The young master of Hyson Hall

Chap Webster did not stay very long at Hyson Hall.

“If the trip is to be given up,” he said to Phil, “I must go home and tell mother to take the things out of my basket. There’s no use letting them spoil, and the children might as well eat them. And, besides that, I’ve got a lot to think about. I tell you what it is, Phil, there’s a stack of responsibility about this thing.”

Phil could not help smiling as his long-legged friend strode rapidly away. There was certainly a great deal of responsibility attached to the new state of affairs, but why Chap need trouble his mind about it he could not imagine.

However, Chap was a great speculator in plans and projects, and took stock in such things whenever he had a chance. As for Phil, he truly had a great deal to think about.

What should he do, and what should he do first?

He sat on the top of the broad stone steps that led up to the porch and thought the matter out. It was one of the most uncomfortable places he could have chosen, for the sun shone full in his face, and he was obliged to shield his eyes with his napkin, which he had forgotten to leave on the breakfast-table.

The establishment at Hyson Hall was not extensive, and Phil had been such a constant companion of his uncle, and had, under Mr. Berkeley’s direction, done so much of the daily management of the place, that, excepting the responsibility, there was nothing very novel in the duties of his trust.

A man and a boy were employed on the little farm, on which the only crop of any importance was a field of wheat. Until this was ready to cut there was nothing out of the way to be done on the farm. In the house the domestic force consisted of Susan Corson, who was the housekeeper and cook, a woman for general housework, and a half-grown girl named Jenny.

Phil very properly made up his mind that in regard to the general affairs of the establishment he would let them go on in the ordinary way until something unusual turned up.

If he knew that his uncle intended to stay away for any considerable time, there were some plans that he thought he could carry out with considerable profit to the estate; but as he would not like to be interrupted in anything of the kind when it was half done, however sure he might feel that Mr. Berkeley would be well pleased with the result when all was finished, he concluded, for the present, to give up such projects.

There was enough for him to do, however, and there was no knowing what might turn up. There was only one particular injunction his uncle had laid upon him, and that was to take good care of Jouncer, and this was a matter he would attend to immediately.

And so, with one side of his head pretty well scorched, he jumped up, got his hat and ran down to the stables.

Jouncer was Mr. Godfrey Berkeley’s riding-horse, and whenever he went to town, or to visit any of his neighbors, he rode Jouncer.

This animal was considered by Phil and some of his boy friends to be a horse of great possibilities. It was believed, and some of the boys considered themselves good judges of such things, that he had Arabian blood in him, and that, if required, he could gallop with great swiftness and leap over the highest fences.

Nothing positive, however, was known upon these points, for Mr. Berkeley did not care to make an animal exert itself unnecessarily, and always rode at a jog-trot.

Jouncer was found to be in comfortable circumstances, and as Phil looked at him as he was grazing in a little paddock back of the barn, he made up his mind that he would ride the noble beast, next day, to town, to see Mr. Welford.

He had never mounted Jouncer, except for very short rides on the place, and his own horse, Kit, could be brought up from the pasture just as well as not; but it seemed to him that in order to suitably represent his uncle, it would be the proper thing for him to ride his uncle’s horse.

Joel, the hired man, was full of eagerness to know all about Mr. Berkeley’s departure, of which he had already heard something in the house, and Phil satisfied him as well as he could, endeavoring besides to fully impress upon his mind the nature of the trust his uncle had imposed upon himself.

Joel thought it would have been much better if Mr. Berkeley had left the management of the place to him, but he was a cautious fellow and said nothing.

After dinner, which, by the way, Phil did not consider quite as good a meal as usual, he went into the parlor to think over what he should say to Mr. Welford when he went to see him the next day.

The parlor was an immense room, very seldom used; but Phil thought it quiet and cool, and a very suitable place in which a person in his position might spend a little time after dinner.

He seated himself in a large arm-chair, but he had not cogitated more than two or three minutes before he heard a heavy step on the porch, and then a great knock at the door.

Susan was in the dining-room, and she hurried out to admit the visitor. As she approached the front door, Phil heard her exclaim, in tones of surprise,—

“Why, it’s Chap Webster!”

Phil was very much surprised, too, for this was the first time Chap had ever knocked at the front door. He generally announced his coming by a shout from some point outside of the house.

“Is the steward in?” asked Chap.

“The what?” cried Susan.

Phil laughed, and went to the parlor door.

“Come in here, Chap,” he said; “I’m in the parlor.”

Chap took off his hat, came in, and, after gazing around the spacious apartment for a moment, seated himself on a sofa.

Susan Corson stopped a moment as she passed the door.

“In the parlor!” she ejaculated. “Upon—my—word!”

And then she walked severely down into the kitchen.

“Do you generally intend to sit in here?” asked Chap. “You never did when your uncle was at home.”

