THE YOUNG MASTER OF HYSON HALL

When Phil had taken hold of the sill, Chap gave him a lift
Page [140]

The Young Master of
Hyson Hall

BY
Frank R. Stockton
Author of “Captain Chap,” “Rudder Grange,” etc.

With Illustrations by
VIRGINIA H. DAVISSON
and
CHARLES H. STEPHENS

PHILADELPHIA
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1900

Copyright, 1882, by James Elverson.
Copyright, 1899, by J. B. Lippincott Company.
Electrotyped and Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U.S.A.

PREFATORY NOTE

(By the Author)

This story was originally published in a paper for boys, under the title of “Philip Berkeley; or, the Master’s Gun.” It has recently been thoroughly revised, and a new title, which better expresses the import and purposes of the story, has been given to it upon this its first appearance in book form.

Those who may remember the story as it originally appeared will find that the master’s gun still exercises the same subtle influence over the fortunes of the Master of Hyson Hall as it did when it enjoyed the honor of a place in the title.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE YOUNG MASTER OF
HYSON HALL

CHAPTER I.
OLD BRUDEN.

I may as well say at once that Old Bruden was the name of a double-barrelled shot-gun. It had originally belonged to a man by the name of Bruden, and by him had been traded for a cow to one of his neighbors.

From this person it had come, by purchase, into the possession of old Mr. Berkeley, of Hyson Hall, of whom I shall speak presently.

This double-barrelled shot-gun—which was now called by the name of its original owner—was not, at the time our story begins, a very valuable piece of property.

The hammer of the left-hand barrel had a hitch in it, so that it could not always be depended upon to come down when the trigger was pulled. There was also a tradition that a piece of this left-hand barrel had been blown out by Mr. Bruden, who, by accident, had put a double load into it, and that a new piece had been welded in; but, as no mark of such gunsmithery could be found on the barrel, this story was generally disregarded, especially by the younger persons who occasionally used the weapon.

Hyson Hall, the residence of Godfrey Berkeley, the present owner of the gun, was a large, square house, standing about a quarter of a mile back from the Delaware River in Pennsylvania.

It had been built by Godfrey’s father, who was engaged, for the greater part of his life, in the Chinese tea-trade. When he retired from business he bought an estate of two hundred acres, on which he erected the great house, which he called Hyson Hall.

Old Mr. Berkeley was a very peculiar man, and his house was a peculiar house. The rooms were very large,—so spacious, indeed, and with such high ceilings, that it was sometimes almost impossible to warm them in winter.

The halls, stairways, and outer entrance were grand and imposing, and in some respects it looked more like a public edifice than a private residence. The roof was flat, and was surrounded by a parapet, at various points upon which bells had been hung, in the Chinese fashion, which tinkled when the wind blew hard enough, and which probably reminded the old tea-merchant of the days and nights he had passed, when a younger man, in the land of the yellow-skinned Celestials.

But when his son, Godfrey Berkeley, came into possession of the house, he took down all the bells. He was an odd man himself, and could excuse a good deal of oddity, but these bells seemed ridiculous and absurd even to him.

At the time our story begins, the present owner of the property had not lived very long at Hyson Hall. It had been but three years since his father died, and during that time Godfrey Berkeley, then forty years old and a bachelor, devoted himself, as well as he knew how, to the management and improvement of the estate. He had been very much of a traveller ever since he was a boy, and he did not understand a great deal about farming or gardening, or the care of cows and beehives.

A wide pasture-field sloped up from the river to the bottom of the lawn, and there was an old-fashioned garden and some arable land behind the house; and Mr. Berkeley took a good deal of interest in looking after the operations of his small farm.

Some of his neighbors, however, said that he was spending a great deal more money than he would ever get back again, and laughed a good deal at his notions about poultry-raising and improved fertilizers.

Nothing of this kind, however, disturbed the easy-going Godfrey. Sometimes he laughed at his mistakes, and sometimes he growled at them, but he asked for no advice, and took very little that was offered to him.

It is not likely, however, that Mr. Berkeley would have been satisfied at Hyson Hall had it not been for the company of Philip Berkeley, his only brother’s orphan son.

Philip was a boy about fifteen years old. He and his Uncle Godfrey were great friends, and there could be no doubt about Philip’s enjoyment of the life at Hyson Hall. During the greater part of the year he went to school in Boontown, a small town about three miles distant, riding there and back on a horse his uncle gave him; and during the long summer vacation there was plenty of rowing and fishing, and rambles with a gun through the Green Swamp, a wide extent of marshy forest-land, about a mile from the house.

There were neighbors not very far away, and some of these neighbors had boys; and so, sometimes with a companion or two of his own age, and sometimes with his uncle, Philip’s days passed pleasantly enough.

Godfrey Berkeley had some very positive ideas about what a boy ought to do and ought to learn, but there was nothing of undue strictness or severity in his treatment of his nephew, whom he looked upon as his adopted son.

One pleasant evening in July, Godfrey Berkeley was stretched out upon a cane-seated lounge in the great hall, quietly smoking his after-supper pipe, when Philip came hurriedly tramping in.

“Uncle,” he said, “won’t you lend me Old Bruden to-morrow? Chap Webster and I want to go up the creek, and, if this weather lasts, perhaps we’ll camp out for a night, if you’ll let us have the little tent.”

Now, Philip had a gun of his own, but it was a small gun and a single-barrelled one; and as Chapman Webster, his best-loved friend, always carried a double-barrelled gun when they went out on their expeditions, Philip on such occasions generally borrowed Old Bruden.

To be sure, he seldom used the left-hand barrel, but it was always there if he needed it and chose to take the chances of the hammer coming down.

It might have been supposed that Mr. Godfrey Berkeley, who in former years had done so much travelling and hunting, would have had a better fowling-piece than Old Bruden; but as he now often wandered all day with a gun upon his shoulder without firing a single shot, Old Bruden would have served him very well, even if neither hammer ever came down.

Philip’s requests were generally very reasonable, and his uncle seldom refused them, but this evening Mr. Berkeley seemed disturbed by the boy’s words.

For a few moments he said nothing, and then he took his pipe from his mouth and sat up.

“It seems curious, Phil,” he said, “that you should want Old Bruden to-morrow, and should be thinking of camping out. It’s really remarkable; you haven’t done such a thing for ever so long!”

“That’s because the weather hasn’t been good enough,” said Philip, “or else Chap Webster couldn’t go. But if you are going to use Old Bruden yourself, uncle, of course I don’t want it.”

“Oh, it isn’t that,” said Mr. Berkeley, laughing a little. “But I do not want you to take the gun to-morrow, especially on any long expedition.”

“Is anything the matter with it?” asked Phil, his eyes wide open. “Has it cracked anywhere?”

“I don’t know, indeed,” said Mr. Berkeley, “for it is so long since I fired Old Bruden that I can say very little about it. But I want you to understand, my boy,” he said, more seriously, “that you should never use a gun unless you know for yourself that it is in good condition. You ought to be able to tell me whether or not there is anything the matter with Old Bruden.”

“Oh, I always look it over before I take it out,” said Phil. “But I thought you might just have found out something about the gun.”

“Not at all,” said Mr. Berkeley. “As far as I know, Old Bruden is exactly the same clumsy shot-gun that it was when I first bought it. But I don’t want you to go off with it to-morrow on any expedition with Chap Webster. I can’t give you my reasons for this now, but you shall know all about it to-morrow. That satisfies you, don’t it, my boy?”

“Oh, yes,” said Phil, trying to smile a little, though not feeling a bit like it.

His uncle’s discipline, whenever it was exercised at all, was of a military nature. He commanded, and Phil obeyed. The boy had learned to take a pride in that kind of soldierly obedience, about which his uncle talked so often, and it seldom bore very hard upon him.

He and Mr. Berkeley were generally of the same way of thinking, but to-night his disappointment was very hard to bear.

Several days before he had planned this expedition with Chap Webster. They had had high anticipations in regard to it, and Phil did not suppose for a moment that his uncle would offer any objection to their plans. But he had objected, and there was an end to the whole affair.

Philip walked to the front door and gazed out over the moonlighted landscape.

“It will be a splendid day to-morrow,” he said to himself, “and as dry as a chip to-night, but all that amounts to nothing.”

And he turned on his heel and went into the house.

CHAPTER II.
IN WHICH PHILIP IS VERY MUCH AMAZED.

When Philip came down-stairs the next morning he found the breakfast ready, and Susan Corson, the housekeeper, standing in the middle of the dining-room, with a letter in her hand. Her countenance looked troubled, and as soon as the boy entered the room she said,—

“Mr. Berkeley isn’t about anywhere, and here is a letter for you which I found on the hall-table. I missed him a good while ago, because he is generally up so early, and I have been up to his room and looked through the whole house; and I blew the horn and sent the boy all over the place, but he isn’t to be found at all, and I believe he has gone off somewhere, and perhaps that letter tells you all about it.”

Before this speech was half over Philip had opened the letter and was reading it. It ran thus:

“When you read this letter, my dear Phil, I shall have run away—yes, actually cleared out and run away—from my good, kind nephew. It seems like turning things upside down for the man to run away and the boy to stay at home; but running away comes much more naturally to me than I hope it ever will to you, my very dear Philip. When about your age I began life by running away from home, and I have been doing the same thing at intervals ever since. The fact is, Phil, I have been so much of a rover, and a rambling life comes so natural to me, that I cannot any longer endure the monotonous days at Hyson Hall. It is true that I have enjoyed myself very much in the old house, and it is also true that I love you, Phil, and am delighted to be with you, and have you near me. But apart from the fact that I am tired of staying so long in one place, there are other reasons why I should go away for a time.

“And now, Phil, I want you, while I am gone, to take care of Hyson Hall and everything belonging to it. You know just how its affairs are going on, and, as you have kept my accounts for me almost from the first day you came to live with me, you know quite as much as I do about the house expenses and all that sort of thing. The next time you go to town you must take the enclosed note to Mr. Welford, my banker, and he will pay to you, from time to time, the amount I have been in the habit of drawing for regular house expenses. You see, Phil, I put a great deal of trust in you, but I don’t believe I could have a steward who would suit me better. Don’t spend any more money than you can help. Take good care of Jouncer, and keep everything as straight as you can. Of course, I don’t expect you to stay at home all the time and have no fun, but you can see now why I did not want you to take Old Bruden and go off on a camping expedition on the very first day of your stewardship.

“And now, good-by, my boy. I expect to write to you again before very long, and I am quite sure that until I come back you will manage the old place just as well as you can; and if you do that, you will fully satisfy

“Your affectionate uncle,
“Godfrey Berkeley.”

As Philip stood on one side of the breakfast-table reading this letter, Susan Corson stood on the other, gazing steadfastly at him.

“Well,” said she, “where has he gone? and when is he coming back?”

“Those are two things he doesn’t mention,” said Philip. “And I haven’t any idea what it all means.”

“Well, what does he say?” asked Susan, a little sharply. “He surely must have told you something.”

Susan Corson was a middle-aged little woman, who thought a good deal of Mr. Godfrey Berkeley and a good deal of herself, and who had had, so far, no great objections to Philip, although, as a rule, she did not take any particular interest in boys.

“I will read you the letter,” said Philip.

And he read it to her from beginning to end, omitting here and there a passage relating to himself and his uncle’s trust in him.

For a few minutes Susan did not say a word, and Philip also stood silent, looking down at the letter he held and thinking very hard.

“And while he is gone you are to be master here?” said the housekeeper.

“Yes,” said Philip; “that’s about the way to look at it.”

“Well, then,” said Susan, “there’s your breakfast.”

And she marched out of the room.

Philip sat down to the table, but he was still thinking so hard that he scarcely knew what he ate or drank. When he had about half finished his meal he heard a shout outside. He jumped up from the table and ran to the window. Standing in the roadway, in front of the house, he saw Chap Webster, who had just sent forth another shout. Phil ran out on the great stone porch.

“Hello, Chap!” he cried. “Come up here and wait till I have finished my breakfast.”

“Finished your breakfast!” exclaimed his companion. “Why, I thought we were going to make an early start! I didn’t half finish mine.”

“I’m sorry for that,” said Phil; “but just sit down here, and I’ll be out directly.”

If Philip had been the grown-up gentleman which he was sure to be if he lived long enough, he would have asked his friend in to finish his breakfast with him; but he was a boy, and did not think of it.

There was nothing mean about him, however; he stopped eating before he was half done, so as not to keep Chap waiting.

Chap Webster was a long-legged boy, a little older than Philip. He had light hair, and what some of his friends called a buckwheat-cake face,—that is, it was very brown and a good deal freckled. He did not sit down at all, but stalked up and down the porch until Phil came out.

“Are you ready now?” he cried, as soon as the latter appeared at the hall door.

“No, I’m not ready,” said Phil; “and what is more, I am not going at all.”

Chap opened his mouth and eyes, and jammed his hands down into his trousers pockets.

“This is a pretty piece of business!” he exclaimed. “Here I’ve been up ever since sunrise getting my traps ready, and mother has put up a basket of provender, and everything is all ready for us to take up as we pass our house. I didn’t think you were that kind of fellow, Phil.”

“I didn’t think so myself,” said his companion; “but there’s no use of our shooting wild this way. Just you sit down and read that letter.”

Chap took a seat on a bench, and, leaning over, with his elbows on his outspread knees, he carefully read Mr. Berkeley’s letter.

When he had finished it, and had turned over the sheet to see if there was anything more on the last page, he looked steadfastly at Phil, then whistled, and then lay back and laughed as if he would crack his sides.

Phil could see no cause for merriment, but the example was contagious, and he began to laugh, too.

“I always knew your uncle was a rare customer,” said Chap, at last; “but I never thought he’d be up to a thing like this. Why, Phil,” he cried, starting to his feet, “I’d rather be in your place than own a tug-boat!”

This was putting the matter very strongly, for to own a tug-boat, with which he could make a fortune by towing vessels up and down the river, was one of Chap Webster’s most earnest aspirations.

“Well, what would you do?” asked Philip.

“Do!” cried Chap, with sparkling eyes. “I’d do everything! I’d have all the fellows here. I’d give the biggest kind of picnics. I’d camp out, right here in front of the house. I’d put a mast in your uncle’s scow, and buy a sail for her. I’d dig up the old wreck, and I’d have fireworks every night. Do!” he added. “You’d soon see what I’d do!”

“Yes,” said Philip, laughing, “and I’d soon see you stop doing, too. A pretty steward you’d make!”

“Phil,” said Chap, suddenly changing his manner, “how long do you think he’s going to stay away?”

“I don’t know any more about it than you do,” said Phil. “There’s his letter, and that’s all there is to go by.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what it is, Phil,” said Chap, very earnestly, “if your uncle stays away long enough, there are big things ahead. You know he said you were to have fun.”

CHAPTER III.
OLD BRUDEN MAKES A MOVE.

Chap Webster did not stay very long at Hyson Hall.

“If the trip is to be given up,” he said to Phil, “I must go home and tell mother to take the things out of my basket. There’s no use letting them spoil, and the children might as well eat them. And, besides that, I’ve got a lot to think about. I tell you what it is, Phil, there’s a stack of responsibility about this thing.”

Phil could not help smiling as his long-legged friend strode rapidly away. There was certainly a great deal of responsibility attached to the new state of affairs, but why Chap need trouble his mind about it he could not imagine.

However, Chap was a great speculator in plans and projects, and took stock in such things whenever he had a chance. As for Phil, he truly had a great deal to think about.

What should he do, and what should he do first?

He sat on the top of the broad stone steps that led up to the porch and thought the matter out. It was one of the most uncomfortable places he could have chosen, for the sun shone full in his face, and he was obliged to shield his eyes with his napkin, which he had forgotten to leave on the breakfast-table.

The establishment at Hyson Hall was not extensive, and Phil had been such a constant companion of his uncle, and had, under Mr. Berkeley’s direction, done so much of the daily management of the place, that, excepting the responsibility, there was nothing very novel in the duties of his trust.

A man and a boy were employed on the little farm, on which the only crop of any importance was a field of wheat. Until this was ready to cut there was nothing out of the way to be done on the farm. In the house the domestic force consisted of Susan Corson, who was the housekeeper and cook, a woman for general housework, and a half-grown girl named Jenny.

Phil very properly made up his mind that in regard to the general affairs of the establishment he would let them go on in the ordinary way until something unusual turned up.

If he knew that his uncle intended to stay away for any considerable time, there were some plans that he thought he could carry out with considerable profit to the estate; but as he would not like to be interrupted in anything of the kind when it was half done, however sure he might feel that Mr. Berkeley would be well pleased with the result when all was finished, he concluded, for the present, to give up such projects.

There was enough for him to do, however, and there was no knowing what might turn up. There was only one particular injunction his uncle had laid upon him, and that was to take good care of Jouncer, and this was a matter he would attend to immediately.

And so, with one side of his head pretty well scorched, he jumped up, got his hat and ran down to the stables.

Jouncer was Mr. Godfrey Berkeley’s riding-horse, and whenever he went to town, or to visit any of his neighbors, he rode Jouncer.

