CHAPTER VII.

THE LOST RECEIPT.

“Did he say anything about a quarrel between his son Herbert and myself?” he inquired.

“Not a word. I didn’t know there had been one.”

Thereupon Andy told the story with which we are already familiar.

“I thought he had come about that,” he said.

“I wish he had. It wouldn’t give us as much trouble as this note. He says we will have to pay it if we can’t find the receipt.”

“I wish old Starr was choked with one of his own turnips,” said Andy, indignantly.

“Don’t speak so, Andy!”

“I mean it, mother. Why, the old swindler knows that the note has been paid, but he means to get a second payment because we can’t prove that it has been paid once.”

“It is very dishonorable, Andy, I admit.”

“Dishonorable! I should say it was. He knows that we are poor, and have nothing except your pension, while he is rich. He was too mean to marry, and has no one to leave his money to, and he can’t live many years.”

“That is all true, Andy.”

“I would like to disappoint the old skinflint.”

“The only way is to find the receipt, and I am afraid we can’t do that.”

“I’ll hunt all the evening,” said Andy, resolutely. “It may come to light somewhere.”

“I have hunted everywhere that I could think of, and I am afraid it must be as I have long thought, that your poor father carried it away with him when he left for the army.”

“If that is the case,” said Andy, seriously, “we can never find it.”

“No; in that case Mr. Starr has us at his mercy.”

“What can we do?”

“Mr. Ross says he may agree to receive payment by installments from my pension.”

“He shan’t get a cent of your pension, mother!” said Andy, indignantly.

“Or else,” continued the widow, “he may levy on our furniture.”

“Did Mr. Ross say that?” asked Andy.

“Yes.”

“I begin to think,” thought Andy, “that Mr. Ross himself is interested in this matter. In spite of what he says, I believe he means to punish us for what passed between Herbert and myself.”

If this was the case, Andy felt that matters were getting serious. All the more diligently he hunted for the lost receipt, leaving not a nook or cranny of the little cottage unexplored, but his search was in vain. The receipt could not be found.

“Mother,” said he, as he took the candle to go to bed, “there’s only one thing left to do. To-morrow is Saturday, and I shan’t need to go to school. I’ll call on Mr. Starr, and see if I can’t shame him into giving up his claim on us.”

“There’s no hope of that,” said Mrs. Gordon. “You don’t know the man.”

“Yes, I do! I know he is a mean skinflint, but I can’t do any worse than fail. I will try it.”

CHAPTER VIII.

MR. STARR’S INVOLUNTARY RIDE.

At one time he employed a young girl of fourteen, whom he had taken from the poorhouse to do his household work. She was not an accomplished cook, but that was unnecessary, for Mr. Starr had never desired a liberal table. She could cook well enough to suit him, but he finally dismissed her for two reasons. First, he begrudged paying her seventy-five cents a week, which he had agreed with the selectmen to do, in order to give the girl the means of supplying herself with decent clothes; and, secondly, he was appalled by her appetite, which, though no greater than might be expected of a growing girl, seemed to him enormous.

At the time of which we speak, Mr. Starr was living alone. He had to employ some help outside, but in the house he took care of himself.

It was certainly a miserable way of living for a man who, besides his farm, had accumulated, by dint of meanness, not far from ten thousand dollars, in money and securities, and owned his farm clear, in addition.

Andy went up to the front door, and used the old brass knocker vigorously, but there was no response.

“I suppose Mr. Starr is somewhere about the place,” he said to himself, and bent his steps toward the barn.

There he found the man of whom he was in search.

Joshua Starr was attired in a much-patched suit, which might have been new thirty years before. Certainly he did not set the rising generation a wasteful example in the matter of dress.

The old man espied Andy just before he got within hearing distance, and guessed his errand.

“Howdy do, Andy Gordon?” he said, in a quavering voice.

“All right!” answered Andy, coolly.

If it had been anyone else, he would have added, “thank you,” but he did not feel like being ordinarily polite to the man who was conspiring to defraud his mother.

“I’m tollable myself,” said Joshua, though Andy had not inquired. “The rheumatiz catches me sometimes and hurts me a sight.”

“You ought to expect it at your age,” said Andy.

“I ain’t so very old,” said Mr. Starr, uneasily.

“How old are you?”

“Sixty-nine.”

“That seems pretty old to me.”

“My father lived to be nigh on to eighty,” said Joshua. “He wa’n’t no healthier than I be, as I know of.”

“You might live to be as old, if you would eat nourishing food.”

“So I do! Who says I don’t?”

“Nancy Gray, the girl that worked for you, says you didn’t allow yourself enough to eat.”

“That girl!” groaned the old man. “It’s well I got red on her, or she’d have eaten me out of house and home. She eat three times as much as I did, and I’m a hardworking man and need more than she does.”

