V.

A most mysterious Sound in a most mysterious Place.—What is it?—General Panic.—The adventurous Explorers.—They are baffled.—Is Pat at the Bottom of it?—Bart takes his Life in his Hand, and goes alone to encounter the Mystery of the Garret.

THE boys had much to talk about that night. These had been eventful times. There was their excitement about the mineral rod, and their memorable experiment in the cellar; there was the unlading of the stones, and the bright prospect of more holidays; there was the sorrow of Corbet over his lost Antelope; and finally there was the prospect of the approaching trial, when Mr. Long would defend the cause of the innocent. Were not these matters sufficiently exciting to keep the boys awake till a late hour? Methinks they were.

Above all, that roar which had startled them at their midnight work never ceased to perplex them. Bruce, who was superstitious, still clung to his belief in its supernatural origin, but the other boys were one and all convinced that it was a hoax. But who had done it? Did the perpetrators of that hoax belong to the school? or did they belong to the village? or were they Gaspereau-gians? On these points they took sides, and had long arguments, which led to no conclusion in particular, but left them where they were.

One conclusion they did come to, however, and that was to keep their adventure a profound secret, and wait to see if the mystery would not be revealed.

In spite of their fatigue, they were so excited by the recent events, that they all remained in the Rawdons’ rooms till quite a late hour. The Academy was still, and everybody seemed to have gone to bed. Bart, Tom, and Phil were about to retire to their own rooms, when suddenly there occurred something which made every one of them start to his feet.

It was a long, wild, shrill cry, somewhere between a howl and a hoot, and it sounded in the attic above. Before they could recover from their first shock it sounded again and again.

Bruce’s face grew pale, and the others looked at one another with wide-open eyes.

The Rawdons’ rooms were in the third story, and immediately above them was the attic, which ran the whole length of the Academy, all unfinished except a little chamber at this end occupied by Pat. Pat’s room was immediately over Bart’s; and as the Academy was divided into separate compartments, each with its own entrance and stairways, it had no connection with this part. Midway in the unfinished attic rose the cupola, supported by a network of vast beams, a favorite place of resort for the boys, on account of the magnificence of the prospect which it commanded. On rainy days the attic formed a fine place for exercise, but at night its vast and gloomy extent served rather to repel visitors. Such was the place through which now sounded that discordant and horrid cry which had so startled the boys.

“There it is again!” said Bruce at last.

“Pooh!” said Bart—“that?—that is nothing to what it was up in the cellar.”

“Let’s go up and see what it is,” said Bruce, who again, as before, mastered the weakness of his superstitious fear by a supreme effort of courage.

“All right,” said the others. “Now’s our chance.”

Bruce and Arthur each took a lamp, and they started off. Scarcely had they passed out into the hall, than another of those shrill cries came, and at the same time they heard three peculiar knocks. They stopped for a moment to listen. As they stopped, the door opposite opened, and Jiggins appeared. He looked pale and disturbed.

“What’s all the row, Jiggins?” asked Bart. “Row?” said Jiggins; “I don’t know. I don’t like it at all. It don’t somehow sound altogether right. I think you’d better not—”

At this moment Jiggins’s voice was drowned by another howl. He started, and looked at the others in silence.

By this time they heard below the noise of doors opening, and shuffling feet. The voices of Bogud and Billymack, and Johnny Blue, and Muckle, were heard calling up to them. They shouted back, after which the others came up to the hall, and they all stood listening at the foot of the stairs. In the midst of this, other footsteps were heard, and Pat made his appearance.

“I ran out,” said he, “an I saw lights up here—an I came up. Ye’v heard it—haven’t ye’s?”

“Yes,” said Bart; “do you know what it is?”

“Me!” cried Pat; “sure didn’t I hear it close by me room? and didn’t I run for it?”.

“It’s mighty queer,” said Jiggins.

“I think we’d better go down,” said David Digg; “whatever it is, it’s something that we ought not to face.”

“Nonsense, Bogud!” said Bart; “we’re going up.”

“Up, is it?” cried Pat; “‘deed, then, an ye’d betther not! Ye don’t know what it is that’s up there.”

