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The Errand Boy by Horatio Alger

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has wrought in him. It requires a strong mind
to withstand the allurements and temptations of
prosperity, and Jonas is far from possessing a strong
mind. He is, indeed, if I may be allowed the
expression, a vulgar little snob, utterly selfish, and
intent solely upon his own gratification. He has a
love for drink, and against the protests of his
mother and the positive command of Mr. Granville,
indulges his taste whenever he thinks he can do so
without fear of detection. To the servants he
makes himself very offensive by assuming consequential
airs and a lordly bearing, which excites
their hearty dislike.

He is making his way across the lawn at this
moment. He is dressed in clothes of the finest
material and the most fashionable cut. A thick gold
chain is displayed across his waistcoat, attached to
an expensive gold watch, bought for him by his
supposed father. He carries in his hand a natty
cane, and struts along with head aloft and nose in
the air.

Two under-gardeners are at work upon a flowerbed
as he passes.

"What time is it, Master Philip?" says one, a boy
about a year older than Jonas.

"My good boy," said Jonas haughtily, "I don't
carry a watch for your benefit."

The gardener bit his lip, and surveyed the heir
with unequivocal disgust.

"Very well," he retorted; "I'll wait till a gentleman
comes this way."

A flush of anger was visible on the cheek of Jonas
despite his freckles.

"Do you mean to say I'm not a gentleman!" he
demanded angrily.

"You don't act like one," returned Dan.

"You'd better not be impertinent to me!" exclaimed
Jonas, his small gray eyes flashing with indignation.
"Take that back!"

"I won't, for it's true!" said Dan undauntedly.

"Take that, then!"

Jonas raised his cane and brought it down
smartly on the young gardener's shoulder.

He soon learned that he had acted imprudently.
Dan dropped his rake, sprang forward, and seizing
the cane, wrenched it from the hands of the young
heir, after which he proceeded to break it across his

"There's your cane!" he said contemptuously, as
he threw the pieces on the ground.

"What did you do that for?" demanded Jonas,

"Because you insulted me. That's why."

"How can I insult you? You're only a poor
working boy!"

"I wouldn't change places with you," said Dan.
"I'd like well enough to be rich, but I wouldn't be
willing to be as mean as you are."

"You'll suffer for this!" said Jonas, his little bead-
like eyes glowing with anger. "I'll have you turned
off this very day, or as soon as my father get's

"If he says I'm to go, I'll go!" said Dan. "He's
a gentleman."

Jonas made his way to his mother's room. She
noticed his perturbed look.

"What's the matter, my dear boy?" she asked.
"What's the matter, Jonas?"

"I wish you'd stop calling me your dear boy,"
said Jonas angrily.

"I--I forget sometimes," said Mrs. Brent, with a

"Then you ought not to forget. Do you want to
spoil everything?"

"We are alone now, Jonas, and I cannot forget
that I am your mother."

"You'd better, if you know what's best for both of
us," said Jonas.

Mrs. Brent was far from being a kind-hearted
woman. Indeed she was very cold, but Jonas was
her only son, and to him she was as much attached
as it was possible for her to be to any one. Formerly
he had returned her affection in a slight degree, but
since he had figured as a rich man's son and heir he
had begun, incredible as it may appear, to look
down upon his own mother. She was not wholly
ignorant of this change in his feelings, and it made
her unhappy. He was all she had to live for. But
for him she would not have stooped to take part in
the conspiracy in which she was now a participant.
It seemed hard that her only son, for whom she had
sinned, should prove so ungrateful.

"My boy," she said, "I would not on any account
harm you or injure your prospects, but when we
are alone there can be no harm in my treating you
as my son."

"It can't do any good," grumbled Jonas, "and we
might be overheard."

"I will be cautious. You may be sure of that.
But why do you look so annoyed?"

"Why? Reason enough. That boy Dan, the
under-gardener, has been impudent to me."

"He has?" said Mrs. Brent quickly. "What has
he done?"

Jonas rehearsed the story. He found in his
mother a sympathetic listener.

"He is bold!" she said, compressing her lips.

"Yes, he is. When I told him I would have him
turned off, he coolly turned round and said that my
father was a gentleman, and wouldn't send him
away. Ma, will you do me a favor?"

"What is it, Jonas?"

"Send him off before the governor gets home.
You can make it all right with him."

Mrs. Brent hesitated.

"Mr. Granville might think I was taking a liberty."

"Oh, you can make it all right with him. Say
that he was very impudent to me. After what has
happened, if he stays he'll think he can treat me
just as he pleases."

Again Mrs. Brent hesitated, but her own inclination
prompted her to do as her son desired.

"You may tell Dan to come here. I wish to
speak to him," she said.

Jonas went out and did the errand.

"Mrs. Brent wants to see me?" said Dan. "I
have nothing to do with her."

"You'd better come in if you know what's best
for yourself." said Jonas, with an exultation he did
not attempt to conceal.

"Oh, well, I have no objection to meeting Mrs.
Brent," said Dan. "I'll go in."

Mrs. Brent eyed the young gardener with cold animosity.

"You have been impudent to Master Philip," she
said. "Of course you cannot remain any longer in
his father's employment. Here are five dollars--
more than is due you. Take it, and leave the estate."

"I won't take your money, Mrs. Brent," said Dan
independently, "and I won't take my dismissal from
any one but Mr. Granville himself."

"Do you defy me, then?" said Mrs. Brent, with a
firmer compression of her lips.

"No, Mrs. Brent, I don't defy you, but you have
nothing to do with me, and I shall not take any orders
or any dismissal from you."

"Don't be impertinent to my----" burst forth
from Jonas, and then he stopped in confusion.

"To your--what?" asked Dan quickly.

"To my--nurse," faltered Jonas.

Dan looked suspiciously from one to the other.

"There's something between those two," he said to
himself. "Something we don't know of."



The chambermaid in the Granville household
was a cousin of Dan, older by three years.
She took a warm interest in Dan's welfare, though
there was nothing but cousinly affection between

Fresh from his interview with Mrs. Brent, Dan
made his way to the kitchen.

"Well, Aggie," he said, "I may have to say good-
by soon."

"What, Dan! You're not for lavin', are you?"
asked Aggie, in surprise.

"Mrs. Brent has just given me notice," answered

"Mrs. Brent! What business is it of her's, and
how did it happen, anyway?"

"She thinks it's her business, and it's all on account
of that stuck-up Philip."

"Tell me about it, Cousin Dan."

Dan did so, and wound up by repeating his young
master's unfinished sentence.

"It's my belief," he said, "that there's something
between those two. If there wasn't, why is Mrs.
Brent here?"

"Why, indeed, Dan?" chimed in Aggie. "Perhaps
I can guess something."

"What is it?"

"Never you mind. I'll only say I overheard Mrs.
Brent one day speaking to Master Philip, but she
didn't call him Philip."

"What then?"

"JONAS! I'm ready to take my oath she called
him Jonas."

"Perhaps that is his real name. He may have it
for his middle name."

"I don't believe it. Dan, I've an idea. I'm going
to see Mrs. Brent and make her think I know
something. You see?"