“I suppose you know what I’ve come to speak to you about, Mr. Starr,” said Andy, thinking it time to come to business.

“Have you come to pay that note I hold agin’ your mother?” asked the old man, with suppressed eagerness.

“My mother owes you nothing,” said Andy, firmly.

“You’re mistaken, Andy. She owes me a hundred dollars and interest, and I’ve got the dockyment to prove it.”

“You know very well, Mr. Starr, that my father paid you that money long ago.”

“When did he pay it?”

“Just before he started for the war. You needn’t ask, for you know better than I do.”

“Yes, I do know better’n you do,” said the old man. “Ef he paid it, why didn’t he get the note? I’d like to know that, Andy Gordon.”

“That’s easily answered. It was because you pretended you had mislaid it, and you asked him to take a receipt instead.”

“That ain’t a very likely story, Andy. Still, ef you’ve got the receipt to show, it may make a difference.”

“We haven’t been able to find the receipt,” said Andy.

“Of course you ain’t, and a good reason why. There never was any receipt. You don’t expect I’d give a receipt when the note wasn’t paid.”

“No, I don’t; but we both know the note was paid.”

“Then, all I can say is you was mighty shif’less to lose it,” said the old man, chuckling.

“An honorable man wouldn’t take advantage of such a loss, Mr. Starr. He wouldn’t be willing to defraud a poor widow, even if he had the power to do it.”

“You’re wandering from the p’int, Andrew. Ef the money was paid, you can show the receipt, and then I won’t have another word to say.”

“I am afraid my father must have taken the receipt with him when he went to the war.”

“Jes’ so—jes’ so!” chuckled Mr. Starr, his chuckle bringing on a fit of coughing.

“What do you mean to do?” asked Andy, a little anxiously.

“Waal, I want to collect my money. A hundred dollars is a good deal of money. I can’t afford to lose it.”

“We don’t owe it.”

“The law says you do.”

“At any rate, we can’t pay it. We have no money.”

“Ain’t your mother got her pension, Andrew?”

“Yes, she has, and she will keep it! Not a cent will you get out of it!”

“Then I’ll have to take your furniture,” said Mr. Starr, placidly.

“I believe you are the meanest man in town!” said Andy, indignantly.

“I want my own property,” said the old man, doggedly, “and you may tell your mother so.”

While the two had been conversing, the old man, shovel in hand, had led the way into the barnyard, where there were three cows.

One of them, unseen by Mr. Starr, being out of humor, probably, lowered her head and, approaching the old man from behind, fairly lifted him up to a sitting position on her head. Mechanically he grasped her horns, and in this position was carried rapidly round the yard, much to his own dismay and Andy’s amusement.

“Take her off, Andy!” exclaimed the frightened and bewildered old man. “She’ll kill me!”

“If I touch her, she’ll throw you on the ground,” said Andy, between paroxysms of laughter.

“Do somethin’ to help me, or I’m a dead man!” shrieked Joshua, clinging tighter to the cow’s horns. “If you’ll help me, I’ll take off a dollar from the note.”

Andy knew that the old man was in no real danger, and stood still, while the triumphant cow ran about the yard with her terrified master between her horns.

“Oh, dear! Will nobody help me?” howled Joshua. “Is the cow crazy?”

“I think she must be, Mr. Starr,” said Andy, gravely.

“I shall be killed, and I’m only sixty-nine!” wailed the old man, who by this time had lost his hat.

“Shall I shoot her?” asked Andy, displaying a toy pistol, which was quite harmless.

“No, don’t!” exclaimed the old man, turning pale. “You might hit me! Besides, I gave thirty dollars for her. Oh, I never expected to die this way,” he added, dismally.

But the cow was by this time tired of her burden, and, with a jerk of her head, dislodged her proprietor, who fell prostrate in a pile of manure.

Andy ran to pick him up, and helped him into the house.

“Do you think any of my bones is broken?” asked Joshua, anxiously.

“I don’t see how they can be. You fell in a soft place,” said Andy, wanting to laugh.

“I’ll sell that cow as quick as I get a chance,” said Joshua. “Don’t you tell anybody what’s happened, or you may spile the sale.”

Andy tried to introduce the subject of the note again, but Joshua was too full of the accident to talk about it. Finally, discouraged by his poor success, he went home.

On the way he met Louis Schick, a schoolfellow, of German extraction, who hailed him.

“You’d better go to the post office, Andy. There’s a big parcel there for your mother.”

“A parcel?”

“Yes; it’s too big for a letter.”

Wondering what it could be, Andy went to the post office.

The parcel he found there was of great importance.

CHAPTER IX.

A GIFT FROM THE DEAD.

The village post office was located in a drug store, and the druggist had plenty of time to attend to the duties of the office, as well as the calls of his regular customers.

Hamilton was so healthy a village that it hardly furnished a sufficient demand for drugs and medicines to support a man of the most moderate tastes. But, with the addition of his salary as postmaster, Mr. Bolus was able to maintain a small family in comfort.

