A District Messenger Boy, and A Necktie Party

by James Otis

A DISTRICT MESSENGER BOY.

CHAPTER II. HOME AGAIN.

"You see you have to go up that way to get to New York,!" said the boy, pointing with an air of wisdom, "an' if you fellers want to get home real bad, I'll carry you there tomorrow myself in a boat."

"How long would it take you? " asked Joe, just a trifle doubtful as to whether this boy could do as much as he said he could.

"Only two or three hours if we have a fair wind."

"But we was all night comin' down in the steamer," remarked Joe, quickly.

"That's nothin'," said the boy, contemptuously, "for this boat I'm goin' to take you in can sail more'n four times as fast as any steamer you ever saw. Why, she sailed right around Tom Stevens's boat the other day, an' there wasn't any wind at all. I tell you what it is, just you come up here with me an' see her, then you'll know what she can do."

There was no reason why the boys should not accept the offer, since they had plenty of time at their disposal, and they started at once.

"What's your name?" asked Joe, thinking that perhaps it might be as well to call the boy by his right name, as to be obliged to attract his attention by "I say," or "look here."

"Bartholomew West," was the prompt reply, as the boy looked around much as if he expected they had heard of him, and would recognize the name. at once. Not seeing the flush of joy he had expected would lighten up the faces of his acquaintances when they knew who he was, he walked on ahead, much as if he were angry, until they arrived at the end of the street at the water's edge.

Bartholomew pointed to a beautiful little yacht that was riding at anchor a short distance from the shore, and said, in a tone of triumph:

"That's the boat!"

Joe and Ned stood looking at her with such undisguised admiration that Bartholomew seemed willing to forgive their ignorance in not knowing him, and at once entered into a detailed account of what the yacht had done in the way of sailing.

"Do you s'pose you could manage her?" asked Joe. "You see I don't know anything about boats, an' of course this little shaver here don't."

"Manage her? Why, I could sail a whole ship all alone if I wanted to," was the confident reply. "Now you fellers be ready just as soon as it's light to-morrow mornin', an' we'll start."

"Then you'll have to come back alone," and Joe began to fear that they were accepting too much from this new acquaintance, who must belong to some important family in the city since he was the owner of such a beautiful craft.

"Well, I hain't sure but I shall stay in New York after I get there, an' if I do I'll give you fellows lots of sails in the boat. You see I'm-"

Bartholomew had assumed a confidential tone, much as if he were about to impart some important secret; but evidently concluded not to, since he stopped suddenly, and looked as if he had already betrayed too much.

" Why can't we go now? " asked Ned, who was growing more and more homesick each moment.

"We can't start until to-morrow morning," said Bartholomew, decidedly, "'cause we couldn't get the boat till then. You see some of the men will be aboard of her pretty soon now."

" Couldn't get the boat? " repeated Joe, in surprise. "Why can't you have her whenever you want her, if she's yours?"

" W ell- well - you see some other fellers are going to have her to- day," said the. boy, in confusion.

"If she was my boat I wouldn't lend her to anybody," .said Ned, gazing at the beautiful yacht.

"I have to sometimes.," said Bartholomew; "but we can get her to-morrow mornin' if we're down here early enough."

It never occurred to Joe that his new acquaintance intended to steal the yacht; he had no idea but that the boy owned her, although it did seem a little queer that he did not offer to take them on board then. "But what'll we do all dayan' to-night?" he asked, finally. "We hain't got but ninety cents, an' -"

"Ninety cents!" exclaimed the yacht-owner. "Have you fellers got ninety cents?" Joe explained how it happened that they had that amount, and Master West was so delighted that he acted very much as if he wanted to embrace them. "You stay right with me," he said, as he took each by the arm in an affectionate manner, walking with them directly away from the water. I'll show you where you can sleep, an' nobody won't ever find you. Now come. up with me, so's we can get what we want."

"What we want?"

"Why, yes, if we're goin' to sail from here to New York we've got to have some things to eat; so we'll go up an' get some candy, an' some peanuts, an' crackers, an' a lot of things."

Joe was not just certain whether or no it was wise for him to spend his money, although it did seem as if it was his duty to do so since Bartholomew was going to take them home.

He did as the owner of the yacht proposed, spending half of his money in the purchase of such dainties as Master West fancied, and then, in order to see if they had been cheated, as Bartholomew proposed, they sat down on a doorstep to test the goods.

I t seemed to Joe as if Master West ate a much larger proportion of the articles he had purchased than was strictly necessary in order to learn whether they were as they had been represented, since more than half the stock had been consumed before the question was decided. Of course Ned and Joe ate some of the dainties; but they only tasted of them, while Bartholomew had a regular feast, and only stopped when, by eating as much as possible, he had lost his appetite for such things..

