Sink or Swim; or, Harry Raymond's Resolve

Squire Turner read this letter with a lively interest. So the neglected yellow paper promised to be valuable, after all. Perhaps, indeed, it might be worth thousands of dollars. In that case, Mrs. Raymond would be very well off.

The main question in Squire Turner’s mind was, how could he manage so as to profit by it himself. He was meditating upon this as he walked home from the post-office, when he met Harry Raymond, driving the store-wagon.

Harry paused, and hailed the squire.

“Squire Turner,” he said, “have you found out anything yet about that paper I left with you?”

“Not yet,” said the squire, falsely; for he had no intention of disclosing the truth at present. “I am afraid we can’t get anything for it after so many years. When I hear anything I will let you know.”

“I was afraid it was too long ago,” said Harry; “so I am not much disappointed.”

“I am thinking of taking a little trip to the West before long,” said Squire Turner. “I may be able to find out something about it then.”

Harry started the horse towards the store, and thought so little of the land warrant that he quite forgot to mention the matter to his mother in the evening.

CHAPTER VII.
A MEAN TRICK.

Harry Raymond had been employed in Mr. Porter’s store but a few days when he had a difficulty with James Turner, which deserves to be chronicled. For various reasons James cherished a dislike of our hero, which he was not likely to get over very soon. Harry had always distanced him in his studies, and, as we have seen, had carried off the prize for declamation, which James persuaded himself would have been his but for the partiality of Mr. Tower. Again, James aspired to be a leader among the boys at school and in the village. He felt that this position was due to him on account of the superior wealth of his father. When boys assert this claim to consideration, it is generally a sign that they have little else to boast of; and this was precisely the case with James Turner.

Now, it may appear strange, that though Squire Turner was the richest man in the village, and Mr. Raymond one of the poorest, the boys paid much more respect to Harry than to the son of the wealthy squire. Harry was put forward prominently on all occasions; as, for example, when a military company was formed, he was elected captain, while James could not even obtain the post of simple corporal. Of course the latter withdrew his name from the roll in disgust; but the company, so far from being thrown into consternation, appeared to thrive about as well as before. This military organization went by the name of the Vernon Guards, and consisted of about thirty boys. They used to parade on Saturday afternoons, when a sufficient number could be gathered for duty, and the young captain, who had studied up his duties, discharged them in a very creditable manner.

James Turner, however, had one consolation in all this strange neglect. His superiority was conceded by one boy, who was in the habit of revolving round him like a humble satellite. This was Tom Barton, who has already been referred to. Tom was a born sycophant, and was ready on all occasions to natter James and join him in abusing Harry and Harry’s friends. Tom’s father was in California at the mines. His mother was a weak woman, of an envious disposition, who was always bewailing her fate in having married a poor man instead of a certain other person who had turned out rich, and who, as she asserted, had offered her his hand in early life. In fact, it was generally supposed that her complaints had driven her husband to California to seek for the fortune for which she was continually pining. As for Tom, she considered him one of the smartest boys in America, and, as might be expected, asserted that he took after her, and not after his father.

“There aint any Barton about him,” she said. “He’s all Jessup.”

This was not far from true. Tom certainly did inherit his mother’s mean and disagreeable qualities, and there were very few points in which he resembled his father, who was really a worthy man, and deserved a better wife than had been allotted to him.

It might have been supposed that Harry’s misfortune in losing his father would have led to a suspension of ill feeling on the part of James and his sycophant. But I have already said that James was a mean boy, and Tom was in this respect a very fitting companion for him. Indeed, Tom, besides espousing James’s quarrel, had a personal grievance of his own. At the time that Alfred Harper entered the village store, Mr. Porter had an application for the place from Tom, which he had seen fit to decline without assigning any reasons for so doing. In fact, Tom had the reputation of being lazy and self-sufficient, and the store-keeper rightly concluded that he would not be likely to prove a very valuable assistant. When Tom heard that the coveted place had been given to Harry, he felt highly indignant, not only with Mr. Porter, but with Harry himself, and was anxious for an opportunity of wreaking vengeance upon our hero. Now, the manliest way would have been to make a direct assault upon him; but this he did not care to do. He knew that Harry had a pair of good, strong arms, and was ready on all occasions to defend himself. If he should venture upon an attack, it was pretty clear to him that he would get the worst of it, and this would be very far from suiting him. He preferred to wait for some secret way of injuring him.

