CHAPTER IV.

FANNY THE SKIPPER.

"What did he want of you, Fan?" asked Kate Magner, with a curiosity not unmixed with anxiety, as her leader in mischief joined her at the foot of the pier.

"O, never mind that," exclaimed Fanny, in reply. "We have no time to talk about it now."

"But what did he say?" demanded Kate, who thought her present action ought to be governed in some measure by the words of the constable.

"He didn't say much; it is all right now. Come, jump into the boat. We haven't a moment to lose."

"I want to know what he said before I get any deeper into the mud," persisted Kate; but we are compelled to acknowledge that her scruples were mere worldly prudence, and were not called forth by the upbraidings of an awakened conscience.

"You can't back out now, Kate. I made it all right with Mr. Long," replied Fanny, with energy, as she drew the skiff up to the steps, ready for her more timid companion to embark. "Now, get in, and don't waste another instant in talking about nothing."

"You are keeping everything to yourself. If you don't tell me what Mr. Long wanted of you, I won't get into the boat. Was it about the money you found?" asked Kate.

"No; he didn't say a word about that. He only asked me why I was not at school."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him the teacher sent us down to get some green branches to put over the clock, for we were to have visitors at school this afternoon."

"Did he believe you?"

Kate laughed; she appreciated what she regarded as the joke of a clever deception; the wickedness of the act did not disturb her.

"Of course he believed me—why shouldn't he? He has gone up to ask Mrs. Green if I went to school."

"But he will find out all about it."

"No, he won't; besides, if he does, we shall be a mile off when he gets back here again."

"Didn't he say a word about the money you found?"

"Not a word, Kate. Now, jump in, or we shall certainly get caught. We shall have time enough to talk about these things when we get away from the pier."

Kate was satisfied, and stepped into the skiff. All her fears related to the money in the possession of her friend, which, she was almost certain, had been stolen. She was moralist enough to understand that even if the money had been found on the floor, as Fanny represented, it was just as much stolen as though it had been taken from Mr. Grant's pocket-book. Kate had not engaged in this theft, and she was not willing to bear any of the blame on account of it. If the crime had already been discovered, she did not wish to expose herself to the peril of helping to spend the money. According to Fanny's statement, nothing had been found out, and she got into the skiff.

Fanny had been among the boats a great deal during her residence at Woodville, and rowing and sailing were suited to her masculine taste. She was a girl of quick parts; her faculty of imitation was highly developed, and generally what she had seen done she could do herself. She could row cross-handed very well, and she had no difficulty in pulling the skiff out to the Greyhound's moorings. Kate stepped on board of the sail-boat, and Fanny, fastening the painter of the skiff at the stern, began to bustle around with as much confidence as though she had been a skipper ever since she left her cradle.

She had often sailed in the Greyhound with Ben and others, and she knew precisely what was to be done in order to get the boat under way. She understood how to move the tiller in order to make the craft go in a given direction, and had an indistinct idea of beating and tacking; but she was very far from being competent to manage a sailboat.

The stops were removed from the sails, under the direction of the adventurous Fanny, and the foresail hoisted. It was a more difficult matter to cast off the moorings, but their united strength accomplished the feat, and the Greyhound, released from the bonds which held her, immediately drifted to the shore, for her unskilful skipper had not trimmed the foresail so that it would draw.

"I thought you knew how to manage a boat," said Kate, contemptuously.

"So I do," replied Fanny, as she gathered up the fore-sheet, and trimmed the sail.

"What are you doing in here, then?"

"I only came in here to get a fair start," added the skipper, not at all disconcerted by the mishap.

"Folks don't generally run the boat ashore before they start," sneered Kate, who certainly had no confidence in the seamanship of the feminine skipper.

"That's the way they do it!" exclaimed Fanny, triumphantly, as the sail began to draw, and the boat moved off from the shore. "Now, we are all right. That's just the way I meant to make her go."

The wind came from the Woodville side of the river, but it was very light, and the Greyhound moved but slowly. Fanny was entirely satisfied with herself now, and was confident that she could manage any boat that ever floated. It was a very easy thing, she thought, and she did not see why folks made such a "fuss" about sailing a boat; anybody could do it, if they only thought they could. But the Greyhound did not move fast enough for her impatient temperament, and, against the remonstrances of her more prudent companion, she insisted upon setting the mainsail.

"Mr. Long may be after us soon, and we must get along as fast as we can," said she, as she took the throat halliard, and gave the peak to Kate. "Now, hoist away. We are as good sailors as any one need be."

The mainsail was set, and the Greyhound began to travel through the water pretty rapidly, much to the delight of Fanny. She had been deceived in regard to the force of the wind; under the lee of the shore, where it was obstructed by the bank, by the trees, and by the buildings, the breeze was very light: out in the middle of the river the wind was quite strong; but the boat had not yet begun to feel its full force.

"Now she goes beautifully!" exclaimed Fanny, as she observed the effect by the added sail.