After this repast was ended, and the remainder of the eatables packed away in Joe's and Ned's pockets, Bartholomew appeared to have lost his desire to show his new acquaintances around the city; he still said that he would carry them to New York on the following morning, but he seemed to think that they should be able to care for themselves until then.

"I've got to lay 'round so's to find out whether anybody's goin' to be on the boat this evenin'," he said, "an' you fellers had better wait on the wharf awhile. Perhaps we can all sleep on board the boat to-night, an' if we can, I'll come back for you and take you aboard."

"Where are you going now?" asked Joe.

" Over near where the boat is."

"Why can't we go with you?"

"It wouldn't do, 'cause somebody might see you, an' then they would know what we was up to."

"What if they should?" asked Joe, quickly, beginning to think that the yacht-owner did not appear to have many rights on board of his own vessel. " Can't you take your boat when you want to?"

"Oh, I'll tell you all about it to-morrow, after we're on the way to
New York," said Master
West. "You stay right around the wharf till I come back."

Before either Joe or Ned could prevent him, he had darted away in the direction of the yacht, leaving his two friends at whose expense he had just been feasting to look out for themselves.

"' Do you know, Ned, I don't believe that feller owns the whole of the boat, 'cause he acts so queer about her, an' I'm almost sorry we spent that money for what we did. You see, it belongs to the office, and when I get back an' tell the manager that I had to spend it to get something to eat, he'll take it out of my wages."

"' I wish we was home, an' my papa would give you the money to pay back," said Ned, warmly. '" Oh, dear, have we got to stay here a whole night? "

"I'm 'fraid we have, Ned, an' it makes me feel awful bad to think about mother. She must be about crazy 'cause I don't come home, an' as likely as not the manager thinks I run away with the money."

"My papa had gone away, so he don't know that I didn't come home," said
Ned, with quivering lip; "but my mamma is feeling as bad as yours is."

"Yes, Ned, but we won't talk about it now, 'cause it don't make me feel very good. We'll wait awhile, an' if that West boy don't come, we'll start off somewhere, 'cause I'd rather walk than stay 'round here."

"Don't you s'pose the captain of the steamboat would let us go back, if we should tell him what made us come here? I'm sure my mother would pay him when we got home," said Ned.

"Do you s'pose she'd have money enough? You know it would cost much as two or three dollars apiece."

"Course she's got enough. Why, sir, if she wanted as much as twenty dollars she could get it, my mother could."

"Then let's go right down to the steamboat an' see if they'll take us, - you are a sensible little chap," and Joe started to his feet; but he stopped, suddenly, as a second thought came to him. "It wouldn't do to go, 'cause the man that stole you is waitin' round there, prob'ly, an' he'd catch you sure."

"Oh, dear, I'd forgot all about him," said the child.

Joe made no reply; seated on a pile of boards, with his chin in his hands, he gave himself up to the most gloomy reflections, so hopeless did the case, seem. He had remained in this sorrowful attitude some moments, with Ned silent by his side, when both were startled by a shout:

"Hello, there I why hain't you up to the office?"

Joe sprang to his feet. He saw just behind him a boy about his own age, in the uniform of a district messenger. "Why, you hain't one of our boys, .are you? Where did you corne from?" continued the newcomer.

Joe looked first at the uniform and then at the boy that wore it, as if uncertain whether he could trust the evidence of his own senses. " Well," said the messenger, "what's the. matter with .you now? Does it overcome you very much to see me?"

" Where did you come from?" asked Joe.

"Corne from? Why, I belong here. What are you doip'? Where do you work?"

" In New York."

" New York!" exclaimed the boy, and he uttered a prolonged whistle. "You don't mean to say that you was sent way down here with a message, do you?"

"See here," Joe made up his mind in an instant, "I'm in an awful bad scrape, an' so is this little feller; sit down here an' I'll tell you all about it."

"All right; but I guess we'd better get behind those barrels, 'cause if anybody should see me they'd think I ought to go back to the. office, even if I have got half an hour off."

A convenient place for conversation was found behind some barrels, where the two were almost completely screened from view, and then Joe told the story; but not without many interruptions in the way of exclamations of surprise, almost incredulity, from his brother messenger. He concluded by telling the story of their meeting with Master West, and his offer to take them to New York in his yacht.

"Was it Bart West that you met?" asked the boy.

"His name was Bartholomew."

