Bob, the photographer
Date: 2025-01-04T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Adventure stories; Teenage boys -- Juvenile fiction; Success -- Juvenile fiction; Railroads -- Juvenile fiction; Photographers -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Bob, the photographer
or, A hero in spite of himself

Author: Edward Stratemeyer

Illustrator: John R. Bacon

Release date: January 4, 2025 [eBook #75034]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Stitt Publishing Company, 1902

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75034

Credits: Aaron Adrignola, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOB, THE PHOTOGRAPHER ***

JOEL CARROW DARTED FROM THE BARN, AND AFTER THE SCAMPERING PIGS.

Bob
The Photographer

Or, A Hero in Spite of Himself

BY
ARTHUR M. WINFIELD
AUTHOR OF “THE ROVER BOYS SERIES,” “THE PUTNAM
HALL SERIES,” ETC.

NEW YORK
STITT PUBLISHING COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

BOOKS BY ARTHUR M. WINFIELD

ROVER BOYS SERIES for young Americans

Price, per volume, 60 cents

Rover Boys at School
Rover Boys on the Ocean
Rover Boys in the Jungle
Rover Boys Out West
Rover Boys on the Great Lakes
Rover Boys in the Mountains
Rover Boys on Land and Sea
Rover Boys in Camp
Rover Boys on the River

PUTNAM HALL SERIES

Price, per volume, 60 cents

The Putnam Hall Cadets

(Other volumes in preparation)

Copyright, 1902
By A. Wessels Company

CONTENTS

CHAPTER | PAGE
I. | Bob and His Troubles, | 9
II. | Bob at the Cliff, | 22
III. | Bob at the Half-Way House, | 33
IV. | Bob is Left to His Fate, | 45
V. | Bob Makes His Escape, | 55
VI. | Bob Learns Something, | 72
VII. | Bob and the Elephant, | 87
VIII. | Bob Obtains a Situation, | 101
IX. | Bob Has a Lively Fight, | 116
X. | Bob’s First Customer, | 125
XI. | Bob Assists a Stranger, | 138
XII. | Bob’s Queer Experience, | 148
XIII. | Bob Makes a True Friend, | 159
XIV. | Bob Makes a New Move, | 170
XV. | Bob Becomes a Travelling Photographer, | 178
XVI. | Bob Takes a Dive Overboard, | 187
XVII. | Bob Makes a Strange Capture, | 195
XVIII. | Bob Shows up a Swindler, | 202
XIX. | Bob on the Road, | 209
XX. | Bob in the Woods, | 217
XXI. | Bob Takes a Risk, | 224
XXII. | Bob on the Freight Train, | 231
XXIII. | Bob Forms a Resolution, | 238
XXIV. | Bob Sticks up for a Friend, | 246
XXV. | Bob and Frank Stand Together, | 252
XXVI. | Bob Shows His Nerve, | 259
XXVII. | Bob Makes a Find, | 267
XXVIII. | Bob Meets Old Blake, | 273
XXIX. | Bob Hears Interesting News, | 280
XXX. | Bob Learns Something of the Past, | 287
XXXI. | Bob Goes it Alone, | 295
XXXII. | Bob Becomes a Prisoner, | 302
XXXIII. | Bob and His Mother—Conclusion, | 313

INTRODUCTION

My dear Boys:

“Bob the Photographer” relates the adventures of a wide-awake lad who suddenly finds himself thrown out on the world at large to make his way and earn his own living.

Bob falls in with an amateur photographer, a “camera fiend,” and becomes so interested in the art that he resolves to take up photography for a living. He does so, and his pictures being good, he obtains a situation with a railroad company, to make pictures along the line, for use in the company’s guide books, and for other purposes. This work leads him into a number of adventures, in many of which he proves “a hero in spite of himself.”

My object in writing this tale was twofold. First, to let boys know how they can get on in this world, no matter how humble the start, providing they will do to the best of their ability whatever their hands find to do. Success is deserved only when one “pitches in” with a will, and when one “sticks at it” to the end.

My second object was to let my readers know something about photography, providing they have not already mastered the first steps in that art. During my leisure hours I have taken up “snap shotting” myself, and have found that, and the work of developing and printing the pictures, very interesting. All told, there is no cleaner or better recreation, nor one better calculated to make the follower more patient.

Trusting the story will prove to your liking, I remain,

Affectionately and sincerely yours,
Arthur M. Winfield.

BOB THE PHOTOGRAPHER

CHAPTER I
BOB AND HIS TROUBLES

“Bob! I say, Bob! Where is that saw?”

“I left it in the barn, Mr. Carrow.”

“Humph! I don’t believe it. I’ve looked all over, and I can’t find it.”

“I left it on the peg where it belongs,” returned the boy, his eyes flashing at the manner in which he had been addressed.

“I don’t believe a word on it!” growled Joel Carrow. “You are always leavin’ things layin’ round loose. Go an’ git it, an’ be quick about it, or you’ll git your hide tanned well, mind that!”

Bob Alden stood for a moment irresolute, and then folded his arms and unflinchingly faced the man before him.

“If the saw isn’t where I put it, I don’t know where it is,” he said.

“What’s that?” roared the farmer. “Don’t talk back to me! Be off with you, and bring it quick.”

Still the boy did not budge. Joel Carrow gazed at him in amazement, then made a rush and seized the youth by the arm.

“See here, what’s got into you this mornin’?” he snarled. “Ain’t you a-goin’ to obey me?”

“No, I’m not,” answered Bob, coolly and firmly.

“You ain’t?” gasped Joel Carrow, scarcely believing he had heard aright.

It was the first time that Bob had stood up for himself, and the mean, miserly farmer for whom he worked could not fully comprehend the turn of affairs.

“No, I am not,” repeated the youth. “Let go of my arm.”

“Oh, I’ll let go!” snarled Joel Carrow, in a rage. “Take that!” and with his disengaged hand he aimed a blow at Bob’s head. The youth ducked, and the fist of the farmer came in sharp and painful contact with a corner of the pig-sty he was repairing. With a howl of pain he let go his hold on the boy and placed his wounded hand to his mouth, and then swung it in the air. The youth lost no time in retreating several paces.

“I’ll fix you!” cried Joel Carrow. “You’re a good-for-nothin’ lazy whelp!”

“Thank you!” returned Bob, with increased coolness. “And you are the meanest man in the State.”

“Shut up!”

“I won’t. I’ve stood your abuse long enough, and now I intend to speak my mind. I’ve worked for you nearly a year now, and in that time you have treated me worse than a dog.”

“I’ve treated you better’n yer deserve,” muttered Joel Carrow, not knowing what else to say.

“You promised to give me ten dollars a month and my board, and you have never yet paid me a full month’s wages, always deducting something for this or that I couldn’t help; and the food you gave me wasn’t fit for a pig.”

With a snarl Joel Carrow sprang toward Bob. The youth had told the plain truth, and it was evident the farmer knew it only too well.

Bob retreated, and his miserly employer followed him into the barn-yard. He had almost succeeded in catching the youth, when he tripped over a pitchfork and fell headlong into a puddle of water. His face was covered with mud, so was his blue jean shirt, and he was a sight to behold.

Bob gazed for a second in silence, and then burst into a peal of laughter.

“Hold up, till I take a snap shot of you!” sang out a voice from the fence behind the barn.

Bob looked in the direction, and beheld a young man seated on the top rail of the fence. The newcomer held a camera on his lap, and the lens was pointed toward Joel Carrow.

Before the farmer could rise from the puddle, there was a click, and the amateur photographer had taken his picture.

Bob gazed with interest at the young man. He had seen the fellow before, and knew him to be the son of a wealthy merchant of New York.

“I was going to take a picture of still life around the barn,” explained the newcomer. “But this suits me better.”

“Go on about yer business,” snarled Joel Carrow.

“What are you chasing that boy for?”

“None o’ yer business, Frank Landes. Clear out, afore I set the dogs on you!”

“I must say you are in a very amiable mood this morning, Carrow,” laughed Frank Landes, without shifting his position.

“Are yer goin’?”

“Not just yet. I saw you try to strike the boy, and I’m curious to know what it’s all about.”

“You have no right on my place.”

“That’s true, Carrow, in one way, but not in another.”

“What do you mean?” returned the farmer, uneasily.

“I came down to tell you that the last consignment of eggs you sent our firm weren’t strictly fresh, and unless you do better in the future, Mr. Dale says he will get his eggs elsewhere.”

“Them eggs were strictly fresh when they left here,” grumbled Joel Carrow.

“That’s not so,” put in Bob. “The eggs were taken from those we had stored all winter, and——”

“Shut up!” interrupted the farmer, red with rage.

“I won’t. I said it wasn’t a fair way to do when you shipped them.”

“If yer don’t keep quiet, I’ll wring yer neck!”

Joel Carrow made another dive for the youth. Bob escaped to the barn, but before he could go farther the farmer caught him by the collar, pulled him backward, and threw him down.

“I’ll fix yer!” he foamed, as he caught up a heavy stick, and hauled back ready to strike Bob on the head.

“Don’t you dare strike me, Joel Carrow!”

“Yer can’t worry me, Bob Alden. Let this be a lesson to you.”

Joel Carrow’s hand was about to descend, but the blow never reached its mark.

“Not so fast!” sang out the voice of Frank Landes, and the next instant the farmer was hurled backward, and the stick was wrenched from his grasp.

Taking advantage of the interruption, Bob Alden sprang quickly to his feet.

“I owe you one for that,” he said to Frank Landes.

“No, you don’t,” returned Landes. “If I am not mistaken, it was you saved me from that wild bull the day I was taking pictures over in Sarding’s meadow.”

Bob smiled. He remembered the incident well, in which he had played the part of a hero.

During this time Joel Carrow was muttering a number of nasty things under his breath. He now strode over to where Frank Landes stood, the stick still in his hand.

“You ain’t got no right ter interfere in this fashion,” he began, savagely.

“No?” returned Landes, with just the faintest show of a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

“No, yer ain’t. I won’t stand it.”

“What do you propose to do about it?”

“I’ll—I’ll have yer arrested.”

At this even Bob was compelled to laugh. The laugh enraged the miserly farmer still more, and his eyes blazed furiously.

“It ain’t no laughin’ matter.”

“You have no right to hit the boy,” returned Frank Landes, sternly.

“What do you know about it?”

“If I hadn’t stepped in you would have nearly killed him.”

“He deserves it,” howled Carrow. “He’s the imp’s own.”

“What’s the row?”

“As I said afore, it’s none o’ your business.”

“He said I hadn’t put the saw where it belonged,” explained Bob. “I placed it on the peg in this barn, and just because it wasn’t there, he told me he was going to tan my hide for me.”

“And I presume you objected to the tanning process, eh?”

“I did.”

“I don’t wonder. Carrow, you are a big brute.”

“What!”

“I’ve said it, and I’ll stick to it. You are a brute and ought to go to jail.”

“Take care, Landes, I ain’t standin’ everything,” snarled the farmer.

“Is this boy anything to you?”

“I hired him ter work on the farm, but he ain’t wuth his salt.”

“He works me half to death,” put in Bob. “He makes me get up at four o’clock every morning, Sundays included, and I don’t have five minutes to myself till it’s time to knock off, generally nine or ten o’clock at night.”

“I wouldn’t stay if I were you,” replied Frank Landes.

“I don’t intend to. I’m going to leave to-day.”

It was a sudden resolution on Bob’s part, but the youth meant it.

“Leave!” ejaculated Joel Carrow, in sudden alarm.

“Yes, leave.”

“Yer month ain’t up.”

“I don’t care.”

“I won’t pay yer a cent.”

“I don’t care for that, either. I’m going, and that’s all there is to it.”

“You ought to pay the boy what is coming to him,” put in Frank Landes.

“Not a cent,” returned the farmer, decidedly.

“You had better, Carrow. If you don’t, I’ll help him take his case to the nearest justice and testify as to how you’ve been treating him.”

“You villain!”

“Softly, sir. You had no more right to hit that boy than you had to hit me. The best thing you can do is to settle up with him.”

Joel Carrow breathed hard. He wanted to say something sharp, to tear somebody to pieces, but he didn’t dare to make a move, and there was really nothing to say.

Frank Landes turned to Bob.

“How much does he owe you?” he asked.

“Five dollars on this month, and three on last.”

“Then, Carrow, pay the boy eight dollars and let him go.”

The coolness of the suggestion amazed the farmer. He stared at the young man and staggered up against a feed box.

“Pay—him—eight—dollars?” he said, with painful slowness.

“Either that, or I will take him to the nearest justice without further delay. You will find going to law much more expensive.”

Joel Carrow gave a groan. Then he brought forth a well-worn pocket-book and with trembling fingers counted out eight greasy bills.

“Now you are acting sensibly,” said Landes, as Bob took the money. “Will you go with me?” he asked, turning to the youth.

“Where to?”

“I am bound to Stampton, on a camera tour. I will pay your way if you care to go.”

“I’ll jump at the chance,” returned Bob, quickly. “I would like——”

“Joel! Joel Carrow! Where are you?” came in the shrill voice of the farmer’s wife. “Here you are leavin’ the pig-sty wide open an’ all the pigs running into the garden! Mercy sakes! one of ’em’s in the dairy! Come quick, you big fool, an’ tend to ’em, or I’ll be out there with a broom!”

Mrs. Carrow’s angry voice was coming nearer, and without stopping to parley longer with the others, Joel Carrow darted from the barn, and after the scampering pigs who were scattering in all directions.

“Now is your chance to get away,” said Frank Landes, hurriedly. “I presume you have a better suit of clothes than that.”

Bob shook his head.

“This is my best and only one.”

“And your shoes?”

“The same, and also the hat. But I have a few things up in my room,” and running up the ladder to the part of the loft called his room Bob soon reappeared with a small bundle tied up in a piece of old table oil-cloth.

“Here are all my duds,” he laughed. “Ain’t quite a trunk full, is it? Now I’m ready to——”

A wild cry from outside reached their ears, and both ran to the door-way and then out into the barn-yard.

“By Jove! that’s rich!” cried Frank Landes. “I must take another picture by all means!”

He hurried for his camera, and meanwhile Bob stood by the corn-crib laughing merrily.

Joel Carrow and his wife had cornered two of the frisky porkers and were doing their best to catch them. The pigs began to squeal, and suddenly one of them darted under Mrs. Carrow’s foot just as she raised it to step out of the way. She fell down, and Joel Carrow went with her, while both pigs flew over a log and went crashing into the glass top of a hothouse bed.

The farmer rose up and went after the pigs. He was so mad he did not notice the hot-bed frame, and before he knew what he was doing, he, too, was smashing glass at the rate of a dozen panes a second.

“Joel! you good-for-nothing man!” shrieked Mrs. Carrow. “Come out o’ thet!”

Mrs. Carrow arose, madder than a hornet. Near at hand was a broom, and, picking it up, she went after her husband.

“We had better get out before they see us,” said Bob. “I’ve got my fill of the place.”

“Come on, then.”

Frank Landes leaped the fence and Bob quickly followed. In a few minutes the two were on a country road and out of sight of the Carrow farm.

As they walked along the two became thoroughly acquainted. There was something in Bob Alden’s composition that pleased Frank Landes, and he became thoroughly interested in the youth.

“And you say you are an orphan, Bob?” he said.

“So far as I know,” returned the youth. “Old Thompson, of Windham, brought me up, and he said he never knew where I came from.”

“Where did he get you?”

“He never told me. I intended to ask him once, but before I could get the chance he was killed over to the flour mill. Then I had to shift for myself, for his relatives came in and cleared out the house and wouldn’t have nothing to do with me.”

“That was hard luck.”

“It wasn’t as hard as falling in with Joel Carrow,” answered Bob. “Gee Christopher! but he was a hard one to get along with. If I had stayed there another month I would have committed suicide.”

“Well, as I said before, I will take you to Stampton with me if you wish to go, and I’ll pay expenses on the way. But what will you do when you get there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Finding work is no easy job in a city.”

“I reckon I’ll fall on my feet. I generally do. I would like to learn to take pictures,” concluded the boy.

More talk followed, and they hurried along until it was past noon.

“About dinner-time,” said Frank Landes, consulting his watch. “Let us see if we can’t get dinner at that farm-house just beyond.”

They walked to the farm-house, and, after some talk, the farmer’s wife agreed to furnish them with a meal for twenty cents each—a price which Landes promptly paid.

“By jinks! this is what I call a spread,” cried Bob, as he surveyed the fairly well-filled table. “I never struck such a table at Carrow’s.”

“Well, fill up, Bob,” laughed Landes. “The price is the same.”

And Bob did fill up, much to the amusement of the woman who had served the meal, a fat, jolly person.

After the meal Landes lit a cigar and sat down on the stoop to enjoy it. He offered Bob one, but the youth shook his head and munched an apple instead.

The cigar finished, Frank Landes arose and stretched himself.

“Well, Bob, we might as well be on our way.”

“I’m ready whenever you are, Mr. Landes.”

Landes took up his camera and satchel, and Bob his bundle, and both started on again.

CHAPTER II
BOB AT THE CLIFF

Toward the middle of the afternoon, Bob and Frank Landes came to a picturesque mountain stream, flanked on one side by sloping hills and on the other by a jagged cliff fifty or sixty feet in height.

“I want to get one or two views here,” said Frank Landes. “Let us get over the stream and under the cliff.”

They crossed the bridge and walked along the base of the cliff for a distance of several hundred feet.

“Now straighten out that tripod and I’ll put some plates in the camera,” went on the young man.

He had explained the workings of the different parts of his instrument to Bob, and the youth lost no time in complying with his request.

The tripod was set up, and the young man was just about to place the camera upon it, when there came a terrible scream from overhead.

“What’s up?” queried Frank Landes.

“My gracious!” burst out Bob. “Look there!”

The young man looked to the spot indicated.

The sight presented was enough to chill the blood of both. A young girl had fallen over the edge of the cliff, and now hung suspended in mid-air, her dress caught in some scraggy rocks and bushes.

“She’ll be killed!” ejaculated Frank Landes.

“We must save her!” returned Bob. “I wonder if I can’t climb up to her and keep her from falling.”

“Help! help!” cried the girl, in tones of deepest agony, as she caught hold of one of the bushes with her right hand.

“Hold fast till I climb up to you!” shouted Bob.

He caught up the tripod and began to ascend the face of the cliff as best he could.

“What are you going to do?” asked Frank Landes.

“Save the girl,” returned Bob, resolutely.

In a few minutes the fearless youth had reached a ledge some ten feet below the spot where the girl hung. He tried to go up higher, but found it was impossible to do so.

“Oh, help me! Help me, please!” cried the girl, as soon as she caught sight of Bob.

“I will,” he said.

Taking the tripod he braced it as firmly as he could on the ledge upon which he was standing. Then, by the aid of some bushes he managed to balance himself upon the top.

By reaching out he could now grasp the girl’s arm.

“Let go and I will land you safely on the ledge,” said Bob.

“I am afraid. The fall has made me dizzy,” cried the girl. “Besides, my dress is caught.”

“Then wait till I crawl up a little higher.”

Bob had hardly spoken when there was a sudden crack. One of the legs of the tripod had broken, and with a wild cry, the boy lost his balance and went over the ledge!

Frank Landes gave a cry of horror, and the girl above a shrill shriek of added fear.

As Bob plunged over the ledge, he threw out both of his hands, and one of them caught in some of the bushes growing below.

The bushes were torn from their roots, but Bob’s progress downward was somewhat stayed, and, when his other hand caught a bit of projecting rock, he held fast.

“Hold hard!” shouted Landes. “I forgot, I’ve got a bit of rope with me.”

He clambered up the cliff until he reached the ledge. Then he lowered one end of the rope and Bob grasped it.

“Can you pull me up?” asked the youth.

“I can, if you will help by holding on to the bushes,” returned Landes.

He began to pull up slowly and with great care, and soon Bob’s hands grasped the edge of the ledge, and he drew himself up to a place of safety.

In the mean time the girl above was growing weaker, and she gave a low moan.

“I can’t hold on any longer,” she gasped. “My head is awfully dizzy.”

“Hold for just a minute longer,” shouted Bob. “Frank, let me climb up on your shoulders.”

Landes agreed. In an instant Bob was up on the young man’s shoulders. By this time the bushes to which the girl clung had partly loosened themselves, and the girl now hung within reach of Bob’s sturdy arms.

“Steady below!” he shouted to Landes. “Now, hold out your hand and jump. You will come down all right,” he added to the fair one.

The girl hesitated, but after one look into Bob’s truthful eyes, she grew confident, and, letting go her hold, allowed herself to drop into his outstretched arms.

Landes collapsed under the combined weight. But Bob expected this, and, as he and the girl came down, he took good care that neither should go over the edge of the ledge.

“Oh, thank you for that!” cried the girl, and with these words she fainted in Bob’s arms.

“Why it’s Grace Maverick,” cried Frank Landes, in intense surprise.

“And who is she?” queried Bob, gazing at the beautiful form in rather a helpless way.

“She is the daughter of Gregory Maverick, the president of the T. W. & L. Railroad which runs through Stampton.”

“Well, what shall I do now?” queried Bob, more awed than ever, now he knew who his fair burden was.

“Let me help you down to the brook with her,” replied Landes. “Come this way, there is quite a good path.”

Between them they carried the girl from the narrow ledge to a grassy slope at the base of the cliff. Then Bob took off his cap, filled it with water, and dashed some of it into Grace Maverick’s face.

With something like a gasp the girl came to her senses. She gazed around for a moment, and then sat up.

“Where—where am I?” she stammered, in bewilderment.

“You are safe, Miss Maverick,” returned Frank Landes, politely.

“Oh, Mr. Landes, is it you? I remember it all! And where is the boy who saved me?”

“Here he is. His name is Bob Alden.”

Landes turned to the youth, and Bob shuffled forward, blushing furiously. Grace Maverick grasped his hands within her own.

“Oh, how can I thank you!” she cried, impulsively. “If it hadn’t been for you, I would have been killed.”

“Mr. Landes did his share,” said Bob, generously.

“Nonsense,” put in Frank. “Bob is the hero.”

“I am thankful to both,” said the girl. “Where are the others?”

“What others?”

“My friends. There were four of us on the cliff, and a savage dog scared us. I ran near the edge, and stumbled.”

“I’ll go up and look for your friends,” said Landes, and, without waiting, he made off.

“And your name is Bob Alden?” questioned Grace Maverick.

Bob nodded.

“Mine is Grace Maverick. I am awfully glad to know you. Do you belong around here?”

“I don’t belong anywhere just now.”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“I worked for a farmer over in Shellville, but he treated me so meanly I left. I am bound for Stampton.”

“To get work?”

“If I can.”

“Well, when you get there you must call on me. Mr. Landes will tell you where I live.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t forget. I want my papa to see you. He says he likes to see heroes, and you are one.”

“No, I’m not! I’m only a plain country boy,” said Bob. “Anybody could do what I did.”

“Perhaps they could, but they wouldn’t all have the nerve to try. Oh, here comes Mr. Landes now, and he has found my teacher!”

Frank now returned with an elderly lady, who at once proceeded to take Grace in charge, scolding her for going so close to the edge of the cliff.

“Here is the young man who saved me,” said Grace, pointing to Bob.

The elderly teacher gave the youth one stare, and then shrugged her shoulders.

“You must have nothing to do with such common people, Grace,” she said, lowly, but still loud enough for Bob to hear. “Come with me at once.”

“He is a noble boy,” protested the girl. “Good-bye, Bob Alden, I shall expect to see you in Stampton. Good-bye, Mr. Landes.”

The teacher hurried Grace away. Bob and Frank both tipped their caps, and then the youth turned to the young man.

“Christopher! Isn’t the old lady a sour one?”

“Rather,” returned Frank. “But, Bob, you’re in luck.”

“How so?”

“It’s a good stroke for you,” went on Frank. “It ought to be worth a good deal to you.”

“What ought?”

“Saving Grace’s life. Such a thing isn’t done every day.”

“Pooh! You’re as bad as she was.”

“Why, what did she say?”

Bob told him. Frank caught his hand. “Let me congratulate you. You’re all right.”

“Give it to me plainer, please.”

“Can’t you see? You call on Grace. See old Maverick. He takes an interest in you and rewards you handsomely.”

“But he won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I won’t call.”

Frank stared at Bob in amazement.

“Won’t call?” he gasped.

“That’s it. I’d feel worse than a cat in a strange garret. I’m not used to high-toned society.”

“But look what it might be worth to you.”

“I don’t want anything for doing a nice girl like her a little service.”

“Well you’re the queerest!”

“Maybe I am. But, say, I’m downright sorry I broke the three-legged thing.”

“Don’t bother your head about that. It’s worth a dozen tripods to be a hero.”

“If you don’t shut down on that talk, I’ll leave you at once,” burst out Bob. “I’m not a hero, never was, and am not likely to be. Here’s a bit of strong string. Let me see if I can’t splice the broken leg of your machine.”

Frank said no more, and, sitting down, Bob took the tripod and speedily mended the split leg.

This done, the two proceeded to take several pictures of the spot, including one of the place where the thrilling scene recorded had occurred.

“I’ll give you a copy of it,” said Frank. “And perhaps I’ll send one to Miss Maverick.”

Bob was very much interested in the taking of the pictures, and asked innumerable questions.

“We’ll stop at Fitt’s Half-way House to-night,” said Frank. “And then I’ll show you how to develop the plates. You have to do it in a dark room.”

“How can you see to show me, then?” asked Bob, and Frank laughed.

“We use a red light,” said the young man. “It is the only light that doesn’t affect the plates.”

“Do you know, I would like to become a photographer,” burst out Bob. “It must be an interesting business.”

“It is, especially outdoor work. Gallery work, though, is rather confining.”

“I would like to become a travelling photographer, taking houses and so, for people. Couldn’t a fellow make money that way?”

“I should think so, if he went at it the right way.”

After this, Bob was silent for a long while. He was revolving a great number of things in his mind. He loved to travel about, and the idea of combining business with pleasure just suited him. Besides, he was of an artistic turn, and pictures pleased him.

“Yes, I’ll become a photographer,” he said to himself. “And I’ll travel around, and not only try to make money, but also see if I can’t find out who I am, and where I came from. I won’t be Bob Alden, the nobody, any longer.”

At about sunset the two came to Fitt’s half-way road-house, an old-fashioned hotel. Half a dozen wagons were tied up beneath the shed, and the dining-room and parlor were both comfortably filled.

They met the proprietor of the place in the hall, and Frank at once made arrangements for a room for both with supper and breakfast. Their traps were taken up, and both took a wash and a brushing up previous to entering the dining-room.

“Did you see that dark-looking fellow standing by the door of the office?” questioned Frank, as they were arranging their toilet.

“The chap with the cut on his left cheek?”

“Yes. He is an enemy of mine, and I’m sorry he is here.”

“How is he your enemy?” asked Bob, with interest, for he could not understand how so good-hearted a person as Frank Landes could have an enemy.

“He used to work for our firm, and I once detected him in wrong-doing. I exposed him, and he was discharged. He promised to get square, and I know he will try to keep his word.”

“What is his name?”

“James Casco. He has Spanish blood in him, and is a bad man when in a temper.”

“We’ll both keep our eyes open for him,” returned Bob. “If he tries any underhand work, and I catch him at it, I’ll—I’ll pulverize him.”

“Really!” laughed Frank.

“I will. I always stick up for my friends, and you’re the first friend I’ve struck in a long time. So let Casco keep his distance.”

CHAPTER III
BOB AT THE HALF-WAY HOUSE

When Bob and Frank Landes entered the dining-room and looked around at the guests present, they saw nothing of James Casco.

“Most likely in the bar-room,” said Frank. “He is a pretty heavy drinker.”

They did full justice to the spread, and then the young man lit a cigar, and Bob followed him out on a side piazza, which was almost deserted.

Frank had hardly seated himself, when a door at the end of the piazza opened, and James Casco came out.

The scar-faced fellow had been drinking freely, and the habitual scowl upon his face was deeper than ever.

“So you are here, eh?” he said, abruptly.

Frank stared at him.

“Did you address me?” he demanded, coolly.

“I did, and you know it. What do you mean by following me?”

“I was not aware I was following you.”

“It’s false!” cried Casco. “You’ve been following me all the way from New York.”

The young man jumped to his feet.

“See here, Casco, I want you to shut up. I have not been following you, and I am not in the habit of being addressed as you have addressed me. The quicker you get out of here the better.”

“Humph! So you fancy you can bluff me?” sneered the scar-faced man.

“It’s no bluff, I want you to take back what you said.”

“Take back nothing, Landes. You are a sneak—and worse, and——”

Casco did not finish. Drawing back, Frank left out with his right hand and Casco received a slap on the cheek that sent him staggering.

“The next time you address a gentleman be careful what you say.”

With a howl of pain and rage, Casco gathered himself together.

Bob looked on with keen interest. Frank seemed to be well able to take his own part, and so the youth saw no reason to interfere.

Muttering something under his breath, Casco now sprang to the edge of the piazza and looked around. No one appeared in sight. Bob was standing in a deep shadow, and in his rage the scar-faced man did not notice him.

Suddenly Casco put his hand into his pocket and drew forth a short club. It made Bob start.

“I’ll see how you like that, Landes,” cried Casco. “Here you are!”

Jumping forward, Casco attempted to hit Frank Landes on the head, but before the club could descend, Bob rushed forward and hauled Casco back.

“Better call the landlord,” he said to Frank. “This man ought to be arrested.”

“Never!” muttered Casco. “Let me go, or I will strike you!”

Casco began to struggle, and Frank Landes jumped in to help Bob. They had just succeeded in disarming the scar-faced man, when Casco uttered a peculiar whistle.

“What does that mean?” queried Bob.

“I don’t know,” muttered his companion. “Get up,” he said to their prisoner.

Casco had hardly arisen, when two men rushed around the corner of the hotel. Each wore a slouch hat, and in the darkness nothing could be seen of their faces.

“Help me!” cried Casco. “We must get away from here.”

“But the plan, Jim, that——” began one of the men.

“It’s all up,” muttered Casco. “Quick, help me.”

Both of the new arrivals at once fell upon Bob and Frank. The youth and the young man fought well, but they could not overcome the other three, and by the time the landlord and a number of his guests arrived the two had Casco free, and then the three assailants made off in the darkness, Casco carrying his short club with him.

“What’s the trouble?” demanded Fitt, the keeper of the road-house.

Frank and Bob related their story. All crowded around, and listened with deep interest.

“I thought that chap was up to no good,” said Fitt. “I took him to be a gambler.”

“He does play cards,” said Frank. “Do you know those other men?”

Fitt shook his head.

“The three of them landed here this afternoon,” he said. “They hired a front room, but brought no baggage. I told ’em they would have to pay in advance, and this Casco pulled out a fat roll of bills and settled on the spot. The roll of bills and his general way made me suspicious of him.”

“I wonder where he got the money?” mused the young man. “When he was discharged from our house, he was compelled to make up a deficiency in his accounts, and he then claimed he was without a dollar.”

“Maybe he didn’t give it all back, or else stole some since,” ventured Bob. “He looks thoroughly bad.”

“You may be right.”

“Shall we go after the rascals?” asked Fitt. “All three ought to be in the lock-up.”

“I don’t know which way they went,” returned Frank. “Do you, Bob?”

“I thought they cut around the back. Is there a road in that direction?”

“Yes, Martin’s lane comes through, and meets the road alongside the railroad track,” answered the hotel-keeper.

“Then perhaps they took that road,” suggested Bob. “If you say the word, Frank, we’ll go after them.”

“Couldn’t find ’em in the dark,” said Fitt, who was too scared to venture on such a quest.

“I’ve got pretty good eyes,” laughed the youth.

A hurried consultation was held, and Frank and Bob started off alone, Bob carrying a revolver Fitt had loaned him, Frank being supplied with a weapon of his own.

On the two went until Bob came to a sudden halt, and plucked Frank by the sleeve.

“Hush!” whispered the youth.

“What did you see?” came in a low tone.

“Do you see that stack of hay over yonder?”

“Yes.”

“I’m pretty sure I just saw a man dodge behind it.”

“Only one?”

“Yes. But the whole three may be there. Wait here for a few minutes.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“Go back a short distance and jump the fence. There is a ditch there, and I think I can crawl along and get on the other side of that hay-stack.”

“Hadn’t I better go along?”

“No; you watch out on the road. They may make a dash, and then you will have to go after them. My idea is to see if they are there without letting them discover me.”

“And if they are?”

“Then I’ll give you a signal—a whip-poor-will cry—and you can hurry off for help, and we can capture them. Understand?”

“Yes, but the danger——” protested Frank.

“I don’t mind it. Now, I’ll be off. Watch the hay-stack, and listen for the whip-poor-will cry.”

And with these words, Bob slipped into the shadow of some near-by bushes, leaving Frank standing by a tree in the lane, alone.

Frank stood perfectly still for several minutes and then moved silently toward a stone near the fence, intending to rest until he should hear from Bob in one way or another.

Having seated himself the young man drew out his pistol, and examined it to make sure that it was in proper condition for use.

It was then that he made a discovery which caused him to utter a low cry of dismay.

The weapon was empty.

“That’s a fine state of affairs,” he muttered to himself. “And the cartridge box in my satchel, too. I ought to be kicked for not looking at the pistol before we left the hotel.”

Frank was thoroughly put out, but this did no good, and, with something of a sigh, he restored the useless fire-arm to his pocket.

“I ought to have something,” he went on. “I wonder if I couldn’t cut a stick somewhere in the bushes.”

He arose once more, and getting out his pocket-knife proceeded to cut a sapling, which he quickly reduced to quite a respectable club having several hard knobs at one end.

“There, I reckon if a fellow got that on the head it would make him see stars,” thought Frank. “It isn’t as good as a loaded pistol, but it’s better than nothing.”

Quarter of an hour passed, and still he heard or saw nothing of Bob.

“He’s making slow work of it,” soliloquized the young man. “I presume he wants to make sure and not walk into any trap. Dear me, but this is lonely, and I half wish I was back at the hotel.”

Another quarter of an hour passed, and Frank arose to walk to a spot several yards away, and thus obtain a different view of the hay-stack, which was all of two hundred feet back in the meadow lot.

Scarcely had he walked a rod when a shadow crossed his shoulder.

He wheeled about to see what was there, but no one was in sight.

What did it mean? Had a night bird swept near, or had he merely imagined the shadow there?

He grasped the club a little tighter, and listened with strained ears. A faint crackling sound reached him, coming from a distance but a few feet away.

Again he swung around. A form leaped directly before him, the form of James Casco.

“Casco!”

“You are right, Landes. So you are following me again.”

“I am following this time, yes. Stop where you are.”

“What do you mean?”

“Move another step, and you will be sorry for it.”

And Frank drew his empty pistol, and pointed it.

Casco was somewhat dismayed, but only for a second. Then he rushed at Frank.

At the same instant came a whip-poor-will cry. In the excitement, however, the young man did not notice it.

Casco rushed in, and knocked up Frank’s weapon, at the same time uttering the same whistle he had used on the hotel piazza.

Knowing that this was a call for help, Frank tried to run away. Casco promptly tripped him up and then came down on the young man.

“Do you give in?” he demanded.

“No,” returned Frank, firmly.

Without ado the scar-faced man brought down his club upon Frank’s head. It was a vicious blow, well directed, and with a groan the young man fell back insensible.

“He’ll not worry me again, I reckon,” muttered Casco, as he surveyed the inanimate form before him. “I suppose I might as well go through him now I have the chance. By Jove, this is starting on the new career for certain! No backing out after this.”

Casco bent over Frank’s form, and began a rapid search of his victim’s pockets. He brought to light a roll of bills amounting to seventy dollars, a number of letters and documents, and several things of less importance.

“A pretty good haul,” muttered the thief.

Just then the bushes parted, and one of the men wearing a slouch hat came over the fence.

“Where are you, Casco?”

“Here, Barker, I’ve knocked him out.”

“Him? Who?”

“The fellow I had a row with at the hotel. I felt certain he must be somewhere around here.”

“Humph! You seem to have a grudge against him.”

“I have. It was he exposed me in New York. I might have had that snap yet if it hadn’t been for him.”

The man called Barker chuckled, as if what he had been told was a joke.

“What was his pockets worth?”

“Not much. A handful of change and these letters.”

“What will you do with him?”

“Throw him in the ditch, behind the bushes. They won’t find him so easily.”

“All right.”