“I suppose you want some pills, Andy?” said Mr. Bolus, as our hero entered the office.

“No, sir,” answered Andy. “I hope I shan’t want any of them for a long time to come. Louis Schick told me there was something in the office for mother.”

“So there is—and a large parcel, too.”

He went into the post-office corner and produced a large, thick parcel, wrapped in a long, yellow envelope.

“Here it is, Andy,” said Mr. Bolus. “I hope it’s something valuable.”

Andy took the package and looked eagerly at the address.

His mother’s name and address were on the envelope, and it seemed to be postmarked at some town in Pennsylvania.

“Do you know anybody in the place where the package comes from?” asked the postmaster.

“No,” answered Andy. “That is, I don’t—perhaps mother may. It feels like a wallet,” added Andy, thoughtfully.

“So it does. I hope, for your mother’s sake, the wallet is full of money.”

“I am afraid there isn’t much chance of that,” replied Andy. “Well, I’ll go home and carry it to mother.”

Andy put the parcel in his inside coat pocket and took the nearest way home.

As he entered the house he did not immediately speak of the parcel, his thoughts being diverted by his mother’s question:

“Well, Andy, did you see Mr. Starr?”

“Yes, mother, I saw him,” answered Andy, soberly.

“Well, what does he say?” Mrs. Gordon inquired, anxiously.

“Nothing that’s encouraging. Mother, I believe he is one of the meanest men I ever knew.”

“He must know that your father paid that note.”

“Of course he knows it. A man doesn’t often forget such a thing as that. At any rate, Mr. Starr isn’t that kind of man.”

“What did he say when you told him the note had been paid?”

“That, of course, we could show the receipt.”

“It was a cunningly laid plot,” said Mrs. Gordon, indignantly. “He kept back the note, in the hope that your father would mislay the receipt. Perhaps he was even wicked enough to hope that he would be killed, and so clear the way for carrying out his fraudulent scheme.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if it were so, mother. I believe the old man would sell himself for money.”

Then, chancing to think of Mr. Starr’s involuntary ride on one of his own cows, Andy began to laugh heartily, considerably to the surprise of his mother.

“I can’t see anything to laugh at, Andy,” she said, wonderingly.

“You would have laughed if you had seen what happened while I was talking to Mr. Starr.”

And Andy proceeded to give an account of the scene.

Mrs. Gordon smiled, but she was too much impressed by the serious position in which they were placed to feel as much amusement as Andy.

“I am afraid, Andy,” she said, “that Mr. Starr will deprive us of our furniture, unless something unexpected turns up in our favor.”

This recalled to Andy’s mind the packet which he had just brought from the post office.

“That reminds me, mother,” he said, quickly. “I got a letter, or package, from the post office just now, for you. Perhaps there is something in it that may help us.”

He drew from his pocket the package and handed it to his mother.

Mrs. Gordon received it with undisguised amazement.

“Erie, Pennsylvania,” she read, looking at the postmark. “I don’t know anybody there.”

“Open it, mother. Here are the scissors.”

Mrs. Gordon cut the string which helped confine the parcel, and then cut open the envelope.

“It is your father’s wallet, Andy,” she said, in a voice of strong emotion, removing the contents.

“Father’s wallet? How can it be sent you from Erie at this late day?” asked Andy, in surprise equal to his mother’s.

“Here is a note. Perhaps that will tell,” said his mother, drawing from the envelope a folded sheet of note paper. “I will read it.”

The note was as follows:

It is needless to say that both Andy and his mother were deeply interested in a letter which threw light upon the closing scene in the life of one so dear to them.

“Andy,” said his mother, “open the wallet. I cannot.”

The sight of it naturally aroused painful recollections in the heart of the bereaved wife. Andy was not slow in obeying his mother’s directions.

The first, and most prominent in the list of contents, was a roll of greenbacks. The bills were of various denominations, and they aggregated the sum of forty-five dollars.

“Money saved by your poor father from his salary,” said Mrs. Gordon.

“He will be glad that it has come into our hands, mother.”

“Yes; he was always thinking of those he left behind.”

“Here are some papers, too, mother,” said Andy. “They seem to be receipted bills.”

“I wish,” sighed the widow, “that the receipt from Mr. Starr might be found among them.”

One by one Andy opened the papers, hoping, but not much expecting, that the missing receipt might be found.

“Here it is, mother!” he exclaimed at last, triumphantly, flourishing a slip of paper.

“Let me see it, Andy,” said his mother, hurriedly.

“Don’t you see, mother? Here is his signature—Joshua Starr. I wonder what the old rascal will say to that?”

“The Lord has listened to my prayer, Andy. He has brought us out of our trouble.”

“Don’t say anything about it, mother,” said Andy. “I want to see how far the old swindler will go. I wonder what he will say when we show him the receipt?”