That opportunity came about a week after Harry had entered upon his duties in Mr. Porter’s store.

It has already been said that one of his duties was to drive the store-wagon, and deliver groceries in different parts of the village. One afternoon he was driving at about half a mile distance from the store. Among other articles in the wagon was a basket containing three dozen eggs, which, by the way, were to be delivered to Squire Turner’s house-keeper.

Just about this part of the road there was a cliff on one side, about twenty feet in height, with a steep, almost perpendicular, descent. The field terminating thus abruptly belonged to Squire Turner. It so happened that James Turner and Tom Barton were walking leisurely along the cliff just as Harry came driving by.

“There’s Harry Raymond,” said Tom, spitefully. “Old Barton must have been hard up for a clerk when he took him.”

“I suppose he took pity on him,” said James, “and gave him the situation to keep him out of the poor-house.”

“That isn’t the way he looks at it,” said Tom. “He puts on as many airs as if he owned the store himself.”

“Didn’t you try for the place once, Tom?”

“Why, not exactly,” said Tom. “I told him I would take it if he couldn’t get anybody else. It isn’t much of a place.”

Of course this was only a salvo for Tom’s wounded pride, for he had been eager to enter the store.

“I’ll tell you what,” added Tom, after a pause, “suppose we play a trick on Raymond.”

“What sort of a trick?”

“Suppose we pitch a stone into that basket of eggs. There’ll be an awful smash, and he can’t see who did it.”

This was a proposition which just suited James. It would get Harry into trouble with his employer, and this of course would be rare sport. Then, as they could easily withdraw from sight, he would never know to whom he was indebted for the favor. All these considerations darted through James Turner’s mind more quickly than I have stated them, and he responded:—

“All right, Tom. You do it. You can fire straighter than I.”

Tom needed no second approval. He seized a stone about as large as his two fists, or perhaps a little larger, and, bending over the cliff, fired it directly at the basket.

His success was all that he could have wished. His aim was a true one, and the first Harry knew of the “trick,” there was a loud crash behind him, and the contents of the eggs were partially spattered over him. Glancing quickly back, he saw that the wreck was almost total. Of the three dozen eggs not one third had escaped destruction.

Now, though Harry was naturally good-natured, he felt that this was a little too much for good-nature. It might be a joke; but he could not see it in that light. He knew that he was likely to be blamed for the accident, and he resolved to find out how it came about. It was not very probable that the stone came into the basket of its own volition. There was evidently some human agency concerned, and this agency Harry determined to ascertain.

Looking up, he just caught a glimpse of Tom Barton peering over to see what mischief had been done.

“It’s that mean Tom Barton,” he said to himself. “He’s about the only fellow mean enough to play such a trick. Perhaps he thinks I’m going to stand it.”

“Whoa!” shouted Harry.

In obedience to the summons the horse came to a halt.

Harry drew him to the side of the road, and jumped out of the wagon. He hesitated about leaving the horse unattended; but just at that moment Will Pomeroy came along.

“Just mind the horse a minute, Will,” said Harry.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll tell you when I come back.”

Our hero felt that there was no time for explanation. He began to clamber up the side of the cliff. This was a hard job, for it was nearly perpendicular, but here and there were roots and bushes that helped him along. Probably his indignation helped him, for in a very short time he reached the top.

Tom Barton was elated at the success of his trick. After first looking over to see the extent of the damage, he withdrew to a short distance, and threw himself under a tree by the side of James Turner. He felt entirely safe, not having the least idea that Harry would undertake to climb the cliff.

The two boys were laughing together over the success of their trick, when the figure of our hero, his face red with excitement, and his hands chafed and torn, presented itself unexpectedly.

Tom sprang to his feet in dismay.

“Look here, Tom Barton,” said Harry, in a quick, peremptory way, “what did you mean by pitching a stone into my basket of eggs?”

“Don’t be afraid,” said James Turner, in a low voice; “I’ll stand by you.”

This emboldened Tom. Though he would not have liked to engage in single combat with Harry, he concluded that our hero would be in no haste to engage both. So he answered, insolently:—

“None of your business!”

“It strikes me that it is my business,” said Harry, warmly. “It was a mean, contemptible trick.”

