keer to sit and hear one of my neighbors—and he's a good feller too, he is—abused all night, jest bekase I've been and let an entire stranger make a fool of me."

"Do you mean me?"

"Well, ef I didn't I wouldn't say it. Don't you git mad, now. It won't pay ye. Jest let's take a turn 'round the village."

"You kin go ef you want ter. I'll wait for ye. 'Pears like I didn't feel much like doin' any trampin' 'round."

"Stay thar, then. But mind you don't try on any runnin' away with my boat."

"If I want a boat, old man, there's plenty here that's better worth stealin' than yourn."

"That's so. I didn't know you'd been makin' any kalkilation on it. I won't be gone any great while."

He was gone some time, however, whatever may have been his errand. Old Peter was not the man to be at a loss for one, of some sort, even at that hour of the night; and his present business, perhaps, did not particularly require company.

When he returned at last, he found his own boat safe enough, and he really could not tell if any of the others had walked away; but he looked around in vain for any signs of his late comrade. Not that he spent much time or wasted any great pains in searching for him; and he muttered to himself, as he gave it up,—

"Gone, has he? Well, then, it's a good riddance to bad rubbidge. I ain't no aingil, but that feller's a long ways wuss'n I am."

Whether or not old Peter was right in his estimate of himself or of Burgin, in a few moments more he was all alone in his "cat-boat," and was sculling it rapidly out of the crooked inlet.

His search for Burgin had been a careless one, for he had but glanced over the gunwale of "The Swallow." A second look might have shown him the form of the tramp, half covered by a loose flap of the sail, deeply and heavily sleeping on the bottom of the boat. It was every bit as comfortable a bed as he had been used to; and there he was still lying, long after the sun had looked in upon him, the next morning.

Other eyes than the sun's were to look in upon him before he awakened from that untimely and imprudent nap.

It was not so very early when Ham Morris and Dabney Kinzer were stirring again; but they had both arisen with a strong desire for a "talk," and Ham made an opportunity for one by saying,—

"Come on, Dab. Let's go down and have a look at 'The Swallow.'"

Ham had meant to talk about school and kindred matters, but Dab's first words about the tramp cut off all other subjects.

"You ought to have told me," he said. "I'd have had him tied up in a minute."

Dab explained as well as he could; but, before he had finished, Ham suddenly exclaimed,—

"There's Dick Lee, on board 'The Swallow!' What on earth's he there for?"

"Dick!" shouted Dabney.

"Cap'n Dab, did yo' set this yer boat to trap somebody?"

"No. Why?"

"'Cause you's done gone an' cotched 'im. Jes' you come an' see."

The sound of Dick's voice, so near them, reached the dull ears of the slumbering tramp; and as Ham and Dabney sprang into a yawl, and pushed along-side the yacht, his unpleasant face was slowly and sleepily lifted above the rail.

"It's the very man!" excitedly shouted Dabney.

"The tramp?"

"Yes,—the tramp!"

No one would have suspected Ham Morris of so much agility, although his broad and well-knit frame promised abundant strength; but he was on board "The Swallow" like a flash, and Burgin was "pinned" by his iron grasp before he could so much as guess what was coming.

"Le' go o' me!"

"I've got you!"

It was too late for any such thing as resistance; and the captive settled at once into a sullen, dogged silence, after the ordinary custom of his kind when they find themselves cornered. It is a species of dull, brute instinct, more than cunning, seemingly; but not a word more did Ham and Dab obtain from their prisoner,—although they said a good many to him,—until they delivered him over to the safe-keeping of the lawful authorities at the village. That done, they went home to breakfast, feeling that they had made a good morning's work of it, but wondering what would be the end and result of it all.

"Ten years, I guess," said Ham.

"In State prison?"

"Yes. Breaking stone. He'll get his board free, but it'll be total abstinence for him. I wonder what took him on board 'The Swallow,'"

"I know,—the jug!"

