Sink or Swim; or, Harry Raymond's Resolve

“Who did this?” he roared out, at the top of his voice.

The vehemence of his tone attracted general attention. The sailors looked at one another, and exchanged sly glances indicative of amusement.

“Who did this?” exclaimed the captain, again, stamping in rage.

Nobody answered.

“Why don’t you answer, some of you?” continued the angry captain. “Point out the man, and I’ll flog him till he can’t stand.”

Even this inducement was not sufficient to extract the name of the culprit.

Captain Brandon resolved to use other means.

“I’ll give five dollars to the man who’ll tell me who drew this figure.”

Jack Rodman came on deck just as this offer was made. His eyes sparkled with joy. He not only had it in his power to get Harry into trouble, but he would be rewarded for doing it. This was more than he had bargained for, but Jack reflected that the money would be very acceptable to him when he got on shore.

“I know who did it, Captain Brandon,” he said, touching his hat.

“Ah!” said the captain, turning towards Jack. “Tell me at once, then.”

“He did it,” said Jack, pointing out Harry, who, like the rest, was an interested spectator of the scene.

“Did he do it?” growled Brandon, looking menacingly at our hero.

“Yes, I saw him do it.”

“When did he do it?”

“Last evening.”

By the time Harry, who had been struck dumb by the suddenness of the accusation, and the evident malice of Jack, recovered himself, and said boldly:—

“Captain Brandon, that is a lie, and Jack Rodman knows it is. I know nothing of the figure, and had nothing to do with it.”

“I saw you do it,” said Jack, with a malicious grin.

“I have no doubt he did it,” said the captain, furiously. “Strip him, and well give him a taste of the lash.”

CHAPTER XXI.
AN UNEXPECTED VICTORY.

The captain’s order was a general one and addressed to no one in particular. The sailors stood still, therefore, till the captain exclaimed again, stamping fiercely:—

“Seize him, I say, and strip him.”

With a grin of enjoyment Jack Rodman started forward, and prepared to obey the captain’s command. He expected to be supported by others of the crew, but found himself alone. Still he was taller and stouter than Harry, and felt confident of an easy victory over him.

When our hero saw him approach, he said, in a cool, collected manner, by no means intimidated by the prospect of a conflict with his superior in size:—

“Stand off, Jack Rodman, if you know what’s good for yourself!”

“What can you do?” sneered Jack; and he gave a glance at the captain for encouragement.

“Give him a thrashing!” said the captain, anticipating with pleasure the utter discomfiture of Harry, who, so far as appearances went, was decidedly the weaker of the two. But appearances are sometimes deceitful, and Jack Rodman would not have been by any means so confident of an easy victory, had he been aware that our hero, as previously stated, was no mean proficient in the art of self-defence, having been initiated in the science of boxing by a young man from New York, who spent a summer in Vernon.

“A ring! a ring!” shouted the sailors. “Let ’em have it out!”

No opposition being made by the officers, the crew at once formed a ring round the two combatants. A few of the more generous sympathized with the “little one,” as they called Harry; but with the majority there was no particular sentiment, except a desire to see the fight, with no preference for either party. Prominent in the ring was Tom Patch, Harry’s friend. His honest, bronzed face was shadowed by anxiety, for he, like the rest, had no doubt that Harry would get whipped. He longed to have a part in the fray, and take his side by his young friend; but that, of course, could not be allowed.

“It’s a shame,” he muttered. “It aint a fair match. Jack’s twenty pounds heavier than the little one.”

“Let ’em fight it out! Who cares which gets whipped?” said the next sailor.

“I do,” said Tom. “The little fellow’s a good one, and I don’t believe he made the figger.”

“Silence, men!” exclaimed the captain, in an authoritative voice. “Pitch into him, boy, and mind you give him a sound flogging, or you’ll get one yourself.”

Jack did not need to be urged on. He had an unreasoning and unreasonable hatred to our hero, whom he instinctively felt to be his superior in every way but one, though he did not choose to acknowledge it, that was in physical strength, in which he felt confident that he excelled Harry. He accordingly advanced in a blustering way, confident of an easy victory, swinging his fists in an unscientific way.

Harry awaited his approach calmly, quietly putting himself in the proper attitude of defence. With his fists doubled up, prepared for action, and one foot advanced before the other, he stood, watching warily the demonstrations of his antagonist. Jack did not comprehend the meaning of this preparation, and continued to advance with rash confidence in his own prowess. He made a fierce lunge at our hero, not taking care to protect himself against assault. The consequence was, that while Harry parried the blow with one hand, with the other he planted a smart return blow in Rodman’s face, which, striking his nose, drew blood.

There was a shout of applause, mingled with surprise, at this unexpected turning of the tables.

“Good for you!” “I bet on the little one!” “He’s got pluck!” was heard from the sailors.

Perhaps the most astonished person on deck was Jack Rodman himself. Evidently he had made some mistake in his calculations. He had gone in for an easy victory, and expected that his first blow would prove a crusher. But, instead of this, his own nose was bleeding, and his small antagonist stood facing him, as cool and composed as if, instead of being an actor in the contest, he had only been an indifferent spectator.

How did it all happen? That was what puzzled Jack. He took a fresh look at Harry, to make sure that he was right in his first impression, as to his inferior size and strength.

“Give it to him, Jack! Don’t let him get the best of you!” called out a backer.

“No, I won’t,” growled Jack. “I’ll chaw him up.”