"Do as you think best, Aggie. I told her
wouldn't take a dismissal from her.

Mrs. Brent was in her own room. She was not a
woman who easily forgave, and she was provoked
with Dan, who had defied her authority. She knew
very well that in dismissing him she had wholly exceeded
her authority, but this, as may readily be
supposed, did not make her feel any more friendly
to the young gardener. Jonas artfully led her indignation.

"Dan doesn't have much respect for you, mother,"
he said. "He doesn't mind you any more than he
does a kitchen-girl."

"He may find he has made a mistake," said Mrs.
Brent, a bright red spot in each cheek, indicating
her anger. "He may find he has made a mistake in
defying my authority."

"I wouldn't stand it if I was you, ma."

"I won't!" said Mrs. Brent decidedly, nodding
vigorously and compressing her lips more firmly.

Soon after a knock was heard at Mrs. Brent's

"Come in!" she said in a sharp, incisive voice.

The door was opened and Aggie entered.

"What do you want of me, Aggie?" asked Mrs.
Brent, in some surprise.

"I hear you've been tellin' Dan he'll have to go,"
said the chambermaid.

"Yes," answered Mrs. Brent, "but I fail to see
what business it is of yours."

"Dan's me cousin, ma'am."

"That's nothing to me. He has been impertinent
to Master Philip, and afterward to me."

"I know all about it, ma'am. He told me."

"Then you understand why he must leave. He
will do well to be more respectful in his next

"It wasn't his fault, ma'am, accordin' to what he
told me."

"No doubt!" sneered Mrs. Brent. "It is hardly
likely that he would admit himself to be in fault."

"Dan's a good, truthful boy, ma'am."

"What did he tell you?"

The moment had come for Aggie's master-stroke,
and she fixed her eyes keenly on Mrs. Brent to
watch the effect of her words.

"He said he was at work in the garden, ma'am,
when Master Jonas----"

"WHAT!" exclaimed Mrs. Brent, staring at the
girl in dismay.

"He was at work in the garden, ma'am when
Master Jonas----"

"What do you mean, girl? Who is Master
Jonas?" asked Mrs. Brent, trying to conceal her

"Did I say Jonas, ma'am. La, what could I be
thinking of? Of course I mean Master Philip."

"What should have put the name of Jonas into
your head?" demanded Mrs. Brent nervously.

"I must have heard it somewhere," said Aggie,
with a quick, shrewd look out of the corner of her
eyes. "Well, Dan just asked the young master a
civil question, and Master Philip, he snapped him
up rude-like. Mrs. Brent I think you'd better not
make any fuss about Dan. It wasn't so much his
fault as the fault of Master Jonas--oh, dear! I beg
pardon, I mean Master Philip."

"Don't repeat that ridiculous name again,
Aggie!" said Mrs. Brent. "Your young master has
nothing to do with it. You ought to know that his
name is Philip."

"I should say so!" broke in Jonas. "I ain't goin'
to be called out of my name!"

"As to Dan," proceeded Mrs. Brent. "I am willing
to overlook his impertinence this time. I won't
say a word to Mr. Granville, but he must be more
careful hereafter."

"I'm sure I'm obliged to you, ma'am," said Aggie

When she was out of the room she nodded to herself

"Sure, I've got the old lady under me thumb, but
divil a bit I know how. It's all in the word Jonas.
When I want a favor, all I've got to do is to say that
word. I wonder what it manes now, anyhow."

However, Aggie communicated to Dan the welcome
intelligence that he would have no trouble
with Mrs. Brent or Philip, but as to the way in
which she had managed she kept that to herself.

"I want to think it over," she said. "There's a
secret, and it's about Jonas. I'll wait patiently,
and maybe I'll hear some more about it."

As for Mrs. Brent, she was panic-stricken.
Uncertain how much Aggie knew, she feared that she
knew all. But how could she have discovered it?
And was it come to this that she and Jonas were in
the power of an Irish chambermaid? It was galling
to her pride.

She turned to her son when they were left alone.

"How could she have found out?" she asked.

"Found out what, mother?"

"That your name is Jonas. She evidently knows
it. I could see that in her eyes."

"She must have heard you calling me so. I've
told you more than once, ma, that you must never
call me anything but Philip."

"It is hard to have to keep silent always, never
to speak to you as my own boy. I begin to think it
is a dear price to pay, Jonas."

"There you go again, mother!" said Jonas, peevishly.

His mother had seated herself and spoke despondently.

"I am afraid it will all come out some day," she

"It will if you don't take better care, ma. I tell
you, it would be the best thing for you to go away.
Mr. Granville will give you a good income. If I
was left alone, there'd be no fear of its leaking

"Oh, Jonas! would you really have me leave you?
Would you really have me live by myself, separated
from my only child?"

Cold as she was, her heart was keenly wounded,
for, looking at the boy, she saw that he was in
earnest, and that he would prefer to have her go,
since thereby he would be safer in the position he
had usurped.



Mr. Carter, can you spare me a couple of
days?" asked Philip.

"Certainly, Phil," answered the old gentleman.
"May I ask how you wish to dispose of the time?"

"I would like to go to Planktown to see my
friends there. It is now some months since I left
the village, and I would like to see my old friends."

"The desire is a natural one. Your home is
broken up, is it not?"

"Yes, but I can stay at the house of Tommy
Kavanagh. I know he will be glad to have me."

"It is strange that your step-mother and her son
have left no trace behind them," said Mr. Carter
thoughtfully. "It looks suspicious, as if they had
some good reason for their disappearance."

"I can't understand why they should have left
Planktown," said Philip, appearing puzzled.

"Is the house occupied?"

"Yes. I hear that a cousin of Mrs. Brent occupies
it. I shall call and inquire after her."

"Very well, Philip. Go when you please. You
may be sure of a welcome when you return."

In Planktown, though his home relations
latterly had not been pleasant, Philip had many
friends, and when he appeared on the street, he met
everywhere glances of friendly welcome. One of
the first to meet him was Tommy Kavanagh.

"Where did you come from, Phil?" he asked.

"I am glad enough to see you. Where are you

"Nowhere, Tommy, at present. If your mother
can take me in, I will stay at your house."

"Take you? Yes, and will be glad enough to
have you stay with us. You know we live in a
small house, but if you don't mind----"

"What do you take me for, Tommy? Whatever
is good enough for you and your mother will be
good enough for me."

"What are you doing, Phil? You don't look as
if you had hard work making a living."

"I am well fixed now, but I have had some anxious
days. But all's well that ends well. I am private
secretary to a rich man, and live in a fine
brown-stone house on Madison Avenue."

"Good for you, Phil! I knew you'd succeed."

"Where is Mrs. Brent? Has anything been
heard from her?"

"I don't think anybody in the village knows
where she is--that is, except her cousin, who lives
in your old house."

"What is his name?"

"Hugh Raynor."

"What sort of a man is he?"

"The people in the village don't like him. He
lives alone, and I hear that he cooks for himself.
He is not at all social, and no one feels very much
acquainted with him."

"I shall call upon him and inquire after Mrs.

"Then, Phil, you had better go alone, for he
doesn't like callers, and he will be more ready to
receive one than two."

