This Stolz was a remarkable man—almost a genius. Professionally a farmer, he was wholly taken up with the pastime of playing practical jokes. No subject, no person, was too exalted to escape him; and, as his letter proves, he stooped to play off his tricks on even boys! In this instance he had actually spied on them, and let them make free with his house, intending to electrify them as a hobgoblin when they should have worked themselves up to a proper pitch of excitement.

But, like every one else concerned in this scheme, he himself was a sufferer.

The boys were relieved. No more haunting fears of being sent to penitentiary; no more ingenious speculations as to how they should occupy themselves there. Better than all else, they had news of Marmaduke.

When Marmaduke discovered the imposition, and fled, he was almost beside himself with grief, horror, and anger. It seemed to him that boys who could deliberately contrive and execute so base a scheme must be exceedingly depraved—cruel, and lost to all sense of honor. It seemed to him, in short, that they were worse than they were. After having been duped so completely by them, he could not endure the thought of ever seeing them again, and so resolved to abandon his country.

Poor Marmaduke! He was of a sensitive temperament, and believed that his heartless school-fellows would ridicule him for evermore.

He wandered on till he came to a large and empty barn, and then it occurred to him that it would be proper for him, as an exile, to take up his quarters in it for a short time. He reasoned, also, that if he should be looked for, it would be well to keep hidden till the search was over, when he could continue his flight towards the sea-coast, or any other place, in peace and safety.

“I am resolved that they shall not take me,” he said in himself, “for I could not survive another attack from those boys. No, I shall wander off to some happy land, where my merit will be appreciated. Then I shall set to work, become rich and famous, and after long years have passed I shall return for a few days to my insulting countrymen, a great man! Then people that think it is hardly worth while to say ‘good-day’ to me now, will be glad to catch a glimpse of me from behind a window-curtain; and that horrible old woman that says I look a little like her son, the carter, will discover that the Governor of the State looks just like me! Then those boys—they will be men then—will remember that I used to be Marmaduke, that they used to sit in the same seat with me, and that they used to study out of my books sometimes; and they will come around me, humble and cringing, and try to get me to recognize them. But I won’t recognize them—by even a look or a turn!”

Full of his future triumph and of his most original manner of slighting his persecutors, Marmaduke effected an entry into the old barn in a very burglarious way, not at all compatible with his dignity. To speak plainly, he picked the lock with a pair of tweezers, which he had used a few hours previous for a different, a very different purpose.

Here he spent the night, dozing, fuming against his school-fellows, and speculating on his future glory; while his nearly distracted parent was dragging ponds, snappishly replying to the impertinent questions of curious old women, sending little boys and big men hither and thither on a fool’s errand, and goading sleepy knights of the telegraph almost to frenzy.

Next morning as Mr. Stolz was passing the old barn, he fancied he heard strange sounds within. He slid off his horse, warily drew near, and looking through a knot-hole, discovered the missing boy lying on the floor, holding quiet converse with himself, as he matured his plans for the future.

Stolz hurried back to his horse, almost beside himself with laughter, and thinking that the boys’ plot was most sublimely ridiculous.

Just as the dreamer was in the midst of composing an elaborate letter of farewell to his mother, his sterner parent appeared on the scene, and poor Marmaduke’s trip to “some happy land” was postponed indefinitely.

Strange as it may at first seem, Marmaduke was more pleased to return home than he cared to acknowledge. Life as an exile in a gloomy old barn was decidedly monotonous; and his curiosity as to who the prisoner represented by Sauterelle could be, was becoming excited. It was a mystery which he must fathom.

His poor mother and his remorseful companions welcomed him with heart-felt joy; and twenty-four hours after he and Henry first met, they were debating—with considerable constraint, it is true—whether there is more fun in fishing with a spear than with a pole and line.

Such is life—among school-boys.

What effect did this have on the tricksters, in a moral point of view? Only a slight one, certainly not a lasting one. Though shocked and conscience-smitten for a time, they were soon as reckless and perverse as ever; and the lesson their suffering should have taught them was unheeded.

Considering the leniency with which Mr. Stolz treated them, they should have felt grateful towards him. On the contrary, whenever this practical joker hove in sight on his goggle-eyed old charger, instead of advancing to touch their hats to him respectfully, they regarded him with such deep-seated rancour that they invariably jumped over the handiest fence, and strolled off somewhere through the fields.

The gossiping villagers had a new subject of comment, and they took delight in jeering at the “French lords,” as they insultingly called the ex-plotters. For that reason it was dangerous, as long as the holidays lasted, to say anything to them about France or Frenchmen; and Stephen fell into such a habit of looking furious that his left eye was permanently injured.

As for Henry, he became so home-sick and heart-sick that, after a visit of only ten days, he packed his valise and returned.

Chapter XL.
The Heroes Figure as Hunters.

Perhaps the reader may think that while the seven heroes were together, instead of packing Henry, the seventh (observe the comma immediately after Henry; observe, also, that it is not written Henry VII.), off home, it would have been better to relate a few more of their exploits. Not so. In imposing on Marmaduke, each one was guilty of a breach of trust, so that it would not be right to have them appear with such a stain on their reputation. As for Jim, he premeditated villainy; and in good romances no villain can long be regarded as a hero—unless he happens to be a highwayman, and it would be preposterous to attempt to have Jim play the highwayman. Now, the intention is to write this story on a moral basis; therefore, a few years are suffered to elapse, and they are supposed to reform in that time.

Marmaduke did no wrong, so that his history might be continued, without doubt. But this story could not go on, unless all the boys, Jim included, were in it.

Suppose, therefore, that six years have passed since the burning of “Nobody’s House.” The boys, now men, are still alive, and in good health and spirits. How they have spent those six years is not difficult to imagine. All of them regularly attended school till they were big and awkward, when most of them were sent to a university, to complete their education.

It was originally the intention to relate some thrilling incidents that took place while they were students; but being too lazy to collect sufficient scientific facts to do so with effect, that intention was reluctantly given up.

Gentle reader, if you are ever at a loss for something to sigh about, just think what you have missed in not reading how four sophomores barely escaped blowing themselves and a leaky steamboat up into the clouds, fancying that they understood the theory of working a steam-engine. To torture you still further, imagine, also, a scene in which a learned professor’s “focus cannon” mysteriously, unadvisedly, and to the heroes’ amazement and horror, shot a ball into a pair of glass globes, which the affectionate students were about to present to him.

It was autumn; and the seven young men, heroes still, were preparing to journey far northward, to hunt deer, or whatever else their bullets might chance to strike.