This animal was considered by Phil and some of his boy friends to be a horse of great possibilities. It was believed, and some of the boys considered themselves good judges of such things, that he had Arabian blood in him, and that, if required, he could gallop with great swiftness and leap over the highest fences.

Nothing positive, however, was known upon these points, for Mr. Berkeley did not care to make an animal exert itself unnecessarily, and always rode at a jog-trot.

Jouncer was found to be in comfortable circumstances, and as Phil looked at him as he was grazing in a little paddock back of the barn, he made up his mind that he would ride the noble beast, next day, to town, to see Mr. Welford.

He had never mounted Jouncer, except for very short rides on the place, and his own horse, Kit, could be brought up from the pasture just as well as not; but it seemed to him that in order to suitably represent his uncle, it would be the proper thing for him to ride his uncle’s horse.

Joel, the hired man, was full of eagerness to know all about Mr. Berkeley’s departure, of which he had already heard something in the house, and Phil satisfied him as well as he could, endeavoring besides to fully impress upon his mind the nature of the trust his uncle had imposed upon himself.

Joel thought it would have been much better if Mr. Berkeley had left the management of the place to him, but he was a cautious fellow and said nothing.

After dinner, which, by the way, Phil did not consider quite as good a meal as usual, he went into the parlor to think over what he should say to Mr. Welford when he went to see him the next day.

The parlor was an immense room, very seldom used; but Phil thought it quiet and cool, and a very suitable place in which a person in his position might spend a little time after dinner.

He seated himself in a large arm-chair, but he had not cogitated more than two or three minutes before he heard a heavy step on the porch, and then a great knock at the door.

Susan was in the dining-room, and she hurried out to admit the visitor. As she approached the front door, Phil heard her exclaim, in tones of surprise,—

“Why, it’s Chap Webster!”

Phil was very much surprised, too, for this was the first time Chap had ever knocked at the front door. He generally announced his coming by a shout from some point outside of the house.

“Is the steward in?” asked Chap.

“The what?” cried Susan.

Phil laughed, and went to the parlor door.

“Come in here, Chap,” he said; “I’m in the parlor.”

Chap took off his hat, came in, and, after gazing around the spacious apartment for a moment, seated himself on a sofa.

Susan Corson stopped a moment as she passed the door.

“In the parlor!” she ejaculated. “Upon—my—word!”

And then she walked severely down into the kitchen.

“Do you generally intend to sit in here?” asked Chap. “You never did when your uncle was at home.”

“I could have, if I had wanted to,” said Phil.

“And of course you want to now,” remarked his friend. “Some things make a great difference, don’t they?”

“Yes, I suppose they do,” said Phil.

“Now, I want to tell you, Phil!” cried Chap, with great animation. “I’ve been considering this matter all the morning, and I’ve come over to tell you what I’ve thought out. You can get eight-ounce cartridges of giant-powder at Boontown for twenty-five cents apiece. If I were you I’d buy five, and then we can go down and blow up the wreck the first night after we get them. It ought to be done at night, so that the flying timbers wouldn’t strike boats.”

Phil burst out laughing.

“You old humbug!” he cried. “Do you suppose that the first thing I am going to do is to blow up that ancient wreck?”

“You might get thousands of dollars out of it!” exclaimed Chap; “and I guess your uncle would be glad of that.”

“Thousands of splinters!” exclaimed Phil. “But you needn’t think I’m going to do anything of that kind the minute I take charge of things here.”

“Take charge of things!” repeated Chap. “That sounds large and lofty. I suppose you feel like the lord of the manor. But I tell you what it is, my noble potentate, you mustn’t expect to look down too much on the neighboring barons.”

“It depends a good deal on the barons whether I do that or not,” said Phil.

“Now, look here,” said Chap, changing his tone; “if you won’t blow up the wreck, will you go after muskrats to-night? It’s a good moon, and I’ll bring my gun, and you can take Old Bruden.”

After having refused his friend so much, Phil could not decline so reasonable a proposition as this, and he consented to hunt muskrats that night.

It is true his uncle had not wished him to go on an expedition, but this would be on the river-bank, in front of the house.

Chap thereupon departed, and Phil was very glad to think of having a little sport that evening. Muskrats were frequently found on the river-bank, and their skins were sometimes a source of a little private income to the boys, who could get twenty-five cents apiece for them in Boontown.

In the course of the afternoon Phil went up-stairs to the gun-room to get Old Bruden, in order to clean it, in readiness for the evening’s expedition. The gun-room was a small one on an upper floor, the walls of which were full of pegs and hooks for fowling-pieces, game-bags, and all the other accoutrements of the sportsman; but the room had never been furnished, as had been originally intended. With the exception of Old Bruden, his own little gun, and a few flasks and pouches, there had never been anything on the walls but pegs and hooks.

Old Mr. Berkeley had intended to be a sportsman, but before he could carry out his purpose had become too infirm to care about it.

Phil stepped up to the two pegs on which Old Bruden had always hung when not in use, but, to his utter amazement, the gun was not there.

He could not understand this at all. It had been one of his uncle’s most inflexible rules that neither of the guns were ever to be left about the house, but were always, when brought in, to be taken to this room and hung in their places.

Could it be possible his Uncle Godfrey had taken Old Bruden with him? He presently came to the conclusion that this must be the case, and yet he could not imagine why in the world his uncle should want to take a gun with him. Was he going on a long tramp over the country?

Another thing surprised him. None of the shot-pouches or powder-flasks were missing. What was the good of a gun without ammunition?

But these questions were too puzzling for him, and he gave them up. He took his own little gun and went down-stairs. While he was cleaning it in the back-yard, Jenny came by from the barn with some eggs in her apron.

“Jenny,” said Phil, “did you see my uncle go away this morning?”

Jenny stopped, and, for a moment, was silent. Then she said,—

“I can’t tell you.”

“Oh, then,” exclaimed Phil, “of course you saw him! Did he take Old Bruden with him?”

“He didn’t tell me,” said Jenny, “not to tell that I saw him go, though I don’t believe he wanted me to tell. But he did tell me not to say how or when he went, and if I say he went with a gun, that would be telling how he went, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” said Phil. “I don’t want you to disobey any orders.”

And Jenny passed on to the house.

After supper, Phil laid down on the cane-seated lounge in the hall to await for Chap. He did not expect him early, for the moon did not rise until after eight o’clock, and it was of no use going out at night after muskrats until that luminary had lighted up the river-bank. He was just dropping off into a little doze, when Jenny, coming from the kitchen, ran to the lounge.

“I haven’t a minute to stop,” she whispered, “for Susan sent me up-stairs to light the lamp in our room, and she is coming right after me. I’ve found out something. I can’t say anything about it now, but to-morrow I’ll tell you what it is, Master Phil.”

And away she ran.

Phil did not feel in the humor for guessing conundrums. He had had enough of that sort of thing for one day, and he stretched himself out again for another doze.

This time he dropped into a sleep, which lasted fifteen or twenty minutes, from which he was aroused by footsteps on the porch.

“Come in,” cried Phil, jumping up.

A person entered, but he was not Chapman Webster.

CHAPTER IV.
IN WHICH CHAP SHOOTS A LITTLE AND PLANS A GREAT DEAL.

The person who entered the front door of Hyson Hall when Philip cried “Come in!” was a small, smooth-shaven man, wearing a high-crowned, black straw hat. There was a hanging-lamp burning in the hall, and as Phil sprang up to receive his visitor he could see his features distinctly, but he did not recognize him. He had never seen the man before.

“Is Mr. Berkeley in?” asked the visitor, taking off his hat.

“No, sir,” answered Philip, “he is not.”

“Can you tell me when he will be here? Do you expect him to-night?”

“No,” said Philip, “he will not be home to-night, and I can’t tell you just when he will return.”

“That’s curious,” said the man. “I’d ’a’ thought he’d told you what time he’d be back.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” asked Phil, not caring to pursue the previous subject any further.

“No,” said the man, “I don’t think there is. Is there any grown person about the house that I can speak to?”

This remark nettled Phil.

“No,” said he, “there is no grown person here. My uncle left me in charge of the place, and if you have anything to say, you can say it to me.”

“I hardly think I will,” said the man, putting on his hat. “I guess I’ll call again some time.”

“All right,” said Phil. And the person departed.

This visit perplexed Phil a good deal, and annoyed him also. If people did not intend to recognize him as general manager of Hyson Hall, there would be no use in his trying to go on with the business.

He wondered, too, who this man could be. He thought he knew everybody with whom his uncle ordinarily did business, but this man was a perfect stranger to him. He had been considering the matter but a short time when Chap arrived.

“Who is that old fellow out there talking to your Susan?” inquired Chap.

“Talking to Susan!” cried Phil. “Why, I thought she was in bed long ago. And why should he be talking to her?”

And with this remark he started for the door.

“Oh, you needn’t go after him,” said Chap; “he left just as I came up. Who was he?”

Phil gave his friend no further satisfaction about the man with the black straw hat, except that he was a person who had come to see his uncle. He had no disposition to talk upon the subject.

“Well,” said Chap, “are we going after muskrats? Or has that little expedition been put off?”

“We’ll do that,” said Phil, taking his gun from a corner and putting on his hat. “Come along.”

Phil locked the front door and put the key in his pocket, and then the two boys, with their guns on their shoulders, walked over the lawn and the pasture-field to the river.

It was not, perhaps, altogether wise for Phil to leave the house that night, with nobody in it but a woman and a girl, but the man, Joel, lived with his mother in a small cottage just back of the garden, and Phil himself did not intend to go out of sight of the house.

The two boys had not walked very far before Chap stopped and exclaimed,—

“Why, Phil, what are you doing with that little pop-gun?”

“Oh, this will do well enough to shoot all the muskrats we shall see,” said Phil.

“But, why didn’t you bring Old Bruden?” persisted Chap.

“Never you mind why I didn’t!” answered Phil, a little impatiently.

He was generally a good-humored fellow, but his mind had been greatly ruffled that day.

“My Lord High Steward,” said Chap, after they had walked a little way in silence, “I see what this thing is coming to. You are enveloping yourself in a cloud of mystery. That may be all very well for a fellow just starting off on a track which hasn’t been surveyed yet, and which is to go nobody knows where, and no rails laid, but if you don’t want me to thrust aside the cloud with my strong right arm, you’d better let me inside the fog, I tell you, my boy.”

“You’ve got a nice lot of metaphors tangled up there,” said Phil. “If you were to pick them out and hang them up to dry, in assorted sizes, a fellow might find out what you’re trying to say.”

The boys did not see many muskrats that evening. After a good deal of waiting and watching they shot two.

Chap proposed that they should go about half a mile farther down the river, where there were some low meadow-lands, protected by embankments, and where there were generally a good many muskrats to be found.

These animals delight to burrow, and they sometimes made such extensive excavations into the embankments that these gave way, and the meadows were flooded when the tide came in.

“You know it’s doing a real service to Mr. Hamlin to shoot the muskrats down there,” said Chap.

Phil would have been very willing to do his neighbor a service, but he refused to go off his uncle’s place.

“Well, I will tell you what let’s do,” said Chap. “Let’s go down and look at the wreck. That is on your place, and I’ve never seen it by moonlight.”

“Very well,” said Phil, “we’ll go and look at it.”

The wreck, of which Chap Webster had made frequent mention, was the remains of a good-sized vessel, which was deeply embedded in the mud of the river, at one corner of the Hyson Hall estate.

At high tide it could not be seen at all, but when the tide was low a number of its forward ribs stuck up out of the mud.

It was generally believed, especially by the boys of the neighborhood, that this was the wreck of a British sloop-of-war, which, in the time of the Revolution, had got into trouble down the river and had run up here for safety, but had afterwards been abandoned and sunk.

It was certain that the ship had come there when this part of the country was very thinly settled, for there was no one in the neighborhood who was able to give the exact facts in the case; but the story of the British war-vessel was a very good one, and was generally believed.

Chap Webster was one of a few persons who felt sure that there was a lot of British gold buried in this wreck.

“All war-vessels have to carry quantities of money,” he argued, “to pay off the crew and to do ever so many other things. And then, sometimes, they have prize-money aboard.”

The two boys walked out as far as the river-beach was firm enough to give them footing, and gazed at the wreck.

The tide was at its lowest ebb, and as much of the sunken vessel was visible as it was possible to see at any time.

The prospect was certainly not a hopeful one to any person who had an idea of raising the old wreck. A few ribs stuck up in a mournful way out of the watery mud, and that was all.

“Why, Chap,” said Phil, “we would have to take out twenty scow-loads of mud before we could get at the fore-part of that vessel, and then we would not find anything worth having, anyway. All the valuables on board a ship are kept in the officers’ quarters, near the stern, and that is sunk in deep water.”

“Mud wouldn’t matter,” said the sanguine Chap. “We could blow all that out at once with the giant-powder.”

“And the people all over the county would think, the next morning, that it had been raining mud in the night,” said Phil.

“I don’t care what they’d think,” said Chap; “and I’m not at all sure about the treasure being always in the stern; but if it is there, and we could lower down a big, water-tight cartridge and explode it, we might loosen things so that they would float up.”

“Money wouldn’t float,” said Phil.

“Do you know, Phil Berkeley,” cried Chap, “that if I had a tug-boat, and could get a good hitch on to the sunken part of that ship, I believe I could pull it up and tow it into shallow water, where we could get at it?”

“If I wanted to get the sunken treasure, if there is any,” said Phil, “I wouldn’t like to have to wait until that time.”

“Do you mean,” said Chap, turning sharply upon him, “that you think I am never going to have a tug-boat?”

“Oh, no!” said Phil, “I didn’t mean that. I only meant that I didn’t believe you could move that old wreck, or anything else that is as much a part of this continent as that is now.”

“Oh!” said Chap; “that’s it, is it?”

Then the two boys started for home, each carrying his muskrat by the tail.

CHAPTER V.
THE MASTER’S GUN.

The next morning Philip was sitting at the breakfast-table very much dissatisfied. He had had a poor breakfast, and he did not think that this should be. Susan need not cook as much as when there were two at the table, but certainly she might give him something good to eat. Even some eggs would have made matters different, and he had seen Jenny bringing in a lot the day before. He would have a talk with Susan on this subject, but first there were other things to be attended to. He must find Old Bruden.

“Jenny,” he said to the young girl who came in to clear away the breakfast things, “do you know anything about Old Bruden, my uncle’s double-barrelled shot-gun?”

Jenny came nearer to him, and said, in a low voice,—

“If you wait five or six minutes she’ll be gone down to Joel’s house, then I’ve got something to tell you.”

Philip walked out on the porch. He remembered that Jenny had given him to understand, the evening before, that she had some sort of a mysterious communication to make, and now he supposed it was coming. He did not fancy such things at all. His own disposition, as well as his uncle’s teaching and example, made him averse to having controversies or confidences with servants. He did not object so much to Jenny, for, although she occupied a menial position, she belonged to a very respectable family, and he knew that his uncle expected her to go to school the next winter at Boontown.

For these and other reasons he was much more willing to hear Jenny’s story than to scold Susan about the breakfast, or to ask her what she knew of the man who came the night before. It was not very long before Jenny came out on the porch.

“Master Phil,” she said, “do you know that Susan was listening to all you said to the man last night? And when he went away she slipped down the back stairs and headed him off at the corner of the house. I looked out of our window, and I heard her tell him that the young boy he’d been talking to had made a mistake when he said there was no grown person in the house, for she was there, and if he had any message to leave for Mr. Berkeley he might leave it with her. The man said he supposed she was grown, though she wasn’t very large; but he guessed he’d keep his messages and deliver them himself. And then Susan told him that there was no knowing when Mr. Berkeley would be back, and that she knew a great deal more about family affairs than that boy inside did. ‘Very well,’ said the man, ‘perhaps, when I come again, I’ll ask for you, if Mr. Berkeley isn’t here. What’s your name?’ And then she told him her name, and he went away.”

“You’d make a good reporter,” said Phil; “but I don’t think there is much in all that. It isn’t a nice thing, Jenny, to be listening out of windows to what people are saying.”

“That mayn’t be much,” said Jenny, not at all disconcerted; “but I can tell you something that is much. I can tell you where Old Bruden is.”

Phil suddenly became all animation. He had already ceased to care about the man with the black straw hat, but the whereabouts of Old Bruden was quite another affair.

“Where is it?” he asked, eagerly.

“It is up in our room, under Susan’s bed,” said Jenny.

“How in the world did it get there?” asked Philip, in much surprise.

“She put it there herself, but what for I don’t know.”

“Go right up-stairs and get it,” said Phil.

And away ran Jenny.

She soon reappeared, carefully holding the gun out before her with both hands.

“Which end of it is loaded?” she said.

“Neither end, you goose,” replied Philip. “When there is a load in it, it is about the middle.”

“I don’t know anything about guns,” said Jenny. “I meant which side of it is loaded?”

“There isn’t any load in it now,” said Philip. “We always fire off the guns before we bring them in.”

And he drew out the ramrod and rattled it down one of the barrels.

“Why, there is a load in it!” he cried; “although there isn’t any cap on. I’d like to know what this means, and why Susan took Old Bruden, anyway. Just you take this gun and carry it carefully back up-stairs and put it where you found it. You needn’t be afraid of it, for it can’t go off; it isn’t capped. And then go to the kitchen, and as soon as Susan comes in tell her I want to see her.”