The two caught up the limp body, and, taking it to the ditch, threw it in.

In the mean time Bob had crawled along the ditch to a point almost directly behind the hay-stack. It was so dark here that he could see but little, but his ears were on the alert and, by listening intently, he made out the faint murmur of voices.

He could not make out what was said, and, after waiting for several minutes, he ventured a couple of yards closer.

Then he beheld the two men in slouch hats in low but earnest conversation. Casco was nowhere to be seen.

Making sure that he was not discovered, Bob drew still closer to learn, if possible, what had become of the scar-faced man.

“Well, Grogan, what do you think of Casco’s plan?” he heard one of the men say.

“Sure, an’ Oi think it purty bould, Barker,” replied Grogan, who was undoubtedly an Irishman. “’Tis a foine way to make money widout workin’.”

“It’s not so fine if you get caught,” replied Barker. “To my mind it’s rather risky.”

“Sure, an’ how could it be? If Casco gits in wid the——”

“Hush! What’s that?”

Barker sprang up from his bed on the hay.

“Phat did yez hear?” demanded Grogan, in alarm.

“I heard some kind of a noise.”

“Perhaps ’tis Casco comin’ back.”

Barker looked around, and Bob did his best to keep out of sight. His foot had struck a dry stick, which had snapped in two, making quite a loud report.

The two men went on talking, but Bob caught only a few words to the effect that inside of a week Casco would have some plan ready in all its details.

“They are up to no good,” thought Bob. “I think their talk means robbery on a large scale and nothing else.”

Presently from the road came a sharp whistle. Barker again jumped up.

“It’s a signal from Casco,” he said. “Something is wrong. Look around here, while I go and see what it is.”

He hurried off. Grogan sprang up a moment later, and almost immediately sighted Bob lying in the long grass.

“Who be yez?” he demanded, pouncing upon the youth.

Bob at once gave his whip-poor-will signal to warn Frank.

“Stand where you are, you rascal,” he said to Grogan.

“Bad cess to yez!” cried the Irishman. “Do yez think Oi’m to be overpowered by a b’y? Indade not.”

He rushed at Bob, and a desperate struggle ensued.

CHAPTER IV
BOB IS LEFT TO HIS FATE

Bob was strong for his age, but his strength was nothing compared with that of Mike Grogan, who now faced the intrepid youth.

The Irishman was every inch of six feet in height, and, as he towered in front of Bob, it looked as if he would crush the boy.

As he closed in he struck out at Bob several times, but the youth ducked and dodged and not a blow took effect.

Then the Irishman tried new tactics. He pretended to run, and, when Bob followed, he turned swiftly and caught the youth by the waist.

“Now I have yez!” cried Grogan. “How do ye loike that, me b’y?”

He threw Bob on the ground, and kicked him heavily in the side. The youth attempted to scramble up, but the Irishman kicked him again, and then Bob was glad enough to lie still.

“’Tis the same b’y we met at Fitt’s hotel,” muttered Grogan, as he looked closer at Bob. “Phat brought yez here?” he demanded.

“That’s my business,” returned Bob, with a gasp. Besides bruising him severely, the kicks had taken all the wind out of him.

“Is it?” said Grogan, sarcastically. “Mebbe Oi’ll make it moine, too. Lie where yez are, onless yez would rather be kicked to death.”

“What do you propose to do with me?” demanded Bob.

“Yez will see when the toime comes.”

“You have no right to keep me here.”

Grogan gave a chuckle.

“’Tis not the loikes of you to be tellin’ me phat Oi kin do, moind that. Phat’s yer name?”

“Bob Alden. Does that make you feel any better?”

“Do yez belong up to the hotel?”

“No.”

“Yez got yerself into a foine pickle whin yez put up against me an’ the others.”

“You had no right to attack my friend,” returned Bob, warmly. “It’s a pity we didn’t capture you then and there.”

“Shut up! Oi want no more from ye.”

Grogan began to get angry, and, seeing he could gain nothing by keeping up the conversation, Bob became silent.

The youth wondered what had become of Frank Landes. Had he fallen into the hands of Casco or Barker?

“It looks like it,” thought Bob. “I wish I could get away from this chap, and find out for certain.”

He looked up at Grogan, who still stood over him, smoking a short clay pipe and glaring down at him. The Irishman seemed to read his thought.

“Yez can’t git away, and yez had better not troy,” he said, savagely.

“Go for him, Bill!” exclaimed Bob, to an imaginary person behind Grogan.

The ruse worked well. Mike Grogan turned, with a startled air, to confront the person he supposed was about to attack him. On the instant Bob jumped to his feet. His side felt fearfully sore, but to this he paid no attention.

“Shtop!” roared Grogan, as soon as he realized that he had been imposed upon.

But instead of stopping, Bob dashed for the fence which lined the lane. Grogan came after him at the top of his speed. But the boy was the better runner of the two, and he reached the fence fully twenty feet ahead of the Irishman.

Bob vaulted over with a single bound. His intention was to run up the lane and join Frank, if possible.

But as he went over the fence his hopes were crushed before his feet touched the ground on the other side. He fell plump into the hands of Casco and Barker, who were just returning from casting Landes into the ditch some distance away.

“Ha! who’s this?” cried Casco. “That boy, as I live!”

“What boy?” asked Barker.

“Landes’ friend. Catch him!”

Barker caught Bob by one arm, and, running up, the scar-faced man caught him by the other. Bob tried to break away, but found it useless.

“Hold him tight, Barker. I’ll bind his hands behind him.”

“What for?”

“I have reasons. Hold him. That’s it.”

Casco produced a bit of strong cord, and with it bound Bob’s hands together tightly.

“Now come along, and don’t make any noise,” he said to the youth.

“Where to?”

“To that hay-stack over there.”

“I won’t go. What have you been doing out here on the road?”

“Nothing,” returned Casco, in pretended surprise, and he pinched Barker’s arm to make his companion keep silent.

Bob was about to question them concerning Frank. But he thought it possible Landes had gotten away, and such questions might spoil any chance of rescue as well as the capture of the trio.

Seeing he could not help himself, Bob at last went over the fence, and with Casco on one side and Barker on the other marched to the hay-stack, Grogan bringing up the rear, with a club in hand, ready to strike at the first sign of rebellion.

“Now we will sift this matter to the bottom,” said Casco, as he came to a halt. “You are Frank Landes’ friend, are you not?”

“I am,” returned Bob.

“What has become of Landes?”

And Casco poked Barker in the ribs on the sly.

“I don’t know.”

“Was he with you?”

“That is my affair.”

“Answer me.”

Bob remained silent. Casco pretended to get very angry, but at last simmered down.

“He sez his name is Bob Alden,” put in Grogan.

“What’s that!” demanded Barker, in intense surprise.

Bob looked at him, and saw that the man was very pale, and evidently under strong excitement.

“Is your name Bob Alden?” he demanded, facing the youth.

“It is.”

“Did you use to live with old Thompson?”

“I did. But I don’t remember you,” returned Bob, growing interested.

“I suppose not. Where have you been since Thompson died?”

“I lived with a farmer named Joel Carrow.”

“What are you doing now?”

“Answering questions,” returned the youth, with a faint smile.

“I want none of your jokes,” growled Barker. “Do you work for a living?”

“I expect to, just as soon as I can get a job.”

“Are you on the road?”

“I’m walking to Stampton, if that’s what you mean.”

“Humph!”

“How did you fall in with Landes?” put in James Casco.

“He took my part when Carrow wanted to whip me, and I’m helping him take pictures in return for my board on the road.”

The men ceased asking questions, and Casco and Barker walked a short distance away, leaving Grogan on guard.

“It’s a surprise, and no mistake,” said Barker, in a low tone. “I was sure the boy had gone West. Thompson’s relatives said so.”

“Is the old matter settled up?” questioned the scar-faced man.

“Almost. But there might be more money in it,” mused Barker. “Say, I have a plan.”

“What is it?”

“I wonder if we could get the boy to join us?”

“Not likely.”

“Why not? The promise of big money might fetch him.”

“He looks too honest. Still, you might sound him. Only if he refuses, what then? You won’t dare to let him go.”

“I won’t give him much information till I am sure of him,” rejoined Barker.

Bob could not make out what the two men said, but from their actions he felt certain they were conversing about him.

“Say, boy!” demanded Barker, coming up. “Have you any offer of work at Stampton when you reach there?”

“No.”

“You’ll find it mighty hard getting a job.”

“Perhaps I will. But that’s none of your affair.”

“Don’t get saucy. I thought, perhaps, you might like to leave Landes and join us.”

“What at?”

“A little private business we’re working.”

“Does it pay?”

“You bet it does.”

“Do you work hard?”

“Not at all.”

“Then I’m afraid it wouldn’t suit me. I’ve been used to hard work, and, if I knocked off, it might hurt me.”

Barker was enraged at this cool reply, and he would have struck Bob in the head had not Casco held him back.

“I told you how it would be,” said the scar-faced man. “He is too particular for this crowd.”

“Maybe not,” said Bob, who was anxious to learn what were the plans of the gang. “Tell me the work, and I may join.”

“Can you keep your mouth shut?” asked Casco.

“I can when I have to.”

“We are going to get rich by a bold move,” said Barker. “We intend to make twenty thousand dollars in one night, and——”

“Barker, don’t be a fool!” cried Casco, angrily.

“’Tis bad to tell the b’y that,” grumbled Grogan.

“I know what I’m doing,” returned Barker. “Will you help us make it?”

“You intend to rob somebody, eh?” said Bob, with flashing eyes.

“We intend to get twenty thousand dollars. Will you join us, and take your share?”

“No. I am not a thief.”

“That may be. But your father would have jumped at the chance,” returned Barker, coolly.

“My father? Did you know my father?” cried Bob, in astonishment.

“I did. He and I were old friends.”

“Tell me about him. Where is he?”

“Dead, long ago.”

“And my mother?”

“Dead also.”

Bob took a long breath. Was this man telling the truth?

“And you say my father would have jumped at a chance like this?” he said, slowly.

“Yes. He and I worked many a little game together, and never got caught, either. You had better join us, and I will show you all the ropes. It beats working hard all to bits.”

“You are an infernal scamp!” burst out Bob. “Tell me my father was a thief? If I were loose I would—would—pulverize you. If you knew my father at all, it must have been at some time when he found you out and exposed you.”

Barker drew back as if shot. Evidently Bob’s last remark had struck home. He breathed hard, and glared at the youth.

“You don’t know when you’re well off,” he cried. “I offer you the best possible chance to make money, and you refuse.”

“I never trained with thieves,” returned Bob, stoutly.

“Oi’ll fix yez fer that!” cried Grogan. “B’ys, Oi have a plan!” he said to the others.

“Shove him into the hay-stack,” cried Barker. “He’s as stubborn as his father was,” he added, in a lower tone. “I’ll fix him later.”

The three caught up the youth, and shoved him into an opening on one side of the stack.

“Come on,” Barker cried to the others. “We have just about time to do that other work, and get away before morning.”

The three villains hurried from the scene, leaving Bob to his fate.

They had gone but a few minutes, when the boy smelt smoke. He looked around. Grogan had knocked out his pipe, and the burning tobacco had set fire to the hay directly behind him!

CHAPTER V
BOB MAKES HIS ESCAPE

For the moment Bob could not realize his awful peril, but when he saw the tiny flame feeding on the loose hay, and creeping steadily toward him, he gave a cry of horror.

The flame became stronger each instant, and as it grew it advanced with increased rapidity.

“I will be burned alive!” groaned the youth.

He tried to roll from the place in which he had been shoved, but Barker had tied him to a pole in the centre of the hay-stack, and he found it impossible to free himself.

“Help! help!” he cried.

No answer came back to his appeal. The spot was out of sight of any house, and it was more than likely that the fire would be well under way before being discovered by any outsider.

“If only Frank would come,” thought Bob. “He ought to be somewhere about.”

Little did the youth dream that his friend was at that moment lying at the bottom of the ditch. The blow upon Frank’s head had been a severe one, and when Barker and Casco left him they expected he would not very soon recover.

The flames near the stack were now mounting higher, and suddenly a puff of wind carried them directly toward Bob, and the youth was almost immediately surrounded by fire.

“I’m a goner now!” moaned Bob.

The fire ate its way swiftly toward the youth’s back—it touched his hands—and he shrieked with pain.

The smoke was thick, and it not only blinded him, but choked him as well.

Bob was almost overcome when the wind shifted and carried the flames another way.

He began another desperate struggle, and at last succeeded in freeing one hand, although in so doing he tore a large portion of the skin from his wrist.

“Now or never,” he muttered, desperately. “I must get free before the wind shifts back, or I’ll be a goner.”

He tugged at his other hand, but the cord held and the knot refused to budge.

“Help! help!” he cried again, at the top of his lungs.

He had hardly uttered the words before the wind swerved around, and once more the flames and smoke surrounded him.

“Hullo there!” came faintly from the darkness beyond.

“Help!” cried Bob again.

His throat was almost choked, and his mouth was parched.

“Where are you?”

“In the hay-stack. Save me, I am tied fast!”

“By Jove! I’m coming!”

An instant passed and then through the smoke appeared a swaying form that seemed every moment to be on the verge of collapsing.

“Bob!”

“Frank! Save me, quick!”

“What’s the trouble?”

“I am tied to this pole,” moaned Bob. “Quick, cut the cord, or I’ll be burnt up!”

Frank drew out his knife, and opened it. Two slashes, and Bob was free. With one mad leap he jumped from the burning stack to the open space beyond. Frank followed, and both were safe, while a sudden puff caught the flames and sent them upward with a roar.

“In the nick of time,” burst out Bob. “Just look at that wrist, and I know my neck is blistered.”

“I am glad I arrived when I did,” returned Frank. “I suppose the same rascals tied you——”

He stopped short. Bob saw him reel, and, springing forward, he caught the young man in his arms.

“Fainted, by jinks!” exclaimed the youth. “And his neck is covered with blood. They must have attacked him, too.”

Bob laid Frank flat on his back, and began to fan him with his cap. While he was doing this, two men, evidently father and son, rushed up.

“Here, what be yeou a-doin’ here?” demanded the elder, savagely.

“We didn’t set the stack on fire,” returned Bob.

“Thet’s well enough fer yeou to say,” went on the younger. “Git up there,” this to Frank.

“He can’t get up,” replied Bob.

“Why not?”

“He has fainted.”

“What were yeou doin’ in the stack?” demanded the elder.

“Nothing. I was tied there by three men, and one set the stack on fire from his pipe.”

“By gum!” ejaculated the younger.

“Thet’s a likely story. Guess we can’t save it, Ruel, anyhow.”

“’Tain’t likely, dad. Thet hay is lost, sure.”

“It’s these fellers’ faults,” grumbled the father. “They most likely went to sleep smokin’ in it, an’ thet’s how it caught.” He grabbed Bob by the arm. “Yeou cum along o’ me.”

“It’s not my fault. Let go,” returned Bob. “Look at that wrist! And my friend has been struck in the back of the head. You had better help me carry him to some house and get a doctor. He is no tramp, but a guest over to Fitt’s hotel.”

At these words the farmer let go his hold and scratched his head.

“Wall, I dunno. Who be yeou?”

“Never mind that. This young man is Frank Landes. Perhaps you have heard of him. He comes around here occasionally.”

“Frank Landes! By gum, so it is! He’s with a New York commission house. Wall, thet’s different, o’ course it is. But who sot the hay afire?”

“Three men named Casco, Barker, and Grogan.”

“I don’t know ’em.”

“They are a bad set. But come, help me with Frank. You can’t do anything with that hay. It’s all smoked through, and the cattle won’t touch it.”

“Thet’s so. Where shall we take him?”

“How far is your house?”

“Jess tudder side o’ thet hill.”

“Then we might as well take him there,” said Bob.

The three raised up the limp body, and carried it to the farmer’s house. Half a dozen neighbors, who had been attracted by the blaze, came up and followed.

Ruel Dalmer—that was the son’s name—set off for the nearest doctor on his buckboard, and it was not long before a physician arrived.

Just before he entered, Bob, who was standing over Frank, doing all in his power to make the young man comfortable, had the satisfaction of seeing the blood-shot eyes open and heard a faint gasp.

“Thank fortune, he’s coming around,” murmured the youth. “His injuries are much worse than mine.”

The physician at once went to work. He sewed up the cut in the back of Frank’s head, and gave the young man a strengthening potion.

“All he needs now is plenty of rest,” said the physician. “It is an ugly wound, but by no means a serious one. Nevertheless, had it come an inch farther up the young man would have been killed.”

“He can’t be moved, can he?” asked Bob.

“Not for a day or two.”

“He can stay here a week,” said the elder Dalmer. “I did not know it was Landes at first, or I wouldn’t have been so rough.”

They left Frank lying on a bed in the spare room, and then Bob followed the others below, and there told his story, starting with the meeting between Frank and Casco at the hotel.

“I heard about that affair only an hour ago,” said the doctor. “And so those are the men who attacked you both?”

“They are.”

“They oughter be in jail!” cried old Dalmer. “Sech rascals ain’t fit to be loose.”

The doctor was about to leave, when a wagon dashed up to the house. It contained two men, one of whom jumped down and rapped sharply on the door.

“What’s up, John?” demanded Dalmer, opening the door at once.

“Our house has been robbed, and we want help to catch the robbers,” was the startling reply.

Of course, every one was astonished. Bob sprang to his feet.

“I’ll wager anything it was Casco, Barker, and Grogan did it,” he exclaimed.

“Wot makes yeou think thet?” questioned the elder Dalmer.

“Because they spoke of having just time enough to accomplish something. They robbed the house, and are now getting away as fast as they can.”

“I’m going after them, and I’ll catch ’em, too, just as sure as my name is John Wright,” exclaimed the man who had made the announcement. “Who’ll go along?”

“I can’t go,” said the man who had driven up with Wright.

“I’ll go after them,” said Bob. “I owe those fellows one.”

“An’ I’ll go, too,” put in Ruel Dalmer. “They’ll find out they can’t fire our hay-stack fer nuthin’, by gosh!”

So a party of three was hastily formed, and they drove off in John Wright’s wagon at a breakneck speed.

“Have you any idea what direction the robbers took?” questioned Bob, on the way.

“I reckon they cut toward Stampton,” said Wright. “We’ll see if they have learned anything new up to the house.”

When they reached Wright’s home, they found everything in confusion.

An entrance had been effected through a dining-room window, and the entire lower floor ransacked.

In one closet Mrs. Wright had had a quantity of silverware. This was gone, and with it a table spread in which the robbers had most likely tied up this part of their booty.

An old desk stood in a corner of the sitting-room. This desk held Wright’s private papers and also his strong box. It had been skilfully unlocked, and both the box and many of the documents were gone.

“And the box contained eighteen hundred dollars in cash,” said John Wright. “Plague take the luck! I ought to hev took that money to the Stampton bank.”

Bob began to look around carefully. Presently he stopped and picked up something lying on the floor near the looted desk. It was a short clay pipe.

“That settles it,” he said, holding up the article. “That is the same pipe Grogan was smoking.”

“You are sure?” questioned Wright.

“Yes. We had better get after them without delay.”

“But which way?”

“Ye-as, we can’t go after ’em unless we know thet,” put in Ruel Dalmer.

“I suppose they went out the way they came,” said Bob. “Let us see if we cannot trace them from the dining-room window.”

An extra lamp was procured by Mrs. Wright, who was shedding copious tears over her loss, and a minute examination of the ground outside of the window took place.

“The steps lead off in that direction,” said Bob, pointing toward a road which ran to the south of the house. “Come on!”

By the aid of a lantern they followed the foot-prints to the road.

“And from here they went straight to Stampton,” said Wright. “I wonder if they had a horse and wagon.”

“No, they didn’t!” shouted Bob, from the other side of the road. “They crossed to here and struck out for the woods.”

Wright and Dalmer came over, and both agreed that the youth was right. The foot-prints could be seen plainly.

“We’ll have no difficulty in following them,” said Bob. “I suppose you are both armed?”

Wright said he had a pistol. Ruel Dalmer had a stout club, and declared he wanted no better weapon.

“Jess give me a whack at ’em with this, an’ I’ll knock the daylights clean outer ’em,” he observed, as he grasped the club more firmly than ever.

“They are desperate men,” said Bob. “They would not hesitate to shoot, if cornered. I intend to take no chances.”

“It’s a pity it ain’t day instead o’ night,” observed Wright. “I reckon it’s pitch dark in the woods.”

“The moon is coming up,” said Bob. “That will soon help us. Let us go forward and make as little noise as possible.”

Without further words, the three left the road and entered the belt of timber beyond. Here the ground was soft, and the tracks made by the robbers were plainly visible for a distance of several hundred feet.

“Maybe they crossed to the Shanover turnpike,” suggested Wright. “They might do that, and throw us off the track.”

“We’ll soon find out,” returned Bob.

Deeper and deeper they went into the timber, until at length they came to a small stream, both sides of which were covered with rocks.

Here, of course, the tracks made by the robbers could not be followed, and the searchers came to a halt.

“Stuck,” said Dalmer, laconically. “Wot’s ter do now?”

“We had better separate,” said Bob. “Supposing one of you go up the brook, one down, and I will cross and see if I can’t hit the trail in the wood beyond.”

“All right, that’s a good plan,” said Wright. “I’ll be the one to go down stream.”

He turned in the direction. Ruel Dalmer started in the opposite direction, and Bob was left alone.

The moon had now risen, and a faint light stole through the timber, broken here and there by heavy shadows. A boy less brave than Bob might have shivered at the uncanny situation, but Bob did not know what fear was. He had seen too much of the seamy side of life for that.

Jumping from one rock to another, he crossed the stream and plunged boldly ahead. He had a fair idea of the direction of the Shanover turnpike, and thought he could do no better than make directly for it.

“For that is what those chaps did, if they were bound this way,” he reasoned.

Less than half an hour later Bob came to a large mass of rocks, covered with trailing vines and moss. He paused for a second, and as he did so a peculiar sound came to his ears.

“What was that?” the youth asked himself. “It sounded like a man’s foot slipping on a wet stone.”

Bob listened intently, but the sound was not repeated, and after waiting a full minute the youth began to move forward again.

He passed to the end of the rocks, and struck out for the turnpike, which he knew was now not five minutes’ walk ahead.

Suddenly a dark object seemed to loom up directly in his path. It was the form of a man. In a moment more the boy made out the figure of John Wright.

“Do you know where the robbers went?” asked Wright.

“No.”

“I sent word over to Stampton and to Shanover, and the police are now on the villains’ tracks.”

“Hope they catch them,” muttered Bob. “They are the toughest crowd I ever heard of.”

“That’s so. But the chief of police of Stampton assured me they couldn’t escape. I suppose he knows how to run ’em down first clip.”

Bob had his doubts about the matter, but he did not express them. Yet he hoped Wright spoke the truth.

He was anxious to interview Barker. What did the man know about him and about his father?

“I’ll make him tell,” muttered Bob to himself. “And I’ll make him prove what he says, too. I don’t intend to be a nobody any longer.”

Bob followed John Wright to his home. Here he was invited to partake of breakfast, which he did willingly, for the events of the past hours had sharpened his appetite.

Having finished the meal, Bob started back toward the Dalmer house, to see how Frank Landes was progressing. He sincerely hoped his newly-found friend would speedily recover from the injuries he had received.

About half-way down the road he espied a rickety turn-out approaching. He thought he knew the rig, and he was not mistaken.

It was Joel Carrow’s turn-out, and on the seat sat the miserly farmer, looking meaner than ever.

“I wonder what he’ll do when he sees me?” thought Bob.

Joel Carrow’s horse approached on a slow trot, and the farmer was not long in espying the youth.

Bob eyed him sharply, as he stepped aside to let the wagon pass. He was about to speak, but changed his mind.

“What are yer doin’ here, yer young whelp?” was Carrow’s salutation, as he pulled up.

“Are you speaking to me?” asked Bob, coolly.

“Who else would I be speaking to, you rat!”

“Thanks for your kind expressions. What I am doing is none of your business.”

“I hear Wright’s house was robbed last night,” went on Carrow, meaningly.

“Well?”

“I was goin’ ter ride over an’ see. It’s more’n like you hed sumthin’ ter do with it.”

Bob laughed at this.

“You’re crazy, Mr. Carrow,” he said. “Just because you and I can’t hitch, I suppose you think I’m the worst boy in the State.”

“So yer be! So yer be! An’ don’t yer call me crazy!” shouted Carrow, getting angry.

“Then keep your opinions to yourself. Nobody asked you for them, and they are not wanted.”

“Don’t give me any o’ yer sass!”

“Then don’t call me hard names.”

“I’ll do as I please. I ain’t ter be talked to by no boy!” howled Carrow.

“Did you catch the pigs?” questioned Bob, in a teasing manner.

“I’ll pig you!”

“How about that hot-bed? It must have cost a nice penny to put all that glass back.”

“Shut up!”

Carrow was in a fearful rage. He could not stand being chaffed.

“Say another word, an’ I’ll skin yer alive!” he roared.

“Another word,” returned Bob promptly, “You are on too good terms with yourself. Leave me alone, and I’ll leave you alone.”

“I’ll leave you alone,” snarled the farmer. “How do yer like thet, you scamp!”

He pulled his whip from the socket, swung the end in the air, and brought the lash down on Bob’s back.

The blow was a heavy one, and it hurt. Bob sprang back, his eyes blazing like stars.

“What did you do that for?” he demanded.

“Ter teach you a lesson.”

“Come down off of that seat.”

“What fer?”

“Come down and I’ll show you.”

“I reckon I won’t accommodate ye!” returned Carrow, pulling up on his reins. “Let thet be a lesson to yer!”

“If you don’t come down, I’ll throw this at you,” cried Bob.

He stooped as he spoke, and picked up a large, round stone.

“Don’t yer dare!” cried the farmer, in alarm.

“Then come down. You had no right to hit me with the whip, and I want to settle with you.”

Carrow looked at the determined youth, and grew just a bit nervous. He knew Bob was a good shot with a stone, and he did not fancy getting such a missile in the head.

“Do you want me to give you more of the whip?” he asked, but in a milder tone.

“Never mind. Come down.”

Instead of complying, Carrow spoke to his horse. The animal took a step forward, but Bob promptly stopped him.

“Let go the hoss!” cried the farmer.

“I won’t, and, what is more, I want you to come down. I’ll give you just half a minute to do it in.”

Carrow hesitated and then jumped to the ground, wondering what would come next.

He still held the whip in one hand. Rushing up, Bob wrenched it from his grasp.

“Turn about is fair play,” cried Bob. “How do you like that?”

He hauled off and swish! the lash swept across Carrow’s face, leaving a deep red stripe behind.

“Ough!” shrieked the farmer, dancing around with pain. “I’ll have you arrested for that!”

“I am not afraid of you,” returned the youth, as coolly as he could. “I hope this teaches you a lesson.”

Carrow grew white with rage. That boy had dared to hit him with a whip, and in the face, too! It was shameful!

He looked around for some means of getting the best of Bob. Suddenly his eye caught sight of a pitchfork which lay in the back of the wagon. He made a dash, and secured the pitchfork. Then, handling it as if it were a bayonet, he rushed upon the youth.

CHAPTER VI
BOB LEARNS SOMETHING

As a matter of course, Bob retreated. He had no desire to be punctured with the points of the pitchfork—those tines looked altogether too ugly.

Joel Carrow rushed after Bob, making several lunges, whenever he thought he saw a chance of reaching the youth.

“Stop it!” cried Bob, when he had retreated a hundred feet or more. “Stop it, or you will be sorry.”

“So yer afraid, are you?” snarled Carrow.

He made another lunge, and had not Bob jumped to one side, the tines would have entered his body. The youth watched his chance, and doubled on the farmer. The wagon was a good bit up the road, and, running to it, he jumped in.

“Hi! Stop there!” cried Carrow, in alarm.

“Good-by, old freckles!” returned Bob.

He turned the horse’s head, and before the farmer could reach him started off at a lively gait, leaving Carrow standing in the middle of the road, shaking his fist in impotent rage.

Bob fully understood the horse he was driving, and he made good time to Dalmer’s place.

Jumping off here, he tied the reins to the dash-board and started the horse off, feeling certain that the animal would go straight home.

Entering the house, he found Frank Landes sitting up in an easy-chair.

“Hullo, Bob! so you’ve come back! Mr. Dalmer thought you had followed those rascals to Stampton, or some other place.”

Such was Frank’s salutation, and Bob saw at a glance that the young man was much better.

“I wish I had been able to follow them,” returned the youth, and, sitting down, he related the particulars of the useless search.

Frank shook his head slowly.

“That’s the end of them, mark my word.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” returned Bob. “They are sly as well as bad. How do you feel?”

“Much better. I think I can start out again by to-morrow morning. How is your wrist and back?”

“Mighty sore, but I reckon I’ll pull through,” and Bob grinned. “I’m tough, you know.”

Bob remained with Frank for an hour. During this time he saw Joel Carrow tramp past, pitchfork in hand, and looking the picture of sourness. He laughed, and told his companion of the incident on the road.

“He ought to be dressed down,” said Frank. “But, Bob.”

“Well?”

“I wish you would go over to the hotel and get our traps. I haven’t a cent with me. Luckily I left some money in the satchel. Settle with the landlord, and tell him we intend to stay here to-night. Mrs. Dalmer says she will accommodate us.”

“All right, Frank. But——” and Bob hesitated.

“But what?”

“It’s asking too much of you to keep me a whole day for nothing, and those fellows cleaned me out when they caught me at the hay-stack——”

“That’s all right. You are to stay with me until we reach Stampton, even if we don’t get there until six weeks, and I’m to settle the bills. Don’t say no, or I’ll get angry.”

“Thanks! I wouldn’t make you mad for the world,” and Bob made off without further words.

It did not take the youth long to reach the half-way house. He secured all of Frank’s effects as well as his own bundle, and remained for a while talking to Fitt about the robbers.

“It’s a pity they weren’t caught,” said the hotel-keeper. “I believe they are a regularly organized gang and nothing less.”

“Perhaps they are. You haven’t seen any trace of them around here, have you?”

“I had a sort of an idea I saw one of them sneaking around early this morning, but I guess I must have been mistaken,” answered the landlord.

Before leaving the hotel, Bob had occasion to go up-stairs, wishing to make sure that nothing belonging to Frank had been left behind.

As he passed through the main corridor, he saw a tall, slim man pass hurriedly to one side and slip into a room the youth knew was vacant.

The actions of the fellow were so peculiar that Bob could not help noticing them, and the more he thought over the matter, the more he became convinced that the slim man was up to no good.

“I’ll watch him for a few minutes and make sure,” said Bob to himself.

He entered the room Frank and he had occupied, and from a crack of the door looked out into the vacant corridor.

A minute passed. Then he saw the slim man emerge from the apartment in which he had sought shelter, and cross to a room opposite.

The door of the room was locked, but the man inserted something, which Bob thought was a wire, into the key-hole, and at once passed inside.

“That’s queer,” said the youth to himself. “I think I’ll investigate a bit further.”

Leaving his room, he tiptoed his way down the corridor until he came to the room which the man had just entered. The door had been closed from the inside, and, by turning the handle gently, Bob discovered that it had also been fastened.

The catch had been turned so that the key-hole was still clear. Bending down, Bob peered through this small aperture.

He could not see a great deal, but he saw enough to convince him that the man was rummaging through a bureau. He had all the drawers open, and was going through them with a dexterity that showed he was no novice at this work.

“A hotel sneak-thief,” thought Bob. “Gracious! what a lot of robbing there is going on!”

He scanned the face of the man carefully. The fellow was a stranger and where he had come from the youth could not conjecture.

Bob concluded that the best thing he could do would be to call up the landlord, and place the case in his charge. Yet he was afraid to leave the corridor for fear the man would get away before he could return.

At that moment the man left the bureau, and walked to one of the windows.

“Hullo! she is coming back,” Bob heard him mutter.

Then, stuffing a number of articles into his coat-pockets, the man rushed to the door and flung it open.

He was astonished to come face to face with Bob.

“Who—what—” he stammered, and tried to pass the youth. But Bob blocked his way.

“What were you doing in that room?” demanded the youth.

“What’s that?” came from the man.

“You heard what I said.”

“That room is mine, sir.”

“Really! I thought it belonged to a lady.”

“You mean my wife.”

The sneak-thief spoke so coolly that for the instant Bob was taken aback.

“Is she your wife?”

“Certainly. Let me pass,” and again the man attempted to push Bob aside.

“What makes you in such a hurry?” and Bob placed his hand on the slim man’s arm.

“You are tremendously impudent!” cried the sneak-thief, putting on an air of importance.

“Thank you. Just you come down to the office with me.”

“I’ll do nothing of the kind. The idea of a boy, a mere boy, speaking to me in this fashion! Get out of my way, before I knock you down.”

And he drew back as if to attack Bob.

“Help! thief! help!” cried Bob, at the top of his voice.

“Stop that racket, you fool!” muttered the slim man.

He tried to catch Bob by the throat, but, failing in this, made a dash to get away.

Near the head of the stairs stood the traps belonging to Frank and Bob. The corridor was but dimly lighted, and the fellow did not see them.

“Stop the thief!” went on Bob.

There was a commotion below. The man heard it, and ran harder than ever.

At the top of the stairs he tripped over the camera, tripod, and satchel, and sneak-thief and photographic outfit rolled to the bottom together. Then came a greater commotion than ever.

“What’s the row?”

“Mercy! the house must be coming down!”

“Stop that man!” yelled Bob. “He is a thief!”

At this there was a shriek from several women.

Fitt and another man rushed forward and grabbed the slim man by the arms just as he was rising to his feet.

“Let me go!” cried the sneak-thief. “That boy is crazy.”

“No, I’m not. He’s been ransacking one of the bureaus in Room 14,” returned Bob.

“My room!” cried an elderly lady. “And I left my jewels in the middle drawer. Oh, the rascal! Hold him tight!”

By this time Bob had reached the lower landing. Quite a crowd began to collect. The youth picked up the camera, and stood it out of the way of further harm, and then faced the sneak-thief, who looked decidedly uncomfortable.

“This is all a mistake, gentlemen,” he said. “That boy is the thief.”

“What?”

“Yes. I caught him with these jewels in his pocket. He tried hard to escape, and when he found he could not, he raised the cry you heard.”

The crowd looked from the slim man to Bob.

“That’s not true!” cried Bob. “I saw this man acting rather strangely and I watched him. He picked the lock of the door, and——”

“Tut, tut!” put in the sneak-thief. “Why, boy, do you know who I am?”

“I don’t care if you are the President. You stole those jewels, and you know it.”

“I am Senator Briscoe from the West, looking up my interest in the T. W. & L. Railroad. To say I am a sneak-thief is preposterous. I am afraid,” went on the pretended senator, with a wave of his hand, “that this youth is not quite right in his mind. Landlord, do you know him?”

“Yes, I do,” returned Fitt. “And I don’t know you,” he added, suspiciously.

“I can refer you to President Maverick of the railroad. You are making a sad mistake, and I must request you to let go of me.”

Fitt was rather a nervous man, and of a weak turn of mind. At these smooth words he let go his hold, and so did the other man.

“I wouldn’t trust him,” said Bob, bluntly. “He may be a Senator, but he is a thief, just the same, and—stop him!”

For without warning the slim man had made a dash through the crowd. He reached the piazza, and, jumping into the road, made off as fast as his long legs would carry him.

“After him!” shrieked the elderly woman. “He has my jewels still.”

She was right. Fitt had not taken the box the sneak-thief had produced, and they were still in the slim man’s possession. Bob rushed after the fellow. The others followed, but the youth was the better runner of the two.

He caught up to the sneak-thief just as the latter was about to mount a horse which stood a short distance from the hotel.

“Give me those jewels!” he cried.

The slim man paid no attention. He probably thought Bob was only a boy and could do nothing.

Just as the man mounted the horse, Bob caught him by the side pocket of his sack coat. The pocket was torn away, and out on the road tumbled the jewel case.

Bob snatched it up. Seeing what had happened the slim man thought first to dismount and try to recover the case, but Fitt and several others were not far off, and he reconsidered the matter and galloped off at top speed.

“Have you it?” gasped the landlord, anxiously.

“Yes,” and Bob held up the case. “I’ll return it to its owner,” he added, as Fitt held out his hand for it.

The elderly woman soon appeared on the scene. She was overjoyed to recover her valuables.

