XVI.

Sudden and unaccountable Reunion of the two wandering Bands.—A tremendous Circle described by Somebody.—Where are we going? Scott’s Bay, or Hall’s Harbor.—Descent into the Plain.—Twinkling Lights.—Sudden Sound of Sea Surf breaking in the Middle of a Prairie.

AND now every moment it grew darker and darker. It was about eight o’clock. The sun had gone down, the shadows of night were gathering, and the fog seemed thicker than ever. As they walked on they could see but a few paces before them.

They supposed themselves to be going in the direction of the house where the wagons were left; but, after all, they were not quite sure of the way. It might be some other road altogether. They had been over the Scott’s Bay road once or twice before, but it would not have been familiar even by daylight, while in such gloom as this, no road, however familiar, could be recognized. As they went they peered anxiously through the gloom, in hopes of seeing cultivated fields, or houses. But nothing of the kind appeared to their anxious eyes. They also looked forward with straining eyes, and listened with the closest attention, in hopes of meeting with some people who might make them acquainted with their actual position. But nothing could be either seen or heard in front, and so they had nothing else to do than to walk on as quickly as their wearied limbs would allow.

At length they heard the sound of voices ahead, and footsteps, which seemed to approach them. They stood and waited. Soon a number of figures appeared, rendered gigantic by the mist and darkness. The boys hurried towards them, and Bruce at once addressed the foremost figure.

The foremost figure at the same instant addressed Bruce.

And both asked exactly the same question, or rather part of what would evidently have been the same question if it had been finished.

It was,—

Bruce. “Will you be kind enough to tell me—”

Foremost Figure. “Will you have the goodness to tell me—”

Here the questions broke off abruptly.

And turned to,—

Bruce. “Hallo!”

Foremost Figure. “Why! What’s this!”

Bruce. “Dr. Porter!!!”

Foremost Figure. “Bruce Rawdon!!!”

For a few moments both parties were overwhelmed with utter bewilderment and a total prostration of all their faculties. This amazing and incomprehensible reunion of those who had parted five hours ago in the wild woods, by the lofty precipice and the thundering surf, going in exactly opposite directions, yet coming together in darkness and fog, was a thing which might well reduce them to complete stupefaction.

Then there arose a general uproar of questions, each party asking the other where they had been, and where they supposed themselves to be now, and where they thought they were going.

“This is a most incomprehensible thing!” said the doctor.

“How long have you been on the road, sir?”

“Not over a quarter of an hour.”

“Have you been in the woods all the time?”

“Yes, walking steadily in this direction.”

“And could you manage to keep a straight course?”

“O, yes.”

“You didn’t walk along the cliff—did you, sir?”

“O, no.”

“I don’t see how you managed to go on straight when you were in the woods.”

“O, I managed by my eye,” said the doctor, calmly. “I also tried to correct that tendency to swerve to the right that you spoke of, and I think I succeeded. You see, I found I was very much farther away from Hall’s Harbor than I supposed. In fact, your conjecture must have been right, and we were nearer Scott’s Bay by a great deal than we were to Hall’s Harbor. We had swerved very much to the right. As I went on I became convinced of this, and tried constantly and most carefully to guard against it. I succeeded therefore in going almost in a perfectly straight line. But our march was a very fatiguing one, I must confess. It grew dark, too, and we were just on the point of giving up, when we came to a pasture field, and then found the road. We didn’t see any houses near, and couldn’t find how far away any house might be. At first I thought of going to Hall’s Harbor, but finally I concluded to turn to the left, and go on towards Cornwallis. But you, how did you happen to lose your course so completely? Why, you’ve made a complete circle. You must have been turning to the right ever since you left. You’ve got into the Hall’s Harbor road, and are now walking straight towards Hall’s Harbor. What a most extraordinary and most absurd situation! I wouldn’t have believed this to be possible, had it not been first for my own mistake to-day, and now for this one of yours. But it seems to me, Bruce, that your circle has been more complete than mine was. What a tremendous march you must have made!”

Bruce for a few minutes said nothing. The doctor’s quiet way of informing him about his situation bewildered him more than the first discovery had done. A “tremendous” circuit it must indeed have been. How had they managed to go so fast, and reach the road before the doctor’s party? It must have been that chase after Pat which put them astray. After that they had lost all idea of their way, and had wandered on blindly, not knowing where they were going, and for that matter not caring very much, either.

“But are you sure that this is the Hall’s Harbor road?” he asked at length.

“Why, yes—of course it is. It ought to be—we’ve come far enough to get to it. What did you think it was?”

“Why, we thought it was the Scott’s Bay road.”

“The Scott’s Bay road!” cried the doctor, and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

“Well, sir,” said Bruce, “to tell the truth, we got utterly lost. Pat began chasing a porcupine, and we chased Pat, and followed him wherever he went. At last we lost him. So then we didn’t think about reaching the road at all, but only about finding him. We went on in the direction which he seemed to have taken, and so we came to this road. It was the porcupine that led us here.

