CHAPTER IV.

RICHARD MAKES A TREMENDOUS SENSATION AT WOODVILLE.

The mansion at Woodville was dark and silent when Richard stole cautiously up the walk which led from the pier to the house. Of course his father and the other members of the family supposed he was asleep in his chamber, where he had gone at an early hour to retire. He had locked his door as usual, and to make the deception more complete, he had pretended that he was not very well.

His chamber window opened upon the one-story addition which had been erected to afford room for a conservatory. On one end of the structure there was a trellis for the support of a grape vine. After he had locked his door, Richard had opened the window, crawled out upon the roof of the conservatory, and descended to the ground by the aid of the trellis.

He intended to return to his room by the same route, but it was now a more difficult matter than it had been when the family were all in the sitting room. Mr. Presby's room was next to his own, and the old gentleman was not a very sound sleeper. The difficulty of gaining access to his room was so great that he was tempted to sleep in the boat house, and not take the risk of being discovered; but the condition of his legs, still smarting severely from the chastisement he had received, would not permit him to do so. His wounds needed attention, and though he was no surgeon, he knew that a good washing in cold water, with the application of a simple remedy he had in his chamber, might ease the pain, and perhaps save him from serious consequences.

With a stealthy step he walked round to the conservatory, and with the utmost care commenced the ascent of the trellis. With all the precautions he could use, it was impossible to avoid making some noise, and he trembled lest the wakeful invalid should hear him. But he succeeded in gaining the roof without creating an alarm. Here he felt comparatively secure; but sometimes when we think we are safest we are in the greatest peril. The roof, wet with the dew of night, was very slippery; and when he reached up to open the window, his feet flew up beneath him, and he fell, with noise enough to rouse a deeper sleeper than Mr. Presby.

"Help! Help! Robbers! Thieves!" shouted the old gentleman, as he threw open his window.

The invalid's lungs did not seem to be at all affected, and there would have been no difficulty in hearing him all over the house, not to say all over the estate. Richard, taking advantage of the momentary confusion, threw open the window, and sprang into his room. Doors were opening in all parts of the house, and he could hear the hurried tread of the members of the household in the halls.

But Richard did not lose his self-possession, and hastily threw off his clothes. Placing himself at the open window, he joined in the cry which Mr. Presby still continued, and hallooed as lustily as his neighbor in the adjoining room. The house was in a complete uproar, and presently he heard the voices of his father and uncle Obed at his door.

"Richard," said Mr. Grant.

"Sir," replied the young scapegrace.

"Open the door."

"They are not in here, father; they are out doors. One of them just jumped off the conservatory,—at least, I think he did."

"Did you see them?" asked uncle Obed.

"No, I didn't see them, but I think I heard them."

Mr. Grant seemed to be satisfied with the information he had gained, and retired from the door. Richard lighted his lamp, and waited impatiently for the disturbance to subside; but he had to wait a long time, for every body about the place had been thoroughly waked up. Mr. Presby went down to the sitting room, where, after a thorough search had been made, the family and the servants had collected to compare notes, and ascertain to what extent the supposed robbers had been successful in their enterprise.

Richard's two sisters, Bertha and Fanny, were there, and both of them very much terrified. Mr. Grant soon pacified them with the assurance that no one had been injured, and that there was no further danger. But Richard was not there, and his absence was noticed. He and Mr. Presby had been the only persons who had heard the robbers, and they had created the alarm. The old gentleman told his story, and Richard's testimony was very much needed to complete the chain of evidence. One of the men servants was sent up to request him to join the party.

"Tell them I don't feel very well, and have gone to bed again," replied Richard, when the man delivered his message.

But this was the most dangerous answer he could have returned; for Mr. Grant, followed by uncle Obed and Mr. Presby, hastened up stairs to ascertain the nature of his illness.

"What ails you, Richard?" demanded his father, in the tones of sympathy and kindness.

"Nothing particular; only I don't feel just right," replied the young midnight marauder, terribly alarmed as he thought of the probable consequences of this visitation.

"Well, open the door, and let me see what I can do for you," added his father.

"I don't want any thing done. I shall be well enough in the morning."

"You had better open the door, Richard; I want to see you about the robbers."

"I can't; I am in bed."

"Don't get up then," said Mr. Grant, more anxious than at first for the health of his son. "I have a key that will open the door."

These words struck terror to the soul of the guilty youth, and he sprang out of bed with all the haste he could command. One terror filled his mind—that his father might see his bleeding, lacerated limbs; and he did, what guilty persons often do, the stupidest thing of which the circumstances would admit. He had blown out the light when he heard them coming, and now in the darkness he pulled on his pants, forgetting that the bed clothes would as effectually hide his injured members as the garment.