Will and Henry prevailed on Uncle Dick to accompany them—greatly to the satisfaction of the elders, who fondly hoped he would keep a fatherly eye on the reckless hunters, and prevent them from destroying themselves.

Fully equipped, the party of eight set out for the “happy hunting grounds,” firm in the resolution to kill all the game still remaining in the great northwest. If plenty of ammunition and fire-arms would avail, then certainly they should bring home a great supply of animal food.

But whether the fourfooted creatures of the forest were forewarned that a band of mighty hunters was on the war-trail, and fled from their sylvan haunts, or whether they obstinately remained, and bade defiance to the Nimrods’ balls, is a mooted point, which the intensely interested reader may set at rest as he pleases.

Having arrived at the outskirts of a growing settlement, close to a genuine forest, the eight hunters fell to work, and soon built an uncomfortable and unsafe little shanty.

“This will be life in earnest,” Charles observed joyously.

The young ladies of his native village politely spoke of him as “Mr. Growler;” but his moustache was still so white that we should not be justified in so honoring him.

“Yes; this is the artless life our forefathers lived;” said Marmaduke, poetical as ever.

“No,” corrected Stephen, “our forefathers didn’t range through the forest with Castile soap in their bundles and charms dangling on their watch chains.”

“Come, now, considering that you smuggled the soap into Marmaduke’s pack, you are rather hard on him,” said Will.

“Oh, I smuggled it there for my own use as well as for his,” Stephen explained.

This proves that Steve was as fond as ever of monkey tricks.

Of course the hunters were to depend on what they killed in the chase for food; and so, as soon as they were fairly settled, Will and Henry set out to shoot something that would make a delicious stew for dinner.

All at once a strange, shadowy form was espied by Will, lurking in the edge of the wood; and without a moment’s hesitation he raised his gun and fired. Now, at home, Will was considered an excellent marksman; therefore, Henry, who was beside him, was not surprised to see that, whatever the animal might be, it was stone dead.

They hurried to the fallen prey, and were almost as much disappointed as the small boy is when he finds that his fish-hook has captured a demonstrative crab instead of a good-natured chub.

“Well,” the destroyer said, with a grim smile, “I have done what Steve has often tried to do, but never did—I have slain a grimalkin!”

“Cats have no business to prowl around here, and they deserve to be shot, though we haven’t come all this distance to shoot them,” Henry said peevishly. “But let us hide this hoary fellow; for if Steve should hear of it, he might be tempted to box it up and send it home as your first deer.”

It would not be worth while to give the weary and fruitless tramp the cousins took; it is sufficient to say that they shot nothing that a civilized cook would take pride in preparing for the table. At last Henry was fortunate enough to disable a brace of woodcocks, and after an exciting chase they secured them, and then returned to their quarters.

Next morning the entire party went hunting, resolved to kill something. They penetrated far into the forest, talking as freely as if they were in a desert or on the ocean. Consequently, they did not see much game.

“Hist!” Mr. Lawrence suddenly exclaimed. “What enormous beast is that yonder?”

“It’s a bear?” Will cried with rapture. “A genuine bear!”

“Are there bears here, in this part of the world?” Jim asked uneasily. “Did we come to hunt bears?”

“Of course we did; of course there are;” Henry said with disgust. “Jim, I wish our good old professor could have you among his students. There would be virgin soil, and you would make an apt student, I am sure.”

“Yes, it is a bear,” George said emphatically. “A large bear, and probably a ferocious one. There is the true bearish head, thick and heavy; the cropped ears; the thick snout; and the long shaggy coat. It is larger than even the one in the museum, isn’t it, Henry?”

Henry thought it was.

“I see the very place to plant a fatal shot,” George hinted.

“Plant it, then,” Steve growled.

George, eager to slay the monster, fired quickly.

The smoke cleared away, and there lay the bear, in exactly the same position.

“It is stone-dead, surely enough!” Will said, as though surprised.

“No; I fancied I saw it move a little,” Mr. Lawrence said.

“Then let us all fire a round of balls into it,” Steve suggested.

“I won’t have it riddled with shot!” George said angrily. “I saw just where to hit it, and I hit it there, and it’s dead.”

But his wish was disregarded, and some of the hunters cowardly fired. Then they advanced cautiously, still fearing that the bear might have life enough in him to give battle. But the “bearish head” was not raised; the “thick snout” was not dilated.

Steve, who was ahead, suddenly gasped out a plaintive “Oh.” Then the others also saw. The sun shone through the trees, and left a peculiar shadow on the grass and brushwood. That was the bear.

“Let us clap this bear into the museum,” Stephen presently observed.

The disgusted hunters concluded to separate, and meet at a certain time and place, if they didn’t get lost or eaten up.

Will wandered off alone, and shot scores of useful birds and animals—not useful to him, as a hunter, but useful in the economy of nature. But after one shot had been thus thrown away, a yell of anger and terror rang through the forest, and with his heart beating time to his footsteps, Will hurried in the direction of that yell.

He soon came up to a man, sitting on a fallen tree, distorting his features, and nursing his finger in his mouth, with a gurgling noise, peculiar to a sobbing school-boy trying to soothe the pain inflicted by a hasty-tempered wasp.

“Hello, there!” cried this man. “Did you shoot that bullet?”

“Yes, I have just discharged my gun,” Will answered. “Did—did it hit you, sir? If so, I am extremely sorry, for, I assure you, I had no intention—”

“That’ll do!” broke in the wounded man, removing his finger for a moment. “It is plain enough that you are no hunter,” contemptuously. “A genuine hunter doesn’t go cracking around like a boy with a pop-gun, nor talk like as if he was writing to the post-master general. But, I say, do you know what you have done? You have smashed my little finger!”

“What? Are you really hurt? Did the ball strike your finger?”

“Of course it did,” angrily; “and it’ll be the dearest bullet you ever bought! I tell you, I’m sick of having city chaps tearing through our woods, and scaring the deer and things, and if they keep it up much longer, the whole population’ll be shot off. Oh, cracky, but my finger smarts! I was never shot before.”

“Let me see your wound,” Will said.

But the “child of nature” showed no disposition to let Will examine his injured member, and Will was both amused and relieved to hear him make the following observation: “No, it ain’t so much the finger that troubles me; it’ll soon heal; but I had a bully good silver ring on it, that I found in an old dust-heap, and that there bullet has busted it.”

