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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:34:32 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:34:32 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/10449-0.txt b/10449-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..aeb1f3b --- /dev/null +++ b/10449-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12633 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10449 *** + +BURNHAM BREAKER + +BY + +HOMER GREENE + +AUTHOR OF "THE BLIND BROTHER" + + + + + + + +TO MY FATHER, + +WHOSE GRAY HAIRS I HONOR, AND WHOSE PERFECT MANHOOD I REVERE, + +THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR. + +HONESDALE, PENN., SEPT. 29, 1887. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +CHAPTER + + I. A SURPRISE IN THE SCREEN-ROOM + + II. A STRANGE VISITOR + + III. A BRILLIANT SCHEME + + IV. A SET OF RESOLUTIONS + + V. IN SEARCH OF A MOTHER + + VI. BREAKING THE NEWS + + VII. RHYMING JOE + + VIII. A FRIEND IN NEED + + IX. A FRIEND INDEED + + X. AT THE BAR OF THE COURT + + XI. THE EVIDENCE IN THE CASE + + XII. AT THE GATES OF PARADISE + + XIII. THE PURCHASE OF A LIE + + XIV. THE ANGEL WITH THE SWORD + + XV. AN EVENTFUL JOURNEY + + XVI. A BLOCK IN THE WHEEL + + XVII. GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY + + XVIII. A WRIT OF HABEAS CORPUS + + XIX. BACK TO THE BREAKER + + XX. THE FIRE IN THE SHAFT + + XXI. A PERILOUS PASSAGE + + XXII. IN THE POWER OF DARKNESS + + XXIII. A STROKE OF LIGHTNING + + XXIV. AT THE DAWN OF DAY + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +A SURPRISE IN THE SCREEN-ROOM. + + +The city of Scranton lies in the centre of the Lackawanna coal-field, +in the State of Pennsylvania. Year by year the suburbs of the city +creep up the sides of the surrounding hills, like the waters of a +rising lake. + +Standing at any point on this shore line of human habitations, you can +look out across the wide landscape and count a score of coal-breakers +within the limits of your first glance. These breakers are huge, dark +buildings that remind you of castles of the olden time. They are +many-winged and many-windowed, and their shaft-towers rise high up +toward the clouds and the stars. About the feet of those in the valley +the waves of the out-reaching city beat and break, and out on the +hill-sides they stand like mighty fortresses built to guard the lives +and fortunes of the multitudes who toil beneath them. But they are not +long-lived. Like human beings, they rise, they flourish, they die and +are forgotten. Not one in hundreds of the people who walk the streets +of Scranton to-day, or who dig the coal from its surrounding hills, +can tell you where Burnham Breaker stood a quarter of a century ago. +Yet there are men still living, and boys who have grown to manhood, +scores of them, who toiled for years in the black dust breathed out +from its throats of iron, and listened to the thunder of its grinding +jaws from dawn to dark of many and many a day. + +These will surely tell you where the breaker stood. They are proud to +have labored there in other years. They will speak to you of that time +with pleasant memories. It was thought to be a stroke of fortune to +obtain work at Burnham Breaker. It was just beyond the suburbs of the +city as they then were, and near to the homes of all the workmen. The +vein of coal at this point was of more than ordinary thickness, and of +excellent quality, and these were matters of much moment to the miners +who worked there. Then, the wages were always paid according to the +highest rate, promptly and in full. + +But there was something more, and more important than all this, to be +considered. Robert Burnham, the chief power in the company, and the +manager of its interests, was a man whose energetic business qualities +and methods did not interfere with his concern for the welfare of his +employees. He was not only just, but liberal and kind. He held not +only the confidence but the good-will, even the affection, of those +who labored under him. There were never any strikes at the Burnham +mines. The men would have considered it high treason in any one to +advocate a strike against the interests of Robert Burnham. + +Yet it was no place for idling. There were, no laggards there. Men +had to work, and work hard too, for the wages that bought their daily +bread. Even the boys in the screen-room were held as closely to their +tasks as care and vigilance could hold them. Theirs were no light +tasks, either. They sat all day on their little benches, high up in +the great black building, with their eyes fixed always on the shallow +streams of broken coal passing down the iron-sheathed chutes, and +falling out of sight below them; and it was their duty to pick the +particles of slate and stone from out these moving masses, bending +constantly above them as they worked. It was not the physical exertion +that made their task a hard one; there was not much straining of the +joints or muscles, not even in the constant bending of the body to +that one position. + +Neither was it that their tender hands were often cut and bruised by +the sharp pieces of the coal or the heavy ones of slate. But it was +hard because they were boys; young boys, with bounding pulses, chafing +at restraint, full to the brim with life and spirit, longing for the +fresh air, the bright sunlight, the fields, the woods, the waters, the +birds, the flowers, all things beautiful and wonderful that nature +spreads upon the earth to make of it a paradise for boys. To think of +all these things, to catch brief glimpses of the happiness of children +who were not born to toil, and then to sit, from dawn to mid-day and +from mid-day till the sun went down, and listen to the ceaseless +thunder of moving wheels and the constant sliding of the streams of +coal across their iron beds,--it was this that wearied them. + +To know that in the woods the brooks were singing over pebbly bottoms, +that in the fields the air was filled with the fragrance of blossoming +flowers, that everywhere the free wind rioted at will, and then to +sit in such a prison-house as this all day, and breathe an atmosphere +so thick with dust that even the bits of blue sky framed in by +the open windows in the summer time were like strips of some dark +thunder-cloud,--it was this, this dull monotony of dizzy sight and +doleful sound and changeless post of duty, that made their task a hard +one. + +There came a certain summer day at Burnham Breaker when the labor and +confinement fell with double weight upon the slate-pickers in the +screen-room. It was circus day. The dead-walls and bill-boards of the +city had been gorgeous for weeks and weeks with pictures heralding the +wonders of the coming show. By the turnpike road, not forty rods from +where the breaker stood, there was a wide barn the whole side of which +had been covered with brightly colored prints of beasts and birds, of +long processions, of men turning marvellous somersaults, of ladies +riding, poised on one foot, on the backs of flying horses, of a +hundred other things to charm the eyes and rouse anticipation in the +breasts of boys. + +Every day, when the whistle blew at noon, the boys ran, shouting, from +the breaker, and hurried, with their dinner-pails, to the roadside +barn, to eat and gaze alternately, and discuss the pictured wonders. + +And now it was all here; beasts, birds, vaulting men, flying women, +racing horses and all. They had seen the great white tents gleaming +in the sunlight up in the open fields, a mile away, and had heard the +distant music of the band and caught glimpses of the long procession +as it wound through the city streets below them. This was at the noon +hour, while they were waiting for the signal that should call them +back into the dust and din of the screen-room, where they might dream, +indeed, of circus joys while bending to their tasks, but that was all. +There was much wishing and longing. There was some murmuring. There +was even a rash suggestion from one boy that they should go, in spite +of the breaker and the bosses, and revel for a good half-day in the +pleasures of the show. But this treasonable proposition was frowned +down without delay. These boys had caught the spirit of loyalty +from the men who worked at Burnham Breaker, and not even so great a +temptation as this could keep them from the path of duty. + +When the bell rang for them to return to work, not one was missing, +each bench had its accustomed occupant, and the coal that was poured +into the cars at the loading-place was never more free from slate and +stone than it was that afternoon. + +But it was hot up in the screen-room. The air was close and stifling, +and heavy with the choking dust. The noise of the iron-teethed rollers +crunching the lumps of coal, and the bang and rattle of ponderous +machinery were never before so loud and discordant, and the black +streams moving down their narrow channels never passed beneath these +dizzy boys in monotony quite so dull and ceaseless as they were +passing this day. + +Suddenly the machinery stopped. The grinding and the roaring ceased. +The frame-work of the giant building was quiet from its trembling. The +iron gates that held back the broken coal were quickly shut and the +long chutes were empty. + +The unexpected stillness was almost startling. The boys looked up in +mute astonishment. + +Through the dust, in the door-way at the end of the room, they saw the +breaker boss and the screen-room boss talking with Robert Burnham. +Then Mr. Burnham advanced a step or two and said:-- + +"Boys, Mr. Curtis tells me you are all here. I am pleased with your +loyalty. I had rather have the good-will and confidence of the boys +who work for me than to have the money that they earn. Now, I intend +that you shall see the circus if you wish to, and you will be provided +with the means of admission to it. Mr. Curtis will dismiss you for the +rest of the day, and as you pass out you will each receive a silver +quarter as a gift for good behavior." + +For a minute the boys were silent. It was too sudden a vision of +happiness to be realized at once. Then one little fellow stood up on +his bench and shouted:-- + +"Hooray for Mr. Burnham!" The next moment the air was filled with +shouts and hurrahs so loud and vigorous that they went echoing +through every dust-laden apartment of the huge building from head to +loading-place. + +Then the boys filed out. One by one they went through the door-way, +each, as he passed, receiving from Mr. Burnham's own hand the shining +piece of silver that should admit him to the wonders of the "greatest +show on earth." + +They spoke their thanks, rudely indeed, and in voices that were almost +too much burdened with happiness for quiet speech. + +But their eyes were sparkling with anticipation; their lips were +parted in smiles, their white teeth were gleaming from their +dust-black faces, each look and action was eloquent with thoughts of +coming pleasure. And the one who enjoyed it more than all the others +was Robert Burnham. + +It is so old that it was trite and tiresome centuries ago, that saying +about one finding one's greatest happiness in making others happy. But +it has never ceased to be true; it never will cease to be true; it is +one of those primal principles of humanity that no use nor law nor +logic can ever hope to falsify. + +The last boy in the line differed apparently in no respect from +those who had preceded him. The faces of all of them were black with +coal-dust, and their clothes were patched and soiled. But this one had +just cut his hand, and, as he held it up to let the blood drip from it +you noticed that it was small and delicate in shape. + +"Why, my boy!" exclaimed Mr. Burnham, "you have cut your hand. Let me +see." + +"'Taint much, sir," the lad replied; "I often cut 'em a little. You're +apt to, a-handlin' the coal that way." The man had the little hand in +his and bent to examine the wound. "That's quite a cut," he said, "as +clean as though it had been made with a knife. Come, let's wash it off +and fix it up a little." + +He led the way to the corner of the room, uncovered the water-pail, +dipped out a cup of water, and began to bathe the bleeding hand. + +"That shows it's good coal, sir," said the boy, "Poor coal wouldn't +make such a clean cut as that. The better the coal the sharper 'tis." + +"Thank you," said Mr. Burnham, smiling. "Taking the circumstances into +consideration, I regard that as the best compliment for our coal that +I have ever received." + +The hand had been washed off as well as water without soap could do +it. + +"I guess that's as clean as it'll come," said the boy. "It's pirty +hard work to git 'em real clean. The dirt gits into the corners so, +an' into the chaps an' cuts, an' you can't git it all out, not even +for Sunday." + +The man was looking around for something to bind up the wound with. +"Have you a handkerchief?" he asked. + +The boy drew from an inner pocket what had once been a red bandanna +handkerchief of the old style, but alas! it was sadly soiled, it was +worn beyond repair and crumpled beyond belief. + +"'Taint very clean," he said, apologetically. "You can't keep a +han'kerchy very clean a-workin' in the breaker, it's so dusty here." + +"Oh! it's good enough," replied the man, noticing the boy's +embarrassment, and trying to reassure him, "it's plenty good enough, +but it's red you see, and red won't do. Here, I have a white one. This +is just the thing," he added, tearing his own handkerchief into strips +and binding them carefully about the wounded hand. "There!" giving the +bandage a final adjustment; "that will be better for it. Now, then, +you're off to the circus; good-by." + +The lad took a step or two forward, hesitated a moment, and then +turned back. The breaker boss and the screen-room boss were already +gone and he was alone with Mr. Burnham. + +"Would it make any dif'rence to you," he asked, holding up the silver +coin, "if I spent this money for sumpthin' else, an' didn't go to the +circus with it?" + +"Why, no!" said the man, wonderingly, "I suppose not; but I thought +you boys would rather spend your money at the circus than to spend it +in almost any other way." + +"Oh! I'd like to go well enough. I al'ays did like a circus, an' I +wanted to go to this one, 'cause it's a big one; but they's sumpthin' +else I want worse'n that, an' I'm a-tryin' to save up a little money +for it." + +Robert Burnham's curiosity was aroused. Here was a boy who was willing +to forego the pleasures of the circus that he might gratify some +greater desire; a strong and noble one, the man felt sure, to call for +such a sacrifice. Visions of a worn-out mother, an invalid sister, a +mortgaged home, passed through his mind as he said: "And what is it +you are saving your money for, my boy, if I am at liberty to ask?" + +"To'stablish my'dentity, sir." + +"To do what?" + +"To'stablish my'dentity; that's what Uncle Billy calls it." + +"Why, what's the matter with your identity?" + +"I ain't got any; I'm a stranger; I don't know who my 'lations are." + +"Don't know--who--your relations are! Why, what's your name?" + +"Ralph, that's all; I ain't got any other name. They call me Ralph +Buckley sometimes, 'cause I live with Uncle Billy; but he ain't my +uncle, you know,--I only call him Uncle Billy 'cause I live with him, +an'--an' he's good to me, that's all." + +At the name "Ralph," coming so suddenly from the lad's lips, the man +had started, turned pale, and then his face flushed deeply. He drew +the boy down tenderly on the bench beside him, and said:-- + +"Tell me about yourself, Ralph; where do you say you live?" + +"With Uncle Billy,--Bachelor Billy they call him; him that dumps at +the head, pushes the cars out from the carriage an' dumps 'em; don't +you know Billy Buckley?" + +The man nodded assent and the boy went on:-- + +"He's been awful good to me, Uncle Billy has; you don't know how good +he's been to me; but he ain't my uncle, he ain't no 'lation to me; I +ain't got no 'lations 'at I know of; I wish't I had." + +The lad looked wistfully out through the open window to the far line +of hills with their summits veiled in a delicate mist of blue. + +"But where did Billy get you?" asked Mr. Burnham. + +"He foun' me; he foun' me on the road, an' he took me in an' took care +o' me, and he didn't know me at all; that's where he's so good. I was +sick, an' he hired Widow Maloney to tend me while he was a-workin', +and when I got well he got me this place a-pickin' slate in the +breaker." + +"But, Ralph, where had you come from when Billy found you?" + +"Well, now, I'll tell you all I know about it. The first thing 'at I +'member is 'at I was a-livin' with Gran'pa Simon in Philadelphy. He +wasn't my gran'pa, though; if he had 'a' been he wouldn't 'a' 'bused +me so. I don't know where he got me, but he treated me very bad; an' +when I wouldn't do bad things for him, he whipped me, he whipped me +awful, an' he shet me up in the dark all day an' all night, 'an didn't +give me nothin' to eat; an' I'm dreadful 'fraid o' the dark; an' I +wasn't more'n jest about so high, neither. Well, you see, I couldn't +stan' it, an' one day I run away. I wouldn't 'a' run away if I could +'a' stood it, but I _couldn't_ stan' it no longer. Gran'pa Simon +wasn't there when I run away. He used to go off an' leave me with Ole +Sally, an' she wasn't much better'n him, only she couldn't see very +well, an' she couldn't follow me. I slep' with Buck the bootblack that +night, an' nex' mornin', early, I started out in the country. I was +'fraid they'd find me if I stayed aroun' the city. It was pirty near +afternoon 'fore I got out where the fields is, an' then a woman, she +give me sumpthin' to eat. I wanted to git away from the city fur's I +could, an' day-times I walked fast, an' nights I slep' under the big +trees, an' folks in the houses along the road, they give me things +to eat. An' then a circus came along, an' the man on the tiger wagon +he give me a ride, an' then I went everywhere with the circus, an' +I worked for 'em, oh! for a good many days; I worked real hard too, +a-doin' everything, an' they never let me go into their show but once, +only jest once. Well, w'en we got here to Scranton I got sick, an' +they wouldn't take me no furder 'cause I wasn't any good to 'em, an' +they went off an' lef me, an' nex' mornin' I laid down up there along +the road a-cryin' an' a-feelin' awful bad, an' then Uncle Billy, he +happened to come that way, an' he foun' me an' took me home with him. +He lives in part o' Widow Maloney's house, you know, an' he ain't got +nobody but me, an' I ain't got nobody but him, an' we live together. +That's why they call him Bachelor Billy, 'cause he ain't never got +married. Oh! he's been awful good to me, Uncle Billy has, awful good!" +And the boy looked out again musingly into the blue distance. + +The man had not once stirred during this recital. His eyes had been +fixed on the boy's face, and he had listened with intense interest. + +"Well, Ralph," he said, "that is indeed a strange story. And is that +all you know about yourself? Have you no clew to your parentage or +birthplace?" + +"No, sir; not any. That's what I want to find out when I git money +enough." + +"How much money have you now?" + +"About nine dollars, countin' what I'll save from nex' pay day." + +"And how do you propose to proceed when you have money enough?" + +"Hire a lawyer to 'vestigate. The lawyer he keeps half the money, an' +gives the other half of it to a 'tective, an' then the 'tective, he +finds out all about you. Uncle Billy says that's the way. He says if +you git a good smart lawyer you can find out 'most anything." + +"And suppose you should find your parents, and they should be rich and +give you a great deal of money, how would you spend it?" + +"Well, I don't know; I'd give a lot of it to Uncle Billy, I guess, +an' some to Widow Maloney, an'--an' I'd go to the circus, an'--but I +wouldn't care so much about the money, sir, if I could have folks like +other boys have. If I could only have a mother, that's what I want +worst, a mother to kiss me every day, an' be good to me that way, like +mothers are, you know; if I could only jest have that, I wouldn't want +nothin' else, not never any more." + +The man turned his face away. + +"And wouldn't you like to have a father too?" he asked. + +"Oh, yes, I would; but I _could_ git along without a father, a real +father. Uncle Billy's been a kind o' father to me; but I ain't never +had no mother, nor no sister; an' that's what I want now, an" I want +'em very bad. Seems, sometimes, jes' as if I _couldn't_ wait; jes' as +if I couldn't stan' it no longer 'thout 'em. Don't--don't you s'pose +the things we can't have is the things we want worst?" + +"Yes, my boy: yes. You've spoken a truth as old as the ages. That +which I myself would give my fortune for I can never have. I mean my +little boy who--who died. I cannot have him back. His name too was +Ralph." + +For a few moments there was silence in the screen-room. The child was +awed by the man's effort to suppress his deep emotion. + +At last Ralph said, rising:-- + +"Well, I mus' go now an' tell Uncle Billy." + +Mr. Burnham rose in his turn. + +"Yes," he said, "you'll be late for the circus if you don't hurry. +What! you're not going? Oh! yes, you _must_ go. Here, here's a silver +dollar to add to your identity fund; now you can afford to spend the +quarter. Yes," as the boy hesitated to accept the proffered money, +"yes, you _must_ take it; you can pay it back, you know, when--when +you come to your own. And wait! I want to help you in that matter of +establishing your identity. Come to my office, and we'll talk it over. +Let me see; to-day is Tuesday. Friday we shall shut down the screens a +half-day for repairs. Come on Friday afternoon." + +"Thank you, sir; yes, sir, I will." + +"All right; good-by!" + +"Good-by, sir!" + +When Ralph reached the circus grounds the crowds were still pushing in +through the gate at the front of the big tent, and he had to take his +place far back in the line and move slowly along with the others. + +Leaning wearily against a post near the entrance, and watching the +people as they passed in, stood an old man. He was shabbily dressed, +his clothes' were very dusty, and an old felt hat was pulled low on +his forehead. He was pale and gaunt, and an occasional hollow cough +gave conclusive evidence of his disease. But 'he had a pair of sharp +gray eyes that looked out from under the brim of his hat, and gave +close scrutiny to every one who passed by. The breaker boys, who had +gone into the tent in a body some minutes earlier, had attracted his +attention and aroused his interest. By and by his eyes rested upon +Ralph, who stood back in the line, awaiting the forward movement of +the crowd. The old man started perceptibly at sight of the boy, and +uttered an ejaculation of surprise, which ended in a cough. He moved +forward as if to meet him; then, apparently on second thought, he +retreated to his post. But he kept his eyes fixed on the lad, who was +coming slowly nearer, and his thin face took on an expression of the +deepest satisfaction. He turned partly aside, however, as the boy +approached him, and stood with averted countenance until the lad had +passed through the gate. + +Ralph was just in time. He had no sooner got in and found a seat, with +the other breaker boys, away up under the edge of the tent, than the +grand procession made its entrance. There were golden chariots, there +were ladies in elegant riding habits and men in knightly costumes, +there were prancing steeds and gorgeous banners, elephants, camels, +monkeys, clowns, a moving mass of dazzling beauty and bright colors +that almost made one dizzy to look upon it; and through it all the +great band across the arena poured its stirring music in a way to +make the pulses leap and the hands and feet keep time to its sounding +rhythm. + +Then came the athletes and the jugglers, the tight-rope walkers and +the trapeze performers, the trained dogs and horses, the clowns and +the monkeys, the riding and the races; all of it too wonderful, too +mirthful, too complete to be adequately described. At least, this was +what the breaker boys thought. + +After the performance was ended, they went out to the menagerie tent, +in a body, to look at the animals. + +One of the boys became separated from the others, and stood watching +the antics of the monkeys, and laughing gleefully at each comical +trick performed by the grave-faced little creatures. Looking up, he +saw an old man standing by him; an old man with sharp gray eyes and +dusty clothes, who leaned heavily upon a cane. + +"Curious things, these monkeys," said the old man. + +"Ain't they, though!" replied the boy. "Luk at that un, now!--don't he +beat all? ain't he funny?" + +"Very!" responded the old man, gazing across the open space to where +Ralph stood chattering with his companions. + +"Sonny," said he, "can you tell me who that boy is, over yonder, with +his hand done up in a white cloth?" + +"That boy w'ats a-talkin' to Jimmy Dooley, you mean?" + +"Yes, the one there by the lion's cage." + +"You mean that boy there with the blue patch on his pants?" + +"Yes, yes! the one with his hand bandaged; don't you see?" + +"Oh, that's Ralph." + +"Ralph who?" + +"Ralph nobody. He ain't got no other name. He lives with Bachelor +Billy." + +"Is--is Bachelor Billy his father?" + +"Naw; he ain't got no father." + +"Does he work with you in the mines?" + +"In the mines? naw; we don't work in the mines; we work in the +screen-room up t' the breaker, a-pickin' slate. He sets nex' to me." + +"How long has he been working there?" + +"Oh, I donno; couple o' years, I guess. You want to see 'im? I'll go +call 'im." + +"No; I don't care to see him. Don't call him; he isn't the boy I'm +looking for, any way." + +"There! he's a-turnin' this way now. I'll have 'im here in a minute; +hey, Ralph! Ralph! here he comes." + +But the old man was gone. He had disappeared suddenly and +mysteriously. A little later he was trudging slowly along the dusty +road, through the crowds of people, up toward the city. He was +smiling, and muttering to himself. "Found him at last!" he exclaimed, +in a whisper, "found him at last! It'll be all right now; only be +cautious, Simon! be cautious!" + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +A STRANGE VISITOR. + + +It was the day after the circus. Robert Burnham sat in his office on +Lackawanna Avenue, busy with his afternoon mail. As he laid the last +letter aside the incidents of the previous day recurred to him, and he +saw again, in imagination, the long line of breaker-boys, with happy, +dusty faces, filing slowly by him, grateful for his gifts, eager for +the joys to come. The pleasure he had found in his generous deed +stayed with him, as such pleasures always do, and was manifest even +now in the light of his kindly face. + +He had pondered, too, upon the strange story of the boy Ralph. It had +awakened his interest and aroused his sympathy. He had spoken to his +wife about the lad when he went home at night; and he had taken his +little daughter on his knee and told to her the story of the boy who +worked all day in the breaker, who had no father and no mother, and +whose name was--Ralph! Both wife and daughter had listened eagerly +to the tale, and had made him promise to look carefully to the lad +and help him to some better occupation than the drudgery of the +screen-room. + +But he had already resolved to do this, and more. The mystery +surrounding the child's life should be unravelled. Obscure and humble +though his origin might be, he should, at least, bear the name to +which his parentage entitled him. The more he thought on this subject, +the wider grew his intentions concerning the child. His fatherly +nature was aroused and eager for action. + +There was something about the lad, too, that reminded him, not so much +of what his own child had been as of what he might have been had he +lived to this boy's age. It was not alone in the name, but something +also in the tone of voice, in the turn of the head, in the look of +the brown eyes; something which struck a chord of memory or hope, and +brought no unfamiliar sound. + +The thought pleased him, and he dwelt upon it, and, turning away from +his table with its accumulation of letters and papers, he looked +absently out into the busy street and laid plans for the future of +this boy who had dropped so suddenly into the current of his life. + +By and by he heard some one in the outer office inquiring for him. +Then his door was opened, and a stranger entered, an old man in shabby +clothes, leaning on a cane. He was breathing heavily, apparently from +the exertion of climbing the steps at the entrance, and he was no +sooner in the room than he fell into a violent fit of coughing. + +He seated himself carefully in a chair at the other side of the table +from Mr. Burnham, placed a well worn leather satchel on the floor by +his side, and laid his cane across it. + +When he had recovered somewhat from his shortness of breath, he said: +"Excuse me. A little unusual exertion always brings on a fit of +coughing. This is Mr. Robert Burnham, I suppose?" + +"That is my name," answered Burnham, regarding his visitor with some +curiosity. + +"Ah! just so; you don't know me, I presume?" + +"No, I don't remember to have met you before." + +"It's not likely that you have, not at all likely. My name is Craft, +Simon Craft. I live in Philadelphia when I'm at home." + +"Ah! Philadelphia is a fine city. What can I do for you, Mr. Craft?" + +"That isn't the question, sir. The question is, what can _I_ do for +_you_?" + +The old man looked carefully around the room, rose, went to the door, +which had been left ajar, closed it noiselessly, and resumed his seat. + +"Well," said Mr. Burnham, calmly, "what can you do for me?" + +"Much," responded the old man, resting his elbows on the table in +front of him; "very much if you will give me your time and attention +for a few moments." + +"My time is at your disposal," replied Burnham, smiling, and leaning +back in his chair somewhat wearily, "and I am all attention; proceed." + +Thus far the old man had succeeded in arousing in his listener only +a languid curiosity. This coal magnate was accustomed to being +interrupted by "cranks" of all kinds, as are most rich men, and +often enjoyed short interviews with them. This one had opened the +conversation in much the usual manner, and the probability seemed to +be that he would now go on to unfold the usual scheme by which his +listener's thousands could be converted into millions in an incredibly +short time, under the skilful management of the schemer. But his very +next words dispelled this idea and aroused Robert Burnham to serious +attention. + +"Do you remember," the old man asked, "the Cherry Brook bridge +disaster that occurred near Philadelphia some eight years ago?" + +"Yes," replied Burnham, straightening up in his chair, "I do; I have +good reason to remember it. Were you on that train?" + +"I was on that train. Terrible accident, wasn't it?" + +"Terrible; yes, it was terrible indeed." + +"Wouldn't have been quite so bad if the cars hadn't taken fire and +burned up after they went down, would it?" + +"The fire was the most distressing part of it; but why do you ask me +these questions?" + +"You were on board, I believe, you and your wife and your child, and +all went down. Isn't that so?" + +"Yes, it is so. But why, I repeat, are you asking me these questions? +It is no pleasure to me to talk about this matter, I assure you." + +Craft gave no heed to this protest, but kept on:-- + +"You and your wife were rescued in an unconscious state, were you not, +just as the fire was creeping up to you?" + +The old man seemed to take delight in torturing his hearer by +calling up painful memories. Receiving no answer to his question, he +continued:-- + +"But the boy, the boy Ralph, he perished, didn't he? Was burned up in +the wreck, wasn't he?" + +"Stop!" exclaimed Burnham. "You have said enough. If you have any +object in repeating this harrowing story, let me know what it is at +once; if not, I have no time to listen to you further." + +"I have an object," replied Craft, deliberately, "a most important +object, which I will disclose to you if you will be good enough to +answer my question. Your boy Ralph was burned up in the wreck at +Cherry Bridge, wasn't he?" + +"Yes, he was. That is our firm belief; what then?" + +"Simply this, that you are mistaken." + +"What do you mean?" + +"Your boy is not dead." + +Burnham started to his feet, unable for the moment to speak. His face +took on a sudden pallor, then a smile of incredulity settled on his +lips. + +"You are wild," he said; "the child perished; we have abundant proof +of it." + +"I say the child is not dead," persisted the old man; "I saw +him--yesterday." + +"Then, bring him to me. Bring him to me and I will believe you." + +Burnham had settled down into his chair with a look of weary +hopelessness on his face. + +"You have no faith in me," said Craft. "Mere perversity might make you +fail to recognize the child. Suppose I show you further proofs of the +truth of what I say." + +"Very well; produce them." + +The old man bent down, took his leather hand-bag from the floor, and +placed it on the table before him. The exertion brought on a spasm of +coughing. When he had recovered from this, he drew an old wallet from +his pocket and took from it a key, with which he unlocked the satchel. +Then, drawing forth a package and untying and unrolling it, he shook +it out and held it up for Robert Burnham to look at. It was a little +flannel cloak. It had once been white, but it was sadly stained +and soiled now. The delicate ribbons that had ornamented it were +completely faded, and out of the front a great hole had been burned, +the edges of which were still black and crumbling. + +"Do you recognize it?" asked the old man. + +Burnham seized it with both hands. + +"It is his!" he exclaimed. "It is Ralph's! He wore it that day. Where +did you get it? Where did you get it, I say?" + +Craft did not reply. He was searching in his hand-bag for something +else. Finally he drew out a child's cap, a quaint little thing of +velvet and lace, and laid it on the table. + +This, too, was grasped by Burnham with eager fingers, and looked upon +with loving eyes. + +"Do you still think me wild?" said the old man, "or do you believe now +that I have some knowledge of what I am talking about?" + +His listener did not answer the question. His mind seemed to be far +away. He said, finally:-- + +"There--there was a locket, a little gold locket. It had his father's +picture in it. Did--did you find that?" + +The visitor smiled, opened the wallet again, and produced the locket. +The father took it in his trembling hands, looked on it very tenderly +for a moment, and then his eyes became flooded with tears. + +"It was his," he said at last, very gently; "they were all his; tell +me now--where did you get them?" + +"I came by them honestly, Mr. Burnham, honestly; and I have kept them +faithfully. But I will tell you the whole story. I think you are ready +now to hear it with attention, and to consider it fairly." + +The old man pushed his satchel aside, pulled his chair closer to the +table, cleared his throat, and began:-- + +"It was May 13, 1859. I'd been out in the country at my son's, and was +riding into the city in the evening. I was in the smoking-car. Along +about nine o'clock there was a sudden jerk, then half a dozen more +jerks, and the train came to a dead stop. I got up and went out with +the rest, and we then saw that the bridge had broken down, and the +three cars behind the smoker had tumbled into the creek. I hurried +down the bank and did what I could to help those in the wreck, but it +was very dark and the cars were piled up in a heap, and it was hard to +do anything. Then the fire broke out and we had to stand back. But I +heard a child crying by a broken window, just where the middle car had +struck across the rear one, and I climbed up there at the risk of my +life and looked in. The fire gave some light by this time, and I saw +a young woman lying there, caught between the timbers and perfectly +still. A sudden blaze showed me that she was dead. Then the child +cried again; I saw where he was, and reached in and pulled him out +just as the fire caught in his cloak. I jumped down into the water +with him, and put out the fire and saved him. He wasn't hurt much. It +was your boy Ralph. By this time the wreck was all ablaze and we had +to get up on the bank. + +"I took the child around among the people there, and tried to find +out who he belonged to, but no one seemed to know anything about him. +He wasn't old enough to talk distinctly, so he couldn't tell me much +about himself; not anything, in fact, except that his name was Ralph. +I took him home with me to my lodgings in the city that night, and +the next morning I went out to the scene of the accident to try to +discover some clew to his identity. But I couldn't find out anything +about him; nothing at all. The day after that I was taken sick. The +exertion, the exposure, and the wetting I had got in the water of the +brook, brought on a severe attack of pneumonia. It was several months +before I got around again as usual, and I am still suffering, you see, +from the results of that sickness. After that, as my time and means +and business would permit, I went out and searched for the boy's +friends. It is useless for me to go into the details of that search, +but I will say that I made every effort and every sacrifice possible +during five years, without the slightest success. In the meantime the +child remained with me, and I clothed him and fed him and cared for +him the very best I could, considering the circumstances in which I +was placed. + +"About three years ago I happened to be in Scranton on business, and, +by the merest chance, I learned that you had been in the Cherry Brook +disaster, that you had lost your child there, and that the child's +name was Ralph. Following up the clew, I became convinced that this +boy was your son. I thought the best way to break the news to you was +to bring you the child himself. With that end in view, I returned +immediately to Philadelphia, only to find Ralph--missing. He had +either run away or been stolen, I could not tell which. I was not +able to trace him. Three months later I heard that he had been with a +travelling circus company, but had left them after a few days. After +that I lost track of him entirely for about three years. Now, however, +I have found him. I saw him so lately as yesterday. He is alive and +well." + +Several times during the recital of this narrative, the old man had +been interrupted by spasms of coughing, and, now that he was done, he +gave himself up to a violent and prolonged fit of it. + +Robert Burnham had listened intently enough, there was no doubt of +that; but he did not yet seem quite ready to believe that his boy was +really alive. + +"Why did you not tell me," he asked, "when the child left you, so that +I might have assisted you in the search for him?" + +Craft hesitated a moment. + +"I did not dare to," he said. I was afraid you would blame me too +severely for not taking better care of him, and I was hoping every day +to find him myself." + +"Well, let that pass. Where is he now? Where is the boy who, you say, +is my son?" + +"Pardon me, sir, but I cannot tell you that just yet. I know where he +is. I can bring him to you on two days' notice. But, before I do that, +I feel that, in justice to myself, I should receive some compensation, +not only for the care of the child through five years of his life, but +also for the time, toil, and money spent in restoring him to you." + +Burnham's brow darkened. + +"Ah! I see," he said. "This is to be a money transaction. Your object +is to get gain from it. Am I right?" + +"Exactly. My motive is not wholly an unselfish one, I assure you." + +"Still, you insist upon the absolute truth of your story?" + +"I do, certainly." + +"Well, then, what is your proposition? name it." + +"Yes, sir. After mature consideration, I have concluded that three +thousand dollars is not too large a sum." + +"Well, what then?" + +"I am to receive that amount when I bring your son to you." + +"But suppose I should not recognize nor acknowledge as my son the +person whom you will bring?" + +"Then you will pay me no money, and the boy will return home with me." + +Burnham wheeled suddenly in his chair and rose to his feet. "Listen!" +he exclaimed, earnestly. "If you will bring my boy to me, alive, +unharmed, my own boy Ralph, I will give you twice three thousand +dollars." + +"In cash?" + +"In cash." + +"It's a bargain. You shall see him within two days. But--you may +change your mind in the meantime; will you give me a writing to secure +me?" + +"Certainly." + +Mr. Burnham resumed his seat and wrote hurriedly, the following +contract:-- + +"This agreement, made and executed this thirtieth day of June, 1867, +between Simon Craft of the city of Philadelphia, party of the first +part, and Robert Burnham of the city of Scranton, party of the second +part, both of the state of Pennsylvania, witnesseth that the said +Craft agrees to produce to the said Burnham, within two days from this +date, the son of the said Robert Burnham, named Ralph, in full life, +and in good health of body and mind. And thereupon the said Burnham, +provided he recognizes as his said son Ralph the person so produced, +agrees to pay to the said Craft, in cash, the sum of six thousand +dollars. Witness our hands and seals the day and year aforesaid. + +"ROBERT BURNHAM." [L.S.] + +"There!" said Burnham, handing the paper to Craft; "that will secure +you in the payment of the money, provided you fulfil your agreement. +But let me be plain with you. If you are deceiving me or trying to +deceive me, or if you should practise fraud on me, or attempt to do +so, you will surely regret it. And if that child be really in life, +and you have been guilty of any cruelty toward him, of any kind +whatever, you will look upon the world through prison bars, I promise +you, in spite of the money you may obtain from me. Now you understand; +go bring the boy." + +The old man did not answer. He was holding the paper close to his +eyes, and going over it word by word. + +"Yes," he said, finally; "I suppose it's all right. I'm not very +familiar with written contracts, but I'll venture it." + +Burnham had risen again from his chair, and was striding up and down +the floor. + +"When will you bring him?" he asked; "to-morrow?" + +"My dear sir, do not be in too great haste; I am not gifted with +miraculous powers. I will bring the boy here or take you to him within +two days, as I have agreed." + +"Well, then, to-day is Tuesday. Will you have him here by Friday? +Friday morning?" + +"By Friday afternoon, at any rate." + +The old man was carefully wrapping up the articles he had exhibited, +and putting them back into his hand-bag. Finally, Burnham's attention +was attracted to this proceeding. + +"Why," he exclaimed, "what are you doing? You have no right to those +things; they are mine." + +"Oh no! they are mine. They shall be given to you some time perhaps; +but, for the present, they are mine." + +"Stop! you shall not have them. Those things are very precious to me. +Put them down, I say; put them down!" + +"Very well. You may have these or--your boy. If you force these things +from me, you go without your child. Now take your choice." + +Old Simon was very calm and firm. He knew his ground, and knew that he +could afford to be domineering. His long experience in sharp practice +had not failed to teach him that the man who holds his temper, in a +contest like this, always has the best of it. And he was too shrewd +not to see that his listener was laboring under an excitement that +was liable at any moment to break forth in passionate speech. He was, +therefore, not surprised nor greatly disturbed when Burnham exclaimed, +vehemently:-- + +"I'll have you arrested, sir! I'll force you to disclose your secret! +I'll have you punished by the hand of the law!" + +"The hand of the law is not laid in punishment on people who are +guilty of no crime," responded Craft, coolly; "and there is no +criminal charge that you can fairly bring against me. Poverty is my +worst crime. I have done nothing except for your benefit. Now, Mr. +Burnham you are excited. Calm yourself and listen to reason. Don't you +see that if I were to give those things to you I would be putting out +of my hands the best evidence I have of the truth of my assertions?" + +"But I have seen you produce them. I will not deny that you gave them +to me." + +"Ah! very good; but you may die before night! What then?" + +"Die before night! Absurd! But keep the things; keep them. I can do +without them if you will restore the child himself to me. When did you +say you would bring him?" + +"Friday afternoon." + +"Until Friday afternoon, then, I wait." + +"Very well, sir; good day!" + +"Good day!" + +The old man picked up his cane, rose slowly from his chair, and, with +his satchel in his hand, walked softly out, closing the door carefully +behind him. + +Robert Burnham continued his walk up and down the room, his flushed +face showing alternately the signs of the hope and the doubt that were +striving for the mastery within him. + +For eight years he had believed his boy to be dead. The terrible +wreck at Cherry Brook had yielded up to him from its ashes only a few +formless trinkets of all that had once been his child's, only a few +unrecognizable bones, to be interred, long afterward, where flowers +might bloom above them. The last search had been made, the last clew +followed, the last resources of wealth and skill were at an end, and +these, these bones and trinkets were all that could be found. Still, +the fact of the child's death had not been established beyond all +question, and among the millions of remote possibilities that this +world always holds in reserve lingered yet the one that he might after +all be living. + +And now came this old man with his strange story, and the cap and the +cloak and the locket. Did it mean simply a renewal of the old hope, +destined to fade away again into a hopelessness duller than the last? + +But what if the man's story were true? What if the boy were really in +life? What if in two days' time the father should clasp his living +child in his arms, and bear him to his mother! Ah! his mother. She +would have given her life any time to have had her child restored to +her, if only for a day. But she had been taught early to believe that +he was dead It was better than to torture her heart with hopes that +could only by the rarest possibility be fulfilled. Now, now, if he +dared to go home to her this night, and tell her that their son was +alive, was found, was coming back to them! Ah! if he only dared! + +The sunlight, streaming through the western window, fell upon him as +he walked. It was that golden light that conies from a sun low in the +west, when the days are long, and it illumined his face with a glow +that revealed there the hope, the courage, the honor, the manly +strength that held mastery in his heart. + +There was a sudden commotion in the outer office. Men were talking in +an excited manner; some one opened the door, and said:-- + +"There's been an accident in the breaker mine, Mr. Burnham." + +"What kind of an accident?" + +"Explosion of fire-damp." + +"What about the men?" + +"It is not known yet how many are injured." + +"Tell James to bring the horses immediately; I will go there." + +"James is waiting at the door now with the team, sir." + +Mr. Burnham put away a few papers, wrote a hurried letter to his wife, +took his hat and went out and down the steps. + +"Send Dr. Gunther up to the breaker at once," he said, as he made +ready to start. + +The fleet horses drew him rapidly out through the suburbs and up the +hill, and in less than twenty minutes he had reached the breaker, and +stopped at the mouth of the shaft. + +Many people had already assembled, and others were coming from all +directions. Women whose husbands and sons worked in the mine were +there, with pale faces and beseeching words. There was much confusion. +It was difficult to keep the crowd from pressing in against the mouth +of the shaft. Men were busy clearing a space about the opening when +Robert Burnham arrived. + +"How did it happen?" he said to the mine boss as he stepped from his +wagon. "Where was it?" + +"Up in the north tier, sir. We don't know how it happened. Some one +must 'a' gone in below, where the fire-damp was, with a naked lamp, +an' touched it off; an' then, most like, it run along the roof to the +chambers where the men was a-workin'. I can't account for it in no +other way." + +"Has any one come out from there?" + +"Yes, Billy Williams. He was a-comin' out when it went off. We found +him up in the headin', senseless. He ain't come to yet." + +"And the others?" + +"We've tried to git to 'em, sir, but the after-damp is awful, an' we +couldn't stan' it; we had to come out." + +"How many men are up there?" + +"Five, as we count 'em; the rest are all out." + +The carriage came up the shaft, and a half-dozen miners, with