"That's it, sure's you live. I saw him over on the island. I declare! To think of an empty demijohn having so much good in it!"

CHAPTER XXIII.

ANOTHER GRAND PLAN, AND A VERY GRAND RUNAWAY.

The whole community was stirred up over the news of the capture of the tramp. It made a first-class excitement for a place of that size; but none of the inhabitants took a deeper interest in the matter than did Ford and Frank and the two Hart boys. It was difficult for them to get their minds quite right about it, especially the first pair, to whom it was a matter of unasked question just how much help Ham had given Dab in capturing the marauder. Mr. Foster himself got a little excited about it, when he came home; but poor Annie was a good deal more troubled than pleased.

"O mother!" she exclaimed. "Do you suppose I shall have to appear in court, and give my testimony as a witness?"

"I hope not, my dear. Perhaps your father can manage to prevent it somehow."

It would not have been an easy thing to do, even for so good a lawyer as Mr. Foster, if Burgin himself had not saved them all trouble on that score. Long before the slow processes of country criminal justice could bring him to actual trial, so many misdeeds were brought home to him, from here and there, that he gave the matter up, and not only confessed to the attack on Annie's pocket-book, but to the barn-burning, to which Dab's cudgelling had provoked him. He made his case so very clear, that when he finally came before a judge and jury, and pleaded "guilty," there was nothing left for them to do but to say just what he was guilty of, and how long he should "break stone" to pay for it. It was likely to be a good deal more than "ten years," if he lived out his "time."

All that came to pass some months later, however; and just now the village had enough to talk about in discussing the peculiar manner of his capture.

The story of the demijohn leaked out, of course; and, while it did not rob Dab and Ham of any part of their glory, it was made to do severe duty in the way of a temperance lecture.

Old Jock, indeed, protested.

"You see, boys," said he, "real good liquor, like that, don't do nobody no harm. That was the real stuff,—prime old apple-jack 'at I'd had in my cellar ten year last Christmas; an' it jest toled that feller across the bay, and captered him, without no manner of diffikilty."

There were some among his auditors who could have testified to a decidedly different kind of "capture."

One effect of Dab's work on the day of the yachting-trip, including his special performances as cook, and as milliner to the lobsters, was, that he felt himself thenceforth bound to be somewhat carefully polite to Joe and Fuz. The remaining days of their visit would have been altogether too few for the varied entertainments he laid out for them, in his own mind, by way of reparation for his unlucky "practical joke." They were to catch all there was in the bay. They were to ride everywhere. They were to be shown every thing there was to see.

"They don't deserve it, Dab," said Ford; "but you're a real good fellow.
Mother says so."

"Does she?" said Dab; and he evidently felt a good deal relieved, after that.

Mr. Richard Lee, when his friends once more found time to think of him, had almost disappeared from the public eye.

Some three days after "the trip," while all the other boys were out in the "Jenny," having a good time with their hooks and lines, Dick's mother made her appearance in Mrs. Kinzer's dining-room, or Miranda's, with a face that was even darker than usual, with a cloud of motherly anxiety.

"Miss Kinzer," she said, "has you seen my Dick, dis week?"

"No: he hasn't been here at all. Is there any thing the matter with him?"

"Dat's de berry question. I jes' doesn't know wot to make ob 'im."

"Why, Glorianna, do you think he's studying too hard?"

"It ain't jes' de books; I isn't so much afeard ob dem: but it's all 'long ob de 'Cad'my. I wish you'd jes' take a good look at 'im, fust chance ye git."

"Does he look badly?"

"No: 'tain't jes' altogedder his looks. He's de bes' lookin' boy 'long shoah. But den de way he's a-goin' on to talk. 'Tain't natural. He used to talk fust-rate."

"Can't he talk now?"