Then the shooter stepped up to the rustic, saying: “Come, I must see your finger. If it is badly hurt I will bind it up for you; I have the materials all ready in my pockets.”

“Well, you are quite right in carrying rags, and salve, and thread, and pins, and soft cotton, and strings, and such trash, always stuffed in your pockets, for you look like as if you might blow your head off any minute,” the wounded man insultingly said, as he got a nearer view of Will.

Without further delay he submitted his finger to Will’s examination. Will presently observed: “I think your strong silver ring saved the finger, if not the entire hand, from a severe wound, as the bullet struck its ornamental carvings and then glanced. In a day or so your finger will be as sound as ever. Well, I’m sorry I hurt you, but I must be off. Good-day.”

“Now, just wait a minute,” said the man with the silver ring. “You don’t know how much I think of a good ring. I’m a very affectionate feller, and as there’s nothing else for me to take to, I think a heap of a good ring. And this one’s ruined and busted now. It may be ever so long before I can get as good a one—and you made fun of it, too! I say, what did you say about ‘carvings.’”

“But the ring saved your hand,” Will persisted.

“I don’t say nothing about that; but your bullet has spoilt my ring, and I mean to have the worth of it. Do you understand that? I ask for the worth of it.”

“Certainly; how much is your ring worth?”

“Eh? Well, I don’t know; it was a pretty valuable ring. How high will you go?”

Poor Will was becoming tired. He longed to leave the barbarian’s company, and was fumbling in his pocket for a small gold piece that was there, when a rustling in the underwood drew his attention.

“Wumblers! There’ll be another bullet here next! Whoop! here comes another hunter full drive! Oh! cracky, there’s buck after him! Lemme see your gun, and I’ll show you how to knock ’em over.”

This was quite true. Romantic Marmaduke had stumbled on the fresh track of a deer, and following on, had soon come up with it.

So much he freely confessed to his inquiring fellow-hunters. But how the deer came to give chase—whether he showed the white feather at the critical moment, or whether he chanted poetry to the hunted creature, and so infuriated it past endurance—is a question which he could not, or would not, answer.

Will’s heart beat fast. Here was a large deer within range of his rifle. If he should kill it on the spot he would achieve a valiant deed, as well as put an end to Marmaduke’s ignominious flight.

“Lemme see you gun,” the man said eagerly.

Will did not choose to comply with his request, but levelled his rifle at the approaching animal, and fired.

While hunting the last two days, he had suffered so many disappointments that he himself was perhaps somewhat surprised to see the deer plunge forward and gasp out his life in a short but awful agony.

“Good for you, old feller; you can shoot some, after all!” the forester ejaculated.

Marmaduke stopped his flight, saw Will, heaved a sigh, and said pathetically, “It is hard to see the noble beast cut off in all his pride and strength.”

“Yes, but better than to suffer from his fury, I hope;” Will replied. “But how under the sun did the chase begin?” he asked, glancing from his rifle to the deer with intense satisfaction.

But the chased one was reticent on that point, as stated above; and to evade an answer, he turned to the man with the marred silver ring, and asked, “What gentleman is this?”

“What was it you said about cutting up the buck, just now, stranger?” this gentleman eagerly inquired. “If you’re going to cut him up, I’ll help you; and for my share I’ll take a haunch.”

Alas! Though forest-born and familiar with woodland scenes and noble deer, this man had not a poetic soul, and he interpreted Marmaduke’s beautiful apostrophe as a wish that the deer should be cut up!

“Your share! What have you to do with it?” Marmaduke inquired, coming down to the things of this world with startling abruptness.

“Well, this here feller went and shot me; and I’m going to help you cut up your deer; and for all my trouble and suffering I only ask for a haunch. I’ll have it, too!” determinedly.

Chapter XLI.
How Will Lost His Deer.

Marmaduke now demanded and received a brief explanation of affairs.

Seeing a way out of the difficulty, he pointed obliquely over the injured man’s shoulder, and said, “Will, there is a plump and sweet partridge in that tree;—no, lower down;—further on;—hadn’t you better shoot it for him?”

After a moment’s deliberation the man who loved a good silver ring agreed to be satisfied with the partridge.

Yet an evil smile curved his lips—a smile that foreboded mischief to something—perhaps to the partridge.

Will had no sooner fired than a howl of awful agony burst from the man’s lips, and having spread his huge hands over the region where the ignorant suppose their vitals are situated, he bowed his body downwards, and there passed over his face a look of suffering that, in sublime tragedy, almost equalled the frightful spasms so graphically portrayed in our patent medicine almanacs.

Almost—nothing can quite come up to the patent medicine almanacs in that respect.

With a voice that was appalling in its unrestrained vehemence, he fell to delivering hideous ecphoneses,—too hideous, in fact, to be repeated here,—and then gasped faintly, “You’ve done it now!”

Poor Will! He was nearly crazed with grief.

“Oh!” he groaned, “have I killed him? Have I taken a fellow-creature’s life? Has my hastiness at last had a fatal result?”

“Oh,” Marmaduke murmured, “how could Will’s ball glance so as to enter that man’s body?”

For several seconds the two unlucky hunters stood perfectly still, held to the spot by devouring horror and anguish.

During this time, the forester seemed to be undergoing exquisite pain; but presently, with an effort worthy of a hero, he struggled to an erect posture, and said, with a faltering tongue: “Young men—perhaps—I’m, I’m gone.—I—can’t blame—you, sir;—a man—can’t tell—how his ball—may glance.—Go,—both of you,—go—and get a—doctor.—Bring a—doctor—you,” to Will; “and you—” to Marmaduke, “go east—from—from here—half a-mile—to my—father’s.—I—I—can stay—alone.”

“Poor, poor fellow,” said Will, with tears in his eyes. “Can you stay here alone and suffer till we come back?”

“Yes,” groaned the wounded man. “I can—stay-till—the other—fellow—finds my—father.—It won’t—be long.”

“Let me at least see your wound before I go,” Will entreated. “Perhaps I could ease you, or even save your life.”

“Go! oh go!” urged the wounded man. “I’ll—hold out—if you are—quick.”

Then the two hunters strode sorrowfully away in their different directions—Will with a vague notion that the nearest surgeon lived several miles to the south—Marmaduke thinking that the “peasants” of his country are a hardy and noble race.

They were barely out of sight on their errands of mercy when a change most magical came over the sufferer’s face. Two minutes before, and his features wore the tortured look of an invalid “before taking our prescription;” now they wore the happy smirk of a convalescent, relieved from all pain, “after taking our prescription.”