CHAPTER X.

THE FATE OF A BULLY.

“Of course they can’t pay the note,” thought Herbert, with momentary apprehension. “But of course they can’t! I don’t suppose they have got ten dollars in the house. I mean to go round when the sheriff seizes the furniture. Andy won’t look quite so happy then, I am thinking!”

Herbert recited his Latin lesson as poorly as usual—perhaps even more so, for his mind had been occupied with other things—and Dr. Euclid, who never flattered or condoned the shortcomings of a pupil on account of his social position, sharply reprimanded him.

“Herbert Ross,” he said, “how do you expect to get into college if you recite so disgracefully?”

“The lesson was hard,” said Herbert, coolly, shrugging his shoulders.

“Hard, was it?” retorted the doctor. “There are some of your classmates who succeeded in learning it. Andrew Gordon, did you find the lesson very hard?”

“No, sir,” answered Andy, promptly.

Herbert looked at his successful classmate with a sneer.

“I can’t expect to compete with a janitor!” he said, slowly.

“Then,” said the doctor, provoked, “the sooner you obtain the position of a janitor the better, if that is going to improve the character of your recitations!”

“I wouldn’t accept such a position!” said Herbert, coloring with anger.

“You are not likely to have one offered you,” said the doctor. “A boy who neglects his lessons is not likely to discharge well the duties of any position.”

Herbert bit his lips in annoyance, but he did not dare to say anything more, for he saw, by the ominous flashing of Dr. Euclid’s eyes, that he was in no mood to suffer impertinence.

He began to regret that he had been induced to return to school. He felt that it was very reprehensible in Dr. Euclid to treat the son of his most important patron with so little deference, or, indeed, respect.

“But never mind!” thought Herbert. “I will soon have my revenge. Father has given Mrs. Gordon a week’s grace, and then she will have to pay the note or lose her furniture.”

Two days later an incident occurred which incensed Herbert still more against Andy, and, as usual, the fault was Herbert’s.

The young aristocrat was a natural bully. Like most bullies he was deficient in courage, and preferred to cope with a boy smaller than himself. For this reason he was both hated and feared by the young boys of the village, as he seldom lost an opportunity to annoy and tease them.

On Saturday there was no session of the Hamilton Academy. Teacher and scholars enjoyed a season of rest which was welcome to both.

After getting through a late breakfast, Herbert Ross took his hat, and sauntered through the village in search of something to amuse him or while away his time. Though he was glad to stay at home from school, he found Saturday rather a dull day.

There was a young clerk with whom he used sometimes to play billiards in the evening, but during the day it was difficult to find anyone who was not employed.

“I wish father would move to New York or Philadelphia,” thought Herbert, yawning. “Hamilton is a dull hole, and there’s absolutely nothing to do. If we lived in a city, there wouldn’t be any difficulty in finding company and enjoying myself.”

There was a vacant field, unfenced, near the engine house, which was used as a sort of common by the village boys, and in the course of his walk Herbert Ross came to it.

Two boys of ten were playing marbles in one corner of the field. Their names were Harry Parker and John Grant.

“I’ll have some fun with them,” thought Herbert.

He stood watching the boys for a minute or two, then, stooping suddenly, seized the marbles with which they were playing.

“Give me those marbles, Herbert Ross,” cried Johnny Grant.

“What’ll you give to get them back?” asked Herbert.

“It’s mean to break up our game,” said Harry.

“Here, then, come and get them,” said Herbert.

Harry approached, and extended his hand to receive the marbles, but Herbert, with a taunting laugh, drew back his own hands, and put them into his pocket.

Johnny had a spirit of his own, though he was a small boy, and he doubled up his small fists, and said, angrily:

“You have no business to keep our marbles.”

“What are you going to do about it?” demanded Herbert, provokingly.

“I know what I’d do if I was as big as you,” said Johnny, hotly.

“Well, what would you do, you little bantam?”

“I’d give you a licking and make you cry.”

“Hear the small boy talk!” said Herbert, bursting into a laugh.

“It’s because we are small boys that you interfere with us,” said Harry. “You don’t dare to take one of your size.”

“Look here, you little rascal, you are getting impudent,” said Herbert, who was sensitive to an imputation that he knew to be well founded. “If you ain’t careful, I’ll do something worse than take your marbles.”

“What will you do?” asked Johnny, spiritedly.

“What will I do? Come here and I’ll show you.”

Johnny, in no way frightened, approached, and Herbert, seizing him by the collar, tripped him up, depositing him upon the ground.

“That’s the way I punish impudence,” said Herbert.

There had been a witness to his cowardly act.

“What are you doing there, Herbert Ross?” demanded Andy, who had just come up.

“None of your business!” retorted Herbert; but he looked disturbed.

“Harry, what has he been doing to you?” asked Andy.