"Yes, Miss Kinzer, he kin talk; but den de way he gits out his words. Nebber seen sech a t'ing in all my born days. Takes him ebber so long jes' to say good-mornin'. An' he doesn't say it like he use ter. I wish you'd jes' take a good look at 'im."

Mrs. Kinzer promised, and she gave her black friend what comfort she could; but Dick Lee's tongue would never again be the free-and-easy member of society it had been. Even when at home, and about his commonest "chores," he was all the while struggling with what he called his "pronounciation." If he should succeed as well with the rest of his "schooling," it was safe to say that it would not be thrown away upon him.

Glorianna went her way that morning; and the next to intrude upon Mrs. Kinzer's special domain was her son-in-law himself, accompanied by his blooming bride.

"We've got a plan."

"You? Apian? What about?"

"Dab and his friends."

That was the beginning of a tolerably long consultation, and the results of it were duly reported to Dabney when he came home with his fish.

"A party?" he exclaimed, when his mother finished her brief but comprehensive statement: "Ham and Miranda to give a party for us boys? Well, now, if they're not right down good! But, mother, we'll have to get it up mighty quick."

"I know it, Dab; but that's easy enough, with all the help we have. I'll take care of that."

"A party! but, mother, what can we do? There's only a few of 'em know how to dance. I don't, for one."

"You must talk it over with Ford. Perhaps Annie and Frank can help you."

They were all taken into counsel soon enough; and endless were the plans and propositions made, till even Mrs. Kinzer found her temper getting a little fretted and worried over them.

At all events, it was a settled fact that the "party" was to be; and the invitations went out in due and proper form.

"Miranda," said her mother, on the morning of the important day, "we must manage to get rid of Dabney and those boys for a few hours."

"Send 'em for some greens to rig the parlor with," suggested Ham. "Let 'em take the ponies."

"Do you think the ponies are safe for them to drive, just now?"

"Oh! Dab can handle 'em. They're a trifle skittish, that's all. They need a little exercise."

So they did; but it was to be doubted if the best way to secure it for them was to send them out in a light, two-seated wagon, with a load of five lively boys.

"Now, don't you let one of the other boys touch the reins," said Mrs.
Kinzer.

Dab's promise to that effect proved a hard one to keep; for Fuz and Joe almost tried to take the reins away from him, before they had driven two miles from the house. He was firm, however, and they managed to reach the strip of woodland, some five miles inland, where they were to gather their load, without any disaster; but it was evident to Dab, all the way, that his ponies were in uncommonly "high" condition. He took them out of the wagon, while the rest began to gather their liberal harvest of evergreens; and he did not bring them near it again until all was ready for the start homeward.

"Now, boys," he said, "you get in; Joe and Ford and Fuz on the back seat, to hold down the greens. Frank, get up there, forward, while I hitch in the ponies. These fellows are chuck full of mischief."

Very full, certainly; nor did Dab Kinzer know exactly what the matter was for a minute or so after he seized the reins and sprang up beside Frank Harley.

Then, indeed, as the ponies kicked and reared and plunged, he thought he saw something work out from under their collars, and fall to the ground. An acorn-burr is just the thing to worry a restive horse, if put in such a place; but Joe and Fuz had hardly expected their "little joke" to be so very successful as it was.

The ponies were off now!

"Joe," shouted Fuz, "let's jump!"

"Don't let 'em, Ford," exclaimed Dab, giving his whole energies to the horses. "They'll break their necks if they do. Hold 'em in."

Ford, who was in the middle, promptly seized an arm of each of his panic-stricken cousins, while Frank clambered over the seat to help him. They were all down on the bottom now, serving as a, weight to hold the evergreen branches, as the light wagon bounced and rattled along over the smooth, level road.

In vain Dab pulled and pulled at the ponies. Run they would, and run they did; and all he could do was to keep them fairly in the road.

Bracing strongly back, with the reins wound around his tough hands, and with a look in his face that should have given courage even to the Hart boys, Dab strained at his task as bravely as when he had stood at the tiller of "The Swallow" in the storm.

