The young master of Hyson Hall

About ten o’clock the next morning a high, old-fashioned carriage, swung on straps like a stage-coach, and with a little seat near the roof for the driver, was being slowly drawn into Boontown. It had been originally intended for two horses, but on this day only one horse could be spared, and his driver, an elderly colored man, allowed him to jog along at a very easy gait. Inside the coach might be seen a very pretty but a very anxious face, and this belonged to Helen Webster.

The queer old vehicle was the Webster family carriage, and in it Helen was going to see Mr. Welford. She had talked to her mother about Phil’s troubles, and Mrs. Webster became so much interested in the subject, that if she had not had a great many things to attend to at home that she could not very well leave, she would have gone to town to see Mr. Welford herself.

It would have been of no use to speak to Mr. Webster about the matter, because he was a quiet and rather timorous man, who avoided all disputes and dissensions by never taking anybody’s part, and never quarrelling himself. Nothing annoyed him so much as being consulted in regard to trouble between neighbors, and so, in this case, he was not consulted.

After much talking, Mrs. Webster declared that she did not see why Helen could not go and talk to Mr. Welford, because she, her mother, could tell her exactly what she ought to say, and it would be the same thing as if she went there and said it herself.

Helen did not like this plan, for she was afraid of Mr. Welford, but she consented to go, for Phil must certainly be set right, and there seemed to be no one to do it but herself. So off she started this morning in the carriage, her mother having previously spent an hour in telling her exactly what she ought to say.

The nearer she came to town the slower she wished the horse would go. If Mr. Welford’s office had been five miles the other side of Boontown, she would have been very glad. She tried her best to put what her mother had told her in proper order in her mind, but, somehow, the various instructions became strangely jumbled up, the old coach jarred and jolted so much with only one person in it, that when she reached Mr. Welford’s office, she did not feel at all ready to lay her business before him.

At first she thought of telling old William to drive round several blocks, but this she knew would be ridiculous. She hoped Mr. Welford was not in; indeed, she felt quite encouraged when she thought that at this time of day he might probably be out attending to business. But the young man at the table in the front room told her Mr. Welford was in, and she was shown into that gentleman’s private office. Mr. Welford greeted her kindly, but evidently did not recognize her.

“You don’t remember me,” she said, in rather a low voice. “I am Helen Webster.”

“Indeed!” said Mr. Welford. “I didn’t know you. I have not seen you since you were a very little girl.”

Then he shook hands with her, offered her a seat, and asked her questions about her father and mother. After these had been answered, there was a pause, and then Helen thought it was time to state her business, but she could not, for the life of her, remember how her mother had told her to begin.

“I came to talk to you about Philip Berkeley,” she said, after she had remained quiet for a time that to her seemed dreadfully long.

“That boy at Hyson Hall?” asked Mr. Welford, quickly.

“Yes, sir,” said Helen.

Mr. Welford’s face grew very dark.

“Never in all my life,” he said, “did I hear of a boy who gave so much trouble in so short a time as this Philip Berkeley! Scarcely has his uncle left him to himself when he begins a career of horse-racing and general mad-cap behavior, actually taking possession of people’s hats, and hanging them up in grocery stores to be called for; then he comes to me with a likely story of having quarrelled with one of his servants, and needing hundreds of dollars to pay her off and discharge her, and as soon as he finds he can’t get the money he tells me the quarrel is at an end; he then actually attempts to kill a young man staying in his house, and, failing in this, causes his visitor to be dreadfully beaten by one of his associates. I did not intend to say so much about him, but the very thought of the young rascal makes me indignant. And now, what has he been doing to you, or your family? I suspected that it would not be long before we should hear complaints from some of his neighbors.”

Helen sprang to her feet, pushed back her chair, and stood up in front of Mr. Welford. She did not now remember a word her mother had told her to say, nor did she care to. Her eyes sparkled, her face was flushed, and words came to her almost faster than she could utter them.

“Doing to us!” she exclaimed. “He never did anything to us that wasn’t as good and kind as it could be,—and to everybody else, too, for that matter. And that is just what mother sent me to tell you. She would have come herself, but she couldn’t; and she thinks it’s a shame! And we all think it’s a shame that a boy like Philip Berkeley, who is all the time trying to do the best he can, and who has ever so many dreadful things to contend with, should get such a letter as the one you wrote to him. Everything that French boy told you was a falsehood, and he knew it; and all that Phil told you was true about the housekeeper and her money and all. My brother Chap, who is with him all the time, and knows everything he does, has told me all about everything from beginning to end. And he never ran away with anybody’s hat, except by accident.”

And then Helen, who had waxed as warm and eloquent as if she had been her own brother Chap, gave Mr. Welford a detailed account of the actual facts in connection with the matters that had excited his indignation.

She put the cases so clearly and strongly before him, and with such an earnestness and evident interest in the subject, that at last Mr. Welford could not help smiling.