When Susan made her appearance in the hall, where Philip was walking up and down, her countenance wore a very stern expression.

“Is anything the matter?” she said, shortly.

“Yes, there is a good deal the matter,” said Philip. “In the first place, do you know where my uncle’s double-barrelled gun is?”

To this question Susan made no immediate answer, but, with a cloth she held in her hand, she began to dust the hall-table.

“Haven’t you seen it?” repeated Philip.

“You’ve got a gun of your own,” said Susan, without turning around. “Isn’t that enough for you?”

“That is not the question. I want to know where Old Bruden is.”

“I don’t believe in boys having double-barrelled guns,” said Susan, “or any guns at all, for that matter.”

“It makes no difference to me what you believe or what you don’t believe,” said Philip, whose temper was gradually getting the better of him.

He remembered, however, his Uncle Godfrey’s frequently repeated precept, that a gentleman never quarrels with a servant, and restrained himself.

“Susan,” said he, “you know very well where that gun is, and I want you to get it and hang it on the pegs in the gun-room, where it belongs.”

“You talk as if you were the master of everybody here,” said Susan.

“I am head of this house until my uncle comes back,” said Philip, “and I want you to understand it.”

“And suppose I don’t choose to understand it?” said Susan.

“Then I’ll get somebody who will!” retorted Philip, quickly.

The idea of getting any one to fill her place seemed so absurd to Susan that she could not help giving a little laugh.

“Is that all you have to say?” she asked.

“That is all,” said Philip; “but I wish you to remember it.”

Then Susan walked off to the kitchen. Phil had intended to speak to her in regard to the meals, but he forgot all about that.

This little contest was now over, and Philip did not know whether he had conquered or not. He was obliged to be content to wait and see what the result would be, and, in the mean time, there was a good deal for him to do.

He put his uncle’s letter to Mr. Welford in his pocket and went down to the stables.

If Joel had resisted his authority, or questioned his orders, it is likely there would have been a serious outbreak of temper; but Joel was a cautious man, and, although he was a good deal surprised when Philip requested him to put the saddle and bridle on Jouncer, he immediately stopped the work he was doing and went to the paddock. At the gate, however, he stopped.

“If you’d rather have your own horse,” he said, “I can send Dick down to ketch him.”

“No, I’d rather have Jouncer this morning,” said Philip.

And Jouncer was saddled and bridled.

Philip had been gone about twenty minutes, when Susan came down to the stable-yard.

“And so he’s gone off on his uncle’s horse,” said she. “He’s getting high and mighty! He’s just been ordering me to take that gun and hang it on the pegs I got it from!”

“How did he know you had it?” asked Joel.

“He asked me where it was, and as I didn’t deny it, of course he knew I had it.”

“Why don’t you put it back?” said Joel. “You don’t want it.”

“I tell you what it is, Joel Burress!” said Susan; “you are a new-comer here, and you don’t understand things as I do!”

“I’ve been here two years,” said Joel.

“And I lived here eleven years with old Mr. Berkeley, and since then with Mr. Godfrey. Before that I lived five or six years with old Abram Bruden. I know all about that gun. It used to hang over old Abram’s kitchen fireplace, and nobody ever took it down but himself. It was always called the Master’s gun, and if any of his sons, or anybody about the place, wanted to shoot they got some other gun, or went without. But when his son Charlie’s wife came there to be head of the house, and wanted a big yellow cow belonging to Silas Wingo, old Abram, who was getting a little weak in his mind anyway, and who hadn’t much money just then, traded off the gun to Silas for the cow. Silas Wingo was a man who would always a great deal rather shoot than milk. Now, just see what happened! In a precious little while after that gun left the house nobody ever thought of old Abram as being the master there. From that time till the day of his death he hardly ever had a word to say about his own affairs. And after a while Silas got hard up, and brought the gun round to old Mr. Berkeley, and sold it to him for twice as much as it was worth, I dare say. It wasn’t long after that before Silas was sold out of house and home; but his creditors let him live in a little house on his own farm, where he had been a pretty hard-headed master. Mr. Berkeley kept the gun as long as he lived, and was always head of his house, I can tell you. And so is Mr. Godfrey, too.”

“I suppose you think,” said Joel, “that if young Phil has the gun he will be the real master now.”

“I don’t want no boys over me,” said Susan, curtly.

“Havin’ the gun don’t make any difference,” said Joel. “All the things you’ve told of could ’a’ happened if there’d never been a gun in the world.”

“It’s no use talking to me like that,” said Susan. “There’s something in these things. That gun is the Master’s gun, and always has been.”

“When do you really guess the head-master’ll come back?” asked Joel, very willing to change the subject.

“I don’t guess anything about it,” answered Susan.

“Perhaps he’s gone to see some of his relations,” remarked Joel.

“He hasn’t got many of them,” said the housekeeper. “His brother is dead, and this boy is the only child; and old Mr. Berkeley only had two sons and a daughter; and she married a Frenchman, and died somewhere out West. Godfrey was the youngest, but he got this place; though, whether the old man ever built houses for the others I don’t know.”

Joel laughed.

“Then he hasn’t much of a family to visit, and perhaps he’ll be back all the sooner.”

“Humph!” said Susan. “He’s gone to see no relations.”

And she went back to the house.

CHAPTER VI.
ARABIAN BLOOD.

Philip made up his mind that he would ride into town in a quiet and dignified way. To be sure, he would have been glad to find out what Jouncer was really made of, and whether or not, if he were put to his mettle, he would show any signs of that Arabian blood which some of the boys believed to be coursing in his veins. But he would do nothing of this kind to-day. He was going on a business errand, to see one of the principal men of Boontown, and he would ride his uncle’s horse as his uncle always rode him.

But Jouncer had not jogged along on the turnpike road more than a quarter of a mile before the sound of rapidly-approaching wheels was heard behind him.

“Hello, Phil!” cried the well-known voice of Chap Webster. “I didn’t believe it at first, but it’s really true. Why, you are on Jouncer!”

Phil turned, and saw behind him a spring-wagon, drawn by a small gray horse, and driven by a short and very stout boy, by whose side sat Chap Webster.

“Hello, Phœnix!” said Phil. “Where are you going?”

“I am going to town after father,” said the stout boy.

This youth’s name was Phineas Poole, but his boy friends called him Phœnix, and by that name he was generally known.

“But what are you doing on Jouncer?” cried Chap.

“Well,” said Phil, with an air as if the matter was of slight importance, “I thought I’d ride him into town to-day. He ought to be exercised, you know.”

“Well, why don’t you exercise him?” said Chap, very earnestly. “If I was on his back I wouldn’t be crawlin’ along like that. If you ever want to find out whether he has got Arabian blood in him or not, now’s your chance.”

“What would you do?” asked Phil.

“Do!” cried Chap. “Why, I’d put him across that ditch, and over that fence, and I’d clip it in a bee-line straight across the fields to town!”

“Clip both your legs off,” said Phil, “and break his neck! I’m not going to make such a fool of myself the first day I ride my uncle’s horse.”

“Upon my word!” said Chap, in a desponding voice; then addressing himself to Phœnix, he said, “I do believe that Phil Berkeley is nothing but a humdrumist, after all! And to think of his opportunities! Come, Phœnix, touch up Selim, and let’s get along to town. It will be time enough to go at this rate when we take to riding cows.”

Selim was a resolute little horse, who, when he was touched up, generally did his best, and so, the moment he felt the whip, he put his head down as low as he could get it, and began to work his sturdy legs with as much rapidity as if a heavy head of steam had just been let on to the engine which moved his machinery, and the spring-wagon passed rapidly by Jouncer and went rattling ahead.

Now, Phil was a boy of spirit, and did not like this treatment at all. Without a moment’s hesitation he jammed his heels into Jouncer’s sides and urged him forward. Jouncer, too, was a horse of spirit, and never fancied being passed on the road, often giving his master considerable trouble on such occasions, and it is likely, therefore, even if he had not felt Philip’s heels, that he would have made haste to overtake that spring-wagon, and now, having a double motive, he struck into a gallop, and soon caught up with the vehicle.

“Hi!” shouted Chap, in great excitement, turning around, and half standing up as he spoke; “don’t let him pass us! Whip up Selim! That Jouncer can’t beat us into town! Good-by, Phil!”

When Selim felt the whip again—and it came down a good deal harder this time—he put on more steam, and as he had been trotting as fast as he could before, he now began to run. After him came Jouncer, clattering furiously on the hard turnpike.

“It is ridiculous,” thought Phil, “for a little horse like that, with a wagon and two boys behind him, to keep ahead of Jouncer and me,” and with his heels and a little riding-cane he carried, he began to urge his horse to greater speed.

Jouncer’s blood, whatever kind it was, now began to boil, and he soon needed no urging. Turning a little to the left, he galloped so vigorously that it seemed that he must quickly pass the wagon. But Selim was a stanch little horse, and could run at a high speed,—for a short distance, at any rate,—and the wagon behind him seemed to be a matter he did not consider at all. He clattered bravely on, and still kept the lead, Chap shouting wildly, and Phœnix bringing down the whip every now and then with a resolute whang.

A loaded hay-wagon was now seen ahead, and it was with some difficulty that the stout Phœnix turned his horse so as to pass on one side without a collision.

Jouncer passed on the other side, and when the rider and the drivers came in sight of each other again, Jouncer was ahead, and after that he kept the lead, galloping as madly as if he were carrying the news to Aix.

The boys in the wagon, for a short time, pushed on after him at their best speed, but soon perceiving that they could not catch up with Jouncer, and that they were beaten in the race, they pulled up their panting and dripping little horse, and let him walk the rest of the way to town.

Philip, as soon as he saw that he had won in the trial of speed, began to pull up Jouncer, but he did no more than begin, for he found the undertaking too much for him. Arabian blood seemed to give a hardness to the jaw, a stiffness to the neck, and a power of leaping and bounding to the body of a horse which he had never dreamed of. He could not stop Jouncer at all, and so went dashing along the turnpike until he thundered wildly into the main street of the town, which, as it was market-day, was pretty well thronged with vehicles and people.

CHAPTER VII.
WHAT JOUNCER PUT HIS FOOT INTO.

Jouncer’s hoofs made such a clatter on the hard pavements of the main street of Boontown that the people had time to scatter to the right and left, while the horse guided himself clear of the wagons and buggies.

Philip had no power to stop or to turn him. All he could do was to stick on, which he did right well.

Everybody saw that it was a runaway. The boys shouted, and some of the women screamed, and one negro man ran out into the street to stop the horse, but his courage failed him as Jouncer approached, and he let him pass.

The wildly galloping horse had passed more than half through the town, when a man who was about to cross the street suddenly heard or saw the rapidly-approaching animal, and gave a quick start backward. His heels slipped or struck something, and he fell sprawling on his back, a bundle he carried rolling one way and his hat another.

Jouncer passed quite close to him as he lay upon the ground, but Philip could not tell whether the horse’s hoofs struck the man or not.

He turned his head to look back, but just at this moment Jouncer went round a corner, and, rushing along a side street, was soon out in the open country.

When he found himself on an uneven and dusty road, the horse seemed to lose his taste for galloping, and very soon slackened his pace. He then moderated the boiling of his Arabian blood to such a degree that his rider was enabled to pull him in, and finally to stop him.

Philip dismounted, and as he stood by the roadside, with the bridle in his hand, he could not help feeling glad that neither his uncle nor Joel were there at that moment to see Jouncer.

It was a very hot day, and the noble animal looked as if he had taken a Russian steam-bath, and had had a little too much of it. His sides were heaving, he was puffing hard, and every hair was dripping, but the queerest thing about him was a black straw hat, through the crown of which he had thrust one of his hind feet, and which was now stuck fast above his fetlock.

Philip could not tell whether the horse’s hoofs struck the man or not

Philip made the horse lift his foot, and he pulled off the hat. Then he exclaimed,—

“I’ve seen this hat before, and I am sure I never saw but one of the kind. I remember now. It belonged to the man who came to see uncle last night. I hope I haven’t hurt him, whoever he is.”

Much troubled in his mind, Philip took the hat in one hand and Jouncer’s bridle in the other, and led the horse slowly back to town. He would have first rubbed him down, but he had nothing to do it with.

Not caring, after his John Gilpin ride, to re-enter the main thoroughfare of the town, he went along a side street until he reached a shady spot, not very far from Mr. Welford’s office.

Jouncer was beginning to dry off by this time, and, having tied him to a tree, Philip walked up the main street. He first went to the store where his uncle generally bought groceries and other supplies, and going up to Mr. McNeal,—one of the partners, with whom he was acquainted,—he asked him if he had heard that anybody had been hurt by a runaway horse a short time before.

Mr. McNeal had not heard of any accident of the kind, and rather guessed if anything of that sort had occurred he would have known of it, for people had been coming to the store pretty steadily all the morning.

Philip then told him about the runaway and the man who had tumbled down, and concluded by asking him if he might leave that hat there to be called for.

“Very well,” said Mr. McNeal, taking the hat. “I’ll hang it up in a safe place; but it strikes me that the owner of this had better buy a new one.”

“It isn’t hurt much,” said Phil. “I looked at it carefully. The top of the crown can easily be sewed on, and it is pretty fine straw, you see.”

“Yes,” said the other, “it has been a good hat, but I don’t think I ever saw another like it, though I’ve sold a good many hats myself. After all, if the man who wore it likes this kind of hat, I guess he’ll want this one back again, for he’s not apt to get another like it—at least, in this town. It must belong to a stranger, for nobody here wears such a thing.”

The hat was then put away, and Philip, having borrowed half a sheet of paper, wrote thereon a notice to the effect that any one having lost a black straw hat might get it by applying at the store of Henderson & McNeal, and describing the article.

He then went round to the post-office, near by, and stuck up this notice by the side of the main door, in company with a great many other notices of cows and horses for sale, articles lost, and matters of that nature. After this he went to see Mr. Welford.

The banker was a quiet, middle-aged man, who knew Philip very well, the boy having frequently visited his office to attend to business for his uncle. He read Mr. Godfrey Berkeley’s note.

“It is very strange,” he remarked,—“very strange! Didn’t he tell you when he was coming back?”

“No, sir,” answered Philip; “but I thought he might have said something about it in your note.”

“Not a word,” said Mr. Welford. “And I am very sorry, indeed, that I did not know that he was going away at this time. It might have prevented a good deal of trouble. But there is nothing to be done now but to carry out his instructions. You can draw the money you need in the manner he mentions here, and, of course, you will be as economical as you can in your expenditures. I hope he won’t be gone very long; but, in the mean time, we must get on the best we can.”

He looked at Philip a moment, and then he said,—

“You are a young fellow to have charge of a house and farm, though I suppose your uncle knew what he was about. How did you come to town?”

This question was asked as a sort of finishing remark to the conversation, and the banker picked up some papers which lay on his desk.

“I rode in,” said Philip, “on uncle’s horse.”

Mr. Welford turned suddenly, as if the thought had just struck him.

“Was that you,” he said, “who went tearing up the street a while ago?”

“Yes, sir,” said Philip. “The horse ran away with me.”

“I thought your uncle’s horse was a very gentle beast? At least he always seemed so to me.”

“He is gentle, as a general thing,” said Philip; “but the fact is, I had a little race on the road, and that got his blood up.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Welford.

And then Philip took his leave.

“I am sorry he’s that kind of boy,” said the banker to himself, as he took up his papers again. “I hope Godfrey Berkeley will not stay away long.”

As Philip went to get his horse he found a man holding him by the bridle.

“Do you know,” said the man, “that there’s a fine of five dollars for tying a horse to a tree in this town?”

Philip’s heart went right down into his boots.

“No, sir,” he said; “I didn’t know it at all.”

“Well, there is,” said the other; “and, as I had to wait for a customer who’s going to meet me here, I untied the horse and held him. I thought I might save somebody five dollars, before a town constable came along. There’s only two of them, to be sure, but they’re as likely to be in one place as another.”

Phil’s heart came out of his boots with a bound.

“I’m very much obliged to you, sir,” he said. “I didn’t know anything about that law.”

The man was a tall and rather coarsely dressed person, wearing a linen coat and high boots, into which his trousers were thrust.

As Phil looked up at him, he saw that he had a very pleasant and kindly countenance.

“You’ve ridden your horse pretty hard,” said the man. “He looks as if you had been salting him down. Did you come in town for a doctor?”

“No,” said Phil.

And then he explained how Jouncer had happened to travel so fast.

“If you want to race a horse,” said the other,— “that is, if you do such things at all,—you ought to wait for cooler weather. It is pretty hard on a beast to make him run on a day like this.”

“But I didn’t make him do much of it,” said Phil. “He did almost all the hard running on his own account.”

“I tell you what it is,” said the man, with a smile, “when a horse has a human bein’ on his back, nearly all the brains of that party is to be found under the rider’s hat; and if them brains ain’t put to good use there’s always a pretty fair chance of trouble.”

Phil agreed that this was so, and, mounting Jouncer, he bade the man good-by and rode homeward.

When about half a mile out of town he overtook a boy walking in a foot-path by the side of the turnpike.

