“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 him.”
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 again:
“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 revenge.
THE SMUGGLER'S TRAP.
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.