“The porcupine,” said the doctor; and he appeared so amused at this idea, that Bruce had to tell him the whole story.

“The fact is,” said the doctor, thoughtfully, after hearing this story, “what you ought to have done is this: You ought at all hazards to have followed the line of the cliff. That would have brought you to Scott’s Bay in a little more than an hour. You could then have gone to the house where the horses were left, and by this time you would have been in comfortable quarters, pitying us poor wanderers.”

“Well,” said Bruce, “we tried to keep close by the cliff, but it ran off in such a direction that we left it, and went in what we thought a truer course.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the doctor. “That is always the way. The cliff was right, but you were wrong. The cliff did not turn away from you, but you turned away from the cliff. It was all that fatal tendency to turn to the right. Now, I was on my guard; but you, who gave me that warning, forgot all about it yourself. But come, it won’t do to stand here all night talking. We are now about half way over the mountain. We ought soon to begin to descend towards Cornwallis. There’s a man who lives on this road that I’m acquainted with,—a Mr. Smalley,—and his house can’t be very far away. We can get something to eat there at least, and accommodations for the night. But I prefer getting wagons and driving over to where we left our own conveyances. However, we can see about that when we get to Smalley’s.”

The whole party now walked on, and the boys mingled with one another, questioning each other about the journey. The doctor’s party had suffered fearfully. They were all foot-sore, and their clothes were badly torn. They had gone through swamps and brushwood, and over stones and fallen trees. They were fearfully fatigued, and were now only sustained by the prospect of soon reaching the end of their journey. All this was a great puzzle to Bruce’s party, who were not nearly so fatigued; and they couldn’t understand how they could have gone so much farther than the doctor’s party without feeling so worn out as their friends were. They attributed this, however, first to the fact that the doctor had gone in one perfectly straight course, regardless of obstacles; and secondly, to the other fact, that their journey had been beguiled by Pat’s adventure with the porcupine, which first afforded them amusement, and afterwards, when he was lost, created such an excitement that they forgot their toils.

After walking some distance farther, the road, to their great delight, began to descend.

“We’re going down to Cornwallis,” said the doctor, joyously. “We’re very much farther on than I supposed. We are evidently far beyond Smalley’s. I see how it is. In my anxiety to avoid swerving to the right, I have fallen, as you said, Bruce, into the opposite extreme, and have actually swerved to the left. That accounts for the immense length of our journey. Well, now that it’s over, I’m glad that it happened so. It brings us all the nearer to our destination. At the foot of the hill lives Mr. Atkins, who will give us far better accommodation than Smalley. One mile more, boys, only one mile, and then we’ll have rest.”

The doctor’s encouraging words cheered all the boys, and the fact that they were actually descending the hill, and were thus every moment drawing nearer to their destination, had an additional influence in giving them fresh energy.

So they descended farther and farther, and now kept on the lookout more vigilantly than ever for the welcome lights of some houses.

“It’s a long descent,” said the doctor, “but every step is bringing us nearer to Atkins’s; so keep your courage up, boys, for we’ll soon be there now.”

On they went, and descended lower and lower, till at last they seemed to have reached the plain, for the road became level, and went on straight, without any more windings.

At length there appeared a faint light not far away on the left.

“That must be Atkins’s,” said the doctor. “But how very thick the fog is even here! I never knew it so thick in Cornwallis. And the air is just like that of the sea-shore. It is very seldom that it is so on this side of the mountain.”

“I suppose it’s the strong southerly wind,” said Bart.

“Yes, I dare say.”

“The wind seems to strike us here from a very odd direction. It must come across the Basin of Minas. It’s just as though it came from the east.”

“O, we can’t tell,” said the doctor. “This road winds so that we get it sometimes in our faces, and sometimes in our backs.”

“It must be after nine,” said Bruce.

“Yes,” said the doctor; “and I dare say we’ve passed several houses on the road. The people here are not very liberal in the use of candles. They sit around the kitchen fire till about nine o’clock, and then go to bed. That’s the reason why we have not seen any lights. There must be quite a number of houses along here.”

By this time they had come in front of the house. It stood about a dozen yards from the road. The light proceeded from a small, lower window. The house was only a cottage, and the dim outline of a barn could be seen a little farther on.

“This does not look like Atkins’s,” said the doctor, after he had scanned the cottage and the barn. “Atkins’s is very much larger than this, and is a different looking place altogether. I don’t think we can have passed it. No, it must be farther on. At any rate, we can ask here, and they can tell us exactly how far we have yet to go. I’m sorry it isn’t Atkins’s, though, for I fully expected to be there. Besides, we all want rest.”

The doctor looked once more at the house, and then at the barn. As they stood there, thus looking in silence, there came to their ears a very peculiar sound, which made every one start.

It was a long, rolling sound, made up of the rush of many waters, such as can be heard nowhere else but upon the sea-shore—that peculiar noise of gathering floods, such as is heard when the sea throws forth its waves towards the land, to curl up, foaming, and break upon the strand. Here it arose amid this darkness,—that peculiar, that unmistakable sound,—with its gathering waters, its foam, its roll, and its crash as the uplifted waters broke,—the sound that can be made by the surf, and the surf alone.

But what did it mean?

What was the meaning of the surf breaking thus upon the inner side of the North Mountain, far inland, on the plains of Cornwallis?

Were the dikes broken down? Was this some flood pouring in over the country to overwhelm them? Was the raging sea now rolling, in undisturbed possession of its ancient bed, over all the green valleys of this lately smiling plain? Was there the terrific visitation of a deluge here in this peaceful country? and were all the people now flying from the horrors of an inundation?

What did it mean?

Up to this moment there had not been a doubt in the minds of any of them that they were near Atkins’s, somewhere in Cornwallis, on the Hall’s Harbor road. The doctor’s quiet positiveness, the perfect certainty with which he had spoken, and the minute acquaintance which he seemed to have with every part of their past and present journey, all conspired to impress upon the minds of the boys the very idea of their possible locality which was in his own mind; and thus it happened that it was while they fully believed themselves entering upon a wide plain that they suddenly heard the thunder of the surf upon the shore.

The doctor heard this as plainly as any of them, of course, and all the thoughts which came to them came to him also none the less vividly. But he said not a single word.. He stood mute, and waited for a few moments longer, as though doubting the evidence of his senses.

Once more the sound arose. The waters gathered themselves together, they rolled forward, they heaped themselves upward, they foamed, and then they broke upon the shore. Thus, wave after wave, the surf came on, and spoke of the presence of the sea!

It was enough.

“I don’t know where in the world we have got to,” ejaculated the doctor, at last.

“It can’t be Cornwallis,” said Bruce.

“We must be on the shore of Minas Basin,” said Bogud.

“I think it’s Pereau,” said Bart.

“I don’t know where it is,” said the doctor; “but, Bruce, I shouldn’t be surprised if you should prove right a second time. But the best way is to go and ask.”

Saying this, the doctor hurried to the door of the cottage. As they drew near, a strong smell of fish arose, and formed a new and striking proof of the presence of the sea. Reaching the door, the doctor knocked loudly, and all the boys gathered round to hear the result of his inquiry, and learn their fate.

At first there was no response.

The doctor knocked again.

Footsteps were now heard, and a voice cried out,—

“Who’s there?”

“Friends,” said the doctor. “We’ve lost our way, and want to find it.”

“Go round to the back door; this’n won’t open,” said the voice.

At this they turned away to look for the back door, wondering, as they went, what the occupant of the house supposed a front door was made for. It seemed to them like stories which they had read of some Dutch villages, where the people are so excessively neat that the “front door” and the “best room” are never used except on two great occasions; one being a marriage, and the other a burial. At all other times the back door and the back rooms are used.

So to this back door they tried to work their way round the house. As they went round, the smell of decayed fish came up more strongly, more overpoweringly, and more impressively than ever. Evidently the people of the cottage had something to do with fish. They either caught them, or traded in them, or cured them. Who were they? Was it Pereau—or was it—what?

Turning the house, the fresh wind came upon them, driving against them the dense fog clouds, and hiding everything before them from view. But through that gloom there swept upon their hearing a recurrence of the solemn boom of the surf which had startled them a few moments before, when they first paused to look at the cottage. There it came, the sound of the gathering waters, rising gradually, breaking, and flinging the roar of the falling waters far away along the shore.

Here they were, then, by the sea; here the surf rolled; here were the signs of fish. Evidently these people were fishermen, and their life was on the ocean wave. Suddenly they encountered some large object which was right in their way. Through the gloom they could see the outline of a whaling boat, that is, a boat sharp at both ends, which is often used by fishermen in these waters. This excited no surprise, however. It only confirmed what had been told them by the booming surf and the odors wafted from the decaying fish.

On reaching the rear of the house they found the aforsaid back door wide open, and a man standing in the doorway, with a candle in one hand and a pipe in the other. The candle flared, and flickered, and sputtered in the wind and fog; and he was blinking through the darkness, and trying to catch a glimpse of his visitors.

He was a short, thick-set, red-faced man, with whiskers running all round in a “sea dog” sort of fashion, checked shirt, and canvas trousers, which bore numerous marks made by tar. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, so as to give free play to the organs of his manly chest. He had no coat, and, for that matter, no boots. In point of fact, he was in his stocking feet. His grizzled hair and beard showed him to belong to the elderly class of mankind; but his stout, sturdy frame and bluff countenance exhibited no decay of strength.

“Lost yer way?” said he, as he caught sight of them. “Wal, come in, any how. We’ll talk it over. Walk in, all on ye, the whole fifty of ye, for that matter. Ole Bennie Grigg can find room for ye. Walk in, walk in.”

“But where are we?” asked the doctor. “What place is this?”

“What place? Haw, haw, haw! What! don’t you even know the place? Haw, haw, haw! Why, this here place is Scott’s Bay!”

XVII.

Old Bennie and Mrs. Bennie.—Old-fashioned Hospitality.—What old Bennie was able to spread before his famished Guests.—A Night on a Hay-mow.—A secluded Village.—A Morning Walk.—Behind Time.—Hurrah, Boys!

|SCOTT’S BAY!

The emotions of the doctor and all his party, on hearing that name, can better be imagined than described. At first they could scarcely believe it; but finally, seeing that they knew nothing at all about it, and that Bennie Grigg, as he called himself, might be supposed to know where he was living, they were forced to admit the truth of the amazing statement. But Bennie gave them no time for wonder. He forced them all to come in, and ushered them into a large room, where a bright wood fire was blazing upon an ample hearth. Here his wife received the unexpected guests. She was a quiet, quaint, comfortable body, fit helpmeet for Bennie, and received them in the most cordial maimer. With the true spirit of hospitality, Bennie forbore from asking any question, but devoted his whole energies towards making his guests comfortable. He pulled forward an old-fashioned settee, drew forth the quaint, old, high-backed chairs, and soon had a circle of seats arranged around the fire, where all could be accommodated. After this his wife spread the cloth over a large table, and began to make preparations for a repast.

“You’ll be fairly starving?” said Bennie to the doctor, interrogatively.

The doctor acknowledged that they were hungry, but begged Bennie not to put himself out. Bread, and butter, and milk were all that they wanted.

At this Bennie laughed, and Mrs. Bennie laughed also, and the latter busied herself in getting ready the repast.

While Mrs. Bennie was thus employed, Mr. Bennie assisted her, and, at the same time, urged his guests to make themselves comfortable. So they talked with one another around the fire, and at length relapsed into silence. The fact is, they were all awfully hungry.

At last the table was spread.

And such a spread!

O, ye farmers of Cornwallis! ye fishermen of Scott’s Bay! Are there, indeed, other farmers and other fishermen on this terrestrial ball that can make extemporaneous spreads like yours? I doubt it.

For here Bennie and his wife spread out Broiled salmon,

Ham and eggs,

Mealy potatoes,

Cream cheese,

Tea,

Coffee,

Cream,

Apple sauce,

Broiled chicken,

Mince pies,

Apple pies,

Cold corn beef,

Cold roast beef,

Cold fillet of veal,

Fresh bread,

Hot rolls,

Pickles,

Cold ham,

Chow-chow,

Tomato ketchup,

Ginger pop,

Currant wine,

Cranberry preserves,

Plum preserves,

Quince preserves,

Cake,

Bacon,

Smoked herrings,

Alewives,

Finnen haddies,

Salad,

Buckwheat pancakes,

Mushroom ketchup,

Pickled oysters,

Maple honey,

Johnny cakes, and various other articles of a minor character.

All of which the starving wayfarers attacked with ravenous appetites, while Mr. and Mrs. Bennie looked on with faces that beamed all over with inexpressible gratification.

It was not until the first cravings of hunger were satisfied that Bennie ventured to speak to his guests about their wanderings. The doctor then told him all.

In the full discussion that followed the whole thing was made plain, and their wanderings were all accounted for.

In the first place, it was seen that Bruce’s party, in spite of their carelessness, and of their chase after Pat, had actually reached the point at which they had aimed, viz., the Scott’s Bay road, and were on their way to the place where the horses were kept, when the doctor met them and turned them back.

Secondly, the doctor’s wanderings with his party now became intelligible.

He had set out with the idea in his mind of avoiding that fatal tendency to swerve to the right of which Bruce had spoken.

But against this he had guarded so carefully, that it had led to a swerving in the opposite direction, as he himself had already partially acknowledged. That is to say, he had steadily swerved to the left.

The consequence was, that he had led his followers over a long and fatiguing journey, in a complete circle, until at last he had actually brought them into the Scott’s Bay road. But he, thinking he had gone in an exact straight line, supposed it to be the Hall’s Harbor road. As he wished to go to Cornwallis, he had, therefore, turned to the left, and gone forward under this false idea, and thus had met Bruce’s party, who were going in the proper direction. He had made them turn back with him, and had thus led them to Scott’s Bay, never imagining that he could be wrong until that awful moment when the ominous roar of the surf showed him that he must be very far away from where he supposed himself to be.

Old Bennie laughed loud and long as he listened to the story of their wanderings, and his laughter struck pleasantly and cheerily upon their ears. For they had all been refreshed by the generous repast which their host had spread before them, and a new life had arisen within them. Their past wanderings were now nothing more than amusing reminiscences. The table lay before them with its bounteous store; beside them the big broad hearth sustained its load of crackling fire logs, among which the flames danced and leaped up merrily; and there was in the broad old-fashioned apartment a certain joyous and social atmosphere, beneath whose influence all their natures relaxed into a kindly and genial glow. And thus it came to pass that the repast afforded a full and complete compensation for all the toils of the day.

They slept that night variously. The doctor had a room to himself. The settee formed a bed on which Jiggins and Bogud reposed. Sammy and Johnny Blue slumbered on straw beds stretched on the floor. As for the rest, they slept in the barn, on the hay, which they preferred to anything which the house could offer. Bennie tried to tempt them with various mattresses spread over the kitchen floor; but they chose the haymow, and Bennie himself finally declared that such a choice showed their sense.

The next morning came. They all arose refreshed. The fog had all cleared away, the sun shone brightly, and all the scene were displayed before their eyes.

They found Scott’s Bay village to be a place of about five hundred inhabitants, who lived chiefly by fishing, to which they added farming. There was also a ship-yard here, which occasionally, in a busy seasop, added largely to the population. The houses were generally neat, and situated along the road.

All around the scenery was magnificent. The bay was a small indentation behind Blomidon, formed by a long, projecting spur of the North Mountain, which ran on one side of the Straits of Minas, and terminated in those rugged and sublime fragments of shattered and storm-riven rock that give to that point the name of Cape Split. The beach was a long crescent, that extended for about two miles, and was bounded at either extremity by lofty precipices. Before it lay the blue waters of the Bay of Fundy, with the long precipitous line of coast on either side; and immediately in front, though many miles away, rose a solitary island, with perpendicular sides and flat summit, known by the name of Ile Haute, both to the old Acadians, who thus named it, and to their English successors.

That day was Sunday, and they had to remain in the village. The doctor, however, found occupation. There was no clergyman stationed here, but there was a little chapel, where services were held about once a month. Here he performed the duties of his sacred office, and the villagers, hearing of his arrival, turned out in force. The doctor had a crowded house, and was so gratified by their attendance in the morning, and so touched by their quiet but earnest attention, that he held forth again in the afternoon.

As to the mistake that the doctor had made, he acknowledged it in the handsomest manner. In the presence of all the boys, he said that Bruce had been right, and he had been wrong. He acknowledged his ignorance of the woods, and advised them, if they ever again went roaming through the forest, never to trust to the guidance of a doctor of divinity. He felt that he might be of some small service in guiding them through figurative forests,—in pointing out the true way through that “obscure wood” by which Dante once symbolized this world of man,—but as to ever again leading them, or having anything to do with them in any literal, material wood, he begged to be excused; and he also advised them not to have anything to do with him. He praised them all for their patient endurance in following him, and hoped finally that they would look back upon this adventure with such pleasant memories that all the troubles that they had endured would be forgotten.

On the other hand, every one of the boys declared that they had had a most delightful time, and that they would not want a better leader than the doctor; all of which showed plainly that the toil and trouble of these wanderings had already been forgotten in the peace and pleasure which had marked their journey’s end.

There remained now the consideration of their homeward journey. On Saturday night the doctor had spoken to Bennie about it, and Bennie said he would see about getting conveyances for them as far as the place where the doctor’s horses had been left. But the doctor refused to let him make any arrangements on Sunday. As he wished to be back at Grand Pré on Monday in time to begin the school, he saw that it would be impossible to get Bennie’s conveyances without breaking the Sabbath. But he couldn’t do this. So there was only one alternative; and that was, to start very early on Monday morning, and walk to the place where the horses were. This he determined to do.

So, on Monday morning, at four, they all rose, and after partaking of a substantial breakfast, they bade Mr. and Mrs. Bennie an affectionate farewell, and departed. It was about five before they left. It was past seven when they reached their destination. The doctor found the horses and wagons all safe; but it took some time to feed the former, and it was after eight o’clock before they were able to start.

Then they drove home as fast as they could.

They arrived at the hill at about eleven. But the hour for commencing school was nine. The doctor’s family and Messrs. Simmons and Long were quite anxious about the absentees. The school had not been opened. They were waiting for the return of the wanderers.

And thus, when the wanderers at length returned, they found that their delay had resulted in giving them an additional holiday.

For the school could not begin on that day. That was evident.

And thus they found themselves blessed with another reprieve from study.

Hurrah, boys!

XVIII.

Great Excitement.—What is it?—Pat busy among the small Boys.—A great Supper, and a sudden Interruption.—The Midnight Knell.—General Uproar.—Flight of the Grand Panjandrum.—A solemn Time.—In the Dark.—Bold Explorers.—The Cupola, and the Abyss beneath.—The Discovery.

THAT afternoon Pat was very busy among the smaller boys. He asked them many questions about the noise in the attic, and found there was great terror among them. For the noises had been heard both on Saturday night and Sunday night by those who were in that building; and they were so terrified that they would not have staid there a third night if the other boys had not come back. A superstitious awe had settled down deep into their minds, and they conversed with one another on this subject in subdued whispers.

Pat found them in this condition, and managed to make them still more terrified before he left them. Some of them were anxious to tell one of the teachers about it all; but Pat dissuaded them by declaring that it would be of no use, and that they would only be laughed at for their pains.

Many of the other boys also, on coming back, felt a return of their former fear, and looked forward to the approach of night with some uneasiness. Pat made himself quite busy with these boys, too; and although he said nothing very directly, yet he made many mysterious hints that implied a great deal. He alluded to his own fearful position, with his bed in that very garret, separated by only a board partition from the dark haunts of the mystery. He spoke of his past experience; and it seemed as though, if he only chose, he could easily unfold a tale whose lightest word would harrow up their souls. Only he didn’t. The boys begged him to tell all. But Pat wouldn’t. He shook his head with deep and solemn meaning. And the boys looked on him with a profounder awe. And Pat, when he went up to his haunted chamber, was regarded as some poor victim on his way to his doom.

Pat, however, was not regarded in this light by all. Some there were who held aloof from this feeling of awe. Among these was Bart, who could not help noticing Pat’s movements, and was very much impressed by them, though in a way very different from that in which the other boys were affected. He saw how Pat managed to stimulate the excited imaginations of others without saying anything directly, and heard him lament most lachrymosely his hard fate in having to occupy a room in so fearful a place. He happened to be near the group to which Pat was talking, and could not help saying,—

“Well, Pat, my room’s just underneath yours, and if anything happens, you can take refuge with me. I’ll give you a sofa for the night.”

“Deed, thin, an you’ll find me comin down some night,” said Pat, “ony maybe I mightn’t iver git down there. Maybe the same thing that would dhrive me down might prevint me goin down.”

“Well, then, I’ll tell you what to do: you yell like Old Harry, and I’ll go up.”

“You’d niver get up.”

“Never get up? Why not?”

“It wouldn’t let you.”

“It? What It?”

“Why, It—the wan that walks.”

“The one that walks? That’s just what it doesn’t do. It’s very bad at walking.”

“You’d soon see, if ye’d iver find him. Any how, he’d shtop yer comin till my room.”

“Stop me? Nonsense! How can it stop me, when it’s in the cupola?”

As he said this, Bart looked in an expressive manner at Pat.

Pat looked away, and shook his head. Whether he suspected that Bart know all or not, he did not give him back any look of intelligence, or show any confusion. He simply looked away, and said,—

“Well, well,—aich wan must have his own opinion. Well know betther perhaps some day.” Bart smiled, and turned away. Soon he joined Bruce and Arthur.

“I’ve given Pat one or two hints already,” said he, “that I saw through the business, and I’ve just given him another. It’s a shame for him to go frightening the small boys that way. I was going to arrange it all to-morrow, or next day, so that they would look on it as a joke. But Pat is keeping up the gloomy, tragic character, and there’ll be more disturbance. Only he’d better look out. I’ve given him fair warning. There’s poor little Harry Thompson, with his face as pale as a sheet. It isn’t fair. It’ll have to be stopped.”

“Shall we stop it to-night?”

“Well, no; we had better wait till we see if it goes on, and whether Pat’s hand can be discerned in it. If we do find it so, I really don’t see any reason why he should be spared.”

From this it will be seen that Bart had already made his friends acquainted with the discovery which he had made in the garret, and that they had decided upon some general plan of action. They did not wish to put an end to the affair too prematurely or clumsily, but rather to terminate it in as brilliant a manner as possible.

As this day was positively the last of the holidays, the “B. O. W. C” determined to celebrate it by a modest supper in the Rawdons’ rooms. Solomon was accordingly called upon, and, as always, he showed himself equal to the occasion, Personally, he was all smiles and joyousness. His little black beads of eyes twinkled incessantly, his face actually shone, and his complexion was a rich, oily sepia. He made desperate efforts to preserve an air of profound solemnity; but occasionally a short, sharp snort of a laugh would burst forth, after which his face would at once regain its mask of gravity.

“Dar!” said he, as he put the last dish on. “Dar! blubbed breddern, dis heah’s all in hona ob dis great an shinin casium. You hab now finished your high an mighty ventures. Dar you hab bess ob ’Cad’my fare; none but de brave, you know, deserb dat fare. Off you go to lib on lasses an pork, an come back to vive you healt by de neficient car ob ole Solomon. Den off you clar agin, jes like mad, an git half starbed, so hab to come back agin to de tractions heah. An now, blubbed breddern, pitch in. Heah’s turkey, an chicken, an sass, an mince pies, an apple tarts, an pickled ’ysters, an red-hot coffee, an cream, an fifty oder tings too noomrous to mentium. Fur fudda ticulars, gemmen, see small bills. Yours, truly.”

With these words Solomon welcomed them to the feast that he had prepared. The boys seated themselves around the groaning board, and gave themselves up to the joy of the occasion. They fought their battles o’er again. They went over all the events of the holidays. Again they drifted through the dense fog, or wandered through the trackless forest; again they waded through deep waters, or dug deep in the solid ground.

As they thus chattered and laughed, Solomon stood surveying them with a beaming smile illuminating all his dark but expressive features; and all the time he kept whispering to himself words expressive of his feelings on “dat ar casium.”

Suddenly all this was interrupted.

It was late. All was still. All the other boys seemed to have gone to bed. Outside, the night was quite dark. And then and there, amid that stillness and in that darkness, it rang out right over their heads.

It was again that peculiar sound which they had once before heard, a long, shrill, abrupt, discordant shriek, repeated again and again, and echoing dismally throughout the gloomy extent of the long, unfinished garret, and dying away in the far distances with low and melancholy intonations. The ceiling above them only intervened between this room and the garret, so that they could hear it very plainly.

As the sound rang out, Solomon started. He was that moment lifting a plate, and the plate fell from his nerveless hands crashing on the floor. His face seemed to turn to a sickly greenish-brown; he staggered back, and leaned against the wall.

At that moment there was a knock at the door.

This completed Solomon’s horror. His knees gave way, his teeth chattered, his eyes rolled fearfully. He sank upon the floor, and remained there in a sitting posture.

“Come in,” shouted Bruce. “Hallo, Solomon! What’s the matter? Get up. Are you faint? Here, take a drink of water. Why, man, what’s the matter?”

Encouraged by Bruce’s words, Solomon made a great effort, and got up, edging away behind the boys as far from the-door as he could get.

No one had come in. And so Arthur went to the door, and opened it. Nobody was there.

As he stood wondering, Jiggins’s door opened, and Jiggins made his appearance, clad in the habiliments of the night.

“Hallo, Jiggins!” said Arthur. “Did you knock?”

“Me? Knock? Me? No,” said Jiggins. “I—I was just in bed, and asleep, and heard that howl above; and then there came a knock. I thought it was you, wanting to see me.”

“No; none of us knocked.”

“Somebody did, then.”

“And some one knocked at our door, too,” said Arthur.

“What does it all mean?” said Jiggins.

By this time the other boys were out in the hall, and were looking at one another. Bart looked along the floor, to see if the knock could have been produced by a stone thrown. Behind Tom might be seen Solomon, afraid to be too far behind, and yet not daring to venture forward.

“It’s queer,’ said Arthur.

“I don’t like it,” said Jiggins, solemnly. “It somehow don’t seem right. I feel really uncomfortable. There’s something about that—is—not—right.”

“Well, boys,” said Bart, “shall we go up again?”

“I suppose we may as well.”

“O, it’s no use,” said Arthur. “There’s nothing more. Still, this knock ought to be investigated.”

“Let’s go, then.”

“O, no,” groaned Solomon. “No—don’t—doo-on’t go; don’t go an leab dis pore ’stracted nigga ’posed to sich clamties. Don’t leab a ’flicted ole darky to de powers of darkness.”

“Nonsense! Solomon. Don’t be afraid. You wait here till we come back.”

“Couldn’t! Darsn’t!” cried Solomon. “Neb-ber, nebber lib troo dat ar speriment. No, Mas’r Bart, you won’t leab a ole fool; you’ll stan by a ole man.”

“All right,” said Bart. “I’ll see you down stairs, if you like. Come.”

At that instant there sounded out a deep toll from the great bell in the cupola. It was one single toll, but so profound, so awful, and so solemn, did that solitary knell peal forth through the still night air, that even those who felt no fear could not avoid an involuntary sensation of awe.

Solomon clutched at Bart’s arm, and looked as though he had no life left in him.

“That settles it,” said Bart. “That’s a little too much, boys. We’ll have to wind this thing up—won’t we? Bring along a light, Phil.”

“O, Mas’r Bart! get me home,” groaned Solomon. “I member you when you wor a chile. I used to give you candy. Don let me be gobbled up.”

“Nonsense! Solomon. Come along; I’ll see you safe down, and then you can run for it to your room. Wait a minute, boys.”

Down went Bart, with Solomon, shuddering and quaking, at his heels, and finally reached the door.

“Now, then, Solomon,” he said, “run for it.”

Away went Solomon, in a frenzy of fear, his whole frame shuddering in vague superstitious terror, his brain reeling with excitement, his fancy crowded with images of horror. Away he went; he burst into the boarding-house, he raced up the stairs, he rushed into his room as before, banged all the furniture against the door, and lay crouched in a corner, and quaking till morning.

Bart returned at once.

“Boys,” said Jiggins, “it’s a solemn time—a deeply solemn time!”

“Won’t you come up, Jiggins?”

“No, boys,” said Jiggins; “and I warn you not to go up. That’s a solemn place—a deeply solemn place.”

“Well, come up, and help us to feel the solemnity,” said Bart.

Jiggins shook his head.

“I don’t like the looks of it,” said he. “It’s too solemn. There’s a certain something about it that makes me feel a—kind of a—a degree of a—solemnity—that—a—”

But Jiggins’s voice died away upon the ears of the boys, as they ascended the stairs, before he could finish what he was trying to say.

The object of the boys in going up now was, first, to find the cause of the knock, and secondly, to find the cause of the tolling bell. They thought that perhaps some one might be concealed in the attic, and so they looked about very carefully in all directions. Tom stood at the head of the attic stairs, so as to bar the way to any possible fugitive. The others then went all over the attic most carefully, beginning at the end next Pat’s room, and so on over to the open space under the cupola. Crossing this, they searched all over the farther end. They peeped into every nook and corner, they left nothing unexamined. But at length they were forced to give up this search, for nothing could be found. Coming back, therefore, they stood in silence by the open space under the cupola, and looked down into the gloomy, yawning chasm over which went the narrow plank pathway, and tried to peer through the deep gloom of this place.

After standing here for some time, they crossed to the other side, on their way back, and were hero joined by Tom.

“Boys,” said Bart, “we can’t get at the bottom of that knock; that’s evident; but we oughtn’t to go till we find out about the bell. What do you say to going up?”

“Very well,” said Bruce; “only we can’t take the lamps.”

“Of course not; and even if we did, the wind would blow them out. But it don’t make any difference about that. We can feel about, you know. If any one’s in the cupola, we’ll have him, and find out who he is.”

“I’ll put the lamp on the plank here,” said Tom, “and it will throw some light up.”

“No,” said Arthur; “it might get shaken off, and then good by to the old Academy. In a quarter of an hour, that old tinder-box below would be in flames. Put it over there on the floor. Never mind whether it throws up any light or not. We can all go up in the dark just as well.”

Tom thereupon put his lamp on the solid floor of the garret; and after this the whole party walked the plank, and reached the foot of the ladders that ran up to the cupola. There were two of these, and in climbing up, one had to work his way through a net-work of beams. In the daytime this was troublesome enough to an unpractised hand, and in the dark would have been impossible. But these boys knew every inch of the way, and could go up almost as easily in the dark as in the light.

Bart went first, Bruce next, then Arthur, then Phil, and Tom came last. The first ladder was slightly slanting in one direction, and terminated at a narrow board, from which the second ladder went up slanting in an opposite direction to the cupola. They went up quite nimbly and rapidly, considering the total darkness, and soon reached the cupola.

Bart was up there first.

In the middle of the cupola, and hanging immediately over the opening through which they came up, was the great bell, whose deep, solemn tones were familiar enough to them from the summons which it hourly sent forth during term time, but whose solitary knell, sounding as it lately did in the stillness of the night, had struck such sudden awe into their hearts. All around the bell was room enough to walk, and to look out of the windows of the cupola.

Bart had reached the cupola first, and he at once walked round it to find if any one was concealed here. The circuit was made by the time Bruce had come up, who immediately went round, as Bart had done. Then the others came up.

“Well,” said Phil, “what’s the luck?”

“There’s no one here,” said Bart.

“Have you felt everywhere?”

“Yes.”

“He couldn’t get up above there—could he?”

“O, no.”

“Perhaps he’s outside,” said Arthur.

At this suggestion they all flung open the shutters which surrounded the cupola, and as it was too dark to see, they felt in all directions with their hands. They soon found, however, that no one was there.

“Now,” said Phil, “the question is, how in the world-could that bell have tolled?”

All were silent for a few minutes, trying to conjecture some possible way.

It will be seen that on this occasion Bruce had not a vestige of his former superstitious feeling. The affair with the donkey had taught him a salutary lesson, and the discovery that Bart had made, when communicated to him, had made him angry with himself for the fear which he had felt before. He was perfectly convinced now that there was some trick, which was the only cause of the knock and the toll of the bell, and this he tried to discover.

Suddenly he stooped down and felt under the bell.

“Boys,” said he, after a pause.

“Well.”

“Do you think a fellow could ring the bell without coming up into the cupola, by some very simple process? Do you think a string tied to the tongue could do it?”

“What!” cried all, in great excitement; and all of them sprang forward to feel for themselves.

But Bruce warded off their hands.

“Wait,” said he. “The string’s here. Stand back. I want to see where it goes to.”

The boys fell back now in greater excitement than ever. The string was a common piece of twine. Bruce followed it, and found that it went across to the side of the cupola, facing their end of the building, and then it was passed through a crevice close to the floor, and passed outside.

But where?

Bruce pulled the string. The other end was fastened; but by the resistance he could tell that it ran for a long distance.

“There’s only one place that it goes to, of course,” said Bart, “and that is Pat’s room. But why in the world he should get up this, passes my comprehension. We’ll have to teach him a lesson, boys.”