He had hardly clothed himself in this partial manner before his father succeeded in opening the door. By the aid of the light which uncle Obed carried, the head and front of the melon expedition was revealed to the visitors, standing in the middle of the room, half clothed and wholly scared.

"Why, Richard! What ails you? Where have you been?" demanded Mr. Grant, as he and the others gazed with astonishment at the sorry figure which the male heir of Woodville presented.

If Richard had attempted to dress himself in the light, he would have rejected the muddy pants he now wore, and consigned them to the deepest depths of the clothes-press. He had rolled in the moist earth of the melon patch, while under the discipline of Mr. Batterman, till his clothes were plastered with mud. His face was begrimed with the rich black mould of the garden, through which the tears of anger and resentment he had shed, under the influence of their natural gravity, had furrowed passages down his checks.

In the simple but eloquent language of Mrs. Green, the housekeeper of Woodville, who had followed the party up stairs, to offer her services in the capacity of nurse, Richard was "a sight to behold." He had retired from the sitting room, and bade the family good night before nine o'clock, looking like a decent person. His pants were in good condition then; certainly, if they had been in their present plight, it would have been noticed.

The first impulse of the visiting party was to laugh at the extraordinary appearance he presented; but a stronger feeling of interest and sympathy overruled the inclination, and the culprit was spared this humiliation. Richard was almost as much astonished as they were, for he had not regarded a thing so trivial as his personal experience, in the excitement and terror of the hour.

While the party were scrutinizing him with surprise and anxiety, he happened to glance at the looking glass on the bureau. Then he saw his hair tangled and matted with mud and filth; then he saw his dirty, tear-furrowed cheeks; and then he saw his befouled and torn pants. In the choice language of the boys, it seemed to him that "the cat was out of the bag" beyond the possibility of recovery.

"What ails you, Richard? What under the sun has happened?" asked Mr. Grant again, for the terrified boy made no reply to the first question.

But Richard was an old head, and he had no notion of being defeated in the present contest of words or ideas. He stood like a statue in the middle of the floor, and made no reply to the interrogatories.

"Where have you been?" said his father. "Can't you speak?"

"I don't know," replied Richard, with a bewildered look, as he glanced with a vacant stare at his soiled garments.

"Don't know where you have been?"

"No, sir."

"That's very singular," said uncle Obed.

"Have you been up since you went to bed?" demanded Mr. Grant.

"I don't know," replied Richard, vacantly, as though the whole matter was as much a mystery to him as to the others.

"Where were you when the alarm was given?"

"Out on the roof of the conservatory."

"On the roof!" exclaimed his father. "How came you there?"

"I don't know," answered Richard, shaking his head.

"Don't you know any thing about it?"

"No, sir. I woke up, and heard some one halloo, Robbers! thieves! I was close by the window, and I jumped in, and hallooed with the rest of them."

"Were you standing on the roof?"

"No, I was flat on my face."

"I see," interposed Mr. Presby, holding up his hands with astonishment, "I understand it all. The poor boy is a sleep walker."

"Richard?" said Mr. Grant, who had never known his son to do such a thing before.

"Yes, sir; your boy is unquestionably a somnambulist. He has been wandering about the garden, and rolling in the mud, in his sleep. There have been no robbers or thieves here to-night. The poor boy fell on the roof; that was what waked him up; and the noise of his fall was what caused me to give the alarm."

"Very singular," added uncle Obed.

"I never had any suspicion that he got up in his sleep," said Mr. Grant.

"There are instances on record of persons addicted to the practice who have followed it for years, without discovery. Now, if you will come to my room, I will read you several accounts, given by competent medical authority, of cases just like this," observed Mr. Presby.

But none of the party, at that hour of the night, were disposed to consult the authorities on the subject. If they had looked on the table in Richard's room they might have found there a yellow-covered pamphlet novel, entitled "Sylvester Sound, the Somnambulist." It is a very curious and amusing account of the antics of a sleep-walker, describing the wonderful feats he performed in his slumbers, without having the least idea of what he was doing.

The ingenious young rogue had been reading the book that very day, and in the drama of the "Midnight Alarm," played at Woodville, he had chosen for himself the part of Sylvester Sound. While his father went for a hammer and nails, to secure the window, Richard removed his telltale trousers, and jumped into bed.

CHAPTER V.

RICHARD IS DETERMINED TO BE REVENGED.

Mr. Grant nailed up the window in Richard's room, so that when he should again walk in his sleep, he might not be exposed to the peril of breaking his neck by falling off the roof of the conservatory. When this important work was accomplished, the party retired. Mr. Presby was a philosopher, and his library had not been a merely ornamental appendage of his house. He had read a great deal, and thought a great deal; and mesmerism, biology, psychology, somnambulism, and kindred subjects, had each in its turn been considered, and a conclusion reached.

