The oxen, starting at the alarm, helped to precipitate the catastrophe. Fortunately, Jack was at hand to stop them, or the dismantled wagon might have gone flying across the lot, even fast enough to suit Link's notion of speed.

Rufe made one quick effort to prevent the boards from tipping up, then leaped aside, while the discharged load shot past him.

Chokie, screaming, held fast to the sides of his tub with both hands. Wad, intending to jump, plunged into the deepest part of the river. Link made a snatch at the barrel, and, playing at leap-frog over it (very unwillingly), went headlong into the deep hole.

Chokie met with a wonderfully good fortune; his tub was launched so neatly, and ballasted so nicely by him sitting in the bottom, that it shipped but a splash of water, and he floated away, unhurt and scarcely wet at all, amidst the general ruin.

The wagon-boards, relieved of their load, tumbled back upon the wheels. To add to the confusion, Lion barked furiously.

Jack, frightened at first, finally began to laugh, when he saw Chokie sailing away, under full scream, and Wad and Link scrambling out of the water.

"So you were the fellows that were not going to get wet!" cried Rufe. "Pick out your barrel and empty tubs, while I catch Chokie!"

The river, even in the deepest place, was not very deep; and Wad and Link came wading out, blowing water from their mouths, flirting water from their hair, and shaking water from their rescued hats, in a way that made Rufe (after he had stranded Chokie in his tub) roll upon the grass in convulsions.

"Laugh, then!" cried Wad in a rage; "I'll give you something to laugh at!" And, catching up a tub partly filled with water, he rushed with it to take wet vengeance on his dry brother.

Before Rufe, helpless with laughter, could move to defend himself, tub, water, and Wad, all together, were upon him,—the tub capsizing over his head and shoulders, Wad tumbling upon the tub, and the water running out in little rivulets below.

Rufe was pretty wet, but still laughing, when he crawled out, like a snail from under his shell, and got upon his feet, clutching the tub to hurl it at Wad, who fled.

"You are the only one who has got any dry fun out of this scrape!" Rufe said, trying to brush the water out of his neck and breast.

His words were addressed to Jack, and they proved more strictly true than he intended; for just then Chokie, trying to get out of his stranded tub, tipped it over, and went out of it, upon his hands and knees, into the river. By the time he was pulled out and set upon dry ground, the boys were all pretty good-natured.

"How about those leeches, Link? Did you find any?" said Jack.

"I'm too dizzy yet, to think about leeches," replied Link. "I turned a somerset out of that wagon so quick, I could see the patch on the seat of my trousers!"

"I thought I was going through to China," said Wad, "and expected, when I came up, to see men with pigtails."

He stood on the edge of the water, holding another tub for Rufe, if he should come too near.

"Quit your nonsense now!" cried Rufe, "and hand up that barrel."

"I'll quit if you will,—as the poultry-thief said when the old gobbler chased him. 'Quit, quit!' says the turkey. 'Quit your ownself!' says the thief. And I'm just of his way of thinking," said Wad.

"Well! help me put this wagon into shape," said Rufe. "Then we'll fill our tubs and barrel without any more fooling."

The wagon-boards were replaced and loaded without any further accident. The well-filled tubs were set one upon another, and Wad stood holding them; while Link, having placed the board seat over the barrel of water, sat upon it. They found it a pretty sloppy ride; but they could laugh defiance at a little water now. Chokie, it need hardly be said, did not ride in a tub of water, but walked between Jack and Rufe beside the oxen.



CHAPTER XXI.

PEAKSLOW SHOWS HIS HAND.

"Hullo!" cried Link from his perch, as the wagon passed the potato-patch, "there comes Peakslow down the road through the woods,—just turning the corner for home!"

Jack started with sudden excitement.

"Can you see his team?"

"Yes; one of the horses looks like yours; and he has an extra horse led behind."

Jack ran up to the road to get a look, and came laughing back to the house, where the boys and their load of water had by that time arrived.

"He is driving my horse, and leading one of his own. I am going to get my bridle, and call on him."

"You'll come back to dinner?" said Rufe.

"Yes, if you'll have my prairie chickens cooked."

And, leaving the boys to astonish the family with their wet clothes, Jack, with the bridle on his arm, walked down the road.

Just as he was entering Peakslow's yard, he met Mr. Wiggett coming out with his arms full of brown-paper parcels.

"Mr. Wiggett! glad to see you!"

"Same to yourself," replied the old man. "Got my arms full o' this yer stuff, or I'd shake hands. I've a lot more o' comforts for wife and young uns in the wagon; but I thought I'd lug along suthin, or they wouldn't be glad to see me."

"Is it all right about the horse?"

"I 'low it's all right."

"Is Peakslow up to any trick?"

"Nary, as I kin diskiver; and I pumped him, tew, right smart, a-comin' over the perairie."

"Did he have much trouble getting back his horse?"

"Not sich a dog-goned sight. Truckman's a straightfor'ard, honest chap. Says he guv eighty dollars for your hoss; thinks he had him of the thief himself; and 'lows he knows the rascal. He stuck out a little at fust, and you should 'a' heard Peakslow talk tew him! 'Twas ekal to gwine to preachin'."

"What did he say?"

"Said none but a fool or a scoundrel would ca'c'late he could hang ontew a piece o' prop'ty that had been stole, or traded for what had been stole. Talked, of course, just t' other way from what he did when he talked to you. Truckman didn't mind his gab, but when he was satisfied the hoss he put away had been stole, he guv up Peakslow's, and the fifteen dollars to boot. Now, how in the name of seven kingdoms Peakslow's gwine to turn it about to make anything more, beats all my understandin'!"

Jack thanked the old man warmly for the interest he had taken in the affair, and asked how he could pay him for his trouble.

"I haven't looked for no pay," replied the old man. "But one thing I should like to have ye dew for me, if ever ye come my way agin with yer compass. My woman guv me right smart of her jaw for forgittin' it when ye was thar before. She wants a noon-mark on our kitchen floor."

"All right," said Jack. "She shall have it."

The old man went on with his bundles, while Jack entered Peakslow's yard.

Peakslow, who was unharnessing his team, with the help of two stout boys, looked up and said, in a tone which he meant should be friendly,——

"How are ye? On hand, I see," with a grim smile at the bridle.

"I was on hand a little before you were," replied Jack. "Your week was up an hour ago. Though I don't care about that. You've got your horse, I see."

"That's the main thing I went for; course I've got him. Here's a paper, with the truckman's name wrote on 't; he wants you to come and see him when you go to town, pervided he don't come to see you fust."

"Did he say anything about a bridle and a blanket that were on the horse when he was stolen?"

"He's got 'em," Peakslow coolly replied; "but as no reward was offered for anything but the hoss, I didn't take 'em."

Jack didn't quite see the logic of this remark.

"Never mind; they are trifles," he said. "It's glory enough for one while, to get my horse again. I've a bridle here for him; I'll slip it on, Zeph, if you'll slip yours off."

"You can slip your bridle on that hoss, and take him away, when you've fulfilled the conditions; not before," said Peakslow.

"What conditions? You don't pretend to claim my horse now you've got your own back?"

"I've got a claim on him," Peakslow replied. "Here's your own handbill for it. Twenty Dollars Reward! I've got back your hoss for ye, and I demand the reward."

This, then, after all, was the quirk in Peakslow's head. The boys grinned. Jack was astounded.

"Peakslow," he exclaimed indignantly, "you know that's an absurd claim! You didn't find my horse and deliver him to me; I found him in your hands, and you even refused to give him up! The truckman has a better claim for the reward than you have, for he had him first; and then I don't see but the thief himself has a prior claim to either."

"You talk like a fool!" said Peakslow.

"You act like a fool and a knave!" Jack retorted, in a sudden blaze. "I won't have any more words with you. Sue for the reward, if you think you can get it. I'm just going to take my horse!"

"Not till the reward is paid, if I live!" said Peakslow, his black eyes sparkling. "Zeph, step and hand out the old gun!"



CHAPTER XXII.

THE WOODLAND SPRING.

Very pale, with the bridle dangling from his arm, and Lion walking dejectedly by his side (the sympathetic dog always knew when his master was in trouble), Jack returned to the "castle."

Lord Betterson, meeting him in the door-yard, touched his hat and bowed.

"Where—is—your—quadruped?" he asked, with a cool, deliberate politeness, which fell upon Jack's mood like drops of water on red-hot steel.

"That villain! he claims the reward for him! But I never'll pay it in the world!"

Betterson smiled and said, "Ah! Peakslow! Highly characteristic!"

"He threatened to shoot me!"

"Very likely. He has threatened to shoot me, on one or two occasions. I said, 'Shoot!'" (Jack wondered whether he said it with that condescending smile and gracious gesture.) "It isn't agreeable to have dealings with a person who talks of shooting his fellow-men; but I imagine there's no danger, if you keep cool."

"I couldn't keep cool," said Jack. "I got as mad as he was. I could have shot him."

"That, my friend," Lord Betterson replied, with a wave of the hand, "was an error,—quite natural, but still an error. You stay to dinner?"

"Thank you, I have promised myself that pleasure."

Jack was ashamed of having given way to his anger; and he determined from that moment, whatever happened, to keep calm.

As he threw his useless bridle down, and left Lion to guard it, he saw Wad starting off with a pail, and asked where he was going.

"For water," said Wad.

"More water? I should think you all had enough for one day!"

"Yes, for the outer man," drawled Wad. "Where's your horse?"