Then, villain-like, he muttered: “I hardly expected to make so much out of the two fools—a whole deer! That’s striking it pretty rich! I don’t shoot a deer in a month; but this is just as good, for I can make off with this one at my leisure. Well, I reckoned that little ‘wound’ would work.”

A horrible chuckle escaped from his lips, he sprang to his feet as sound in health as a person could expect to be, walked up to Will’s deer, and coolly began to drag it away into the depths of the forest. All that part of the forest was known to him, and he soon dragged his prey into a place of concealment where its rightful owners would hardly find it.

“There,” he muttered, “I guess I have dragged the old feller far enough. He’s safe enough here till I can take him home. Now, they haven’t been gone long, and if they keep on, they may get lost; and it’s mean to have ’em get lost on a fool’s errand. Perhaps this’ll bring ’em back on a keen run. How they will hunt for me and the deer!”

As the thief spoke he retraced his steps a little way, discharged a pistol concealed on his person, and then slunk back to his hiding-place. Yes, he was so humane that he did not wish the two deluded hunters to bring succor to a man who did not need it.

The report of his pistol had the desired effect. Both Will and Marmaduke heard it; and fearing that the poor wretch was attacked by some foe, human or otherwise, they hastened back to the scene of bruises and wounds, meanness and trickery.

Of course they found nothing, and, although they were heroes, they were unable to track the knave to his hiding-place. Will was furious. He had felt so grieved at having wounded a fellow-creature; so proud, a moment before, of having been the first to kill a deer; and now he naturally and correctly concluded that the “wound” was a mere ruse on the rogue’s part, in order the more surely to get possession of the deer.

“Will, I took the fellow to be a very fair example of our peasants; an honest, ingenuous and hardy forester. How bitterly I am deceived.”

Will replied: “Well, I took the fellow for a hypocrite and a downright knave from the first. It isn’t so much the deer,—though that is really a great loss for me,—but the depravity that the man has shown, that grieves me. And I was just going to give him a new dollar gold piece to squander his affection on! But, Marmaduke,” with a flash of his old jovialness, “don’t talk about peasants and peasantry, for free America knows no such word. Marmaduke, I’m afraid your trip to Europe in the summer filled your mind with some ridiculous notions. Shake them off, and be yourself again.”

“Well, Will, you are in the right. Now, suppose that we look for the partridge, for I believe your ball killed it.”

“No, Marmaduke. I missed it, for I saw it fly away untouched, just as that man doubled himself up and began to howl.”

“Then you took it for granted that he received the ball?”

“Yes. Well, it is useless to remain here, so let us hurry on to the trysting-place, due west, if we want to meet the others. But if I don’t unearth that wretch to-morrow, it will be because—because his ill-gotten deer poisons him!”

Having taken this dreadful resolution, the two set off for the rendezvous, where they arrived just in time to meet with the other hunters.

“Ho!” cried Steve, when he observed Will’s gloomy looks. “Ho, old fellow! your face indicates a moody mood.”

“Well,” snarled Will, “have you shot some school-boy’s grammar, and read it through?”

Then he narrated his encounter with the man in the forest.

It was received with plaintive cries of astonishment, anger, and horror.

“Well, Will,” said Steve after the first paroxysms of rage had subsided, “I gather two morals—morals full of instruction, too—from your narrative.”

As no one inquired what these “morals” might be, the speaker was obliged to resume his discourse rather awkwardly. But no one could cow Steve into silence.

“Yes, boys; two morals——”

A pause—in vain.

“Two morals, I say. In the first place, when you are in a forest like this, always protect the fourth member of the left paw with a sculptured silver ring. In the second place, never fire at a partridge when a jewelled rustic occupies a log some thirty feet southeast of your left ear, as Marmaduke hints this one did. It is as dangerous as a nest of hornets on the North Pole.”

“Don’t be so atrocious,” said Charles. “In my mind’s eye, I can look back eight years or so, and see a battered-knuckled urchin called Steve Goodfellow, wriggling on a bench in a certain Sunday School, and turning idly round and round a beautiful silver ring, that adorned first one and then another of his fingers.”

Steve sat down so suddenly that he burst the paper collar around his neck. However, he took no notice of this, but changed the subject and diverted the boys’ attention by saying: “I say, Will and Marmaduke, George, as well as you, has had disappointments to-day. I shouldn’t relate this little anecdote, if George hadn’t given me permission; because it would be too mean for even me, and that is saying a good deal. O dear! I’m sorry, boys; but I can’t help it!”

“Well, Steve, there is one thing in your favor,” Charles said soothingly. “You always confine what you are pleased to call your meanness to us boys; and we can survive it all—in fact, we expect it from you, old fellow.”

“Thank you, Charley; you can see below the surface, and see just how heavily and guiltily my great heart beats when I attempt to insult over you boys. But now for my anecdote. George and I meet in a ‘bowery glade.’ Though we glare wickedly round in search of prey, I see nothing but Nature’s loveliness. George espies a phenomenon high up in a monster of the forest, ‘an old primeval giant,’ whose branching top fanned the blue sky. In other words, he espies something queer, perched high in a grand old fir. It is large; it is strange; it moves. ‘It is a creature of the air,’ thinks George. ‘It is! It is a bird new to science! Oh, what pleasing discovery do I make? Am I about to cover myself with glory? I am! I feel it in my inmost heart, my heart of heart. Steve,’ he continues, ‘I know my destiny—the pursuit of science. My fate is now marked out; I shall write ornithologies! Now I must shoot this percher down; I cannot climb to catch it, though more’s the pity.’ O boys, it was, alas! a bird’s nest! A great big bird’s nest! And when he fired, it was no more. This is my mournful tale: this is my anecdote.”

“Steve, don’t relate any more such anecdotes,” said Charles, “or you will burst your ‘great heart’ as you have burst your paper collar.”

“Steve, did George tell you how you might relate that incident?” Will asked suspiciously. “But, Steve,” he added gravely, “be good enough to tell me what you have shot to-day to make you so merry.”

“With the greatest pleasure,” Steve replied grimly. “I shot the barrel of my gun all to pieces.”

“What?” Will asked, at a loss to take Steve’s meaning.

“In other words,” Mr. Lawrence said, “Stephen overcharged his gun, and it burst—burst with a vengeance.”

“It seems to me that a good many things have burst, or failed to burst, to-day,” George muttered.

Then they proceeded to their camp,—as Marmaduke loved to call the miserable shanty that barely afforded them shelter,—affecting to carry their guns and their almost empty game-bags as though they were veteran hunters.