Our hero listened to this threat without being discomposed. He had made a critical survey of his antagonist, and formed an estimate of his ability. He saw that Jack was his superior in strength, and if they should come to a close contest that he would get the worst of it. But he saw also that of scientific fighting Jack knew nothing. His course was to keep him at arm’s length, and conduct the contest on scientific principles.

Jack rushed in again with the same headlong precipitation as before, and his reception was about the same as before. This time our hero planted a blow in his left eye, which caused Jack to stagger back with a howl of dismay and rage. By this time his blood was up, and he was driven on by a kind of blind fury, aggravated by the mortification he experienced at being worsted by a smaller boy in presence of the ship’s crew. His reputation was at stake. He knew that if he retired from the contest defeated, he would never hear the last of it. A coward and a bully by nature, he never would have made the first attack, had he anticipated that Harry would prove so powerful an antagonist; but now he was in for it his blood was up, and he determined, as the boys say, “to go in and win.”

He made another furious dash, and tried hard to seize Harry around the middle, when he would have found it an easy task, in consequence of his superior strength, to throw him down, and take vengeance upon him for the personal damages he had already received. But our hero understood very well his purpose, and braced himself for what he instinctively felt would be the final contest. He eluded the grasp of his furious adversary, and planted two blows quick as lightning, one in his breast, the other in his face. While Jack was staggering under them, he gathered up his strength, and put it all into one final blow, which finished the work effectually. Jack fell on deck heavily, and so bewildered was he that he lay there motionless, and did not at first attempt to rise.

This quite turned the tide in favor of our hero. Sailors admire pluck, especially when it is shown by a little fellow contending against odds. There was a chorus of approving exclamations, expressed in the characteristic sailor dialect, and Harry, standing in the centre of the ring, his face flushed with the excitement of the contest, was transformed in the eyes of all into a hero. The most delighted of all was Tom Patch, who swung his hat, and called out for three cheers for the victor. The result was the more gratifying to him, because wholly unexpected. The supercargo, also, standing aloof from the ring, had witnessed the contest, and his sympathies also had been with our hero, for he had already formed an opinion far from favorable of Jack Rodman, whom he had another reason for not liking.

But there was one to whom the result of the contest was in the highest degree unsatisfactory. This was Captain Brandon. He had been far from anticipating such a denouement, and a frown gathered on his face.

“Get up, and try it again!” he said to Jack.

But Jack Rodman had had enough of it. The last five minutes had enlightened him considerably on the subject of Harry’s prowess, and he did not care to trust himself again in his hands. Besides, his nose was damaged, and his eye swollen, and he felt decidedly worse for the exercise he had just taken. Accordingly he intimated that he did not feel very well, and positively refused to renew the fight.

“All right!” growled Captain Brandon. “I’ve got an account to settle with the boy myself. He may not get off so easily out of my hands. Men, go back to your work.”

At the captain’s word of command the ring was broken, and the sailors returned to the duties which had been interrupted by the contest that has just been described.

“Now, you young rascal,” said Captain Brandon, menacingly, “what did you mean by that —— picture?” filling up the blank with an oath, with which I do not choose to soil this page.

“I have already told you, Captain Brandon,” said Harry, firmly, “that I had nothing to do with the drawing.”

“It’s a lie!” said the captain, hoarsely.

“It’s the truth,” repeated Harry, glancing composedly at the face of Captain Brandon, distorted with rage.

“Do you dare to contradict me?” exclaimed the captain, furiously.

“I contradict no one,” said Harry. “I only say that I had nothing to do with that picture. I did not see it till this morning, a short time before you charged me with it.”

“Your lie shan’t save you!” exclaimed Captain Brandon. “I’ll take you in hand myself, and we’ll see who’ll come off best.”

Harry turned pale. He knew that he was no match for a grown man, and he saw that in the present state of the captain’s temper he was likely to suffer severely. That he should dread the treatment he was likely to receive was only natural, but he showed no outward fear, save in the paleness of his cheeks. He stood manfully, with his lips compressed, waiting for the attack. But help came to him from an unexpected quarter.

“Stop one moment, Captain Brandon!” said the supercargo, and there was a tone of authority in the young man’s voice.

The captain turned.

“Mr. Weldon,” he said, “this is no affair of yours I will thank you to attend to your own business.”

“Captain Brandon, you are about to punish this boy for nothing.”

“Do you call that nothing?” asked the captain, indicating the caricature.

“He had no hand in it.”

“So he says.”

“He tells the truth.”

“Perhaps you can tell me who drew it, then?” sneered the captain.

“I can.”

For one moment the captain thought that the supercargo might himself have been implicated; but he saw that this was absurd.

“Who did it, then?”

“The boy he was fighting with,—Jack Rodman.”

“Are you sure of this?” demanded the captain, in amazement.

“Yes; I saw him myself engaged upon it last evening. I would not have betrayed him, had he not tried to implicate an innocent party.”

Captain Brandon knew not what to think. He could not doubt the supercargo’s word after this positive statement, nor could he proceed to punish Harry for a fault which, as it appeared, he had not committed. Yet, strange as it may appear, he felt more incensed against Harry, who was proved to be innocent, than against Jack Rodman, whom he knew to be guilty. He could not help wishing that he had not been told the truth of the matter until he had inflicted punishment upon our hero.

In return for the supercargo’s explanation, he did not reply a word, but, turning on his heel, descended the companion-way to the cabin, where he kept himself for the next two or three hours. After he had left the deck, Harry went up to the supercargo, and in a frank way said:—

“I cannot tell you, Mr. Weldon, how much I am obliged to you for coming to my defence.”