As he spoke there sounded once more those peculiar knocks.

“Many’s the time I heard that,” said Pat. “It’s a black, bad place.”

“Wern’t you frightened?” asked Bogud, solemnly.

“Sure it cudn’t make any differ whether I wor frightened or not. The likes of me’s got to bear thim things.”

And now there came another uproar. It was yell after yell, so wild, so harsh, and so discordant, that the former noises were nothing in comparison.

Bogud beat a hasty retreat, and Jiggins backed into his doorway. The other boys fell back a little, but the “B. O. W. C.” stood their ground, and Bruce put his foot on the lowest step to ascend to the attic.

“Sure ye’ll not be goin up!” said Pat.

“Yes, we will,” said Bart. “Come along—all of you.”

“IPs kilt ye’ll be!” wailed Pat—“it’s dead intirely ye’ll find yerselves when ye come back!”

“Come along, boys,” cried Phil, as he hurried up after Bruce. “Come, Pat. It’s all humbug.”

“Come along,” cried Bart; “you needn’t pretend to be frightened, Pat; you’re only humbugging. It’s my belief that you know all about it. Can’t I tell by your face whether you’re really frightened or not?”

“Me!” cried Pat, with a very queer intonation, that sounded like a mournful wail struggling with wild laughter. “Is it me? O woro-o-o! Isn’t it to danger yere goin thin! Don’t blame me if I didn’t warrun ye’s. Och, but it’s a black day intirely! Come along, boys,” he said to the others who were left. “Let’s go down out of this to the flure below.”

These last words were not heard by the “B. O. W. C.,” who were by this time in the attic, peering through the gloom, and waiting for a recurrence of the sound.

They listened for a long time, but they heard no noise at all. No shrieks, no knocks whatever were heard. At length they began to go about. They walked first towards that end of the attic where Pat’s room was, and the only noise they heard was the heavy footsteps of Pat as he ascended the stairs and entered his room.

“It’s my firm belief,” said Bart, “that Pat is at the bottom of all this humbug. Of course we won’t find anything. There won’t be so much as a knock, let alone a howl.”

They walked all about, and at last reached the place where the cupola arose. It was built over the main part of the Academy, from which wings extended on either side. This main part was taken up with the Academy hall, which, however, did not rise so high as the floor of the attic, and the consequence was, that there yawned here a dark abyss some fifteen feet in depth, and sixty or eighty feet square. Above rose the stout timbers, crossing one another in all directions, through the midst of? which ladders ascended into the cupola. Some loose planks laid across this abyss, from beam to beam, formed a rather dangerous pathway. This the boys traversed, and crossing to the opposite side, they wandered about the long, dark loft, gazing curiously in all directions. There was no flooring on this side, but only beams, with the laths and plaster of the lower rooms between them. Their search took them over this, but nothing whatever came of it.

They searched the whole attic most thoroughly, but could find nothing.

“Well, boys,” said Bart, “we can’t do anything more. For my part I’m fagged out, and I’m going to bed.”

This proposal met with the approbation of all the others. They were all very tired, very sleepy, and very much disgusted at their failure.

So they went down the steps, and the Rawdons went into their room, and the others turned to go down.

But just at that moment the yells and the hoots sounded out again in a deafening volley—then all was still.

“O, yell away!” cried Bart, angrily; “we’ll find you out some day. Depend upon it, boys, Pat’s at the bottom of it. If he is, let him look out; that’s all. I’ll teach him a lesson that he won’t forget in a hurry. Come, Phil. Come, Tom. Good by, Bruce and Arthur. If you feel inclined for another hunt to-night, you may make it yourselves. I’m going to bed, and I’ll sleep till nine tomorrow in spite of all the noises that can be scared up.”

With these words Bart retired along with Tom and Phil; and he kept his word, for he slept as sound as a top, and did not make his appearance on the next day till long after the other boys were up.

After getting his breakfast from Solomon, he wandered out into the grounds in front of the Academy, where he found nearly all the school gathered, and in a great excitement. The noises had been heard all through the night by most cf them, and had excited every varying shade of superstitious terror. Bogud had told them about the attempt of the “B. O. W. C.” to find out the mystery, and Tom had been forced to acknowledge their failure. All this, of course, made an immense sensation.