" An' where is the boat? "

Joe explained, as well as he was able, the locality in which they had seen the yacht, and the messenger said, quickly:

"Well, you don't want to have anything to do with that feller, 'cause he's a reg'lar duffer. He's too lazy to work, an' he hangs 'round the city like a loafer. That boat hain't his at all. I know who owns her. Bart West hain't got money enough to buy one end of a punt. He was goin'. to steal the yacht, that's what he was goin' to do, if he was goin' to do anything, an' if you had gone off with him, you'd got into a pile of trouble."

Quite naturally, both Joe and Ned were alarmed at the narrow escape they had had, for they would have gone with Bart West without a question.

"Well, how are you goin' to get home?" asked the Providence boy.

"That's just what we don't know. We don't dare to go to the steamer, 'cause that man might catch Ned again. I'm afraid we'll have to walk, if that West boy don"t own the boat."

"Walk !" echoed the messenger, "why, it would take you a year to do it, an' then I hain't sure that you could get there."

"Well, what can we do? Can't you help us somehow, if you know all the folks here?" .

" I s'pose I could," said the new acquaintance, as he rubbed his chin, reflectively. If I should tell our manager about it, I guess he could telegraph to New York to find out if it was all right; an' then he could fix it so's you could go back on the boat; but he couldn't send the other feller, 'cause, you see, he hain't one of the crowd."

"Oh, don't go away an' leave me here, will you, Joe?" asked Ned, imploringly, a sense of utter loneliness coming over him as he thought of what might happen to him if he were left alone.

" Indeed, I won't, Ned. If we can't get home together, I'll stay and go with you, if we have to walk every step of the way."

Ned stole his hand shyly into Joe's, to thank him for the promise, and the messenger said, in a tone of superior wisdom:

" You see, if he was a messenger, like we are, it would be all right; but I'm most sure our manager wouldn't have anything to do with him. But you stay here, an' I'll tell him what you've said, an' .then I'll come back to let you know . what he's going to do about it."

The boy leaped out of the hiding-place, running swiftly towards the office, as if he would scorn to walk while he had his uniform on, and Ned and Joe were left alone, two very forsaken-feeling little' fellows, even though there was a faint prospect. that they might escape from their present difficulty.

Joe was obliged to repeat, again and again, to his weary little charge, that he would remain with him, and they were talking of what they would do in case they were obliged to walk home, when suddenly they heard Master West calling to them.

"Well, what is it?" asked Joe, coolly, feeling that he had good cause for complaint against this boy, who would have allowed them to get into trouble by going away in a stolen boat.

"Come up-town, an' let's get some more things, for we hain't got half enough to last us to New York."

"I guess not," said Joe. "I hain't goin' to spend any more money for such things, and, too, we won't go with you in the boat if we never get home."

"Why not?" and Bartholomew stood before them, a perfect picture of painful surprise.

"Well, you see we hain't sure that you own the boat, an' we concluded not to run any risks."

"S'posen I don't own the boat, so long as I can get her. I'll fix all that, an' you've only got to come along."

" I guess we can walk, thank'ee. We'd rather do that than steal a boat."

"Oh, you're too much of a girl to suit me, if you don't dare to do a little thing like that," said Master West, loftily, and then he walked slowly away, much as if he expected the' boys would call him back, when they found that he was really intending to leave them to their fate.

" We want to get home pretty bad," said Joe; "but not so much that we're willing to steal a boat to go in."

"All right, you can stay here, an' starve to death, for all I care.
You'll be sorry, though."

"You'll be sorry, Bart West," cried a voice from up the street; "but you can't get any messenger boy to go in with you when you're goin' to steal Mr. Longley's yacht."

"Then it was you, George Browning, who told these fellers that the boat wasn't mine?" said Bart, angrily.

" Yes, it was," replied the messenger, who appeared excited, "an' these fellers can get home without you, for our manager says he'll pay their fare. He. telegraphed to New York, an' if the little feller's name is Edward Hawley, he's goin' to give 'em all they want to eat, an' buy a stateroom, an' they are to go like reg'lar swells."

"'Tis Edward Hawley," piped Ned, jumping up on his tired little feet.

It was not many seconds before Joe and Ned were out from behind the barrels, questioning George, in breathless excitement.

"The manager of your office had telegraphed down here,to know if you come on the boat," said George, as soon as the boys gave him an opportunity to speak, " an' to pay your fare back if you was here. So when I told our manager, he knew all about it. Then when I told him about the other feller, he said folks in New York had been telegraphing all around the country for a boy by the name of Edward Hawley. Now you'd better come up to the office, an' everything'll be all right."

As may be imagined, it was not many moments before Joe and Ned were telling their stories to the manager of the office in which George was employed, and then their troubles were over. The fact that they were in Providence, and safe, was telegraphed to New York at once, and George was. detailed to show the boys around the city until time for the boat to leave, for Mr. Hawley had sent word that Ned should be supplied with what he needed to make him comfortable and happy.