“Hello, Phœnix!” cried Phil; “what are you doing here?”

“Going home,” said Phœnix.

“But why are you walking?” asked Phil, as he rode slowly by the side of his sturdy friend.

“Well,” said Phœnix, “the old man was awful mad when he saw Selim. Chap and I did think of driving the horse into the river, so that he’d get wet even all over; but then there wasn’t any good reason for giving him a wash, and Chap and I thought it might hurt him to drive him in when he was so hot.”

“It would have killed him, sure!” exclaimed Phil.

“That’s what Chap and I thought,” said Phœnix, “and we didn’t do it.”

“So your father was mad, was he?” said Phil.

“Mad is no word for it,” replied his friend. “He just blazed; and when he got through he told me that, as I had had such an extra good time riding into town, I might walk home. Chap wanted to walk with me, but he wouldn’t let him. But I tell you one thing, I’d a great sight rather walk home than ride with the old man to-day.”

“I’ll take you up behind me,” said Phil, “if you say so. I don’t believe Jouncer will mind it.”

“Much obliged,” said Phœnix, taking off his hat and wiping the perspiration from his heated forehead, “but I guess I won’t. I rather like walking, especially on a fine day like this.”

“A blazing fine day,” said Phil, laughing; “but if I can’t do anything for you I’ll push on, or I’ll be late for dinner.”

CHAPTER VIII.
CHAP ENTERS THE FOG.

That afternoon Phil went up into the gun-room to see if Susan had obeyed his orders in regard to putting Old Bruden back into its proper place, but the gun was not there.

He was a good deal annoyed at this, for he did not want to have any further dispute with the housekeeper; but he comforted himself by thinking that perhaps she had not yet been up-stairs, and that she would replace the gun that night when she went to her room.

But the next morning, when he visited the gun-room, Old Bruden was not to be seen.

Things now looked very gloomy to our young friend. He did not like quarrelling, and hard words, whether given or taken, were equally unpleasant to him; and yet he plainly saw that if his authority was to be worth anything that he must have a conflict with the housekeeper, which would be pretty sure to be a tough one.

He had already suggested an improvement in his meals, which had been received by Susan in a very contemptuous way.

While he was trying to make up his mind as to what course he would take to bring the housekeeper to a proper sense of his position, he saw Chap Webster coming up to the house. It was evident from his friend’s countenance that he had a plan on his mind.

“Hello, Phil!” cried Chap, “I’ll tell you a splendid thing for this afternoon. We’ll take our guns and go over to the Green Swamp. We are pretty sure to get a shot at something,—big blacksnakes, perhaps, and I want one to stuff,—and then we may find the lonely sumach.”

Among the boy-beliefs of that neighborhood was one that in or about the centre of the Green Swamp there stood a large and poisonous sumach-tree, which, like the direful upas of Java, dealt out death to all who ventured beneath its shade.

Next to owning a tug-boat and blowing up the old wreck, Chap’s dearest desire was to find this tree. Not that he wished to venture beneath its shade, but he wished to see it, and to go just under its outer twigs, so that if he began to feel sick or faint, he would be pretty sure that he would die should he go all the way under, and that this was actually a poisonous sumach-tree, just as good as a real upas.

“Chap,” said Phil, “you are always going in for something watery. I believe that in a former state of existence you were a stork.”

“That may be,” said Chap; “and I’m a pretty long-legged bird yet. But what do you say to the swamp? I expect it has dried up a good deal this hot weather, and if we are careful in stepping from one hummock of grass to another, perhaps we won’t get into the mud and water. But you must carry Old Bruden this time, for we may have to take two or three shots at a blacksnake, and long shots, too.”

Phil had begun to cheer up under the influence of Chap’s animation, but his spirits now fell again. He was silent for a moment, and then he said,—

“Chap, let’s go down under the old chestnut-tree and have a talk. I want to tell you something.”

He had resolved to take his friend into his confidence. This sort of thing was too much for one boy to bear alone.

“Any time in pleasant weather, till the burrs begin to stiffen, I don’t mind sitting under a chestnut-tree,” said Chap, as he took his seat beside Phil, beneath the great tree at the bottom of the lawn, “but after that I prefer some other kind of shade. Now, what have you got to tell?”

Thereupon Phil related the facts of Susan’s insubordination and the various other out-of-way events that had happened lately.

“It is just what I told you, Phil,” said Chap. “You are in a regular cloud. But now that you have let me into the fog, we will go to work and scatter it like a hurricane. I tell you it is a regular rebellion that’s rising up here, and it’s got to be crushed out in the bud!”

“Nipped, you mean,” Philip suggested.

“Nipped, frozen, squashed! anything, so that we get our iron heel on it! I go in for throttling her, and holding her head under water until she blubbers!”

“Who? Susan?” asked Phil.

“Well, not exactly Susan,” said Chap, “but the whole spirit of rebellion. I’d begin with the housekeeper. She should be reduced to submission or crumbled into ashes. And as for Joel, if he cuts up rough when you want Jouncer again, as you say you think he may, I’d come down on him like a clap of thunder at the very first sign of mutiny. And the man who came here on a secret mission, I’d settle him. I’d ride into town and get his hat if he hasn’t called for it yet, and I’d put up a notice that he must come here, to this house, for his hat; and when he came I’d make him divulge his reasons for wearing such a hat, and tell where he got it; and he should never cross that threshold till he laid bare the object of his midnight visit.”

“It wasn’t midnight,” said Phil.

“Well, then, whatever time of night it was. And I’ll tell you another thing. I don’t altogether like the way Mr. Welford acted. From what you say, I don’t think he came up to the mark as lively as he should have done. I’d keep my eye on him, too.”

“You wouldn’t do anything to Mr. Hamlin who lives beyond the meadows, would you?” said Phil.

“Why, no!” exclaimed Chap, looking around in surprise. “What has he got to do with it?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Phil. “I only supposed you might think it mean to leave him out of the general vengeance. But I tell you, Chap, you’re too lofty and tremendous, with your thunder-claps and your iron heel. These people don’t need anything like that.”

“Don’t you believe a word of it!” exclaimed Chap. “It isn’t the big, savage hen-hawks that give the most trouble and are hard to get rid of. It’s the potato-bugs. That’s where your iron heel comes in. If you don’t scrunch this thing in the egg it will get ahead of you. You may just rest certain of that.”

“Well, let’s scrunch,” said Phil. “How would you begin?”

“I can’t say just exactly what I’d do first,” answered Chap; “but suppose we divide things. I’ll take Susan and you take Joel, and then I’ll take the man with the black straw hat, and you can have Mr. Welford.”

“You are choosing the heavy end of the load,” said Phil.

“That suits me,” said Chap. “I like to give a good lift when I get well under a thing with some heft in it.”

Phil did not fancy the idea of his friend undertaking to reduce Susan to proper submission; but, as Chap seemed fairly aching for the job, and as he had been such a frequent visitor to the house, and, being a very social boy, was really more intimate with Susan than Philip himself was, the latter finally consented that Chap’s arrangements should be carried out.

“But don’t come down too heavy at first,” said Phil. “I don’t want her annihilated—only reformed.”

“All right!” said Chap. “I’ll start in as mild as a pot of bonny-clabber.”

“Chap,” cried Phil, as a happy idea struck him, “you come here and stay for a few days. Your folks will let you, I know.”

“Boy,” cried Chap, springing to his feet, “you are beginning to show signs of life! I’ll go and ask them.”

And away he went, like a pair of compasses going mad.

It was not thought strange in the Webster family that Philip Berkeley, being left alone in the great house where he lived, should want one of his boy friends to stay with him for a time during his uncle’s absence; and, as Chap was not particularly needed at home, permission was given him to go and visit Philip for a few days.

The strictest injunctions, however, were laid upon him to behave himself in as quiet and orderly a way as if Mr. Godfrey Berkeley were at home.

“Orderly?” said Chap to himself, as he put a few clothes into a very large valise. “I should think so! Why, I’m going there to establish order!”

CHAPTER IX.
CHAP’S IRON HEEL.

When Chap entered Hyson Hall that afternoon, with his big valise, he met the housekeeper at the door.

“How do you do, Susan?” he said, with his most radiant expression of countenance.

Susan nodded as she looked, in surprise, at the valise.

“What have you got in that?” she asked.

“My dress suit,” said Chap, blandly; “or, at least, it mostly holds the suit I dress in at night. I’ve come to stay with you for a while, Susan,” he added, with as sweet a smile as he could call up.

“Stay awhile!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Chap. “Poor Phil is so lonely! My folks were glad enough to let me come.”

“I should think so,” cried Susan, getting very dark in the face; “and do they suppose I’m going to cook and slave for two boys?”

“Oh, you needn’t slave at all, Susan!” said Chap, almost tenderly. “All you have to do is to cook a little more than twice as much as you do for Phil, and I’m content.”

“Did he ask you to come? That Philip?” said Susan.

“Oh, yes, indeed!” said Chap. “You don’t suppose that I’d go about visiting houses, for a week at a time, without being asked? And now, which is to be my room? I can carry my baggage up there myself.”

“You can sleep where you choose,” said Susan, “in the cellar, the parlor, or the top of the house. This goes ahead of anything yet!”

And off she marched.

Phil was not in the house when Chap arrived; but when he came in, and his visitor told him of his interview with the housekeeper, he laughed heartily.

“Why, Chap,” he said, “you did begin mild, sure enough. I didn’t think you could be as dulcet as that.”

“Oh, yes,” said Chap, “that is the way to do it. I pulled on my heaviest woollen sock over my iron heel. But the heel is there, my boy,—it’s there.”

“Not a very original simile,” remarked Phil.

“It’ll do for the country,” said Chap, “and a velvet glove is very different from a woollen sock, if you happen to have cold feet.”

Chap easily gave up the expedition to the cedar swamp that day, as it was agreed that the blacksnakes and the lonely sumach would probably wait until proper possession of Old Bruden could be regained, and the rest of the day was chiefly spent in laying out plans for future operations.

Susan took no steps to prepare a sleeping apartment for the visitor, but she gave the boys a very good supper, for, despite her anger, she did not want Chap Webster to go home and tell his family that she did not know how to keep house.

By Phil’s directions, however, Jenny prepared a room for Chap, and the next morning operations were begun to put down all rebellion, actual or expected.

Phil did not forget, however, that he had the business of the house and farm to attend to, and to this he resolved each day to give the first place. After breakfast, therefore, he informed Chap that he intended to ride over to a neighbor’s farm to see about some oats which had been bought before his uncle’s departure, but which had not yet been delivered.

“You can come along, if you like,” said Phil. “Kit has been turned out to grass, but I can have him caught.”

“That means you are going to ride Jouncer?” said Chap.

“Yes, I intend to ride him,” Phil replied.

“Good boy!” cried Chap. “You’ll kill two birds with one stone. You’ll see about the oats, and you’ll have a chance to open fire on Joel, if he shows symptoms of revolt. As for me, I don’t think I’ll go with you. I’d rather stay home and see if I can’t get Old Bruden. I have your lordship’s permission to do that, haven’t I? I couldn’t go ahead, you know, without authority.”

“All right,” said Phil, “provided Susan delivers it up in a proper manner. That is the point, you know,—she is to give it up. I don’t want to get the gun in any underhanded way.”

“Exactly,” said Chap. “The laying down of the sword, or rather the hanging up of the gun, is what we are aiming at. You need not be afraid of me. I go in for high-handed—high-minded, I mean—warfare.”

Phil laughed, and, telling Chap to keep a sharp lookout on his own defences, left him alone with his warlike ideas.

Joel had been pretty grum and cross when Philip returned from his ride to town the day before, saying repeatedly that the horse had never been used in that way since Mr. Berkeley bought him. Phil explained how the thing had happened, but this did not make it appear in any better light in Joel’s eyes. Phil left him currying the horse and growling steadily.

Our young friend, therefore, was not surprised this morning when he told Joel that he wanted to ride Jouncer over to the Trumbull Farm, to see a dark cloud spread over that individual’s countenance.

“You don’t want to take that horse out again, do you?” he asked, sharply.

“Yes,” said Philip, “I intend to take him out again. He ought to be used, and I don’t propose to let him run away with me this time.”

“He’ll do it, if he’s a mind to,” said Joel.

“No, he won’t,” replied Phil. “I know him better now, and I won’t let him get a start on me, as he did yesterday. Uncle left especial directions that I was to take good care of Jouncer, and one way to take care of him is to ride him and not let him get fat and lazy.”

“No danger of his gettin’ fat,” said Joel, “with your style of ridin’.”

“Joel,” said Phil, his face flushing a little, “I don’t want to talk any more about this. I am going to ride Jouncer this morning, and if you don’t choose to saddle him I’ll do it myself.”

“Oh, you’re master,” said Joel, “and if you say so the thing has got to be done, I s’pose; and if the horse is rode to death, that’s your lookout; but I guess I’m responsible for the saddlin’ and bridlin’ and feedin’, ain’t I?”

“Certainly,” said Phil.

“Then I’ll attend to them things myself,” remarked Joel, as he went into the stable.

As Philip rode away on Jouncer, he could not make up his mind about Joel. It was true, he had done what he was told to do this time, but whether or not he would continue to obey was a matter of doubt.

But, having been successful in his first skirmish, Philip concluded to be satisfied for the present. Joel was not much of a person, after all.

“Susan,” said Chap, about fifteen minutes after Philip had ridden away, “Phil said I might have Old Bruden while he was gone. I’ve been up to the gun-room, but it isn’t there. Do you know where it is?”

“Didn’t he tell you where it was?” asked Susan, turning around and facing him squarely.

“I know that he hoped it was on its pegs,” said Chap.

“Hoped!” exclaimed Susan, derisively. “He may as well give up hoping, as far as that gun is concerned. He knows, and you know, too, that I’ve got it, and I intend to keep it.”

“Susan,” said Chap, a gentle smile spreading over his face like honey over a buckwheat cake, “don’t you think you have kept up this little joke about long enough?”

“Little joke!” repeated Susan, her eyes flashing as she spoke. “That boy will find out before I am done that there is no joke about it; and I’ll have his elders know, too, that I haven’t been in this family for fourteen years to be ruled over now by a boy.”

“Phil has been in the family longer than that,” said Chap; “he is fifteen.”

“Stuff!” said Susan, not seeing any point in this remark. “If Mr. Berkeley had had time to think about things before he went away, he’d ’a’ left me in charge of the house. I know he intended me to have charge of it, and he ought to have said so.”

“But, Susan,” said Chap, “all that hasn’t anything to do with the gun. You surely haven’t any use for that.”

“I’ve a particular use for it,” said Susan.

And off she walked, as she was in the habit of doing when she had said what she had to say, no matter whether the person she was talking to had finished or not.

“I must pull off the woollen sock,” said Chap to himself. “Soft stepping won’t do with her.”

A short time after this he went down into the back-yard, where Susan was sitting under a tree, stringing beans.

“Susan,” said he, sitting down on the grass not far from her, “do you know Mary Gurley? She’s a good cook, isn’t she?”

“She can cook,” said Susan. “All decent women can cook.”

“I mean,” said Chap, “can she make good pies and ginger-snaps and roly-poly puddings, and all that sort of thing?”

“You mean, can she cook for a boy,” said Susan. “Do you want her? I expect she can cook well enough for you.”

“Then she is a mighty good cook,” said Chap. “And do you think she could run a small girl like Jenny?”

“What do you mean?” asked Susan, putting down her beans and looking steadfastly at Chap.

“I mean,” said Chap, in his blandest tones, “that in a day or two Phil is likely to need a new cook and housekeeper, and I think he’ll want one rather given to pies. I’ve heard a good deal about Mary Gurley, and I thought I’d like your opinion of her before I recommend her to Phil.”

“You impudent, outrageous boy!” cried Susan, starting to her feet and letting her pan and beans fall together to the ground. “Do you mean that Philip Berkeley is thinking of discharging me and getting some one in my place?”

“Oh, yes, Susan,” said Chap, cheerfully. “Phil has been made master of this house, and if you don’t obey him he’ll have to bounce you. You can see that for yourself.”

“Well, just tell him this,” said the angry housekeeper, “if you’re to be his messenger, that when he pays me the two years’ wages that’s due me he can talk about discharging me, and not before.”

“Oh, of course,” said Chap, as he sauntered away, “he’ll square up before he tells you to march.”

“I got a good point on her,” said Chap, while giving an account of his morning’s work to Phil, “when she admitted that in one way she could be discharged. But she threw up pretty heavy earthworks when she told about that two years’ wages. It must amount to a lot of cash. I wonder how it came to run on so long?”

Phil was furious when he heard what Susan had said. He paid no attention to Chap’s remarks, but marched into the dining-room, where the housekeeper was getting the table ready for dinner.

“Susan,” he said, “if you don’t put that gun back into its place, and obey me in other things, just as you would my uncle, I’ll make you leave this house, and I’ll go in town and get the money from Mr. Welford to pay you everything that is owing to you.”

Susan was too enraged to answer. She merely sniffed, stiffened her back, and went on with her work.

“Do you feel refreshed?” said Chap, when Phil returned to the porch. “I heard what you said, but don’t you think it was something like a breach of contract?”