Different theories arose among them, most of them tinged with superstition. All these theories referred to an old legend that the Academy had been built on a spot where some French houses had once stood, and that the cellars were beneath the building. Out of this legend some of the boys created a wild theory, which connected the harm-less Acadians with the hideous noises of the past night. Jiggins and Bogud were both inclined to this. Pat was very industrious in going about among the boys with terrific descriptions of what he had heard; and as his room was actually in the attic, and only separated from its gloomy extent by a thin board partition, his authority was considered sufficient for any belief, however wild. Pat, in fact, was a great man that day, and fairly revelled in the awe-struck faces of the small boys as they questioned him about his experience. These small boys all lived in another building called the Boarding House, which stood near the Academy, but apart from it; and as they listened to Pat’s wild stories they congratulated themselves that they were not within hearing of such terrific sounds.

Bart heard all this, he watched the effect which this story had produced, and he saw how Pat was glorifying himself on this occasion.

“I tell you what it is, boys,” said he to his friends, as they found themselves together apart from the others. “In all this school there is one, and only one, that knows about this row, and that is Pat. I’m sure of it. If I had a doubt before, it’s vanished now. Why, look at him over there, frightening the small boys out of their wits. Well,” he continued, after a pause, “very well; just wait a while, and see if I don’t pay up Pat for this.”

As soon as Bart could do it unobserved, he went up to explore the attic. He spent a long time there, and did not come down till the dinner bell rang. Then after dinner he went up again, and spent the afternoon. His investigation was long and searching; but what he found, and where he found it, and how he found it, and in fact whether he found anything at all or not, he did not tell to a single soul, no, not even to the “B. O. W. C.” As Bart preserved such secrecy, I’m sure I’m not going to divulge it just yet. I will do as Bart did, and keep my own counsel, and wait till the proper time comes for the disclosure.

And any boy who thinks there’s going to be a ghost in the garret, or a phantom in the French orchard, had better,—well, he had better keep reading straight on. That’s about the best advice I can give him.

VI.

The great, the famous, and the never-to-be-forgotten Trial.—Captain Corbet hauled up before the Bar of Rhadamanthus.—Town and Gown.—Attitude of the gallant Captain.—The sympathizing Townsmen.—Old Zeke and his Bat.—Mr. Long’s eloquent Oration, ending in the Apotheosis of Captain Corbet’s Baby. (For meaning of above word—Apotheosis—see Dictionary.)

THE day appointed for the hearing of Captain Corbet’s case was awaited with an excitement which was almost equal to that which had been created by the affair in the attic. It was to come off at eleven o’clock; but the impatience of the boys was not to be restrained, and long before that time they were all out in front of the Academy, gathered together in groups, and discussing the probabilities of the trial. The wall had been removed, and put into the schooner for ballast, and carried away. It had been kept for more than a week. That was all undeniable. But, then, on the other hand, it had all been replaced, so that it was better than ever. That was equally undeniable. How, then, could the owner prosecute? What damage had been done? In fact, the opinion of the boys was, that instead of prosecuting, he ought to make the school a present of some kind,—say a couple of barrels of apples, in return for their skill and industry in rebuilding his old rickety, tumble-down stone wall. Besides, he had no business to prosecute Captain Corbet. Mr. Long was the guilty party. Why not prosecute him?

On the whole it was a question full of interest, and as the appointed hour drew near, its advent created greater and greater excitement.

At a quarter before eleven the door of Dr. Porter’s house opened, and out came Mr. Long, followed by Captain Corbet, while Mr. Simmons and the doctor brought up the rear.

Their appearance was greeted with three rousing cheers by all the boys; and as their respected teachers walked on towards the village, the entire school followed at their heels, in a very irregular, very disorderly, and very noisy procession.