Nothing more was seen of Master West, and the two boys returned to New York on the same steamer on which they had been involuntary passengers the night previous.

" Hello, there's the man come to look for his valises," said Joe, next morning, as he and Ned stood by the rail while the steamer was being warped into the dock. "I s'pose he'll be mad, now, 'cause I sent them on by express."

"' Why, that's my father!" exclaimed Ned, when Joe had pointed his employer out from among the crowd on the pier.

It was indeed the case; and the .reason why Mr. Hawley had not come to relieve Joe, was that word of Ned's non-appearance at home had been sent to him nearly an hour before the steamer sailed.

Joe went back, to the office, after he had been home to see his mother, but he did not remain there very long, for Mr. Hawley gave him a position in his store, in return for his kindness to Ned, and to-day the district messenger boy is in a fair way to become a successful merchant.

DAN HARDY'S CRIPPY. .

Among the flock of geese that toddled in and out of Farmer Hardy's barn-yard last winter, hissing in protest at the ice which covered the pond so that there was no chance of a swimming match, was one remarkable neither for its beauty, nor its grace. This particular goose was gray, and was looked upon with no special favor by Mrs. Hardy, who had great pride in all the flock but the gray one.

When .it was a little fluffy, drab-colored gosling, one of the sheep had stepped on it, crushing out its life so nearly that Mrs. Hardy had no idea it would ever recover, but Dan begged for its life. He felt sure he could set the broken leg, and he pleaded so hard that his mother finally allowed him to make the attempt.

And he did succeed. The gosling was naturally a strong little thing, and, thanks to Dan's nursing, was soon able to limp around the shed that had been converted into a hospital. One of its legs was nearly a quarter of an inch shorter than the other; but the little fellow increased in strength as rapidly as he did in size, and seemed to consider Dan as his owner and especial protector.

Like Mary's lamb, it followed Dan about whenever the opportunity offered, until "Crippy" - which was the name Dan had given it - was known in the village quite as well as the boy was.

Many were the long walks, confidential chats, when the boy talked and the goose cackled, that Dan and Crippy had, and, when the preparations for the Thanksgiving festival were begun, the gray goose was decidedly the fattest in the flock. Dan had always given Crippy a share of his luncheon, or had supplied for him a separate and private allowance of corn, and by this very care of his pet did he get into serious trouble.

"Dan's goose is the largest and the fattest, and I think we had better
kill him for the
.Thanksgiving dinner," Dan heard his father say, three days before
Thanksgiving; and Mrs. Hardy had replied:

"I had thought of that; gray feathers never bring as much money as white ones, and the goose is terribly in the way; he is always in the house, and always directly under foot."

Dan could hardly believe his own ears. The thought of killing and eating Crippy seemed wicked. Why, he would as soon have thought his parents would serve him up for dinner, as Crippy, and as for eating any of his pet, it would, to his mind, be little short of cannibalism.

"You wouldn't be so wicked as to kill Crippy, would you, Mother?" he asked, while the big tears came into his eyes, almost spilling over the lashes.

"Why not?" Mrs. Hardy was so busily engaged in her work of making mince pies that she did not notice the sorrow on Dan's face. "Why not? He's only a goose, and gray. We've got to have one, and Crip is the fattest."

"But, mother, I couldn't have poor Crippy killed. He an' I do love each other so much."

" Now don't be foolish about a goose, Danny. Come help me stem these raisins."

Dan said nothing more, for he knew by the way she had spoken that his mother had fully made up her mind, and that it would be useless to try to induce her to change her cruel plans. He stemmed the raisins as she had requested; but he worked as quickly as possible, and when the task was done he ran out to the barn.

When the gray goose toddled towards him immediately he opened the barn door, cackling and hissing with delight at seeing his young master, the tears, which Dan had managed to keep back, came at last, and, with the goose in his arms, he seated himself on the barn floor with a feeling in his heart that he and Crippy were the two most unhappy and abused fellows in the world.

"0 Crippy! they say they're goin'to kill you, an' I'd a heap sooner they'd kill me! What shall we do, Crippy? "

The goose made no reply; he was perfectly content to nestle down in Dan's arms, and, so far as he could see, he and his master were in remarkably comfortable quarters.

Much as the goose had been petted by Dan, the affection bestowed upon him just then seemed to surprise him, and, while the boy was still crying over. him, he struggled until he got away, when he limped over to the corn-bin as a gentle reminder that grain would please him far better than tears.

During that day and the next Dan spent his time alternately begging for Crippy's life and petting him; but all to no purpose, so far as inducing his mother to change her mind was concerned.

On the following morning the gray goose was to be killed, and Dan could see no way to save him.