“As far as young Berkeley is concerned,” he said, “it is just as well, perhaps, that your mother did not come, for I don’t believe she would have advocated his cause half so warmly as you have. If what you say is correct——”

“And it is, every word of it,” said Helen. “I wouldn’t come here to tell you things that were not true, sir!”

“Oh, of course!” said Mr. Welford. “I understand that perfectly. I meant to say if you are correctly informed.”

“My own brother told me,” said Helen. “And as to the letter, Phil read that to me himself. There could be no mistake about that.”

“You seem to think my letter the worst part of the whole proceeding,” said Mr. Welford.

“Of course, I do, sir!” said Helen. “And we all do,—that and the French boy’s story.”

“Well,” said Mr. Welford, “you appear to be turning the tables pretty completely. The accounts I received regarding Philip Berkeley were so straightforward, and apparently so well based upon fact, that I could not help believing them, especially when I remembered what I knew about him myself. But, after what you have said, I will carefully investigate each one of these charges, and if I find I have been mistaken I will say so. Will that be satisfactory to you and to your mother, and to the rest of the family?”

“Oh, yes, sir!” said Helen. “And the reason why I came instead of one of the boys was that Phil and Chap are so angry there is no knowing what they would have said. And as to Phœnix Poole, he is so good and quiet, and always behaves so well, that when he does get roused up he is perfectly terrible. That is the way he came to thrash the French boy.”

“I am glad he did not come,” said Mr. Welford. “I would much rather have had you than any of them. And now, good-by! I will give attention to all you have told me.”

As Helen drove away, and thought of all she had said to Mr. Welford, and how she had stood up and talked to that respectable and dignified gentleman, just as if he had been a boy or a girl of her own age, she covered her face with her hands and cried all the way home.

That day was a busy one at Hyson Hall. Early in the morning Joel announced to Phil that the wheat crop was ready to be harvested, and that hands must be engaged for the work. To Phil’s statement that there was no money to pay these hands, Joel simply answered that the crop must be got in, no matter what happened; and, if there was no money, some wheat would have to be threshed out and sold to pay the men. He admitted that this was a poor way of doing business, for wheat would bring a low price at this season, but, then, Mr. Godfrey might be back before the work was done and everything would be all right. It was, therefore, agreed that Joel should start early the next day to look up hands.

Preparations for the harvest occupied Phil and Joel all day. Phœnix was not there, and Chap was left much to himself. He had come to the conclusion that the state of affairs on this place demanded that the man with the black straw hat should come to the front.

To be sure, that individual had requested to be summoned only upon Mr. Godfrey Berkeley’s return; but Chap thought if he could do any good he ought to come now. If he had any plan about getting the treasure out of that wreck, this was the time for him to go to work to do it; or it might be that he could make statements that would enable them to raise money, not only for wrecking purposes, but for the general needs of the estate.

So he took from his pocket the postal-card that the man had given him—which by this time had become pretty well rumpled and a little dirty—and prepared to write a note on it. The card was addressed to “Mr. Alexander Muller, 340 Sixth Avenue, New York.”

Chap had an idea that this message should be something like a telegram,—very compact and to the point,—a message which the person receiving it should understand, and no one else. So, after a good deal of thought and study, he produced the following:

When this was done, Chap took it to town and mailed it, walking all the way there and back.

The next morning, after breakfast, a boy appeared on the porch with a note for Phil. When the latter opened and read it he gave a great shout.

“Hello, Chap!” he cried, “it’s from uncle!”

Chap seized the paper held out to him and read,—

“That’s his writing,” said Chap.

“Certainly it is!” cried Phil, in a high state of excitement. “Where is Mr. Berkeley?” he said to the boy.

“I don’t know anything about him,” was the answer. “A man gave me the note, and told me I was to bring a gun to him, and he would give me a quarter.”

“Where is the man?” asked Phil.

“He’s down on the road, sitting by the little bridge; but he said if anybody came with me he wouldn’t give me a cent.”

“Look here, Chap,” cried Phil, “if uncle is down there I’m bound to see him and tell him what is going on here. He has some reason for not wanting to come back just now, but he don’t know what a dreadful condition things are in. Here is a quarter,” he said to the boy, “so you won’t lose anything. Just you stay here a few minutes. I’ll cut over the fields to the bridge,” he said to Chap, as he ran down the steps.

“Aren’t you going to take him the gun?” said Chap.

“No!” cried Phil, as he hurried off. “When he hears what I have to tell he won’t want to go gunning.”

The boy now started to go.

“Just you sit down and rest yourself,” said Chap, stepping in front of him.

“But I’m not tired,” said the boy.

“Well, try how it goes to rest yourself when you are not tired,” said Chap. “It’s something you ought to learn, and you had better begin now. There’s a bench behind you.”

The boy reluctantly sat down, and Chap stood guard over him, determined to keep him there long enough to prevent him from giving notice to the man at the little bridge that Phil was coming.