"She goes very well; but don't you see how rough the water is out in the middle of the river?" replied Kate, rather anxiously, though she was not willing to acknowledge the full extent of her fears.

"That's nothing."

"But why don't you go down the river more, and keep out of that rough place?"

"I like the waves! It's splendid to hear them beating against the boat."

"It may be when you have a man in the boat with you," answered Kate, sceptically.

"What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid; but I think folks ought to be very careful when they don't know anything about boats."

"But I know all about boats. Don't you see how beautifully she goes? I wish she would go a little faster."

"She goes fast enough," said Kate, as she listened to the ripple of the waves against the bow.

"She might go a little faster; besides, we are in a hurry."

"We are going fast enough, Fan."

"The faster the better! I suppose, when Mr. Long goes over to the school and finds we are not there, he will come down to the pier after us. We want to be out of sight when he gets there."

"Why should he come after us? I thought you said it was all right," demanded Kate, nervously.

"He will go over to the school to find out whether the teacher sent us after the boughs."

"I wish I had not come," continued Kate, gloomily.

If she had known the whole truth, and understood the full extent of her bold companion's plans, she would have been still more dissatisfied with the situation.

"Here, Kate, you take the tiller a moment," said Fanny, as she rose from her seat in the stern-sheets.

"What are you going to do now?" asked Kate, nervously.

"I'm going to hoist the other sail."

"We don't want it hoisted. We are going fast enough."

"We can just as well go faster; and I want to get out of sight before Mr. Long sees us," replied Fanny, persuasively, though her bright eyes snapped with increasing lustre under the excitement of the moment.

"I won't touch the tiller; I say we go fast enough. You want to drown me—don't you?"

"If I drown you, I must drown myself—mustn't I?"

"I won't touch the tiller; I don't want the other sail hoisted," persisted Kate.

"What are you afraid of? I didn't think you were a coward. If I had, I shouldn't have asked you to come with me."

"I'm not a coward, any more than you are. I don't see what you want to hoist the other sail for; we are going like fury through the water now."

"We need more head sail," answered Fanny, using an expression she had borrowed from the nautical speeches of Ben, the boatman.

"No, we don't need more head sail," replied Kate, who, however, had not the most remote idea of the meaning of her friend's language.

"Take the tiller, Kate, and don't bother me."

"I will not."

"Then I will hoist the sail, and let the boat take care of herself while I do it. If she is upset, it will be your fault,—not mine."

Fanny was resolute; she had a will, as well as a way, of her own. She did not want any advice, and she was not willing to take any. She looked upon her companion as a weak-minded, poor-spirited girl, and she treated her opinions and her wishes with the utmost contempt, now that she had her completely in her power. It was useless for Kate to attempt to oppose her.

"I don't know anything about the tiller, as you call it. I don't even know what it is, and I'm sure I couldn't tell what to do with it," continued Kate.

"That's a good girl!" replied Fanny, in patronizing tones, when she saw that her companion was disposed to yield.

"I don't want to touch it."

"But you must."

"Must! Who says I must?"

"I say so; if you don't, we may be upset."

"I have gone far enough, Fan Grant; I don't want to go any farther: I want to go on shore again!" exclaimed Kate, now completely disgusted with the venture, for in addition to the perils of wrong doing, she found she must submit to the impudence and the arrogance of her friend.

"Well, why don't you go on shore?" replied Fanny, with the utmost coolness and self-possession.

"You know I can't. Turn the boat round, and let me go back to the land."

"I think not."

"I have had enough of this thing."

"Will you take the tiller, or will you let the boat upset?" added Fanny, with firmness and decision. "You can't go on shore again till I get ready to let you. I command this vessel, and if you ever want to put your foot on the dry land again, you must mind what I say."

"Please to let me go back," pleaded Kate.

"I won't please to do anything of the kind. Take the tiller, I say."

"What shall I do with it?" asked the poor girl, cowed down and subdued by the force and decision of her companion.

"Sit here," replied Fanny, pointing to the corner of the stern-sheets, where the helmsman usually sits. "This is the tiller," she added, indicating the serpent-shaped stick attached to the rudder, by which the boat is steered. "Keep it just as it is, until I tell you to move it."

"I don't know how to move it."

"When I say right, move it this way;" and Fanny pointed to the starboard side. "When I say left, move it the other way."

Fanny watched her a moment to see that her instructions were obeyed.

"We don't want this any longer," said she, unfastening the painter of the skiff and throwing it into the water, thus permitting the boat to go adrift.

"What did you do that for?" demanded Kate, as the Greyhound dashed on, leaving the skiff behind to be borne down the river by the tide.

"We don't want the skiff, and dragging it behind keeps us back some."

"What did you bring it for, then?"

"To keep Mr. Long from chasing us in it. All the rest of the boats are hauled up, and he will have to find one before he can come after us."