“I told you I would stand your friend when you stood in need of one.” said the young man, kindly. “I am thankful that I was able to do it so effectually.”

He took Harry’s hand and pressed it warmly. Our young hero felt, with a thrill of thankfulness, that he had at least one good friend on board the Sea Eagle; two, in fact, for Tom Patch he knew would stand by him through thick and thin.

CHAPTER XXII.
IN SUSPENSE.

We must now go back to Vernon, and inquire how Mrs. Raymond is getting on, while Harry is each day drifting further and further away from home.

Harry’s first and only letter from the city has already been given. It brought comfort and a degree of hopefulness to his mother. She felt that she could bear her solitude better if Harry was doing well. A few years, and they might be together again, as he anticipated; perhaps living in New York. In the mean time, he must come home once a month at least. Then his letters would, no doubt, be frequent.

Two days passed, however, and no letter. She began to get anxious, but reflected that Harry probably had a great deal to do. Still it was not like him to neglect her. He was too thoughtful and considerate a boy for that.

Two days more passed, and still no letter. Mrs. Raymond now become very anxious. She had about made up her mind to go up to the city herself, though she could ill spare the money needful for the trip, when she met Squire Turner in the street, on the way home from the post-office.

“Good-morning, Mrs. Raymond,” he said, graciously: “what do you hear from Harry? I am told he has gone to the city to seek his fortune.”

Mrs. Raymond was glad to have some one to whom she could impart her anxiety.

“I am feeling very anxious about him,” she said. “I received a letter from Harry four days ago, just after he reached New York, and I have heard nothing since.”

“No doubt he is very busy,” said the squire.

“He would not be too busy to write me a few lines. He would know that I should feel anxious,” said Mrs. Raymond.

“Don’t feel troubled, Mrs. Raymond. I know how it is with boys. They dislike writing letters. It was the way with me when I was a boy.”

She shook her head.

“It isn’t the way with Harry,” she said. “He knows too well how lonely I am without him, and how much I depend upon hearing from him.”

“Perhaps he has written, and the letter has miscarried. Letters often do. I have it happen frequently.”

“It may be,” said Mrs. Raymond, with momentary relief. “I wish I was sure of it. He is my only boy, Squire Turner. If anything should happen to him, it would break my heart.”

Knowing full well the wicked plot he had contrived against this poor woman’s peace and happiness, Squire Turner felt a momentary thrill of compunction at what he had done. But his innate selfishness soon conquered this feeling. He had too many reasons for wishing Harry away, to sympathize with his mother.

“Very likely you’ll get a letter to-night,” he said.

“If not, I shall go to the city to-morrow morning,” said Mrs. Raymond. “I am afraid something has happened to Harry.”

Here was a chance for Squire Turner to make what would be regarded as a friendly offer.

“Mrs. Raymond,” he said, “it will be quite an undertaking for you to go to the city, not to mention the expense, which will, of course, be a consideration with you. I was thinking of going there myself one day next week, but as you are feeling anxious about Harry, I will change my plans, and go to-morrow. I will hunt up your son, and bring you home full particulars about him. I don’t think, however, you need to feel anxious.”

“O Squire Turner, will you, indeed?” said the poor woman, gratefully. “You are very kind, and I shall feel it as a great favor.”

“Certainly; it will give me great pleasure to oblige you. If you have anything to send him, I will carry it with pleasure.”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I will ask you to carry a pair of stockings I have just footed for him. And will you tell him to be sure to change his stockings if he gets his feet wet?”

“I will, with pleasure, carry any message. But why not write a note and send by me?”

“I think I will, if you will be so kind as to carry it.”

“Oh, don’t mention it! I hope, Mrs. Raymond you will regard me as a near friend. If you will write the letter in the course of the day, I will send James round after supper to get it.”

“I am afraid it will be too much trouble for your son.”

“Not at all, not at all,” said Squire Turner, cordially.

Mrs. Raymond parted from the squire, feeling more favorably disposed towards him than ever before. To confess the truth, he had never been much of a favorite of hers. His cold, disagreeable manners, and his general reputation as a hard, close-fisted man, had repelled not only her, but people generally. But now he seemed wonderfully thawed out. He was actually genial and cordial, and the manner in which he had entered into her feelings about Harry, and his kind offer to go to the city on a day he had not intended, produced a strong impression upon her mind.

“I didn’t think Squire Turner could be so kind,” she said to herself. “I have done him injustice. He has a good heart, after all.”

“James,” said Squire Turner, at the supper-table that evening, “I want you to go over to Mrs. Raymond’s, directly after supper.”

“What for?” asked James.

“I am going to New York to-morrow morning, and have agreed to carry a letter and small parcel to her son Harry.”

James turned up his nose.

“Why don’t she come to the house, and bring it, then?” he asked.

“I promised to send you.”

“I don’t want to be Mrs. Raymond’s errand-boy. Harry Raymond is a low upstart, and I shouldn’t think you would be willing to carry bundles for him.”

“That is my business,” said Squire Turner, who, but for private reasons, might have shared his son’s objections.

“I’ve got a headache,” said James. “I don’t feel like going out.”

His father understood very well that this was not true. Still he had always been in the habit of humoring James in his whims, and now, instead of exerting his rightful authority as a parent to secure obedience, he condescended to conciliate him.

“If you have a headache,” he said, “the fresh air may do you good. Go as quick as you can, and when you come back I will give you a dollar.”

This argument, addressed to his son’s selfishness, prevailed. James had seen at the village store a new fishing-pole, which he desired to buy, and with the promised reward he could do so.