Each one was thinking about the deer which was rightfully Will’s, and each one felt that the affair was not over yet.

It is with some real reluctance that the scene with the forester is introduced, because romancers take altogether too much delight in parading villainy; but at one time this scene seemed, in a measure, to be necessary to the construction of this story. Afterwards the writer had not the moral courage to leave it out.

Most readers can remember that in almost all novels that they have read, (excepting, of course, the “intensely interesting” ones,) there was at least one chapter which, taken by itself, seemed tiresome and useless; but which, woven in skilfully, and taken in connection with the whole, was necessary to the perfection of the novel.

After writing these two paragraphs, in order to disarm all hostile criticism, we shall imagine a conscientious reader’s referring to this chapter, after he has carefully perused the entire story, and saying, with a horrible fear that his usual insight into things has forsaken him: “Well, I can’t see the particular need and worth of this chapter,” while we furnish this consoling information—“Neither can we!”

Now, carpers, if you can apprehend the meaning of all this, draw out your engines and bring them into play.

Another point: Let not the conscientious reader rack his brains in a vain endeavor to discover what particular “follies,” or “foibles,” are attacked in this chapter, for the writer himself does not know; though he is morally certain that he has not written these two chapters just to injure the trade in silver rings.

Chapter XLII.
What Curiosity Cost the Hunters.

Next morning the mighty Nimrods breakfasted, in imagination, on their deer; and then struck out into the forest, resolved to unearth the rogue who had gulled poor Will.

But soon the fickle hunters concluded to secure the services of an officer of the law, and on reaching the edge of the forest they were directed where to find such a person.

They came up with this man in his orchard, but whether he was gathering apples or only eating them they could not guess. He listened patiently to the story of their wrongs (they did not give it exactly as it happened, but they did not falsify it at all), and then told them that they might go on with their hunt and not trouble their heads about it further, for he would soon overhaul the villain.

The hunters lingered irresolutely, but the man seemed to know his own business best, and with a peremptory “good day” he scrambled into a patriarchal apple-tree, and fell to shaking down his apples so recklessly and disrespectfully that they thought it prudent to withdraw.

“I will catch the rascal myself, after all,” Will declared.

“Yes, let us penetrate far into this old forest,” Marmaduke added. “If we explore its length and breadth, perhaps we shall find some trace of our game.”

“Perhaps, if we set to work in earnest, we shall be more successful hunting for man than we have been for beast,” the young man who used to be called the Sage observed.

With that the hunters struck out boldly.

“Boys,” said Charles, (they still used the familiar appellation of former years,) “did any of you ever read a romance in which a scout figured as the hero, or in which the hero sometimes played the part of a scout, or spy?”

“I have,” said two or three.

“Well, how did they go about it?” Charles asked.

“Oh,” said Stephen, who took it upon himself to answer, “they always wore leather breeches, moccasins, and shot-belts; they always struck the trail at once, smoked the chiefs’ peace-pipe, and slew the common Indians; they always followed their trade alone,—or if they had a mate, both went alone,—and chewed home-made tobacco with the few tusks still left them; they always tomahawked deserters, other people’s spies, or scouts, and wild-cats; and finally, they always found out secrets that got them into trouble, but lived to receive a gold snuff-box on the occasion of the hero’s wedding. What they did with the gold snuff-box I don’t know; for there the romancer, being too much exhausted to write ‘The End,’ which has six letters, always wrote ‘Finis,’ which has only five.”

“Thank you, Steve,” said Charles. “But according to that, it is hopeless for us to act the orthodox spy, so we shall have to go on blindly and take our chances.”

And they did go on blindly—so blindly, that five hours later, when hunger began to show her hand, they perceived that they were lost! Lost in a vast forest, which, for all they knew, was infested with robbers!

“It is strange that we have not travelled in a circle,” George mused. “You all know, of course, that when a man loses his way, it is a fundamental principle that he should travel in a circle.”

“Well, if we keep on diligently, probably we shall have the pleasure of finding that we are travelling in a circle,” Charles commented.

“I tell you what it is, boys;” Steve said, making use of an expression that had left his lips at least once daily since his twelfth year; “I tell you what it is, boys; now that we are lost, let us make the most of it. I have had a hankering to get lost ever since I cried myself to sleep over the mournful tale of the ‘Babes in the Woods;’ and now I am going to enjoy the novel sensation of being lost! Hurrah!”

And in the exuberance of his spirits careless Steve plucked off his hat and flung it aloft so adroitly that it caught in a tree and dangled there tantalizingly, quite out of his reach. However, a ball from Charles’s rifle induced it to fall.

“That is the most useful thing I have shot, Steve,” he confessed dejectedly; “and if it had been a thing of life, I should have terminated that life,” pointing to a ghastly hole in the crown of the hat.

“Don’t be so much moved, Steve,” George observed; “for you may fare worse than even the ‘Babes in the Woods.’ Poor little creatures, they died happy, at least.”

“Oh,” said Marmaduke, also delighted to think he was actually lost, “we can live very well for a few days in this magnificent old forest. We can, of course, procure all the animal food we shall need, together with roots, herbs, and berries—no, it’s too late for berries. A man can live on fish, fruit, and roots, without injury to his system; and in a few days we shall find our way out, or else be rescued by others.”

“Very good,” said Will; “but where are we to catch the fishes?”

“Oh,” Steve said promptly, “Marmaduke bases his argument on the supposition that whenever a hunter gets lost, he and a ‘pure stream,’ stocked with fish, presently fall into each other’s arms.”

“Speaking of rescue,” said Charles, “many a poor lost hunter is rescued from his sufferings by wild beasts that devour him.”

“It is sheer nonsense to talk of becoming lost here,” Will declared dogmatically, “because this forest is not extensive enough for any sensible man to remain lost in it for any great length of time. I see daylight to the north, now; though where we are is more, I must acknowledge, than I can tell.”

“My compass persists that that light comes from the west,” Stephen soon said; “but of course, Will, you are too sensible a man to get lost or make such a mistake, therefore my compass has become demoralized.”

Will took out his compass, looked at it very hard, and then pocketed it with a sigh.

The hunters moved towards the light, and soon found themselves in a clearing of some extent. A strong log-hut stood in the centre of this clearing, and divers emblems of civilization and occupation were strewed around it. What seemed most strange, to even the most inattentive of the hunters, was certain implements which are seldom seen in the midst of a forest. These were such implements as are used in the construction of railroads.