“Better see if they are all there,” suggested one of the crowd.

The woman opened the case, and made a hasty examination.

“All here but a small diamond and ruby cross,” she said, “and that, I think, was not inside the case, but on a cushion in the top drawer.”

“Then that’s most likely a goner,” said Bob.

He accompanied the elderly woman to her room. Nothing was learned concerning the cross, and she agreed with Bob that the sneak-thief must have gotten away with it.

“But it was of small value in comparison to the contents of the case,” added Mrs. Varley, for such was her name. “The jewels in the case are worth five hundred dollars.”

“Then it’s a good thing that chap didn’t get away with them,” said Bob with a smile.

“I must reward you for your service to me.”

“Don’t want any reward.”

“But you have earned it. I would have to pay a detective well to recover them had that fellow gotten away with them. Here, take this, with my sincere thanks.”

She handed Bob a bill. He glanced at it. It was for fifty dollars.

“You—you’ve made a mistake,” he said, with something like a gasp.

“How so?”

“This is a fifty-dollar bill.”

“Well?” smiled Mrs. Varley.

“You didn’t mean to give me that much, did you?”

She nodded.

“But it ain’t worth it—not by half. I didn’t do much.”

“Let me be the judge of that. Keep it, and I only hope it gives you as much pleasure to receive it as it does me to give it.”

“Gee Christopher!” murmured Bob, surveying the crisp bill. “Fifty dollars! Why, I never had so much money in my life before.”

Mrs. Varley laughed outright.

“Well, let us hope you’ll have a great deal more than that before you are much older. What is your name?”

Bob told her, and quite a conversation ensued, broken by the entrance of Fitt, who was still highly excited.

It was nearly half an hour later before Bob left the half-way house. Mrs. Varley shook hands with him, and wished him luck, and he said he hoped she would get back her diamond and ruby cross.

“If I ever meet that man again I’ll get it for you, or know the reason why,” he added.

Frank Landes was surprised to learn what had kept Bob at the hotel so long.

He listened attentively to the youth’s story.

“Did that slim man have a slight limp when he ran?” he asked.

“I imagine he did. Went this way,” and Bob illustrated as best he could across the room floor.

“That’s it. He is known as Slippery Paul Bidwell in New York.”

“He was slippery, that’s a fact.”

“He is a professional crook, and lives altogether by his wits. It’s greatly to your credit that you got the jewel case away from him.”

“It’s fifty dollars to my credit,” laughed Bob. “Say, do you know what I’m going to do with that money?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“I’m going to ask you to buy a camera and outfit for me. I’ve been thinking it over, and I don’t see why I can’t go around the country taking pictures of houses and so on, and make some money.”

“You can if you learn the business,” returned Frank.

“Will you teach me?”

“I said I would show you all I know. But you ought to get some points from a regular photographer.”

“I will,” returned Bob, with a sudden determination.

That evening Frank felt much stronger. He opened his outfit, got out his trays and chemicals, and, by the aid of a ruby light, proceeded to develop the pictures he had taken since Bob had been with him.

The youth was greatly interested, and watched every part of the process closely. Both had a hearty laugh over the picture of Carrow plunging into the hot-bed after the pigs.

“It’s awfully interesting,” declared Bob. “The glass seems to have nothing on it, and the picture comes out as if by magic when you pour the developing fluid on it.”

“Here is a first-class book on photography,” replied Frank. “You can’t do better than study it closely. I will make you a present of it.”

Bob was delighted. He read a great part of the book before going to bed, and it was astonishing how quick he caught the right idea concerning the art he intended to make his own.

“I imagine you must have been born a photographer,” said Frank on the following day, when the two were taking pictures. “You have learned more in two days about the matter than I learned in a week.”

Frank was still very weak, so the taking of the pictures depended to a great extent on Bob, and the youth rose fully equal to the occasion.

Before night came they took over a dozen views, and these they developed at the farm-house at which they put up. One of the pictures had not been exposed long enough, and Bob took his first lesson in correcting this mistake.

“As soon as we get to Stampton, I’ll give you a practical lesson in printing,” said Frank.

Early on the following morning they came upon a circus which was moving from one city to the next. First came the wagons and chariots—the latter covered over with canvas to protect the gold leaf from exposure to the weather—and then followed a herd of elephants and another of camels.

“By Jove! we must get pictures of these beasts!” cried Frank. “Quick, Bob, get the camera into shape. They are stopping.”

Something was the matter with one of the wagons ahead, and a temporary stoppage all along the line ensued.

Bob at once unslung the tripod and set it up. Then the camera was placed on top, and both hastily sighted the instrument at the camels, who were standing in a picturesque group.

In half a second the picture was taken.

“Now for the elephants,” said Frank. “Let us catch that big fellow in front. He is looking directly toward us.”

“And he looks as if he didn’t like it,” added Bob. “See him swaying from side to side.”

“By Jove! I believe you’re right,” cried the young man. “Gracious! he is coming this way.”

Frank was right. Unobserved by his keeper, the huge beast was striding toward them, his trunk high in the air.

“Look out!” yelled Bob. “Something is wrong.”

He had hardly uttered the warning, when the elephant let out a terrific roar.

The next instant the camera was knocked over and smashed under foot.

And then with another roar the elephant made for Bob and Frank.

CHAPTER VII
BOB AND THE ELEPHANT

For the moment it looked as if Bob and Frank would be crushed under the ponderous feet of the elephant. The beast was thoroughly enraged over the way in which the smashed camera had been pointed at him. Possibly he had never had his picture taken, and he did not understand it. Perhaps he took the instrument for some new machine of destruction.

He trumpeted loudly as he came near to the two, and this noise attracted the attention of the keepers, who had gone ahead to see what had caused the delay on the road.

“Ho, ho!” shouted one of the men. “Ho, there, Jonco!”

But Jonco would not listen. He had now reached the spot where Bob and Frank had stood, and was continuing after the two, who were scurrying across the open field, which was close at hand.

The keepers at once started after the elephant, only one remaining behind to keep the remainder of the herd in check.

“By Jove! I believe he means business!” gasped Frank.

“The best thing we can do is to get out of the way,” returned Bob.

They soon reached the end of the open field. Beyond were a mass of brush and a number of small trees.

Frank dived into the brush and disappeared from sight. Bob was not so fortunate, and the elephant continued after the youth, as if bent upon venting his rage before giving up the chase.

At length Bob came to a clump of small trees, and darted among them. They were so close together that he knew the beast could not get between them, and for the moment he thought himself safe, although the position was far from a pleasant one.

But when the elephant reached the trees, he at once threw his weight against the foremost, and they went down with a crash, as if they had been so many pipe-stems.

One of the falling trees struck Bob, and he was knocked flat on his back. Before he could rise the elephant was upon him.

Bob did his best to scramble out of the way, but before he could do so the beast caught him by the coat and hoisted the youth in the air.

By this time the keepers were close at hand. Each was armed with a sharp steel, and they began to prod the elephant whenever they got the chance.

He trumpeted at a great rate, but did not let go his hold upon Bob, until the youth, under a sudden inspiration, hit him in the eye with his fist.

This blow surprised the elephant more than it hurt him. But his surprise made him uncurl his trunk and loosen his grip, and Bob lost no time in leaping to a safe distance.

Then the keepers surrounded the beast, and swiftly and skilfully chained his two right feet together and otherwise bound him; and the danger was over.

Frank rushed from the brush to where Bob stood, pale as a sheet.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded, anxiously.

“No; but I don’t want to go through any such experience again,” returned Bob. “That’s the first and last time I shall try to photograph an elephant.”

“The camera is teetotally smashed,” went on Frank.

“Serves you right,” growled the head keeper. “If you hadn’t pointed the thing at Jonco he would have been as quiet as a kitten. He don’t take to strange things.”

Frank was about to say something concerning the damages, and who was to stand them, but he changed his mind, for he knew the keeper was more than half right.

It was not long before the circus moved on again. Jonco still acted somewhat wildly, but the keepers kept him well in hand.

“This ends the camera trip,” said Frank, as the last of the equipage passed out of sight around a bend in the road. “The camera is good for kindling wood, and nothing else.”

“It is partly my fault,” said Bob. “What was the machine worth?”

“It cost me seventy dollars. But it was not your fault, Bob, so don’t worry. I have another at home, even better than this.”

“Perhaps the lens isn’t injured.”

They made a hunt, and found the lens crushed in the soft dirt. There was a tiny scratch upon it, but this, Frank thought, could be remedied.

Without further delay they struck out for Stampton, which they expected to reach by the middle of the afternoon.

At twelve o’clock they found themselves near a moss-covered cottage, in the door-way of which an old man sat smoking. Frank hailed him.

“What are the chances of our getting dinner here, friend, if we pay for it?”

“The chances is mighty good,” returned the old man. “Mary!”

A middle-aged woman came to the door.

“What is it, pop?”

AND THEN WITH ANOTHER ROAR THE ELEPHANT MADE FOR BOB AND FRANK.

“These yere young men want dinner.”

“Oh!”

“Cost both of ye twenty cents apiece,” went on the old man.

“That’s fair enough,” said Frank. “Can we have it soon?”

“I will have it ready in quarter of an hour,” said the woman.

“That is time enough.”

The woman disappeared, and Frank and Bob sat down on a bench to rest. They entered into conversation with the old man, and it was not long before the talk drifted around to the Wright robbery, of which the old man had just heard.

“They ain’t cotch them fellers yet, I hear,” he said. “It’s great pity.”

“That’s true. But perhaps they’ll be caught soon,” said Frank.

“Do yeou know I have an idee I saw them chaps?”

“Tell us of it,” put in Bob, eagerly.

“It wuz last night. I have rheumatics, an’ can’t sleep very well. I got up about eleven o’clock ter rub some liniment on my leg, when I heard talking goin’ on back by the barn. I listened fer a minit, an’ then hollered out to fin’ out who wuz there.”

“Well, did you see them?”

“Yes. They didn’t answer nuthin’, but made tracks fer the road, and got out o’ sight jess ez quick ez they could.”

“Did you look at the place where they had been?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t see nuthin’.”

“Have you any objections to our looking?”

“O’ course not. Go ahead—or, hold up, I’ll show ye where I seed them.”

The old man led the way to the spot. A carriage shed hid it from the house.

Both of the boys looked around carefully, striving to find some clew which might prove that the men had been the robbers.

While they were looking the old man plied them with questions. He was surprised to learn of the part Bob had played in the first chase.

“I shouldn’t think yeou would want ter meet ’em again,” he laughed.

“That’s just where you are mistaken. I shall not be satisfied until those rascals are run down.”

“I have an idee they went to Stampton,” said the old man.

Bob shook his head.

“No; the police are watching out for them there. They have passed around Stampton and gone to some other place.”

“What place?”

“There is no telling. They might go to Dartinville or Burnham’s Ridge, or else strike out directly for the river.”

“Most likely they struck out for the river,” said Frank. “That is if the men were really the robbers. They might have been tramps.”

“I don’t think so,” said the old man. “Tramps don’t move away so lively-like ez these fellers did.”

All laughed at this point, the old man loudest of all.

Presently, before Bob had completed his search, the woman came out to announce dinner. She looked at Bob sharply a number of times, and seemed on the point of asking some question, but changed her mind and remained silent.

“Well, there doesn’t seem to be any use in searching farther,” said Frank. “Perhaps they only stopped here to talk over their plans.”

“But what did they do with their booty?” questioned Bob. “They either have it with them, or else they hid it somewhere.”

“It isn’t likely they would hide it around here.”

“Thet’s so,” said the old man.

“Did you see if any of them carried a bundle?” asked Bob.

“I dunno but what one of ’em did. But it wuz too dark to be certain on it.”

There was a second of silence, broken by the woman.

“I am afraid dinner will be spoiled, if you wait any longer,” she said.

“Well, we’ll give it up,” said Frank, as he turned toward the house.

“No, we won’t,” shouted Bob. “Look here!”

He had picked up something from among the straw and dirt.

“What’s that?” cried Frank.

“A spoon, and it’s one of Mrs. Wright’s.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s just like the one she showed me. It has the same letter D on it.”

“Yes, she was a Dalmer afore she got married,” put in the old man.

“Perhaps there are more of them,” put in the woman.

All began a stricter search than ever. But although they went over every inch of the ground nothing more was found.

“I have an idea they merely looked over their booty,” said Bob. “They were anxious to find out what they had got and couldn’t wait any longer.”

“Or else they had a row among themselves, and started to divide up,” suggested Frank.

“Well, one thing is certain,” concluded Bob. “The men were Casco, Barker, and Grogan.”

They were soon inside the house, and making away with the well-cooked food the woman had prepared for them. The meal over, they were on the point of leaving when the woman touched Bob on the arm.

“Haven’t I seen you before?” she said.

“Perhaps. I used to work for Joel Carrow.”

“I don’t know the man. I must be mistaken, but I fancied I had met you some years ago, when you were a small boy.”

“I used to live with old Peter Thompson before I went to work for Carrow.”

“Then that is where we met. I used to work for Thompson.”

“You did? How long?”

“From the time his wife died until you were about seven or eight years old.”

Bob was immediately interested. Here was somebody who might know something concerning the past. He motioned to the woman, and the two walked to one side, Frank refraining from following, knowing Bob would rather be alone.

“May I ask your name?” went on Bob.

“Mary Ridley.”

“Were you related to Thompson?”

“Very distantly, yes.”

“Do you remember when he brought me to the place?”

“He did not bring you.”

“No?”

“No; a man in a carriage brought you.”

“Who was that man?”

Mary Ridley shook her head.

“You did not know?”

“No. I asked Peter, but he would not say, and evaded the question.”

“Did you ever hear where I came from?” and Bob’s heart beat quickly at this direct question.

“I can’t answer that truthfully. Once Peter said you came from a Brooklyn orphan asylum, then he said you were the son of an old friend who had lived in Batavia, and another time he got angry and said he had a good mind to send you back to Buffalo, where you belonged.”

Bob mused for a moment. It was more than likely that the man had spoken the truth when angry, and that Buffalo was the place from which he had been brought.

“Did you hear the name of the man who brought me to Thompson’s?”

“I heard Peter call him Bill.”

Bob started. Could the man have been Bill Barker, the robber?

Such would not be very strange. Barker had said he knew something concerning Bob’s early history. Of course, he must have told an untruth about the boy’s father being a thief, but still Bob was inclined to believe that Barker knew a good deal.

“Did this Bill ever come back?”

“Oh, yes, he used to come about every three months at first. But during the last year he came only once. Then Peter and him had a big row, and that ended it.”

“What was the row about?”

“Something about money. I didn’t make it out. But I heard Peter say that if it wasn’t that he had become attached to you, he would have sent you back.”

“Back where?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t you ever learned anything about yourself?”

“Not a word.” Bob swallowed a curious lump that had come up in his throat. “But I am trying hard to get on the track. I know one thing, and since you have told me so much I’ll tell you it. The Bill Barker, who is one of the robbers we are after, was, to my way of thinking, the man who brought me to Peter Thompson’s house.”

“Gracious! How did you learn that?”

“By certain things I heard him say. That is why I am anxious these robbers should be caught.”

“I see.”

“You don’t know anything further, do you?”

“No. I left Peter’s, you know, and then mother and my only sister died, and I was all upset. But I thought I knew your face. Let me hear from you, if you ever learn anything.”

“I certainly shall. By the way, do you think you would remember this Bill, if you should ever see him again?”

“I can’t say. He always came at night, and was pretty well muffled up.”

“Evidently he didn’t wish to be seen,” mused Bob. “That shows his work was underhanded.”

A little later Bob and Frank left. The young man noticed that the youth was unusually silent on the road, but he asked no questions until the outskirts of Stampton were reached, and then he did not touch the subject nearest to Bob’s heart.

“What do you intend to do in Stampton, now we have arrived?”

“I hardly know,” said Bob. “I must find some boarding-place I suppose, and then I’ll hunt for a job among the photographers.”

“Don’t you think we had better report to the police about that spoon first?”

“Of course.”

They soon met a policeman, who directed them to the station-house. They found the chief in charge, and quickly related what they had learned.

“Certainly an important clew,” said the chief. “I will send a man to follow it up without delay.”

“And I’ll leave the spoon with you to be returned to Mrs. Wright,” said Bob.

Bob and Frank then separated, as the young man had to send a telegram to the firm for which he worked. He was having a vacation, but had to keep in communication in case his services were needed.

Bob had but slight difficulty in finding a suitable boarding-house, where he obtained a neatly-furnished attic room and good board for four dollars and a half a week, washing thrown in. He had the landlady change the fifty-dollar bill, and paid for a week in advance.

“That breaks the fifty,” thought the youth. “But I think I had better learn more about the photographing business before I buy that camera.”

It was now too late to look for a situation, and Bob started out to hunt up Frank, who said he would stop at the American Hotel.

Bob had not been to a large city for some time, and the many sights to be seen pleased him greatly. He often hesitated to gaze into a shop window, and, when he reached a photographic outfit establishment, he stopped for a long time.

“Very fine views, Maverick,” he heard one gentleman say to another, as both emerged from the door-way.

“That’s true, Fallon. I wish we had as good a lot. It would help our excursion tours wonderfully.”

The two men passed down the street. Bob gazed after them.

“One of them must be Grace Maverick’s father,” he said to himself. “I wonder where they live? I would like to take a look around, even if I didn’t go in.”

For Bob thought a country boy like himself had no business in one of those fine brownstone mansions, even if he had been invited to call.

Bob continued to look at the things displayed in the show window until he had noted them all. He made up his mind that there was more to the art of photography than he had dreamed.

“But I’ll master it, see if I don’t,” he muttered, as he turned away and resumed his walk. “I won’t be a nobody any longer.”

Bob had scarcely gone a dozen steps when he saw a familiar-looking figure approaching. The man was Slippery Paul Bidwell, the sneak-thief.

CHAPTER VIII
BOB OBTAINS A SITUATION

For the moment the sneak-thief did not recognize Bob.

“Not so fast, my friend,” cried the boy.

Bidwell started back.

“What, you!” he exclaimed.

“Exactly, Bidwell, and I want you.”

Bidwell turned and darted across the street. Bob lost no time in following.

Reaching the other side of the thoroughfare, the sneak-thief made off as fast as his long legs would permit.

He was a good runner, and would no doubt have gotten away had not a fortunate accident occurred.

Turning a corner Bidwell ran full-tilt into a stout man who was walking leisurely along, carrying a basket on his arm.

Down went the stout man, with Bidwell on top of him, while the basket with its contents flew in all directions.

“Who—what?” the stout man spluttered.

“Beg pardon,” returned Bidwell, glibly. “It’s a case of life or death—man seriously injured.”

He attempted to rise, but before he could do so Bob had him by the arm.

“Stay where you are!” ordered the youth, determinedly.

“Let go of me, boy!” cried Bidwell, angrily.

“Not much! Police, police!”

The stout man arose slowly to his feet, and stared at Bob.

“What does this mean, young man?” he questioned.

“This man is a thief, and is trying to get away.”

“It’s not so,” put in Bidwell. “A man is dying, and I am running for a doctor.”

“He’s a thief I say,” went on Bob. “Will you call a policeman?”

“I will,” returned the stout individual. He was angry at Bidwell for the rough treatment he had received.

A policeman was not far away, and the man hurried off to get his assistance.

Bidwell tried to wrench himself loose. But Bob’s grip was a good one, and he held on like grim death.

“What’s the row here?” demanded the policeman, as he hurried up, followed by the stout man.

“I want this boy arrested,” said Bidwell, hurriedly. “He has just escaped from the asylum.”

“Crazy, eh?”

“As crazy as a bedbug. He’s been following me around for over an hour.”

“That’s not so,” put in Bob. “This man is a sneak-thief, and——”

“He’s crazy on the subject of thieves,” said Bidwell. “He was once scared by a midnight burglar, and it affected his brain. He belongs up at the Cloverdale Asylum.”

“Well, what were you running for?” asked the stout man, suspiciously.

“A man was hurt. I was running to get a doctor.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Albert E. Whistler, the hardware manufacturer of Troy. I came to Stampton this morning on business.”

“He tells it good,” said Bob. “Shall I tell you who he really is?”

“Don’t believe him, he is crazy.”

“His right name is Bidwell, and he is known as Slippery Paul, the crook.”

At this declaration the policeman opened his eyes.

“You are sure about that?”

“Positive. If you don’t believe me, take us both to the station-house.”

“That’s fair,” said the stout individual. “I’ll pick up my basket and set it in one of these stores and go along. I’m anxious to see the matter out.”

This arrangement did not suit Bidwell, but he put on a pleasant face.

“All right, I’ll go along,” he said. “But keep a sharp lookout on that boy.”

“And I’ll ask you to handcuff him,” said Bob. “He may try to slip away.”

At this Bidwell muttered something under his breath. He looked as if he wanted to kill Bob, and the policeman saw that the shot had told.

“You’ll bear watching, I’m thinking,” he said. “So I’ll—hullo!”

Once more Bidwell had taken to his heels. But the officer was a fine runner, and he soon overtook the sneak-thief.

“That settles it. Hold out your hands!”

“What for?”

“Never mind, hold them out!”

Bidwell did so, and he was quickly handcuffed. Then the whole party marched to police headquarters.

Bidwell was quickly recognized by the captain of the police, and his capture was considered an important one, especially when Bob related the particulars of the jewel robbery. A pawn-ticket was found in the sneak-thief’s pocket, and this afterward proved to be for money loaned on the diamond and ruby cross, which was returned to Mrs. Varley.

The stout man who had been knocked down, became quite interested in Bob, and after the hearing was ended, and Bidwell locked up, he followed the youth to the street.

“Good for you,” he said, clapping Bob on the back. “I admire your pluck. It is not every young man would have braved it out as you did.”

“I knew I was right, and had nothing to fear, sir.”

“Did you say your name was Robert Alden?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you belong in Stampton?”

“Not exactly. I came from Shellville. I am here looking for a job.”

“Oh! At any particular trade?”

“I wish, if possible, to learn the art of photography. I know a little about it, and I am anxious to learn more.”

The stout man smiled.

“Do you know me?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“My name is Edgar Starleigh, and I am a photographer.”

“Edgar Starleigh? I read the name on a sign.”

“So you would like to learn photography?”

“That is my ambition, sir.”

“Rather a difficult art, my boy.”

“And it will take quite a while to learn, too, I suppose, sir.”

“That’s true, although some learn quicker than others.”

“Even so, I would like to take it up.”

“Might give you a trial,” mused Mr. Starleigh.

“Eh? What did you say?” asked Bob, quickly.

“You might come to my studio in the morning.”

“Employment so quickly just suits me,” laughed Bob.

“Rather a lucky encounter, after all,” said the photographer, joining in the laugh.

“And what time shall I come?” asked Bob.

“Unless you have other matters to arrange, come in at six o’clock.”

“That’s rather early, isn’t it, for photographing? Not but what I’ll be on hand.”

“Hardly, when one has a lot of sunlight printing to do.”

“Oh, I see!”

“Real good printing needs good sunlight, and to get that one has to be alert the moment the sun comes up. Of course I do a good deal of printing by gaslight, too.”

The conversation then drifted around to the subject of wages, and Bob was hired at six dollars a week, to be advanced as soon as he was worth more.

On the following morning the youth presented himself at Mr. Starleigh’s studio. He found the place somewhat shabby in appearance. But the man was an excellent photographer, and his business was brisk.

Starleigh was well pleased at the manner in which Bob took hold, and predicted that if the youth continued to apply himself he would soon be able to take any kind of a picture.

During the noon hour Bob met Frank, and told him of the situation he had secured, and also of Bidwell’s capture.

“Good for you. Starleigh is said to be a first-class man, and you had better stick to him for a while. But I must bid you good-by for the present.”

“Why, what’s up?”

“I must go back to work. One of our men has been taken sick, and I’ve got to take his trip throughout the western part of the State next month.”

“Then I won’t see you for a while?”

“No; but I’ll write, and I’ll expect you to do the same.”

And so the two parted firm friends.

Several days went by and Bob stuck diligently to his work, much to Mr. Starleigh’s satisfaction. He saw nothing of Grace Maverick, and in a roundabout way learned that the young lady was away on a brief trip to the seashore.

The building in which the photographic studio was situated was a large one, containing over two dozen offices. A hall ran through the middle as far as the top floor, and there was also a rear hall on the second and third stories.

On the evening of the fourth day Bob was left to lock up alone, Mr. Starleigh having gone away on business, and the other assistant being sick. Bob remained behind a little later than usual, being anxious to finish mounting a set of landscapes, which were to be called for the next day.

It was dark when Bob finished and stepped out into the hall-way. Locking up securely, he started to go below.

Presently he heard the murmur of voices on the floor below. He looked down, and saw three men coming up the second flight of stairs.

The hall-way was too dark to distinguish faces. But as the three men turned and entered an office near the landing just below Bob, the youth recognized the voices.

The men were Casco, Barker, and Grogan.

What had brought them to the place, and at this hour in the evening?

“Perhaps they are up to one of their old tricks,” said Bob to himself. “I ought to notify the police and have them bagged without delay.”

He heard the men still talking, and, anxious to make out what was being said, he tiptoed his way to the door and listened.

“You are sure Lawrence is nowhere about?” he heard Barker say.

“Positive,” returned Casco. “He got a letter calling him to Middletown, and he left on the four-fifteen train.”

“Then we have the whole office to ourselves.”

“We have.”

“Then lock the door and come to business.”

“Yis, it’s hoigh toime we did that same,” growled Grogan. “’Tis a lot ov toime we’ve been afther wastin’.”

“Slow but sure, Mike,” laughed Casco. “You mustn’t forget that the police are on our heels.”

“I doubt if they know we are in Stampton,” put in Barker. “The old Nick take that boy! If it hadn’t been for him they wouldn’t know who stole the stuff.”

“Say, Bill, you seem to be down on him more than any of us,” came from Casco.

“So I am.”

“What’s the reason?”

“That’s my affair.”

“Oh, if you’re going to be so close-mouthed about it——” began Casco, coldly.

“That boy’s father did me an injury once, and I haven’t forgotten it,” returned Barker.

“Who was his father?”

“Never mind that. He had me jugged, and that’s enough.”

“And now the old man’s dead, you are going to take it out of the boy, eh?”

“And so would you, if you had been treated as I have been. I am not one of the forgiving or forgetting kind.”

“Sure an’ we both know that same!” laughed Grogan. “Yer a gintlemon in yer shtoyle, Barker, but yer a terror whin it comes to timper.”

“But say, Bill, didn’t you have something to do with the boy when he was younger?” went on Casco, curiously.

“Who told you I had?”

“Nobody exactly, but I fancied——”

“You fancy too much, Jim. That matter hasn’t got anything to do with the work on hand.”

Bob listened with bated breath to all that was said. He was sorry Barker had cut the others short. What might he not have learned had the man chosen to continue the conversation!

Bob was in a quandary. Should he summon the police, or should he stay and hear whatever might be said?

“If I go out, they may leave during my absence,” he said to himself. “I think I had better stay with them until somebody comes this way.”

He heard the men seat themselves around a table, and then Barker and Casco lit cigars, while Grogan got out a pipe.

“Now to come to business,” said Barker.

“That’s the talk,” said Grogan.

“Well, Rosenbaum says he will give four hundred dollars for the stuff,” began Casco.

“That’s mighty little.”

“He says all the stuff is not solid silver.”

Barker’s face fell and so did Grogan’s.

“I know it’s a disappointment,” went on Casco. “I thought the haul would pay much better myself, but still four hundred dollars is better than nothing, not to say anything of the cash.”

“Ye can’t make that Jew come up in the proice?” ventured Grogan, puffing away vigorously.

“No. He only wanted to give three-fifty first.”

“Well, we might as well let it go,” said Barker. “The sooner we get the stuff off our hands the better.”

“That’s so,” returned Casco. “It will leave us free for that other deal.”

“Thrue fer you,” added Grogan. “’Tis meself that is itchin’ to get to worruk upon that.”

“Plenty of time,” said Barker. “By the way, I wonder if there is anything in this place worth taking along?”

“Nothing like making a search,” returned Casco, coolly.

He and the others arose, and Bob heard them moving about the office. Presently he heard the slide of a roller-top desk shoved back, and then a conversation, too low for him to hear clearly, reached his ears.

“If I only knew how long they intended to remain,” thought the youth. “If I go for the police now they may leave at any instant, and then I’ll miss them sure.”

Suddenly he heard Barker utter a cry.

“Just the thing!”

“That’s so. It will help us wonderfully.”

“Phat is it?” questioned Grogan.

“Never mind, Mike; you’ll know before you are much older.”

“Yis, but——”

Bob caught no more. There was a quick step on the stairs, and the janitor of the building appeared, broom in hand, to sweep out the place.

“Hullo! what are you doing at that door?” he asked, loudly.

Bob motioned him to be silent, and then tiptoed his way to where the man stood, mouth wide open in expectation.

“There are three well-known robbers in Mr. Lawrence’s office,” whispered the youth.

“Robbers!” cried the man, louder than ever. “Just wait till I get after them!”

“Better summon the police,” urged Bob. “They are all strong men, and you cannot capture them alone.”

“We’ll see if I can’t,” cried the janitor, who was a very self-important individual. “Run for the police yourself, if you want to.”

He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the office door.

Rushing into the apartment he gazed around.

“What’s the matter with you?” he cried, turning to Bob, angrily.

“Nothing! Catch them!”

“There is nobody here.”

“What?” gasped Bob.

He brushed past the man. Sure enough, the room appeared deserted.

“They were here a moment ago,” went on the youth. “Look in the closets.”

“This is some trick of yours,” grumbled the janitor.

Nevertheless he opened the two closets which the office contained. Neither held a single human form.

During this time Bob had entered a private office located in the rear of the main one. Here there was a window opening upon a narrow alley.

The window-sash was raised, and looking out Bob saw that the opening readily connected with a fire-escape.

“That settles it; they have gotten away,” thought the youth.

“Well?” queried the janitor.

“You just missed them,” said Bob. “They got out on the fire-escape. I’m going to run them down if I can.”

“You must be mistaken,” said the janitor. “There don’t seem to be anything disturbed.”

But Bob did not hear him. He was already on his way down-stairs, three steps at a time.

Reaching the sidewalk he hurried around to the alley-way. It appeared to be deserted.

Bob looked around. On the curbstone sat a bootblack eating a banana.

“Shine, boss?”

“No. Did you see three men come out of the alley a moment ago?”

“I did.”

“Which way did they go?”

The bootblack pointed his dirty finger down the street.

“Straight down?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks.”

Away went Bob at the top of his speed. At the first corner he paused. Had the three robbers gone straight ahead, or turned down the side street?

“I’ll take my chances that they made a turn. The question is which way, to the left or the right?” he asked himself.

Bob looked up and down the side street. He saw that to the left the street came to an end but a block off.

“They must have gone to the right,” he muttered. “I’ll try that, anyway.”

Turning to his right he dashed down the cross street.

He had gone less than five hundred feet when he saw the figure of a man emerge from behind a bill-board and scale a near-by fence.

The man was Bill Barker.

CHAPTER IX
BOB HAS A LIVELY FIGHT

Barker was alone, and no sooner had he disappeared over the high board fence, than Bob made up his mind to follow him.

It was quite dark by this time, and perched on the top of the fence Bob could see little or nothing. He listened intently, but nothing save the hissing of escaping steam reached his ears.

The yard was one attached to a planing mill and box factory. It was filled with boards and packing cases, and affording a number of excellent hiding-places.

Bob dropped inside the yard and stole cautiously forward until he reached a sort of driveway which divided the yard into two parts.

Nothing was yet to be seen of Barker, and Bob was puzzled to know what had become of the robber.

Stepping to a nook near a high pile of lumber, Bob stopped once more to listen.

Was he mistaken, or had he heard the faint creaking of a board to his left?

He bent in the direction and waited. No; he was not mistaken; there was the noise again.

Feeling around, Bob found a billet of wood. It was two feet long, and more than an inch thick, and would answer very well as a club.

With the stick in his hand, he made his way cautiously to the spot whence the sound had proceeded.

Suddenly something brushed past him, and a second later he found himself confronted by Barker, who caught him by the arm.

“What are you following me for?” demanded the man.

Instead of replying Bob raised the stick and struck the fellow on the head.

“Stand where you are, Barker!” he cried.

“What, Bob Pe——” began Barker, and stopped short.

“You know me, I reckon,” returned the youth. “Stand where you are, unless you want another taste of this stick.”

“Was it you in the hall-way of that building?” demanded Barker, in astonishment.

“It was. Where are Casco and Grogan?”

“Skipped the town,” returned the robber. “Are you alone?” he went on, anxiously, as he tried to pierce the darkness behind Bob.

“Never mind about that,” returned the youth.

“You come along with me.”

“Where to?”

“I’ll soon show you.”

“I don’t think I will be such a fool.”

“If you don’t come along, I’ll knock you over with this stick,” returned Bob, decidedly. “I don’t propose to stand any more fooling.”

“You talk mighty big for a boy,” sneered Barker.

“Perhaps I do, but I mean what I say. Come, move along.”

Instead of complying, Barker made a spring for the youth.

Bob retreated, and the next instant the stick descended on the robber’s head with such force that the man was knocked flat on his back.

“Now will you mind?” demanded the youth, standing over him with the stick upraised.

“The old Nick take you!” cried Barker, in a rage. “Let up there!”

“Will you promise to go along if I do?”

Barker hesitated. His head ached from the blow Bob had administered, and he did not wish such a dose repeated.

“Answer me.”

“Yes, I’ll go. But, Bob, you are making a great mistake.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You are. Do you know me?”

“I know you are the man who said my father was a thief,” was the bitter answer.

“I was only fooling, Bob.”

“I knew you wasn’t telling the truth.”

“I thought I could get you to join in our little plan to make money.”

“And you found out I wasn’t built that way, Barker.”

“That’s so. But you are making a big mistake by handing me over to the police.”

“I think it will be a first-class job done.”

“You want to learn something about yourself, don’t you?” went on Barker, significantly.

Bob breathed hard. Barker had touched the subject dearest to his heart.

“It’s natural that I should, isn’t it?” was the slow response.

“Well, you will never learn anything by having me locked up.”

“Don’t be too sure about that.”

“I am dead positive, for nobody knows anything about that matter but me.”

“You are mistaken, Barker.”

“No, I am not.”

“There is a woman knows about it.”

Barker started.

“What, has Sarah Blake dared to tell you——” he began, and stopped short.

Bob caught the name and remembered it. Little did he dream of the peculiar circumstances under which he would meet Sarah Blake.

“Never mind, Barker. I am not so much in the dark as you think.”

“Sarah doesn’t know it all,” grumbled Barker. “I am the only one that has all the facts.”

“And you won’t tell if I have you arrested?”

“That’s the size of it.”

“And if I let you go, what will you tell me?”

“A good deal that will be to your interest.”

Bob looked at the man and smiled grimly.

“I wouldn’t trust you, Barker. I would rather hear what you had to say after you were behind the bars.”

“I won’t tell you a word, then. You can live and die the poor, miserable nobody that you now are.”

“We’ll see. Let me tell you something. Even if I could trust you to tell the whole truth, I wouldn’t let you go. You are a criminal, and your place is in prison.”

“You’ll never put me there,” cried Barker.

“Yes, I will. Now march along.”

“Where to?”

“Over to that gate.”

Barker moved on as indicated. He wanted to run for it, but Bob kept the club raised, and he did not dare.

Just as they neared the gate footsteps were heard, and a man appeared with a lantern.

“Vot’s der madder here?” he demanded, in broken English.

“This man is a robber,” said Bob. “I want him arrested.”

“By chimminy, vos dot so?”

“Yes. Are you the watchman around here?”

“Yah. I dinks me I vos hear somepotty by der yard.”

“Will you call a policeman?”

“Sure, I vill.”

The watchman hurried off, and presently returned with an officer. In a few words Bob told the policeman that Barker was one of the men who had robbed John Wright’s house.

The officer at once took the robber in charge, and Bob accompanied both.

The station was some distance from the lumber-yard, and Barker proposed that they take a horse-car, stating that he had slipped on a log in the factory yard and sprained his ankle.

To this the policeman consented, and smilingly added that if his ankle was sprained perhaps he wouldn’t feel much like trying to get away.

“No, confound the luck,” returned the robber.

The car was crowded, and all three were compelled to stand on the back platform.