There was no such thing as stopping those ponies.

And now, as they whirled along, even Dabney's face paled a little.

"I must reach the bridge before he does: he's just stupid enough to keep right on."

It was very "stupid," indeed, for the driver of that one-horse "truck-wagon" to try and reach the little narrow unrailed bridge first. It was an old, used-up sort of a bridge, at best.

Dab loosened the reins a little, but could not use his whip.

"Why can't he stop!"

It was a moment of breathless anxiety, but the wagoner kept stolidly on. There would be barely room to pass him on the road itself; none at all on the narrow bridge.

The ponies did it.

They seemed to put on an extra touch of speed on their own account, just then.

There was a rattle, a faint crash; and then, as the wheels of the two vehicles almost touched each other in passing, Ford shouted,—

"The bridge is down!"

Such a narrow escape!

One of the rotten girders, never half strong enough, had given way under the sudden shock of the hinder wheels; and that truck-wagon would have to find its road across the brook as best it could.

There were more wagons to pass, as they plunged forward, and rough places in the road for Dabney to look out for; but even Joe and Fuz were now getting confidence in their driver. Before long, too, the ponies themselves began to feel that they had had enough of it. Then it was that Dab used his whip again, and the streets of the village were traversed at a rate to call for the disapprobation of all sober-minded people.

"Here we are, Ham! Greens and all."

"Did they run far, Dab?" asked Ham quietly.

CHAPTER XXIV.

DABNEY'S GREAT PARTY.

The boys returned a good deal earlier than anybody had expected, but they made no more trouble. As Ford Foster remarked, "they were all willing to go slow for a week," after being carried home at such a rate by Dab's ponies.

There was a great deal to be said, too, about the runaway, and Mrs. Foster longed to see Dabney, and thank him on Ford's account; but he himself had no idea that he had done any thing remarkable, and was very busy decking Miranda's parlors with the evergreens.

A nice appearance they made, too, all those woven branches and clustered sprays, when they were in place; and Samantha declared for them that,—

"They had kept Dab out of mischief all the afternoon."

At an early hour, after supper, the guests began to arrive; for Mrs.
Kinzer was a woman of too much good sense to have night turned into day
when she could prevent it. As the stream of visitors steadily poured in,
Dab remarked to Jenny Walters,—

"We shall have to enlarge the house, after all."

"If it were only a dress, now!"

"What then?"

"Why, you could just let out the tucks. I've had to do that with mine."

"Jenny, shake hands with me."

"What for, Dabney?"

"I'm so glad to meet somebody else that's outgrowing something."

There was a tinge of color rising in Jenny's face; but, before she could think of any thing to say, Dab added,—

"There, Jenny: there's Mrs. Foster and Annie. Isn't she sweet?"

"One of the nicest old ladies I ever saw."

"Oh! I didn't mean her mother."

"Never mind. You must introduce me to them."

"So I will. Take my arm."

Jenny Walters had been unusually kindly and gracious in her manner that evening, and her very voice had less than its accustomed sharpness; but her natural disposition broke out a little, some minutes later, while she was talking with Annie Foster. Said she,—

"I've wanted so much to get acquainted with you."

"With me?"

"Yes: I've seen you in church, and I've heard you talked about, and I wanted to find out for myself."

"Find out what?" asked Annie a little soberly.

"Why, you see, I don't believe it's possible for any girl to be as sweet as you look. I couldn't, I know. I've been trying these two days, and I'm nearly worn out."

Annie's eyes opened wide with surprise; and she laughed merrily, as she answered,—

"What can you mean! I'm glad enough if my face doesn't tell tales of me."

"But mine does," said Jenny. "And then I'm so sure to tell all the rest with my tongue. I do wish I knew what were your faults."

"My faults? What for?"

"I don't know. Seems to me, if I could think of your faults instead of mine, it wouldn't be so hard to look sweet."