Mr. Presby, therefore, was not disposed to return to his bed when the excitement had subsided. So splendid an illustration of the phenomenon of sleepwalking was enough to kindle his enthusiasm. He tried to draw uncle Obed into a discussion on the topic, but the latter was too sleepy. Mr. Grant made a home question of the matter, and did not care to indulge in any philosophical inquiries. One after another the family retired, till the old gentleman was left alone, and then, in despair, he resorted to the "authorities" as he termed his books, and read till the inmates of the hennery began to sound the morning call.

Richard did not come down stairs the next morning till nine o'clock, when Mr. Grant and uncle Obed had both gone to the city. He was so stiff that he could hardly walk; but he had washed himself clean, and thrown aside the soiled garments he had worn on the expedition.

Already the story of Richard's wonderful doings in his sleep had been circulated all over the estate, and when he limped into the breakfast room, every body supposed he was suffering from the injuries he had received during his nocturnal ramble. Mr. Presby, whose researches were not yet completed, had taken pains to tell the people of the house, that somnambulists were peculiarly sensitive in regard to their involuntary rambles, and, very much to the surprise of Richard, no one even alluded to the events of the night.

There was upon the faces and in the actions of all with whom he came in contact, an expression of abundant sympathy. He was treated with increased kindness and consideration by the family and by the servants. When he had eaten his breakfast, the thought occurred to him that something which might betray him had been left on the Greyhound, and he hastened down to the pier to remove any such evidence.

As he passed the boat house he heard the voices of Mr. Presby and Ben in the building. The former had by no means slept off his enthusiasm in the cause of science; and as soon as the dew was off the grass, he commenced exploring the premises, in search of any appearances that might throw new light upon the conduct of the "poor boy" during his midnight ramble. He recalled the dirty and foul condition of the patient when discovered in his room, and he examined all the vile and filthy places in the neighborhood, for the marks of some terrible struggle that might have taken place between the sleep-walker, and any real or imaginary demon.

The patient seeker after the hidden truths of science had been to the pigsty, to learn whether he had been wrestling with the pigs; he had looked into the cow yard, the horse stables, and the dog kennels for information upon the dark subject; he had patiently explored the cornfield and the potato patch, and every dirty hole he could find; but not a single fact or hint could he obtain to assist him in solving the difficult problem.

In the course of his investigations he had reached the department of Ben, the boatman. He had carefully noted the appearance of the earth on the banks of the river, and, quite fatigued by his unusual exertions, he had seated himself in the boat house, where Ben was at work.

"Have you noticed any thing unusual about the boats, Ben?" asked the old gentleman, after he had given the boatman a full exposition of his views on somnambulism.

"Yes, sir; I noticed that the Greyhound was in a very dirty, slovenly condition this morning. She wasn't so last night, when I looked at her," replied the boatman.

"Ah, indeed!"

"The white seats in the standing room were covered with black mud, and upon the edges there were stains of blood."

"Blood?" queried the philosopher.

"Yes, sir, blood; I have seen blood in my day, and I know what it looks like."

"Can it be possible! Blood! What could have happened to the poor boy?"

"I don't know, sir."

"It is really awful. There is no knowing what the poor boy may have suffered."

"He got back all right, for the boat was made fast, as usual, to her moorings."

"The poor fellow must have been off somewhere in the boat, in his sleep."

"May be he did, sir," answered Ben, respectfully.

"O, there can be no doubt about it. Isn't it a wonder that he wasn't drowned?"

"Mr. Richard, knows how to handle a boat as well as any boy of his years on the river."

"Yes, but you forget that he was asleep all the time."

"Perhaps he was, sir," said Ben, who did not seem to appreciate Mr. Presby's philosophy.

"But he did not get all that mud and filth upon him while he was in the boat."

"No, sir, of course he didn't; for I wash down the boat every time she is used, and she was as neat as a new pin when I looked into her at sundown last night."

"Then he must have landed somewhere," added the logical Mr. Presby.

"No doubt of that, sir."

"Where do you suppose he landed?"

"I haven't the least idea."

"Do you suppose you could find out by sailing up and down the river, and examining the shore?"

"Well, sir, if you could tell which way the wind is by looking into the ship's coppers, perhaps you might."

"I feel a very deep interest in the poor boy's welfare," added Mr. Presby, who did not admire Ben's coldness on the subject; "and if you could obtain any information that would throw light on this singular affair, you might confer a great favor on the youth."

"I'll do any thing I can, sir, to find out about it; and if you want to go up and down the river and examine the shore, I'll pull the boat for you."

Mr. Presby accepted this offer, and Richard kept behind the boat house till they had embarked. The roguish author of all these scientific inquiries listened to the old gentleman's remarks on sleep-walking in general, and the phenomena of his own case in particular, till the boat disappeared in the cove above the pier. He then jumped into his skiff, and pulled off to the Greyhound.

