Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Beginners Projects, Mary Meehan, and

the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

THE BUCCANEER FARMER

BY HAROLD BINDLOSS

1918

PUBLISHED IN ENGLAND UNDER THE TITLE "ASKEW'S VICTORY"

CONTENTS

PART I—AT ASHNESS

CHAPTER

I THE LEASE

II THE OTTER HOUNDS

III A COUNCIL OF DEFENSE

IV THE PEAT CUTTERS

V RAILTON'S TALLY

VI BLEATARN GHYLL

VII THE RECKONING

VIII GRACE FINDS A WAY

IX THE PLAN WORKS

X JANET MEDDLES

XI OSBORN'S PRIDE GETS HURT

XII OSBORN INTERFERES

PART II—ON THE CARIBBEAN

I THE OLD BUCCANEER

II THE PRESIDIO

III THE GOLD ONZA

IV THE PRESIDENT'S BALL

V OLSEN'S OFFER

VI THE PRESIDENT'S WATCHERS

VII ADAM RESUMES CONTROL

VIII THE MANGROVE SWAMP

IX ADAM'S LAST REQUEST

X THE ROAD TO THE MISSION

XI KIT KEEPS HIS PROMISE

XII THE LAST CARGO

PART III—KIT'S RETURN

I KIT'S WELCOME

II A DANGEROUS TALENT

III THE HORSE SHOW

IV THE FLOOD

V KIT TELLS A STORY

VI THORN MAKES A PLAN

VII GERALD'S RETURN

VIII GRACE'S CONFIDENCE

IX KIT GOES TO THE RESCUE

X GRACE'S CHOICE

XI OSBORN'S SURRENDER

PART I—AT ASHNESS

CHAPTER I

THE LEASE

The morning was bright after heavy rain, and when Osborn looked out of the library window a warm, south-west breeze shook the larches about Tarnside Hall. Now and then a shadow sped across the tarn, darkening the ripples that sparkled like silver when the cloud drove on. Osborn frowned, for he had meant to go fishing and it was a morning when the big, shy trout would rise. His game-keeper was waiting at the boathouse, but the postman had brought some letters that made him put off his sport.

This was annoying, because Osborn hated to be balked and seldom allowed anything to interfere with his amusements. One letter, from a housemaster at a famous public school, covered a number of bills, which, the writer stated somewhat curtly, ought to have been paid. Another announced that Hayes, the agent for the estate, and a tenant would wait upon Osborn, who knew what they meant to talk about. He admitted that a landlord had duties, but his generally demanded attention at an inconvenient time.

Osborn was fifty years of age. He had a ruddy skin and well-proportioned figure, and was, physically, a rather fine example of the sporting country gentleman. For all that, there were lines on his forehead and wrinkles about his eyes; his mouth was loose and sensual, and something about him hinted at indulgence. His manner, as a rule, was abrupt and often overbearing.

The library was spacious, the furniture in good taste but getting shabby. In fact, a certain look of age and shabbiness was typical of the house. Although the windows were open, the room had a damp smell, and the rows of books that Osborn never read were touched with mildew. Rain was plentiful in the north-country dale, coal was dear, and Mrs. Osborn was forced to study economy, partly because her husband would not.

By and by Osborn turned his glance from the window and fixed it on his son, who stood waiting across the big oak table. Gerald was a handsome lad, like his father, but marked by a certain refinement and a hint of delicacy. Although he felt anxious, his pose was free and graceful and his look undisturbed. Osborn threw the bills on the table.

"This kind of thing must stop," he said. "I haven't grumbled much, perhaps not as much as I ought, about your extravagance, but only a fool imagines he can spend more than he has got."

"We have had such fools in our family," the boy remarked, and stopped when he saw Osborn's color rise.

"It's a pity it's true," the latter agreed, with a patience he did not often use. "I'm paying for it now and you will pay a higher price, if you go on as you promise. You must pull up; I've done enough and am getting tired of self-denial."

Gerald's smile faded. He had inherited his extravagance from his father, but felt he must be cautious, although Osborn sometimes showed him a forbearance he used to nobody else.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said. "Perhaps I was extravagant, but if you don't want to be an outsider, you must do like the rest, and I understood you expected me to make friends among our own set. We can't be shabby."

He struck the right note, for Osborn was not clever and perhaps his strongest characteristic was his exaggerated family pride.

"You had enough and I paid your debts not long since," he said. "In fact, you have had more than your share, with the consequence that Grace gets less than hers." He knitted his brows as he indicated the house-master's curt letter. "Then, you have given a stranger an opportunity for writing to me like this."

Gerald, knowing his father's humor, saw he was getting on dangerous ground.

"Brown's a dry old prig, sir. Nothing sporting about him; he's hardly a gentleman."

Osborn was seldom logical and now his annoyance was rather concentrated on the master who had written to him with jarring frankness than on the extravagant lad.

"His letter implies it," he agreed and then pulled himself up. Gerald was clever and no doubt meant to divert his thoughts. "After all, this doesn't matter," he went on. "I'll pay these bills, but if you get into debt at Woolwich, you had better not come home. I have enough trouble about money, and your allowance is going to be a strain. There's another thing: Carter, who hasn't had your advantages, got in as a prize cadet."

Gerald smiled. "He hasn't got his commission. Old Harry means well, but he's not our sort, and these plodding, cramming fellows seldom make good officers."

"An officer must pay his mess bills, whether he's good or bad," Osborn rejoined. "If you go into the Horse Artillery, there won't be much money left when you have settled yours, so it might be prudent to begin some self-denial now. Anyhow, if you get into debt again, you know the consequences."

He raised his hand in dismissal and walked to the window when the lad went out. He had not taken the line he meant to take, but Gerald often, so to speak, eluded him. The lad had a way of hinting that they understood one another and Osborn vaguely suspected that he worked upon his prejudices; but he was a sportsman. He had pluck and knew what the Osborn traditions demanded. In fact, Gerald might go far, if he went straight.

Then Osborn thought he needed a drink, and after ringing a bell he sat down by the window with the tray and glass a servant brought. It was significant that he had given no order; the servants knew what the bell meant. When he had drained the glass he vacantly looked out. Boggy pasture and stony cornfields ran back from the tarn. Here and there a white farmstead, surrounded by stunted trees, stood at the hill foot; farther back a waterfall seamed the rocks and yellow grass with threads of foam; and then a lofty moor, red with heather, shut off the view.

The land was poor at the dale head, but there was better below, where the hills dropped down to the flat country, and, with the exception of Ashness farm, all was Osborn's, from Force Crag, where the beck plunged from the moor, to the rich bottoms round Allerby mill. Unfortunately, the estate was encumbered when he inherited it, and he had paid off one mortgage by raising another. He might perhaps have used other means, letting his sporting rights and using economy, but this would have jarred. The only Osborn who bothered about money was his wife, and Alice was parsimonious enough for both. Money was certainly what his agent called tight; but as long as he could give his friends some shooting and a good dinner and live as an Osborn ought to live, he was satisfied. Still, Gerald must have his chance at Woolwich and this needed thought. Osborn felt he would like another drink, but glanced at his watch and saw that his visitors would arrive in a few minutes.

They were punctual and Osborn got up when his agent and another man came in. Hayes was tall, urbane, and dressed with rather fastidious neatness; Bell was round-shouldered and shabby. He had a weather-beaten skin, gray hair, and small, cunning eyes. Osborn indicated chairs and sat down at the top of the big table. He disliked business and knew the others meant to persuade him to do something he would sooner leave alone. This would have been impossible had he not needed money.

"Mr. Bell wishes to know if his tender for the Slate Company's haulage is approved," Hayes began. "His traction engine is suited for the work and he is prepared to buy a trailer lurry, which we would find useful in the dale. Mechanical transport would be a public advantage on our hilly roads."

"It needs a good horse to bring half a load from station," Bell interposed. "T'lurry would move as much in yan day as farmers' carts in four."

Osborn agreed. He was not much of an economist, but it was obvious that time and labor were wasted when a farmer took a few sacks of potatoes to the railway and another a sack of wool. There was no difficulty about the tender, because Osborn was chairman of the small Slate Company; the trouble was that the contract would help Bell to carry out another plan. The fellow was greedy, and was getting a rather dangerous control; he had already a lease of the limekilns and Allerby mill. But his rents were regularly paid, and it was an advantage to deal with one prosperous tenant instead of several who had not his punctuality and capital.

"The trailer would be useful if you decided to make the new terrace you thought about," Hayes suggested. "The cost of carting the gravel and the slabs for the wall would be heavy; but I have no doubt Mr. Bell would undertake the work with the trailer on very reasonable terms."

"I might forget to send in t' bill. Yan good turn deserves another,"
Bell remarked.

Hayes frowned. He had meant to imply something like this, but Bell was too blunt. For all that, Osborn was not very fastidious and had long meant to make the terrace when funds permitted. In fact, he hardly saw the thing as a bribe; it was rather a graceful recognition of his authority.

"Very well," he said, "I'll sign the contract."

"There is another matter," Hayes resumed. "Mr. Bell is willing to take up Harkness' tenancy of the coal yard and seed store at the station. He hopes you will grant him a long lease."

Osborn pondered. Harkness had been drunken, careless, and often behind with his rent. He had let his business fall away and it was understood that Bell, who managed the opposition coal yard, had lent him small sums and until recently kept him on his feet. This was not because Bell was charitable, but because if Harkness came down while he had any trade left, a capable rival might take his place. In the meantime, his customers gradually went to Bell, and now Harkness had failed there was no business to attract a newcomer.

"I don't know," said Osborn, "I had thought of advertising the yard and store."

"You'll get nobody to pay what I'm offering," Bell replied. "A stranger would want to see Harkness' books and there's nowt in them as would tempt him to pay a decent rent. Then, with trailer going back from station, I could beat him on the haulage up the dale. He'd niver get his money back if he bowt an engine like mine."

This was plausible, but Osborn hesitated. He saw that Bell wanted a monopoly and had a vague notion that he ought to protect his tenants.

"It's sometimes an advantage to have two traders in a place," he remarked. "A certain amount of competition is healthy."

"I don't know if it would be an advantage to the estate, and imagine you would not get a tenant to pay what Bell offers," Hayes replied. "Besides, rival traders sometimes agree to keep up prices, and competition does not always make things cheap."

"That's one of the ridiculous arguments people who want the Government to manage everything sometimes use," said Osborn with a scornful gesture.

Hayes smiled, "It is very well known that I am not an advocate of State ownership. All the same, unnecessary competition would be wasteful in the dale. For example, if you have two tenants at the station, the farmers who deal with the new man must use their carts, each coming separately for the small load a horse can take up Redmire bank, while Bell's trailer, after bringing down the slate, would go back empty. Then I hear some talk about a fresh appeal to the council to make the loop road round the hill."

For a moment or two Osborn did not answer. Redmire bank was an obstacle to horse traffic, and the road surveyor had plans for easing the gradient that would necessitate cutting down a wood where Osborn's pheasants found shelter. He had refused permission, and the matter had been dropped; but, if the farmers insisted, the council might be forced to use their powers. He was obstinate, and did not mean to let them have the wood unless he could get his price.

"You know my opinion about that?" he said.

"Yes," said Hayes; "I imagine it would be prudent not to have the matter brought up. However, if Bell can send back his lurry full, the economy is plain. It will enable him to sell his coal and seed at a moderate price and pay a higher rent."

"That's so," Osborn agreed, and knitted his brows.

He doubted if Bell would give his customers the benefit of the cheaper haulage, but the advantage of getting a higher rent was obvious. Osborn knew he was being persuaded to do a shabby thing and hesitated. Money, however, was needed and must be got.

"Very well," he said, "Mr. Bell can have the lease."

They talked about something else, and when Osborn went fishing after the others left the wind had dropped, the sun was bright, and the trout would not rise. He felt rather injured, because he had paid for his attention to duty, when he joined his wife and daughter at tea on the lawn.

A copper beech threw a cool shadow across the small table and basket chairs; the china and silver were old and good. Beyond the belt of wavering shade, the recently mown grass gave out a moist smell in the hot sun. The grass grew fine and close, for the turf was old, but there were patches of ugly weeds. The borders by the house were thinly planted and the color plan was rude, but one could not do much with a rheumatic gardener and a boy. There used to be two men, but Mrs. Osborn had insisted on cutting wages down.

Across the yew hedge, the tarn sparkled like a mirror and on its farther side, where a clump of dark pines overhung a beach of silver sand, the hillslopes shone with yellow grass, relieved by the green of fern and belts of moss. The spot was picturesque; the old house, with its low, straight front and mullioned windows, round which creepers grew, had a touch of quiet beauty. Osborn was proud of Tarnside, although he sometimes chafed because he had not enough money to care for it as he ought.

By and by he glanced at his wife, who had silently filled the cups and was cutting cake. She was a thin, quiet woman, with a hint of reserve in her delicately molded face. Sometimes she tactfully exercised a restraining influence, but for the most part acquiesced, for she had found out, soon after her marriage, that her husband must not be opposed.

Grace, who sat opposite, had recently come home from school, and was marked by an independence somewhat unusual at Tarnside. She argued with Osborn and was firm when he got angry. Then she had a fresh enthusiasm for change and improvement and a generous faith in what she thought was good. Since Osborn was obstinately conventional, this sometimes led to jars.

"After all, I'm going to have the terrace made," he remarked, and waited for his wife's approval.

"Is it prudent?" she asked hesitatingly. "If I remember, you thought the work would cost too much when we talked about it last."

"It will cost very little. In fact, I imagine the haulage of the gravel and the slabs for the wall will cost nothing," Osborn replied. "Bell has promised to bring me all the stuff we'll need with his new trailer."

"Oh," said Grace, rather sharply, "I suppose this means you have given him the lease of the station coal yard? No doubt he offered to bring the gravel before you agreed. He's cunning and knew you wanted the terrace."

"I can't remember if he offered before or afterwards," Osborn replied, with a touch of embarrassment. "Anyhow, I don't think it's important, because I did not allow his offer to persuade me. For all that, it's some satisfaction to get the work done cheap."

Grace pondered. She was intelligent; contact with her school companions had developed her character, and she had begun to understand Osborn since she came home. She knew he was easily deceived and sometimes half-consciously deceived himself.

"No," she said, "I don't think the work will really be cheap. It's often expensive to take a favor from a man like Bell. He will find a means of making you pay."

"Ridiculous! Bell can't make me pay."

"Then he will make somebody else pay for what he does for you, and it's hardly honest to let him," Grace insisted.

Mrs. Osborn gave her a warning glance and Osborn's face got red.

"It's a new thing for a young girl to criticize her father. This is what comes of indulging your mother and making some sacrifice to send you to an expensive modern school! If I'd had my way, you would have gone to another, where they teach the old-fashioned virtues: modesty, obedience, and respect for parents."

Grace smiled, because she knew the school Osborn meant and the type it produced. She was grateful to her mother for a better start.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, but with a hint of resolution. "I don't want to criticize, but Bell is greedy and cunning, and now he has got both coal yards will charge the farmers more than he ought. He has already got too large a share of all the business that is done in the dale."

"It's obvious that you have learned less than you think," Osborn rejoined, feeling that he was on safer ground. "You don't seem to understand that concentration means economy. Bell, for example, buys and stores his goods in large quantities, instead of handling a number of small lots at different times, which would cost him more."

"I can see that," Grace admitted, "But I imagine he will keep all he saves. You know the farmers are grumbling about his charges."

Osborn frowned. "You talk too much to the farm people; I don't like it. You can be polite, but I want you to remember they are my tenants, and not to sympathize with their imaginary grievances. They're a grumbling lot, but will keep their places if you leave them alone."

He got up abruptly and when he went off across the lawn Mrs. Osborn gave the girl a reproachful glance.

"You are very rash, my dear. On the whole, your father was remarkably patient."

Grace laughed, a rather strained laugh, as Osborn's angry voice rose from behind a shrubbery.

"He isn't patient now, and I'm afraid Jackson is paying for my fault. However, I really think I was patient, too. To talk about people keeping their places is ridiculous; in fact, it's piffle! Father's notions are horribly out of date. One wonders he doesn't know."

"Things change. Perhaps we don't quite realize this when we are getting old. But you mustn't argue with your father. He doesn't like it, and when he's annoyed everybody suffers."

"It's true; but how illogical!" Grace remarked, and mused while she looked dreamily across the grass.

She was romantic and generous, and had learned something about social economy at the famous school; in fact, Osborn would have been startled had he suspected how much she knew. Nevertheless, she was young; her studies were half digested, and her theories crude. She had come home with a vague notion of playing the part of Lady Bountiful and putting things right, but had got a jar soon after she began. Her father's idea of justice was elementary: he resented her meddling, and was sometimes tyrannical. When it was obvious that he had taken an improper line he blamed his agent; but perhaps the worst was he seldom knew when he was wrong. Then the agent's main object was to extort as much money from the tenants as possible.

Grace did not see what she could do, although she felt that something ought to be done. She had a raw, undisciplined enthusiasm, and imagined that she was somehow responsible. Yet when she tried to use some influence her father got savage and she felt hurt. Well, she must try to be patient and tactful. While she meditated, Mrs. Osborn got up, and they went back to the house.

CHAPTER II

THE OTTER HOUNDS

Grace's tweed dress was wet and rather muddy when she stood with Gerald on a gravel bank at the head of a pool, where the beck from the tarn joined a larger stream that flowed through a neighboring dale. There had been some rain and the water was stained a warm claret-color by the peat. Bright sunshine pierced the tossing alder branches, and the rapid close by sparkled between belts of moving shade. Large white dogs with black and yellow spots swam uncertainly about the pool and searched the bank; a group of men stood in the rapid, while another group watched the tail of the pool. Somewhere between them a hard-pressed otter hid.

A few of the men wore red coats and belonged to the hunt; the rest were shepherds and farmers whom custom entitled to join in the sport. All carried long iron-pointed poles and waited with keen expectation the reappearance of the otter. Grace was perhaps the only one to feel a touch of pity for the exhausted animal and she wondered whether this was not a sentimental weakness. There was not much to be said for the otter's right to live; it was stealthy, cruel, and horribly destructive, killing many more fish and moorhens than it could eat. Indeed, before she went to school, she had followed the hunt with pleasant excitement, and was now rather surprised to find the sport had lost its zest.

The odds against the otter were too great, although it had for some hours baffled men who knew the river, and well-trained dogs. It had stolen up shallow rapids, slipping between the watchers' legs, dived under swimming dogs, made bold dashes along the bank, and hidden in belts of reeds. Its capture had often looked certain and yet it had escaped. At first Grace had noticed the animal's confidence, beauty of form, and strength; but it had gradually got slack, hesitating, and limp. Now, when it lurked, half-drowned, in the depths of the pool while its pitiless enemies waited for it to come up to breathe, she began to wish it would get away.

Thorn, the master of the hounds, was talking to his huntsman not far off. He was a friend of Osborn's, and Grace had once thought him a dashing and accomplished man of the world, but had recently, for no obvious reason, felt antagonistic. Alan was not as clever as she had imagined; he was smart, sometimes cheaply smart, which was another thing. Then he was beginning to get fat, and she vaguely shrank from the way he now and then looked at her. On the whole, it was a relief to note that he was occupied.

For a few moments Grace let her eyes wander up the dale to the crags where the force leaped down from the red moor at Malton Head. Belts of dry bent-grass shone like gold and mossy patches glimmered luminously green. The fall looked like white lace drawn across the stones. A streak of mist touched the lofty crag, and above it a soft white cloud trailed across the sky. Then she turned as her brother spoke.

"Alan has given us a good hunt and means to make a kill. He's rather a selfish beast and a bit too sure of himself; but he runs the pack well and knows how to get the best out of life. No Woolwich and sweating as a snubbed subaltern for him! He stopped at home, saw his tenants farmed well, and shot his game. That's my notion of a country gentleman!"

"Father can look after Tarnside and a duty goes with owning land," Grace remarked. "A landlord who need not work ought to serve the State. That idea was perhaps the best thing in the feudal system and it's not altogether forgotten yet. Father was right when he decided to make you a soldier."

"He can send me to Woolwich, but after all that's as far as he can go. You're not at your best when you're improving," Gerald rejoined; and added with a grin, "You don't like old Alan, do you? I thought you snubbed him half an hour since."

Grace colored, but did not answer. She had hurt her foot by falling from a mossy boulder and Thorn had come to help as she floundered across a shallow pool. She was draggled and her hair was loose, and Thorn's faint amusement annoyed her. Somehow it hinted at familiarity. She would not have resented it once, for they had been friends; but when she came home and he had tried to renew the friendship she had noted a subtle difference. Alan was forty, but now she had left school the disparity of their ages was, in a sense, much less marked. Then a shout roused her and she looked round.

Where the smooth, brown water ran past the alder roots, a very small, dark object moved in advance of a faint, widening ripple. Grace knew it was the point of the otter's head; the animal's lungs were empty since it remained up so long. Next moment plunging dogs churned the pool into foam, the object vanished, and men ran along the bank to the lower rapid, while those already there beat the shallow with their poles. The dogs bunched together and began to swim up stream; Gerald and one or two more plunged into the water, and for a few moments the otter showed itself again.

It looked like a fish and not an animal as it broke the surface, rising in graceful leaps. Then it went down, with the dogs swimming hard close behind, and Grace thought it must be caught. It was being steadily driven to the lower end of the stopped rapid, where the water was scarcely a foot deep. The animal reappeared, plunging in and out among the shallows but forging up stream, and the men who meant to turn it back closed up. There was one at every yard across the belt of sparkling foam. They had spiked poles to beat the water and it seemed impossible that their victim could get past.

Yet the otter vanished, and for a minute or two there was silence, until the dogs rushed up the bank. Then somebody shouted, the huntsman blew his horn, and a small, wedge-shaped ripple trailed, very slowly across the next pool. The otter had somehow stolen past the watchers' legs and reached deep water, but its slowness told that its strength had gone. The dogs took the water with a splash, and Grace turned her head. She felt pitiful and did not want to see the end. The animal had made a gallant fight, and she shrank from the butchery.

The clatter of heavy boots on stones suddenly stopped; there was a curious pause, and Grace looked up as somebody shouted: "'Gone to holt! Ca' off your hounds. Wheer's t' terrier?"

The hunt swept up the bank, smashed through a hedge, and spread along the margin of the neighboring pool. A few big alders grew beside its edge, sending down their roots into deep water; but for the most part the bank was supported by timbers driven into the soil, and freshly laid with neatly-bedded turf. Grace knew this had been done to protect the meadow, because the stream is thrown against the concave side when a pool lies in a bend.