“Can’t you give me the money now?” he asked. “There’s something I want to buy at the store, on the way.”

“You’ll have to go there after you return,” said the squire, who at once saw that this was the best way of securing a prompt return.

James took his cap and started for the cottage of the Widow Raymond.

“The old man’s getting mighty obliging,” he muttered to himself, meaning, of course, his father, by the not very respectable term used. “I should be too proud, if I were he, to carry bundles to that pauper, Harry Raymond. Anyhow, I get a dollar by the operation, and that’s something.”

Arrived at the cottage, James knocked sharply at the outer door. It was opened almost immediately by Mrs. Raymond herself.

“Good-evening, James,” she said, courteously. “Won’t you walk in?”

“Can’t stop,” said James. “I’m in a great hurry. Have you got that note ready you wanted to send to the city?”

“I’ll get it in a moment. But you had better step in.”

“No, I can’t,” said James, not taking the trouble to acknowledge the invitation. “I am in a great hurry.”

Mrs. Raymond went back into her sitting-room, and speedily reappeared with the note and the pair of stockings wrapped in a brown paper.

“I am sorry to trouble you with this parcel,” she said. “Your father was so kind as to offer to carry it.”

“Umph!” muttered James, ungraciously.

“I am much obliged to him, and to you also for your trouble in coming around for it.”

James did not deign a reply, but, turning his back, marched off, feeling that he would rather have carried a bundle for any one than for Harry Raymond. If he could have known that at this very moment the boy whom he hated so intensely was speeding away from America, doing the duties of a sailor-boy, he would have felt compensated for the disagreeable nature of the favor he was so unwillingly doing.

Squire Turner went to the city the next day, as he proposed. He went round to the office in Nassau Street, temporarily occupied by Lemuel Fairchild, the address having been communicated to him by Mrs. Raymond, though this was hardly necessary, as Hartley Brandon had apprised him by letter of the details of the plot which they had mutually arranged. Of course he found it locked, and the tenant gone. The great commission house of Fairchild & Co. had mysteriously disappeared. In order to have something to report, he called at the next room.

“Can you tell me,” he asked, “whether Mr. Fairchild still occupies the adjoining room?”

“No,” was the reply; “he only occupied it for a week, and then left. I understand that he left without paying his rent.”

“Indeed!” said Squire Turner; “that surprises me. I understood that he was at the head of a large and responsible business house.”

The other laughed.

“If you had seen him, you would soon have corrected your mistake. He was a seedy adventurer. I don’t believe he was worth twenty-five dollars in the world.”

“Indeed!” repeated the squire; “I am concerned to hear this. The fact is, the son of one of my neighbors—a widow—came to the city to enter his employ. One letter has been received from him, but no other. His mother is feeling very anxious. How long since they vacated the room?”

“I have not seen him for four or five days.”

“Did you see anything of the boy?”

“Yes; I saw a boy here last Monday, and on Tuesday morning, but not since. Fairchild was here for a few minutes in the afternoon; but he, too, has been absent from that time.”

“Really this looks suspicious. What would you advise me to do?” asked Squire Turner, with an appearance of concern.

“Lay the matter before the police authorities. Most likely this Fairchild is a swindler, and they may know something about him. I know of nothing else to advise.”

“Thank you. I believe I will follow your advice. Good-morning.”

“Good-morning, sir.”

Squire Turner decided in reality to follow his recommendation. Nothing was better adapted to clear him personally of any suspicions of having had a hand in Harry’s abduction, in the improbable contingency of such suspicion being aroused. Besides this, he was founding a claim to Mrs. Raymond’s gratitude, which might lead her hereafter to regard his suit with favor, in case he should find it politic to seek her in marriage. He accordingly called at the police head-quarters, and laid the case before the authorities, taking care, however, not to be explicit, as he had no wish to have Fairchild actually arrested.

He also called at the office of a morning paper, and, obtaining copies for the last three or four days, read, with satisfaction, the record of the Sea Eagle’s sailing.

“Now,” he thought to himself, “the field is clear, and I can carry out my plans without interruption.”

CHAPTER XXIII.
SEEKING FOR HARRY.

Squire Turner arrived in Vernon in time for a late supper. After partaking of it, he took his hat and cane, and walked round to Mrs. Raymond’s cottage. Seeing him from the window, she hastened to open the door, and gazed with a look of anxious inquiry into his face.

“Did you see Harry?” she asked quickly, forgetting in her anxiety for her son even to bid the squire good-evening.

“No, Mrs. Raymond; but I will come in and tell you all about it.”

His face was grave, and his voice was sympathetic. The poor woman, her heart full of a terrible anxiety, haunted by undefined fears, led the way into the plain sitting-room, and then said, in a voice of entreaty, “Tell me quick, Squire Turner, has anything happened to my boy?”

“Let us hope not, Mrs. Raymond. I assure you I know of no harm that has come to him, but—I could not find him.”

“You forgot the number?” she inquired, eagerly.

“No, I remembered the number. Besides, it was on your letter and bundle. But I find that Mr. Fairchild has moved from his office on Nassau Street.”

“Has moved—where?”

“That I could not learn. It seems that the office was closed the day after your son’s arrival in New York, that is, on Tuesday. I made inquiry of the occupant of the next office, but that was all he could tell me, except that he believed Mr. Fairchild had gone away without paying his rent.”

Mrs. Raymond looked surprised.

“I don’t understand it,” she said. “Harry wrote that he was doing a large business. I thought the firm was one of the largest in New York.”