That afternoon he spent the greater portion of his time with the doomed Crippy, crying and talking until all the fowls must have wondered what the matter was, for, there being no almanac in the barn, of course they could have no idea Thanksgiving was so near. Suddenly Dan thought of a plan by which Crippy might be saved. It was a desperate one, and almost frightened him as he thought it over; but with his pet's life in the balance he could not hesitate at anything.

"I'll tell you what we'll do, Crippy," he said, as he succeeded in making the goose remain quietly in his arms by feeding him with corn. I' Uncle Robert lives in New York, an' he's awful good. I know if we could find him he could save you. Now I'll get up in the night, an' come out here for you. It's only seven miles, an' I'm most sure we could walk there in a day. Then if he won't come out here to see mother, Thanksgiving will be gone, an' they can't have you. for dinner."

Crippy swallowed the corn greedily, and Dan looked upon this as a sign that he not only understood what had been said, but was eating an unusually hearty meal by way of preparation for the journey.

Under any less desperate circumstances Dan could not have been persuaded to go away from home for an hour without asking his mother's permission, and even as he was situated then, he felt that he was about to do something which was almost wicked. But since he could save Crippy's life in no other way, what could he do? He almost felt as if by taking the goose away he was preventing his parents from committing a crime, for it could hardly be less than one to kill so intelligent and loving a creature.

But though he tried to persuade himself that what he was doing was, under the circumstances, a favor to his parents, there was a big lump in his throat. as he did his work that night, and realized that in a few hours neither his father nor his mother would know where he was. He was more than usually careful about the kindling-wood and the water, and when his mother spoke to him so kindly, he had the greatest difficulty in keeping his secret.

It was only the thought that he was by no means "running away" that prevented him from telling his mother what he intended to do. He argued with himself that he was only going to uncle Robert's on business, and that he should return the day after he arrived there; that would be entirely different from running away.

During the evening Dan worked hard at a message which he was to leave for his parents, feeling obliged to take every precaution lest they should see what he was about; and after the most painful efforts he succeeded in printing this note:

CRIP & ME HAVE GORNE TO UNKLE ROBERTS TO
GET HIM TO COME UP HERE TO KOAX YOU NOT TO
KILL CRIP. WE WILL COME RIGHT BACK.
DANIEL K. HARDY.

Dan had six cents, which he had earned carrying milk, and his preparations for the journey consisted simply in putting these in his pocket, together with some corn for Crippy, and in placing the little clock and some matches by the side of his bed, so that he might be able to tell when the proper time had come for him to start.

Perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Hardy were surprised by Dan's unusually affectionate manner when he' bade them good-night; but, if they were, nothing was said about it, and the inmates of the Hardy farmhouse retired on the night before the proposed execution of poor Crippy at the usual early hour of nine o'clock.

Dan's idea was to lie awake until three in the morning, then steal cautiously out of the house, get Crippy, and start. But it was much harder work to remain awake than he had fancied, and before he had been in bed an hour he was sleeping soundly.

But even though his eyes persisted in closing despite his will, Dan did not sleep very long at a time. He was awake at least every half hour and his small stock of matches was exhausted as early as two o'clock. With no means of procuring a light, it would be impossible for him to know when the time had come, and, since he did not dare to go to sleep again, he concluded it would be better to set out at once than run the risk of delaying until his father should awaken.

During the time he was making very awkward attempts to dress himself in the darkness, his fingers trembling violently, both from fear and the cold, he fancied each moment that he could hear his parents moving around, as if they had suspected his purpose, and were on the alert to prevent him from carrying it into execution. It seemed, too, as if each particular board in the floor creaked in protest at what he was doing, and to give the alarm.

The note which was to inform his parents of where he had gone was placed conspicuously on the chair by the bed, where his mother could not fail to see it when she came to awaken him; and when that was done his journey seemed more like some demand of business, and less like disobedience to what he knew his parents' command would be.

He did finally succeed in dressing himself, although his jacket was buttoned in a very curious fashion; and then, with his shoes and mittens in his hands, he started down-stairs. If the boards of the floor had tried to arouse his parents, the stairs appeared bent on awakening the entire household, - although he did his best to put as little weight as possible upon them, they creaked and screamed in a most alarming fashion.

It seemed strange to him that his parents could sleep while so much noise was being made; but when he finally succeeded in closing the outside door behind him, there had been no sign made to show that his departure was known.

Dan was so nervous and excited that he hardly felt the frost when he stepped, with stockinged feet, upon the snow; but instinct prompted him to put on his boots and mittens, and it only remained to get Crippy and start.