“Can’t help it,” said Phil. “She’s got to knock under or go.”

“Now, look here,” said his friend. “You’ve bared your blade, and that’s all right; but just hold your heavy hand for a while, and let me hurl another javelin. You’ll do that, won’t you?”

“All right,” said Phil. “I’ll wait a couple of days.”

“Phil,” said Chap, that evening, after supper, “will you lend me one of these canes in the rack?”

“They are all uncle’s canes,” said Phil, who was reading by the lamp which stood on the hall-table; “but he’d lend you one, of course. What are you going to do with it?”

“Oh, I’m just going to take a little walk,” said Chap, selecting the heaviest and knottiest stick in the rack. “I’m tired of the kind of strategic warfare I’ve been carrying on to-day, and I’d like to change to something straight out and simple. Perhaps the man with the black straw hat may be coming to-night on one of his nocturnal prowls; and if he does, I’d like to meet him by moonlight alone.”

“You needn’t expect him,” said Phil, laughing. “Everybody knows now that uncle isn’t at home.”

It so happened that the man with the black straw hat was walking that evening towards Hyson Hall.

He had seen the notice at the post-office, had gone to Mr. McNeal’s store, and had recovered his hat. He had asked who brought it there, and when told it was Phil he made up his mind that perhaps that boy was old enough to talk to; and, as no one knew when Mr. Berkeley would be at home, he might as well go and have a little conversation with his nephew.

CHAPTER X.
IN WHICH A STORY IS TOLD.

The moon had risen quite high by the time the man with the black straw hat had entered the grounds of Hyson Hall, but the roadway near the house was overshadowed by large trees, making the light very dim and uncertain.

As the man walked up this dusky avenue, he was revolving in his mind various ways of opening his intended interview with Phil. He did not care to explain his business to a boy, and in fact it was only with Mr. Godfrey Berkeley that he could take any decisive steps in the matter, but he thought it was of no use for him to stay any longer in that part of the country, unless he could find out something in regard to the business on which he came.

He had heard that Phil was a very sensible, straightforward fellow, who frequently did business for his uncle. Such a boy could certainly give him some points which would be of service in the future.

The revolutions in the man’s mind, as well as his onward progress, were suddenly arrested by the appearance of a tall person, who stepped out from behind a tree, and who, holding a large stick in front of him in his right hand, cried, peremptorily,—

“Halt!”

The man halted as promptly as if he had run against a fence.

Chap stood squarely up before him, his legs spread out a little, and his knotty stick resting carelessly on his left arm.

“Well,” said he, “here you are again.”

When Chap spoke, the man knew him to be a boy, and supposed him to be Phil, of whom he had not taken any particular notice on the evening he saw him.

“Yes,” he answered, “I am here again. How are you to-night?”

“Now, look here!” said Chap. “I rather suspected you’d be along again, and I came out to have a word with you. I want you to understand one thing. This is a free and open country, and when a man has anything to say he ought to come out boldly and say it in broad daylight, and not glide in under cover of the night.”

The man was about to speak here, but Chap did not allow himself to be interrupted, and went on,—

“As I said before, this is a free country, and if a person has anything to say, he has a right to be heard. Now, have you anything to say? If so, I am ready to hear it. There’s no need of any mystery, or darkness, or unusual clothes. All you have to do is to stand right up and speak out.”

The man did not like Chap’s manner at all, but he was a prudent person, and had taken a long walk in order to get some information that might be of advantage to him, so he resolved not to get angry, and answered, very politely,—

“Yes, there are some things I’d like to speak to you about.”

“All right,” said Chap; “just step with me a little farther down the road, so as to be out of ear-shot of the house, and then you can unload your mind.”

“That suits me,” said the man, with a smile, “but it does not agree with what you just now said about having everything free and open, you know.”

“Oh, what I meant,” said Chap, “was that a person should be free and open to the one he is talking to. There is no use shouting private affairs into servants’ ears, and having them tooted all over the country through a horn.”

The man smiled, but made no answer. He followed his companion down the roadway, thinking that this Philip Berkeley was certainly a very curious fellow.

Pausing at a wooden bench, between two trees, Chap remarked,—

“We can sit down here, and if you notice any listeners, just you give a low whistle, and I’ll pounce on them with this club. I’ll keep a lookout, too. Now you can begin to unveil your secret mission. My friend Phil has commissioned me to attend to you and find out the meaning of your nocturnal errands to this place.”

“You don’t mean to say,” said the man, in surprise, “that you are not young Philip Berkeley?”

“I mean to say that very thing,” replied Chap. “But you can tell your secret just as freely to me as to him. I am Chapman Webster, his particular friend. He’s pretty heavily loaded down with responsibilities and bothers just now, and I’m taking part of them off his shoulders.”

“And I suppose my affairs fall to your share,” said the man.

“Yes,” replied Chap, “we divided things up, and I took you. I have the greatest fancy for working out hidden clues, and all that sort of thing. It’s something connected with the Berkeley family you came about, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said the other, “it is.”

“Well, then,” said Chap, “just begin at the very beginning of your story, and tell it straight through; and don’t leave out any of the points. I’m just the fellow to help you straighten out things, if you’ve got them a little crooked.”

The man reflected a few moments. He had nothing on earth to say to Chap Webster; and yet he thought this boy might be as able to answer the few questions he wished to put as Philip Berkeley would be, and it was likely that he would be much more willing to do so. But Chap had evidently prepared himself for some business of thrilling interest, and it would not do to put him off with a few apparently unimportant remarks.

The man took off his black straw hat, looked at it, then put it on again. Then he began:

“About the close of the war of 1812——”

“By Jupiter!” cried Chap. “Was it about a ship?”

“Yes,” said the other, “it was a ship.”

“You don’t mean this river?” asked Chap, getting very much excited.

“Yes, I do,” said the man, “this very river. Perhaps you know the story yourself?”

“No, I don’t,” said the boy. “At least, only part of it. All I know is that a British ship was chased up this river, and ran aground right down there on this bank; and that all the people on board got ashore, and scattered, nobody knows where; and that there’s a lot of treasure on board of her,—at least, there’s every reason to believe there is,—and that nobody has ever come to claim it or dig it up.”

“Yes, that is the very ship,” said the man. “I see you are pretty good in following out a clue.”

“I’ve practised it,” said Chap, with much satisfaction. “There’s nothing like practice in these things.”

“But perhaps you did not know,” said the other, “that there were three brothers on board.”

“No, I did not know that,” said Chap.

“Well, there were,” continued the man. “They came over from England to found a family. You know that each of our distinguished families were founded by three brothers, who came over from England.”

“Yes,” said Chap, “I’ve heard that; but they generally came over sooner,—in the last century, anyway.”

“Yes,” said his companion, “but these three brothers couldn’t come any sooner. They weren’t born early enough, for one thing, and there were other reasons for delay. But they came as soon as they could, and they brought with them all the wealth they possessed.”

“And did they scuttle out of that ship and leave it there?” cried Chap.

“You must have heard this story before,” said the man.

“Never,” replied Chap. “But now tell me one thing. Was one of these brothers the ancestor of this Berkeley family?”

“Certainly he was; and not very far removed, either.”

“Why, just think of it!” cried Chap. “That treasure, or part of it, which we have been talking about so much, actually belongs to the Berkeleys. Why, I sometimes used to think that if we got it out, the British crown or our government might claim it. But here it is really the property of Phil and his uncle. This is the most splendid thing I ever heard of! And isn’t it strange, too, that the ship should have run ashore on the very land the Berkeleys were afterwards to own?”

“Perhaps,” said the man, in a half-whisper, “the land was bought because the ship was known to be there.”

“Look here,” cried Chap, springing to his feet, “if you can get some dynamite and an electric battery, I’ll go into this thing with you, and we’ll get that money. We won’t wait for anybody else. Phil doesn’t warm up a bit about it,—though I don’t mind his coming in if he’ll take hold lively,—and there’s no knowing when his uncle is coming back. I don’t want anything but the fun for my share, but I know the family will be willing to pay you well for your secret.”

The man smiled.

“We must not be too hasty,” he said. “I shall be willing to do nothing in this matter without the co-operation of the family.”

“You mean you want to wait till Mr. Godfrey Berkeley comes back?” said Chap.

“Yes, I mean that,” replied the other. “You are acquainted with Mr. Berkeley, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes,” said Chap, “I know him very well. He’s a tip-top fellow.”

“He is of a free and generous disposition, isn’t he?” asked the man.

“Yes, indeed!” replied Chap; “our folks say too much so.”

“He must possess a handsome property,” said the other.

“I expect he’s as rich as blazes,” replied Chap. “At any rate, he buys everything he wants.”

“And yet I suppose he’d like to make more money,” said the man.

“Oh, yes,” said Chap; “I know he’s all the time trying to make more money with improved stock and lots of other things which a good many people laugh at. And I can tell you this, if he knew there was treasure belonging to him in that old wreck, he’d just spend any amount of money to get it out.”

“Now, then, Mr. Webster,” said the man, rising, “we know each other. Do not reveal what I have told you, and when the proper moment arrives, count on me. In the mean time, I have one thing to ask of you. As soon as Mr. Berkeley arrives, let me know of it. Here is a postal-card with my name and address on it. All you have to do is to write on the other side the words, ‘He has come,’ and then mail it. Will you do this?”

“Certainly I will,” said Chap, putting the card in his pocket.

“Now we understand each other perfectly?” said the man with the black straw hat, extending his hand.

“Perfectly,” said Chap, giving the hand a vigorous shake.

“Now good-by for the present!” said the other.

And he walked rapidly away.

CHAPTER XI.
PHILIP IS BROUGHT TO A HALT.

Chap’s bosom was now filled with a tremendous secret. Phil and the other fellows might laugh as much as they pleased when he talked about the treasure on the sunken vessel.

Now, he knew something about it, and could afford to let them sneer. The man with the black straw hat would probably depart from Boontown as soon as possible, and then he, Chap, would be the only person in that part of the country who had any positive knowledge on the subject of the wreck.

He would have been glad to tell Phil all that he had heard, but his promise to the man—which, perhaps, he had made without proper consideration—prevented this.

He found Phil asleep when he went into the house, and, as his friend asked him no questions in regard to his walk, Chap did not consider it necessary to say anything about it; and Phil went to bed without knowing that the man with the black straw hat had been there at all.

Chap lay awake for some time, thinking about his exciting interview and trying to make up his mind as to the extent and meaning of his promise to the man; and he finally concluded that, while he could not tell Philip, nor any one else, about the three brothers and the Berkeley claim to the sunken treasure, he had promised nothing that would prevent his going to work as soon as possible to look for the submerged gold.

This was the thing he had intended to do all along, before he knew that there existed a man with a black straw hat. Of course, the recovered property could not be divided, and things could not be definitely settled before Mr. Berkeley came back; but there was nothing to prevent Phil and himself from making a beginning in the good work.

If they could only get out a few boxes of silver coin, that would help wonderfully in carrying out the rest of the enterprise. He went to sleep, so to speak, with his mind full of exploding cartridges and flying mud.

The next day Phil rode into town to see Mr. Welford again. He did not know what means Chap was going to take in order to bring Susan to terms, but he had no faith whatever in his friend’s success, and determined that he must make arrangements to pay the housekeeper her wages and discharge her, in case she continued to rebel against his authority.

He had looked over his uncle’s books, and had found that two years’ wages were really due to Susan. She had probably wished Mr. Berkeley to act as her banker, and keep her money for her.

Phil rode to town on Jouncer, Joel making no objection this time, for the horse had been brought back in excellent condition from the trip to Trumbull’s.

But, although the day was a pleasant one, and the horse went well, Phil did not enjoy his ride. He did not at all fancy the idea of his uncle’s coming home and finding his old servant discharged.

On the other hand, the teachings of Godfrey Berkeley had made Phil feel that his uncle would think very ill of him if he allowed himself to be set at defiance and treated with contempt by a servant who owed him obedience and respect. The thing had to be done, but Phil hated to do it.

Mr. Welford was surprised and angry when he heard Phil’s errand.

“Three hundred dollars!” he exclaimed. “Certainly there is not that much owing to the housekeeper! And discharge her! Why, you must be crazy! How can you think of doing such things in your uncle’s absence?”

Phil then explained, at full, his provocations. Mr. Welford listened sternly.

“I don’t know what you have been doing,” he said, “to make her act in that way. I have always heard of her as a very faithful servant, not only to your uncle, but to your grandfather.”

A thought passed through Mr. Welford’s mind, but as he looked at Phil’s clear eye and honest countenance he refrained from expressing it. Three hundred dollars to pay a servant seemed an absurdity, but what else could the boy want with the money?

“There is no use talking any more about it,” said Mr. Welford. “I can furnish you with no such sum as that. I have now in my hands very little money belonging to your uncle. By his directions, I paid, a few days ago, a large sum on his account, and I certainly expected to have seen him before this time in regard to that and other matters. As it is, I not only have not three hundred dollars belonging to him, but his balance here is very small, scarcely enough, I imagine, to keep you and Hyson Hall going for a couple of weeks longer. I have no doubt, however, that your uncle will be back before that time expires. I advise you now to go home, and get along with the housekeeper as well as you can. If you are pleasant to her, perhaps she will be pleasant to you. And don’t try to do any great deeds in your uncle’s absence. I see you are not afraid to bring your horse round to the front this time,” he said, with a grim smile, as Phil opened the door.

If Mr. Welford had been a boy, there would have been a fight, then and there; but he was an elderly, respectable gentleman, and Phil answered him not a word. He merely bowed, mounted his horse and rode away, the most rueful boy in all that county.

The next day was Sunday, and Phil and Chap walked over to the Webster farm, and went to church with the family. The boys returned there to dinner, but Phil insisted that Chap should go home with him in the afternoon and continue his visit, for he declared that Hyson Hall was too doleful a place for him to live in alone.

Helen, Chap’s sister, somewhat younger, and a great deal better looking than he, privately told her brother that she thought that Phil must find the management of affairs at Hyson Hall a dreadful worry, for she never saw him look so blue and moping.

“You’re right, my girl,” said Chap. “The domestic horizon over there is pretty cloudy, and there’s what the papers would call a crisis impending; but I’m Phil’s prime minister, and it’s my opinion that the government party will be found firmly established when the crisis is over.”

“Now, Chap,” said Helen, taking her brother by the hand, “don’t you go and lead Phil into any wild tantrums.”

“Tantrums!” exclaimed Chap, impatiently. “I’d like to know why people always think about tantrums and such things when they talk to me. I’ve got nothing to do with tantrums. Why, Helen, I’m helping Phil to carry out one of the most important pieces of work that anybody ever undertook in this part of the country.”

“But, Chap,” said Helen, “that is just the kind of thing I am afraid of.”

“Now, Helen,” said Chap, “if I could tell you all about these affairs—which I can’t do, of course, without Phil’s permission—you’d see that I know what I’m about, and that I’m trying to do at least two most excellent things. You mustn’t talk, my dear sister, about matters you don’t understand.”

Then Chap kissed his sister, and hurried on to join Phil, who had started for home.

The previous day, while Phil was away, Chap had been down to the river, and had made as careful an examination as was possible, under the circumstances, of the position of the portion of the wreck which he could see,—which, at that time, happened to be very little,—and from this he endeavored to get an idea of the probable position of that part of the vessel which he couldn’t see at all.

He had pretty well satisfied himself in regard to the matter; and, on Monday morning, as he sat with Phil on the porch, after breakfast, he laid before his friend a plan he had mentally worked out for the recovery of the treasure.

“You see, Phil,” he said, “there’s no use fooling any more. The gold is there, and we ought to get it. From what you told me Mr. Welford said, I should think a little cash would be a pretty handy thing just now; though, of course, the great bulk of it should be kept in the bank vaults until your uncle comes back.”

Phil listened with a dull sort of interest. He had been wondering if Chap had entirely given up the endeavor to bring Susan to terms. The time he had allowed him had elapsed; but his lively friend was so engrossed with the wrecking business that he appeared to have forgotten all about his proposed domestic diplomacy.

Phil was sorry to see this, and intended to say something on the subject, for he felt, with a good deal of wounded pride, that it was now impossible for him to carry out his declared determination to discharge Susan.

He was about to change the subject from wrecks to housekeepers, when a carriage came slowly driving up the shaded road towards the house.

The boys immediately recognized the vehicle as one of the old rattle-trap concerns belonging to the livery-stable in the town.

CHAPTER XII.
EMILE TOURON.

The carriage which was approaching came slowly, although the driver, a negro boy, continually belabored his horse with a short whip, endeavoring, besides, by a vigorous clicking and jerking of the reins, to make him go faster; but the horse had evidently made up his mind that in regard to this sort of thing a line must be drawn somewhere, and he drew it at a slow trot, as being the fastest pace that should be expected of his old bones and stiff muscles.

“Who in the world can be coming here?” cried Phil, jumping up from his seat. “It can’t be uncle!”

But the moment the boys got a good look at the carriage, they perceived that the individual on the back seat was not Mr. Godfrey Berkeley. It was a young person, apparently a boy.

When the carriage reached the front of the house, Phil went down the steps to receive the visitor.