“Let us hope that the information I received was incorrect,” said the squire. “We will suppose that Mr. Fairchild found it necessary to move, on account of the demands of an extensive business. The office on Nassau Street was a small one, and I should hardly suppose it would be adequate to his wants.”

“But Harry said nothing about moving. Besides, if they did move, I should think he would have written me since.”

“There is something in what you say,” the squire answered. “In fact, I confess the affair has puzzled me. It is possible, however, as I suggested the other day, that he may have written, and the letter miscarried.”

“Do you think anything has happened to Harry, Squire Turner?” asked Mrs. Raymond.

“I hope not.”

“But you think it possible?”

“I don’t know what could have happened.”

“But it seems suspicious, Mr. Fairchild’s moving away so quickly.”

“Yes, that does look suspicions,” admitted the squire. “In fact, I thought it best to lay the matter before the police authorities, so that if there is anything wrong they may ferret it out.”

“Oh, I wish that Harry had never gone to the city!” murmured Mrs. Raymond, sorrowfully. “I was not in favor of it from the first. I tried to have him stay at home, but he was possessed to go to the city.”

“It is natural, Mrs. Raymond, that a spirited boy should get tired of a small village like Vernon, and want to enter a larger field. It may turn out all right. Don’t decide too hastily that anything has happened to him.”

“I shall not sleep any to-night. Squire Turner, I think I must go to the city to-morrow.”

“I would not advise you to do so, Mrs. Raymond. You could do no good there. I have placed the matter in the hands of the police authorities, and whatever there is to be found out they will ascertain and communicate to me.”

“But it seems so hard to wait in suspense.”

“That is true. I will tell you what I will do. I know your anxiety, and if nothing should be heard before next Tuesday, I will go to the city again, and make what additional inquiries I can.”

“Thank you, Squire Turner. You are truly kind. How can I ever repay you for your great kindness?”

“Don’t mention it, Mrs. Raymond. I know you have no one to look out for you now, and it is a pleasure to me to feel that I am able to be of service.”

The squire took his leave, pressing Mrs. Raymond’s hand gently, to indicate the sympathy which he felt for her.

“I believe I played my part pretty well,” he said to himself, as he went out. “She will never suspect that I had anything to do with the abduction of her son. When the affair has blown over a little, I will go to Milwaukie, and see Robinson about the land warrant, and its probable value. If the affair can be compromised, so as to bring Mrs. Raymond ten thousand dollars, I will offer myself. That will be a pretty addition to my property. Besides, when her son gets home, and finds that I am his mother’s husband, his mouth will be shut about that confounded fire. Maybe, he will fall overboard, and never come back. If that happens, I shan’t shed many tears. He is an obstinate, impracticable boy, and I shall be rid of him.”

Thus the squire soliloquized.

Meanwhile, three days passed. It was Monday evening. Again he called to see the widow, now, as it appeared, doubly bereft of husband and son.

“Have you had a letter, Mrs. Raymond?” he inquired.

“No,” she answered, sorrowfully. “I hoped you might have heard something.”

The squire shook his head.

“I wish I had any such news to give you,” he said; “but I have heard nothing whatever.”

“I am sure Harry is dead,” said the poor mother, bursting into tears.

“No, no, I am sure he is not,” said the squire, soothingly. “There are twenty ways of accounting for his silence, before adopting such an extreme view as this.”

“I have hardly closed my eyes in sleep for the last three nights,” said Mrs. Raymond; and her pale face and swollen eyes testified to the literal correctness of what she said.

“Don’t worry too much,” said the squire. “We shall hear of Harry yet. To-morrow I will go to the city again. If it will be any satisfaction to you, I will invite you to accompany me.”

“I will go,” said the poor mother. “It will be better than staying at home. I shall feel that I am doing something to find my lost Harry. You are very kind to invite me.”

“Don’t mention it,” said the squire. “I will call round in the morning, and carry you to the depot in my carriage.”

“I will be ready.”

The next day, therefore, Squire Turner, accompanied by Mrs. Raymond, went to New York. They went round to the office in Nassau Street, but, as may be expected, learned nothing in addition to the facts previously gathered. Next, they went to the office of the Superintendent of Police, but learned nothing definite beyond this, that Lemuel Fairchild, instead of being a responsible business-man, was a needy adventurer. He had disappeared from the city, and thus far the police had been unable to trace him. What intention he could have had in pretending to be a commission merchant, and, above all, what could have induced him to send for Harry, was a mystery which it seemed difficult to explain. The superintendent promised to pursue his inquiries, and to endeavor to obtain information concerning Harry and his employer,—both of whom had strangely disappeared. With this they were obliged to be content, unsatisfactory as it was.

With a heavy heart Mrs. Raymond made her homeward journey. Thus far she had thought only of the personal grief she had suffered in the loss of Harry. But another consideration very soon forced itself upon her mind. In losing Harry, she had lost her main support. How was she to sustain herself and little Katy? Already the small amount of ready money which her husband had left behind him was exhausted, and as yet she knew of no way of earning more. It was Squire Turner who first opened the subject to her.

“I have no doubt,” he said, “that Harry will return after a while, and explain his absence in a satisfactory manner. But, meanwhile, you will, of course, suffer inconvenience from the loss of his wages. Have you thought of any plan?”

“No,” she answered, wearily. “I have no pleasure in living, now that my husband and son are gone.”

“You must live for the sake of little Katy, and for the sake of Harry, who will return some day.”

“Yes, Katy will need me; Harry I shall never see again.”