"I concluded to let Peakslow keep him a little longer. He seemed willing to; and I am not ready to ride home. May I go with you?"

"Glad to have ye," said Wad.

They walked a little way along the road toward Peakslow's house, then entered the woodland, descended into a little ravine, and, on the slope beyond, found a spring of running water in the shade of an oak grove.

Jack was not inclined to talk of Snowfoot, but he had a good deal to say about the spring.

"Why, this is charming! What a clear basin of water! Is it always running over?"

"Always, even in the driest season. We first noticed that little stream trickling down into the ravine; and that's about all there was to be seen, till Rufe and I hollowed out this basin."

"Why don't you come here with your wagon and tubs, instead of going to the river?"

"There's no good way to get in here with a wagon; and, besides, we can't dip up more than two or three pailfuls at a time,—then we must wait for the spring to fill."

"You could sink a barrel," said Jack, "and always have that full, to start upon. Now dip your pail, and let's see how long it takes for the basin to fill."

The experiment was tried, and Jack grew quite enthusiastic over the result.

"See! how fast the water comes in! I say, Wad, you've got something valuable here."

"Yes," said Wad. "I only wish the house had been built somewhere near. This is part of the land Peakslow pretended to claim. The swing, where Cecie got hurt, is in the grove, just up here."

The place was so cool and pleasant that Jack let Wad return alone with the water, and walked about the spring and the swing, and up into the woods beyond, calming his inward excitement, until dinner-time.

At table he gave a humorous account of his late interview with Peakslow.

"He was so very cordial in his request that I should leave Snowfoot, that I couldn't well refuse,—though I did decline to trouble him, till he brought out a double-barrelled argument,—stub twist, percussion lock,—which finally persuaded me. He is one of the most urgent men I ever saw," added Jack, mashing his potato.

Vinnie smiled, while the others laughed; but her eyes were full of anxiety, as they beamed on Jack.

"Isn't it possible," she said, "to meet such arguments with kindness? I didn't think there was a man so bad that he couldn't be influenced by reason and good-will."

"It might rain reasons on Peakslow, forty days and forty nights,—he would shed 'em, as a duck does water," Jack replied. "Isn't it so, Mr. Betterson?"

"I have certainly found him impervious," said my lord.

"I might have stopped to argue with him, and threaten him with the law and costs of court, and perhaps have settled the matter for five or ten dollars. But the truth is," Jack confessed, "I lost patience and temper. I am not going to have any more words with him. Now let's drop Peakslow, and speak of something more important. That spring over in your woods, Mr. Betterson,—I've been looking at it. Is it soft water?" (Jack lifted a glass and sipped it;) "as good for washing as it is for the table?"

"It is excellent water for any purpose," said Mr. Betterson. "There is only one fault in that spring,—it is too far off."

"We are going to move the house up there, so as to have it handy," said Link.

"That is one of my young friend's jokes," said Jack. "But, seriously, Mr. Betterson, instead of moving the house to the spring, why don't you bring the spring to the house?"

"How do you mean? It doesn't seem quite—ah—practicable, to move a spring that way."

"I don't mean the spring itself, of course, but the water. You might have that running, a constant stream, in your kitchen or back-room."

"I apprehend your drift," said Betterson, helping Jack to a piece of prairie chicken. "You mean, bring it in pipes."

"Thank you. Precisely."

"But I apprehend a difficulty; it is not easy to make water run up hill."

Jack smiled, and blushed a little, at Betterson's polite condescension in making this mild objection.

"Water running down hill may force itself up another hill, if confined in pipes, I think you will concede."

"Most assuredly. But it will not rise again higher than its source. And the spring is lower than we are,—lower than our kitchen sink."

"I don't quite see that," replied Jack, with the air of a candid inquirer. "I have been over the ground, and it didn't strike me so."

"It certainly looks to be several feet lower," said Betterson; and the boys agreed with him.

"We generally speak of going down to the spring," said Rufe. "We go down the road, then down the bank of the ravine, and then a little way up the other bank. I don't know how we can tell just how much lower it is. We can't see the spring from the house."

"If I had my instruments here, I could tell you which is lower, and how much lower, pretty soon. While I am waiting for Snowfoot, (I can't go home, you know, without Snowfoot!) I may, perhaps, do a bit of engineering, as it is."



CHAPTER XXIII.

JACK'S "BIT OF ENGINEERING."

The boys got around Jack after dinner, and asked him about that bit of engineering.

"In the first place," said Jack, standing outside the door, and looking over toward the spring, hidden by intervening bushes on a ridge, "we must have a water-level, and I think I can make one. Get me a piece of shingle, or any thin strip of wood. And I shall want a pail of water."

A shingle brought, Jack cut it so that it would float freely in the pail; and, having taken two thin strips of equal length from the sides, he set them up near each end, like the masts of a boy's boat.

"Now, this is our level," he said; "and these masts are the sights. To see that they are exact, we will look across them at some object, then turn the level end for end, and look across them again; if the range is the same both ways, then our sights are right, are they not? But I see we must lay a couple of sticks across the pail, to hold our level still while we are using it."

The boys were much interested; and Link said he didn't see what anybody wanted of a better level than that.



"It will do for the use we are going to make of it," said Jack; "but it might not be quite convenient for field service; you couldn't carry a pail of water, and a floating shingle with two masts, in your overcoat-pocket, you know. We'll aim at a leg of that grindstone. Go and stick your knife where I tell you, Link."

Jack soon got his level so that it would stand the test, and called the boys to look.

"Here! you stand back, Chokie!" cried Link; while Rufe and Wad, one after the other, got down on the ground and sighted across the level at the knife-blade.

"Now," Jack explained, "I am going to set this pail of water in your kitchen window, by the sink. That will be our starting-point. Then I want one of you boys to go, with a long-handled pitchfork, in the direction of the spring, as far as you can and keep the pail in sight; then set up your fork, and pin a piece of white paper on it just where I tell you. As I raise my hand, you will slide the paper up; and, as I lower my hand, you will slip it down."

Wad and Link both went with the fork, which they set up on the borders of the woodland, back from the road. Then Wad, wrapping a piece of newspaper about the handle, held it there as high as his head, with a good strip of it visible above his hand.

Jack, standing in the kitchen, looked across the sights of his level placed in the open window, and laughed.

"What do you think, Rufe? Is the paper high enough?"

"It ought to be a foot or two higher," was Rufe's judgment.

"I say a foot higher," remarked Lord Betterson, coming up behind.

"What do you say, Vinnie?"

"I think the paper is too high."

"Now look across the level," said Jack.

All were astonished; and Lord Betterson could hardly be convinced that the level was constructed on sound principles. It showed that the top of the paper should be just below Wad's knee.

"Now we will take our level," said Jack, after the paper was pinned in its proper place, "and go forward and make another observation."

He chose a place at the top of the ridge beyond Wad, where, after cutting a few bushes, he was able to look back and see the fork-handle, and also to look forward and see the spring. There he set his pail on the ground, waited for the water to become still, adjusted his level, and caused a second strip of paper to be pinned to the fork-handle, in range with the sights.

The boys then gathered around the fork, while Jack, taking a pocket-rule from his coat, ascertained that the second paper was six feet and an inch above the first.

"Which shows that our level is now six feet and an inch higher than it stood on the kitchen window," said he. "Now let's see how much higher it is than the spring."

Link was already on his hands and knees by the pail, turning the sights in range with the spring on the farther side of the little ravine. He suddenly flapped his arms and crowed.

"No need of setting the fork over there," he said. "The spring is almost as high as the pail!"

"Let's be exact," said Jack; and he went himself and thrust the fork, handle downward, into the basin of the spring. "Now, Link, you be the engineer; show your skill; tell me where to fix this paper."

Link was delighted with the important part assigned him.

"Higher!" he commanded, from behind the pail. "Not quite so high. Not quite so low. Now just a millionth part of an inch higher—there!"

"A millionth part of an inch is drawing it rather fine," said Jack, as he pinned the paper.

Afterward, going and looking across the level, he decided that Link had taken a very accurate aim. Then, his pocket-measure being once more applied, the paper was found to be only seven inches higher than the water in the basin.

"Seven inches from six feet one inch, leaves five feet six inches as the height of the spring water above the level of our sights at the kitchen window. Now, I measured, and found they were there thirteen inches higher than the bottom of the sink; which shows that if you carry this water in pipes, you can have your spout, or faucet, thirteen inches higher than the bottom of your sink, and still have a head of water of five feet and six inches, to give you a running stream."

The boys were much astonished, and asked how it happened that they had been so deceived.

"You have unconsciously based all your calculations on the fact that you go down to Peakslow's. The road falls a little all the way. But it doesn't fall much between your house and the place where you turn into the woodland. There you take a path among the bushes, which really rises all the way, though quite gradually, until you pass the ridge and go down into the ravine. Vinnie hasn't been accustomed to talk of going down to the spring, as you have; and so, you see, she was the only one who thought Wad at first placed his paper too high. Perhaps this doesn't account for your mistake; but it is the best reason I can give."

"How about the pipes?" Rufe asked.

"You can use pump-logs for pipes."

"But we have no pump-logs!"

"You have enough to reach from here to North Mills and return. They are growing all about you."

"Trees!" said Wad. "They are not pump-logs."

"Pump-logs in the rough," replied Jack. "They only need cutting, boring, and jointing. All pump-logs were once trees. These small-sized oaks are just the thing for the purpose; you have acres of them, and in places the timber needs thinning out. You can use the straight stems for your aqueduct, and the limbs and branches for firewood."