They had scarcely gone a block, when the car stopped at rather a dark spot to take on a couple of passengers. There was squeezing on all sides, and for a moment Bob lost sight of both Barker and the policeman.

Then when the car started again Bob looked around with a cry of dismay. The officer and the robber had disappeared.

Bob forced his way inside of the car, thinking that the pair might have entered to get out of the crush outside.

But a thorough search failed to reveal either of the persons in whom the youth was interested.

“Gone!” ejaculated Bob, with a sinking heart.

“What’s that?” asked a bystander.

“Nothing. Did you see anything of that policeman and his prisoner?”

“They got off at the last stop.”

“Thank you.”

Bob lost no time in leaving the car and hurrying back to the place. All was dark, and nobody appeared in sight.

“Hullo there, officer!” he called out.

He repeated the call several times, and finally the policeman came running toward him, club in hand.

“Where is the man?” asked Bob, breathlessly.

“That’s what I want to know,” returned the officer.

“Did he get off with you?”

“No; he jumped off, and I followed.”

“Well, that’s a fine piece of business!” exclaimed Bob.

“I’m not to blame,” returned the officer, alarmed over the thought that he had in some way neglected to do his duty.

“Really?” asked Bob, sarcastically. He was angry.

“No. Why didn’t you watch him?”

“It wasn’t my business after I had delivered him to you.”

“Yes, it was.”

“It was not. You’re a fine officer to take charge of a man.”

“Come, don’t talk to me that way,” cried the policeman.

“You didn’t attend to your business.”

“Say another word and I’ll run you in for loafing,” cried the policeman, catching Bob by the arm.

“Let go of me!”

“Then don’t say it was my fault. I had nothing to do with it. It was your duty to keep watch of the man until you made a charge against him.”

The policeman thought he could hoodwink Bob by saying this, but the youth’s common sense told him better.

“It was all your fault,” said Bob, breaking away. “I have your number, and perhaps I’ll report you. Now, I am going to hunt for the man again.”

And before the officer could stop him, Bob made off, while the policeman went back to his beat, there to concoct some excuse for his failure to do his duty.

Bob hurried down the street, looking in all directions for Barker, but the robber was nowhere to be seen.

At the end of an hour the youth was discouraged, and slowly and thoughtfully he made his way to his boarding-house.

How much had been missed by the escape of Barker! Not only the chance of recovering the stolen goods, but also that of interviewing the robber concerning the shrouded past.

“But I’ll meet him again some day, and then I won’t trust him to any fool of a policeman,” said Bob to himself.

CHAPTER X
BOB’S FIRST CUSTOMER

Mr. Starleigh was much interested in the story Bob had to tell him on the following morning.

“Lawrence has got back, and his desk was robbed of a hundred and five dollars, so he says.”

“Those chaps are bad ones,” said the boy. “They steal wherever they happen to be.”

The old photographer advised Bob to make a complaint against the officer who had allowed Barker to slip away, but Bob shook his head.

“What’s the use? He would find some excuse, and I would only get into trouble. No; after all, I’ll simply do what I can alone, and let the rest go.”

A week passed, and Bob made rapid strides in the art he was following, for photography now interested him more than ever before.

One day he was left alone at noon, and in rushed a young man.

“I’ve got fifteen minutes to spare,” he said. “Can you give me a sitting in that time?”

“I am sorry, but Mr. Starleigh is out, and so is his assistant,” said Bob.

“Too bad! If I had a sitting to-day when could I have the photos?”

“All of them?”

“The first one.”

“In a few hours. The others, if you want a dozen, would be done a couple of days later.”

“I wanted one to-morrow night sure. My brother is going to South America day after to-morrow, and I promised him my picture to take along.” The young man scratched his head. “Can’t you give me a sitting?”

“I would rather you would wait,” replied Bob, fearing Mr. Starleigh would not like such a proceeding.

“I can’t wait. Go ahead, if you know anything about the work.”

The young man insisted, and at last Bob consented to give him a sitting.

With great care Bob adjusted his focus, and gave his customer what he considered an artistic pose. In a minute more two plates were taken.

“How about proofs?” asked the youth, as the young man pulled out his watch and then a roll of bills.

“I haven’t time to come for them. How much will the dozen be?”

“Four dollars and a half.”

“Here’s your money. Send that picture to my home on Mountain Avenue. My name is Ralph Maverick.”

And before Bob could say a word, the young man was gone.

“Ralph Maverick,” murmured Bob to himself. “I wonder if he is any relation to Grace? The two look a little alike. Perhaps they are sister and brother.”

When Mr. Starleigh returned, Bob related what he had done. The old photographer lost no time in looking at the plates and developing them.

“One is no good, but the other is excellent,” he said. “You gave him a first-rate pose, Bob. Get a frame and some paper, and we will print a couple at once. You’ll soon be a full-fledged photographer, and I’m glad of it, for Sidler drinks so much I’ll have to discharge him.”

While Bob was getting the paper, he asked Mr. Starleigh if he knew the young man.

“Oh, yes; he is a son of Gregory Maverick, the president of the T. W. & L. Railroad. You can take the picture to his house as soon as it is done.”

This pleased Bob. He wished to see Grace Maverick once again, if possible, but he did not care to make a call unless he had business, being afraid she might think he had come to be rewarded for his bravery in helping her down the cliff.

Bob left the photographing establishment at six o’clock with four of the pictures in his pocket. He had worked hard during the day, and he felt both tired and dirty.

“I think I’ll go home first and wash, dress, and get supper before I deliver the picture,” he said to himself. “If I called at the house looking like this, Grace Maverick might take me for a tramp.”

Which showed that Bob placed a high value on the beautiful young girl’s opinion.

Bob hurried to his boarding-house, and after a good scrubbing dressed himself in a new suit he had just purchased. Then he hastily swallowed his supper, and set out for Mountain Avenue.

The way lay past the studio, and as Bob drew near to the place where he was employed, he noticed a crowd rushing along.

“What’s up?” he asked of a man who was running.

“Fire up the street.”

The man had hardly answered, when with a shrill tooting an engine came tearing along, followed by a hose-cart and a hook and ladder company.

Bob was instantly interested. He had never witnessed a fire in the city, and he was anxious to see how the thing was managed.

He followed the crowd. What was his astonishment to see the engine stop directly in front of the building in which the studio was situated.

“Back there!” cried a policeman to the crowd, while the firemen began to run a hose into the hall-way.

“Why, where is the fire?” cried Bob, in alarm.

“Upstairs,” returned a bystander.

“They say it started in a photographic place,” said another man.

Bob turned pale. They must mean Mr. Starleigh’s studio. He wondered if his employer was around.

Bob had a key to the studio. Breaking through the crowd, he dashed past the policeman on duty.

“Here—what?” demanded the officer.

“I want to save our things if I can,” returned Bob.

He dashed up the first flight of stairs and then the second. The hall-way was filling with smoke, but no fire was to be seen.

But on the third landing he paused. The smoke was thicker than ever, and he could hear the faint crackling of flames. Would it be safe to venture farther?

He hesitated for only a second.

“I’ll save what I can,” he murmured, and up he dashed.

He was about to insert the key in the lock, when he noticed that the door was already unfastened. He pushed it open, and rushed in.

The thick smoke rolled directly into his face, almost choking him.

“I can’t stand this very long,” was his thought.

Suddenly a puff of flame rolled overhead, lighting up the apartment.

Guided by this, Bob made a rush for the operating-room, bent on saving the valuable lenses, if nothing more.

He had just reached the curtain to this apartment, when there came another puff of flame, followed by a shower of sparks.

Some of the sparks alighted on a table in the corner filled with chemicals.

There was an explosion almost immediately, and poor Bob was hurled backward, while the chemicals flew all around him.

The smoke was thick, and, completely bewildered, the lad could not tell which way to turn to reach the door.

Once he started, crawling on his hands and knees, and brought up directly opposite to where he wanted to go.

The smoke was every moment getting thicker, and it looked as if the brave youth was to die like a rat in a trap.

“I must get out somehow,” he muttered, desperately. “Why can’t I find the door?”

He turned, and, rising, made a dash forward.

“Help, help!”

The cry startled him. It came from the developing closet, and Bob recognized the voice as that of Mr. Starleigh.

“Mr. Starleigh!” he called out.

“Oh, Bob, is that you? Help me, in Heaven’s name!”

“I will.”

Guided by the voice, Bob rushed through the operating-room, and threw open the door of the dark closet.

A red light burned on a stand, and by it Bob saw his employer lying on the floor, one hand grasping a box of plates.

“Help me, Bob!”

“I will if I can, sir. Can’t you get up?”

“Yes, but I can’t walk. I tried to save all those new plates, and two of the boxes fell on my ankle.”

“Take my hand.”

The old photographer did so, and got up, although the movement caused him great pain.

“I’m afraid we can’t get out through the main room,” said Bob. “The flames are breaking through everywhere.”

“I see, and—your coat is on fire. Let me put it out.”

Mr. Starleigh caught the burnt portion in his hand, and crushed it.

“That must have caught when the chemicals exploded. Tell me, what is beyond this closet?”

“The hall-way, I believe.”

“There is no door out?”

“There was, in that corner, but I nailed it up.”

“We must get it open somehow. Stand over there, out of the way.”

Mr. Starleigh followed directions. Bob pulled away the stand which stood before the closed door.

“If I only had an axe,” he said.

“There is a hammer in the next room on the shelf.”

“I’ll get it.”

Leaving Mr. Starleigh leaning against a table, Bob rushed out into the operating-room. He found the hammer, and also brought with him the valuable lenses, which he knew his employer greatly prized.

With all his force he began to batter on the door. At first it resisted his efforts, but finally with a crash one of the panels gave way.

Then another panel was knocked out, and, with savage energy, Bob attacked the middle strip.

His blows fell thick and fast. At last came a crash, and the top of the door was smashed into several parts.

“Just in time,” cried Mr. Starleigh. “See, the whole operating-room is in flames!”

The hall-way seemed to be now quite free from smoke. Bob leaped through the opening he had made, and helped his employer to follow.

“Hullo! what’s up here?”

It was a fireman who asked the question.

“We’ve just escaped,” said Mr. Starleigh. “Help us to get down-stairs.”

“He can’t walk,” said Bob. “If you will get on one side of him I will get on the other.”

The fireman willingly complied, and it was not long before they reached the sidewalk, where a denser crowd than ever was now congregated.

Mr. Starleigh was assisted to a near-by drug-store, and a doctor at once gave his injured ankle proper attention.

“I wish I had saved my lenses,” he sighed. “The rest of the stuff in the place was not of so much account.”

“Here are the lenses,” returned Bob, producing them.

“What! Did you really get them?”

“Yes. I trust they are not scratched,” went on the youth, with considerable concern.

“They do not appear to be. Bob, I shall not forget you for this work, nor for saving my life, also.”

“Pooh! I didn’t save your life,” replied Bob, and he returned to the fire.

By this time several other engines had arrived, and half a dozen streams of water were being poured on the flames. The firemen had a hard fight of it, but in less than an hour the fire was under control, although they continued on guard and would allow no one within the fire lines.

Bob stood around for a while longer, and then he suddenly remembered the photographs in his pocket. He pulled them out, and found they were uninjured, which was strange, considering the rough usage they had seen.

“I might as well deliver these, and get it off my hands,” he said to himself. “I wonder if Mr. Starleigh saved the plate, so that we can print the others.”

Bob returned to the drug-store. He found a fellow-photographer talking to Mr. Starleigh. A number of plates had been saved, among them the one containing Ralph Maverick’s picture, and these the other photographer said he would finish for Mr. Starleigh.

At the drug-store Bob brushed up as best he could. His new coat had several small holes burnt in it, but this could not be helped.

Arriving at the Maverick mansion, he rang the bell and asked for Mr. Ralph Maverick.

“Yes, he is in.”

“Please tell him I come from Mr. Starleigh’s studio.”

The servant who had answered the summons retired, and presently Ralph Maverick appeared.

He was well satisfied with the picture.

“I don’t see how Mr. Starleigh could have done any better,” he said.

Bob told the young man of the fire, but added, that the pictures would, nevertheless, be ready in the course of a few days.

“Well, it’s too bad you were burned out,” said Ralph Maverick. “Will you start up again?”

“I suppose so.”

A little more talk followed, and then Bob turned to go. He was keenly disappointed at not seeing Grace.

But his disappointment was of short duration. Presently, while the two stood in the hall-way, there was a rush of feet on the stairs and Grace Maverick ran up.

“There! I was afraid you would never call!” she cried, catching Bob by the hand, and giving him a squeeze that made him blush.

“Why, Grace, do you know him?” questioned Ralph Maverick, in surprise.

“Indeed I do,” returned the beautiful girl, warmly. “He is the young gentleman who saved my life when I fell over the cliff.”

“You don’t say! I must shake hands with him myself. Why didn’t you introduce yourself?”

“Oh, I—I——”

“He brought my picture. He didn’t say anything about knowing you,” went on Ralph.

“Then you didn’t come to see me?” asked Grace, pouting slightly.

“Well, I’m glad I did see you,” stammered Bob. “But I have to attend to business, you see,” he went on, lamely. “I work for a photographer, and we are fearfully busy.”

“I’ve been looking for you ever since I got back from the seashore.”

“Yes, I heard you had gone,” said Bob.

“Come into the parlor, I want to talk to you. I thought sure you and Mr. Landes would call together.”

“He had to go on a trip for the house he represents. Otherwise, I imagine he would have been glad to come,” explained Bob.

He was taken into an elegant parlor, where he felt a good deal like a fish out of water. But Grace and her brother did all they could to make him feel at ease, and, before he left, he was quite at home.

“Papa wants to see you very much,” said Grace, during the course of conversation. “He is not at home to-night, but he will be to-morrow evening. Will you call, then?”

“I will, if I can.”

“Oh, that won’t do! You come sure, and I will make papa stay home, even if he has got another engagement.”

“He might not care to do that,” suggested Bob.

“Oh, he cares to do whatever I want him to,” returned the young lady.

When Bob left, he felt in particularly high spirits; why, he could not exactly state.

He returned to his boarding-house by way of a short cut through a number of back streets.

It was quite dark when he reached the steps of the boarding-house. As he was about to ascend, latch-key in hand, he noticed a man sitting on the curbstone, his head resting on his hands.

Approaching the man, Bob shook him by the shoulder.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked.

The man stared at him vacantly.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“I asked what was the matter with you?” repeated Bob.

Instead of replying the man sprang to his feet, and caught Bob by the throat.

“I’ll show you,” he mumbled, with a hiccough. “Give me back my money, Jim Casco, d’ye hear?”

CHAPTER XI
BOB ASSISTS A STRANGER

Bob was surprised at the stranger’s words. He shook off the hold the man had on his throat, and then grasped him by both arms.

“What did you say?” he demanded.

“I said I wanted my money back,” growled the stranger, wildly. “You drugged me, and I know it, Jim Casco.”

Again the man stared at Bob, and then to both sides.

“I must be off,” he hiccoughed. “I thought I was still in Cabot’s place.”

“Is Cabot’s a saloon?”

“It’s a saloon and a thieves’ den,” growled the man. “Gosh! how my head spins.”

“And you think you were drugged?”

“Of course I was. Ordinary liquor wouldn’t knock me out like this.”

“You said something about a Jim Casco.”

“That’s the man—heard the barkeeper call him by the name, but he got hushed up pretty quick.”

“Where did you meet this Casco?”

THERE WAS AN EXPLOSION AND BOB WAS HURLED BACKWARD.

The drugged man gave a deep sigh. He was gradually coming to his right senses. Bob got some water and bathed his head, after which the victim felt better.

“Let me think. Oh, yes, I met this Casco down by the river. There was an Irishman with him——”

“What was his name?”

“This Casco called him Mike. But, say, who are you?”

“I know those rascals, and I am willing to be your friend,” returned Bob.

“Good for you. And your handle?”

“Bob Alden.”

“Mine is Walter Anderson. I came to Stampton from Buffalo a month ago, and I’ve been making pretty much of a fool of myself ever since. But I wish I had my money back.”

“How much did you have with you?”

“About thirty dollars.”

“And it’s gone?”

“Every cent of it, hang the luck!”

Bob thought for a moment.

“Would you mind showing me the way to Cabot’s place?”

“Certainly not. Come on. I’m feeling better than I did a while ago.”

Walter Anderson led the way down the street, and into a dirty square fronting the river.

“See that fancy light over on the corner?”

“Yes.”

“That’s it. Cabot calls it the Rivermen’s Rest. It is nothing but a thieves’ den.”

“Now listen to me,” said Bob, earnestly. “If I go in, will you stay here till I come out?”

“Yes, but——”

“I will see if this Casco and Mike are inside. If they are, I will let you know, and you can summon assistance, and we can have them arrested.”

“Good enough.”

Anderson took a seat on a stepping stone near the curb. Pulling his hat far down over his eyes, and turning up his collar in true “tough” style, Bob made his way toward the Rivermen’s Rest.

Nothing could be seen from the outside but the lights, as the screens were tightly drawn over windows and doors.

Bob hesitated only a moment, then he opened one of the doors and entered.

A cloud of thick and rank tobacco smoke greeted him, mingled with the smell of stale liquors.

“Phew! enough to make a decent man sick!” was the youth’s mental comment. “How anybody can love to come to such a place is past my comprehension.”

The place was a long and narrow one. In the rear was a sort of restaurant, and, seeing a vacant table, Bob walked over to it, and dropped into a seat.

“A sandwich and a cup of coffee,” he said to the dirty waiter who came to take his order.

While the waiter was filling the order Bob gazed around him, and his keen eyes took in every detail of the place.

Not far behind him was a door leading to a side room. This door stood partly ajar, and by pushing his chair back a little distance from the table, Bob was enabled to see into this apartment.

At a table in the middle of the small room were seated an old man and a middle-aged woman. The old man, it was plain to see, was little better than a sot. His clothes were worn out and dirty, and his general appearance showed that he had long since lost all pride.

The woman was quite lady-like in appearance and well dressed. She seemed to be expostulating with the old man.

“Why don’t you leave them, father, and turn over a new leaf?” Bob heard her say.

“That’s all right enough to say,” growled the old man, in return. “I can’t leave ’em.”

“Yes, you can.”

“If I did, how would I get along?”

“I will help you.”

“Bosh! Your help wouldn’t amount to enough. It costs money to live.”

“It costs money to drink,” she cried. “Otherwise——”

Bob did not catch any more of the conversation. Presently, just as the waiter came with the youth’s order, the lady arose and left by a side door.

“She looked out of place here,” thought Bob. “If that is her father, I pity her.”

In vain Bob scanned the faces of those already in the place, and those who came in. Nothing was to be seen of Casco and Grogan.

“They must have left before I got here,” thought Bob. “I wonder if I can find out where they went.”

He ate his sandwich slowly, but even when he had finished he was still in doubt as to how to proceed.

But just as he was about to arise, some one came through a hall-way in the back, and entered the little side room.

“Well, Blake, did you think I wouldn’t get back?” asked the newcomer of the old man.

“You’ve been a long time,” mumbled the old man.

“I couldn’t help it. Where is the girl?”

“Gone.”

“Good! I don’t want to run against her any more.”

“Sarah ain’t like she used to be,” was the reply.

Bob listened with great interest to this talk. The old man’s name was Blake, and the woman was spoken of as Sarah. Could she be the Sarah Blake Barker had mentioned?

“If she is, I must meet her and talk to her by all means,” said Bob to himself. “She must know something about the past.”

Bob wondered who the newcomer was, but he was not kept in doubt long. The voice sounded slightly familiar from the start, and presently the speaker spoke up louder, and the youth made the astonishing discovery that the man was James Casco in disguise.

The scar-faced man wore a heavy beard and mustache, and was dressed in the garb of a waterman.

“I have located him at last,” thought Bob. “Now to see that he does not escape me.”

Casco and the old man entered into a low conversation, of which Bob heard but little, although he tried his best to make out what was being said.

Presently the two arose, and slipped out of a door into the back hall.

“They are going up-stairs,” was Bob’s conclusion. “I wonder if I dare follow them?”

Arising, he walked to the desk, and settled for what he had had. Then he pretended to be interested in a number of pictures hanging on the walls.

Gradually he drifted back toward the side room, and, watching his chance to see that he was not observed, he slipped into the apartment, and swiftly but silently made his way to the hall.

Here only a smoky lamp, hanging from the ceiling, lit up the place, leaving all in semi-darkness.

No one appeared to be in the hall, and, listening intently so as not to be caught napping, Bob ascended the stairs.

“I suppose if they found me here, and knew what I was after, it would go hard with me,” he thought. “Well, I am in this game to win, and I’ll prove to them yet that I am not a nobody.”

Arriving at the upper hall, Bob paused and peered around. All was dark save for a thin ray of light that shone from under the door to one of the middle rooms.

Approaching this door Bob listened for several minutes. At first he could hear nothing, but gradually there came to his ears the voices of four men in earnest conversation.

The four men appeared to be in a room beyond the one opening upon the hall. Should Bob enter the first room?

“I’ll go the length of the string,” he said, bravely. “It is the only way to capture them. I wonder if that Walter Anderson is still on guard?”

He tried the door, and, finding it unlocked, pushed it open.

The room appeared to be a sort of lodge-room, with half a dozen benches scattered around, and a desk and chair at one end.

A lamp stood on the desk, which was piled high with papers.

Opposite the desk was the door leading to the room in which were the four men. This door stood on a crack, and tiptoeing his way forward, Bob peered in and beheld Casco and Blake on one side of a table with Barker and Mike Grogan on the other.

“All of them,” he muttered to himself. “What a haul it would make if the police were only here at this moment.”

He was about to leave and summon help, when he heard Barker mention his name.

“Yes, I had a hard time of it getting away,” went on the man. “I tell you that boy is smart.”

“He comes from a smart family,” put in old Blake. “His father——”

“Hush!” cried Barker, hastily. “None of that here.”

“Well, just as you say, Bill,” returned the old man. “But I reckon you will have a job with Sarah——”

Barker put up his hand, and the old man broke off at once.

“Well, how about that money?” demanded Grogan. “Sure, an’ we have waited long enough fer it, so we have.”

“And we’ll have to wait a while longer.”

“Phat fer?”

“The Jew has got into trouble.”

“How?”

“Over some stolen goods a jeweller’s clerk sold him. We have got to take the stuff to somebody else.”

“Sure, an’ ’tis a shame,” growled Grogan. “We’ve had more throuble about that swag than enny Oi ever seen befure.”

“That’s true,” said Casco. “But the whole thing will be settled by next week, and then we’ll be off for the big haul.”

“And I’m to be in that?” put in old Blake, eagerly.

“You are,” said Barker.

Suddenly Casco jumped to his feet.

“I forgot to ask Cabot about something,” he cried. “Just wait till I come back.”

He made for the door. Bob tried to retreat, but he was too late. Out in the hall Casco overtook him, and caught him by the shoulder.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Let me go!” cried Bob.

He tried to break away, but the scar-faced man held him fast.

“Hullo, it’s that Bob Alden! How did you get in here?”

“Walked in. Let me go!”

“Oh, I’ll let you go!” returned Casco, sarcastically. “Hi, there, boys, here’s a spy!”

“Sure, an’ who is it?”

Barker ran out, and aided Casco in dragging Bob into the lodge-room.

Then before they released him the door was closed and locked.

CHAPTER XII
BOB’S QUEER EXPERIENCE

“Now, I imagine we have you safe,” said Casco, after the door was locked. “Sit down on that bench.”

“Well, if you insist, I will,” returned the youth, trying to make the best of the situation.

He was terribly chagrined at the turn affairs had taken, but he resolved to brave it out as best he could.

“Now tell us how you came to follow us here,” said Barker.

“I discovered Casco was stopping here.”

“How did you discover that?”

“He robbed a friend of mine.”

“Humph! he must mean the jay who was drugged,” muttered Casco. “I didn’t know he was a friend of yours.”

While Casco was talking, Barker opened a closet and brought forth a rope.

With this Bob was bound hands and feet.

“Now, if you make the least outcry, we will gag you,” he said.

“What do you intend to do with me this time?” questioned the youth.

“One thing is certain, you won’t escape us,” returned Barker, with an evil smile.

“Betther see if he has any money wid him,” suggested Grogan.

Bob was at once searched, and the three dollars in his pocket taken from him.

“Every little counts,” said the Irishman. “Blake, suppose ye go down an’ git a bottle fer all hands.”

Old Blake at once left the lodge-room.

In less than two minutes he returned all out of breath.

“Get the boy out of sight,” he cried.

“What’s up?” asked the others, in concert.

“Cabot says the police are watching the place. He just saw an officer walk past with that fellow who was drugged.”

“The old Nick you say!” muttered Casco. “I thought he had been fixed for all night. Catch hold, Barker.”

“Where to?”

“The garret, quick!”

Barker caught hold of Bob on one side, and Casco on the other, and between them they carried the youth up two flights of narrow stairs, and into a sloping room under the roof.

Grogan followed with a lamp which was placed on the floor.

“Let me see!” said Casco, looking around. “Ah! here is a cross-beam! Let us lash him to that!”

This was quickly done in such a manner that Bob could move but little.

“We must make it impossible for him to escape,” said Barker.

In spite of his stout heart, Bob was compelled to shiver at being tied up.

“We had better gag him,” went on Barker.

“Of course. Here is a bit of rag will do for that purpose.”

A strip of an old dress was brought forth, and after tying a large knot in the middle the strip was placed over Bob’s mouth with the knot inside and made fast.

“That settles him for the present,” said the scar-faced man. “Now we had better put out the light.”

“Yis, douse the glim be all manes,” said Grogan. “Thin Oi’ll look out the front winder, an’ see if thim men is still hangin’ around.”

The light was extinguished, and the Irishman opened the small window in the front end of the garret. The fresh air that came in was very welcome to Bob, who could hardly breathe.

“Oi can’t see anybody,” said Grogan, after a long look down into the street. “Perhaps Cabot was mistaken.”

“I’ll go down and see,” replied Barker. “If anybody comes up here and tries to nose around bluff him off.”

“We will,” said Casco. “But keep watch, and give us plenty of warning.”

This was agreed to, and Barker left the garret immediately.

The others grew silent, Casco standing by the stairs with ears on the alert.

Five minutes passed. They dragged slowly to Bob, who was wondering what would happen next, and if he would ever get out of his predicament with a whole skin.

Suddenly two pistol-shots rang out. They were followed by a whistle outside, and then another on the second floor below. The raid by the police had begun.

As it was dark in the garret, Bob could not make out the movements of his captors.

He heard Casco say something to Grogan, and then the two went off, leaving old Blake in sole charge. The latter remained near the stairs, listening intently for the first sign of any one trying to come up.

Presently there was another cry, and then Blake hurried to Bob’s side.

“Listen to me,” he said. “Don’t you dare to make a move or a sound till I come back. If you do, I’ll fix you.”

Then Bob heard him descend the stairs, and heard the opening and closing of the door.

Bob at once set to work freeing himself. He did not care for the threat which had been made. Probably Blake had become frightened, and would not return at all.

Close to where Bob was bound was a large blue chest, with iron-bound corners. When he had been brought to the spot the youth had noticed that one of the iron corners was broken, leaving a sharp edge sticking from the top.

Bob could just reach the chest with his feet, and, by rubbing the rope around his ankles over the rough edge of the iron, he managed after considerable trouble to wear the rope in two, thus freeing his feet.

But his hands were still tied behind him and to a small bit of joist between two upright beams.

Planting his feet firmly on the floor Bob tugged at the joist with all his strength, and was at last overjoyed to find he had loosened one end.

To loosen the other was a comparatively easy job, and then Bob stood a free boy, but with his hands still fastened to the bit of wood. Bending over the chest, he again began his rubbing process, and soon the wood fell to the floor, and Bob’s hands were once again ready for use.

He lost no time in tearing the dirty gag from his mouth. While he was doing this, he heard the door at the foot of the stairs unlocked, and Grogan came up.

Bob knew the Irishman’s tread too well to be mistaken. He turned to flee, then, not knowing where to go, he stopped short and faced his enemy.

Grogan carried a lantern on one arm. He cast the rays over to where Bob had been tied, and uttered an exclamation of dismay.

Then he caught sight of Bob. At the same time the youth snatched up the piece of joist.

“Make a sound, Grogan, and I will strike!” cried Bob, determinedly.

“How did you git loose?” demanded the Irishman.

“That is my affair. Stand where you are.”

Instead of complying, Grogan made a dash forward. As he did so, Bob struck out at him.

The joist struck the lantern, shivering it to pieces and leaving the pair in darkness.

Bob struck out again, and this time Grogan was knocked over.

Finding his enemy did not offer to move, Bob spoke to him. Grogan made no reply. Growing alarmed, Bob struck a match and lit the wick of the lantern which lay close at hand.

“Knocked out that trip,” muttered Bob to himself. “Well, it serves him right. I reckon I had better go below.”

He was about to carry out this idea, when he heard the door at the foot of the stairs open.

“Hurry up, Barker,” he heard, in the voice of Casco, and then the steps came closer.

What was to be done? It would be fool-hardy to face the two men, both of whom he felt sure were armed. He must escape by some other means.

The window in the front end of the garret was still open, and toward this Bob rushed and looked out. The sidewalk was fully forty feet below, and there was no way to reach it save by a jump, and this would have meant instant death.

Bob looked up. Overhead, the roof of the building was but a few feet away. He sprang upon the window-sill, and without hesitation pulled himself out and upon the sloping roof beyond.

It was a dangerous situation, but Bob’s nerves were up to a high tension, and he did not falter.

The electric lights on the street beyond threw considerable light on the roof, and by this means the youth was enabled to crawl down to the gutter. Then he walked along to the rear, and finding here a projection one story lower, dropped upon it.

All had become quiet in the saloon and restaurant below, and Bob wondered what the police had done, and if they had really gone.

The youth looked around for some means of reaching the ground. There was the water spout, but that seemed too frail to bear his weight.

Leaning over the edge of the roof, he saw not far below a pulley-line used for drying clothes. The other end of the line was fastened to a house on the opposite side of the yard, and, by pulling upon the line, Bob found it moved through the pulley easily.

Taking his pocket-knife the youth quickly severed one of the lines and hauled in on the other. The consequence was that he soon found himself in possession of about a hundred feet of good strong wash-line.

Twisting the line double, Bob fastened one end to a chimney, and, grasping the other, he started to lower himself down over the edge of the roof.

Bob came down the last ten feet with a great rush, thereby tearing some of the skin from his hands.

But he shut his teeth hard, and though the pain was great, he made no sound.

Darting across the yard, he entered the back door of the house on the next street. The door led to a dark and narrow hall-way. Once inside, Bob closed the door, and finding a bolt on it, quickly slipped the fastening into place.

By feeling around the youth found that there was no way out of the hall-way, except by going up the stairs or down into the cellar. He followed the former course, and soon found himself on an upper landing, where a broad staircase led to a large and well-lighted front hall.

He lost no time in descending the stair, doing so almost silently, as the steps were heavily carpeted.

But below the hall-way was of polished wood, and his footsteps rang out clearly as he passed to the door.

This was locked and bolted, and the youth had considerable difficulty in opening it.

“Hullo, young man, what are you doing here?” suddenly demanded a sharp voice, and a side door opened from a store, and a heavy-set man rushed out.

“I was trying to escape from the house on the next street,” explained Bob. “Some men weren’t treating me right.”

“That’s fine enough to say, but I don’t believe you. Just you wait until I call an officer.”

Bob was so taken aback that for the moment he did not know what to say.

“An officer!” he gasped.

“That’s what I said. We have suffered from your kind several times, and now I intend to put a stop to it.”

The man spoke very decidedly, and, as he faced Bob, he looked fiercely at the youth.

“I am not a thief. You can search me, if you wish.”

“Perhaps you didn’t have the chance to get anything,” sneered the heavy-set man. “But you are in the hall of my house, and that’s enough.”

The man saw to it that the front door was locked, and placed the key in his pocket.

Then he walked to the side door.

“Jimmy,” he called loudly.

“What’s up, pop?” came in a boyish voice.

“Go and get a policeman. I’ve caught one of those confounded sneak-thieves at last.”

“Is that so, pop! Good for you!”

A freckle-faced boy with red hair came out into the hall, and looked wonderingly at Bob.

“So you’re a sneak-thief, hey?” he said.

“No, I am not,” replied Bob.

“Don’t stand there all night, Jimmy; but do as I told you,” cried the parent.

Jimmy at once disappeared. The heavy-set man stood close to Bob, wearing upon his face a look of great importance.

“You are making a great mistake, sir,” said Bob. “I just came from Cabot’s place, and all I did was to attempt to pass through your hall-way.”

“And pick up anything you could find on the way, I suppose,” was the cold reply.

“No, sir.”

“Well, I won’t waste words with you. The police will give your case all the attention it deserves.”

Bob heaved a sigh. If arrested, how could he prove his innocence? The fact that he had been in Cabot’s at the time of the raid would not stand to his credit. Perhaps his story of being a prisoner would not be believed, especially if Casco, Barker, and the others escaped.

Bob meditated a dash for liberty, but before he could put it into execution the boy came back with a policeman.

“Caught one of ’em, have you, Mr. Olney?” said the officer, as he took Bob in charge.

“I have.”

In vain Bob tried to explain matters. The policeman would not listen, and the youth was hurried off to the station-house and thrust into a cell, to await a hearing in the morning.

He wondered what had been done at Cabot’s place, and if any of his enemies had been captured.

“If not, this will give them a good chance to clear out,” he said to himself, bitterly.

CHAPTER XIII
BOB MAKES A TRUE FRIEND

The cell in which Bob was confined was provided with a rough sleeping-bench, but though the youth lay down he did not slumber, but lay awake thinking over his troubles.

At last morning came, and at nine o’clock Bob was brought out into the little court-room attached to the station. Here sat a stern-faced judge who eyed him sharply, as the charge against him was made.

“What have you to say to this?” Bob was asked.

Bob, of course, put in a plea of not guilty. Then he was asked a number of questions, and he related his whole story.

“You look as if you were telling the truth, but the facts in the case don’t bear you out,” said the judge. “You had no right under any circumstances to enter Mr. Olney’s house.”

At that moment a man brushed forward. It was Mr. Starleigh.

“May it please your honor, may I ask why this young man was brought here?” he asked.

The judge happened to know the old photographer, and he related the case.

“He is not guilty, you may be sure of that,” said Mr. Starleigh. “I am positive he is perfectly honest.”

“You know him, then?”

“He works for me. He is the person who helped to capture Bidwell, the thief.”

“Oh, then, that is a different matter. But still——”

While the judge was talking, Mr. Starleigh turned to Olney.

“John, you are making a sad mistake. This young man is not a sneak-thief.”

“It looks mighty suspicious,” returned Olney. He was a dealer in photographic supplies, and Starleigh was a good customer.

“I feel certain you are mistaken.”

“Did you say he works for you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll withdraw the charge,” Olney said, not wishing to displease a valued customer. He turned to the judge. “Your honor, will you allow me to withdraw the charge?”

“Well, under the circumstances, you may,” returned the judge. “The young man having such a person as Mr. Starleigh to vouch for his honesty, makes a difference. Robert Alden, you may go.”

Bob lost no time in stepping down. Olney stopped to talk to Mr. Starleigh for several minutes. When he was gone, the youth grasped the old photographer by the hand.

“Oh, how can I thank you!” he exclaimed, warmly.

“That’s all right,” returned Mr. Starleigh. “I haven’t forgotten what you did for me, Bob.”

“It was fortunate you came here.”

“I was summoned to testify against a fellow who set the building on fire,” returned the old photographer. “He had a grudge against one of the tenants. But the case has been postponed for a couple of days, so I am not needed.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“If you will, I wish you would go over to Martin’s studio. He will give us facilities for printing from the plates we saved. This afternoon the fire insurance agents are going to adjust my claim and then I will open somewhere else just as soon as I can.”

“Before I leave I would like to know what the police did at Cabot’s,” said Bob.

“We will ask Captain Downes. I know him quite well.”

The official mentioned was found close at hand. He said two rivermen had gotten into a dispute in the saloon, and both had discharged their pistols, but without damage. Two policemen had been summoned, and the rivermen were now in jail.

Bob then told of Casco, Barker, and Grogan.

“I heard about that through the fellow who was drugged,” said Captain Downes. “And two detectives are already on the way. But no doubt those men have lost no time in getting away, and Cabot will deny they were ever there. They are a set of shrewd and slippery criminals.”