“What are you going to do about it?” sneered Tom.

Now I am not going to justify Harry for the course he took, but it was certainly very natural.

“Stand up here, if you dare, and you’ll see,” he answered, with compressed lips.

“Let’s give him a licking, James,” said Tom. “It’ll do him good.”

Both boys sprang to their feet, and advanced towards our hero. He saw that his task was not going to be an easy one. The united strength of both of his assailants was undoubtedly greater than his own. If he allowed the two to come to close quarters with him, he would probably get the worst of it. Here was a chance for strategy, and he resolved to improve it.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE BATTLE OF THE CLIFF.

Some of my readers are no doubt familiar with the memorable combat between the Horatii and the Curiatii, told in all the Roman histories. There were three brothers on each side, and the contest between them was to decide the fortunes of the armies to which they respectively belonged. After a time two of the Horatii lay dead upon the field. The third, unhurt, found himself opposed to three adversaries, all of whom, however, were wounded. These he managed to engage singly, and was thus enabled to overcome them in turn.

I am not sure whether Harry Raymond had heard of this historical combat; but when he found himself opposed to two enemies, it struck him at once that this was his proper course, if he wanted to come off victorious.

As Tom and James advanced upon him, he feigned to retreat.

“He’s afraid!” said Tom, in exultation. “Let’s give him a licking.”

James had no possible objection. Indeed, he felt that there was nothing he would enjoy so much as to see our hero humiliated. He would not have ventured to attack him alone, but now with Tom’s assistance there seemed an excellent opportunity, such as might not again present itself.

“Go ahead!” he called out. “I’ll help you.”

Tom did go ahead. Being a faster runner than James, he found himself separated from him by a considerable distance in the impetuosity of his pursuit.

Harry turned his head, and, seeing that his opportunity had come, suddenly faced round upon his astonished adversary.

Tom, unable to check himself, almost rushed into the arms of our hero.

“Now defend yourself!” shouted Harry.

So saying, he clinched Tom, who was too astonished to defend himself properly, and with a quick movement of the leg brought him down heavily upon the ground, with Harry on top.

Lying on the ground, in such a position as to fit into the small of Tom’s back, was a stone about as large as the one he had thrown into the basket of eggs. The sensation which resulted from falling upon it was by no means pleasant.

“Oh!” he whined, “I’ve broken my backbone. Get off from me, Harry Raymond.”

“I guess you’ll get over it,” said Harry, who knew that the hurt could not be very serious.

“Jim Turner!” shouted the fallen hero.

James, who had witnessed his friend’s discomfiture, paused at a little distance. He began to doubt whether it would be prudent to take an active part in the hostilities. His confederate was disabled, and he strongly suspected that Harry was more than a match for him. Still he was rather ashamed to hold aloof.

“Let him alone!” he called out, from the place where he stood, making no motion to advance.

“Come and help me, Jim! You said you would,” said Tom.

“I’ll have you arrested,” said James, preparing to war with his tongue.

“Take him off!” entreated Tom.

Thus adjured, James advanced with hesitating steps to the rescue. He would rather have been excused, and had there been any decent pretext for giving up the undertaking he would have done so. But, though his sentiment of honor was not very keen, it did occur to him that it would be rather mean to leave Tom in the lurch, after he had urged him on to the assault with the promise of assistance.

“Let him alone!” he exclaimed, reinforcing his failing courage with a little bluster, “or you’ll get the worst licking you ever had.”

“Who’ll give it to me?” asked Harry, composedly.

He had merely retained his position, pinning Tom to the ground, but not striking him; for he was too honorable to strike a prostrate foe.

“I will,” said James, with a boldness of manner which did not by any means correspond to his inward feelings.

So saying, he made a step or two in advance, in a threatening manner.

Harry sprang up suddenly, and advanced upon his new foe.

“I’m ready for you, James Turner,” he said, “now or at any other time. Come on, if you dare.”

James paused in his advance. He did not like the position of affairs at all. He had never bargained to meet Harry in single combat, and now it appeared likely that he would have to do so.

“Get up, Tom,” he called out. “The two of us can whip him soundly.”

“I can’t do anything,” whined Tom. “My back’s most broke.”

He rose slowly from the ground, and began with a rueful face to rub the injured portion of his frame.