"That's an idea!" said Rufe, rubbing his forehead and walking quickly about. "But how are we going to turn our tree-trunks into pump-logs? We have no tools for boring and jointing."

"No, and it would cost a good deal to get them. You want an iron rod, or auger-shaft, long enough to bore half-way through your longest log; then a bit,—an inch bore would be large enough, but I suppose it would be just as easy, perhaps easier, to make a two-inch bore,—the auger would be more apt to get clogged and cramped in a smaller hole; then a reamer and a circular joint-plane, to make your joints,—the taper end of one log is to be fitted into the bore of the next, you know. You will also need some apparatus for holding your log and directing the rod, so that you sha'n't bore out, but make your holes meet in the middle, when you bore from both ends; and I don't know what else. I've watched men boring logs, but I don't remember all the particulars about it."

"You seem to remember a good deal," said Wad. "And I like the idea of a stream from this spring running in our back-room,—think of it, Rufe! But it can't be did,—as the elephant said when he tried to climb a tree. No tools, no money to buy or hire 'em, or to hire the work done."

"You boys can do a good deal of the work yourselves," said Jack. "You can cut the logs, and get them all ready for boring. Then you can get the pump-maker at the Mills to come over with his tools and help you bore them by hand; or you can haul your logs to him, and have them bored by machinery,—he has a tread-mill, and a horse to turn it. In either case, I've no doubt you could pay for his labor by furnishing logs for his pumps."

"I believe we can!" said Rufe, by this time quite warmed up to the subject. "But how about laying the logs? They have to be put pretty deep into the ground, don't they?"

"Deep enough so that the water in them won't freeze. A trench four feet deep will answer."

"How wide?"

"Just wide enough for a man to get into it and lay the logs and drive the joints together. And, by the way, you'd better be sure that there are no leaks, and that the water comes through all right, before you cover your logs."

"But there's work in digging such a trench as that!" said Wad, shaking his head.

"So there is work in everything useful that is ever accomplished. Often the more work, the greater the satisfaction in the end. But you boys have got it in you,—I see that; and, let me tell you," said Jack, "if I were you, I would take hold of things on this place in downright earnest, and make a farm and a home to be proud of."

"I never could get in love with work," replied Wad. "I'm constitutionally tired, as the lazy man said. The thought of that trench makes my back ache."

"It won't be such a back-aching job as you suppose. You've only to take one stroke with a pick or shovel at a time. And as for that constitutional weariness you complain of, now is the time in your lives to get rid of it,—to work it out of your blood,—and lay the foundations of your manhood."

"I must say, you preach pretty well!" observed Wad.

"I'm not much of a preacher," replied Jack; "but I can't help feeling a good deal, and saying just a word, when I see young fellows like you neglecting your opportunities."

"If father and Rad would take hold with us, we would just straighten things," said Rufe.

"Don't wait for your father to set you an example," replied Jack. "I don't know about Rad, though I've heard you speak of him."

"Our cousin, Radcliff," said Rufe. "He's a smart fellow, in his way, but he don't like work any better than we do, and he's off playing the gentleman most of the time."

"Or playing the loafer," said Wad.

"Let him stay away," said Jack. "You'll do better without any gentlemen loafers around."

"Did you ever do much hard work?" Wad asked.

"What do you think?" replied Jack, with a smile.

"I think you've seen something of the world."

"Yes, and I've had my way to make in it. I was brought up on the Erie Canal,—a driver, ignorant, ragged, saucy; you wouldn't believe me if I should tell you what a little wretch I was. All the education I have, I have gained by hard study, mostly at odd spells, in the last three years. I had got a chance to work on a farm, and go to school in winter; then I took to surveying, and came out here to be with Mr. Felton. So, you see, I must have done something besides loafing; and if I talk work to you I have earned the right to."

"I say, boys!" cried Link, "le's put this thing through, and have the water running in the house."

"It will do for you to talk," said Wad; "mighty little of the work you'll do."

"You'll see, Wad Betterson! Hain't I worked the past week as hard as either of you?"

"This thing isn't to be pitched into in a hurry," said Rufe, more excited than he wished to appear. "We shall have to look it all over, and talk with the pump-maker, and do up some of the farm-work that is behindhand."

"Why don't you take the farm of your father," said Jack, "and see what you can make out of it? I never knew what it was to be really interested in work till I took some land with another boy, and we raised a crop on our own account."

Rufe brightened at the idea; but Wad said he wasn't going to be a farmer, anyway.

"What are you going to be?"

"I haven't made up my mind yet."

"Till you do make up your mind, my advice is for you to take hold of what first comes to your hand, do that well, and prepare yourself for something more to your liking."

"I believe that's good advice," said Rufe. "But it is going to be hard for us to get out of the old ruts."

"I know it; and so much the more credit you will have when you succeed."

Jack moved away.

"Where are you going now?" Rufe asked.

"To reconnoitre a little, and see what Peakslow has done with my horse. I ride that horse home, you understand!"



CHAPTER XXIV.

PREPARING FOR THE ATTACK.

The boys showed Jack a way through the timber to a wooded hill opposite Peakslow's house. There Link climbed a tree to take an observation.



"I can look right over into his barnyard," he reported to his companions below. "There's old Wiggett with his ox-cart, unloading something out of Peakslow's wagon; and there's Peakslow with him. Hark!" After a pause, Link laughed and said: "Peakslow's talking loud; I could hear him say, 'That air hoss,' and 'Not if I live!' Now old Wiggett's hawing his oxen around out of the yard."

"I must head him off and have a word with him," said Jack. And away he dashed through the undergrowth.

Reaching a clump of hazels by the roadside, he waited till the old man and his slow ox-team came along.

"What's the news, Mr. Wiggett?" Jack said, coming out and accosting him.

"Whoa! hush! back!" the old man commanded, beating his cattle across the face with a short ox-goad. He shook with laughter as he turned to Jack. "It's dog-gone-ation funny! He had a quirk in his head, arter all. Hankers arter that reward of twenty dollars!"

"What did you say to him?"

"Told him he had no shadder of a claim,—he might sue ye through all the courts in seven kingdoms, he couldn't find a jury to give him the reward for stolen prop'ty found in his hands. He said for that reason he meant to hold ontew the hoss till you'd agree to suthin."

"Where is the horse now?"

"In Peakslow's stable. He wants to turn him out to pastur', but he's afraid you're hangin' round. He has set his boys to diggin' taters over ag'in Betterson's lot, where they can watch for ye. What he re'ly wants is, for you to come back and make him an offer, to settle the hash; for he's a little skittish of your clappin' the law ontew him."

"I wonder he didn't think of that before."

"He did, but he says you'd showed yerself a kind of easy, accomodatin' chap, and he'd no notion o' your gettin' so blamed riled all of a suddint."

"That shows how much good it does to be easy with a man like him!" And Jack, thanking old Wiggett for his information, disappeared in the woods.

He found the boys waiting for him, and told them what he had learned. "Now my cue is," said he, "to make Peakslow think I've gone home. So I may as well leave you for the present. Please take care of my saddle and bridle and gun till I call for them. Good by. If you should happen to come across the Peakslow boys—you understand!"

Rufe carelessly returned Jack's good-by. Then, leaving Wad and Link to go by the way of the spring and take care of the pail and fork, he walked down through the woods to the road, where he found Zeph and his older brother Dud digging potatoes in Peakslow's corner patch.

"Hullo!" Dud called out, so civilly that Rufe knew that something was wanted of him.

"Hullo yourself and see how you like it," Rufe retorted.

"Where's that fellow that owns the hoss?"

"How should I know?"

"He stopped to your house."

"That's so. But he's gone now."

"Where?"

"I don't know. He told us to keep his saddle and bridle and gun till he called for 'em, and went off. You'll hear from him before many days."

Rufe's tone was defiant; and the young potato-diggers, having, as they supposed, got the information they wanted, suffered their insolence to crop out.

"We ain't afraid of him nor you either," said Zeph, leaning on his hoe.

"Yes, you are afraid of me, too, you young blackguard! I'll tie you into a bow-knot and hang you on a tree, if I get hold of you."

"Le's see ye do it!"

Rufe answered haughtily: "You wouldn't stand there and sass me, if you didn't have Dud to back you. Just come over the fence once, and leave Dud on the other side; I'll pitch you into the middle of next week so quick you'll be dizzy the rest of your natural life." And he walked on up the road.

"Here! come back! I'll fight you! You're afraid!" Zeph yelled after him.

"I'll come round and 'tend to your case pretty soon," Rufe replied. "I've something of more importance to look after just now; I've a pig to poke."

Dud went on digging potatoes; but Zeph presently threw down his hoe and ran to the house. Shortly after, he returned; and then Jack, who had sat down to rest in a commanding position, on the borders of the woodland, was pleased to see Peakslow lead Snowfoot down the slope from the barn, and turn him into the pasture.

Rufe got home some time before his brothers, who seemed to linger at the spring.

"There they are!" said Lill; "Link with the fork on his shoulder, and Wad bringing the pail."

Rufe was sitting on the grindstone frame, as they came into the yard.

"Did you hear me blackguard the Peakslow boys? They think Jack—Hullo!" Rufe suddenly exclaimed. "I thought you was Wad!"

"I am, for the present," said Jack, laughing under Wad's hat. "Do you think Peakslow will know me ten rods off?"

"Not in that hat and coat! Lill and I both took you for Wad."