Annie could but see that there was more earnestness than fun in the queer talk of her new acquaintance.

The truth was, that Jenny had been having almost as hard a struggle with her tongue as Dick Lee with his, though not for the same reason. Before many minutes she had frankly told Annie all about it, and she could not have done that if she had not somehow felt that Annie's "sweetness" was genuine.

The two girls were sure friends after that, much to the surprise of Mr. Dabney Kinzer. He, indeed, had been too much occupied in caring for all his guests, to pay especial attention to any one of them.

His mother had looked after him again and again, with eyes brimful of pride and of commendation of the way in which he was acquitting himself as "host."

Mrs. Foster herself remarked to her husband, who had now arrived,—

"Do you see that? Who would have expected as much from a raw, green country boy?"

"But, my dear, don't you see? The secret of it is, that he's not thinking of himself at all he's only anxious that his friends should have a good time."

"That's it; but then, that, too, is a very rare thing in a boy of his age."

"Dabney," exclaimed the lawyer in a louder tone of voice.

"Good-evening, Mr. Foster. I'm glad you've found room. The house isn't half large enough."

"It'll do. I understand your ponies ran away with you to-day."

"They did come home in a hurry, that's a fact; but nobody was hurt."

"I fear there would have been, but for you. Do you start for Grantley with the other boys, tomorrow?"

"Of course. Dick Lee and I need some one to take care of us. We never have travelled so far before."

"On land, you mean. Is Dick here to-night?"

"Came and looked in, sir; but he got scared by the crowd, and went home."

"Poor fellow! I don't wonder. Well, we will all do what we can for him."

Poor Dick Lee!

And yet, if Mr. Dabney Kinzer had known his whereabouts at that very moment, he would half have envied him.

Dick's mother was in the kitchen, helping about the "refreshments;" but she had not left home until she had compelled her son to dress himself in his best,—white shirt, red necktie, shining shoes, and all; and she had brought him with her, almost by force.

"You's goodnuff to go to de 'Cad'my and leab yer pore mother, an' I reckon you's good nuff for de party."

Dick had actually ventured in from the kitchen, through the dining-room, and as far as the door of the back parlor, where few would look.

How his heart did beat, as he gazed upon the merry gathering, a large part of whom he had "known all his born days"!

But there was a side-door opening from that dining-room upon the long piazza which Mrs. Kinzer had added to the old Morris mansion; and Dick's hand was on the knob of that door, almost before he knew it.

Then he was out on the road to the landing; and in five minutes more he was vigorously rowing the "Jenny" out through the inlet, towards the bay.

His heart was not beating unpleasantly any longer; but as he shot out from the narrow passage through the flags, and saw the little waves laughing in the cool, dim starlight, he suddenly stopped rowing, leaned on his oars, gave a great sigh of relief, and exclaimed,—

"Dar, I's safe now. I ain't got to say a word to nobody out yer. Wonder 'f I'll ebber git back from de 'Cad'my, an' ketch fish in dis yer bay. Sho! Course I will. But goin' 'way's awful!"

Dab Kinzer thought he had never before known Jenny Walters to appear so well as she looked that evening; and he must have been right, for good Mrs. Foster said to Annie,—

"What a pleasant, kindly face your new friend has! You must ask her to come and see us. She seems to be quite a favorite with the Kinzers."

"Have you known Dabney long?" Annie had asked of Jenny a little before that.

"Ever since I was a little bit of a girl, and a big boy, seven or eight years old, pushed me into the snow."

"Was it Dabney?"

"No; but Dabney was the boy that pushed him in for doing it, and then helped me up. Dab rubbed his face with snow for him, till he cried."

"Just like him!" exclaimed Annie with emphasis. "I should think his friends here will miss him."

"Indeed they will," said Jenny, and then she seemed disposed to be quiet for a while.