The place where the trial was to come off was about half way between the Academy and Mud Creek. It was in a small hall which was built for lectures, public gatherings, tea meetings and so forth. It was now turned into a court of law, and the awful Rhadamanthus who presided here was a well-known and very popular villager, who, by some singular freak of fortune, had been made a justice of the peace. His name was Pieter Schwab, and he was of Dutch extraction. He was short, round, fat, had a bald head, double chin, gray and somewhat fishy eyes, flaxen hair, pudgy hands, thick, wheezy voice; and though born and brought up in the country, he still spoke with that musical and mellifluous Dutch accent which he had inherited from his ancestors.

As the party from the hill entered, they found Mr. Pieter Schwab, justice of the peace, seated in the chair of justice. The prosecutor was there too, with a large number of villagers, who took an intense interest in the case; and when the boys crowded in, the little hall was crammed.

One cause of the prosecution—indeed, the only cause—lay in a certain kind of hostility which existed between the village and the hill. It was a sort of “town and gown” feeling, which was not confined to the village, but spread over the country, and particularly Gaspereaux. It was this feeling which brought the villagers at the present time to the court of Rhadamanthus. Still there was not so much partisanship on this occasion as there would have been if the dispute had been directly between the village and the hill; for Captain Corbet was the one who was prosecuted, and Captain Corbet happened to be a great favorite in the village. The villagers present were therefore very uncertain in their sympathies; they wished the hill to be beaten, but they didn’t want Captain Corbet to suffer. The loss of the Antelope, which seemed by this time far gone to destruction, excited additional sympathy; and as his venerable form appeared, a murmur of friendly feeling went round, and a score of horny hands were stretched out to grasp his.

The suit against Captain Corbet was for the recovery of damages incurred by the illegal, violent, malicious, injurious, felonious, dishonest, malignant, mischievous, wanton, secret, forcible, burglarious, and criminal removal of a portion of the stone wall surrounding the potato field of the prosecutor, whereby the said prosecutor had sustained grievous harm and loss. The prosecutor, in setting forth his grievances, stated that it might have been made a criminal action, but out of kindness to Captain Corbet he had decided to make it a civil one, and merely wished to have the losses which he had suffered made good.

The bill of damages was a very heavy one, amounting to no less a sum than five hundred dollars—an amount which poor Captain Corbet could never have paid, and which was perfectly preposterous. The knowledge of this excited a fresh demonstration of feeling in favor of the venerable defendant; and, at length, even before the trial had fairly begun, there was not a villager present who was not heart and soul in favor of Captain Corbet.

The prosecutor brought forward testimony to prove damages. His sole testimony consisted of one witness, who was known by the name of Old Zeke—a poor worthless character, whose life vibrated between begging and getting drunk. He swore that on a certain day he happened to be down by the creek, and saw a horse in the field where the fence had been removed.

Mr. Long proceeded to examine this witness. Mr. Long had a singularly keen and acute mind, and the witness was nothing in his hands. Old Zeke in a few minutes became so confused that he could not testify to anything. He said first that the day was Tuesday, then Wednesday, then Thursday, then he wouldn’t be sure but that it might be Friday, then Saturday, and at length he wouldn’t swear but that it might have been Sunday. Finally, he said that he wouldn’t swear to the day at all. After this, he was so pressed by Mr. Long, that he thought that the horse might have been a cow; and then he said he wouldn’t swear that it wasn’t a sheep, or a goat, or a dog. Finally, Mr. Long asked him on his oath if he would swear that it wasn’t a rat, and Old Zeke wouldn’t swear that it wasn’t, a rat.

Old Zeke’s total discomfiture, however, was nothing to Mr. Long. It was mere child’s play. He longed to close with a worthier antagonist—with the prosecutor himself. The prosecutor swore that cattle had got into his potato field, and had done damage which he had estimated at over five hundred dollars.

Mr. Long now proceeded to grapple with the prosecutor.

Could he prove damages to the extent of five hundred dollars? He could, all? And how? Could he prove that any cattle had got in? Had he himself seen any cattle? No. No? Who, then, had seen them? Old Zeke. Old Zeke? Very good.

Would the prosecutor be kind enough to state which of the cattle that Old Zeke had seen had done the damage? Was it Old Zeke’s rat!

At this a roar of laughter arose from the spectators, who were now in the highest state of excitement.