“You think so now; but I am sure he will return. I have taken the liberty to form a plan for you, supposing that you were too much occupied by your grief to form any for yourself.”

“You are very kind, Squire Turner.”

“I will advance you a hundred dollars, which can be added to the mortgage I hold on your place. With a part of it you can buy a sewing-machine, and take in work. I am needing a dozen shirts made, if you will undertake them.”

Mrs. Raymond felt that this was a kind and wise plan, and so expressed herself. Accordingly, the sewing-machine was bought, and it was understood that Mrs. Raymond was ready to take in sewing. She obtained considerable employment, but not enough to pay all her expenses. Every month she found herself going behindhand, and getting more and more into debt to Squire Turner.

But we must leave her now, and follow the fortunes of our young hero.

CHAPTER XXIV.
SQUIRE TURNER’S LETTER.

The affair of the caricature was suffered to pass without the punishment of the guilty party. Had not Harry found some one to clear him of the charge, he would have fared badly from the captain’s brutality, increased by his unfounded dislike. But in Jack Rodman the offence was passed over. Probably the captain suspected that the caricature had been drawn with the object of getting our hero into trouble, and that no insult was intended to himself.

It became evident to all on board that Harry was an object of dislike to the captain. Brandon never spoke to him except in a rough voice and with lowering looks, and would gladly have shown his dislike actively, but for the restraining presence of Mr. Weldon, the supercargo, whose interest in our hero daily grew stronger.

As for Harry, he did his duty faithfully, as he had determined. His position was not to his liking, and he meant to escape from it whenever an opportunity offered; but, until that time came, he thought it best to give the captain no cause of complaint. He often wondered whether Captain Brandon had invited him on board with the intention of carrying him off to sea. On this point he could not satisfy himself; for, though it certainly looked like it, he could conceive of no motive which Brandon could have for so acting. He was, as he supposed, a total stranger to him until the day before the vessel sailed. He concluded, therefore, that his detention was only accidental, but that the captain did not feel sufficient interest in him to send him on shore in time.

But a short time afterwards he made a discovery which threw a new and perplexing light upon his abduction. He was sent down into the cabin one day on an errand. While there, he saw an open letter lying upon the floor. Picking it up, with the intention of placing it on the table, he happened to see his own name about the middle of the page. In his surprise he let his eye travel over the remainder of the letter. A light flashed upon him as he read, and, commencing at the beginning, he made himself acquainted with the whole letter. Then, because he did not dare to stay longer, he hurriedly thrust it into his pocket and went on deck.

That we may understand how far Harry was enlightened by its perusal, the letter is subjoined:—

This was the whole of the letter. It was not signed, from motives of prudence, no doubt, for otherwise Squire Turner would have placed himself in the power of Brandon. But Harry was not for a moment in doubt as to the name of the writer. He was familiar with the squire’s handwriting, if there had not been internal evidence to show that it was written by him.

But the discovery was far from clearing up the mystery. Why should Squire Turner enter into a plot to kidnap him? Was it because Harry had been a witness of the fire, and by his testimony could prevent the squire from receiving his insurance money? This was possible. At any rate Harry could think of nothing else. Had he understood the further motives which prompted Squire Turner’s action, he would have felt still more anxious than at present. Now he felt an eager wish to be at home, and confront the squire with the evidence he had obtained, as well as to prevent his obtaining money from the insurance company on false pretences, as he felt persuaded that he intended to do.

Our hero resolved to keep the letter he had accidentally discovered. It was not his, but its connection with him justified him, he thought, in retaining it. As he might be suspected of having it, he hid it away, not wishing to have it found upon him in the event of a search. But Captain Brandon did not appear to miss it. At any rate, he made no inquiry after it, and very probably supposed that it was still in his possession.

Harry deliberated whether he should impart to any one the information he had obtained. Tom Patch was an honest fellow and a good friend, but he was an illiterate sailor, and, though he could give sympathy, his advice would be of little service. Mr. Weldon, on the other hand, had not only shown himself a friend, but he was a gentleman of education and judgment. Harry felt that he would be a safe counsellor. Accordingly, one day when a good opportunity offered, he related to the supercargo the discovery he had made, with enough of his home life to make the account intelligible.

The young man listened in surprise.

“This is a strange story, Harry,” he said.

“Yes, sir, it is strange,” said our hero. “I could not have believed that Squire Turner would have treated me so meanly.”

“Your having seen him set fire to his house makes it less strange. He could not draw the insurance money if you chose to interfere.”

“I should have interfered,” said Harry, promptly.

“You would have been right in doing so. It appears, then, that he was interested to the amount of two thousand dollars in getting you out of the way.”

“Yes, sir,” said our hero; “but there is one thing I can’t understand.”

“What is it?”

“He must have known that I would come back from the voyage, and that I should learn whether he had drawn the money. It would not be too late then to expose him.”

“That is true,” said the young man, thoughtfully.

“Perhaps,” he said, after a little thought, fixing his eyes seriously upon Harry, “he does not expect you to come back at all.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Weldon?”

“I mean this; he has already shown himself capable of one crime—he may be capable of another. Evidently he has some secret understanding with the captain, and he may have given him secret instructions, of which we are not aware.”

“You don’t think he would take my life?” said Harry, his brown cheek turning a little pale at the thought.

“I hope not. He might, however, leave you by design on some lonely island in the sea. At any rate, it will be necessary to be on your guard. I am very glad you have told me what you have found out. I will also be on the lookout, and if I find any danger menacing you I will let you know.”

“Thank you, Mr. Weldon,” said Harry, gratefully; “I am very glad to have so good a friend.”