Thus left to himself James saw that there was no backing out. He had provoked the contest, and must take the consequences. What these were likely to be he was cheerfully reminded by Tom’s doleful face. He resolved to secure his co-operation if possible.

“Come along, Tom,” he urged. “Just help me a little, and I’ll manage him.”

“I can’t,” said Tom, dismally. “That plaguy rock’s worn a hole in my back.”

“I’ll stand you both,” said Harry, stoutly. “You’ve served me a mean trick, and you ought to be punished.”

Just then James noticed a stone about the size of his fist lying on the ground before him. It was a mean and cowardly impulse that led him to pick it up, and fire it full at our hero’s head. Had it struck him, the injury would have been serious, if not fatal; but Harry quickly divined his intention, and dropped suddenly to the ground. The stone passed harmlessly over his head.

“You shall pay for that, James Turner,” he said, angrily. “No one but a coward would do such a thing.”

As he spoke he sprang forward, and grappled with his adversary. James, having a premonition of defeat, defended himself poorly, flinging out blows at random. In less than a minute he, too, was prostrate, with Harry on top.

“Help!” he screamed, making desperate efforts to unseat his opponent.

But Harry held him down with a tight grip. Tom had had enough fighting, and did not stir to his assistance.

“Get up, you ragamuffin!” he screamed. In fact he was more mortified that his defeat should have come from Harry Raymond than if his opponent had been of his own position. That a poor boy like Harry should treat with such indignity his father’s son was a gross outrage which filled him with vexation.

“Let me up, you beggar!” he cried, again.

“You’ll have to speak to me in a different style before I let you up,” said Harry, coolly, for he felt that the advantage was in his hands, and that it was for him to dictate terms of submission.

“I called you by your right name,” said James, provoked beyond the limits of prudence. “You are a ragamuffin and a beggar.”

“It strikes me that you are a beggar just now,” said our hero.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you are begging me to let you up.”

“If you don’t I’ll have you arrested,” said James, with another violent but ineffectual struggle.

“You’re welcome to do it,” said Harry. “Perhaps there’ll be something to say on my side as well as yours.”

“If you don’t come and help me, Tom Barton, I’ll never speak to you again,” said James, whose anger was now directed against his confederate.

“I would if I could,” said Tom, “but my back’s too sore.”

The fact was, that Tom’s back was not quite so much hurt as he wished to have it believed, but he had no inclination to attack Harry again. The ease with which he had been thrown, caused him to realize that Harry carried “too many guns for him,” as the phrase is; and, though he was ready to fawn upon James, he was not willing to compromise his personal safety for him. But a bright idea occurred to him.

“I’ll go and call your father,” he said.

James did not answer. He would rather have had Tom’s personal aid, but that he was not likely to obtain. Tom Barton, glad to get away, limped off towards the road.

“Are you going to let me up?” demanded James, fiercely.

“That depends upon whether you behave yourself. Promise to fire no more stones at me.”

“I won’t.”

“You won’t fire any stones?”

“No, I won’t promise.”

“Very well. Then you may lie here a little longer.”

So the two remained in their old position. Five minutes passed, and James renewed his demand.

“As soon as you will say that you won’t fire any more stones you shall get up.”

“I don’t mean to,” said James, sullenly.

“All right! That’s all I want,” said Harry; and he relaxed his hold upon his prostrate foe, and rose to his feet.

James picked himself up, and glared at Harry with a look by no means friendly.

“You shall pay for this,” he said.

“Who is going to pay for the eggs you broke?” retorted our hero.

“I didn’t break them.”

“You approved it, at any rate.”

“Yes, I did,” said James.

“You probably didn’t know where I was carrying them.”

“Where?” James condescended to ask.

“To your house. I’ve lost time enough already, and must be getting back.”

Harry hurried to the road, where he found the wagon safe under the charge of Will Pomeroy. Jumping in, he drove in haste to Squire Turner’s residence, and taking the basket of eggs carried them round to the side door, which was opened by Mrs. Murray, the house-keeper.

“Here are some eggs from the store,” said Harry, holding out the basket.

“Why, they’re all broke,” said the house-keeper, in dismay.

“I know it,” said Harry. “If you want to know how it happened ask James.”