"I am all right, then! Where's your father? I wonder if he wouldn't like to try my gun."

Lord Betterson now came out of the house, fresh from his after-dinner nap, and looked a good deal of polite surprise at seeing Jack in Wad's hat and coat.

"Mr. Betterson," said Jack, "Peakslow thinks I have gone home, and he has turned Snowfoot out to grass. Now, if I should wish to throw down a corner of the fence between his pasture and your buckwheat, have you any objection?"

"None whatever," replied my lord, with a flourish, as if giving Jack the freedom of his acres.

"And perhaps," said Jack, "you would like to go down to the buckwheat-lot with me and try my gun. I hear you are a crack shot."

"I can't boast much of my marksmanship nowadays; I could fetch down a bird once. Thank you,—I'll go with pleasure."

"You are not going to get into trouble, Jack?" said Vinnie, with lively concern, seeing him tie the halter to his back.

"O no! Mr. Betterson is going to give me a lesson in shooting on the wing. I'll take the bridle, so that if Snowfoot should happen to jump the fence when he sees me, I shall be ready for him, you know. Now I wonder if we can take Lion along without his being seen. He is tired of sitting still."

"We can take him to the farther side of the cornfield, easily enough."

"That will answer. Come, Lion!" The dog bounded with joy. "Keep right by my heels now, old fellow, and mind every word I say. Don't be anxious about us, Vinnie. And, Rufe, if you could manage to engage the Peakslow boys in conversation, about the time we are shooting hens pretty near the fence, you might help the sport."

"I'll follow you along, and branch off toward the potato-patch, and ask Zeph what he meant by offering to fight me," said Rufe.

"I'm going to get up on the cow-shed, and see the battle," said Link. "On Linden when the sun was low, and the buckwheat-patch was all in blow,—I'm a poet, you know!"



CHAPTER XXV.

THE BATTLE OF THE BOUNDARY FENCE.

The little party set off, watched by Vinnie with a good deal of anxiety. The dog was left in the edge of the corn; and Jack, with a good milky ear in his pocket, followed Mr. Betterson into the buckwheat-field.

"There's Wad and his dad after prairie chickens," said Zeph.

"Yes," said Dud, "and here comes Rufe after you. He'll give you Hail Columby one of these days, when I ain't round."

"I'll resk him," muttered Zeph.

"Look here, you young scape-grace!" Rufe called from over the fence, "I've come to take you at your word. Want to fight me, do ye? I'm ready, if you're particular about it."

"Come near me, and I'll sink a stun in your head!" said Zeph, frightened.

"You've got that phrase from the Wiggett boys," said Rufe. "I'd fight with something besides borrowed slang, if I was you."

Betterson meanwhile brought down a prairie chicken with a grace of gesture and suddenness of aim which Jack would have greatly admired if he had not had other business on his mind.

The bird fell in the direction of the boundary fence. Jack ran as if to pick it up, at the same time giving a low whistle for his dog. He stooped, and was for a minute hidden by the fence from the Peakslow boys,—if, indeed, Rufe gave them leisure just then to look in that direction.

Darting forward to the fence, Jack took down the top rails of a corner, and made a motion to Lion, who leaped over.

"Catch Snowfoot! catch Snowfoot!" said Jack, quickly placing the ear of corn in the dog's mouth.

The horse was feeding some six rods off, near Peakslow's pair, when the dog, singling him out, ran up and began to coquet with him, flourishing the ear of corn.

The boys were talking so loud, and Jack had let down the rails so gently, and Lion had sped away so silently, that the movement was not observed by the enemy until Snowfoot started for the fence. Even then the excited boys did not see what was going on. But Peakslow did.

If Snowfoot had been in his usual spirits he would have soon been off the Peakslow premises. But his long pull from Chicago had tamed him; and though hunger induced him to follow the ear of corn, it was at a pace which Jack found exasperatingly slow,—especially when he saw Peakslow running to the pasture, gun in hand, and heard him shout,—

"Let that hoss alone! I'll shoot you, and your dog and hoss too!"

Jack answered by calling, "Co' jock! co' jock! Come, lion! Come, Snowfoot! Co' jock!"

At the same time Zeph and Dud took the alarm, and ran toward the gap Jack had made,—they on one side of the fence, while Rufe raced with them on the other. Meanwhile Betterson, having coolly reloaded his discharged barrel, walked with his usual quiet, dignified step to the broken fence.

"Better keep this side," he said with deliberate politeness to Jack. "You are on my land; you've a right here."

"Oh! but that horse never will come!" said Jack. "Co' jock! co' jock!"

"He is all right; keep cool, keep cool!" said Betterson.

On came Peakslow, the inverted prow of his hooked nose cutting the air,—both hands grasping the gun, ready for a shot.

Jack did not heed him. Snatching the corn from Lion's mouth, he held it out to Snowfoot: in a moment Snowfoot was crunching corn and bits, and the bridle was slipping over his ears.

"Head him off, boys!" shouted Peakslow. Then to Jack, "Stop, or I'll shoot!"

"If there's any shooting to be done," said Betterson, without for a moment losing his politeness of tone and manner, "I can shoot as quick as anybody; and, by the powers above, I will, if you draw trigger on that boy!"

"Take care of him,—go!" cried Jack, giving Lion the bridle-rein and Snowfoot a slap. Then confronting Peakslow, "I've got my horse; I'm on Mr. Betterson's land; what have you to say about it?"



"I'll shoot your dog!"

"No, you won't!" And Jack sprang between the infuriated man and Lion leading off the horse.

Dud and Zeph were by this time on Betterson's side of the fence, hurrying to head off Snowfoot.

"Keep out of our buckwheat!" cried Rufe. "By George, Zeph, now I've got you where I want you."

"Help! Dud, Dud—help!" screamed Zeph.

But Dud had something else to do. He sprang to seize Snowfoot's bridle; when Lion, without loosing his hold of it, turned with such fury upon the intruder, that he recoiled, and, tripping his heels in the trodden buckwheat, keeled over backward.

Meanwhile Rufe had Zeph down, and was rubbing the soft black loam of the tilled field very thoroughly into his features, giving especial attention to his neck and ears. Zeph was spitting the soil of the country, and screaming; and Rufe was saying,—

"Lie still! I'll give your face such a scouring as it hasn't had since you was a baby and fell into the soft-soap barrel!"

Jack backed quietly off, as Peakslow, cocking his gun, pressed upon him with loud threats and blazing eyes. The angry man was striding through the gap, when Betterson stepped before him, courteous, stately, with a polite but dangerous smile.

"Have a care, friend Peakslow!" he said. "If you come upon my premises with a gun, threatening to shoot folks, I'll riddle you with small shot; I'll fill you as full of holes as a pepper-box!"



CHAPTER XXVI.

VICTORY.

Peakslow halted in the gap of the fence, his fury cooling before Lord Betterson's steady eyes and quiet threat.

Betterson went on, speaking deliberately, while his poised and ready barrels gave emphasis to his remarks,—

"You've talked a good deal of shooting, one time and another, friend Peakslow. I think it is about time to have done with that foolishness. Excuse my frankness."

"I've a right to defend my property and my premises!" said Peakslow, glowing and fuming, but never stepping beyond the gap.

"What property or premises, good neighbor? The horse is this young man's; and nobody has set foot on your land."

"That dog was on my land."

"And so was the horse," put in Jack.

"Take him off, pa! he's smotherin' on me!" shouted Zeph.

"Your boy is abusin' mine. I'll take care o' him!" And Peakslow set a foot over the two lower rails left in the gap.

"You'd better stay where you are,—accept a friend's disinterested advice," remarked Betterson. "If your boy had been on the right side of the fence, minding his own business,—you will bear with me if I am quite plain in my speech,—my boy would have had no occasion to soil his hands with him."

Peakslow appeared quite cowed by this unexpected show of determination in his easy-going neighbor. He stood astride the rails, just where Betterson had arrested his advance, and contented himself with urging Dud to the rescue of his brother.

"Why do ye stan' there and see Zeph treated that way? Why don't ye pitch in?"

"That's a game two can play at," said Jack. "Hands off, Dud, my boy." And he stood by to see fair play.

"My boy had a right on that land; it's by good rights mine to-day!" exclaimed Peakslow.

"We won't discuss that question; it has been settled once, neighbor," replied Betterson. "Rufus, I think you've done enough for that boy; his face is blacker than I ever saw it, which is saying a good deal. Let him go. Mr. Peakslow,"—with a bow of gracious condescension over the frayed stock,—"you are welcome to as much of this disputed territory as you can shake out of that youngster's clothes,—not any more."

"That seems to be a good deal," said Jack, laughing to see Zeph scramble up, gasping, blubbering, flirting soil from his clothes and hair, and clawing it desperately from his besmeared face.

"That's for daring me to fight you," said Rufe, as he let him go. "I'll pay you some other time for what you did to Cecie"; while Zeph went off howling.

"No more, Rufus," said Betterson. "Come and put up this fence."

"I'll do that," said Jack. "I'm bound to leave it as I found it; if Mr. Peakslow will please step either forward or back."

Peakslow concluded to step back; and Jack and Rufe laid up the corner, rail by rail.

"Don't you think you've played me a perty shabby trick?" said Peakslow, glaring at Jack.

"You are hardly the man to speak with a very good grace of anybody's shabby tricks," Jack replied, putting up the top rail before the hooked nose.

"I didn't think it of you!" And Peakslow cast longing eyes after the horse.