Harry and Johnny both told their story.

Andy turned to Herbert, with eyes full of contempt.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Herbert Ross, to tease little boys. Give them back their marbles.”

“I will give them back when I get ready,” said Herbert, doggedly.

“Give them up now, or you will be sorry for it.”

“Mind your business!” retorted Herbert, and turned to walk away.

Before he well knew what was going to happen, the young bully found himself lying on his back, in the very spot where he had deposited Johnny a minute before, with Andy bending over him.

“Let me up, you brute!” he screamed.

“So I will, when you have given up the marbles.”

Herbert struggled, but in the end was obliged to surrender the marbles.

As he rose from the ground he shook his fist at Andy, and shouted, with passion:

“You’ll repent this, Andrew Gordon! You’ll be a beggar inside of a week, and in State’s prison before the year’s out!”

“Thank you for your good wishes!” said Andy, coolly. “I’ll take the risk of both.”

As Herbert slunk home discomfited, he felt that he hated Andy Gordon more than any one in the world, and vowed to be revenged.

CHAPTER XI.

ANDY IS ENGAGED FOR POLICE DUTY.

It would not be long now before he would have the satisfaction of seeing Andy and his mother in serious trouble, and, though impatient, he decided to wait for that. Then the triumph would be his.

When Andy reached home, he found that his mother had callers.

In a lonely situation, about a quarter of a mile beyond the farmhouse of Mr. Joshua Starr, lived two maiden ladies—Susan and Sally Peabody—both over fifty years of age.

Their father had died thirty years before, leaving them a cottage, with an acre of land, and some twelve thousand dollars in stocks and bonds.

Living economically, this sum had materially increased, and they were considered in the village rich ladies, as, indeed, they were, since their income amounted to more than twice their expenditures, and they were laying up probably five hundred dollars annually.

They were very good and kind, simple-hearted old ladies, and very much respected in the village.

The elder of these ladies, Miss Sally Peabody, Andy found in his mother’s plain sitting-room.

As he entered, he heard Miss Peabody say:

“I should like to borrow your Andy to-night, Mrs. Gordon, if you have no objection.”

Mrs. Gordon supposed that her visitor had some work which she wished Andy to do, and as the latter was always glad of a job, she answered:

“I am sure, Miss Sally, that Andy will be glad to do anything that you require.”

“I don’t want him to do anything,” answered Miss Peabody. “I want him to sleep at our house to-night.”

Mrs. Gordon looked a little puzzled, but Miss Sally went on to explain.

“You see, Mrs. Gordon, we had a sum of five hundred dollars paid in unexpectedly this morning, and we can’t get it to the bank till Monday. Now, it makes my sister nervous to think of having such a sum of money in the house. I was reading in the papers of a burglar entering a house at night in Thebes—the next village—and it might happen to us. I don’t know what we should do, as we have no man in the house.”

“Andy isn’t a man,” said Mrs. Gordon, smiling.

“No, he isn’t a man, but he is a good stout boy, and we should feel safer if he were in the house.”

“What an uncommonly sensible old lady Miss Peabody is!” thought Andy.

He felt proud of his presence being supposed to be a safeguard against housebreakers.

“I’ll go, Miss Peabody,” he said, promptly.

“But, Andy,” said his mother, “you could do no good.”

“I don’t know about that, mother,” said Andy.

“You would be no match for a bold, bad man, and I don’t like to think of your being in danger.”

“Oh, you’re a woman, mother, and don’t understand!” answered Andy, good-humoredly. “I can scare a burglar away if he tries to get in.”

“I don’t suppose, really, that there is any danger of the house being entered,” said Miss Peabody; “but still we shall feel safer with Andy in the house.”

“Why don’t you engage a man, Miss Sally?” asked the widow.

“The very man we engaged might rob us of the money.”

“But you might engage some one whom you knew.”

“Five hundred dollars would be a great temptation to one who was generally honest. No, Mrs. Gordon, I would much rather have Andy. If you will let him stay at our house to-night and to-morrow night, I will pay him for his trouble.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t ask anything for it, Miss Peabody!” said Andy.

“But I should insist on paying you all the same, Andy. My sister and I make it a rule never to ask a service of any one without paying for it. With our income as large as it is, we should think ourselves mean if we acted otherwise.”

“You are very different from your neighbor, Mr. Starr,” said Mrs. Gordon.

“I am really afraid that Mr. Starr is too fond of money,” said Miss Sally, mildly. “I don’t want to be too severe upon him, but I am afraid he is a little too close.”

“A little too close!” replied Andy. “He is the meanest man I ever met.”

“Are you not a little too severe, Andy?” asked the spinster.

“Not a bit. He is trying to make mother pay a note over twice.”

“I can hardly believe such a thing.”

“Then I will tell you all about it,” said Andy, and he gave an account of the matter.