“Well, I never!” ejaculated the house-keeper, mechanically taking the basket. “The squire’ll have to do without his omelet to-night, that’s sure.”

CHAPTER IX.
FIRE!

James did not fail to make a report to his father of the outrage which he had received at the hands of Harry Raymond. Over the trick which Tom and he had played upon our hero he passed rather lightly.

“It seems there were two of you,” said the squire. “Why didn’t you give him such a lesson as he would have remembered?”

“I would if Tom had stood by me.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“Oh, he pretended to be very much hurt!” said James.

“Couldn’t you manage young Raymond alone?”

“No; he’s as strong as a bull. He’s had to work for a living, and that has given him muscle.”

“Then you and Tom had better watch your chance, and give him a sound thrashing. I am perfectly willing.”

This was not quite what James wanted. The result of the first contest had not been such as to encourage him much to renew it, even with Tom’s assistance, and this might fail him at a critical moment as on a former occasion.

“Haven’t you got a mortgage on his mother’s place?” he asked, hesitating.

“Well, what of it?” said the squire.

“Can’t you call for the money, and if she can’t pay it turn her out of the house?”

“I don’t care to do it at present,” said the squire. “You must settle your quarrel in some other way.”

“Are you going to pay for the broken eggs?”

“As long as you broke them, I can’t very well refuse.”

“It wasn’t me. It was Tom.”

“There’s little difference.”

James was rather astonished at the moderate view which his father took of the matter. He had been fully convinced that the squire would sympathize with him in the affair, and be ready to join in any scheme to punish Harry Raymond for his insolence. Under ordinary circumstances, this was precisely what his father would have done. But there was a secret cause for his present conduct, and this shall at once be explained.

It has been said that Squire Turner had offered himself in marriage to Mrs. Raymond in early life, and that she had seen fit to decline his proposal. Both she and the squire had married, but now, by the dispensation of Providence, she was a widow and he a widower. Though now thirty-six, Mrs. Raymond was still a handsome woman, and, if surrounded by the appliances of wealth, she would make a wife of whom any man might be proud. Certainly she presented a very favorable contrast to the late Mrs. Turner, who had a sour, acid visage, and a temper to match, as her husband had often experienced to his cost. There is reason to believe that when that amiable lady was removed by death her husband was not disconsolate, but consoled himself with the fact that she could not carry away the property which she had brought him, and without which she would never have become Mrs. Turner.

Now the squire had had some vague thoughts that he might marry again, but no one in particular had occurred to him as worthy to fill the place of the late Mrs. Turner. But when Mrs. Raymond was suddenly left a widow, and the report of the lawyer in Milwaukie rendered it likely that she might come into possession of a considerable sum of money, it set the squire to thinking.

Mrs. Raymond was still a young woman, and he had never got over the fancy he had felt for her in earlier years. Indeed, she was the only one that had ever touched the squire’s rather flinty heart. He had not even liked the late Mrs. Turner, which was not much to be wondered at, for it is doubtful whether the warmest-hearted person could have felt much affection for so disagreeable a woman. He was rather pleased with the idea of offering his hand to his first love, especially if she could bring him a handsome addition to his present property. The chances of this he thought very fair. The lawyer had written very encouragingly, and he knew how rapidly real estate advanced at the West.

There was one important question, Would Mrs. Raymond smile upon his suit, or would she repulse him as before? The squire thought with proper management he might secure her consent. She had outlived the period of romance; there was no rival in the way, and for the sake of her children she would find it advisable to accept a proposal which would at once remove all pecuniary anxiety. Of course, if she knew of the probable value of the land warrant, that would make a great difference. But Squire Turner resolved to keep her in ignorance of this, until he had time to settle his matrimonial plans.

It will now be understood why James failed to win his father’s co-operation in his schemes of retaliation upon Harry. It was the squire’s cue to be friendly and conciliatory, even to our hero, who he suspected had considerable influence over his mother, and might use that influence to defeat his plans. In his secret heart, however, Squire Turner disliked Harry not a little, and would have been very glad of any little disaster which might come to our hero. Should he receive a beating at the hands of Tom Barton and James, the squire would not be likely to censure either very much.

That very evening something happened, which went far to increase the dislike and aversion of the squire to our hero, and in the end had considerable influence upon Harry’s career.