Philip enjoyed his visit, and was busied making
calls on his old acquaintances. He was much
pleased with the cordiality with which he had been

It was not till the afternoon of the second day
that he turned his steps toward the house which had
been his home for so long a time.

We will precede him, and explain matters which
made his visit very seasonable.

In the sitting-room sat Hugh Raynor, the present
occupant of the house. He was a small, dark-
complexioned man, with a large Roman nose, and his
face was at this moment expressive of discontent.
This seemed to be connected with a letter which he
had just been reading. Not to keep the reader in
suspense, it was mailed at Chicago, and was written
by Mrs. Brent. We will quote a paragraph:

"You seem to me very unreasonable in expecting
me not only to give you the house rent-free, but
also to give you a salary. I would like to know
what you do to merit a salary. You merely take
care of the house. As for that, there are plenty
who would be glad to take charge of so good a
house, and pay me a fair rent. Indeed, I am thinking
that it will be best for me to make some such
arrangement, especially as you do not seem satisfied
with your sinecure position. You represent me
as rolling in wealth. Jonas and I are living very
comfortably, and we have nothing to complain of,
but that is no reason for my squandering the small
fortune left me by my husband. I advise you to be
a little more reasonable in your demands, or I shall
request you to leave my house."

"Selfish as ever," muttered Mr. Raynor, after
reading this letter over again. "Cousin Jane never
was willing that any one else should prosper. But
she has made a mistake in thinking she can treat
UPON HER! This paper--if she dreamed I had found
it, she would yield to all my demands."

He laid his hand upon a paper, folded lengthwise,
and presenting the appearance of a legal document.

He opened the paper and read aloud:

"To the boy generally known as Philip Brent
and supposed, though incorrectly, to be my son, I
bequeath the sum of five thousand dollars, and
direct the same to be paid over to any one whom he
may select as guardian, to hold in trust for him until
he attains the age of twenty-one."

"This will Mrs. Brent carefully concealed,"
continued Mr. Raynor, "in order to save the money for
herself and Jonas. I wonder she was not prudent
enough to burn it, or, at any rate, to take it with her
when she left Planktown. It is a damaging secret,
but I hold it, and I mean to use it, too. Let me see,
what is it best to do?"

Mr. Raynor spent some time in quiet thought.
It seemed to him that it might be well to hint his
discovery in a letter to Mrs. Brent, and to make it
the basis of a demand for a generous sum of hush-
money--one thousand dollars, at least. He might
have decided to do this but for an incident which
suggested another course.

The door-bell rang, and when he opened the door
with some surprise, for callers were few, he saw
standing before him a tall, handsome boy, whom he
did not recognize.

"Do you wish to see me?" he asked. "What is
your name?"

"My name is Philip Brent."

"What!" exclaimed Mr. Raynor, in visible excitement,
"are you the son of the late Mr. Brent?"

"I was always regarded as such," answered

"Come in, then. I am glad to see you," said Mr.
Raynor; and Phil entered the house, surprised at a
reception much more cordial than he had expected.

In that brief moment Mr. Raynor had decided to
reveal the secret to Phil, and trust to his gratitude
for a suitable acknowledgment. In this way he
would revenge himself upon Mrs. Brent, who had
treated him so meanly.

"I have been wishing to see you, for I have a
secret of importance to communicate," said Mr.

"If it relates to my parents, I know it already,"
said Phil.

"No; it is something to your advantage. In
revealing it I make Mrs. Brent my enemy, and shall
forfeit the help she is giving me."

"If it is really of advantage to me, and I am able
to make up your loss to you, I will do it," said Phil.

"That is sufficient. I will trust to your honor.
You look like a boy who will keep a promise though
not legally bound."

"You only do me justice, Mr. Raynor."

"Then cast your eye upon this paper and you will
know the secret."

"Is it a will?" exclaimed Phil, in surprise.

"Yes, it is the will of the late Gerald Brent. By
it he bequeaths to you five thousand dollars."

"Then he did not forget me," said Phil, more
pleased with the assurance that he had been remembered
than by the sum of money bequeathed
to him. "But why have I not known this before?"
he asked, looking up from the will

"You must ask that of Mrs. Brent!" said Mr.
Raynor significantly.

"Do you think she suppressed it purposely?"

"I do," answered Raynor laconically.

"I must see her. Where can I find her?"

"I can only say that her letters to me are mailed
in Chicago, but she scrupulously keeps her address
a secret."

"Then I must go to Chicago. May I take this
paper with me?"

"Yes. I advise you to put it into the hands of a
lawyer for safe keeping. You will not forget that
you are indebted to me for it?"

"No, Mr. Raynor. I will take care you lose
nothing by your revelation."

The next morning Phil returned to New York.



It may be readily supposed that Phil's New
York friends listened with the greatest attention
to his account of what he had learned in his
visit to Planktown.

"Your step-mother is certainly an unscrupulous
woman," said Mr. Carter. "Doubtless she has left
your old town in order to escape accountability to
you for your stolen inheritance. What puzzles me
however, is her leaving behind such tell-tale evidence.
It is a remarkable oversight. Do you think
she is aware of the existence of the will?"

"I think she must be, though I hope not,"
answered Phil. "I should like to think that she had
not conspired to keep back my share of father's

"At any rate, the first thing to do is evidently to
find her out, and confront her with the evidence of
her crime--that is, supposing her to be really culpable."

"Then you approve of my going to Chicago?"
said Phil.

"Most emphatically. Nay, more--I will go with

"Will you indeed, sir?" said Phil joyfully. "You
are very kind. I shrank from going alone, being a
boy ignorant of business."

"A pretty shrewd boy, however," said Mr. Carter,
smiling. "I don't claim much credit, however, as I
have some interests in Chicago to which I can attend
with advantage personally. I am interested in a
Western railroad, the main office of which is in that

"When shall we go, sir?"

"To-morrow," answered Mr. Carter promptly.
"The sooner the better. You may go down town
and procure the necessary tickets, and engage sleeping-berths."

Here followed the necessary directions, which need
not be repeated.

It is enough to say that twenty-four hours later
Phil and his employer were passengers on a lightning
express train bound for Chicago.

They arrived in due season, without any adventure
worth naming, and took rooms at the Palmer House.

Now, it so happened that in the same hotel at the
very same moment were three persons in whom
Phil was vitally interested. These were Mrs. Brent,
Jonas, otherwise called Philip Granville, and Mr.
Granville himself.

Let me explain their presence in Chicago, when,
as we know, Mr. Granville's house was situated at
some distance away.

Jonas had preferred a petition to go to Chicago
for a week, in order to attend some of the amusements
there to be enjoyed, alleging that it was awfully
dull in the country.

Mr. Granville was inclined to be very indulgent,
to make up for the long years in which he had been
compelled practically to desert his son. The petition
therefore received favor.

"It is only natural that you should wish to see
something of the city, my son," he said. "I will
grant your request. We will go to Chicago, and remain
a week at the Palmer House. Mrs. Brent, will
you accompany us?"

"With pleasure, Mr. Granville," answered that
lady. "It is not dull here for me, still I shall no
doubt enjoy a little excitement. At any rate, I
shall be best pleased to be where you and your son

"Then so let it be. We will go to-morrow."