“And do you think you will have to pay it?” asked Miss Peabody, in a tone of sympathy.

Mrs. Gordon was about to explain why they would be spared the necessity, but a warning look from Andy prevented her.

Miss Peabody, with all her virtues, was fond of talking, and Andy’s plan of confounding his adversary would be spoiled.

“No, I don’t think we shall have to pay it,” Andy hastened to say. “We have a plan, but we don’t like to speak of it just yet, for fear Mr. Starr will hear of it.”

“If he really insists on his demand,” said Miss Sally, “perhaps sister Susan and I can help you. How large is the note?”

“With interest it would amount to over a hundred dollars—perhaps thirty dollars more.”

“We might advance the money, and you could give us a note.”

“You are very kind, Miss Sally,” said Mrs. Gordon, gratefully; and she paused and looked at Andy.

“We shall not pay it at all if we can help it, Miss Peabody,” said Andy, “for we don’t believe in rewarding Mr. Starr’s dishonesty; but, if we find ourselves obliged to do so, we shall remember your kind offer.”

“You are a true friend, Miss Sally,” said the widow. “We could give no security, except our furniture. We might give you a bill of sale of that.”

“As if I would take it, Mrs. Gordon! No, we have every confidence in your honesty, and even if you could not repay it, Andy would some day be able to.”

“And I would do it, too, Miss Peabody,” said Andy, stoutly. “But I don’t believe we shall need to ask you for the money.”

“It would be a pity to have to pay the note over again. I am really surprised at Mr. Starr,” said Miss Sally, who never used strong language in commenting upon the moral delinquencies of her neighbors.

“When do you want Andy to come over?” asked Mrs. Gordon.

“We should be glad to have him come to supper. It will seem pleasant to us to have company. Susan and I get tired sometimes of only seeing one another’s faces.”

“Very well, Miss Peabody, I will be on hand.”

“I suppose there is no fear of your having to fight burglars,” said Mrs. Gordon. “No burglary has been known here for years.”

“No, I suppose not,” answered Andy. “I shan’t have any chance to show off my bravery.”

He might have come to a different opinion if he had seen the villainous-looking tramp, who, skulking near the house, had heard, through the open window, the first and most important part of the conversation.

CHAPTER XII.

MIKE HOGAN.

Mike had already made two calls, though he had only been an hour in the village. The first was to the house of Mr. Ross, the lawyer.

The master of the house was not at home, but Herbert was in the front yard. In fact, he was sitting on the doorstep, whittling.

Mike’s experience taught him that children are generally less suspicious, and more easily moved to compassion, than their elders.

He therefore addressed himself with some confidence to Herbert, of whose disposition he knew nothing, or he would not have expected any help from him or through his influence.

“Young gentleman,” he said, in a whining voice, as he rested his elbows on the top of the front gate, “I am a poor man——”

Herbert looked up, and surveyed the uncouth visitor with profound disdain. He always despised the poor, and made little discrimination between the deserving and the undeserving.

“You don’t look very rich,” he said, after a pause.

His tone was not particularly compassionate, but Mike did not detect the nature of his feelings.

“Indeed, young sir,” he continued, in the same whining tone, “I have been very unfortunate.”

“You have seen better days, I suppose,” said Herbert, who had not the slightest idea of giving Hogan anything, but meant to play with him as a cat does with a mouse before sending him away.

“Yes, I have,” said Hogan. “Once I was prosperous, but ill health and misfortune came, and swept away all my money, and now I have to travel around and ask a few pennies of kind strangers.”

“Why don’t you go to work? You look strong enough,” said Herbert.

And in this he was perfectly right.

“Why don’t I work? I ain’t able,” answered the tramp.

“You look strong enough.”

“You shouldn’t judge by looks, young gentleman. I have fever ’n’ ager awful, and the rheumatism is in all my joints. You look rich and generous. Can’t you spare a few pennies for a poor man?”

“You mustn’t judge by looks,” said Herbert, laughing at his own repartee. “My father’s rich, but he don’t give anything to tramps.”

Now the professional tramp, although quite aware of his own character, objects to being called a tramp. He does not care to see himself as others see him.

Mike Hogan answered shortly, and without his customary whine:

“I am not a tramp. I’m an honest, poor man.”

“Honest!” repeated Herbert. “I shouldn’t wonder if you had just come out of State’s prison.”

This remark Mike Hogan considered altogether too personal. The fact that it was true made it still more offensive. His tone completely changed now, and, instead of a whine, it became a growl, as he retorted:

“You’d better keep your tongue between your teeth, young whipper-snapper! You can’t insult me because I am a poor man.”

“You’d better look out,” said Herbert, angrily. “My father’s a lawyer, and a justice of the peace, and he’ll have you put in the lockup.”

“Come out here, and I’ll wring your neck, you young villain!” said Mike Hogan, whose evil temper was now fully aroused.