Ben had carefully removed all the stains of dirt and blood, and the boat now bore no testimony against him. Whatever the boatman might have thought, he certainly said nothing, and was even willing to countenance Mr. Presby's theory in explanation of the absence of the boat, and of her dirty appearance.

Though Richard had every reason to be satisfied with the success which had attended his representation of the character of a somnambulist, he could not banish the doubts and fears that haunted him. Some unlucky mischance might betray him; "Old Batterbones" or Bates might tell the story; Sandy might be entrapped into an exposure of the affair; indeed, there were so many ways by which the secret might come out, that he was far from satisfied with the prospect before him.

He was a high-spirited young man, and prided himself upon his healthy body and well-developed muscle, and the idea of being pitied as a person having an infirmity upon him was far from grateful to his sensibilities. He did not much admire Mr. Presby's inquiring mind, and thought he was an "old fool" to trouble himself about what did not concern him. He did not care to be the subject of his meditations. Being watched, pitied, and made the object of a physiological study, were almost as bad as being caught in the act of stealing melons.

But above all considerations of his own safety or his own comfort was the reflection that he had been whipped—unjustly and cruelly whipped—by such a person as "Old Batterbones." All the bad boys hated and despised him, and he felt that Woodville had been outraged in the person of its male heir. These thoughts rankled in his soul, and he was thirsting for revenge. He was determined to have satisfaction for the injuries that had been heaped upon him. Already the dim outline of a purpose whose execution would secure him ample vengeance was presented to his mind.

While these dark thoughts were passing through his brain, he discovered the boat, with Mr. Presby and Ben, returning to the pier. Not caring to encounter the scrutiny, or answer the questions of the philosopher, he hoisted the sails, and cast off the moorings of the Greyhound. He was anxious to see Sandy Brimblecom, and ascertain whether he had been discovered when he went home. Sailing over to Whitestone, he found Sandy on the wharf, and took him into the boat.

"Did you get into the house all right?" asked Richard as the Greyhound receded from the wharf.

"I did, but I got caught for all that. My mother had missed me, and about one o'clock, after I had got into bed, the old man came up to my chamber to see if I was there."

"Of course you pretended to be sound asleep."

"I did; but it wouldn't go down. The old man asked me where I had been. I told him I had been over to see you."

"Did you, indeed?" sneered Richard. "And the next thing he will do will be to go to my father, and ask him if you were at our house. My folks know I went to bed before nine o'clock. You have got me into a pretty scrape."

"No, I haven't. The old man won't ask any more questions; but he was mad as thunder with me for staying out so late. It's all right now, Dick; you needn't give yourself any trouble about it."

"I shall not do that, whatever happens."

Richard then described the happy "dodge" by which he had thrown dust in the eyes of all the inmates of Woodville. Sandy was much amused at the account, and expressed a decided admiration for the wonderful genius of his companion, and even went so far as to request the loan of the remarkable work which had suggested the expedient. He would like to read that book, though he was not in the habit of doing such things.

"See there, Sandy," said Richard, as he pulled up his pants, and exhibited to his friend the wales and broken skin upon his legs.

"That's hard," replied Sandy, as he shook his head. "The old villain laid it on well."

"He did, and he shall pay dearly for it," added Richard, as he compressed his lips and ground his teeth. "I'll be revenged upon him if it costs me my life."

"I'm with you there, Dick."

"It shall be the worst night's work for Old Batterbones that ever he did."

"What are you going to do, Dick?"

"Will you stand by me, Sandy?" demanded Richard, earnestly.

"Certainly; to be sure I will. But, Dick, we mustn't burn our own fingers," said his prudent companion. "What are you going to do?"

In low tones, Richard detailed the scheme into which his outline of a purpose had grown, and when they parted at noon, the arrangements were all completed.

CHAPTER VI.

RICHARD GIVES ANOTHER ILLUSTRATION OF SLEEP-WALKING.

For six or seven nights following the expedition to the watermelon patch of Mr. Batterman, Richard Grant did not "walk in his sleep." The parental solicitude of his father prompted him to set a watch for several nights; and Mr. Presby, who was still anxious to pursue his scientific investigations, slept with one eye open, that he might be in readiness to avail himself of the reappearance of the phenomenon.

The philosopher's hint that sleep-walkers are sensitive to any allusion to their infirmity, had prevented him and Mr. Grant from informing the subject of their precautions of the steps they had taken to observe his movements, and Richard was entirely unconscious that vigilant eyes were upon him while he slept, or while he ought to sleep.

But Richard was too lame and sore from the effects of his flogging to indulge again so soon in the luxury of "sleep-walking." He had not been questioned in regard to the blood upon the seats of the Greyhound, for, being asleep when the stains were made, of course he would know nothing about them. Mr. Presby explained his inactivity and want of energy upon philosophical principles, and every body seemed to be satisfied.