"You must have forgotten what you thought," said Jack. "You didn't dare turn the horse out till Zeph told you I'd gone home; and it seems you kept pretty close watch of him then."

Peakslow choked back his wrath, and muttered,—

"Ye might 'a' gi'n me suthin for my trouble."

"So I would, willingly, if you had acted decently."

"Gi' me suthin now, and settle it."

"I consider it already settled,—like your land-claim dispute," said Jack. "But no matter; how much do you want? Don't bid too high, you know."

"Gi' me a dollar, anyhow!"

Jack laughed.

"If I should give you enough to pay for the charge in your gun, wouldn't that satisfy you? Though, as you didn't fire it at me, I don't quite see that I ought to defray the expense of it. Good day, Mr. Peakslow."

Jack went to find the chicken that had been shot; and Peakslow vented his rage upon his neighbor across the fence.

"What a pattern of a man you be! stuck-up, struttin',—a turkey-gobbler kind of man, I call ye. Think I'm afraid o' yer gun?"

"I have no answer to make to remarks of that nature," said Lord Betterson, retiring from the fence.

"Hain't, hey?" Peakslow roared after him. "Feel above a common man like me, do ye? Guess I pay my debts. If I set out to build, guess I look out and not bu'st up 'fore I get my paintin' and plasterin' done. Nothin' to say to me, hey?"

Betterson coolly resumed his slow and stately march across the buckwheat, looking for prairie chickens.

"You puffed-up, pompous, would-be 'ristocrat!" said Peakslow, more and more furious, "where'd you be if your relations didn't furnish ye money? Poorer 'n ye be now, I guess. What if I should tell ye what yer neighbors say of ye? Guess ye wouldn't carry yer head so plaguy high!"

Two chickens rose from before Betterson's feet, and flew to right and left. With perfect coolness and precision of aim he fired and brought down one, then turned and dropped the other, with scarce an interval of three seconds between the reports.

"This is a very pretty piece of yours," he observed smilingly, with a stately wave of the hand toward Jack.

"I never saw anything so handsomely done!" exclaimed Jack, bringing the chicken previously shot.

At the same time he could not help glancing with some apprehension at Peakslow, not knowing what that excitable neighbor might do, now that Betterson's two barrels were empty.

"I think I will stay and have one or two more shots," said Betterson. "A very pretty piece indeed!"

The muttering thunder of Peakslow's wrath died away in the distance, as he retired with his forces. Rufe picked up the last two prairie chickens and followed Jack, who ran to overtake the dog and horse.

Lion still held the bridle-rein, letting Snowfoot nip the grass that grew along the borders of the corn, but keeping him from the corn itself. Jack patted and praised the dog, and stroked and caressed the horse, looking him all over to see if he had received any fresh injury.

Then Rufe joined him; and presently Wad came bounding down the slope from the barn, laughing, carrying Jack's coat; and Link appeared, running and limping, having hurt his ankle in jumping down from the cow-shed. Behind came Chokie, trudging on his short legs, and tumbling and sprawling at every few steps.

The boys were jubilant over the victory, and Jack was the object of loud congratulations; while Lion and Snowfoot formed the centre of the little group.

"Much obliged to you, Wad," said Jack, as they re-exchanged coats and hats. "Thanks to you, I've got my horse again. Thanks to all of you. Boys, I was perfectly astonished at your father's pluck!" And he could not help thinking what a really noble specimen of a man Betterson might have made, if he had not been standing on his dignity and waiting for legacies all his life.

"Not many folks know what sort of a man father is," replied Rufe. "Peakslow would have found out, if he had drawn a bead on you. How quick he stopped, and changed countenance! He can govern his temper when he finds he must; and he can cringe and crawl when he sees it's for his interest. Think of his asking you at last,—after you had got your horse in spite of him, and at the risk of your life,—think of his begging you to give him a dollar!"

Jack said, "Look at that galled spot on Snowfoot's neck! Peakslow has got all he could out of him the past week,—kept him low and worked him hard in a cruel collar. Never mind, old Snowfoot! better times have come now, for both of us. Here, Link, you are lame; want a ride?"

Link did want a ride, of course,—who ever saw a boy that didn't? Jack took hold of his foot and helped him mount upon Snowfoot's back; then called to Chokie, who was getting up from his last tumble (with loud lamentations), a few yards off.

"Here, Chokie; don't cry; fun isn't all over yet; you can ride too." Tossing the urchin up, Jack set him behind Link. "Hold on now, Chokie; hug brother tight!"



Both chubby arms reaching half around Link's waist, one chubby cheek pressed close to Link's suspender, and two chubby legs sticking out on Snowfoot's back, Chokie forgot his griefs, and, with the tear-streaks still wet on his cheeks, enjoyed the fearful pleasure of the ride.

Vinnie's bright face watched from the door, the delighted Lill clapped her hands, and Mrs. Betterson and Cecie looked eagerly from the window, as the little procession approached the house,—Lion walking sedately before, then Link and Chokie riding the lost horse, and Jack and Rufe and Wad following with the prairie chickens.

More congratulations. Then Lord Betterson came from the field with another bird. Then Snowfoot was saddled, and Jack, with dog and gun, and two of the prairie chickens, took leave of his friends, and rode home in triumph.



CHAPTER XXVII.

VINNIE IN THE LION'S DEN.

When Link the next morning went to the spring for water he found that the Peakslow boys (it could have been nobody else) had, by a dastardly trick, taken revenge for the defeat of the day before.

Link came limping back (his ankle was still sore) with an empty pail, and loud complaints of the enemy.

"They've been and gone and filled the spring with earth and leaves and sticks, and all sorts of rubbish! It will take an hour to dig it out, and then all day for the water to settle and be fit to drink."

"Those dreadful Peakslow boys! what shall we do?" Caroline said despairingly. "No water for breakfast, and no near neighbors but the Peakslows; but their well is the last place where we should think of going for water."

"I'll tell you what I'll do!" said Link. "I'll go to-night and give 'em such a dose in their well, that they won't want any water from it for the next two months! I know where there's a dead rabbit. The Peakslows don't get the start of us!"

"I don't see but that one of the boys will have to go to Mr. Wiggett's for water," said poor Caroline, bemoaning her troubles.

"Rufe and Wad are doing the chores," said Link, "and I'm lame. Besides, you don't catch one of us going to old Wiggett's for water, for we should have to pass Peakslow's house, and it would please 'em too well."

"Let me take the pail; I will get some water," said Vinnie.

"Why, Lavinia dear!" Caroline exclaimed, "what are you thinking of? Where are you going?"

"To Mr. Peakslow's," Vinnie answered with a smile.

"Going into the lion's den! Don't think of such a thing, Lavinia dear!"

"No, by sixty!" cried Link. "I don't want them boys to sass you! I'd rather go a mile in the other direction for water,—bother the lame foot!"

But Vinnie quietly persisted, saying it would do no harm for her to try; and putting on her bonnet, she started off with the empty pail.

I cannot say that she felt no misgivings; but the consciousness of doing a simple and blameless act helped to quiet the beating of her heart as she approached the Peakslow door.

It was open, and she could see the family at breakfast within, while the loud talking prevented her footsteps from being heard.

Besides Dud and Zeph, there were three or four younger children, girls and boys, the youngest of whom—a child with bandaged hands and arms—sat in its father's lap.

Vinnie remembered the swarthy face, bushy beard, and hooked nose; and yet she could hardly believe that this was the same man who once showed her such ruffianly manners on the wharf in Chicago. He was fondling and feeding the child, and talking to it, and drumming on the table with his knife to amuse it and still its complaining cries.

"Surely," thought Vinnie, "there must be some good in a man who shows so much affection even toward his own child." And with growing courage she advanced to the threshold.

Mrs. Peakslow—a much-bent, over-worked woman, with a pinched and peevish face—looked up quickly across the table and stared at the strange visitor. In a moment all eyes were turned upon Vinnie.

"I beg your pardon," she said, pausing at the door. "I wish to get a pail of water. Can I go to your well and help myself?"

The children—and especially Dud and Zeph—looked in astonishment at the bright face and girlish form in the doorway. As Mr. Peakslow turned his face toward her, all the tenderness went out of it.

"What do Betterson's folks send here for water for? And what makes 'em send a gal? Why don't they come themselves?"

"They did not send me," Vinnie answered as pleasantly as she could. "I came of my own accord."

Peakslow wheeled round on his chair.

"Queer sort of folks, they be! An' seems to me you must be queer, to be stoppin' with 'em."

"Mrs. Betterson is my sister," replied Vinnie in a trembling voice. "I came to her because she is sick, and Cecie—because I was needed," she said, avoiding the dangerous ground of Zeph's offence.

"I've nothin' pa'tic'lar ag'in Mis' Betterson as I know on," said Peakslow, "though of course she sides with him ag'in me, an' of course you side with her."

"I've nothing to do with Mr. Betterson's quarrels," Vinnie answered, drawing back from the door. "Will you kindly permit me to get a pail of water? I am sorry if I give you any trouble."

"No trouble; water's cheap," said Peakslow. "But why don't they have a well o' their own, 'ste'd o' dependin' on their neighbors? What makes 'em so plaguy shif'less?"

"They have a well, but it is dry this summer, and—"

"Dry every summer, ain't it? What a way to dig a well that was!"

"They have a very good spring," Vinnie said, "but something happened to it last night." At which Dud and Zeph giggled and looked sheepish.