It was between eleven and twelve o’clock that Mrs. Raymond came suddenly into Harry’s room, and waked him up.

“Harry,” she said, in a tone of excitement, “Katy is taken sick, and is in great pain. I want you to put on your clothes at once, and go as fast as you can to Dr. Lamson’s.”

Harry needed no second bidding. He could hear Katy moaning, and shared in his mother’s alarm. He dressed in “double quick time,” and set off by the nearest route for the house of Dr. Lamson.

The doctor lived at a considerable distance. By the road it was full a mile and a quarter. But there was a way of cutting off from a quarter to a third of a mile by “cutting across lots.” This made the journey rather a dark and lonely one, especially as there was no moon, and there were but few stars out. Harry had a stout heart and a clear conscience, and was not easily daunted. Besides, he had his little sister to think of, and this was enough to fill his mind to the exclusion of anything else.

In due time he reached the doctor’s door, and knocked. He had to repeat his knock. Upon doing so the doctor put out his head from an upper window.

“Who’s there?” he asked.

“It’s I,—Harry Raymond.”

“Oh, it’s you, Harry. Anybody sick at home?”

“Yes, my sister Katy. She is in a good deal of pain. Can you come right off?”

“I’ll get ready at once. Will you stop and ride with me?”

“No, thank you, doctor. I’ll run home and tell mother you’re coming.”

“I may be there first, Harry. However, perhaps you will feel better to go.”

The doctor knew that when a friend or relative is in danger, nothing is harder to bear than passive suspense, and that action is a relief. So he interposed no objections to Harry’s wish.

Harry naturally decided to return by the same short cut by which he had come. On the way was a lonely old building, aloof from the road, but very near his path, which had recently fallen into possession of Squire Turner. It was not tenanted, and would require considerable repairs before it would be in order to receive tenants. Ten years before, it had been insured with a fire insurance company for an amount below its value at that time. The insurance had been kept up, but the value had so depreciated that it would be a profitable thing for the proprietor if it should be consumed by fire.

Squire Turner was aware of this, and in an evil hour, under the influence of cupidity, determined to set fire to his own building, in order to realize the insurance money.

Being in a lonely situation, he thought he should be able to set fire to the house, and return home before the village awoke to the fact that there was a fire, while there was not much chance of the wheezy old engine getting to the spot in time to arrest the conflagration.

Harry was a few rods from the house when his attention was arrested by a sight which struck him with dismay. A man muffled in an overcoat was stooping over a basket of shavings. In a moment there was a tiny light, proceeding from a match. This was communicated to the shavings, which caught at once. The man threw the basket with its combustible contents into the house through a broken sash, and, after pausing a moment to judge whether it was likely to accomplish his purpose, turned swiftly away. His coat-collar was up, and his hat was drawn down over his face as he turned round. His amazement may be imagined when he found that the midnight incendiary was no other than Squire Turner himself!

“What can it mean?” he thought, bewildered.

Fifteen minutes later the house, which was a mere tinder-box, was in flames, and the startled villagers, aroused from their slumbers, saw a bright flame reflected against the dark midnight sky.

CHAPTER X.
AFTER THE FIRE.

By the time the fire-engine reached the burning house, the flames were so far advanced that there was no chance of saving it. For form’s sake, a stream of water was thrown upon the flames from the well near by, but the supply was soon exhausted, and produced no effect whatever. So the engine was drawn back to the engine-house, the crowd dispersed, and in place of the old house there was a heap of half-burnt rafters and cinders.

The next day the fire was the topic of conversation throughout the village. Being in the store, Harry had an opportunity of hearing it discussed by those who “dropped in” to make purchases.

“Was the house insured?” asked old Sam Tilden, filling the bowl of his pipe with tobacco, preparatory to having a comfortable smoke.

“I reckon it was,” said another. “The squire’s a keerful man. He wouldn’t be likely to neglect it.”

“Here’s the squire himself. You can ask him,” said John Gaylord, the chief salesman, who was doing up half-a-dozen pounds of sugar for a customer.

Harry, remembering what he had seen the night before, looked up with mingled feelings as he saw the rather stiff and stately form of Squire Turner enter the door.