The salve which the sufferer applied to his wounded members healed the bruises in a few days, and he was again in condition to pursue his wonted sports and pleasures. After the lapse of a week, as the patient exhibited no further signs of the malady, the watch was discontinued; but Mr. Presby was too enthusiastic in the cause of science to abandon the case so soon. He sat up in his chamber till midnight, with his ears wide open, to catch the slightest indication of a movement on the part of his interesting subject.

Every day, Richard and Sandy met; and they never failed to renew the mutual pledges they had made to be revenged upon "Old Batterbones." The plan was discussed and amended till no further improvement could be made; and by this time Richard was so far recovered from his injuries as to enable him to take the leading part in its execution. The night was appointed for the purpose, and it was agreed that the boys should meet at a point just below Whitestone, where Richard was to take Sandy into the Greyhound, and proceed to the inlet where they had before landed.

It was a very difficult matter for Richard to get out of the house without detection. If he could succeed in opening his door, and walk through the long halls of the mansion without attracting the attention of any of its numerous inmates, he could hardly expect to unlock any of the outer doors with safety. After much reflection, he decided that it would be the better way to go out as he had gone before—over the roof of the conservatory, and down the trellis.

With the proper tools, therefore, he had removed the nails with which his father had secured the window of his chamber. He had then skilfully adjusted them, so that they appeared to be as his father had left them, though he could easily pull them out. At ten o'clock he retired as usual, but the hour of meeting was one o'clock, for the young rascals had come to the conclusion that their purpose could be better executed in the small hours of the morning, when the farmer and his man would probably be asleep.

Richard waited impatiently till he heard the clock strike twelve. There had been no noise in the chamber of Mr. Presby for some time, and he concluded that the old gentleman must be asleep. He had gone to bed as usual, in order to remove any suspicion in case he should find it necessary to act the part of the sleep-walker again. He rose and dressed himself for the expedition, using the utmost care to avoid disturbing the slumbers of the troublesome philosopher in the adjoining room.

Every thing worked to his entire satisfaction, and he was not conscious that he had made the slightest noise. The nails were removed from the window; but, though he had taken the precaution to oil the sash where it slid up and down, it creaked a little, in spite of all the care he could use. He was satisfied that the noise could not wake Mr. Presby, and he continued his operations. Leaving the window open, as a somnambulist would naturally be expected to do, he crept softly over the roof, and reached the trellis without accident.

As yet there was no appearance of an interruption; but the first bar of the trellis, upon which he placed his foot, creaked and snapped. As the noise, so far as he could see, attracted no notice, he resumed his attempt, and reached the ground without any further impediment, real or imaginary.

With stealthy step he retreated from the house till there was no longer any danger of being discovered. Quickening his pace, he soon reached the pier, and with the skiff boarded the Greyhound. The night was certainly favorable for the execution of dark deeds. The midnight assassin, the incendiary, or the burglar would have rejoiced in its darkness, its dense black clouds, and its fitful winds.

Richard Grant still felt the cowhide of his enemy tingling upon his legs, and still felt its iron piercing his soul. The injury he had received a week before, rankled in his bosom as it had the hour after it had been inflicted. Neither the time that had elapsed, nor the peril attending his present enterprise, in any degree moderated the spirit of revenge that burned in his soul.

As soon as he had secured the skiff at the buoy to which the sail boat was moored, he opened the door of the stern locker, and drew forth a small bottle. He shook it to satisfy himself that the contents were safe, and then restored it to the place from which he had taken it. He then examined his pockets to assure himself that some other article necessary for his purpose was all right. No mistakes or omissions had been made, and he proceeded to hoist the mainsail. He then cast off the moorings, and hoisted the jib. The wind was too fresh to permit the Greyhound to carry all sail, and even with what he had set, she put her rail under the water at the first forward impulse.

One less skilful and courageous than Richard would have been terrified by the fierce waves and the gloom of the night, especially if bound upon an errand of evil and crime; but he held the tiller with a steady hand, and heeded not the spray that broke upon the half-deck of the Greyhound. A few moments in such a breeze were sufficient to carry him over the river to the place of rendezvous. The point was as familiar to him as the pier at Woodville; and as soon as he could obtain a view of the dark outline of the shore, he ran the boat alongside the point, with as little difficulty as though it had been broad daylight.

Sandy Brimblecom was not there, and an expression of anger escaped from the lips of Richard, when he found that the partner of his iniquitous scheme might possibly fail him. He gave the signal whistle with which they were in the habit of calling each other; but there was no reply. The clocks on the churches in Whitestone struck one, and Richard waited half an hour after he heard them—half an hour, which seemed like half a day to him.

