“Here, stop, you thief! Catch him, somebody, he’s makin’ off with my satchel,” giving pursuit as he uttered his frantic cries.
The swift-footed boy quickly disappeared around a street corner, and when the irate deacon reached the place he was nowhere to be seen. He had now left the main street, and but a few people were in sight, no one paying any heed to his distracted cries.
“Oh, shucks! What shall I do? All my spare clothes, my shirt and a big hunk o’ the church money. What will the folks say? What shall I do?”
Bewildered and disheartened, the strong man stood trembling from head to foot, while he wept like a child, as a stranger stopped in front of him, saying in a free and easy manner, while he laid his hand on his shoulder:
“Hello, deacon! You are the last man I should have expected to meet, and here I find you in the heart of the big city. What can you be doing here? I don’t see that you have aged a bit since I saw you at your home in Basinburg four years ago. Four years, did I say? Bless me if it hasn’t been seven, or will be the coming summer. How is your good wife, and how are all the folks about town?”
Then, seeing the look of bland astonishment on the other’s florid countenance, he rattled on in a different strain:
“Is it possible you do not remember me, Deacon Cornhill? It would be perfectly natural if you didn’t, seeing I have changed considerable since we last met. Knocking about the world, my good deacon, does put age-lines on one’s face, let them differ who will. Let me refresh a memory which is seldom at fault. Remember Harry Sawyer, a nephew of your town clerk, John Sawyer, who has held the office so many years? Recall the scapegrace? I am glad to say he has improved with age. Recollect the race we had one afternoon running after the steers that tore down the fence and plundered a neighbor’s cornfield? I finally caught one of the ramping creatures, after the rest of you had cornered him. He ripped my coat from hem to collar, and I barely escaped being gored to death. That catches your memory? It does me good to grasp the horny hand of an honest man. Don’t be afraid of mine suffering; if it is soft, it is tough.”
CHAPTER II.
A BOY TO THE RESCUE.
While the voluble stranger, who had introduced himself as Harry Sawyer, kept up his innocent flow of language, Deacon Cornhill was speechless. He saw that the speaker was a well-dressed young man, and his professed friendship instantly won his confidence.
“I have been robbed!” he exclaimed. “I had my money in my satchel, and a parcel of boys came along and one o’ ’em stole my money, my clothes, satchel and——”