He almost expected that the goose would be waiting for him at the stable door when he opened it; but, since he knew he should find his pet in 'the warm box he had made for him, he was not greatly disappointed at not seeing him ready for the journey. Besides, he had come an hour before he told Crippy he would be there, which was sufficient reason why the goose was not ready and anxious to start.

After groping his way around the barn to the corner in which was Crippy's sleeping apartment, Dan. was considerably surprised because the goose was so very careless, both in regard to his safety, and the possibility of arousing the household. He cackled and hissed when Dan took him from the box, as if he preferred to be killed and served up for the Thanksgiving dinner, rather than go out-of-doors so early on a cold morning.

Dan whispered that he knew it was hard to be obliged to start so early, but that they must do so, and the more he explained matters the harder the goose struggled, until it seemed much as if the attempt to save Crippy's life would be a dismal failure.

"I'm doin' this so's you won't have to be killed, Crippy," whispered Dan, as he held the goose tightly clasped in his arms "an' it does seem's if you might help a feller, instead of tryin' to wake up father an' mother."

Perhaps Crippy was weary with struggling,- Dan thought he began to
realize his position,
- for he ceased all protests after his master's last appeal, and, with
his head tucked under
Dan's coat, submitted quietly to the rescue.

If he had not repeated to himself so many times that he was not running away from home, but simply going to uncle Robert's, to save poor ~ Crippy's life, Dan would have felt that he was doing something wrong because of the warning cries uttered by everything around. The stable door, when he tried to close it softly, shut with a spiteful clatter, and even the snow gave forth a sharp, crunching sound, such as he had never heard before. But he must keep on, for to remain would be to see the plump, brown body of poor Crippy on the Thanksgiving dinner-table, while to go on would be, at the worst, but a few hours' discomfort, with Crip's life as the reward.

Once they were out-of-doors Crippy behaved much as if he had suddenly realized how important it was for him to get away from the Hardy farm, and Dan had no trouble with him while he was passing the house.

There seemed to be an unnatural stillness everywhere, amid which the crunching of the dry snow sounded with a distinctness that almost frightened the boy, who was simply going to his uncle Robert's to spend a day or two. But finally Dan was on the main road, where the snow was frozen so hard that his footsteps could not be heard as distinctly, and where the two tracks worn smooth by the runners of the sleighs lay spread out before him, looking like two satin ribbons on white broadcloth.

Dan trudged slowly on, his heart growing lighter as the moments went by and he knew he had actually gotten away without arousing anyone; but after he had walked some distance he began to realize how heavy Crippy was. He had thought he could carry his pet almost any length of time; but at the very commencement of his journey his arms began to ache.

"It's no use, Crippy, you'll have to walk some of the way," he said, as he put the goose on the snow, and then started off to show him he must follow. Now a moonlight promenade on the snow, in the morning, with the thermometer several degrees below zero, was not at all to Crip's liking, and he scolded most furiously in his goose dialect, but he took good care to run after his master at the same time.

As Mrs. Hardy had said, Crippy was very fat, and when he toddled on at full speed he could only get along about half as fast as his master, so that Dan's journey was made up with alternately trudging over the frozen road, and waiting for his pet to overtake him.

And soon it was necessary to make a change even in this slow way of travelling, for before Crippy had been half an hour on the road he began to evince the most decided aversion to walking, and it became necessary for Dan to take him in his arms again. On he walked, carrying Crippy the greater portion of the time, and coaxing him along when it became absolutely necessary for him to give his aching arms a little relief, until the sun came up over the hills, and he could see the great city but a short distance ahead of him.

During all this time he had not stopped once to rest; but now, since he was so near his destination, at such an early hour in the morning, he sat down in the snow, and began to arrange with the discontented Crippy as to how they might best find uncle Robert, for Dan had not the slightest idea of where his relative lived.

"I'll tell you what we'll do, Crip," he said, as he gave the goose a handful of corn, contenting himself with half a biscuit he had taken from the supper-table the night previous. " We'll walk right along till we see uncle Robert, or some of the folks. It's the day before Thanksgiving, you know, an' some of 'em will be sure to be out buyin' things."

Crippy had finished eating the corn as his master ceased speaking, and he looked up side- ways into Dan's face much as if he doubted the success of their plan if carried out in that manner.

"Well, if we don't find him that way, we'll ask some of the boys" an' they'll be sure to know," said Dan, replying as earnestly to Crippy's look as if his pet had spoken. .

Then the weary journey was resumed, much to Crippy's displeasure, even though he was carried comfortably in Dan's arms, and it was not until the outskirts of the city were reached that the goose was requested to walk. There the pavements were free from snow, and Crippy could move along much faster than on the icy road; but yet his progress was far from satisfactory.