“You may depend on my friendship with confidence,” said the supercargo, taking the boy’s hand kindly. “I feel an interest in you, and no harm shall come to you if I can help it.”

The suggestion of Mr. Weldon that possibly Squire Turner did not expect him to return was a startling one to our hero. He had lamented his necessary absence for a year or more from home, and oftentimes pictured to himself with pain the grief of his mother when she learned of his mysterious disappearance. He was afraid that she would suffer from narrow means while he was away. Still he knew that she could raise money on the house by a further mortgage, enough probably to carry her through two years, even if she did not earn anything during this period. It would be a great pity to have her little property so sacrificed; but Harry was hopeful, and meant when he returned to make up to her for her losses. He would be home in eighteen months, as he judged from inquiries made of the sailors; at any rate in less than two years, and this thought had sustained him in his temporary separation. But now for the first time the thought came to him that he might be prevented from returning at all. Suppose it should prove true, as the supercargo suggested, that Captain Brandon should leave him on some lonely island in the ocean, there to starve, or to drag out a solitary and wretched existence, perhaps for years? This was terrible to think of, yet he had heard and read of such cases. He resolved not to be persuaded to land anywhere, except at the termination of the voyage, and thus avoid danger.

But, as often happens, the danger assumed a different shape from what he anticipated. To explain the evil which befell him, it is necessary to say that Jack Rodman had not forgiven our hero for the signal and public manner in which he had defeated him in the contest already recorded. He cherished a malignant hatred against Harry, and longed to do him some harm. He was bound to get even with him, so he said to himself. It was some time before an opportunity presented itself. But at length one came.

Harry was leaning over the side one evening, thinking over his position, when Jack Rodman’s attention was drawn to him. He looked around him hurriedly. Nobody was looking. A terrible impulse seized him. He crept stealthily behind Harry, lifted him from his feet, and in an instant threw him into the sea.

“Help!” exclaimed Harry, in loud, clear tones.

Tom Patch heard, and recognized the voice. Instantly he threw a plank overboard, calling out:—

“Keep up, my lad, and we’ll help you.”

The captain was just coming out of the cabin. Tom ran up to him, and hurriedly announced that Harry had fallen overboard.

“If he’s careless enough to fall overboard, let him take care of himself,” said the captain, coolly.

“Won’t you put out a boat?” asked Tom, anxiously.

The only answer was an oath, and a savage command to go about his business.

All the while valuable time was being lost. Harry was by this time some distance astern. He had succeeded in reaching the plank, and was clinging to it.

“Poor lad!” said Tom Patch, brushing a tear from his eyes with his large and horny hand, and he breathed an anathema against the captain, which I cannot record. “He’s bound for Davy Jones’s locker, as sure as my name’s Tom.”

There seemed little chance for our hero. With nothing but a plank between him and immediate destruction, alone in the vast ocean, without a particle of food or drink to sustain him, the question of “sink or swim” seemed little in doubt.

CHAPTER XXV.
THE CAPTAIN AND THE SUPERCARGO.

When Harry was so treacherously thrown overboard by Jack Rodman, the supercargo was not on deck. He had been attacked by a violent headache, which had caused him to go below and “turn in,” in the hope of obtaining a little sleep. In this he at length succeeded, and when Harry’s life was placed in jeopardy he was fast asleep. He did not wake up for an hour or more. Feeling refreshed he got up and went on deck. He looked round as usual for Harry, but did not see him. His attention, however, was drawn to Tom Patch, who, good, honest fellow, every now and then raised his rough hand to his eyes to brush away a tear.

“What’s the matter, Tom?” asked the supercargo, for he had observed the rough sailor’s partiality for Harry, and this had inclined him favorably towards him.

“Is it you, Mr. Weldon?” said Tom, in a subdued tone. “I wish you’d been on deck an hour ago.”

“Why?”

“Mayhaps you could have saved the poor lad.”

“Saved whom?” asked the supercargo, suspecting at once that some harm had befallen Harry, but not dreaming of the extent of his misfortune.

“He fell overboard, or was thrown over, I can’t justly say which.”

“Whom do you mean?”

“Harry Raymond.”

“Good heavens! How long since?”

“An hour and a half, maybe.”

“And was nothing done to save him?”

“I threw a plank when I heard him cry for help.”

“And where was the captain when this happened?” asked Weldon, suspiciously.

“In his cabin. I went down to tell him, and ask to have a boat lowered to save the poor lad; but he swore that if he was careless enough to fall overboard he must save himself.”

The supercargo was not an excitable man, but rather mild and pacific in his disposition; but when he heard of the cold-blooded manner in which Captain Brandon had refused help to the drowning boy, he was filled with a just indignation, which he was unable to conceal.

“Where is Captain Brandon?” he asked, in a quick, stern voice, so unusual to him that Tom looked up in surprise.

“In his cabin, Mr. Weldon. He gave orders that he should not be disturbed.”

“That, for his orders!” returned the supercargo, snapping his fingers contemptuously. “He shall be disturbed, and he shall answer to me for his atrocious inhumanity!” And Mr. Weldon hurried to the rear of the companion-way.

“I didn’t think he had so much spirit,” said Tom, as he followed with his glance the retreating form of the supercargo, “he’s so mild-like, commonly. But I’m glad the poor lad’s got some one that’ll dare to speak up for him. I’d do it, but the captain’d knock me down with a marlin-spike, and put me in irons, likely, if I did.”

The captain’s attention was drawn to a quick, imperative knock at the door of the cabin.