“Hello!” yelled Steve, glancing at all these implements, “hello! we have stumbled on a new railroad, have we? Well, we ought to be able to find our way out now pretty easily; for railroads don’t spring up in wildernesses.”

“Yes, we are just within the woods; outside we shall find the railroad and civilization,” Will returned. “Well, I don’t see much romance in getting lost for an hour or so.”

“Hello, what is this?” Steve cried suddenly. “Here is a neat little tube, something like a cartridge. Now, is it a cartridge?”

“Be careful, Steve,” Will cautioned. “There is no knowing what dangerous things may be lying about here. I remember, when I was a pretty little boy, my father told me horrible stories about gun-cotton. He made it out to be a frightful explosive, in order to deter me from meddling with things strange to me. Now, perhaps—”

But at this point the prudent one was interrupted by a shout of laughter from Charles. “Will,” he said, “what do you mean by ‘a pretty little boy?’ Do you mean, when you were a handsome, though diminutive, urchin, or simply, when you were rather small?”

George now drew on his knowledge, and prepared to enlighten them. “Gun-cotton, boys,” he said, “is a composition which con—”

Doubtless George would have given a very lucid explanation of the nature and virtues of gun-cotton; but at this point, Steve, who still held the little “tube,” said impatiently, “Now, what do I care about gun-cotton? There is no cotton here, and as for a gun—go to grass! This tube can be made to fit the blunt end of my pencil, very neatly; and what is more, it shall be put there.”

“Why, Steve, I didn’t give you credit for being so sensible,” Henry observed. “I didn’t believe you were studious enough to carry a pencil.”

“Oh,” Charles ingeniously replied, “Steve doesn’t carry a pencil for studious purposes; I doubt whether he ever takes notes; but whenever he finds a clean and smooth surface,—such as a new shingle or a solid fence built of newly planed boards,—he draws his name, or a mythological figure, or the Phantom Ship, on it, with dazzling flourishes.”

“Draws his name, eh?” asked Henry.

“Exactly.”

“Well,” sighed Steve, “it is one of the few things I can do well.”

With that he took out his penknife.

He was not the only one that had found one of the little tubes. For some minutes Jim had been silently filling his coat pocket with them, intending to take them home. It is not easy for us to guess his object in doing this, but perhaps the poor fellow, despairing of shooting anything, wished to bear away some trophy, or souvenir, of this hunt.

George, seeing all this, and that his proffered explanation was contemptuously rejected, resolved to make an “analysis;” but, acting on the spur of the moment, he went about it in a very puerile way. He set one of the mysterious little tubes on a flat stone, then seized a smaller stone, and prepared to grind his particular tube to powder.

Truly, here was Genius laboring under difficulties! Here was a scientific philosopher endeavoring to solve the appalling mystery by utterly annihilating a tube! But his hand was so unsteady with the awfulness of the revelations he was about to make that (fortunately for him) his first blow overshot the mark, and he paused before aiming a second.

Meanwhile Mr. Lawrence, Charles, and Will, expostulated in vain. Henry, not dreaming of danger, looked on with great curiosity, and was almost tempted to examine some of the mysterious little tubes for himself.

All this happened simultaneously? Certainly. Just as George struck his fruitless blow, Steve began to carve out the ornament for his pencil.

Reader, do not look upon this scene as savoring of levity. This incident is true in every particular, a party of would-be hunters having experimented with little cartridge-like tubes just as our heroes did here. The story as told by them is the same in substance with this, though, of course, we have touched it up a little here and there.

Having thus kept the reader in suspense long enough, it is now in order to return to Stephen. He had barely begun to “dig out the stuff,” as he phrased it, when a loud report startled the eight hunters. Steve’s tube had exploded with more violence than any fire-cracker he ever handled.

Appalled, his penknife fell unheeded, and he gazed at the others with a silly, bewildered, and horrified expression of countenance, that at any other time would have provoked a roar of laughter.

George’s second blow was never struck, but springing to his feet, he fixed his eyes on Will with a look of extreme horror.

Will’s actions, in fact, attracted the attention of all. As soon as the tube exploded he sprang high into the air, and then fell to bounding about like a harlequin or a piece of black rubber, shouting frantically: “Oh, my head’s off! my head’s off! my head’s off!”

His head was certainly not off, though blood was streaming down his cheeks.

“Oh, Will,” groaned Steve in agony, “what is the matter? Oh, Will, speak! Have I killed you?”

“My head’s off! My head’s off!” was Will’s only answer.

“Nonsense! your head is all right!” Uncle Dick said sharply.

But now Will struck another note, groaned “Oh, my knee!” and fell down in a swoon. Foolish fellow, he had danced till his knee slipped out of joint.

(N.B.—O youth, let this be a warning against dancing.)

Mr. Lawrence and George anxiously bent over him; and, for the first time, Charles and Stephen looked at each other.

“Your face!” shrieked Steve.

“Your fingers!” gasped Charles.

Then poor Steve perceived that his thumb and first and second fingers were shattered. It was a sickening sight, and he now felt a severe pain in them.

From his fingers Stephen again looked at Charles. Several small pieces of the metal had pierced the flesh around the eyes, making painful, but very slight, wounds.

At that instant Jim set up his peculiar cry of terror. Poor wretch, his terror and his mode of expressing it still clung to him; but it was a hundred times more ridiculous in the man than in the boy. The explosion (if it may be called so) and Will’s amusing performance, cut short by his sad accident, had kept him quiet up to this time, but now he broke out into loud and plaintive cries. This time, however, he was not a prey to “the chills.”

“Oh, boys,” he wailed, “I have some of them—a lot of them—in my pocket! Oh, boys, they will explode there! They will explode and tear us all to pieces!” And here his voice increased in volume, and rose higher and higher, faster than even the scale of C. “Help me, some one, for I can’t get ’em out!—Oh! I explode!”

“Console yourself, Jim,” Henry laughed; “I’ll help you to disgorge them.”

“Have you any about you?” Jim quavered.

“No,” said Henry; and with that he took the explosive little tubes out of Timor’s pocket.

“Boys, Mr. Lawrence, I know now what these horrible, cartridge-like tubes are,” George here observed. “They are dynamite—a new explosive, very useful to fire other explosives, I believe. I have read about them lately, but I never saw one before, and don’t know much about their properties, except that—”

“George,” Steve interrupted, “if you had told us all this ten minutes ago, you would have spared us much annoyance and suffering. Excuse me, George, but this has roiled my emotions more than anything that ever happened. Yes, you have knowledge of sundry curious and useful facts, I admit; but that knowledge is not turned to account till the mischief is done. Some day, when you see me all torn to pieces, you will discover that what I took for a pretty music-box was an infernal machine; and then you will chuckle over your profundity, but I shall not hear you.”