“Can you tell me anything about this Blake?”

The captain shook his head.

“Never heard of him.”

“And Sarah Blake?”

“Never heard of her, either. They are probably newcomers to Stampton.”

The conversation continued for several minutes, and then Bob left to make his way to Martin’s studio, while Mr. Starleigh hurried off to rent new quarters in place of the ones burnt out.

Bob found Martin a very nice man. The youth worked hard, and by evening he had printed and mounted an unusually large number of photographs.

“You have the knack of it, I see,” said Martin. “If you are ever out of a job, come over and see me.”

“Thank you, perhaps I will,” replied Bob.

He had not forgotten the promise he had made to Grace Maverick, and, after supper that evening, he brushed up and again visited the mansion on Mountain avenue.

The girl met him at the door, and at once conducted him to the library, where sat Mr. Gregory Maverick, the president of the T. W. & L. Railroad.

Mr. Maverick was a short, round-faced man, with rather a pleasant cast of countenance. He sat in an easy-chair, his slippered feet resting on a cushion.

“Papa, this is Mr. Robert Alden,” said Grace, presenting the youth.

Mr. Maverick at once jumped up, and caught Bob by the hand.

“So you are the young man who rescued Grace, are you?” he said. “I am very happy to meet you. I have been wanting to thank you for a long time for that brave act.”

“Oh, it wasn’t much!” stammered Bob.

“I think it a good deal,” laughed the railroad president. “Sit down. Grace tells me you are a stranger to Stampton.”

“Yes, sir. I came here looking for work.”

“And have you succeeded?”

“Yes, sir.”

And Bob started to tell how he had run across Mr. Starleigh through the sneak-thief’s effort to get away.

“I’ve heard of that fellow,” said Mr. Maverick. “But go on with your story. I am quite interested.”

“And so am I,” added Grace, who had taken a seat at her father’s feet.

Bob did as requested. Both Mr. Maverick and his daughter asked a great number of questions, and before the youth was aware he had related his entire history, and the clock had long since struck ten.

“Really I must be making you tired,” said the youth, as he glanced at the time-piece.

“On the contrary, I have been deeply interested,” said the railroad president. “I like to see a young man show pluck and determination. That is the only way to succeed in life. So your ambition is to become a first-class photographer?”

“Yes, sir. I don’t care so much for studio work, but I would like to use the art on the road. I love travelling from place to place.”

Mr. Maverick stroked his chin reflectively. A sudden idea had flashed through his mind.

“You like to do work outdoors, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long will it take you to learn that branch of the work?”

“Oh, I can take that sort of a picture now. Faces are the hardest things to photograph.”

“I see.” Mr. Maverick mused for a moment. “Will you do me the favor to call here to-morrow evening? I may have a proposition to make to you.”

“I will come, sir.”

Then the conversation became general, and a quarter of an hour later Bob left, Grace Maverick seeing him to the door.

Bob could not help but wonder what proposition the railroad president would have to make. Of course, it would be in return for the assistance he had given Grace.

Perhaps Mr. Maverick would offer him a place on the road. Well, if it paid, Bob would accept it, even though it was not in exact line with his desires. He would do a good deal to be where he might occasionally come in contact with Grace.

On the following morning Mr. Starleigh announced that he had purchased the title and interest in a photographic establishment close to the one which had been burned out. The plates which had been saved, as well as the lenses, were at once transferred to the newly-acquired studio, and by dinner-time they were once more ready for business.

The assistant who drank had been discharged, and when Mr. Starleigh went off to purchase some supplies which would soon be needed, Bob was left in sole charge of the studio.

The man who had owned the establishment before Mr. Starleigh had purchased it had been a wild sort of a fellow, and had paid but scant attention to business. Consequently trade was all run down, and as Mr. Starleigh’s former patrons had not yet heard of the change, business during the afternoon was exceedingly dull.

But Bob worked hard at printing and mounting photographs, and to him the time passed quickly enough.

At length, about five o’clock, there came a series of loud knocks on the glass door which led to the hall.

“Come in!” called out Bob, and in response there stalked in a very tall, lean man, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes.

The man stared vacantly around the studio, and then dropped into a chair.

“You take photos here, I understand?” he said, in a deep bass voice.

“Yes, sir,” returned Bob, politely.

“Photos of all the Presidents, I understand?”

“Hardly,” laughed Bob. He thought the man was joking. “Sometimes we take a bank president, or something like that.”

“Never took a President of the United States?” demanded the man, sharply.

“I think not, sir.”

“I understood differently, understand, I understood differently,” cried the man, raising his voice and jumping to his feet. “I am not to be imposed upon, either,” he added.

“I am not imposing on you,” returned Bob, gently. He realized at once that the man was not right in his mind. “We would willingly take a President, if he would grant us a sitting.”

“Ah! so I thought. That’s the reason I came here. Do you know who I am?”

“I do not, sir.”

“I am the President of the Sandwich Islands—appointed by act of Congress last month. Take off your hat.”

As Bob had no hat on, he could not comply with this demand. His failure to do as bidden seemed to anger the man, who was nothing more or less than crazy.

“Did you hear me, sir?”

“I did; but I haven’t any hat on.”

“Ah! that’s different. I am short-sighted—lost my sight in the Mexican war—a shell passed in front of me—I dodged—and though I escaped, it carried the best part of my eyesight with it.”

To this Bob made no reply. He was meditating on how best to get rid of his unwelcome visitor.

Suddenly the man stole over to where he stood.

“Get the machine ready,” he cried.

“What for?”

“For my picture. I want you to take the largest ever taken, regardless of expense.”

“I can’t do that, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I am only a helper here—the proprietor is out. You had better call again.”

“Ha! I would, but I haven’t time, understand, I haven’t time. Every moment of a President’s life is important. I have three ministers to appoint before I go to sleep, and the people harass me to death with their applications.”

“Well, I can’t take the picture.”

“Then I will take it myself.”

The man rushed toward the camera, and caught hold of the tube.

“Stop!” cried Bob, in alarm. “You may break something.”

Bob grasped the crazy man by the arm and tried to make him let go his hold on the camera.

“You will only break it,” he went on. “Please come in to-morrow.”

“Now or never! I have promised all my friends a picture of my skeleton, and I do not intend to disappoint them. Where are the plates? The best in the house, mind, regardless of expense. The President has his picture taken at the public expense, ha, ha! That’s a joke.”

Seeing he could do nothing with the crazy fellow, Bob moved toward the door, intending to summon assistance and have him removed.

But now a knowing look came into the lunatic’s eyes. He left the camera, and leaped toward the youth.

“No, I’m not going back, and you can’t make me. They all say I’m crazy, but they are jealous, that’s all. But when the picture is taken it will be all right. Stay here till I press the button, and don’t dare to move, or I will have you banished to utter darkness forever.”

And, catching up a folded tripod, the crazy man stood guard, so that Bob might not escape from the studio.

CHAPTER XIV
BOB MAKES A NEW MOVE

Bob was alarmed when the crazy man strode forward, tripod in hand, as if to brain him should he attempt to leave the studio.

He had not had much to do with people of unsound mind, but he was well aware that his present position was both a delicate and a dangerous one.

If the lunatic attacked him, he would have a hard struggle to keep himself from harm, for, despite his hollow eyes and shrunken form, the man looked strong.

“I’m not going to leave,” said Bob. “Put down the tripod, and sit in the chair if you want the picture of your skeleton taken.”

He left the vicinity of the door, and seeing this the crazy man at once dropped the folded tripod and sank into a chair.

“Will you take the picture?” he demanded.

“I will if you will promise to go away right afterward,” returned the youth.

“That goes. Take me this way, and be quick. I must catch the next ocean steamer for the Sandwich Islands.”

The man sprawled out on the chair, put one hand to his chin and the other to his breast and put on a sober, earnest look.

Bob at once placed a prepared tin plate in the camera, put on the proper lens, and in a few minutes had a tintype of the crazy man.

“There you are,” he said, as he trimmed it up. “Now you will have to hurry to catch that steamer.”

The lunatic glared at the picture for a second. Then he burst out into a wild fit of laughter.

“Is that me? Really, where is the skeleton? Oh, this is a fraud! Take a thousand more, and be sure and add the skeleton, if you want your pay.”

Bob’s heart sank within him. He had made a great effort to get rid of the lunatic, and failed. What was to be done now?

He decided to use strong measures. Picking up the folded tripod, he advanced toward the lunatic.

“Get out of here at once,” he said, sternly. “I am too busy to be fooled with. Go!”

The crazy man’s face fell, and with a slow step he moved toward the door.

“Excuse me,” he said, softly. “I didn’t know you were busy. I’ll come in some time to-morrow.”

He made a profound bow, and started as if to go.

“Thank fortune I am rid of him!” thought Bob.

But the youth was mistaken. Reaching the door, the lunatic suddenly turned, and, before Bob was aware, sprang straight for the youth’s throat.

The attack was so unexpected that Bob was borne over backward, the crazy man landing on his breast.

“Let up!” gasped Bob, desperately.

The crazy man did not reply, but tightened his grip on Bob’s throat, so that he was nearly choked to death.

In vain Bob struggled. He could not loosen that nervous hold the lunatic had taken, and now his head began to swim, and strange lights began to flicker before his eyes.

He tried to kick, but could not reach his opponent. Half a minute more passed, and poor Bob was on the point of giving himself up as lost.

Then the door of the studio opened, and Mr. Starleigh hurried in, followed by Mr. Martin.

“Hullo! what’s this?” cried the old photographer, surveying the strange scene in astonishment.

“It’s Crazy Sam Bartlett,” ejaculated Mr. Martin.

“He is choking the boy to death,” went on Mr. Starleigh. “Here, let him be!”

He caught the lunatic by the shoulder, and hauled him backward.

The man set up a howl, and ceased tormenting Bob. He gave one look at Mr. Martin and his face fell.

“Sam, what does this mean?” demanded the photographer.

“Haven’t time to explain,” returned Bartlett, hurriedly.

“When did they let you out?”

“I ran away—they think I am crazy—but I’m the President of the Sandwich Islands. Here we go!”

Bartlett made a dash for the door. Mr. Martin tried to stop him, but he was too late.

A second later they heard a crash. Bartlett had leaped down the entire flight of stairs. All three went after him, and found him lying at the bottom, his left leg broken.

The police were at once summoned, and a close coach was procured, in which he was taken to the lunatic asylum from which he had escaped.

Then Mr. Starleigh had Bob tell his story. Both the old photographer and Mr. Martin listened with great interest.

“And I never want another such experience as long as I live,” concluded Bob.

“I shouldn’t think you would,” said Mr. Starleigh. “Cranks are bad enough, but a real crazy man is ten times worse. It is lucky we came in when we did.”

Bob went to work again, but his nerves were all unstrung, and before long the old photographer told him he might as well stop for the day, as there was no need for further hurry.

When Bob reached his boarding-house, he found a long letter from Frank Landes awaiting him. In the epistle Frank said he intended to take a trip to Stampton before long, and then go on a business tour along the T. W. & L. Railroad.

“I would like to go with him,” thought Bob. “Maybe I’ll see Frank, if Mr. Maverick offers me a place on the road.”

That evening found Bob again at the railroad president’s mansion, according to agreement. Grace was present, and a long talk occurred.

“I want to do something for you, Bob,” said Mr. Maverick. “I think I owe it to you, after what you did for Grace. But I will not offer you money for that service, for such acts are not to be paid for in cash.”

Mr. Maverick paused. Bob bowed, but did not reply. He was wondering what was coming.

“You said you loved the art of photography, and would like nothing better than a chance to travel about taking pictures. To help you along in this direction, I have purchased for you a complete travelling outfit, including a horse and a wagon——”

“Mr. Maverick!” burst out the youth. “Do you really mean that?”

“Yes, Bob,” smiled the railroad president. “Come with me!”

Grace jumped up, and led the way out of the house and down to the barn.

There stood a fine horse and a regular photographer’s turn-out. The lantern was lit inside of the wagon, and Bob saw it contained several cameras, some lenses, a great number of plates, besides a cabinet of chemicals and other things needed for taking pictures.

“This is Grace’s gift to you,” said Mr. Maverick. “How does it strike you?”

“It—it strikes me all of a heap,” gasped Bob. “Do you really mean to say this whole outfit is for me?”

“Certainly,” said Grace. “And I hope you will make money out of it.”

“But—but it’s too much!” went on the youth, who could as yet hardly realize his good fortune.

“No, it isn’t,” returned the girl, warmly. “You deserve every bit of it.”

“There is a money drawer under the seat,” went on Mr. Maverick. “In it you will find some cash, which you will need.”

Bob shook his head. There was too much of a lump in his throat to say anything. Good fortune seemed to have come all in a heap.

“Does it suit you?” asked Grace, watching him curiously.

“It more than suits,” burst out Bob. “Why I—I can’t thank you enough. You have made me the happiest chap in Stampton.”

“I have not finished yet,” said Mr. Maverick. “Now you have the outfit, I believe you are almost capable of doing the work I wish done.”

“I will do whatever I can for you,” returned Bob, quickly. “And I won’t charge you a cent.”

“In that case you can’t do anything. But this work is for the railroad.”

“And what is it?”

“We intend before long to get up a new guide book of the route, and our superintendent thinks we ought to get out a fine illustrated work similar to those put out by some of the larger roads. For that purpose we will have to send out a man to take at least thirty or forty of the finest views obtainable for photo-engravings. I have spoken to Mr. Starleigh—met him just before I returned home—and he thinks with a little coaching you could do this work very well.”

“I would do my best,” returned Bob, with sparkling eyes.

“I advise that you remain with Mr. Starleigh for several weeks yet, and then we will start you out. You may take your own time in getting over the ground, and whenever you need money you can send to the paymaster for it. When you have finished, the bill will be promptly paid, and I trust by that time you will have other work, sufficient to keep you going. Do you accept?”

Bob did, without hesitation.

CHAPTER XV
BOB BECOMES A TRAVELLING PHOTOGRAPHER

Bob did not know if he was walking on stone or the air when he left the Maverick mansion. To him it seemed as if the vista of good fortune had opened to its very widest limit.

“I must be dreaming,” he murmured. “Bet a cent I wake up in the loft of old Carrow’s barn and find it all a dream.”

And the youth actually pinched himself to make sure that he was not asleep.

It was past eleven o’clock, but though Bob might have taken a horse-car to his boarding-house, he preferred to walk, knowing full well that even when he came to lie down, he would not be able to sleep for speculating over all that had happened.

The night was a gloomy one, and presently, without hardly any warning, it began to rain. At first the drops were few and far between, but before the youth had gone a block farther the shower turned into a deluge, and Bob scampered for shelter.

Not far away was a shed over the front of a butcher shop. Under this shed ran Bob, and huddled close to the building to avoid the rain which the rising wind drove in.

Bob had been under the shed probably three minutes when a man and a woman came out of the hall-way beside the butcher shop, and stood watching the rain.

“We will get all wet, Paul, if we try to leave in this storm,” Bob heard the woman say.

“It may break away in a few minutes, Sarah,” returned the man. “It is only a shower.”

“Showers sometimes last a long time,” was the reply.

The sound of the woman’s voice was somewhat familiar to Bob, and he moved forward a bit to get a look at her face. She was the same he had seen in Cabot’s establishment, the one he rightly supposed was Sarah Blake.

Instantly he was all attention, and, pulling his hat still farther over his eyes, he edged close to the open door-way.

“You saw the old man?” went on the man called Paul, after a short pause.

“I did.”

“And you could do nothing with him?”

“No. He loves drink, and will do almost anything to obtain it. The case is hopeless.”

“You offered him money, I suppose?”

“I offered him what I could. But it was not enough. He said he would take care of himself, and told me to leave him.”

“That crowd evidently have him well in hand.”

“I am afraid so, Paul.”

“Well, the best thing you can do is to let the whole matter drop. You have done your duty.”

“I know, but——”

“Remember, he is only your stepfather, and if you insist on following him up, you may get into trouble.”

“But, Paul, I feel that he has not done right. He was mixed up in some crooked work, and I am afraid every day that I will hear of his arrest.”

“You take too much on your shoulders, Sarah,” returned the man, earnestly. “You had better come back home with me and let the matter drop. This travelling around under an assumed name and stopping in such a boarding-house as this——”

Bob heard no more. A violent gust of wind shut the door with a bang, and all became dark and dreary once more.

Bob hesitated, not knowing what to do. Should he knock on the door and ask the woman for an interview?

While he was deliberating, the door opened again, and the man came out. He hurried up to the corner, where stood a cab, and got in.

Was he going to leave the woman behind? It certainly looked so.

But an instant later the woman came out and with all speed she ran toward the cab.

Bob dashed forward, but before he could stop the woman she had entered the cab beside the man, and the driver whipped up the horses.

Away went the cab at a high rate of speed.

Bob tried to catch on behind, to signal the driver to stop, but he failed in both. He slipped on the wet stones, and went down on one knee, and by the time he arose the cab had disappeared in the darkness.

Bob was much chagrined. He felt almost certain that the woman could have told him something concerning the past.

“And that’s not the worst of it,” grumbled Bob to himself. “It’s bad enough to let them slip, but they are most likely going out of town, and goodness only knows when I’ll see her again.”

He turned back under the shed again, and dashing the water from his hat, and wiping off one of his hands, which had become covered with dirt, he rang the hall bell.

A moment of utter silence passed, and then a tall, sour-faced woman, evidently an old maid, appeared.

“Good-evening,” said Bob, politely. “I called to find out if you could tell me where that lady and gentleman who just left had gone to.”

“No, I can’t,” snapped the woman. “What do you want to know for?”

“I wish to see the lady.”

“So did several men. But she’s gone, and I’m glad of it.”

“Will you please tell me her name?”

“I don’t know it. She said it was Brown, but perhaps it isn’t. I didn’t like her, and I’m glad the man came and took her away.”

“Do you know where she came from?”

“No. She paid in advance, and I needed the money, so I took her in. But she was too sly for me. Is that all you wanted to know?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Without another word, the woman shut the door in Bob’s face and locked it. Bob could not help but smile to himself.

“Something didn’t suit,” he murmured to himself. “Rain or no rain, I’m going to try to follow that cab.”

He started off at once in the direction the cab had taken, running as fast as the slippery pavement would allow.

But though he traversed several blocks, no vehicle of any kind outside of a horse-car appeared in sight, and finally he was forced to abandon the chase.

On the following day Bob and Mr. Starleigh had a long talk in regard to the youth’s future. The upshot of this talk was that Bob agreed to work for nothing for two weeks, providing the old photographer would teach him as much of the business as possible in that length of time.

Bob was slightly worried over the question of what to do with his horse and wagon during that time, but Mr. Maverick solved it by telling Bob to leave the turn-out in charge of the stable-hand until he started away from Stampton.

The two weeks passed rapidly, and Bob spent every hour of the time in devouring every item of information which might prove useful to him while taking pictures on the road.

During that time Grace Maverick came to the studio to have her picture taken. Mr. Starleigh allowed Bob to do the work, which proved highly satisfactory. When Bob printed and mounted the pictures, he made an extra one, but this did not go among the studio samples.

“I’ll keep that for my own,” said Bob to himself.

At length the day came for Bob to quit the studio. Mr. Starleigh shook him warmly by the hand.

“I am sorry to lose you, Bob,” he said. “But I am glad you are going to start on your own account with such bright prospects. I have taught you all in my power, and you ought to be able to get along very well.”

“Thanks, Mr. Starleigh, and I won’t forget what you’ve done for me,” returned Bob.

Bob had received full instructions from the railroad superintendent as to what sort of pictures were desired. He was to go along the entire length of the road, and the original order for thirty pictures had been increased to fifty, to include sections of the roadbed, bridges, and views of the scenery on the route and in the vicinity.

“And do your best, Bob,” said Grace Maverick.

“You can take my word I will,” replied the youth. “And if you will allow me, I will occasionally send you a few private pictures, taken by the way.”

“Oh, that will be delightful!”

He shook her hand. The extra squeeze he gave it was returned, and both blushed. Then he turned to Mr. Maverick, bade him good-by, and drove off.

Bob the Photographer had started on his first travelling tour. Little did he dream of the many adventures and perils he was to encounter before he returned to Stampton.

The horse that had been presented to him was a good one, and he started off at a lively gait. The wagon moved along easily, and Bob, seated up in front, whip in hand, felt in the best of spirits.

His first stop was to be at a place called Dartinville, a small town, situated on the mountain side. It was a great place for summer boarders, all of whom had to come by way of the T. W. & L. Railroad.

The road to Dartinville ran along the side of a narrow but deep creek. It was rather a rough road, with the mountains directly back of it.

As Bob drove along, he began to whistle, but presently the whistle died on his lips, as he heard the rush of wheels directly behind him.

He looked back, and saw a horse tearing toward him at a breakneck speed.

Behind the horse was a sulky, and clinging to the seat of this was a bareheaded man, who seemed to be paralyzed with fright.

Bob’s heart jumped into his throat. What was to be done?

“Steer out!” he yelled to the man, as the horse and turn-out came nearer.

“I can’t! Stop the horse!” yelled the occupant of the sulky, in terror.

“I can’t stop him. Steer out or there will be a smash-up,” went on Bob.

The man paid no attention. He had dropped the lines, which were trailing on the horse’s heels, and he did not have courage enough to risk letting go his hold in an endeavor to pick them up.

Bob saw that something must be done, and at once. He caught up his own reins, and at the risk of upsetting his wagon turned in toward the mountain slope.

“Steer out, I tell you!” he cried again. “If you run into me, you’ll be killed.”

“Stop the horse!” was the man’s only reply.

With a bound, Bob was on the ground. He ran back of his own wagon as fast as his legs would carry him.

By this time the runaway was but a few feet away. Seeing Bob in the road, the horse sheered in and darted past the youth.

Bob gave a groan. The runaway was now less than five yards from his own turn-out, and it looked as if he would dash headlong into it and thus smash it into a thousand bits.

“Whoa!” yelled Bob, in one mighty, final effort to attract the mad steed’s attention.

The horse heard the command, gave a snort, and shook his head. Then he swerved outward, and flew past Bob’s turn-out, just grazing one of the rear wheels.

Bob rushed forward, but before he could catch the mad animal the horse swerved still more, made a leap, and plunged into the water, dragging the sulky, with the man on it, after him.

THE HORSE PLUNGED INTO THE WATER, DRAGGING THE SULKY, WITH THE MAN ON IT, AFTER HIM.

CHAPTER XVI
BOB TAKES A DIVE OVERBOARD

Bob was alarmed when he saw the horse go overboard, dragging the sulky with the man clinging to it after him.

He saw the horse go down out of sight. The rear end of the sulky remained above water, but the man dropped over the front, and he, too, disappeared.

Bob waited for a moment in breathless suspense. Then he saw the horse come up and begin to struggle wildly.

Where was the man? Second after second passed, and still he failed to appear.

“Perhaps he’s caught in the sulky and can’t rise,” thought Bob. “He’ll be drowned if he stays under much longer.”

Suddenly the youth saw something which filled him with horror.

It was one foot of the man, which stuck up through the left sulky wheel.

“He’s caught sure,” burst out the youth. “Unless I help him he’ll be drowned.”

The horse was still struggling madly, and the water all around was churned into foam.

Bob approached the brink of the creek and watched eagerly to see if the man would show any sign of life.

Presently he saw the foot give a spasmodic movement, and then on the other side of the wheel appeared the man’s head.

“Save me!” were the first words he uttered, as he expelled a lot of water from his mouth.

“Can’t you get clear of the wheel?” cried Bob.

“No; my leg is caught in the reins, which are all twisted up.”

Bob listened to no more. He pulled out his clasp-knife and opened it. Then watching for a favorable opportunity, he dived to the man’s assistance.

Under the surface he went, but quickly came up close to where the man was situated.

“It’s my left leg,” cried the man. “Confound the horse, why can’t he keep still?”

“Because he wants to be saved, too,” replied Bob, and under he went.

Bob was used to the water. Indeed the only recreation he had had while living with old Peter Thompson was to go swimming in the river behind the house, and gunning in the woods.

Consequently the youth felt perfectly at home. With eyes wide open, he quickly took in the situation, and two slashes of the clasp-knife released the tangled-up limb, and the man was free.

Without a word the man made for the bank, and, catching hold of some overhanging bushes, pulled himself up.

“Don’t you want to save your horse?” called out Bob, taking care that the animal should not kick him.

“I do, but I don’t know how.”

“Get the rope tied under my wagon.”

The man ran off, and in less than fifteen seconds returned with a long rope which the young photographer carried for a case of emergency.

“Throw one end down,” went on Bob, and this was promptly done.

Catching the floating end, Bob made a noose in it. Then he swam close to the struggling horse and threw the noose over the animal’s head.

“Now pull him down the stream to that shallow place,” cried Bob. “Hurry up, or he’ll be a goner.”

Pulling on the rope the man started down the stream. It was hard work, and long before he reached the shallow spot Bob was up on the bank beside him.

As soon as the horse struck the shallow part of the creek he ceased to struggle, and they had but little difficulty in leading him to dry ground.

Here, however, he began to tremble, and finally sank down on his side.

“He’s chilled more than anything,” said Bob. “The best we can do will be to rub him. I don’t believe he has swallowed much water.”

“He don’t look so. But he was fearfully heated from running away. I reckon that rubbing will warm us up, too.”

Bob ran back to his wagon and got a blanket and several other articles. When he came back, he found the man had already gone to work, and he set to helping.

Once thoroughly rubbed down and blanketed, the horse appeared to be better.

“Leave him in the strong sunshine for a while, and he’ll be all right,” said Bob. “As soon as he makes a move to stand up make him do so and walk him around.”

“I see you are used to handling horses.”

“A little. What was the trouble, did he run away?”

“Yes, got the bit and that settled it. I am glad we saved him.”

“He looks like a valuable animal.”

“I believe he is. He is not mine. He belongs to a friend, who asked me to take him out and exercise him.”

“Your friend will be surprised when he learns of what has happened.”

“I suppose so. But who are you, if I may ask?”

Bob told him.

“I am Edgar Willett, of Dartinville. I owe you something, Alden, for your generous help.”

“That’s all right.”

“So you are taking pictures for the railroad company?”

“Yes.”

“Intend to stop at Dartinville?”

“Such was the calculation.”

“Then while you remain you must make my home your own. My house is the first beyond the blacksmith shop. I have lots of stable room for your horse and wagon.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, no thanks. You saved the horse, and that is worth a good deal to me.”

While they were waiting for the horse to recover, Bob entered his own turn-out and changed his clothes. He gave Willett a like chance, offering him a suit that almost fitted him, and the man gladly made the transfer.

A couple of hours later they started for Dartinville. Willett led the way to his own house, and Bob tied up in the stable. Mrs. Willett was told of what had happened, and she at once prepared a hot dinner for the two.

Bob was hungry, and he ate heartily. Then Willett started to return the horse and the sulky, and the young photographer went off to take his first picture for the railroad company.

There was a bridge at Dartinville which the railroad company had built over the creek. It was a picturesque place, and Bob had every reason to believe that it would make a fine view.

With his camera in one hand and his tripod and satchel slung over his shoulder, Bob made his way to the spot.

In order to get the proper view the young photographer was compelled to climb through a mass of thick brush and stubble. This was not very agreeable, but Bob bore it philosophically, remembering that all work is not play.

At last Bob reached a spot he thought a good one and without delay he set up his tripod. He had just adjusted his camera and was putting in a plate when a noise close at hand made him pause.

The noise came from the depth of the brush, and for the moment Bob could not make out what it was.

“Maybe somebody is following me,” he thought.

A minute later the sound ceased. Bob listened for it quite a while, but at last turned again to his work. It was no easy matter to get a good picture, as the sun shone almost directly toward him.

“If I am not careful, I’ll have a ghost on the plate,” he said to himself, thereby meaning that the sun would cause the picture to be white spotted.

To make sure of getting a perfect plate Bob took two pictures, one while the sun was out full and the other when that luminary was slightly clouded.

The pictures taken, Bob placed them away so that no light might reach them, and prepared to leave the spot.

“That makes picture number one,” he thought. “And I sincerely hope that it proves a success.”

He resolved to develop both plates as soon as he reached the wagon, and if one was not perfect in every way to return and try again.

Bob had just started to close up his camera when the strange noise he had heard before reached his ears.

This time it came closer, and the young photographer made up his mind it was some animal roaming in the brush.

“Perhaps a stray cow,” he said to himself.

“Here, cush! cush! cush!” he called out.

For reply the crashing through the brush came even closer.

Presently the brush was thrust aside by a pair of horns and the head of a large and angry-looking bull appeared.

“Hello, this is interesting,” thought Bob, springing back.

The bull gave a look around and then fixed his glaring eyes on the young photographer in a most threatening manner.

“Gee haw!” shouted Bob, trying by this means to make the bull leave.

Instead of turning, the bull gave a fierce snort.

“He means mischief,” thought Bob, looking around for something with which to defend himself.

Then the bull lowered his head and with another snort rushed toward Bob.

CHAPTER XVII
BOB MAKES A STRANGE CAPTURE

Bob sprang to one side, catching up the camera as he did so.

The bull charged forward, and had the youth been in the spot where he had just stood he would have been gored to death.

The bull had a ring in his nose, and Bob now saw that he was of the wildest sort, and evidently used to being chained.

“If I had an axe, I would knock him on the head,” said Bob, as he again dodged. “There goes the satchel. I’ll bet he smashed every bottle in it.”

For the bull had planted his foot on the travelling bag, and Bob had heard the crash of glass.

Again the wild animal made for Bob, his eyes glaring like two balls of red fire.

“He has escaped from somebody,” thought Bob. “I wonder what I had best do?”

While Bob continued to dodge around among the brush he heard the sounds of voices.

“Hullo there, help!” he cried out.

“Is that bull there?” came back almost immediately.

“He is, horns and all,” returned Bob. “And the sooner you capture him the better I will like it.”

“Drat the luck!” returned another voice. “Hi, hi!”

Presently two farmers came in sight, opposite to where Bob stood. One carried a gad and the other a chain and clasp.

“It’s him, sure enough,” said one of the farmers. “Look out, if you don’t want to be killed!” he yelled.

“I am looking out,” said Bob. “By jinks!”

The bull had made another charge, and the young photographer had to step lively to get out of reach.

“If he was mine, I’d knock him on the head with an axe,” said Bob. “He’s too dangerous to leave running around.”

“He broke away this morning,” replied one of the farmers. “He belongs up to the county fair. They had a high old time before he got out of the back gate.”

“And you’ll have a high old time before you get him back, I’m thinking,” laughed Bob, who was now beginning to relish the scene.

“I guess you’re right. What’s that thing?”

“My satchel. He just smashed it.”

“Humph! It’s good luck he didn’t smash you instead of the bag.”

“That’s so, too. How do you propose to catch him?”

“Bless me if I know.”

“I want ter git the chain on to him if I kin,” put in the other farmer.

“That’s easier said than done. Hold up, give me that chain.”

Bob snatched the chain from the man’s hand.

The bull was at that moment standing under a tree, the lower branches of which were just over his back.

Bob ran up behind the animal and in a twinkle was up the tree.

Then he crawled out on the branches until he was near the bull’s head.

At that instant the bull looked up. Quick as a flash Bob bent down and hooked the chain in to the ring in the animal’s nose.

The bull gave a loud snort and tried to lower his head.

But before he could do so Bob had the chain wound around the branch several times, and he held fast with all his might.

The bull pulled hard, but though the branch bent pretty low, it did not break.

“Well, I swan!” cried one of the farmers. “If that ain’t the cutest trick I ever see.”

“Don’t yer tumble on to him, or he’ll gore yer ter jelly!” yelled the other farmer.

Bob fastened the end of the chain so that it could not slip, and then slid down on the opposite side of the tree.

By this time pulling on the chain had begun to hurt the bull’s nose, and he quieted down, although his eyes rolled as fiercely as ever.

“He’s safe there for the present,” said Bob. “The best thing you can do is to get another chain and hobble him.”

“We’ll get his regular keeper,” returned one of the farmers. “By gosh, but ain’t he a regular picter with his nose stuck up in the air!”

This remark gave Bob a sudden idea. He ran back for his camera, and setting it up, hastily took a picture of the captured beast.

“I’ll send it to Frank,” he said to himself. “It will remind him of the time we tried to photograph that elephant.”

While Bob was taking the picture and looking over the wreck of his satchel, one of the farmers made off to notify the keeper of the prize bull of what had occurred. He returned in a short while, having met the keeper on the road.

A number of ropes and chains were procured, and before long the bull was under complete control. The keeper spoke kindly to him, and gradually the fierce light in the bull’s eyes died out utterly, and he became as gentle as an ordinary animal.

“A woman teased him with a red parasol,” explained the man to Bob. “Otherwise he would never have acted in this fashion. I will be able to lead him back without further trouble, mark my word.”

And when he started, the bull went along just as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

As there were no more pictures to be taken that day, Bob followed the keeper and the two farmers to the county fair, which was being held on the outskirts of Dartinville. He was allowed in without buying a ticket, and when he met the owner of the bull, that individual promptly offered to pay for all damages done.

“Well, the chemicals in the bag were worth about six dollars,” said Bob.

“And the satchel?”

“I don’t know. It was a gift.”

“Will a ten-dollar bill cover it?”

“I think so.”

“Then here is a twenty—ten for your loss and ten for your ingenuity in helping us capture the bull.”

Bob pocketed the cash with thanks. The adventure had been rather a perilous one, but on the whole he had enjoyed it.

Buying himself a pocketful of peanuts, Bob strolled around the grounds. He was not much interested in the display of prize fruit and vegetables, having seen too much of this stuff while working on the farm.

But the side-shows attracted his attention. They had big paintings hung outside, and Bob had seen very little of anything like it before.

“Walk up, ladies and gentlemen, and see the most marvellous exhibition on the face of the globe!” cried out one of the side-show spouters. “The bearded lady from Georgia, the four-legged man from California, and the celebrated glass-eater, Mazzati, from the Island of Borneo. Admission but a dime, and if you are not satisfied we will refund you your money.”

Bob listened for a while, and during the time he was doing so he saw a tall figure walk up to the stand, buy a ticket, and enter the dirty tent.

It was Joel Carrow.

“Gracious, he must be treating himself,” thought Bob. “A whole ten cents spent at one time, not to say anything about the price of admission to the fair grounds. I have half a mind to follow him in and see what he has to say when we meet.”

Bob thought over the matter for a moment. Then he dropped a dime into the doorkeeper’s hand and passed inside the show-tent.

As he expected, the show—if it may be designated by that name—was the worst kind of a swindle. The bearded lady’s beard was a false one—the four-legged man had two artificial limbs, and the glass-eater ate nothing more brittle than a peculiar kind of rock candy.

Only half a dozen visitors were inside the tent, and they stared stupidly around, first at the so-called curiosities and then at one another.

Bob looked for Joel Carrow, who had inspected the “curiosities,” and was now making his way to a corner of the tent where stood a flashily-dressed man, having before him a small show-case and a box filled with envelopes.

The show-case was laden with articles of jewelry, each bearing a certain number.

“Here’s your chance to make money,” said the flashily-dressed man. “Each of the envelopes in this box contains a number, and that number can be found on some articles of jewelry in the case. The price of an envelope is only twenty-five cents, and there are no blanks. Try your luck and win the gold watch or the diamond scarf-pin, either of which is worth fifty dollars.”

Joel Carrow was interested. He did not know that none of the envelopes contained the number corresponding to the articles of any value in the case. It was true there were no blanks, but it was also true there were no prizes of a greater cash value than five cents.

“I’ll try my luck,” said Carrow, after some hesitation, and he passed over twenty-five cents.

“I think I’ll watch this,” thought Bob. “That man will try to swindle Carrow all he can.”

CHAPTER XVIII
BOB SHOWS UP A SWINDLER

Bob had no great feeling of love for the miserly farmer who had so misused him, yet he did not intend to stand calmly by and see Joel Carrow done out of his money.

He had heard of this prize-package swindle while in Stampton, and he knew exactly how it was worked.

The flashily-dressed man took in Carrow at a glance, and also noted that the farmer carried a well-filled pocket-book.

He thought Carrow would prove well worth plucking, and smiled broadly.

“One package? We sell five for a dollar. You had better try it. You may win all large prizes.”