One secret wish and scheme of Mrs. Brent has
not been referred to. She felt that her present position
was a precarious one. She might at any time
be found out, and then farewell to wealth and
luxury! But if she could induce Mr. Granville to
marry her, she would then be secure, even if found
out, and Jonas would be the son of Mr. Granville,
though detected as a usurper. She, therefore, made
herself as agreeable as possible to Mr. Granville,
anticipated his every wish, and assumed the character,
which she did not possess, of a gracious and
feminine woman of unruffled good humor and
sweetness of disposition.

"I say, ma," Jonas observed on one occasion,
"you've improved ever so much since you came
here. You're a good deal better natured than you

Mrs. Brent smiled, but she did not care to take
her son into her confidence.

"Here I have no cares to trouble me," she said.
"I live here in a way that suits me."

But when they were about starting for Chicago,
Mrs. Brent felt herself becoming unaccountably depressed.

"Jonas," she said, "I am sorry we are going to

"Why, ma? We'll have a splendid time."

"I feel as if some misfortune were impending
over us," said his mother, and she shivered apprehensively.

But it was too late to recede. Besides, Jonas
wished to go, and she had no good reason to allege
for breaking the arrangement.



Phil was in Chicago, but that was only the first
step toward finding those of whom he was in
search. Had he been sure that they were in the
city, it would have simplified matters, but the fact
that Mrs. Brent directed her letters to be sent to
that city proved nothing. It did not make it certain
that she lived in the town.

"We are only at the beginning of our perplexities,
Philip," said Mr. Carter. "Your friends may
be near us, or they may be a hundred miles away."

"That is true, sir."

"One method of finding them is barred, that of
advertising, since they undoubtedly do not care to
be found, and an advertisement would only place
them on their guard."

"What would you advise, sir?"

"We might employ a detective to watch the post-
office, but here again there might be disappointment.
Mrs. Brent might employ a third person to
call for her letters. However, I have faith to
believe that sooner or later we shall find her. Time
and patience accomplishes much."

"Were you ever a detective, sir?" asked Phil,

"No, Philip, but I have had occasion to employ
them. Now how would you like to go to the theater
this evening?"

"Very much, sir."

"There is a good play running at McVicker's
Theatre. We will go there."

"Anywhere will suit me, Mr. Carter."

"Young people are easily satisfied," he said.
"When they get older they get more fastidious.
However, there is generally something attractive at

It so happened that Philip and his employer took
a late dinner, and did not reach the theater till ten
minutes after the hour. They had seats in the
seventh row of orchestra chairs, a very eligible portion
of the house.

The curtain had risen, and Philip's attention was
given to the stage till the end of the first act. Then
he began to look around him.

Suddenly he started and half rose from his seat.

"What is the matter, Philip?" asked Mr. Carter.

"There, sir! look there!" said the boy, in excitement,
pointing to two persons in the fourth row in

"Do you recognize acquaintances, Philip?"

"It is my step-mother and Jonas," answered
Philip eagerly.

"It is, indeed, wonderful!" said Mr. Carter, sharing
the boy's excitement. "You are confident, are

"Oh, sir, I couldn't be mistaken about that."

Just then Mrs. Brent turned to a gentleman at
her side and spoke. It was Mr. Granville.

"Who is that gentleman?" said Mr. Carter
reflectively. "Do you think Mrs. Brent is married

"I don't know what to think!" said Philip, bewildered.

"I will tell you what to do. You cannot allow
these people to elude you. Go to the hotel, ask a
direction to the nearest detective office, have a man
detailed to come here directly, and let him find, if
necessary, where your step-mother and her son are

Philip did so, and it was the close of the second
act before he returned. With him was a small, quiet
gentleman, of unpretending appearance, but skilled
as a detective.

"Now," continued Mr. Carter, "you may venture
at any time to go forward and speak to your
friends--if they can be called such."

"I don't think they can, sir. I won't go till the
last intermission."

Phil was forestalled, however. At the close of the
fourth act Jonas happened to look back, and his
glance fell upon Philip.

A scared, dismayed look was on his face as he
clutched his mother's arm and whispered:

"Ma, Philip is sitting just back of us."

Mrs. Brent's heart almost ceased to beat. She
saw that the moment of exposure was probably at

With pale face she whispered:

"Has he seen us?"

"He is looking right at us."

She had time to say no more. Philip left his seat,
and coming forward, approached the seat of his step-mother.

"How do you do, Mrs. Brent?" he said.

She stared at him, but did not speak.

"How are you, Jonas?" continued our hero.

"My name isn't Jonas," muttered the boy addressed.

Mr. Granville meanwhile had been eagerly looking
at Philip. There appeared to be something in
his appearance which riveted the attention of the
beholder. Was it the voice of nature which spoke
from the striking face of the boy?

"You have made a mistake, boy," said Mrs. Brent,
summoning all her nerve. "I am not the lady you
mention, and this boy does not bear the name of

"What is his name, then?" demanded Philip.

"My name is Philip Granville," answered Jonas

"Is it? Then it has changed suddenly,"
answered Phil, in a sarcastic voice. "Six months ago,
when we were all living at Planktown, your name
was Jonas Webb."

"You must be a lunatic!" said Mrs. Brent, with
audacious falsehood.

"My own name is Philip, as you very well know."

"Your name Philip?" exclaimed Mr. Granville,
with an excitement which he found it hard to control.

"Yes, sir; the lady is my step-mother, and this
boy is her son Jonas."

"And you--whose son are you?" gasped Mr.

"I don't know, sir. I was left at an early age at a
hotel kept by this lady's husband, by my father,
who never returned."

"Then YOU must be my son!" said Mr. Granville.
"You and not this boy!"

"You, sir? Did you leave me?"

"I left my son with Mr. Brent. This lady led me
to believe that the boy at my side was my son."

Here, then, was a sudden and startling occurrence.
Mrs. Brent fainted. The strain had been too much
for her nerves, strong as they were. Of course she
must be attended to.

"Come with me; I cannot lose sight of you now,
MY SON!" said Mr. Granville. "Where are you

"At the Palmer House."

"So am I. Will you be kind enough to order a

Mrs. Brent was conveyed to the hotel, and Jonas
followed sullenly.

Of course Philip, Mr. Granville and Mr. Carter left
the theater.

Later the last three held a conference in the parlor.

It took little to convince Mr. Granville that Philip
was his son.

"I am overjoyed!" he said. "I have never been
able to feel toward the boy whom you call Jonas as
a father should. He was very distasteful to me."

"It was an extraordinary deception on the part of
Mrs. Brent," said Mr. Carter thoughtfully.

"She is a very unprincipled woman," said Mr.
Granville. "Even now that matters have come
right, I find it hard to forgive her."

"You do not know all the harm she has sought
to do your son. The sum of five thousand dollars
was left him by Mr. Brent, and she suppressed the

"Good heavens! is this true?"

"We have the evidence of it."


The next day an important interview was held at
the Palmer House. Mrs. Brent was forced to
acknowledge the imposition she had practiced upon
Mr. Granville.

"What could induce you to enter into such a
wicked conspiracy?" asked Mr. Granville, shocked.

"The temptation was strong--I wished to make
my son rich. Besides, I hated Philip."

"It is well your wicked plan has been defeated;
it might have marred my happiness forever."

"What are you going to do with me?" she asked
coolly, but not without anxiety.

It was finally settled that the matter should be
hushed up. Philip wished to give up the sum bequeathed
him by Mr. Brent; but to this Mr. Granville
objected, feeling that it would constitute a
premium on fraud. Besides, Mrs. Brent would have
the residue of the estate, amounting to nearly ten
thousand dollars. Being allowed to do what he
chose with this money, he gave it in equal portions
to Tommy Kavanagh and Mr. Raynor, who had informed
him of the existence of Mr. Brent's will.

Mrs. Brent decided not to go back to Planktown.
She judged that the story of her wickedness would
reach that village and make it disagreeable for her.
She opened a small millinery store in Chicago, and
is doing fairly well. But Jonas is her chief trouble,
as he is lazy and addicted to intemperate habits.
His chances of success and an honorable career are

"How can I spare you, Philip?" said Mr. Carter
regretfully. "I know your father has the best right
to you, but I don't like to give you up."

"You need not," said Mr. Granville. "I propose
to remove to New York; but in the summer I shall
come to my estate near Chicago, and hope, since the
house is large enough, that I may persuade you and
your niece, Mrs. Forbush, to be my guests."

This arrangement was carried out. Mrs. Forbush
and her daughter are the recognized heirs of Mr.
Carter, who is wholly estranged from the Pitkins.
He ascertained, through a detective, that the attack
upon Philip by the man who stole from him the roll
of bills was privately instigated by Mr. Pitkin himself,
in the hope of getting Philip into trouble. Mr.
Carter, thereupon, withdrew his capital from the
firm, and Mr. Pitkin is generally supposed to be on
the verge of bankruptcy. At any rate, his credit is
very poor, and there is a chance that the Pitkins
may be reduced to comparative poverty.

"I won't let Lavinia suffer," said Uncle Oliver;
"if the worst comes to the worst, I will settle a
small income, say twelve hundred dollars, on her,
but we can never be friends."

As Phil grew older--he is now twenty-one--it
seems probable that he and Mr. Carter may be
more closely connected, judging from his gallant
attentions to Julia Forbush, who has developed into
a charming young lady. Nothing would suit Mr.
Carter better, for there is no one who stands higher
in his regard than Philip Granville, the Errand Boy.

Fred Sargent, upon this day from which
my story dates, went to the head of his Latin
class, in the high school of Andrewsville. The
school was a fine one, the teachers strict, the classes
large, the boys generally gentlemanly, and the
moral tone pervading the whole, of the very best

To lead a class in a school like this was an honor
of which any boy might have been proud; and
Fred, when he heard his name read off at the head
of the roll, could have thrown up his well-worn
Latin grammar, which he happened to have in his
hand just at that moment, and hurrahed. It was
quite a wonder to him afterward that he did not.

As a class, boys are supposed to be generous. I
really don't know whether they deserve to be considered
so or not, but some four or five only in
this large school envied Fred. The rest would
probably have hurrahed with him; for Fred was a
"capital good fellow," and quite a favorite.

"Bully for you!" whispered Ned Brown, his
right-hand neighbor; but Ned was instantly disgraced,
the eye of the teacher catching the words
as they dropped from his lips.

When school was over several of the boys rushed
to the spot where Fred--his cap in his hand, and
his dark hair blowing about every way--was

"I say," said James Duncan, "I thought you
would get it. You've worked like a Trojan and
you deserve it."

"It's as good as getting the valedictory," said
Joe Stone.

"And that is entering into any college in the
land without an examination," said Peter Crane.

Now Peter had run shoulder to shoulder with
Fred and it does him great credit that, being
beaten, he was thoroughly good-natured about it.

"I say, Fred, you ought to treat for this;" and
Noah Holmes, standing on tiptoe, looked over the
heads of the other boys significantly at Fred.

"I wish I could; but here's all the money I've
got," said Fred, taking about twenty-five cents from
his pocket--all that was left of his monthly allowance.

"That's better than nothing. It will buy an
apple apiece. Come on! Let's go down to old
Granger's. I saw some apples there big as your
head; and bigger, too," said Noah, with a droll

"Well, come on, then;" and away went the boys
at Fred's heels, pushing and shouting, laughing and
frolicking, until they came to Abel Granger's little

"Now hush up, you fellows," said Noah, turning
round upon them. "Let Fred go in by himself.
Old Grange can't abide a crowd and noise. It will
make him cross, and all we shall get will be the
specked and worm-eaten ones. Come, fall back,

Very quietly and obediently the boys, who always
knew their leader, fell back, and Fred went into
the little dark grocery alone.

He was so pleasant and gentlemanly that, let him
go where he would and do what he would, in some
mysterious way he always found the right side of
people and got what he wanted, in the most satisfactory manner.

Now Abel Granger was "as cross as a meat axe."
Noah said, and all the boys were afraid of him. If
the apples had been anywhere else they would
have been much surer of their treat; but in spite of
their fears, back came Fred in a few moments, with
a heaping measure of nice red apples--apples that
made the boys' mouths water.

Fred said that old Abel had given him as near a
smile as could come to his yellow, wrinkled face.

"Treat 'em," he said, "treat 'em, eh? Wal, now,
'pears likely they'd eat you out of house and home.
I never see a boy yet that couldn't go through a
tenpenny nail, easy as not."

"We ARE always hungry, I believe," said Fred.

"Allers, allers--that's a fact," picking out the
best apples as he spoke and heaping up the measure.
"There, now if you'll find a better lot than that, for
the money, you are welcome to it, that's all."

"Couldn't do it. Thank you very much," said

As the boys took the apples eagerly and began to
bite them, they saw the old face looking out of the
dirty panes of window glass upon them.

Fred loved to make everybody happy around
him, and this treating was only second best to leading
his class; so when, at the corner of the street
turning to his father's house, he parted from his
young companions, I doubt whether there was a
happier boy in all Andrewsville.

I do not think we shall blame him very much if
he unconsciously carried his head pretty high and
looked proudly happy.

Out from under the low archway leading to Bill
Crandon's house a boy about as tall as Fred, but
stout and coarse, in ragged clothes, stood staring up
and down the street as Fred came toward him.

Something in Fred's looks and manner seemed
especially to displease him. He moved directly into
the middle of the sidewalk, and squared himself as
if for a fight.

There was no other boy in town whom Fred disliked
so much, and of whom he felt so afraid.

Sam Crandon, everybody knew, was a bully. He
treated boys who were larger and stronger than
himself civilly, but was cruel and domineering over
the poor and weak.

So far in his life, though they met often, Fred had
avoided coming into contact with Sam, and Sam
had seemed to feel just a little awe of him; for Mr.
Sargent was one of the wealthiest leading men in
town, and Sam, in spite of himself, found something
in the handsome, gentlemanly boy that held him in
check; but to-day Sam's father had just beaten him,
and the boy was smarting from the blows.

I dare say he was hungry, and uncomfortable
from many other causes; but however this may
have been, he felt in the mood for making trouble;
for seeing somebody else unhappy beside himself.
This prosperous, well-dressed boy, with his books
under his arm, and his happy face, was the first
person he had come across--and here then was his

Fred saw him assume the attitude of a prize
fighter and knew what it meant. Sam had a cut,
red and swollen, across one cheek, and this helped
to make his unpleasant face more ugly and lowering
than usual.

What was to be done? To turn and run never
occurred to Fred. To meet him and fight it out
was equally impossible; so Fred stopped and looked
at him irresolutely.

"You're afraid of a licking?" asked Sam, grinning

"I don't want to fight," said Fred, quietly.

"No more you don't, but you've got to."

Fred's blood began to rise. The words and looks
of the rough boy were a little too much for his

"Move out of the way," he said, walking directly
up to him.

Sam hesitated for a moment. The steady, honest,
bold look in Fred's eyes was far more effective than
a blow would have been; but as soon as Fred had
passed him he turned and struck him a quick, stinging
blow between his shoulders.

"That's mean," said Fred, wheeling round.
"Strike fair and in front if you want to, but don't
hit in the back--that's a coward's trick."

"Take it there, then," said Sam, aiming a heavy
blow at Fred's breast. But the latter skillfully
raised his books, and Sam's knuckles were the worse
for the encounter.

"Hurt, did it?" said Fred, laughing.

"What if it did?"

"Say quits, then."

"Not by a good deal;" and in spite of himself
Fred was dragged into an ignominious street

Oh, how grieved and mortified he was when his
father, coming down the street, saw and called to
him. Hearing his voice Sam ran away and Fred,
bruised and smarting, with his books torn and his
clothes, too, went over to his father.

Not a word did Mr. Sargent say. He took Fred's
hand in his, and the two walked silently to their

I doubt whether Mr. Sargent was acting wisely.
Fred never had told him an untruth in his life, and
a few words now might have set matters right.
But to this roughness in boys Mr. Sargent had a
special aversion. He had so often taken pains to
instill its impropriety and vulgarity into Fred's mind
that he could not now imagine an excuse.

"He should not have done so under any circumstances,"
said his father sternly, to himself. "I am
both surprised and shocked, and the punishment
must be severe."

Unfortunately for Fred, his mother was out of
town for a few days--a mother so much sooner than
a father reaches the heart of her son--so now his
father said:

"You will keep your room for the next week. I
shall send your excuse to your teacher. Ellen will
bring your meals to you. At the end of that time I
will see and talk with you."

Without a word Fred hung his cap upon its nail,
and went to his room. Such a sudden change from
success and elation to shame and condign punishment
was too much for him.

He felt confused and bewildered. Things looked
dark around him, and the great boughs of the
Norway spruce, close up by his window, nodded and
winked at him in a very odd way.

He had been often reproved, and sometimes had
received a slight punishment, but never anything
like this. And now he felt innocent, or rather at first
he did not feel at all, everything was so strange
and unreal.

He heard Ellen come into his room after a few
minutes with his dinner, but he did not turn.

A cold numbing sense of disgrace crept over
him. He felt as if, even before this Irish girl, he
could never hold up his head again.

He did not wish to eat or do anything. What
could it all mean?

Slowly the whole position in which he was placed
came to him. The boys gathering at school; the
surprise with which his absence would be noted;
the lost honor, so lately won; his father's sad, grave
face; his sisters' unhappiness; his mother's sorrow;
and even Sam's face, so ugly in its triumph, all were

What an afternoon that was! How slowly the
long hours dragged themselves away! And yet
until dusk Fred bore up bravely. Then he leaned
his head on his hands. Tired, hungry, worn out
with sorrow, he burst into tears and cried like a

Don't blame him. I think any one of us would
have done the same.

"Oh, mother! mother!" said Fred aloud, to himself,
"do come home! do come home!"

Ellen looked very sympathizing when she came
in with his tea, and found his dinner untouched.

"Eat your tea, Master Fred," she said, gently.
"The like of ye can't go without your victuals, no
way. I don't know what you've done, but I ain't
afeared there is any great harm in it, though your
collar is on crooked and there's a tear in your jacket,
to say nothing of a black and blue place under your
left eye. But eat your tea. Here's some fruit
cake Biddy sent o' purpose."

Somebody did think of and feel sorry for him!
Fred felt comforted on the instant by Ellen's kind
words and Biddy's plum cake; and I must say, ate
a hearty, hungry boy's supper; then went to bed
and slept soundly until late the next morning

We have not space to follow Fred through the
tediousness of the following week. His father
strictly carried out the punishment to the letter
No one came near him but Ellen, though he heard
the voices of his sisters and the usual happy home
sounds constantly about him.

Had Fred really been guilty, even in the matter
of a street fight, he would have been the unhappiest
boy living during this time; but we know he was
not, so we shall be glad to hear that with his books
and the usual medley of playthings with which a
boy's room is piled, he contrived to make the time
pass without being very wretched. It was the disgrace
of being punished, the lost position in school,
and above all, the triumph which it would be to
Sam, which made him the most miserable. The
very injustice of the thing was its balm in this case.
May it be so, my young readers, with any punishment
which may ever happen to you!

All these things, however, were opening the way
to make Fred's revenge, when it came, the more

Fred Sargent, of course, had lost his place, and
was subjected to a great many curious inquiries
when he returned to school.

He had done his best, in his room, to keep up
with his class, but his books, studied "in prison," as
he had learned to call it, and in the sitting-room,
with his sister Nellie and his mother to help him,
were very different things. Still, "doing your best"
always brings its reward; and let me say in passing,
before the close of the month Fred had won his
place again.

This was more easily done than satisfying the
kind inquiries of the boys. So after trying the
first day to evade them, Fred made a clean breast
of it and told the whole story.

I think, perhaps, Mr. Sargent's severe and unjust
discipline had a far better effect upon the boys
generally than upon Fred particularly. They did
not know how entirely Fred had acted on the
defensive, and so they received a lesson which most
of them never forgot on the importance which a
kind, genial man, with a smile and a cheery word
for every child in town, attached to brawling.

After all, the worst effect of this punishment
came upon Sam Crandon himself. Very much disliked
as his wicked ways had made him before, he
was now considered as a town nuisance. Everybody
avoided him, and when forced to speak to him did
so in the coldest, and often in the most unkind

Sam, not three weeks after his wanton assault
upon Fred, was guilty of his first theft and of
drinking his first glass of liquor. In short, he was
going headlong to destruction and no one seemed
to think him worth the saving. Skulking by day,
prowling by night--hungry, dirty, beaten and
sworn at--no wonder that he seemed God-forsaken
as well as man-forsaken.

Mr. Sargent had a large store in Rutgers street.
He was a wholesale dealer in iron ware, and
Andrewsville was such an honest, quiet town
ordinary means were not taken to keep the goods
from the hands of thieves.

Back doors, side doors and front doors stood open
all the day, and no one went in or out but those
who had dealings with the firm.

Suddenly, however, articles began to be missed--a
package of knives, a bolt, a hatchet, an axe, a pair
of skates, flat-irons, knives and forks, indeed hardly
a day passed without a new thing being taken, and
though every clerk in the store was on the alert
and very watchful, still the thief, or thieves
remained undetected.

At last matters grew very serious. It was not so
much the pecuniary value of the losses--that was
never large--but the uncertainty into which it
threw Mr. Sargent. The dishonest person might be
one of his own trusted clerks; such things had
happened, and sad to say, probably would again.

"Fred," said his father, one Saturday afternoon,
"I should like to have you come down to the store
and watch in one of the rooms. There is a great
run of business to-day, and the clerks have their
hands more than full. I must find out, if possible
who it is that is stealing so freely. Yesterday I
lost six pearl-handled knives worth two dollars
apiece. Can you come?"

"Yes, sir," said Fred, promptly, "I will be there
at one, to a minute; and if I catch him, let him look
out sharp, that is all."

This acting as police officer was new business to
Fred and made him feel very important, so when
the town clock was on the stroke of one he entered
the store and began his patrol.

It was fun for the first hour, and he was so much
on the alert that old Mr. Stone, from his high stool
before the desk, had frequently to put his pen behind
his ear and watch him. It was quite a scene in a
play to see how Fred would start at the least
sound. A mouse nibbling behind a box of iron
chains made him beside himself until he had scared
the little gray thing from its hole, and saw it
scamper away out of the shop. But after the first
hour the watching FOR NOTHING became a little
tedious. There was a "splendid" game of base
ball to come off on the public green that afternoon;
and after that the boys were going to the "Shaw-
seen" for a swim; then there was to be a picnic on
the "Indian Ridge," and--well, Fred had thought
of all these losses when he so pleasantly assented to
his father's request, and he was not going to
complain now. He sat down on a box, and commenced
drumming tunes with his heels on its sides. This
disturbed Mr. Stone. He looked at him sharply, so
he stopped and sauntered out into a corner of the
back store, where there was a trap-door leading
down into the water. A small river ran by under
the end of the store, also by the depot, which was
near at hand, and his father used to have some of
his goods brought down in boats and hoisted up
through this door.

It was always one of the most interesting places
in the store to Fred; he liked to sit with his feet
hanging down over the water, watching it as it
came in and dashed against the cellar walls.

To-day it was high, and a smart breeze drove it in
with unusual force. Bending down as far as he
could safely to look under the store, Fred saw the
end of a hatchet sticking out from the corner of one
of the abutments that projected from the cellar, to
support the end of the store in which the trap-door

"What a curious place this is for a hatchet!"
thought Fred, as he stooped a little further, holding
on very tight to the floor above. What he saw
made him almost lose his hold and drop into the
water below. There, stretched along on a beam
was Sam Crandon, with some stolen packages near

For a moment Fred's astonishment was too great
to allow him to speak; and Sam glared at him like
a wild beast brought suddenly to bay.

"Oh, Sam! Sam!" said Fred, at length, "how
could you?"

Sam caught up a hatchet and looked as if he was
going to aim it at him, then suddenly dropped it
into the water.

Fred's heart beat fast, and the blood came and
went from his cheeks; he caught his breath heavily,
and the water, the abutment and even Sam with his
wicked ugly face were for a moment darkened.
Then, recovering himself, he said:

"Was it you, Sam? I'm sorry for you!"

"Don't lie!" said Sam, glowering back, "you
know you're glad!"

"Glad? Why should I be glad to have you

"Cause I licked you, and you caught it."

"So I did; but I am sorry, for all that."

"You lie!"

Fred had thought very fast while this conversation
was going on. He had only to lift his head and
call his father, then the boat would be immediately
pushed in under the store, Sam secured and his
punishment certain. There were stolen goods
enough to convict him, and his mode of ingress into
the store was now certain. This trap-door was
never locked; very often it was left open--the
water being considered the most effectual bolt and
bar that could be used; but Sam, a good swimmer
and climber, had come in without difficulty and had
quite a store of his own hidden away there for future
use. This course was very plain; but for some
reason, which Fred could not explain even to himself,
he did not feel inclined to take it; so he sat
looking steadily in Sam's face until he said:

"Look here, Sam, I want to show you I mean
what I say. I'm sorry you have turned thief and
if I can help you to be a better boy, I should be
glad to."

Again Fred's honest kindly face had the same
effect upon Sam that it had at the commencement
of their street fight; he respected and trusted it

"Here!" said he, crawling along on the beam and
handing back the package of knives, the last theft
of which his father had complained.

"Yes, that is right," said Fred, leaning down and
taking it, "give them all back, if you can; that is
what my father calls `making restitution,' and
then you won't be a thief any longer."

Something in the boy's tone touched Sam's heart
still more; so he handed back one thing after
another as rapidly as he could until nearly everything
was restored.

"Bravo for you, Sam! I won't tell who took
them, and there is a chance for you. Here, give me
your hand now, honor bright you'll never come
here again to steal, if I don't tell my father."

Sam looked at him a moment, as if he would read
his very soul; then he said sulkily:

"You'll tell; I know you will, 'cause I licked you
when you didn't want me to; but you've got 'em
all back, and I s'pose it won't go very hard."

"What won't go very hard?"

"The prison."

"You sha'n't go to prison at all. Here, give me
your hand; I promise not to tell if you will promise
not to steal any more. Ain't that fair?"

"Yes," said Sam, a sudden change coming over
his face, "but you will!"

"Try me and see."

Sam slowly and really at a great deal of peril,
considering his situation, put his rough, grimed hand
into Fred's--a dishonest hand it was, and that more
than the other thing made Fred recoil a little as he
touched it; but that clasp sealed the compact
between these two boys. It began Fred Sargent's

"Now be off, will you, before the clerks come?
They will see the things and catch you here. I'll
be round to your house soon and we will see."

Even in this short time Fred had formed a
general plan for saving Sam.

The boy, stretching himself out flat, slipped down
the transverse beam into the water, dived at once
and came up under the bridge a few rods distant,
then coolly passed down the river and swam to shore
under a bunch of alder-bushes, by which he was
concealed from the sight of the passers-by.

Fred sought his father, told him the story, then
brought him to the spot, showed the goods which
the boy had returned, and begged as a reward for
the discovery to be allowed to conceal his name.

His father of course hesitated at so unusual a
proposition; but there was something so very much
in earnest in all Fred did and said that he became
convinced it was best, for the present at least, to
allow him to have his own way; and this he was
very glad he had done when a few days after Fred
asked him to do something for Sam Crandon.

"Sam Crandon?" he asked in surprise. "Is not
that the very boy I found you fighting in the street

"Yes, sir," said Fred, hanging his head, "but he
promises to do well, if he can only find work--
HONEST work; you see, sir, he is so bad nobody helps

Mr. Sargent smiled. "A strange recommendation,
Fred," he said, "but I will try what can be
done. A boy who wants to reform should have a
helping hand."

"He does want to--he wants to heartily; he says
he does. Father, if you only will!"

Fred, as he stood there, his whole face lit up with
the glow of this generous, noble emotion, never was
dearer to his father's heart; indeed his father's eyes
were dim, and his voice a little husky, as he said

"I will look after him, Fred, for your sake."

And so he did; but where and how I have not
space now to tell my readers. Perhaps, at some
future time, I may finish this story; for the present
let me say there is a new boy in Mr. Sargent's
store, with rough, coarse face, voice and manners;
everybody wonders at seeing him there; everybody
prophesies future trouble; but nobody knows that
this step up in Sam Crandon's life is Fred Sargent's

Hubert had accompanied his father on a visit
to his uncle, who lived in a fine old country
mansion, on the shore of Caermarthen Bay.

In front of the house spread a long beach, which
terminated in precipitous cliffs and rocky ledges.
On the, afternoon of the day following his arrival,
he declared his intention of exploring the beach.

"Don't get caught in `The Smuggler's Trap,' "
said his uncle, as he mentioned his plan.

" `The Smuggler's Trap?' "

"Yes. It's at the end of the beach where you
see the cliffs. It's a hollow cave, which you can
only walk at very low tide. You'd better not go in

"Oh, never fear," said Hubert carelessly, and in a
few minutes he was wandering over the beach, and
after walking about two miles reached the end of
the beach at the base of the great cliffs.

The precipice towered frowningly overhead, its
base all worn and furrowed by the furious surges
that for ages had dashed against it. All around lay
a chaos of huge boulders covered with seaweed.
The tide was now at the lowest ebb. The surf here
was moderate, for the seaweed on the rocks interfered
with the swell of the waters, and the waves
broke outside at some distance.

Between the base of the precipice and the edge of
the water there was a space left dry by the ebb
tide about two yards in width; and Hubert walked
forward over the space thus uncovered to see what
lay before him.

He soon found himself in a place which seemed
like a fissure rent in a mountain side, by some
extraordinary convulsion of nature. All around
rose black, precipitous cliffs. On the side nearest
was the precipice by whose base he had passed;
while over opposite was a gigantic wall of dark rock,
Which extended far out into the sea. Huge waves
thundered at its feet and dashed their spray far
upward into the air. The space was about fifty yards

The fissure extended back for about two hundred
yards, and there terminated in a sharp angle formed
by the abrupt walls of the cliffs which enclosed it.
All around there were caverns worn into the base
of the precipices by the action of the sea.

The floor of this place was gravelly, but near the
water it was strewn with large boulders. Further
in there were no boulders and it was easy to walk

At the furthest extremity there was a flat rock
that seemed to have fallen from the cliff above in
some former age. The cliffs around were about two
hundred feet in height. They were perfectly bare,
and intensely black. On their storm-riven summits
not a sign of verdure appeared. Everything had
the aspect of gloom, which was heightened by the
mournful monotone of the sea waves as they dashed
against the rock.

After the first feeling of awe had passed, Hubert
ran forward, leaping from rock to rock, till he came
to where the beach or floor of the fissure was
gravelly. Over this he walked and hastened to the
caverns, looking into them one after another.

Then he busied himself by searching among the
pebbles for curious stones and shells. He found
here numerous specimens of the rarest and finest
treasures of the sea--shells of a delicacy of tint
and perfection of outline; seaweeds of new and
exquisite forms with rich hues which he had hitherto
believed impossible.

In the hollows of the rocks, where the water yet
lay in pools, he found little minnows; and delicate
jelly fish, with their long slender fibers; and sea
anemones; and sea urchins with their spires extended;
and star-fish moving about with their
innumerable creepers. It was a new world, a world
which had thus far been only visible to him in the
aquarium, and now as it stood before him he forgot
all else.

He did not feel the wind as it blew in fresh from
the sea--the dread "sou'wester," the terror of
fishermen. He did not notice the waves that rolled
in more furiously from without, and were now
beginning to break in wrath upon the rocky ledges
and boulders. He did not see that the water had
crept on nearer to the cliff, and that a white line of
foam now lay on that narrow belt of beach which
he had traversed at the foot of the cliff.

Suddenly a sound burst upon his ears that roused
him, and sent all the blood back to his heart. It
was his own name, called out in a voice of anguish
and almost of despair by his father.

He sprang to his feet, started forward and rushed
with the speed of the wind to the place by which
he had entered the enclosure. But a barrier lay
before him. The rolling waves were there, rushing
in over the rocks, dashing against the cliff, tossing
their white and quivering spray exulting in the air.

At once Hubert knew his danger.

He was caught in the "Smuggler's Trap," and the
full meaning of his uncle's warning flashed upon his
mind as in his terror he shrieked back to his father.

Then there was silence for a time

While Hubert had been in the "Trap," his father
and uncle had been walking along the beach, and
the former heard for the first time the nature and
danger of the "Smuggler's Trap." He was at once
filled with anxiety about his son, and had hurried
to the place to call him back, when to his horror he
found that the tide had already covered the only
way by which the dangerous place might be

No sooner had he heard Hubert's answering cry
than he rushed forward to try and save him. But
the next moment a great wave came rolling in and
dashed him upon the cliff. Terribly bruised, he
clung to the cliff till the surf fell back, and then ran
on again.

He slipped over a rock and fell, but instantly
regaining his feet he advanced further, and in his
haste fell into a hollow which was filled with water.

Before he could emerge another wave was upon
him. This one beat him down, and it was only by
clinging to the seaweed that he escaped being
sucked back by the retreating surge. Bold and
frenzied though he was, he had to start back from
the fury of such an assault as this. He rushed backward
and waited.

His eyes searched wildly around. He noticed
that the surf grew more violent every moment, and
every moment took away hope. But he would not

Once more he rushed forward. The waves rolled
in, but he grasped the rocks and withstood the surf,
and still advanced. Another followed. He bowed
before it, and clinging to the rocks as before came
forth triumphant.

Already he was nearly halfway. He sprang upon
a rock that rose above the level of the seething
flood, and stood for a moment panting and gasping.
But now a great wave came rolling in upon him.
He fell on his knees and clung to the seaweed.

The wave struck. It hurled him from the rock.
He rolled over and over. Blinded, bruised and half
drowned, he felt himself dashed against the cliff.
He threw his arms wildly about, but found nothing
which he could seize. The retreating wave sucked
him back. But a rock stayed him. This he grasped
and was saved.

Then, hastily scrambling to his feet, he staggered
back to the place from which he had started.
Before he could get back another wave threw him
down, and this time he might have been drowned
had not his brother plunged in and dragged him

Of all this Hubert had seen nothing, and known
nothing. He waited for some time in silence, and
then called. There was no answer. He called
again and again. But at that time his father was
struggling with the waves and did not hear him.
At last, after what seemed an interminable time, he
heard once more his father's voice. He shouted

"Don't be afraid!" cried the voice. "I'll get you
out. Wait."

And then there were no more voices.

It was about two o'clock when Hubert had
entered the gorge. It was after three when his
father had roused him, and made his vain effort to
save him. Hubert was now left alone with the
rising tide, whose waters rolled forward with fearful
rapidity. The beach inside was nearly level and he
saw that in an hour or so it would be covered with
the waters. He tried to trust to his father's promise,
but the precious moments passed and he began
to look with terror upon the increasing storm; for
every moment the wind grew fiercer, and the surf

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