Fanny went forward, and having fearlessly removed the stops from the jib, which required her to crawl out a little way on the bowsprit, she hoisted the sail, and carried the sheet aft to the standing-room, as she had often seen the boatmen do. The effect of this additional canvas was immediately seen, for the Greyhound had now reached the middle of the river, where she felt the full force of the wind, which was fresh from the north-west, and came in puffs and flaws.

When the Greyhound went out from the shore, her sails were over on the right hand side; that is, she took the wind abaft the port beam. The boat was now careened over nearly to her rail, and was darting through the water like a rocket. Kate trembled, but Fanny was delighted.

"Now we will go down the river," said Fanny, as she took the tiller.

Suiting the action to the word, she put the helm up just as a flaw of wind came sweeping over the waves. The boat came round; the three sails, caught by the flaw, suddenly flew over, filled on the other side, and the Greyhound careened till she was half full of water.

CHAPTER V.

DOWN THE RIVER.

Putting a boat about, as Fanny had turned the Greyhound, is nautically termed gybing her. It is a dangerous manœuvre when the wind is fresh, and should never be attempted by young or inexperienced boatmen. By putting the boat about in the opposite direction, hauling in the sheet as the sail flutters, the danger may be wholly avoided. The boat's head should always be turned in the direction from which the wind comes. But a person who does not understand the management of a boat should no more attempt to handle one than an unskilful person should attempt to run a steam engine.

Fanny Grant knew but little about a boat, and it was fortunate for her and her companion in mischief that the wind was not strong enough to carry the Greyhound wholly over. If she had careened only a little more, she would have filled with water and sunk, for she was heavily ballasted. As it was, she was half full of water, and the situation of the young ladies, if not perilous, was very uncomfortable.

"O, Fanny!" screamed Kate, in mortal terror, as the Greyhound heeled over, and the water rushed in over the washboard.

"Don't be scared," replied Fanny, with wonderful self-possession. "It's all right, and there is no harm done."

"We shall be drowned!" gasped Kate.

"No, we shall not be drowned. Don't you see the boat stands up like a major? Don't be frightened. I understand it all."

"No; you don't know anything about it. The boat is almost full of water, and we shall sink to the bottom."

"I tell you she is doing very well. Pooh! that wasn't anything! She often takes in the water like that."

"What shall we do?" moaned Kate.

This was a question which appealed even to Fanny's prudence. Without answering in words, she let go the halliards, and hauled down the foresail. After the boat came about, she had not righted the helm, and the Greyhound had been thrown up into the wind as she heeled over and took in the flood of water. She now lay with her sails flapping, and Fanny cast off the main-sheet, rather to stop the fluttering than to avoid further peril. Fortunately, this was the proper course to pursue.

"What shall we do?" repeated Kate, expecting every moment that the treacherous sails would carry them over again, and that they would soon find their way to the bottom of the river.

"Bale out the water," replied Fanny, taking a pail and a dipper from the cuddy forward. "Now go to work, and we shall soon be ready to sail again."

"I don't want to sail any more," whined Kate.

"Dip away as fast as ever you can. Don't stop to talk about it now."

Fanny took the pail herself, and gave the dipper to Kate, and both of them went to work with a zeal which promised soon to free the Greyhound from the burden under which she was laboring. There was a large quantity of water in the boat, and the process of dipping it out was very slow. Fanny was afraid that this accident would throw her into the power of her great enemy, the constable; and this was the only fear which troubled her. The perils of the mighty river had no terrors to her while she had a plank under her feet.

Kate was utterly disconsolate and hopeless, and Fanny was obliged to use all her ingenuity to keep her in working condition. To show her confidence, she sang like a nightingale, as she dipped out the water; and Fanny was an excellent singer. She labored hard to prove to her desponding companion that there was no danger, and at last she succeeded in restoring Kate to a tolerable degree of self-possession.

When about half the water had been dipped out, Fanny trimmed the sails, and headed the boat down the river, to the utter consternation of her timid associate, who was heartily sick of the adventure, and longed to put her feet on the dry land again.

"Now, Kate, you take the pail, and I will use the dipper; I can work and steer the boat at the same time," said Fanny, when the Greyhound was under headway again.

"The boat is going down the river, Fanny!" exclaimed Kate, as she took the pail.

"Of course she is," replied the bold skipper. "Where did you expect her to go?"

"But you are not going any farther—are you?"

"To be sure I am. Do you think I am going to back out now?"

"We shall certainly be drowned!"

"Nonsense!"

"I don't want to go any farther," moaned Kate, who felt like one going to execution.

"I can't help it if you don't. I'm going down to Pennville," answered Fanny, still dipping up the water from the bottom of the boat.

"I won't bale out any more then," ejaculated Kate, as she dropped the pail, and looked as though she actually meant what she said.

"Very well; then I won't," added Fanny, throwing down the dipper.

"If you will go back, I will bale out the water as hard as ever I can."

"But I will not go back," replied Fanny, firmly. "Do you think I am going home to be shut up for a week, or sent back to my uncle, without having any fun at all? If you won't bale, I won't. I guess I can stand it as long as you can."

"Do go back, Fanny," begged Kate.

"I tell you I will not. You don't know what I am going to do yet."

"What?"

"I can't stop to talk about it now. If you don't take the pail and bale out the boat, I will hoist the other sail."

"Don't, Fanny!"

"If you will keep still, and mind what I say, I won't hoist the sail. We go along with only these two sails just as easy as anything can be, and there isn't a bit of danger."

Kate, to avoid the greater evil, submitted to the less; and, as the Greyhound, now going very steadily under her jib and mainsail, continued on her course, she was soon freed from the water within her. The boat went along so well that Kate gathered a little courage, and ventured to hope that they might not be drowned, after all.

"You mustn't turn her round again, Fan," said she.

"What shall we do? We shall run ashore if I don't turn her."

"Can't we lower the sails when you turn her?"

"There is no need of that," replied Fanny, cheerfully. "I made a little mistake before, but I understand all about it now."

"What was the mistake, Fan?"

"I didn't turn her the right way," replied the confident skipper, who had been studying up the cause of the mishap and had reasoned out the correct solution. "I shall know just how to do it next time, Kate, and you needn't be the least grain scared. See here," said she, putting the helm down, and bringing the boat round till her head was thrown up into the wind.

"Don't, Fanny!"

"That's the way it is done," continued Fanny, proudly. "Don't you see how easily she does it? There isn't a bit of danger now;" and she brought the boat round to her course again.

Kate was terrified at the very mention of turning the boat; but when she saw that the feat was accomplished without upsetting or even taking in any more water, her confidence was in a great measure restored. Fanny's exhibition of her skill produced the intended effect upon her companion, and the feminine skipper's easy and self-reliant way confirmed the impression. Fanny had learned more about the management of a boat in that brief half hour than she had ever known before, for the consciousness that her own life and that of her passenger depended upon her skill, sharpened her perceptions and quickened her judgment to such an extent that those moments of thrilling experience became equivalent to months of plodding study when the mind is comparatively dull and heavy.

Mr. Long, the constable, evidently did not hurry himself in the investigation of Fanny's case; for when he had satisfied himself that the wicked girl had deceived him, and had reached the Woodville pier, having first visited the school, as the shrewd girl had intended he should, the boat was not in sight; or, at least, nothing could be seen of her but the white sails, which he could not identify, and the fugitives were in no present danger on account of his movements. He did not know whether the Greyhound had gone up or down the river; and he had no boat in which to follow her.

Fanny felt that she had won a victory, for she did not realize that success in a wicked cause is failure and defeat. She congratulated herself on the feat she had accomplished, and she was vain enough to boast to her associate of what she had done; of her skill in managing the boat, and her shrewdness in planning the enterprise; and it is quite certain that if she had been less resolute and courageous, the expedition would have ended in failure almost at the beginning.

"But you haven't told me what you are going to do yet," said Kate, when she had sponged out the bottom of the well, dried the seats in the standing-room, and taken her place by the side of Fanny.

"I will tell you now," replied Fanny. "What do you suppose your father will do to you when he finds out that you played truant, and went on the river with me?" she added, apparently, but not really, avoiding the subject.

"He'll kill me!" answered Kate, with emphasis.

"No, he won't."

"I don't know what he will do, then."

"He will punish you in some way—won't he?"

"Yes. I don't know what he will do."

"Well, Kate, we must bring him to terms," added Fanny, with the most impudent assurance. "If you will mind what I say, he will not punish you at all. Will you do it?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know! Do you want to go back and be whipped like a baby, be shut up for a week, or something of that kind?"

"Of course I don't."

"And I will tell you how to get rid of all these things, and make your father as glad to see you as though you had been a good little girl all your life, and had been away on a long journey."

"How?"

"That's telling!"

"You said you would tell me."

"And so I will, if you are strong enough to bear it."

"Well, I am."

"Don't go home for a week or ten days. Your folks won't know where you are. When they find out you went with me in a boat, they will think you are drowned; and when you go back, they will be so glad to see you that they won't say a word."

It would have been impossible for a girl who had been brought up by a loving mother to conceive of such a cold-blooded and diabolical proposition. Fanny had no mother, no father. Even the remembrance of the former had passed from her mind; and her father, while he was living, had been away from her so much that she hardly knew him as a parent. Her antecedents, therefore, did not qualify her to comprehend the loathsome enormity of the course she proposed to her companion.

"I can't stay away from home a week, let alone ten days," replied Kate, who, bad as she was, was shocked at the proposition.

"Yes, you can."

"Where shall I stay?"

"Stay with me."

"Where will you stay?"

"We will go down to New York city."

"To New York city!"

"That's where I intend to go," replied Fanny, coolly.

"You don't mean so, Fan?"

"Yes, I do; and I have meant it all the time."

"But you said we were going to Pennville."

"We are; and when we get there we will take the cars for New York city. We shall be there before twelve o'clock."