“I’ll try one first,” replied Carrow, cautiously.

The man handed out the box. One of the envelopes projected slightly beyond the rest, and this Carrow took.

“Number 37,” he said, reading from a slip. “What’s that good fer?”

“Number 37 takes this elegant ruby scarf-pin, worth eight dollars,” replied the swindler, handing over a pin that was nothing but a bit of colored glass and brass. “You’re in luck.”

“Is the pin worth eight dollars?” questioned Carrow, doubtfully.

“Certainly. Would you rather have five dollars in cash? That is what they cost direct from the manufacturers. Many jewellers sell them for double the money.”

It will be noticed that the swindler did not say he would give five dollars for the pin, although he led Carrow to believe he would.

This remark made the old farmer feel good.

“N-no; I’ll keep the pin.”

“Very well. Try again? Remember, only one dollar for five.”

“Well, I dun no,” and Carrow scratched his head.

“Let me show you something.” The swindler pretended to shake up the box of envelopes. “How is this?”

He drew out an envelope. The number inside was fifty, and this called for the watch said to be worth fifty dollars.

“Gosh!” murmured Carrow, in admiration. “I wish I had drew it.”

“Nothing easier. See here, I will place the number back into the envelope and put the envelope back into the box. There it goes. Now remember, you know as well as I it has got the number entitling you to the fifty-dollar watch. You most likely know just where it is. Try it for fun.”

Carrow did so. Sure enough, his sharp eyes had followed the right envelope and the number was within it.

“Now I’ll try it again. There it goes, just as before. If you want to win, I’ll give you the chance. For ten dollars you may draw three envelopes. You are bound to strike the right one in one out of three.”

Carrow’s eyes sparkled. He was sure he had his eye on the right envelope.

He drew out his pocket-book to get out his ten dollars.

At this instant Bob brushed up to him. The young photographer had watched proceedings closely, and he knew exactly what had occurred.

“Don’t try it, or you will lose,” he whispered.

Carrow started back as if shot.

“What, Bob Alden!” he cried.

“Yes, Carrow. Did you hear me?”

“Where did you come from, you scamp?”

“I’m not a scamp, Carrow.”

“You—you——” blustered the farmer, hardly knowing what to say.

“I want no words with you,” replied Bob. “I merely meant to warn you. This is a swindle.”

“A swindle!” gasped Carrow.

“What’s that?” put in the sharper, roughly.

“I am talking to this man,” returned the young photographer.

“He says it’s a swindle,” put in Carrow.

“You had better mind your own business, young man. What right have you to interfere here?”

“The right of anybody to show you up,” returned Bob, bravely. “You sha’n’t swindle this man out of ten dollars if I can help it.”

“How do yer know it’s a swindle?” asked Carrow, faintly.

“Because he didn’t put the number in the envelope.”

“Are yer sure o’ thet?”

“Yes.”

“Nonsense!” cried the swindler. “This is a perfectly honest game of chance.”

“He had two numbers in his hand. The first time he placed one of them in the envelope, but this time he placed the other, and you can be sure it wasn’t the fifty.”

“See here, you get out of here!” cried the swindler, in a rage. “I have a good mind to have you arrested for interfering with my business.”

“You may have me arrested if you wish,” replied the young photographer, coolly.

The swindler rushed from behind his stand and caught Bob by the arm.

“Let go!”

“You get right out of here.”

Bob pulled himself away. The row had attracted the attention of several in the tent and they now interfered.

“Leave the boy alone!”

“He told the truth; that game is always a swindle!”

“The whole show is a swindle!”

“That’s so, too.”

The crowd shoved forward, and the swindler move back to his stand.

As he brushed past Bob he muttered into the youth’s ear:

“I’ll get square with you some time for this!”

“Perhaps I won’t give you the chance,” replied Bob, aloud.

In the disturbance Joel Carrow slipped away without even thanking Bob for the service which had been rendered to him.

“But that’s just like him,” thought Bob. “He wouldn’t thank me even if I saved his life.”

He left the tent with several others, the swindler shaking his fist after the youth.

By this time the fair was about over for the day, and after a short walk among the exhibits in the main building, Bob left the grounds.

He had accepted Willett’s invitation to remain at the latter’s house all night, and when he reached the place he found supper awaiting him.

The family were all seated out on the porch, and they made such a fine group that Bob took a tintype of them, while it was still light, he having brought along an outfit for such pictures. The tintype he presented to Mrs. Willett, much to that lady’s pleasure.

“I should think it would be fun taking pictures,” said she.

“And worth money, too,” added her husband.

“It is both, and it is also perilous,” returned Bob, and he told of the adventure with the prize bull.

“My! it’s lucky you weren’t killed!” cried the woman. “Weren’t you scared?”

“I was at first. But I am having so many adventures I am getting used to them.”

Bob learned that the horse which had plunged into the creek was doing nicely, and would in all likelihood recover entirely from his involuntary bath.

Bob had never been in Dartinville before, and after supper, and while it was still light, he took a stroll though the town. He stopped at the drug-store and there purchased such chemicals as had been lost in the smashed satchel.

“Now if one of those plates turn out all right, I’ll be ready to start off first thing in the morning,” he thought.

Bob did not know that his entrance into the drug-store had been noted, yet such was a fact.

The man who had tried to swindle Joel Carrow was stopping at the hotel opposite the place of business, and he was now seated on the piazza, smoking a cigar.

“There’s the boy who caused me so much trouble this afternoon,” muttered the swindler. “I promised to get square with him, and I will.”

Throwing away his cigar, he ran down the piazza steps and took up a place behind a tree.

He had not long to wait. With the chemicals in a small package in his left hand, Bob came out of the drug-store and walked toward the Willett home.

It was getting dark now, and the young photographer wished to develop the pictures he had taken before retiring.

With a look of intense hatred in his face, the swindler followed Bob until they came to a dark spot in the road and caught the youth by the collar.

CHAPTER XIX
BOB ON THE ROAD

For the instant Bob could not make out who had caught hold of him. The road was dark, and the fair-ground swindler had come up in his rear.

He thought he must be the victim of some footpad, and, dropping his bundle of chemicals, he strove to break away.

“Let go of me!” he cried.

“I will when I have you where I want you,” returned the swindler.

Bob fancied he recognized the voice, but he was not sure. He renewed his struggle and had almost succeeded in breaking away when the swindler hit him a blow in the neck that dazed him.

“Now we’ll see who’s ahead,” hissed the man. “I’ll teach you to interfere with Joe Horning’s business.”

“I’ll give you away to the police the next time,” returned Bob, although rather faintly. “Let go your hold!”

“Not much! See here, you served me a mean trick, and I promised to get square. I don’t intend to lose ten dollars for nothing. How much have you got in your pockets?”

“More than you’ll ever get,” cried Bob, growing desperate. “Will you let go?”

“I told you before I would not.”

“Then take that!”

Bob had by this time somewhat recovered from the blow in the neck. He now hauled off with his right fist and let the swindler have it straight in the mouth.

Bob threw all his muscle in the blow. It caught Joe Horning in the upper lip, and not only drew the blood, but also loosened two of the swindler’s front teeth.

The swindler began to splutter, and he put up one of his hands to his mouth.

Thus partially released, Bob twisted himself free from the other hand, rolled over and sprang up.

Joe Horning had not anticipated such resentment on Bob’s part, and he was surprised in addition to being hurt. He stepped back into the road, and made a movement as if to draw a pistol.

“I’ll fix you!” he muttered, after spitting out a mouthful of blood.

Whether the swindler had a pistol or not, Bob did not know. But he was determined to take no risk with so desperate a character, and, springing forward, he closed in on Horning.

The two rolled over into the dirt of the road, and for a while it was a question as to which would come out on top. Horning was at first under, but he was a strong man, and he now put forth every effort to get the best of the young photographer.

“You think you’re mighty fly, but I’ll show you,” he puffed.

To this Bob made no reply. He saw he had a hard task before him, but he did not intend to waste breath.

Horning tried to roll over several times, but Bob held him down, until, when he could do nothing else, the swindler bit the young photographer in the finger.

It was not a hard bite, but it was so painful and unexpected that Bob was for the moment taken off his guard.

In that moment Horning pushed the youth aside and sprang on top.

“This is my innings. Pass over that ten dollars that is coming to me.”

“I won’t do it.”

“I say you shall. Come, be quick!”

Horning tried to get one of his hands into Bob’s vest pocket. That pocket contained seventeen dollars in bills, and Bob struggled vigorously to save his money.

Just then there came the sounds of carriage wheels on the road. Bob, lying on his back, heard them first and brightened up. Perhaps help was close at hand.

At last the swindler succeeded in getting his fingers into the pocket. The tips came in contact with the roll of bills, and he renewed his efforts to gain possession of the money.

He had just succeeded in getting the bills in his grasp, when he noticed the approaching carriage. He tried to spring away, but Bob held him fast.

“Help, help!” cried the young photographer.

The carriage came to a sudden stop. A man sat on the front seat, whip in hand.

“What’s up?” he cried, curiously.

“This fellow is robbing me. Help!”

The man made a leap to the road. Horning saw him coming, and he tried his best to wrench himself away.

But Bob’s hold was a good one, and although the swindler kicked him several times, he did not relinquish it until the new arrival had Horning by the collar.

Then Bob jumped up, and caught the fellow by the arm.

“Don’t let him escape,” he cried to the man from the carriage.

“I’ve got him fast enough,” returned the stranger. “So he was trying to rob you, eh?”

“Yes. He has a roll of bills he took from my vest pocket.”

“That’s not so!” cried Horning. “I have nothing but some loose change in my possession.”

“Then he threw the roll away when you came up,” said Bob. “He took it from my vest pocket only a second ago.”

“Strike a match and take a look around,” suggested the stranger. “He may have flung it away as you say.”

Bob quickly lit a match, and then several more. In a few minutes he found the bills, lying to one side in the dust.

“I have them,” he cried.

“What will you do with this fellow?” asked the stranger. “If you say so, we can take him to my uncle, who is the squire.”

“I think that would be best,” said Bob. “He attacked me because I exposed his swindling methods in a side-show at the fair this afternoon.”

“Oh, I heard about that! So you are the chap, and this is the swindler.”

“Yes,” returned Bob. “Shall we walk him there, or can you take him in your carriage?”

“Take him in the carriage.”

“Is it far?”

“About five minutes’ drive.”

“All right. Come, get in the carriage!” went on Bob, turning to Horning.

“See here, gents, this is rather rough,” returned the swindler. All the bluster and bravery seemed to have died out of him.

“It’s not any worse than you deserve,” said Bob.

“No, I ain’t that kind. I sometimes go in for a bit of fun, but——”

“You can do your talking when you are locked up,” said the stranger. “Now get in at once.”

He assisted Horning up on the front seat, still retaining his hold on the fellow’s collar.

“Now you had better take a seat in the rear,” said he to Bob. “You will find a heavy stick under the seat. Don’t hesitate to use it if he tries to escape.”

Bob was about to enter the carriage, when suddenly Horning sprang up and hit the stranger on the breast. The blow was so unexpected that the carriage owner reeled backward. He would have struck on his head had not Bob caught him.

“Get up!” cried Horning to the horse, and the animal moved forward.

The swindler caught up the reins, and away went the carriage, leaving Bob in the middle of the road supporting the carriage owner, who had not yet recovered.

“Whoa!” cried the youth to the horse, but the animal paid no attention, and soon swindler and turn-out had disappeared in the darkness.

“Well, that’s a fine mess!” cried the carriage owner as he recovered himself. “He got the best of Jack Hicks that time, and no mistake.”

“What is best to be done?” questioned Bob.

“I must go after him,” replied Hicks.

“You can’t do it on foot.”

“I’ll borrow a rig from Edgar Willett.”

“Do you know him? I am stopping at his house.”

“Oh, yes, he is an old friend of mine.”

The two hurried off, and soon reached the Willett homestead. Willett had gone to bed, but he quickly dressed and got out a horse and light spring wagon.

He wished to accompany Hicks, but his wife persuaded him to remain at home.

“I suppose I can go?” said Bob.

“Certainly. Jump in.”

Bob placed his chemicals in a safe place, and a minute later the spring wagon was on the road, spinning along in the direction Horning had taken.

“Are there any side roads near here?” asked the young photographer, after a drive of several minutes in silence.

“Not for fully a mile from here.”

“We ought to try to catch him before he has a chance of branching off.”

“That’s what I am thinking. The trouble is my horse is a pretty fast stepper, although he is rather tired just now.”

On and on they went through the darkness.

Presently Hicks drew up rather suddenly, and pointed to one side of the road.

“There is a cow-path in here,” he said. “He might have gone this way.”

“And he did,” said Bob.

“How do you know?”

“There is your horse and carriage standing in the bushes.”

CHAPTER XX
BOB IN THE WOODS

The young photographer was right. There, scarcely ten yards away, were the horse and the wagon.

Hicks at once jumped down and strode over to the turn-out. Bob followed.

“Is it O. K.?” queried Bob.

“Seems to be. He drove the horse for all he knew how,” responded Hicks.

“Which way do you think he went?”

“Can’t say. It’s so infernally dark it will be impossible to follow him up.”

“Well, I’m glad you got your rig back.”

“So am I. Yes, it’s all right, too.”

“Let me have the lantern a moment.”

“What for?”

“I’ll see if he left any trace behind.”

Bob took the lantern and made a close search. But though there were foot-marks, there were too many to trace out those made by the swindler.

“What is beyond here?” asked the young photographer as he returned the lantern to the spring wagon.

“This cow-path leads to Gus Freeman’s barn-yard.”

“Is it far?”

“Quite a walk. There is a short cut over the fields.”

“Then supposing we take a walk up that way? We may head the fellow off.”

“That’s so. Wait till I tie both horses and we’ll go.”

To a person not accustomed to outdoor life, walking over the rough fields would have been no easy task, but Bob was used to it, and he easily kept up with Hicks’s long strides.

When they reached the barn-yard of which Hicks had spoken, they found it dark and silent. The house stood some distance away, but there, also, was no sign of life.

“He must have branched off,” said Hicks, as they came to a halt near the stile.

“Perhaps, but—hist! what was that?”

Bob pointed to the rear of the cow-shed as he spoke. A movement of some kind had attracted his attention.

“I didn’t see anything.”

“It looked to me like a man moving about.”

“Perhaps it was Freeman’s colt. He leaves him out here over night.”

But Bob shook his head. He was certain that what he had seen was not a horse.

“I’m going up and find out,” he said. “You stay here and watch for a move from below.”

“All right. If you see him, whistle.”

Bob moved away through the semi-darkness. Passing along the rail fence to the end of the barn he hopped over, and, without making a sound, crossed to the cow-shed.

As he did so, a form sprang away from the shed and darted around the corner of the barn. Bob was sure it was the form of Joe Horning.

He gave a whistle to notify Hicks, and then ran after the man, who by this time had passed the barn and was making for a corn-field situated some distance to the right.

As we know, Bob was a good runner, and now he put forth his best effort, hoping to catch Horning before he entered the field.

But in this he was unsuccessful. The swindler gained the field, and in a moment vanished among the tall rows of corn.

Now, any one who has been in a field of tall corn knows full well how difficult it is to see in any direction over a distance of ten feet.

Bob ran after Horning, but once in the field he depended altogether on his ears to guide him toward the fellow.

He heard Horning making his way down the slope toward the creek, and he concluded that the swindler knew nothing of the “lay of the land.”

Presently Bob heard a splash, and he knew the man had reached the creek. He rushed straight ahead, and was just in time to see Horning wading knee-deep across to the stony field beyond.

“He means to escape, if the thing can be done,” thought Bob. “I wonder if I can’t jump over and thus save myself a wetting?”

He gave a loud whistle for Hicks’s benefit, and then, drawing back several paces, took the leap.

Bob was a good jumper, and he cleared the creek with nearly a foot to spare.

Horning by this time was making up the rocky slope which led to a patch of timber land, rather sparingly overgrown. He looked behind, and, seeing that Bob was still following, redoubled his speed.

But Bob was more used to such travelling than the swindler from the city, and he kept gaining on Horning, until, when the other side of the timber was reached, he was not more than a hundred feet behind.

Again he whistled to Hicks, but whether he was answered or not he was unable to tell.

“I’ll have to fight it out alone,” thought Bob, grimly. “Well, I won’t give him the ghost of a chance this trip. He’ll find he can’t nip my finger for nothing.”

“You might as well stop, Horning!” he called out.

“I believe I will,” returned the man, and he turned about and waited for Bob to come up.

“Do you give in?”

“Certainly not. I am no fool.”

“We are two to one.”

Horning started. He had supposed Bob alone.

“Who is with you?”

“Never mind, you’ll soon see.”

Bob gave another whistle, but to his dismay he received no answer.

He did not know that Hicks was slightly hard of hearing, and had only heard the signal when Bob was comparatively close by.

In perplexity over the non-appearance of Hicks, Bob looked around for a stick. He soon found one, and, picking it up, he brandished it in the air.

“Now, we’ll see who is the best man. Do you see that light over in the cottage yonder?”

“Not being blind, I do,” returned Horning, sarcastically.

“Well, you’ll walk straight for it.”

“I won’t, and you can’t make me.”

As Horning spoke, he sprang at Bob. The young photographer took a step back, and then brought down the stick with all force.

The blow caught Horning in the arm, and he uttered a shrill cry of pain.

“You have broken my arm!”

“Not quite as bad as that I hope,” said Bob. “Do you intend to mind now?”

“No.”

Again the swindler made a dash for Bob.

Once more the stick descended, but this time Horning dodged, and, putting out his foot, he tripped Bob up.

When the young photographer arose, Horning was again running as fast as his long legs would permit. But Bob was equal to the emergency. He picked up a stone, and, with unerring aim, flung it at the retreating form.

The missile caught Horning in the back of the head. He staggered, tried to recover, and then fell forward.

He was partly stunned, and before he recovered Bob was on top of him. In his pocket the young photographer had a strong cord, and with this he bound Horning’s hands behind him.

“You have broken my skull!” moaned Horning, completely subdued when he saw how helpless he now was.

“No more broken than is your arm,” returned Bob. “Will you go along now?”

“No.”

“Want another dose of that stick, eh?”

“Hold up! I’ll go. Oh, my head!”

“We’ll have your head attended to as soon as I have you in a safe place. Come on!”

Bob caught Horning by the arm, and both walked toward the cottage, from the window of which a light was streaming.

Bob had no idea who occupied the place, but he thought it would be likely he would find somebody to give him assistance.

Arriving at the cottage, he knocked on the door. There was at once a commotion inside, and Bob fancied that the light was lowered.

“Who’s there?” came in rather a rough voice.

“I want help,” said Bob.

The door was opened cautiously, and the next moment Bob was nearly dumfounded to find himself confronted by Mike Grogan.

CHAPTER XXI
BOB TAKES A RISK

If the young photographer was astonished, so was the Irishman.

“Phat, you?” he gasped.

“Mike Grogan!” ejaculated Bob.

He darted a swift glance around the interior of the room, and was even more taken back than before by beholding Casco and Barker seated at the table, a bottle between them.

“It’s that Alden boy,” cried Casco.

“Alden!” exclaimed Barker, jumping up. “How did he find out we were here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is he alone?”

“No; there is a man with him, and hang me if it isn’t Joe Horning.”

“What, Joe Horning the circus fakir?”

“Yes.”

“What does he want?”

“Give it up.”

Barker moved toward the door, which Grogan still held open.

Bob was trying to think. What should he do? Confronting the villainous trio had completely upset his calculations.

He had half a mind to run away. It was certain the trio would help Horning and not himself when they understood the situation.

But Casco seemed to realize what was passing through the young photographer’s mind, for with a quick movement he sprang past Grogan and caught Bob by the arm.

“Come in here!” he said, sharply.

Bob marched into the place. Horning followed, and then the door was locked, and the Irishman placed the key in his pocket.

Bob glanced around curiously. He saw that the cottage contained nothing but a rude table, and several boxes for seats, and rightly conjectured that the trio had found it deserted and made of it a temporary rendezvous.

“Now tell me what brings you here?” demanded Barker, facing Bob, savagely.

“I came to get help,” returned the youth, as coolly as he could.

“Help! What for?”

“To take this man to the lock-up.”

“What! Horning?”

“Yes.”

“That’s rich.”

And both Barker and Casco laughed.

“Shake,” said Casco to the fakir.

“I can’t, my hands are tied,” returned Horning, rather sheepishly.

“Blame me if they ain’t. So the boy had you a prisoner, Joe.”

“Yes,” growled the swindler. “He hit me in the head with a rock first and knocked me silly.” He did not fancy having the others think he had been overpowered by a boy.

“Why was he after you?”

“We had a row up to the fair grounds.”

“I was after him because he tried to steal my money and then stole a horse and carriage,” returned Bob.

There was a general laugh, but at whose expense it was hard to say.

Casco cut the cord which bound Horning. The first thing the swindler did when released was to confront Bob.

“I’ve a good mind to fix you for that crack in the head,” he cried.

“Hold up, Joe, he’s our game,” interrupted Casco.

“He is,” added Barker.

“An’ don’t worrhy but phat we’ll git square wid him,” said Grogan.

“You seem to know him pretty well,” remarked Horning.

“We do,” said Casco. He turned to Bob. “See here, how long have you been following us since you escaped from Cabot’s place?”

“I haven’t been following you at all.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, if you know better, what do you ask me for?”

“Don’t get impudent. Do you know that you are in our power?”

“Seems to me I was in your power before,” and Bob grinned.

“Sure, an’ he’s a terror,” remarked Grogan.

“He is that,” said Horning. “But I say, what are you three fellows doing out here? I thought you were in New York.”

Barker winked at him. The wink was not intended to reach Bob, but, nevertheless, the youth caught it.

“They are up to no good, that’s certain,” he thought. “If they were merely hiding from the authorities, they would choose some more congenial spot than this.”

Barker now produced a rope, and was about to tie Bob up when Grogan came forward.

“Phat’s the good o’ that?” he asked. “Sure, an’ the b’y kin git out o’ it loike a snake.”

“You’re right,” said Casco. “He’s the imp’s own. Put him in one of the back rooms and place Mike to watch him. I want to talk to Joe.”

Grogan’s face fell a little, but when Casco said he could take the bottle along for company the Irishman was reconciled.

Barker conducted Bob to a room separate from that now occupied. Here the young photographer was tied to a support under a heavy shelf and left in care of Grogan.

Grogan at once settled himself on a box, and, filling his pipe, lit it.

“As yez don’t drink, Oi’ll take a sup fer yez,” he said, and took a deep potion.

“What are you fellows doing up here, Grogan?” asked Bob, as cheerfully as he could.

“Ax me no questions,” muttered Grogan. “If ye want ter think o’ somethin’ cheerful, think o’ how we will trate ye in the marnin’.”

Bob was compelled to shiver, and he became silent. Once more was he in the power of this lawless set of men.

Quarter of an hour dragged by. Grogan sat calmly smoking, with his small eyes fastened on the young photographer. He did not intend to give the youth the first chance to escape.

Bob heard the murmur of voices, and he knew Casco, Barker, and Horning were talking over some matter of importance.

While the time slipped slowly by, Bob heard a distant rumble which came closer and then died away utterly.

“It must have been a train. I did not know we were so close to the tracks,” thought the youth.

Presently Grogan took another drink, and again lit his pipe. But now Bob noticed that the Irishman did not puff so vigorously as before. Was he growing drowsy?

Fervidly the youth hoped so. He watched Grogan as a cat watches a mouse, and he was filled with hope when he saw the man’s pipe fall and the Irishman make no effort to restore it to his mouth.

“Now is my chance!” said Bob to himself, and he set swiftly to work to free himself.

As Grogan was to watch the prisoner, Barker had been rather careless in tying Bob up. The bonds were soon slipped off, and then raising one of the windows Bob leaped out.

Just as he did so, Grogan started up. Seeing the youth disappear through the opening, he gave a loud cry, which soon brought the others to the scene.

“Where is he, Mike?”

“After him, boys!”

“Yes; he must not get away this time!”

Meanwhile Bob was running away as fast as his feet could move. When about a hundred yards from the cottage, he looked back and saw that all four men were in pursuit.

On he dashed until striking a stone with his toe he went down flat on the ground.

He arose as quickly as possible, but the time lost had enabled his pursuers almost to close the distance between them.

Bob was now but fifty feet from the railroad tracks, which were situated on a small embankment. As he ran up toward the tracks, he saw a slow freight approaching.

Should he board one of the cars? It might afford an excellent means of escape.

With a glare of the head-light the train came along. Bob ran to meet it, with the four men not far behind him. A moment later Bob was on the train.

CHAPTER XXII
BOB ON THE FREIGHT TRAIN

The young photographer did not have the chance to look back at his pursuers. He had one foot on the iron step of the car, and, though the train was going at a slow rate of speed, he found it no easy task to draw himself up on the narrow platform.

“Come back!” he heard Barker cry.

He paid no attention to the order, satisfied that anything would be preferable to falling again into the hands of the villainous crowd who were pursuing him.

At last, with a mighty effort, the youth drew himself up. The ladder leading to the top of the car was close at hand and to this he clung while the train swung around a curve and out of sight of those left on the embankment.

“By jinks! but that was a narrow escape!” muttered Bob to himself as he drew a long breath.

Bob remained where he was for five minutes or more, trying to regain his breath and collect his thoughts at the same time.

“I would like to know what those men are doing out here,” he soliloquized. “Maybe they are planning to rob a house in the vicinity. They are certainly up to no good.”

The freight train made a strong rumble as it moved along, but presently Bob fancied he heard footsteps on the top of the car behind him.

He was not mistaken, for in a moment the form of a man appeared overhead. The man looked down, as if searching for something.

“One of the train-hands most likely,” thought Bob. “Maybe he saw what took place, and wants to know what it is all about.”

Bob was about to call out, when he made a discovery that filled him with surprise.

The man above was James Casco.

Casco had jumped aboard the sixth car behind the one boarded by the young photographer.

That he was bent on searching out Bob the youth felt certain, and he crouched low as the man bent down to get a better view in the semi-darkness.

“Must be the next platform,” Bob heard Casco mutter. “Although I was almost certain it was this one.”

He was about to pass on, when just then the train rolled past a farm-house, from the upper windows of which streamed a strong light.

The light fell directly upon Bob, and Casco caught a full view of him.

“So I have found you, eh?” muttered the scar-faced man, with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

“What do you want here?” demanded Bob.

“You know well enough, Alden.”

“I must confess I do not.”

“You think, now you have discovered our plans, you will inform the authorities and have us all bagged.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Bob, with interest, for he did not know the men had any plans.

“I can put two and two together. You were in that neighborhood tracking us.”

“You seem to know all about it.”

“I have watched you on the sly. Do you deny that you also called on Gregory Maverick?”

“What has that got to do with it?”

“You know as well as I, Alden. But it won’t do you any good. You might as well give up trying to hunt down this crowd. It can’t be done.”

Bob was much mystified by this speech. Evidently Casco took it for granted that he knew much more than was a fact.

“Perhaps I can do more than you think, Casco,” he said, on a venture.

“You can, if I allow you to get away, maybe, but I don’t intend any such thing shall happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Simply this: You imagine you can ride through to Stampton on this train, don’t you?”

“Perhaps so.”

“And when you arrive there, you will call on Maverick and the chief of police and send word all along the line to search for us. You will do nothing of the sort.”

“Who will prevent me?” questioned Bob, as calmly as he could, even though he knew what to expect by way of an answer.

“Who will prevent you? I will.”

“I don’t see how.”

“I’ll show you. Do you see this?”

As Casco spoke, he shoved the muzzle of a pistol down in the neighborhood of the young photographer’s head.

“Do you intend to kill me in cold blood?”

“I intend to make you mind me, Alden. When I give the command, you will jump from the train.”

Bob shrank back in horror. The freight train was now moving at the rate of twenty miles an hour, and a jump would be full of peril.

He looked around for some means by which to protect himself. But the narrow platform was bare, and he was without weapon of any kind.

“What if I do some firing on my own account?” Bob asked, more to gain time than anything else.

“Have you a pistol?”

Instead of replying, Bob made a leap upward, and before Casco could draw back the youth had hold of the pistol and had wrenched it from his hand.

“Stop!” cried the scar-faced man. “Give me that pistol!”

“I’ll give you one of the bullets. Stay where you are.”

With the pistol in one hand, Bob turned and ran up the iron ladder to the top of the adjoining car.

As he did this, Casco, instead of complying with Bob’s command, arose and hurried along the top plank of the freight car.

“Stop!” cried Bob, jumping across the opening and making after the rascal.

But it was too dark to see the planking clearly, and afraid of missing his footing, the young photographer was compelled to go slow.

Casco, on the other hand, had once been a brakeman, and he ran over the planking of several cars at a lively rate, and then disappeared from view.

With the pistol ready for use, Bob made his way along, until he came face to face with one of the train-hands.

“Hullo, Jack, is that you?” called out the man.

“No,” replied Bob, and added: “I am after a thief who is aboard this train. Did he just pass you?”

“Nobody passed me. You are sure he is on board?”

“He was a minute ago.”

And, as briefly as possible, Bob related what had occurred.

“He must be a desperate fellow,” said the train-hand, with a shake of his head.

“He is, and I want to catch him the worst way.”

“Humph! Well, let us take a look with the lantern. We don’t want any such fellows on this train.”

The man got his lantern from the caboose, and the two began a rapid search around each car.

“He might have dropped down on one of the platforms and swung himself into one of the empty cars,” suggested the train-hand. “Or he might have jumped off.”

“I don’t think he jumped off,” replied Bob. “Let us look into those cars just ahead.”

The train-hand went ahead, and not without difficulty swung himself into one of the empty cars.

Seeing how the thing was done, Bob started to do the same upon the car ahead.

He reached the guide upon which the door hung, and was making his way along it toward the opening when Casco’s head suddenly appeared from out of the empty car.

“Now I have you!” cried the scar-faced man. He reached out, and, catching Bob by the arm, attempted to throw the young photographer from the train.

CHAPTER XXIII
BOB FORMS A RESOLUTION

The attack was so sudden and unexpected that Bob had all he could do to hold on with the remaining hand.

“Let up!” he cried.

“Not much! Off you go, Alden!”

“Help! help!” cried Bob.

He attempted to draw back on the platform, but Casco held him fast by the arm, while at the same time trying to push him away from his hold.

“What’s up?” cried the train-hand from the other car.

“Here he is! Help me!” returned Bob.

“I will.”

Casco’s face fell when he heard that Bob had help close at hand. He made another effort to push the young photographer off, and had almost succeeded when the train-hand appeared.

“By hookey!” cried the man. “Stop that, you villain!”

Just then Casco succeeded in making Bob let go his hold. But now the train-hand caught the youth by the arm, and drew him back in safety to the platform.

“There you are. It was a narrow escape.”

“Thank you!” gasped Bob. “Indeed it was.”

“So he’s safe in that car.”

“Yes.”

“Just wait till I call Jack, and we’ll bag him.”

“All right. But be careful.”

The train-hand ran off over the cars, while Bob, pistol in hand, sat down to watch for any movement Casco might make.

It was a novel situation, but it cannot be said that Bob enjoyed it.

Five minutes passed. Bob wondered how long the train-hand expected to be gone. Every second seemed ten to the young photographer.

Suddenly with a shriek of the whistle the freight train slowed up, and came very nearly to a stop. The train-hand appeared, but, instead of helping Bob, began to put on brakes as fast as possible.

“Better watch your man,” he cried. “I’ve got to obey the whistle.”

Bob did watch, and almost instantly saw Casco spring from the open car into a patch of brushwood. The scar-faced man tumbled over, but at once arose, and ran off through the darkness.

The young photographer’s first impulse was to follow. But then he reasoned that the darkness was against him, and the district was one entirely unknown to him.

“He’s gone,” he said to the train-hand as the whistle came to loosen brakes again.

“Skipped, did he?”

“Yes. What neighborhood is this?”

“We are just coming into Kentown. Here is the station.”

As the man spoke, they rolled into a long, narrow milk depot. Without waiting to see if the train would come to a stop, Bob called out a good-night and sprang off.

He met but three men at the depot, and all of these were so busy handling milk-cans that they could spare no time to hear what he might have to say.

Finally the young photographer asked if there was a constable in town, and he was directed to one Aaron Dimler, who lived but a few rods from the depot.

Bob had a hard time arousing Dimler, but once aroused the constable was eager to join the youth in a search for the scar-faced man.

“We had better walk up the track to where he jumped off the freight,” said the constable. “Then I’ll be better able to judge of the direction he took.”

So the two half-walked, half-ran up the track until Bob called a halt.

“Is this the spot?” asked the constable.

“As near as I can judge it is,” returned Bob.

“There’s a hat. Was that his?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re right about the spot. Did he start off in that direction?”

“I believe he did.”

“Then the place he would be likely to strike would be Raymond’s cross-road hotel.”

“How far is that from here?”

“Not over five minutes’ walk. If he’s reached that place, you might as well give up the hunt.”

“Why?”

“You will never learn anything from Raymond. He is a bad one, and has been in court half a dozen times.”

“I would like to know if Casco knows him?” mused Bob.

“Even if he didn’t, Raymond would befriend him, if he knew the sort of chap the man you are after was. He has sheltered more criminals than I can mention.”

“I am quite interested,” said Bob. “Come on!”

But the constable held back. The fact of the matter was that Raymond was down on him, and had threatened to make matters warm if he found Dimler around his hotel.

“We can go in the morning,” said the constable, by way of excuse.

“Casco may be gone by that time, if he is there.”

“I have no papers to search Raymond’s place. I don’t want to get into trouble.”

“I believe you are afraid,” cried Bob, somewhat angrily. “I will go alone.”

He turned on his heel at once. Dimler’s brow contracted.

“Well, go on, if you’re so headstrong,” he said, and, as Bob passed out of hearing, he added: “He’ll have a fine time if he riles Raymond up, see if he don’t.”

The road was a perfectly straight one, and Bob had but little difficulty in finding the cross-road hotel Dimler had mentioned.

On the way the young photographer kept his eyes wide open for Casco, but saw nothing of the scar-faced man. Arriving at Raymond’s hotel, he found the place to consist of a long, two-story building, with an addition in the rear running down to the edge of a brook. A dim lamp, swinging from a post by the stepping-block, lit up the exterior of the hotel. A light also shone from the bar-room, and sounds of boisterous laughing reached the youth’s ears.

“They must keep the place wide open all night,” thought Bob. “I think I will take a look around before I go in.”

Having inspected the front part of the hotel, Bob passed around one side and then to the back.

Here was situated the kitchen, and, coming closer, Bob heard two persons conversing in low tones.

One was a man, evidently a stable-hand, and the other a woman-of-all-work.

“What kept you so long, Ike?” asked the woman of the man, who had evidently just come in.

“The boss wanted me to look out for the billiard-room for a while.”

“Why, where is Dick?”

“Tendin’ bar. He had to do it cos the boss had a visitor just now, an’ he had to show the feller a room.”

“A visitor this time of night? Who was it, any of the old ones?”

“That fellow was here a couple of times last week. He came in a tremendous hurry, he did.”

“Say, there is something up between the boss an’ that feller,” commented the woman, as she lit a hand-lamp and moved toward a door.

“What makes you think that, Sadie?”

“Cos he an’ the boss did a pile of whisperin’ the other night, an’ when the boss does that why——” and the woman finished with a low laugh.

“Well, it ain’t none of our affairs, Sadie.”

“That’s so, so long as we git our wages. But come on to bed.”

“I’m ready. This bein’ up half the night makes me dead tired.”

The woman passed through the door, and, after extinguishing the large lamp which hung from a bracket, the man followed her.

Bob had listened with keen interest to the conversation between the pair. One thing was settled. Jim Casco was in the house.

Now what was best to do? Bob knew of no officer whom he could summon save Dimler, and after the way that individual had acted, the young photographer did not feel disposed to ask anything further at his hands.

Bob passed back as far as the brook, and here sat down to think matters over. Several things were quite clear to him.

One was that Casco, Barker, and Grogan were in the vicinity for no good purpose.

The second was that Casco was acquainted with Raymond, and that he had called there before. This would tend to the idea that Raymond’s place was to be a sort of headquarters for the crowd of evildoers.

“I’ll shadow them, and find out what they are up to,” was Bob’s resolve.

And, when Bob made a resolution, he always stuck to it.