The great number of people, all of whom regarded the boy and the goose curiously, bewildered both the travellers. More than once, when Dan was sure Crippy was close at his heels, on looking around he would see the goose, standing on one foot near the curbstone, looking sideways at the street, much as if trying to decide whether he would continue to follow his master, or toddle back home as fast as his legs of unequal length would carry him.

"Oh, come on, Crippy," Dan said, in a tone that showed plainly how tired and discouraged he was. "We sha'n't ever find uncle Robert this way, an' if a strange dog comes along, where will you be ? "

It seemed very much as if Crippy had not realized that he might chance to meet a dog, until Dan spoke of it, for then he ran hurriedly on, as if he fully understood the danger that might come to him by loitering on the way.

But there were other enemies besides dogs, which Crippy was to meet with, as he and Dan learned when they reached the more densely populated portions of the city, and those enemies were boys.

Dan was walking slowly on, looking first at the houses, in the hope of seeing some of his uncle's family, and then at Crippy, to make sure he was following, when half a dozen boys, who had been watching the singular pair from the opposite side of the street, made a sudden dash at the goose.

The first intimation Dan had that his pet was in danger was when he heard the shouts of the boys, followed by Crippy's angry hiss, and the flapping of his wings. Quickly turning, Dan saw the goose closely pressed by the boys, all of whom were trying to catch him; and some of whom already had one or more feathers as trophies.

It did not take Dan many moments to catch his pet up in his arms, and then he stood ready to do battle for the goose, while the city boys advanced towards him, threateningly.

There could have been but one result to such a battle, where six boys attacked one who was hampered in his movements by the goose, and some serious injury might have been done to both Dan and Crippy, had not a policeman come from around the corner just at that instant. Dan's assailants fled at the sight of the officer, and the country boy, with his heavy, noisy burden, continued on his journey.

There was no further interruption for nearly an hour; for when Dan carried the goose in his arms he was by no means the object of curiosity he was with Crippy following him. At the expiration of that time it dawned upon him that in a place as large as New York it was useless for him to walk around in the hope of meeting his uncle, or any of his family.

"I declare, I don't know what to do, Crippy," he said, as he seated himself on a doorstep with the goose by his side, and looked mournfully up and down the street. ,. I shouldn't wonder if we hadn't been more'n half-way 'round the city in all this time, an' yet we hain't seen any of uncle Robert's folks. What. shall we do?"

Crippy made no reply to the question; but a boy about Dan's size, who was looking wonderingly at the goose, as he stood on his shortest leg in a mournful way, spoke:

"Wot is it yer don't know wot ter do? "

"I don't know how to find my uncle Robert. Crippy an' me come down to see him, an' now we can't find his house."

" Do you call him Crippy?" asked the boy, as he nodded towards the goose.

"Ves, he's Crippy Hardy. Mother was goin' to kill him for dinner to- morrer, so we come down here to get uncle Robert to go up an' see about it."

" How far have you come? "

" Seven miles."

" Did you walk? "

" Every step."

" Well," said the boy, as he looked at Crippy in a critical way, "it seems to me that's a mighty mean kind of a goose ter walk so far fur. He hain't handsome no ways, an' I think he'd look a good deal better on ther table roasted, than he does out here on ther street."

Up to that moment Dan had been disposed to trust this boy who was so friendly; but when he spoke so slightingly of Crippy, he was disappointed in him.

"Vou don't know Crippy, or you wouldn't say that," replied Dan, gravely. "I would walk seventeen times as far if it would keep him from gettin' killed."

" Well, I tell yer wot it is," and the boy spoke like one thoroughly conversant with geese and their ways, "he's got ter be a good deal better'n he looks, ter 'mount to anything."

"An' he is," replied Dan; and then he gave the stranger a full account of Crippy's sagacity and wisdom, with such success that, when he had finished, the goose evidently stood high in the city boy's estimation.

"He's prob'ly a mighty nice kind of a goose," said the boy; "but it seems to me if I had a pet I'd want one that could sleep with me, an' you know you couldn't take this goose to bed."

"I could if mother would let me, an' I don't see why she won't, for I know Crippy would just snuggle right down as good as anybody could."

For some time the two discussed the question of pets in general, and Crippy in particular, and then the city boy remembered that his mother had sent him on an errand which should have been done an hour before.

Dan felt more lonely than ever after this new-made friend had gone, and, with Crippy in his arms, he started wearily out in search of uncle Robert, hardly knowing where he was going. In his bewilderment he had walked entirely around the same block four times, and an observant policeman asked him where he was going.

Under the circumstances, Dan did not require much urging to induce him to tell the man his story.

"Do you know your uncle's name?" asked the officer.

"Uncle Robert Hardy."