"What happened to the spring?"

"Somebody put rubbish into it."

"Who done it, did you hear 'em say?"

"I don't know who did it; and I should be sorry to accuse any person of such an act," Vinnie answered with firm but serene dignity.

The boys looked more sheepish and giggled less.

"I know who put stuff in the spring," spoke up a little one, proud of being able to convey useful information; "Dud and Zeph—"

But at that moment Dud's hand stopped the prattler's mouth.

"I don't believe my boys have done anything of the kind," said Peakslow; "though 't wouldn't be strange if they did. See how that great lubberly Rufe treated our Zeph yist'day! rubbed the dirt into his skin so 't he hain't got it washed out yit."

"I am sorry for these misunderstandings," said Vinnie, turning to Mrs. Peakslow with an appealing look. "I wish you and my sister knew each other better. You have a sick child, too, I see."

"'T ain't sick, 'xac'ly," replied the mother in a peevish, snarling tone. "Pulled over the teapot, and got hands and arms scalt."

"O, poor little thing!" Vinnie exclaimed. "What have you done for it?"

"Hain't done nothin' much, only wrapped up the blistered places in Injin meal; that's coolin'."

"No doubt; but I've some salve, the best thing in the world for burns. I wish you would let me bring you some."

"I guess Bubby'll git along 'thout no help from outside," said Peakslow, his ill-natured growl softened by a feeling of tenderness for the child which just then came over him. "He's weathered the wust on 't."

But Bubby's fretful cries told that what was left was bad enough.

"I will bring you the salve," said Vinnie, "and I hope you will try it; it is so hard to see these little ones suffer."

She was retiring, when Peakslow called after her,—

"Goin' 'ithout the water?"

"I—thought—you had not told me I could have it."

"Have it! of course you can have it; I wouldn't refuse nobody a pail o' water. Ye see where the well is?"

"O yes; thank you." And Vinnie hastened to the curb.

"She can't draw it," snickered Zeph. "Handle's broke; and the crank'll slip out of her hands and knock her to Jericho, if she don't look out."

"Seems to be a perty spoken gal," said Peakslow, turning to finish his breakfast. "I've nothin' ag'in her. You've finished your breakfast; better go out, Dudley, and tell her to look out about the crank."

With mixed emotions in his soul, Dud went; his countenance enlivened at one and the same time with a blush of boyish bashfulness and a malicious grin. As he drew near, and saw Vinnie embarrassed with the windlass, which seemed determined to let the bucket down too fast (as if animated with a genuine Peakslow spite toward her), the grin predominated; but when she turned upon him a troubled, smiling face, the grin subsided, and the blush became a general conflagration, extending to the tips of his ears.

"How does 't go?"

"It's inclined to go altogether too fast," said Vinnie, stopping the windlass; "and it hurts my hands."

"Le' me show ye."

And Dud, taking her place by the curb, let the windlass revolve with moderated velocity under the pressure of his rough palms, until the bucket struck the water. Then, drawing it up, he filled her pail.

The grin had by this time faded quite out of his countenance; and when she thanked him sweetly and sincerely for helping her, the blush became a blush of pleasure.

"It is more than I can carry," she said. "I shall have to pour out some."

Thereupon Dud Peakslow astonished himself by an extraordinary act of gallantry.

"I'll carry it for ye as fur as the road; I'd carry it all the way, if 't was anywhere else." And he actually took up the pail.

"You seem to have a very bad opinion of my relations," Vinnie said.

"Good reason! They hate us, too!"

"And think they have good reason. But I'm sure you are not so bad as they believe; and you may possibly be mistaken about them. Let me take the pail now. You are very kind."

Dud gave up the pail with reluctance, and gazed after her up the road, his stupid mouth ajar with an expression of wistful wonder and pleasure.

"Hurry now and git up the team, Dud!" his father called from the door. "What ye stan'in' there for? Didn't ye never see a gal afore?"

When Vinnie reached home with her pail of water, all gathered around, eager to hear her adventure.

"The lions were not very savage, after all," she said, laughing.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

AN "EXTRAORDINARY" GIRL.

After breakfast Vinnie left Lill to "do the dishes," and went with her box of salve to fulfil her promise to Mrs. Peakslow. Dud and Zeph were off at work with their father; and she was glad to find the mother alone with the younger children.

"Oh! you ag'in?" said Mrs. Peakslow, by the chimney, looking up from a skillet she was stooping over and scraping. "Ye need n't 'a' took the trouble. Guess Bubby's burns 'll git along."

But Vinnie was not to be rebuffed.

"I have brought some linen rags to spread the salve on. Will you let me do it myself? I wish you would; the poor thing is suffering so."

And Vinnie knelt down beside the girl who was holding Bubby in her arms.

"Is 't any o' the Betterson folks's sa'v'?" Mrs. Peakslow inquired, scraping away at her skillet.

"No; it is some I brought from the East with me, thinking I should find a use for it in my sister's family; it is good for various things."

"Better keep it for her family!" snarled Mrs. Peakslow. Scrape, scrape.

"There's plenty and to spare," said Vinnie, unrolling her rags. "And my sister will be only too glad if it can be of any service to you."

"Think so?" Mrs. Peakslow stopped her scraping and scowled at Vinnie. "Her folks hain't never showed us none too much good-will."

"They have never known you,—you have never understood each other," said Vinnie. "It is too bad that the troubles between the men should prevent you and her from being on neighborly terms. Can I use a corner of this table to spread the salve? And can I see the little thing's burns, so as to shape the plasters to cover them?"

"He tol' me not to use the sa'v', if ye brought it," said Mrs. Peakslow doubtfully, laying down the skillet.

"When he sees the good effect of it I am sure he won't complain; he is too fond of his little boy," said Vinnie, placing rags and salve on the table. "Will you let me take a case-knife and a pair of scissors?"

"Got rags enough of my own. Needn't trouble yourself to cut and spread plasters. Try the sa'v', 'f ye say so."

Vinnie did say so, and dressed Bubby's burns with her own hands, doing the work so deftly and tenderly, talking now to the child, now to the mother, who had taken him into her lap, and showing in every look and tone so cheerful and sweet a spirit that poor Mrs. Peakslow's peevish heart warmed and softened toward her.

"I do declare," she said, as the outer bandages were going on, "Bubby feels comforted a'ready. Must be dreffle good sa'v'! Much obleeged to ye, I'm sure. How is yer sister?"

"Much better than she was; and the baby is better too. Indeed," said Vinnie, "I think the baby will get well as soon as the mother does."

"And Cecie—how's Cecie?" Mrs. Peakslow timidly asked.

"O, Cecie is in very good spirits! She is the most gentle, patient, beautiful girl you ever saw! She never complains; and she is always so grateful for any little thing that is done for her!"

"S'pose the folks feel hard to our Zeph; don't they?"

"I believe the boys do, and you can hardly wonder at it, Mrs. Peakslow," said Vinnie; "their own dear sister! crippled for life, perhaps. But Cecie won't allow that your son meant to hurt her; she always takes his part when the subject is brought up."

"Does she?" exclaimed Mrs. Peakslow, surprised into sudden tears. "I wouldn't 'a' believed that! Must be she's a good gal. Truth is, Zeph hadn't no notion o' hurtin' on her. It's re'ly troubled me,—it's troubled all on us, though I don't s'pose her folks'll believe it."

And Mrs. Peakslow, not finding it convenient to get at her apron, with Bubby in her lap, wiped her eyes with a remnant of Vinnie's rags.

"Isn't it too sad that this quarrel is kept up?" said Vinnie.

"O dear me! nobody knows," said Mrs. Peakslow, in a quavering voice, "what a life it is! Our folks is some to blame, I s'pose. But the Bettersons have been so aggravatin'! Though I've nothin' ag'in the gals. They're as perty gals as I'd ask to have play with my children. My children is sufferin' for mates. I want society, too, for it's a dreffle life,—a dreffle life!" And the quavering voice broke into sobs.

Vinnie was surprised and pained at this outburst, and hardly knew what reply to make.

"Lyddy, wipe them dishes!" Mrs. Peakslow went on again, sopping her eyes with the remnant of rags. "Lecty Ann! here, take Bubby. Scuse me, miss; I d'n' know what sot me goin' this way; but my heart's been shet up so long; I've so wanted sympathy!" And now the apron did service in place of the rags.

"Yes, I know," said Vinnie. "This is a lonesome country, unless you have friends around you. There seem to be a few nice people here,—people from the East; you are from the East, I suppose?"

"O yes; but he ain't a very social man, an' he's dreffle sot in his way. He don't go out nowheres, 'thout he has business, an' he don't think there's any need of a woman's goin' out. So there it is. The Wiggetts, our neighbors on one side, ain't our kind o' people; then there's the Bettersons on t'other side. An' there's allus so many things a wife has to put up with, an' hold her tongue. O dear! O dear! Keep to your work, gals! hear?"

There was something almost comical in this sharp and shrill winding-up of the good woman's pathetic discourse; but Vinnie never felt less like laughing.

"I am glad you can speak freely to me," she said. "I'll come and see you again, if you will let me; and I want you some time to come and see my sister."

"I d'n' know! I d'n' know!" said Mrs. Peakslow, still weeping. "You may come here,—like to have ye,—only it'll be jest as well if you time your visits when me an' the gals is alone; you know what men-folks be."

"You are really an extraordinary girl, Lavinia dear!" Caroline said, when Vinnie went home and told her story. "Did you know it?"

Vinnie laughed.