Presently, as Bob sat thinking, he saw a light flash from one of the upper windows of the hotel. Then a curtain was drawn down, and for a second a profile stood out on the white surface.

The profile was perfect, so perfect, in fact, that the young photographer had no difficulty in guessing its original.

The profile was that of Casco.

CHAPTER XXIV
BOB STICKS UP FOR A FRIEND

Bob jumped up, and watched the profile eagerly.

Then he saw it disappear, as the light was moved to one side.

“That was Casco, sure,” he said to himself. “And, hello! there’s somebody else. I wonder who it is?”

Bob saw that the window of the room was directly over the one story addition in the rear. He wondered if he could not get up to it and find out what was going on within.

Looking around, he espied a short ladder resting against an apple tree. Catching up the ladder, he placed it against the addition, and found it just reached the roof above.

Making sure that he was not being observed, Bob mounted the ladder silently, and then made his way over the roof to where the window was located.

As it was a warm night in the summer, both the upper and the lower sashes were placed to admit the air, and, by putting his ear close to the lower opening, Bob was able to make out all that was being said within the room.

“You are certain the boy didn’t follow you?” he heard, in a rough voice.

“No, I’m not sure, Raymond,” came the reply, in the tones of Casco. “But though I looked back I didn’t see him.”

“Humph! He might even this minute be somewhere about this place. Maybe it would be better to take a look around.”

“I took a good look before I came in. He has either gone on to Kentown or farther, I’m satisfied.”

“Well, it’s your fry, not mine,” laughed Raymond. “You must have had a hard time with him.”

“I did. That boy is a wizard for being able to slip away when you least expect it.”

“Do you suppose the others will follow you here?”

“I yelled at them to do so, when I sprang on the freight train. They will, if they heard me.”

“It’s about time that deal went through.”

“I agree with you, Raymond; but the trouble has been that we could not strike the right man to help us.”

“Won’t Watson do?”

“No. I sounded him, but he is too honest, even for big money.”

At that moment the wind flapped the curtain, and Bob could not hear the immediate conversation which followed.

“What!” he heard Casco exclaim a minute later. “You are sure it is he?”

“Certainly. He signed the register.”

“And he is in the house now?”

“Yes.”

“I would like to get square with him!” muttered the scar-faced man, savagely. “He is the chief cause of all my troubles.”

“We don’t want any trouble here,” replied Raymond. “Unless——”

“Unless what, Raymond?”

“Unless there is money in it.”

“He must have some money.”

“He said he had been on a collecting tour.”

“Then you may depend on it he has boodle. This district used to pan out several thousands of dollars.”

“But how will you do the job?”

“You have a key to his room, I suppose?”

“Of course. It is No. 12.”

“I have here a bottle of chloroform. I will put some on a handkerchief, and steal in and chloroform him. Then we can make up our minds what to do next.”

The two men left the room, closing the door after them.

Bob drew a long breath. He had actually overheard a plot against one of the guests of the hotel, and the young photographer was compelled to shiver at the thought.

His duty was plain. No matter what the risk, he must warn the intended victim of the plot against him.

Bob wondered who the person could be. Evidently it was somebody with whom Casco was well acquainted.

Without hesitation Bob pushed aside the curtain and sprang through the window.

The light was still burning, and at a glance the young photographer saw the apartment was an unoccupied bedroom.

Listening at the door to make sure that the two had really gone below, Bob, a second later, glided into the semi-dark hall-way.

The room in which the conversation had been held was numbered 47. Following this came No. 45, and the youth had no trouble in tracing the numbers until he came to No. 13, opposite to which was No. 12.

Bob listened at the door, and fancied he heard the breathing of a sleeper within.

He tapped lightly, and then a little harder.

“Who’s there?” came in a hurried voice, accompanied by the creaking of a bed.

“Open the door, quick!” cried Bob, through the key-hole.

“What’s the matter—house afire?” exclaimed the occupant of the room, as he bounced up and unlocked the door.

“No, but I—Frank Landes!”

“What, Bob! is that really you?”

And the young man held out his hand.

“My, but ain’t I glad I overheard that talk!” burst out Bob, fervidly.

“What talk?”

“Lock the door, and I’ll tell you. But you must speak in a whisper.”

Frank locked the door and also bolted it.

“Now, in the first place,” began Bob, “have you a pistol?”

“I have; but what under the canopy does it all mean?”

“Casco is in this house.”

“By Jove! is that true?”

“And he and Raymond, the proprietor, have just hatched out a plot to chloroform and rob you.”

“You are joking!”

“No, it’s the truth. Raymond thinks you have money with you.”

“So I have. I’ve been collecting for the firm, and that roll under my pillow has eighteen hundred dollars in it.”

“They would do a good deal for it. You had better—hist—here they come now.”

Bob caught Frank by the arm, and both grew silent.

Soft footsteps came up to the door, and then something scraped in the lock.

“I can’t open it,” came at length, in the voice of Raymond. “I know a better way.”

“What is it?”

“We can jump out on the roof of the extension and crawl through the window. Come on.”

The footsteps moved away. Frank walked to the bed and brought forth his pistol which was lying beside the roll of money.

“If they come in here, I’ll give them a warm reception,” he said, significantly.

CHAPTER XXV
BOB AND FRANK STAND TOGETHER

By Frank Landes’ manner Bob knew that the young man meant what he said.

“They ought to receive a warm reception,” returned the young photographer. “But do you think it will pay to stay here and fight them?”

“What else is there to do?”

Bob pointed to the door leading to the hall-way.

“We can run away while they are trying to get in at the window,” he suggested.

“But I am not dressed.”

“Slip on your clothes. I’ll shut the window and lock it, so they will find themselves foiled, and have to come back to the door.”

As Bob spoke, he rushed over to the window and tried to close it.

But for some reason the lower sash refused to budge, even though in his excitement he struck it several times along the edging.

“I had the same trouble when I opened it,” said Frank, who was hurrying into his clothing as rapidly as possible.

“The confounded thing won’t come down, and that settles it,” cried Bob, hopelessly.

“Never mind, let it go. I am ready to start.”

Frank moved swiftly toward the door and unlocked it. As he did so, the face of Raymond appeared at the window.

“Quick!” whispered the young man, and he flung open the door for Bob to pass through.

The hotel-keeper saw at a glance that something was wrong. He whispered a few words to his companion, and Casco at once leaped into the chamber.

“There are two of them!” cried the scar-faced man. “You didn’t say he had a roommate.”

“He didn’t have. Stop them!”

Frank and Bob had passed into the hall-way. Casco made after them as noiselessly as possible.

In moving toward the stairs the two had to pass close to a dimly-burning lamp. As they did so, Casco uttered a cry of amazement.

“That is Bob Alden with him! How did he get in?”

“The boy from the freight train?” queried Raymond.

“Yes. We must catch them. They have most likely overheard what was said. Come on!”

Down the stairs went Frank and Bob, two steps at a time, with Casco and Raymond in close pursuit. The scar-faced man began to yell, but the hotel proprietor stopped him.

“Remember, the hotel is half full of guests,” he said. “We must overcome them without too much noise.”

Once in the lower hall, Bob and Frank turned toward the front door. It was locked, but the key was handy, and they had it open in a trice.

“Now which way?” questioned the young man when they were outside.

“It doesn’t make any difference. Come on!”

Away dashed Bob, with Frank directly behind him.

The way was dark, and the young photographer had scarcely proceeded a dozen steps when he tripped over some stones and went down.

Frank came down on top of Bob, and before either could rise, Casco and Raymond were upon them.

“We have them,” said Raymond.

“Don’t you dare to move!” cried the scar-faced man.

The darkness was unfavorable to any kind of fair fighting, and every one went in as best pleased him. Casco was a powerful man, but Bob was thoroughly aroused, and he fought so skilfully that the scar-faced man was soon retreating.

The young photographer followed him up, thus becoming separated from Frank and Raymond.

At length Casco turned and fled toward the brook, and jumping over, disappeared in the brush and darkness beyond.

Bob knew it would be folly just at present to attempt to follow the man, and after a moment’s hesitation he returned to the spot where he had left Frank and Raymond.

The two had disappeared!

“Hullo, Frank!” called out the young photographer. “Where are you?”

No answer came back to the cry save the baying of a couple of hounds in the barn, and Bob at once became more alarmed.

“What’s the row?” asked a voice from the hotel piazza.

The scuffle had attracted the attention of several of the men who were making a night of it in the bar-room.

“Have you seen anything of Raymond?” asked Bob.

He knew it would be worse than useless to ask any of those men for assistance.

“He’s up-stairs,” returned another of the men.

“You are sure he is up-stairs?” went on Bob, ignoring the question.

“He went up there a while ago. I haven’t seen him since.”

Bob was perplexed. It was more than likely that the man spoke the truth, and this being so, what had become of Raymond and Frank?

Fearful of being questioned further, Bob moved toward the back of the hotel again, while the men, muttering something he could not catch, re-entered the bar-room.

As Bob walked toward the brook, he fancied he heard a low cry coming from behind the barn, which was built close to the water’s edge.

He hurried in the direction, and caught a faint glimpse of two forms struggling behind a number of bushes.

Coming closer, he saw that Raymond had Frank by the throat and was forcing him over into the water.

As Bob dashed forward, there was a splash, and Frank went over, while Raymond caught up a club to hit him should he attempt to rise.

“Don’t you dare to strike, Raymond!”

At the sound of Bob’s voice the hotel-keeper turned quickly.

“What do you want?”

“Let my friend up.”

“Hit him, Bob,” exclaimed Frank, faintly.

“Where is Casco?” asked Raymond as he began to retreat.

“Never mind,” returned the young photographer.

By this time Frank had managed to crawl from the brook. His head was bleeding from a severe gash over the forehead.

“Look out for him, Bob,” he cried.

“I am looking out. Are you badly hurt?”

“My head feels rather queer.”

“What shall we do with this fellow?”

“He ought to be locked up.”

“Neither of you can do it,” sneered Raymond. “You don’t know me.”

“Yes, I do,” said Bob. “You are the toughest road-house keeper in the country.”

“Thanks for the compliment.” Raymond mused for a moment. “I will make a bargain with you. Quit the place at once and we’ll drop the whole matter.”

“We sha’n’t leave you until you are safe in jail,” burst out Bob.

At these words Raymond burst into a laugh.

“You don’t know what you are talking about. You, a mere boy, expect to do what no officer around has been able to accomplish. Get out of here before I set my blood-hounds on you!”

As Raymond spoke, he darted around the corner of the barn before Bob had time to stop him.

Then they heard him utter a cry that was immediately followed by the deep baying of a hound.

“We had better get out of here!” cried Frank. “He has two of the ugliest blood-hounds you ever saw.”

“I’ll give you one minute to get away in,” sang out Raymond. “After that I’ll leave both my dogs loose.”

Raymond muttered something under his breath. Then there was a rattling of chains, and the next minute two ferocious blood-hounds bounded out into the yard.

CHAPTER XXVI
BOB SHOWS HIS NERVE

The blood-hounds stood still for a second on catching sight of Bob and Frank.

Then, as if scenting the blood on Frank’s face, both made a dash for the young man.

“Help me!” cried Frank. For the time being he seemed to be fairly paralyzed with terror.

“Jump into the tree!” returned Bob, quickly.

The tree he mentioned stood but a few feet away. The lower limbs were not far from eight feet from the ground and almost directly over Frank’s head.

With a desperate spring the young man caught one of the limbs and drew himself up just as one of the blood-hounds reached the spot where he had been standing.

Baffled, the hound let out a deep growl and then stood up on his hind legs, followed by his mate.

Then Bob thought of the pistol he carried and produced it.

Crack! Bob pulled the trigger of the pistol and one of the blood-hounds fell back, shot through the heart.

“Here, stop that!” roared Raymond, from the door-way of the barn.

“I told you to keep them chained,” returned the youth as coolly as he could. “Better call the other one in.”

The second hound turned at the shot, and backed several paces. Then he looked at his mate as though surprised at what had happened.

“Good for you!” cried Frank. “Wait till I finish the other.”

He drew his own pistol and fired, but his aim was poor, and the bullet merely grazed the blood-hound’s back.

With a howl of rage the hound sprang away from the tree. Then with set teeth and gleaming eyes, he turned to attack Bob.

“Go for him, Leo!” cried Raymond.

He was in a rage and would have liked nothing better than to see the hound tear Bob to pieces.

Bob again took aim and pulled the trigger. But for some reason the weapon failed to go off.

The next instant the young photographer was knocked flat on his back by the blood-hound.

Seeing this, Frank leaped down from the tree and rushed forward.

“Get back there!” he yelled at the hound, and fired his pistol at the same time.

But the beast paid no attention to the command. He snapped at Bob, and it was only by a quick movement to one side that the young photographer kept himself from having his arm torn to shreds.

“Go for him!” cried Raymond.

Lying on his back, Bob made another attempt to shoot the blood-hound. He pulled the trigger again, and this time the pistol went off, and with a shrill yelp the beast keeled over and lay on his side with a bullet through his head.

“I’ll fix you for that!” screamed Raymond.

He gave a shrill whistle, but already half a dozen men came running from the bar-room of the hotel, anxious to know what the firing was about.

“Is that you, Raymond?”

“What’s up?”

“These fellows are prowling about the place,” returned Raymond.

“That so?”

“They are up to no good. This one just shot both my dogs.”

“Don’t say! Why, those dogs were worth a hundred dollars.”

“Every cent of it. Boys, will you help me capture them?”

“Certainly we will. Hi! stop there!”

“Come on,” whispered Frank to Bob. “We can’t stand up against such a crowd. The best we can do is to run away and summon the authorities.”

“The constable don’t amount to a hill of beans,” returned the young photographer. “Yet if you say go, we’ll skip. I was principally after Casco.”

“Come ahead this way.”

“Lead ahead.”

The young man turned to a lane which ran to the south of the barn, and Bob came close behind. It was then that one of the men yelled for them to stop, but he was not heeded.

“Where is Casco?” asked Frank, as they scurried along.

“Got away across the brook. I wonder if any of those fellows will follow us.”

“It’s not likely, after they see the way you treated the hounds,” laughed Frank. “By Jove! Bob, you are a crack shot.”

“I used to go hunting with old Peter Thompson’s gun when I wasn’t any higher than a rail fence,” returned the young photographer. “Which way now?”

“There is a customer of mine lives up a side road not far from here. We might go to his house. I can’t go much farther with this head of mine.”

“Does it hurt very bad?”

“It aches fearfully.”

“Let me tie it up with a wet handkerchief.”

Bob got out his handkerchief and, wetting it in the brook, tied it over the wound. Frank, declared this relieved him considerably, and the two continued on their way at a more rapid pace than ever.

“I don’t believe they are following,” said Bob, as, after five minutes of running, they paused to listen. “I believe that was only a bluff to get us off.”

“Raymond is fearfully mad over the loss of those blood-hounds. He set great store by them. That is one reason the authorities never cared to go there to serve him with papers.”

“It was a pity to kill them, but it couldn’t be helped. I am glad the shots were such lucky ones.”

“So am I. Here we are at Larchmond’s place. I suppose he will think it awfully queer to be roused up at this time of the night.”

They now entered a neat garden, and walking up a gravel path ascended to the porch. There was no bell, but a brass knocker instead, and this Frank used vigorously.

A minute of dead silence followed. Then an upper window was shoved open and a head covered with a night-cap appeared.

“What do you want?”

“Is that you, Mr. Larchmond?”

“Yes.”

“I am Frank Landes, the collector and agent.”

“Gracious! What business do you want this time of night? I sent that consignment of eggs off——”

“The eggs are all right, Mr. Larchmond. I have other business of a more serious nature——”

“Gracious, you don’t mean it!” and the old man’s voice actually quivered.

“Shet the winder, you’ll catch yeour deth o’ cold, Thomas!” came in a shrill female voice.

“I’ll be down in a minit,” said Larchmond, and bang, down came the window.

Several minutes passed. Then a light appeared in the hall, and they heard the old man nervously unlock and unbolt the door.

“Come in an’ tell me the trouble,” he said. “Why, who’s this?” he added, looking at Bob.

“This is my friend, Bob Alden. We have just come away from Raymond’s Hotel——”

“Is somebody killed there?” put in Larchmond, quickly. “I always allowed as how some day they would have a fight and——”

“No one is killed but Raymond’s two blood-hounds,” laughed Frank.

“Do tell!”

“My friend Bob shot them. But we have had serious trouble, and we want your advice as to what is best to do.”

“Come into the sittin’-room. It’s all right, Mirandy!” called Larchmond up the stairs.

“I’m comin’ down!” returned Mrs. Larchmond, and presently she appeared, fully dressed.

The story of the happenings at Raymond’s Hotel was soon told. Old Larchmond and his wife listened with interest, the old man shaking his head repeatedly, and the old lady putting in a “do tell” at every opportunity.

“And now we want to know what is the best to do,” said Frank after all the facts had been related.

“Yeou can’t do nuthin’,” replied Mrs. Larchmond, promptly.

“We can’t?” cried Bob.

“No, yeou can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s this way,” said the old man, by way of explanation. “Raymond is the wust feller in the whole deestrict. The law can’t tech him, nohow. I tried to sue him onct, but the constable couldn’t serve the papers, nohow.”

“Did you have Dilmer?”

“Yes, I had Dilmer, an’ I had Vincent, too; but it wuz no ust—them dogs kept ’em at a safe distance.”

“But the hounds are now dead.”

“It don’t make no difference. Raymond can’t be teched, nohow. Anybody in Kentown will tell you the same thing.”

“That’s a nice state of affairs,” cried Frank. “A man like that to terrorize the whole neighborhood!”

“Well, you see, Raymond has lots of relations around here, an’ they all stick up for him. If it wasn’t for that, somethin’ might be did, although I doubt it, bless me if I don’t.”

“Thomas is right,” put in Mrs. Larchmond. “If your money is safe, you better go about your affairs and say nuthin’.”

“Oh, the money is safe enough,” returned Frank. “I grabbed that up and put it in my pocket the first thing.”

As the young man spoke, he put his hand into his coat pocket to make sure that the eighteen hundred dollars were still there. Then he turned pale.

“It’s gone!” he gasped.

CHAPTER XXVII
BOB MAKES A FIND

Every one in the sitting-room was astonished. Bob sprang to his feet.

“You are sure it is gone?” he demanded.

Frank continued his search, each moment growing paler.

“Yes, it’s gone!” he groaned. “Eighteen hundred dollars! What will the firm say?”

“When did you feel to see if it was safe last?” asked the young photographer.

“When I jumped up into the tree to get out of the way of the blood-hounds.”

“And you are sure you had it then?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must have dropped it while running here. Perhaps it jounced out of your pocket.”

“Maybe it did. My head hurt so before you tied it up I didn’t give the money a thought.”

“Well, the best thing to do is to go back for it,” said Bob, promptly. “The quicker the better.”

“What, go back to Raymond’s?” screamed Mrs. Larchmond. “He will kill you.”

“It’s tremendous risky,” said the old man, with a shake of his head.

“Never mind, it’s got to be done,” said Bob. “Eighteen hundred dollars is a lot of money.”

“Yes, I must go back,” said Frank. “What would the firm say if the money was lost? They would most likely discharge me, and maybe say I gambled it away, or something like that.”

“Will you lend us a lantern?” asked Bob, turning to Larchmond.

“Certainly.”

“You need not go, Bob. I can go alone.”

“No, indeed, Frank; we stick together to the end.”

The old farmer left the sitting-room and presently returned with a lantern and a blunder-buss.

“You might as well take the buss along, too,” he said. “It’s a putty good shootin’ piece.”

“Thank you, but I think our pistols will do, if you have any cartridges around.”

“Timothy had cartridges for his pistol,” put in Mrs. Larchmond. “They are up in his closet. I’ll get ’em.”

She soon returned with the cartridges, which, luckily, just fitted the pistol Bob carried. It took but a moment to load, and then the boys were ready to start back.

“I’d go, only my rheumatism is wuss,” said old Larchmond, apologetically.

“Indeed you wouldn’t!” put in his wife. “I wouldn’t let you go for twice eighteen hundred dollars; there, now!”

The boys were soon on the road. The lantern shone brightly, lighting up every foot of the way.

“I trust we find it before we get anywhere near Raymond’s,” said Frank. “I have no desire to get into another tussle with him.”

“Neither have I,” returned Bob. “But, Frank, keep your pistol ready for use. We don’t want to waste words with such a desperate character as that hotel-keeper.”

“I agree with you. Here is my pistol right in my coat pocket.”

“And I’ll carry mine in my hand. You take that side of the road, while I take this, and carry the lantern as low as possible.”

In this fashion the two moved slowly along, searching every foot of the hard and dusty road.

“I would like to know where Casco went,” said Bob, presently. “For all we know, he might have watched that fight with the blood-hounds and followed us.”

“Hardly. If he escaped across the brook, he most likely set out to join Barker and Grogan. He would leave Raymond to settle the row here.”

“I wish they were all in jail,” sighed Bob. “Then perhaps I could make Barker reveal something of the past, and make a somebody of myself.”

“You’ll make a somebody of yourself, anyway, Bob,” returned Frank, encouragingly. “You’ve got too much grit to fail.”

But Bob shook his head, as if the idea of never finding out the secret of his life did not please him.

Quarter of an hour later they came to a halt. They had reached the boundary line of Raymond’s place, and still the money had not been found.

“If we keep the lantern lit, they will surely see us,” said Bob. “You had better put it out.”

“But how are we going to find the money in the dark?”

“By feeling for it. I know exactly the way we came, and I will lead on.”

Frank, after some hesitation, put out the lantern. The first streaks of the early dawn were now appearing, and it was not so dark as he had anticipated.

Bob was several yards ahead, moving along slowly, with his eyes bent on the ground. Suddenly he gave a low cry.

“Here it is!”

“You have it?” inquired Frank, running up.

“Isn’t this the roll?”

“Yes.” The young man’s face took on a look of relief. “Oh, how thankful I am!”

“Better examine it and make sure,” suggested Bob.

“Oh, it must be all right.”

Nevertheless, Frank hastily undid the paper and elastics which were placed about the roll of money, and began to count the bills.

So absorbed did both he and Bob become that they did not notice the approach of a tall form from a mass of shrubbery which grew close to the road.

The newcomer was Jim Casco, who was on his return to Raymond’s Hotel, satisfied that for the present, at least, it was safe to do so.

Casco was astonished to come upon the pair, and still more taken aback to behold them at work counting a big roll of bills.

“What does this mean?” he muttered to himself. “They can’t have been so near all this while.”

He drew closer, and nervously clutched the heavy stick he held in his right hand.

“It’s right,” said Frank finishing the counting.

“You have every dollar of the eighteen hundred there?” asked Bob.

“Yes.”

“Good enough. Now we might as well go back without delay. I am dead tired.”

“I should think you would be, not having any sleep since last night. Perhaps Mr. Larchmond will give us a shake down.”

“I hope so.”

“Where is that wonderful photographic outfit you wrote me about?”

“Over in Dartinville. I will have to go for it as soon as we finish up with Raymond.”

“We will see if we can’t have him arrested,” said Frank, decidedly.

“That’s it. And when—what was that?”

Bob broke off short. A dark object loomed up over his back and a stinging blow went singing through his head.

“Stop!” he heard Frank cry. “Give me that money!”

Both Bob and Frank were sprawling in the road, while across the fields ran Casco, with the roll of bills in his hand.

CHAPTER XXVIII
BOB MEETS OLD BLAKE

As quickly as he could, Bob sprang to his feet.

“Save the money!” gasped Frank.

He had received another crack over the head and the old wound was bleeding afresh.

“Which way did that fellow go?”

“That way.”

“Who was it? Raymond?”

“No; Casco.”

“By jinks! So he had the cheek to come back. Stay here till I go after him.” With his head still stinging from the blow the scar-faced man had dealt him, the young photographer sprang over the bushes which lined the roadway and made after Casco, who was running across the open fields at top speed.

“I’ll either get Frank’s money or finish that wretch,” was the youth’s somewhat savage resolve.

When about a hundred yards away, Casco looked back to see if either of his victims had recovered from the attack.

He was astonished to see Bob in pursuit.

“Humph! The young rascal means business,” he muttered to himself. “I must reach shelter as soon as I can.”

Not very far beyond was a small lake, the edge of which was lined with willows. Toward this Casco directed his steps.

Bob saw the scar-faced man disappear behind the fringe of willow trees. He did not come to a halt, but kept on at a slower gait, fearful that Casco might be setting a trap for him.

Day was now breaking, and every moment the eastern sky grew lighter.

When Bob reached the edge of the lake, nothing was to be seen of the scar-faced man.

Bob looked up and down the shore in perplexity, and then began an examination for foot-prints.

They were plainly visible, leading to a little cove a hundred feet southward.

When Bob reached the cove, he found close at hand a stake with a bit of rope attached to it. The rope had been newly cut.

“Stole a boat, I’ll bet,” muttered the young photographer to himself. “By jinks, what a fool I am! There he is!”

Bob looked out on the water, and there, a goodly distance from the shore, was Casco in a boat, rowing away as fast as he could.

The scar-faced man was too far off to make a shot effective, and in deep chagrin Bob saw him disappear around a cluster of islands in the centre of the lake.

As fast as he could, Bob ran along the shore until he reached a spot where he could see the other side of the island.

The boat had disappeared.

At first the young photographer could scarcely believe his senses. What had become of Casco and the craft?

“Perhaps she filled with water and sunk,” thought Bob. “In that case he would have to take to the islands. I wish I could keep him there till I could get assistance.”

But Bob knew better than to leave the spot at once. Casco was a wily villain, and not one of the kind to be caught like a rat in a trap.

“As soon as I disappear, he’ll think I’ve gone to summon assistance, and then he’ll come ashore,” was the way Bob reasoned. “I think I’ll play a watching game.”

Bob sat down on a rock, out of the sight of the islands, and waited. Ten minutes passed and he saw nothing to command his attention.

“He is certainly taking his time,” thought the youth. “Hullo, what’s that?”

Bob’s attention was attracted to a small boat which had suddenly shot out from the opposite shore.

The craft contained a single occupant, an old man, who worked away at the oars in a feeble way.

“He must be going to the islands, too,” thought the young photographer. “This begins to look interesting.”

Bob watched the old man with keen interest. In less than ten minutes the islands were reached, and the second boat disappeared as the first had done.

“Who can that old chap be?” was Bob’s mental question. “Can he know Casco?”

Five minutes more passed, and then the youth heard a well-known whistle, to which he at once responded.

In a fraction of time Frank was at his side.

“I couldn’t stay any longer,” said the young man. “Where is Casco?”

“On one of those islands.”

“You don’t say! How did he get over?”

“On a boat; and just now another man went over on a second boat.”

“This is Catfish Lake, and they say the islands are haunted.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” declared Bob.

“Neither do I.”

“How is your head?”

“It feels thick, but it doesn’t ache, so I think I can stand it. What do you propose to do?”

“Get back your eighteen hundred dollars!”

“Are you going to stay here until Casco leaves the islands?”

“Either that or pay the islands a visit. I wonder if there is another boat anywhere?”

“I don’t know. There ought to be.”

“If you’ll watch the islands, I’ll take a look around.”

“I will. Sitting still just suits me.”

“Then maybe we had better watch all day.”

But to this Frank demurred. He was too anxious to get back the stolen money.

Bob at once began his search for another boat. It was by no means an easy task, as the shore was rocky and lined with a thick sedge.

Presently he came to the rear of a large farm, and here he found a boat moored to a fallen tree.

By the looks of the craft the young photographer felt sure that it had not been used for a long time. But it did not leak, so he did not care how dilapidated it was in appearance.

Untying the boat, he towed her around to where Frank sat.

“I’ve found one,” he said. “But there are no oars.”

“I suppose they haven’t used it, fearing the ghosts from the islands might catch them,” laughed the young man. “Well, I reckon you can get along without oars on a pinch.”

“How?”

“The water is so shallow a couple of poles is all we will need to push ourselves over. But, Bob, there is another thing.”

“What is that?”

“By going over to the islands you will run a big risk.”

“So will you. But if you are afraid——”

“I am not afraid for myself. But it’s asking too much of you——”

“Oh, stow that, Frank. I haven’t lost any money, but I’m just as anxious to bring Casco to justice as you are.”

“And you want to make the trial in broad daylight?”

“If you say so, yes. We are both armed, and we ought to have as good a show to come out on top as Casco.”

“That’s true.”

“If he begins to fire at us, we can come back and wait.”

A few minutes after they got aboard the boat. Bob had cut two fair-sized poles, and also several bushes, which he stood up in the bow of the craft.

“That will destroy his aim if he pulls on us,” said the youth.

It was hard work poling the boat along, as the bottom of the lake was for the most part rocky, and the poles slipped. Once Frank nearly went overboard, but Bob caught him by the arm in time to save him.

They had now come within a hundred feet of the islands, and still nobody made his appearance, nor did they see a single sign of hostilities.

“Maybe he’s skipped,” said Frank.

“I don’t see how he could. Come on, we will run in this inlet and jump ashore. Got your pistol handy?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on till I take a good look ahead.”

Bob stood up in the bow and parted the bushes. At the moment that he did so there reached them a most agonizing scream.

“Help me! Oh, save me!”

The cry came from behind a grove of willow trees, close to the shore.

“That isn’t Casco’s voice!” exclaimed Frank. “What can it mean?”

“It may be that old man I saw,” replied Bob. “Or it may be nothing but a trap.”

“That’s no trap,” said Frank, as the scream again reached them.

“Don’t sound so, surely. Come on!”

Standing on the bow of the boat, Bob made a leap and reached the rocky shore. In a minute he had dashed through the willows to the open glade beyond.

A sight met his gaze that filled him with horror. There, lying flat on his back, with his face covered with blood, was old man Blake!

CHAPTER XXIX
BOB HEARS INTERESTING NEWS

The old man had been struck in the head with a heavy stick which lay close at hand.

“Hullo, who did this?” cried Bob, as he leaned over the old man.

“Casco, the villain!” gasped old Blake.

“Too bad!” returned the young photographer, kindly. “Let me examine the wound.”

“Catch the rascal first; he has stolen the papers,” cried the old man. “He must not get away with them.”

“Where is he?”

“He went off in that direction.”

Old Blake pointed with his long, bony finger toward one of the other islands. Then he tried to rise, but fell back in a faint in Bob’s arms. By this time Frank had arrived on the scene. He did not know Blake, but he surmised that the old man had been another of Casco’s victims.

“Tend to him, Frank, while I go after Casco,” said Bob. “I’ll whistle if I want you.”

Pistol in hand, the young photographer made his way through the willows and over the rocks until, jumping a shallow spot in the water, he landed on one of the other islands.

A noise ahead told him that Casco was not far off. But as Bob plunged on the sounds suddenly ceased, and all became profoundly silent.

“I’ll bet a hat he has taken to the water again,” said Bob to himself.

Reaching the edge of the second island the young photographer found his surmise correct. There, half-way to the north shore, was Casco in his boat, pulling with all his strength. A minute later Casco reached shore and disappeared from view.

“Gone!” groaned Bob. “And with Frank’s eighteen hundred dollars, too!”

The youth felt almost as bad as if the loss had been his own.

Frank Landes was his dearest friend, and, although the young man was rich, Bob knew the loss of the money would be a sore trial to him.

When the young photographer returned to where he had left Frank and old Blake, he found that his friend had bound up the old man’s forehead with a wet rag torn from his coat sleeve. Blake was as pale as death, and could scarcely move.

Yet he opened his eyes anxiously when Bob approached.

“Did you get ’em?” he asked feebly.

“No.”

“Didn’t you see Casco?” asked Frank.

“Yes. He escaped to the shore.”

Frank’s face fell, and Blake gave a groan.

“The papers, gone!” muttered the old man. “Gone, and Barker promised me five hundred dollars for them!”

“What’s that?” asked Bob, with sudden interest.

“Nothin’,” mumbled Blake, but he eyed the youth in a dreamy, speculative way for a long while after.

Bob and Frank now held a consultation. It was obvious that they could not leave Blake alone. The old man might die if left without somebody to nurse him.

“If you will remain, I will go after Casco,” said Frank. “As soon as I reach shore, I will get somebody to drive me over to Dartinville, and from there I will telegraph to the city for a couple of detectives. This chase has lasted long enough. I will pay a couple of hundred dollars out of my own pocket to run down Casco and his gang.”

Bob agreed to remain behind, and in a minute more Frank was off, poling for the shore as hard as his tired arms would permit.

“Are you in the habit of coming to this island?” asked Bob of Blake, when the old man was able to sit up.

“Sometimes,” was the slow response.

“Is there any sort of shelter here?”

Blake was silent for a moment.

“Why do you ask?” he questioned at length.

“Because if there was I might take you to it and make you comfortable. You are not very comfortable out here on these damp rocks.”

“There is a cave-hut just back of here. Take me to that, please.”

As Blake spoke, a dizziness seemed to come over him, and he closed his eyes. Bob waited until the spell was over, and then half carried, half dragged the old man to the place he had mentioned.

The young photographer found that a large hollow under a shelving rock had been converted into a dwelling-place by having a front of logs built up against it.

There were a door and a window, and, entering the former, Bob discovered a cot, a table, and a couple of chairs, while a number of pans and dishes lay heaped up in a corner.

The youth placed Blake on the cot and made him as comfortable as the conveniences of the cave-hut permitted. Blake pointed to a flask resting on a shelf, and when the youth handed it to him the old man took a deep draught of the liquor it contained.

It appeared to brace him up. The color came back into his face, and presently he sat up.

“So you say Casco got away with those papers?” he said slowly.

“He got away. I know nothing of any papers.”

“He ought to let me have ’em back.”

“What did the papers contain?”

“Never mind.”

“They ought to be pretty valuable if Barker offered you five hundred dollars for them.”

“Who said he did?”

“You did.”

“I was only foolin’. They ain’t worth anything to anybody but me.”

“How long have you known Barker?” went on Bob, seating himself beside the old man.

“Longer than I care to remember.”

“Did you ever know Peter Thompson?”

“Yes.”

“What do you know about my past history?”

The young photographer asked the question boldly, watching Blake intently as he did so.

He saw the old man start up and then fall back.

“Who said I knew anything about your history?” he said, sharply.

“I say so, Blake. Come, you had better tell me all. I am willing to nurse you and see you through, but I want the truth from you, and unless I get it you shall go to prison.”

“No! no!”

“I say yes.”

“But Sarah——”

“You mean your daughter?”

“Do you know her?”

“I know of her.”

“What will Sarah say?”

“I believe she has been at you to turn over a new leaf, Blake.”

“So she has,” and the old man sighed.

“Then why don’t you do it?”

For a long time Blake was silent. Bob could see that he was undergoing a severe mental struggle. At last he heaved a long sigh.

“I will tell you all I know,” he said; “but you must promise to protect me against Barker.”

“I will do that.”

“If he found I had exposed him, he might kill me.”

“It will not be long before Barker is in prison, and the others with him.”

“That’s where they ought to be.”

“But tell me what you know,” went on Bob, impatiently.

“I first met Barker about ten or twelve years ago,” began old Blake.

“Where?”

“At the house of Robert Perry, your uncle, in Buffalo.”

“Robert Perry; is he still alive?”

“No; he died shortly after Barker came there.”

“Who is my father?”

“He was Thomas Perry, Robert’s brother. He was a captain in the United States Army, and he was killed in an Indian raid in the Black Hills.”

“And my mother?”

“I don’t know anything of her. Your father met her out West and married. When he was killed, you, a mere baby, was sent to your uncle’s home. The report was that your mother was also killed by the Indians; but your uncle could never learn the exact truth of that statement.”

“Then she may be alive?”

“Yes. I believe Barker knows for certain.”

CHAPTER XXX
BOB LEARNS SOMETHING OF THE PAST

Never had Bob listened to words that interested him more. Here, at last, was news concerning his identity. His real name was Bob Perry, and he was the son of an officer. It was not known for certain whether his mother was dead or not. Supposing she was alive? A lump arose in Bob’s throat at the mere thought.

“You say you think Barker knows?” he said, quickly.

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll make Barker speak,” was the young photographer’s determination.

Blake took another pull at his flask and then continued:

“Barker pretends that he is the son of a sister of your father and Robert Perry—a sister who emigrated to Montana with a man named Barker.”

“He pretends?”

“Yes, pretends; for Casco found out that old Barker had no children when he died. That gave him a hold on Barker.”