And what might have been the value of the potatoes planted there,—or how much would it cost to replant them? Two dollars, or twenty? Over how much ground had Old Zeke’s rat gone, and how many potatoes had Old Zeke’s rat eaten? Would he swear that Old Zeke’s rat wouldn’t have eaten the potatoes even if the wall had been standing? Would he swear that it was possible for any one rat, in five or six days, to eat up five hundred dollars’ worth of potatoes?

In a short time the prosecutor had got into an awful state of wrath and confusion. But Mr. Long was merciless, and had made up his mind not to spare him. So he rang the changes on Old Zeke’s rat and the potatoes till all the assembly were convulsed with laughter, and the prosecutor was purple with fury and bewilderment.

Then Mr. Long changed his tone to one of greater seriousness. Alluding to the prosecutor’s oath; that the damage had amounted to five hundred dollars, he questioned him with merciless severity as to how he had made that estimate.

Had he dug up the potatoes to see if they had been injured?

No.

Had he ploughed up the field and sowed it again?

No.

The field remained, then, as it had been planted?

Yes.

On his oath, did he, or did he not, expect a crop of potatoes?

Yes.

How much was planted?

One acre.

How much would be raised?

About a hundred bushels.

How much would they fetch?

About fifty dollars.

Making allowance for expenses of digging, what would be the value?

About forty dollars.

All these replies were wrung out from the prosecutor only by extreme pressure. He felt that he was in a bad position, and struggled hard against it. His face grew red, and big drops of perspiration rolled down over his forehead.

“Forty dollars!” Mr. Long thundered out. “And yet you swear to five hundred dollars’ damage. You prosecute an aged, a virtuous, and an estimable fellow-citizen, and you dare to take an oath against him to such a frightful untruth! What is this? Is it malice, or what? But if malice, what is there that could ever have been done against you by one so simple-hearted and so true and honest as Captain Corbet?”

All this produced a tremendous effect, on the spectators, on the prosecutor, and on Rhadamanthus.

But now Mr. Long came down harder than ever upon the unfortunate prosecutor. He declared himself ready to prove that Captain Corbet never took away the stone fence at all.

This was easily done.

First, every one of the boys was summoned to give his simple statement of the facts. The whole truth came out, and it was clearly shown that Captain Corbet must have been in total ignorance of the whole transaction. To the testimony of the boys was added that of Mr. Simmons; and he, with all the rest, alluded in touching terms to the occupation of the captain while the stone wall was disappearing. Stone walls? Captain Corbet? He touch them? Why, he was nursing his baby at home all the time!

As the boys came forward, one by one, Captain Corbet looked at them, and listened in eager attention, with a smile of love on his meek and venerable face. As they spoke of his absence from the scene, that smile broadened into one of deeper affection; but finally, as they spoke of his occupation, of his home, of that morning when they found him there with his baby, it was too much. His heart beat fast,—a flood of tender recollections thronged into his memory,—tears started to his eyes.

But what could he do?

Nothing.

He could only grasp the hands of those who stood nearest, and wring them, and murmur broken words:—

“Yes, sir. That’s so. That’s all gospel truth. It’s jest so. I wasn’t nigh the schewner. It was the babby. Him it was. I was a nussin of him, an a feedin of him, an a singin an a hummin to him. An I knowed nothin more about that thar stone wall than the man in the mune.”

And all these words of Captain Corbet, together with the simple statements of the boys, combined to strengthen the convictions of the villagers that the poor captain was a deeply injured man.

Now, of all these circumstances which tended to establish Captain Corbet’s perfect freedom from all possible blame, Mr. Long was not neglectful of a single one. He gathered them all up in his mind, and after all the witnesses had been examined, prepared to hurl them with tremendous force at the head of the miserable, and now almost panic-stricken, prosecutor.

Mr. Long was a man of magnificent presence—-tall, leonine in aspect, and impressive in manner; he joined to these advantages a wonderful acuteness of thought, and a copious flow of eloquent language. Besides, he was stung by the cowardly act of the prosecutor, who attacked poor Captain Corbet, instead of attacking himself, who was the real culprit, if there were any culprit; and so he determined to read that man a lesson which he would always remember, and prepared to pour out all the full vials of his wrath upon his miserable head. No damage whatever had been done, or could have been done. And yet this man tried to ruin Captain Corbet out of petty spite. That was enough for Mr. Long.