He was afraid that Sandy's heart had failed him, or that his father had discovered him; and Richard decided to proceed alone with the enterprise. Disgusted at the failure of his associate, he pushed off from the point. As he did so, he discovered another boat a short distance up the river, moving off from the shore. He watched it for a moment, till it disappeared in the gloom. It was not a common thing to see sail boats out at such an hour, and on such a night as this was; but he concluded that it was some gardener taking his produce to an early market, and he gave himself no uneasiness.

Just as he lost sight of the boat, he heard the familiar whistle of Sandy. Putting the Greyhound about, he ran under the lee of the point, and his friend leaped on board. Richard immediately put off again, and shaped the course of the boat for the inlet near the garden of "Old Batterbones."

"You are late, Sandy," said Richard, in reproachful tones.

"Can't help it. I got asleep, and didn't wake up," replied Sandy, with a long gape.

"Asleep! What did you go to sleep for? I haven't been asleep."

"I didn't mean to, but I was so sleepy I couldn't help it."

"You came pretty near spoiling your share of the fun. I had just cast off, and was going to put the thing through alone."

"I wish you had," answered Sandy, in a tone which did not please his companion any better than the words themselves.

"What do you mean?"

"It's a bad scrape we are getting into, and I wish we were well out of it. If I hadn't promised to go, I wouldn't have any thing to do with it."

"Old Batterbones licked you as well as me."

"I know that, and I should like to pay him off for it; but I don't believe it will do to go in quite so steep as we are going."

"You are chicken-hearted, Sandy. I thought you had more grit than that."

"I think I have got as much as you have, but I don't believe it will pay to rub your nose on a grindstone. Your nose will get the worst of it."

"You can back out, if you want to," added Richard, in an indifferent tone.

"I don't want to back out. I agreed to go, and I am going, if I have to be hung for it. I only say, it is a bad scrape."

"No scrape at all, Sandy. I don't calculate to get found out."

"You didn't calculate to before, but you did; and Old Batterbones got more fun out of the scrape than you did. Perhaps he will this time."

"If you are afraid, Sandy, back out, and we will go home again."

"I'm not afraid: don't use that word to me again, Dick. If I had been afraid, I shouldn't come, of course."

By this time the Greyhound was off the little inlet, near Mr. Batterman's garden, and, as a matter of prudence, all conversation was suspended. The boat shot into the inlet, and was made fast to the same tree as on the former occasion. As the business of these hopeful youths was not with the melon patch, they took a different road this time.

They had gone but a short distance before the rushing of a boat through the water was heard. They paused and Richard saw a sail, which he believed he had seen before that night, pass by the mouth of the inlet. He caught but a glance of it, as it cut a tangent along the small circle of his vision.

"I don't like the looks of that boat, Sandy," whispered Richard, as the sail disappeared in the gloom.

"Why not?"

"What is any one sailing about the river at this time of night for?"

"I don't know," added Sandy, who did not seem to be at all alarmed at the appearance of the boat.

"I think I have seen her before to-night," continued Richard.

"If you are afraid, we will both back out, and then neither can twit the other."

"I'm not afraid; come along. I've no notion of backing out." And Richard moved on, followed by his reluctant associate.

When they had ascended the hill, they carefully walked all over the grounds to satisfy themselves that the farmer and his man were not keeping vigil over the melons; but they could neither see nor hear any thing that betokened the presence of a human being. Satisfied with this survey of the ground, Richard led the way to the barn, where he had received his terrible flagellation. The memories of the place were not pleasant, and they intensified the hatred he bore the owner of the premises, and fanned the flame of vengeance that was burning in his soul.

The barn was an old building, and very much out of repair. It contained the farmer's horses and oxen, his wagons, his hay, and other produce. On the side nearest to the river, some of the boards had been forced partly off by the pressure of the hay; and against one of these places Richard sat down upon the ground.

"Pull out some of the hay, Sandy," whispered Richard, as he drew from his pocket the bottle which he had taken from the locker of the boat.

Sandy hinted something about backing out again; but a sneer from Richard silenced him, and he obeyed the order. While he was doing so, Richard walked round the barn to satisfy himself that no one was near. They were alone, and the wicked work proceeded.

CHAPTER VII.

RICHARD KINDLES A LITTLE FIRE.

Sandy continued to pull out the hay from behind the board, till Richard, who, as engineer, conducted the operations, directed him to suspend his labors. The contents of the bottle were poured upon the heap of loose hay.

"What's that, Dick?" asked Sandy.

"Spirits of turpentine. I intend to make sure work of it," answered Richard.

"I wouldn't use that stuff," added Sandy.

"Why not?"

"To tell the truth, Dick, I was in hopes the fire wouldn't burn."