"Why, no; I never thought of such a thing; what I do comes so very natural."

"Extraordinary!" Caroline repeated, regarding her admiringly. "I'm proud of such a sister. I always told Mr. Betterson there was good blood on our side too. I wonder what Radcliff would think of you."

Vinnie sincerely believed that so fine a young gentleman would not think anything of her at all, but feared it might seem like affectation in him to say so.

"And I wonder," Caroline continued, with the usual simper which her favorite theme inspired, "what you would think of Radcliff. Ah, Lavinia dear! it is a comfort for me to reflect that it was a Betterson—nobody less than a thoroughbred Betterson—who took the place in our family which you would otherwise have filled."

Evidently Caroline's conscience was not quite easy on the subject of her early neglect of so "extraordinary" a sister; for she often alluded to it in this way. Vinnie now begged her not to mention it again.

"And you really cherish no hard feelings?"

"None whatever."

"You are very good. And pretty; did you know it? Quite pretty."

Vinnie laughed again.

"Mrs. Presbit brought me up to the wholesome belief that I was quite plain."

"That was to prevent you from becoming vain. Vanity, you know," said Caroline, with her most exquisite simper, "spoils so many girls! I'm thankful it doesn't run in our family! But didn't your glass undeceive you?"

"On the contrary, I used to look in it and say to myself, 'It is a very common face; I wish it was pretty, but Aunt Presbit is right; I'm a homely little thing!'"

"And you felt bad?"

"I never mourned over it; though, of course, I should have much preferred to be handsome."

"And hasn't anybody ever told you you were handsome?"

Vinnie blushed.

"Of course I've heard a good deal of nonsense talked now and then."

"Lavinia dear, you are extraordinary. And handsome, though not in the usual sense of the word. Your face is rather common, in repose, but it lights up wonderfully. And, after all, I don't know that it is so much your face, as the expression you throw into it, that is so enchanting. What would Radcliff Betterson say to you, I wonder?"



CHAPTER XXIX.

ANOTHER HUNT, AND HOW IT ENDED.

Jack had one day been surveying a piece of land a few miles east of Long Woods. It was not very late in the afternoon when he finished his work; and he found that, by going a little out of his way and driving rather fast, he could, before night, make Vinnie and her friends a call, and perhaps give Mrs. Wiggett the promised noon-mark on her kitchen floor.

Leaving in due time the more travelled thoroughfare, he turned off upon the neighborhood road, which he knew passed through the woods and struck the river road near Betterson's house. Away on his left lay the rolling prairie, over a crest of which he, on a memorable occasion, saw Snowfoot disappear with his strange rider; and he was fast approaching the scene of his famous deer-hunt.

Jack had his gun with him; and, though he did not stop to give much attention to the prairie hens which now and then ran skulkingly across the track, or flew up from beside his buggy-wheels, he could not help looking for larger game.

"I'd like to see another doe and fawn feeding off on the prairie there," thought he. "Wonder if I could find some obliging young man to drive them in!"

He whipped up Snowfoot, and presently, riding over a swell of land, discovered a stranger walking on before him in the road.

"No deer or fawn," thought he; "but there's possibly an obliging young man."

As he drove on, fast overtaking the pedestrian, Jack was very much struck by his appearance. He was a slender person; he walked at a loitering pace; and he carried his coat on his arm. There was something also in the jaunty carriage of the head, and in the easy slouch of the hat-brim, which startled Jack.

"I vow, it's my obliging young man himself!" he muttered through his teeth,—"or a vision of him!"

Just then the stranger, hearing the sound of wheels, cast a quick glance over his shoulder. It was the same face, and Jack could almost have taken his oath to the quid in the cheek.

He was greatly astonished and excited. It seemed more like a dream than anything else, that he should again meet with the person who had given him so much trouble, so near the place where he had seen him first, in precisely similar hat and soiled shirt-sleeves, and carrying (to all appearances) the same coat on his arm!

The stranger gave no sign of the recognition being mutual, but stepped off upon the roadside to let the buggy pass.

"How are you?" said Jack, coming up to him, and drawing rein; while Lion snuffed suspiciously at the rogue's heels.

"All right, stranger; how are you yourself?" And a pair of reckless dark eyes flashed saucily up at Jack.

"Better than I was that night after you ran off with my horse!" Jack replied.

"Glad you're improving. Wife on the mending hand? And how are the little daisies? Which is the road to Halleluia Corners? I branch off here; good day, fair stranger."

These words were rattled off with great volubility, which seemed all the greater because of their surprising irrelevancy; while the head, thrown gayly to one side, balanced the quid in the bulged cheek.

Before Jack could answer, the youth with a wild laugh struck off from the road, and began to walk fast toward the woodland. Jack called after him,—

"Hold on! I want to speak with you!"

"Speak quick, then; I'm bound for the Kingdom,—will you go to glory with me?" the rogue shouted back over his shoulder, with a defiant grin, never slacking his pace.

Jack gave Snowfoot a touch of the whip, reined out of the track, and drove after him.

The fellow at the same time quickened his step to a run, and before he could be overtaken he had come to rough ground, where fast driving was dangerous.

Jack pulled up unwillingly, revolving rapidly in his mind what he should do. Though he had recovered his horse, he felt the strongest desire to have the thief taken and punished. Moreover, he had lately seen the truckman to whom the stolen animal was sold, and had promised to do what he could to help him obtain justice.

He might have levelled his gun and threatened to shoot the fugitive; but he would not have felt justified in carrying out such a threat, and recent experience had disgusted him with the shooting business.

He would have jumped from the wagon, and followed on foot; but, though a good runner, he was convinced that his heels were no match for the stranger's. There was then but one thing to do.

"Stop, or I'll let the dog take you!" Jack yelled.

For reply, the fugitive threw up his hand over his shoulder, with fingers spread and thumb pointing toward the mid-region of countenance occupied by the nose; which did not, however, take the trouble to turn and make itself visible.

Lion was already eager for the chase; and Jack had only to give him a signal.

"Take care of him, Lion!" And away sped the dog.

Fleet of foot as the fellow was, and though he now strained every nerve to get away, the distance between him and the dog rapidly diminished; and a hurried glance behind showed him the swift, black, powerful animal, coming with terrible bounds, and never a bark, hard at his heels.

The thickets were near,—could he reach them before the dog reached him? Would they afford him a refuge or a cudgel? He threw out his quid, and leaned.

Jack drove after as fast as he could, in order to prevent mortal mischief when Lion should bring down his game; for the dog, when too much in earnest with a foe, had an overmastering instinct for searching out the windpipe and jugular vein.

The rogue had reached the edge of the woods, when he found himself so closely pursued that he seemed to have no resource but to turn and dash his coat into the dog's face. That gave him an instant's reprieve; then Lion was upon him again; and he had just time to leap to the low limb of a scraggy oak-tree, and swing his lower limbs free from the ground, when the fierce eyes and red tongue were upon the spot.

Lion gave one leap, but missed his mark; the trap-like jaws snapping together with a sound which could not have been very agreeable to the youth whose dangling legs had been actually grazed by the passing muzzle.

With a wistful, whining yelp, Lion gave another upward spring; and this time his fangs closed upon something—only cloth, fortunately; but as the thief clambered up out of their range, it was with a very good chance for a future patch upon the leg of his trousers.

Leaping from his wagon, Jack rushed to the tree, and found his obliging young man perched comfortably in it, with one leg over a limb; while Lion, below, made up for his long silence by uttering frantic barks.



"What are you up there for?" said Jack.

"To take an observation," the fellow replied, out of breath, but still cheerful. "First-rate view of the country up here. I fancy I see a doe and a fawn off on the prairie; wouldn't you like a shot at 'em?"

"I've other game to look after just now!" Jack replied.

"Better look out for your horse; he's running away!"

"My horse isn't in the habit of running away without help. Will you come down?"

"I was just going to invite you to come up. I'll share my lodgings with you,—give you an upper berth. A very good tavern; rooms airy, fine prospect; though the table don't seem to be very well supplied, and I can't say I fancy the entrance. 'Sich gittin' up stairs I never did see!'"

Jack checked this flow of nonsense by shouting, "Will you come down, or not?"

"Suppose not?" said the fellow.

"Then I leave the dog to guard the door of your tavern, and go for a warrant and a constable, to bring you down."

"What would you have me come down for? You seem to be very pressing in your attentions to a stranger!"

"Don't say stranger,—you who drove the deer in for me! I am anxious to pay you for that kindness. I want you to ride with me."

"Why didn't you say so before?" cried the rogue, rolling a fresh quid in his cheek. "I always ride when you ask me to, don't I? Say, did you ever know me to refuse when you offered me a ride? Which way are you going?"

"Down through the woods," said Jack, amused, in spite of himself, at the scamp's reckless gayety.

"Why, that's just the way I am going! Why didn't you mention it? I never should have put up at this tavern if I had thought a friend would come along and give me a lift in his carriage. Please relieve the guard, and I'll descend."

The dog was driven off, and the youth dropped from the branches to the ground.

"Pick up your coat," said Jack, "and do pretty much as I tell you now, or there'll be trouble. None of your tricks this time!"

He held the reins and the gun while he made the fellow get into the buggy; then took his seat, with the prisoner on his left and the gun on his right, drove on to the travelled track, and turned into the woods; the vigilant Lion walking close by the wheel.



CHAPTER XXX.

JACK'S PRISONER.