"What is his business - I mean, what kind of work does he do ? "

" He keeps store."

The officer led Dan to the nearest drug store, and there, after consulting the directory, told him there were several Robert Hardys mentioned, at the same time giving him a list of the names.

Dan took the paper with the written directions upon it, feeling more completely at a loss to know how to proceed than he had before, and it was in a dazed way that he listened to the instructions as to how he should find the nearest Hardy.

But he started bravely off, still carrying Crippy, who seemed to have' doubled in weight, and when he had walked half an hour in the direction pointed out by the policeman, he appeared to be no nearer his destination than when he started.

"What can we do, Crippy?" he cried, as again he took refuge on a doorstep, weary, hungry, and footsore. He had seen no opportunity to buy a breakfast with his six cents; it was then long past his usual time for dinner, and his hunger did not tend to make him more cheerful.

The goose was as unable to answer this question as he had been the ones Dan had previously asked, and the only reply he made was a loud cackling, which, in his language, signified that he thought it quite time that he had some dinner.

By this time, and Dan had not been on the doorstep more than five minutes, a crowd of boys gathered around, all disposed to make sport of the goose, and to annoy the boy. . "Say, country, why don't you sell your . goose? "

" Where did the bird find you? "

"Does yer mother know you're so far away from home? "

These and other equally annoying questions Dan listened to, until he could no longer control himself, and he cried to his tormentors:

"See here, boys, if you had somethin' you thought a good deal of, an' it was goin' to be killed an' roasted for dinner, what would you do?"

The boys were too much surprised by the question to reply, and Dan continued, earnestly: "This goose is Crippy, an' I've had him ever since he was a baby, an' got his leg broke. We come in here to find uncle Robert so's he could tell mother not to kill poor Crip, an' now we can't find him, an'-an'- well, we're jest two as lonesome fellers as you ever saw, an if you knew jest how we did feel you wouldn't stand there, pokin' fun at us.

For a moment none of Dan's tormentors spoke, and then the tallest one said, sympathetically, as he seated himself by the country boy's side to show that he took both the boy and the goose under his protecting arm:

"They sha'n't plague you any more, an' ef I'd 'a' known how you was feelin' I wouldn't 'a' said a word. Now tell us all about it."

Dan was in that frame of mind where he needed sympathy, and he told the whole story, while the entire party stood around, interrupting him now and then by exclamations of surprise that his parents should have been so cruel as to even think .of killing that faithful Crippy.

This consolation, even though it did Dan no material good, was very sweet to him, and he would have continued to sing the praise of his pet, had not one of the boys proposed that an effort be made to find uncle Robert's house. Then each one had a different plan to propose, none of them thinking that .at that hour-four o'clock in the afternoon ~ it might be an act of charity first to give Dan and Crippy something to eat.

It surely seemed as if this discussion as to how the search should be begun would continue until it would be too late to do anything, and while each one was stoutly maintaining that his plan was the best, an old-fashioned sleigh, drawn by a clumsy-looking horse, stopped directly opposite where the boys were holding their conference.

"Why, father!" cried Dan, as he saw the occupant of the sleigh, and at the same time he hugged Crippy close to him as if he believed his father had come for the goose.

"Well, Dan, you did find your uncle Robert, after all, didn't you?" asked Mr. Hardy as he alighted, covered old Dobbin carefully with the robe, and then went to where Dan was sitting, already deserted by his new-made friends, who feared Mr. Hardy was about to inflict some signal punishment.

"No, sir, I didn't find him," faltered Dan, wondering what his father would do to him and Crippy.

"Why, haven't you been in yet?"

" In where?" asked Dan, in surprise.

"In here, of course; this is where .your uncle Robert lives," and Mr. Hardy pointed to the house on the steps of which Dan had been sitting.

To his great surprise, Dan learned that he had followed the policeman's directions exactly; but, not knowing it, had neglected to look on he house doors for his uncle's name.

In a few moments more he and his father were in the house, while Crippy was in the kitchen actually gorging himself with food.

When Mr. Hardy found the note Dan had left, he was not at all worried about his son's safety; but when, later in the day, he had leisure, he started to the city for the travellers, and, driving directly to his brother's house, found them as has been seen.

It is easy to understand that, after all this labor on Dan's part to save his pet, Mr. Hardy readily promised that Crippy should be allowed to die of old age, instead of being killed and roasted, and Dan, with Crippy hugged very close to him, started for home with his father, sure that no boy in all the. wide world would spend a merrier Thanksgiving than he.

Crippy was also happy on that day, if food could make him so, and it is safe to say that, if he survives the wonderfully. big dinner Dan proposes to give him this year, he will live to a green old age.