“Well, they had no business to leave dynamites scattered about so loosely,” Charles said, his eyes tingling just enough to make him surly.

“Had we any business to meddle with them?” George growled.

“Oh,” sighed Will, now revived, “I’m afraid I made an egregious fool of myself; and I was probably the least hurt of all. Some pieces entered my ears, cheek, and neck;—an ordinary hurt for a little boy;—but through my foolishness I have disjointed my knee!”

Marmaduke now joined them. He had taken the affair most unconcernedly, and strolled off to make a reconnaissance.

“Boys,” he began, “we are within four or five rods of a railroad, surely enough; and we have been meddling with the company’s dynamite. But if we had observed the notice on the other side of the little log-hut, or store-house, we should certainly have been more careful; for there, on the door, is written, in red-chalky letters, ‘Powder Magazine.’”

“Marmaduke, it seems to me that your style is not so pure as of yore,” Steve grinned, in spite of his pain. “The animals in this forest have corrupted it. ‘Red-chalky-letters,’ forsooth!”

“I found, also,” Marmaduke continued, passing by Stephen’s taunt, “that the shortest route to a surgeon’s is due east, through the forest. We can easily reach him by following our compasses.”

“Did you inquire of some one outside?” George asked.

“Yes, George, I had a talk with a man there. Now, Steve and Will must have their hurts dressed as soon as may be; so let us start. Will will have to be carried, of course.”

Steve shuddered. The name surgeon had an unpleasant sound; it grated his ears. Then he perceived that Marmaduke had been caring for his comfort, and his conscience was stung with remorse. Acting on the impulse of his better nature, he strode up to Marmaduke, grasped his hand, and murmured: “Old fellow, you must forgive me, and not mind anything I say; for I don’t mean it, I assure you. It is too bad for me to be continually jeering at you in particular, Marmaduke, and from to-day I will try not to do it again.”

Notwithstanding Steve’s protestation that he did not mean what he said, Marmaduke saw he was in earnest now, and replied: “Say no more about it, Steve, for each of us has his little peculiarities. Now, sit down here, beside me and I’ll bind up your hurt for you.”

Then the two sat down together, and Marmaduke took off the handkerchief which Stephen had hastily and clumsily wound round his thumb and fingers. Abused Marmaduke had many gentle ways, and now he tore the handkerchief into strips, and as neatly and carefully as a woman could have done it, bound up each hurt separate, Steve awkwardly trying to help him.

This incident of binding up his hurts so kindly touched Stephen’s heart, and from that day the two have been firm friends. Stephen is now Marmaduke’s sworn defender; and if any person brings up the latter’s romantic notions with a view to make him appear ridiculous, Stephen will say something so sarcastic that the aggressor will wince and immediately speak of something else.

Meanwhile the others were taking care of Charles and Will.

Chapter XLIII.
Things Begin to Get Interesting.

Reader, do not turn faint with disgust at these heart-rending details, nor imagine that the writer is a half-reclaimed desparado all the way from “bleeding Kansas;” for this is just as it happened to those hunters in the flesh. But if he ever attempts to narrate a true story again, he will tone it down as well as touch it up.

“Let us be thankful that it is no worse,” Mr. Lawrence said. “We have had a narrow escape; for if Steve’s tube hadn’t exploded immediately, George would certainly have struck his, and then we might all have been hurled into eternity.”

“Do you think Steve will lose his thumb and fingers?” George asked, faintly.

“Oh, I hope not!” Uncle Dick said, fervently. Then dolefully: “I am afraid I shall have a heavy account to settle when I see your parents again.”

Then the sound hunters framed a rude litter, and laid Will on it gently. George and Henry were to take turns with Mr. Lawrence and Marmaduke in carrying him. And then the little procession passed solemnly through the woods, with but little of that sprightliness which had hitherto characterized the party.

“I think this hunt will last me for a lifetime,” Will groaned.

“I am afraid you will feel the effects of your hurt all the rest of your life,” Uncle Dick sorrowfully rejoined.

“There is one consolation,” said Steve, who was walking with his well arm linked in Marmaduke’s. “Next time we see a ‘dynamite’ we shall know what it is, and probably I shall not care to make a plaything of one again.”

After a weary march due east, they came to a small cleared space, in which stood a miserable hut. A faint line of smoke was curling out of the roof, but no person was in sight.

“Now, this isn’t another powder magazine,” said Steve; “therefore it must be a ‘wayside hut.’ My wounds have made me thirsty, of course, and we can probably get a drink here, whether any one is in or not, so I am going in.”

The others, also, felt thirsty; and Charles was advancing to knock at the door, when Steve softly called him back.

“Now, Charley,” he said, “I haven’t read romances for nothing, and if there’s villainy any where in this forest, it’s here. Of course you’ve all read that villains have what is called a ‘peculiar knock?’”

“Yes,” whispered four out of the seven.

“Well, I’m going to give a ‘peculiar knock’ on that door, with my sound hand, and you must mark the effect it has. You needn’t grasp your weapons; but just keep your eyes and ears open. Then will you do whatever I ask?”

“We will,” they said, smiling at Steve’s whim.

Then the man who had not read romances for nothing stole softly to the door, and knocked in a peculiar manner.

Without a moment’s hesitation, a voice within said, “Well done!”

Steve faced the others and winked furiously, while he reasoned rapidly to this effect: “Evidently, here is a nest of knaves. The fellow on the inside thinks his mate is in danger, and knocks to know whether it is safe for him to enter.”

Then the voice within asked uneasily, “Jim?”

“Will,” said Marmaduke, leaning over the litter, “we are certainly on the track of the man who stole your deer!”

“Oh, I had forgotten all about the deer,” Will groaned.

Steve started, but collected himself in a moment, and whispered to Jim, “Come along Jim; this fellow wants to see you. Now be as bold as a lion; blow your nose like a trumpet; and observe: ‘By the great dog-star, it’s Jim; lemme in.’”

Jim managed to do this; but he basely muttered that he wasn’t brought up for a circus clown.

“Then come in; the door isn’t locked;” the voice within said harshly, but unhesitatingly.