He began by a severe review of the prosecutor’s statements, and a still more severe criticism of his charges for damages. Old Zeke’s rat was once more brought out for the benefit of the village audience, and light jesting was mingled with scathing denunciation. Old Zeke himself did not escape, and Mr. Long asked his hearers to judge what kind of a cause it was, which had need of such a witness.

Then he showed the enormous difference between the utmost value of the potatoes, even if all were spoiled, and the charge made by the prosecutor. The fact that the prosecutor had sworn to five hundred dollars’ damage was enlarged upon in indignant language, which accused that prosecutor of nothing less than perjury.

Then, taking all these facts together, he sought for a motive, and could find nothing else than extreme avarice or excessive malignity. And against whom? Against Captain Corbet, one of our oldest, most virtuous, most respected, and most venerable citizens; one whose character had never before been impeached; one who was loved and revered by all; who never had a quarrel, who had never made an enemy, and who had never stood in a court of law before until this day.

At this there was an immense sensation. The boys and the villagers mingled together in crowding near to Captain Corbet, in order to show their sympathy with his unmerited woes.

“And who was Captain Corbet,” he asked, at length, “against whom this ruinous charge had been made?” This was a question full of interest, for it led him to consider the character of the defendant. He alluded to his many virtues, his reputation, his popularity; he touched also, in gentle terms, upon his recent loss in the destruction of the Antelope; and by skilfully intermingling the excellences of Captain Corbet with his afflictions, he excited still more the commiseration of his hearers.

Finally, he considered the testimony as to the actual occupation of Captain Corbet while the fence was being taken away.

“He knew nothing whatever about it,” said Mr. Long,—“absolutely nothing. He was not there. He was far away. Where was he? Where was this man who has been, charged with being a trespasser and a thief? Where was this man who has been accused of removing his neighbor’s landmarks, and laying waste his neighbor’s fields? Where?”

Mr. Long paused for a moment, and his eyes looked all around over the crowd, and finally settled upon the frightened face of the unhappy prosecutor.

“Where was he?” repeated Mr. Long.

Again he paused, perhaps with a slight feeling of regard for the poor prosecutor; perhaps, on the other hand, with a desire to make his speech more effective; perhaps carried away by his own eloquence, and merely seeking the most appropriate language with which to clothe his vehement thoughts; perhaps because he faltered for an instant before he should say what was in his mind to say.

“Where was he?” he repeated once more. “Where? Why, all the time far away from the schooner, from the wharf, and from the stone wall; ignorant of everything that was going on; thinking of far different things—seated in his own house, on his own chair, by his own fireside. Yes, alone; and engaged in what I have heard him call a parent’s fondest joy! Not stealing arway a stone wall! No! but administering, in the seclusion of his own home, to the necessities of his offspring,—supplying nutriment to his—ah—infant—ah—in fact,—ah—nursing with his own hands—his—ah—his baby!”

Mr. Long stopped abruptly. He saw Captain Corbet making a violent effort to get near to him; but he avoided him, and the venerable navigator had to pour out his feelings to others who stood nearer.

The end of it all was, that the case was dismissed, and the prosecutor had to pay costs—though that was not much.

And Captain Corbet was for a short time the hero of the village and of the hill. As he came forth they all cheered him with united voices; and about two hundred, consisting of men and boys, shook hands with him.

And all the boys marched along with him nearly all the way to his home.

And then they went to the hill, and spent the remainder of the day in discussing the famous trial.

And every one of them, from Bruce down to the smallest boy of the primary department, was in a state of frenzy about Captain Corbet and Mr. Long.

VII.

The Valley of the Gasper eaux.—Invading the Enemy’s Territory.—Defiance.—Returning Home to find their own Territory invaded.—The Camp.—The missing Ones.—Where are they?—The Gaspereaugians?