The squire, though not a good-looking man, was always carefully dressed. He regarded it as due to his position, and as no one else in the village except the minister and doctor were scrupulous on this point, he inspired a certain respect on this very account. So now, as he entered the store, in a decorous suit of black, with a stiff standing-collar rising above a glossy satin stock, swinging in his hand a gold-headed cane, those present looked towards him with considerable deference.

“Well, squire,” said Sam Tilden, “you met with a misfortun’ last night.”

“Yes,” said the squire, deliberately; “there was a clean sweep of the old house. There isn’t much left of it.”

“Have you any idea who sot it on fire?” queried the old man.

“No,” said the squire. “I came in to see if any one here could throw any light upon it.”

There was one present who could have thrown some light upon it, and if Squire Turner had chanced to look behind the counter he might have noticed a peculiar expression in the eyes of Harry Raymond, who was watching him fixedly. The fact is, Harry was very much perplexed in his mind in regard to the occurrence. Why a gentleman should steal out of his house in disguise at the dead of night to set fire to his own property was a question which was invested with not a little mystery. But before the conversation was finished he began to understand it better.

“It must have been sot afire,” continued Sam Tilden, positively. “There wasn’t nobody livin’ in it.”

“No; it had been empty for several months.”

“You haint got no suspicions, I s’pose?”

“Why, no,” said the squire, slowly. “I suppose it must have been somebody that had a grudge against me, and took this way to gratify it. But who it may be I haven’t an idea.”

“I reckon it was insured?” said Sam, interrogatively.

“Yes,” said the squire, cautiously; “it was insured.”

“I said it must be,” said one, who had spoken at an earlier stage in the conversation. “I knew squire, you was too keerful a man to neglect it.”

“It was insured when it came into my hands,” said Squire Turner; “and I have merely kept up the payments.”

“What was the figure?”

“I really can’t be quite certain till I have looked at the policy,” said the squire. “I’ve got all my houses insured, and I can’t, without looking, tell exactly how much there is on each.”

“That’s the advantage of owning only one house,” said Doctor Lamson, as he stepped in for a moment. “I’m not liable to make a mistake about my insurance. In what company was your house insured, Squire Turner?”

“In the Phœnix Mutual, I believe. By the way, Mr. Porter, you may send up a barrel of flour to my house. I believe we are nearly out.”

“All right, squire. It shall go up in the course of the day.”

“Good-morning, gentlemen,” said the squire, walking out of the store.

“I guess the squire won’t lose a cent,” said Sam Tilden, after he went out. “It’s likely the insurance money will pay him handsome if the policy was took out years ago. I shouldn’t wonder if he’s glad the old house is gone. It was awfully out of repair.”

“Very likely you’re right,” said John Gaylord. “I’d rather have the money than the house, for my part.”

For the first time a light came to Harry’s mind. He felt that he understood the whole matter now. Squire Turner didn’t want the house, which would require considerable outlay to make it habitable, and he did want the money for which it was insured. As the shortest way to secure this, he had himself set the house on fire. Now, no doubt, he meant to come upon the company for the amount of insurance money. To Harry’s mind this looked like a swindle, like obtaining money by false pretences. Yet here was Squire Turner, the richest man in the village, occupying a very prominent—indeed the most prominent—position in town, who was actually going to carry out this fraud. Nobody except he knew that the squire was himself the incendiary. What ought he to do about it? Should he allow the insurance company to be swindled?

“Do you think Squire Turner will collect his insurance money, Mr. Gaylord?” he asked, of the chief clerk.

“Do I think so? Of course he will. He’d be a fool if he didn’t.”

“But people seem to think that the house wasn’t worth as much as the sum it was insured for.”

“Very likely not; but it was when it was insured, and as the payments have been kept up regular, the insurance company can’t complain as I see.”

“Suppose the man that set the house on fire should be caught?”

“He’d be tried, and put in prison.”

This gave Harry something new to think of. The idea of Squire Turner’s being put in prison was certainly a strange and startling one. Probably it made a difference as long as he owned the house himself. Still, if he claimed the insurance money, that again made a difference. Harry felt puzzled again, and in thinking over the matter he made several ludicrous mistakes, among others asking a boy who came in for some molasses how many yards he would have, which led to a mirthful explosion from the young customer, who looked upon it as a brilliant joke.

Not knowing what to do, Harry did nothing. Two days afterwards our hero saw the following placard posted up on the outside of the store, on the left-hand side of the door;—