“I see. Go on.”

“Grogan knew Barker before he turned up at your uncle’s place. He once told me, when he was full of liquor, that Barker’s real name was Bill Dix, and that he was a Virginia outlaw, wanted for shooting a man in Petersburg.”

“And that gave Grogan his hold on Barker?”

“It did. But all three are hard customers, and will do anything to get money.”

“I’ve found that out. But why did Barker pretend to be my uncle’s nephew?”

“Because your uncle was a bachelor, very old, and worth a pile of money. He thought if he could get you out of the way he would come in for part if not all of the fortune.”

“And how did he get me out of the way?”

“In rather a roundabout fashion. I was working for your uncle at the time, and Sarah, my daughter, who is married to a young man named Paul Marks, was working for a woman named Rose.

“This Mrs. Rose had a child sick with scarlet fever, and just at that time you were similarly stricken. My daughter was told by the doctor that Mrs. Rose’s child could not live. Barker heard of this, and one day, when your uncle had to go to New York on important business, he had the two children changed, paying Mrs. Rose quite some money for the transaction.”

“Did your daughter know of the exchange?”

“She never knew, but she suspected something was wrong, and often asked me. The day Mrs. Rose’s child was taken to your uncle’s house it died, and as every one was afraid of scarlet fever, no one came in from the neighborhood, and the little one was buried the next day, the doctor making out a certificate without viewing the corpse.”

“And I was taken to Mrs. Rose’s house?”

“Yes. My daughter wanted to nurse you, but Mrs. Rose pretended to want to do the nursing herself, and would not let my daughter in the room. I believe the plan was to poison you, but you got well rapidly, and Mrs. Rose did not have the heart to poison you, but sent you off to an orphan asylum instead.”

“But how did I get to old Thompson’s?”

“Barker and Mrs. Rose quarrelled about a month later, and that very day you were taken from the orphan asylum by somebody, and then I lost track of you.”

“No doubt it was Barker’s work,” said Bob, remembering what Mary Ridley, who had worked for Peter Thompson, had told him. “What became of Mrs. Rose?”

“She died of heart failure brought on by the excitement of the quarrel. At least that is what they said. Perhaps Barker poisoned her, he is such a wretch.”

“And did he get possession of my uncle’s property?”

“He got possession of only a small part of it. The rest remains somewhere tied up in the courts. Barker could not produce satisfactory evidence in regard to his identity, and besides, he did not have those papers I spoke about.”

“What papers are they?”

“They pretend to prove that your mother was killed as well as your father. The package also has a number of letters from Barker to Mrs. Rose relating to the changing of the children. I was holding them to get money, but that is all over now.”

“How did you learn of all this?”

“By prying around and following Barker, whom I did not like from the start. Then I got to drinking, and Barker and Casco made me their tool. I tried to reform several times, because Sarah wanted me to, but the appetite for liquor was too strong. But now I am done with it forever!”

As Blake finished, he caught up the flask, which was still half full of liquor, and hurled it with all his strength against the rocky back wall of the hut. It was smashed into a hundred pieces, and the liquor splashed in all directions.

“I swear that from now on I’m going to lead a different life,” went on the old man. “And if you will help me, I’ll do what I can to bring that gang to justice and assist you in getting your inheritance.”

“And in finding my mother, if she be alive,” added Bob. “Blake, give me your hand. From now on we are firm friends.”

The two shook hands. More conversation followed, and then Bob started up a fire, for the air about the hut was damp, and finding some coffee, made a couple of hot cupfuls, both of which were relished.

The young photographer asked Blake how he had come to locate on the islands, and was told that the old man at times grew utterly disgusted with himself and the world, and had found on such occasion a haven of rest there.

“Do you think you can stand it if I row you to the main land?” asked Bob, when it was nearly noon.

“I reckon so, but you’ll have to put me to bed somewhere after that.”

“I’ll take good care of you, Blake.”

“You’ll find my boat over in a hollow back of these rocks.”

Bob procured the craft, and then, exerting all of his strength, carried Blake to it and sat him down in the stern.

Quarter of an hour later they drew up to the spot where Bob had found the other boat. Here a fat farmer was looking around in perplexity for his craft.

“Say, does you vos see mine poats?” he asked.

“Yes, I borrowed it,” said Bob. “I will pay you for its use.”

“Oh, dot’s all right den. I vos dinkin’ it vos drifted avay, ain’t it?”

“It’s over to the other shore. But, tell me, do you live here?”

“Sure, right ofer dere,” and the German jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“This man has been hurt in the head. If you will take him in and send for a doctor, I will be very thankful and settle all bills.”

“Sure, I took him in. Carl!”

At this call a boy, even fatter than his father, appeared.

“Run an’ tole your mudder a chentleman vos got hurt an’ to gits a ped reaty kvick.”

“Yah, fadder.”

The boy went off, and Bob, assisted by the German farmer, lifted old Blake out of the boat, and carried him up to the farm-house.

Here the old man was placed on a soft feather bed, and Carl was sent off for the nearest doctor.

Bob left a twenty-dollar bill behind to pay all immediate charges, and then bidding Blake keep a stout heart, he hired a horse and buggy from the German farmer and set off for Dartinville.

It was a good hour’s drive, but Bob did not mind that, being busy thinking over all Blake had told him.

“I must corner Barker and make him tell me the whole truth,” was his one conclusion. “If mother is alive, I want to know it. I’m not going to be a nobody any longer.”

Half-way to Dartinville Bob met Frank driving a bay horse at a furious rate.

“I have telegraphed for the detectives,” said the young man. “They will be on hand this evening.”

“Then what is your awful hurry?”

“I have a clew as to the whereabouts of Barker, Grogan, and that fair-ground swindler. Come along, and I will tell you how I caught it.”

Bob eagerly assented, and the two turned off into a side road, leading to a hilly district, rather hard to travel.

On the way Frank explained how he had got on the track. While telegraphing at Dartinville a stranger had sent a message to Stampton. He had written out the message twice, throwing the first sheet away.

“The stranger’s manner excited my curiosity,” Frank went on, “and I picked up the slip. It read: ‘Meeting at the red house on Rayville Road. B., G. and C. there. To-morrow sure.’ I knew it meant Barker, Grogan, and Casco.”

“They have some big plan on hand,” returned Bob, “and we must stop their evil work. Let us drive as fast as we can.”

On and on they went, Bob on the way relating to Frank what old Blake had confessed.

“They are indeed a set of villains,” returned the young man. “And it—hold up!”

He drew rein, and Bob followed suit. They had just passed a cross-road, and looking down it they discovered a crowd coming toward them composed of Barker, Grogan, Raymond, and Casco!

CHAPTER XXXI
BOB GOES IT ALONE

Before the two could draw out of sight they were discovered by Barker, who was slightly ahead of his companions.

“Hullo, there!” he sang out. “There they are, boys!”

“It’s so, for a fact,” said Casco. “Are they alone?”

“Sure, an’ they are,” put in Grogan.

“A good chance to capture them,” suggested Raymond.

“What good will it do?” asked Barker. “The new plan will work all right anyway.”

“Better bag them until the thing is over.”

“That’s so,” said Casco. “Come on, we are four to two.”

He ran ahead, and the others quickly followed.

Frank saw them coming, and he whipped up his horse.

“We must drive for it, Bob!” he cried. “They are too many for us.”

“I would rather stand and fight it out,” returned the young photographer.

But Frank urged him to follow, and to please his companion Bob did so. As Barker and his companions were on foot they soon outdistanced the crowd, and then Bob called Frank to hold up.

“What’s best to do now?” questioned the young man.

“I have a plan,” said Bob. “You go back to Dartinville and wait for the detectives while I keep my eyes on this crowd.”

“That’s asking too much of you, Bob.”

“No, it isn’t. I will follow them wherever they go, and I will leave a paper trail behind me so that you and your men can follow me up. That will be the easiest way of tracking them down.”

“A paper trail?”

“Yes. I have a couple of newspapers I will tear into strips.”

“Well, here is another, if you insist.”

“If you find the trail ends suddenly, look for a message on the last slip.”

“I will.”

“And take this horse and buggy, I will go after them on foot.”

For five minutes more the two discussed the plan, and then Frank drove off with Bob’s buggy tied fast in the rear.

Once on the ground, Bob lost no time in making his way back to the spot where they had discovered Barker and the others.

The young photographer was careful to keep out of sight, and now leaped the rail fence on the side of the road and pushed forward through the bushes.

To any one unaccustomed to this method of advancement it would have proved slow and laborious, but Bob knew how to go ahead, and he was too much interested to mind the fatigue entailed.

When Bob reached the spot, he found the enemy had moved on up the road, but he soon drew close enough to make out their conversation, which they carried on carelessly, as they continued up a narrow path leading to the red house on the Rayville road, mentioned in the message.

“What do you suppose they will do?” asked Raymond.

“Not much,” returned Casco. “I reckon they have got tired of chasing me.”

“It’s a wonder they don’t come down on your place, Raymond,” put in Barker.

“If they do, they’ll find out I skipped for California,” chuckled the hotel-keeper.

“But they just saw you.”

“It don’t make any difference. I’ve skipped, and the property belongs to my wife, so what can they do about it?”

There was a general laugh, and then Casco and Barker dropped slightly behind and began to converse in lower tones.

Bob could not hear what was said, but when he came to a break in the brush he peered out and saw Casco hand Barker a thick packet, done up in a large envelope.

“The papers and letters stolen from Blake,” muttered the young photographer to himself. “I must get them without fail.”

A short while later the crowd reached the red house, a low structure, built of bricks, many of which were cracked and crumbled.

All entered the house, and Bob saw the door closed, and heard no more.

The youth had been dropping slips of paper all the way. He now took a larger slip and wrote this message upon it:

“All in the red house. I am going in to listen. If I am all right, I will come back for this slip.”

Bob had just finished writing the slip when a low rumble of thunder reached his ears. He glanced up and saw that a shower was coming up from the west.

“Good!” he muttered. “The darkness and the wind may help me.”

Two sides of the red house were surrounded by trees and bushes, and darting among them the youth had no difficulty in reaching a side door, which stood partly open.

Listening intently, the young photographer heard a murmur of voices in the front, showing that the crowd had entered what had once been a sitting-room.

Throwing a number of strips of paper just outside of the door, Bob pushed his way inside.

All was full of dirt and cobwebs, but to this the youth paid no attention. He had a mission, and he felt in duty bound to fulfil it, despite either dirt or danger.

From the side entry Bob passed into the rear room, which was separated from the sitting-room by a stairway leading to the second story.

Under these stairs were a door leading to the sitting-room and also a deep closet.

Peeping through the key-hole of the door, Bob saw the entire crowd seated around a table in the centre of the room, smoking and drinking.

“It’s almost time Mavelt was here,” observed Barker. “He is taking all day to send that message.”

“Perhaps he is waiting for an answer,” suggested Casco. “Did you tell him not to wait?”

“No.”

“Then that is what he is doing.”

“Where is Horning?”

“He said he would be here later.”

“We want this thing fully understood,” put in Raymond. “I admit it’s a big scheme, but if it don’t work, we’ll all be sent up for ten years or more.”

“We’ll be sint up for loife,” remarked Grogan. “’Tis no small wurruk to throw a train off the track.”

“We won’t throw her off unless it’s necessary,” said Barker. “Rankin will set the signal if all is safe and——”

Bob could not catch what followed, for a burst of thunder drowned out all other sound.

Yet he had heard enough. The evildoers were plotting to throw a certain train off the track, unless matters were all right. What was meant by all right? Casco’s words shortly afterward solved the question.

“The express car will carry over forty thousand dollars on her trip, and Rankin will be in charge,” he said. “If he gets no chance to throw it off, he will pull the bell-rope, jump off and join us. Then, when the train starts, we will throw over that loose rail, and over goes the train.”

“And what then?” put in Raymond.

“I have a key to the safe, which has an ordinary lock, not a combination. You men can overpower the agent in charge while pretending to help the passengers, while I open the safe. We can carry axes to clear away such of the wreck as is necessary, and Grogan can be on the wagon.”

“An’ it’s a good tame of horses Oi have for the occasion,” said the Irishman.

“With the boodle in our possession we can make off at top speed,” went on Casco. “Then we will meet here, divide up equally, and separate.”

“Yes, but if Rankin says it’s all right——”

Another burst of thunder followed. Then came heavy drops of rain, followed by a perfect deluge.

The conversation continued, but Bob could only catch an occasional word, and leaving the door he walked back to the entry.

“They are a nice gang of rascals and no mistake,” thought the youth. “For the sake of gaining money they would derail a train, and perhaps kill many passengers. Frank can’t get here with those detectives any too soon.”

Bob looked outside. The rain was coming down in a perfect sheet, while the murky air seemed to be filled with lightning.

“If it wasn’t such a fearful storm, I would walk back to Dartinville, or up to Rayville, and summon help,” he muttered to himself. “But I couldn’t make any progress in such a storm as this. Phew! how the wind blows!”

A sharp streak of lightning followed which made everything as bright as though the sun were shining.

Somewhat blinded, Bob shrank back. As he did so, a hand was placed on his collar, and he was jerked rudely backward.

CHAPTER XXXII
BOB BECOMES A PRISONER

“That’s the time I caught you, you little sneak!”

It was Casco who uttered the words, and it was he who had stepped up behind Bob and pulled him partly into the room.

Without replying the young photographer straightened up and let out with his right arm.

The scar-faced man went backward in such a hurry that he hit the wall opposite with considerable force.

“Help!” he yelled.

After the blow, so well delivered, Bob turned to flee, knowing full well the danger of remaining an instant longer.

Alarmed by the sound of the row, Barker rushed out into the entry, followed by Grogan and Raymond.

“Who is it?”

“Bob Alden! Catch him!”

“That imp! Which way did he go?”

“Out of the door.”

As he spoke, Casco managed to regain his equilibrium, and he followed Barker and the others outside.

“There he goes!”

Barker and Grogan came after Bob, but the youth would have escaped by outdistancing them had not just then something unexpected occurred.

Bob was making for the roadway when suddenly he ran plump into a man who was making tracks toward the red house.

The force of the meeting was such that both went sprawling in the mud, and before Bob could arise Barker was on top of him, and Grogan followed.

“Here, what does this mean?” gasped the fellow Bob had knocked down.

“Good for you, Horning!” laughed Barker. “We wanted him stopped, and you have done it.”

“Hang me if it isn’t that young fellow who tried to down me,” cried Horning, as he sprang up and began to wipe the mud from his face.

“March back to the house,” ordered Barker to Bob. “No more escapes are in order, understand.”

With something of a sinking heart Bob turned about and, with Barker on one side of him and Grogan on the other, walked back and entered the sitting-room, Horning following.

“It’s beastly weather,” muttered the latter. “I would never have started out if I had known it was going to pour down like this.”

“Did you see anything of Mavelt?”

“Yes. He is waiting for an answer to his message. Rankin may change the plan.”

“Pshaw! It wasn’t necessary.”

Once in the red house the whole crowd surrounded poor Bob, who was disarmed and then bound.

“Yez sha’n’t escape me again,” said Grogan. “Oi’ll not go to slape watchin’ yez this toime.”

“No, Mike, for the simple reason that I intend to do the watching this trip,” laughed Barker. “You mean well enough, but you are not always to be trusted.”

“I will take him up-stairs,” said Barker. “I want to have a talk with him. Then I will come down, and we can decide on what we intend to do.”

As he spoke, he winked at Casco, and the scar-faced man nodded.

“Don’t be long,” said Raymond. “I want you to fix up that matter for me.”

“All right.”

Bob was compelled to march up to the second story of the house and into the front room.

“Now, sit down, Bob,” said Barker, as he closed the door. “I want you to tell me something.”

Bob took a seat. He saw that Barker’s face was unusually cruel. The man looked capable of killing him then and there.

“You followed Casco this morning, didn’t you?” began the man.

“Yes.”

“And you met Blake.”

“I did. I arrived just in time to save him from being murdered.”

“So Casco told me. Now, I want to know what Blake told you.”

“Told me about what?”

“About——” Barker hesitated an instant. “About me.”

“Supposing I don’t care to talk about that matter?”

“I want you to answer me!”

Bob remained silent. Stepping over to the defenceless youth, Barker raised his hand and struck him in the face.

“Now will you answer me?”

“No.”

“You are mighty brave, I must say. But your bravery counts for nothing with me.”

“And your bluster counts less with me.”

“I have you in my power.”

“I have been there before.”

“And you think you can escape again. But you will not, mark my word.”

“Maybe I will.”

Barker strode up and down the room a moment and glared at Bob.

“Did Blake tell you anything about yourself?” he asked, coming to a halt.

“I told you I wouldn’t answer any questions. You may ask me if it is going to stop raining soon, and I’ll have nothing to say.”

Barker grated his teeth.

“May break him, but never bend him,” he muttered to himself. “I never saw his equal for pure spunk.”

“What did you hear down-stairs?” went on the man, shifting his tactics.

Instead of replying, Bob gazed up to the ceiling, and began to whistle.

Again Barker raised his hand.

“Stop that.”

“Does it annoy you?” asked Bob, coolly.

“You don’t seem to realize your situation.”

“Don’t want to if it’s going to scare me to death.”

But Bob did realize matters very plainly, and his chaff was only uttered to keep up his courage.

“Look here, I’ll——” began Barker, when a crash of thunder drowned out his voice and made him shrink back in awe.

“How long are you going to be up there?” called Casco, from the foot of the stairs.

“I’ll be down in a little while,” replied Barker. “Why?”

“Mavelt is here.”

“What news does he bring?”

“The money will be on the express to-night.”

“To-night?”

“Yes. We have just time to get ready and no more. Finish with that boy and come down.”

“That’s all right, too, but——”

A crash of thunder close at hand made both Barker and Bob jump.

The crash was followed by one of a different sort, as a tree which had stood close at hand was split from top to bottom, and one side smashed in the entire window-sash.

“Oh!” howled Barker. “I can’t stand this!”

Pale as a ghost he made for the door, and ran down the stairs.

“Now is my chance,” thought Bob. “It’s a great risk, but it’s the only chance I have to save my life.”

Bound though he was, he managed to reach the broken window and climbed up on the sill.

The tree, the top of which was on fire, still rested against the house, and upon this Bob threw himself and rolled to the ground.

Some bushes were not far off, and as soon as he reached the soil the young photographer rolled over and over, until he was out of sight.

Then came another streak of lightning which almost blinded the youth. The air was filled with the smell of sulphur, while the noise was terrific.

“Help I help!” came from the interior of the red house, accompanied by the crash of falling walls.

The lightning had struck the chimney, and run down the centre of the structure, ruining it completely.

For the moment Bob thought the end of the world had come. He lay still, a strange sensation darting like needles through his whole system.

“Come on out, if you value your lives!” he heard Casco cry. “Sure, an’ Horning is kilt!” howled Grogan as he came rushing forth. “The loightning shtruck him, so it did. Come away!”

Bob heard no more. Another crash of thunder roared in his ears, followed by a tremendous downpour of rain, and the crowd moved away to seek a new shelter.

Poor Bob felt as weak as a sick kitten. He tried to move, but the shock to his nerves had been too much, and presently his senses left him, and all became a blank.

When he returned to consciousness, it was beginning to grow dark. The rain had ceased, and the sky overhead was once more a deep blue, flecked with white clouds.

For a while the young photographer could not remember where he was, nor what had happened. But gradually he recalled the scene in the upper chamber of the red house, and what had followed, and raising his head he looked around.

The cottage was a mass of ruins, burnt and water-soaked, and beside it lay the tree the lightning had split, the top charred and blackened.

“Thank Heaven for that escape!” murmured Bob. “My! what a close shave!”

He was still bound, but by working steadily at the rope he, after an hour’s labor, managed to free himself.

He ached in every joint, but to this he scarcely gave attention. His one thought was of the gang and what they intended to do.

Approaching the cottage, he examined the ruins, but could see nothing of Horning’s remains. Whether or not the gang had buried the man the youth could not tell.

Bob knew that the express of which the men had spoken would leave Stampton at eight o’clock and would arrive in Dartinville at eight-thirty, making no stop excepting on flag.

It must now be seven or half-past. He must hurry. If the train and its passengers were to be saved, there was no time to lose.

Bob knew it was at least a mile and a half to the railroad track, and two miles to the nearest way station. Could he cover that distance in time?

“I’ll do it or die in the attempt!” muttered the brave youth. “If I only had a horse!”

But there was no horse in sight, nor, indeed, any farm-house where one might be procured. All was dark and lonely.

Bob set out at a brisk gait. He felt like groaning at every step, but ground his teeth together and kept on. Either he would cover the necessary distance or drop dead on the road.

“They will find that I am not so easily overcome as they expected,” he muttered, grimly. “And now, with hundreds of lives at stake, what sort of a chap would I be to show the white feather?”

Bob had to make a guess as to which was the shortest way to the nearest station, and praying that he was right and would arrive in time he pushed on and on.

Over the rough fields and through the brooks, now swollen high from the recent rain, went Bob, half walking and half running. He was hatless, and the jump from the window had nearly sprained his ankle, but what did he care? If those lives were to be saved, he alone must accomplish the task.

At last a long, low rumble reached his ears.

“The track can’t be far off, and that is a train.”

Bob paused for only a second to listen and to locate the sound. He was right. It was a train, going in the opposite direction.

“It’s the last train through that way to-night,” he said to himself. “Now the only one to pass the other way is the express, and that must be almost due.”

Off through a patch of woods Bob heard the train slow up, come to a stop, and then start off again.

“That means a station of some sort most likely,” was his mental comment. “Oh, if I can only reach it in time!”

Through the woods, the brush sweeping his face and scratching his skin, went Bob, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He was almost played out.

At last the woods were passed. Then came an open field, and beyond lay the iron tracks.

Bob looked up and down. The little station was a good hundred yards off.

“Stop the train!” cried the youth as he dashed up.

Then he gave a cry of dismay—the place was deserted—the station-master had locked up and gone home for the night.

And now came a rumble from the distance, and looking down the tracks Bob saw the gleaming head-light of the express as it came thundering along at the rate of fifty miles an hour.

“If I only had a red-lantern!” groaned the youth.

He looked around. Was there no lantern in sight? Hither and thither he rushed, growing more frantic every second.

Ah! here was an old lantern at last. But it was a common affair with a white glass and unlit.

With nervous haste Bob felt for a match and drew it forth. It was wet from the rain and refused to burn. He threw it away and pulled out another and then another, and at last the lamp was lit and burned brightly. But, alas! the light was white, and the danger signal must be red! And now the express was almost upon him. In ten seconds it would be gone, and then what dire disaster would follow!

Suddenly Bob gave a jump. In his vest pocket was a small ruby lantern-slide of red glass, such as nearly every professional photographer possesses.

In feverish haste Bob drew forth the bit of glass and held it in front of the white light.

Then the red light was waved wildly to and fro as the express dashed past.

Had his signal been seen?

CHAPTER XXXIII
BOB AND HIS MOTHER—CONCLUSION

The single second which followed the passage of the express train seemed to Bob an age.

He continued to swing the red light until he heard a shrill shriek of the whistle and saw the fire fly from the wheels of the locomotive as the engine was reversed, and then he staggered up against the little station.

The express train had been saved!

In less than ten seconds the conductor came running forward.

“What’s the matter, Boswell?” he cried. “Quick, we are behind time already!”

Bob tried to speak. His voice came almost in a sob.

“Don’t go! The track—the robbers have loosened a rail and——”

“Hullo! it ain’t Boswell at all! Why, what’s the matter with you? Rivers! Jones! Come here!”

The engineer and one of the brakemen came at the call, and all three gazed at the young photographer, whose eyes were closed, and whose form was gradually slipping down on the platform.

“He’s fainting!” went on the conductor. “Here, help me place him on this baggage truck.”

“What did he stop the train for?” asked the engineer, as he assisted in making Bob comfortable.

“I don’t know. He said something about robbers and a loosened rail.”

“Is that so? Wait till I get a bit of water and dash it into his face.”

“He’s been cut on the forehead,” put in the brakeman, “and he seems completely exhausted. You can bet he didn’t stop the train for nothing.”

Water was procured and dashed into Bob’s face. With something of a shudder he came to his senses.

“Is the train safe?” he asked feebly.

“So far, yes; but what’s the trouble?”

Bob was silent for a moment, as if trying to pull himself together. Then he sat up.

“Where is the conductor?”

“I am the conductor.”

“You have an express car attached to the train?”

“Yes; but what——”

“Arrest the express agent.”

“Arrest him!” called three of the hearers.

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“He is in with a gang of robbers to rob the car of forty thousand dollars which you are carrying.”

“How do you know that?”

“I overheard the plot.”

“Do you know the men?”

“Yes.”

“Who are they?”

Bob mentioned the names. Then in as few words as possible he related how the deed was to be done.

“I believe the boy is right,” said the engineer. “I suspected something was wrong by the way Mavelt acted yesterday. And, come to think of it, he asked me the exact time we passed Gooseneck Falls.”

“Then that is the place where the gang will try to throw the train off.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Bob Alden, a travelling photographer. Mr. Maverick hired me to take pictures along the route for a new guide book.”

“I’ve heard of you,” said the conductor. “By Jove! but this is a rascally piece of business.”

“What’s to be done?” asked the engineer. “We can’t stay here all night.”

“I’ll tell you what to do,” said Bob. “Run back to that last station and get a number of officers. Then run up to Gooseneck Falls and capture the rascals.”

“That’s a good plan,” said the conductor. “And in the mean time I’ll stay with that express agent and see that he doesn’t skip out.”

“Can I go along?” asked Bob.

“Certainly. Come, I’ll help you to the parlor car and you can go into the lavatory and wash up. The porter will give you some court-plaster and such stuff, if you need it.”

Bob braced up and was soon aboard the car. Then they started back, much to the surprise of the express agent, who came out to inquire what was up.

The conductor told him, and also ordered him to keep still. The fellow was very much frightened, and said he knew nothing of the intended robbery.

While the train was making fast time back to the last station of any size Bob washed his face, bound up his wounds, and sat down to rest. The porter offered him some whiskey, but Bob declined.

“I don’t drink liquor, but if you have any coffee——”

“Yes, sah, right away, sah,” returned the darkey, and just before the train came to a stop the young photographer had a strong cup of coffee, which made him feel like another person.

Word was at once sent to the nearest police station, and presently four officers hurried to the train. Behind them came a form that looked familiar to Bob. It was Frank Landes.

“I was out with the detectives, but I lost your trail in the storm. One of the men thought you had come here. I was at the police station when the order for the men came in. What’s up?”

“They are going to bag the whole crowd,” returned Bob. “Come on, if you want to take part.”

Frank hopped aboard. In a second more they were off. The officers, with Bob, Frank, and the conductor, occupied the express car, so that very few of the passengers on the train knew that anything unusual was going on, although they wondered why the run backward had been made.

The engineer crowded on the steam, and they went spinning along at the rate of sixty miles an hour. On the way all hands talked over the prospects ahead.

Suddenly a whistle was heard and the train slowed up.

“Here we are,” said the conductor. “Gooseneck Falls are not over a hundred yards ahead.”

Bob, Frank, and the officers jumped at once to the ground. Then they separated, the officers on one side of the track and Bob and Frank on the other.

“We ought to get some distance away from the track,” said Bob. “It isn’t likely the gang will remain close at hand when they expect the train to run off.”

“That’s so, Bob,” returned the young man. “Come, here is a path. Let us take that.”

The path led to a spot fully a hundred feet back of the track. They pursued it in silence until Bob caught Frank by the sleeve as a signal to stop.

“What is it?” whispered the young man.

“They are just ahead.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes. I heard Grogan talking.”

“Hark!”

They listened. This time it was Barker who was speaking.

“Why is the train halting down there? I don’t see anything of Rankin.”

“That’s what I would like to know,” came in Casco’s tones. “Something is wrong.”

“Sure, an’ that is phat Oi’m afther thinkin’,” put in Grogan.

“I’ve a good mind to go down and see,” said Raymond. “If there is anything wrong, the sooner we find out the better.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” put in a strange voice, which Bob supposed must be that of Mavelt. “Don’t get alarmed the first thing.”

“That storm upset me completely,” said Barker. “Hullo, the train is coming on again!”

“Yes, but awfully slow.”

“They are watching the tracks!” cried Casco. “They must——”

He broke off short. Bob had given a signal to the officers on the other side of the track. In a second the signal was returned. The gang heard it as well as Frank and Bob.

“Something is amiss!” cried Raymond.

“An’ we had betther git out,” added Grogan.

He turned to run, but found himself confronted by the young photographer.

“Sure an’ it’s a ghost!” he shrieked. “Let me go!”

Before he could say a word more Bob struck him in the head, and down went Grogan in a heap.

“What, Bob?” cried Barker, rushing forward. “How did you escape?”

“That’s my business, Bill Dix. Hold up your hands!”

The man addressed was dumfounded.

“Did you hear?” went on Bob.

“Who told you I was Bill Dix?” cried the robber, savagely, as soon as he could recover.

“Never mind now. Up with your hands!”

“Never!”

Dix, for that was really Barker’s name, attempted to draw his pistol.

Now came a rush from the other side of the track, and suddenly a pot of burning red fire lit up the scene.

“Surrender, in the name of the law!”

“Trapped!” yelled Casco. “Boys, we must fight for it.”

“But you sha’n’t do any fighting,” added Frank, and, rushing up behind the scar-faced man, the young man wrenched the pistol from his hand and knocked him down.

Raymond turned to flee, but one of the officers caught him, while Mavelt was also secured, and in five minutes more the entire gang was under arrest.

“Who gave us away?” demanded Dix, while he was being taken to the train.

“I had that pleasure,” returned Bob. “I told you I would come out on top, Dix.”

“Just wait till I get out of this scrape, I’ll——”

“You won’t get out of it for a good many years,” put in one of the officers. “So you might as well keep your temper to yourself.”

The burning of the red fire and the pistol-shots had aroused all the passengers, and they crowded around when the prisoners were brought to the train.

A loosened and misplaced rail was found on the track a hundred feet farther ahead. It was quickly adjusted and fastened down, and then the express proceeded to the next large station.

At the depot there was a perfect jam, including many women, who had been passengers on the express. They watched the transferring of the prisoners to the platform with deep interest.

“William Dix!” suddenly cried a woman from out of the crowd.

Everybody, including Bob, turned toward the woman. She was a person apparently forty years of age and dressed in black.

“Bill Dix! I must see that man!” went on the woman, and she tried to push her way forward.

“Do you know the man?” questioned one of the officers.

“Yes, yes! I have been hunting for him for a long time! Oh, let me speak to him!”

“You may do so at the station-house.”

“Thank you! So he is one of the robbers? I knew he was a bad man, but he is worse than I supposed.”

The woman followed the crowd to the station-house, where Bob and Frank, as well as the chief of the officers, made a formal complaint against the gang.

After this, two of the officers, accompanied by Frank, set out to recover what they could of the money and other things which had been stolen.

For some reason he could not explain, Bob was deeply interested in the woman in black. Presently, seeing a good chance, he spoke to her.

“You say you know this Dix?” he began.

“Yes, I have known him for years.”

“I am very anxious to learn something about him,” went on Bob.

“And I am very anxious to make him tell me something,” returned the woman. “He did me a wrong, and I want him to do what he can to right it.”

“He did me a wrong also.”

“Indeed? May I ask your name?”

“I am known as Bob Alden. But my right name is Bob Perry.”

The woman started back and grew as pale as death.

“Robert Perry!” she gasped.

“Yes. But why——”

“Were you the son of Thomas Perry, an army officer?”

“I was, and still am, but——”

“Thank Heavens!” and the woman caught Bob in her arms.

“I don’t understand,” began Bob, with a curious sensation stealing over him.

“I am your mother, Bob!”

“My mother!”

“Yes, your mother! Oh, how glad I am that I have found you!”

“I’m glad, too,” said Bob, brokenly. His heart was jumping so much he could not say a great deal. “But it’s all so wonderful,” he added, after a moment.

“So it is.”

“Where have you been all these years? Why didn’t you come to my Uncle Robert’s house?”

“It’s a long story. When your father was killed, I nearly lost my mind. When I recovered, I was told by a man, who I afterward found out was Dix’s tool, that you had been stolen by the Indians. I made a long search, lasting years. Then I was coming to your uncle’s home here in the East, when I learned that he was dead. It was quite by accident that I discovered the trick which had been played on me, and I at once set out to find you.”

“And I have been hunting for you,” replied Bob, with a beaming face. “I understand it all now. Dix was playing a double game—trying to keep me out of the way at one end and you out of the way at the other. But he has been foiled, just as he deserved.”

When Dix was confronted by Bob and his newly-found parent, he could not say a word. He had played a desperate game to the finish and lost.

Bob conducted his mother to a hotel, and here the two spent a happy night.

One of the first callers in the morning was Frank. He was astonished when Bob introduced Mrs. Perry.

“So you won’t be a nobody any longer, Bob, eh?” he smiled.

Frank had glorious news. Aided by a confession made by Mavelt, he and the officers had recovered everything stolen by the gang, including John Wright’s money and plate, Blake’s package, and Frank’s eighteen hundred dollars.

“It’s a great haul,” said Bob, “and I believe it will settle this crowd for good.”

And he was right.

But here we must leave Bob the photographer and pass over a period of several years.

Bill Dix was tried and sentenced to twenty years in the State prison. After this sentence is finished he will be sent to Virginia to answer to a charge involving murder. The other evildoers are also suffering the penalty of the law.

Old Blake recovered from the attack made upon him by Casco, and completely reformed. He now lives with his daughter, who is well settled in life.

Frank Landes is a partner in the firm for which he formerly worked, and is getting rich rapidly.

Bob and his mother live in an elegant mansion in Stampton. The young photographer has taken sweet Grace Maverick for a wife.

“And she couldn’t do better, even though the young man isn’t a millionaire,” says Gregory Maverick, for he is more than pleased over Bob’s show of bravery.

But Bob is doing well in life, having at present not only the finest studio in Stampton, but also an interest in one of the largest photographic supply houses in the country. And so we will leave him, wishing him continued success.

THE END.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOB, THE PHOTOGRAPHER ***

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Table of Contents

- Bob The Photographer
- CONTENTS
- INTRODUCTION
- CHAPTER I BOB AND HIS TROUBLES
- CHAPTER II BOB AT THE CLIFF
- CHAPTER III BOB AT THE HALF-WAY HOUSE
- CHAPTER IV BOB IS LEFT TO HIS FATE
- CHAPTER V BOB MAKES HIS ESCAPE
- CHAPTER VI BOB LEARNS SOMETHING
- CHAPTER VII BOB AND THE ELEPHANT
- CHAPTER VIII BOB OBTAINS A SITUATION
- CHAPTER IX BOB HAS A LIVELY FIGHT
- CHAPTER X BOB’S FIRST CUSTOMER
- CHAPTER XI BOB ASSISTS A STRANGER
- CHAPTER XII BOB’S QUEER EXPERIENCE
- CHAPTER XIII BOB MAKES A TRUE FRIEND
- CHAPTER XIV BOB MAKES A NEW MOVE

- CHAPTER XV BOB BECOMES A TRAVELLING PHOTOGRAPHER

- CHAPTER XVI BOB TAKES A DIVE OVERBOARD
- CHAPTER XVII BOB MAKES A STRANGE CAPTURE
- CHAPTER XVIII BOB SHOWS UP A SWINDLER
- CHAPTER XIX BOB ON THE ROAD
- CHAPTER XX BOB IN THE WOODS
- CHAPTER XXI BOB TAKES A RISK
- CHAPTER XXII BOB ON THE FREIGHT TRAIN
- CHAPTER XXIII BOB FORMS A RESOLUTION
- CHAPTER XXIV BOB STICKS UP FOR A FRIEND
- CHAPTER XXV BOB AND FRANK STAND TOGETHER
- CHAPTER XXVI BOB SHOWS HIS NERVE
- CHAPTER XXVII BOB MAKES A FIND
- CHAPTER XXVIII BOB MEETS OLD BLAKE
- CHAPTER XXIX BOB HEARS INTERESTING NEWS

- CHAPTER XXX BOB LEARNS SOMETHING OF THE PAST

- CHAPTER XXXI BOB GOES IT ALONE

- CHAPTER XXXII BOB BECOMES A PRISONER

- CHAPTER XXXIII BOB AND HIS MOTHER—CONCLUSION

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE