After a while Grant learned the particulars about Herbert's disappearance. He had gone out to play in the street about three o'clock in the afternoon. Generally he waited for Grant to return-home, but during his absence he had found other companions. When his father returned home, he inquired of the housekeeper: “Where is Herbert?”
“He went out to play,” said Mrs. Estabrook, indifferently.
“In the street?”
“I believe so.”
“He ought to be in by this time.”
“Probably he went to walk with some of his companions. As he had no watch, he might not know that it is so late.”
This seemed very plausible to Mr. Reynolds.
“Yes,” he said; “Herbert seems lost without Grant. He will be glad to see him back.”
To this Mrs. Estabrook did not reply. She had learned, to her cost, that it would not be politic to speak against Grant, and she was not disposed to praise him. She seldom mentioned him at all.
The dinner bell rang, and still Herbert had not returned. His father began to feel anxious.
“It is strange that Herbert remains so long away,” he said.
“I shouldn't wonder if he had gone to Central Park on some excursion,” returned the housekeeper calmly.
“You think there is nothing wrong?” asked the broker, anxiously.
“How could there be here, sir?” answered Mrs. Estabrook, with unruffled demeanor.
This answer helped to calm Mr. Reynolds, who ordered dinner delayed half an hour.
When, however, an hour—two hours—passed, and the little boy still remained absent, the father's anxiety became insupportable. He merely tasted a few spoonfuls of soup, and found it impossible to eat more. The housekeeper, on the contrary, seemed quite unconcerned, and showed her usual appetite.
“I am seriously anxious, Mrs. Estabrook,” said the broker. “I will take my hat and go out to see if I can gain any information. Should Herbert return while I am away, give him his supper, and, if he is tired, let him go to bed, just finding out why he was out so late.”
“Very well, sir.”
When Mr. Reynolds had left the house a singular expression of gratified malice swept over the housekeeper's face. “It is just retribution,” she murmured. “He condemned and discharged my stepson for the sin of another. Now it is his own heart that bleeds.”
Only a few steps from his own door the broker met a boy about two years older than Herbert, with whom the latter sometimes played.
“Harvey,” he said, “have you seen Herbert this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir; I saw him about three o'clock.”
“Where?” asked the broker, anxiously.
“Just 'round the corner of the block,” answered Harvey Morrison.
“Was he alone?”
“No; there was a young man with him—about twenty, I should think.”
“A young man! Was it one you had ever saw before?”
“No, sir.”
“What was his appearance?”
Harvey described Herbert's companion as well as he could, but the anxious father did not recognize the description.
“Did you speak to Herbert? Did you ask where he was going?”
“Yes, sir. He told me that you had sent for him to go on an excursion.”
“Did he say that?” asked the father, startled.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then there is some mischief afoot. I never sent for him,” said the agitated father.
Mr. Reynolds requested Harvey to accompany him to the nearest police station, and relate all that he knew to the officer in charge, that the police might be put on the track. He asked himself in vain what object any one could have in spiriting away the boy, but no probable explanation occurred to him.
On his return to the house he communicated to the housekeeper what he had learned.
“What do you think of it?” he asked.
“It may be only a practical joke,” answered the housekeeper calmly.
“Heaven grant it may be nothing more! But I fear it is something far more serious.”
“I dare say it's only a boy's lark, Mr. Reynolds.”
“But you forget—it was a young man who was seen in his company.”
“I really don't know what to think of it, then. I don't believe the boy will come to any harm.”
Little sleep visited the broker's pillow that night, but the housekeeper looked fresh and cheerful in the morning.
“Has the woman no feeling?” thought the anxious father, as he watched the tranquil countenance of the woman who for five years had been in charge of his house.
When she was left alone in the house Mrs. Estabrook took from her workbasket a letter, bearing date a month previous, and read slowly the following paragraph: “I have never forgotten the wrong done me by Mr. Reynolds. He discharged me summarily from his employment and declined to give me a recommendation which would secure me a place elsewhere. I swore at the time that I would get even with him, and I have never changed my resolution. I shall not tell you what I propose to do. It is better that you should not know. But some day you will hear something that will surprise you. When that time comes, if you suspect anything, say nothing. Let matters take their course.”
The letter was signed by Willis Ford.
“Abner!”
The speaker was a tall, gaunt woman, in a loose, faded, calico dress, and she stood at the door of a cabin in a Western clearing.
“What yer want?” came as a reply from a tall, unhealthy-looking boy in overalls, who was sitting on a log in the yard.
“I want you to split some wood for the stove.”
“I'm tired,” drawled the boy.
“I'll tire you!” said the mother, sharply. “You tall, lazy, good-for-nothing drone! Here I've been up since five o'clock, slavin' for you and your drunken father. Where's he gone?”
“To the village, I reckon.”
“To the tavern, I reckon. It's there that he spends all the money he gets hold of; he never gives me a cent. This is the only gown I've got, except an old alpaca. Much he cares!”
“It isn't my fault, is it?” asked the boy, indifferently.
“You're a-follerin' in his steps. You'll be just another Joel Barton—just as shif'less and lazy. Just split me some wood before I get hold of yer!”
Abner rose slowly, went to the shed for an ax, and in the most deliberate manner possible began to obey his mother's commands.
The cabin occupied by Abner and his parents was far from being a palace. It contained four rooms, but the furniture was of the most primitive description. Joel Barton, the nominal head of the family, was the possessor of eighty acres of land, from which he might have obtained a comfortable living, for the soil was productive; but he was lazy, shiftless and intemperate, as his wife had described him. Had he been as active and energetic as she was, he might have been in very different circumstances. It is no wonder that the poor woman was fretted and irritated almost beyond endurance, seeing how all her industry was neutralized by her husband's habits. Abner took after his father, though he had not yet developed a taste for drink, and was perfectly contented with their poor way of living, as long as he was not compelled to work hard. What little was required of him he would shirk if he possibly could.
This cabin was situated about a mile from the little village which had gathered round the depot. The name of the township was Scipio, though it is doubtful if one in fifty of the inhabitants knew after whom it was named. In fact, the name was given by a schoolmaster, who had acquired some rudiments of classical learning at a country academy.
To the depot we must transport the reader, on the arrival of the morning train from Chicago. But two passengers got out. One of them was a young man under twenty. The other was a boy, apparently about ten years of age, whom he held firmly by the hand.
He was a delicate-looking boy, and, though he was dressed in a coarse, ill-fitting suit, he had an appearance of refinement and gentle nature, as if he had been brought up in a luxurious home. He looked sad and anxious, and the glances he fixed on his companion indicated that he held him in fear.
“Where are you going?” he asked timidly, looking about him apprehensively.
“You'll know soon enough,” was the rough reply.
“When are you going to take me home, Mr. Ford?” asked the boy, in a pleading tone.
“Don't trouble yourself about that.”
“Papa will be so anxious about me—papa and Grant!”
The young man's brow contracted.
“Don't mention the name of that boy! I hate him.”
“He was always good to me. I liked so much to be with him.”
“He did all he could to injure me. I swore to be even with him, and I will!”
“But I have never injured you, Mr. Ford.”
“How could you—a baby like you?” said Ford, contemptuously.
“Then why did you take me from home, and make me so unhappy?”
“Because it was the only way in which I could strike a blow at your father and Grant Thornton. When your father dismissed me, without a recommendation, not caring whether I starved or not, he made me his enemy.”
“But he wouldn't if you hadn't—”
“Hadn't what?” demanded Ford, sternly.
“Taken Mrs. Estabrook's bonds.”
“Dare to say that again, and I will beat you,” said Willis Ford, brutally.
Herbert trembled, for he had a timid nature, and an exquisite susceptibility to pain.
“I didn't mean to offend you,” he said.
“You'd better not. Wait here a minutes, while I look around for some one of whom I can make inquiries. Here, sit down on that settee, and, mind you, don't stir till I come back. Will you obey me?”
“Yes,” answered the boy, submissively.
Willis Ford went to the station master, who stood at the door with a cheap cigar in his mouth.
“Is there a man named Joel Barton living hereabouts?” he asked.
The station master took his cigar from his mouth and surveyed his questioner with some curiosity.
“Does he owe you money?” he inquired.
“No,” answered Ford, impatiently. “Will you answer my question?”
“You needn't be in such a pesky hurry,” drawled the station master. “Yes, he lives up the road a piece.”
“How far is a piece?”
“Well, maybe a mile.”
“Straighten?”
“Yes.”
“Is there any way of riding?”
“Well, stranger, I've got a team myself. Is that boy with you?”
“Yes.”
“I'll take you over for half a dollar.”
“Can you go at once?”
“Yes.”
“Then it's a bargain.”
The station master, whose house was only three minutes' walk away, appeared in a reasonable time with a farm wagon, drawn by an old horse that had seen better days, it is to be hoped, for she was a miserable-looking mare.
“Jump in, Herbert,” said Ford.
The boy obeyed, and sat on the front seat, between the driver and his abductor.
“I suppose the horse is warranted not to run away?” said Ford, regarding the animal with a smile.
“He ran away with me once,” was the unexpected answer.
“When was that?”
“'Bout fifteen years ago,” replied the driver, with grim humor. “I reckon he's steadied down by this time.”
“It looks like it,” said Ford.
“Know Joel Barton?” asked the station master, after a pause.
“I saw him once when I was a boy.”
“Any relation?”
“He married a cousin of my stepmother. What sort of a man is he?”
“He's a no-account man—shif'less, lazy—drinks.”
“That agrees with what I have heard. How about his wife?”
“She's smart enough. If he was like her they'd live comfortably. She has a hard time with him and Abner—Abner's her son, and just like his father, only doesn't drink yet. Like as not he will when he gets older.”
Willis Ford was not the only listener to this colloquy. Herbert paid attention to every word, and in the poor boy's mind there was the uncomfortable query, “Why are we going to these people?” He would know soon, probably, but he had a presentiment of trouble.
“Yes,” continued the station master, “Mrs. Barton has a hard row to hoe; but she's a match for Joel.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“She's got a temper of her own, and she can talk a man deaf, dumb, and blind. She gives Barton a piece of her mind whenever he comes home full.”
“She ought to have that satisfaction. From what you tell me, I don't feel very proud of my unknown relatives.”
“Goin' to stay there any length of time?”
“I don't know my own plans yet,” answered Willis Ford, with a glance at the boy. He foresaw a scene when he announced his purpose to leave Herbert in this unpromising place, but he did not wish to anticipate it.
“I suppose Barton is a farmer?” he suggested.
“He pretends to be, but his farm doesn't pay much.”
“What supports them?”
“His wife takes in work from the tailors in the the village. Then they've got a cow, and she makes butter. As for Joel, he brings in precious little money. He might pick up a few dollars hirin' out by the day, if he wasn't so lazy. I had a job for him myself one day, but he knocked off at noon—said he was tuckered out, and wanted me to pay him for that half day. I knew well enough where the money would go, so I told him I wouldn't pay him unless he worked until sunset.”
“Did he do it?”
“Yes, he did; but he grumbled a good deal. When he got his pay he went over to Thompson's saloon, and he didn't leave it until all the money was spent. When his wife heard of it she was mad, and I expect she gave Joel a taste of the broom handle.”
“I wouldn't blame her much.”
“Nor I. But here we are. Yonder's Barton's house. Will you get out?”
“Yes.”
Abner, who was sitting on a stump, no sooner saw the team stop than he ran into the house, in some excitement, to tell the news.
“Marm,” he said, “there's a team stopped, and there's a man and boy gettin' out; 'spect they're coming here.”
“Lord's sake! Who be they?”
“Dunno.”
“Well, go out and tell 'em I'll see' em in a minute.”
Abner met them in front of the house.
“Are you Joel Barton's son?” asked Ford.
“That's what the old man says,” returned Abner, with a grin.
“Is your mother at home?”
“Marm will be right out. She's slickin' up. Who be you?”
“You'll know in good time, my boy.” “Who's he? Is he your son?”
“No,” answered Herbert promptly.
Willis Ford turned upon his young ward with a frown. He understood the boy's tone.
“It will be time to speak when you are spoken to,” he said sharply.
“Here's marm'” said Abner, as his mother's tall figure appeared in the doorway.
Mrs. Barton regarded the newcomers with a wondering stare.
“Did you want to see Joel?” she asked.
“I shall be glad to see him in due time, Mrs. Barton,” returned Willis Ford, with unwonted politeness; “but I came principally to see you.”
“Who be you?” inquired Mrs. Barton, unceremoniously; “I don't know you no more'n the dead.”
“There is a slight connection between us, however. I am the stepson of Pauline Estabrook, of New York, who is a cousin of yours.”
“You don't say Pauline is your mother?” ejaculated the lady of the house. “Well, I never expected to see kith or kin of hers out here. Is that your son?”
“No, Mrs. Barton; but he is under my charge.”
Herbert was about to disclaim this, but an ominous frown from Willis Ford intimidated him.
“My name is Willis Ford; his is Sam Green.”
Herbert's eyes opened wide with astonishment at this statement.
“My name is—” he commenced.
“Silence!” hissed Ford, with a menacing look. “You must not contradict me.”
“I s'pose I ought to invite you to stay here,” said Mrs. Barton, awkwardly; “but he's so shif'less, and such a poor provider, that I ain't got anything in the house fit for dinner.”
“Thank you,” returned Ford, with an inward shudder. “I shall dine at the hotel; but I have a little business matter to speak of, Mrs. Barton, and I would wish to speak in private. I will come into the house, with your permission, and we will leave the two boys together.”
“Come right in,” said Mrs. Barton, whose curiosity was aroused. “Here, you Abner, just take care of the little boy.”
Abner proceeded to do this, first thinking it necessary to ask a few questions.
“Where do you live when you're at home, Sam?” he asked.
“In New York; but my name isn't Sam,” replied Herbert.
“What is it, then?”
“Herbert.”
“What makes him call you Sam, then?” asked Abner, with a jerk of the finger toward the house.
“I don't know, except he is afraid I will be found.”
Abner looked puzzled.
“Is he your guardeen?” he asked.
“No; he was my father's clerk.”
“Ho! Did your father have clerks?”
“Yes; he is a rich man and does business in New York.”
“What made him send you out here?”
“He didn't.”
“Then why did you come?”
“Mr. Ford was mad with papa, and stole me away.”
“He wouldn't steal me away easy!” said Abner, defiantly; “but, then, I ain't a little kid like you.”
“I'm not a kid,” said Herbert, who was not used to slang.
“Oh, you don't know what I mean—you're a little boy and couldn't do nothin'. If he tried to take me, he'd find his hands full.”
Herbert, who was not very much prepossessed by Abner's appearance, thought it very doubtful whether any one would ever attempt to kidnap him.
“What's he goin' to do with you?” continued Abner.
“I don't know. I expect he'll make papa pay a good sum to get me back.”
“Humph!” remarked Abner, surveying with some contempt the small proportions of the boy before him. “You ain't much good. I don't believe he'll pay much for you.”
Tears sprang to the eyes of the little boy, but he forced them back.
“My papa would think differently,” he said.
“Papa!” mimicked Abner. “Oh, how nice we are! Why don't you say dad, like I do?”
“Because it isn't a nice name. Papa wouldn't like to have me call him so.”
“Where did you get them clothes? I don't think much of 'em.”
“Nor I,” answered Herbert. “They're not my own clothes. Mr. Ford bought them for me in Chicago.”
“He must like you, to buy you new clothes.”
“No, he doesn't. My own clothes were much nicer. He sold them. He was afraid some one would know me in the others.”
“I wonder what he and marm are talking about so long?”
This question Herbert was unable to answer. He did not guess how nearly this conversation affected him.
No sooner had the two entered the house than Willis Ford began.
“Mrs. Barton,” he said, “I'll tell you now what brought me here.”
“Go ahead,” said the lady, encouragingly.
“I want you to take the boy I have brought with me to board.”
“Land sakes! I don't keep a boardin' house!”
“No; but if I will make it worth your while you will take him, won't you?”
“How much will you give?” asked Mrs. Barton, shrewdly.
“Four dollars a week.”
“He'll be a sight of trouble,” said the lady; but there was something in her tone that satisfied Ford that she was favorably inclined to the proposal.
“Oh, no, he won't. He's so small that you can twist him round your finger. Besides, Abner will be company for him. He will be with him most of the time.”
“Say five dollars and it's a bargain,” said Mrs. Barton.
Ford hesitated. He did not care to spend more than he was obliged to, but it was of importance to obtain at least a temporary refuge for the boy, of whose care he was heartily tired. It seemed to him that five dollars would be enough to support the whole family in the style in which they were apparently accustomed to live. However, it was politic to make the sum sufficient to interest these people in retaining charge of the boy.
“Well,” he said, after a pause, “it's more than I expected to pay, but I suppose I shall have to accept your terms. I conclude Mr. Barton will not object to your taking a boarder?”
“Oh, Joel is of no account,” returned Mrs. Barton, contemptuously. “I run this house!”
Willis Ford suppressed a smile. He could easily believe from Mrs. Barton's appearance that she was the head of the establishment.
“There's one thing more,” added Mrs. Barton; “you're to pay the money to me. Jest as sure as it goes into Joel's hands, it'll go for drink. The way that man carries on is a disgrace.”
“I should prefer to pay the money to you,” said Ford.
“You'll have to pay somethin' in advance, if you want the boy to have anythin' to eat. I've got to send to the village, and I haven't got a cent in the house.”
Willis Ford took out a pocketbook. Extracting therefrom four five-dollar bills, he handed them to Mrs. Barton.
“There's money for four weeks,” he said. “When that time is up I'll send you more.”
Mrs. Barton's eyes sparkled, and she eagerly clutched the money.
“I ain't seen so much money for years,” she said. “I'll jest look out Joel don't get hold of it. Don't you tell Joel or Abner how much you've paid me.”
“I'll take care of that, Mrs. Barton. By the way, I must caution you not to believe any of the boy's stories. He's the son of a friend of mine, who's put him under my care. The boy's weak-minded, and has strange fancies. He thinks his name isn't Sam Green, and that his father is rich. Why, only the other day he insisted his name was George Washington.”
“Land's sake! How cur'us!” “Of course; you won't pay any attention to what he says. He may take it into his head to run away. If he does, you must get him back.”
“You can trust me to do that!” said Mrs. Barton, with emphasis. “I ain't goin' to let no five-dollar boarder slip through my fingers!”
“That's well! Now I must be going. You will hear from me from time to time.”
He passed through the front door into the yard.
“Good-by!” he said.
Herbert was about to follow him, but he waived him back.
“You are not to come with me, Sam,” he said. “I shall leave you for a few weeks with this good lady.”
Herbert stared at him in dismay. This was something he had never dreamed of.
When Herbert realized that he was to be left behind he ran after Willis Ford, and pleaded for the privilege of accompanying him. “Don't leave me here, Mr. Ford!” he said. “I should die of homesickness!”
“So you would rather go with me?” Ford said, with an amused smile.
“Oh, yes, much rather!”
“I had not supposed you valued my company so highly. I ought to feel complimented. I am sorry to disappoint you, but I shall have to leave you here for a few weeks. This good lady will take good care of you.”
Herbert stole a glance at Mrs. Barton, who was watching him with mingled contempt and impatience, but he did not become any more reconciled to the prospect. He reiterated his request.
“I have had enough of this,” said Ford, sternly. “You will stop making a fuss if you know what is best for yourself. Good-by! You will hear from me soon.”
Herbert realized the uselessness of his resistance, and sank despondently upon the grass.
“Is he goin' to stay here, marm?” asked Abner, curiously.
“Yes; he's goin' to board with us.”
“Ho, ho!” laughed Abner; “he'll have a nice boardin' place!”
“Abner, you jest shut up, or I'll take a stick to you! You needn't make him any more homesick than he is. Just try ef you can't amuse him.”
“Say, Sam, I guess we'll have a stavin' time together,” said Abner, really pleased to have a companion. “What'll we do? Want to play leapfrog?”
“I don't feel like playing,” answered Herbert, despondently.
“We might go fishin',” suggested Abner. “There's a pond only a quarter of a mile from here.”
“I don't know how to fish,” said Herbert.
“Don't know how to fish? What do you know how to do?”
“We don't have any chance in New York.”
“Say,” exclaimed Abner, with sudden interest, “is New York a nice place?”
“I wish I was back there. I never shall be happy anywhere's else.”
“Tell me what you fellows do there. I dunno but I'd like to go myself.”
Before Herbert had a chance to answer Mrs. Barton broke in:
“Abner, you take care of Sam while I go to the village.”
“What are you goin' there for, marm?”
“I'm going to buy some sausages for dinner. We haven't got anything in the house.”
“Me and Sam will go, if you'll give us the money.”
“I know you too well, Abner Barton. I won't trust you with the money. Ef I gave you a five-dollar bill, I'd never see any on't back again.”
“Say, mam, you haven't got a five-dollar bill, have you?” asked Abner, with distended eyes.
“Never you mind!”
“I'll tell dad ef you don't give me some.”
“You jest dare to do it!” returned Mrs. Barton, in a menacing tone. “Your father ain't got nothin' to do with it. It's money for Sam's board.”
“My name isn't Sam,” expostulated Herbert, who had a natural preference for his own appellation.
“That's what I'm goin' to call you. You can call yourself George Washington, or General Jackson, ef you want to. Mebbe you're Christopher Columbus.”
“My name is Herbert Reynolds,” said Herbert, annoyed.
“That's what you call yourself to-day. There's no knowin' who you'll be to-morrow.”
“Don't you believe me, Mrs. Barton?” asked Herbert, distressed.
“No, I don't. The man who brung you—I dis-remember his name—”
“Willis Ford.”
“Well, Willis Ford, then! It seems you know his name. Well, he told me you was loony, and thought you was somebody else than your own self.”
“He told you that I was crazy?” ejaculated Herbert.
“Yes; and I have no doubt it's so.”
“It's a wicked lie!” exclaimed Herbert, indignantly; “and I'd like to tell him so to his face.”
“Well, you won't have a chance for some time. But I can't stand here talkin'. I must be goin' to the store. You two behave yourselves while I'm gone!”
Herbert felt so dull and dispirited that he did not care to speak, but Abner's curiosity had been excited about New York, and he plied his young companion with questions, which Herbert answered wearily. Though he responded listlessly, and did not say any more than he felt obliged to, he excited Abner's interest.
“I mean to go to New York some time,” he said. “Is it far?”
“It's as much as a thousand miles. It may be more.”
“Phew! That's a big distance. How did you come?”
“We came in the cars.”
“Did it cost much?”
“I don't know. Mr. Ford paid for the tickets.”
“Has he got plenty of money?”
“I don't think he has. He used to be pa's clerk.”
“I wish we had enough money. You and me would start some fine mornin', and mebbe your father would give me something to do when we got there.”
For the first time Herbert began to feel an interest in the conversation.
“Oh, I wish we could,” he said, fervently. “I know pa would give you a lot of money for bringing me back.”
“Do you really think he would?” asked Abner, briskly.
“I know he would. But your mother wouldn't let us go.”
“She wouldn't know it,” said Abner, winking.
“You wouldn't run away from home?” questioned Herbert.
“Why wouldn't I? What's to keep me here? Marm's always scoldin', and dad gets drunk whenever he has any money to spend for drink. I reckon they wouldn't care much if I made myself scarce.”
Herbert was not sure whether he ought not to feel shocked. He admitted to himself, however, that if he had a father and mother answering the description of Abner's, that he would not so much regret leaving them. At any rate, Abner's words awoke a hope of sometime getting away from the place he already hated, and returning to his city home, now more valued than ever.
“We can't go without money,” he said, in a troubled voice.
“Couldn't we walk?”
“It's too far, and I'm not strong.”
“I could walk it, ef I took time enough,” asserted Abner, positively. “Hello! there's dad!”
Herbert looked up, and, following Abner's glance, saw a man approaching the farmhouse. Mr. Barton—for it was he—was a tall man, shabbily attired, his head crowned with a battered hat, whose gait indicated a little uncertainty, and betrayed some difficulty about the maintenance of his equilibrium.
“Is that your father?” asked Herbert.
“It's the old man, sure enough. He's about half full.”
“What's that?”
“He's been drinkin', as usual; but he didn't drink enough to make him tight. Guess his funds give out.”
Herbert was rather shocked at Abner's want of respect in speaking of his father, but even to him Mr. Barton hardly seemed like a man who could command a son's respect.
“Wonder whether dad met marm on the way?” said Abner, musing.
By this time, Mr. Barton had entered the yard, and caught sight of his son and Herbert.
“Abner,” said he, in a thick voice, “who's that boy?”
“Then he didn't meet marm,” thought Abner. “He's a boy that's goin' to board with us, dad,” he answered.
“You don't say! Glad to make your acquaintance, boy,” he said, straightening up.
“Thank you, sir,” answered Herbert, faintly.
“When did you come?” asked Barton, steadying himself against a tree.
“Half an hour ago,” answered Abner, for Herbert was gazing, with a repulsion he found it difficult to conceal, at Barton, whose flushed face and thick utterance indicated his condition very clearly.
“Who came with him?” continued Barton.
“You'd better ask marm. She attended to the business. It was a young man.”
“Where is she?”
“Gone to the village to buy some sassiges for dinner.”
“Good!” exclaimed Barton, in a tone of satisfaction. “I'll stay at home to dinner to-day. Did the man pay your mother any money?”
“I s'pose so, or she wouldn't be buyin' sassiges. Old Schickman won't trust us any more.”
“The money should have been paid to me. I'll see about it when your marm comes back from the store.”
“You'd spend it all for drink, dad,” said Abner.
“How dare you speak so to your father, you ungrateful young dog!”
He essayed to reach Abner to strike him, but his dutiful son dodged easily, and his father, being unsteady on his legs, fell on the ground.
Abner laughed, but Herbert was too much shocked to share in his enjoyment.
“Come here and help me up, you Abner!” said his father.
“Not much, dad! If you hadn't tried to lick me you wouldn't have fallen!”
“Let me help you, sir!” said Herbert, conquering his instinctive disgust and approaching the fallen man.
“You're a gentleman!” murmured Barton, as he took the little boy's proffered hand and, after considerable ado, raised himself to a standing position. “You're a gentleman; I wish I had a boy like you.”
Herbert could not join in the wish. He felt that a father like Joel Barton would be a great misfortune.
But just then Mrs. Barton entered the yard, marching with long strides like a man's.
“Here's marm!” announced Abner.
Barton steadied himself as he turned to look at his wife.
“I want to see you, Mrs. B.,” he said. “When are you goin' to have dinner?”
“Never, if I depended on you to supply the vittles!” she answered, bluntly.
“Don't speak so before a stranger,” said Barton, with a hiccough. “You hurt my feelin's.”
“Your feelin's are tough, and so are mine by this time.”
“What have you got there?”
“Some sassiges. Ef you want your share, you'll have to be on time. I shan't save you any.”
“How much money did the man pay you, Mrs. B.?”
“That's my business!” retorted his wife, shortly.
“Mrs. B.,” said her husband, straightening up, “I want you to understand that I'm the master of this house, and it's my right to take care of the money. You'll oblige me by handin' it over.”
“I'll do nothing of the sort, Joel Barton! You'd only spend it for drink.”
“Would you grudge me the few pennies I spend for drink? My system requires it. That's what the doctor says.”
“Then you must find the money for it yourself. My system requires something to eat, and, ef I take a boarder, he's got to have something to eat, too.”
“Mrs. B., I didn't think your heart was so hard,” said Barton, in a maudlin tone.
“Look here, Joel Barton; you might as well stop such foolish talk. It won't do no good. I can't stay here all day. I must go and be gettin' dinner.”
Had Barton succeeded in raising money from his wife, he would probably have returned at once to the tavern, and his place would have been vacant at the dinner table. Failing in this, he lay back and fell asleep, and was not roused till dinner time.
Mrs. Barton was a fair cook, and Herbert ate with an unexpected relish. It is needless to say that Abner also did full justice to the meal.
“I say, Sam,” he said, “I'm glad you've come.”
Herbert was hardly prepared to agree with him.
“Now we'll have to live better,” Abner explained. “Mam and I gen'ally have to skirmish round for vittles. We don't often get meat.”
This frank confession rather alarmed Herbert. He was not over self-indulgent, but he had never lacked for nourishing food, and the prospect of an uncertain supply was not encouraging.
When dinner was over—there was no second course—they left the table. Joel Barton made a fresh attempt to extort a small sum from his wife, but was met with an inflexible refusal. Mrs. Barton proved deaf alike to entreaties and threats. She was a strong, resolute woman, and not one to be intimidated.
When Barton left the house, his look of disappointment had given place to one of cunning.
“Come here, Abner!” he said, beckoning to his son and heir.
“What for?”
“Never you mind.”
“But I do mind. Do you want to catch hold of me?”
“No; it's only a little matter of business. It's for your good.”
Abner accompanied his father as far as the fence.
“Now, what do you want?” he asked, with his eyes warily fixed on his father.
“I want you to find out where your marm keeps that money,” said Barton, in a coaxing tone.
“What for?”
“You're to take it and bring it to me.”
“And go without eatin'?”
“I'll buy the provisions myself. I'm the head of the family.”
“Do you want me to hook money from marm?”
“'Twon't be hookin'. The money by right belongs to me. Ain't I the head of the family?”
“I dunno about that. Marm's the boss, and always has been,” chuckled Abner.
Joel frowned, but immediately tried another attack.
“Of course I'll give you some of it, Abner,” he resumed. “If there's five dollars I'll give you a quarter.”
“I'll see about it, dad.”
“Get it for me before evenin', if you can. I shall need it then.”
Abner returned to Herbert, and frankly related the conversation that had taken place between himself and his father.
Herbert was shocked. He did not know what to think of the singular family he had got into.
“You won't do it, will you?” he asked, startled.
“No, I won't. I want a quarter bad enough, but I'd rather mam would keep the money. She'll spend it for vittles, and dad would spend it for drink. Wouldn't you like to go a-fishin'? It's fine weather, and we'll have fun.”
Herbert assented, not knowing how to dispose of his time. Abner turned the conversation again on New York. What Herbert had already told him had powerfully impressed his imagination.
“Haven't you got any money?” he asked.
“No,” answered Herbert. “Mr. Ford took away all I had, except this.”
He drew from his pocket a nickel.
“That won't do no good,” said Abner, disappointed. “Stop a minute, though,” he added, after a minute's pause. “Wouldn't your folks send you some money, if you should write to them?”
“Yes,” answered Herbert, his face brightening. “Why didn't I think of that before? If I could get me paper and ink I'd write at once to papa. I know he'd either send the money or come for me.”
“We'll go to the post office,” said Abner. “There you can buy some paper and a postage stamp. You've got just money enough. There's a pen and ink there.”
“Let us go at once,” said Herbert, eagerly.
The boys took their way to the village. The letter was written and posted, and a burden was lifted from the boy's mind. He felt that his father would seek him out at once, and he could bear his present position for a short time. But, alas! for poor Herbert—the letter never came into his father's hands. Why, the reader will learn in the next chapter.