“I could have, if I had wanted to,” said Phil.

“And of course you want to now,” remarked his friend. “Some things make a great difference, don’t they?”

“Yes, I suppose they do,” said Phil.

“Now, I want to tell you, Phil!” cried Chap, with great animation. “I’ve been considering this matter all the morning, and I’ve come over to tell you what I’ve thought out. You can get eight-ounce cartridges of giant-powder at Boontown for twenty-five cents apiece. If I were you I’d buy five, and then we can go down and blow up the wreck the first night after we get them. It ought to be done at night, so that the flying timbers wouldn’t strike boats.”

Phil burst out laughing.

“You old humbug!” he cried. “Do you suppose that the first thing I am going to do is to blow up that ancient wreck?”

“You might get thousands of dollars out of it!” exclaimed Chap; “and I guess your uncle would be glad of that.”

“Thousands of splinters!” exclaimed Phil. “But you needn’t think I’m going to do anything of that kind the minute I take charge of things here.”

“Take charge of things!” repeated Chap. “That sounds large and lofty. I suppose you feel like the lord of the manor. But I tell you what it is, my noble potentate, you mustn’t expect to look down too much on the neighboring barons.”

“It depends a good deal on the barons whether I do that or not,” said Phil.

“Now, look here,” said Chap, changing his tone; “if you won’t blow up the wreck, will you go after muskrats to-night? It’s a good moon, and I’ll bring my gun, and you can take Old Bruden.”

After having refused his friend so much, Phil could not decline so reasonable a proposition as this, and he consented to hunt muskrats that night.

It is true his uncle had not wished him to go on an expedition, but this would be on the river-bank, in front of the house.

Chap thereupon departed, and Phil was very glad to think of having a little sport that evening. Muskrats were frequently found on the river-bank, and their skins were sometimes a source of a little private income to the boys, who could get twenty-five cents apiece for them in Boontown.

In the course of the afternoon Phil went up-stairs to the gun-room to get Old Bruden, in order to clean it, in readiness for the evening’s expedition. The gun-room was a small one on an upper floor, the walls of which were full of pegs and hooks for fowling-pieces, game-bags, and all the other accoutrements of the sportsman; but the room had never been furnished, as had been originally intended. With the exception of Old Bruden, his own little gun, and a few flasks and pouches, there had never been anything on the walls but pegs and hooks.

Old Mr. Berkeley had intended to be a sportsman, but before he could carry out his purpose had become too infirm to care about it.

Phil stepped up to the two pegs on which Old Bruden had always hung when not in use, but, to his utter amazement, the gun was not there.

He could not understand this at all. It had been one of his uncle’s most inflexible rules that neither of the guns were ever to be left about the house, but were always, when brought in, to be taken to this room and hung in their places.

Could it be possible his Uncle Godfrey had taken Old Bruden with him? He presently came to the conclusion that this must be the case, and yet he could not imagine why in the world his uncle should want to take a gun with him. Was he going on a long tramp over the country?

Another thing surprised him. None of the shot-pouches or powder-flasks were missing. What was the good of a gun without ammunition?

But these questions were too puzzling for him, and he gave them up. He took his own little gun and went down-stairs. While he was cleaning it in the back-yard, Jenny came by from the barn with some eggs in her apron.

“Jenny,” said Phil, “did you see my uncle go away this morning?”

Jenny stopped, and, for a moment, was silent. Then she said,—

“I can’t tell you.”

“Oh, then,” exclaimed Phil, “of course you saw him! Did he take Old Bruden with him?”

“He didn’t tell me,” said Jenny, “not to tell that I saw him go, though I don’t believe he wanted me to tell. But he did tell me not to say how or when he went, and if I say he went with a gun, that would be telling how he went, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” said Phil. “I don’t want you to disobey any orders.”

And Jenny passed on to the house.

After supper, Phil laid down on the cane-seated lounge in the hall to await for Chap. He did not expect him early, for the moon did not rise until after eight o’clock, and it was of no use going out at night after muskrats until that luminary had lighted up the river-bank. He was just dropping off into a little doze, when Jenny, coming from the kitchen, ran to the lounge.

“I haven’t a minute to stop,” she whispered, “for Susan sent me up-stairs to light the lamp in our room, and she is coming right after me. I’ve found out something. I can’t say anything about it now, but to-morrow I’ll tell you what it is, Master Phil.”

And away she ran.

Phil did not feel in the humor for guessing conundrums. He had had enough of that sort of thing for one day, and he stretched himself out again for another doze.

This time he dropped into a sleep, which lasted fifteen or twenty minutes, from which he was aroused by footsteps on the porch.

“Come in,” cried Phil, jumping up.

A person entered, but he was not Chapman Webster.