"But what shall we do when we get there?" demanded Kate, who was absolutely appalled at the magnitude of Fanny's scheme.

"We will have a good time, in the first place. There are plenty of shops where we can get cakes, and candy, and ice-cream; we can go to the museum, the theatre, and the circus; we can go to Central Park, and all the fine places in the city."

"But where should we live?"

"There are hotels enough."

"What should we do at a hotel? Besides, it would take lots of money."

"I've got money enough."

"Five dollars wouldn't pay for our living a week. They ask three or four dollars a day for living at a hotel."

"I've got more than five dollars," answered Fanny, rather cautiously.

"Have you? How much have you got?"

"I don't know exactly."

"You don't know!" repeated Kate, very confident now in regard to the means by which the money had been obtained, which, with this added revelation regarding the amount, she did not believe had been found on the floor. "You don't know!"

"I haven't counted it."

"Fan, you didn't find that money on the floor!" exclaimed she.

"I found it, anyhow," said Fanny, turning her head away from her companion.

"Where did you find it?"

"In the drawer, if you must know," replied Fanny, desperately.

CHAPTER VI.

KATE'S DEFECTION.

"Fanny Grant, you stole that money!" said Kate, as though she had made a great discovery.

It was no discovery at all. She had been reasonably confident that the five dollars, which Fanny acknowledged to be in her possession, had been stolen, or, if not actually stolen, that it had been obtained in a manner entirely at variance even with a very low ideal of common honesty. She was willing to enjoy the good things which might be bought with the five dollars, but she was not disposed to bear the responsibility of the theft, either as principal or accessory. If, when the day of reckoning came, she could make it appear that she did not know the money had been stolen, she would escape the penalty and the odium of being a thief, or a receiver of stolen goods.

Like many others, she could hold up her hands in holy horror at the crime made public, while she was willing to wink at or compromise the crime for her own benefit in the secret chambers of her own heart. If she had been taught in ancient Lacedæmonia that it is not a crime to steal, but a crime to be found out, she could not have been more faithful to its base policy.

Fanny heard the charge, but made no reply, pretending to be occupied in watching the course of the boat.

"You stole that money, Fanny Grant!" repeated Kate, with even more emphasis, and more holy horror than before.

"Well, what if I did?" answered Fanny, who was disposed to have her associate as deep in the mud as she herself was in the mire; and she knew that it would be impossible to deny the fact when she exhibited the great roll of bills in her pocket.

"I didn't think you would steal money, Fanny."

"You would yourself, if you got a chance."

"No, I wouldn't; I'm bad enough, I know, but I wouldn't steal."

"Yes, you would! You needn't pretend to be so good. You will never be hung for your honesty. I know you."

"Do you mean to say I would steal?" demanded Kate, not a little mortified to be thought so meanly of.

"I know you would. Who stole the strawberries the other day?"

"That wasn't money," pleaded Kate.

"It was all the same."

"I wouldn't take money. I'm not a thief."

"You flatter yourself."

"I wouldn't. But, Fanny," she added, willing to change the subject, "I shouldn't dare to go to New York city."

"Why not?"

"Something might happen to us."

"What can happen to us?"

"I don't know; but I'm afraid to go. What should we do with ourselves for a whole week?"

"Have a good time; that's what we are going for?"

"I can't go, Fan."

"Yes, you can; and you must. You have got into the scrape so far, and you are not going to leave me alone now. You promised to go with me."

"But you did not tell me what you were going to do."

"I have told you now; and if you attempt to back out, you shall bear half the blame."

"I didn't steal."

"I don't care if you didn't; you shall bear your share of the blame. You shall go with me."

"What will my mother say?"

"She will say you are a naughty girl, and punish you for what you have done. If you go with me, she will be so glad to see you when you get back, that she won't say a word. She will find out what you are made of then; if you go back now, she will see that you are nothing but a chicken at heart, and she will punish you, as you deserve to be for deserting your friend."

"My mother would feel awfully if I did not come back to-night," continued Kate, thoughtfully, even sadly; and she was sincere now.

"She will get over it."

"She would feel dreadfully."

"So much the better; the worse she feels the more glad she will be to see you when you do go back."

Kate saw that it was useless to reason with her companion on this point; besides, there was a certain sacred feeling in her heart which Fanny could neither understand nor appreciate, and she was unwilling to expose it to the rude reproaches of one who seemed to have no heart. She was too timid, rather than too conscientious, to engage in such a gigantic scheme of wickedness as that which Fanny had indicated; and we must do her the justice to add, that the blessed influence of a mother's love, stronger and deeper in her heart than principle, asserted its sway, and to give her mother a week of pain and anxiety was revolting to her.

She was fully determined not to go to New York city, and to get home as soon as she could. But Fanny had so much to say about "backing out," and "deserting her friend," that she deemed it prudent not to mention anything about her resolution. She knew her companion well enough to believe that it would be useless to attempt to persuade her to abandon her brilliant scheme; and Fanny was so resolute and self-willed that she might find a way to compel her to go with her, whether she was willing or not.