Stephen flung open the door and strode proudly into the hut, closely followed by the others. One scantily furnished room, in a corner of which a man lay on a bed, was disclosed. This man’s look of alarm at this sudden entrance filled Steve with exultation.

“What does all this mean? What do you want?” the occupant of the bed demanded.

“A glass of water,” said Steve.

“Well, you can get a dish here, and there is a spring outside,” with an air of great relief.

“Is this the man?” Steve asked of Marmaduke.

Marmaduke sadly shook his head.

“I am very low with the small-pox,” said the unknown, “and those of you who have not had it, nor have not been exposed to it, had better hurry out into the open air.”

This was said quietly—apparently sincerely.

The hunters were struck with horror. It seemed as though a chain of misfortunes, that would eventually lead them to destruction, was slowly closing around them. Small-pox! Exposed to that loathsome disease! They grew sick with fear!

“Was it for this we went hunting?” Charles groaned.

For a few moments the hunters lost all presence of mind; they neglected to rush out of doors; they forgot that the sick man seemed wrapped in suspicion; they forgot that they had gained admittance by stratagem; Steve forgot that he was playing the hero.

A cry of horror from Jim roused them from their torpor.

“What a fool I am!” cried Henry, “I had the small-pox when I was a little boy; and now, to prove or disprove this fellow’s statement, I will run the risk of taking it again. The rest of you may leave the room or not, just as fear, or curiosity, or thirst, or anything else, moves you. I believe, however, that there is not the least danger of infection.”

“No, no; come out!” Mr. Lawrence entreated, not wishing to be responsible for any more calamities. “Come out, Henry, and leave the man alone.”

“Believe me, Mr. Lawrence, I run no risk,” Henry declared. “I shall——”

“Ha!” shrieked the sick man. “Lawrence? Did you say Law—”

He stopped abruptly. But it was too late; he had betrayed himself.

“Yes, my man; I said Lawrence;” Henry said, excitedly. “Come, now, explain yourself. Say no more about small-pox—we are not to be deceived by any such pretence.”

The sick man looked Uncle Dick full in the face; groaned; shuddered; covered his face with the bed clothes; and then, villain-like, fell to muttering.

After these actions, Jim himself was not afraid.

“Mr. Lawrence, Will, all of you,” Henry said hoarsely, “I think your mystery is about to be unriddled at last. This man can evidently furnish the missing link in your history. He is either the secret enemy or an accomplice of his.” Uncle Dick trembled. After all these years was the mystery to be solved at last?

Stephen’s hurt and Will’s knee were forgotten in the eagerness to hear what this man had to say. All were familiar with Uncle Dick’s story, as far as he knew it himself, and consequently all were eager to have the mysterious part explained. The entire eight assembled round the bedside.

After much inane muttering the sick man uncovered his head, and asked faintly, “Are you Richard Lawrence?”

“I am.”

“Were you insane at one time, and do you remember Hiram Monk?”

“Yes, I was insane, but I know nothing of what happened then.”

“Well, I will confess all to you. Mr. Lawrence, I have suffered in all these three years—suffered from the agony of remorse.”

“Yes,” said Uncle Dick, with a rising inflection.

“I will keep my secret no longer. But who are all these young men?” glancing at the hunters.

“They are friends, who may hear your story,” Uncle Dick said.

“To begin with, I am indeed sick, but I have not the small pox. That was’ a mere ruse to get rid of disagreeable callers.”

At this Steve looked complacent, and Henry looked triumphant; the one pleased with his stratagem, the other pleased with his sagacity.

At that very instant quick steps were heard outside, and then a “peculiar knock” was given on the door, which, prudently or imprudently, Steve had shut.

“It is a man who lives with me,” Hiram Monk said to the hunters. “We shall be interrupted for a few minutes, but then I will go on.” Then aloud: “You may as well come in, Jim.”

If this was intended as a warning to flee, it was not heeded, for the door opened, and a man whom Will and Marmaduke recognized as the rogue who on the previous day had feigned a mortal wound in order to steal their deer, strode into the hut.

On seeing the hut full of armed men, he sank down hopelessly, delivered a few choice ecphoneses, and then exclaimed: “Caught at last! Well, I might ’a’ known it would come sooner or later. They have set the law on my track, and all these fellows will help ’em. Law behind, and what on earth in front!—I say, fellows, who are you?”

“Hunters,” Henry said laconicly.

Then the new-comer recognized Will and Marmaduke, and ejaculated, “Oh, I see; yesterday my ring was ruined, and now I’m ruined!”

The officer of the law, whose nonchalance had provoked the hunters in the forenoon, was indeed behind, and soon he, also, entered the hut, which was now filled.

“Just like a romance,” Steve muttered. “All the characters, good and bad, most unaccountably meet, and then a general smash up takes place, after which the good march off in one direction, to felicity, and the bad in another, to infelicity—unless they shoot themselves. Now, I hope Hiram and Jim won’t shoot themselves!”

“Jim Horniss,” said the officer, “I am empowered to arrest you.”

“I surrender,” the captured one said sullenly. “You ought to have arrested me before. I’d give back the deer, if I could; but I sold it last night, and that’s the last of it.”

“That will do,” the officer said severely.

Up to this time the writer has studiously masked his ignorance by invariably speaking of this man as an officer of the law. It seems fated, however, that his ignorance should sooner or later be manifested; and now he declares that he is so utterly ignorant of Law, in all its forms, that he does not know what that man was—he knows only that he was an officer of the law. But for the benefit of those who are still more ignorant, it may be stated that he is almost positive the man was neither a juryman, nor a conveyancer, nor a plaintiff.

The hunters now held a short conversation, and it was decided that Mr. Lawrence and Henry should stay to hear what Hiram Monk had to say for himself, but that the others should go on with Will and Steve to the surgeon’s.

The officer of the law thought it might be necessary for him to stay in his official capacity, and so he took a seat and listened, while he fixed his eyes on Jim Horniss.

And the confession he heard was worth listening to.

The hut was soon cleared of all save the five; and the six first introduced to the reader were again together, and on their way to the surgeon’s.

“Well,” said Will, “it seems I have lost my deer; but I have the comforting thought of knowing that the rascal will receive the punishment he deserves.”

“How strange it all is,” said Marmaduke, “that your uncle should stumble on the solution of his mystery when he least expected it; and that you could not find the thief when you looked for him, but as soon as you quit, we made straight for his house.”

“No,” Steve corrected good-humoredly, “that isn’t it; but as soon as I took to playing the part of a hero of romance, ‘events came on us with the rush of a whirlwind.’”