“I wish father was here,” said Herbert, indignantly.

“I’d lick you both, and make nothing of it!” exclaimed the tramp.

“I thought you were not strong enough to work,” sneered Herbert.

“I am strong enough to give you a beating,” growled Hogan.

“Go away from here! You have no business to lean on our gate!”

“I shall lean on it as long as I please!” said the tramp, defiantly. “Are you coming out here?”

If Mike Hogan had been a small boy, Herbert would not have been slow in accepting this invitation, but there was something in the sinister look and the strong, vigorous frame of Mike Hogan which taught him a lesson of prudence.

Herbert had never before wished so earnestly that he were strong and muscular. It would have done him good to seize the intruder, and make him bellow for mercy, but his wish was fruitless, and Mike remained master of the situation.

At this moment, however, he was re-enforced by his dog, Prince, who came round from behind the house.

“Bite him, Prince!” exclaimed Herbert, triumphantly.

Prince needed no second invitation. Like the majority of dogs of respectable connections, he had a deep distrust and hatred of any person looking like a beggar or a tramp, and he sprang for the rough-looking visitor, barking furiously.

If Herbert expected the tramp to take flight it was because he did not know the courage and ferocity of Mike Hogan. Some dogs, doubtless, would have made him quail, but Prince was a small-sized dog, weighing not over fifty pounds, and, as the animal rushed to attack him, Mike gave a derisive laugh.

“Why don’t you send a rat or a kitten?” he exclaimed, scornfully.

Prince was so accustomed to inspire fear that he did not stop to take the measure of his human adversary, but sprang over the fence and made for the tramp, intending to fasten his teeth in the leg of the latter.

But Mike Hogan was on the alert. He bent over, and, as the dog approached, dexterously seized him, threw him over on his back, and then commenced powerfully compressing his throat and choking him.

Poor Prince seemed utterly powerless in his vigorous grasp. His tongue protruded from his mouth, his eyes seemed starting from their sockets, and death by strangulation seemed imminent.

Herbert Ross surveyed this unexpected sight with mingled surprise and dismay.

“Let him go! Don’t kill him!” he screamed.

“What made you set him on me?” demanded the tramp, savagely.

“Let him go, and he shan’t bite you!” said Herbert.

“I will take care of that myself,” said Hogan. “When I get through with him, you’ll have to bury him.”

“Let him go, and I’ll give you a quarter,” said Herbert, in the extremity of his alarm.

“That sounds better,” said Mike Hogan, moderating his grip. “Where’s the quarter?”

Herbert hurried to the fence and handed over the coin.

Mike took it, and, with a laugh, tossed the almost senseless dog into the yard, where he lay gasping for breath.

“If you’ve got any more dogs, bring ’em on,” he said, with a laugh. “Next time, you’ll know how to treat a gentleman.”

Herbert had a retort on the end of his tongue, but did not dare to utter it. He had been too much impressed and terrified by the tramp’s extraordinary display of strength to venture to provoke him further.

“Well,” thought Hogan, chuckling, “I made the boy come down with something, after all. I paid him well for his impudence.”

Continuing on his way he stopped at a house where he was offered some cold meat, but no money. Being hungry, he accepted, and again continued his march.

In passing Mrs. Gordon’s house his attention was attracted by the sound of voices. Thinking it possible that he might hear something which he could turn to advantage, he placed himself in a position where he could overhear what was said.

His eyes sparkled when he heard Miss Sally speak of the large sum of money she had in the house.

“Ho, ho!” said he, to himself, “I’m in luck. You won’t need to carry that money to the bank, my lady. I’ll take care of it for you. As for this boy who is to guard it, I’ll scare him out of his wits!”

When Sally Peabody left the cottage of Mrs. Gordon she was not aware that her steps were tracked by one of the most reckless and desperate criminals in the State.

He followed her far enough to learn where she lived and then concealed himself in the woods until the time should come for active operations.

CHAPTER XIII.

ANDY ON GUARD.

It was a prim-looking house, and everything about it looked prim; but nothing could be more neat and orderly. The front yard was in perfect order. Not a stick or a stone was out of place.

In the fall, when the leaves fell from the trees, they were carefully gathered every morning and carried away, for even nature was not allowed to make a litter on the old maids’ premises.

A brass knocker projected from the outer door. The Misses Peabody had not yet adopted the modern innovation of bells. On either side of the front door was a square room—one serving as a parlor, the other as a sitting-room. In the rear of the latter was a kitchen, and in the rear of that was a woodshed. The last two rooms were in the L part. This L part consisted of a single story, surmounted by a gently-sloping roof. From the chamber over the sitting-room one could look out upon the roof of the L part.

This the reader will please to remember.

When Andy knocked at the door at five o’clock, it was opened by Miss Sally Peabody in person.