This person was already working at the crooked handle of the carriage door, and, having at last succeeded in turning it, he quickly got out.

He was a well-dressed young fellow, scarcely as tall as Phil, but apparently two or three years older. He had dark hair and eyes, and a very small moustache, which, though not noticeable at a distance, was quite distinct when one stood near and looked him full in the face. This young person stepped up quickly to Phil and held out his hand.

“Is this my Cousin Phileep?” he asked, with a smile.

“I am Philip Berkeley,” said our friend, taking the hand of his visitor, and looking very much bewildered.

“Zen you are my cousin, for I am Emile Touron. You know me now?”

Phil did not know him from Adam, but he was saved any embarrassment on this point by the visitor turning to the carriage to help the boy pull out a small trunk, which was stowed away in the front of the vehicle.

The driver was paid, and drove away, and Phil then took hold of one handle of the trunk to assist his visitor in carrying it up the steps.

“One moment,” said his new-found cousin. “Let me gaze upon zis sharming house—zese lovely plains!” And he looked over the lawn and the pasture-field with a glistening eye, and then stepped backward to gaze upon the house. “Ah, ze bells! ze bells!” he cried. “Where are ze bells,—zose lovely bells which did dingle-dangle all ze time, ‘Come to dinner! Dinner ready! Hurry up!’ I was a boy when I heard zose lovely bells, and I did zink zey dingled in Shinese. But it was all ze same to me. Where are zey now? Haf zey blown away?”

“I never saw them at all,” said Phil. “My uncle took them down before I came here. He did not like them.”

The face of Monsieur Emile assumed a shocked expression.

“Not like zose bells,” he exclaimed,—“zose angel bells! I say no more!”

And taking hold of one handle of the trunk, he and Phil carried it up the steps.

Chap, who had been gazing in silent wonderment at the visitor, was now introduced to him. Emile Touron shook hands with the tall boy, but apparently took little interest in him, and suggested to Phil, as they passed into the hall, that as they now had hold of the trunk they might as well carry it up into the room he was to occupy.

Phil’s mind was not prepared for such prompt action, but he was a quick thinker, and of a polite and hospitable nature.

He asked to be excused a moment, and ran out into the porch and very soon arranged with Chap that he should move into Phil’s room and let the visitor have the one he occupied.

No further preparations being necessary, the new-comer was put into possession of Chap’s bed-chamber, while the big valise and small amount of clothing belonging to Master Webster were carried into Phil’s room.

Monsieur Emile desired to make some change in his toilet, and Phil left him to himself. He found Chap in the hall, eager to know all about this newly arrived cousin.

“All I know about him,” said Phil, “is that my aunt married a Frenchman named Touron, but I always thought she had no children.”

“And if she had had any,” said Chap, “they wouldn’t have been French ones.”

“That’s very true,” said Phil; “at least, not so French as this fellow. They would always have lived in America. And, besides, he is too old to be my aunt’s son. I remember when she was married. I was a little chap, but I heard it talked about.”

“Then it’s all plain enough,” said Chap. “Your French uncle was married twice, and this is one of the original children.”

“You are right, no doubt,” said Phil; “but that doesn’t make him much of a cousin, does it?”

“He seems to be quite at home, for all that,” said Chap.

“I have often heard,” said Phil, “that my aunt and her husband spent a good deal of time here while my grandfather was alive, and I suppose this boy was with them.”

“That’s it, I guess,” said Chap; “but I don’t remember him. I didn’t come here much in those days.” After a pause, he continued: “Now that you’ve got your cousin here, I don’t suppose you want me. Things look as if he were going to make a good deal of a stay.”

“Now, look here, Chap,” said Phil, earnestly. “I don’t want any of your nonsense. Just you hang on where you are. It’s as likely as not I’ll need you more than ever. I don’t wonder this French fellow wanted to come and stay awhile with us, for if he has been here before he must know that it’s a tip-top place in summer. If he’d come when uncle was here, it would have been all right. But why everything should turn up just now I can’t imagine.”

“Don’t worry about me,” said Chap. “I’ll hang on.”

At this moment Susan appeared at the door. She had not spoken to Phil since he threatened to dismiss her; but now she saw fit to break the silence.

“Is that young man going to stay here?” she asked.

“I suppose he’ll stay some time,” answered Phil. “He brought a trunk.”

“Well, then,” said the housekeeper, “if you are going to pay me off and discharge me, you might as well do it now, before this house gets filled up with boys.”

“I am not going to pay you off and discharge you, Susan,” said Phil, coloring a little, “for I find I can’t do it, and I think it will be a great deal better, Susan, if you’d take hold and pull along squarely with me, as uncle intended.”

“Oh, yes, of course!” said Susan.

And, with a little toss of her head, she walked off.

It did not take long for Phil to get acquainted with Emile Touron, for the young Frenchman made himself very much at home at Hyson Hall. He took the greatest interest in the place, went all over the house and farm, visited the stables and barn, and asked a great many questions, some of which Phil did not like, as they concerned the price and value of various things on the farm.

It was evident that Emile was a very sharp-witted and practical youth. His knowledge frequently surprised Phil and Chap; and when he met with anything he did not understand he was not satisfied until he found out all that he could about it.

But his manner to Chap was not always pleasant, and he once asked Phil how long “zis Shap” was going to stay.

“For a long time, I hope,” said Phil, quickly. “He is my best friend.”

And the subject was dropped.

Chap did not like the French boy at all. He generally called him “Emily,” in speaking of him, though Phil would not allow him to do so to his face.

“He has got a girl’s name,” said Chap, “and we might as well give it to him squarely in English.”

Not only was Emile personally disagreeable to Chap, but he interfered with his plans. Chap wanted very much to go to work on the wreck, and if he did so now he must either conceal the undertaking from the French boy or let him have part in it.

The first was evidently impossible, and there were many objections to the second. The greatest of these was that Emile would lay claim to a portion of the recovered treasure.

“But he hasn’t any right to it,” said Chap, when talking of the matter to Phil, who had at last consented to go into the wrecking business, although he had not been told the story of the three brothers. “A fellow can’t inherit through his father, and then around to his step-mother, and back to her ancestors, can he?”

Phil agreed that this could not be done, and it was finally concluded to tell Emile about the wreck, and to let him join in the preliminary operations. It was also agreed that Phœnix Poole should be taken into partnership.

Phœnix was quiet, but he was a good, square fellow, and did not have much chance for fun. Work was rather slack at the Poole farm just then, and he could occasionally have an opportunity to get away. It would be a mean thing, both boys agreed, not to let Phœnix in.

When Emile was told the story of the wreck and the sunken treasure, he treated it with incredulity, and even scorn.

Phil did not care whether he believed it or not, but Chap was very much annoyed that any one should doubt a thing so self-evident as this, in which he took so great an interest. In his zeal to convince the French boy he told him much more than he should have done, considering his compact with the man with the black straw hat; but Emile shook his head and sneered at the whole affair.

Notwithstanding this, however, he made one of a party of four boys who went down to the river, one warm morning, to make a practical survey of the position of the wreck, especially that part of it which was entirely submerged.

A large, flat scow was poled out into the river, and anchored over the spot where Chap had calculated that the stern of the vessel must lie.

The boys were all good swimmers, and the preliminary observations were to be made by diving. Emile did not undress, but sat in the scow and watched the other boys.

Half a dozen times each of the three swimmers stood up on the side of the scow, and plunged to the bottom of the river, but each time they came up with the report that they could discover nothing but mud and mussel-shells.

Phil had just declared that they might as well give up the diving business, for that day, at any rate, when, to the surprise of the other boys, Emile began to get ready to go into the water.

“It’s no use to dive for ze sunken ship,” he said, “but it is so hot I must take one little swim.”

It was evident he was an experienced swimmer, for he made a splendid dive. He sprang as far from the scow as he could, and went down in a slanting direction from it. He stayed under a long time,—so long, indeed, that the other boys began to get a little troubled.

“I don’t care much for Emily,” said Chap, “but I should hate to have him stick fast in the mud and be drowned.”

When the French boy came up he was more than forty feet from the scow, and he puffed at a great rate as he swam to its side.

“Now, zen,” said he, “we haf all had enough of ze dive. Zis is one horrid river. You stick fast some day, and never come up, if you don’t take care.”

No one seemed inclined to differ from this opinion; but Phœnix now appeared on the side of the scow, ready for another dive.

“Don’t you do zat!” cried Emile. “It is but vile folly to swim here. Don’t I tell you you be drowned?”

“All right!” said Phœnix; and in he went.

Like Emile, he sprang far from the scow, and went down in a slanting direction. He did not stay down as long as the French boy, and he came up much nearer the scow.

“Now, zen,” said Emile, as Phœnix clambered on board, “I hope you is satisfied.”

“Enough for to-day,” said Phœnix.

When the boys reached the house, Emile went up-stairs to his room.

As soon as he had disappeared, Phœnix took Phil and Chap a little way down the road.

“Look here,” he said, in a low voice, although there was nobody near, “when I dived that last time I found something.”

“What?” asked Chap and Phil together.

“The side of a big ship,” said Phœnix.

CHAPTER XIII.
OLD BRUDEN FINDS HIS MASTER.

The assertions of Phœnix in regard to the side of a ship which he had found when he made his last dive from the scow were very positive.

“I had an idea,” he said, “that Frenchman was studying out something. I knew he didn’t dive in and swim ever so far under water for nothing, and when he came out he wanted us all to go home as fast as we could. That looked like a trick, and I thought I’d just dive in and see what he had been after; and as sure as I’m born, there is a side of a ship down there! I swam right up to it, and it’s straight up and down like the wall of a house. As I came up I put my foot against it, and pushed off towards the scow.”

This report filled Chap with joy, which was somewhat dampened by the thought that Emile had also found the sunken ship.

“But we needn’t trouble ourselves about that,” said Phil; “he can’t dig it up.”

“But he thinks he can,” said Chap. “If he didn’t he wouldn’t have kept so quiet about it; giving us good advice about being drowned; trying to pull wool over our eyes,—the bullfrog!”

The boys were of the opinion that the wreck must have parted somewhere about the middle, and that the stern, or after-portion, which extended out into deep water, had been gradually forced by the heavy spring tides a short distance farther down the river.

It was agreed that surveys and examinations should be made as soon as they could do so without the company of the French boy.

“I’m going to keep an eye on him,” said Chap, “to see that he don’t do anything on his own account. It would be just like him to get a lot of nitro-glycerine and an electric battery and blow the whole thing up without letting us know anything about it.”

“I guess we’d know it when she blew up,” said Phil, “and then we could go down and rake up the golden guineas that would be scattered along the shore.”

“You are always making fun,” said Chap. “Now, I am in earnest about this thing!”

“You’ll find me in earnest, too,” said Phil, “if the time ever comes to do anything.”

The Webster family now considered it proper for Chap’s visit at Hyson Hall to come to an end, but there was no objection to his spending as much of his vacation time there as he chose, provided he came home to eat and sleep.

This interfered somewhat with his intended watch over Emile, but in spite of obstacles he kept a constant eye, if not upon the French boy, at least upon the scene of his expected operations.

Very often, when he was at home, Chap would go out on the porch, and with a long spy-glass carefully scan the river-shore in the vicinity of the wreck.

Phil’s mind was too full of other things to allow him to give much thought to the sunken ship, although he would have been delighted to have a pile of golden guineas just at this time. He had thought at first that it would be a capital thing to be, for a time, the master of Hyson Hall, but now he was heartily sick of it, and wished most earnestly that his uncle would come home and relieve him of his anxieties and responsibilities.

Sometimes he began to think his uncle had not done right in going off in this peculiar way, and leaving his money affairs in such a bad condition. But Phil quickly put such ideas from his mind. He had always known his uncle as an honorable man, and if he left but little money behind him, it was because he had forgotten the large claim which Mr. Welford said he had paid out of the funds in his hands.

But money affairs were not the only things which troubled Phil. Day by day Emile Touron made himself more disagreeable. He pried into everything that was going on, even spending a good deal of time with Joel, endeavoring to find out from him everything he could in regard to the probable value of the little wheat crop, which was nearly ready to be harvested. But Joel had taken a dislike to the youth, and gave him very little satisfaction, vexing him besides by his noncommittal answers.

“What will be planted in zat field,” asked Emile of Phil, one afternoon, “when ze wheat is gone?”

“We shan’t plant anything,” said Phil; “we’ll let it come up in grass.”

“No more grass is wanted,” said Emile.

At first Phil was inclined to make no answer to this remark, but as the French boy continued to talk on the subject, Phil told him that it was intended, in the fall, to plough up the pasture-field by the river and to put that in wheat for the next season.

“Plough up zat beautiful plain!” cried Emile. “It zall never be done.”

“What have you got to say about it?” cried Phil, turning angrily upon him. “You talk too much about things on this place!”

“I will talk more when it is mine,” said Emile, with a little grin.

“What do you mean by that?” cried Phil.

“What do I mean?” said Emile, turning around and staring fixedly at Phil. “What I mean is zis. Just you listen and you will hear what I mean! Before you know it, zis place will belong to my father, which is ze same zing as mine. Before ze old man Berkeley died, and your good uncle was spending ever so much, and getting nothing, he borrowed, and borrowed, and borrowed money from my father; and when he came here, and had all this property, he was to pay it; but he wait, and wait, and he never pays it. And now my father he hears zat Mr. Godfrey is gone away, nobody knows where, and everybody zinks he will never come back——”

“That is a lie!” cried Phil. “His friends all know he will come back.”

“My father does not know it. He says he will never come back, and he sends me here to see, and I say he will never come back. We have a mortgage on zis place, and we will have it sold, and we zall buy it, and zall come here to live. And zose bells—zose angel bells—zall be put once more upon ze roof to dingle-dangle in ze wind. What do you zink of zat, Master Pheel?”

“I don’t believe one word of it!” cried Phil.

“You will believe it soon enough,” said Emile.

And turning away, he went up-stairs, leaving poor Phil in a state of excited misery.

In spite of his effort to convince himself that what the French boy had told him was merely an invention to annoy him, he could not help believing that the story was true.

He now saw the meaning of Emile’s interest in the place. He had been sent here to find out about everything, because he and his father expected to own everything. And he, Phil, could do nothing. If his uncle would only come back, and come quickly!

While our young friend was walking up and down the hall, torturing his mind with thoughts of the great impending evil, Emile came down the stairway. Phil did not speak to him, nor did he pay any attention to him till he reached the front door, then, to his utter amazement, he perceived that Emile carried Old Bruden under his arm. In an instant Phil sprang towards him.

“What are you doing with that gun?” he said.

“I am going to zoot two little birds,” said Emile, quietly. “It is a long time since I haf zoots ze little birds. Ze gun was loaded already, but I put on two—what you call zem?—caps.”

“Put down that gun!” roared Phil. “You shall not use it! How did you dare to take it?”

At this moment Susan appeared in the hall.

“Susan, did you give him that gun?” cried Phil.

“No, I didn’t!” exclaimed Susan, who was evidently in a state of high excitement. “He sneaked into my room and took it. That’s the way he got it! Catch me giving it to him! He has been prying all over the house, and he saw it there.”

“Put that gun down instantly!” said Phil, stepping close to Emile.

The latter fell back a little.

“Very well,” said he, “I will do zat,” and walking deliberately to a corner of the hall, he stood the gun carefully against the wall. “Now, zen,” said he, returning to Phil, “let me say somezing. All zat is in zis house is ze same zing as mine. If I want to use a gun, or any ozer zing, I use it; but if you had been amiable, I would haf been amiable. But you choose your own way. Now, zen, I say to you, Zere is zat gun. Let me see you dare to touch it!”

In an instant Phil sprang towards the gun, but before he reached it, Emile seized him by the shoulder and rudely pulled him back. Phil turned savagely, but before he could strike the French boy the latter clinched him, and a violent struggle ensued.

He seemed intent upon pushing his antagonist backward

Jenny had now arrived on the scene, and she and Susan stood back, almost dumb with terror.

“Where is Joel?” gasped Susan.

“He has gone to the woods,” replied Jenny, with tears in her eyes.

Emile was taller and stronger than Phil, and in a contest of this kind he had greatly the advantage. His method of fighting was very peculiar. He seemed intent upon pushing his antagonist backward and jamming him against chairs and the corners of tables.

Two or three times it looked as if Phil’s back would be broken, but he always managed to twist himself out of his awkward positions.

At last Emile thrust him violently away from him and sent him staggering backward across the hall. At that moment Susan rushed forward. Snatching Old Bruden from the corner where it stood, she ran to Phil and put the gun in his hand.

“Here,” she cried, “take it and kill him!”

Phil mechanically took the gun, but he did not raise it nor try to carry out Susan’s blood-thirsty instructions. Emile, however, thought he was going to be shot.

Turning pale, he hesitated for a moment, and then dashed up-stairs, where he rushed into his room and slammed the door after him.

“There, now,” said Susan, as Philip stood, still panting, and holding Old Bruden in his hands, “just you keep that gun and be master of this house!”

CHAPTER XIV.
PHŒNIX SEES HIS DUTY AND DOES IT.