As she stopped at the broken hedge a man ran past carrying a small wet terrier, and two or three more came up with spades. The otter could not escape now, since the hounds would watch the underwater entrance to the cave among the alder roots, while the terrier would crawl down from the other side. If a hole could not be found, the men would dig. They were interrupted soon after they began, for somebody said, "Put down your spade, Tom. Hold the terrier."

Grace studied the man who had interfered. He was young and on the whole attractive. His face was honest and sunburned; he carried himself well, and was dressed rather neatly in knickerbockers and shooting jacket. She knew Christopher Askew was the son of a neighboring farmer, who owned his land. Then, as the men stopped digging, Thorn pushed past.

"What's this?" he asked haughtily. "Why have you meddled?"

Askew looked hard at him, but answered in a quiet voice, "It cost us some trouble to mend the bank, and if you dig out the otter the stream will soon make an ugly gap."

"Then it's a matter of the cost!" said Thorn. "How much?"

"Not altogether," Askew replied, coloring. "It's a matter of the damage the next flood may do. We had an awkward job to strengthen the bank and I'm not going to have it cut."

"Noo, Kit, dinna spoil sport," the old huntsman urged. "It's none a trick for a canny lad to cheat the hounds."

"Put terrier in an' niver mind him!" shouted another, and there were cries of approval.

"Stop digging, Tom," Askew said with quiet firmness. "Pick up the dog."

"We are wasting time," Thorn remarked. "I don't like bargaining; you had better state your price."

Grace, looking on across the broken hedge, sympathized with the farmer. For one thing, she wanted the otter to escape; besides, she approved the man's resolute quietness. He had pluck, since it was plain that he was taking an unpopular line, and he used some self-control, because Thorn's tone was strongly provocative. In fact, she thought Thorn was not at his best; he was not entitled to suggest that the other was trying to extort as much money as he could.

"No more do I like bargaining," Askew replied. "There will be no digging here. You have smashed the hedge, and that's enough. Call off your dogs."

"So you mean to spoil sport, even if the damage costs you nothing? I know your kind; it's getting common."

"Oh, no," said Askew. "I won't have the bank cut down, but that is all.
If you like, you can look for another otter on our part of the stream."

Thorn gave him a searching glance, and then, seeing he was resolute, shrugged contemptuously. The huntsman blew his horn, the dogs were drawn off, and Gerald followed the others across the field. Grace, however, sat down on a fallen tree to rest her foot and for a minute or two thought herself alone. Then she rose as Askew came through the gap in the hedge. He began to pull about the broken rails and thorns, but saw her when he looked up.

"They have left you behind, Miss Osborn," he remarked with a smile.

"I think I had enough; besides, I hurt my foot."

"Badly?"

"No," said Grace. "I have only begun to feel it hurt, but I wish it wasn't quite so far to the bridge."

Askew looked at the water, measuring its height. "The stepping stones are not far off. One or two may be covered, but perhaps I could help you across and it would save you a mile."

Grace went on with him and they presently stopped beneath the alder branches by a sparkling shallow. Tall brush grew up the shady bank and briars trailed in the stream. A row of flat-topped stones ran across, but there were gaps where the current foamed over some that were lower than the rest. Grace's foot was getting worse, and sitting down on a slab of the slate stile, she glanced at her companion.

"I imagine it needed some pluck to stop the hunt," she said. "For one thing, you were alone; nobody agreed with you."

Askew smiled. "Opposition sometimes makes one obstinate. But do you think it's hard to stand alone?"

"Yes," said Grace, impulsively. "I know it's hard. Yet, of course, if you feel you are taking the proper line, you oughtn't to be daunted by what others think."

She stopped, remembering that the man was a stranger; and then resumed in a different tone, "But why did you really stop the hunt? Are you one of the people who don't believe in sport?"

"No," said Askew good humoredly. "It's curious that Mr. Thorn hinted something like that. Anyhow, I'm not a champion of the otter's right to destroy useful fish. I think they ought to be shot."

"Oh!" said Grace with a touch of indignation; "you would shoot an otter?
Well, I suppose they must be killed; but to use a gun!"

"It's better for the otter. Which do you imagine it would choose—a mercifully sudden end, or two or three hours of agony, with men and dogs close behind, until the half-drowned, exhausted animal is torn to pieces or mangled by the poles?"

"I suppose one must answer as you expect."

"You're honest," Askew remarked. "I imagine it cost you something to agree!"

"It did," Grace admitted. "After all, you know our traditions, and many people, not cruel people, like the sport."

"That is so; but let's take the hunt to-day, for an example. There were three or four men without an occupation, and no doubt they find following the hounds healthy exercise. The others had left work that ought to be done; in fact, if you think, you'll own that some were men we have not much use for in the dale."

"Yes," said Grace, with some reluctance; "I know the men you mean. All the same, it is really not our business to decide if they ought to work or hunt."

Askew looked amused and she liked his twinkle. He was obviously intelligent, and on the whole she approved his unconventional point of view. Conventional insincerities were the rule at Tarnside. Besides, although it was possible she ought not to talk to the man with such freedom, her foot hurt and the stile made a comfortable seat. She liked to watch the shadows quiver on the stream and hear the current brawl among the stones. This was an excuse for stopping, since she would not acknowledge that the young farmer's society had some charm.

After a moment or two he resumed: "It is not my business, anyhow, and I don't want to argue if otter-hunting is a proper sport; it's an advantage, so to speak, to stick to the point. All I objected to was the hunt's breaking down the mended bank. There are not many good meadows at the dale-head, and grass land is too valuable to be destroyed. Don't you think this justifies my opposition?"

"I suppose it does," Grace agreed, and then decided that she had talked to him enough. "Well, I must go on," she added with a doubtful glance at the stream. "But it doesn't look as if one could get across."

"You can try," Askew replied, and jumping down stood in the water, holding out his hand. "Come on; there's not much risk of a slip."

Since it was too late to refuse, Grace took his hand and he waded across, steadying her, while the current rippled round his legs. Some of the stones were covered, but with his support she sprang across the gaps and the effort did not hurt her foot as much as she had thought. He was not awkward. She liked his firm grasp, and his care that she did not fall; particularly since she saw he was satisfied to give her the help she needed and knew when to stop. After she got across she thanked him and let him go.

When she crossed the field Askew went home in a thoughtful mood, though he was conscious of a pleasant thrill. He had felt the girl's charm strongly as he stood near her at the stile, and now tried to recapture the scene; the dark alder branches moving overhead, the sparkle of the water, and the light and shadow that touched his companion. Her face was attractive; although he was not a judge of female beauty, he knew its molding was good. Mouth, nose, and chin were finely but firmly lined; her color was delicate pink and white, and she had rather grave blue eyes. Her figure was marked by a touch of patrician grace. Askew smiled as he admitted that patrician was a word he disliked, but he could not think of another that quite expressed what he meant. Anyhow the girl's charm was strong; she was plucky and frank, perhaps because she knew her value and need not to pretend to dignity. In a sense, this was patrician, too.

All the same, Askew, though young and romantic, was not a fool. He had had a good education and had then spent two years at an agricultural college; but he was a farmer's son and he knew where he stood, from the Osborns' point of view. He had been of help, but this was no reason Miss Osborn should recognize him when they next met; yet he somehow thought she would. In the meantime, it was rash to think about her much, although his thoughts returned to the stile beneath the alders where he had watched the sun and shadow play about her face.

CHAPTER III

A COUNCIL OF DEFENCE

The sun had sunk behind the moors when Peter Askew sat by an open window in his big, slate-flagged kitchen at Ashness. All was quiet outside, except for the hoarse turmoil of the force and a distant bleating of sheep. In front, across a stony pasture, the fellside ran up abruptly; its summit, edged with purple heath, cut against a belt of yellow sky. The long, green slope was broken by rocky scars and dotted by small Herdwick sheep that looked like scattered stones until they moved.

The kitchen was shadowy, because the house was old and built with low, mullioned windows to keep out snow and storm, and a clump of stunted ash trees grew outside the courtyard wall. A fire of roots and peat, however, burned in the deep hearth, and now and then a flickering glow touched old copper and dark oak with red reflections. Collectors had sometimes offered to buy the tall clock and ponderous meal chest, but Askew would not sell. The most part of his furniture had been brought to Ashness by his great-grandfather.

Peter's face was brown and deeply lined, and his shoulders were bent, for he had led a life of steady toil. This was rather from choice than stern necessity, because he owned the farm and had money enough to cultivate it well. As a rule, he was reserved and thoughtful, but his neighbors trusted him. They knew he was clever, although he used their homely dialect and lived as frugally as themselves. In the dale, one worked hard and spent no more than one need. Yet Peter had broken the latter rule when he resolved to give his son a wider outlook than he had had.

Kit had gone from the lonely farm to a good school where he had beaten, by brains and resolution, the sons of professional and business men. His teachers said he had talent, and although Peter was often lonely since his wife died, he meant to give the lad his chance. Somewhat to his relief, Kit decided to return to the soil, and Peter sent him to an agricultural college. Since Kit meant to farm he should be armed by such advantages as modern science could give. It was obvious that he would need them all in the struggle against low prices and the inclement weather that vexed the dale. Now he had come home, in a sense not much changed, and Peter was satisfied. Kit and he seldom jarred, and the dalesfolk, who did not know how like they were under the surface, sometimes thought it strange.

Four or five of their neighbors sat in the kitchen, for the most part smoking quietly, but now and then grumbling about the recent heavy rain. This was not what they had come to talk about, and Peter waited. He knew their cautious reserve; they were obstinate and slow to move, and if he tried to hurry them might take alarm. By and by one knocked out his pipe.

"How are you getting forrad with t' peat-cutting?" he asked.

"We have cut enough to last for three or four months."

"You'll need it aw. Coal's a terrible price," another remarked.

"It will be dearer soon," said Peter. "Since Bell has t' lease o' both coal yards, he can charge what he likes."

"A grasping man! Yan canna get feeding stuff for stock, seed, an' lime, unless yan pays his price. Noo he has t' traction-engine, kilns, and mill, he'll own aw t' dale before lang."

"It's very possible, unless you stop him," Kit interposed.

"Landlord ought to stop him," one rejoined.

Kit smiled. "That's too much to expect; it's your business to help yourselves. Mr. Osborn takes the highest rent that's offered, and you missed your chance when you let Bell get Allerby mill."

"Neabody else had t' money," another grumbled.

"Two or three of us could have clubbed together and made a profit after selling feeding stuff at a moderate price."

The others were silent for a minute of two and Kit let them ponder. He had learned something about the wastefulness of individual effort, and on his return to Ashness had urged the farmers to join in bidding for a lease of the mill. They had refused, and would need careful handling now, for the old cooperative customs that had ruled in the dale before the railway came had gone.

"Poor folks willunt have much left for groceries when they have paid Bell's price for coal," said one. "Since he gets his money for hauling in t' slate, it costs him nowt to tak' a big load back on t' lurry; but, with Redmire bank to clim', it's a terrible loss o' time carting half a ton up dale."

"You won't be able to buy the half-ton unless you deal with Bell. I think you'll find he has a contract for all the coal that comes down the line."

They pondered this and another remarked, "Peat's terrible messy stuff and bad to dry at back end o' year."

"It can be dried," said an old man. "I mind the time when iver a load o' coals went past Allerby. Aw t' folk clubbed togedder to cut and haul t' peat from Malton. Browt it doon on stane-boats by the oad green road. Howiver, I reckon it cost them summat, counting their time"

Kit gave him a paper. "This is what our peat has cost us; I've charged our labor and what the horses would have earned if we had been paid for plowing."

They studied the figures, passing the paper around, and then one said, "But peat costs you nowt. Malton moor is yours and I ken nea ither peat worth cutting. Mayhappen yan could find some soft trash on the back moor, but I doot if Osborn would let yan bring it doon."

"Osborn does what his agent says, and it's weel kent Hayes is a friend o'
Bell's," another agreed.

Peter smiled and gave Kit a warning glance. He suspected the agent had a private understanding that was not to his employer's benefit with Bell; but this was another matter. Peter had taught his son to concentrate on the business in hand.

"Weel," he said, "you can have aw t' peat you want and we willunt fratch if you pay me nowt. There's acres o' good stuff on Malton moor, and the value o' peat t' labor it costs to cut. Aw t' same, it willunt pay to send a man or two noo and then. You must work in a gang; ivery man at his proper job."

"It was done like that in oad days," said one.

Peter looked at Kit, who did not speak, for both knew when enough was said. Indeed, although he was hardly conscious of it yet, Kit had something of a leader's talent. For a few minutes the others smoked and thought. They were independent and suspicious about new plans, but it was obvious that the best defense against a monopoly was a combine. In fact, they began to see it was the only defense they had. Then one turned to Peter.

"If you're for stopping Bell robbing us and starving poor folk at
Allerby, I'm with you."

One after another promised his support, a plan was agreed upon, and Peter was satisfied when his neighbors went away. They were patient, cautious, and hard to move; but he knew their obstinacy when they were roused. Now they had started, they would go on, stubbornly taking a road that was new to them. Bell, of course, would make a cunning fight, but Peter doubted if he would win.

"I reckon your plan will work," he said to Kit, with a nod of satisfaction.

Kit nodded and picking up his hat and some letters went out. As he walked down the dale the moon rose above a shadowy fell, touching the opposite hillside with silver light that reached the fields at the bottom farther on. Tall pikes of wet hay threw dark shadows across a meadow, and he heard the roar of a swollen beck. There was too much water in the dale, but Kit knew something might be done to make farming pay in spite of the weather. Land that had gone sour might be recovered by draining, and a bank could be built where the river now and then washed away the crops. Osborn, however, was poor and extravagant, and his agent's talents were rather applied to raising rents than improving the soil.

Kit stopped when he got near Allerby, where the dale widens and a cluster of low white houses stands among old trees. The village glimmered in the moonlight and beyond it rolling country, dotted by dark woods, ran back to the sea. A beck plunged down the hillside with a muffled roar, and a building, half in light and half in shadow, occupied the hollow of the ghyll. Kit, leaning on the bridge, watched the glistening thread of water that trickled over the new iron wheel, and noted the raw slate slabs that had been recently built into the mossy wall. A big traction engine, neatly covered by a tarpaulin, and a trailer lurry stood in front of the sliding door.

Osborn had spent some money here, for Allerby mill, with its seed and chemical manure stores, paid him a higher rent than the best of his small farms. It was obviously well managed by the tenant, and Kit approved. Modern machines and methods, although expensive, were good and were needed in the dale. The trouble was, they sometimes gave the man who could use them power to rob his poorer neighbors. Kit saw that concentrated power was often dangerous, and since unorganized, individual effort was no longer profitable, he knew no cure but cooperation.

Although young, he was seldom rash. Enthusiasm is not common in the bleak northern dales, whose inhabitants are, for the most part, conservative and slow. Wind and rain had hardened him and he had inherited a reserved strength and quietness from ancestors who had braved the storms that raged about Ashness. Yet the north is not always stern, for now and then the gray sky breaks, and fell and dale shine in dazzling light and melt with mystic beauty into passing shade. Kit, like his country, varied in his moods; sometimes he forgot to be practical and his caution vanished, leaving him romantic and imaginative.

He went on, and as he reached the first of the white houses a girl came out of a gate and stopped where the moonlight fell across the road. She had some beauty and her pose was graceful.

"Oh," she exclaimed, with rather exaggerated surprise, "it's Kit! I suppose you'll take this letter? I was going to the post."

Kit did not know much about young women, but hesitated, because he doubted if she wanted him to post the letter.

"If you like," he said. "I expect the causeway at the water-splash will be wet."

She gave him a curious smile. "Oh, well; here's the letter. Jim Nixon had to help me across the water when I went last night, and I don't suppose you're afraid of wetting your feet. You are used to it at Ashness."

"Yes," said Kit. "My boots are stronger than yours."

"Canny lad!" she answered, with a mocking laugh. Kit felt embarrassed, for he thought he saw what she meant. Janet Bell was something of a coquette.

"I heard people coming down the road not long since," she resumed. "Have you had a supper party? Tell your father I think he's shabby because he left me out."

"It wasn't a supper party and there were no women. Three or four neighbors came in."

"To grumble about the weather or argue about the sheep?"

"They did grumble about the weather," Kit replied.

Janet looked amused. "You're very cautious, my lad; but you needn't take it for granted I'm always on father's side. Do you think I don't know why your neighbors came?"

"You don't know altogether."

The moonlight was clear enough to show that Janet colored. "And you think
I stopped you to find out?"

"I don't," said Kit, rather awkwardly. "Still, perhaps it's better that you shouldn't know."

"Oh," said she, with some emotion, "I can't tell if you mean to be nice or not. It's the lazy, feckless people who dislike father, because they're jealous; and they try to make things hard for me. Why should I suffer because he's cleverer than them?"

"You oughn't to suffer. I really don't think people blame you."

"They do blame me," Janet insisted. "You doubted if you could trust me just now."

This was true enough to embarrass Kit, but he said, "I didn't see why I should talk to you about our business; that was all. In fact, I don't mean to talk about it to anybody."

"Now you're nicer. I didn't like to feel you were taking particular care not to let me know. Well, of course, father's no friend of yours and perhaps he'll like you worse by and by. But, after all, does that matter?"

"Not in a way," said Kit, pretending to be dull. "You have nothing to do with the dispute and we don't want to quarrel with your father, although we mean to carry out our plans."

Janet looked rather hard at him and there was some color in her face, but she forced a smile.

"Oh, well! Good-night! I've stopped you, and expect you want to get home."

She went back through the gate and Kit resumed his walk, struggling with an annoyance he felt was illogical. He knew something about Bell's household and imagined that Janet's life was not smooth. He was sorry for her, and it was, of course, unjust to blame her for her father's deeds. All the same, the favor she had sometimes shown him was embarrassing. He was not a philanderer, but he was young and she had made him feel that he had played an ungallant part. Jane was a flirt, but, after all, it would not have cost him much, so to speak, to play up to her. Perhaps he had acted like a prig. This made him angry, although he knew he had taken the proper line.

By and by he came to the water-splash, where a beck crossed the road. Its channel was paved, so that one could drive across, and at the side a stone causeway had been made for foot passengers. Sometimes, when the beck was unusually swollen, shallow water covered the stones, and Kit saw the significance of a statement of Janet's as he noted the width of the submerged spot. It looked as if Jim Nixon had carried her across. Then his annoyance vanished and he laughed. Gallant or not, he was satisfied to carry Janet's letter.

As he went on in the moonlight he began to see that there were some grounds for his reluctance to indulge the girl. He had thought about Miss Osborn often since he helped her across the stepping stones. He had not hesitated then, and although the things were different, to dwell upon the incident was perhaps rasher than indulging Janet. Miss Osborn had, no doubt, forgotten, but he had not. The trouble was, he could not forget; his imagination pictured her vividly, sitting beneath the alders talking to him.

With something of an effort Kit pulled himself up. He was a small farmer's son and the Osborns were important people. He knew Osborn's family pride, which he thought his daughter had inherited. In Osborn, it was marked by arrogance; in the girl by a gracious, half-stately calm. For all that, the pride was there, and Kit, resolving that he would not be a fool, went to the post office and put Janet's letter in the box.

CHAPTER IV

THE PEAT CUTTERS

Osborn was dissatisfied and moody when, one afternoon, he stood, waiting for the grouse, behind a bank of turf on Malton moor. To begin with, he had played cards until the early morning with some of his guests and had been unlucky. Then he got up with a headache for which he held his wife accountable; Alice was getting horribly parsimonious, and had bothered him until he tried to cut down his wine merchant's bill by experimenting with cheaper liquor. His headache was the consequence. The whisky he had formerly kept never troubled him like that.

Moreover, it was perhaps a mistake to invite Jardine, although he sometimes gave one a useful hint about speculations on the Stock Exchange. The fellow went to bigger shoots and looked bored when Osborn's partridges were scarce and wild; besides, he had broken rules in order to get a shot when they walked the turnip fields in line. Osborn imagined Jardine would not have done so had he been a guest at one of the houses he boasted about visiting.

As they climbed Malton Head another of the party had broken Dowthwaite's drystone wall and the farmer had said more about the accident than the damage justified. In fact, Dowthwaite was rather aggressive, and now Osborn came to think of it, one or two others had recently grumbled about things they had hitherto borne without complaint.

In the meantime, Osborn and Thorn, who shared his butt, looked about while they waited for the beaters. The row of turf banks, regularly spaced, ran back to the Force Crags at the head of the dale. The red bloom of the ling was fading from the moor, which had begun to get brown. Sunshine and shadow swept across it, and the blue sky was dotted by flying, white-edged clouds. A keen wind swept the high tableland, and the grouse, flying before it, would come over the butts very fast.

In the distance, one could distinguish a row of figures that were presently lost in a hollow and got larger when they reappeared. They were beaters, driving the grouse, and by and by Osborn, picking up his glasses, saw clusters of small dark objects that skimmed and then dropped into the heath. It was satisfactory to note that they were numerous. Although the birds were rather wild, he could now give his friends some sport. After a time, however, the clusters of dark dots were seen first to scatter and then vanish. Osborn frowned as he gave Thorn the glasses.

"What does that mean? Looks as if the birds had broken back."

"Some have broken back," said Thorn. "If they've flown over the beaters, we have lost them for the afternoon." He paused and resumed: "I think the first lot are dropping. No; they're coming on."

Picking up his gun, he watched the advancing grouse. They flew low but very fast, making a few strokes at intervals and then sailing on stretched wings down the wind. In a few moments they were large and distinct, but there were not enough to cross more than the first two butts. When they were fifty yards off Thorn threw up his gun and two pale flashes leaped out. Osborn was slower and swung his barrel. The sharp reports were echoed from the next butt and a thin streak of smoke that looked gray in the sunshine drifted across the bank of turf. Two brown objects, spinning round, struck the heath and a few light feathers followed. The grouse that had escaped went on and got small again.

"Missed with my right," said Osborn. "Had to shoot on the swing. Don't know about the other barrel."

Thorn did know, but used some tact. "I may have been a trifle slow; my last bird was going very fast."

"I expect you saw whose bird it was," Osborn said to the lad who took their guns.

"Yes, sir; Mr. Thorn's, sir."

"Oh, well," said Osborn, forcing a smile as he turned to Thorn, "you have youth upon your side. Anyhow, I don't imagine the others have done much better, and it looks as if we might as well go home. When the birds broke back we lost the best chance we'll get. I wonder what spoiled the drive?"

"Something on the old green road, I think. The grouse turned as they crossed the hollow."

A short distance off there was a fold in the moor, and while Osborn wondered whether he would walk to the top a man came over the brow, leading two horses that hauled a clumsy sledge. Another team followed and presently four advanced across the heath.

"Now you know what spoiled the drive," Thorn remarked with some dryness.
"You can't expect a good shoot on the day your tenants move their peat."

Osborn, who was very angry, picked up the glasses. "The first two are not my tenants. They're the Askews, and the boundary of their sheepwalk runs on this side of the green road."

"Then I suppose there's nothing to be said!"

In the meantime, Osborn's friends had left the other butts and come up, with Jardine in front. He was a fat, red-faced man, and as he got nearer remarked to his companions: "I call it wretched bad management! Somebody ought to have turned the fellows off the moor."

Osborn heard and glanced at Thorn as he left the butt. "There is something to be said; I'm going to relieve my mind."

He went off and signaled the farmers to stop. They waited, standing quietly by their horses. On the open moor, their powerful figures had a touch of grace, and their clothes, faded by sun and rain, harmonized with the color of the heath. Peter Askew's brown face was inscrutable when he fixed his steady eyes on Osborn.

"You turned back the grouse and spoiled the beat. Do you call that sporting?" Osborn asked.

"I'm sorry," Peter replied. "If I'd kenned you were shooting, mayhappen we could have put off loading the peat."

"You knew we were shooting when you saw the beaters."

"Aw, yis," said Peter. "It was over late then. I wadn't willingly spoil any man's sport, but we had browt up eight horses and had to get to work."

"You have plenty of work at Ashness."

"It's verra true; but the weather's our master and we canna awtogether do what we like. The peat's mair important than a few brace of grouse."

"Important to you!" Osborn rejoined. "But what about me and my friends?
One has come from London for a few days' sport."

"Then I'm sorry he has lost the afternoon," Kit interposed quietly. "But you well know the wages laborers get in the dale, and there are old folks and some sick at Allerby who need a good fire. The winter's hard and some of the cottages are very damp."

"The farmers pay the wages."

"None of them make much money. They pay what their rent allows."

"I don't force up the rents. They're fixed by the terms new tenants are willing to offer when a lease runs out."

"That is so," Kit agreed. "I don't know that my neighbors grumble much because the rule works on your side. But peat is plentiful and we don't see why it can't be used when coal is dear."

"I imagine you can see an opportunity of selling the right to cut it,"
Osborn sneered.

"We are willing to sell at the buyers' price. Anybody who can't pay may have the peat for nothing. None of the day laborers has paid us yet and none shall be forced to pay."

Osborn did not know whether he could believe this statement or not, but he said ironically, "Then it looks as if you were generous! However, you are not a friend of my agent's and no doubt see a chance of making trouble. When you meddle with my tenants you play a risky game, and they may find they were foolish to join you."

One of the farmers who had stood quietly by Peter Askew looked up with a slow smile; another's weather-beaten face got a little harder. They were seldom noisily quarrelsome, but they were stubborn and remembered an injury long. Peter, however, interposed:

"We won't fratch; there's not much in arguing. You can beat moor t'ither side o' green road. Good day to you!"

He spoke to the horses and the sledge lurched forward with its chocolate-colored load. The other teams strained at the chains; there was a beat of hoofs, and the row of sledges moved noisily away. Osborn waited for a few moments, but his face was very red when he went back to the butts. The farmer's refusal to dispute with him was galling. For all that, he must try to find his friends some sport, and after consulting with his gamekeeper sent the beaters on across the moor.

The new drive was not successful, and in the evening the party came down the hill with a very poor bag. When they reached the Redmire wood Osborn stopped beside a broken hedge. Red beeches shone among the yellow birches and dark firs, the sun was low and its slanting rays touched the higher branches, but the gaps between the trunks were filled with shadow. A few bent figures moved in the gloom, and Osborn frowned when three or four children came down a drive, dragging a heavy fallen bough. An elderly woman with a sack upon her back followed them slowly, and it was obvious that cottagers from Allerby were gathering fuel.

"Confound them! This is too much!" he exclaimed and beckoned his gamekeeper. "If that is Mrs. Forsyth, tell her to come up."

The woman advanced and rested her sack upon the hedge. Her wrinkled face was wet with sweat, but she did not look alarmed.

"Eh!" she said, "sticks is heavy and I'm none so young as I was."

"You have no business in the wood," said Osborn sternly.

"There's nea place else where we can pick up sticks."

"That is your affair. You know you're not allowed to gather wood in my plantations."

"We canna gan withoot some kindling; when you canna keep it dry, peat is ill to light. Terrible messy stuff, too, and mak's nea end o' dirt."

The children came up and when they stood, open-mouthed, gazing at the party one of the sportsmen laughed.

"Then burn coal and the dirt won't bother you," Osborn rejoined.

"Hoo can we burn coal?" the woman asked. "Noo Tom Bell has lease o' baith yards, he's putten up t' price, and when you've paid what he's asking there's nowt left for meal. I canna work for Mrs. Osborn as I used, and with oad Jim yearning nobbut fifteen shilling—"

She paused for breath and wiped her hot face, and Osborn signed to the keeper. The woman was making him ridiculous.

"Turn them all out, Holliday," he said and went on with his friends.

"The old lady's talkative," one remarked. "Quite frank, but not at all angry; I thought her line was rather dignified. I've met country folks who'd have been servilely apologetic, and some who would have called you ugly names."

"These people are never apologetic," Osborn said dryly. "As a rule, they're not truculent, but they're devilish obstinate."

"I think I see. After all, it's possible to stick to your point without abusing your antagonist. I suppose you turned them out because of the pheasants?"

"Yes; good cover's scarce, and if the birds are disturbed they move down to Rafton Woods. For a sporting neighbor, Hayton hardly plays the game. To put down corn is, of course, allowable, but he uses damaged raisins!"

"Then you don't feed?"

"Very little," Osborn replied. "Corn's too dear. The Tarnside pheasants live on the country."

"I expect that really means they live on the farmers!"

Osborn frowned. It was Jardine's habit to make stupid remarks like that;
Osborn wondered whether the fellow thought them smart.

"The farmers knew my rules when they signed the lease," he said. "Anyhow, pheasants do much less damage than ground game, and I don't think my tenants have left a hare in the dale."

Jardine began to talk about something else, and no more was said about Osborn's grievances until the party met on the new terrace in the twilight. The tarn glimmered with faint reflections from the west, but thin mist drifted across the pastures, and the hills rose, vague and black, against the sky, in which a half moon shone. Osborn, sitting at the top of the shallow steps that went down to the lawn, grumbled to his wife about the day's shooting.

"I don't think I'm an exacting landlord," he remarked. "In fact, since I ask for nothing but a little give-and-take, it's annoying when people spoil my sport. Dowthwaite made himself unpleasant about his broken wall, the Askews turned the grouse back, and then I found the Allerby cottage children, ransacking Redmire Wood when the pheasants were going to roost."

Grace, who stood close by with Thorn, indicated the smooth gravel and the low, wide-topped wall on which red geraniums grew.

"This," she said, "is a great improvement on the old grass bank. The wide steps and broad slate coping have an artistic effect. However, you can't often get the things you like without paying."

"Very true, but rather trite," Osborn agreed. "I don't see how it applies."

"Well, I'm really sympathetic about your spoiled day, but it looks as if all your disappointments sprang from the same cause."

"Ah!" said Osborn, sharply; "I suppose you mean the coal yards' lease?"

"I think I mean Bell's greediness. If he didn't charge so much for his coal, Askew would not have cut the peat, and the children would not have been sent to gather wood. Then Dowthwaite might not have grumbled about his wall; he feels the farmers have not been treated justly, and I imagine he blames you."

Osborn knitted his brows. "Then it's an example of the fellow's wrong-headed attitude! He and one or two others are treated better than they deserve, and would not be satisfied with anything I did. If you had to manage the estate, pay extortionate taxes, and make the unnecessary repairs the farmers demand, it would be interesting to see the line you would take."

"Perhaps the right line isn't easy," Grace admitted. "Still, if I wanted a guide, there's the motto of our county town: 'Be just and fear not.'"

Osborn looked at her with indignant surprise, and then shrugged scornfully. Thorn smiled.

"It's an excellent motto; but they chose it some time since. One imagines it's out of date now."

Grace colored and moved away, feeling embarrassed. She had made herself ridiculous, and perhaps sentiment such as she had indulged was cheap; but it hurt to feel that she, so to speak, stood alone. Although she had, no doubt, been imprudent, she had said what she felt, and Thorn had smiled. She turned to him angrily when he followed her along the terrace.

"I daresay I am a raw sentimentalist, but I'm glad I'm not up to date," she said. "I hate your modern smartness!"

Thorn, noting the hardness of her voice, stopped with an apologetic gesture and let her go.

CHAPTER V

RAILTON'S TALLY

Winter had begun, and although the briars shone red along the hedgerows and the stunted oaks had not lost all their leaves, bitter sleet blew across the dale when Grace went up the muddy lonning to Mireside farm. Railton's daughter had for a time helped the housekeeper at Tarnside, and Grace, hearing that the farmer had been ill, was going to ask about him. It was nearly dark when she entered the big kitchen. The lamp had not been lighted, but a peat fire burned in the wide grate, where irons for cooking pots hung above the blaze. A bright glow leaped up and spread about the kitchen, touching the people in the room, and then faded as she shut the massive door.

Grace thought her arrival had embarrassed the others, because nobody said anything for a moment or two. Railton sat in an old oak chair by the fire, with a stick near his hand; Tom, the shepherd, occupied the middle of the floor; and Kit Askew leaned against the table, at which Mrs. Railton and Lucy sat. Grace wished she could see them better, but the blaze had sunk and the fire burned low, giving out an aromatic smell, and throwing dull reflections on the old oak furniture, copper kettles, and tall brass candlesticks. As a rule, the lonely homesteads in the dales are furnished well, with objects made long since and handed down from father to son.

Then Mrs. Railton began to talk, rather nervously, and Grace turned to the farmer as the light spread about the room again. He had a thin, lined face; his shoulders were bent, and his pose was slack. Sickness no doubt accounted for something, but Grace imagined his attitude hinted at dejection.

"How are you to-day?" she asked.

"No varra weel. I'm none so young, and the wet and cold dinna agree with my oad bones. Mayhappen I'll be better soon, but noo when I'm needed I canna get aboot."

"He'll not can rest," Mrs. Railton interposed. "He was oot in sleet, boddering among t' sheep aw day."

"And weel you ken I had to gan," the farmer rejoined.

Mrs. Railton's silence implied agreement and Grace's curiosity was excited because of something she had heard at home. Railton's lease of the sheepwalk ran out in a few days, but he was by local custom entitled to its renewal after a review of the terms. Moreover, it was usual for the tenant to take the sheep with the farm, and leave them equal in number and condition when he went. The landlord could then demand a valuation and payment of the difference, if the flocks had fallen below the proper standard.

"Why are you forced to go out in this bitter weather?" she asked.

Railton hesitated, and then saw his daughter's meaning glance. Lucy was clever, and he thought she wanted him to be frank.

"I had to see how sheep were," he answered dully. "Not that it was o' mich use. T' lambs niver get over wet spring and t' ewes is poor. Then flock is weel under tally; I've lost two score Swinset Herdwicks, and the mak-up's next Thursday."

"But how did you lose forty sheep?" Grace asked.

"There was a hole in fell dyke and Swinset sheep are thief sheep, varra bad to hoad. I bowt ewes there and t' lambs followed when they wandert back to their heaf."

Grace pondered. She had noted some reserve in Railton's manner when he mentioned the broken dyke and knew the flockmasters were careful about their dry walls. The rest was plain; the heaf is the hill pasture where a lamb is born, and Swinset was fifteen miles away. It was a very large sheepwalk and much time would be needed to find the sheep on the wide belt of moor.

"If you know the sheep are at Swinset, they would be allowed for in the count," she said.

"I have my doubts. Mr. Hayes sent me notice tally would be taken on
Thursday and he's a hard man."

Grace colored. Although she did not like Hayes, he was Osborn's agent.
There was much she wanted to know, but she could not ask.

"Mr. Hayes cannot do exactly as he likes; he must get my father's consent," she said. "However, as I am going home by the field path, I had better start before it's dark."

"There's a broken gate that's awkward to open. I will come with you until you reach it," Kit remarked.

They went out together. The sleet had stopped, but leaden clouds rolled across the hills that glimmered white in the dusk. As they struck across a wet field Grace said:

"I suppose Railton's flock is below the proper standard and the count is short?"

"Yes; the two or three wet years have hit flock-masters hard and Railton had to sell more stock than was prudent, in order to pay his debts."

"Then if he can't pay the difference in number and value, the lease can be broken?"

Kit made a sign of agreement and Grace asked: "But do you think Hayes would break the lease and turn him out?"

"It's possible," Kit answered cautiously.

Grace gave him a sharp glance. "What do you really think, Mr. Askew? I want to know."

"Then, my notion is Hayes would like to get Mireside for Jim Richardson."

"Richardson is his nephew."

"Just so," said Kit, with some dryness. "All the same he'd make a good tenant. His father is rich enough to start him well."

Grace's eyes sparkled, for she saw where the hint led, but she hid her resentment, because, after all, she had doubts. Osborn needed money and Hayes was cunning.

"I imagine it would hurt Railton to leave."

"It would hurt him much. He was born at Mireside and his father took the farm from your grandfather, a very long time since. Then he's an old man and has not enough money to begin again at another place."

"Ah," said Grace, "it would be very hard if he had to go! But if he hasn't money, he couldn't carry on, even if we renewed the lease."

"We have had remarkably bad weather for two or three years and the cold rain killed the young lambs, but a change is due. A dry spring and fine summer would put the old man straight."

Grace was silent for a few moments and then looked at Kit with some color in her face.

"Thank you for making the situation plain. You were not anxious to do so, were you? I think you don't trust us!"

"I don't trust Hayes," Kit said awkwardly.

"But Hayes is our agent. We are accountable for what he does."

"In a way, I suppose you are accountable. For all that, when a landlord has a capable agent it is not the rule for him to meddle. I understand Mr. Osborn leaves much to Hayes."

Grace pondered. Kit's embarrassment indicated that he was trying to save her feelings, but he must know, as she knew, that a landlord was rightly judged by his agent's deeds. Although she rather liked Kit Askew, he had humiliated her.

"Well," she said resolutely, "something must be done. If the strayed sheep could be found, it would help."

"Yes," said Kit. "Tom and I start for Swinset to-morrow to try to bring them back. But if you'll wait a moment, I'll open the gate."

He walked through the mud the cattle had churned up, and, lifting the broken gate, pushed it back so that Grace could cross a drier spot. Then, as he stood with his hands on the rotten bars, she stopped.

"Don't start for Swinset until you hear from me," she said. "Thank you.
Good night!"

Grace went on and Kit turned back to the farm with a satisfaction that made his heart beat. In a way, the girl had given him her confidence; she had, at least, not hidden her feelings. Her proud calm was only on the surface; it covered a generous, impulsive nature. Then she had pluck, because he could understand her difficulties. She was loyal to her father, but hated injustice and was quickly moved to sympathy. All the same, he had noted that when she spoke of Osborn renewing the lease she said we, and since he knew why she had done so, it gave him cause to think.

It was the code of the old school; the family stood together, a compact unit to which she belonged and for whose deeds she believed herself accountable. In a sense, this was rather fine; but Kit, knowing Osborn's pride, saw it would confine their friendship to narrow limits. Still he had no ground for imagining she was his friend, and he tried to fix his thoughts upon the search for the sheep. Grace obviously meant to talk to Osborn, but Kit did not believe the latter would be moved by her arguments.

When Kit returned to the farm kitchen Railton was sitting moodily by the fire and his wife's face was sternly set. They are not an emotional people in the dales, and her trouble was too deep for useless tears, but as she glanced about the room all she saw wakened poignant memories. The old china in the rack had been her mother's; she had brought it and the black oak meal-chest to Mireside thirty years since. The copper kettles and jelly-pan were wedding presents, and Tom, her son, who died in Australia, had sent the money to buy the sewing machine. Now it looked as if her household treasures must be sold, and to leave Mireside would mean the tearing up of roots that had struck deep. Besides, while she would suffer it would hurt her husband worse. When Kit came in she gave him a keen glance.

"Weel, what had Miss Osborn to say?"

"She didn't say much; I think she means to talk to Osborn."

Railton looked up gloomily. "T' lass has a good heart, but talking to
Osborn will be o' nea use. Hayes is real master and he wants Mireside for
Jim Richardson."

Kit made a sign of agreement. "The fellow's getting dangerous and must be stopped. I suspect he's backing Bell and now he means to use his nephew; it's not altogether for Richardson's sake he wants to break your lease. Some day I imagine Osborn will find his agent owns the estate; but that's not our business. Well, Peter told me to remind you that you and he are old friends, and if a hundred pounds would be some help—"

"It would be a big help," said Railton, and Kit turned to the shepherd when Mrs. Railton awkwardly began to thank him.

"About the broken dyke, Tom? What d'you think brought it down?"

"I canna tell. Dyke's good and there was nea wind."

They were all silent for a few moments, and then Kit said, "Well, Richardson is a cunning hound." He paused and picked up his hat before he turned to Railton. "I've a job at Ashness that must be finished to-night. There's not much time, but if it's possible Tom and I will find the sheep."

In the meantime, Grace walked home thinking hard. Kit was Railton's friend, but he had used some tact, until she forced him to tell her the truth. This, however, was not important, because she had got a jar. It looked as if Osborn had consented to a cruel plot; a landlord ought to help his tenants and not take advantage of their need. She tried not to blame him; he had a bad agent, who used a dangerous influence. She must try to protect him from the fellow and, in a way, from his own carelessness.

After all, it was, for the most part, carelessness, because he did not know Hayes as she knew him. Still, she had not undertaken an easy thing and she braced herself as she went up the steps of the new terrace. Grace hated the terrace. It was the price they, the Osborns, had taken for a shabby deed, and for which poor people and hard-worked women paid. Grace knew about the extra dust that peat fires caused and how often the bread was spoiled.

When she entered the library Osborn was studying some documents. He looked up impatiently, and she said, "I was at Mireside. Railton's no better and is much disturbed about his lease."

"Not more disturbed than he deserves!" Osborn rejoined. "The fellow has been getting slack for some time; he sold his store sheep imprudently and let the flock run down."

"He has been ill and the weather has been bad for some years."

"Exactly. A cautious man provides for bad years; he knows they will come."

Grace was surprised her father did not see that his statement had a humorous touch, since improvident extravagance was his rule; but it was obvious that he did not.

"One cannot save much money when rents are high and prices are low."

"Do you know much about these matters?" Osborn asked.

"I have heard the farmers talk. Sometimes I ask them questions."

Osborn frowned. "You talk too much to the farmers. I don't like it. You know this."

"Well," said Grace, "I think you ought not to break Railton's lease."

"Why?"

Grace hesitated. She began to see that Osborn could not be moved, but she had undertaken to plead Railton's cause.

"He's an old man and has been at Mireside all his life. He has worked hard and always paid his rent. Now he's ill and in trouble, it would be shabby to turn him out because there's a risk—it's only a risk—that we might lose something by letting him stay."

"You don't seem to understand a landlord's duty," Osborn rejoined. "He is, so to speak, the steward in charge of the estate; it belongs to the family and is not his. He must hand it on in good order and this means he cannot indulge his sentimental impulses. If he keeps a bad tenant from pity, or because he's afraid to seem harsh, he robs his heir."

Grace knew there were other, and perhaps worse, ways of robbing one's heir; but she said, "Aren't you taking Hayes's view that Railton is a bad tenant? After all, we are responsible."

"Then you suggest that Hayes is mistaken?" Osborn asked ironically.

"I don't know if he's mistaken or not," said Grace, with a steady look. "I know he's greedy and unjust. But there's a thing you ought not to let him do. Railton has lost forty sheep, that have strayed back to Swinset, and Hayes doesn't mean to count them in the tally."

Osborn's face got red and he knitted his brows. "I have tried to be patient; but this is too much! Do you know more about managing an estate than a clever agent? Or do you think I'm a fool and Hayes leads me like a child? Anyhow, you are much too young to criticize my actions. Let us have no more of it! An unmarried girl is not entitled to opinions that clash with her parents'."

Grace went out silently. To know that she had failed hurt her pride, and it hurt worse to suspect that her father had got angry because he knew she was right. Besides, she felt strangely alone; as she had often felt since she came home. Gerald was careless and thought about nothing but his extravagant amusements; her mother's main object was to avoid jars and smooth over awkward situations. Then, she had household cares; money was scarce, and since Osborn hated self-denial, she must economize. Grace could not tell her her troubles; but there was a way by which Railton might save his lease and Kit could help. Getting a pencil and paper, she wrote him a very short note:

"You must find Railton's sheep."

Then, knowing that she was rash, she went to look for the gardener's boy, and sent him to Ashness.

CHAPTER VI

BLEATARN GHYLL

It was getting dark when Kit and Tom, the shepherd, stopped to rest behind a cairn on the summit of Swinset moor. Close by, the two score sheep stood in a compact flock, with heads towards the panting dogs. They were Herdwicks, a small, hardy breed that best withstands the rain and snow that sweep the high fells in the lambing season. When he had lighted his pipe, Kit thoughtfully looked about.

On one side the barren moor, getting dim in the distance, rolled back to the edge of the low country. Here and there patches of melting sleet gleamed a livid white among the withered ling, and storm-torn hummocks of peaty soil shone dark chocolate-brown. These were the only touches of color in the dreary landscape, except for the streak of pale-yellow sky that glimmered above a long black ridge. On the other side, a line of rugged fells with summits lost in snow clouds, rose dark and forbidding. It was very cold and a biting wind swept the heath.

Kit was tired, for he had been on the moor since morning and had not eaten much. It was an awkward matter to find the sheep, and then the men and dogs had some difficulty to keep the ewes moving, because the Herdwick never willingly leaves the neighborhood where it was born and will, if possible, return. The lambs, now grown large and fat, gave less trouble, and when they sometimes stopped irresolutely while the ewes tried to break away Kit understood their hesitation. Two instincts were at work: it was natural to follow their dams, but Mireside was their native heath and they knew they were going to be taken home.

Now they had gone some distance, Kit had to make a choice. One could reach Mireside by a rough moor-land road, but it went round the hills and there was a shorter way across the range. If he went round, he might arrive late for the reckoning and some of the lambs would get footsore and stop. On the other hand, he knew the fells and shrank from trying to find his way among the crags in the dark. It was, however, important that he should not be late. Hayes was hard, and the Herdwicks must arrive in time to be tallied with the rest of Railton's flock. In the dale, a tenant had a traditional right to have his sheep valued by a jury of his neighbors and Hayes had fixed the time at eight o'clock next day. The animals, however, must be sorted and penned before this, and the work would begin early in the morning.

"We had better try the fells, Tom," said Kit.

The shepherd looked at the threatening sky and fading line of rugged heights.

"Aw, yes. It's gan t' be a rough neet, but we'll try 't. We can rest a bit at oad mine-house this side Bleatarn ghyll."

Now their route was fixed, Kit mused about something else. Railton was his neighbor, but, except for this, Kit had no particular grounds for helping him; he had obviously nothing to gain. Then, the peat-cutting was his plan; he had, without altogether meaning to do so, allowed himself to become the leader of the revolt against Osborn. In a way, of course, he was the proper man, because Ashness belonged to his father, and Hayes could not punish him for meddling. Still, Hayes could punish the tenant farmers and Kit knew they ran some risk.

On the whole, he thought the risk worth while. He had a talent that was beginning to develop for leading and saw when one could negotiate and when one must fight. He did not want to fight Osborn, but was being forced into the conflict, and it was comforting to feel that Miss Osborn was not against him. Her note, telling him he must find the sheep, was in his pocket, and he thought it had cost her something to write. She was generous and plucky and he must not hesitate. After all, the job was his and since he had accepted it, he must, if needful, bear the consequences. Knocking out his pipe, he got up.

"We'll make a start, Tom," he said.

The shepherd shouted to the dogs, the flock broke up and trailed out across the heath. The ewes moved slowly, turning now and then, and Kit thought it ominous that they met other flocks coming down. The Herdwicks knew the weather and were heading for the sheltered dales. For all that, he pushed on, with a bitter wind in his face, and by and by cold rain began to fall. It changed to sleet and the night had got very dark when they crossed the shoulder of a stony fell. One could not see fifty yards, but the steepness of the slope and the click of little hoofs on the wet rock told Kit where they were.

Two hours afterwards, he stopped for breath at the bottom of a narrow valley. The sleet had turned to driving snow, the wind howled in the rocks above, and a swollen beck brawled angrily among the stones. Tom was hardly distinguishable a few yards ahead and Kit could not see the sheep, but the barking of the dogs came faintly down the steep white slope. The Herdwicks were strung out along the hillside, with a dog below and above, and it was comforting to know they could not leave the valley, which was shut in by rugged crags. For a time, driving them would be easy; but it would be different when they left the water and climbed the rise to Bleatarn ghyll.

"How far are we off the mine-house, Tom?" he shouted.

"I dinna ken," said the shepherd. "Mayhappen two miles. Ewes is travelling better; t'lambs is leading them."

Kit agreed, and they pushed on through the snow. After a time, the ground got steeper, and when they crossed the noisy beck and scrambled up a shaly bank, Kit was glad to see a broken wall loom among the tossing flakes. This was the shaft-house of an abandoned mine, and there was a sheep-fold, built with pulled-down material, close by. He shouted and waited until he heard the dogs bark and a rattle of stones. The Herdwicks were coming down and presently broke out from the snow in a compact, struggling flock. Tom shouted and threw a hurdle across the entrance when the dogs had driven the sheep into the fold.

"I dinna ken if snow'll tak' off or not, but it's early yet and we must have a rest before we try ghyll," he said.

They went into the shaft-house and Kit struck a match. One end of the building had been pulled down and the snow blew in through holes in the roof, but a pile of dry fern filled a corner and rotten beams lay about. With some trouble, they lighted a fire and, sitting down close by, took out the food they had brought. The wind screamed about the ruined walls, the smoke eddied round them, and now and then a shower of snow fell on their heads, but they had some shelter and could, if forced, wait for morning.

"Miss Osborn's a bonny lass and kind; but I reckon she couldn't talk her father round," Tom presently remarked.

"No," said Kit. "I believe she tried."

"Favors her mother," Tom resumed. "Mrs. Osborn's heart is good, but at Tarnside women dinna count. It's a kind o' pity, because t' Osborn menfolk are lakers and always was."

A laker is a lounging pleasure-seeker and Kit admitted that the remark was justified.

"I sometimes think Osborn means well," he said.

"Mayhappen! For aw his ordering folks aboot, he's wake; like his father, I mind him weel. Might mak' a fair landlord if he was letten and had t' money; but oad Hayes is grasping and always at his tail."

"The rent-roll's good. The estate could be managed well."

"There's t' mortgages and Osborn canna keep money. When he has it he must spend. There would be nea poor landlord's, if I had my way. I'd let them putten rents up if they had money and spent it on the land. Low rent means poor farming."

Kit knew this was true on the Tarnside estate. Dykes that had kept the floods off the meadows were falling down, drains were choked, and land that had grown good crops was going sour. The wise use of capital would make a wholesome change, but Kit did not altogether like centralized control. Although it was economical, the landlord got the main advantage, and there was much a farmer could do, in cooperation with his neighbors, to help himself, if his lease was long enough. Then, joint action was once common in the dale. Men pooled their labor and implements at hay time and harvest, and combined for their mutual benefit in other ways. Now it looked as if they might combine again.

"Are they grumbling much at Allerby about burning peat?" he asked.

"T' women grumble," Tom said dryly. "But they willunt stop, for aw the dirt peat maks an' they canna get ovens hot. I reckon Bell has mair coal coming in than he can get shut of. When I was at station last t' yards was nearly full."

"I rather think Bell has been too greedy. He must pay for the coal as it arrives and his money is probably getting short; the traction engine and trailer cost a good sum, and he has spent something on the lime-kilns. In fact, if we hold on, he's bound to give way."

"Then we'll brek him. Our folks are slow to fratch, but they're not quick at letting go," said Tom, who paused and added: "I wunner where Bell got his money; he had none when he took a job at mill in oad Osborn's time."

This started Kit on another line of thought. Bell had, no doubt, saved something, for he was parsimonious, and was too keen a business man to leave his money in the bank. All he made by one speculation was sunk in another; but, after allowing for this, it was hard to see where he got the capital for his numerous ventures. Kit wondered whether Hayes helped; if he did, it was not from friendship. The agent was clever and might be playing a cunning game, in which he used both Osborn and Bell. In fact, Kit thought if he were Osborn he would watch Hayes. This, however, was not his business, and getting up he went to a hole in the wall.

It was snowing very hard; he could see nothing but a haze of tossing flakes, and the wind filled the valley with its roar. He could hardly hear the beck a few yards off.

"The drifts will be getting deep, but we can't start yet," he said. "If we miss the track at the top, there's nothing to stop us falling over the Ling Crag."

Tom agreed, and Kit shivered when he sat down again. He was cold and tired, and the worst part of the journey must yet be made. Looking at his watch he resigned himself to wait, and leaned back with eyes closed against the wall while a wet dog crouched at his feet. An hour or two passed and then Tom got up.

"Snow's takin' off," he said. "We must try it."

Kit, pulling himself together, went out and faced the storm. The snow was thinner, but the wind had not dropped and buffeted him savagely as he struggled through a drift to the fold. The dogs had some trouble to drive out the sheep, and when they straggled through the opening Kit imagined the lambs went in front. In a few moments the flock vanished, and he breathed hard as he followed their track up hill. Now and then the dogs barked, but for the most part he heard nothing except the roar of the wind in the crags. He hoped the dogs could find the path across the narrow tableland between two branching ghylls, because it was obvious that his judgment might be at fault. However, there were the lambs; one could trust a Herdwick to return to its heaf.

When he reached the top the wind had blown away the snow, and he stood near the middle of a narrow belt of heath, with his feet sinking in a bog. On each side, he got a glimpse of dark rocks, streaked with white where the wind had packed the snow into the gullies. In front there was a gulf, down which his path led. Scattered snowflakes and rolling mist streamed up from the forbidding hollow. At first he could see nothing of the sheep, but as he floundered across the bog the dogs barked and he found them presently, guarding the flock in a hollow among the crags.

The sheep broke away and Kit pushed on across the narrow belt of bog that was dotted by the marks of little feet. Sometimes he slackened his pace to wait for Tom; the shepherd was getting old and the long climb had tired him. Both stopped for some moments when they reached the brow of the descent, and Kit, bracing himself against the storm tried to look about. He thought he saw the flock close in front.

"They seem doubtful where to go," he said.

"We can do nowt but leave them to find t' ghyll," the shepherd remarked.

Kit agreed. Bleatarn ghyll was beneath him, but there was another hollow and it is hard to walk straight down hill in the dark. He must trust the sheep, and, huddling close together, they refused to leave the crag. When the dogs drove them out they vanished, and since the ground was bare of snow they left no tracks. He stumbled on, falling into pools and stumbling across banks of stones, and soon stopped again. He had come down the slope, so to speak, blindly, and now stood on the edge of a vast, dark pit. One could not see beyond the edge, but the confused noises that came up hinted at profound depth. The gale shrieked, but he heard the roar of falling water and the rattle of stones the wind dislodged.

"Do you think this is Beatarn ghyll?" he asked.

"I dinna ken," Tom answered; and added hopefully, "if it's t'ither, we'll mayhappen find oot before we step over Ling Crag."

They went down at a venture, whistling vainly for the dogs. The drop was very sharp, and now they were leaving the wind-swept pass, the snow had begun to pack among the stones and boggy grass. Still, so far as they could see, there were no marks of little feet and they wondered what had happened to the flock, until a faint bark came out of the mist. The noise got louder and Kit knew the dogs were running round the stopping sheep.

"We're right," he said. "They've gone through the broken wall and the dogs are holding them at the top of the force."

A few minutes afterwards he scrambled over a pile of fallen stones, shouted to Tom, and began to run, for he understood what had happened. The broken wall marked the boundary of the Mireside heaf and the sheep were now on familiar ground. It was his business to drive them to the farm, but they were trying to turn off to look for shelter among the crags. At the force, where the Bleatarn beck leaps in linked falls to the valley, one could get down between the water and the rocks; on the other side, a path about a foot wide led across the face of a precipice. In daylight, if the stones were dry, a man with steady nerves could use the path, but when slab and scree were packed with snow nothing but a Herdwick could cross it safely. The dogs knew this and were trying to hold the flock.

When the men came up they saw an indistinct, woolly mass on the other side of the beck. The mass was not level but slanted sharply, and the sheep at the bottom sent down showers of stones as they surged to and fro, with heads turned to the dogs. It was obvious that they did not mean to go down the ghyll, and Herdwicks born among the crags can climb where no dog can follow.

"The dogs canna turn them," gasped Tom. "They'll be away ower Eel Scar; they're brekkin' noo."

The flock began to open out and three or four sheep straggled forward, but Kit's bob-tailed dog slid down a snowy slab and fell upon the first. The sheep ran back, but the others stood and Kit saw the dog could not stop them long. The Herdwicks knew the advantage was theirs on ground like this.

Jumping from a boulder, he fell into the swollen beck and made his way up the nearly perpendicular slab. At the top he found a dangerous ledge and advanced upon the sheep, which had their backs to the stream. Twining his fingers in a lamb's wool, he picked up the animal and balancing himself precariously threw it as far as he could. It fell into the beck and scrambled out on the other side, where the track led down the ghyll. The effort had cost him much, for his heart beat and he gasped for breath, but he doubted if he had done enough. Dragging another lamb from the flock, he hurled it into the water, and then his foot slipped and he rolled down the slab and fell in the snow.

He got up, badly shaken, and saw that his plan had worked. Sheep will follow a leader and the flock was straggling down the ghyll behind the lambs. Kit recrossed the beck and descended cautiously, keeping close to the rocks. The ghyll is a rough climb in daylight, and summer tourists, trying to cross the fells, often turn back at the bottom. There is no path and one scrambles over large, sharp stones, some of which are loose and fall at a touch. In places, banks of treacherous gravel drop to the beck, which plunges over ledges into deep, spray-veiled pools. Now the stones were slippery with snow, the wind raged, and mist and tossing flakes hid the ground a few yards ahead.

Somehow he got down, but he was exhausted and breathless when he reached the bottom, where he was forced to wait before he could whistle to his dog. He heard its bark and stumbling forward, found the flock bunched together in a hollow. Then he sat down in the snow while Tom counted the sheep.

"They're aw here," said the shepherd. "A better job than I thowt we'd mak! Weel, let's gan on."

Kit was tired, and bruised by his fall, but he went forward behind the dogs. His troubles were over, for a broad smooth path led along the hill-foot to Mireside.

CHAPTER VII

THE RECKONING

The morning was dark, and although the gale had dropped, a raw, cold wind blew up the valley past Mireside farm, where three or four farmers' traps and some rusty bicycles stood beneath the projecting roof of a barn. The bleating of sheep rose from a boggy pasture by the beck, and lights twinkled as men with lanterns moved about in the gloom. Now and then somebody shouted and dogs barked as a flock of Herdwicks was driven to the pens.

In the flagged kitchen, Mrs. Railton and Lucy bustled about by the light of a lamp and the glow of the fire. The table was covered with used plates and cups. The men outside had breakfasted, but one or two more might come and Mrs. Railton wondered when Kit would arrive. She had lain awake for the most part of the night, thinking about him and the strayed Herdwicks while she listened to the gale. Now and then Lucy went to the door and looked up the dale to the glimmering line of foam that marked the spot where Bleatarn beck came down. A path followed the water-side, but she could not see men or sheep in the gloom, and if Kit did not come soon he would be too late.

Railton sat gloomily by the fire. He had had rheumatic fever, and the damp cold racked his aching joints; besides, there was nothing for him to do. He had called in his neighbors to value his flock, but he knew, to a few pounds, what their judgment would be. Hayes Would presently arrive, and Railton would be asked to pay, or give security for, the shortage, which was impossible. Hayes knew this and meant to break his lease. Perhaps the hardest thing was that the shortage was small; if the next lambing season were good, he could pay. But Hayes would not wait.

Although Railton was too proud to beg for help from his neighbors, he had gone to the bank. Osborn, however, used the same bank, and it looked as if Hayes had given the manager a hint, because he refused a loan. Askew had offered a hundred pounds, but this was not enough, and even if Kit arrived with the sheep from Swinset, Railton could not find the rest of the money. However, the arrival of the Herdwicks would make a difference, and he did not altogether give up hope. By and by he tried to get up, and sitting down again with a groan, beckoned his wife.

"Martha, you might gan to door."

Mrs. Railton, knowing what he meant, went to the porch. It was lighter outside and the hillside was growing distinct. She thought something moved on the path beside the beck, and turned to her daughter, who had followed.

"What's yon by the water, Lucy?"

Lucy was silent for a few moments and then said quietly, "I think it's sheep!"

She watched the path. The mist made a puzzling background and her eyes were getting dazzled; but there was something. Then she heard a chair jar on the flags and glanced at Railton, who leaned forward.

"Weel?" he said. "Canna you speak? Is neabody coming yet?"

Lucy threw another glance up the dale and her heart beat. An indistinct row of small dark objects moved along the path, with two tall figures behind.

"Kit's coming down the beck; he's brought the Herdwicks!" she cried.

"Canny lad!" said Railton, and leaning back limply, wiped his face. His forehead was wet with sweat, for he was weak and the suspense had been keen.

The sheep vanished behind a wall, and Lucy began to put fresh food on the table. Mrs. Railton hung a kettle on a hook above the fire, and then turned with a start as a girl came into the porch.

"Miss Osborn!" she exclaimed.

Grace advanced calmly, although there was some color in her face, because she knew the others were surprised that she had come.

"Is Mr. Hayes here?" she asked.

"Mayhappen he's at the pens," Lucy replied. "I thought I heard his car."

"Then I missed him at the cross-roads," said Grace. "I was going to
Allerby, and my father asked me to give him a note when he stopped at
Lawson's." She hesitated, and then resumed impulsively: "Perhaps I
oughtn't to have come on; but I wanted to do so."

They knew what she meant, but nobody answered, and Grace sat down on a bench by the table.

"Will you give the note to Mr. Hayes? Has Kit Askew brought the
Swinset sheep?"

"He's coming now," said Lucy, picking up the note, and Grace's eyes sparkled.

"I knew he would bring them; I told him he must."

Lucy went out and Grace asked Railton about his pains. While they talked somebody shouted outside, and the old man, getting up with an effort, hobbled to the door.

"Hoad on; dinna close t' pen," a man called. "Here's Kit and t' lot fra Swinset."

Three of four more shouted and Grace, who had followed Railton, thought there was a note of triumph in their cries. Then dogs began to bark, somebody opened a gate, and a flock of Herdwicks, leaping out with wet fleeces shaking, and hoofs clicking on stone, ran across a shallow pool where the beck had overflowed.

A few minutes afterwards, Kit came in. He looked tired, his face was rather haggard, and his clothes were wet. Tom, the shepherd, followed and sat down by the fire.

"It was nea an easy job, but we manished it," he said. "Swinset sheep is thief sheep, but they're none a match for Kit's oad dog."

Kit stopped abruptly as he crossed the floor and his heart beat. "Ah!" he said. "Miss Osborn?"

Grace smiled as she got up and gave him her hand. "Well done! Have you brought them all? But of course you have!"

"They're in the pen," Kit answered, with some embarrassment.

Then Railton stood up, leaning awkwardly on his stick.

"I've misdoubted your new-fashioned plans, and ken that I was wrang.
There's nea ither lad in aw t' dale could ha' browt Herdwicks doon
Bleatarn ghyll last neet. Weel, t' oad ways for t' oad men, but I'se
niver deny again that the young and new are good."

He sat down and while Mrs. Railton began to bustle about the table Grace stole away. She knew she ought not to have come, and had done so with a feeling of rebellion against her father's harshness, although she tried to persuade herself that Hayes was most to blame. Now she was glad the note made a pretext for the visit; she had shown the Railtons her sympathy and had thanked Kit. After all, he had perhaps gone to look for the sheep because she told him; she rather hoped he had, and rejoiced with the others at his success.

Grace admitted that she liked Kit Askew. He was resolute but modest, and had just done a bold deed by which he had nothing to gain. Railton's praise had moved her, because she knew the dalesfolk's reserve and that the farmer would not, without good grounds, have spoken as he did. Moreover, she knew the fells, and it was something of an exploit to bring the sheep from Swinset in the storm. Kit was, of course, a farmer's son, but he was plucky and generous; besides, she approved his steady look, well-balanced, muscular figure, and clean brown skin. Then she blushed and began to wonder what she would say about her visit to Mireside when she went home.

In the meantime, Kit ate his breakfast, and soon afterwards Peter Askew came in and began to talk to Railton. Until the valuation was agreed upon there was nothing for them to do, and it was some time before the men returned from the pens. They were plain farmers with rather hard, brown faces, and stood about the fire in half-embarrassed silence while Hayes sat down at the table and opened his pocket-book.

"We have made up the tally," he began, and Railton interrupted.

"Counting in the lambs and ewes fra Swinset?"

"They are counted," Hayes replied. "I'll give you particulars of the different lots."

He read out some figures and then turned to the group by the fire. "I think we are all agreed?"

"Aw, yis," said one. "It's as near as yan can mak' it, withoot sending flock to auction."

Hayes turned to Railton. "Are you satisfied?"

"We willunt fratch. Mayhappen two or three lots would fetch anither pound or two, but we'll ca' it fair."

"Then we must thank these gentlemen," said Hayes, who shut his pocket-book and took out a document. "As there is some other business and they have given us some time, we need not keep them."

The men looked at one another and Peter Askew said, "If Railton doesn't mind, we'd sooner stop."

"Stop if you like," Railton agreed. "You've got me a just reckoning and you're neebors aw."

"It's not necessary," Hayes objected. "The business we have to transact is private."

"They ken it," Railton replied in a stubborn voice. "I've bid them stop and the hoose is mine until Mr. Osborn turns me oot."

"Very well. You know the sum due to the landlord. Are you ready to pay?"

"I canna pay. It's weel you ken."

"Then, can you give security for the debt?"

"I canna and wadn't give it if I could. There's ways a cliver agent can run up a reckoning, and when you want Mireside I'll have to gan."

"Then, I'm afraid we shall be forced to break the lease and take measures to recover the sum due."

"Hoad on a minute!" said one of the group, who turned to Railton. "Would you like to stop?"

"I would like; I've lived at Mireside sin' I was born. There's another thing: it's none too good a time for a sale o' farming stock, and when I've paid Osborn, I'll need some money to mak' anither start. Then may-happen a dry spring wold put me straight."

"It ought to; you're not much behind," Peter agreed. "Weel, you ken I'm generally willing to back my judgment, and noo it seems there's others think like me."

"In a sense, the lease does not run out yet," Kit interposed. "It has rather reached the half-term, because by our custom Railton is entitled to take it up again for an equal period if he and the landlord agree about the necessary adjustment. Our leases really cover a double term."

Hayes turned to him with an ironical smile. "Do you know much about tenant law?" he asked.

"No," said Kit, rather dryly. "I made some studies when I could get the books, but they didn't take me far. In fact, I imagine that in this neighborhood there's very little law and much precedent, which has generally been interpreted for the landlord's advantage. There are old Barony laws and Manor rights, and my notion is that nobody knows exactly how he stands. But we'll let this go. If Railton pays his fine, you will have some trouble to get rid of him."

Hayes agreed and Railton looked up with a puzzled air.

"But I canna pay," he said dully.

The farmer who had interrupted Hayes took out a bulky envelope and crossed the floor.

"Well," he said, "I think you're wrang. Your friends have been talking aboot the thing and wadn't like t' see you gan." He gave Railton the envelope, adding: "It's a loan."

Railton's hand shook as he took out a bundle of bank-notes. "You're good neebors," he said in a strained voice. "But I dinna think I ought to tak' your money. There's a risk."

"Not much risk in backing an honest man," the other rejoined, and taking the notes from Railton gave them to Hayes. "Noo, if you'll count these—"

Hayes' face was inscrutable as he flicked over the notes. "The total's correct. It's an awkward bundle; a check would have been simpler."

"A check has the drawback that it must be signed," Kit remarked with a meaning smile. "We're modest folk, and nobody was anxious to write himself down the leader."

"I see!" said Hayes. "I don't know if you're modest; but you're certainly cautious."

"Anyhow, we're aw in this," said one of the others.

"So it seems. I hope you won't lose your money," Hayes rejoined dryly and took out a fountain pen. "Well, here's your receipt, Mr. Railton. I don't think there is anything more to be said."

He put the receipt on the table and when he went away a farmer laughed.

"O'ad Hayes is quiet and cunning as a hill fox, but my lease has some time to go and he canna put us aw oot."

Railton tried to thank them, while Mrs. Railton smiled with tears in her eyes, but the dales folk dislike emotion and as soon as it was possible the visitors went away.

An hour or two afterwards Grace heard about the matter from the sick wife of a farmer, whom she had gone to see, and when she went home thought she had better not confess that she had taken Hayes' note to Mireside. When Osborn joined his wife and daughter at the tea-table in the hall after some disappointing shooting, his remarks about his tenants were rancorous. Grace thought it prudent not to talk and left the table as soon as she could. When she had gone, Osborn frowned and getting up savagely kicked a log in the grate.

"I got a nasty knock this morning," he said. "It's not so much that I mind letting Railton stop; I hate to feel I've been baffled and made the victim of a plot."

"After all, wasn't it rather Hayes's idea than yours that Railton ought to go?" Mrs. Osborn ventured.

"It was; there's some comfort in that! You don't like Hayes much."

"I don't know that I dislike him. I'm not sure I trust him."

"Well," said Osborn thoughtfully, "I sometimes feel he's keenest about my interests when they don't clash with his, and this last affair was a pretty good example of nepotism. For all that, his nephew would have been a better tenant and have paid a higher rent." He paused and knitted his brows angrily as he resumed: "However, it's done with, and one can't blame Railton for holding on to his lease. What I hate to feel is, the others plotted to baffle me. The land is mine, but I'd sooner get on well with my tenants."

"One cannot, so to speak, have it both ways," Mrs. Osborn remarked timidly.

"Oh, I know what you mean! But I don't think I'm a harsh landlord. If money was not quite so scarce, I might be generous. In fact, I don't know that I'd have agreed to turning Railton out if it hadn't been for Gerald's confounded debts and his allowance at Woolwich. That's a fresh expense."

Mrs. Osborn thought the expense did not count for much by comparison with her husband's extravagance; but he had been rather patient and she must not go too far.

"Well," she said, "you have got Railton's fine."

"It is not a large sum," Osborn answered with a frown. "I need the money, but in a sense I'd sooner it had not been paid. Anyhow, I'd sooner it had not been paid like that. The others' confounded organized opposition annoys me."

"They were forced to subscribe to a fund if they wanted to help."

"Just so; but they probably wouldn't have thought about subscribing if Askew hadn't suggested it. They're an independent lot and believe in standing on their own feet. For a time after I got Tarnside, they used a sensible, give-and-take attitude; it's only recently they've met with stupid, sullen suspicion."

"Perhaps it was rather a mistake to give Bell the coal yards' lease."

"The coal yards had nothing to do with it," Osborn declared. "The trouble began earlier, and I've grounds for believing it began at Ashness. If I was rich enough, I'd buy the Askews out. They know I've no power over them and take advantage of the situation. The old man was a bad example for the others, but his son, with his raw communistic notions, is dangerous. If I could get rid of the meddling fool somehow, it would be a keen relief."

He came back to the table and picked up a cup of tea. Then, grumbling that it had gone cold, he put it down noisily and went out.

CHAPTER VIII

GRACE FINDS A WAY

Soon after the reckoning at Mireside, the snow melted off the fells and for a month dark rain clouds from the sea rolled up the dale. They broke upon the hill tops in heavy showers, gray mist drifted about the wet slopes, the becks roared in the ghylls, and threads of foam that wavered in the wind streaked the crags. In the bottom of the valley it was never really light, water flowed across the roads, and the low-standing farmsteads reeked with damp.

All this was not unusual and the dalesfolk would have borne it patiently had fuel not been short. Large fires were needed to dry the moisture that condensed in the flagged kitchens and soaked the thick walls, but coal could not be got at a price the house-wives were willing to pay. Some would have had to stint their families in food had they bought on Bell's terms, and the rest struggled, for the common cause, against the mould that gathered on clothing and spoiled the meal. They grumbled, but their resolution hardened as the strain got worse, while Bell waited rather anxiously for them to give way.

His yards were full and more coal was coming in, but he saw that if he let the farmers beat him his power to overcharge them another time would be gone. The new combine was dangerous, since the cooperative plan might be extended to the purchase of chemical manures, seed, and lime. In the meantime, there was plenty of peat, stacked so that it would escape much damage, on Malton Head; but Askew and his friends could not get it down. Carts could not be used on the fells and the clumsy wooden sledges the farmers called stone-boats would not run across the boggy moor. The few loads Kit brought down at the cost of heavy labor were carried off by anxious house-wives as soon as they arrived.

The weather was helping the monopolist, but he could not tell if a change to frost would be an advantage or not. Although it would make the need for coal felt keenly, it might simplify the transport of peat. When Bell thought about it, and the colliery company's bills came in, he felt disturbed, but he was stubborn and would not lower his price yet.

At length the rain stopped, and after a heavy fall of snow keen frost began. The white fells glittered in cold sunshine that only touched the bottom of the dale for an hour or two. The ice on the tarn was covered, so that skating was impossible, and Thorn, feeling the need for amusement, had a few sledges made. He had learned something about winter sports in Switzerland, and one afternoon stood with a party of young men and women at the top of Malton Head. They had practised with a pair of skis farther down the hill, where one or two were sliding on a small Swiss luge, but Thorn wanted to find a long run for his Canadian-pattern toboggan.

Grace stood near him; her face touched with warm color and her eyes sparkling as she looked about. She did not altogether approve of Alan Thorn, but she was young and vigorous and enjoyed the sport. Besides, she loved the high fells and now they looked majestic in the pale sunshine. They were not all white; dark rocks with glittering veins edged the snowfield, and the scarred face of Force Crag ran down where the shoulder of the moor broke off four hundred feet below. Where the sun did not strike, the snow was a curious delicate gray, and the bottom of the dale was colored an ethereal blue. The pale-gray riband, winding in a graceful curve round the crag, marked the old green road that was sometimes used for bringing down dry fern, and Grace's face got thoughtful as she noted a row of men and horses some distance off. She imagined they were Askew and his helpers.

In the meantime, Thorn studied her with artistic satisfaction. He had an eye for female beauty and the girl looked very well in her rather shabby furs. Her pose was light and graceful, her figure finely modeled, and he liked the glow the cold had brought to her skin. Moreover, he liked her joyous confidence when they tried the luge on a risky slide. She was as steady-nerved and plucky as a man, and was marked by a fine fastidiousness that did not characterize other girls he knew.

"I think this is about the best spot we have seen," he said. "The drop is steep but regular, although I expect we'll be breathless when we get to the bottom. Would you like to try? If not, perhaps somebody else will come."

He looked at the others, and they looked at the white declivity. It was much longer than any they had gone down, and a girl laughed.

"To begin with, we'll watch you. I was upset on the last slide and it's rather a long way to roll down to the dale."

Grace lay down on a cushion with her head just behind the toboggan's curved front; Thorn found room farther back, with his legs in the snow, and amidst some laughter and joking the others pushed; them off. The surface was hard, and for a time the toboggan ran smoothly and steadily; then the pace got faster, and showers of snow flew up like spray. It beat into Grace's eyes and whipped her face, until she bent her head in the shelter of the curled front.

The sharp hiss the steel runners made was louder, the wind began to scream, and she got something of a shock when she cautiously looked up. It was hard to see through the snowy spray, but the top of the crag looked ominously near. Glancing down hill with smarting eyes, she thought the slope, which, from the top, had seemed to fall evenly to the dale, was also inclined towards the crag. She could not see much of the latter, but there was a fringe of dark rock where the white declivity broke off.

"Aren't we getting too near?" she shouted.

"Nearer than I thought," Thorn gasped. "Not sure I can swing the sledge.
Can you get back and help?"

Grace braced herself. Alan's nerve was good, but there was a disturbed note in his voice; besides he would not have asked her help unless it was needed. Wriggling back cautiously, she got level with Thorn, although there was not much room for them side by side. Her feet and the seam of her short dress brushed in the snow and tore up the surface. She felt the looser stuff beneath foam about her gaiters, but this was an advantage. The drag would help to stop the sledge, and if she could put an extra pressure on one side, to some extent direct it. Still they were going very fast and at first she was nearly pulled off. She tightened her grasp with her hands until she felt her gloves split, and then risked another glance ahead.

The rocks were very close, but the sledge had passed the top, and she could see a few yards down the dark side as they followed the curving edge of the crag. The sledge was now running nearly straight down the hill, but the curve bent in towards them, and she could not tell if they would shoot past the widest spot or plunge over.

"Perhaps you had better let go," Thorn said hoarsely.

Grace shook her head. If she dropped off, it was uncertain whether she would stop until she had rolled some distance; perhaps she might not stop before she reached the edge of the crag. Anyhow, she did not mean to let go, and tried to catch the snow with her toes in an effort to help Thorn to steer the sledge. It swerved a little but rushed on again, and she saw that the edge of the rock curved in yet. She doubted if they were far enough off to get past the bend.

Then she saw that Thorn had slipped farther back in order to increase the drag of his legs. His face was dark with blood and she heard his heavy breathing as he tried to change their course. She helped all she could while the snow rolled across her dress, and then for a moment lifted her head. Powdered snow beat into her face and nearly blinded her, but she thought there was now an unbroken slant in front. They must have passed the middle of the bend, although Thorn was between her and the side on which it lay and she was not sure yet. She remembered with horrible distinctness how she had once stood at the bottom of the crag and seen a stone that rolled over the top smash upon the rocks.

"Try again!" Thorn gasped. "Swing her to the right!"

Grace let her body slip back. The thrust and drag were telling, for the sledge had swerved, and then there came a few seconds of keen suspense. After this she heard Thorn draw a labored breath and felt his hand on her waist.

"We're past. Hitch yourself up before you're pulled off," he said.

With some trouble Grace got back to her place and lay still, while her heart thumped painfully and something rang in her ears. The reaction had begun and she knew she could not move if Thorn wanted help again. It looked, however, as if he did not, and some moments afterwards she saw that the way was clear ahead. She wondered whether they would stop before they reached the bottom of the dale and how far it was. The round sheepfold in the first field looked no larger than a finger ring. She was getting numb and the rush of bitter air took away her breath.

"Hold tight!" Thorn shouted presently and she noted that the hillside broke off not far in front.

Since there were no crags near the spot, it was obvious that they had come to an extra steep pitch, the brow of which prevented her from seeing the bottom. Next moment the sledge seemed to leave the ground and leap forward. Grace thought that for some yards they traveled through the air, and then the hiss of the runners that had suddenly stopped became a scream. The speed was bewildering and a haze of fine snow streamed past. By and by, however, this began to thin, the speed slackened, and Thorn gave a warning shout. She felt him try to turn the sledge, but they were going too fast; the light frame canted and turned over, and they rolled off into the snow. When Grace got up and shook herself, fifty yards lower down, she saw Thorn standing by the righted sledge. He came to meet her as she toiled back and his eyes sparkled.

"By George!" he said, "you are fine. You're a thorough sport!"

Grace colored. The compliment was obviously frank and not premeditated; perhaps she deserved it, but she did not want Thorn to praise her. His manners were good, but somehow he often jarred. He had not, within her memory, said anything that could justly offend her, and although he was a neighbor and there were no secrets in the dale, she had not known him do a shabby thing. Yet, on the whole, he rather repelled than attracted her. She studied him as he came down the hill.

He was a big, handsome man, and it was, of course, ridiculous to dislike him because he was older than she and was getting fat. He was an amusing talker and a good sportsman, but now and then one got a hint of hardness and cunning. Somehow, so to speak, he did not ring true.

"I held on because I thought I might fall over the crag if I let go," she said with a laugh. "Then as I did hold on, it was merely prudent to try to steer the sledge."

"Oh, yes," Thorn agreed. "But the important thing is you saw this and didn't lose your nerve. Anyhow, if you had lost it, I couldn't have blamed you; I blame myself for my confounded thoughtlessness that let you run the risk. In fact, I'm dreadfully sorry and don't mind owning that I got a fright."

Grace noted that he was rather shaken, and felt vaguely disturbed. She had seen him following the foxhounds among the crags, for they hunt on foot in the rugged dales, and knew his steadiness and pluck. He had not been afraid for himself, and she did not want him to be afraid for her.

"After all," she said, "the hill seemed to run down evenly when we stood at the top. If the little slant towards the crag deceived you, it deceived me."

"I know more about tobogganing and oughtn't to have been deceived. It hurts to feel I didn't take proper care of you."

"It really doesn't matter," Grace replied with a smile, and Thorn gave her a steady look.

"Oh, but it does matter! You ought to see that!"

"I don't see it," Grace insisted quietly, although her heart beat. "You were not accountable, and we got down quite safe. Let's talk about something else."

Thorn's eyes rested on her for another moment, and then he made a sign of acquiescence and they went back up the hill. At the top he marked a new line for the next day's sport, and then as the sun was getting low the party started home by the old stone-boat road. Near the bottom they overtook the Askews, and one or two others walking at their horses' heads as they cautiously descended a steep pitch. Grace noted that although they were not bringing much peat there was a risk of the sledges running down upon the teams.

"You have not got on very fast," she said to Peter.

"If we're no verra careful, we'll gan faster than we like."

"I suppose that's why you're only taking half a load?"

"Just that," Peter agreed. "It wadn't suit for load to run ower the team.
Better safe than sorry, though it's a terrible loss o' time."

"Then, why don't you look for an easier way down?"

"There's only the oad green road. Fellside's ower steep for horses."

"Well, if I can think of a better way I'll tell you," Grace replied, smiling, and hurried on after the others.

They left her at the Tarnside gate and she stopped abruptly as she went up the drive. It had obviously taken Askew a long time to bring down half a load because of the risk to his horses; but she had found a better plan. It was not needful to use horses, after they had pulled the sledges up. The latter could be heavily loaded and left to run down alone. She must tell Kit Askew when she saw him next, but she did not reflect that it was curious she meant to tell Kit and not Peter.

CHAPTER IX

THE PLAN WORKS

Although the air was bracingly keen the afternoon was calm and the scattered clouds scarcely moved across the sky. The snow in the valley shone a delicate gray, and soft lights and shadows rested on the hills. A peak that rose above the edge of the lofty moor gleamed pale-yellow against a background of deep blue. Grace noted the tranquil beauty of the landscape, but hesitated now and then as she climbed the steep road out of the dale.

She had come to meet Kit Askew, and now she reviewed her reasons for doing so they did not look very sound. In fact, if Kit approved the plan she meant to suggest, she would perhaps be meddling unjustifiably with her father's business. After all, however, it was really not his business. He had allowed himself to be persuaded to help Hayes and the latter's accomplice, Bell, without quite understanding what this implied. Her plan would prevent his doing an injustice he did not really mean to do.

She suspected that there was a touch of sophistry about her arguments, but would not own that she had come because she wanted to meet Kit. It was necessary that she should meet him; yet when she stopped at a gate and heard the tramp of horses' feet behind, her color came and went. For all that, she looked very calm, when Kit pulled up his team, and went forward to open the gate. He made an abrupt movement as he recognized her, but his eyes shone with satisfaction.

"I suppose you are going for some peat," she said.

Kit said he was, and added that Peter and two or three neighbors were loading the stone-boats on the moor.

"Then, I wonder whether you could let me have a small quantity when you come down?"

"You can have a load if you want."

Grace laughed. "Two or three basketsful would be enough, and I don't want them for myself. I went to see Mrs. Waite and found her old father crippled by rheumatism. The kitchen was cold and damp, but she had a very little fire. She said her coal was nearly gone and she had got no peat."

"Thank you for telling me; I didn't know," said Kit. "I'll take her a sack as I go down the dale." He paused and hesitated, with his hand on the open gate. "But it's rather cold. Am I keeping you?"

Grace noted with some satisfaction that he did not seem to think it remarkable she had met him at the lonely spot.

"Oh, no," she said. "I am going up the hill. I like the view from the crag and sometimes go to watch the sunset. When it shines over the shoulder of the Pike it throws wonderful lights on the snow."

Kit agreed, and after he started his horses they went on together. By and by Grace resumed: "When I met you yesterday, your father said the sledges often ran down too fast and you could not put up a proper load."

"That is a drawback. You see, there's plenty peat cut; the trouble is to bring it down. After the heavy rain, we couldn't drag the stone-boats across the boggy moor, and although the snow has made this easy, it hasn't helped much otherwise. If we put up a big load, there's some danger of the sledges overtaking and knocking down the horses where the track is steep."

"And you can't see a way of getting over the difficulty?"

Kit said he could not and Grace's eyes twinkled.

"Then I can. I'll show you a way, if you're not too proud to take advice from a girl."

"Certainly not," Kit said, smiling. "I don't know why you think
I'm proud."

"Then perhaps you're obstinate; some of the dalesfolk are."

"We're slow. We like to try things properly; and then, perhaps we stick to them longer than is needful if we find them good. But caution's prudent."

"You're very cautious now," Grace rejoined. "You don't seem curious about my plan. Are you afraid it isn't practical?"

"No," said Kit, rather earnestly; "since it's yours, it's no doubt good." Then he pulled himself up and added with a twinkle: "But I haven't heard it yet."

"Well, while your difficulty is that the peat comes down too fast, I think it does not go fast enough. You are afraid about your horses, but you needn't use them. The stone-boats would run down alone. Do you understand now?"

Kit started. "I expect you have found the way, Miss Osborn, and we owe you some thanks. In fact, you're cleverer than the lot!"

"The admission doesn't seem to hurt you," Grace rejoined. "But I imagine to feel you had to make it was something of a shock."

"No," said Kit, with a laugh she liked. "We're often dull and our womenfolk have helped us much. But somehow I did not expect—"

He stopped, and Grace gave him a level glance.

"You mean you did not expect help from me?"

"Well," he said, "I suppose I did mean something like that"

"Then I'm glad you owned it, because it allows me to clear the ground. I don't want poor people to be cold in winter in order that Bell may get rich. Neither does my father want it—you must believe this! He doesn't know all that goes on; Hayes hides things from him. There is no reason I shouldn't help you to spoil Bell's plot."

Kit was silent for a few moments. The girl had pluck and he liked her frankness. She was trying to persuade herself Osborn was not unjust, and, although he imagined she found it hard, he did not mean to make it harder. One must respect her staunchness.

"Bell is our real antagonist and he's an awkward man to beat," he said. "However, the hint you have given us ought to be useful. I'll look for a way down when we get to the top."

Grace warned him about the inclination of the hillside to the rocks and stopped at the bottom of the crag.

"I think I'll go across the hill and watch the first sledge come down, if you're not too long," she said and paused for a moment. "Perhaps you needn't tell the others it was my plan."

Kit said he would not do so and was strangely satisfied as he went on with his horses. He understood her hesitation; it was delightful to feel that she had given him her confidence and they shared a secret. At the top, he found the others had loaded the sledges and were ready to start. Since the dales folk are conservative, he had expected some opposition to his plan, but they listened attentively and an old man supported him.

"I mind hearing my father say that yan hard winter after a wet back end o' year, they let peat run doon t' fell. What has been done yance can be done again."

Kit said nothing; for the other, by using a favorite motto, had banished his companions' dislike of novelties.

"It was deeun no' so long sin'," another remarked. "In my time, they browt slate doon on t' stane-boats across the Fleet-pike scree. Pushed them off at top and let them go."

There was some further talk and when they resolved to make the experiment Kit went down the hill. He said he wanted to see how the first sledge crossed an awkward pitch, but it counted for much that he saw a small figure below. Grace looked satisfied with his excuse for joining her and they waited for a time while the men above moved the first load to the edge. The sunshine had gone and it was getting cold; the shadows in the dale had faded from blue to dusky gray and the frost was keen. All was very quiet, but now and then distant voices and the musical rattle of chains came down through the nipping air.

"It will be dark before they're ready if they're not quick," said Kit, and Grace looked up the hill.

"I think they're starting the sledge. If there had been nobody about, I would have liked to come down with the peat. You can't imagine how exciting it is."

They watched the sledge slip over the brow of the descent. It got larger as it came down, but it did not run as fast as the toboggan. One could see it rock and swerve, shaking off loose peats, where the ground was broken, and Grace glanced at the steep pitch Kit had come to watch.

"It will go down there with a splendid rush, but I don't think it will upset," she said. "My plan is going to work."

The sledge got nearer. They saw the snow fly up about its front and heard the scream the runners made. There was something fascinating about its smooth but fast descent, and as it approached the top of the dip they moved back rather unwillingly to let it pass. When it was nearly level with them it slowed on the changing incline and Grace noted that there was a narrow space between the back of the frame and the peat. She gave Kit a quick look as she said, "If one wanted, I think one could jump on."

"Let's try!" said Kit impulsively, and they ran forward.

He reached the sledge first, and throwing himself down held out his hand to Grace, who fell upon the runner log. Kit pulled her up and although the light was going saw her face glow after the effort she had made. Her eyes sparkled with excitement, but Kit felt half embarrassed because he did not know whether he had persuaded her to venture on an undignified adventure or she had persuaded him. It was a relief to hear her laugh.

"This is rather ridiculous, and I don't know if we can hold on," she said as she tried to grasp the shaking peat.

The sledge ran faster and lurched violently as it plunged over the edge of the steep drop. A shower of peat fell on them, the speed got furious, and they heard the runners scream, but they were sheltered from the rush of wind and could not see ahead. After a few moments Grace looked up with twinkling eyes.

"You could drop off if you liked. Are you, sorry you came?"

"No," said Kit. "I came because I wanted, and now I'm here I'll stop."

"I really think you mean to be nice," Grace rejoined with amusement and Kit understood; she saw he did not mean to admit that she had suggested the adventure, but this was not important. It was something of an adventure for a girl like Miss Osborn, although her having embarked on it gave him a delightful feeling of partnership in a harmless folly.

"I hope there's nothing in the way," he said. "We're going very fast and
Hindbeck farm can't be far off. I ought to have looked before we jumped."

"It is too late now," Grace answered with an excited laugh. "I imagine you're not as cautious as you think; but we won't talk. It's hard to hold on and I haven't much breath."

Kit moved nearer and, seizing the edge of the frame, put his arm round her waist. She did not seem to resent this, and for a time they sped down hill with their feet plowing through the snow. Kit did not care how long the swift rush lasted, but by and by he began to get anxious. The sledge had gone a long way since they jumped on, and the hillside was steep to the bottom, where it met the Hindbeck pastures. While he wondered whether Grace would slide far and get shaken if he made her let go, the sledge tilted up. It stopped with a violent shock, he heard stones fall, and was thrown off amidst a shower of peat. When he got up Grace was sitting in the snow some distance off and he ran towards her. She had lost her small fur cap and her hair was loose, but to his relief she laughed.

"Oh," she said, "it really was ridiculous! But the plan will work. The peat will run down!"

"That is so," Kit agreed, with a breathless chuckle. "I think it would have run into the Hindbeck kitchen but for the wall."

"Then it was a wall that stopped us. It felt like a rock."

"Come and see," said Kit, holding out his hand to help her up.

"I think," she said, "I'd rather you looked for my hat."

He went off and it was two or three minutes before he found the hat among the scattered peat. When he came back it was nearly dark, but Grace's hair was no longer untidy, and the snow that had smeared her clothes had gone. She walked with him to where the sledge rested on a pile of stones, and looking through the gap, they saw a woman with a lantern cross a narrow pasture between them and a house.

"What's t' matter?" the woman shouted and turned round. "Janet, gan on and see what's brokken t' wa'."

Another figure came out of the gloom and Grace looked at Kit.

"I don't know who Janet is, but I do know Mrs. Creighton. She talks," she said. "If you'll stop and explain matters, I'll go down the lonning. It was a glorious adventure! Good-night!"

She stole away round the corner of the wall and Kit, who understood that he was, so to speak, to cover her retreat, waited until the two women came up. The one who carried the lantern was fat and homely; the other was slender and looked like Janet Bell.

"It's Kit, an' stane-boat stucken in t' wa'!" said the first as she held up the light "But where's team? An' hoo did you get here? There's nea road this way."

Kit laughed. "It's lucky I left the horses at the top. This is a new plan for bringing down the peat and it certainly works, although next time we must try to stop a little sooner."

Mrs. Creighton asked him some questions before she understood what had happened. He was in the light, because she had put the lantern on the wall, and although he could not see her companion's face, he suspected from Janet's quietness that she was studying him.

"Then you left the others on the moor," the girl remarked.

"I did," said Kit. "We sent the stone-boat off by itself, and it was half-way down when I jumped on."

"Then none of the men came with you?"

"No," said Kit, who felt annoyed because he saw Janet suspected something. "I went down to watch the sledge and see if we had hit the best track."

"It's strange!" said Janet. "I thought there was somebody else when I first came out. Still, of course, it was nearly dark."

Kit was puzzled because he could not tell how much Janet had really seen, and thought the situation needed careful handling. If she knew Miss Osborn had been with him, it would be a mistake to make the thing look significant by pretending that she had not; but it was possible that Janet did not know. Then Grace had hinted that she did not want their adventure talked about.

"I don't expect you could see very well if you had just come out from the light in the kitchen," he replied. "Anyhow, none of the men came with me and I must go back and tell them not to send off another lot. We'll see about mending your wall to-morrow, Mrs. Creighton."

He went off to a gate that opened into the lonning. This was the wisest plan, because he did not want to talk to Janet. He was half afraid of her, but not because he thought she sympathized with her father's plots; it was known that Bell and his daughter quarreled. The girl was a dangerous coquette and had tactfully hinted that she rather approved Kit. This had alarmed Kit, who knew she was clever and resolute.

When he reached the lane he stopped abruptly as he remembered something, and took out his pipe, although he did not mean to smoke. He must be cautious, since he was not sure if Janet had gone in. Striking a match, he held it between his hands as if he were going to light his pipe and stooped in the shelter of a wall.

The light shone on the ground and he knitted his brows as he saw sharp footsteps in the snow. The farm people did not wear boots that would leave marks like these; moreover, the footsteps would lead anybody who thought it worth while to follow them to the spot where the sledge upset. Kit threw down the match, and frowned as he went on again.

CHAPTER X

JANET MEDDLES

Bright moonlight sparkled on the snow when Kit left Ashness to post some letters he had written ordering new machines. He was young, but since he came home Peter had allowed much of the business of the farm to fall into his hands. Kit's judgment was sound; he had studied modern methods at the agricultural college and was progressive without being rash. For the most part, his experiments had paid, and Peter sometimes thought the lad's talents were wasted in the quiet dale. Kit had ability, particularly for management. Then, although he was rather reserved, people trusted him and often asked his advice.

Peter knew Kit was satisfied to stay at Ashness; but, for all that, if the lad felt he wanted a wider field for his energies later, he would not stand in his way. The time might come when he must let him go, for Peter had a brother who had got rich in America and was willing to give his nephew a start. Indeed, Adam had written again not long since, asking if Peter was going to send him. It was a relief when Kit laughed and declared that he did not mean to leave Ashness yet.

When he passed Allerby mill Kit looked about. Icicles covered the idle wheel, a snow cornice hung over the flagged roof, and water splashed softly in the half-frozen race. Farther on, the snowy road was checkered by the shadows of hedges and bare trees. Low roofs, touched by hoar-frost, rose behind the trunks, and here and there a gleam of yellow light shone out. The road, however, was empty, as Kit was relieved to note.

He had once or twice recently, when he went to the post in the evening, met Janet Bell coming from the little shop in the village. In fact, the thing began to look significant. Kit was sorry for Janet, because Bell's rule was harsh and his neighbors extended their dislike for him to his family. All the same, Kit did not trust the girl and would sooner she left him alone. He might be taking too much for granted, but romantic pity was a treacherous guide; Janet was pretty and clever, and he was human. He had thought about changing the time he went to the post, but felt it would be cowardly. Besides, he was occupied all day and letters could not be written until the outside work was done, while a postman called at Allerby early in the morning.

There was, however, nobody about and for a minute or two Kit went on at a quick pace. He passed Bell's house, and then hesitated with a frown as a figure he thought he knew came round a bend in front. Close by, the tall hedgerow was broken by a stile, from which a path led across a field and joined the road farther on. He was in the moonlight and if he vanished the thing would look too marked. Moreover, there would be something ridiculous about his running away.

Kit went forward, wondering whether Janet had noted his hesitation, and she stopped him near a big ash-tree. The shadow of the branches made a black, open pattern on the snow and a belt of gloom lay behind the wide trunk. Kit would sooner Janet had stopped in the moonlight, since the villagers often went to the shop and post in the evening, and his standing in the shadow gave a hint of secrecy to the accidental meeting. He thought it strange that Janet did not see this.

"You were walking fast," she said. "I believe you'd have gone by if I hadn't spoken."

"The frost is sharp enough to make one move briskly and I've something to do when I get back."

"Busy lad!" said Janet, in a mocking voice. "You're always in a hurry,
Kit I suppose Peter works you hard?"

"He says I work him harder than he likes," Kit replied, smiling. "Perhaps the truth is he lets me have my way."

"You're lucky," Janet remarked with a sigh. "It's nice to be able to do what you like. There's only one way at the Mill house, and that's father's. But I suppose you agree with him that women's ideas don't count?"

"I daresay their ideas are as sound as ours, but I don't know much about it. We have no women except old Bella and the dairymaid at Ashness."

"And you never miss them? In that big, lonely house!"

Kit mused for a moment. Sometimes, particularly on summer evenings when they did not light the lamps and the shadows of the fells rested on the old building, Ashness was lonely and drearily quiet. He had thought now and then the difference would be marked if a woman's laugh rang through the dim rooms and a graceful figure sat by the hearth. Still, his imagination had not pictured Janet there.

"Oh, well," he said, "we're out all day and when we come home there are letters to write and books to read."

"Letters and books!" said Janet. "Kit, I wonder if you're quite alive." Then she laughed, provocatively. "Anyhow, you don't seem to know when you're given a chance of being nice."

Kit did not answer and wished she would let him go. He felt awkward and thought Janet knew this, for she resumed: "However, one mustn't expect too much and you want to get back. It's a habit of yours. You were in a hurry to get away the last time I saw you, when the stone-boat broke Creighton's wall."

"I'd been at work since morning in the snow."

"And Miss Osborn was waiting for you in the lonning?"

"No," said Kit sharply; "she was not."

"Anyhow she was with you, before she stole away."

"She didn't steal away," Kit began indignantly, but hesitated. Now he came to think about it, Grace had gone as quietly as possible.

"You mean Miss Osborn does nothing undignified? For all that, she didn't want Mrs. Creighton to see her. I don't suppose Osborn would be pleased to know his daughter and you went for moonlight walks on the fells."

Kit knew Osborn would not like it, and since the dales folk are fond of gossip saw he must stop the story going round.

"I had not gone for a walk with Miss Osborn. I met her as I came down from the moor. She didn't know I was coming."

"So she wasn't waiting for you?" Janet remarked, with a hint of mockery. She stopped, and putting her hand on Kit's arm, pushed him nearer the hedgerow as a man and woman came round a neighboring corner.

Kit was annoyed, but he waited and watched the people as they passed. The shadow was not very dark and he thought the woman give him a curious glance. He knew her and imagined that she knew him. When the people went through a gate Janet laughed.

"That was very unlucky, Kit! Old Nanny's fond of talking; I'm afraid your character is gone."

Kit frowned. He did not see much humor in the situation, although Janet was amused.

"Oh," she said, "you are dull! I expect you couldn't be nice if you tried. But we were talking about Miss Osborn. You were not riding on the stone-boat when you met her. I don't suppose you could have stopped it."

"No," said Kit, shortly, "I was not."

"But I saw you and somebody else hardly a minute after the stone-boat hit the wall."

"You saw me."

"I did," said Janet. "The snow was sticking to your clothes as if you had fallen, and you looked angry when Mrs. Creighton put the lantern on the wall." She paused for a moment, and went on: "I begin to see; you did come down on the stone-boat and Miss Osborn came with you. You were both thrown off by the upset at the wall. Well, if you persuaded her to join you in an adventure like that, it looks as if you were pretty good friends."

Kit said nothing. In a sense, Miss Osborn had persuaded him, and it was difficult to explain that both had really given way to a rash impulse. Somewhat to his surprise, Janet gently touched his arm.

"Be careful, Kit! I wouldn't like to see you hurt. Miss Osborn's friends are not your kind of folk; she only wants to amuse herself when they are not about."

"That's ridiculous," Kit declared. "Miss Osborn is not amusing herself with me."

"Perhaps you ought to know," Janet rejoined with some dryness. "Now I come to think of it, you're not always very bright. Anyhow, when she finds the game tiresome, she'll soon get rid of you."

"I meet Miss Osborn now and then and sometimes she stops and speaks. That is all," Kit said sternly.

"I imagine it's enough," Janet remarked. "Well, I don't want to see you made to look a fool; you're rather a good sort, Kit, if you're not very clever. Be careful and remember you have been warned."

She gave him a friendly nod and went off, but after a few moments turned and looked back. Kit was walking down the road with swift angry strides. Janet smiled, but when she entered the mill-house kitchen her face was flushed. Soon after she sat down by the fire, Bell came in and leaned against the table with an angry frown.

"There's two mair trucks o' coal, and I canna find room for t' stuff," he said. "Yards is full and I only sold three or four car loads last week."

Janet knew silence was prudent when her father was disturbed, but he had given her a lead. Kit was a fool, and although she doubted if he were as dull as he pretended, she was angry with him. Anyhow, it might be possible to stop his ridiculous infatuation for Miss Osborn.

"You can't sell coal when the Askews are giving peat away," she said.

"Looks like that," Bell agreed. "I'd ha' broke the others before noo if I hadn't had Peter and Kit against me. Hooiver, if I canna sell coal, I canna pay the rent and landlord will have to do something. Mayhappen it will be easier for him if he kens the Askews started the plot. Osborn's none too fond of them."

"He wouldn't like them any better if he knew what I know," Janet remarked with a malicious smile.

"What do you ken about them?" Bell asked scornfully.

"I don't imagine Osborn wants Kit for his son-in-law."

Bell started and then laughed harshly.

"Old wives' crack! Kit's not such a fool!"

"You know best," said Janet. "If you like, I'll tell you what I've seen."

She did so and Bell's mean face got thoughtful. On the whole, Janet did not exaggerate much, although she now and then made a rather unwarranted implication. She threw a fresh light on matters the gossips already talked about; among others were Grace's visit to Mireside the morning Railton's sheep were counted and her meeting with Kit before he went to look for the Herdwicks. When she stopped Bell knitted his brows.

"If it was used right, I might mak' some use o' this," he observed. "We'll see what Osborn says about coal yards and the alterations at mill."

He went to his office and Janet sat quietly by the fire. Her plot would work; Miss Osborn should not have Kit.

Bell made some calculations. His money was getting short; he had bills to pay, and his stock of coal was large. He could not hold it much longer, and since the Askews were bringing down large quantities of peat, there was no ground for imagining the dalesfolk would give way. It looked as if he must meet them and he wrote a notice that coal would be delivered by the trailer lurry at a reduction of two-and-six a ton.

When he had put this in an envelope for the printers, Bell knitted his brows. Although his neighbors would sooner burn coal than peat, he was not sure the reduction would stimulate the demand for the former and he must look for relief in some other direction. He paid a high rent for the yards and the landlord ought to help. Osborn would, no doubt, be reluctant, but he might be forced. Bell's lease of the mill would soon run out; nobody else could pay as much as he paid, and he would demand certain expensive alterations. Furthermore, Osborn did not like the Askews, and Bell imagined he saw how to strike a blow at Kit; Janet had shown him the way. It would be some satisfaction to punish the meddlesome fellow.

Two days afterwards the notice was fixed on the gateposts, but a week went by without its attracting fresh customers. Then a bill from the colliery arrived and Bell put down his price another two-and-six. For a day or two, no orders came in, and he resolved to wait until the week was out and then, if needful, get Hayes to arrange for a meeting with Osborn.

On the last evening of the week, a number of the co-operators met in the kitchen at Ashness and for a time talked about the weather and the price of sheep. Askew let them talk and Kit was too preoccupied to give them a lead. He had been thoughtful since he met Janet Bell, for she had banished the self-deception he had unconsciously used and thrown a new and disturbing light on his friendship with Grace. Ridiculous as it was in many ways, he was falling in love with Grace Osborn. Moreover, he had met her an hour since and she had talked with a friendly confidence that made his heart beat. The girl liked and trusted him, and although he durst not look for more, this in itself was much. It was plain that he ought to conquer his infatuation, but he doubted if he could.

Listening to the others mechanically, he was silent and absorbed until one asked, "Weel, what's to be done aboot coal noo? Are we gan t' buy?"

"I dinna ken," said another. "My womenfolk are grumelling an' it's lang sin' we had good light bread, but they're none for letting Bell have his way."

"He's come doon five shillings, and we've peat enough to fall back on if he puts up price again," somebody else remarked. "Hooiver, I reckon he's forced to sell and we might get anither half-croon off if we wait."

Peter took his pipe from his mouth. "It's a kittle point. T' womenfolk have been patient and Bell canna rob us much if we buy from him noo. Aw t' same, we can beat him doon some shillings if we hoad on."

"Then hoad on and break the grasping skinflint!" said one of the younger men.

"I doot if we can break him and wadn't say it's wise to try. If he'll come down anither shilling, I think we might tak' his coal. That wad be a just price and we ought to be satisfied."

"Let him smart!" urged the other. "He's robbed us lang enough."

"Well," said Peter thoughtfully, "I dinna ken if that's a reason for robbing him, and it's sometimes safer no to push your enemy over hard when he's willing to give in. You must choose. If you hoad on and force him to sell at a big loss, the fight can only end in yan o' two ways. He'll mak' you pay top price for cattle food, lime, and patent manures; or you'll drive him oot o' dale. You must reckon if you're strong enough."

"We'll hear what Kit says," one of the rest remarked.

Kit's mood was hardly normal. He was not often rash, but he felt sore and rebellious and this had a stronger influence than he knew. Miss Osborn liked him, but her father's rank and traditions were daunting obstacles. Kit felt this was unjust, and raw passions and prejudices that he was, as a rule, too sensible to indulge, got the mastery.

"My father is right," he said. "We have started a fight with Bell; he's a dangerous man to rouse and will make us pay, unless we beat him. Besides, he has made some pay already. Old rheumatic men and young children starved by half-empty grates when the snow stopped us getting the peat, and you have seen the profits you worked hard for melt before the price Bell charged for cattle-meal. He's been getting greedier, until he imagined he could rob us as he liked, and since he has forced us into the quarrel, my notion is we ought to fight it out."

Peter looked surprised, but did not speak, and there was silence for a few moments. Then one said:

"I'm with Kit. We'll hoad on until Bell comes doon seven-and-six. If he does, we'll talk aboot it again."

After some argument, the rest agreed, and when they went away Peter turned to his son.

"Mayhappen you've sent them t' right road, but I dinna ken! I'm none fond o' fratching, unless I'm forced."

"We are forced," Kit answered moodily.

Peter gave him a keen glance and then spread out his hands.

"It's possible. For aw that, it wadn't ha' done much harm to give t' man his chance o' makin' peace."

Kit did not answer, but went out, and Askew sat by the fire with a thoughtful look. Something had happened to the lad, and Peter wondered what it was. He felt vaguely disturbed, but could see no light.

CHAPTER XI

OSBORN'S PRIDE GETS HURT

Soon after the farmers met at Ashness, Bell, feeling sore and resentful, sat one evening in the Tarnside library. Osborn, after fixing a time for his visit, had kept him waiting twenty minutes, and Bell had come to think himself a man of a little importance. The spacious library was very cold and the end of a small log smouldered among the ashes in the grate. Bell knew he had been brought into the library because it was Osborn's business room; but the latter might have ordered the fire to be made up.

His neglect rankled, although Bell had something else to think about. He had lowered his price for coal another shilling, without attracting buyers, and now admitted that the dales folks' resistance was getting dangerous. To some extent, the Askews were accountable for this, but Osborn got a large share of the profit Bell had hoped to make. One did not pay a high rent for nothing. By and by Bell looked at Hayes, who stood by the hearth.

"The next time I come to Tarnside Mr. Osborn will wait for me," he remarked.

Hayes made a warning gesture, there were steps in the passage, and Osborn came in. He sat down at the end of the table and looked at his watch.

"I can give you about a quarter of an hour," he said. "Perhaps we had better begin."

The big room was nearly dark, but the men sat in the light a shaded lamp threw across the table. Osborn looked half bored and half impatient, Hayes was urbanely inscrutable, while Bell's mean face was marked by greed.

"Mr. Bell finds his stock of coal accumulating faster than he likes," said Hayes. "He must pay on delivery, and since his customers have combined against him, feels he's entitled to some relief."

"I don't see how that is my business," Osborn rejoined. "Bell might get over the difficulty by lowering his price."

"I've putten it doon," Bell broke in. "The price I can sell at is fixed by my rent."

"To some extent, the argument is logical," said Hayes.

"Then am I to understand that Mr. Bell expects me to reduce his rent?"

"Not to begin with," Hayes answered, giving Bell a warning glance. "He imagines he might gain his object almost as well if we stopped Askew cutting peat."

"You cannot stop him. The peat is his."

"We might embarrass him. While the snow lasts, it saves some awkward labor to cross Creighton's field and use his lonning. A tenant is not entitled to grant a way-leave."

"Allowing a friend to use the lane for a week or two can hardly be called a way-leave."

"Well, although Askew owns the moor, it's doubtful if he is entitled to remove peat for sale, unless by arrangement with the lord of the manor. I have seen Sir Gordon's agent and he is not unwilling to dispute the point."

"At my cost?" said Osborn with a sarcastic smile. "Enforcing the old manorial rights, which nobody knows much about, would be an expensive business, and I have no money to risk. However, if Bell is willing to pay the lawyers—"

"I'll pay nowt but rent. It's high enough," Bell declared.

Osborn shrugged. "Very well! It would cost too much to try to frighten
Askew off. He's confoundedly shrewd and obstinate."

Bell was silent for a few moments, but his face got hard as he fixed his eyes on Osborn.

"There's another matter. T' mill lease will soon fall in and I canna tak' it on again, unless I get the repairs and improvements done. Mr. Hayes has t' list."

The agent took out the list with some builders' and millwrights' estimates, and Osborn frowned as he studied the documents. It was obvious that Bell meant to use pressure.

"I don't like to be threatened," he replied.

"It's not a threat," said Bell, with a cunning smile. "If I'm to lose my money at coal yards, I must earn some at mill, but unless I get t' repairs and new machines, mill willunt pay to run." He paused and studying Osborn's face resumed: "There'll be nea peace for either o' us while the Askews gan aboot makin' trouble."

"I suppose that is so, to some extent," Osborn agreed.

"Then is it fair to leave me to fratch wi' them? After aw, they're mair your enemies than mine."

"I don't understand you; I have no coal to sell."

Bell looked up with a sour grin. "There's worse ways o' hurting a proud man than touching his pocket. If you dinna ken what's going on, it's time you watched young Kit. I'll say nea mair, but aw t 'oad wives are cracking and you can ask Mr. Hayes. He kens!"

Osborn's face got red, but he gave Bell a haughty look.

"Anything that touches me personally is my private concern—and we are talking about the lease of the mill. I cannot make all the improvements you ask for, but perhaps something can be done. When we have studied the matter Mr. Hayes will let you know."

Bell got up and when he went out Osborn turned to Hayes. "What did the fellow mean? He said you knew!"

"It's dangerous ground and I frankly wish he'd told you to ask somebody else. However, there is some gossip—"

"Go on," said Osborn sternly. "Whom are they gossiping about?"

"Miss Osborn, since you insist."

Osborn clenched his fist and the veins rose on his forehead as he said,
"And young Askew?"

Hayes made a sign of agreement and Osborn, getting up, walked across the floor. He came back with a savage sparkle in his eyes and stood in front of Hayes.

"Tell me what you know."

With a pretense of reluctance, Hayes obeyed. He told Osborn about Grace's visit to Railton's and hinted that she had gone to find out if Kit had brought the sheep. Then he narrated their meeting in the dark near Creighton's farm and stated his grounds for imagining she had ridden down the hill on the first load of peat. Hayes was tactful and apologetic, but he made it plain that the girl was in Kit's confidence and had known his plans.

Osborn stopped him with a savage gesture. His face was deeply flushed and his voice was hoarse as he said: "That is enough. The thing looks impossible! I must try to find out what foundation there is for the ridiculous tale."

"I shall be relieved if you do find it is ridiculous," said Hayes, who went off soon afterwards.

For some minutes Osborn leaned against the mantel with his hands clenched, for he had got a shock. He admitted that the Osborns had some faults, but they were the Tarnside Osborns and had ruled the dale for a very long time. It was something to spring from such a stock, and the wilful girl had disgraced them all. Osborn had suspected Grace of holding dangerous modern views, but it was unthinkably humiliating that she had engaged in a flirtation with a farmer's son.

He had declared the thing impossible, but he feared it was true. Hayes had been very clear about her visit to Railton's, and her coming down Malton Head on Askew's sledge was ominous. She must have been strongly attracted by Kit since she had done a thing like that. Besides, she had obviously sympathized with, and perhaps helped, his plans. This was treachery, because it was a tradition of the Osborns that they stood together.

By and by he heard voices in the hall and braced himself. He must go down to receive his guests and was glad that they had come, since he did not want to tell his wife about the matter yet; in fact, he did not think he would talk to Grace. The thing was humiliating, and there was a possibility that Hayes had been mistaken. Osborn resolved to watch the girl and then insist on a reckoning if she gave him grounds for doing so.

He went down and carried out his hospitable duties. Next morning he arranged for a day's shooting; the snow had nearly gone and there were a few pheasants left in Redmire wood. The party started early, taking their lunch, and in the afternoon Grace left Tarnside and walked down the dale. She had no particular object, but the day was fine and she wondered whether Kit had brought all the peat from Malton Head.

There was no wind and the frost was not keen. Gray clouds trailed across the sky that was touched with yellow in the west, and soft, elusive lights played about the dale. Patches of snow on the fellsides gleamed and faded; mossy belts glowed vivid green, red berries in the hedgerows shone among withered leaves and fern, and then the light passed on and left the valley dim. Something in its calm beauty reacted on the girl and made her thoughtful. She loved the dale and felt that she might be happy there if it were not for her father's poverty and overbearing temperament.

After all, they were not really poor; they had enough to satisfy their needs. Their clinging to out-of-date traditions caused the strain. One gained nothing by pretending to be rich and important; there was no logical reason for trying to live like one's ancestors, and the effort cost the Osborns much. It meant stern private economy, public ostentation, and many small deceits. Grace was getting tired of this pretense; she wanted something simpler and dignified. For the most part, the dalesfolk looked happy and she had come to envy them. They had their troubles, but they were troubles all mankind must bear, and they had joys one did not properly value at Tarnside: human fellowship and sympathy, and freedom to follow their bent. A shepherd's daughter, for example, could marry whom she liked and was not forced to accept a husband who had wealth enough to satisfy her parents.

Grace blushed as she thought of Alan Thorn and contrasted him with Kit. She did not want to marry yet; but perhaps, if Kit were not a working farmer's son—She pulled herself up, with a smile, for it looked as if she had not broken free from the family traditions. After all, it did not matter if Kit were a farmer's son. He was honest and generous; he had a well-modeled figure, bright eyes, and a clean brown skin. But since Kit was not her lover, she was indulging in idle sentiment; and then she admitted that he might love her, although she did not yet love him. Indeed, if she must be honest, the thing was possible—she had seen his face brighten and remarked his satisfaction when they met.

Then she stopped abruptly as she saw him coming down the road. There was a path across a field close by, but it would be admitting too much if she tried to avoid him, and she went on. Kit came up, dressed in rough working clothes, with muddy leggings, and a hedge stick in his hand. Two dogs ran before him and it looked as if he had been driving sheep. Grace was very calm when he took off his cap and he thought the hint of stateliness he sometimes noted was rather marked. It did not daunt him; he, felt it was proper Grace should look like that. She noted that he was hot and breathless.

"I saw you as I was bringing the sheep down Burton ghyll," he said.

"Then you must have good eyes," Grace remarked. "It's a long way, and I don't wear conspicuous clothes."

Kit laughed. "I'd have known you much farther off. There's nobody in the dale who walks like you."

Grace gave him a quiet glance that he met without embarrassment. She saw that he had not meant to offer her a cheap compliment; yet the compliment was justified. A dancing master had told her that she walked and carried herself well.

"But where are the sheep?" she asked.

"I left them in the field at the beckfoot," he answered with a touch of awkwardness. "We can bring them down afterwards; I remembered I wanted something at Allerby."

Grace turned her head to hide a smile. It was obvious that he had remembered he wanted to go to Allerby when he saw her.

"Oh, well," she said, "I am going part of the way. However, I mustn't stop you if you want to get back to the sheep."

"It isn't at all important," Kit declared. Then he paused and Grace thought he was studying his old and rather muddy clothes. "But, of course," he resumed, "it's possible you'd sooner go on alone."

She laughed. "Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Askew! I think you know what I mean. I didn't want to keep you from your work."

He looked relieved. "Yes. Although I'm not very clever at this sort of thing, I generally do know what you mean. I can't tell if it's strange or not."

"It certainly is not worth while puzzling about. I expect I'm rather obvious—for that matter, so are you."

"Frankness often saves you some trouble and I don't know if it gives your opponent the advantage some folks imagine. However, it's not our rule in the dale to say all we feel."

"It's not Bell's, for example. How is the coal campaign getting on?"

"Well," said Kit, thoughtfully, "so far as that goes, I believe we have beaten him. There's a new notice that lowers the price seven-and-six altogether, and last night we advised folks to buy. But I don't know if the fight's over. Bell may find another way of putting on the screw."

"I hope he will give it up," Grace replied. "I tried to help, because I felt I must; but of course you see I can't help again."

Kit made a sign of understanding. "Yes; you showed us how to bring the peat down. Now I don't know what to say. It's awkward ground."

They were silent for some time afterwards, for both had said enough and knew that Osborn's resentment must be reckoned on. It made them feel like accomplices and drew them together. They were young and not given to looking far ahead, but they saw the threat that the friendship both valued might be broken off.

By and by three or four reports rang through the calm air and Grace came near to stopping, but did not. She had forgotten Osborn was shooting in Redmire wood and she and Kit must pass its edge. For all that, she could not turn back. Kit would guess why she did so; it would be an awkward admission that she was afraid of being seen with him by Osborn or his friends. She was afraid, but she was proud, and went on, hoping that Kit had not noted her hesitation. He had not, but was puzzled by her resolute and half-defiant look.

The guns were silent when they came to the wood, which rolled down the hillside below the road. Here and there a white birch trunk and a yellow patch of oak leaves shone among the dark firs; the beech hedge was covered by withered brown foliage. A belt of grass ran between the wood and road and Grace took the little path along its edge. Her feet made no noise and her tweed dress harmonized with the subdued coloring of dead leaves and trunks. The light was not good and she thought she would not be visible a short distance off; besides the sportsmen might be at the other side of the wood. She hoped they were, since she vaguely perceived that if Osborn saw her it would force a crisis she was not yet ready to meet. Then her thoughts were disturbed, for somebody in the wood shouted: "Mark cock flying low to right!"

A gunshot rang out close by and a small brown bird, skimming the top of the hedge, fluttered awkwardly across the road. Next moment dry twigs rustled and a young man leaped on to the grass with a smoking gun in his hand. As he threw it to his shoulder, Kit ran forward and struck the barrel. There was a flash and while the echoes of the report rolled across the wood a little puff of smoke floated about the men. Grace stood still, trembling, for she knew she had run some risk of being shot.

"Why don't you look before you shoot?" Kit shouted in a strange, hoarse voice. "You've no business to use a gun on a public road. It's lucky I was quick."

"That is so; my fault!" gasped the other, who took off his cap as he turned to Grace. "Very sorry, Miss Osborn; didn't see you. Wanted to get the woodcock. Hope you're not startled much."

Grace forced a smile. She had physical courage and was shaken rather by what she saw in Kit's face than the risk she had run. Kit looked strangely white and strained. He had obviously got a bad shock, but she thought he would not have looked like that had he saved anybody else from the other's gun.

"My dress is hard to see against the trees. You really needn't be disturbed," she said.

The young man renewed his confused apologies, and when he pushed through the hedge and they went on again Grace looked at Kit. He had not got his color back, his lips were set and his gaze was fixed. The shock had broken his control and brought her enlightenment. He loved her, but she needed time and quietness to grapple with the situation. Her heart beat and her nerves tingled; she could not see the line she ought to take. Yet he must be thanked.

"You were very quick," she said as calmly as possible although she was conscious of a curious pride in him. "Somehow I knew if there was need for quickness you would act like that. I believe I was stupid enough to stand still until you jumped. Well, of course, you know I thank you—"

She stopped, for Kit, who turned his head for a moment turned it back and looked straight in front. He durst not trust himself to speak, and they went on silently.

CHAPTER XII

OSBORN INTERFERES

When Grace and Kit had gone a short distance they heard voices and a rattle of sticks in the wood, but the noise got fainter and she imagined the beaters were moving the other way. Ferrars, who shot at the woodcock, had probably not had time to tell Osborn about his carelessness, and it looked as if nobody else had been posted near the road. This was something of a relief, but Grace felt anxious. A gate not far off led to a drive in the wood, and she thought she had heard Osborn's voice.

She kept on the belt of grass, which got narrower, so that the path ran close to the hedge. On the opposite side, a clump of silver-firs threw a shadow across the road, and a patch of pale-yellow sky shone behind an opening in the trees. The stiff fir-branches cut sharply against the glow, but where she and Kit were the light was dim. For all that, she stopped abruptly when a man came out of the wood and turned, as if to look up the road. It was Osborn and she thought she knew for whom he was looking.

Grace's judgment failed her. She pushed Kit towards the beech hedge and they stepped into a small hollow among the withered leaves. Kit like Grace, had not had time for thought, but as Osborn, looking straight in front, went past, he felt he had done wrong. For one thing, it was rather shabby to hide and his doing so reflected on his companion. The feeling got stronger as Osborn went up the road, and Kit was sorry he had given way to a cowardly impulse. Yet since he had hidden, he must wait.

After a few moments, Grace turned her head and Kit saw her face was flushed. It was obvious that she felt much as he felt. She had prompted him to hide, but she had done so in sudden alarm and he ought to have kept cool and thought for both, particularly since it was getting plain that Osborn was looking for them. The latter stopped, hesitated, and came back, and Grace turned sharply to Kit. Her look was strained, but he got a hint of haughtiness and resolve. He made a sign that he understood, and knew he had done well when he moved back from the hedge. A moment's hesitation would have cost him the girl's respect. They waited in the road and Kit's heart beat fast, but not with fear.

Osborn stopped a yard or two off and looked at them with sternly controlled rage.

"It's obvious that I passed you just now," he said.

"You did; I ought to have stopped you," Kit agreed. "For a moment, it did not strike me that you were looking for Miss Osborn."

Osborn glanced at the hollow in the hedge. "It's curious you stopped at a spot where there was not much chance of your being seen."

Grace turned, as if she meant to speak, but Kit resumed: "After all, I don't know that you are entitled to question what I do on a public road."

"Certainly not," said Osborn, with forced quietness. "I have, however, a right to question my daughter's choice of her acquaintances, and it looks as if I had some grounds for using my authority." He paused and turned to Grace. "Your mother is waiting for you. You had better go home."

Grace hesitated, glancing at Kit. It was her fault that they had hidden and she would have waited had she thought he wanted her. Kit's face, however, was hard and inscrutable, and with something of an effort she went away. It was a relief to Kit that she had gone; he had meant to keep her out of the quarrel and now he was ready to talk to Osborn.

"The matter doesn't end here," the latter remarked. "There's something to be said that your father ought to know. I am going to Ashness and expect you to come with me."

"You must wait. I have some sheep at the beckfoot and it will take me half an hour to drive them home," Kit said coolly.

Osborn looked at him with savage surprise. It was unthinkable that he should be forced to wait while the fellow went for his sheep, but he saw that Kit was not to be moved and tried to control his anger.

"Very well. I will meet you at Ashness in half an hour."

Kit braced himself as he went up the road. In a sense, he was not afraid of Osborn, but he had now to meet a crisis that he ought to have seen must come. In fact, he had seen it, and had, rather weakly, tried to cheat himself and put things off. He loved Grace, and Osborn would never approve. Kit knew Osborn's pride and admitted that his anger was, perhaps, not altogether unwarranted. For that matter, he doubted if Grace knew how far his rash hopes had led him. Then he thrilled as he remembered that when she pushed him back to the hedge, and afterwards when they left their hiding place, something had hinted that she did know and acknowledge him her lover.

In the meantime, it was a relief to drive the sheep down the dale; he could not think while he was occupied and thought was disturbing. He put the sheep into a field and overtook Osborn as he went up the farm lonning in the dark. A lamp burned in the kitchen, and when they went in Peter got up and put his pipe on the table. He looked at them with some surprise, but waited without embarrassment. Indeed, Kit thought his father was curiously dignified.

"Mr. Osborn has something to say he wants you to hear," Kit remarked.
"Although the thing's really my business, I agreed."

Osborn refused the chair Peter indicated and stood in a stiff pose. His face was red and he looked rather ridiculously savage.

"I found your son and my daughter hiding from me in the hedge at Redmire wood," he said. "I imagine I'm entitled to ask for an explanation."

"Hiding?" said Peter, who turned to Kit. "That was wrong."

"It was wrong," Kit admitted. "I told Mr. Osborn so. In fact, I must have lost my head when I made a mistake like this. Since I had the honor of Miss Osborn's acquaintance—"

"Who presented you to my daughter?" Osborn interrupted.

"Nobody," Kit admitted, with some embarrassment. "The day the otter hounds were hunting the alder pool Miss Osborn wanted to cross the stepping stones. Some of them were covered and I—"

"Ah!" said Osborn. "Then the thing began as long since as that?" He turned to Peter. "The girl is young and foolishly proud of being unconventional, or she would have known that she could make use of your son's help without an obligation to speak to him again. It's obvious that he has worked on her rebellious humor until she forgot what is due to herself and her parents."

"Stop a bit," said Peter. "She was doing her parents no discredit by speaking to my son."

"No discredit!" Osborn exclaimed, losing his self control. "When I find her and the fellow skulking out of sight, like a farm hand and a dairy-maid!"

Kit raised his head and his eyes sparkled. "In a sense, I am a farm hand; but it would be better if you kept your hard words for me."

"There are verra good dairymaids; modest, hardworking lasses,"
Peter remarked.

"It's rather late to play the part of a rustic cavalier, if that is what you meant," Osborn said to Kit with a sneer, and then turned to Peter. "I am forced to own that the girl deserves some blame. Although she's impulsive and unconventional, she ought to have seen it was ridiculous to let your son imagine they could be friends."

"You think that was ridiculous?"

"Of course," said Osborn, with haughty surprise. "The absurdity of the thing is obvious."

"Weel," said Peter dryly, "I reckon they might be friends without much harm, though I wadn't have them gan farther. Although the lass is yours, the lad is mine."

Osborn laughed scornfully. "If I understand you, your attitude is humorous. But do you wish me to believe you didn't know what was going on? You have made my tenants dissatisfied and plotted against me, and now, no doubt, you saw another means."

"Stop," said Peter, with stern quietness. "We have not been good neebors, though I dinna ken that's much fault o' mine; but if you thowt I'd use a foolish girl to hurt a man I didn't like, you're varra wrang. Hooiver, you came for an explanation, and I want one, too." He turned to Kit. "You had better tell us why you kept up Miss Osborn's acquaintance withoot her father's consent."

"Very well," said Kit, standing very straight and holding up his head. "I met Miss Osborn, so to speak, by accident, and afterwards we sometimes talked. Her beauty and talent were plain to me at first, but it was some time before I knew I loved her, and then it was too late. I knew my folly—it was a folly I couldn't conquer, and now I think I never shall. Well, I suppose I hoped that some day things might change."

"Do you imply that Grace knew what you hoped?" Osborn asked.

"No," said Kit, quietly. "I gave her no hint. It was plain that she was willing we should meet and talk like friends. This was not wrong."

"Not wrong that my daughter should meet you secretly!" Osborn exclaimed with sudden rage. "Are you foolish enough to imagine you and a member of my family could meet like equals?"

"I have not pretended to be Miss Osborn's equal. But the inequality I acknowledge is not what you mean."

Osborn shrugged with scornful impatience. "Pshaw! We'll let that go. You said you hoped things might change. Do you think any change of fortune could give you the tastes and feelings of a gentleman? Make you a proper husband for my daughter? You know the thing's impossible."

Kit colored and hesitated, and Peter signed him to be quiet.

"These meetings must be stopped. I'm as much against such a match as I think you are."

"Ah," said Osborn, who looked puzzled, "you hinted something of the kind! I don't know that your point of view's important, but I can't understand."

"My meaning's no varra hard to see," Peter answered. "The lass is bonny and, so far as I ken, weel-meaning and kind; but she has been badly browt up at an extravagant hoose. She'll not can help her husband, except mayhappen to waste, and she has niver learned to work and gan withoot. Weel, it seems we are agreed. Miss Osborn is no the lass I would welcome for my son's wife."

Osborn looked at him with frank surprise. Then he said, "We'll make an end," and turned to Kit. "If you speak to my daughter again, she will be forbidden to leave the Tarnside grounds; if you write to her, your letter will be burned. She cannot resist my control for the next three or four years. There's nothing more to be said."

He went out and Peter, who walked to the porch with him, came back and looked quietly at Kit.

"A proud and foolish man, but he's hit hard!" he said. "Mayhappen it will hurt, my lad, but you must be done wi' this. Osborn's daughter is none for you."

Kit looked straight in front, with his hands clenched. "So it seems, for some years. It does hurt. I cannot give her up."

Peter lighted his pipe and there was silence for a few minutes. Then as Kit did not move he remarked: "I ken something o' what you're feeling; aw t' same you've got to fratch. There's nowt against the lass except that she's Osborn's child, but she's none o' our kind and it's sense and custom that like gans to like."

"It would be easier if I could get away. I can't stop in the dale, knowing she's about and I mustn't see her."

Peter went into the next room and opened an old desk. He had for some time expected that the moment he now shrank from would come and his heart was sore, but he knew his son's steadfast character and meant to save him pain. Going back he gave Kit his brother's last letter.

"Mayhappen it's better that you should gan," he said quietly.

Kit read the letter and looked up with a strained expression. "I never thought I'd want to leave Ashness and I feel a selfish brute! All the same it would be a relief."

"Just that!" said Peter. "I'll miss you when you've gone, but it's no' my part to stand in your way. We'll write Adam to-morrow and tell him you'll come."

Kit crossed the floor and put his hand on his father's arm. "Thanks;
I think I know what this means to you. It will cost me something; but
I must go."

He went out and Peter sat still, looking gloomily at the fire. He felt old and knew he would be very lonely soon. The fire burned low and the kitchen got cold, but Kit did not come back and when Peter heard his housekeeper's clogs on the stones outside he got up and crossed the floor, to get his hat. Old Bella was curious and he did not want to talk, but there was something to be done in the barn and when his heart was sore it was a relief to work.

PART II—ON THE CARIBBEAN

CHAPTER I

THE OLD BUCCANEER

It was about four o'clock in the afternoon and Kit Askew lounged in a chair on the bridge-deck as the Rio Negro steamed slowly across the long swell of the Caribbean. The wrinkled undulations sparkled with reflected light in a dazzling pattern of blue and silver, and then faded to green and purple in the shadow of the ship. A wave of snowy foam curled up as the bows went down and the throb of the propeller quickened as the poop swung against the sky. Then the lurching hull steadied and the clang of engines resumed its measured beat.

The Rio Negro was old and ugly, with short iron masts from which clumsy derricks hung, tall, upright funnel, and blistered, gray paint. Her boats were dirty and stained by soot, and a belt of rust at her waterline hinted at neglect, but no barnacles and weed marred the smoothness of the plates below. Her antifouling paint was clean, and her lines beneath the swell of quarter and bows were fine. In fact, the Rio Negro was faster than she looked when she carried her regular load of two thousand tons and her under-water body was hidden. She traded in the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean, and at certain ports Customs officials carefully scrutinized her papers. At others, they smiled and allowed her captain privileges that strangers did not get.

Kit wore spotless white clothes, a black-silk belt, and a Panama hat of the expensive kind the Indians weave, holding the fine material under water. A glass occupied a socket in his chair, and when the Rio Negro rolled a lump of ice tinkled against its rim; a box of choice cigars lay on the deck. Kit, however, was not smoking, but drowsily pondered the life he had led for the last three years. He was thinner and looked older than when he left Ashness. He had lost something of his frankness and his raw enthusiasm had gone. His face was quieter and his mouth set in a firm line.

He remembered his surprise when he first met his uncle at a luxurious Florida hotel. Adam Askew wore loose white clothes, a well-cut Tuxedo jacket, a diamond ring, and another big diamond in his scarf. His skin was a curious yellowish brown and his eyes were very black; he rather looked like a Spanish Creole than an Englishman. He had nothing of his brother's quiet manner. Although he was getting old, he walked with a jaunty step; he had a humorous twinkle, and his laugh was careless. In fact, he had an exotic, romantic look that harmonized with Kit's notions of the pirates who once haunted the Gulf of Mexico. When Kit afterwards learned why Adam's friends called him the "buccaneer," he saw that his first impression was not extravagant.

Now he remembered that when they sat behind the imitation Moorish arches on the hotel veranda Adam studied him and laughed.

"You're certainly Peter's son," he remarked. "I can imagine I'd just left him at the end of the Ashness lonning thirty years since. Except that he's got older, I reckon he hasn't changed, and for that matter, Peter was never young. Well, you are surely like him, but if you stop in this country we'll put a move on you."

"If I'm like my father, I am satisfied," Kit rejoined.

Adam's black eyes twinkled. "Now I see a difference; there's red blood in you. But don't take me wrong. Peter's a white man, straight as a plumb-line, one of the best; he's a year the younger of us, but when the old man died he brought me up. There are two kinds of Askews and I belong to the other lot. I don't know why they called you after roystering Kit."

It was obvious that Adam knew the family history, for Christopher Askew was a turbulent Jacobite who lost the most part of his estate when he joined Prince Charlie's starving Highlanders in the rearguard fight at Clifton Moor. Afterwards the sober quietness at Ashness had now and then been disturbed by an Askew who inherited the first Kit's reckless temperament.

Three years had gone since Kit met Adam, and he had learned much. To begin with, Adam sent him to an American business school, and made him study Castilian and French. Then he sent him to Mexico and countries farther south, where he studied human nature of strangely varied kinds. He met and traded with men of many colors: French and Spanish Creoles, negroes, Indians, and half-breeds with some of the blood of all. He knew the American gulf ports and their cosmopolitan hotels and gambling saloons, but Adam noted with half-amused approval that while he was not at all a prig he developed Peter's character and not Kit the Jacobite's. Now they were going south across the Caribbean on a business venture.

By and by Adam came slowly along the bridge-deck. The three years had marked a change in him and Kit thought he did not look well. Adam suffered now and then from malarial ague, caught in the mangrove swamps. He was thin, his yellow face was haggard, and his shoulders were bent. Sitting down close by, he lighted a cigar and turned to Kit.

"We ought to raise the coast before it's dark and I reckon Mayne will get his bearings," he remarked. "The lagoon's a blamed awkward place to enter and I'd have waited until to-morrow only that Don Hernando is expecting us."

"It will save us a day if we can get in, since you want to land the B. F. cargo in the dark," Kit said thoughtfully. "We pay high wages and the Rio Negro is an expensive boat to run."

"That's so," Adam agreed with a smile. "You talk like a Cumberland flock-master. Counting every cent you spend is a safe plan, but I don't know that this trip will pan out much of a business proposition."

"Do you feel better for your sleep?" Kit asked.

"Some, though I've got a headache and a pain in my back. Guess they'll shake off when I get to work."

"I was surprised when you said you meant to sail with us."

"So I imagined," Adam rejoined dryly. "You wondered why I didn't, as usual, trust you to deliver the goods? Well, there's rather more to this job than that, and I meant to put you wise before we landed. You have heard me called a pirate, but I don't reckon on taking home much plunder now."

Kit mused while Adam beckoned a mulatto steward, who brought him a glass and some ice. His uncle's character was complex. Sometimes he was hard and exacted all that was his; sometimes he was rashly generous. Ostensibly, he was a merchant, shipping tools and machines, particularly supplies for sugar mills, to the countries round the Caribbean, and taking payment in native produce. Kit, however, knew the cases landed from the Rio Negro did not always hold the goods the labels stated, and that Adam's money sometimes helped to float an unpopular government over a crisis and sometimes to turn another out. It was a risky business, carried on with people who had a talent for dark revolutionary intrigue.

"Since Don Hernando Alvarez is president of the republic, I don't quite see why we need smuggle in his machine-guns," Kit remarked.

"On the surface, the reason isn't very obvious. Alvarez is president now, but mayn't be very long. It depends on whether he or his rival, Galdar, gets his blow in first. I reckon the chances are against Alvarez if Galdar puts up a fight, but the latter's not ready yet and Alvarez means to arm his troops before the fellow knows. I imagine about half the citizens are plotters and spies."

"Alvarez has been honest so far. I suppose if he wins he'll pay?"

"That's so," said Adam dryly. "If he goes down, we get nothing. Although I don't know much about his ancestors and suspect that one was an Indian, Alvarez is white, but the other fellow's a blamed poor sample of the half-breed nigger. Well, when Alvarez found things were going wrong, he sent for me."

"Ah," said Kit in a thoughtful voice, "I begin to understand."

He did understand, although he would not have done so when he met his uncle first. He had known Adam play the part of a merciless creditor, and thought few men could beat him at a bargain, but he kept his bargain when it was made, and now and then risked his money on lost causes. It looked as if he had inherited something from Christopher the Jacobite.

"You have known Alvarez long, haven't you?" Kit resumed.

"When I met him first, he was a customs officer with some perquisites and a salary that paid for liquor and tobacco. Vanhuyten and I ran the old Mercedes then, and Van made a mistake that put us at the fellow's mercy. There was a good case for confiscating the schooner, which would have given Alvarez a lift while we went broke. In fact, the night of the crisis, I dropped Van's pistol overboard; he'd got malaria badly and was feeling desperate. Well, all we had given Alvarez didn't cover that kind of a job, but he'd promised to stand our friend and kept his word like a gentleman. Guess it needed some nerve and judgment to work things the way he did, and when we stole out to sea at daybreak past the port guard, I knew there was one man in the rotten country I could trust with my life. Now he's in a tight place, he knows he can trust me."

Adam got up and crossing the deck leaned against the rails. In the distance, where the glitter faded, there was a long gray smear that seemed to float like a smoke-trail above the water. Higher up, a vague blue line ran across the dazzling sky. The first was a fringe of mangrove forest; the other lofty mountains. A minute or two later, the fat, brown-faced captain came down from his bridge.

"Looks like the Punta; we've hit her first time," he remarked. "In about an hour I ought to get my marks. When d'you want her taken in?"

"Soon as it's dark," Adam replied. "You'll have to trust your lead and compass. Can't have you whistling for a pilot, and I'd sooner you put out your lights."

"It's your risk and not the first time I've broken rules. I guess I can keep her off the ground. We'll get busy presently and heave the hatches off. The B.F. cases are right on top."

Adam nodded, and beckoned Kit when the captain went away. "You haven't been in the Santa Marta lagoon yet. Stand by and watch the soundings and compass while Mayne takes her across the shoals. You may find it useful to know the channel."

Kit understood. Malaria and other fevers are common on low-lying belts of the Caribbean coast and skippers and mates fall sick. Moreover, the Rio Negro did not always load at the regular ports. Sometimes she crept into mangrove-fringed lagoons, and sometimes stopped at lonely beaches and sent loaded boats ashore when her captain saw the gleam of signal lights.

When it was getting dark, Kit and Adam went to the bridge and the former noted that his uncle breathed rather hard and seized the rails firmly as he climbed the ladder. The red glow of sunset had faded behind the high land and a gray haze spread across the swampy shore, but the water shone with pale reflections. On one side, a long, dingy smear floated across the sky. It did not move and Kit thought it had come from the funnel of a steamer whose engineer had afterwards cleaned his fires. Captain Mayne studied the fleecy trail with his glasses.

"I don't know if that's a coffee-boat going north; I can't make out her hull against the land," he said. "Sometimes there's a guarda-costa hanging round the point."

"Better take no chances," Adam replied, glancing at the Rio Negro's funnel, from which a faint plume of vapor floated.

Mayne signed to the quartermaster in the pilot house and the bows swung round. Half an hour afterwards, he rang his telegraph and the clang of engines died away while the throb of the propeller stopped. In what seemed an unnatural silence, a few barefooted deck-hands began to move about, and one stood on the forecastle, where his dark figure cut against the shining sea. The rest went aft with a line the other held, and when Mayne raised his hand there was a splash as the deep-sea lead plunged. A man aft called the depth while he gathered up the line, and Mayne beckoned another, who climbed to a little platform outside the bridge and fastened a strap round his waist.

"We're on the Santa Marta shelf, but I'm four miles off the course I set," Mayne remarked. "I want to work out the angle from the first bearing I got."

Kit went with him into the chart-room, for he knew something about navigation. They had taught him the principles of land-surveying at the agricultural college, and this had made his studies easier. When he came back the moon was getting bright, but the haze had thickened on the low ground and the heights behind had faded to a vague, formless blur. The trail of smoke had vanished, there was no wind, and the smooth swell broke against the bows with a monotonous dull roar as the Rio Negro went on. She was alone on the heaving water and steaming slowly, but the noise of her progress carried far. By and by a light twinkled ahead, leaped up into a steady glow that lasted for some minutes, and then went out.

"That's a relief," remarked Adam, who had struck a match and studied his watch. "The ground's clear and Don Hernando has somebody he can trust waiting at the lagoon. You can let her go ahead, Captain."

Mayne rang his telegraph and Kit went into the pilot house. The dim light of the binnacle lamp touched the compass, but everything else was dark and the windows were down. Kit could see the quartermaster's dark form behind the wheel, and the silver shining of the sea. There was a splash as the man on the platform released the whirling hand-lead. When he called the depth Mayne gave an order and the quartermaster pulled round the wheel. The swell was not so smooth now. It ran in steep undulations and in one place to starboard a broad, foaming patch appeared between the rollers. Kit knew the water was shoaling fast as the Rio Negro steamed across the inclined shelf. It was risky work to take her in, because the fire had vanished and there were no marks to steer for. Mayne must trust his compass and his rough calculations.

"Tide's running flood," he said to Adam. "She'd have steered handier if we'd gone in against the ebb; but there's a better chance of coming off if she touches ground."

"You don't want to touch ground and stop there with the B.F. goods on board," Adam replied.

After this, there was silence except when Mayne gave an order. White upheavals broke the passing swell on both sides of the ship. She rolled with violent jerks and at regular intervals the bows swung up. When they sank, a dark mass with a ragged top cut off the view from the pilot-house, and Kit knew it was a mangrove forest. He could see no break in the wall of trees that grew out of the water, but they were not far off when there was a heavy jar, and the Rio Negro stopped. The floor of the pilot-house slanted and Kit and the quartermaster fell against the wheel. Then there was a roar as a white-topped roller came up astern and broke about the vessel's rail in boiling foam. She lifted, struck again, and went on with an awkward lurch.

"Port; hard over!" Mayne shouted hoarsely, and Kit helped the quartermaster to pull round the wheel.

The order disturbed him, since it looked as if Mayne was off his course. The swell broke angrily ahead, but in one place, some distance to one side, the wall of forest looked less solid than the rest. A roar came out of the mist and Kit knew it was the beat of surf on a hidden beach. This told him where he was, because a sandy key protected the mouth of the lagoon; but he doubted if Mayne could get round the point. The tide was carrying the vessel on and there was broken water all about.

She went on, with engines thumping steadily; the hollow in the forest opened up until it became a gap and Kit could not see trees behind it. Mayne gave another sharp order, and Kit and the quartermaster pulled at the wheel. The dark bows swung, the speed quickened, and the rolling stopped. The throb of the screw and thump of engines echoed across misty woods and there was a curious gurgling noise that Kit thought was made by the tide rippling among the mangrove roots. The air got damp and steamy and a sour smell filled the pilot-house. Kit knew the odors of rotting leaves, spices, and warm mud.

In the meantime, he was kept occupied at the wheel for Mayne changed his course as the trees rolled past, until the telegraph rang and the engines stopped. Then there was silence until he heard the splash of the anchor and the roar of running chain. As the Rio Negro slowly swung round, the winches rattled and her boats were hoisted out. Kit got into one with Adam and landed on a muddy beach. Dark figures came down to meet them, horses were waiting at the edge of the forest, and a few minutes later they mounted and plunged into the gloom.

CHAPTER II

THE PRESIDIO

Dazzling sunshine flooded the belt of sand where the shadows of dusty palmettos quivered beyond the Moorish arch; the old presidio smelt like a brick-kiln and the heat outside was nearly intolerable. In the middle of the dirty patio a fountain splashed in a broken marble basin, and it was dim, and by contrast cool, under the arcade where Kit sat among the crumbling pillars. The presidio was a relic of Spanish dominion and its founders had built it well, copying, with such materials as they could get, stately models the Moors had left in the distant Peninsula. A part had fallen and blocks of sun-baked mud lay about in piles, but the long, white front, with its battlemented top and narrow, barred windows stood firm. In spite of the ruinous patio, the presidio was the finest building in the town.

The others, so far as Kit could see, were squares of mud, for the most part whitewashed, although some were colored pink and cream. The glare they reflected was dazzling, but a row of limp palmettos ran between them and the space in front of the presidio, and here and there Kit noted rounded masses of vivid green. Except for the splash of the fountain, all was very quiet, and although the shadows had lengthened it looked as if the half-breed citizens were still enjoying their afternoon sleep. Now and then a barefooted sentry noiselessly passed the arch. He wore a dirty white uniform and ragged palm-leaf hat, but carried a good modern rifle, and Kit knew where the latter had come from. The country was rich with coffee, rubber, sugar, and dyewoods. Its inhabitants, however, for the most part, preferred political intrigue to cultivation; its government was corrupt, and prosperity had vanished with the Spaniards' firm rule.

A table carrying some very small glasses and coffee-cups stood in the arcade. Don Hernando Alvarez occupied the other side, and Kit imagined it was not by accident he sat with his back to a whitewashed pillar, since he was in the shadow and as he wore white clothes could not be seen a short distance off. Don Hernando's hair was coarse and his skin dark. His face was well molded, although the cheek-bones were prominent; his black eyes were keen and his thin lips firm. He wore a plain red sash, with no other touch of color except a bit of riband on his breast. It was obvious that he was not a Peninsular, as pure-blooded Spaniards call themselves, but he looked like a man who must be reckoned on. Just then his dark face was moody.

"You have come in good time," he said to Adam Askew, in Castilian. "I think the curtain will soon go up for the last act of the drama, but the plot is obscure and I do not know the end."

"I imagine the action will be rapid," Adam replied. "Unless you have changed much, you are cut out for your part."

"Ah," said Alvarez, "one gets cautious as one gets old. One loses the young man's quick, sure touch."

"That is so, to some extent," Adam agreed, and indicated Kit. "It explains why I have a partner; my brother's son. Still, perhaps one sees farther when one is old."

Alvarez bowed to Kit. "You have a good model, señor; a man who seldom hesitates and whose word goes. A rare thing in this country; I do not know about yours." Then he turned to Adam with a hint of anxiety. "How far do you see now?"

"I see what I have to do and that is enough. The consequences come afterwards."

Alvarez's face cleared. "You were always a gambler, but you run some risk if you bet on me." He was silent for a moment and then resumed: "In a sense, I envy you; you have a partner you can trust, but I stand alone. My son was found in the plaza with a knife in his back, and the man who killed him goes unpunished."

"Galdar was somewhere behind that deed, although I do not see his object yet," Adam remarked.

"The people liked Maccario and his removal cleared the ground. My enemy is cunning and, I think, did not mean to force a conflict until my friends had gone. Now there are not many left and the time has come. Morales died of poison, Diaz of snake-bite, and Vinoles was shot by a curious accident. So far, I have escaped; perhaps because I was lucky, and perhaps because it was not certain the people would choose Galdar if I followed my friends."

"I have wondered why you hold on. For a president of this country, you have had a good run. I think I would have left after a few prosperous years and located at Havana, for example."

Alvarez smiled. "There was a time when we had money in the treasury and I might have gone; but it was too late afterwards. Part of the revenue stopped in Galdar's hands—that was one way of embarrassing me—and I was forced to use the rest to undermine his plots. Now I am drawing on my small private estate."

"But why didn't you go while there was something left? You are not extravagant and do not need much."

Kit thought Adam's remark was justified. Alvarez lived with Indian frugality and looked ascetic; besides he had been long in power and had no doubt had opportunities for enriching himself at his country's expense. Kit liked Alvarez, but did not think him much honester than other Spanish-American rulers he had met.

"It was partly for my daughter's sake I remained," Alvarez replied. "She is at a Spanish convent and I would not leave her poor. Then I had my son's death to avenge." He paused and added with a deprecatory smile: "Moreover I have thought I can rule this country better than my rival."

"That's a sure thing," Adam agreed, in English. "Well, you had better tell me how you think matters are going. If I'm to help you properly I want to know."

Alvarez looked about. All was very quiet; there was nobody in the patio, and it was some distance to the nearest window in the wall that faced the pillars. For all that, he lowered his voice and answered in hesitating English with an American accent.

"It is hard to tell; a gamble in which one takes steep chances! Perhaps half the people with an object are for Galdar, and half for me. Those who have none will wait and back the man they think will win. So far, I have the soldiers, but their pay is behind and they are badly armed and drilled. They will stand by me if I can give them machine-guns and pay off arrears. But this must be done soon, without Galdar knowing. The next president will be the man who strikes before the other is ready."

"What will the thing cost altogether?" Adam asked.

He looked thoughtful when Alvarez told him, and then nodded. "All right. You'll get some of the guns to-morrow and another lot is on the way. Go ahead; I'll help you put the business over."

Alvarez filled the little glasses with a liquor that had a strong spicy smell and when his guests lifted them touched theirs with his.

"It is what I had hoped, my friend. If I live, you will not lose."

He drank and then held his glass slackly poised while he mused. Kit, who was nearest the arch, turned and glanced out. He saw the reflected light quiver across the trampled sand and the dusty green of the limp palmettos. Then, below the latter, there was a pale-yellow flash and the president's glass fell with a tinkle. A pistol-shot rang out and Kit, swinging round, saw that a flake of plaster had dropped on the table. There was some dust on Alvarez' brown face and on his clothes, but he looked unmoved.

Next moment Adam leaned on the table, steadying a heavy automatic pistol, and three quick flashes streamed from the perking barrel. Three small puffs of dust leaped up about the roots of a palmetto and as the empty cartridges rattled on the floor Kit thought an indistinct figure stole through the shadow of the fan-shaped leaves. He was not certain, because the light was dazzling and thin smoke drifted about his head.

He threw his chair back and plunging through the arch ran across the sand and stopped at the top of a narrow street. Men and women of different shades of color came out of the doors and began to talk excitedly, but there was nobody who looked like a fugitive. Kit went back after he got his breath and met two or three untidy, barefooted soldiers who ran past. When he entered the arch Adam was coolly reloading his pistol while the president dusted his clothes.

"It is nothing—they have tried again," the latter remarked. "Still, it looks as if Galdar felt himself stronger than I thought. Now, with your permission, I will go and give some orders." He smiled as he added: "There will be some prisoners by and by, men my guards do not like, but the fellow who fired the shot will not be caught."

"What about the sentry?" Adam asked.

Alvarez shrugged. "It is hot, and perhaps he was half asleep. I think the man is faithful, and just now I am the soldier's friend."

He went off and Adam filled his glass and looked at Kit. "I feel I'm getting old and want another drink. I got the bead on the fellow's dark head and missed him by a yard. Well, I guess you can't expect to have steady fingers when you've got malarial ague. It's a dramatic kind of country, anyhow."

Kit lighted a maize-leaf cigarette and mused. He had been startled, but his nerve was good and he knew something about the dark-skinned, reckless people of the South. They were robbed by their rulers, who spent the most part of the revenue to keep themselves in power; and sometimes, when the vote was useless, assassination seemed the only remedy. But it was on his uncle's promise Kit's thoughts dwelt. Although Adam was rich, the sum Alvarez needed was large. The latter was honest, in a sense, and Kit thought would not rob his friend, but he might be unable to make repayment. In fact, he had warned Adam that there was a risk and the bullet that struck the pillar was a significant hint. The venture looked rash, but Adam had stated that it was not a business proposition. He and the president were friends and this counted for much. The old Buccaneer had a sentimental vein.

Then Kit's thoughts strayed and he wondered what Peter was doing in the north country dale. Kit had prospered since he joined Adam and the latter had hinted that he might be rich, but he was tired of intrigue and excitement and the glare of the South. He wanted the bracing winds, and the soft lights that chased the flying shadows across the English hills. He smiled as he reflected that he was like the Herdwicks that never forgot their native heaf; but while he longed for the red moors and straight-cut valleys he felt a stronger call. He was young and had seen the daughters of the South; Louisiana Creoles with a touch of old French grace; dark-haired Habaneras with languid eyes, whose movements were a delight to watch; octoroons ready to welcome a lover who was altogether white, and half-breed Indian girls. All had charm and some had shown him favors that meant much, but their charm had left Kit cold.

He thought about Grace Osborn, steady-eyed and marked by English calm. She was frank and sometimes impulsive, but even then one got a hint of proud reserve. There was no touch of southern coquetry about Grace, she was not the girl to attract a lover and let him go, but if he came and proved his worth, she would go forward with him steadfastly through the storms of life. Kit sighed and pulled himself up. Grace was not for him and he must not be a romantic fool. He looked round and saw that Adam was quietly studying him.

"What are you thinking about, partner?" he asked and Kit knew the epithet meant much. Adam had not called him partner at first.

"I was thinking about Ashness," he replied.

"Ah," said Adam softly, "I often think about it too; the old house among the ash trees, and the Herdwicks feeding on the long slope behind. The red heath on the fell-top and the beck bubbling in the ghyll. Everything's clean and cool in the quiet dale, and the folk are calm and Slow." He paused and resumed with a curious smile: "Once I reckoned I'd go back when I got rich and make things hum, but when I had the money I saw that plan wouldn't work. Those quiet folk would have beaten me with their unchanging ways, and Ashness is too good to spoil. For all that, I allowed I'd see it again before I died, but now I don't know."

His smile faded and he gave Kit a keen glance. "Why did you pull out? It wasn't for my money. You haven't told me yet."

"No," said Kit, with some embarrassment. "I hardly think it's much of a story, but if you like I'll tell you now."

After a few moments he stopped awkwardly, and Adam raised his hand.

"Go on. I want to get the girl properly fixed."

Kit was not skilled at sketching character, but he drew Grace's portrait well and when he stopped Adam made a sign of sympathy.

"You have helped me place her. Don't know I'd have trusted another man's judgment when he talked about his sweetheart, but you're not a fool. Well, it seems to me the girl's worth getting."

"Miss Osborn is not my sweetheart. It is possible I shall never see her again."

"But you can't forget her?"

"No," said Kit quietly; "I can't forget."

Adam was silent for some moments and then looked up.

"You're like Peter, slow and staunch, but that's one reason you're my partner. Well, I know Osborn's kind; folk we have no use for in the United States. White trash, we call them; men with no abilities, whose foolish pride makes them think it's mean to work. Reckon they've first claim on the soft jobs and don't belong to the world of fighting men. But I guess they listen when money talks."

Kit said nothing, although he thought Adam's concluding remark significant, and the old man went on:

"Don Hernando helped me on my feet when Vanhuyten and I first came along this coast, with about a thousand dollars and a worn-out schooner. He's been my friend ever since and now he's hard up against it I've got to see him out. Guess it's going to cost me high, but when the job's put over there ought to be some money left and I don't know that you need forget the girl if she hasn't forgotten you. Well, perhaps I've said enough, and now I'll go and see where Don Hernando is."

Adam got up and as he crossed the patio Kit noted that his shoulders were bent and his movement slack. Adam had changed much since their first meeting at the Florida hotel. He had some very obvious faults, but Kit knew what he owed him and felt disturbed.

CHAPTER III

THE GOLD ONZA

Kit paused as he wound the long silk sash round his waist, and looked out of the window of his room at the presidio. Square blocks of houses, colored white and yellow, ran down the hill. Here and there a palm rose from an opening, and the dusty green of the alameda broke the monotony of the flat roofs and straight, blank walls that gave the town an Eastern look.

Kit noted the strength of the presidio's situation. The old building stood high, its battlemented roof commanded the narrow streets, and there was a broad open space all round. He thought a few machine-guns would make it impregnable, since a revolutionary mob was not likely to be provided with artillery.

Kit tucked the end of the sash under the neatly-arranged folds. Some time is required to put on a Spanish faja and at first Kit had thought the trouble unnecessary, but had found it is prudent to protect the middle of the body in a hot climate. When he was satisfied, he turned and looked about the room. There were no curtains or carpets, and two very crude religious pictures were fixed to the wall. Although the air was not yet hot, it was not fresh and a smell of spices, decay, and burnt oil came in through the window that opened on the patio.

A sunbeam touched a small earthen jar, holding a bunch of feather flowers. The jar was harshly colored, but the outline was bold and graceful, and Kit knew no pottery like that had been made in the country since the Spaniards came. He had bought it with the flowers for a few dollars, and remembered that the shopkeeper had included its contents when he offered it to him. "Todo loque hay," he said in uncouth Castilian.

Kit, turning over the jar carelessly, took out the flowers and as he did so something inside rattled and a large coin fell into his hand. The coin was old and heavy; indeed, he thought it weighed about an ounce. Taking it to the window, he rubbed its dull face and when the metal began to shine sat down with a thoughtful look. Unless he was mistaken, the coin was gold and did weigh an ounce.

When he finished dressing he went to the little dark shop. The shopkeeper was making coffee with a handful of charcoal on the doorstep, for the sake of the draught, and took off his hat politely as Kit came up.

"I found a piece of money in the jar I bought from you," Kit said in
Castilian.