"Do you want to know how much money I have got?" asked Fanny, after a silence of some minutes, during which Kate had been thinking what she should do.

"I should like to know," replied Kate, who, however, was really indifferent after she had decided not to partake of the good things which the stolen money could purchase.

"You take the tiller then, and I will count it. Keep it just as it is," said Fanny, resigning her place to her fellow-voyager.

The boat was going along very easily with the wind on the starboard quarter, and did not need much attention. She was approaching Pennville, and the cruise was nearly finished. Fanny took the roll of bills from her pocket, and proceeded to count it. The notes were nearly all "greenbacks," with a few small bills on the state banks. There were twenties, tens, and fives, and the thief was almost frightened herself when she ascertained the amount she had obtained.

"One hundred, one hundred five, one hundred and ten," said Fanny, as she counted the money; "one hundred and ten——"

"Why, Fanny Grant!" cried Kate, horrified at the greatness of the sum.

"Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty——"

"They will send you to the state prison for stealing so much money!" added Kate, trembling as the large numbers were mentioned.

"The more the better," replied Fanny, trying to keep cool, though she was much agitated herself, as, measuring the crime by the amount of the money, she realized how guilty she had been.

She finished the counting; and the whole sum was one hundred and seventy-three dollars and eighty-five cents.

"There is a great deal more than I thought there was," said she.

"Why did you take so much?" asked the terrified Kate.

"I didn't know how much there was."

"You will have all the constables in the county after you before night."

"And after you, too."

"I didn't steal it."

"Well, you were with me, and I will give you some of it."

"I don't want any of it."

"Don't you?"

"No, I don't; I don't think it is fair for you to try to make it out that I helped you steal the money, when I didn't, and when I didn't know anything about it."

"You knew I had some money before you got into the boat. You are scared—that's all."

"I am scared, and I wish I hadn't come."

"I wish you hadn't, because you are so frightened; but now you have gone so far, you can't back out. You want to return to Woodville, and tell them I stole the money."

"No, I don't."

"I'm never going back to Woodville again. They have been talking about sending me to my uncle's, in Minnesota, and I'm not going to be sent there."

"What shall I do, then?" demanded Kate, awed and astonished at the desperate purpose of her friend.

"I will see that you get back home all right. Here is some money to pay your passage," added Fanny, counting out a portion of the bills.

"I don't want that."

"Very well," answered Fanny, putting the bills in her pocket; and she looked so firm and so "ugly" that Kate was actually afraid of her.

The Greyhound had nearly reached the pier at Pennville; but Fanny did not intend to land at any public place, and she ran the boat up to the bank of the river, a short distance above the village, grounding it lightly on a kind of beach she had chosen as a landing-place. Fanny took the boat-hook in her hand, and jumped ashore.

"Now, Kate Magner, before we go any farther, we must come to an understanding. If you think you are going to leave me to bear all the blame, you are mistaken."

"I don't mean any such thing," replied Kate.

"Yes, you do; you mean to betray me."

"No, I don't."

"Why didn't you take the money I offered you, then?"

"I don't want it."

"You are in the boat, and I am on the land. If you don't take the money, I will push the boat off, and she will carry you away—I don't know where."

"Don't do that."

"Will you take the money?"

"Yes, I will," answered Kate, who was more afraid of the boat than she would have been of a demon.

"Take it, then," said Fanny, handing her the little roll of bills she had taken from the package for this purpose. "There is twenty-one dollars."

Kate took the money, and thrust it into her pocket.

"Now we are both just the same. You have taken some of the money, and you are just as bad as I am. You can't back out now, if you want to do so."

This was only an expedient on the part of the resolute mistress of the expedition to prevent her companion from deserting her, rather than to insure an equal division of the punishment for stealing.

"What shall we do now?" asked Kate, as she landed from the boat, which Fanny held with the boat-hook.

"We will go up to the railroad station, and take the train for New York city."

"But what are you going to do with the boat?"

"I don't care anything about the boat. I have had all I want of her. But I think I will let the sails down, and fasten her to the bank. If they should find her, she might betray us."

Fanny lowered the sails, and fastened the painter to a stake on the bank. The two girls then started for the village, which was about a quarter of a mile below the place where they had landed. When they had gone a short distance, they saw a man mending a boat on the bank of the river. Kate took particular notice of him, for she was already planning the means of her deliverance from the arbitrary sway of her companion.

The two girls were very well dressed, and it was not an uncommon thing for young ladies to manage their own boats on the Hudson; so, if they had been seen to land from the Greyhound, no notice was taken of the circumstance. They were not likely to be molested, except by their own guilty consciences. They walked directly to the railroad station, and ascertained that the train would leave in half an hour. Fanny, anxious to conciliate her associate, and accustom her to her new situation, invited her to a saloon, where they partook of ice-creams; but partial as Kate was to this luxury, it did not taste good, and seemed to be entirely different from any ice-cream she had ever eaten before.