THE next night the noises in the attic were renewed. Bart lay calmly slumbering, and remained undisturbed, but all the rest of the boys were very greatly excited. They turned out of their rooms, and talked with one another in the halls, and most of them passed a sleepless night. Tom and Phil, who roomed near Bart, knocked at his door to rouse him. He got up, opened the door, and declared that they had better go back to bed. He assured them that it was a hoax, and that Pat was probably at the bottom of it. For his part he was sleepy, and wouldn’t bother himself about it that night at any rate. So Tom and Phil, seeing his indifference, went back to bed, and fell asleep. Bruce and Arthur, however, being close under the attic, were more disturbed; and after trying in vain to sleep, they rose, took a lamp, and went up into the attic. Jiggins again met them as they came out of their room, at his door, but declined going up. So the two brothers went up together, and looked around for some time without finding anything. While they were up there the noises ceased; but after they had gone down, disgusted with this second failure, the noises were renewed. But familiarity breeds contempt, and Bruce himself had lost his superstitious fear. He was convinced that it was a hoax, and so he felt only irritated at the noise. Having failed to discover the cause, both he and Arthur went to bed, and for the rest of the night, in spite of the noises, they slept soundly.

On the following morning Bruce proposed a walk to Gaspereaux. All acceded to this proposition except Bart. He did not care about going. He had several things, he said, which he wished to attend to. After vain efforts to persuade him to accompany them, an arrangement was finally made that he should meet them at the camp at four o’clock. This Bart acceded to, and promised to bring provisions enough to supply them all with a bounteous and a generous repast.

The school was all alive that morning with excitement. Nothing was talked of, nothing thought of, but the unaccountable noises in the attic. Again, as before, the theories of superstition were put forth. Again, as before, Jiggins and Bogud shook their heads solemnly over the matter, and declared that there was something serious in it. Again, as before, Pat went around among the boys giving a terrific account of his own experience, and expatiating upon the hardships which he had to undergo in living in a room which was close to that place of horror—the attic. But in spite of his professed fear, Pat did not seem to suffer in bodily health in any way. His appetite was as good, his complexion as ruddy, and his spirits as active as ever; and all the boys, as they heard his terrific experience, wondered how he could stand it so well.

Immediately after breakfast, Bruce and the other boys started off for Gaspereaux, leaving the whole school in this wild state of excitement. Bruce, at the breakfast table, had entered into an argument with Jiggins about the noise in the attic, in which he maintained the theory that it was a hoax by somebody. Jiggins, on the other hand, boldly asserted that the noises were supernatural, and announced his belief that it was done by some wandering Frenchman who had been exiled at the expulsion of the Acadians, and would never be at rest till the school should be given up. Bogud, Billymack, Johnny Blue, Sammy Ram Ram, and Pat supported Jiggins; while Muckle, Bart, Arthur, Tom, and Phil sustained Bruce. The argumentation was tremendous, but, as usual, resulted in nothing, since each was resolved to maintain his own opinion. Of those who thus argued, two only understood the case: the one was Pat, who said a great deal on his side of the question; the other was Bart, who only made an occasional remark, and created a vague surprise by his general reserve. He was usually outspoken and positive, but now he contented himself with general remarks and indistinct hints. But though Bart said little on this occasion, he kept his eyes open, and observed much. He noticed Pat’s demeanor in particular, and marked the eager volubility with which he supported Jiggins’s theory. This only strengthened his belief that Pat was, as he said, at the bottom of it, and made him more determined than ever to concoct some plan which should bring Pat to confusion, and force him to a confession.

Such Avas the state of things, when Bruce, Avith his friends, started off to Gaspereaux, leaving Bart behind them, with the understanding that he should join them, with provisions, at the camp, at four o’clock in the afternoon. They took fishing-rods with them, and anticipated a day of sport.

The valley of the Gaspereaux lay about a mile behind the Academy, and was one of the most beautiful places in all that beautiful country. The river has its origin in several lakes, which are only a few miles away from the sea; and after flowing from these, between lofty hills and over precipices, where it falls in picturesque cataracts, it winds its way onward towards the Basin of Minas.