“Go away!” he growled. “I do not wish to be disturbed.”

The only answer was a succession of knocks still louder and more imperative.

“I’ll fix him for his insolence, whoever he is,” the captain muttered, angrily, and, walking to the cabin door, opened it himself.

“What do you mean, Mr. Weldon?” he demanded, in surprise and anger.

The young man’s face was white with anger, and there was a suppressed fury in his tone, as he replied, “I come here, Captain Brandon, to demand why you have sacrificed a human life, by refusing to make any effort to save the boy Harry Raymond.”

“I am not responsible to you for what I do or decline to do, Mr. Weldon,” said Brandon, fiercely. “It is none of your business.”

“It is my business, Captain Brandon, and the business of every man on board who has a spark of humanity in his bosom.”

“You are insolent, sir.”

“Is this a time to choose words? You have suffered that poor boy to perish when you might have saved him, and in the eyes of Heaven you are responsible for his murder.”

“Murder!”

Hartley Brandon was not a brave man. He was disposed to bully and threaten, when he thought he could do it with safety; but when he was opposed in an intrepid and fearless manner, his tone became milder and he lowered his pretensions. So, in the present case, it startled him to be told that, in failing to take means for the rescue of Harry, he had been accessory to a murder, and he began to have undefined apprehensions of the possible consequences of his neglect. He thought it best to exculpate himself.

“Walk in, Mr. Weldon, and sit down,” he said. “We will talk this matter over. You don’t understand all the circumstances.”

“I hope I do not, Captain Brandon,” said the young man, gravely. “I do not wish to think so ill of you as I fear I must.”

“The boy carelessly fell overboard,” commenced the captain.

“Are you sure he fell?” asked the supercargo, significantly.

“Of course he fell. How else could it be? I don’t understand you.”

“It seems strange that he should be so careless.”

“That’s the way of it. He didn’t deserve to be helped. Can I be expected to stop my ship every time a careless boy takes a notion to fall overboard?”

“When a human life is in jeopardy, Captain Brandon, our duty is to save it if we can. I don’t envy the man who at such a time can stop to inquire whether the danger is the result of carelessness or not.”

The supercargo spoke sternly, and the captain felt arraigned for his action, and this irritated him.

“I have to think of my ship,” he said.

“In what way would it have injured the ship, if you had lowered the boat for Harry?”

“I cannot afford to lose time.”

“Have you thought how much time the poor boy has lost, whose life is probably a sacrifice to your criminal negligence? A life which, in all probability, would have been prolonged to seventy, has been cut short at fifteen. Fifty-five years lost to save one hour in the voyage of the Sea Eagle!” said Weldon, scornfully.

“I am not responsible to you, Mr. Weldon,” said Brandon, with irritation, “I acted as I thought for the best. I am the captain of this ship, not you.”

“I am aware of that. Captain Brandon. But you could not expect me to stand by and see a human life sacrificed without uttering my earnest protest. Any life would be worth saving,—the life of this bright, manly boy more than most. His death lies at your door.”

“You have said as much before,” said the captain, sulkily. “If you have no more to say, I will trouble you to leave me to myself.”

“I have something more to say,” said the supercargo, regarding the captain fixedly. “I am aware of the manner in which this boy was entrapped on board your vessel. What motive you had in carrying him away from home and friends I do not know. You perhaps know, also,” the young man continued, “whether in leaving him to his sad fate you are not influenced by a similar motive.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Weldon?” demanded the captain, startled by the words and tone of the other.

“I mean this: that in this whole affair there is something which I do not understand,—something that has excited my suspicions. I shall feel it my duty to report all that I know of it to the authorities at the first opportunity.”

Brandon turned pale. He began to see that he had made a mistake, and exposed himself to grave suspicions. It would have been better, as he now perceived, to make a show of rescuing our hero. It would have been easy to secure failure by unnecessary delay. The threat of a legal investigation alarmed him, and he prepared to make an argument by which he might dispel, if possible, the impression which had been created in the mind of the supercargo. But Mr. Weldon rose, and left the cabin hastily. The interview had been a most unsatisfactory one, and had only convinced him of what he feared,—that the captain was, in reality, either glad to be rid of our hero, even by such means, or else indifferent to his fate. He was inclined to believe in the former theory. What he had said of laying the matter before the authorities, he was fully decided upon. Now the vehemence of his indignation gave place to a feeling of the deepest and most poignant sorrow for the loss of the boy who had unconsciously become very dear to him. He thought of his frank, manly bearing, of his pleasant face, of his courtesy and politeness, and the warm and generous heart of which he had shown himself to be possessed, and then of the terrible fate which had so unexpectedly overtaken him, and the tears rose unbidden to his eyes. By this time, doubtless, Harry was beyond human succor, and all that he could do was to drop a tear to his memory. He went up to Tom Patch, towards whom the sailor’s evident grief for our hero’s fate had warmed his heart, and wrung his hand heartily.

“He was a noble boy, and his life has been shamefully sacrificed, Tom,” he said; “but if I live, the man who has done this deed shall be punished.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” said Tom, whose voice was gruff with emotion; “I hope you’ll stick to that. He was a brave lad, and the captain deserves to be pitched after him.”

Mr. Weldon paced the deck till far into the night. Captain Brandon shut himself up in his cabin, and did not show himself till morning. He had made various advances towards the supercargo, whom he evidently desired to conciliate, from prudential intentions; but the young man met him with a freezing formality, which showed him that all hopes in that direction were futile.

So the Sea Eagle sped on its way, till at length it arrived at its destined port.