When it was nearly time for the train to arrive, Fanny bought two tickets, and they joined the crowd that was waiting for the cars. Kate seemed to be so fully reconciled to the enterprise, that her friend did not doubt her any longer; she had no suspicion of her intended defection.

"I am almost choked," said Kate, when the whistle of the locomotive was heard in the distance. "I must have a drink of water."

"You have no time."

"I won't be gone but a second," replied Kate.

"I will wait here—but be quick."

Kate went into the station-house, and passing out at the door on the other side, ran off towards the river as fast as her legs would carry her. She reached the outskirts of the village before she slackened her pace, and then, exhausted and out of breath with running, she paused to ascertain if Fanny was in pursuit of her. No one was to be seen in the direction from which she had come, and taking courage from her success, she walked leisurely towards the place where the Greyhound had been left.

The man she had passed on her way down was still at work on his boat, and Kate, telling him such a story as suited her purpose, engaged him to sail the Greyhound up to Woodville. They embarked without any interruption from Fanny, and in a couple of hours she was landed at the pier from which she had started. Kate paid her boatman three dollars from the money which Fanny had given her, and then walked up to the mansion.

She told Mrs. Green the whole truth, and gave her the eighteen dollars remaining in her possession. She then went home to make peace with her mother, to whom also she told the whole story, blaming Fanny for everything except her own truancy, and pleading that she had been led away in this respect.

Mr. Long was still engaged in the search for Fanny, though the loss of the money in the closet had not been discovered till Kate appeared.

CHAPTER VII.

THE SOLDIER'S FAMILY.

Fanny stood on the platform in front of the station-house, waiting for the return of Kate. She had no suspicion that her friend had deserted her, and was at that moment running away as fast as she could. The train was approaching, and with the nervousness of one not accustomed to travelling, she feared they might be left. The cars stopped, and Kate did not return. Fanny rushed into the station-house in search of her. She was not there! she was not in the building; she was not to be seen from the open door.

Then Fanny realized that her companion's courage had failed, and that she had deserted her. The bell on the locomotive was ringing, and the train was in the act of starting. Fanny was quick and decisive in her movements, and she bounded out of the building, and stepped upon the train after it was in motion. She was angry and indignant at the defection of Kate, and, taking a seat in the car, she nursed her bitter feelings until her wrath had expended itself.

Kate's desertion affected the plans of the runaway, for in a few hours, at most, what she had done, and what she intended to do, would be known at Woodville. Mr. Long would take one of the afternoon trains for the city, and the whole police force of the great metropolis would be on the lookout for her before dark. Constables and policemen were now more than ever Fanny's especial horror, and she trembled at the very thought of being arrested for the crime she had committed.

Fanny was a girl of quick, bright parts. She had read the newspapers, and listened to the conversation of her elders. She was better informed in regard to the ways of the world than most young persons of her age with no more experience. She knew all about the telegraph, and the uses to which it was put in the detection and arrest of rogues. Though it was hardly possible for Kate to reach Woodville, and inform the people there where she had gone, yet circumstances might conspire against her so as to render the telegraph available. Mr. Long might have discovered in what direction the fugitives had gone, and followed them down to Pennville. He might have met Kate there, and learned her destination. It was possible, therefore, that a despatch might reach the city before she did, and an officer be waiting for her at the railroad station.

She was too cunning to be entrapped by any such expedients; and when the train stopped at Harlem, she got out, with the intention of walking into the city. Deeming it imprudent to follow the principal street, in which some of the terrible policemen might be lying in wait for her, she made her way to one of the less travelled thoroughfares, in which she pursued her way towards the city. The street she had chosen led her through the localities inhabited by the poorer portions of the population. The territory through which she was passing was in a transition state: broad streets and large squares had been laid out, in anticipation of vast improvements, but only a little had been accomplished in carrying them out. There were many tasty little houses, and many long blocks of buildings occupied by mechanics and laborers, and occasionally a more pretentious mansion.

In some of the most ineligible places for building, there were houses, or rather hovels, constructed in the roughest and rudest manner, apparently for temporary use until the march of improvement should drive their tenants into still more obscure locations. Fanny passed near one of these rude abodes, which was situated on a cross street, a short distance from the avenue on which she was journeying to the city. In front of this house was a scene which attracted the attention of the wanderer, and caused her to forget, for the time, the great wrong she had committed, and the consequences which would follow in its train.

In front of the house lay several articles of the coarsest furniture, and a man was engaged in removing more of the same kind from the hovel. He had paused for a moment in his occupation, and before him stood a woman who was wringing her hands in the agonies of despair. Fanny could hear the profane and abusive language the man used, and she could hear the piteous pleadings of the woman, at whose side stood a little boy, half clothed in tattered garments, weeping as though his heart would break.