For a second time Jack now travelled that woodland road under odd circumstances; the first occasion being that on which he himself had pulled in the shafts, while Link pushed behind. He laughed as he thought of that adventure, of which the present seemed a fitting sequel. Before, he had been obliged to go home without his horse; what a triumph it would now be to carry home the thief! But to do this, great care and vigilance would be necessary; and he calculated all the chances, and resolved just what he would do, should his captive attempt to escape. The rogue, on the contrary, appeared contented with his lot.

"Young man," said he, "I can't call your name, but let me say you improve upon acquaintance. This is galorious! better by a long chalk than a horseback gallop without a saddle. I suppose you will call for me with a barouche next time!"

"At all events, I may help you to free lodgings,—not up in a tree, either!" Jack said, as he touched up Snowfoot.

He had, of course, abandoned the idea of giving Mrs. Wiggett her noon-mark that day. But he could not think of passing the "castle" without stopping at the door.

"What will Vinnie say?" thought he, with a thrill of anticipation. And it must be confessed that he felt no little pride at the prospect of showing his prisoner to Lord Betterson and the boys.

Descending the long declivity, the fellow was strangely silent, for one so rattle-brained, until the "castle" appeared in sight through an opening of the woods. "He's plotting mischief," Jack thought. And when suddenly the rogue made a movement with his arms, Jack started, ready for a grapple.

"Don't be excited; I'm only putting on my coat."

"All right," said Jack; and the garment was put on. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"I'm dying with thirst; they had nothing to drink at that tavern where you found me."

"May be we can get some water at this house," Jack said.

"Are you acquainted here?" the prisoner inquired, with a curious, sober face.

"Yes, well enough to ask for a glass of water." And Jack drove into the yard.

The rogue kept on his sober face, but seemed to be laughing prodigiously inside.

As Jack reined up to the door, Lill came out, clapped her hands with sudden surprise, and screamed, "O mother!" Then Vinnie appeared, her face radiant on seeing Jack, but changing suddenly at sight of his companion. Mrs. Betterson followed, and, perceiving the faces in the buggy, uttered a cry, tottered, and clung to Vinnie's shoulder.

Link at the same time ran out from behind the house, dropped a dirty stick, wiped his hands on his trousers, and shouted, "Hullo! by sixty! ye don't say so!" while Rufe and Wad came rushing up from the barn. Jack had rather expected to produce a sensation,—not, however, until he should fairly have shown his prisoner; and this premature commotion puzzled him.

The rogue's suppressed laughter was now bubbling freely; a frothy and reckless sort of mirth, without much body of joy to it.

"How are ye all?" he cried. "Don't faint at sight of me, Aunt Carrie. This is an unexpected pleasure!" and he bowed gayly to Vinnie.

"O Radcliff! you again? and in this style!" said poor Caroline. "Where did you come from?"

"From up a tree, at last accounts. Hullo, boys! I'd come down on my trotters, and hug you all round, but my friend here would be jealous."

Jack was confounded.

"Is this your Cousin Rad?" he cried, as the boys crowded near. "I'm sorry to know it, for he's the fellow who ran off with my horse. Where did you ever see him before, Vinnie?"

"He is the one I told you about,—in Chicago," said Vinnie, astonished to find her waggish acquaintance, the elegant Radcliff Betterson, and this captive vagabond, the same person.



CHAPTER XXXI.

RADCLIFF.

Lord Betterson now came out of the house, calm and stately, but with something of the look in his eye, as he turned it upon his nephew, which Jack had observed when it menaced Peakslow at the gap of the fence.

"Ah, Radcliff! you have returned? Why don't you alight?" And he touched his hat to Jack.

"Your nephew may tell you the reason, if he will," Jack replied.

"The long and the short of it is this," said Radcliff, betraying a good deal of trouble, under all his assumed carelessness: "When I was on my way home, a few weeks ago, this young man asked me to drive in some deer for him. He gave me his horse to ride. I made a mistake, and rode him too far."

"You, Radcliff!" said Lord Betterson, sternly; while Mrs. Betterson went into hysterics on Vinnie's shoulder, and was taken into the house.

"We thought of Rad when you described him," Rufe said to Jack. "But we couldn't believe he would do such a thing."



"'Twas the most natural thing in the world," Rad explained. "I was coming home because I was hard up. I didn't steal the horse,—he was put into my hands; it was a breach of trust, that's all you can make of it. Necessity compelled me to dispose of him. With money in my pocket, what was the use of my coming home? I took my clothes out of pawn, and was once more a gentleman. Money all gone, I spouted my clothes again,—fell back upon this inexpensive rig,—took to the country, remembered I had a home, and was making for it, when this young man overtook me just now, and gave me a seat in his buggy."

"The matter appears serious," said Lord Betterson. "Am I to understand that you have taken my nephew prisoner?"

"He can answer that question," said Jack.

"Well, I suppose that is the plain English of it," replied Radcliff. "Come, now, Uncle Lord! this ain't the first scrape you've got me out of; fix it up with him, can't you?"

"It is my duty to save the honor of the name; but you are bent on destroying it. Will you please to come into the house with my nephew, and oblige me?" Betterson said to Jack.

"Certainly, if you wish it," Jack replied. "Get down, Radcliff. Be quiet, Lion! I was never in so hard a place in my life," he said to the boys, as they followed Rad and his uncle into the house. "I never dreamed of his being your cousin!"

"He's a wild fellow,—nothing very bad about him, only he's just full of the Old Harry," said Rufe. "I guess father'll settle it, somehow."

Meanwhile, Mrs. Betterson had retired to her room, where Vinnie was engaged, with fan and hartshorn, in restoring—not her consciousness, for that she had not lost, but her equanimity.

"Lavinia!" she said brokenly, at intervals, "Lavinia dear! don't think I intended to deceive you. It was, perhaps, too much the ideal Radcliff I described to you,—the Betterson Radcliff, the better Betterson Radcliff, if I may so speak; for he is, after all, you know, a—but that is the agony of it! The name is disgraced forever! Fan me, Lavinia dear!"

"I don't see how the act of one person should disgrace anybody else, even of the same name," Vinnie replied.

"But—a Betterson!" groaned Caroline. "My husband's nephew! Brought back here like a reprobate! The hartshorn, Lavinia dear!"

Hard as it was freely to forgive her sister for holding up to her so exclusively the "ideal Radcliff" in her conversations, Vinnie continued to apply the fan and hartshorn, with comforting words, until Link came in and said that Jack wished her to be present in the other room.

"Don't leave me, Lavinia dear!" said Caroline, feeling herself utterly helpless without Vinnie's support.

"If we open this door between the rooms, and you sit near it, while I remain by you,—perhaps that will be the best way," said Vinnie.

The door was opened, showing Jack and Rad and Mr. Betterson seated, and the boys standing by the outer door. Rad was trying hard to keep up his appearance of gay spirits, chucking Chokie under the chin, and winking playfully at Rufe and Wad. But Jack and Lord were serious.

"I have reasons for wanting you to hear this talk, Vinnie," said Jack. "I was just telling Mr. Betterson that you had met his nephew before, and he was quite surprised. It seems to me singular that you never told your friends here of that adventure."

"I suppose I know what you mean," spoke up Caroline. "And I confess that I am at fault. Lavinia dear did tell me and the girls of a young man beguiling her to a public-house in Chicago, and offering her wine; and Cecie whispered to me that she was sure it must have been Radcliff; but I couldn't, I wouldn't believe a Betterson could be guilty of—Fan me, Lavinia dear!"

Vinnie fanned, and Caroline went on,—

"'T was I who cautioned the children against saying anything disparaging of Radcliff's character in Lavinia dear's presence. I had such faith in the stock! and now to think how I have been deluded! The hartshorn, Lavinia dear!"

"Seems to me you make a pile of talk about trifles!" Radcliff said with a sneer. "I owe an apology to this young lady. But she knows I meant no harm,—only my foolish fun. As for the horse, the owner has got him again; and so I don't see but it's all right."

"It's all right enough, as far as I am concerned," said Jack. "I won't say a word about the trouble and expense you put me to. But, whether taking my horse as you did was stealing or not, you sold him, you obtained money under false pretences, you swindled an honest man."

"Well, that can't be helped now," said Radcliff, with a scoffing laugh. "A feller is obliged sometimes to do things that may not be exactly on the square."

"I don't know about anybody's being obliged to go off and play the gentleman (if that's what you call it), and have a good time (if there's any good in such a time), at somebody else's expense. I call such conduct simply scoundrelism," said Jack, his strong feeling on the subject breaking forth in plain speech and ringing tones. "And I determined, if I ever caught you, to have you punished."

"O, well! go ahead! put it through! indulge!" said Radcliff, folding his arms, and stretching out his legs with an air of easy and reckless insolence, but suddenly drawing up one of them, as he noticed the tear Lion's teeth had made. "Guess I can stand it if the others can. What do you say, Uncle Lord? Give me up as a bad job, eh?"

"Hem!" Lord coughed, and rubbed his chin with his palm. "If this sort of conduct is to continue, the crisis may as well come now, I suppose, as later; and, unless you give a solemn pledge to alter your course, I shall let it come."

"O, I'll give the solem'est sort of a pledge!" Radcliff replied.

"You will notice—ahem!—a change in our family," Lord went on. "The boys have applied themselves to business,—in plain terms, gone to work. Although I have said little on the subject, I have silently observed, and I am free to confess that I have been gratified. Since our circumstances are what they are, they have done well,—I may add, they have done nobly."