On either side arise steep slopes, and through the narrow valley between these the river winds. It is only a small stream in many places, easily fordable, and the numerous trout at certain seasons make it a favorite resort for the angler. The narrow valley is dotted with trees and groves, the borders of the little stream are lined with willows, the soil is exceedingly fertile, and amid the foliage of trees and the green vegetation the cottages of the farmers and the tapering spires peep forth, with a picturesque beauty which adds new charms to this romantic spot. A road winds down one side of the valley and up the other, and this road crosses the stream by a bridge, which forms a central spot, from which the eye may wander over a landscape, which for soft and quiet loveliness may be equalled by few, and surpassed by none, of those which in other climes have been celebrated by the poet or the artist.

But to venture into this delightful valley was not so safe for the boys of the Grand Pré school as was desirable. To go there was to penetrate into an enemy’s country, and to encounter all the dangers of such an enterprise. For the feud which raged between “town and gown” extended over to Gaspereaux, and the boys of this valley were the chief enemies of the school. The winter was the great season for campaigning, and then many were the snow-ball fights which took place between the hostile parties. During the other seasons there was a kind of truce; the Gaspereaugians were generally busy on their farms, and no pitched battles occurred. Still, at any season, it was not pleasant for any one belonging to the school to find himself alone in Gaspereaux. For this reason they generally went in parties. Sometimes, also, the Gaspereaugians would invade the Academy woods, and commit various depredations, such as breaking the dams, or tearing down the camps. Such was the state of things at this time.

Along the crest of the hill that separates Gaspereaux Valley from Grand Pré there ran a road originally made by the French Acadians, and known as the Ridge Road. A drive along this affords a series of the most magnificent prospects imaginable, and it was a favorite walk for all connected with the school. Bruce and his companions did not descend at once into the valley, but turned up the Ridge Road, and walked along for some distance. At last they descended through the woods into the upper part of the valley, and came to the river. It was quite shallow, and the boys walked up its bed, stepping from stone to stone, and occasionally taking to the bank as they came to some deep spot. They all had brought rods and lines, and at length varied their pursuits by fishing. They found plenty of angle-worms by turning up stones here and there. Phil was most successful, for he succeeded in hooking seven very fine trout. Bruce caught four, Arthur three, and Tom five. At length they grew tired of fishing, and as they felt hungry they made a fire, and cooked the trout on the coals. They had no salt, but they found the old proverb to be true, that hunger is the best seasoning; and so, being excessively hungry, they all found the broiled trout delicious.

Amusements and occupations like these took up many hours, and so the time passed, till at length they began to think of returning. They decided to go back through the valley, and beard the lion in his den, by facing the Gaspereaugians in their own retreat.

Off they all started then, and taking the road, they walked along down the valley. At every step they expected to encounter the enemy; but, to their surprise, no enemy appeared. The boys whom they saw from time to time were too small to deserve notice. Reaching at last the place where the road wound up the hill and went to Grand Pré, they turned aside, and strolled along to the centre of the village. This was where the bridge crossed the river. It was a beautiful place. An island lay midway, and just above the bridge was another island. Here they staid for some time, and fished; but no fish appeared. What was still more wonderful, no Gaspereaugians appeared, either.

They could not account for it. They felt disappointed. It seemed like a slight. After waiting as long as they could, they had to turn away at last; and it was with something like indignation that they started back to the Academy.

The rest of the journey was uneventful; but when they reached the camp in the woods, where they expected to meet Bart, a strange and startling sight met their eyes.

The brook ran along through a little dell, and on either side the banks arose. By the camp the bank on one side was steep, and covered with trees; but the other side, a little lower down, was a gentle slope, bare of trees, and green with short, soft grass.

And on this place Bruce and his companions saw a crowd of boys standing, regarding them with hostile faces, and apparently bent on mischief.

They were the Gaspereaugians.

The Gaspereaugians!

Now they understood it all. This, then, was the reason why they had gone through Gaspereaux unmolested. They had not been troubled, for the simple reason that the Gaspereaugians had themselves been off on a foray, and this was their enterprise. They wondered what had become of Bart and Solomon; and as Bruce thought of this, a dark frown came over his face, and he stood looking at the Gaspereaugians like a thunder-cloud.