Strange to say, Phil felt at this moment as if he were the real master of the house. Ten minutes before he would have supposed that such a feeling would never come to him again.

He looked down at the gun, he looked at Susan, and then he looked at the stairway, up which Emile had fled. He did not say anything, and Susan stood silent. As for Jenny, she retired into the dining-room, where, through the open door, she watched the scene.

Raising the hammers of the gun, Phil took off the caps, which he put into his vest-pocket; then, carefully letting down the hammers again, he handed Old Bruden to the housekeeper.

“Susan,” said he, “will you take this gun and hang it up in the gun-room? And I would like you to lock the door and bring me the key.”

“I’ll do it,” said Susan, promptly; “and if you’ll wait here, I’ll bring you the key in a minute.”

“Knocked under,” said Jenny, softly, to herself. “I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it!”

When Susan came down-stairs and put the gun-room key into Phil’s hands, he received it with a feeling of positive exaltation. One of his great troubles was at an end. Putting on his hat, he walked cheerfully down to the stables. For a time, the effect of the French boy’s story and threat had passed from his mind.

As soon as Phil was well out of the house, Emile came cautiously down-stairs. Seizing his hat from the rack, he clapped it on, went out and walked down the shaded roadway.

He was very angry, not only with everybody around him, but with himself. He had suffered himself, in a measure, to be beaten, and had run away.

Nothing could more thoroughly exasperate a person of his nature than to think that he had done a thing like this. He walked on for some distance, storming inwardly and occasionally shaking his fist, until, when he had nearly reached the outer gate, he saw Phœnix Poole approaching.

Phœnix had come, by appointment with Chap, to talk over plans in regard to the wreck, but Chap, that afternoon, had been detained at home.

The sight of Phœnix still further enraged Emile. He was the boy who had suspected the motive of his single dive from the scow, and had tried to find out what he had been doing under water.

“What do you want here?” cried Emile, as soon as he came within speaking distance of the other.

“What’s that to you?” asked Phœnix, a little surprised.

“You go home!” cried Emile. “Nobody wants you here.”

“I won’t go home till I’m ready,” said Phœnix.

“Zen you be ready now!” cried the excited French boy. “What you come here for, anyhow, you little schneak?”

Phœnix turned around and walked to the side of the road. He took off his hat and coat and laid them on the grass. Then he came back to Emile and gave him a tremendous thrashing.

It was of no use for the French boy to struggle or resist. Phœnix Poole was the strongest boy in that part of the country, and he did not stop till he felt that his work was thoroughly done. Then he put on his hat and coat and walked up to the house.

In all his life Emile had never been thoroughly thrashed before, and, among his other sensations, that of astonishment was very strong. How such a little fellow could whip him he could not understand. But, although Phœnix was short, he was not little. Emile had never taken enough interest in him to notice how thick-set and muscular he was.

The French boy, who but a short time ago had felt and acted as the master of Hyson Hall, was now so thoroughly cowed that he was afraid to go back to the house. He was just as angry at everybody as he had been before, but even his temper could not give him courage enough to meet that horrible short boy again.

Phœnix did not find Philip in the house, so he went down to the stables.

“Chap has not been here yet?” said he.

“No,” said Phil. “He isn’t keeping as good a watch over his Emily as he used to. If he isn’t careful, that wreck will be blown up before he knows it.”

After a short silence, in which he occupied himself examining the points of Jouncer, who was being rubbed down by Joel, Phœnix remarked,—

“I met that French boy as I was coming here.”

“You did?” said Phil, who did not consider this statement of any importance.

“Yes,” continued Phœnix, “and I licked him.”

At these words Phil turned round in utter amazement; Joel stopped his work, and even Jouncer turned his head, as if to listen to what was coming next.

Phœnix was such a very quiet, peaceable boy that no one ever thought of his engaging in a fight. This was certainly something very extraordinary.

“What in the world put you up to that?” cried Phil. “Did he give you any of his impudence?”

“Well,” said Phœnix, slowly, “he did rub my hair up the wrong way.”

“He must have rubbed pretty hard,” said Phil, laughing, “to make you fight him.”

“It wasn’t altogether what he said,” remarked Phœnix; “but from what I had seen of him, and from what you and Chap told me, I considered it a sort of duty to lay him out.”

Joel burst out laughing at this, and went to work with great vigor upon Jouncer, while Phœnix, a little confused, put his hands in his pockets, and said he guessed he’d look round and see if Chap was coming.

Chap did arrive soon, and the three boys went to the shady front porch to talk over matters.

When Chap heard what had happened to Emile he fairly danced with glee, and he gave Phœnix no rest until he had told the story with great minuteness.

Phil had made up his mind that he would tell Chap of the new trouble which threatened him, and he now concluded to take Phœnix also into his confidence. A fellow who had done what he had deserved to know all that was going on.

The dreadful revelation of the real object of Emile Touron’s visit, and the mortgage held by his father, took all the cheerfulness out of Chap, and made Phœnix look blank indeed.

At first the boys did not believe the story, but Phil was certain that such a thing would not be trumped up without any ground whatever.

“Of course, my uncle knows what he is about,” he said, “and intends to make everything all right: but he could have had no idea the Tourons would come down suddenly this way. If I could only let him know what is in the wind, he’d be back in no time, and put a stop to this foolery.”

Phil felt bound to speak as cheerfully and hopefully as he could, but the more he talked and thought upon the subject, the more doleful he felt. Both his friends agreed that the best thing he could do was to see somebody as soon as he could, and they supposed the right person to see was Mr. Welford.

Phil could not help agreeing with them; and, although he did not care to see Mr. Welford again after the way in which he had been treated by that gentleman in his last interview, he made up his mind to pay him a visit early the next morning. The matter was very urgent, and there was no one else with whom he could consult.

Joel now appeared upon the porch.

“That young French gentleman,” said he, “wants his clothes and things. He’s going away. He asked me to pack them up in his little trunk and bring it out to him. He says the people here haven’t been polite to him,”—and here Joel burst into a laugh at the thought of Phœnix’s impoliteness,—“and that he don’t care about coming to the house.”

“Where is he going?” cried Phil. “He oughtn’t to leave like this. I’ll go and see him.”

“You’d better not,” said Joel. “He’s just white mad; and Susan’s been telling me you’ve had one scrimmage to-day. He’s going to town, and wants me to take him in the buggy. He’s an ugly customer, and you’d better let him go. I suppose I can take the buggy?”

Phil thought a moment, and then concluded that, as Emile would certainly go, it would be better to let him do so without further words.

“All right,” said he to Joel. “You can bring down his trunk, and drive him to town.” And then, turning to the housekeeper, who was crossing the hall, he said, “Susan, will you please go up-stairs and pack Emile’s trunk? You can gather up all his things and put them into it, and then Joel will come and get it when he has hitched the horse to the buggy.”

“Certainly,” said Susan; “and I’ll be glad enough to do it.”

And she promptly went up-stairs.

No more astonished boy than Chap ever stood upon a porch. The story of the three brothers, the account of Emile’s thrashing, even the astounding news in regard to the Touron mortgage, had not had such an effect upon him as this obedience on the part of Susan. He stood with his mouth open, not knowing what question to ask first.

“You see Susan has come round all right,” said Phil, who had noticed his friend’s amazement.

“What did you do to her?” gasped Chap. “Did you squirt kerosene into her room—I thought of that myself, and I knew she wouldn’t be able to stand it long—or did you pay her up?”

“I didn’t do anything,” said Phil. “She just came round naturally.”

“I didn’t believe it was in her,” said Chap, solemnly. “Upon my word, Phil, I didn’t believe it was in her!”

“I tell you what it is, Phil,” said Phœnix, a short time afterwards, as Joel came down-stairs with Emile’s trunk upon his shoulder, “you’d better look out for that Frenchman. He’ll be worse now than ever. If I’d known what a regular out-and-out scamp he was, I don’t know that I would have licked him. It’s some satisfaction to lick a fellow with some good in him, but it don’t help a chap like that a bit,—it only makes him worse.”

“That’s so!” cried Chap. “A thrashing only packs his villany, and rams down his—his—bloody intentions. We must look out for him, boys, and consider ourselves in a regular state of siege. Every approach must be guarded. I’ll get my folks to let me stay here now. It’s absolutely necessary. Mother asked me to get her some summer apples this afternoon, and I couldn’t come over as soon as I wanted to. But I tell you I climbed that tree with a spy-glass in one hand, and I kept a lookout on the wreck. I wasn’t going to let Emily get ahead of me because I had to stay at home a little while. But things will be worse now, boys, and we must stick to our posts.”

CHAPTER XV.
THE FIRE ON THE THOMAS WISTAR.

When Mr. Welford heard Phil’s story the next morning he looked very grave. He was not altogether surprised at the news, because he had known there was a mortgage upon the property, and, as he remarked to Phil,—

“If a man disappears suddenly and leaves affairs of that kind behind him, he may expect trouble. I am not a lawyer, nor have I full knowledge of your uncle’s business, but I know that for some time he has been making arrangements to satisfy all claims against him, and, among other things, to relieve his property of this mortgage, which was intended to be a temporary thing, and was given to satisfy old Touron, who insisted, as soon as your grandfather died, upon having his claim against your uncle secured in this way. I would have expected Touron to foreclose the mortgage if he had a legal chance, which I suppose he has.”

“But why should he do it just at this time?” asked poor Phil.

“That shows his talent for business,” said Mr. Welford. “What he wants is not his money, but Hyson Hall. And, having heard that your uncle is away, he sends his son here to see if his absence is likely to continue for any considerable time. Such a condition of affairs would be of great advantage to him. If your uncle were here, he might pay whatever interest or part of the principal was due, and so stop proceedings.”

“How could Mr. Touron have heard that my uncle had gone away?”

“He lives in New York, and such news could readily travel that far. Old Touron keeps a sharp lookout on his debtors. I never met his son, but I know he has spent most of his life in France, where, of late, he has been acting as his father’s business agent. I’ve no doubt he is a sharp fellow.”

“I know he is,” said Philip. “He is in town now. He left us yesterday.”

“Then I believe I saw him,” said Mr. Welford. “Has he dark hair and eyes, and a very small moustache? And is he rather taller than you?”

“That’s like him,” said Phil.

“Then I saw him in Mr. Markle’s office, where I stopped for a moment this morning. He is probably engaging Markle to attend to the matter.”

“That looks very badly, does it not, sir?” said Phil, with a little huskiness in his voice.

Mr. Welford had much more sympathy for his visitor than when he came to him in regard to the trouble with Susan. This was something of an entirely different nature.

“It does look badly, my boy,” he said, “but you must not despair. I have no authority to attend to this affair; but your uncle is my friend, and I’ll take it upon myself to see a lawyer, and have the property protected, if possible. One thing you must remember. If you can in any way find out where your uncle is, you must do it, and let him know how things are going on. His presence here is more important than anything else.”

“I do wish that I had the slightest idea where he is!” exclaimed Phil. “All that I can find out is that he walked away with a knapsack on his back.”

“In that way he has travelled long distances,” said Mr. Welford. “But he may be crossing the Atlantic now for all we know. Of one thing we may be certain, your uncle has not run away from his debts. He is an honorable man.”

“I know that,” said Phil, warmly.

“Yes,” continued Mr. Welford. “He is undoubtedly careless, and his mind is occupied with too many things; but he is not dishonorable. And now, my boy, go home, and make yourself as easy as you can. I’ll find out how things are going on, and let you know. By the way, how did you manage that affair with the housekeeper? Have you discharged her?”

“Oh, no, sir!” said Phil. “That’s all right. We’re good friends again.”

“I am very glad to hear it,” said Mr. Welford. “That looks as if you were getting into the right way.”

And he laid his hand on Phil’s shoulder, which was a good deal for Mr. Welford to do for any boy.

When Phil left the banker’s office he made up his mind that his great duty was to find his uncle. This was the only thing that he could even try to do now; but how to set about it he did not know.

As he rode away, he saw a crowd of people running down towards the river-front of the town. He stopped a boy, and asked him what was the matter.

“The Thomas Wistar’s afire!” said the boy, as he scampered off.

Phil knew the Thomas Wistar very well. She was a large steamboat, which had run upon the river for many years. She was once a passenger-boat, but lately had been used to carry freight. At any other time he would have hurried down to the river with the crowd; but just now he felt that this was not the time for him to be going to fires. He must hasten home. Perhaps his uncle might be there.

He had not gone half a mile before he saw two men in a wagon driving rapidly towards him. Just as he reached them they turned into a crossroad which led down to the river. One of them called back to him,—

“There’s a boat on fire, floating down the river!”

Phil looked over the fields and could see the heavy black smoke in the direction of the river. Still he did not follow the men, but pushed on towards home faster than before.

“If she’s floating down the river,” he thought, “I can see her from our house.”

The road from Boontown to Hyson Hall was half a mile back from the river, and on his way Phil could get no view of the conflagration, but, as he looked back, he sometimes saw the smoke, which never seemed to be far behind him.

“She’s coming down pretty fast,” he thought.

“The Thomas Wistar is afire!” he said to Joel, when he dismounted at the barn.

“There’s none of my property on board,” remarked Joel, as he took Jouncer’s bridle and led him to the stable.

Hurrying to the house, Phil met Jenny, who told him that Chap Webster and Phœnix Poole had been there, and had gone down to the river.

Phil ran round the house and over the fields to the water. He found Chap and Phœnix in the scow, which they had poled to some distance from the shore, and had anchored over the place where Phœnix had found the side of a ship.

Apparently, they had not been diving, and were now standing in the scow looking at the burning steamer, not half a mile away.

“What boat is it?” shouted Chap, as Phil appeared on the shore. “We can’t make her out.”

“The Thomas Wistar,” cried Phil. “Come ashore for me!”

There was a small row-boat fastened to the scow, and into this Phœnix jumped and ferried Phil over to the scow.

“I brought our little boat down,” said Chap, “because I didn’t know but the scow might be aground, and I want to see what I can find out about this thing before the war opens. I hope nobody is aboard the Wistar. She looks as if she was bound to burn up.”

The burning steamboat, which was coming down the river with the wind and the tide, presented a grand spectacle. Great clouds of black smoke arose from her, which, every now and then, were lighted up by flashes of flame.

The wind was a little behind her, on her port side, and as she floated down, turned partly sideways to the current, it blew the heavy clouds of smoke in front of her, sometimes almost concealing her bow and paddle-wheels from view.

The fire, which broke out as she lay at her wharf that morning, had got beyond control, and she had been cut loose and set adrift for fear that, on account of the high wind, the fire might spread to other vessels, and to the buildings on the river-front.

“I don’t believe anybody is aboard of her,” said Phil. “There must have been time for all hands to get off. If any people were on her there’d be boats coming down to take them off.”

“There isn’t any steamboat in town, except the old tub of a ferry-boat,” said Chap, “and they’d be afraid to bring her anywhere near, for fear she’d take fire herself.”

“I wonder how far she’ll float down the river,” said Phœnix, “before she burns to the water’s edge and sinks?”

“Give it up,” said Chap. “But I tell you what it is, boys, this would have been a gorgeous show at night. We could have seen the blaze better then, and the sky and the water would have been lighted up for miles. It would have gone ahead of any fireworks we ever saw.”

“If they had only known you wanted a show,” said Phœnix, “they might have smothered the fire and put off the display till night.”

“Phœnix,” said Chap, “don’t get in the way of making fun of people. It’s sometimes worse than thrashing ’em. But she does look grand, doesn’t she, boys?”

The Thomas Wistar was now approaching quite near, and although she was well out in the river, the boys fancied they could feel the heat from her, for the wind was blowing somewhat in their direction.

When she was nearly opposite to them, they could see her stern, which before had been obscured by the clouds of smoke which rolled in front of her, and it was evident that so far the fire had not extended to that portion of the vessel. The strong wind blew sparks, smoke, and flame all forward.

“Boys,” cried Phil, “let’s row up to her! There may be somebody on board of her!”

“There isn’t anybody on her,” said Chap, “or they’d be on deck.”

“We can go up close and shout,” said Phil. “There might be somebody below. There isn’t any danger if we keep behind the fire. Come along!”

And he jumped into the row-boat.

Without another word the two boys tumbled in after him, and, untying the rope which held them to the scow, Chap seized the oars and rowed out to the burning steamboat.

CHAPTER XVI.
SPATTERDOCK POINT.

The three boys in the boat soon reached the stern of the burning steamboat. Here the wind kept them entirely free from smoke and sparks, and they rowed several times around the stern, shouting loudly, so as to attract the attention of any one who might be on board.

But no answer came to them, and they saw no signs of any living being on the vessel. The tide carried them along with the steamboat, but the wind had so much influence on the larger craft that Chap had to row quite steadily to keep up with her.

Phil, who was forward, threw the rope of the small boat over the chain on the rudder of the steamboat, and held fast.

“Look out!” cried Chap, as he turned around. “We don’t want to go down with her if she sinks!”

“You needn’t be afraid of that,” replied Phil; “I’ll let go in time.”

“She’s not going to be in any hurry to sink,” said Phœnix. “The fire is all forward and in her upper works; but there’s no use in hanging on to her, there’s nobody on board.”

“Boys,” cried Phil, “this chain is loose at the other end! We’re pulling it out. The pilot-house and wheel must be all burnt up.”

“Let’s pull the whole of it out!” cried Chap. “We might as well save something from the fire. We could use the chain in our work on the wreck.”

“We couldn’t get it loose from the rudder,” said Phil, “and it wouldn’t be ours if we did save it.”

“It’s a great pity,” said Phœnix, “that this big steamboat should burn up, and everything be lost. There are people on the shore on the other side, and the folks are coming over the field on our side, but none of them can do any good.”

“Nothing could do any good,” said Chap, “except a steamboat with a fire-engine on board. It would be no use for any other kind of boat to come near her.”

“If she would only drift ashore,” said Phœnix, “it would be better than her sinking out here.”

“The current is so strong it keeps her out,” said Chap. “If the tide wasn’t running down so hard the wind would blow her in on our side.”

“If we could get this rudder round,” said Phil, “and keep it hard up, I believe the wind would take her in shore.”

“Yes,” said Chap; “but how are you going to do it? You couldn’t push a rudder around and make it fast.”

“Boys,” cried Phil, “let’s go aboard! There isn’t any danger, and if we can find a tiller up there we can ship it, and perhaps we can steer the old Wistar in shore.”

“But how would you get up?” asked Phœnix.

“If we stand up in the bow we can reach that little window,” said Phil. “If somebody below would give us a boost then we could throw up one hand and get hold of the railings. After that it would all be easy enough.”

“But who is going to boost the last fellow?” asked Chap.

“One of us ought to stay in the boat anyway,” said Phil, “to row around and pick us up if we have to jump overboard.”

“You talk as if you were going, anyway,” said Chap.

“I’d like to,” answered Phil; “and suppose, Chap, you stay in the boat. You can boost better than any of us, because you are so tall.”

“All right!” said Chap. “I suppose somebody ought to stay in the boat.”

“It will be a ticklish job,” remarked Phœnix, as he took off his coat. “But I guess we’ll try it.”

Chap now stood up in the boat, balancing himself as carefully as he could, and when Phil had taken hold of the window-sill, which he could just reach, Chap gave him a lift which enabled him, at the first grasp, to seize the railing of the lower deck.

For a moment he dangled there, looking into the window. He could see nothing, for there were goods piled up inside. Then he got one foot on the window-sill, and scrambled on board.

Phœnix found the feat more difficult. His first trouble was that he could not reach the window-sill. Chap offered to lift him bodily, but Phœnix objected.

“If I haven’t got hold of something above,” he said, “we’ll go over, boat and all.”

Then Chap hauled out an old box from under the stern, and set it upon one of the seats. On this Phœnix cautiously mounted, and reached the window-sill. Then Chap attempted to boost him, but Phœnix was so heavy that he found it no easy thing to do.

On his first attempt his vigorous efforts nearly upset the boat, but he succeeded at last, and when Phœnix got hold of the railing he very quickly hauled himself up.

He found Phil hard at work untying a tiller which had been made fast on one side of the deck.

“Get that other end loose,” cried Phil, “and we’ll ship her in a minute.”

The boys quickly unfastened the tiller, and then they ran it into one of the square holes in the end of the rudder-post, which projected above the lower deck on which they stood.

“Now, pull around!” cried Phil. “Push her over towards the wind!”

Phil had frequently been out with his uncle in a sail-boat, and had some pretty clear ideas about navigation. The boys pushed against the end of the tiller with all their force, and gradually it moved around. The smoke rolled up from the forward part of the vessel, the sparks flew far ahead; but there was no heat at the stern of the boat, and the boys did not believe that there was any fire beneath them.

“Hurrah!” cried Chap, from below. “She’s going around a little! Stick to her, boys, and hold her hard. If it’s too much for you, I’ll get aboard and help.”

“Don’t you do it!” shouted Phil. “We want that boat to be ready for us. Don’t you leave her, Chap.”

“All right!” shouted Chap. “Put her round harder yet, boys, and hold her.”

The Thomas Wistar, now held by her rudder, was being gradually turned by the wind, so that her bow was directed towards the Hyson Hall side of the river. The breeze was still on one side of her, but more astern than it had been, and it was evident that if the rudder could be held in its present position she would, before long, be blown in shore; but whether or not Phil and Phœnix could remain aboard long enough for this to happen was a question both to them and to Chap, who kept an anxious watch on them from below. Even now, for aught any of them knew, the fire might be spreading beneath them.

“I do believe,” said Phil, “that this deck is beginning to feel hot under my feet.”

“I guess it’s because you’re so hot yourself,” said Phœnix. “We’d see smoke coming out of some of the cracks if the fire was getting under us.”

There was no doubt, however, that the fire was approaching the stern of the vessel. The wind was not blowing so hard as it had been, and whenever there was a partial lull in it the boys would feel great puffs of heat, and clouds of smoke would gather over them; then, when the breeze freshened again, the heat and the smoke would be blown away, and they could breathe freer. They could see people on shore, who were shouting to them, but the fire made such a roaring noise they could not hear what was said.

“Lash that tiller to the railings and come off!” shouted Chap, who kept his boat quite near them. “The fire will spread to the stern before you know it, and the whole thing will blaze up in a flash. Come off, I tell you, if you don’t want to be cooked alive.”

“I wish we could find a piece of rope,” said Phil, “and we’d tie this tiller fast, and get off.”

“I believe we chucked those bits overboard when we cut the tiller loose,” said Phœnix, “for I can’t see them; but they weren’t strong enough, anyway.”

“It will take a pretty stout rope to hold this tiller,” said Phil.

He was right, for every muscle of the boys was strained to keep the rudder in its position. If it had not been for the great strength of Phœnix, it is probable that they could not have done it.

The wind now seemed to have shifted, for a sudden cloud of smoke was blown right over the stern of the boat. In ten seconds more the boys would have let go the tiller and jumped overboard, but the smoke was blown away again, and they stood to their work.

“I hate to give it up now,” said Phil. “We must be going in, for the shore is getting nearer and nearer.”

Chap, who kept steadfastly on the windward side of the steamboat, and as near as possible to his friends, had been about to shout when the last puff of smoke came over them, that if they didn’t come off he would come on board and pitch them off, but suddenly changed his tune. He had fallen a little astern, and glancing shoreward, had pulled his boat to the other side of the Wistar, where he could see both the shore and her bow. Pulling back to the boys, he shouted,—

“Stick to her! Stick to her! She’s heading splendidly for Spatterdock Point! She’ll be aground in a minute!”

This encouragement came none too soon. The air was getting decidedly hot around the boys, and the sides of the saloon cabin, which rose before them and prevented their seeing the fire, were beginning to smoke. This was not certainly a sign of immediate danger, for the cabin was probably filled with smoke, which was escaping from the cracks around the windows, which, fortunately, were all closed.

Phœnix had just been on the point of proposing that they should get out of this thing as quickly as they could, when Chap’s words came, and he forbore.

The eyes of the boys smarted with smoke and heat, and their backs and legs began to ache with the great strain of holding that swashing rudder. If the boat had been going faster through the water they could not have done it.

But their hearts held out, and if they were nearing the shore they would not give out just yet.

Directly, there was a gentle jar, which ran from the bow to the stern, and which the boys distinctly felt beneath their feet.

“The bow has touched!” shouted Phil. “Now put the rudder round and let the wind blow her stern in shore.”

With renewed vigor the boys pushed the end of the tiller to the other side of the deck, and, as Phil had said, the wind slowly blew the stern of the boat shoreward.

“She’s all right now!” cried Phil. “Let her go and skip.”

Whereupon they skipped.

Over the railings and down the side of the steamboat they went, sliding or dropping, they scarcely knew which, and if Chap had not been ready with his boat, they would both have gone into the water. There was no more danger than there had been a few minutes before, but the moment their work was done a panic had seized them, and they felt they could not get away from that steamboat too soon.

“If you fellows had fallen into the water,” said Chap, as he hurriedly pulled ashore, “you would have taken your deaths of cold, for I never saw you look so hot.”

By the time the Wistar had been blown ashore, there was a little crowd of people on the beach. Some of them had followed the burning steamboat for some distance, and had run over the fields to the river when they saw her coming in. Even Joel’s apathy had yielded to the general excitement, and he waded into the water and pulled in the bow of the boys’ boat before it touched the sand.

“If ever there was a pair of boys,” he said, addressing the red-faced Phil and Phœnix, “as wanted a gar-deen, it’s you two. If your uncle had seen you aboard that bonfire,” he continued, addressing Phil, “he’d ’a’ gone wild.”

Neither Phil nor Phœnix made any reply to this remark, but walking up the bank out of the way of the heat and the smoke, they sat down to watch the subsequent proceedings. For the present they felt as if they had done enough. Chap, however, rushed in among the people, hoping at last that he might be able to do something.

Now that the boat was securely aground in shallow water, and there was a good chance of their getting off if the fire came too near, the men on shore, who would not have dared to go near the blazing steamer when she was out in the river, showed a determination to do what they could to save at least a portion of the boat and cargo.

The boards were torn from a neighboring fence and placed from the shore to the lower deck of the Wistar, and up these slippery and very much inclined gang-planks several men quickly clambered. A heavy hawser which lay on deck was passed on shore, and the boat was made fast to a tree.

The forward part of the Thomas Wistar was now burned to the water’s edge, and although the freight in that part of the vessel was still burning, it was believed the fire did not now extend abaft the engine.

Late in the afternoon, a steam-tug from the city, which had been telegraphed for from Boontown, arrived, with a fire-engine on board, and the fire on the Thomas Wistar was soon extinguished.

Long before this event occurred, however, three very hungry boys went up to Hyson Hall to dinner.

CHAPTER XVII.
IN WHICH A COUNCIL IS HELD.

The next morning, when Chap Webster came over to Hyson Hall, he brought his sister Helen with him. Phœnix Poole was already there, for he was determined to make the best of the period of slack work on his father’s farm, and he arrived very early in the day.

“Mother sent me,” said Helen to Philip, “to see if you are getting on comfortably here, and if you needed anything we could do for you. She would have come herself, but she could not do so to-day because she had things to attend to which she could not very well leave.”

Mrs. Webster was a good lady, who never went away from her home except on Sunday, because she always had things to attend to which she could not very well leave.

“Mother thinks that men can’t get along in a house by themselves,” said Chap. “I don’t agree with her; but, if you want anything done in the way of buttons, or casting a general eye over dusty corners, Helen is just as good as she is.”

“Oh, I don’t need anything of that kind!” said Phil, laughing. “Susan attends to me first-rate. But it’s comfortable to have neighbors like your mother, who are kind enough to send to see how a fellow is getting along.”

“Another thing mother wants to know,” said Helen, “and that is if you really do want Chap to come and stay with you. He has been going on at a great rate, trying to make us think that something like a band of Indians was coming to attack the house, and that he ought to stay here to help you keep them from climbing in at the doors and windows.”

“People don’t climb in at doors,” said Chap.

“Well, they get in somehow,” said Helen.

“But do you really want him, Phil?”

“Not for that kind of thing,” said Phil; “but I should be very glad to have him come and stay with me till uncle comes back. And Phœnix, too,” he added.

“There’s no use talking about that,” said Phœnix. “It’s hard enough for me to get off in the daytime.”

“There’s only one difficulty in the way,” said Phil, coloring a little. “I don’t know that I’ll be able to feed any visitors. The money uncle left with Mr. Welford to keep this castle in running order has about given out——”

“Oh, pshaw!” said Chap, interrupting, “there’s always plenty of flour and butter and eggs and vegetables on a place like this; and if we want butcher’s meat and groceries, mother can send them over from our house, and call them my rations.”

“Uncle wouldn’t like that,” said Phil, “and we never run up any bills with the people in town.”

“At any rate,” said Chap, “if one fellow can get along here, two can. If that’s the only objection you have to my staying here, I’m going to stay. I don’t think you ought to be left alone.”

“Nor I, either,” said Phil; “and if I starve you, you can go home to your meals.”

“Well, then, I suppose everything is going on all right,” said Helen, “except the money, of course, and I’m sure there will be no trouble about that. Your uncle will remember that he didn’t leave you enough, and will send you some, if he doesn’t intend to come back soon.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Phil; “but everything else isn’t all right. I would like you all to hear a letter I got this morning, and then to tell me whether you think that it is all right or not. I suppose Chap has told you, Helen, about that Touron fellow that was here?”

“I believe Chap has told me everything that has happened here, and everything he knew about everything, and I hope he hasn’t told me more than he ought to.”

“Not if he didn’t draw too much on his imagination,” said Phil. “I knew he always told you everything, and I don’t mind a bit your knowing what is going on here. Now just listen, all of you, to this letter from Mr. Welford.”

Helen Webster, who had a very practical and business-like side to her character, sat straight up in the wicker chair which Phil had brought out on the porch for her, and prepared to give her earnest attention to all the details of Mr. Welford’s communication.

Chap stood up straight, with his hands in his pockets and a cloud on his brow. He had always had his doubts of that Welford, and was prepared to criticise whatever he might hear. Phœnix, who was a good hand at paying attention, but a poor one to talk, sat on a bench, with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, and gazed steadfastly at Phil.

Mr. Welford’s letter read as follows:

“Master Philip Berkeley,—Sir——”

“He begins as stiff as a poker,” said Chap.

“And he stirred me up like a poker, too,” said Phil.

And then he read on:

“I have put the matter of the mortgage on Hyson Hall into the hands of Mr. John P. Harrison, who will see what can be done. In the mean time, I desire you to make every effort to find out your uncle’s whereabouts, and to acquaint him with the state of affairs. I shall put an advertisement into several newspapers, requesting him to return as soon as possible.”

“Your uncle won’t like that,” cried Chap. “I shouldn’t wonder if he thrashed old Welford as soon as he comes back.”

“Oh, Chap,” said Helen, “he wouldn’t do that!”

“No,” said Phil, “he won’t thrash him, but I know he won’t like it. But the worst part of the letter is to come.”

Phil then read:

“And now, sir, I have to say that I have received very discreditable accounts of you. I have been told, and have been assured that every word of the statements can be proved, that young Touron was shamefully treated at your uncle’s house. You attempted to shoot him with a gun, and he was afterwards dreadfully beaten by one of your comrades. Such conduct, sir, is outrageous and amazing. You are not only acting in an unlawful and ungentlemanly manner, but you are directly working against the most important interests of your uncle by injuring and exasperating the holders of the mortgage on his property, so that they will push their claims to the utmost limit. What action against you personally may be taken by the Tourons I do not know. If you get into trouble you must apply to Mr. Harrison. There is no more money subject to your order in my hands, and I wish to have no further communication with you.

“Henry G. Welford.”

“Upon—my—word!” exclaimed Chap. “A pretty gentleman! No ‘Yours truly,’ or even ‘Yours respectfully!’ I tell you what it is, Phil, I always believed that that Welford ought to have been put down in the beginning. What he wanted was the iron heel. It mightn’t have seemed to work at first, but he’d have crumbled before long. Look at Susan!”

“I think the letter is perfectly shameful,” said Helen, disregarding her brother’s remarks. “What dreadful stories that French boy must have told!”

“Indeed, he did,” said Phil, warmly. “I never tried to shoot him at all. I only took the gun from Susan, and I did not even raise it. If he hadn’t been such a coward he’d have seen that.”

“I wish I hadn’t licked him,” said Phœnix. “I didn’t think he’d cut up as rough as this.”

“Phil,” cried Chap, extending his right arm, as if he were addressing an audience, “if I were you I tell you what I’d do. I’d just go to this Welford and tell him that what Touron said was a lie from beginning to end——”

“But it wasn’t,” interrupted Phœnix.

“I’d tell him,” continued Chap, “that I hadn’t had the slightest idea of shooting him, for the stairs are so long I could easily have popped him before he got to the top if I had wanted to, and that I hadn’t anything to do with beating him, but that he deserved all he got, and that if my friend, Mr. Phœnix Poole, hadn’t thrashed him, I’d have done it myself. And if you don’t like to go and say all that, I’ll go and say it for you.”

“Now, Chap,” cried Helen, “don’t you be putting any such ideas into Phil’s head, and don’t you go near Mr. Welford yourself. You will only make matters worse.”

“And I am not going, either,” said Phil. “I should be sure to say something I ought not to. I think he has treated me outrageously!”

“It is the crudest thing I ever heard of,” said Helen. “He ought not to believe what the French boy said without hearing your side. But you are right in not going to see him now. It would only make a dreadful quarrel.”

“But I shall answer his letter,” said Phil, “and tell him what I think of it.”

“Please don’t,” said Helen, rising up and coming up to Phil,—“not while you are so angry. If Mr. Welford knew just how things were, he’d think very differently. But it won’t do any good to make him madder. Don’t one of you boys do a single thing till I have seen mother and told her all about it. She used to know Mr. Welford very well, and she’ll tell us what ought to be done. And now, if there isn’t anything I can do for you, it is time for me to go. Mother said Chap could stay with you if you really wanted him, and I don’t believe there will be any trouble about your not having things to eat. There’s always lots of things on a place like this, and Chap isn’t particular, and mother will send some pies, and anything else you don’t happen to have.”