"I believe you are a fool, Sandy Brimblecom. Have you come clear over here, in the dead of the night, to kindle a fire that will not burn?"

"I don't like the idea of setting the barn on fire," whispered Sandy, in an earnest tone. "What do you suppose they will do with us, if we should get found out?"

"We shall not get found out."

"We shall be sent to the state prison—at least I shall."

"I shall, if you are; we shall both be in the same boat, and if one goes down the other must."

"I don't know about that," said Sandy; "your father is rich, and he will get you off. I shall have to stand all the racket."

"Shut up, Sandy! I have gone too far to back out now," added Richard, decidedly, as he took a bunch of matches from his pocket.

"Hold on a moment, Dick, before it is too late. It will be cheaper to do our thinking now than it will be after the barn is burned down."

"I have done all the thinking I care to do already. The die is cast, Sandy. I won't back out now, and you shall not."

"It's too bad to burn up the horses and oxen in the barn. That's cruel. If it wasn't for them, I wouldn't say a word."

"Very well; we will go round and turn out the horses and oxen. I don't want to burn them any more than you do."

"But the noise will wake the farmer and his man."

"No, it won't. I have thought a great deal about the animals, and it goes right against my grain to hurt them, especially the horses."

"I don't want to burn the barn, any way."

"You are a coward and a fool, Sandy."

"It's easy enough for you to say so, when you know your father has money enough to buy up Old Batterbones, if we get into any scrape."

"Come, no more whining, Sandy; I'm going to get the horses and oxen out, and then I'm going to burn the barn."

"I'm off, then."

"Very good; but if I get into trouble, I will blow on you."

This consideration staggered Sandy, and he concluded to stay and see the end of the wicked enterprise. The house of Mr. Batterman was at a considerable distance from the barn, and there was but little danger that the humane policy of the young incendiaries would expose them to any additional peril.

Richard, followed by Sandy, entered the barn, and turned all the animals loose. They drove them into a lot where they could not get near the fire. The only thing that had weighed upon the mind of the broker's son, in the prosecution of his mad enterprise, was now removed, and he returned to the place where he had prepared the materials for starting the conflagration. Again Sandy stated his objections, and urged Richard to abandon the scheme; but the latter, without any reply to this remonstrance, drew a card of matches across a stone, and applied the burning mass to the hay which had been saturated with turpentine.

The heap of combustible matter suddenly blazed up, lighting all the fields around them. The work had been surely done, and it was too late for Sandy to urge any more of his objections.

"Come, Sandy, the work is done. Now use your legs," said Richard, as he started at the top of his speed towards the inlet where the Greyhound lay.

Sandy's legs did not fail him on this emergency, for he soon outstripped his companion. They had gone but a few rods, when both were appalled at the discovery of two men, who were running towards the fire with all their might—which was not saying much, for both of them seemed to be old and stiff, and incapable of making very good time even on so pressing an emergency as the present.

The guilty boys were filled with terror. The shock was so great that it seemed to deprive them of their strength, and they found their legs giving out under them.

"We are caught, Dick," gasped Sandy, when he could regain breath enough to speak.

"No, we are not; come along. Don't stop here," answered Richard, who was beginning to recover his self-possession.

They ran as fast as their weakened limbs would permit, till they reached the bank of the river. Richard jumped into the boat and hoisted the sails, while Sandy cast off the painter, and they were soon standing out from the shore before the fresh breeze. Neither of them spoke for some minutes, for neither of them had breath enough left in his body to do so.

"The fire don't burn," said Richard, when the boat had gone far enough to enable him to see over the high bank of the river.

"Don't it?" asked Sandy, hoarsely, for the terror and exhaustion of the awful moments through which he had just passed seemed to have choked up his throat, and deprived him of his voice.

"No; it is as dark up there as it was before we landed."

"I am glad of it," gasped Sandy, who was beginning to breathe a little easier.

"I'm not," added Richard, firmly. "We shall only have the job to do over again."

"If you ever catch me in such a scrape as this again, you may let me know it when you do."

"You might as well have the game as the name."

"I don't know about that. I am glad the barn didn't burn. Are you sure the fire has gone out?"

"No doubt of it. There isn't enough to light your cigar."

"I suppose those men put it out. Who do you think they were?"

"I don't know, and I don't care. I wish they had been somewhere else. They have spoiled my night's work."

"I am glad they have; and I thank them with all my heart for what they have done."

"I don't; you might as well be hung for an old sheep as a lamb. If we are caught it will be all the same with us as though we had burned the barn."

"Who do you suppose the men were?"

"I haven't the least idea. I don't care."

"Yes, you do care, Dick. What's the use of talking in that way? You don't want to be found out any more than I do."

"I know that, but we are not found out; and that isn't all—we shall not be."

"I should like to be satisfied on that point."