“I am so glad you have come, Andy,” she said, “and so is sister Susan. I never said anything to her about inviting you, but she thought it a capital idea. We shall feel ever so much safer.”

Of course Andy felt flattered by the importance assigned to his presence. What boy of his age would not?

“I don’t know whether I can do any good, Miss Sally,” he said, “but I am very glad to come.”

“You shan’t be sorry for it,” assured Miss Susan, nodding significantly.

Probably this referred to her promise to pay Andy for his trouble. Our hero would never have asked anything for his service. Still, as the Peabodys were rich—that is, for a country village—he had no objection to receive anything which they might voluntarily offer.

“Come right in, Andy,” said Miss Sally.

She preceded our hero into the sitting-room, where her sister Susan was setting the table for tea.

“Here he is, Susan—here is Andy,” said Sally.

Andy received a cordial welcome from the elder of the two sisters.

“And how is your mother, Andy?” she asked.

“Pretty well, thank you, Miss Susan,” answered Andy, surveying with interest the nice plate of hot biscuit which Miss Susan was placing on the tea table.

He was a healthy boy, and was growing fast, so that he may be pardoned for appreciating a good table.

“We don’t always have hot biscuits, Andy,” said the simple-minded old maid, “but we thought you would like them, and so I told sister Sally that I would make some.”

“I hope you haven’t put yourself out any on my account, Miss Susan,” Andy said.

“It isn’t often we have company,” said Susan, with a smile, “and we ought to have something a little better than common.”

“I am not used to luxurious living, you know,” said Andy.

“How is your mother getting along?” inquired his hostess, sympathetically.

“Very well, thank you!”

“My sister told me Mr. Starr was giving her some trouble.”

“That is true; but I guess it’ll turn out all right.”

“If it doesn’t,” said Sally, “remember what I told your mother. My sister quite agrees with me that we will advance the money to pay the note, if necessary.”

“You are very kind, Miss Sally, but you might never get it back.”

“We will trust your mother—and you, Andy,” said Sally Peabody, kindly. “It wouldn’t ruin us if we did lose the money—would it, Sister Susan?”

“No, indeed!” said Susan. “We shouldn’t borrow any trouble on that account. But supper is ready. I hope you have an appetite, Andy?”

“I generally have,” answered Andy, as he seated himself at the neat supper-table.

Our hero, whether he was in danger from burglars or not, was in danger of being made sick by the overflowing hospitality of the sisters. They so plied him with hot biscuits, cake, preserves and pie that our hero felt uncomfortable when he rose from the table. Even then his hospitable entertainers did not seem to think he had eaten enough.

“Why, you haven’t made a supper, Andy,” said Miss Sally.

“I don’t think I ever ate so much in my life before at a single meal,” answered Andy. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go out and walk a little.”

“Certainly, Andy, if you wish.”

Andy went out and walked about the place.

“How lucky the Peabodys are!” he said to himself. “They have plenty to live upon, and don’t have to earn a cent. I wonder how it would seem if mother and I were as well off? But they’re very kind ladies, and I don’t grudge them their good fortune, even if I am poor myself.”

In one respect Andy was mistaken. It is by no means a piece of good luck to be able to live without work. It takes away, in many cases, the healthy stimulus to action, and leaves life wearisome and monotonous.

More than one young man has been ruined by what the world called his good fortune.

In the corner of a small stable, Andy found a musket. Like most boys, he was attracted by a gun.

“I wonder whether it’s loaded?” he said to himself.

He raised it to his shoulder and pulled the trigger.

Instantly there was a deafening report, and the two old maids ran to the door in dire dismay.

“What’s the matter?” they cried, simultaneously, peeping through a crack of the door.

“I was trying this gun,” said Andy, a little ashamed.

“A gun! Where did it come from?”

“Isn’t it yours?”

“No; we wouldn’t dare to keep a gun about. Why, where did you find it?”

Andy told them, and they concluded it had been left by a neighbor, who had recently done a little work around the place.

Andy was struck by an idea.

“May I take it into the house,” he asked, “and keep it in the chamber where I am to sleep?”

“I shouldn’t dare to have a gun in the house,” said Susan.

“But it isn’t loaded.”

“I think there is no objection,” said Sally, who was not quite so timid as her sister. “We are going to put you into the chamber over the sitting-room,” she added.

“All right!” said Andy.

“The money is in a little trunk under your bed. You won’t be afraid to have it there, will you?”

“I am never afraid of money,” said Andy, smiling.

Andy went to bed at an early hour—at about quarter after nine. It was the custom of the sisters to go to bed early, and he did not wish to interfere with their household arrangements.

The gun he placed in the corner of the room, close to his bed.

He did not know how long he had been asleep, when, all at once, he awoke suddenly. The moonlight was streaming into the room, and by the help of it he saw a villainous-looking face jammed against the pane of the window overlooking the shed.

“A burglar!” thought he, and sprang from the bed.