The party could not last forever, pleasant as it was; and by the time his duties as "host" were all done and over, Dabney was tired enough to go to bed and sleep soundly. His arms were lame and sore from the strain the ponies had given them; and that may have been the reason why he dreamed, half the night, that he was driving runaway teams, and crashing over rickety old bridges.

There was some reason for that; but why was it that every one of his dream-wagons, no matter who else was in it, seemed to have Jenny Walters and Annie Foster smiling at him from the back seat?

He rose later than usual next morning, and the house was all in its customary order by the time he got down stairs.

Breakfast was ready also; and it was hardly over before Dab's great new trunk was brought down into the front-door passage by a couple of the farmhands.

"It's an hour yet to train-time," said Ham Morris; "but we might as well get ready. We must be on hand in time."

What a long hour that was! And not even a chance given to Dab to run down to the landing for a good-by look at the "Jenny" and "The Swallow."

His mother and Ham, and Miranda, and the girls, seemed to be all made up of "good-by" that morning.

"Mother," said Dab.

"What is it, my dear boy?"

"That's it exactly. If you say 'dear boy' again, Ham Morris'll have to carry me to the cars. I'm all kind o' wilted now."

Then they all laughed, and before they got through laughing they all cried except Ham.

He put his hands in his pockets, and drew a long whistle.

The ponies were at the door now. The light wagon was a roomy one; but, when Dab's trunk had been put in, there was barely room left for the ladies, and Dab and Ham had to walk to the station.

"I'm kind o' glad of it," said Dab.

It was a short walk, and a silent one; but when they came in sight of the platform, Dab exclaimed,—

"There they are,—all of them!"

"The whole party?"

"Why, the platform's as crowded as our house was last night."

Mrs. Kinzer and her daughters were already the centre of a talkative crowd of young people; and Ford Foster and Frank Harley, with Joe and Fuz Hart, were asking what had become of Dab, for the train was in sight.

A moment later, as the puffing locomotive pulled up in front of the water-tank, the conductor stepped out on the platform, exclaiming,—

"Look a-here, folks, this ain't right. If there was going to be a picnic you ought to have sent word, and I'd have tacked on an extra car. You'll have to pack in now, best you can."

He seemed much relieved when he found how small a part of that crowd were to be his passengers.

"Dab," said Ford, "this is your send-off, not ours. You'll have to make a speech."

Dab did want to say something; but he had just kissed his sisters and his mother, and half a dozen of his school-girl friends had followed the example of Jenny Walters; and then Mrs. Foster had kissed him, and Ham Morris had shaken hands with him; and Dab could not have said a word to have saved his life.

"Speech!" whispered Ford mischievously, as Dab stepped upon the car-platform; but Dick Lee, who had just escaped from the tremendous hug his mother had given him, and had got his breath again, came to his friend's relief in the nick of time. Dick felt, as he afterwards explained, that he "must shout, or he should go off;" and so, at the top of his shrill voice he shouted,—

"Hurrah for Cap'n Kinzer! Dar ain't no better feller lef long shoah!"

And then, amid a chorus of cheers and laughter, and a grand waving of white handkerchiefs, the engine gave a deep, hysterical cough, and hurried the train away.

Three homesteads by the Long Island shore were lonely enough that evening, and they were all likely to be lonelier still before they got fairly accustomed to the continued absence of "those boys."

It was well understood that the Fosters had determined to prolong their "summer in the country" until the arrival of cold weather, they had found all things so pleasant; and the Kinzers were well pleased with that, as Samantha remarked,—

"If it's only to compare letters. I do hope Dabney will write as soon as he gets there, and tell us all about it."

"He will," said his mother; but Ham's face put on a somewhat doubtful look.

"I'm not quite sure about Dab," he said slowly. "If things ain't just right, he's the sort of boy that wouldn't say a word about it. Well, I must say I liked what I saw of Mrs. Myers's notions about feeding people."