Fanny was interested in the scene. The woman's woe and despair touched her feelings, and perhaps more from curiosity than any other motive, she walked down the cross-street towards the cottage. Being resolute and courageous by nature, she had no fear of personal consequences. She did not comprehend the nature of the difficulty, having never seen a tenant forcibly ejected from a house for the non-payment of rent.

"You'll kill my child! You'll kill my child!" cried the poor woman, in such an agony of bitterness that Fanny was thrilled by her tones.

"Isn't it a whole year I've been waiting for my rint?" replied the man, coarsely. "Didn't ye keep promisin' to pay me for a twelvemonth, and niver a cint I got yet?"

"I would pay you if I could, Mr. O'Shane."

"If ye could! What call have I to wait any longer for me money?"

"My husband has gone to the war, and I haven't heard a word from him for a year; but I'm sure he will send me some money soon—I know he will."

"What call had he to go to the war? Why didn't he stay at home and take care of his childer? Go 'way wid ye! Give me up me house!"

Mr. O'Shane broke away from her, and, rushing into the house, presently returned bearing a dilapidated table in his hands.

"Have mercy, Mr. O'Shane. Pity me!" pleaded the woman, when he appeared.

"I do pity ye; 'pon me sowl, I do, thin; but what can a poor man like me do?" replied the landlord. "I live in a worse house nor this, and work like a mule, and I can't make enough, for the high prices, to take care of me family. Didn't I wait month after month for me rint, and sorra a cint I iver got? Sure it isn't Mike O'Shane that would do the likes of this if he could help it."

"But I will pay you all I owe, Mr. O'Shane."

"That's what ye been sayin' this twelvemonth; and I can't wait any longer. Why don't ye stir yoursilf, and go among the rich folks?"

"I can't beg, Mr. O'Shane."

"But ye better beg than chate me out of me honest dues. Go 'way wid ye! Pay me the rint, or give me the house; and sorra one of me cares which you do."

"I would move if I could. You know that my poor child is very sick. For her sake don't turn me out of the house to-day," added the woman, in the most beseeching tones.

"Didn't I wait six months for the child to die, and she didn't die? She won't die. Sure, don't she sit in the chair all day? and what harm would it do to move her?"

"I have no place to move her to."

"That's what's the matter! Now go 'way wid your blarney, and don't be talking to me. It's Mike O'Shane that has a soft spot in his heart, but he can't do no more for ye. That's the truth, and ye must move to-day."

The landlord went into the house again, for more of the furniture. As he had represented, it was, doubtless, a hard case for him; but it was infinitely harder for the poor woman, and Fanny was too deeply interested now to leave the spot. What she had known of human misery was as nothing compared with the suffering of this poor mother.

"What's the matter, ma'am?" asked Fanny of her, when the harsh landlord had gone into the house.

"This man is my landlord, and he is turning me out of the house because I cannot pay him the rent," sobbed the woman. "I wouldn't care, if it wasn't for poor Jenny."

"Who is Jenny?"

"She is my daughter. She has been sick, very sick, for nearly a year, and she cannot live much longer. The doctor gave her up six months ago."

"How old is Jenny?"

"She is fourteen; and she is such a patient child! She never complains of anything, though I am not able to do much for her," replied the afflicted mother, as her tears broke forth afresh at the thought of the sufferer.

"Haven't you any place to go if this man turns you out of the house?" asked Fanny.

"No, no!" groaned the woman, bursting out into a terrible paroxysm of grief.

"I know it's hard for you, Mrs. Kent, but it's harder for me to do it than it is for you to have it done," continued Mr. O'Shane, as he came out of the house with a rocking chair in his hands.

"O mercy! that is poor Jenny's chair!" almost screamed Mrs. Kent. "What have you done with her?"

The mother, in her agony, rushed into the house to ascertain if any harm had come to her suffering daughter, who had been deprived of the easy chair in which she was accustomed to sit. Fanny was moved to the depths of her nature—moved as she had never been moved before. She couldn't have believed that such scenes were real. She had read of them in romances, and even in the newspapers; but she had never realized that a man could be so hard as Mr. O'Shane, or that a woman could suffer so much as Mrs. Kent. Between her grief and indignation she was almost overwhelmed.

"You are a cruel man," said she, with something like fierceness in her tones.

"That's very foine for the likes of you to say to the likes of me; but it don't pay me rint," replied Mr. O'Shane, not as angry as might have been expected at this interference.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself to do such a mean thing!" added Fanny, her black eyes snapping with the living fire of her indignation.

"Shall I let me own childer starve for another man's childer?" answered the landlord, who, we must do him the justice to say, was ashamed of himself.

"How much does the woman owe you?" demanded Fanny.

"A matther of a hundred dollars—for a whole year's rint. Sure, miss, it isn't many min that would wait a twelvemonth for the rint, and not get it thin."

"And her daughter is sick?"

"Troth she is; there's no lie in that; she's got the consoomption, and she's not long for this world," replied the landlord, moving towards the door of the house, again to complete the work of desolation he had begun.