"The men didn't take any notice at all of us, and I am certain they did not see us."

"They couldn't help seeing us, Dick. The fire lit up the whole field, so that it was as light as broad day."

"Suppose they did see us; they couldn't tell who we were. Keep a stiff upper lip, Sandy, and it will be all right."

"I can only hope for the best, but I shall be scared at my own shadow for a month to come," added Sandy, in whose nature a vein of candor appeared to be suddenly developed, for he was not in the habit of acknowledging that he was afraid of any thing.

"You don't talk a bit like Sandy Brimblecom," sneered Richard; "and you act more like an old woman than a fellow of any spunk."

"Humph! I'll bet you are as scared as I am, only you won't own it."

"I don't know what fear means, Sandy."

"O, you can brag; but when a fellow can go and set a man's barn afire, without wincing, he's worse than I am; that's all I've got to say."

"Worse than you are!" said Richard. "Didn't you agree to the whole thing? Didn't you go in for paying off Old Batterbones? Didn't you come down here to burn the barn with me?"

"I did, but I didn't want to come."

"What did you come for, then?"

"Because I agreed to come."

"You're not the fellow I took you to be. You joined me in the affair, and then, at the last moment, you begin to whine like a sick monkey."

"I'm not so far gone that I can burn a man's barn without feeling it."

"You haven't got the pluck of a mosquito."

"You've said about enough on that tack, Dick Grant," replied Sandy, who did not relish the reflections cast upon his courage.

"I shall say what I think best."

"No, you won't! I'm sorry for what I've done, and I'm willing to own it; but I won't take any sauce from you or any other fellow."

"You can talk big enough," sneered Richard.

"Shut up, or I'll bat you over the head."

"Humph!"

"Just put me ashore, Dick Grant, and you and I will part company."

"I'm willing."

Both boys felt that enough had been said, and the conversation was discontinued by mutual consent. Richard, notwithstanding his bravado, was no better satisfied with himself than Sandy. Though he had spoken of "doing the job over again," he had not the slightest idea of repeating the experiment. The shock which the discovery of the two men had given him, was too much even for his strong nerves; and though he was not willing to confess it, he was sorry for what he had done. The terror of being found out had damped the spirit of revenge. The excitement of the affair had passed away, and like his companion in wickedness, visions of public trial, of the house of correction, or the state prison, began to flit before him.

He was not sorry that the barn had been saved from destruction; and the only pleasant reflection in connection with the whole transaction was, that he had insisted upon saving the horses and the oxen. It was with Richard as it is with all who commit crimes. They are led on by the spirit of revenge, or some other strong motive. There is a kind of excitement which urges them on till the wicked deed is committed. Then the criminal excitement subsides; the hour of reflection comes, burdened also with the fear of discovery. To some extent, crime is its own punishment; at least, it is so with those who have not become hardened in iniquity.

Richard brought the Greyhound up to the point where he had taken Sandy on board. He did not like to part with him in anger, for, to a certain extent, he sympathized with him in his penitential confession. But, more than this, he was afraid Sandy might revenge himself upon him for the reproaches he had uttered.

"Let's not quarrel, Sandy," said Richard, as he laid the boat alongside the landing place.

"I don't want to quarrel, but I won't be picked upon by you," replied Sandy, with spirit.

"I'll take it all back. Let's be friends again. We have failed to do what we intended, and perhaps it will be just as well for us."

"I'm glad you are coming to your senses. Do you mean to try it again?"

"We won't burn the barn, Sandy, but we must pay off Old Batterbones in some other way."

"I'll do it. I'll hook his apples, pull out the linchpins of his wagon, throw a dead cat into his well, or any thing of that sort, with you, but I won't attempt to burn any man's barn again. No, never!"

"We'll fix him yet, Sandy. When shall I see you again?"

"I shall be round the wharf to-morrow."

"I'll see you there. Good night to you, Sandy."

"Good night, Dick."

Boys don't usually bid each other good night after they have been doing wicked deeds; and Richard's parting salutation was a peace-offering, rather than the kindly wish of a friend.

Sandy made his way up to Whitestone, and Richard again pushed off upon the troubled waters of the Hudson. The Greyhound leaped over the waves as though she was in haste to get out of the disgraceful business in which she had been employed. Richard heard the clocks in Whitestone striking three, as he grappled his moorings and made fast to them.

He landed from the skiff, and, like a thief in the night, stole up to his father's house. Before he attempted to ascend the trellis, he pulled off his boots, and fastening them together with his handkerchief, slung them around his neck. He reached the roof of the conservatory without noise, and then, to his utter consternation, discovered a light in Mr. Presby's room. But the precaution he had taken in the removal of his boots enabled him to reach his chamber window without producing a sound. Then, to his astonishment and terror, he found that the window he had left open was closed.

Some one had been there.