dull +eyes and drawn faces, staggered from it, out into the sunlight. It +was a rescuing party, just come from a vain attempt to save their +unfortunate comrades. They were almost choked to death themselves, +with the foul air of the mine. One of them recovered sufficiently to +speak. + +"We got a'most there," he gasped; "we could hear 'em a-groanin'; but +the after-damp got--so bad--we--" He reeled and fell, speechless and +exhausted. + +The crowd had surged up, trying to hear what the man was saying. +People were getting dangerously near to the mouth of the shaft. Women +whose husbands were below were wringing their hands and crying out +desperately that some one should go down to the rescue. + +"Stand back, my friends," said Burnham, facing the people, "stand back +and give these men air, and leave us room to work. We shall do all in +our power to help those who are below. If they can be saved, we shall +save them. Trust us and give us opportunity to do it. Now, men, who +will go down? I feel that we shall get to them this time and bring +them out. Who volunteers?" + +A dozen miners stepped forward from the crowd; sturdy, strong-limbed +men, with courage stamped on their dust-soiled faces, and heroic +resolution gleaming from their eyes. + +"Good! we want but eight. Take the aprons of the women; give us the +safety-lamps, the oil, the brandy; there, ready; slack off!" + +Burnham had stepped on to the carriage with the men who were going +down. One of them cried out to him:-- + +"Don't ye go, sir! don't ye go! it'll be worth the life o' ye!" + +"I'll not ask men to go where I dare not go myself," he said; "slack +off!" + +For an instant the carriage trembled in the slight rise that preceded +its descent, and in that instant a boy, a young slender boy, pushed +his way through the encircling crowd, leaped in among the men of the +rescuing party, and with them went speeding down into the blackness. + +It was Ralph. After the first moment of surprise his employer +recognized him. + +"Ralph!" he exclaimed, "Ralph, why have you done this?" + +"I couldn't help it, sir," replied the boy; "I had to come. Please +don't send me back." + +"But it's a desperate trip. These men are taking their lives in their +hands." + +"I know it, sir; but they ain't one o' them whose life is worth so +little as mine. They've all got folks to live an' work for, an' I +ain't. I'll go where they don't dare. Please let me help!" + +The men who were clustered on the carriage looked down on the boy in +mute astonishment. His slight figure was drawn up to its full height; +his little hands were tightly clenched; out from his brown eyes +shone the fire of resolution. Some latent spirit of true knighthood +had risen in his breast, had quenched all the coward in his nature, +and impelled him, in that one moment that called for sacrifice and +courage, to a deed as daring and heroic as any that the knights of old +were ever prompted to perform. To those who looked upon him thus, the +dust and rags that covered him were blotted out, the marks of pain and +poverty and all his childish weaknesses had disappeared, and it seemed +to them almost as though a messenger from God were standing in their +midst. + +But Robert Burnham saw something besides this in the child's face; he +saw a likeness to himself that startled him. Men see things in moments +of sublimity to which at all other times their eyes are blinded. He +thought of Craft's story; he thought of the boy's story; he compared +them; a sudden hope seized him, a conviction broke upon his mind like +a flash of light. + +This boy was his son. For the moment, all other thoughts, motives, +desires were blotted from his mind. His desperate errand was lost to +sight. The imperilled miners were forgotten. + +"Ralph!" he cried, seizing the boy's hand in both of his; "Ralph, I +have found you!" + +But the child looked up in wonder, and the men who stood by did not +know what it meant. + +The carriage struck the floor of the mine and they all stepped off. +The shock at stopping brought Burnham to himself. This was no time, +no place to recognize the lad and take him to his heart. He would do +that--afterward. Duty, with a stern voice, was calling to him now. + +"Men," he said, "are you ready? Here, soak the aprons; Ralph, take +this; now then, come on!" + +Up the heading, in single file, they walked swiftly, swinging their +safety-lamps in their hands, or holding them against their breasts. +They knew that up in the chambers their comrades were lying prostrate +and in pain. They knew that the spaces through which they must pass to +reach them were filled with poisonous gases, and that in those regions +death lurked in every "entrance" and behind every "pillar." But they +hurried on, saying little, fearing little, hoping much, as they +plunged ahead into the blackness, on their humane but desperate +errand. + +A half-hour later the bell in the engine-room tinkled softly once, and +then rang savagely again and again to "hoist away." The great wheel +turned fast and faster; the piston-rods flew in and out; the iron +ropes hummed as they cut the air; and the people at the shaft's mouth +waited, breathless with suspense, to see what the blackness would +yield up to them. The carriage rose swiftly to the surface. On it four +men, tottering and exhausted, were supporting an insensible body in +their midst. The body was taken into strong arms, and borne hurriedly +to the office of the breaker, a little distance away. Then a boy +staggered off the carriage and fell fainting into the outstretched +arms of Bachelor Billy. + +"Ralph!" cried the man, "Ralph, lad! here! brandy for the child! +brandy, quick!" + +After a little the boy opened his eyes, and gazed wonderingly at the +people who were looking down on him. Then he remembered what had +happened. + +"Mr. Burnham," he whispered, "is--is he alive?" + +"Yes, lad; they've took 'im to the office; the doctor's in wi' 'im. +Did ye fin' the air bad?" + +The child lay back with a sigh of relief. + +"Yes," he said, "very bad. We got to 'em though; we found 'em an' +brought 'em out. I carried the things; they couldn't 'a' got along +'ithout me." + +The carriage had gone down again and brought up a load of those who +had suffered from the fire. They were blackened, burned, disfigured, +but living. One of them, in the midst of his agony, cried out:-- + +"Whaur is he? whaur's Robert Burnham? I'll gi' ma life for his, +an' ye'll save his to 'im. Ye mus' na let 'im dee. Mon! he done +the brawest thing ye ever kenned. He plungit through the belt o' +after-damp ahead o' all o' them, an' draggit us back across it, mon by +mon, an' did na fa' till he pullit the last one ayont it. Did ye ever +hear the like? He's worth a thousan' o' us. I say ye mus' na let 'im +dee!" + +Over at the breaker office there was silence. The doctor and his +helpers were there with Robert Burnham, and the door was closed. Every +one knew that, inside, a desperate struggle was going on between life +and death. The story of Burnham's bravery had gone out through the +assembled crowds, and, with one instinct and one hope, all eyes were +turned toward the little room wherein he lay. Men spoke in whispers; +women were weeping softly; every face was set in pale expectancy. +There were hundreds there who would have given all they had on earth +to prolong this noble life for just one day. Still, there was silence +at the office. It grew ominous. A great hush had fallen on the +multitude. The sun dropped down behind the hills, obscured in mist, +and the pallor that precedes the twilight overspread the earth. + +Then the office door was opened, and the white-haired doctor came +outside and stood upon the steps. His head was bared and his eyes +were filled with tears. He turned to those who stood near by, and +whispered, sadly:-- + +"He is dead." + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +A BRILLIANT SCHEME. + + +Lackawanna Avenue is the principal thoroughfare in the city of +Scranton. Anthracite Avenue leads from it eastwardly at right angles. + +Midway in the second block, on the right side of this last named +street, there stood, twenty years ago, a small wooden building, but +one story in height. It was set well back from the street, and a stone +walk led up to the front door. On the door-post, at the left, was a +sign, in rusty gilt letters, reading:-- + + JOHN R. SHARPMAN, + ATTORNEY AT LAW. + +On the morning following his interview with Robert Burnham, Simon +Craft turned in from Anthracite Avenue, shuffled along the walk to the +office door, and stood for a minute examining the sign, and comparing +the name on it with the name on a bit of paper that he held in his +hand. + +"That's the man," he muttered; "he's the one;" and he entered at the +half-opened door. + +Inside, a clerk sat, busily writing. + +"Mr. Sharpman has not come down yet," he said, in answer to Craft's +question. "Take a chair; he'll be here in twenty minutes." + +The old man seated himself, and the clerk resumed his writing. + +In less than half an hour Sharpman came in. He was a tall, well-built +man, forty years of age, smooth-faced, with a clerical cast of +countenance, easy and graceful in manner, and of pleasant address. + +After a few words relating to a certain matter of business, the clerk +said to his employer,-- + +"This man has been waiting some time to see you, Mr. Sharpman." + +The lawyer advanced to Craft, and shook hands with him in a very +friendly way. "Good-morning, sir," he said. "Will you step into my +office, sir?" + +He ushered the old man into an inner room, and gave him an easy, +cushioned chair to sit in. Sharpman was nothing, if not gracious. Rich +and poor, alike, were met by him with the utmost cordiality. He had +a pleasant word for every one. His success at the bar was due, in no +small degree, to his apparent frankness and friendliness toward all +men. The fact that these qualities were indeed apparent rather than +real, did not seem to matter; the general effect was the same. His +personal character, so far as any one knew, was beyond reproach. But +his reputation for shrewdness, for sharp practice, for concocting +brilliant financial schemes, was general. It was this latter +reputation that had brought Simon Graft to him. + +This morning Sharpman was especially courteous. He regretted that his +visitor had been obliged to wait so long. He spoke of the beautiful +weather. He noticed that the old man was in ill health, and expressed +much sorrow thereat. Finally he said: "Well, my friend, I am at your +service for any favor I can do you." + +Craft was not displeased with the lawyer's manner. On the contrary, +he rather liked it. But he was too shrewd and far-sighted to allow +himself to be carried away by it. He proceeded at once to business. He +took from an inner pocket of his coat the paper that Robert Burnham +had given to him the day before, unfolded it slowly, and handed it to +Sharpman. + +"I want your opinion of this paper," he said. "Is it drawn up in legal +shape? Is it binding on the man that signed it?" + +Sharpman took the paper, and read it carefully through; then he looked +up at Craft in unfeigned surprise. + +"My dear sir!" he said, "did you know that Robert Burnham died last +night?" + +The old man started from his chair in sudden amazement. + +"Died!" he exclaimed. "Robert Burnham--died!" + +"Yes; suffocated by foul air in his own mine. It was a dreadful +thing." + +Craft dropped into his chair again, his pale face growing each moment +more pale and gaunt, and stared at the lawyer in silence. Finally he +said: "There must be some mistake. I saw him only yesterday. He signed +that paper in my presence as late as four o'clock." + +"Very likely," responded Sharpman: "he did not die until after six. +Oh, no! there is no mistake. It was this Robert Burnham. I know his +signature." + +The old man sat for another minute in silence, keen disappointment +written plainly on his face. Then a thought came to him. + +"Don't that agreement bind his heirs?" he gasped, "or his estate? +Don't somebody have to pay me that money, when I bring the boy?" + +The lawyer took the paper up, and re-read it. "No;" he said. "The +agreement was binding only on Burnham himself. It calls for the +production of the boy to him personally; you can't produce anything to +a dead man." + +Old Simon settled back in his chair, a perfect picture of gaunt +despair. + +Sharpman continued: "This is a strange case, though. I thought that +child of Burnham's was dead. Do you mean to say that the boy is still +living?" + +"Yes; that's it. He wasn't even hurt. Of course he's alive. I know +it." + +"Can you prove it?" + +"Certainly!" + +The lawyer gazed at his visitor, apparently in doubt as to the man's +veracity or sanity, and again there was silence. + +Finally Craft spoke. Another thought had come to him. + +"The boy's mother; she's living, ain't she?" + +"Burnham's widow? Yes; she's living." + +"Then I'll go to her! I'll make a new contract with her. The money'll +be hers, now. I'll raise on my price! She'll pay it. I'll warrant +she'll pay it! May be it's lucky for me, after all, that I've got her +to deal with instead of her husband!" + +Even Sharpman was amazed and disgusted at this exhibition of cruel +greed in the face of death. + +"That's it!" continued the old man in an exulting tone; "that's the +plan. I'll go to her. I'll get my money--I'll get it in spite of +death!" + +He rose from his chair, and grasped his cane to go, but the excitement +had brought on a severe fit of coughing, and he was obliged to resume +his seat until it was over. + +This delay gave Sharpman time to think. + +"Wait!" he said, when the old man had finally recovered; "wait a +little. I think I have a plan in mind that is better than yours--one +that will bring you in more cash." + +"More cash?" Craft was quiet and attentive in a moment. The word +"cash" had a magical influence over him. + +Sharpman arose, closed the door between the two rooms tightly, and +locked it. "Some one might chance to intrude," he explained. + +Then he came back, sat down in front of his visitor, and assumed an +attitude of confidence. + +"Yes," he said, "more cash; ten times as much." + +"Well, what's your plan?" asked the old man, somewhat incredulously. + +"Let me tell you first what I know," replied the lawyer. "I know that +Mrs. Burnham believes this boy to be dead; believes it with her whole +mind and heart. You would find it exceedingly difficult to convince +her to the contrary. She would explain away your proofs: she would +fail to recognize the child himself. Such an errand as you propose +would be little better than useless." + +Sharpman paused. + +"Well, what's your plan?" repeated Craft, impatiently. + +The lawyer assumed a still more confidential attitude. + +"Listen! Burnham died rich. His wealth will mount well up into the +hundreds of thousands. He leaves a widow and one daughter, a little +girl. This boy, if he is really Burnham's son, is entitled to one +third of the personal property absolutely, to one third of the real +estate at once, and to one fourth of the remainder at his mother's +death. Do you understand?" Old Simon nodded. This was worth listening +to. He began to think that this shrewd lawyer was going to put him +in the way of making a fortune after all. Sharpman continued: "Now, +the boy is a minor. He must have a guardian. The mother would be the +guardian preferred by law; but if, for any reason, she should fail +to recognize the boy as her son, some one else must be appointed. It +will be the duty of the guardian to establish his ward's identity in +case it should be disputed, to sue for his portion of the estate, if +necessary, and to receive and care for it till the boy reaches his +majority. The usual guardian's commission is five per cent, retainable +out of the funds of the estate. Do you see how the management of such +an estate would be a fortune to a guardian, acting within the strict +letter of the law?" + +Craft nodded again, but this time with eagerness and excitement. He +saw that a scheme was being opened up to him that outrivalled in +splendid opportunities any he had ever thought of. + +After a pause Sharpman asked, glancing furtively at his client:-- + +"Do you think, Mr. Craft, that you could take upon your shoulders the +duties and responsibilities attendant upon such a trust? In short, +could you act as this boy's guardian?" + +"Yes, no doubt of it"; responded the old man, eagerly. "Why, I would +be the very person. I am his nearest friend." + +"Very well; that's my opinion, too. Now, then, as to the boy's +identity. There must be no mistake in proving that. What proof have +you? Tell me what you know about it." + +Thus requested, Craft gave to the lawyer a detailed account of the +disaster at the bridge, of the finding and keeping of Ralph, of his +mysterious disappearance, and of the prolonged search for him. + +"Day before yesterday," continued the old man, "I was watching the +crowds at the circus,--I knew the boy was fond of circuses,--an who +should go by me into the tent but this same Ralph. I made sure he was +the identical person, and yesterday I went to Robert Burnham, and got +that paper." + +"Indeed! Where does the boy live? what does he do?" + +"Why, it seems that he works at picking slate, in Burnham's own +breaker, and lives with one Bachelor Billy, a simple-minded old +fellow, without a family, who took the boy in when he was abandoned by +the circus." + +"Good!" exclaimed the lawyer; "good! we shall have a capital case. But +wait; does Mrs. Burnham know of your interview with her husband, or +about this paper?" + +"I don't know. I left the man at his office, alone." + +"At what hour?" + +"Well, about half-past four, as nearly as I can judge." + +"Then it's not at all probable that she knows. He went from his office +directly to the breaker, and died before she could see him." + +"Well, how shall we begin?" said Craft, impatiently. "What's the first +thing to be done?" Visions of golden thousands were already floating +before his greedy eyes. + +"We shall not begin at all, just yet," said Sharpman. "We'll wait till +the horror and excitement, consequent upon this disaster, have passed +away. It wouldn't do to proceed now; besides, all action should be +postponed, at any rate, until an inventory of the estate shall have +been filed." + +A look of disappointment came into old Simon's face. The lawyer +noticed it. "You mustn't be in too much of a hurry," he said. "All +good things come slowly. Now, I'll tell you what I propose to do. +After this excitement has passed over, and the lady's mind has become +somewhat settled, I will go to her myself, and say to her frankly that +you believe her son to be still alive. Of course, she'll not believe +me. Indeed, I shall be very careful to put the matter in such a shape +that she will not believe me. I will say to her, however, that you +have employed me to prosecute your claim for services to the child, +and that it will be necessary to have a guardian appointed against +whom such action may be taken. I will suggest to her that if she will +acknowledge the boy to be her son, she will be the proper person to +act as his guardian. Of course, she will refuse to do either. The rest +is easy. We will go into court with a petition setting forth the facts +in the case, stating that the boy's mother has refused to act as his +guardian, and asking for your appointment as such. Do you see?" + +"Oh, yes! that's good; that's very good, indeed." + +"But, let me see, though; you'll have to give bonds. There's the +trouble. Got any money, or any rich friends?" + +"Neither; I'm very poor, very poor indeed, Mr. Sharpman." + +"Ah! that's awkward. We can do nothing without bondsmen. The court +wouldn't let us touch a penny of that fund without first giving good +bonds.". + +The look of disappointment and trouble had returned into the old man's +face. "Ain't there some way you could get bonds for me?" he asked, +appealingly. + +"Well, yes, I suppose I might procure bondsmen for you; I suppose I +might go on your bond myself. But you see no one cares to risk his +fortune in the hands of a total stranger that way. We don't know you; +we don't know what you might do." + +"Oh! I should be honest, Mr. Sharpman, perfectly honest and discreet; +and you should not suffer to the value of a cent, not a single cent." + +"No doubt your intentions are good enough, my dear sir, but it +requires great skill to handle so large an estate properly, and a +single error in judgment on your part might cost thousands of dollars. +Good intentions and promises are well enough in their way, but they +are no security against misfortune, you see. I guess we'll have to +drop the scheme, after all." + +Sharpman arose and walked the floor in apparent perplexity, while +Craft, resting his hands on his cane, and staring silently at the +lawyer, tried to conceive some plan to prevent this golden opportunity +from eluding his grasp. Finally Sharpman stopped. + +"Craft," he said, "I'll tell you what I'll do. If you will give me a +power of attorney to hold and manage all the funds of the trust until +the boy shall have attained his majority, I'll get the necessary bonds +for you." + +Craft thought a moment. The proposition did not strike him favorably. +"That would be putting the whole thing out of my hands into yours," he +said. + +"Ah! but you would still be the boy's guardian, with right to use all +the money that in your judgment should be necessary, to maintain and +educate him according to his proper station in life. For this purpose +I would agree to pay you three thousand dollars on receipt of the +funds, and three thousand dollars each year thereafter, besides your +guardian's commission, which would amount to eight or ten thousand +dollars at least. I would also agree to pay you a liberal sum for +past services, say two or three thousand dollars. You would have no +responsibility whatever in the matter. I would be liable for any +mistakes you might make. You could use the money as you saw fit. What +do you say?" + +The scheme appeared to Simon Craft to be a very brilliant one. He saw +a great fortune in it for himself, if he could only depend on the +lawyer's promises. + +"Will you give me a writing to this effect?" he asked. + +"Certainly; we shall have a mutual agreement." + +"Then I'll do it. You'll get the lion's share I can see that easy +enough; but if you'll do what you say you will, I shan't complain. +Then will I have a right to take the boy again?" + +"Yes, after your appointment; but I don't think I would, if I were +you. If he is contented and well off, you had better let him stay +where he is. He might give you the slip again. How old is he now?" + +"I don't know exactly; somewhere between ten and twelve, I think." + +"Well, his consent to the choice of a guardian is not necessary; but I +think it would be better, under the circumstances, if he would go into +court with us, and agree to your appointment. Do you think he will?" + +Old Simon frowned savagely. + +"Yes, he will," he exclaimed. "I'll make him do it. I've made him do +harder things than that; it's a pity if I can't make him do what's for +his own benefit now!" He struck the floor viciously with his cane. + +"Easy," said the lawyer, soothingly, "easy; I fear the boy has been +his own master too long to be bullied. We shall have to work him in a +different way now. I think I can manage it, though. I'll have him come +down here some day, after we get Mrs. Burnham's refusal to acknowledge +him, and I'll explain matters to him, and show him why it's necessary +that you should take hold of the case. I'll use logic with him, and +I'll wager that he'll come around all right. You must treat boys as +though they were men, Craft. They will listen to reason, and yield to +persuasion, but they won't be bullied, not even into a fortune. By the +way, I don't quite understand how it was, if Burnham was searching +energetically for the boy, and you were searching with as much energy +for the boy's father all those years, that you didn't meet each other +sooner." + +Craft looked up slyly from under his shaggy eyebrows. + +"May I speak confidentially?" he asked. + +"Certainly." + +"Well, then, I didn't wear myself out hunting for the boy's friends, +for the first year or two. Time increases the value of some things, +you know--lost children, particularly. I knew there was money back +of the boy by the looks of his clothes. I kept matters pretty well +covered up for a while; allowed that he was my grandson; made him +call me 'Grandpa'; carried the scheme a little too far, and came near +losing everything. Now, do you see?" + +Sharpman nodded, and smiled knowingly. "You're a shrewd man, Craft," +he said. + +But the old man's thought had returned to the wealth he believed to +be in store for him. "What's to be done now?" he asked. "Ain't there +something we can start on?" + +"No; we can do nothing until after I have seen the widow, and that +will be a couple of months yet at least. In the meantime, you must not +say a word to any one about this matter. The boy, especially, must not +know that you have been here. Come again about the first of September. +In the meantime, get together the evidence necessary to establish the +boy's identity. We mustn't fail in that when it comes to an issue." + +"I'll have proof enough, no fear of that. The only thing I don't like +about the business is this waiting. I'm pretty bad here," placing his +bony hand on his chest; "no knowing how long I'll last." + +"Oh! you're good for twenty years yet," said Sharpman, heartily, +taking him by the hand, and walking with him to the door. "A--are you +pretty well off for money? Would trifling loan be of any benefit to +you?" + +"Why, if you can spare it," said the old man, trying to suppress his +evident pleasure at the offer; "if you can spare it, it would come in +very handy indeed." + +Sharpman drew a well-filled wallet from his pocket, took two bills +from it, folded them together, and placed them into Craft's trembling +fingers. "There," he said, "that's all right; we won't say anything +about that till we come into our fortune." + +Old Simon pocketed the money, mumbling his thanks as he did so. The +two men shook hands again at the outer door, and Craft trudged down +the avenue, toward the railroad station, his mind filled with visions +of enormous wealth, but his patience sorely tried by the long delay +that he must suffer before his fingers should close upon the promised +money. + +Sharpman returned to his office to congratulate himself upon the happy +chance that had placed so rich an opportunity within his grasp. If the +old man's story were true--he proposed to take steps immediately to +satisfy himself upon that point--then he saw no reason why he should +not have the management of a large estate. Of course there would be +opposition, but if he could succeed so far as to get the funds and the +property into his hands, he felt sure that, in one way or another, he +could make a fortune out of the estate before he should be compelled +to relinquish his hold. As for Simon Craft, he should use him so +far as such use was necessary for the accomplishment of his object. +After that he would or would not keep faith with him, as he chose. +And as for Ralph, if he were really Robert Burnham's son, he would +be rich enough at any rate, and if he were not that son he would +not be entitled to wealth. There was no use, therefore, in being +over-conscientious on his account. + +It was a brilliant scheme, worth risking a great deal on, both of +money and reputation, Sharpman resolved to make the most of it. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +A SET OF RESOLUTIONS. + + +It was the morning of the third day after the disaster at Burnham +Shaft. The breaker boys were to go that morning, in a body, to the +mansion of their dead employer to look for the last time on his face. +They had asked that they might be permitted to do this, and the +privilege had been granted. + +Grief holds short reign in young hearts, it is true; but the sorrow +in the hearts of these children of toil was none the less sincere. +Had there been any tendency to forget their loss, the solemn faces +and tearful eyes of those who were older than they would have been +a constant reminder. + +As Robert Burnham had been universally beloved, so his death was +universally mourned. The miners at Burnham Shaft felt that they had +especial cause for grief. He had a way of coming to the mines and +looking after them and their labor, personally, that they liked. He +knew the names of all the men who worked there, and he had a word of +kindly greeting for each one whom he met. When he came among them out +of the darkness of heading or chamber, there seemed, somehow, to be +more light in the mines, more light and better air, and a sense of +cheeriness and comfort. And, after he had gone, you could hear these +men whistling and singing at their tasks for hours; the mere fact of +his presence had so lightened their labors. The bosses caught this +spirit of friendliness, and there was always harmony at Burnham +Breaker and in the Burnham mines, among all who labored there in any +way whatever. But the screen-room boys had, somehow, come to look upon +this man as their especial friend. He sympathized with them. He seemed +to understand how hard it was for boys like they were to bend all day +above those moving streams of coal. He always had kind words for them, +and devised means to lessen, at times, the rigid monotony of their +tasks. They regarded him with something of that affection which a +child has for a firm, kind parent. Moreover, they looked upon him as a +type of that perfect manhood toward which each, to the extent of his +poor ability, should strive to climb. Even in his death he had set for +them a shining mark of manly bravery. He had died to rescue others. If +he had been a father to them before, he was a hero to them now. But he +was dead. They had heard his gentle voice and seen his kindly smile +and felt the searching tenderness of his brown eyes for the last time. +They would see his face once more; it would not be like him as he was, +but--they would see it. + +They had gathered on the grass-plot, on the hill east of the breaker, +under the shadow of a great oak-tree. There were forty of them. They +were dressed in their best clothes; not very rich apparel to be sure, +patched and worn and faded most of it was, but it was their very best. +There was no loud talking among them. There were no tricks being +played; there was no shouting, no laughter. They were all sober-faced, +earnest, and sorrowful. + +One of the boys spoke up and said: "Tell you what I think, fellows; I +think we ought to pass res'lutions like what the miners they done." + +"Res'lutions," said another, "w'at's them?" + +"W'y," said a third, "it's a little piece o' black cloth, like a veil, +w'at you wear on your arm w'en you go to a fun'al." + +Then some one proposed that the meeting should first be duly +organized. Many of the boys had attended the miners' meetings and knew +something about parliamentary organization. + +"I move't Ralph Buckley, he be chairman," said one. + +"I second the move," said another. The motion was put, and Ralph was +unanimously elected as chairman. + +"They ain't no time to make any speech," he said, backing up against +the tree in order to face the assemblage. "We got jest time to 'lect a +sec'etary and draw out some res'lutions." + +"I move't Jimmie Donnelly be sec'etary." + +"I second Jimmie Donnelly." + +"All you who want Jimmie Donnelly for sec'etary, hol' up your right +han's an' say yi." + +There was a chorus of yi's. + +"I move't Ed. Williams be treasher." + +Then the objector rose. "Aw!" he said, "we don't want no treasher. +W'at we want a treasher for? we ain't goin' to spen' no money." + +"You got to have a treasher," broke in a youthful Gushing, "you got to +have one, or less your meetin' won't be legal, nor your res'lutions, +neither!" + +The discussion was ended abruptly by some one seconding the nomination +of Ed. Williams, and the motion was immediately put and carried. + +"Now," said another young parliamentarian, "I move't the chairman pint +out a committee of three fellows to write the res'lutions." + +This motion was also seconded, put, and carried, and Ralph designated +three boys in the company, one of whom, Joe Foster, had more than an +ordinary reputation for learning, as a committee on resolutions; and, +while they went down to the breaker office for pen, ink, and paper, +the meeting took a recess. + +It was, indeed, a task for those three unlearned boys to express in +writing, their grief consequent upon the death of their employer, +and their sympathy for his living loved ones, but they performed it. +There was some discussion concerning a proper form for beginning. One +thought they should begin by saying, "Know all men by these presents." + +"But we ain't got no presents to give 'em," said another, "an' if we +had it ain't no time to give any presents." + +Joe Foster had attended the meeting at which the resolutions by the +miners were adopted, and after recalling, as nearly as possible, the +language in which they were drawn, it was decided to begin:--"We, the +breaker boys, of Burnham Breaker, in mass meeting met"-- + +After that, with the exception of an occasional dispute concerning the +spelling of a word, they got on very well, and came, finally, to the +end. + +"You two write your names on to it," said Jack Murphy; "I won't put +mine down; two's enough." + +"Oh! we've all got to sign it," said Joe Foster; "a majoriky ain't +enough to make a paper like this stan' law." + +"Well, I don't b'lieve I'll sign it," responded Jack; "I don't like +the res'lutions very well, anyway." + +"Why not? they're jest as you wanted 'em--oh, I know! you can't write +your name. + +"Well, I guess I could, maybe, if I wanted to, but I don't want to; +I'm 'fraid I'd spile the looks o' the paper. You's fellows go ahead +an' sign it." + +"I'll tell you what to do," said Joe; "I'll write your name jest as +good as I can, an' then you can put your solemn cross on top of it, +an' that'll make it jest as legal as it can be got." + +So they arranged it in that way. Joe signed Jack Murphy's name in his +very best style, and then Jack took the pen and under Joe's explicit +directions, drew one line horizontally through the name and another +line perpendicularly between the two words of it, and Joe wrote +above it: "his solem mark." This completed the resolutions, and +the committee hurried back with them to the impatient assembly. +The meeting was called to order again, and Joe Foster read the +resolutions. + +"That's jest the way I feel about it," said Ralph, "jest the way that +paper reads. He couldn't 'a' been no better to us, no way. Boys," he +continued, earnestly, forgetting for the time being his position, "do +you 'member 'bout his comin' into the screen-room last Tuesday an' +givin' us each a quarter to go t' the circus with? Well, I'd cut my +han' that day on a piece o' coal, an' it was a-bleedin' bad, an' he +see it, an' he asked me what was the matter with it, an' I told 'im, +an' he took it an' washed it off, he did, jest as nice an' careful; +an' then what d'ye think he done? W'y he took 'is own han'kerchy, his +own han'kerchy, mind ye, an' tore it into strips an' wrapped it roun' +my han' jest as nice--jest as nice--" + +And here the memory of this kindness became so vivid in Ralph's mind +that he broke down and cried outright. + +"It was jes' like 'im," said one in the crowd; "he was always a-doin' +sumpthin' jes' like that. D'ye 'member that time w'en I froze my ear, +an' he give me money to buy a new cap with ear-laps on to it?" + +The recital of this incident called from another the statement of some +generous deed, and, in the fund of kindly reminiscence thus aroused, +the resolutions came near to being wholly forgotten. But they were +remembered, finally, and were called up and adopted, and it was agreed +that the chairman should carry them and present them to whoever +should be found in charge at the house. Then, with Ralph and Joe +Foster leading the procession, they started toward the city. Reaching +Laburnum Avenue, they marched down that street in twos until they came +to the Burnham residence. There was a short consultation there, and +then they all passed in through the gate to the lawn, and Ralph and +Joe went up the broad stone steps to the door. A kind-faced woman +met them there, and Ralph said: "We've come, if you please, the +breaker boys have come to--to--" The woman smiled sweetly, and said: +"Yes, we've been expecting you; wait a moment and I will see what +arrangements have been made for you." + +Joe Foster nudged Ralph with his elbow, and whispered:-- + +"The res'lutions, Ralph, the res'lutions; now's the time; give 'em to +her." + +But Ralph did not hear him. His mind was elsewhere. As his eyes +grew accustomed to the dim light in the hall, and he saw the +winding staircase with its richly carved posts, the beauty of the +stained-glass windows, the graceful hangings, the broad doors, the +pictures, and the flowers, there came upon him a sense of strange +familiarity with the scene. It seemed to him as though sometime, +somewhere, he had seen it, known it all before. The feeling was so +sudden and so strong that it made him faint and dizzy. + +The kind-featured woman saw the pallor on his face and the tremor on +his lips, and led him to a chair. She ascribed his weakness to sorrow +and excitement, and the dread of looking on a dead face. + +"Poor boy!" she said. "I don't wonder at it; he was more than generous +to us all." + +But Joe, afraid that the resolutions he had labored on with so much +diligence would be forgotten, spoke of them again to Ralph. + +"Oh, yes," said Ralph, with a wan smile, "oh, yes! here's the +res'lutions. That's the way the breaker boys feel--the way it says in +this paper; an' we want Mrs. Burnham to know." + +"I'll take it to her," said the woman, receiving from Ralph's hands +the awkwardly folded and now sadly soiled paper. "You will wait here a +moment, please." + +She passed up the broad staircase, by the richly colored window at the +landing, and was lost to sight; while the two boys, sitting in the +spacious hall, gazed, with wondering eyes, upon the beauty which +surrounded them. + +The widow of Robert Burnham sat in the morning-room of her desolated +home, talking calmly with her friends. + +After the first shock incident upon her husband's death had passed +away, she had made no outcry, she grew quiet and self-possessed, she +was ready for any consultation, gave all necessary orders, spoke +of her dead husband's goodness to her with a smile on her face, and +looked calmly forth into the future. The shock of that terrible +message from the mines, two days ago, had paralyzed her emotional +nature, and left her white-faced and tearless. + +She had a smile and a kind word for every one as before; she had eaten +mechanically; but she had lain with wide-open eyes all night, and +still no one had seen a single tear upon her cheeks. This was why they +feared for her; they said, + + "She must weep, or she will die." + +Some one came into the room and spoke to her. + +"The breaker boys, who asked to come this morning, are here." + +"Let them come in," she said, "and pass through the parlors and look +upon him; and let them be treated with all kindness and courtesy." + +"They have brought this paper, containing resolutions passed by them, +which they would like to have you read." + +Mrs. Burnham took the paper, and asked the woman to wait while she +read it. There was something in the fact that these boys had passed +resolutions of sympathy that touched her heart. She unfolded the +soiled paper and read:-- + + Wee, the braker Boys of burnham braker in mass meeting met Did + pass thease res'lutions. first the braker Boys is all vary sory + indede Cause mister Burnham dide. + + second Wee have A grate dele of sympathy for his wife and his + little girl, what has got to get along now without him. third wee + are vary Proud of him cause he dide a trying to save John Welshes + life and pat Morys life and the other mens lifes. fourth he was + vary Good indede to us Boys, and they ain't one of us but what + liked him vary mutch and feel vary bad. fift Wee dont none of us + ixpect to have no moar sutch good Times at the braker as wee did + Befoar. sixt Wee aint scollers enougth to rite it down just what + wee feel, but wee feel a hunderd times more an what weave got rote + down. + + JOE FOSTER, comity, + + PAT DONNELLY, comity, + + his solem mark + + JACK + MURFY comity. + +The widow laid aside the paper, put her face in her hands, and began +to weep. There was something in the honest, unskilled way in which +these boys had laid their hearts open before her in this time of +general sorrow, that brought the tears into her eyes at last, and for +many minutes they flowed without restraint. Those who were with her +knew that the danger that had menaced her was passed. + +After a little she lifted her head. + +"I will see the boys," she said. "I will thank them in person. Tell +them to assemble in the hall." + +The message was given, and the boys filed into the broad hall, and +stood waiting, hats in hand, in silence and in awe. + +Down the wide staircase the lady came, holding her little girl by the +hand, and at the last step they halted. As Ralph looked up and saw her +face, pallid but beautiful, and felt the influence of her gracious yet +commanding presence, there came over him again that strange sensation +as of beholding some familiar sight. It seemed to him that sometime, +somewhere, he had not only seen her and known her, but that she had +been very close to him. He felt an almost uncontrollable impulse to +cry out to her for some word, some look of recognition. Then she began +to speak. He held himself firmly by the back of a chair, and listened +as to a voice that had been familiar to him in some state of being +prior to his life on earth. + +"Boys," said the lady, "I come to thank you in person for your +assurances of sympathy for me and for my little daughter, and for your +veneration for the dead. I know that his feeling toward you was very +kind, that he tried to lighten your labors as he could, that he hoped +for you that you would all grow into strong, good men. I do not wonder +that you sorrow at his loss. This honest, simple tribute to his memory +that you have given to me has touched me deeply. + +"I cannot hope to be as close to you as he was, but from this time +forth I shall be twice your friend. I want to take each one of you by +the hand as you pass by, in token of our friendship, and of my faith +in you, and my gratitude toward you." + +So, one by one, as they passed into the room beyond, she held each +boy's hand for a moment and spoke to him some kind word, and every +heart in her presence went out to her in sympathy and love. + +Last of all came Ralph. As leader of the party he had thought it +proper to give precedence to the rest. The lady took his hand as he +came by, the same hand that had received her husband's tender care; +but there was something in his pallid, grief-marked face, in the brown +eyes filled with tears, in the sensitive trembling of the delicate +lips, as she looked down on him, that brought swift tenderness for him +to her heart. She bent over and lifted up his face to hers, and kissed +his lips, and then, unable longer to restrain her emotion, she turned +and hastened up the stairway, and was lost to sight. + +For many minutes Ralph stood still, in gratified amazement. It was +the first time in all his life, so far as memory served him, that any +one had kissed him. And that this grief-stricken lady should be the +first--it was very strange, but very beautiful, indeed. He felt that +by that kiss he had been lifted to a higher level, to a clearer, purer +atmosphere, to a station where better things than he had ever done +before would be expected of him now; he felt, indeed, as though it +were the first long reach ahead to attain to such a manhood as was +Robert Burnham's. The repetition of this name in his mind brought him +to himself, and he turned into the parlor just as the last one of the +other boys was passing out. He hurried across the room to look upon +the face of his friend and employer. It was not the unpleasant sight +that he had feared it might be. The dead man's features were relaxed +and calm. A smile seemed to be playing about the lips. The face had +all its wonted color and fulness, and one might well have thought, +looking on the closed eye-lids, that he lay asleep. + +Standing thus in the presence of death, the boy had no fear. His only +feeling was one of tenderness and of deep sorrow. The man had been so +kind to him in life, so very kind. It seemed almost as though the lips +might part and speak to him. But he was dead; this was his face, this +his body; but he, himself, was not here. Dead! The word struck harshly +on his mind and roused him from his reverie. He looked up; the boys +had all gone, only the kind-faced woman stood there with a puzzled +expression in her eyes. She had chanced to mark the strong resemblance +between the face of the dead man and that of the boy who looked upon +it; a resemblance so striking that it startled her. In the countenance +of Robert Burnham as he had looked in life, one might not have noticed +it, but-- + + "Sometimes, in a dead man's face, + To those that watch it more and more, + A likeness, hardly seen before, + Comes out, to some one of his race." + +It was so here. The faces of the dead man and of the living boy were +the faces of father and son. + +Ralph turned away, at last, from the lifeless presence before him, +from the searching eyes of the woman, from the hall with its dim +suggestions of something in the long ago, and went out into the +street, into the sunlight, into the busy world around him; but from +that time forth a shadow rested on his young life that had never +darkened it before,--a shadow whose cause he could not fathom and +whose gloom he could not dispel. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +IN SEARCH OF A MOTHER. + + +Three months had gone by since the accident at Burnham Shaft. They +were summer months, full of sunshine and green landscapes and singing +birds and blossoming flowers and all things beautiful. But in the +house from which the body of Robert Burnham had been carried to the +grave there were still tears and desolation. Not, indeed, as an +outward show; Margaret Burnham was very brave, and hid her grief +under a calm exterior, but there were times, in the quiet of her own +chamber, when loneliness and sorrow came down upon her as a burden +too great for her woman's heart to bear. Still, she had her daughter +Mildred, and the child's sweet ways and ceaseless chatter and fond +devotion charmed her, now and then, into something almost like +forgetfulness. She often sighed, and said: "If only Ralph had lived, +that I might have both my children with me now!" + +One morning, toward the middle of September, Lawyer John H. Sharpman +rang the bell at the door of the Burnham mansion, sent his card up to +Mrs. Burnham, and seated himself gracefully in an easy-chair by the +parlor window to wait for her appearance. + +She came soon and greeted him with gracious dignity. He was very +courteous to her; he apologized for coming, in this way, without +previous announcement, but said that the nature of his errand seemed +to render it necessary. + +"I am sure no apology is required," she replied; "I shall be pleased +to listen to you." + +"Then I will proceed directly to the matter in hand. You remember, of +course, the Cherry Brook disaster and what occurred there?" + +"I shall never forget it," she said. + +"I have a strange thing to tell you about that, an almost incredible +thing. An old man has visited me at my office, within the last few +days, who claims to have saved your child from that wreck, to have +taken him to his own home and cared for him, and to know that he is +living to-day." + +The woman rose from her chair, with a sudden pallor on her face, too +greatly startled, for the moment, to reply. + +"I beg you to be calm, madam," the lawyer said; "I will try to speak +of the matter as gently as possible." + +"Ralph!" she exclaimed, "my Ralph! did you say that he is living?" + +"So this old man says. I am simply telling you his story. He seems to +be very much in earnest, though I am bound to say that his appearance +is somewhat against him." + +"Who is he? Bring him here! I will question him myself. Bring the +child to me also; why did you not bring the child?" + +"My dear lady, I beg that you will be calm; if you will allow me I +will explain it all, so far as lies in my power." + +"But if my boy is living I must see him; I cannot wait! It is cruel to +keep him from me!" + +Sharpman began to fear that he had injured his cause by presenting the +case too strongly. At this rate the lady would soon believe, fully, +that her son had been saved and could be restored to her. With such a +belief in her mind the success of his scheme would be impossible. It +would never do to let her go on in this way; he began to remonstrate. + +"But, madam, I am telling to you only what this man has told to me. I +have no means of proving his veracity, and his appearance, as I have +said, is against him. I have agreed to assist him only in case he is +able to establish, beyond question, the boy's identity. Thus far his +statements have not been wholly satisfactory." + +Mrs. Burnham had grown more calm. The startling suddenness of +the proposition that Ralph was living had, for the time being, +overmastered her. Now she sank back into her chair, with pale face, +controlling her emotion with an effort, trying to give way to reason. + +"What does he say?" she asked. "What is this old man's story?" + +Sharpman repeated, in substance, old Simon's account of the rescue, +giving to it, however, an air of lightness and improbability that it +had not had before. + +"It is possible," he added, "that the evidence you have of the child's +death is sufficient to refute this man's story completely. On what +facts do you rest your belief, if I am at liberty to ask?" + +"The proofs," she replied, "have seemed to us to be abundant. +Neither Mr. Burnham nor myself were in a condition to make personal +investigation until some days had elapsed from the time of the +accident, and then the wreck had been cleared away. But we learned +beyond doubt that there was but one other child in the car, a bright, +pretty boy of Ralph's age, travelling with his grandfather, and that +this child was saved. No one had seen Ralph after the crash; no +article of clothing that he wore has ever been found; there were only +a few trinkets, fireproof, that he carried in the pocket of his skirt, +discovered in the ashes of the wreck." + +The lady put her hands to her eyes as if to shut out the memory of +some dread sight. + +"And I presume you made diligent inquiry afterward?" questioned the +lawyer. + +"Oh, yes! of the most searching nature, but no trace could be found +of our child's existence. We came to the firm belief, long ago, that +he died that night. The most that we have dared to hope is that his +sufferings were not great nor prolonged." + +"It seems incredible," said Sharpman, "that the child could have been +saved and cared for, without your knowledge, through so long a period. +But the man appears to be in earnest, his story is a straightforward +one, and I feel it to be my duty to examine into it. Of course, his +object is to get gain. He wants compensation for his services in the +matter of rescuing and caring for the child. He seems also to be very +desirous that the boy's rights should be established and maintained, +and has asked me to take the matter in hand in that respect as well. +Are you prepared to say, definitely, that no evidence would induce you +to believe your child to be living?" + +"Oh, no! not that. But I should want something very strong in the +way of proof. Let this man come and relate his story to me. If it is +false, I think I should be able to detect it." + +"I advised him to do so, but, aside from his appearance, which is +hardly in harmony with these surroundings, I think he would prefer not +to hold a personal conference with the boy's friends. I may as well +give you my reason for that belief. The old man says that the boy ran +away from him two or three years ago, and I have inferred that the +flight was due, partially, at least, to unkind treatment on Craft's +part. I believe he is now afraid to talk the matter over with you +personally, lest you should rebuke him too severely for his conduct +toward the child and his failure to take proper care of him. He +is anxious that all negotiations should be conducted through his +attorney. Rather sensitive, he is, for a man of his general stamp." + +"And did the child return to him?" asked the lady, anxiously, not +heeding the lawyer's last remark. + +"Oh, no! The old man searched the country over for him. He did not +find him until this summer." + +"And where was he found?" + +"Here, in Scranton." + +"In Scranton! That is strange. Is the boy here still?" + +"He is." + +"Where does he live? who cares for him?" + +Sharpman had not intended to give quite so much information, but he +could not well evade these questions and at the same time appear to be +perfectly honest in the matter, so he answered her frankly: + +"He lives with one William Buckley, better known as 'Bachelor Billy.' +He works in the screen-room at Burnham Breaker." + +"Indeed! by what name is he known?" + +"By your son's name--Ralph." + +"Ralph, the slate-picker! Do you mean that boy?" + +It was Sharpman's turn to be surprised. + +"Do you know him?" he asked, quickly. + +"I do," she replied. "My husband first told me of him; I have seen him +frequently; I have talked with him so lately as yesterday." + +"Ah, indeed! I am very glad you know the boy. We can talk more +intelligently concerning him." + +"Do I understand you, then, to claim that Ralph, the slate-picker, is +my son? this boy and no other?" + +"That is my client's statement, madam." + +The lady leaned back wearily in her chair. + +"Then I fear you have come upon a futile errand, Mr. Sharpman," she +said. + +But, from the lawyer's stand-point, it began to look as if the errand +was to be successful. He felt that he could speak a little more +strongly now of Ralph's identity with Mrs. Burnham's son without +endangering his cause. + +"Can you remember," he said, "nothing about the lad's appearance +that impressed you--now that you know the claim set up for hi--that +impressed you with a sense of his relationship to you?" + +"Nothing, sir, nothing whatever. The boy is a bright, frank, manly +fellow; I have taken much interest in him from the first. His sorrow +at the time of my husband's death touched me very deeply. I have been +several times since then to look after his comfort and happiness. I +saw and talked with him yesterday, as I have already told you. But he +is not my son, sir, he is not my son." + +"Pardon me, madam! but you must remember that time works wonders in a +child's appearance; from three to eleven is a long stretch." + +"I appreciate that fact, but I recall no resemblance whatever. My baby +had light, curling hair, large eyes, full round cheeks and chin, a +glow of health and happiness in his face. This lad is different, very +different. There could not have been so great a change. Oh, no, sir! +your client is mistaken; the boy is not my son; I am sure he is not." + +Sharpman was rejoiced. Everything was working now exactly according to +his plan. He thought it safe to push his scheme more rapidly. + +"But my client," he said, "appears to be perfectly sincere in his +belief. He will doubtless desire me to institute legal proceedings to +recover for the boy his portion of Robert Burnham's estate." + +"If you can recover it," she said, calmly, "I shall transfer it to +the child most cheerfully. I take it, however, that you must first +establish his identity as an heir?" + +"Certainly." + +"And do you think this can be done against my positive testimony?" + +"Perhaps not; that remains to be seen. But I do not desire to +contemplate such a contingency. My object, my sole object, is to +obtain a harmonious settlement of this matter outside of the courts. +That is why I am here in person. I had hoped that I might induce you +to acknowledge the boy as your son, to agree to set off his interest +in his father's estate, and to reimburse my client, to some extent, +for his care and services. This is my only wish in the matter, I +assure you." + +"Why, as to that," she replied, "I am willing to recognize services +performed for any one; and if this old man has rescued and cared for +the boy, even though he is not my son--I have enough; if the man is in +want, I will help him, I will give him money. But wait! did you say he +had been cruel to the child? Then I withdraw my offer. I have no pity +for the harsh task-masters of young children. Something to eat, to +drink, to wear,--I will give him that,--nothing more." + +"I am to understand, then, that you positively decline to acknowledge +this boy as your son?" asked the lawyer, rising. + +"With the evidence that I now have," she said, "I do. I should be glad +to assist him; I have it in mind to do so; he is a brave, good boy, +and I love him. But I can do nothing more, sir,--nothing more." + +"I regret exceedingly, madam, the failure of my visit," said Sharpman, +bowing himself toward the door. "I trust, I sincerely trust, that +whatever I may find it in my heart and conscience to do in behalf +of this boy, through the medium of the courts, will meet with no +bitterness of feeling on your part." + +"Certainly not," she replied, standing in matronly dignity. "You could +do me no greater favor than to prove to me that this boy is Ralph +Burnham. If I could believe that he is really my son, I would take him +to my heart with inexpressible joy. Without that belief I should be +false to my daughter's interest to compel her to share with a stranger +not only her father's estate but also her mother's affection." + +"Madam, I have the most profound respect for your conscience and your +judgment. I trust that no meeting between us will be less pleasant +than this one has been. I wish you good-morning!" + +"Good-morning, sir!" + +Sharpman bowed himself gracefully out, and walked briskly down the +street, with a smile on his face. The execution of his scheme had met, +thus far, with a success which he had hardly anticipated. + + * * * * * + +Every one about Burnham Breaker knew Bachelor Billy. No one ever knew +any ill of him. He was simple and unlearned, but his heart was very +large, and he was honest and manly to the marrow of his bones. He +had no ties of family or of kin, but every one who knew him was his +friend; every child who saw him smiled up instinctively into his face; +he was a brother to all men. Gray spots were coming in his hair, his +shoulders were bowed with toil, and his limbs were bent with disease, +but the kind look never vanished from his rugged face, and the kind +word never faltered on his lips. He went to his task at Burnham +Breaker in the early morning, he toiled all day, and came home at +night, happy and contented with his lot. + +His work was at the head of the shaft, at the very topmost part of the +towering breaker. When a mine car came up, loaded with coal, it was +his duty to push it to the dump, some forty feet away, to tip it till +the load ran out, and then to push it back to the waiting carriage. +Michael Maloney had been Billy's assistant here, in other years; but, +one day, Michael stepped back, inadvertently, into the open mouth of +the shaft, and, three minutes later, his mangled remains were gathered +up at the foot. Billy knew that Michael's widow was poor, with a +family of small children to care for, so he came and hired from her +a part of her cottage to live in, and took his meals with her, and +paid her generously. To this house he had taken Ralph. It was not an +elegant home, to be sure, but it was a home where no harsh word was +spoken from year's end to year's end; and to Ralph, fresh from his +dreadful life with Simon Craft, this was much, oh! very much, indeed. +The boy was very fond of "Uncle Billy," as he called him, and the days +and nights he spent with him were not unhappy ones. But since the day +when Mrs. Burnham turned his face to hers, and kissed him on his lips, +there had been a longing in his heart for something more; a longing +which, at first, he could not quite define, but which grew and +crystallized, at last, into a strong desire to merit and possess the +fond affection, and to live in the sweet presence, of a kind and +loving mother. He had always wanted a mother, ever since he could +remember. The thought of one had always brought a picture of perfect +happiness to his mind. But never, until now, had that want reached so +great proportions. It had come to be the leading motive and ambition +of his life. He yearned for mother-love and home affection, with an +intensity as passionate, a desire as deep, as ever stirred within the +heart of man. He had not revealed his longing to Bachelor Billy. He +feared that he might think he was discontented and unhappy, and he +would not have hurt his Uncle Billy's feelings for the world. So the +summer days went by, and he kept his thought in this matter, as much +as possible, to himself. + +It had come to be the middle of September. There had been a three days +rain, which had so freshened the parched grass and checked the fading +of the leaves, that one might readily have thought the summer had +returned to bring new foliage and flowers, and to deck the earth for +still another season with its covering of green. + +But it had cleared off cold. + +"It'd be nice to have a fire to-night, Uncle Billy," said Ralph, as +the two were walking home together in the twilight, from their day's +work at the breaker. + +"Wull, lad," was the reply, "ye ha' the wood choppit for it, ye can +mak' un oop." + +So, after supper, Ralph built a wood fire in the little rude grate, +and Billy lighted his clay pipe, and they both drew their chairs up +before the comfortable blaze, and watched it while they talked. + +It was the first fire of the season, and they enjoyed it. It seemed to +bring not only warmth but cheer. + +"Ain't this nice, Uncle Billy?" said Ralph, after quite a long +silence. "Seems kind o' home-like an' happy, don't it?" + +"Ye're richt, lad! Gin a mon has a guid fire to sit to, an' a guid +pipe o' 'bacca to pull awa' on, what more wull ye? eh, Ralph!" + +"A comfortable room like this to stay in, Uncle Billy," replied the +boy, looking around on the four bare walls, the uncarpeted floor, and +the rude furniture of the room, all bright and glowing now in the +light of the cheerful fire. + +"Oh! the room's guid enook, guid enook," responded the man, without +removing the pipe from his mouth. + +"An' a nice bed, like ours, to sleep in." + +"True for ye lad; tired bones rest well in a saft bed." + +"An' plenty to eat, too, Uncle Billy; that's a good thing to have." + +"Richt again, Ralph! richt again!" exclaimed Billy, enthusiastically, +pushing the burning tobacco down in the bowl of his pipe. "An' the +Widow Maloney, she do gi' us 'mazin' proper food, now, don't she? D'ye +min' that opple pie we had for sooper, lad?" + +"Yes, that was good," said Ralph, gazing absently into the fire. +"They's only one thing more we need, Uncle Billy, an' that's somebody +to love us. Not but what you an' me cares a good deal for each other," +added Ralph, apprehensively, as the man puffed vigorously away at his +pipe, "but that ain't it. I mean somebody, some woman, you know, 'at'd +kiss us an' comfort us an' be nice to us that way." + +Billy turned and gazed contemplatively at Ralph. "Been readin' some +more o' them love-stories?" he asked, smiling behind a cloud of smoke. + +"No, I ain't, an' I don't mean that kind. I mean your mother or your +sister or your wife--it'd be jes' like as though you had a wife, you +know, Uncle Billy." + +Again, the man puffed savagely at his pipe before replying. + +"Wull," he said at last, "na doot it'd be comfortin' to have a guid +weef to care for ye; but they're an awfu' trooble, Ralph, women +is,--an awfu' trooble." + +"But you don't know, Uncle Billy; you ain't had no 'xperience." + +"No more am I like to have. I'm a gittin' too auld now. I could na get +me a weef an' I wanted one. Hoot, lad! think o' your Uncle Billy wi' a +weef to look after; it's no' sensiba, no' sensiba," and the man took +his pipe from his mouth and indulged in a hearty burst of laughter at +the mental vision of himself in matrimonial chains. + +"But then," persisted Ralph, "you'd have such a nice home, you know; +an' somebody to look glad an' smile an' say nice things to you w'en +you come home from work o' nights. Uncle Billy, I'd give a good deal +if I had it, jes' to have a home like other boys has, an' mothers an' +fathers an' sisters an' all that." + +"Wull, lad, I've done the bes' I could for ye, I've--" + +"Oh, Uncle Billy!" interrupted the boy, rising and laying his hand +on the man's shoulder affectionately, "you know I don't mean that; +I don't mean but what you've been awful good to me; jes' as good as +any one ever could be; but it's sumpthin' dif'rent from that 'at I +mean. I'm thinkin' about a home with pirty things in it, books, an' +pictures, an' cushions, the way women fix 'em you know, an'--an' a +mother; I want a mother very much; I think it'd be the mos' beautiful +thing in the world to have a mother. You've had one, ain't you, Uncle +Billy?" + +The man's face had taken on a pleased expression when Ralph began with +his expostulation, but, as the boy continued, the look changed into +one of sadness. + +"Yes, lad," he said, "an' a guid mither she waur too. She died an' +went to heaven it's mony a year sin', but I still min' the sweet +way she had wi' me. Ye're richt, laddie, there's naught like a +blessed mither to care for ye--an' ye never had the good o' one +yoursel'"--turning and looking at the boy, with an expression of +wondering pity on his face, as though that thought had occurred to +him now for the first time. + +"No, I never had, you know; that's the worst of it. If I could only +remember jest the least bit about my mother, it wouldn't seem so bad, +but I can't remember nothing, not nothing." + +"Puir lad! puir lad! I had na thocht o' that afoor. But, patience, +Ralph, patience; mayhap we'll find a mither for ye yet." + +"Oh, Uncle Billy! if we could, if we only could! Do you know, +sometimes w'en I go down town, an' walk along the street, an' see +the ladies there, I look at ev'ry one I meet, an' w'en a real nice +beautiful one comes along, I say to myself, 'I wisht that lady was my +mother,' an' w'en some other one goes by, I say, 'I wonder if that +ain't my mother.' It don't do no good, you know, but it's kind o' +comfortin'." + +"Puir lad!" repeated Billy, putting his arm around the boy and drawing +him up closer to his chair, "Puir lad!" + +"You 'member that night I come home a-cryin', an' I couldn't tell w'at +the matter was? Well, it wasn't nothin' but that. I come by a house +down there in the city, w'ere they had it all lighted up, an' they +wasn't no curtains acrost the windows, an' you could look right in. +They was a havin' a little party there; they was a father an' a mother +an' sisters and brothers an' all; an' they was all a-laughin' an' +a-playin' an' jest as happy as they could be. An' they was a boy there +'at wasn't no bigger'n me, an' his mother come an' put her arms aroun' +his neck an' kissed him. It didn't seem as though I could stan' it, +Uncle Billy, I wanted to go in so bad an' be one of 'em. An' then it +begun to rain, an' I had to come away, an' I walked up here in the +dark all alone, an' w'en I got here they wasn't nothin' but jest one +room, an' nobody but you a-waitin' for me, an'--no! now, Uncle Billy, +don't! I don't mean nothin' like that--you've been jest as good to me +as you could be; you've been awful good to me, al'ays! but it ain't +like, you know; it ain't like havin' a home with your own mother." + +"Never min', laddie; never min'; ye s'all have a hame, an' a mither +too some day, I mak' na doot,--some day." + +There was silence for a time, then Bachelor Billy continued:-- + +"Gin ye had your choice, lad, what kin' o' a mither would ye choose +for yoursel'?" + +"Oh! I don't know--yes, I do too!--it's wild, I know it's wild, an' +I hadn't ought to think of it; but if I could have jest the mother I +want, it'd be--it'd be Mrs. Burnham. There! now, don't laugh, Uncle +Billy; I know it's out o' all reason; she's very rich, an' beautiful, +an' everything; but if I could be her boy for jest one week--jest one +week, Uncle Billy, I'd--well, I'd be willin' to die." + +"Ye mak' high choice, Ralph, high choice; but why not? ye're as like +to find the mither in high places as in low, an' liker too fra my way +o' thinkin'. Choose the bes', lad, choose the bes'!" + +"But she's so good to us," continued the boy, "an' she talks so nice +to us. You 'member the time I told you 'bout, w'en we breaker boys +went down there, all of us, an' she cried kin' o' soft, an' stooped +down an' kissed me? I shouldn't never forgit that if I live to be a +thousan' years old. An' jes' think of her kissin' me that way ev'ry +night,--think of it Uncle Billy! an' ev'ry mornin' too, maybe; +wouldn't that be--be--" and Ralph, at a loss for a fitting wor to +represent such bliss as that, simply clasped his hands together and +gazed wistfully into the fire. After a minute or two he went on: "She +'membered it, too. I was 'fraid she'd never know which boy it was she +kissed, they was so many of us there; but she did, you know, an' she's +been to see me, an' brought me things, ain't she? an' promised to help +me find out about myself jest the same as Mr. Burnham did. Oh dear! I +hope she won't die now, like he did--Uncle Billy! oh, Uncle Billy!" +as a sudden thought struck in on the boy's mind, "if she was--if Mrs. +Burnham _was_ my mother, then Mr. Burnham would 'a' been my father +wouldn't he?" + +"Na doot, lad, na doot." + +"Robert Burnham--would 'a' been--my father. Oh!" The boy drew himself +up to his full height and stood gazing into the fire in proud +contemplation of such overwhelming happiness and honor. + +There was a knock at the door. Ralph went and opened it, and a young +man stepped in. + +"Ah! good evening!" he said. "Does a man by the name of Buckley live +here? William Buckley?" + +"That's my name," responded Billy, rising from his chair. + +"And are you Ralph?" asked the young man, turning to the boy. + +"Yes, sir, that's my name, too," was the quick reply. + +"Well, Ralph, can you take a little walk with me this evening, as far +as Lawyer Sharpman's office?" + +"Wha' for do ye want the lad?" asked Billy, advancing and placing a +chair for the stranger to sit in. + +"Well, to speak confidentially, I believe it's something about his +parentage." + +"Who his father an' mother waur?" + +"Yes." + +"Then he s'all go wi' ye if he like. Ralph, ye can put on the new +jacket an' go wi' the mon." + +The boy's heart beat tumultuously as he hurried on his best clothes. + +At last! at last he was to know. Some one had found him out. He was no +longer "nobody's child." + +He struggled into his Sunday coat, pulled his cap on his head, and, +in less than ten minutes he was out on the road with the messenger, +hurrying through the frosty air and the bright moonlight, toward +Sharpman's office. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +BREAKING THE NEWS. + + +Simon Craft and Lawyer Sharpman were sitting together in the rear room +of the latter's law office. The window-shades were closely drawn, +shutting out the mellow light of the full moon, which rested brightly +and beautifully on all objects out of doors. + +The gas jet, shaded by a powerful reflector, threw a disk of light +on the round table beneath it, but the corners of the room were in +shadow. It was in a shaded corner that Craft was sitting, resting his +folded arms on his cane, while Sharpman, seated carelessly by the +table, was toying with a pencil. There were pleased looks on the faces +of both men; but old Simon seemed to have grown thinner and feebler +during the summer months, and his cough troubled him greatly. + +Sharpman was saying: "If we can succeed in managing the boy, now, +as well as we have managed the mother, I think we are all right. I +somewhat fear the effect of your presence on him, Craft, but he may +as well see you to-night as later. You must keep cool, and be gentle; +don't let him think you are here for any purpose but his good." + +"Oh! you may trust me, Mr. Sharpman," responded the old man, "you may +trust me. I shall get into the spirit of the scheme very nicely." + +"What kind of a boy is he, any way? Pretty clear-headed?" + +"Well, yes, middling; but as obstinate as a mule. When he gets his +mind set on a thing, it's no use to try to budge him. I've whipped him +till he was black and blue, and it didn't do a penny's worth of good." + +"You should have used moral suasion, Craft; that's the way to treat +boys. Get their confidence, and then you can handle them. Well, we'll +get Ralph's mind fixed on the fact that he is Mrs. Burnham's son, and +see how he'll stick to that. Hark! There they come now. Sooner than I +expected." + +The outer door of the office was opened, and Ralph and the young man +entered. The messenger disappeared into the inner room, but after a +minute or two he came out and ushered Ralph into the presence of the +lawyer. Sharpman arose, greeted the boy pleasantly and shook hands +with him, and Ralph thought that lawyers were not such forbidding +people after all. + +"Do you recognize this gentleman?" said Sharpman, turning, with a wave +of his hand, toward old Simon. + +The old man was sitting there with his hands crossed on his cane, and +with a grim smile on his gaunt face. Ralph looked intently, for a +moment, into the shadow, and then, with an exclamation of surprise and +fear on his lips, he stepped back toward the door. + +"I won't go!" he cried; "don't make me go back with him, sir!" turning +his distressed face to the lawyer, as he spoke. + +Sharpman advanced and took the boy by the hand and led him to a chair. +"Don't be afraid," he said, gently, "there's no cause for alarm. You +shall not go back with him. He is not here to take you back, but to +establish your identity." + +Then a new fear dawned upon Ralph's mind. + +"He ain't my grandfather!" he exclaimed. "Simon Craft ain't my +grandfather. He wouldn't never 'a' whipped me the way he done if he'd +a-been truly my grandfather." + +Craft looked up at Sharpman with a little nod. The boy had identified +him pretty plainly, and proved the truth of his story to that extent +at least. + +"Oh, no!" said the lawyer, "oh, no! Mr. Craft is not your grandfather; +he doesn't claim to be. He has come here only to do you good. Now, be +calm and reasonable, and listen to what we have to tell you, and, my +word for it, you will go back to Billy Buckley's to-night with a heart +as light as a feather. Now, you'll take my advice, and do that much, +won't you?" + +"Yes, I will," said Ralph, settling himself into his chair, "I will, +if I can only find out about my father 'n' mother. But I won't go back +to live with him; I won't never go back there!" + +"Oh, no!" replied Sharpman, "we'll find a better home for you than Mr. +Craft could ever give you. Now, if you will sit still and listen to +us, and take our advice, we will tell you more things about yourself +than you have ever thought of knowing. You want to hear them, don't +you?" + +"Well, yes," replied Ralph, smiling and rapidly regaining his +composure; "yes, of course." + +"I thought so. Now I want to ask you one or two questions. In the +first place, what do you remember about yourself before you went to +live with Mr. Craft?" + +"I don't remember anything, sir,--not anything." + +"Haven't you a faint recollection of having been in a big accident +sometime; say, for instance, a railroad disaster?" + +"No--I don't think I have. I think I must 'a' dreamed sumpthin' like +that once, but I guess it never happened to me, or I'd 'member more +about it." + +"Well, Ralph, it did happen to you. You were riding in a railroad car +with your father and mother, and the train went through a bridge. A +good many people were killed, and a good many more were wounded; but +you were saved. Do you know how?" + +Ralph did not answer the question. His face had suddenly paled. + +"Were my father an' mother killed?" he exclaimed. + +"No, Ralph, they were not killed. They were injured, but they +recovered in good time." + +"Are they alive now? where are they?" asked the boy, rising suddenly +from his chair. + +"Be patient, Ralph! be patient! we will get to that in time. Be seated +and answer my question. Do you know how you were saved?" + +"No, sir; I don't." + +"Well, my boy," said the lawyer, impressively, pointing his finger +toward Craft, "there is the man who saved you. He was on the train. He +rushed into the wreck at the risk of his life, and drew you from the +car window. In another minute it would have been too late. He fell +back into the river holding you in his arms, but he saved you from +both fire and water. The effort and exposure of that night brought on +the illness that has resulted in the permanent loss of his health, and +left him in the condition in which you now see him." + +Ralph looked earnestly at old Simon, who still sat, quiet and +speechless, chuckling to himself, and wishing, in his heart, that he +could tell a story as smoothly and impressively as Lawyer Sharpman. + +"An' do I owe my life to him?" asked the boy. "Wouldn't I 'a' been +saved if he hadn't 'a' saved me?" + +"It is not at all probable," replied Sharpman. "The flames had already +reached you, and your clothing was on fire when you were drawn from +the car." + +It was hard for Ralph to believe in any heroic or unselfish conduct on +the part of Simon Craft; but as he felt the force of the story, and +thought of the horrors of a death by fire, he began to relent toward +the old man, and was ready to condone the harsh treatment that he had +suffered at his hands. + +"I'm sure I'm much obliged to 'im," he said, "I'm much obliged to 'im, +even if he did use me very bad afterwards." + +"But you must remember, Ralph, that Mr. Craft was very poor, and he +was ill and irritable, and your high temper and stubborn ways annoyed +him greatly. But he never ceased to have your best interests at heart, +and he was in constant search of your parents, in order to restore you +to them. Do you remember that he used often to be away from home?" + +"Yes, sir, he used to go an' leave me with ole Sally." + +"Well, he was away searching for your friends. He continued the search +for five years, and at last he found your father and mother. He +hurried back to Philadelphia to get you and bring you to your parents, +as the best means of breaking to them the glad news; and when he +reached his home, what do you suppose he found?" + +Ralph smiled sheepishly, and said: "I 'xpect, maybe, I'd run away." + +"Yes, my boy, you had. You had left his sheltering roof and his +fostering care, without his knowledge or consent. Most men would have +left you, then, to struggle on by yourself, as best you could; and +would have rewarded your ingratitude by forgetfulness. Not so with +Mr. Craft. He swallowed his pain and disappointment, and went out to +search for you. He had your welfare too deeply at heart to neglect +you, even then. His mind had been too long set on restoring you to +loving parents and a happy home. After years of unremitting toil +he found you, and is here to-night to act as your best and nearest +friend." + +Ralph had sat during this recital, with astonishment plainly depicted +on his face. He could scarcely believe what he heard. The idea that +Simon Craft could be kind or good to any one had never occurred to him +before. + +"I hope," he said, slowly, "I hope you'll forgive me, Gran'pa Simon, +if I've thought wrong of you. I didn't know 'at you was a-doin' all +that for me, an' I thought I was a-havin' a pirty hard time with you." + +"Well," said Craft, speaking for the first time since Ralph's +entrance. "Well, we won't say anything more about your bad behavior; +it's all past and gone now, and I'm here to help you, not to scold +you. I'm going to put you, now, in the way of getting back into your +own home and family, if you'll let me. What do you say?" + +"I'm sure that's very good in you, an' of course I'd like it. You +couldn't do anything for me 'at I'd like better. I'm sorry if I've +ever hurt your feelin's, but--" + +"How do you think you would like to belong to a nice family, Ralph?" +interrupted Sharpman. + +"I think it'd make me very happy, sir." + +"And have a home, a beautiful home, with books, pictures, horses, fine +clothes, everything that wealth could furnish?" + +"That'd be lovely, very lovely; but I don't quite 'xpect that, an' +what I want most is a good mother, a real, nice, good mother. Haven't +you got one for me? say, haven't you got one?" + +The boy had risen to his feet and stood with clasped hands, gazing +anxiously at Sharpman. + +"Yes, my boy, yes," said the lawyer, "we've found a good mother for +you, the best in the city of Scranton, and the sweetest little sister +you ever saw. Now what do you think?" + +"I think--I think 'at it's most too good to be true. But you wouldn't +tell me a lie about it, would you? you wouldn't do that, would you?" + +"Oh, no! Ralph; good lawyers never lie, and I'm a good lawyer." + +"An' when can I see 'em? Can I go to 'em to-night? I don't b'lieve I +can wait,--I don't b'lieve I can!" + +"Ralph! Ralph! you promised to be quiet and reasonable. There, be +seated and wait till you hear us through. There is something better +yet for you to know. Now, who do you suppose your mother is? She lives +in Scranton." + +Ralph sat, for a moment, in stupid wonder, staring at Sharpman. Then +a brilliant thought, borne on by instinct, impulse, strong desire, +flashed like a ray of sunlight, into his mind, and he started to his +feet again, exclaiming:-- + +"Mrs. Burnham! it can't be! oh, it can't be! tell me, is it Mrs. +Burnham?" + +Craft and Sharpman exchanged quick glances of amazement, and the +latter said, impressively:-- + +"Yes, Ralph, Mrs. Burnham is your mother." + +The boy stood for another moment, as if lost in thought; then he cried +out, suddenly: "And Mr. Burnham, he--he was my--my father!" and he +sank back into his chair, with a sudden weakness in his limbs, and a +mist before his eyes. + +For many minutes no one spoke. Then Ralph asked, quietly,-- + +"Does--does she know?" + +"Now, Ralph," said Sharpman, "now comes the strangest part of the +story. Your mother believes you to be dead. She believes that you +perished in the accident at Cherry Brook, and has mourned for you ever +since the time of that disaster." + +"Am I the boy--am I the Ralph she lost?" + +"The very one, but we cannot make her think so. I went to her, myself, +this morning, and told her that you are alive. I told her who you are, +and all about you. She knows you, but she will not believe that you +are her son. She wants better evidence than we can give to her, +outside of the courts." + +"An' won't she never believe it? won't she never take me?" + +The boy's voice and look revealed the sudden clashing of his hope. + +"Oh, yes, Ralph! in time; I do not doubt that in good time she will +recognize you and take you to her home. She has so long believed you +to be dead that it is hard for her to overcome the prejudice of that +belief." + +Then another fear came into the lad's mind. + +"Are you sure," he cried out, "that I am her boy? are you sure I'm the +right one?" + +"Oh, yes!" said the lawyer, assuringly, "oh, yes! there's no mistake +about that, there isn't the shadow of a doubt about that. We shall +establish your identity beyond question; but we shall have to do it in +the courts. When it is once done no one can prevent you from taking +the name and the property to which you are entitled and using them as +you see fit." + +"But my mother!" said Ralph, anxiously, "my mother; she's all I care +about; I don't want the property if I can't have her." + +"And you shall have her, my boy. Mrs. Burnham said to me this morning, +that, until your claim was duly proved in a court of law, she would +have no legal right to accept you as her son; but that, when your +identity is once established in that way, she will receive you into +her home and her heart with much joy." + +Ralph looked up with brightening eyes. + +"Did she say that?" he exclaimed, "an' will she do it?" + +"I have no doubt of it, none whatever." + +"Then let's get at it right away," said the boy, impatiently, "it +won't take very long, will it?" + +"Oh! some little time; several months, may be; may be longer." + +Ralph's face fell again. + +"I can't wait that long!" he exclaimed; "I'll go to her myself; I'll +tell her ev'rything; I'll beg her to take me. Do you think she would? +do you?" + +"Oh, Ralph! now be reasonable. That would never do. In the first +place, it would be useless. She has seen you, she knows you; she says +you are not her son; you can't prove it to her. Besides that, she has +no legal right to take you as her son until the courts have passed +upon the question of your identity. If she should attempt to do so, +the other heirs of Robert Burnham would come in and contest your +claim, and you would be in a far worse position to maintain your +rights than you are now,--oh! far worse. No, you must not go to Mrs. +Burnham, you must not go to her at all, until your sonship is fully +established. You must keep cool, and wait patiently, or you will +destroy every chance you have." + +"Well, then, I'll try to; I'll try to wait an' do what you tell me to; +what shall I do first?" + +"The first thing to be done, Ralph, is to have the court appoint a +guardian for you. You can't do anything for yourself, legally, you +know, till you are twenty-one years old; and whatever action is taken +in your behalf, must be taken by a guardian. It will be his place to +establish your identity, to restore you to your mother, and to take +care of your property. Now, who would you prefer to have act in that +capacity?" + +"Well, I don't know; there's Uncle Billy, he's the best friend I've +got; wouldn't he do?" + +"Do you mean William Buckley, with whom you are living?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Why, he would do if he were rich, or had rich friends who would go +on his bond. You see, the guardian would have to give a bond to the +extent of a great many thousand dollars for the faithful performance +of his duties. Could Buckley do that?" + +"I'm afraid not, sir. He ain't rich, himself, an' I never heard of his +havin' any rich friends." + +"Whom else can you think of?" + +"Won't Mrs. Burnham do?" + +"Oh, no! it might be necessary for the guardian to bring suit against +her." + +"There ain't anybody else that I can think of," said Ralph, +despairingly, after a moment's pause. + +"Well, then, I don't know what we shall do. If you can't find some one +who is able to qualify for this trust, we may as well stop right here. +I guess we've done all we can for the boy, Mr. Craft?" + +Craft nodded and smiled. He was enjoying the lawyer's diplomacy with +Ralph, exceedingly. + +The lad was again in the depths of anxiety. He looked from one to the +other of the men with appealing eyes. + +"Ain't they some way to fix it, Mr. Sharpman?" he said. "Can't you do +sumpthin' for me?" + +"Oh! I couldn't be your guardian, my boy, the law wouldn't allow that; +and Mr. Craft, here, hasn't money enough. I guess we'll have to give +up the idea of restoring you to your mother, and let you go back to +work in the breaker again." + +"That'd be too bad," said the boy. "Don't do that; I couldn't stan' +that--now. Can't you see my mother again, Mr. Sharpman, an' get her to +take me--some way?" + +"It can't be done, Ralph. There's only one way to fix it, and that is +to get a guardian for you. If we can't do that, we may as well give it +all up." + +The anxiety and disappointment expressed in the lad's face was pitiful +to look upon. + +Then Craft spoke up. + +"Ralph has been very unkind and ungrateful to me," he said, "but I +have always been his best friend. I saved his life; and I've spent +time and money and lost my health on his account. But I'm willing to +do him a favor yet, if he thinks he can appreciate it. I'll act as his +guardian and take care of his property for him, if he'll be a good boy +and do as we tell him." + +"I'll do everything I can," said Ralph, eagerly, "'ceptin' to go back +an' live with you; everything--but Mr. Sharpman said you wasn't rich +enough." + +"No, I ain't," responded the old man; "and I don't know how to get +around that difficulty, unless Mr. Sharpman will help me and be my +bondsman." + +Ralph turned his face pleadingly to Sharpman. + +"Oh, now, Craft!" said the lawyer, smiling, and shaking his head, +"don't you think you are presuming a little too much on my friendship? +If you were the only one to be trusted, why, I might do it; but in +this case I would have to depend on the boy as well, and there's no +knowing how he would misbehave. According to your own story, he is a +wilful, wrong-headed lad, who has already rewarded your kindness to +him with base ingratitude. Oh, no! I could trust you, but not him." + +"Mr. Sharpman!" pleaded the boy, "Mr. Sharpman, I never meant to be +mean or unkind to Gran'pa Simon. I never knew't he saved my life, +never. I thought he abused me, I did; I was sure of it; that's the +reason I run away from 'im. But, you see, I'm older now; I'd be more +reason'ble; I'll do anything you tell me to, Mr. Sharpman,--anything, +if you'll only fix it for Gran'pa Simon so's't he can help me get back +to my mother." + +The lawyer sat for a few moments as if lost in thought. Finally, he +raised his head and said:-- + +"I've a great mind to try you, Ralph. Do you think I can really place +full confidence in you?" + +"Yes, sir; oh, yes, sir!" + +"And will you follow my advice to the letter, and do just what I tell +you to do in this matter?" + +"Yes, sir; I will." + +"Well, then," said Sharpman, turning to Craft, "I think I'll trust the +boy, and I'll assist you in your bonds. I know that we both have his +interest at heart, and I believe that, together, we can restore his +rights to him, and place him in the way of acceptance by his family. +Ralph," turning again to the boy, "you ought to be very thankful to +have found two such good friends as Mr. Craft and myself." + +"Yes, sir, I am. You'll do everything you can for me, won't you? as +quick as you can?" + +"Oh, yes! Mr. Craft will be your guardian, and I will be his bondsman +and lawyer. Now, I think we understand each other, and I guess that's +all for to-night." + +"When do you want me to come again?" + +"Well, I shall want you to go to Wilkesbarre with me in a few days, to +have the appointment of guardian made; but I will send for you. In the +meantime you will keep on with your work as usual, and say nothing to +any person about what we have told you. You'll do that, won't you?" + +"Yes, sir, I will. But, Uncle Billy--can't I tell him? he'll be awful +glad to know." + +"Well, yes, you may tell Billy, but charge him to keep it a profound +secret." + +"Oh! he will, he will; he'll do anything like that 'at I ask 'im to." + +Ralph picked up his cap and turned to go; he hesitated a moment, then +he crossed the room to where old Simon still sat, and, standing before +him, he said:-- + +"I'm sorry you're sick, Gran'pa Simon. I never meant to do wrong by +you. I'll try to do w'at's right, after this, anyway." + +The old man, taken by surprise, had no answer ready; and Sharpman, +seeing that the situation was likely to become awkward, stepped +forward and said: "Oh! I've no doubt he'll be all we can desire now." + +He took the boy's hand, and led him toward the door. "I see my clerk +has gone," he said; "are you afraid to go home alone?" + +"Oh, no! It's moonlight; an' besides, I've gone home alone lot's o' +nights." + +"Well, good luck to you! Good-night!" + +"Good-night!" + +The office door closed behind the boy, and he went out into the street +and turned toward home. + +The moon was bright and full, and a delicate mist hung close to the +earth. It was a very beautiful night. Ralph thought he had never seen +so beautiful a night before. His own footsteps had a musical sound in +his ears, as he hurried along, impatient to reach Bachelor Billy, and +to tell to him the wonderful news,--news so wonderful that he could +scarcely realize or comprehend it. Mr. Sharpman said he would be going +back home to-night with a heart as light as a feather. And so he was, +was he not? He asked his heart the question, but, somehow, it would +not say yes. There was a vague uneasiness within him that he could not +quite define. It was not because he doubted that he was Mrs. Burnham's +son; he believed that fact implicitly. It was not so much, either, +that he could not go to her at once; he could wait for that if the end +would only surely bring it. But it seemed to him that he was being +set up in a kind of opposition to her; that he was being placed in a +position which might lead to an estrangement between them: and that +would be a very sad result, indeed, of this effort to establish his +identity. But Mr. Sharpman had assured him that Mrs. Burnham approved +of the action that was about to be taken in his behalf. Why, then, +should he fear? Was it not absurd to cloud his happiness with the +dread of something which would never come? Away with doubts! away +with fears! he would revel, for to-night at least, in the joy of his +new knowledge. Mrs. Burnham was his mother; was not that beautiful, +beautiful? Could he, in his wildest flight of fancy or desire, have +ever hoped for more than that? But there was something more, and that +something was that Robert Burnham was his father. Ah! that was, beyond +all question, the highest honor that could ever rest upon a boy,--to +be the son of a hero! Ralph threw back his head and shoulders with +instinctive, honest pride as this thought filled his mind and heart, +and his quick step grew more elastic and more firm as he hurried on +along the moonlit path. + +He was out beyond the city limits now, climbing the long hill +toward home. He could see Burnham Breaker, standing out in majestic +proportions, black and clear-cut against the moon-illumined sky. +By and by the little mining village came into view, and the row of +cottages, in one of which the Widow Maloney lived; and finally the +light in Bachelor Billy's window. When Ralph saw this he broke into a +run, and sped swiftly along the deserted street, with the whole glad +story of his parentage and his prospects crowding to his tongue. + +Billy was still sitting by the fire when the boy burst into the room; +but he had fallen asleep, and his clay pipe had dropped from his +fingers and lay broken on the hearth. + +"Uncle Billy! oh, Uncle Billy! what do you think?" + +"Why, Ralph, lad, is that yo'? I mus' 'a' been asleep. Whaur ye been, +eh?" + +"W'y don't you 'member? I went to Lawyer Sharpman's office." + +"True for ye, so ye did. I forgot; an' did ye--" + +"Oh, Uncle Billy! what _do_ you think? Guess who I am; guess!" + +"Why, lad, don't frighten a mon like that. Ye'll wake the neeborhood. +Who be ye, then?" + +"Guess! guess! Oh, you'd never guess! I'm Ralph Burnham; I'm Mrs. +Burnham's son!" + +Bachelor Billy's hands dropped lifelessly to his knees, his mouth and +eyes came wide open with unfeigned astonishment, and, for the moment, +he was speechless. Finally he found breath to exclaim: "Why, Ralph, +lad; Ralph, ye're crazy,--or a-jokin'! Don't joke wi' a mon that way, +Ralph; it ain't richt!" + +"No, but, Uncle Billy, it's true; it's all true! Ain't it splendid?" + +"Be ye sure o' that, Ralph? be ye sure o' it?" + +"Oh! they ain't no mistake about it; they couldn't be." + +"Well, the guid Lord save ye, lad!" and Billy looked the boy over +carefully from head to foot, apparently to see if he had undergone any +change during his absence. Then he continued: "Coom, sit ye, then; sit +ye, an' tell us aboot it a'; how happenit it, eh?" + +Again they drew their chairs up before the replenished fire, and Ralph +gave a full account of all that had occurred at the lawyer's office. + +By virtue of his own faith he inspired Bachelor Billy with equal +confidence in the truth of the story; and, by virtue of his own +enthusiasm, he kindled a blaze of enthusiasm in the man's heart that +glowed with hardly less of brightness than that in his own. Very late +that night they sat there, these two, talking of what the future held +for Ralph; building bright castles for him, and high hopes, with +happiness beyond measure. It was only when the fire burned out and +left its charred coals in the iron grate-bars and on the hearth that +they went to bed, the one to rest in the dreamless sleep that follows +in the path of honest toil, and the other to wake often from his +feverish slumber and stare down into the block of moonlight that fell +across his bed through the half-curtained window of the room, and +wonder whether he had just dreamed it all, or whether he had, indeed, +at last, a birthright and a name. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +RHYMING JOE. + + +Ten days after the evening interview at Sharpman's office, Ralph +received a message from the lawyer instructing him to be at the +railroad station on the following morning, prepared to go to +Wilkesbarre. + +So Bachelor Billy went alone that day to the breaker, and Ralph stayed +behind to make ready for his journey. + +He dressed himself in his best clothes, brushed them carefully, put a +little money in his pocket, and, long before the appointed hour, he +was at the station, waiting for Sharpman. + +The lawyer did not come until it was nearly time for the train to +start. He greeted Ralph very pleasantly, and they took a seat together +in the car. It was a beautiful autumn morning, and the nature-loving +boy enjoyed greatly the changing views from the car window, as the +train bore them swiftly on through the picturesque valley of the +Lackawanna. After reaching, at Pittston, the junction with the +Susquehanna River, the scenery was grander; and, as they passed down +through the far-famed Wyoming Valley, Ralph thought he had never +before seen anything quite so beautiful. On the whole it was a +delightful journey. Sharpman was in excellent spirits and made himself +very agreeable indeed. He seemed to enjoy answering the boy's bright +questions, and listening to his shrewd remarks and frank opinions. It +was not until they were nearing Wilkesbarre that the special object +of their trip was mentioned; then the lawyer informed Ralph that they +would go directly to court, and instructed him that if the judge +should ask him whom he wished for his guardian, Ralph was to reply +that he desired the appointment of Simon Craft. That matter being +thoroughly understood, they went on to talk of what they should do in +the future. + +"It will be necessary, eventually," said Sharpman, "to bring a formal +suit against Mrs. Burnham, as administrator, to recover your interest +in the estate; but, judging from what she has intimated to me, I don't +anticipate any serious opposition on her part." + +"I'm sorry, though," responded Ralph, "that they's got to be a +law-suit. Couldn't we make it so plain to her, some way, 'at I'm her +son that we needn't have any suit?" + +"I am afraid not. Even though she, herself, were convinced, she would +have no right to distribute a portion of the estate to you against the +objection of her daughter's guardian. There is no way but to get a +judgment of the court in the matter." + +"Well, why couldn't she jes' take my part, an' give it to her +daughter's guarden, an' then take me home to live with her without any +propaty? Wouldn't that do? I'd a good deal ruther do that than have a +law-suit. A man hates to go to law with his own mother, you know." + +Sharpman smiled and replied: "That would be a very generous offer, +indeed; but I am afraid even that would not do. You would have no +right to make such an agreement before you are twenty-one years old. +Oh, no! we must have a law-suit, there is no other way; but it will be +a mere matter of form; you need have no fear concerning it." + +The train reached Wilkesbarre, and Ralph and the lawyer went directly +from the station to the court-house. There were very few people in the +court-room when they entered it, and there seemed to be no especial +business before the court. Sharpman went down into the bar and shook +hands with several of the attorneys there. The judge was writing +busily at his desk. After a few moments he laid his pen aside and +read a long opinion he had prepared in the matter of some decedent's +estate. Ralph could not understand it at all, and his mind soon +wandered to other subjects. After the reading was finished and one or +two of the lawyers had made short speeches, there was a pause. Then +Sharpman arose, and, drawing a bundle of papers from his pocket, he +read to the court from one of them as follows:-- + + "TO THE HONORABLE, THE JUDGE OF THE ORPHANS' COURT OF LUZERNE + COUNTY:-- + + "The petition of Ralph Burnham, by his next friend Simon Craft, + respectfully represents that the petitioner is a minor child of + Robert Burnham, late of the city of Scranton in said county, + deceased, under the age of fourteen years; that he is resident + within the said county and has no guardian to take care of his + estate. He therefore prays the court to appoint a guardian for + that purpose. + + "RALPH BURNHAM. + By his next friend, SIMON CRAFT. + Dated, Sept. 26, 1867." + +"Your Honor will notice that the petition is duly sworn to," said +Sharpman, handing the paper to the clerk, who, in turn, handed it to +the judge. There was a minute of silence. The lawyers were all staring +at Sharpman in astonishment. + +Then, the judge spoke. + +"Mr. Sharpman, I was not aware that Robert Burnham left more than one +child living; a girl, for whom we have already made appointment of a +guardian." + +"I was not aware of that fact either," rejoined Sharpman, "until very +recently; but it is a fact, nevertheless; and we are here now, asking +that a way be prepared by which this heir may come into his rightful +portion of his father's estate." + +"This is a peculiar case," responded the judge; "and I think we should +have some other basis than this on which to act; some affidavit of +facts." + +"I came prepared to meet that objection," said Sharpman. "I will now +read, if the court please, a statement of the facts in the case." He +unfolded another paper and read a long and detailed account of the +wreck, of Ralph's rescue by Simon Craft, of the old man's care and +keeping of the boy, of the finding of Ralph's parents, the lad's +desertion, the recent discovery of his whereabouts, of Craft's toil +and sacrifice in the matter, and of Ralph's desire to be restored to +his family. This was signed and sworn to by Simon Craft. + +The judge sat for a moment in silence, as if studying the effect of +this affidavit. + +"Has the mother been notified," he said finally, "that this child +is living, and, if so, why does not she appear here to make this +application?" + +"I will answer that question, your Honor, by reading the following +affidavit," replied Sharpman. + + "LUZERNE COUNTY, SS.: + + "John H. Sharpman, attorney at law of said county, being duly + sworn according to law, deposes, and says: that, on the fifteenth + day of September, A.D. 1867, he called upon Mrs. Margaret Burnham, + the widow of Robert Burnham, late of the city of Scranton, + deceased, and administrator of the said Robert Burnham's estate, + and informed her of the facts set forth in the foregoing affidavit + of Simon Craft. She acknowledged her acquaintance with the boy + Ralph, herein mentioned, but refused to acknowledge him as the + son of Robert Burnham, or to grant him any legal interest in the + estate of the said Robert Burnham. A notice, a copy of which is + hereto attached, has been served on the said Margaret Burnham, + warning her that application will be made to the Orphans' Court, + on this day, at this hour, for the appointment of a guardian for + the boy Ralph. + + "JOHN H. SHARPMAN. + Sworn and subscribed before me, + Sept. 26, 1867. + ISRAEL DURHAM, + _Justice of the Peace_." + +"Does any one appear for Mrs. Burnham in this matter?" inquired the +judge, addressing the assembly of lawyers. + +An elderly man, short and thick-set, with gray hair and moustache, +arose, and said:-- + +"I have been informed, as Mrs. Burnham's attorney, that such a +proceeding as this was in contemplation. I appreciate your Honor's +careful scrutiny of the matter before making an appointment; but, so +long as we do not recognize the boy as Robert Burnham's son, it would +hardly be justifiable for us to interfere in the simple appointment +of a guardian for him. Inasmuch, however, as the avowed purpose is +to make an attack on the Burnham estates, we shall insist that the +guardian enter into a bond of sufficient amount and value to cover any +damages which may accrue from any action he may see fit to take." + +"Have you prepared a bond, Mr. Sharpman?" inquired the judge. + +"We have," replied Sharpman, producing still another paper. + +"Mr. Goodlaw," continued the judge, addressing Mrs. Burnham's +attorney, "will you look at the bond and see if it is satisfactory to +you?" + +Mr. Goodlaw took the bond, examined it, and returned it to the clerk. +"I have no objection to make to it," he said. + +"Then we will approve the bond, Mr. Sharpman, and make the +appointment. You have named Simon Craft as guardian. We are wholly +unacquainted with him. Have you consulted with the boy in this matter? +What does he say?" + +"I have brought the boy into court, so that, notwithstanding his legal +inability to make choice for himself, your Honor might be satisfied as +to his wish in the matter. This is the boy," as Ralph, obedient to the +lawyer's summons, came into the bar and stood beside him. The judge +scrutinized the lad closely, and the lawyers leaned forward in their +chairs, or came nearer for the purpose of better observation. Ralph +felt somewhat embarrassed, standing there to be stared at so, but the +voice of the judge soon reassured him. + +"Ralph," he said, "is this application for a guardian made according +to your desire?" + +"Yes, sir," replied the boy; "Mr. Sharpman says I ought to have one." + +"And whom do you choose for your guardian?" + +"Gran'pa Simon, sir." + +Sharpman looked annoyed, and whispered something to Ralph. + +"I mean Simon Craft," said the boy, correcting himself. + +"Is Simon Craft your grandfather?" asked the judge, sternly. + +"Oh, no! I guess not. He made me call 'im that. I never had no +grandfather; but Mr. Sharpman says that Robert Burnham was my +father--and--and he's dead." + +The judge looked down at the lad somewhat uncertainly, then he said: +"Well, Ralph, that will do; we'll make the appointment, but," turning +to Sharpman, "we shall watch this matter closely. We shall see that +justice is done to the child in any event." + +"It is my earnest wish," responded Sharpman, "that your Honor shall +do so. My only object in the matter is to see that this boy, whom I +firmly believe to be Robert Burnham's son, is restored to his family +and estates, and that this old man, who has saved the lad's life, and +has spent and endured much for him through many years, is adequately +rewarded in his old age." + +The judge endorsed the papers and handed them to the clerk, and +Sharpman walked up the aisle with Ralph to the door of the court-room. + +"I have business," said the lawyer, "which will keep me here the rest +of the day. Can you find your way back to the station?" + +"Oh, yes!" + +"Here is something to pay your fare with;" offering a piece of money +to the boy. + +"I've got enough," said Ralph, declining to accept it, "plenty; I'll +get home all right." + +"Well, the train will leave at noon. I'll send for you when we want +you again. Good-by!" + +"Good-by!" + +Ralph went down the steps, out at the door, and across the court-house +yard. He was not sure that he struck into the right street to go to +the station, there were so many streets radiating from the court-house +square. But it did not much matter; there was plenty of time before +the train would start, and he thought he would like to walk about a +little, and see something of the city. He felt like walking off, too, +a feeling of dissatisfaction concerning what had just been done in +court. It was too much in the nature of an adverse proceeding to seem +quite right to him; he was fearful that, somehow, it would estrange +his mother from him. He thought there ought to be some simpler way to +restore him to his family, some way in which he and his mother could +act jointly and in undoubted harmony. He hoped it would all come out +right, though. He did not know what better he could do, at any rate, +than to follow the advice of his lawyer; and, besides that, he had +promised to obey him implicitly in this matter, and he must keep +his promise. He had no thought that he was being used merely as an +instrument in the hands of designing men. + +It was with this vague feeling of unrest at his heart, and with his +mind occupied by uneasy thought, that he walked leisurely down the +street of this strange city, paying little attention to his course, +or to what was going on around him. + +Finally he thought it was time he should have reached the station, or +at least made some attempt to find it; so he quickened his steps a +little, and looked out ahead of him. + +There was a man standing on the next corner, and Ralph stopped and +asked him if he was on the right road to get to the station. The man +laughed good-naturedly, and told him he was on the right road to get +away from it, and advised him to retrace his steps for four blocks, +then to go two blocks to the left, and there he would find a street +running diagonally across the town, which, if he would follow it, +would take him very near to the station. He would have to hurry, too, +the man said, if he wanted to catch the noon train. + +So Ralph turned back, counting the blocks as he went, turning at +the right place, and coming, at last, to the street described. But, +instead of one street running diagonally from this point there were +two or three; and Ralph did not know which one to follow. He asked +a boy, who was passing by with a basket on his shoulder, where the +station was, and the boy, bending his neck and looking at him, said,-- + +"I guess this's the way you want to go, sonny," pointing down one +of the streets, as he spoke, and then whistling a merry tune as he +trudged on with his burden. + +Ralph turned into the street designated, and hurried down it, block +after block; but he did not reach the station, nor did he see any +place that looked like it. He seemed to be in the suburbs, too, in a +locality the surroundings of which impressed him unpleasantly. The +buildings were small and dilapidated, there was a good deal of rubbish +on the sidewalks and in the streets, a few ragged children were +playing in the gutter near by, shivering with cold as they ran about +in bare, dirty feet, and a drunken man, leaning against a post on the +opposite corner, was talking affectionately to some imaginary person +in the vicinity. Ralph thought that this, certainly, was not where he +ought to be. He walked more slowly, trying to find some one who would +give him reliable directions. + +At the corner of the block there was a house that looked somewhat +better than its neighbors. It had a show-window projecting a +few inches into the street, and in the window was a display of +wine-bottles, and a very dirty placard announcing that oysters would +be served to customers, in every style. On the ground-glass comprising +the upper part of the door, the words "Sample Room" were elaborately +lettered. Ralph heard some one talking inside, and, after a moment of +hesitation, concluded to go in there and make his inquiry, as the need +of finding his way had come to be very pressing. Coming in, as he did, +from the street, the room was quite dark to his eyes, and he could not +well make out, at first, who were in it. But he soon discovered a man +standing, in his shirt-sleeves, behind a bar, and he went up to him +and said:-- + +"Will you please tell me, sir, which is the nearest way to the +railroad station?" + +"Which station d'ye want to go to, bub?" inquired the man, leaning +over the bar to look at him. + +"The one you take the train for Scranton from." + +"Which train for Scranton d'ye want to take?" + +"The one't leaves at noon." + +"Why that train goes in just five minutes. You couldn't catch that +train now, my little cupid, if you should spread your wings and fly to +the station." + +It was not the bar-tender who spoke this time; it was a young man who +had left his chair by the stove and had come up closer to get a better +look at the boy. He was just slipping a silver watch back into his +vest pocket. It was a black silk vest, dotted with little red figures. +Below the vest, encasing the wearer's legs very tightly, were a pair +of much soiled corduroy pantaloons that had once been of a lavender +shade. Over the vest was a short, dark, double-breasted sack coat, now +unbuttoned. A large gaudy, flowing cravat, and an ill-used silk hat, +set well back on the wearer's head, completed this somewhat noticeable +costume. + +There was a good-natured looking face under the hat though, smooth and +freckled; but the eyes were red and heavy, and the tip of the straight +nose was of quite a vermilion hue. + +"No, my dear boy," he continued,-- + + "You can't catch it, + And I can't fetch it, + +"so you may as well take it easy and wait for the next one." + +"When does the next one go?" inquired Ralph, looking up at the strange +young man, but with his eyes still unaccustomed to the darkness of the +room. + +"Four o'clock, my cherub; not till four o'clock. Going up on that +train myself, and I'll see you right through:-- + + "Oh, sonny! if you'll wait and go with me, + How happy and delighted I should be." + +Then the young man did a strange thing; he took hold of Ralph's arm, +led him to the window, turned his face to the light and scrutinized it +closely. + +"Well, I'll be kicked to death by grasshoppers!" he exclaimed, at +last, "have I found--do I behold--is this indeed the long lost Ralph?" + +The boy had broken away from him, and stood with frightened, wondering +face, gazing steadily on the young man, as if trying to call something +to memory. Then a light of recognition came into his eyes, and a smile +to his lips. + +"Why!" he exclaimed, "it's Joe; it's Rhymin' Joe!" + +"A happy meeting," said the young man, "and a mutual remembrance. +Heart speaks to heart. + + "The hand of friendship, ever true, + Brings you to me and me to you. + +"Mr. Bummerton," turning to the bar-tender, "allow me to introduce my +esteemed young friend, Mr. Ralph Craft, the worthy grandson of an old +acquaintance." + +Mr. Bummerton reached a burly hand over the bar and shook hands +cordially with Ralph. "Glad to meet your young friend," he said. + +"Well," continued Rhyming Joe, "isn't it strange how and under what +circumstances old cronies sometimes meet? I cast my eyes on you and I +said to myself, 'that young man has a familiar look to me.' I listened +to your voice and I remarked to my inner consciousness, 'that voice +lingers somewhere in the depths of of memory.' I turn your face to the +light, and lo and behold! I reveal to my astonished gaze the features +of my old friend, Ralph. + + "No tongue can tell my great delight, + At seeing you again to-night. + +"Of course it isn't night yet, you know, but the pressing exigencies of +rhyme often demand the elimination, as it were, of a small portion of +time." + +Ralph was glancing uneasily about the room. "Gran'pa Simon ain't +anywheres around is he?" he asked, letting his eyes rest, with careful +scrutiny, on a drunken man asleep in a chair in a dark corner. + +"No, my boy," answered Joe, "he isn't. I haven't seen the dear old +saint, for, lo, these many moons. Ah!--let me see! did you not leave +the patriarch's sweet home circle, somewhat prematurely, eh? + + "Gave the good old man the slip + Ere the cup could touch the lip?" + +"Yes," said Ralph, "I did. I run away. He didn't use me right." + +"No, he didn't, that's so. Come, be seated--tell me about it. Oh! +you needn't fear. I'll not give it away. Your affectionate grandpa +and I are not on speaking terms. The unpleasant bitterness of our +estrangement is sapping the juices of my young life and dragging the +roses from my cheeks. + + "How sad when lack of faith doth part + The tender from the toughened heart!" + +Rhyming Joe had drawn two chairs near to the stove, and had playfully +forced Ralph into one of them, while he, himself, took the other. + +The bar-tender came out from behind his bar and approached the couple. + +"Oh, by the way," he asked, "did ye have a ticket for your passage up, +or was ye goin' to pay your fare?" + +"Oh, no!" said Ralph, "I ain't got any ticket. Mr. Sharpman paid my +fare down, but I was goin' to pay it back, myself." + +The man stood, for a few minutes, listening to the reminiscences of +their Philadelphia life which Ralph and Joe were recalling, then he +interrupted again:-- + +"How'd ye like to have some dinner, me boy? Ain't ye gittin' a little +hungry? it's after noon now." + +"Well, I am a bit hungry," responded Ralph, "that's a fact. Do you get +dinners here for people?" + +"Oh, certainly! jest as good a dinner as ye'll git anywhere. Don't +charge ye for nothing more'n ye actially eat, neither. Have some?" + +"Well, yes," said the boy, "I guess so; I won't have no better chance +to get any, 'fore I get home." + +"I think," said Rhyming Joe, as the man shuffled away, "that my young +friend would like a dish of soup, then a bit of tenderloin, and a +little chicken-salad, and some quail on toast, with the vegetables +and accessories. For dessert we will have some ices, a few chocolate +eclairs and lady-fingers, and a cup of black coffee. You had better +bring the iced champagne with the dinner, and don't forget the +finger-bowls." + +Before the last words were out of the speaker's mouth, the bar-tender +had disappeared through a door behind the bar, with a wicked smile on +his face. + +It seemed a long time, to Ralph, before the man came back, but when +he did come, he carried in his hands a tray, on which were bowls of +oyster soup, very thin, a few crackers, and two little plates of dirty +butter. He placed them on a round table at one side of the room, and +Ralph and Joe drew up their chairs and began to eat. + +The man came again, a few minutes afterward, with bread, and pork, and +cabbage, and coffee. + +On the whole, it was much better than no dinner, and Ralph's hunger +prevented him from being very critical. The warm food seemed to have +the effect of making him more communicative, and he was allowing his +companion to draw out from him, little by little, as they sat and ate, +the whole story of his life since leaving Simon Craft. Rhyming Joe +appeared to be deeply interested and very sympathetic. + +"Well, you did have a hard time, my dear lad," he said, "out on the +road with that circus company. I travelled with a circus company once, +myself, in the capacity of special entertainer of country people and +inspector of watches and jewelry, but it brings tears to my eyes now, +to remember how ungratefully they treated me." + +"That's jes' like they did me," said Ralph; "w'en I got sick up there +at Scranton, they hadn't no furder use for me, an' they went away an' +lef' me there alone." + +"That was a sad plight to be in. How did you meet that emergency?" + +"I didn't meet it at all. Bachelor Billy, he met it; he foun' me, an' +cured me, an' I live with him now, an' work in the breaker." + +"Ah, indeed! at work. _Laborarium est honorarium_, as the Latin poet +has it. How often have I wished that it were possible for me to earn +my bread by the sweat of my brow; but, alas!--" + +"Ain't it?" interrupted Ralph. + +"No, my dear boy, it isn't. I have been afflicted, from my youth up, +with a chronic disease which the best physicians of both continents +have pronounced imminently dangerous to both life and happiness, if +physical exercise be immoderately indulged in." + +"What is it?" asked Ralph, innocently. + +"Indolentia, my dear boy, indolentia; a terrible affliction. But how +about Grandpa Simon? Has he discovered your retreat? + + "Has the bald, bad eagle of the plain + Swooped down upon his prey again?" + +"Well, not hardly that," responded Ralph, "but he's foun' me." + +"Indeed! And what is his state of mind concerning you now?" + +"He ain't my grandfather," said the boy, abruptly. + +"Ain't your grandfather! You startle me." + +"No, he ain't no relation to me." + +"You take my breath away! Who are you, then?" + +"I'm Ralph Burnham. I'm Robert Burnham's son." + +Ralph had not meant to disclose so much, in this place, to this +fellow, but the words came out before he thought. It did not matter +much anyway,--every one would soon know it. + +"Robert Burnham's son? You don't mean the rich coal proprietor who +died at his mine in Scranton last spring?" + +"Yes, he's the one I mean. I'm his son." + +Rhyming Joe leaned across the table, lifted up the boy's chin, and +looked into his eyes. "My dear young friend," he said, "I fear you +have fallen into evil ways since you passed out of the range of my +beneficent influence. But you should not try to impose so glittering a +romance on the verdant credulity of an old acquaintance at the first +meeting in many weary years." + + "To your faithful friend and true, + Tell the truth, whate'er you do." + +"Tis true!" asserted Ralph, stoutly. "Gran'pa Simon says so, an' +Lawyer Sharpman says so, an' Mrs. Burnham, she--she--she almost +believes it, too, I guess." + +The bar-tender approached again and asked what else they would have. + +"A little something to wash the dinner down with, Bummerton," said +Joe, turning again quickly to Ralph. + +"Then why don't you live in the Burnham mansion?" he asked, "and leave +rude toil for others?" + +"'Cause my mother ain't able to reco'nize me yet; she can't do it till +the suit's ended. They's other heirs, you know." + +"Suit! what suit? are you going to have a suit over it?" + +The bar-tender brought a bottle, a pitcher of water, two glasses, and +a bowl of sugar. + +"Yes," replied the boy, sadly, "I s'pose we've got to. Gran'pa Simon, +he's been 'pointed my garden. He ain't so bad a man as he used to be, +Gran'pa Simon ain't. He's been sick a good deal lately, I guess." + +Rhyming Joe paid no attention to these last remarks, but he seemed to +be deeply interested in the law-suit mentioned. He took time to pour +some of the contents of the bottle into each glass, then he filled the +glasses up with water and stirred a goodly quantity of sugar into the +one he pushed toward Ralph. + +"What is it?" asked the boy. "Uncle Billy an' me's temperance; we +don't drink nothin' much but water." + +"Oh!" responded Joe, "this is purely a temperance drink; it's made up +from wheat, just the same as you get in your white bread. They have to +drink it here in Wilkesbarre, the water is so bad. + + "When man and water both are ill, + A little wheat-juice fills the bill. + +"Try some, you'll find it good." + +Ralph was thirsty, and he sipped a little of the mixture; but he did +not like it very well, and he drank no more of it. + +"Who is going to carry on the suit for you?" continued Rhyming Joe; +"have you got a lawyer?" + +"Oh, yes! Lawyer Sharpman; he's very smart, too. He's goin' to manage +it." + +"And when will the trial come off? Perhaps I may be of some assistance +to you and to my quondam friend, your sometime grandfather. I would +drop all bitterness of feeling, all vain enmity, if I might do the +revered patriarch a favor. + + "My motto has been, and my motto is yet, + That it frequently pays to forgive and forget." + +"Oh! I don't know," Ralph replied; "it'll be two or three months yet, +anyway, I guess." + +Rhyming Joe gazed thoughtfully at the stove. + +Bummerton came and began to take away the dishes. + +"What's your bill, landlord?" inquired Joe. + +"D'ye want the bill for both of ye?" + +"Certainly. My young friend here, if I remember rightly, invited me to +dine with him. I am his guest, and he foots the bills. See?" + +Ralph did not remember to have asked Rhyming Joe to dine with him, but +he did not want to appear mean, so he said:-- + +"Yes, I'll foot the bill; how much is it?" taking out his little +leather wallet as he spoke. + +"It'll be three dollars," said Bummerton; "a dollar an' a quarter +apiece for the dinner, an' a quarter apiece for the drinks." + +Ralph looked up in amazement. He had never before heard of a dinner +being worth so much money. + +"Oh! it's all right," said Joe. "This is rather a high-priced hotel; +but they get up everything in first-class style, do you see? + + "If in style you drink and eat, + Lofty bills you'll have to meet." + +"But I ain't got that much money," said Ralph, unstrapping his wallet. + +"How much have ye got?" inquired the bar-tender. + +"I've only got a dollar'n eighty-two cents." + +"Well, you see, sonny," said Bummerton, "that ain't more'n half +enough. Ye shouldn't order such a fancy dinner 'nless ye've got money +to pay for it." + +"But I didn't know it was goin' to cost so much," protested Ralph. +"Uncle Billy an' me got jest as good a dinner last Fourth o' July at +a place in Scranton, an' it didn't cost both of us but seventy cents. +Besides, I don't b'lieve--" + +"Look here, Bummerton!" said Joe, rising and leading the bar-tender +aside. They whispered together for a few moments and then returned. + +"It's all right," said Joe. "You're to pay him what money you have, +and he's to charge the remainder on my bill. I'll stand the rest of it +for you. + + "I'll be that precious 'friend in need,' + Who proves himself a friend indeed." + +"Then," said Ralph, "I won't have any money left to pay my fare back +home." + +"Oh, I'll see to that!" exclaimed Joe. "I invited you to ride up with +me, didn't I? and of course I'll pay your fare; _das verstekt sich_; +that goes without saying. + + "I'll never desert you, oh, never! he spake, + We'll stand by each other, asleep or awake." + +It was not without much misgiving that Ralph gave the dollar and +eighty-two cents to the bar-tender, and returned the empty wallet to +his pocket. But Rhyming Joe soon engaged him again in conversation. +The young man seemed to be deeply interested in the movement to +restore the boy to his family rights and possessions. He asked +many questions about it, about Craft, about Sharpman, about Ralph's +knowledge of himself; the whole ground, indeed, was gone over +carefully from the beginning to the present; even the probabilities of +the future were fully discussed. + +In the meantime, the liquor in the bottle was steadily diminishing in +quantity, as a result of Rhyming Joe's constant attention to it, and +Ralph thought he began to detect evidences of intoxication in the +speech and conduct of his friend. His nose appeared to be getting +redder, his eyelids were drooping, he was sinking lower into his +chair, his utterance was growing thick, and his voice had a sleepy +tone. + +Ralph, too, felt sleepy. The excitement and exercise of the morning, +the hearty dinner, the warm, close room, and the fumes of alcohol in +the atmosphere, were all having their effect on his senses. He saw, +dimly, that Joe's chin was resting on his breast and that his eyes +were closed; he heard him mutter in a voice that seemed to come from +some distant room:-- + + "Of all 'e bowls I s-s-smell or see, + The wassail bowl's 'e bowl f-f-for me," + +and the next moment both man and boy were fast asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +A FRIEND IN NEED. + + +When Ralph awoke, it was quite dark in the room. He was still sitting +at the round table, but Rhyming Joe had disappeared from the other +side of it. He looked around the room, and saw that an oil-lamp was +burning behind the bar, and that two or three rough-looking men stood +there with the bar-tender, talking and drinking. But the young man who +had dined with him was nowhere to be seen. Ralph arose, and went over +to the bar. + +"Can you tell me where Joe is, please?" he asked of the bar-tender. + +"Joe? Oh, he went out a half-an-hour ago. I don't know where he went, +sonny." And the man went on filling the glasses, and talking to the +other men. Ralph stood for a moment, in deep thought, then he asked:-- + +"Did Joe say when he would be back?" + +The bar-tender paid no attention to him, and, after a few moments, the +boy repeated the question. + +"Mr. Bummerton, did Joe say when he would be back?" + +"No, he didn't," responded the man, in a surly tone; "I don't know +nothing about him." + +Ralph went back, and stood by the stove to consider the matter. He +thought it was very strange. He could hardly believe that Rhyming Toe +had intended to desert him in this way. He preferred to think that the +fellow had become helpless, and that Bummerton had dragged him into +some other room. He knew that Joe used to get that way, years before, +in Philadelphia. He had seen much of him during the wretched period of +his life with Simon Craft. Joe and the old man were together a great +deal during that time. They were engaged jointly in an occupation +which was not strictly within the limit of the law, and which, +therefore, required mutual confidence. The young fellow had, +apparently, taken a great liking to Ralph, had made much of him in +a jovial way, and, indeed, in several instances, had successfully +defended him against the results of Old Simon's wrath. The child had +come to regard him as a friend, and had not been displeased to meet +him, after all these years, in this unexpected manner. He had had a +general idea that the young man's character was not good, and that his +life was not moral, but he had not expected to be badly treated by +him. Now, however, he felt compelled to believe that Joe had abused +the privileges of friendship. The more he thought of it, the more sure +he became that he had been deceived and deserted. He was alone in a +strange city, without money or friends. What was to be done? + +Perhaps the bar-tender, understanding the difficulty, would help him +out of it. He resolved to apply to him. + +"Mr. Bummerton," he said, approaching the bar again, "now't Joe's +gone, an' I ain't got no money, I don't see how I'm goin' to git home. +Could--could you lend me enough to pay my fare up? I'll send it back +to you right away. I will,--honest!" + +The man pushed both his hands into the pockets of his pantaloons, and +stood for a minute staring at the boy, in feigned astonishment. + +"Why, my little innocent!" he exclaimed, "what do ye take me for; +a reg'lar home for the friendless? No, I ain't in the charitable +business jist now. By the way, did ye know that the law don't allow +hotel-keepers to let boys stay in the bar-room? Fust thing I know +they'll be a constable a-swoopin' down on me here with a warrant. +Don't ye think ye'd better excuse yourself? That's the door over +yonder, young feller." + +Ralph turned, without a word, went to the door, opened it, and stepped +into the street. It was very dark outside, and a cold wind was blowing +up. He stood, for a few minutes, on the corner, shivering, and +wondering which way to go. He felt very wretched indeed; not so much +because he was penniless and lost, as because he had been deceived, +abused, and mocked. He saw through the whole scheme now, and wondered +how he had fallen so easily into it. + +On a distant corner there was a street-lamp, burning dimly, and, +without much thought of where he was going, the boy started toward it. + +There were other drinking-saloons along the street, and he could hear +loud talking and quarrelling in them as he passed by. A man came +out from one of them and hailed him gruffly. It frightened him, and +he started to run. The man followed him for a little way, shouting +savagely, and then turned back; but Ralph ran on. He stumbled, +finally, on the uneven pavement, and fell headlong, bruising his side +and hurting his wrist. His cap had rolled off, and it took him a +long time to find it. Then he crossed the street to avoid a party of +drunken revellers, and limped along until he came to the lamp that he +had seen from the distance. Down another street there were a number of +lights, and it looked more inviting; so he turned in that way. After +he had gone two or three blocks in this direction, avoiding carefully +the few persons whom he met, he turned again. The streets were +growing lighter and wider now, and there were more people on them, +and that was something to be thankful for. Finally he reached a busy, +well-lighted thoroughfare, and turned into it, with a sigh of relief. +He had not walked very far along it before he saw, over to the right, +surrounded by lights, a long, low building, in the middle of an open +square. It occurred to him, suddenly, that this was the railroad +station, and he hurried toward it. When he reached the door he +remembered that he was without money, but he thought he would go in at +any rate. He was very tired, and he knew of no better place in which +to stop and rest. So he went into the waiting-room, and sat down on a +bench, and looked around him. + +There were not many people there, but they began to come very soon, +and kept coming until the room was nearly full. Finally, there was a +puffing of a locomotive out on the track, and a ringing of an engine +bell, and the door-keeper called out:-- + +"All aboard for Pittston, Scranton, and Carbondale!" + +The people crowded toward the door, and just then a carriage drove up +to the other side of the station, and a gentleman and a lady and a +little girl came into the waiting-room from the street entrance. The +lady was in deep mourning; but, as she threw aside her veil for a +moment, Ralph recognized her as Mrs. Burnham, and the little girl as +her child. His heart gave a great throb, and he started to his feet. + +The gentleman was saying: "I trust you will reach home safely and +comfortably." + +And Mrs. Burnham replied: "Oh, there is no doubt of it, Mr. Goodlaw! I +have telegraphed to James to meet us at the station; we shall be there +before nine o'clock." + +"I will see that you are comfortably settled," he said, as they +crossed the room toward the waiting train. + +For a moment Ralph stood, wondering and uncertain. Then there came +into his mind a sudden resolution to speak to them, to tell them who +he was, and why and how he was here, and ask them to help him. He +started forward, but they were already passing out at the door. He +pushed hurriedly by several people in his effort to overtake them, but +the man who stood there punching tickets stopped him. + +"Where's your ticket, sonny?" he asked. + +"I ain't got any," replied Ralph. + +"Then you can't get out here." + +"But I want to find Mrs. Burnham." + +"Who's Mrs. Burnham?" + +"The lady't just went out." + +"Has she got a ticket for you?" + +"No, but she'd give me money to get one--I think." + +"Well, I can't help that; you can't go out Come, stand aside! you're +blocking up the way." + +The people, crowding by, pushed Ralph back, and he went and sat down +on the bench again. + +The bell rang, the conductor shouted "All aboard!" and the train +moved off. + +Ralph's eyes were full of tears, and his heart was very heavy. It +was not so much because he was friendless and without money that he +grieved, but because his mother,--his own mother,--had passed him by +in his distress and had not helped him. She had been so close to him +that he could almost have put out his hand and touched her dress, and +yet she had swept by, in her haste, oblivious of his presence. He +knew, of course, that, if he had spoken to her, or if she had seen and +known him, she would gladly have befriended him. But it was not her +assistance that he wanted so much as it was her love. It was the +absence of that sympathy, that devotion, that watchful care over every +step he might take, that motherly instinct that ought to have felt his +presence though her eyes had been blinded; it was the absence of all +this that filled his heart with heaviness. + +But he did not linger long in despair; he dashed the tears from his +eyes, and began to consider what he should do. He thought it probable +that there would be a later train; and it was barely possible that +some one whom he knew might be going up on it. It occurred to him that +Sharpman had said he would be busy in Wilkesbarre all day. Perhaps he +had not gone home yet; if not, he might go on the next train, if there +was one. It was worth while to inquire, at any rate. + +"Yes," said the door-keeper, in answer to Ralph's question, "there'll +be another train going up at eleven thirty-five." + +"Do you know Mr. Sharpman?" asked the boy, timidly. + +"Mr. who?" + +"Mr. Sharpman, the lawyer from Scranton." + +"No, I don't know him,--why?" + +"Oh, I didn't know but you might know w'ether he'd gone home or not; +but, of course, if you don't know 'im you couldn't tell." + +"No, I don't know anything about him," said the man, stretching +himself on the bench for a nap. + +Ralph thought he would wait. Indeed, there was nothing better for him +to do. It was warm here, and he had a seat, and he knew of no other +place in the city where he could be so comfortable. The clock on the +wall informed him that it was eight in the evening. He began to feel +hungry. He could see, through a half-opened door, the tempting array +of food on the lunch-counter in another room; but he knew that he +could get none, and he tried not to think of eating. It was very +quiet now in the waiting-room, and it was not very long before Ralph +fell to dozing and dreaming. He dreamed that he was somewhere in deep +distress, and that his mother came, looking for him, but unable to see +him; that she passed so close to him he put out his hand and touched +her; that he tried to speak to her and could not, and so, unaware of +his presence, she went on, leaving him alone in his misery. + +The noise of persons coming into the room awoke him, finally, and he +sat up and rubbed his eyes and looked around him. He saw, by the clock +on the wall, that it was nearly train time. The escaping steam from +the waiting engine could already be heard outside. People were buying +tickets and making their way hurriedly to the platform; but, among all +those who came in and went out, Ralph could not discover the familiar +face and figure of Sharpman, nor, indeed, could he see any one whom +he knew. + +After the passengers had all gone out, the door-keeper called Ralph to +him. + +"Find your man?" he asked. + +"Do you mean Mr. Sharpman?" + +"Yes." + +"No, he didn't come in. I guess he went home before." + +The door-keeper paused and looked thoughtful. Finally he said:-- + +"You want to go to Scranton?" + +"Yes, that's where I live." + +"Well, I'll tell you what you do. You git onto that train, and when +Jim Coleman--he's the conductor--when he comes around to punch your +ticket, you tell him I said you were to be passed. Now you'll have to +hurry; run!" + +The kind-hearted door-keeper saw Ralph leap on to the train as it +moved slowly out, and then he turned back into the waiting-room. +"Might as well give the lad a lift," he said to a man who stood by, +smiling; "he looked awful solemn when the last train before went and +left him. Jim won't put him off till he gits to Pittston, anyway." + +Ralph found a vacant seat in the car and dropped into it, breathless +and excited. His good luck had come to him all in a moment so, that it +had quite upset him. + +He did not just understand why the door-keeper's word should be good +for his passage, but the conductor would know, and doubtless it was +all right. + +The train went rumbling on through the darkness; the lamps, hanging +from the ceiling, swayed back and forth; the people in the car were +very quiet,--some of them, indeed, were already asleep. + +By and by, the conductor came in, a slender, young-looking man, with +a good-natured face. He greeted several of the passengers pleasantly, +and came down the aisle, punching tickets to the right and left, till +he reached the seat where Ralph was. + +"Ticket?" he asked. + +"I ain't got any," said the boy. + +"What's the reason?" + +"W'y, I lost all my money, an' I couldn't buy one, an' I couldn't see +nobody't I knew, an' the man't tended door, he said tell you to pass +me up." + +The conductor smiled, as he recognized a familiar scheme of the +kind-hearted door-keeper, but he said, trying to speak sternly:-- + +"The man had no right to tell you that. Our rules are very strict. No +one can ride without a ticket or a pass. Where do you want to go?" + +"To Scranton; I live there," said Ralph, his voice faltering with +apprehension. + +"Well, I suppose I ought to stop the train and put you off." + +Ralph looked out through the car window, at the blackness outside, and +his face took on a look of fear. + +"I'm very sorry," he said, "I'm awful sorry. I wouldn't 'a' got on +if I'd 'a' known it. Do you think you've _got_ to put me off--right +away?" + +The conductor looked out through the window, too. + +"Well," he said, "it's pretty dark, and I hate to stop the train +between stations. I guess I'll have to let you ride to Pittston, +anyway. You'll get out there, won't you? it's the first stop." + +"Oh, yes! I'll get out there," said Ralph, much relieved, settling +back into his seat as the conductor left. + +The train dashed on through the night, rumbling, rocking, waking the +echoes now and then with its screaming whistle, and finally it pulled +into the station at Pittston. + +True to his bargain, Ralph stepped from the train. Two or three other +people left it at the same time and hurried away up the street; then +the puffing engine pulled the cars out again into the darkness. + +The boy stood, for a moment or two, wondering what he should do +now. The chill night air made him shiver, and he turned toward +the waiting-room. But the lights were already out there, and the +station-master had locked himself into his office. Off to the left he +saw the street lamps of West Pittston, dotting the blackness here and +there like dim, round stars; and between them and him the dark water +of the river reflected the few lights that shone on it. Finally, Ralph +walked down the length of the platform and turned up the street at the +end of it. + +In a minute or two he had reached Main Street, and stood looking up +and down it, trying to decide which way to go. On the other side, and +a little to the right, he saw a man standing on the corner, under a +street lamp, and looking at him. + +He was an honest-looking man, Ralph thought; may be he would tell him +what to do. He crossed over and went down to where the man stood. + +"Please, mister," he said, "I'd like to find a place to stay all +night." + +The man looked down on him wonderingly, but not unkindly. + +"Is it a hotel ye're after?" he asked. + +"Well, not hardly. I ain't got any money. I only want a place to stay +where I won't be in the dark an' cold alone all night." + +"Do ye belong in Pittston, I don' no'?" + +"No, I live in Scranton." + +"Sure, the train jist wint for there. Why didn't ye go with it?" + +"Well, you see, I didn't have any ticket, an' the conductor, he told +me to--to--he asked me if I wouldn't jest as lieve git off here." + +The man gave a low whistle. + +"Come along with me," he said, "it's little I can do for yez, but it's +better nor the strate." He led the way up the pavement of the side +street a few steps, unlocked a door and entered a building, and Ralph +followed him. + +They seemed to be in a sort of retiring room for the use of the +adjoining offices. A gas light was burning dimly. There was a table +in the room, and there were some chairs. Some engineering tools stood +in one corner, some mining tools in another; caps were hanging on the +wall, and odds and ends of many kinds were scattered about. + +The man took down a heavy overcoat, and spread it on the table. + +"There," he said, "ye can slape on that." + +"That'll be very nice," said Ralph; "it'll be a sight better'n stayin' +out in the street all night." + +"Right ye are, me lad! Compose yoursilf now. Good-night, an' swate +drames to yez! I'm the watchman; I'll be out an' in; it's nothing here +that'll hurt ye, sure; good-night!" and the man went out, and locked +the door after him. + +It was warm in the room, and very comfortable, and it was not long +after the boy laid down on the improvised bed before he was sound +asleep. He did not wake until the day began to dawn, and the watchman +came in and shook him; and it was some moments after he was roused +before he could make out just where he was. But he remembered the +situation, finally, and jumped down on to the floor. + +"I've had a good sleep," he said. "I'm a great deal obliged to you." + +"Don't shpake of it, lad," said the man; "don't shpake of it. Will ye +wash up a bit?" + +"Yes, I would like to," replied Ralph, "very much." + +He was shown the way to the basin and water, and after a few moments +he came back fresh and clean. + +"Ye wouldn't like a bit to ate now, would ye?" asked the watchman, who +had been busying himself about the room. + +"Oh, I can get along very well without it," replied the boy; "you've +done enough for me." + +"Whin did ye ate last?" + +"Well, it must 'a' been some after noon yestaday." + +The man went to a closet and took down a dinner-pail. + +"I've a bit left o' me last-night's dinner," said he; "an' av ye're +the laste bit hungry ye'll not be makin' me carry it home with me." He +had spread a newspaper on the table, and had laid out the pieces of +food upon it. + +"Oh, I am hungry!" responded Ralph, looking eagerly over the tempting +array. "I'm very hungry; but you've been too good to me already, an' +you don't know me, either." + +The man turned his face toward the door, and stood for a minute +without speaking. Then he said, huskily:-- + +"Ate it lad, ate it. Bless your sowl, there's a plinty more where that +come from." + +The boy needed no further urging. He ate the food with great relish, +while the watchman stood by and looked on approvingly. When the meal +was finished, Ralph said:-- + +"Now, I'll be a-goin'. I can't never thank you enough. Maybe I can do +sumpthin' for you, some time, but--" + +"Howld your tongue, now! Didn't I tell ye not to shpake of it?" + +The boy opened the door and looked out upon the dawning day. + +"Ain't it nice!" he said. "I can git along splendid in the daylight. +I ain't afraid, but it's awful lonesome in the dark, 'specially when +you're away from home this way." + +"An' where do ye be goin' now?" inquired the watchman. + +"Home; to Scranton. I can walk there, so long as it's daylight. Oh! I +can git along beautiful now. Which is the bes' way to go?" + +The man looked down at him wonderingly for a moment. "Well, ye do bate +the--the--the prisidint!" he said, going with him to the corner of the +street. "Now, thin, go up the strate straight,--I mean straight up the +strate,--turn nayther to the right nor the lift, an whin the strate +inds, follow the road up the river, an' be it soon or late ye'll come +to Scranton." + +"Thank you! Good-by. I'll al'ays remember you." + +"Good-by, me lad! an' the saints attind ye!" + +They shook hands cordially, and Ralph started up the street on his +long journey toward home, while the watchman turned back to his +duties, with his heart full of kindness and his eyes full of tears. +But he never, never forgot the homeless lad whom he fed and sheltered +that autumn night. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +A FRIEND INDEED. + + +It had been understood, when Ralph went to Wilkesbarre that morning, +that he should return in the afternoon. Bachelor Billy was very much +surprised, therefore, when he returned from his work, not to find +the boy waiting for him. Indeed, he had more than half expected that +Ralph would come up to the breaker to walk home with him, or would, at +least, meet him on the way. The Widow Maloney had not seen him, she +said; and when supper was ready she sent her little girl down the road +to look for him, and to tell him to hurry home. + +Before they had finished eating, the child came back, saying that she +could not find him. They were not worried about him, though; they +thought he had been delayed at court, and would come in on one of the +later trains. So, after supper, Billy lighted his pipe and walked down +toward the city, hoping to meet the lad. He went on until he reached +the railroad station. They told him there that the next train would be +in from Wilkesbarre in about an hour. He concluded to wait for it, so +he sat on one of the benches, and watched the people coming and going, +and smoked his clay-pipe in comparative comfort. The train came at +last, and the passengers from it crowded through the hall-way, and out +into the street. But among them all Bachelor Billy could not discover +Ralph. He saw Mrs. Burnham coming from the cars, though, and it +occurred to him that possibly she might know something about the boy. +She had doubtless come from Wilkesbarre; indeed it was not unlikely +that she had been in court. He did not hesitate to inquire of her; she +knew him very well, and always had a kind word for him when she came +to see Ralph. + +He took off his cap and approached her. "Beggin' your pardon, Mistress +Burnham," he said, "but ha' ye seen aught o' Ralph?" + +The lady stopped in surprise, but in a moment she recognized the man, +and, throwing aside her veil, she replied: "Oh, Billy, is that you? +Ralph, did you say? I have not seen him. Why?" + +"He went to Wilkesbarre the day, ma'am, an' he s'ould 'a' comit hame +sooner, an' I thocht mayhap ye might 'a' rin across the lad, d'ye see. +Pardon me for a-stoppin' o' ye." + +The lady still stood, holding her child by the hand. + +"Did he go alone?" she asked. + +"No, he went doon wi' Muster Sharpman." + +"And has Mr. Sharpman returned?" + +"I did na thenk to ask; that was fulish in me,--I s'ould 'a' gone +there first." + +"I think Mr. Sharpman will look after him. I do not think you need to +worry; perhaps it was necessary for them to remain overnight. But, if +Ralph does not come in the morning, you must let me know, and I shall +assist you in searching for him." + +"Thank ye, Mistress Burnham, thank ye, kindly! I canna feel greatly +concernit ower the lad, sin' he's verra gude at carin' for himsel'. +But, gin he does na come i' the mornin', I s'all mak' search for 'im. +Here's James a-waitin' for ye"; going ahead, as he spoke, to stand by +the fretting horses while James held open the carriage door. + +"Good-night, Billy!" came from inside the coach as it rolled away; and +"Good-night, Billy!" echoed the sweet voice of the child. + +"Good-nicht to both o' ye!" he shouted, standing to watch them until +the carriage disappeared into the darkness. + +"She's verra kin'," he said to himself, as he walked up the street +toward home, "verra kin', but it's no' sic a care as the lad's ane +mither s'ould ha' ower 'im, an' he awa' fra hame i' the darkness o' +the nicht so. But she dinna ken, she dinna ken as he be her son. Coom +a day when that's plain to her, an' she'd spare naught to save 'im fra +the ghost o' danger." + +When Bachelor Billy reached home, Mrs. Maloney was at the door to +ask about Ralph. The man told her what Mrs. Burnham had said, and +expressed an earnest hope that the boy would come safely back in the +morning. Then' he went to his room, started a fire in the grate, and +sat down, by it to smoke. + +It was already past his customary bed-time, but he could not quite +make up his mind to go to bed without Ralph. It seemed a very lonely +and awkward thing for him to do. They had gone to bed together every +night for nearly three years, and it is not easy to break in upon such +a habit as that. + +So Billy sat by the fire and smoked his pipe and thought about the +boy. He was thoroughly convinced that the child was Robert Burnham's +son, and all of his hopes and plans and ambitions, during these days, +were centred in the effort to have Ralph restored his family, and +to his rights as a member of that family. It would be such a fine +thing for the boy, he thought. In the first place, he could have an +education. Bachelor Billy reverenced an education. To him, it was +almost a personality. He held that, with an education, a man could +do anything short of performing miracles; that all possibilities of +goodness or greatness that the world holds were open to him. The very +first thing he would choose for Ralph would be an education. Then the +child would have wealth; that, too, would be a great thing for him +and, through him, for society. The poor would be fed, and the homeless +would be sheltered. He was so sure of the boy's honest heart and +moral firmness that he knew wealth would be a blessing to him and not +a curse. + +And a beautiful home! Once he had been in Robert Burnham's house; and, +for days thereafter, its richness and beauty and its homelike air had +haunted him wherever he went. Yes, the boy would have a beautiful +home. He looked around on the bare walls and scanty furniture of his +own poor dwelling-place as if comparing them with the comforts and +luxuries of the Burnham mansion. The contrast was a sharp one, the +change would be great. But Ralph was so delicate in taste and fancy, +so high-minded, so pure-souled, that nothing would be too beautiful +for him, no luxury would seem strange, no life would be so exalted +that he could not hold himself at its level. The home that had haunted +Bachelor Billy's fancy was the home for Ralph, and there he should +dwell. But then--and the thought came suddenly and for the first time +into the man's mind--when the boy went there to live, he, Billy, would +be alone, _alone_. He would have no one to chatter brightly to him +at the dawn of day, no one to walk with him to their daily tasks at +Burnham Breaker, to eat from the same pail with him the dinner that +had been prepared for both, to come home with him at night, and fill +the bare room in which they lived with light and cheer enough to flood +a palace. Instead of that, every day would be like this day had been, +every night would be as dull and lonely as the night now passing. + +How could he ever endure them? + +He was staring intently into the fire, clutching his pipe in his hand, +and spilling from it the tobacco he had forgotten to smoke. + +The lad would have a mother, too,--a kind, good, beautiful mother to +love him, to caress him, to do a million more things for him than his +Uncle Billy had ever done or ever could do. And the boy would love his +mother, he would love her very tenderly; he ought to; it was right +that he should; but in the beauty and sweetness of such a life as that +would Ralph remember him? How could he hope it? Yet, how could he bear +to be forgotten by the child? How could he ever bear it? + +In his intensity of thought the man had risen to his feet, grasping +his clay pipe so closely that it broke and fell in fragments to the +hearth. + +He looked around again on the bare walls of his home, down on his own +bent form, on his patched, soiled clothing and his clumsy shoes, then +he sank back into his chair, covered his face with his hands, and gave +way to tears. He had lived in this world too long not to know that +prosperity breeds forgetfulness, and he felt already in his heart a +foretaste of the bitterness that should overwhelm him when this boy, +whom he loved as his own child, should leave him alone, forgotten. + +But after a time he looked up again. Pleasanter thoughts were in +his mind. They were thoughts of the days and nights that he and +the boy had spent together, from the time when he had found him, +sick, helpless, and alone, on the dusty highway, in the heat of the +midsummer sun, to these days that were now passing, with their strange +revelations, their bright hopes, their shadowy fears. + +But in all his thought there was no touch of disappointment, no trace +of regret. It was worth it all, he told himself,--worth all the care +he had given to the boy, all the money he had spent to restore him +to health, worth all he had ever done or ever could do for him, just +to have had the lad with him for a year, a month, a week: why it was +worth it all and more, yes, vastly more, just to have felt the small +hand laid once on his arm, to have seen the loving eyes look up once +into his, and to have heard the clear voice say, "Dear Uncle Billy" in +the confiding way he knew so well. + +It was nearly midnight when Bachelor Billy went to bed, and long after +that hour before he fell asleep. + +He awoke several times during the night with a sense of loneliness +and desolation pressing down upon him, and he arose early to prepare +for his day's work. It was arranged at the breakfast-table that Mrs. +Maloney's oldest girl should go down to Lawyer Sharpman's office to +inquire about Ralph, and Billy was to come home at noon, contrary to +his custom, to hear her report. + +Daylight is a great promoter of natural cheer, and the man went away +to his work with a strong hope in his heart of Ralph's speedy return; +and when the long morning had passed and he hurried back to his home, +he half expected that the boy would meet him on the way. But he was +disappointed; even Mrs. Maloney's girl had no news for him. She had +been to Sharpman's office twice, she said, and had not found him in, +though the clerk had told her that Mr. Sharpman had returned from +Wilkesbarre the day before. + +Billy decided then that it was time to make active search for the boy, +and when he had finished a hurried dinner, he put on his best clothes +and started for the city. He thought it would be wise for him to +go first to Sharpman's office and learn what he could there. The +lawyer had not yet returned from lunch, but the clerk said he would +positively be in at half-past one, so Billy took the proffered chair, +and waited. Sharpman came promptly at the time, greeted his visitor +cordially, and took him into his private office. + +"Well, my friend; what can I do for you?" he asked. + +"I cam' to see aboot Ralph, sir; Ralph as lives wi' me." + +"Oh! are you Buckley? William Buckley?" + +"I am, sir. I want to know when saw ye the lad last?" + +"Why, about eleven o'clock yesterday. He came up on the noon train, +didn't he?" + +"I ha' no' seen 'im." + +"Haven't seen him!" exclaimed Sharpman, in a voice expressive of much +alarm. "Haven't seen him since when, man?" + +"Not sin' yester-mornin', when I said 'good-by' till the lad, an' went +t' the breaker. I got scared aboot 'im, an' cam' to look 'im oop." + +Bachelor Billy had become infected with Sharpman's alarm. + +"Well, we _must_ look him up," said the lawyer, putting on his hat, +which he had just laid aside, and taking up a light overcoat. "Come, +we'll go down to the station and see if we can learn anything of him +there." + +Sharpman was really very anxious about the boy; it would interfere +sadly with his scheme to have Ralph disappear again, now. The two men +went out from the door together and down the street at a rapid pace. +But they had not taken two steps around the corner into Lackawanna +Avenue, when they came face to face with the missing boy. He was a +sorry sight, limping slowly along, covered with dust, exhausted from +his journey. He was no less surprised to meet Bachelor Billy and the +lawyer, than they were to meet him, and all three stood speechless, +for a moment, with astonishment. + +"Why, Ralph!" exclaimed Billy, "Ralph, lad, whaur ye been?" + +But Ralph did not know what to say. An overwhelming sense of shame +at his unfortunate adventure and at his wretched condition had come +suddenly to him, and the lawyer's sharp eyes, fixed steadily upon him, +increased his embarrassment not a little. + +"Why don' ye speak, lad? Tell Uncle Billy what's happenit to ye; coom +noo!" and the man took the child's hands affectionately into his. + +Then Ralph spoke. From a full heart, poor lad, he made his confession. + +"Well, Uncle Billy, I got lost in Wilkesbarre; I wasn't used to it, +an' I went into a saloon there, an' they got all my money, an' I got +onto the train 'ithout a ticket, an' the conductor put me off, an' I +had to walk the rest o' the way home; an' I'm pirty tired, an' dirty, +an' 'shamed." + +Sharpman laughed aloud. + +"Ah! that's Wilkesbarre charity," he said; "you were a stranger, and +they took you in. But come, let's go back to my office and talk it +over." + +Secluded in the lawyer's private room Ralph told the whole story of +his adventures from the time he left Sharpman at the court-house door. + +When he had finished, Bachelor Billy said, "Puir lad!" then, turning +to Sharpman, "it was no' his fau't, thenk ye?" + +"Oh, no!" said the lawyer, smiling, "any one might have met with the +same fate: dreadful town, Wilkesbarre is, dreadful! Have you had any +dinner, Ralph?" + +"No, sir," said Ralph, "I haven't." + +"Well, come into my wash-room and brighten yourself up a little. +You're somewhat travel-stained, as it were." + +In ten minutes Ralph reappeared, looking clean and comparatively +fresh. + +"Now," said Sharpman, "you don't resemble quite so strongly the man +who went down from Jerusalem to Jericho. Here, take this," reaching +out some money, "and go down to the restaurant on the corner and +surprise yourself with the best dinner you can buy. Oh, you can pay +it back," as the boy hesitated about accepting the money; "we'll call +it a loan if you like. Come, you agreed to obey my instructions, you +know. Buckley will wait here for you till you get back. Now, don't +hurry!" he said, as Ralph passed out at the door, "there's plenty of +time." + +For some minutes after the boy's departure, Sharpman and Bachelor +Billy sat talking over Ralph's recent adventure. Then the conversation +turned to the prospect for the future, and they agreed that it was +very bright. Finally, the lawyer said:-- + +"He was pretty sick when you first found him, wasn't he?" + +"He was that, verra bad indeed." + +"Called a doctor for him, didn't you?" + +"Oh, yes! Dr. Gunther. He comed every day for a for'night, an' often +he comed twice i' the same day. He was awfu' sick, the chil' was." + +"Footed the doctor's bill, I suppose, didn't you?" + +"Oh, yes, yes; but I did na min' that so long's the lad got well." + +"Had to pay the woman to nurse him and look after him, I take it?" + +"Oh! well, yes; but she needit the money, mon, an' the lad he needit +the noorsin', an' it was doin' a bit double good wi' ma siller, do ye +see?" + +"Well, you've housed and clothed and fed the boy for a matter of three +years or thereabouts, haven't you?" + +"Why, the lad's lived wi' me; he had a right to't. He's the same as my +own son'd be, min' ye." + +"You collect his wages, I presume?" + +"Oh, now! what'd I be doin' wi' the wee bit money that a baby like +him'd earn? He's a-savin' o' it. It ain't much, but mayhap it'll buy +a bit o' schoolin' for the lad some day. Ye s'ould see the braw way +he'll read an' write now, sir." + +Sharpman sat for some time as if in deep thought. Finally, he said:-- + +"Look here, Buckley! You're a poor man; you can't afford to throw away +what little money you earn, nor to let an opportunity slip for turning +an honest penny. You have done a good deal for the boy; I don't see +why you shouldn't be rewarded." + +"I've had ma reward, sir, i' the blessin' o' the lad's company." + +"Yes, that's all very true, but a man must not rob himself; it's +not right. You are getting along in years; you should have a little +something to lay by for old age. We are sure to establish Ralph's +identity, and to recover his interest in his father's estate. I know +that the boy would be delighted to have you paid out of the funds that +would come into our hands, and I am very certain that Mrs. Burnham +would be proud to have your services acknowledged in that way. The +basis of compensation would not be so much the time, labor, and money +actually expended by you, as it would be the value of the property +rescued and cared for. That would figure into a very nice sum. I think +you had better let me manage it, and secure for you something to lay +by for a rainy day, or for old age that is sure to fall on you. What +do you say?" + +But Bachelor Billy had risen to his feet, excited, and in earnest. + +"I'm a poor mon, Muster Sharpman," he said, "an' money's worth a deal +to me, but I could na tak' it for a-doin' what I ha' for Ralph." + +"Why, I am sure your services have been of infinite value, both to the +boy and to his mother." + +"Mayhap! mayhap! that's no' for me to say. But I canna do it. I could +na look ony mon i' the eye wi' a cent o' the lad's money i' ma purse. +It'd seem as though I'd been a-doin' for 'im a' these years wi' a +purpose to get it back in siller some day, an' I never did; I never +thocht o' it, sir. The chil's been as free an' welcome as the sunshine +wi' me. The bit money I ha' spent, the bit care I ha' had wi' 'im, why +that was paid back wi' dooble interest the first week he could sit oop +i' the bed an' talk. It's a blessin' to hear the lad talk to ye. Na, +na! do what ye can for Ralph. Spare naught to get his rightfu' dues; +but me, there's not a penny comin' to me. I've had ma pay, an' that +lang sin', lang sin', do ye mind." + +The lawyer waved his hand, as much as to say: "Very well, you're a +fool, but it's not my fault. I have placed the opportunity within your +reach; if you do not choose to grasp it, you're the loser, not I." But +Sharpman felt that he was the loser, nevertheless. + +He knew that his shrewd scheme to use this honest man as a tool for +the furtherance of his own ends had fallen through, and that the +modest sum which he had expected to gain for himself in this way would +never be his. + +He was not quite so cordial when Ralph returned from his dinner; and, +after a few words of admonition to the boy, he dismissed the pair, and +set himself diligently to the task of preparing a new scheme to take +the place of the one that had just vanished. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +AT THE BAR OF THE COURT. + + +When Ralph went to his work at the breaker on the morning after his +return from Wilkesbarre, he was met with curious glances from the men, +and wondering looks and abrupt questions from the boys. It had become +generally known that he claimed to be Robert Burnham's son, and that +he was about to institute proceedings, through his guardian, to +recover possession of his share of the estate. There was but little +opportunity to interrogate him through the morning hours: the flow of +coal through the chutes was too rapid and constant, and the grinding +and crunching of the rollers, and the rumbling and hammering of the +machinery, were too loud and incessant. + +Ralph worked very diligently too; he was in the mood for work. He +was glad to be at home again and able to work. It was much better +than wandering through the streets of strange towns, without money +or friends. Nor were his hands and eyes less vigilant because of the +bright future that lay before him. He was so certain of the promised +luxuries, the beautiful home, the love of mother and sister, the means +for education,--so sure of them all that he felt he could well afford +to wait, and to work while waiting. This toil and poverty would last +but a few weeks, or a few months at the longest; after that there +would be a lifetime of pleasure and of peace and of satisfied +ambitions. + +So hope nerved his muscles, and anticipation brought color to his +cheeks and fire to his eyes, and the thought of his mother's kiss +lent inspiration to his labor, and no boy that ever worked in Burnham +Breaker performed his task with more skill and diligence than he. + +When the noon hour came the boys took their dinner-pails and ran down +out of the building and over on the hill-side, where they could lie on +the clean grass in the warm September sunshine, and eat and talk until +the bell should call them again to work. + +Here, before the recess was over, Ralph joined them, feeling very +conscious, indeed, of his embarrassing position, but determined to +brave it out. + +Joe Foster set the, ball rolling by asking Ralph how much he had to +pay his lawyer. Some one else followed it up with a question relating +to his expectations for the future, and in a very few minutes the boy +was the object of a perfect broadside of interrogations. + +"Will you have a hoss of your own?" asked Patsey Welch. + +"I don't know," was the reply; "that depen's on what my mother'll +think." + +"Oh! she'll give you one if you want 'im, Mrs. Burnham will," said +another boy; "she'll give you everything you want; she's ter'ble good +that way, they say." + +"Will you own the breaker, an' boss us boys?" came a query from +another quarter. + +Before Ralph could reply to this startling and embarrassing question, +some one else asked:-- + +"How'd you find out who you was, anyway?" + +"Why, my lawyer told me," was the reply. + +"How'd he find out?" + +"Well, a man told him." + +"What man?" + +"Now, look here, fellows!" said Ralph, "I ain't goin' to tell you +everything. It'd predujuice my case too much. I can't do it, I got no +right to." + +Then a doubting Thomas arose. + +"I ain't got nothin' agin him," he began, referring to Ralph, "he's a +good enough feller--for a slate-picker, for w'at I know; but that's +all he is; he ain't a Burnham, no more'n I be, if he was he wouldn't +be a-workin' here in the dirt; it ain't reason'ble." + +Before Ralph could reply, some one took up the cudgel for him. + +"Yes, he is too,--a Burnham. My father says he is, an' Lawyer Sharpman +says he is, an' you don't know nothin' 'bout it." + +Whereupon a great confusion of voices arose, some of the boys denying +Ralph's claim of a right to participate in the privileges allotted to +the Burnham family, while most of them vigorously upheld it. + +Finally, Ralph made his voice heard above the uproar:-- + +"Boys," he said, "they ain't no use o' quarrellin'; we'll all find out +the truth about it 'fore very long. I'm a-goin' to stay here an' work +in the breaker till the thing's settled, an' I want you boys to use me +jest as well as ever you did, an' I'll treat you jest the same as I +al'ays have; now, ain't that fair?" + +"Yes, that's fair!" shouted a dozen boys at a time. "Hooray for Ralph +Burnham!" added another; "hooray!" + +The cheers were given with a will, then the breaker bell rang, and the +boys flocked back to their work. + +Ralph was as good as his word. Every morning he came and took his +place on the bench, and picked slate ten hours a day, just as the +other boys did; and though the subject of his coming prosperity was +often discussed among them, there was never again any malice or +bitterness in the discussion. + +But the days and weeks and months went by. The snows of winter came, +and the north winds howled furiously about the towering heights of +Burnham Breaker. Morning after morning, before it was fairly light, +Ralph and Bachelor Billy trudged through the deep snow on their way to +their work, or faced the driving storms as they plodded home at night. +And still, so far as these two could see, and they talked the matter +over very often, no progress was being made toward the restoration of +Ralph to his family and family rights. + +Sharpman had explained why the delay was expedient, not to say +necessary; and, though the boy tried to be patient, and was very +patient indeed, yet the unquiet feeling remained in his heart, and +grew. + +But at last there was progress. A petition had been presented to +the Orphans' Court, asking for a citation to Margaret Burnham, as +administrator of her husband's estate, to appear and show cause why +she should not pay over to Ralph's guardian a sufficient sum of money +to educate and maintain the boy in a manner befitting his proper +station in life. An answer had been put in by Mrs. Burnham's attorney, +denying that Ralph was the son of Robert Burnham, and an issue had +been asked for to try that disputed fact. The issue had been awarded, +and the case certified to the Common Pleas for trial, and placed on +the trial list for the May term of court. + +As the time for the hearing approached, the preparations for it grew +more active and incessant about Sharpman's office. + +Old Simon had taken up his abode in Scranton for the time being, and +was on hand frequently to inform and advise. Witnesses from distant +points had been subpoenaed, and Ralph, himself, had been called on +several occasions to the lawyer's office to be interrogated about +matters lying within his knowledge or memory. + +The question of the boy's identity had become one of the general +topics of conversation in the city, and, as the time for the trial +approached, public interest in the matter ran high. + +In those days the courts were held at Wilkesbarre for the entire +district. Lackawanna County had not yet been erected out of the +northern part of Luzerne, with Scranton as its county seat. + +There were several suits on the list for the May term that were to be +tried before the Burnham case would come on, so that Ralph did not +find it necessary to go to Wilkesbarre until Thursday of the first +week of court. + +Bachelor Billy accompanied him. He had been subpoenaed as a witness, +and he was glad to be able to go and to have an opportunity to care +for the boy during the time of the trial. + +Spring comes early in the valley of the Susquehanna; and, as the train +dashed along, Ralph, looking from the open window of the car, saw the +whole country white with the blossoms of fruit-bearing trees. The +rains had been frequent and warm, and the springing vegetation, rich +and abundant, reflected its bright green in the waters of the river +along all the miles of their journey. The spring air was warm and +sweet, white clouds were floating in the sky, birds were darting here +and there among the branches of the trees, wild flowers were unfolding +their modest beauty in the very shadow of the iron rails. Ralph saw +and felt it all, his spirit rose into accord with nature, and hope +filled his heart more abundantly than it ever had before. + +When he and Bachelor Billy went into the court-room that afternoon, +Sharpman met them and told them that their case would probably not +be reached that day, the one immediately preceding it having already +taken much more time in the trial than had been expected. But he +advised them not to leave the city. So they went out and walked about +the streets a little, then they wandered down along the river bank, +and sat there looking out upon the water and discussing the method and +probable outcome of the trial. + +When supper-time came, they went to their boarding-house, a cottage in +the suburbs, kept by a man who had formerly known Bachelor Billy in +Scranton. + +The next morning when they went into court the lawyers were making +their addresses to the jury in the case that had been heard on the +previous day, and Ralph and Billy listened to the speeches with +much interest. The judge's charge was a long one, and before it +was concluded the noon-hour had come. But it was known, when court +adjourned, that the Burnham case would be taken up at two o'clock. +Long before that time, however, the benches in the court-room were +filled with people, and even the precincts of the bar were invaded. +The suit had aroused so much interest and excitement that hundreds +of people came simply to see the parties and hear the evidence in +the case. + +At two o'clock Mr. Goodlaw entered, accompanied by Mrs. Burnham and +her little daughter, and all three took seats by a table inside +the bar. + +Sharpman came in a few minutes later, and Simon Craft arose from his +place near the railing and went with him to another table. Ralph, who +was with Bachelor Billy down on a front bench, scarcely recognized the +old man at first, there was so marked a change in his appearance. He +had on a clean new suit of black broadcloth, his linen was white and +well arranged, and he had been freshly shaven. Probably he had not +presented so attractive an appearance before in many years. It was all +due to Sharpman's money and wit. He knew how much it is worth to have +a client look well in the eyes of a jury, and he had acted according +to his knowledge. + +So Old Simon had a very grandfatherly air as he took his seat by the +side of his counsel and laid his cane on the floor beside him. + +After arranging his papers on the table, Sharpman arose and looked +back over the crowded court-room. Finally, catching sight of Ralph, +he motioned to him to come inside the bar. The boy obeyed, but not +without embarrassment. He saw that the eyes of all the people in the +room were fixed on him as he crossed the open space and dropped into a +chair by the side of Craft. But he had passed Mrs. Burnham on his way, +and she had reached out her gloved hand and grasped his little one and +held him by her for a moment to look searchingly and longingly into +his face; and she had said to him some kind words to put him at his +ease, so that the situation was not so very trying, after all. + +The clerk began to call a jury into the box. One by one they answered +to their names, and were scrutinized closely by the lawyers as they +took their places. Then Sharpman examined, carefully, the list of +jurors that was handed to him, and drew his pen through one of the +names. It was that of a man who had once suffered by reason of the +lawyer's shrewdness, and he thought it best to challenge him. + +"Call another juror," he said, passing the list to Goodlaw, who also +struck a name from it, added a new one, and passed it back. + +The jury was finally settled, the challenged men were excused, and the +remaining twelve were duly sworn. + +Then Sharpman arose to open his case. With rapid detail he went over +the history of Ralph's life from the time of the railroad accident +to the day of the trial. He dwelt upon Simon Craft's kindness to the +child, upon his energetic search for the unknown parents, and, later, +for the boy himself; of his final success, of his constant effort in +Ralph's behalf, and his great desire, now, to help him into the family +and fortune to which his birth entitled him. "We shall show to you all +of these facts, gentlemen of the jury," said Sharpman, in conclusion. +"We shall prove to you, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that this boy is +Margaret Burnham's son and an heir to Robert Burnham's estates; and, +having done so, we shall expect a verdict at your hands." + +The lawyer resumed his seat, spent a few moments looking over his +papers, and then said, in a tone of mingled respect and firmness:-- + +"We desire, if your Honor please, to call Mrs. Burnham for the purpose +of cross-examination." + +"That is your privilege under the law," said the judge. + +"Mrs. Burnham," continued Sharpman, "will you kindly take the stand?" + +"Certainly," replied the lady. + +She arose, advanced to the witness-stand, received the oath, and took +her chair with a matronly dignity and kindly grace that aroused the +sympathy and admiration of all who saw her. She gave her name, the +date of her marriage to Robert Burnham, the fact of his death, and the +names and ages of her children. In the course of the examination, she +was asked to describe the railway journey which ended in the disaster +at Cherry Brook, and to give the details of that disaster as she +remembered them. + +"Can you not spare me that recital, sir?" she said. + +"No one would be more willing or glad to do so, madam," responded +Sharpman, "than I, but the whole future of this fatherless boy is +hanging upon this examination, and I dare not do it. I will try to +make it easier for you, however, by interrogation." + +She had hidden her face in her hands a moment before; now she raised +it, pallid, but fixed with strong determination. + +"Go on," she said, "I will answer you." + +Sharpman stood for a moment as if collecting his thoughts, then he +asked: "Did you and your husband, accompanied by your child Ralph and +his nurse, leave your home in Scranton on the thirteenth day of May, +1859, to go by rail to the city of Philadelphia?" + +"We did." + +"Was the car in which you were riding well filled?" + +"It was not; no, sir." + +"How many children were in that car besides your son?" + +"Only one." + +"A boy?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"About how old?" + +"About Ralph's age, I should think." + +"With whom was he travelling?" + +"With an elderly gentleman whom he called, 'Grandpa.'" + +"Before you reached Philadelphia, did the bridge over Cherry Creek +give way and precipitate the car in which you were riding into the bed +of the stream?" + +"It did; yes, sir." + +"Immediately before that occurred where was your child?" + +"He was sitting with his nurse in the second seat ahead of us." + +"And the other child, where was he?" + +"Just across the aisle." + +"Did you see that other child after the accident?" + +"I did not; I only know that he survived it." + +"How do you know it?" + +"We learned, on inquiry, that the same old gentleman and little +child went on to the city in the train which carried the rescued +passengers." + +"You and your husband were both injured in the disaster, were you +not?" + +"We were." + +"And the nurse lost her life?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"How long was it after the accident before you began the search for +your child?" + +"It was nearly three days afterward before we were sufficiently +recovered to be able to do anything." + +"Did you find any trace of him?" + +"None whatever." + +"Any clothing or jewelry?" + +"Only a few trinkets in the ashes of the wreck." + +"Is it your belief that Ralph perished in that disaster?" + +"It is; yes, sir." + +"Would it take strong evidence to convince you to the contrary?" + +"I think it would." + +"Ralph," said Sharpman, turning to the boy, "stand up!" + +The lad arose. + +"Have you seen this boy before?" continued the lawyer, addressing the +witness again. + +"I have," she replied, "on several occasions." + +"Are you familiar with his face, his expression, his manner?" + +"To a great extent--yes, sir." + +"Do you recognize him as your son Ralph?" + +She looked down, long and searchingly, into the boy's face, and then +replied, deliberately, "No, sir, I do not." + +"That is all, Mrs. Burnham." + +Ralph was surprised and disappointed. He had not quite expected this. +He had thought she would say, perhaps, that she would receive him as +her son when his claim was duly proven. He would not have wondered +at that, but that she should positively, under oath, deny their +relationship to each other, had not been to him, before, within the +range of possibility. His brightness and enthusiasm were quenched +in a moment, and a chill crept up to his heart, as he saw the lady +come down from the witness-stand, throw her widow's veil across her +face, and resume her seat at the table. The case had taken on a new, +strange, harsh aspect in his sight. It seemed to him that a barrier +had been suddenly erected between him and the lady whom he had learned +to love as his mother; a barrier which no verdict of the jury or +judgment of the court, even though he should receive them, would help +him to surmount. + +Of what use were these things, if motherly recognition was to be +denied him? He began to feel that it would be almost better to go back +at once to the not unpleasant home with Bachelor Billy, than to try to +grasp something which, it now seemed, was lying beyond his reach. + +He was just considering the advisability of crossing over to Sharpman +and suggesting to him that he was willing to drop the proceedings, +when that person called another witness to the stand. This was a +heavily built man, with close-cropped beard, bronzed face, and one +sleeve empty of its arm. He gave his name as William B. Merrick, and +said that he was conductor of the train that broke through the Cherry +Brook bridge, on the night of May 13, 1859. + +"Did you see, on your train that night," asked Sharpman, "the witness +who has just left the stand?" + +"I cannot be positive," the man replied, "but, to the best of my +recollection, the lady was a passenger in the rear car." + +"With whom was she travelling?" + +"With a gentleman whom I afterward learned was her husband, a little +boy some two or three years of age, and the child's nurse." + +"Were there any other children on the train?" + +"Yes, one, a boy of about the same age, riding in the same car in +company with an elderly gentleman." + +"Did you see either of these children after the disaster?" + +"I saw one of them." + +"Which one?" + +"I supposed, at the time, that it was the one who accompanied the old +gentleman." + +"Why did you suppose so?" + +"Because I saw a child who bore marks of having been in the wreck +riding in the car which carried the rescued passengers to the city, +and he was in company with an elderly man." + +"Was he the same elderly man whom you saw with the child before the +accident?" + +"I cannot say; my attention was not particularly called to him before +the accident; but I supposed he was the one, from the fact of his +having the child with him." + +"Could you, at this time, recognize the man whom you saw with the +child after the accident?" + +"I think so. I took especial notice of him then." + +"Look at this old gentleman, sitting by me," said Sharpman, waving his +hand toward Craft, "and tell me whether he is the one." + +The man turned his eyes on Old Simon, and looked at him closely for a +full minute. + +"Yes," he replied, "I believe he is the one. He has grown older and +thinner, but I do not think I am mistaken." + +Craft nodded his head mildly in assent, and Sharpman continued:-- + +"Did you take particular notice of the child's clothing as you saw it +after the accident; could you recognize, at this time, the principal +articles of outside wear that he had on?" + +"I think I could." + +Sharpman paused as if in thought. + +After he had whispered for a moment with Craft, he said to the +witness:-- + +"That is all, for the present, Mr. Merrick." Then he turned to the +opposing counsel and said:-- + +"Mr. Goodlaw, you may take the witness." + +Goodlaw fixed his glasses more firmly on his nose, consulted briefly +with his client, and then began his cross-examination. + +After drawing out much of the personal history of the witness, he went +with him into the details of the Cherry Brook disaster. + +Finally he asked:-- + +"Did you know Robert Burnham in his lifetime?" + +"A gentleman by that name called on me a week after the accident to +make inquiries about his son." + +"Did you say to him, at that time, that the child must have perished +in the wreck?" + +"I think I did; yes, sir." + +"On what did you base your opinion?" + +"On several circumstances. The nurse with whom he was sitting was +killed outright; it would seem to have been impossible for any one +occupying that seat to have escaped instant death, since the other +car struck and rested at just that point. Again, there were but two +children on the train. It took it for granted that the old man and +child whom I saw together after the accident were the same ones whom I +had seen together before it occurred." + +"Did you tell Mr. Burnham of seeing this old man and child after the +accident?" + +"I did; yes, sir." + +"Did you not say to him positively, at that time, that they were the +same persons who were sitting together across the aisle from him +before the crash came?" + +"It may be that I did." + +"And did you not assure him that the child who went to the city, on +the train that night after the accident was not his son?" + +"I may have done so. I felt quite positive of it at that time." + +"Has your opinion in that matter changed since then?" + +"Not as to the facts; no, sir; but I feel that I may have taken too +much for granted at that time, and have given Mr. Burnham a wrong +impression." + +"At which time, sir, would you be better able to form an opinion,--one +week after this accident occurred, or ten years afterward?" + +"My opinion is formed on the facts; and I assure you that they were +not weighted with such light consequences for me that I have easily +forgotten them. If there were any tendency to do so, I have here a +constant reminder," holding up his empty sleeve as he spoke. "My +judgment is better, to-day, than it was ten years ago. I have learned +more; and, looking carefully over the facts in this case in the light +I now have, I believe it possible that this son of Robert Burnham's +may have been saved." + +"That will do," said Goodlaw. The witness left the stand, and the +judge, looking up at the clock on the wall, and then consulting his +watch, said:-- + +"Gentlemen, it is nearly time to adjourn court. Mr. Sharpman, can you +close your case before adjourning time?" + +"That will be impossible, your Honor." + +"Then, crier, you may adjourn the court until to-morrow morning at +nine o'clock." + +The crier made due proclamation, the spectators began to crowd out of +the room, the judge left the bench, and the lawyers gathered up their +papers. Ralph, on his way out, again passed by Mrs. Burnham, and she +had for him a smile and a kind word. Bachelor Billy stood waiting at +the door, and the boy went down with him to their humble lodgings in +the suburbs, his mind filled with conflicting thoughts, and his heart +with conflicting emotions. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +THE EVIDENCE IN THE CASE. + + +When court opened on Saturday morning, all the persons interested in +the Burnham suit were present, and the court-room was crowded to even +a greater extent than it had been on the previous day. Sharpman began +the proceedings by offering in evidence the files of the Register's +court, showing the date of Robert Burnham's death, the issuing +of letters of administration to his widow, and the inventory and +appraisement of his personal estate. + +Then he called Simon Craft to the witness-stand. There was a stir of +excitement in the room; every one was curious to see this witness and +to hear his evidence. + +The old man did not present an unfavorable appearance, as he sat, +leaning on his cane, dressed in his new black suit, waiting for the +examination to begin. He looked across the bar into the faces of the +people with the utmost calmness. He was perfectly at his ease. He knew +that what he was about to tell was absolutely true in all material +respects, and this fact inspired him with confidence in his ability to +tell it effectually. It relieved him, also, of the necessity for that +constant evasion and watchfulness which had characterized his efforts +as a witness in other cases. + +The formal questions relating to his residence, age, occupation, etc., +were answered with alacrity. + +Then Sharpman, pointing to Ralph, asked the witness:-- + +"Do you know this boy?" + +"I do," answered Craft, unhesitatingly. + +"What is his name?" + +"Ralph Burnham." + +"When did you first see him?" + +"On the night of May 13, 1859." + +"Under what circumstances?" + +This question, as by previous arrangement between attorney and +witness, opened up the way for a narration of facts, and old Simon, +clearing his throat, leaned across the railing of the witness-box and +began. + +He related in detail, and with much dramatic effect, the scenes at the +accident, his rescue of the boy, his effort at the time to find some +one to whom he belonged, and the ride into the city afterward. He +corroborated conductor Merrick's story of the meeting on the train +which carried the rescued passengers, and related the conversation +which passed between them, as nearly as he could remember it. + +He told of his attempts to find the child's friends during the few +days that followed, then of the long and desperate illness from which +he suffered as a result of his exertion and exposure on the night +of the accident. From that point, he went on with an account of his +continued care for the child, of his incessant search for clews to +the lad's identity, of his final success, of Ralph's unaccountable +disappearance, and of his own regret and disappointment thereat. + +He said that the lad had grown into his affections to so great an +extent, and his sympathy for the child's parents was such, that he +could not let him go in that way, and so he started out to find him. + +He told how he traced him from one point to another, until he was +taken up by the circus wagon, how the scent was then lost, and how the +boy's whereabouts remained a mystery to him, until the happy discovery +at the tent in Scranton. + +"Well," said Sharpman, "when you had found the boy, what did you do?" + +"I went, the very next day," was the reply, "to Robert Burnham to tell +him that his son was living." + +"What conversation did you have with him?" + +"I object," interposed Goodlaw, "to evidence of any alleged +conversation between this witness and Robert Burnham. Counsel should +know better than to ask for it." + +"The question is not a proper one," said the judge. + +"Well," continued Sharpman, "as a result of that meeting what were you +to do?" + +"I was to bring his son to him the following day." + +"Did you bring him?" + +"I did not." + +"Why not?" + +"Mr. Burnham died that night." + +"What did you do then?" + +"I went to you for advice." + +"In pursuance of that advice, did you have an interview with the boy +Ralph?" + +"I did." + +"Where?" + +"At your office." + +"Did you explain to him the facts concerning his parentage and +history?" + +"They were explained to him." + +"What did he say he wished you to do for him?" + +Goodlaw interrupted again, to object to the testimony offered as +incompetent and thereupon ensued an argument between counsel, which +was cut short by the judge ordering the testimony to be excluded, and +directing a bill of exceptions to be sealed for the plaintiff. + +The hour for the noon recess had now come, and court was adjourned to +meet again at two o'clock. + +When the afternoon session was called, Sharpman announced that he was +through with the direct examination of Craft. + +Then Goodlaw took the witness in hand. He asked many questions about +Craft's personal history, about the wreck, and about the rescue of the +child. He demanded a full account of the way in which Robert Burnham +had been discovered, by the witness and found to be Ralph's father. He +called for the explicit reason for every opinion given, but Old Simon +was on safe ground, and his testimony remained unshaken. + +Finally, Goodlaw asked:-- + +"What is your occupation, Mr. Craft?" and Craft answered: "I have no +occupation at present, except to see that this boy gets his rights." + +"What was your occupation during the time that this boy lived with +you?" + +"I was a travelling salesman." + +"What did you sell?" + +"Jewelry, mostly." + +"For whom did you sell the jewelry?" + +"For myself, and others who employed me." + +"Where did you obtain the goods you sold?" + +"Some of it I bought, some of it I sold on commission." + +"Of whom did you buy it?" + +"Sometimes I bought it at auction, or at sheriff's sales; sometimes of +private parties; sometimes of manufacturers and wholesalers." + +Goodlaw rose to his feet. "Now, as a matter of fact, sir," he said, +sternly, "did not you retail goods through the country that had been +furnished to you by your confederates in crime? and was not your house +in the city a place for the reception of stolen wares?" + +Craft's cane came to the floor with a sharp rap. "No, sir!" he +replied, with much indignation; "I have never harbored thieves, nor +sold stolen goods to my knowledge. You insult me, sir!" + +Goodlaw resumed his seat, looked at some notes in pencil on a slip of +paper, and then resumed the examination. + +"Did you send this boy out on the streets to beg?" he asked. + +"Well, you see, we had pretty hard work sometimes to get along and get +enough to eat, and--" + +"I say, did you send this boy out on the streets to beg?" + +"Well, I'm telling you that sometimes we had either to beg or to +starve. Then the boy went out and asked aid from wealthy people." + +"Did you send him?" + +"Yes, I did; but not against his will." + +"Did you sometimes whip him for not bringing back money to you from +his begging excursions?" + +"I punished him once or twice for telling falsehoods to me." + +"Did you beat him for not bringing money to you when you sent him out +to beg?" + +"He came home once or twice when I had reason to believe that he had +made no effort to procure assistance for us, and--" + +Goodlaw rose to his feet again. + +"Answer my question!" he exclaimed. "Did you beat this boy for not +bringing back money to you when you had sent him out to beg?" + +"Yes, I did," replied Craft, now thoroughly aroused, "and I'd do it +again, too, under the same circumstances." + +Then he was seized with a fit of coughing that racked his feeble body +from head to foot. A tipstaff brought him a glass of water, and he +finally recovered. + +Goodlaw continued, sarcastically,-- + +"When you found it necessary to correct this boy by the gentle +persuasion of force, what kind of a weapon did you use?" + +The witness answered, mildly enough, "I had a little strip of leather +that I used when it was unavoidably necessary." + +"A rawhide, was it?" + +"I said a little strip of leather. You can call it what you choose." + +"Was it the kind of a strip of leather commonly known as a rawhide?" + +"It was." + +"What other mode of punishment did you practise on this child besides +rawhiding him?" + +"I can't recall any." + +"Did you pull his ears?" + +"Probably." + +"Pinch his flesh?" + +"Sometimes." + +"Pull his hair?" + +"Oh, I shouldn't wonder." + +"Knock him down with your fist?" + +"No, sir! never, never!" + +"Did you never strike him with the palm of your hand?" + +"Well, I have slapped him when my patience with him has been +exhausted." + +"Did any of these slaps ever happen to push him over?" + +"Why, he used to tumble onto the floor sometimes, to cry and pretend +he was hurt." + +"Well, what other means of grandfatherly persuasion did you use in +correcting the child?" + +"I don't know of any." + +"Did you ever lock him up in a dark closet?" + +"I think I did, once or twice; yes." + +"For how long at a time?" + +"Oh, not more than an hour or two." + +"Now, didn't you lock him up that way once, and keep him locked up all +day and all night?" + +"I think not so long as that. He was unusually stubborn. I told him he +could come out as soon as he would promise obedience. He remained in +there of his own accord." + +"Appeared to like it, did he?" + +"I can't say as to that." + +"For how long a time did you say he stayed there?" + +"Oh, I think from one afternoon till the next." + +"Did he have anything to eat during that time?" + +"I promised him abundance if he would do as I told him." + +"Did he have anything to eat?" emphatically. + +"No!" just as emphatically. + +"What was it he refused to do?" + +"Simply to go on a little errand for me." + +"Where?" + +"To the house of a friend." + +"For what purpose?" + +"To get some jewelry." + +"Was the jewelry yours?" + +"I expected to purchase it." + +"Had it been stolen?" + +"Not to my knowledge." + +"Did the boy think it had been stolen?" + +"He pretended to." + +"Was that the reason he would not go?" + +"It was the reason he gave." + +"Have the city police found stolen goods on your premises?" + +"They have confiscated goods that were innocently purchased by me; +they have robbed me." + +"Did you compel this boy to lie to the officers when they came?" + +"I made him hold his tongue." + +"Did you make him lie?" + +"I ordered him not to tell where certain goods were stored in the +house, on pain of being thrashed within an inch of his life. The goods +were mine, bought with my money, and it was none of their business +where they were." + +"Did you not command the boy to say that there were no such goods in +the house?" + +"I don't know--perhaps; I was exasperated at the outrage they were +perpetrating in the name of law." + +"Then you did make him lie?" + +"Yes, if you call it lying to protect your own property from robbers, +I did make him lie!" + +"More than once?" + +"I don't know." + +"Did you make him steal?" + +"I made him take what belonged to us." + +"Did you make him _steal_, I say!" + +"Call it what you like!" shouted the angered and excited old man. +He had become so annoyed and harassed by this persistent, searching +cross-examination that he was growing reckless and telling the truth +in spite of himself. Besides, it seemed to him that Goodlaw must know +all about Ralph's life with him, and he dared not go far astray in his +answers. + +But the lawyer knew only what Craft himself was disclosing. He based +each question on the answers that had preceded it, long practice +having enabled him to estimate closely what was lying in the mind of +the witness. + +"And so," continued Goodlaw, "when you returned from one of your trips +into the country you found that the boy had disappeared?" + +"He had." + +"Were you surprised at that?" + +"Yes, I was." + +"Had you any idea why he went away?" + +"None whatever. He was well fed and clothed and cared for." + +"Did it ever occur to you that the Almighty made some boys with hearts +so honest that they had rather starve and die by the roadside than be +made to lie and steal at home?" + +The old man did not answer, he was too greatly surprised and angered +to reply. + +"Well," said Sharpman, calmly, "I don't know, if your Honor please, +that the witness is bound to be sufficiently versed in the subject of +Christian ethics to answer questions of that kind." + +"He need not answer it," said the judge. + +Then Sharpman continued, more vehemently: "The cross-examination, +as conducted by the eminent counsel, has, thus far, been simply an +outrage on professional courtesy. I ask now that the gentleman be +confined to questions which are germane to the issue and decently +put." + +"I have but a few more questions to ask," said Goodlaw. + +Turning to the witness again, he continued: "If you succeed in +establishing this boy's identity, you will have a bill to present for +care and moneys expended and services performed on his account, will +you not?" + +"I expect so; yes, sir." + +"As the service continued through a period of years, the bill will +amount now to quite a large sum, I presume?" + +"Yes, I nave done a good deal for the boy." + +"You expect to retain the usual commission for your services as +guardian, do you not?" + +"I do." + +"And to control the moneys and properties that may come into your +hands?" + +"Well--yes." + +"About how much money, all together, do you expect to make out of this +estate?" + +"I do not look on it in that light, sir; I am taking these proceedings +simply to compel you and your client to give that boy his rights." + +This impudent assertion angered Goodlaw, who well knew the object of +the plot, and he rose from his chair, saying deliberately:-- + +"Do you mean to swear that this is not a deep-laid scheme on the part +of you and your attorney to wrest from this estate enough to make a +fortune for you both? Do you mean to say mat you care as much for this +boy's rights as you do for the dust in your path?" + +Craft's face paled, and Sharpman started to his feet, red with +passion. + +"This is the last straw!" he exclaimed, hoarsely; "now I intend"-- + +But the judge, fearing an uncontrollable outbreak of temper, +interrupted him, saying:-- + +"Your witness need not answer the question in that form, Mr. Sharpman. +Mr. Goodlaw, do you desire to cross-examine the witness further?" + +Goodlaw had resumed his seat and was turning over his papers. + +"I do not care to take up the time of the court any longer," he said, +"with this witness." + +"Then, Mr. Sharpman, you may proceed with further evidence." + +But Sharpman was still smarting from the blow inflicted by his +opponent. "I desire, first," he said, "that the court shall take +measures to protect me and my client from the unfounded and insulting +charges of counsel for the defence." + +"We will see," said the judge, "that no harm comes to you or to your +cause from irrelevant matter interjected by counsel. But let us get on +with the case. We are taking too much time." + +Sharpman turned again to his papers and called the name of "Anthony +Henderson." + +An old man arose in the audience, and made his way feebly to the +witness-stand, which had just been vacated by Craft. + +After he had been sworn, he said, in reply to questions by Sharpman, +that he was a resident of St. Louis; that in May, 1859, he was on his +way east with his little grandson, and went down with the train that +broke through the bridge at Cherry Brook. + +He said that before the crash came he had noticed a lady and gentleman +sitting across the aisle from him, and a nurse and child a few seats +further ahead; that his attention had been called to the child +particularly, because he was a boy and about the age of his own little +grandson. + +He said he was on the train that carried the rescued passengers to +Philadelphia after the accident, and that, passing through the car, +he had seen the same child who had been with the nurse now sitting +with an old man; he was sure the child was the same, as he stopped +and looked at him closely. The features of the old man he could not +remember. For two days he searched for his grandson, but being met, on +every hand, by indisputable proof that the child had perished in the +wreck, he then started on his return journey to St. Louis, and had not +since been east until the week before the trial. + +"How did the plaintiff in this case find you out?" asked Goodlaw, on +cross-examination. + +"I found him out," replied the witness. "I learned, from the +newspapers, that the trial was to take place; and, seeing that it +related to the Cherry Brook disaster, I came here to learn what little +else I might in connection with my grandchild's death. I went, first, +to see the counsel for the plaintiff and his client." + +"Have you learned anything new about your grandson?" + +"No, sir; nothing." + +"Have you heard from him since the accident?" + +"I have not." + +"Are you sure he is dead?" + +"I have no doubt of it." + +"Can you recognize this boy," pointing to Ralph, "as the one whom you +saw with the nurse and afterward with the old man on the night of the +accident?" + +"Oh, no! he was a mere baby at that time." + +"Are you positive that the boy in court is not your grandson?" + +"Perfectly positive, there is not the slightest resemblance." + +"That will do." + +The cross-examination had done little more than to strengthen the +direct testimony. Mrs. Burnham had thrown aside her veil and gazed +intently at the witness from the moment he went on the stand. She +recognized him as the man who sat across the aisle from her, with his +grandchild, on the night of the disaster, and she knew that he was +telling the truth. There seemed to be no escape from the conclusion +that it was her child who went down to the city that night with Simon +Craft. Was it her child who escaped from him, and wandered, sick and +destitute, almost to her own door? Her thought was interrupted by +the voice of Sharpman, who had faced the crowded court-room and was +calling the name of another witness: "Richard Lyon!" + +A young man in short jacket and plaid trousers took the witness-stand. + +"What is your occupation?" asked Sharpman, after the man had given his +name and residence. + +"I'm a driver for Farnum an' Furkison." + +"Who are Farnum and Furkison?" + +"They run the Great European Circus an' Menagerie." + +"Have you ever seen this boy before?" pointing to Ralph. + +"Yes, sir." + +"When?" + +"Three years ago this summer." + +"Where?" + +"Down in Pennsylvania. It was after we left Bloomsburg, I think, I +picked 'im up along the road an' give 'im a ride on the tiger wagon." + +"How long did he stay with you?" + +"Oh, I don't remember; four or five days, maybe." + +"What did he do?" + +"Well, not much; chored around a little." + +"Did he tell you where he came from?" + +"No, nor he wouldn't tell his name. Seemed to be afraid somebody'd +ketch 'im; I couldn't make out who. He talked about some one he called +Gran'pa Craft two or three times w'en he was off his guard, an' I +reckoned from what he said that he come from Philadelphy." + +"Where did he leave you?" + +"Didn't leave us at all. We left him; played the desertion act on +'im." + +"Where?" + +"At Scranton." + +"Why?" + +"Well, he wasn't much use to us, an' he got sick an' couldn't do +anything, an' the boss wouldn't let us take 'im no further, so we left +'im there." + +"Are you sure this is the boy?" + +"Oh, yes! positive. He's bigger, an' looks better now, but he's the +same boy, I know he is." + +"Cross-examine." + +This last remark was addressed to the defendant's attorney. + +"I have no questions to ask," said Goodlaw, "I have no doubt the +witness tells the truth." + +"That's all," said Sharpman, quickly; then, turning again toward the +court-room, he called: + +"William Buckley!" + +Bachelor Billy arose from among the crowds on the front benches, and +made his way awkwardly around the aisle and up to the witness-stand. +After the usual preliminary questions had been asked and answered, he +waited, looking out over the multitude of faces turned toward him, +while Sharpman consulted his notes. + +"Do you know this boy?" the lawyer asked, pointing to Ralph. + +"Do I know that boy?" repeated Billy, pointing also to Ralph, "'deed I +do that. I ken 'im weel." + +"When did you first see him?" + +"An he's the son o' Robert Burnham, I seen 'im first i' the arms o' +'is mither a matter o' ten year back or so. She cam' t' the breaker +on a day wi' her gude mon, an' she had the bairnie in her arms. Ye'll +remember it, na doot, Mistress Burnham," turning to that lady as he +spoke, "how ye said to me 'Billy,' said ye, 'saw ye ever so fine a +baby as'"-- + +"Well, never mind that," interrupted Sharpman; "when did you next see +the boy?" + +"Never till I pickit 'im up o' the road." + +"And when was that?" + +"It'll be three year come the middle o' June. I canna tell ye the +day." + +"On what road was it?" + +"I'll tell ye how it cam' aboot. It was the mornin' after the circus. +I was a-comin' doon fra Providence, an' when I got along the ither +side o' whaur the tents was I see a bit lad a-layin' by the roadside, +sick. It was him," pointing to Ralph and smiling kindly on him, "it +was Ralph yonner. I says to 'im, 'What's the matter wi' ye, laddie?' +says I. 'I'm sick,' says 'e, 'an' they've goned an' lef me.' 'Who's +lef' ye?' says I. 'The circus,' says he. 'An' ha' ye no place to go?' +says I. 'No,' says 'e, 'I ain't; not any.' So I said t' the lad as he +s'ould come along wi' me. He could na walk, he was too sick, I carried +'im, but he was no' much o' a load. I took 'im hame wi' me an' pit +'im i' the bed. He got warse, an' I bringit the doctor. Oh! but he +was awfu' sick, the lad was, but he pullit through as cheerfu' as ye +please. An' the Widow Maloney she 'tended 'im like a mither, she did." + +"Did you find out where he came from?" + +"Wull, he said little aboot 'imsel' at the first, he was a bit +afraid to talk wi' strangers, but he tellit, later on, that he cam' +fra Philadelphy. He tellit me, in fact," said Billy, in a burst of +confidence, "that 'e rin awa' fra th'auld mon, Simon Craft, him that's +a-settin' yonner. But it's small blame to the lad; ye s'ould na lay +that up again' 'im. He _had_ to do it, look ye! had ye not, eh, +Ralph?" + +Before Ralph could reply, Sharpman interrupted: "And has the boy been +with you ever since?" + +"He has that, an' I could na think o' his goin' awa' noo, an it would +na be for his gret good." + +"In your intercourse with the boy through three years, have you +noticed in him any indications of higher birth than is usually found +among the boys who work about the mines? I mean, do his manners, modes +of thought, impulses, expressions, indicate, to your mind, better +blood than ordinary?" + +"Why, yes," replied the witness, slowly grasping the idea, "yes. He +has a way wi' 'im, the lad has, that ye'd think he did na belong amang +such as we. He's as gentle as a lass, an' that lovin', why, he's that +lovin' that ye could na speak sharp till 'im an ye had need to. But +ye'll no' need to, Mistress Burnham, ye'll no' need to." + +The lady was sitting with her veil across her face, smiling now and +then, wiping away a tear or two, listening carefully to catch every +word. + +Then the witness was turned over to the counsel for the defence, for +cross-examination. + +"What else has the boy done or said to make you think he is of gentler +birth than his companions in the breaker?" asked Goodlaw, somewhat +sarcastically. + +"Why, the lad does na swear nor say bad words." + +"What else?" + +"He's tidy wi' the clothes, an' he _wull_ be clean." + +"What else?" + +"What else? wull, they be times when he says things to ye so quick +like, so bright like, so lofty like, 'at ye'd mos' think he was na +human like the rest o' us. An' 'e fears naught, ye canna mak' 'im +afeard o' doin' what's richt. D'ye min' the time 'e jumpit on the +carriage an' went doon wi' the rest o' them to bring oot the burnit +uns? an' cam' up alive when Robert Burnham met his death? Ah, mon! no +coward chiel 'd 'a' done like that." + +"Might not a child of very lowly birth do all the things you speak of +under proper training and certain influences?" + +"Mayhap, but it's no' likely, no' likely. Hold! wait a bit! I dinna +mean but that a poor mon's childer can be bright, braw, guid boys an' +girls; they be, I ken mony o' them mysel'. But gin the father an' the +mither think high an' act gentle an' do noble, ye'll fin' it i' the +blood an' bone o' the childer, sure as they're born. Now, look ye! I +kenned Robert Burnham, I kenned 'im weel. He was kind an' gentle an' +braw, a-thinkin' bright things an' a-doin' gret deeds. The lad's like +'im, mind ye; he thinks like 'im, he says like 'im, he does like 'im. +Truth, I daur say, i' the face o' all o' ye, that no son was ever more +like the father than the lad a-settin' yonner is like Robert Burnham +was afoor the guid Lord took 'im to 'imsel'." + +Bachelor Billy was leaning forward across the railing of the +witness-stand, speaking in a voice that could be heard in the remotest +corner of the room, emphasizing his words with forceful gesticulation. +No one could for a moment doubt his candor and earnestness. + +"You are very anxious that the plaintiff should succeed in this suit, +are you not?" asked Goodlaw. + +"I dinna unnerstan' ye, sir." + +"You would like to have this boy declared to be a son of Robert +Burnham, would you not?" + +"For the lad's sake, yes. But I canna tell ye how it'll hurt me to +lose 'im fra ma bit hame. He's verra dear to me, the lad is." + +"Have you presented any bill to Ralph's guardian for services to the +boy?" + +"Bill! I ha' no bill." + +"Do you not propose to present such a bill in case the plaintiff is +successful in this suit?" + +"I tell ye, mon, I ha' no bill. The child's richt welcome to all that +I 'a' ever done for 'im. It's little eneuch to be sure, but he's +welcome to it, an' so's 'is father an' 'is mother an' 'is gardeen; an' +that's what I tellit Muster Sharpman 'imsel'. An the lad's as guid to +them as 'e has been wi' me, they'll unnerstan' as how his company's a +thing ye canna balance wi' gold an' siller." + +Mrs. Burnham leaned over to Goodlaw and whispered something to him. He +nodded, smiled and said to the witness: "That's all, Mr. Buckley," and +Bachelor Billy came down from the stand and pushed his way back to a +seat among the people. + +There was a whispered conversation for a few moments between Sharpman +and his client, and then the lawyer said:-- + +"We desire to recall Mrs. Burnham for one or two more questions. Will +you be kind enough to take the stand, Mrs. Burnham?" + +The lady arose and went again to the witness-stand. + +Craft was busy with his leather hand-bag. He had taken a parcel +therefrom, unwrapped it and laid it on the table. It was the cloak +that Old Simon had shown to Robert Burnham on the day of the mine +disaster. Sharpman took it up, shook it out, carried it to Mrs. +Burnham, and placed it in her hands. + +"Do you recognize this cloak?" he asked. + +A sudden pallor overspread her face. She could not speak. She +was holding the cloak up before her eyes, gazing on it in mute +astonishment. + +"Do you recognize it, madam?" repeated Sharpman. + +"Why, sir!" she said, at last, "it is--it was Ralph's. He wore it the +night of the disaster." She was caressing the faded ribbons with her +hand; the color was returning to her face. + +"And this, Mrs. Burnham, do you recognize this?" inquired the lawyer, +advancing with the cap. + +"It was Ralph's!" she exclaimed, holding out her hands eagerly to +grasp it. "It was his cap. May I have it, sir? May I have them both? I +have nothing, you know, that he wore that night." + +She was bending forward, looking eagerly at Sharpman, with flushed +face and eyes swimming in tears. + +"Perhaps so, madam," he said, "perhaps; they go with the boy. If we +succeed in restoring your son to you, we shall give you these things +also." + +"What else have you that he wore?" she asked, impatiently. "Oh! did +you find the locket, a little gold locket? He wore it with a chain +round his neck; it had his--his father's portrait in it." + +Without a word, Sharpman placed the locket in her hands. Her fingers +trembled so that she could hardly open it. Then the gold covers parted +and revealed to her the pictured face of her dead husband. The eyes +looked up at her kindly, gently, lovingly, as they had always looked +on her in life. After a moment her lips trembled, her eyes filled with +tears, she drew the veil across her face, and her frame grew tremulous +with deep emotion. + +"I do not think it is necessary," said Sharpman, courteously, "to pain +the witness with other questions. I regard the identification of these +articles, by her, as sufficiently complete. We will excuse her from +further examination." + +The lady left the stand with bowed head and veiled face, and Conductor +Merrick was recalled. + +"Look at that cloak and the cap," said Sharpman, "and tell me if they +are the articles worn by the child who was going to the city with this +old man after the accident." + +"To the best of my recollection," said the witness, "they are the +same. I noticed the cloak particularly on account of the hole burned +out of the front of it. I considered it an indication of a very narrow +escape." + +The witness was turned over to the defence for cross-examination. + +"No questions," said Goodlaw, shortly, gathering up his papers as if +his defeat was already an accomplished fact. + +"Mr. Craft," said Sharpman, "stand up right where you are. I want to +ask you one question. Did the child whom you rescued from the wreck +have on, when you found him, this cap, cloak, and locket?" + +"He did." + +"And is the child whom you rescued that night from the burning car +this boy who is sitting beside you here to-day?" + +"They are one and the same." + +Mrs. Burnham threw back her veil, looked steadily across at Ralph, +then started to her feet, and moved slightly toward him as if to clasp +him in her arms. For a moment it seemed as though there was to be a +scene. The people in the audience bent forward eagerly to look into +the bar, those in the rear of the room rising to their feet. + +The noise seemed to startle her, and she sank back into her chair and +sat there white and motionless during the remainder of the session. + +Sharpman arose. "I believe that is our case," he said. + +"Then you rest here?" asked the judge. + +"We rest." + +His Honor continued: "It is now adjourning time and Saturday night. I +think it would be impossible to conclude this case, even by holding an +evening session; but perhaps we can get through with the testimony so +that witnesses may be excused. What do you say, Mr. Goodlaw?" + +Goodlaw arose. "It may have been apparent to the court," he said, +"that the only effort being put forth by the defence in this case is +an effort to learn as much of the truth as possible. We have called no +witnesses to contradict the testimony offered, and we expect to call +none. But, lest something should occur of which we might wish to take +advantage, we ask that the evidence be not closed until the meeting of +court on Monday next." + +"Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Sharpman?" inquired the judge. + +"Perfectly," replied that lawyer, his face beaming with good nature. +He knew that Goodlaw had given up the case and that his path was now +clear. + +"Then, crier," said the judge, "you may adjourn the court until Monday +next, at two o'clock in the afternoon." + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +AT THE GATES OF PARADISE. + + +The result of the trial seemed to be a foregone conclusion. Every one +said there was no doubt, now, that Ralph was really Robert Burnham's +son. People even wondered why Mrs. Burnham did not end the matter by +acknowledging the boy and taking him to her home. + +And, indeed, this was her impulse and inclination, but Goodlaw, in +whose wisdom she put much confidence, had advised her not to be in +haste. They had had a long consultation after the adjournment of court +on Saturday evening, and had agreed that the evidence pointed, almost +conclusively, to the fact that Ralph was Mrs. Burnham's son. But the +lawyer said that the only safe way was to wait until the verdict of +the jury should fix the status of the boy beyond question. It would be +but a day or two at the most. + +Then Ralph might be taken by his mother, and proceedings could be at +once begun to have Simon Craft dismissed from the post of guardian. +Indeed, it had been with this end in view that Goodlaw had made his +cross-examination of Craft so thorough and severe. He had shown, as +he intended to, from the man's own lips that he was unfit to have +possession either of the child or of his property. + +This danger was now making itself more and more apparent to Sharpman. +In the excitement of the trial, he had not fully realized the probable +effect which the testimony elicited from his client by the opposing +counsel might have. + +Now he saw what it could lead to; but he had sufficient confidence in +himself to believe that, in the time before action in that phase of +the case should become necessary, he could perfect a plan by which to +avert disaster. The first and best thing to be done, however, under +any circumstances, was to keep the confidence and friendship of +Ralph. With this thought in mind, he occupied a seat with the boy as +they rode up from Wilkesbarre on the train that night, and kept him +interested and amused until they reached the station at Scranton. + +He said to him that he, Sharpman, should go down to Wilkesbarre early +on Monday morning, and that, as it might be necessary to see Ralph +before going, the boy had better call at his office for a few moments +on Sunday evening. Ralph promised to do so, and, with a cordial +handshake, the lawyer hurried away. + +It is seldom that the probable outcome of a suit at law gives so great +satisfaction to all the parties concerned in it as this had done. +Simon Craft was jubilant. At last his watching and waiting, his hoping +and scheming, were about to be rewarded. It came in the evening of +his life to be sure, but--better late than never. He had remained in +Wilkesbarre Saturday night. He thought it useless to go up to Scranton +simply to come back again on Monday morning. He spent the entire day +on Sunday planning for the investment of the money he should receive, +counting it over and over again in anticipation, chuckling with true +miserly glee at the prospect of coming wealth. + +But Ralph was the happiest one of all. He knew that on the coming +Monday the jury would declare him to be Robert Burnham's son. + +After that, there would be nothing to prevent his mother from taking +him to her home, and that she would do so there was no longer any +doubt. When he awoke Sunday morning and thought it all over, it seemed +to him that he had never been so near to perfect happiness in all his +life before. + +The little birds that came and sang in the elm-tree by his window +repeated in their songs the story of his fortune. The kind old sun +beamed in upon him with warmest greeting and heartiest approval. + +Out-of-doors, the very atmosphere of the May day was redolent with +all good cheer, and Ralph took great draughts of it into his lungs +as he walked with Bachelor Billy to the little chapel at the foot of +the hill, where they were used to going to attend the Sunday morning +service. In the afternoon they went, these two, out by the long way to +the breaker. Ralph looked up at the grim, black monster, and thought +of the days gone by; the days of watchfulness, of weariness, of +hopeless toil that he had spent shut up within its jarring walls. + +But they were over now. He should never again climb the narrow steps +to the screen-room in the darkness of the early morning. He should +never again take his seat on the black bench to bend above the stream +of flowing coal, to breathe the thick dust, and listen to the rattling +and the roaring all day long. That time had passed, there was to be no +more grinding toil, no more harsh confinement in the heat and dust, +no more longing for the bright sunlight and the open air, nor for the +things of life that lay beyond his reach. The night was gone, the +morning was come, the May day of his life was dawning, wealth was +lying at his feet, rich love was overshadowing him; why should he not +be happy? + +"Seems jest as though I hadn't never had any trouble, Uncle Billy," he +said, "as though I'd been kind o' waitin' an' waitin' all along for +jest this, an' now it's here, ain't it?" + +"Yes, lad." + +"An' some way it's all so quiet an' smooth like, so peaceful, don't +you know. She--she seems to be so glad 'at she needn't keep me away +from her no longer after the trial's over. I think she wants me to +come, don't you? It ain't like most law-suits, is it?" + +"She's a lovin' lady, an' I'm a-thinkin' they're a-meanin' to deal +rightly by ye, Ralph." + +There was a pause. They were sitting on the bank in the shadow of +the breaker, and the soft wind was bringing up to them the perfume +of apple-blossoms from the orchard down by the road-side. Silence, +indeed, was the only means of giving fitting expression to such quiet +joy as pervaded the boy's heart. + +A man, driving along the turnpike with a horse and buggy, turned up +the road to the breaker, and stopped in front of Bachelor Billy and +the boy. + +"Is this Ralph?" he asked. + +"Yes," said the boy, "that's me." + +"Well, Mrs. Burnham would like to see you. She sent me over to bring +you. I went to your house, and they said most likely I'd find you up +here. Just jump in and we'll drive right down." + +Ralph looked up inquiringly at Bachelor Billy. + +"Go on, lad," he said; "when the mither sen's for ye, ye mus' go." +Ralph climbed up into the buggy. + +"Good-by, Uncle Billy," he called out, as they started away down the +hill. + +Bachelor Billy did not answer. A sudden thought had come to him; a +sudden fear had seized him. He stood for a moment motionless; then he +started to run after the retreating carriage, calling as he ran. They +heard him and stopped. In a minute he had reached them. + +"Ralph," he said, hastily, "ye're not goin' now for gude? Ye'll coom +back the nicht, won't ye, Ralph? I couldn't--I couldn't abide to have +ye go this way, not for gude. It's--it's too sudden, d'ye see." + +His voice was trembling with emotion, and the pallor about his lips +was heightened by the forced smile that parted them. Ralph reached out +from the buggy and grasped the man's rough hand. + +"I ain't leavin' you for good, Uncle Billy," he said. "I'm comin' back +agin, sure; I promise I will. Would you ruther I wouldn't go, Uncle +Billy?" + +"Oh, no! ye mus' go. I shouldn't 'a' stoppit ye. It was verra fulish +in me. But ye see," turning to the driver apologetically, "the lad's +been so long wi' me it's hard to part wi' 'im. An' it cam' ower me +so sudden like, that mayhap he'd not be a-comin' back, that I--that +I--wull, wull! it's a' richt, ye need na min' me go on; go on, lad, +an' rich blessin's go wi' ye!" and Bachelor Billy turned and walked +rapidly away. + +This was the only cloud in the otherwise clear sky of Ralph's +happiness. He would have to leave Bachelor Billy alone. But he had +fully resolved that the man who had so befriended him in the dark days +of his adversity should not fail of sharing in the blessings that were +now at hand. + +His mind was full of plans for his Uncle Billy's happiness and +welfare, as they rode along through the green suburban streets, with +the Sunday quiet resting on them, to the House where Ralph's mother +waited, with a full heart, to receive and welcome her son. + +She had promised Goodlaw that she would not take the boy to her home +until after the conclusion of the trial. He had explained to her that +to anticipate the verdict of the jury in this way might, in a certain +event, prejudice not only her interests but her son's also. And the +time would be so short now that she thought surely she could wait. +She had resolved, indeed, not to see nor to speak to the lad, out of +court, until full permission had been granted to her to do so. Then, +when the time came, she would revel in the brightness of his presence. + +That there still lingered in her mind a doubt as to his identity was +nothing. She would not think of that. It was only a prejudice fixed +by long years of belief in her child's death, a prejudice so firmly +rooted now that it required an effort to cast it out. + +But it would not greatly matter, she thought, if it should chance that +Ralph was not her son. He was a brave, good boy, worthy of the best +that could come to him, and she loved him. Indeed, during these last +few days her heart had gone out to him with an affection so strange +and a desire so strong that she felt that only his presence could +satisfy it. She could not be glad enough that the trial, now so nearly +to its close, would result in giving to her a son. It was a strange +defeat, indeed, to cause her such rejoicing. On this peaceful Sunday +morning her mind was full with plans for the lad's comfort, for his +happiness and his education. But the more she thought upon him the +greater grew her longing to have him with her, the harder it became +to repress her strong desire to see him, to speak to him, to kiss his +face, to hold him in her arms. In the quiet of the afternoon this +longing became more intense. She tried to put it away from her, but it +would not go; she tried to reason it down, but the boy's face, rising +always in her thought, refuted all her logic. She felt that he must +come to her, that she must see him, if only long enough to look into +his eyes, to touch his hand, to welcome him and say good-by. She +called the coachmen then, and sent him for the boy, and waited at the +window to catch the first glimpse of him when he should appear. + +He came at last, and she met him in the hall. It was a welcome such as +he had never dreamed of. They went into a beautiful room, and she drew +his chair so close to hers that she could hold his hands, and smooth +his hair back now and then, and look down into his eyes as she talked +with him. She made him repeat to her the whole story of his life from +the time he could remember, and when he told about Bachelor Billy +and all his kindness and goodness, he saw that her eyes were filled +with tears. + +"We'll remember him," she said; "we'll be very good to him always." + +"Mrs. Burnham," asked Ralph, "do you really an' truly believe 'at I'm +your son?" + +She evaded the question skilfully. + +"I'm not Mrs. Burnham to you any more," she said. "You are my little +boy now and I am your mother. But wait! no; you must not call me +'mother' yet, not until the trial is over, then we shall call each +other the names we like best, shall we not?" + +"Yes; an' will the trial be over to-morrow, do you think?" + +"I hope so. I shall be glad to have it done; shall not you?" + +"Oh, yes; but so long as it's comin' out so nice, I don't care so very +much. It's all so good now 'at it couldn't be much better. I could +stan' it another day or two, I guess." + +"Well, my dear, we will be patient. It cannot but come out right. Are +you glad you are coming here to live with me, Ralph?" + +"Yes, ma'am, I am; I'm very much delighted. I've always wanted a +mother; you don't know how much I've wanted a mother; but I never +'xpected--not till Gran'pa Simon come--I never 'xpected to get such a +lovely one. You don't know; I wisht I could tell you; I wisht I could +do sumpthin' so 'at you'd know how glad I am." + +She leaned over and kissed him. + +"There's only one thing you can do, Ralph, to show me that; you can +come back here when the trial is over and be my boy and live with me +always." + +"Oh, I'll come!" + +"And then we'll see what you shall do. Would you like to go to school +and study?" + +"Oh, may I?" + +"Certainly! what would you like to study?" + +"Readin'. If I could only study readin' so as to learn to read real +good. I can read some now; but you know they's such lots o' things to +read 'at I can't do it fast enough." + +"Yes, you shall learn to read fast, and you shall read to me. You +shall read books to me." + +"What! whole books?--through?" + +"Yes, would you like that?" + +"Oh!" and the boy clasped his hands together in unspeakable delight. + +"Yes, and you shall read stories to Mildred, your little sister. I +wonder where she is; wouldn't you like to see her?" + +"Yes, ma'am, I would, very much." + +"I'll send for her." + +"You'll have books of your own, you know," continued the lady, as she +returned across the room, "and playthings of your own, and a room of +your own, near mine, and every night you'll kiss me good-night, will +you not, and every morning you will kiss me good-morning?" + +"Oh, indeed I will! indeed!" + +In through the curtained door-way came little Mildred, her blond +curls tossing about her face, her cheeks rosy with health, her eyes +sparkling with anticipation. + +She had seen Ralph and knew him, but as yet she had not understood +that he was her brother. She could not comprehend it at once, there +were many explanations to be made, and Ralph's story was retold; but +when the fact of his relation to her became fixed in her mind, it was +to her a truth that could never afterward be shaken. + +"And will you come to live with us?" she asked him. + +"Yes," said Ralph, "I 'xpect to." + +"And will you play with me?" + +"Well, I--I don't know how to play girl's plays, but I guess I can +learn," he said, looking inquiringly up into his mother's face. + +"You shall both learn whatever you like that is innocent and healthful +and pretty to play, my children." + +The house-maid, at the door, announced dinner. + +"Come," said the lady, placing an arm about each child, "come, let us +eat together and see how it seems." + +She drew them gently to the dining-room and placed them at the table, +and sat where she could look from one to the other and drink in the +joy of their presence. + +But Ralph had grown more quiet. It was all so new and strange to him +and so very beautiful that he could do little more than eat his food, +and answer questions, and look about him in admiring wonder. + +When dinner was finished the afternoon had grown late, and Ralph, +remembering Bachelor Billy's fear, said that he ought to go. They did +not try to detain him; but, with many kind words and good-wishes and +bright hopes for the morrow, they kissed him good-night and he went +his way. The sky was still cloudless; the cool of the coming evening +refreshed the air, the birds that sing at twilight were already +breaking forth into melody as if impatient for the night, and Ralph +walked out through it all like one in a dream. + +It was so much sweeter than anything he had ever heard of or thought +of, this taste of home, so much, so very much! His heart was like a +thistle bloom floating in the air, his feet seemed not to touch the +ground; he was walking as a spirit might have walked, buoyed up by +thoughts of all things beautiful. He reached the cottage that for +years had been his home, and entered it with a cry of gladness on +his lips. + +"Oh, Uncle Billy! it was--it was just like heaven!" He had thrown +himself upon a stool at the man's feet, and sat looking up into the +kindly face. + +Bachelor Billy did not answer. He only placed his hand tenderly on the +boy's head, and they both sat, in silence, looking out through the +open door, until the pink clouds in the western sky had faded into +gray, and the deepening twilight wrapped the landscape, fold on fold, +in an ever thickening veil. + +By and by Ralph's tongue was loosened, and he told the story of his +visit to Mrs. Burnham. He gave it with all fulness; he dwelt long and +lovingly on his mother's beauty and affection, on his sister's pretty +ways, on the splendors of their home, on the plans marked out for him. + +"An' just to think of it!" he exclaimed, "after to-morrow, I'll be +there ev'ry day, _ev'ry day_. It's too beautiful to think of, Uncle +Billy; I can't help lookin' at myself an' wonderin' if it's me." + +"It's verra fine, but ye've a richt to it, lad, an' ye desarve it, an' +it's a blessin' to all o' ye." + +Again they fell into silence. The blue smoke from Billy's pipe went +floating into the darkness, and up to their ears came the sound of +distant church bells ringing out their music to the night. + +Finally, Ralph thought of the appointed meeting at Sharpman's office, +and started to his feet. + +"I mus' hurry now," he said, "or he'll think I ain't a-comin'." + +The proposed visit seemed to worry Bachelor Billy somewhat. He did +not like Sharpman. He had not had full confidence in him from the +beginning. And since the interview on the day of Ralph's return from +Wilkesbarre, his faith in the pureness of the lawyer's motives had +been greatly shaken. He had watched the proceedings in Ralph's case as +well as his limited knowledge of the law would allow, and, though he +had discovered nothing, thus far, that would injure or compromise the +boy, he was in constant fear lest some plan should be developed by +which Ralph would be wronged, either in reputation or estate. + +He hesitated, therefore, to have the lad fulfil this appointment. + +"I guess I'd better go wi' ye," he said, "mayhap an' ye'll be afeared +a-comin' hame i' the dark." + +"Oh, no, Uncle Billy!" exclaimed the boy, "they ain't no use in your +walkin' way down there. I ain't a bit afraid, an' I'll get home +early. Mr. Sharpman said maybe it wouldn't be any use for me to go to +Wilkesbarre to-morrow at all, and he'd let me know to-night. No, don't +you go! I'm a-goin' to run down the hill so's to get there quicker; +good-by!" + +The boy started off at a rapid pace, and broke into a run as he +reached the brow of the hill, while Bachelor Billy unwillingly resumed +his seat, and watched the retreating form of the lad until it was +swallowed up in the darkness. + +Ralph thought that the night air was very sweet, and he slackened his +pace at the foot of the hill, in order to enjoy breathing it. + +He was passing along a street lined with pretty, suburban dwellings. +Out from one yard floated the rich perfume of some early flowering +shrub. The delicious odor lingered in the air along the whole length +of the block, and Ralph pleased his fancy by saying that it was +following him. + +Farther on there was a little family group gathered on the porch, +parents and children, talking and laughing, but gently as became the +day. Very happy they seemed, very peaceful, untroubled and content. It +was beautiful, Ralph thought, very beautiful, this picture of home, +but he was no longer envious, his heart did not now grow bitter nor +his eyes fill full with tears. His own exceeding hope was too great +for that to-night, his own home joys too near and dear. + +Still farther on there was music. He could look into the lighted +parlor and see the peaceful faces of those who stood or sat there. A +girl was at the piano playing; a young, fair girl with a face like the +faces of the pictured angels. They were all singing, a familiar sacred +song, and the words came floating out so sweetly to the boy's ears +that he stopped to listen:-- + + "O Paradise! O Paradise! + Who doth not crave for rest? + Who would not seek the happy land, + Where they that loved are blest; + Where loyal hearts and true + Stand ever in the light, + All rapture through and through, + In God's most holy sight?" + +Oh, it was all so beautiful! so peaceful! so calm and holy! + +Ralph tried to think, as he started on, whether there was anything +that he could have, or see, or do, that would increase his happiness. +But there was nothing in the whole world now, nothing more, he said to +himself, that he could think to ask for. + + "Where loyal hearts and true, + Stand ever in the light." + +The words came faintly from the distance to his ears as the music died +away, the gentle wind brought perfumed air from out the shadows of the +night to touch his face. The quiet stars looked down in peace upon +him, the heart that beat within his breast was full with hope, with +happiness, with calm content. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +THE PURCHASE OF A LIE. + + +Lawyer Sharpman sat in his office on Sunday evening, meditating on his +success in the Burnham suit and planning to avert the dangers that +still lay in his path. + +Old Simon's disclosures in court were a source of much anxiety to him. +Goodlaw's design in bringing them out was apparent, and he felt that +it must in some way be thwarted. Of what use was it to establish the +boy's identity if he could not control the boy's fortune? He was glad +he had asked Ralph to call. He intended, when he should come, to have +a long talk with him concerning his guardian. He hoped to be able to +work into the boy's mind a theory that he had been as well treated +during his stay with Simon Craft as circumstances would permit. He +would remind him, in the most persuasive manner possible, that Craft +was old and ill and easily annoyed, that he was poor and unable to +work, that his care for and maintenance of Ralph were deeds of the +purest generosity, and that the old man's entire connection with the +matter was very creditable to him, when all the adverse circumstances +against which he had to struggle were taken into account. If he could +impress this view of the case strongly enough upon Ralph's mind, he +should not greatly fear the result of possible proceedings for the +dismissal of the guardian. This, at any rate, was the first thing to +be done, and to-night was the time to do it. + +He had been lying back in his chair, with his hands locked behind his +head. He now straightened himself, drew closer to the table, turned up +the gas, looked over some notes of evidence, and began to mark out a +plan for his address to the jury on the morrow. He was sitting in the +inner room, the door between that and the outer room being open, but +the street door closed. + +After a little he heard some one enter and walk across the floor. He +thought it must be Ralph, and he looked up to welcome him. But it was +dark in the outer office, and he could not see who came, until his +visitor was fairly standing in the door-way of his room. + +It was not Ralph. It was a young man, a stranger. He wore a pair of +light corduroy pantaloons, a checked vest, a double-breasted sack +coat, and a flowing red cravat. + +He bowed low and said:-- + +"Have I the honor of addressing Mr. Sharpman, attorney at law?" + +"That is my name," said the lawyer, regarding his visitor with some +curiosity, "will you walk in?" + +"With pleasure, sir." + +The young man entered the room, removed his high silk hat from his +head, and laid it on the table, top down. Then he drew a card case +from an inner pocket, and produced and handed to the lawyer a soiled +card on which was printed in elaborate letters the following name and +address:-- + +L. JOSEPH CHEEKERTON, + +PHILADELPHIA. + +"_Rhyming Joe_." + +While Sharpman was examining the card, his visitor was forming in his +mind a plan of procedure. He had come there with a carefully concocted +lie on his tongue to swindle the sharpest lawyer in Scranton out of +enough money to fill an empty purse. + +"Will you be seated, Mr. Cheekerton?" said the lawyer, looking up from +the card. + +"Thank you, sir!" + +The young man drew the chair indicated by Sharpman closer to the +table, and settled himself comfortably into it. + +"It is somewhat unusual, I presume," he said, "for attorneys to +receive calls on Sunday evening:-- + + "But this motto I hold as a part of my creed, + The better the day, why, the better the deed. + +"Excuse me! Oh, no; it doesn't hurt. I've been composing extemporaneous +verse like that for fifteen years. Philosophy and rhyme are my forte. +I've had some narrow escapes to be sure, but I've never been deserted +by the muses. Now, as to my Sunday evening call. It seemed to be +somewhat of a necessity, as I understand that the evidence will be +closed in the Burnham case at the opening of court to-morrow. Am +I right?" + +"It may be, and it may not be," said Sharpman, somewhat curtly. "I am +not acquainted with the plans of the defence. Are you interested in +the case?" + +"Indirectly, yes. You see, Craft and I have been friends for a good +many years, we have exchanged confidences, and have matured plans +together. I am pretty well acquainted with the history of his +successes and his failures." + +"Then it will please you to know that he is pretty certain to meet +with success in the Burnham suit." + +"Yes? I am quite delighted to hear it:-- + + "Glad to know that wit and pluck + Bring their owner such good-luck. + +"But, between you and me, the old gentleman has brought some faculties +to bear on this case besides wit and pluck." + +"Ah, indeed?" + +"Yes, indeed! You see, I knew all about this matter up to the time +the boy ran away. To tell the truth, the old man didn't treat the lad +just right, and I gave the little fellow a pointer on getting off. Old +Simon hasn't been so friendly to me since, for some reason. + + "Strange what trifles oft will tend + To cool the friendship of a friend. + +"In fact, I was not aware that the boy had been found, until I heard +that fact from his own lips one day last fall, in Wilkesbarre. We +met by a happy chance, and I entertained him on account of old +acquaintance's sake." + +In a moment the story of Ralph's adventure in Wilkesbarre returned to +Sharpman, and he recognized Rhyming Joe as the person who had swindled +the lad out of his money. He looked at the young man sternly, and +said:-- + +"Yes; I have heard the story of that chance meeting. You were +very liberal on account of old acquaintance's sake, were you not? +entertained the boy till his pocket was empty, didn't you?" and the +lawyer cast a look of withering contempt on his visitor. + +But Rhyming Joe did not wither. On the contrary, he broke into a merry +fit of laughter. + +"Good joke on the lad, wasn't it?" he replied. "A little rough, +perhaps, but you see I was pretty hard up just then; hadn't had a +square meal before in two days. I'll not forget the boy's generosity, +though; I'll call and see him when he comes into his fortune; he'll be +delighted to receive me, I've no doubt. + + "For a trifle like that he'll remember no more, + In the calm contemplation of favors of yore." + +But, let that pass. That's a pretty shrewd scheme Old Simon has on +foot just now, isn't it? Did he get that up alone or did he have a +little legal advice? I wouldn't have said that he was quite up to it +all, himself. It's a big thing. + + "A man may work hard with his hands and his feet + And find but poor lodging and little to eat. + But if he would gather the princeliest gains + He must smother his conscience and cudgel his brains." + +Sharpman looked sternly across at his visitor. "Have you any business +with me?" he said; "if not, my time is very valuable, and I desire to +utilize it." + +"I beg pardon, sir, if I have occupied time that is precious to you. +I had no particular object in calling except to gratify a slight +curiosity. I had a desire to know whether it was really understood +between you--that is whether the old man had enlightened you as to who +this boy actually is--that's all." + +"There's no doubt as to who the boy is. If you've come here to give me +any information on that point, your visit will have been useless. His +identity is well established." + +"Yes? Well, now I have the good-fortune to know all about that child, +and if you are laboring under the impression that he is a son of +Robert Burnham, you are very greatly mistaken. He is not a Burnham at +all." + +Sharpman looked at the young man incredulously. "You do not expect +me to believe that?" he said. "You certainly do not mean what you +are saying?" + +There was a noise in the outer room as of some one entering from +the street. Sharpman did not hear it; he was too busily engaged in +thinking. Rhyming Joe gave a quick glance at the room door, which +stood slightly ajar, then, turning in his chair to face the lawyer, he +said deliberately and with emphasis:-- + +"I say the boy Ralph is not Robert Burnham's son." + +For a moment Sharpman sat quietly staring at his visitor; then, in a +voice which betrayed his effort to remain calm, he said:-- + +"What right have you to make such a statement as this? How can you +prove it?" + +"Well, in the first place I knew the boy's father, and he was not +Robert Burnham, I assure you." + +"Who was he?" + +"Simon Craft's son." + +"Then Ralph is--?" + +"Old Simon's grandchild." + +"How do you happen to know all this?" + +"Well, I saw the child frequently before he was taken into the +country, and I saw him the night Old Simon brought him back. He was +the same child. The young fellow and his wife separated, and the old +man had to take the baby. I was on confidential terms with the old +fellow at that time, and he told me all about it." + +"Then he probably deceived you. The evidence concerning the railroad +disaster and the rescue of Robert Burnham's child from the wreck is +too well established by the testimony to be upset now by such a story +as yours." + +"Ah! let me explain that matter to you. The train that went through +the bridge was the express. The local was twenty minutes behind it. +Old Simon and his grandchild were on the local to the bridge. An +hour later they came down to the city on the train which brought the +wounded passengers. I had this that night from the old man's own lips. +I repeat to you, sir, the boy Ralph is Simon Craft's grandson, and I +know it." + +In the outer room there was a slight noise as of some person drawing +in his breath sharply and with pain. Neither of the men heard it. +Rhyming Joe was too intent on giving due weight to his pretended +disclosure; Lawyer Sharpman was too busy studying the chances of +that disclosure being true. It was evident that the young man was +acquainted with his subject. If his story were false he had it too +well learned to admit of successful contradiction. It was therefore of +no use to argue with him, but Sharpman thought he would see what was +lying back of this. + +"Well," he said, calmly, "I don't see how this affects our case. +Suppose you can prove your story to be true; what then?" + +The young man did not answer immediately. He took a package of +cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Sharpman. It was +declined. He lighted one for himself, leaned back in his chair, +crossed his legs, and began to study the ceiling through the rings +of blue smoke which came curling from his nostrils. Finally he said: +"What would you consider my silence on this subject worth, for a +period of say twenty-four hours?" + +"I do not know that your silence will be of material benefit to us." + +"Well, perhaps not. My knowledge, however, may be of material injury +to you." + +"In what way?" + +"By the disclosure of it to your opponent." + +"What would he do with it?" + +"Use it as evidence in this case." + +"Well, had you not better go to him?" + +Rhyming Joe laid his cigarette aside, straightened up in his chair, +and again faced the lawyer squarely. + +"Look here, Mr. Sharpman," he said, "you know, as well as I do, that +the knowledge I hold is extremely dangerous to you. I can back up +my assertion by any amount of corroborative detail. I am thoroughly +familiar with the facts, and if I were to go on the witness-stand +to-morrow for the defendant in this suit, your hopes and schemes would +vanish into thin air. Now, I have no great desire to do this; I have +still a friendly feeling left for Old Simon, and as for the boy, he +is a nice fellow, and I would like to see him prosper. But in my +circumstances, as they are at present, I do not feel that I can afford +to let slip an opportunity to turn an honest penny. + + "If a penny saved is a penny earned, + Then a penny found is a penny turned." + +Sharpman was still looking calmly at his visitor. "Well?" he said, +inquiringly. + +"Well, to make a long story short, if I get two hundred dollars +to-night, I keep my knowledge of Simon Craft and his grandson to +myself. If I don't get two hundred dollars to-night, I go to Goodlaw +the first thing to-morrow morning and offer my services to the +defence. I propose to make the amount of a witness fee out of this +case, at any rate." + +"You are attempting a game that will hardly work here," said Sharpman, +severely. "You will find yourself earning two hundred dollars for the +state in the penitentiary of your native city if you persist in that +course." + +"Very well, sir; you have heard my story, you have my ultimatum. You +are at liberty to act or not to act as you see fit. If you do not +choose to act it will be unnecessary for me to prolong my visit. I +will have to rise early in the morning, in order to get the first +Wilkesbarre train, and I must retire without delay. + + "The adage of the early bird, + My soul from infancy has stirred, + And since the worm I sorely need + I'll practise, now, that thrifty creed." + +Rhyming Joe reached for his hat. + +Sharpman was growing anxious. There was no doubt that the fellow +might hurt them greatly if he chose to do so. His story was not an +improbable one. Indeed, there was good reason to believe that it might +be true. His manner tended to impress one with its truth. But, true or +false, it would not do to have the statement get before that jury. The +man must be detained, to give time for further thought. + +"Don't be in a hurry," said Sharpman, mildly; "let's talk this matter +over a little more. Perhaps we can reach an amicable understanding." + +Rhyming Joe detected, in an instant, the weakening on the lawyer's +part, and increased his audacity accordingly. + +"You have heard my proposition, Mr. Sharpman," he said; "it is the +only one I shall make, and I must decline to discuss the matter +further. My time, as I have already intimated, is of considerable +value to me." + +"But how can you expect me to decide on your proposition without first +consulting my client? He is in Wilkesbarre. Give us time. Wait until +morning; I'll go down on the first train with you." + +"No, I don't care to have Old Simon consulted in this matter; if I +had cared to, I should have consulted him myself; I know where he is. +Besides, his interest in the case is very small compared with yours. +You are to get the lion's share, that is apparent, and you, of course, +are the one to pay the cost. It is necessary that I should have the +money to-night; after to-night it will be too late." + +Sharpman arose and began pacing up and down the room. He was inclined +to yield to the man's demand. The Burnham suit was drawing rapidly to +a successful close. If this fellow should go on the witness-stand and +tell his plausible story, the entire scheme might be wrecked beyond +retrieval. But it was very annoying to be bulldozed into a thing in +this way. The lawyer's stubborn nature rebelled against it powerfully. +It would be a great pleasure, he thought, to defy the fellow and turn +him into the street. Then a new fear came to him. What would be the +effect of this man's story, with its air of genuineness, on the mind +of so conscientious a boy as Ralph? He surely could not afford to +have Ralph's faith interfered with; that would be certain to bring +disaster. + +He made up his mind at once. Turning quickly on his heel to face his +visitor, he said:-- + +"I want you to understand that I'm not afraid of you nor of your +story, but I don't want to be bothered with you. Now, I'll tell you +what I'll do. I'll give you one hundred dollars in cash to-night, on +condition that you will leave this town by the first train in the +morning, that you'll not go to Wilkesbarre, that you'll not come back +here inside of a year, and that you'll not mention a word of this +matter to any one so long as you shall live." + +The lawyer spoke with determined earnestness. Rhyming Joe looked up at +the ceiling as if in doubt. + +Finally, he said:-- + + "Split the difference and call it even, + A hundred and fifty and I'll be leavin'." + +Sharpman was whirling the knob of his safe back and forth. At last he +flung open the safe-door. + +"I don't care," he said, looking around at his visitor, "whether your +story is true or false. We'll call it true if that will please you. +But if I ever hear of your lisping it again to any living person, I +give you my word for it you shall be sorry. I pay you your own price +for your silence; now I want you to understand that I've bought it and +it's mine." + +He had taken a package of bank-notes from a drawer in his safe, had +counted out a portion of them, and now handed them to Rhyming Joe. + +"Certainly," said the young man, "certainly; no one can say that I +have ever failed to keep an honest obligation; and between you and me +there shall be the utmost confidence and good faith. + + "Though woman's vain, and man deceives, + There's always honor among--gentlemen. + +"I beg your pardon! it's the first time in fifteen years that I have +failed to find an appropriate rhyming word; but the exigencies of a +moment, you will understand, may destroy both rhyme and reason." + +He was folding the bills carefully and placing them in a shabby purse +while Sharpman looked down on him with undisguised ill will. + +"Now," said the lawyer, "I expect that you will leave the city on the +first train in the morning, and that you will not stop until you have +gone at least a hundred miles. Here! here's enough more money to pay +your fare that far, and buy your dinner"; and he held out, scornfully, +toward the young man, another bank-bill. + +Rhyming Joe declined it with a courteous wave of his hand, and, +rising, began, with much dignity, to button his coat. + +"I have already received," he said, "the _quid pro quo_ of the +bargain. I do not sue for charity nor accept it. Reserve your +financial favors for the poor and needy. + + "Go find the beggar crawling in the sun, + Or him that's worse; + But don't inflict your charity on one + With well filled purse." + +Sharpman looked amused and put the money back into his pocket. Then a +bit of his customary politeness returned to him. + +"I shall not expect to see you in Scranton again for some time, Mr. +Cheekerton," he said, "but when you do come this way, I trust you will +honor me with a visit." + +"Thank you, sir. When I return I shall expect to find that your +brilliant scheme has met with deserved success; that old Craft has +chuckled himself to death over his riches; and that my young friend +Ralph is happy in his new home, and contented with such slight remnant +of his fortune as may be left to him after you two are through with +it. By the way, let me ask just one favor of you on leaving, and +that is that the boy may never know what a narrow escape he has had +to-night, and may never know that he is not really the son of Robert +Burnham. It would be an awful blow to him to know that Old Simon is +actually his grandfather; and there's no need, now, to tell him. + + "'Where ignorance is bliss,' you know the rest, + And a still tongue is generally the best." + +"Oh, no, indeed! the boy shall hear nothing of the kind from me. I am +very much obliged to you, however, for the true story of the matter." + +Under the circumstances Sharpman was outdoing himself in politeness, +but he could not well outdo Rhyming Joe. The young man extended his +hand to the lawyer with a respectful bow. + +"I shall long remember your extreme kindness and courtesy," he said. + + "Henceforth the spider of a friendship true, + Shall weave its silken web twixt me and you." + +My dear sir, I wish you a very good night!" + +"Good-night!" + +The young man placed his silk hat jauntily on his head, and passed +through the outer office, whistling a low tune; out at the street door +and down the walk; out into the gay world of dissipation, down into +the treacherous depths of crime; one more of the many who have chained +bright intellects to the chariot wheels of vice, and have been dragged +through dust and mire to final and to irretrievable disaster. + +A moment later a boy arose from a chair in the outer office and +staggered out into the street. It was Ralph. He had heard it all. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +THE ANGEL WITH THE SWORD. + + +Ralph had entered the office just as Rhyming Joe reached the point of +his disclosure. He had heard him declare, in emphatic tones: "I say +the boy Ralph is not Robert Burnham's son." + +It was as though some one had struck him. He dropped into a chair and +sat as if under a spell, listening to every word that was uttered. He +was powerless to move or to speak until the man who had told the cruel +story had passed by him in the dark and gone down the walk into the +street. + +Then he arose and followed him; he did not know just why, but it +seemed as if he must see him, if only to beg him to declare that the +story he had just heard him tell was all a lie. And yet Ralph believed +that Rhyming Joe had told the truth. Why should he not believe him +when Sharpman himself had put such faith in the tale as to purchase +the man's silence with money. But if the story were true, if it _were_ +true, then it should be known; Mrs. Burnham should know it, Mr. +Goodlaw should know it, Mr. Sharpman should not conceal it, Rhyming +Joe must not be allowed to depart until he had told it on the +witness-stand, in open court. He must see him, Ralph thought; he must +find him, he must, in some way, compel him to remain. The sound of the +man's footsteps had not yet died away as the boy ran after him along +the street, but half-way down the block his breath grew short, his +heart began to pound against his breast, he pressed his hand to his +side as if in pain, and staggered up to a lamp-post for support. + +When he recovered sufficiently to start on, Rhyming Joe had passed +out of both sight and hearing. Ralph hurried down the street until he +reached Lackawanna Avenue, and there he stopped, wondering which way +to turn. But there was no time to lose. If the man should escape him +now he might never see him again, he might never hear from his lips +whether the dreadful story was really and positively true. He felt +that Rhyming Joe would not lie to him to-night, nor deceive him, nor +deny his request to make the truth known to those who ought to know +it, if he could only find him and speak to him, and if the man could +only see how utterly miserable he was. He plunged in among the Sunday +evening saunterers, and hurried up the street, looking to the right +and to the left, before and behind him, hastening on as he could. Once +he thought he saw, just ahead, the object of his search. He ran up to +speak to him, looked into his face, and--it was some one else. + +Finally he reached the head of the avenue and turned up toward the +Dunmore road. Then he came back, crossed over, and went down on the +other side of the street. Block after block he traversed, looking into +the face of every man he met, glancing into doorways and dark corners, +making short excursions into side streets; block after block, until +he reached the Hyde Park bridge. He was tired and disheartened as he +turned back and wondered what he should do next. Then it occurred to +him that he had promised to meet Mr. Sharpman that night. Perhaps the +lawyer was still waiting for him. Perhaps, if he should appeal to him, +the lawyer would help him to find Rhyming Joe, and to make the truth +known before injustice should be done. + +He turned his steps in the direction of Sharpman's office, reached +it finally, went up the little walk, tried to open the door, and +found it locked. The lights were out, the lawyer had gone. Ralph was +very tired, and he sat down on the door-step to rest and to try to +think. He felt that he had made every effort to find Rhyming Joe and +had failed. To-morrow the man would be gone. Sharpman would go to +Wilkesbarre. The evidence in the Burnham case would be closed. The +jury would come into court and declare that he, Ralph, was Robert +Burnham's son--and it would be all a lie. Oh, no! he could not let +that be done. His whole moral nature cried out against it. He must +see Sharpman to-night and beg him to put a stop to so unjust a cause. +To-morrow it might be too late. He rose and started down the walk to +find the lawyer's dwelling. But he did not know in which direction to +turn. A man was passing along the street, and Ralph accosted him:-- + +"Please, can you tell me where Mr. Sharpman lives?" he asked. + +"I don't know anything about him," replied the man gruffly, starting +on. + +In a minute another man came by, and Ralph repeated his question. + +"I don't know where he does live, sonny," said the man, "but I know +where he would live if I had my choice as to his dwelling-place; he'd +reside in the county jail," and this man, too, passed on. + +Ralph went back and sat down on the steps again. + +The sky had become covered with clouds, no stars were visible, and it +was very dark. + +What was to be done now? He had failed to find Rhyming Joe, he had +failed to find Lawyer Sharpman. The early morning train would carry +both of them beyond his reach. Suppose it should? Suppose the case at +Wilkesbarre should go on to its predicted end, and the jury should +bring in their expected verdict, what then? + +Why, then the law would declare him to be Robert Burnham's son; the +title, the position, the fortune would all be his; Mrs. Burnham would +take him to her home, and lavish love and care upon him; all this +unless--unless he should tell what he had heard. Ah! there was a +thought. Suppose he should not tell, suppose he should let the case go +on just as though he had not known the truth, just as though he had +stayed at home that night instead of coming to the city; who would +ever be the wiser? who would ever suspect him of knowing that the +verdict was unjust? He might yet have it all, all, if only he would +hold his tongue. His heart beat wildly with the thought, his breath +came in gasps, something in his throat seemed choking him. But that +would be wrong--he knew it would be wrong, and wicked; a sense of +shame came over him, and he cast the tempting thought aside. + +No, there was but one thing for him, as an honest boy, to do, and that +was to tell what he had heard. + +If he could tell it soon enough to hold the verdict back, so much the +better, if he could not, still he had no right to keep his knowledge +to himself--the story must be known. And then farewell to all his +hopes, his plans, his high ambition. No beautiful home for him now, +no loving mother nor winsome sister nor taste of any joy that he had +thought to know. It was hard to give them up, it was terrible, but it +must be done. + +He fell to thinking of his visit to his mother. It seemed to him as +though it were something that had taken place very long ago. It was +like a sweet dream that he had dreamed as a little boy. He wondered +if it was indeed only that afternoon that it had all occurred. It +had been so beautiful, so very beautiful; and now! Could it be that +this boy, sitting weak, wretched, disconsolate, on the steps of this +deserted office, in the night-time, was the same boy whose feet had +scarcely touched the ground that afternoon for buoyant happiness? Oh, +it was dreadful! dreadful! He began to wonder why he did not cry. He +put up his hands to see if there were any tears on his cheeks, but he +found none. Did only people cry who had some gentler cause for tears? + +But the thought of what would happen if he should keep his knowledge +to himself came back again into his mind. He drove it out, but it +returned. It had a fascination about it that was difficult to resist. +It would be so easy simply to say nothing. And who would ever know +that he was not Mrs. Burnham's son? Why, Old Simon would know, but he +would not dare to tell; Lawyer Sharpman would know, but he would not +dare to tell; Rhyming Joe would know, but he would not dare to tell, +at least, not for a long time. And suppose it should be known after +a year, after two years or longer, who would blame him? he would be +supposed to have been ignorant of it all; he would be so established +by that time in his new home that he would not have to leave it. They +might take his property, his money, all things else, but he knew that +if he could but live with Mrs. Burnham for a year she would never let +him leave her, and that was all he cared for at any rate. + +But then, he himself would know that he had no right there; he would +have to live with this knowledge always with him, he would have to +walk about with an ever present lie on his mind and in his heart. He +could not do that, he would not do it; he must disclose his knowledge, +and make some effort to see that justice was not mocked. But it was +too late to do anything to-night. He wondered how late it was. He +thought of Bachelor Billy waiting for him at home. He feared that the +good man would be worried on account of his long absence. A clock in a +church tower not far away struck ten. Ralph started to his feet, went +out into the street again, and up toward home. + +But Uncle Billy! what would Uncle Billy say when he should tell him +what he had heard? Would he counsel him to hold his tongue? Ah, no! +the boy knew well the course that Uncle Billy would mark out for him. + +But it would be a great blow to the man; he would grieve much +on account of the lad's misfortune; he would feel the pangs of +disappointment as deeply as did Ralph himself. Ought he not to be +spared this pain? + +And then, a person holding the position of Robert Burnham's son could +give much comfort to the man who had been his dearest friend, could +place him beyond the reach of possible want, could provide well +for the old age that was rapidly approaching, could make happy and +peaceful the remnant of his days. Was it not the duty of a boy to +do it? + +But, ah! he would not have the good man look into his heart and see +the lie there, not for worlds. + +Ralph was passing along the same streets that he had traversed in +coming to the city two hours before; but now the doors of the houses +were closed, the curtains were drawn, the lights were out, there was +no longer any sound of sweet voices at the steps, nor any laughter, +nor any music in the air. A rising wind was stirring the foliage of +the trees into a noise like the subdued sobbing of many people; the +streets were deserted, a fine rain had begun to fall, and out on the +road, after the lad had left the suburbs, it was very dark. Indeed, it +was only by reason of long familiarity with the route that he could +find his way at all. + +But the storm and darkness outside were not to be compared with the +tempest in his heart; that was terrible. He had about made up his +mind to tell Bachelor Billy everything and to follow his advice when +he chanced to think of Mrs. Burnham, and how great her pain and +disappointment would be when she should know the truth. He knew that +she believed him now to be her son; that she was ready to take him +to her home, that she counted very greatly on his coming, and was +impatient to bestow on him all the care and devotion that her mother's +heart could conceive. It would be a bitter blow to her, oh, a very +bitter blow. It would be like raising her son from the dead only to +lay him back into his grave after the first day. + +What right had he to inflict such torture as this on a lady who had +been so kind to him? What right? Did not her love for him and his love +for her demand that he should keep silence? But, oh! to hear the sound +of loving words from her lips and know that he did not deserve them, +to feel her mother's kisses on his cheek and know that his heart was +dark with deep deceit. Could he endure that? could he? + +As Ralph turned the corner of the village street, he saw the light +from Bachelor Billy's window shining out into the darkness. There were +no other lights to be seen. People went early to bed there; they must +rise early in the morning. + +The boy knew that his Uncle Billy was waiting for him, doubtless with +much anxiety, but, now that he had reached the cottage, he stood +motionless by the door. He was trying to decide what he should do and +say on entering. To tell Uncle Billy or not to tell him, that was the +question. He had never kept anything from him before; this would be +the first secret he had not shared with him. And Uncle Billy had been +so good to him, too, so very good! Yes, he thought he had better tell +him; he would do it now, before his resolution failed. He raised his +hand to lift the latch. Again he hesitated. If he should tell him, +that would end it all. The good man would never allow him to act a +falsehood. He would have to bid farewell to all his sweet dreams of +home, and his high plans for life, and step back into the old routine +of helpless poverty and hopeless toil. He felt that he was not quite +ready to do that yet; heart, mind, body, all rebelled against it. He +would wait and hope for some way out, without the sacrifice of all +that he had longed for. His hand fell nerveless to his side. He still +stood waiting on the step in the beating rain. + +But then, it was wrong to keep silent, wrong! wrong! wrong! + +The word went echoing through his mind like the stern sentence of +some high court; conscience again pushed her way to the front, and +the struggle in the boy's heart went on with a fierceness that was +terrible. + +Suddenly the door was opened from the inside, and Bachelor Billy +stood there, shading his eyes with his hand and peering out into the +darkness. + +"Ralph," he said, "is that yo' a-stannin' there i' the rain? Coom in, +lad; coom in wi' ye! Why!" he exclaimed, as the boy entered the room, +"ye're a' drippin' wet!" + +"Yes, Uncle Billy, it's a-rainin' pirty hard; I believe I--I believe I +did git wet." + +The boy's voice sounded strange and hard even to himself. Bachelor +Billy looked down into his face questioningly. + +"What's the matter wi' ye, Ralph? Soun's like as if ye'd been +a-cryin'. Anything gone wrong?" + +"Oh, no. Only I'm tired, that's all, an'--an' wet." + +"Ye look bad i' the face. Mayhap an' ye're a bit sick?" + +"No, I ain't sick." + +"Wull, then, off wi' the wet duddies, an' we'll be a-creepin' awa' to +bed." + +As Ralph proceeded to remove his wet clothing, Bachelor Billy watched +him with increasing concern. The boy's face was white and haggard, +there were dark crescents under his eyes, his movements were heavy and +confused, he seemed hardly to know what he was about. + +"Has the lawyer said aught to mak' ye unhappy, Ralph?" inquired Billy +at last. + +"No, I ain't seen Mr. Sharpman. He wasn't in. He was in when I first +went there, but somebody else was there a-talkin' to 'im, an' I went +out to wait, an' w'en I got back again the office was locked, so I +didn't see 'im." + +"Ye've been a lang time gone, lad?" + +"Yes, I waited aroun', thinkin' maybe he'd come back, but he didn't. I +didn't git started for home" till just before it begun to rain." + +"Mayhap ye got a bit frightened a-comin' up i' the dark?" + +"No--well, I did git just a little scared a-comin' by old No. 10 +shaft; I thought I heard a funny noise in there." + +"Ye s'ould na be oot so late alone. Nex' time I'll go wi' ye mysel'!" + +Ralph finished the removal of his wet clothing, and went to bed, glad +to get where Bachelor Billy could not see his face, and where he need +not talk. + +"I'll wait up a bit an' finish ma pipe," said the man, and he leaned +back in his chair and began again his slow puffing. + +He knew that something had gone wrong with Ralph. He feared that he +was either sick or in deep trouble. He did not like to question him +too closely, but he thought he would wait a little before going to bed +and see if there were any further developments. + +Ralph could not sleep, but he tried to lie very still. A half-hour +went by, and then Bachelor Billy stole softly to the bed and looked +down into the lad's face. He was still awake. + +"Have you got your pipe smoked out, Uncle Billy?" he asked. + +"Yes, lad; I ha' just finished it." + +"Then are you comin' to bed now?" + +"I thocht to. Do ye want for anything?" + +"Oh, no! I'm all right." + +The man began to prepare for bed. + +After a while Ralph spoke. + +"Uncle Billy!" + +"What is it, lad?" + +"I've been thinkin', s'pose this suit should go against us, do you +b'lieve Mrs. Burnham would do anything more for me?" + +"She's a gude woman, Ralph. Na doot she'd care for ye; but ye could +na hope to have her tak' ye to her hame, an they proved ye waur no' +her son." + +"An' then--an' then I'd stay right along with you, wouldn't I?" + +"I hope so, lad, I hope so. I want ye s'ould stay wi' me till ye find +a better place." + +"Oh, I couldn't find a better place to stay, I know I couldn't, 'xcept +with my--'xcept with Mrs. Burnham." + +"Wull, ye need na worry aboot the matter. Ye'll ha' naught to fear fra +the trial, I'm thinkin'. Gae to sleep noo; ye'll feel better i' the +mornin', na doot." + +Ralph was silent, but only for a minute. A new thought was working +slowly into his mind. + +"But, Uncle Billy," he said, "s'pose they should prove, to-morrow, 'at +Simon Craft is my own gran'father, would I have to--Oh! Uncle Billy!" + +The lad started up in bed, sat there for a moment with wildly staring +eyes, and then sprang to the floor trembling with excitement and fear. + +"Oh, don't!" he cried; "Uncle Billy, don't let him take me back there +to live with him! I couldn't stan' it! I couldn't! I'd die! I can't +go, Uncle Billy! I can't!" + +"There, there, lad! ha' no fear; ye'll no' go back, I'll no' let ye." + +The man had Ralph in his arms trying to quiet him. + +"But," persisted the boy, "he'll come for me, he'll, make me go. If +they find out I'm his gran'son there at the court, they'll tell him to +take me, I know they will!" + +"But ye're no' his gran'son, Ralph, ye've naught to do wi' 'im. Ye're +Robert Burnham's son." + +"Oh, no, Uncle Billy, I ain't, I--" He stopped suddenly. The certain +result of disclosing his knowledge to his Uncle Billy flashed +warningly across his mind. If Bachelor Billy knew it, Mrs. Burnham +must know it; if Mrs. Burnham knew it, Goodlaw and the court must know +it, the verdict would be against him, Simon Craft would come to take +him back to the terrors of his wretched home, and he would have to +go. The law that would deny his claim as Robert Burnham's son would +stamp him as the grandson of Simon Craft, and place him again in his +cruel keeping. + +Oh, no! he must not tell. If there were reasons for keeping silence +before, they were increased a hundred-fold by the shadow of this last +danger. He felt that he had rather die than go back to live with Simon +Craft. + +Bachelor Billy was rocking the boy in his arms as he would have rocked +a baby. + +"There, noo, there, noo, quiet yoursel'," he said, and his voice was +very soothing, "quiet yoursel'; ye've naught to dread; it'll a' +coom oot richt. What's happenit to ye, Ralph, that ye s'ould be so +fearfu'?" + +"N--nothin'; I'm tired, that's all. I guess I'll go to bed again." + +He went back to bed, but not to sleep. Hot and feverish, and with his +mind in a tumult, he tossed about, restlessly, through the long hours +of the night. He had decided at last that he could not tell what he +had heard at Sharpman's office. The thought of having to return to +Simon Craft had settled the matter in his mind. The other reasons +for his silence he had lost sight of now; this last one outweighed +them all, and placed a seal upon his tongue that he felt must not +be broken. + +Toward morning he fell into a troubled sleep and dreamed that Old +Simon was holding him over the mouth of Burnham Shaft, threatening to +drop him down into it, while Sharpman stood by, with his hands in his +pockets, laughing heartily at his terror. He managed to cry out, and +awoke both himself and Bachelor Billy. He started up in bed, clutching +at the coverings in an attempt, to save himself from apparent +disaster, trembling from head to foot, moaning hoarsely in his fright. + +"What is it, Ralph, lad, what's ailin' ye?" + +"Oh, don't! don't let him throw me--Uncle Billy, is that you?" + +"It's me, Ralph. Waur ye dreamin'? There, never mind; no one s'all +harm ye, ye're safe i' the bed at hame. Gae to sleep, lad, gae to +sleep." + +"I thought they was goin' to throw me down the shaft. I must 'a' been +a-dreamin'." + +"Yes, ye waur dreamin'. Gae to sleep." + +But Ralph did not go to sleep again that night, and when the first +gray light of the dawning day came in at the cottage window he arose. +Bachelor Billy was still wrapped in heavy slumber, and the boy moved +about cautiously so as not to waken him. + +When he was dressed he went out and sat on a bench by the door. The +storm of the night before had left the air cool and sweet, and it +refreshed him to sit there and breathe it, and watch the sun as it +came up from behind the long slanting roof of Burnham Breaker. + +But he was very miserable, very miserable indeed. It was not so much +the sense of fear, of pain, of disappointment that disturbed him now, +it was the misery of a fettered conscience, the shadow of an ever +present shame. + +Finally the door was opened and Bachelor Billy stepped out. + +"Good mornin', Uncle Billy," said the boy, trying to speak cheerfully. + +"Gude mornin' till ye, Ralph! Ye're up airly the mornin'. I mak' free +to say ye're a-feelin' better." + +"Yes, I am. I didn't sleep very well, but I'm better this mornin'. I +wisht it was all over with--the trial I mean; you see it's a-makin' me +kind o' nervous an'--an' tired. I can't stan' much 'xcitement, some +way." + +"Wull, ye'll no' ha' lang to wait I'm a-thinkin'. It'll be ower the +day. What aboot you're gaein' to Wilkesbarre?" + +"I don't know. I guess I'll go down to Mr. Sharpman's office after a +while, an' see if he's left any word for me." + +Mrs. Maloney appeared at her door. + +"The top o' the mornin' to yez!" she cried, cheerily. "It's a fine +mornin' this!" + +Both Bachelor Billy and Ralph responded to the woman's hearty +greeting. She continued: + +"Ye'll be afther gettin' out in the air, I mind, to sharpen up the +appetites; an' a-boardin' with a widdy, too, bad 'cess to ye!" + +Mrs. Maloney was inclined to be jovial, as well as kind-hearted. +"Well, I've a bite on the table for yez, an ye don't come an' ate it, +the griddle-cakes'll burn an' the coffee'll be cowld, an'--why, Ralph, +is it sick ye are? sure, ye're not lookin' right well." + +"I wasn't feelin' very good las' night, Mrs. Maloney, but I'm better +this mornin'." + +The sympathetic woman took the boy's hand and rubbed it gently, and, +with many inquiries and much advice, she led him to the table. He +forced himself to eat a little food and to drink something that the +good woman had prepared for him, which, she declared emphatically, +would drive off the "wakeness." + +Bachelor Billy did not take his dinner with him that morning as usual. +He said he would come back at noon to learn whether anything new +had occurred in the matter of the lawsuit, and whether it would be +necessary for Ralph to go to Wilkesbarre. + +He was really much concerned about the boy. Ralph's conduct since the +evening before had been a mystery to him. He knew that something was +troubling the lad greatly; but, whatever it was, he had faith that +Ralph would meet it manfully, the more manfully, perhaps, without his +help. So he went away with cheering predictions concerning the suit, +and with kindly admonition to the boy to remain as quiet as possible +and try to sleep. + +But Ralph could not sleep, nor could he rest. He was laboring under +too much excitement still to do either. He walked nervously about the +cottage for a while, then he started down toward the city. He went +first to Sharpman's office, and the clerk told him that Mr. Sharpman +had left word that Ralph need not go to Wilkesbarre that day. Then he +went on to the heart of the city. He was trying to divert himself, +trying to drown his thought, as people try who are suffering from the +reproaches of conscience. + +He walked down to the railroad station. He wondered if Rhyming Joe had +gone. He supposed he had. He did not care to see him now, at any rate. + +He sat on a bench in the waiting-room for a few minutes to rest, +then he went out into the street again. But he was very wretched. It +seemed to him as though all persons whom he met looked down on him +disdainfully, as if they knew of his proposed deceit, and despised him +for it. A lady coming toward him crossed to the other side of the walk +before she reached him. He wondered if she saw disgrace in his face +and was trying to avoid him. + +After that he left the busy streets and walked back, by a less +frequented route, toward home. The day was very bright and warm, but +the brightness had a cold glare in Ralph's eyes, and he actually +shivered as he walked on in the shade of the trees. He crossed to the +sunny side of the street, and hurried along through the suburbs and +up the hill. + +Widow Maloney called to him as he reached the cottage door, to ask +after his health; but he told her he was feeling better, and went on +into his own room. He closed the door behind him, locked it, and threw +himself down upon the bed. He was very wretched. Oh, very wretched, +indeed. + +He had decided to keep silent, and to let the case at Wilkesbarre go +on to its expected end, but the decision had brought to him no peace; +it had only made him more unhappy than he was before. But why should +it do this? Was he not doing what was best? Would it not be better +for Uncle Billy, for Mrs. Burnham, for himself? Must he, for the sake +of some farfetched moral principle, throw himself into the merciless +clutch of Simon Craft? + +Thus the fight began again, and the battle in the boy's heart went on +with renewed earnestness. He gave to his conscience, one by one, the +reasons that he had for acting the part of Robert Burnham's son; good +reasons they were too, overwhelmingly convincing they seemed to him; +but his conscience, like an angel with a flaming sword, rejected all +of them, declaring constantly that what he thought to do would be a +grievous wrong. + +But whom would it wrong? Not Ralph Burnham, for he was dead, and it +could be no wrong to him; not Mrs. Burnham, for she would rejoice to +have this boy with her, even though she knew he was not her son; not +Bachelor Billy, for he would be helped to comfort and to happiness. +And yet there stood the angel with the flaming sword crying out always +that it was wrong. + +But whom would it wrong? himself? Ah! there was a thought--would it be +wronging himself? + +Well, would it not? Had it not already made a coward of him? Was it +not degrading him in his own eyes? Was it not trying to stifle the +voice of conscience in his breast? Would it not make of him a living, +walking lie? a thing to be shunned and scorned? Had he a right to +place a burden so appalling on himself? Would it not be better to face +the toil, the pain, the poverty, the fear? Would it not be better even +to die than to live a life like that? + +He sprang from the bed with clenched hands and flashing eyes and +swelling nostrils. A fire of moral courage had blazed up suddenly in +his breast. His better nature rose to the help of the angel with the +flaming sword, and together they fought, as the giants of old fought +the dragons in their path. Then hope came back, and courage grew, and +resolution found new footing. He stood there as he stood that day +on the carriage that bore Robert Burnham to his death, the light of +heroism in his eyes, the glow of splendid faith illuming his face. He +could not help but conquer. He drove the spirit of temptation from his +breast, and enthroned in its stead the principle of everlasting right. +There was no thought now of yielding; he felt brave and strong to meet +every trial, yes, every terror that might lie in his path, without +flinching one hair's breadth from the stern line of duty. + +But now that his decision was made, he must act, and that promptly. +What was the first thing to be done? Why, the first thing always was +to confide in Uncle Billy, and to ask for his advice. + +He seized his hat and started up the village street and across the +hill to Burnham Breaker There was no lagging now, no indecision in his +step, no doubt within his mind. + +He was once more brave, hopeful, free-hearted, ready to do anything or +all things, that justice might be done and truth become established. + +The sun shone down upon him tenderly, the birds sang carols to him on +the way, the blossoming trees cast white flowers at his feet; but he +never stayed his steps nor turned his thought until the black heights +of Burnham Breaker threw their shadows on his head. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +AN EVENTFUL JOURNEY. + + +The shaft-tower of Burnham Breaker reached up so high from the surface +of the earth that it seemed, sometimes, as if the low-hanging clouds +were only a foot or two above its head. In the winter time the wind +swept wildly against it, the flying snow drifted in through the wide +cracks and broken windows, and the men who worked there suffered from +the piercing cold. But when summer came, and the cool breeze floated +across through the open places at the head, and one could look down +always on the green fields far below, and the blossoming gardens, +and the gray-roofed city, and the shining waters of the Lackawanna, +winding southward, and the wooded hills rising like green waves to +touch the far blue line of mountain peaks, ah, then it was a pleasant +place to work in. So Bachelor Billy thought, these warm spring days, +as he pushed the dripping cars from the carriage, and dumped each load +of coal into the slide, to be carried down between the iron-teethed +rollers, to be crushed and divided and screened and re-screened, till +it should pass beneath the sharp eyes and nimble fingers of the boys +who cleansed it from its slate and stone. + +Billy often thought, as he dumped a carload into the slide, and saw a +huge lump of coal that glistened brightly, or glowed with iridescent +tints, or was veined with fossil-marked or twisted slate, that +perhaps, down below in the screen-room, Ralph's eyes would see the +brightness of the broken lump, or Ralph's fingers pick the curious +bits of slate from out the moving mass. And as he fastened up the +swing-board and pushed the empty car to the carriage, he imagined how +the boy's face would light up with pleasure, or his brown eyes gleam +with wonder and delight in looking on these strange specimens of +nature's handiwork. + +But to-day Ralph was not there. In all probability he would never +be there again to work. Another boy was sitting on his bench in the +screen-room, another boy was watching rainbow coal and fern-marked +slate. This thought in Bachelor Billy's mind was a sad one. He pushed +the empty car on the carriage, and sat down on a bench by the window +to consider the subject of Ralph's absence. + +Something had gone wrong at the foot of the shaft. There were no cars +ready for hoisting, and Billy and his co-laborer, Andy Gilgallon, were +able to rest for many minutes from their toil. + +As they sat looking down upon the green landscape below them, Bachelor +Billy's attention was attracted to a boy who was hurrying along the +turnpike road a quarter of a mile away. He came to the foot of the +hill and turned up the path to the breaker, looking up to the men in +the shaft-tower as he hastened on, and waving his hand to them. + +"I believe it's Ralph," said Billy, "it surely is. An ye'll mind both +carriages for a bit when they start up, Andy, I'll go t' the lad," and +he hurried across the tracks and down the dark and devious way that +led to the surface of the earth. + +At the door of the pump-room he met Ralph. "Uncle Billy!" shouted the +boy, "I want to see you; I've got sumpthin' to tell you." + +Two or three men were standing by, watching the pair curiously, and +Ralph continued: "Come up to the tree where they ain't so much noise; +'twon't take long." + +He led the way across the level space, up the bank, and into the +shadow of the tree beneath which the breaker boys had gathered a year +before to pass resolutions of sympathy for Robert Burnham's widow; + +They were no sooner seated on the rude bench than Ralph began:-- + +"I ought to 'a' told you before, I done very wrong not to tell you, +but I couldn't raise the courage to do it till this mornin'. Here's +what I want you to know." + +Then Ralph told, with full detail, of his visit to Sharpman's office +on Sunday evening, of what he had heard there, of his subsequent +journey through the streets of the city, of his night of agony, of his +morning of shame, of his final victory over himself. + +Bachelor Billy listened with intense interest, and when he had heard +the boy's story to the end he dashed the tears from his eyes and said: +"Gie's your han' Ralph; gie's your twa han's! Ye're a braw lad. Son or +no son o' Robert Burnham, ye're fit to stan' ony day in his shoes!" + +He was looking down with strong admiration into the boy's pale face, +holding the small hands affectionately in both of his. + +"I come just as quick as I could," continued the boy, "after I got +over thinkin' I'd keep still about it, just as quick as I could, to +tell you an' ask you what to do. I'll do anything 'at you tell me it's +right to do, Uncle Billy, anything. If you'll only say I must do it, +I will. But it's awful hard to do it all alone, to let 'em know who I +am, to give up everything so, an' not to have any mother any more, nor +no sister, nor no home, nor no learnin', nor nothing; not anything at +all, never, any more; it's terrible! Oh, Uncle Billy, it's terrible!" + +Then, for the first time since the dreadful words of Rhyming Joe fell +on his ears in the darkness of Sharpman's office, Ralph gave way to +tears. He wept till his whole frame shook with the deep force of his +sobs. + +Bachelor Billy put his arm around the boy and drew him to his side. He +smoothed back the tangled hair from the child's hot forehead and spoke +rude words of comfort into his ears, and after a time Ralph grew +quiet. + +"Do you think, Uncle Billy," asked Ralph, "'at Rhymin' Joe was +a-tellin' the truth? He used to lie, I know he did, I've heard 'im +lie myself." + +"It looks verra like, Ralph, as though he might 'a' been a-tellin' o' +the truth; he must 'a' been knowin' to it all, or he could na tell it +so plain." + +"Oh! he was; he knew all about it. I remember him about the first +thing. He was there most all the time. But I didn't know but he might +just 'a' been lyin' to get that money." + +"It's no' unlikely. But atween the twa, I'd sooner think it was the +auld mon was a-tellin' o' the lee. He has more to make out o' it, do +ye see?" + +"Well, there's the evidence in court." + +"True, but Lawyer Sharpman kens the worth o' that as well as ony o' +us. An he was na fearfu' that the truth would owerbalance it, he wadna +gi' a mon a hunderd an' fifty dollars to hold his tongue. I'm doubtfu' +for ye, Ralph, I'm verra doubtfu'." + +Ralph had believed Rhyming Joe's story from the beginning, but he felt +that this belief must be confirmed by Uncle Billy in order to put it +beyond question. Now he was satisfied. It only remained to act. + +"It's all true," he said; "I know it's all true, an' sumpthin's got to +be done. What shall I do, Uncle Billy?" + +The troubled look deepened on the man's face. + +"Whether it's fause or true," he replied, "ye s'ould na keep it to +yoursel'. She ought to know. It's only fair to go an' tell the tale to +her an' let her do what she thenks bes'." + +"Must I tell Mrs. Burnham? Must I go an' tell her 'at I ain't her +son, an' 'at I can't live with her, an' 'at we can't never be happy +together the way we talked? Oh, Uncle Billy, I can't do that, I +can't!" + +He looked up beseechingly into the man's face. Something that he saw +there--pain, disappointment, affection, something, inspired him with +fresh courage, and he started to his feet and dashed the tears from +his eyes. + +"Yes, I can do it too!" he exclaimed. "I can do anything 'at's right, +an' that's right. I won't wait; I'll go now." + +"Don't haste, lad; wait a bit; listen! If the lady should be gone to +court ye mus' gae there too. If ye canna find her, ye mus' find her +lawyer. One or the ither ye s'ould tell, afoor the verdict comes; +afterwards it might be too late." + +"Yes, I'll do it, I'll do it just like that." + +"Mos' like ye'll have to go to Wilkesbarre. An ye do I'll go mysel'. +But dinna wait for me. I'll coom when I can get awa'. Ye s'ould go on +the first train that leaves." + +"Yes, I unnerstan'. I'll go now." + +"Wait a bit! Keep up your courage, Ralph. Ye've done a braw thing, an' +ye're through the worst o' it; but ye'll find a hard path yet, an' +ye'll need a stout hert. Ralph," he had taken both the boy's hands +into his again, and was looking tenderly into his haggard face and +bloodshot eyes; the traces of the struggle were so very plain--"Ralph, +I fear I'd cry ower ye a bit an we had the time, ye've sufferit so. +An' it's gude for ye, I'm thinkin', that ye mus' go quick. I'd make ye +weak, an' ye need to be strang. I canna fear for ye, laddie; ye ken +the right an' ye'll do it. Good-by till ye; it'll not be lang till I +s'all go to ye; good-by!" + +He bent down and kissed the boy's forehead and turned him to face +toward the city; and when Ralph had disappeared below the brow of the +hill, the rough-handed, warm-hearted toiler of the breaker's head +wiped the tears from his face, and climbed back up the steep steps, +and the long walks of cleated plank, to engage in his accustomed task. + +There was no shrinking on Ralph's part now. He was on fire with the +determination to do the duty that lay so plainly in his sight. He did +not stop to argue with himself, he scarcely saw a person or a thing +along his path; he never rested from his rapid journey till he reached +the door of Mrs. Burnham's house. + +A servant came in answer to his ring at the bell, and gave him +pleasant greeting. She said that Mrs. Burnham had gone to Wilkesbarre, +that she had started an hour before, that she had said she would come +back in the early evening and would doubtless bring her son with her. + +Ralph looked up into the woman's face, and his eyes grew dim. + +"Thank you," he said, repressing a sob, and he went down the steps +with a choking in his throat and a pain at his heart. + +He turned at the gate, and looked back through the half-opened door +into the rich shadows that lay beyond it, with a ray of crimson light +from the stained glass window cleaving them across, and then his eyes +were blinded with tears, and he could see no more. The gates of his +Eden were closed behind him; he felt that he should never enter them +again. + +But this was no time for sorrow and regret. + +He wiped the tears from his eyes and turned his face resolutely toward +the heart of the city. + +At the railroad station he was told that the next train would leave +for Wilkesbarre at twelve o'clock. + +It lacked half an hour of that time now. There was nothing to do but +to wait. He began to mark out in his mind the course he should pursue +on reaching Wilkesbarre. He thought he would inquire the way to Mr. +Goodlaw's office, and go directly to it and tell the whole story to +him. Perhaps Mrs. Burnham would be there too, that would be better +yet, more painful but better. Then he should follow their advice as +to the course to be pursued. It was more than likely that they would +want him to testify as a witness. That would be strange, too, that +he should give such evidence voluntarily as would deprive him of a +beautiful home, of a loving mother, and of an honored name. But he was +ready to do it; he was ready to do anything now that seemed right and +best, anything that would meet the approval of his Uncle Billy and of +his own conscience. + +When the train was ready he found a seat in the cars and waited +impatiently for them to start. For some reason they were late in +getting away, but, once started, they seemed to be going fast enough +to make up for lost time. + +In the seats behind Ralph was a merry party of young girls. Their +incessant chatter and musical laughter came to his ears as from a long +distance. At any former time he would have listened to them with great +pleasure; such sounds had an unspeakable charm for him; but to-day his +brain was busied with weightier matters. + +He looked from the car window and saw the river glancing in the +sunlight, winding under shaded banks, rippling over stony bottoms. +He saw the wooded hill-sides, with the delicate green of spring upon +them fast deepening into the darker tints of summer. He saw the giant +breakers looming up, black and massive, in the foreground of almost +every scene. And yet it was all scarcely more to him than a shadowy +dream. The strong reality in his mind was the trying task that lay +before him yet, and the bitter outcome, so soon to be, of all his +hopes and fancies. + +At Pittston Junction there was another long delay. Ralph grew very +nervous and impatient. + +If the train could have reached Wilkesbarre on time he would have had +only an hour to spare before the sitting of the court. Now he could +hope for only a half-hour at the best. And if anything should happen +to deprive him of that time; if anything _should_ happen so that he +should not get to court until after the case was closed, until after +the verdict of the jury had been rendered, until after the law had +declared him to be Robert Burnham's son; if anything _should_ happen! +His face flushed, his heart began to beat wildly, his breath came in +gasps. If such a thing were to occur, without his fault, against his +will and effort, what then? It was only for a moment that he gave way +to this insidious and undermining thought. Then he fought it back, +crushed it, trampled on it, and set his face again sternly to the +front. + +At last the train came, the impatient passengers entered it, and they +were once more on their way. + +It was a relief at least to be going, and for the moment Ralph had a +faint sense of enjoyment in looking out across the placid bosom of the +Susquehanna, over into the tree-girt, garden-decked expanse of the +valley of Wyoming. Off the nearer shore of a green-walled island in +the river, a group of cattle stood knee-deep in the shaded water, a +picture of perfect comfort and content. + +Then the train swept around a curve, away from the shore, and back +among the low hills to the east. Suddenly there was a bumping together +of the cars, an apparently powerful effort to check their impetus, a +grinding of the brakes on the wheels, a rapid slowing of the train, +and a slight shock at stopping. + +The party of girls had grown silent, and their eyes were wide and +their faces blanched with fear. + +The men in the car arose from their seats and went out to discover the +cause of the alarm. Ralph went also. The train had narrowly escaped +plunging into a mass of wrecked coal cars, thrown together by a +collision which had just occurred, and half buried in the scattered +coal. + +To make the matter still worse the collision had taken place in a deep +and narrow cut, and had filled it from side to side with twisted and +splintered wreckage. + +What was to be done? the passengers asked. The conductor replied +that a man would be sent back to the next station, a few miles away, +to telegraph for a special train from Wilkesbarre, and that the +passengers would take the train from the other side of the wreck. And +how long would they be obliged to wait here? + +"Well, an hour at any rate, perhaps longer." + +"That means two hours," said an impatient traveller, bitterly. + +Ralph heard it all. An hour would make him very late, two hours would +be fatal to his mission. He went up to the conductor and asked,-- + +"How long'd it take to walk to Wilkesbarre?" + +"That depends on how fast you can walk, sonny. Some men might do it in +half or three quarters of an hour: you couldn't." And the man looked +down, slightingly, on the boyish figure beside him. + +Ralph turned away in deep thought. If he could walk it in +three-quarters of an hour, he might yet be in time; time to do +something at least. Should he try? + +But this accident, this delay, might it not be providential? Must he +always be striving against fate? against every circumstance that would +tend to relieve him? against every obstacle thrown into his path to +prevent him from bringing calamity on his own head? Must he?--but the +query went no further. The angel with the flaming sword came back to +guard the gates of thought, and conscience still was king. He would do +all that lay in his human power, with every moment and every muscle +that he had, to fulfil the stern command of duty, and then if he +should fail, it would be with no shame in his heart, no blot upon his +soul. + +Already he was making his way through the thick underbrush along the +steep hill-side above the wreck, stumbling, falling, bruising his +hands and knees, and finally leaping down into the railroad track on +the other side of the piled-up cars. From there he ran along smoothly +on the ties, turning out once for a train of coal cars to pass him, +but stopping for nothing. A man at work in a field by the track asked +him what the matter was up the line; the boy answered him in as few +words as possible, walking while he talked, and then ran on again. +After he had gone a mile or more he came to a wagon-road crossing, and +wondered if, by following it, he would not sooner reach his journey's +end. He could see, in the distance, the smoke arising from a hundred +chimneys where the city lay, and the road looked as though it would +take him more directly there. He did not stop long to consider. He +plunged ahead down a little hill, and then along on a foot-path by the +side of the wagon-track. The day had grown to be very warm, and Ralph +removed his jacket and carried it on his arm or across his shoulder. +He became thirsty after a while, but he dared not stop at the houses +along the way to ask for water; it would take too much time. He met +many wagons coming toward him, but there seemed to be few going in to +the city. He had hoped to get a ride. He had overtaken a farmer with +a wagon-load of produce going to the town and had passed him. Two or +three fast teams whirled by, leaving a cloud of dust to envelop him. +Then a man, riding in a buggy, drove slowly down the road. Ralph +shouted at him as he passed:-- + +"Please, sir, may I have a ride? I'm in a desp'ate hurry!" + +But the man looked back at him contemptuously. "I don't run a stage +for the benefit of tramps," he said, and drove on. + +Ralph was discouraged and did not dare to ask any one else for a ride, +though there seemed to be several opportunities to get one. + +But he came to a place, at last, where a little creek crossed the +road, a cool spring run, and he knelt down by it and quenched his +thirst, and considered that if he had been in a wagon he would have +missed the drink. The road was somewhat disappointing to him, too. It +seemed to turn away, after a little distance, from the direct line to +the city, and to bear to the west, toward the river. He feared that +he had made a mistake in leaving the railroad, but he only walked the +faster. Now and then he would break into a run and keep running until +his breath gave out, then he would drop back into a walk. + +His feet began to hurt him. One shoe rubbed his heel until the pain +became so intense that he could not bear it, and he sat down by the +roadside and removed his shoes and stockings, and then ran on in his +bare feet. The sunlight grew hotter; no air was stirring; the dust +hung above the road in clouds. Deep thirst came back upon the boy; +his limbs grew weak and tired; his bared feet were bruised upon the +stones. + +But he scarcely thought of these things; his only anxiety was that the +moments were passing, that the road was long, that unless he reached +his journey's end in time injustice would be done and wrong prevail. + +So he pressed on; abating not one jot of his swiftness, falling +not one hair's breadth from his height of resolution, on and on, +foot-sore, thirsty, in deep distress; but with a heart unyielding +as the flint, with a purpose strong as steel, with a heroism more +magnificent than that which meets the points of glittering bayonets +or the mouths of belching cannon. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +A BLOCK IN THE WHEEL. + + +At half-past one o'clock people began to loiter into the court-house +at Wilkesbarre; at two the court-room was full. They were there, the +most of them, to hear the close of the now celebrated Burnham case. + +The judge came in from a side door and took his seat on the bench. +Beneath him the prothonotary was busy writing in a big book. Down in +the bar the attorneys sat chatting familiarly and pleasantly with one +another. Sharpman was there, and Craft was at his elbow. + +Goodlaw was there, and Mrs. Burnham sat in her accustomed place. The +crier opened court in a voice that could be heard to the farthest end +of the room, though few of the listeners understood what his "Oyez! +oyez! oyez!" was all about. + +Some opinions of the court were read and handed down by the judge. The +prothonotary called the jury list for the week. Two or three jurors +presented applications for discharge which were patiently considered +and acted on by the court. + +The sheriff arose and acknowledged a bunch of deeds, the title-pages +of which had been read aloud by the judge. + +An attorney stepped up to the railing and presented a petition to the +court; another attorney arose and objected to it, and quite a little +discussion ensued over the matter. It finally ended by a rule being +granted to show cause why the petition should not be allowed. Then +there were several motions made by as many lawyers. All this took much +time; a good half-hour at least, perhaps longer. + +Finally there was a lull. The judge was busily engaged in writing. The +attorneys seemed to have exhausted their topics for conversation and +to be waiting for new ones. + +The jury in the Burnham case sat listlessly in their chairs, glad that +their work in the matter at issue was nearly done, yet regretful that +a case had not been made out which might have called for the exercise +of that large intelligence, that critical acumen, that capacity +for close reasoning, of which the members of the average jury +feel themselves to be severally and collectively possessed. As it +was, there would be little for them to do. The case was extremely +one-sided, "like the handle on a jug," as one of them sententiously +and somewhat scornfully remarked. + +The judge looked up from his writing. "Well, gentlemen," he said, "are +you ready to proceed in the case of 'Craft against Burnham'?" + +"We are ready on the part of the plaintiff," replied Sharpman. + +Goodlaw arose. "If it please the court," he said, "we are in the same +position to-day that we were in on Saturday night at the adjournment. +This matter has been, with us, one of investigation rather than of +defence. + +"Though we hesitate to accept a statement of fact from a man of Simon +Craft's self-confessed character, yet the corroborative evidence seems +to warrant a belief in the general truth of his story. + +"We do not wish to offer any further contradictory evidence than that +already elicited from the plaintiff's witnesses. I may say, however, +that this decision on our part is due not so much to my own sense of +the legal barrenness of our case as to my client's deep conviction +that the boy Ralph is her son, and to her great desire that justice +shall be done to him." + +"In that case," said the judge, "I presume you will have nothing +further to offer on the part of the plaintiff, Mr. Sharpman?" + +"Nothing," replied that gentleman, with an involuntary, smile of +satisfaction on his lips. + +"Then," said Goodlaw, who was still standing, "I suppose the evidence +may be declared closed. I know of no--" He stopped and turned to see +what the noise and confusion back by the entrance was about. The eyes +of every one else in the room were turned in that direction also. A +tipstaff was trying to detain Ralph at the door; he had not recognized +him. But the boy broke away from him and hurried down the central +aisle to the railing of the bar. In the struggle with the officer he +had lost his hat, and his hair was tumbled over his forehead. His face +was grimy and streaked with perspiration; his clothes were torn and +dusty, and in his hand he still carried his shoes and stockings. + +"Mr. Goodlaw!" he exclaimed in a loud whisper as he hastened across +the bar, "Mr. Goodlaw, wait a minute! I ain't Robert Burnham's son! I +didn't know it till yestaday; but I ain't--I ain't his son!" + +The boy dropped, panting, into a chair. Goodlaw looked down on him +in astonishment. Old Simon clutched his cane and leaned forward with +his eyes flashing fire. Mrs. Burnham, her face pale with surprise and +compassion, began to smooth back the hair from the lad's wet forehead. +The people back in the court-room had risen to their feet, to look +down into the bar, and the constables were trying to restore order. + +It all took place in a minute. + +Then Ralph began to talk again:-- + +"Rhymin' Joe said so; he said I was Simon Craft's grandson; he told--" + +Sharpman interrupted him. "Come with me, Ralph," he said, "I want to +speak with you a minute." He reached out his hand, as if to lead him +away; but Goodlaw stepped between them, saying, sternly:-- + +"He shall not go! The boy shall tell his story unhampered; you shall +not crowd it back down his throat in private!" + +"I say the boy shall go," replied Sharpman, angrily. "He is my client, +and I have a right to consult with him." + +This was true. For a moment Goodlaw was at his wit's end. Then, a +bright idea came to him. + +"Ralph," he said, "take the witness-stand." + +Sharpman saw that he was foiled. + +He turned to the court, white with passion. + +"I protest," he exclaimed, "against this proceeding! It is contrary +to both law and courtesy. I demand the privilege of consulting with +my client!" + +"Counsel has a right to call the boy as a witness," said the judge, +dispassionately, "and to put him on the stand at once. Let him be +sworn." + +Ralph pushed his way up to the witness-stand, and the officer +administered the oath. He was a sorry-looking witness indeed. + +At any other time or in any other place, his appearance would have +been ludicrous. But now no one laughed. The people in the court-room +began to whisper, "Hush!" fearing lest the noise of moving bodies +might cause them to lose the boy's words. + +To Goodlaw it was all a mystery. He did not know how to begin the +examination. He started at a venture. + +"Are you Robert Burnham's son?" + +"No, sir," replied Ralph, firmly. "I ain't." + +There was a buzz of excitement in the room. Old Simon sat staring +at the boy incredulously. His anger had changed for the moment into +wonder. He could not understand the cause of Ralph's action. Sharpman +had not told him of the interview with Rhyming Joe--he had not thought +it advisable. + +"Who are you, then?" inquired Goodlaw. + +"I'm Simon Craft's grandson." The excitement in the room ran higher. +Craft raised himself on his cane to lean toward Sharpman. "He lies!" +whispered the old man, hoarsely; "the boy lies!" + +Sharpman paid no attention to him. + +"When did you first learn that you are Mr. Craft's grandson?" +continued the counsel for the defence. + +"Last night," responded Ralph. + +"Where?" + +"At Mr. Sharpman's office." + +The blood rushed suddenly into Sharpman's face. He understood it all +now; Ralph had overheard. + +"Who told you?" asked Goodlaw. + +"No one told me, I heard Rhymin' Joe--" + +Sharpman interrupted him. + +"I don't know," he said, "if the court please, what this boy is trying +to tell nor what wild idea has found lodgement in his brain; but I +certainly object to the introduction of such hearsay evidence as +counsel seems trying to bring out. Let us at least know whether the +responsible plaintiff in this case was present or was a party to this +alleged conversation." + +"Was Mr. Craft present?" asked Goodlaw of the witness. + +"No, sir; I guess not, I didn't hear 'im, any way." + +"Did you see him?" + +"No, sir; I didn't see 'im. I didn't see either of 'em." + +"Where were you?" + +"In the room nex' to the street." + +"Where did this conversation take place?" + +"In the back room." + +"Was the door open?" + +"Just a little." + +"Who were in the back room?" + +"Mr. Sharpman an' Rhymin' Joe." + +"Who is Rhyming Joe?" + +"He's a man I used to know in Philadelphy." + +"When you lived with Craft?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"What was his business?" + +"I don't know as anything. He used to bring things to the house +sometimes, watches an' things." + +"How long have you known Rhyming Joe?" + +"Ever since I can remember." + +"Was he at Craft's house frequently?" + +"Yes, sir; most all the time." + +An idea of the true situation of affairs was dawning upon Goodlaw's +mind. That Ralph had overheard Rhyming Joe say to Sharpman that the +boy was Simon Craft's grandson was evident. But how to get that fact +before the jury in the face of the rules of evidence--that was the +question. It seemed to him that there should be some way to do it, and +he kept on with the examination in order to gain time for thought and +to lead up to the point. + +"Did Mr. Sharpman know that you were in his office when this +conversation took place?" + +"No, sir; I guess not." + +"Did Rhyming Joe know you were there?" + +"No, sir; I don't believe he did." + +"From the conversation overheard by you, have you reason to believe +that Rhyming Joe is acquainted with the facts relating to your +parentage?" + +"Yes, sir; he must know." + +"And, from hearing that conversation, did you become convinced that +you are Simon Craft's grandson and not Robert Burnham's son?" + +"Yes, sir, I did. Rhymin' Joe said so, an' he knows." + +"Did you see Rhyming Joe last night?" + +"No, sir. Only as he passed by me in the dark." + +"Have you seen him to-day?" + +"No, sir; he promised to go away this mornin'." + +"To whom did he make that promise?" + +Sharpman was on his feet in an instant, calling on Ralph to stop, and +appealing to the court to have the counsel and witness restricted to +a line of evidence that was legal and proper. He saw open before him +the pit of bribery, and this fearless boy was pushing him dangerously +close to the brink of it. + +The judge admonished the defendant's attorney to hold the witness +within proper bounds and to proceed with the examination. + +In the meantime, Goodlaw had been thinking. He felt that it was of the +highest importance that this occurrence in Sharpman's office should be +made known to the court and the jury, and that without delay. There +was but one theory, however, on which he could hope to introduce +evidence of all that had taken place there, and he feared that that +was not a sound one. But he determined to put on a bold face and make +the effort. + +"Ralph," he said, calmly, "you may go on now and give the entire +conversation as you heard it last night between Mr. Sharpman and +Rhyming Joe." + +The very boldness of the question brought a smile to Sharpman's face +as he arose and objected to the legality of the evidence asked for. + +"We contend," said Goodlaw, in support of his offer, "that neither the +trustee-plaintiff nor his attorney are persons whom the law recognizes +as having any vital interest in this suit. The witness on the stand is +the real plaintiff here, his are the interests that are at stake, and +if he chooses to give evidence adverse to those interests, evidence +relevant to the matter at issue, although it may be hearsay evidence, +he has a perfect right to do so. His privilege as a witness is as high +as that of any other plaintiff." + +But Sharpman was on the alert. He arose to reply. + +"Counsel forgets," he said, "or else is ignorant of the fact, that +the very object of the appointment of a guardian is because the law +considers that a minor is incapable of acting for himself. He has no +discretionary power in connection with his estate. He has no more +right to go on the witness-stand and give voluntary hearsay evidence +which shall be adverse to his own interests than he has to give away +any part of his estate which may be under the control of his trustee. +A guardian who will allow him to do either of these things without +objection will be liable for damages at the hands of his ward when +that ward shall have reached his majority. We insist on the rejection +of the offer." + +The judge sat for a minute in silence, as if weighing the matter +carefully. Finally he said:-- + +"We do not think the testimony is competent, Mr. Goodlaw. Although the +point is a new one to us, we are inclined to look upon the law of the +case as Mr. Sharpman looks on it. We shall be obliged to refuse your +offer. We will seal you a bill of exceptions." + +Goodlaw had hardly dared to expect anything else. There was nothing +for him to do but to acquiesce in the ruling of the court. + +Ralph turned to face him with a question on his lips. + +"Mr. Goodlaw," he said, "ain't they goin' to let me tell what I heard +Rhymin' Joe say?" + +"I am afraid not, Ralph; the court has ruled that conversation out." + +"But they won't never know the right of it unless I tell that. I've +got to tell it; that's what I come here for." + +The judge turned to the witness and spoke to him, not unkindly:-- + +"Ralph, suppose you refrain from interrogating your counsel, and let +him ask questions of you; that is the way we do here." + +"Yes, sir, I will," said the boy, innocently, "only it seems too bad +'at I can't tell what Rhymin' Joe said." + +The lawyers in the bar were smiling, Sharpman had recovered his +apparent good-nature, and Goodlaw began again to interrogate the +witness. + +"Are you aware, Ralph," he asked, "that your testimony here to-day +may have the effect of excluding you from all rights in the estate +of Robert Burnham?" + +"Yes, sir, I know it." + +"And do you know that you are probably denying yourself the right to +bear one of the most honored names, and to live in one of the most +beautiful homes in this community?" + +"Yes, sir, I know it all. I wouldn't mind all that so much though if +it wasn't for my mother. I've got to give her up now, that's the worst +of it; I don't know how I'm goin' to stan' that." + +Mrs. Burnham, sitting by her counsel, bent her head above the table +and wept silently. + +"Was your decision to disclose your knowledge reached with a fair +understanding of the probable result of such a disclosure?" + +"Yes, sir, it was. I knew what the end of it'd be, an' I had a pirty +hard time to bring myself to it, but I done it, an' I'm glad now 'at +I did." + +"Did you reach this decision alone or did some one help you to it?" + +"Well, I'll tell you how that was. All't I decided in the first place +was to tell Uncle Billy,--he's the man't I live with. So I told him, +an' he said I ought to tell Mrs. Burnham right away. But she wasn't +home when I got to her house, so I started right down here; an' they +was an accident up on the road, an' the train couldn't go no further, +an' so I walked in--I was afraid I wouldn't get here in time 'less +I did." + +"Your long walk accounts for your dusty and shoeless condition, I +suppose?" + +"Yes, sir; it was pirty dusty an' hot, an' I had to walk a good ways, +an' my shoes hurt me so't I had to take 'em off, an' I didn't have +time to put 'em on again after I got here. Besides," continued the +boy, looking down apologetically at his bruised and dusty feet, "I +hurt my feet a-knockin' 'em against the stones when I was a-runnin', +an' they've got swelled up so 'at I don't believe I could git my shoes +on now, any way." + +Many people in the room besides Mrs. Burnham had tears in their eyes +at the conclusion of this simple statement. + +Then Ralph grew white about the lips and looked around him uneasily. +The judge saw that the lad was faint, and ordered a tipstaff to bring +him a glass of water. Ralph drank the water and it refreshed him. + +"You may cross-examine the witness," said Goodlaw to the plaintiff's +attorney. + +Sharpman hardly knew how to begin. But he felt that he must make an +effort to break in some way the force of Ralph's testimony. He knew +that from a strictly legal point of view, the evidence was of little +value, but he feared that the boy's apparent honesty, coupled with his +dramatic entrance, would create an impression on the minds of the jury +which might carry them to a disastrous verdict. He leaned back in his +chair with an assumed calmness, placed the tips of his fingers against +each other, and cast his eyes toward the ceiling. + +"Ralph," he said, "you considered up to yesterday that Mr. Craft and I +were acting in your interest in this case, did you not?" + +"Yes, sir; I thought so." + +"And you have consulted with us and followed our advice until +yesterday, have you not?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"And last night you came to the conclusion that we were deceiving +you?" + +"Yes, sir; I did." + +"Have you any reason for this opinion aside from the conversation you +allege that you heard?" + +"I don't know as I have." + +"At what hour did you reach my office last evening?" + +"I don't know, I guess it must 'a' been after eight o'clock." + +"Was it dark?" + +"It was jest dark." + +"Was there a light in the office when you came in?" + +"They was in the back room where you an' Rhymin' Joe were." + +"Did you think that I knew when you came into the office?" + +"I don't believe you did." + +"Why did you not make your presence known?" + +"Well, I--I--" + +"Come, out with it! If you had any reason for playing the spy, let's +hear what it was." + +"I didn't play the spy. I didn't think o' bein' mean that way, but +when I heard Rhymin' Joe tell you 'at I wasn't Robert Burnham's son, +I was so s'prised, an' scart-like 'at I couldn't speak." + +This was a little more than Sharpman wanted, but he kept on:-- + +"How long were you under the control of this spirit of muteness?" + +"Sir?" + +"How long was it before the power to speak returned to you?" + +"Oh! not till Rhymin' Joe went out, I guess. I felt so bad I didn't +want to speak to anybody." + +"Did you see this person whom you call Rhyming Joe?" + +"Only in the dark." + +"Not so as to recognize him by sight?" + +"No, sir." + +"How did you know it was he?" + +"By the way he talked." + +"How long is it since you have been accustomed to hearing him talk?" + +"About three years." + +"Did you see me last night?" + +"I caught a glimpse of you jest once." + +"When?" + +"When you went across the room an' gave Rhymin' Joe the money." + +Sharpman flushed angrily. He felt that he was treading on dangerous +ground in this line of examination. He went on more cautiously. + +"At what time did you leave my office last night?" + +"Right after Rhymin' Joe did. I went out to find him." + +"Then you went away without letting me know of your presence there, +did you?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Did you find this Rhyming Joe?" + +"No, sir, I couldn't find 'im." + +"Now, Ralph, when you left me at the Scranton station on Saturday +night, did you go straight home?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Did you see any one to talk with except Bachelor Billy that night +after you left me?" + +"No, sir." + +"Where did you go on Sunday morning?" + +"Uncle Billy an' me went down to the chapel to meetin'." + +"From there where did you go?" + +"Back home." + +"And had your dinner?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"What did you do after that?" + +"Me an' Uncle Billy went up to the breaker." + +"What breaker?" + +"Burnham Breaker." + +"Why did you go there?" + +"Jest for a walk, an' to see how it looked." + +"How long did you stay there?" + +"Oh, we hadn't been there more'n fifteen or twenty minutes 'fore Mrs. +Burnham's man came for me an' took me to her house." + +Sharpman straightened up in his chair. His drag-net had brought up +something at last. It might be of value to him and it might not be. + +"Ah!" he said, "so you spent a portion of yesterday afternoon at Mrs. +Burnham's house, did you?" + +"Yes, sir, I did." + +"How long did you stay there?" + +"Oh! I shouldn't wonder if it was two or three hours." + +"Did you see Mrs. Burnham alone?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Have a long talk together?" + +"Yes, sir, a very nice long talk." + +Sharpman thought that if he could only lead the jury, by inference, +to the presumption that what had taken place to-day was understood +between Ralph and Mrs. Burnham yesterday it would be a strong point, +but he knew that he must go cautiously. + +"She was very kind to you, wasn't she?" + +"Yes, sir; she was lovely. I never had so good a time before in all my +life." + +"You took dinner with her, I suppose?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Have a good dinner?" + +"It was splendid." + +"Did you eat a good deal?" + +"Yes, sir, I think I eat a great deal." + +"Had a good many things that were new to you, I presume?" + +"Yes, sir, quite a good many." + +"Did you think you would like to go there to live?" + +"Oh, yes! I did. It's beautiful there, it's very beautiful. You don't +know how lovely it is till you get there. I couldn't help bein' happy +in a home like that, an' they couldn't be no nicer mother'n Mrs. +Burnham is, nor no pirtier little sister. An' everybody was jest as +good to me there! Why, you don't know what a--" + +The glow suddenly left the boy's face, and the rapture fled from his +eyes. In the enthusiasm of his description he had forgotten, for the +moment, that it was not all to be his, and when the memory of his loss +came back to him, it was like a plunge into outer darkness. He stopped +so unexpectedly, and in such apparent mental distress that people +stared at him in astonishment, wondering what had happened. + +After a moment of silence he spoke again: "But it ain't mine any +longer; I can't have any of it now; I've got no right to go there at +all any more." The sadness in his broken voice was pitiful. Those who +were looking on him saw his under lip tremble and his eyes fill with +tears. But it was only for a moment. Then he drew himself up until +he sat rigidly in his chair, his little hands were tightly clenched, +his lips were set in desperate firmness, every muscle of his face +grew tense and hard with sudden resolution. It was a magnificently +successful effort of the will to hold back almost overpowering +emotion, and to keep both mind and body strong and steady for any +ordeal through which he might have yet to pass. + +It came upon those who saw it like an electric flash, and in another +moment the crowded room was ringing with applause. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY. + + +Sharpman had not seen Ralph's expression and did not know what the +noise was all about. He looked around at the audience uneasily, +whispered to Craft for a moment, and then announced that he was done +with the witness. He was really afraid to carry the examination +further; there were too many pit-falls along the way. + +Goodlaw, too, was wise enough to ask no additional questions. He +did not care to lay grounds for the possible reversal of a judgment +in favor of the defendant, by introducing questionable evidence. +But he felt that the case, in its present aspect, needed farther +investigation, and he moved for a continuance of the cause for two +days. He desired, he said, to find the person known as Rhyming Joe, +and to produce such other evidence as this new and startling turn of +affairs might make necessary. + +Craft whispered to Sharpman that the request should be agreed to, +saying that he could bring plenty of witnesses to prove that Rhyming +Joe was a worthless adventurer, notorious for his habits of lying; +and stoutly asserting that the boy was positively Ralph Burnham. But +Sharpman's great fear was that if Rhyming Joe should be brought back, +the story of the bribery could no longer be hushed; and he therefore +opposed the application for a continuance with all his energy. + +The court ruled that the reasons presented were not sufficient to +warrant the holding of a jury at this stage of the case for so long a +time, but intimated that in the event of a verdict for the plaintiff a +motion for a new trial might be favorably considered by the court. + +"Then we have nothing further to offer," said Goodlaw. + +Sharpman resumed his seat with an air of satisfaction, and sat for +full five minutes, with his face in his hand, in deep thought. + +"I think," he said, finally, looking up, "that we shall present +nothing in rebuttal. The case, as it now stands, doesn't seem to call +for it." He had been considering whether it would be safe and wise for +him to go on the witness-stand and deny any portion of Ralph's story. +He had reached the conclusion that it would not. The risk was too +great. + +"Very well," said the judge, taking up his pen, "then the evidence is +closed. Mr. Goodlaw, are you ready to go to the jury?" + +Goodlaw, who had been, during this time, holding a whispered +conversation with Ralph, arose, bowed to the court, and turned to +face the jurors. He began his speech by saying that, until the recent +testimony given by the boy Ralph had been produced in court, he had +not expected to address the jury at all; but that that testimony had +so changed the whole tenor of the case as to make a brief argument for +the defence an apparent necessity. + +Fortified by the knowledge of the story that Rhyming Joe had told, as +Ralph had just whispered it to him, Goodlaw was able to dissipate, +greatly, the force of the plaintiff's evidence, and to show how +Craft's whole story might easily be a cleverly concocted falsehood +built upon a foundation of truth. He opened up to the wondering minds +of the jurors the probable scheme which had been originated by these +two plotters, Craft and Sharpman, to raise up an heir to the estates +of Robert Burnham, an heir of whom Craft could be guardian, and a +guardian of whom Sharpman could be attorney. He explained how the +property and the funds that would thus come into their hands could be +so managed as to leave a fortune in the pocket of each of them before +they should have done with the estate. + +"The scheme was a clever one," he said, "and worked well, and no +obstacle stood in the way of these conspirators until a person known +as Rhyming Joe came on the scene. This person knew the history of +Ralph's parentage and saw through Craft's duplicity; and, in an +unguarded moment, the attorney for the plaintiff closed this man's +mouth by means which we can only guess at, and sent him forth to hide +among the moral and the social wrecks that constitute the flotsam and +the jetsam of society. But his words, declaring Simon Craft's bold +scheme a fabric built upon a lie, had already struck upon the ears and +pierced into the heart of one whose tender conscience would not let +him rest with the burden of this knowledge weighing down upon it. What +was it that he heard, gentlemen? We can only conjecture. The laws of +evidence drop down upon us here and forbid that we should fully know. +But that it was a tale that brought conviction to the mind of this +brave boy you cannot doubt. It is for no light cause that he comes +here to publicly renounce his right and title to the name, the wealth, +the high maternal love that yesterday was lying at his feet and +smiling in his face. The counsel for the plaintiff tries to throw +upon him the mantle of the eavesdropper, but the breath of this boy's +lightest word lifts such a covering from him, and reveals his purity +of purpose and his agony of mind in listening to the revelation that +was made. I do not wonder that he should lose the power to move on +hearing it. I do not wonder that he should be compelled, as if by +some strange force, to sit and listen quietly to every piercing word. +I can well conceive how terrible the shock would be to one who came, +as he did, fresh from a home where love had made the hours so sweet +to him that he thought them fairer than any he had ever known before. +I can well conceive what bitter disappointment and what deep emotion +filled his breast. But the struggle that began there then between +his boyish sense of honor and his desire for home, for wealth, for +fond affection, I cannot fathom that;--it is too deep, too high, +too terrible for me to fully understand. I only know that honor was +triumphant; that he bade farewell to love, to hope, to home, to the +brightest, sweetest things in all this world of beauty, and turned his +face manfully, steadfastly, unflinchingly to the right. With the help +and counsel of one honest man, he set about to check the progress of a +mighty wrong. No disappointment discouraged him, no fear found place +in his heart, no distance was too great for him to traverse. He knew +that here, to-day, without his presence, injustice would be done, +dishonesty would be rewarded, and shameless fraud prevail. It was +for him, and him alone, to stop it, and he set out upon his journey +hither. The powers of darkness were arrayed against him, fate scowled +savagely upon him, disaster blocked his path, the iron horse refused +to draw him, but he remained undaunted and determined. He had no time +to lose; he left the conquered power of steam behind him, and started +out alone through heat and dust to reach the place of justice. With +bared, bruised feet and aching limbs and parched tongue he hurried, +on, walking, running, as he could, dragging himself at last into the +presence of the court at the very moment when the scales of justice +were trembling for the downward plunge, and spoke the words that +checked the course of legal crime, that placed the chains of hopeless +toil upon his own weak limbs, but that gave the world--another hero! + +"Gentlemen of the jury, I have labored at the bar of this court for +more than thirty years, but I never saw before a specimen of moral +courage fit to bear comparison with this; I never in my life before +saw such a lofty deed of heroism so magnificently done. And do you +think that such a boy as this would lie? Do you think that such a boy +as this would say to you one word that did not rise from the deep +conviction of an honest heart? + +"I leave the case in your hands, gentlemen; you are to choose between +selfish greed and honest sacrifice, between the force of cunning craft +and the mighty power of truth. See to it that you choose rightly and +well." + +The rumble of applause from the court-room as Goodlaw resumed his seat +was quickly suppressed by the officers, and Sharpman arose to speak. +He was calm and courteous, and seemed sanguine of success. But his +mind was filled with the darkness of disappointment and the dread of +disaster; and his heart was heavy with its bitterness toward those who +had blocked his path. He knew that Ralph's testimony ought to bear but +lightly on the case, but he feared that it would weigh heavily with +the jury, and that his own character would not come out stainless. He +hardly hoped to save both case and character, but he determined to +make the strongest effort of which he was capable. He reviewed the +testimony given by Mrs. Burnham concerning her child and his supposed +tragic death; he recalled all the circumstances connected with the +railroad accident, and repeated the statements of the witnesses +concerning the old man and the child; he gave again the history of +Ralph's life, and of Simon Craft's searching and failures and success; +he contended, with all the powers of logic and oratory at his command, +that Ralph Burnham was saved from the wreck at Cherry Brook, and Was +that moment sitting by his mother before the faces and eyes of the +court and jury. + +"Until to-day," he said, "every one who has heard this evidence, and +taken interest in this case, has believed, as I do, that this boy is +Robert Burnham's son. The boy's mother believed it, the counsel for +the defence believed it, the lad himself believed it, his Honor on the +bench, and you, gentlemen in the jury-box, I doubt not, all believed +it; indeed it was agreed by all parties that nothing remained to be +done but to take your verdict for the plaintiff. But, lo! this child +makes his dramatic entrance into the presence of the court, and, under +the inspired guidance of defendant's counsel, tells his story of +eavesdropping, and when it is done my learned friend has the temerity +to ask you to throw away your reason, to dismiss logic from your +minds, to trample law under your feet, to scatter the evidence to the +four winds of heaven, and to believe what? Why, a boy's silly story of +an absurd and palpable lie? + +"I did not go upon the witness-stand to contradict this fairy tale; it +did not seem to be worth the while. + +"Consider it for a moment. This youth says he came to my office last +night and found me in the inner room in conversation with another +person. I shall not deny that. Supposing it to be true, there was +nothing strange or wrong in it, was there? But what does this boy whom +my learned friend has lauded to the skies for his manliness and honor +do next? Why, according to his own story, he steals into the darkness +of the outer office and seats himself to listen to the conversation +in the inner room, and hears--what? No good of himself certainly. +Eavesdroppers never do hear good of themselves. But he thinks he hears +the voice of a person whom no one in this court-room ever heard of or +thought of before, nor has seen or heard of since--a person who, I +daresay, has existence only in this child's imagination; he thinks +he hears this person declare that he, Ralph, is not Robert Burnham's +son, and, by way of embellishing his tale, he adds statements which +are still more absurd, statements on the strength of which my learned +friend hopes to darken in your eyes the character of the counsel for +the plaintiff. I trust, gentlemen, that I am too well known at the bar +of this court and in this community to have my moral standing swept +away by such a flimsy falsehood as you see this to be. And so, to-day, +this child comes into court and declares, with solemn asseveration, +that the evidence fixing his identity beyond dispute or question is +all a lie; and what is this declaration worth? His Honor will tell +you, in his charge, I have no doubt, that this boy's statement, +founded, as he himself says, on hearsay, is valueless in law, and +should have no weight in your minds. But I do not ask you to base your +judgment on technicalities of law. I ask you to base it simply on the +reasonable evidence in this case. + +"What explanation there can be of this lad's conduct, I have not, as +yet, been ably, fully, to determine. + +"I have tried, in my own mind, to throw the mantle of charity across +him. I have tried to think that, coming from an unaccustomed meal, his +stomach loaded with rich food, he no sooner sank into the office chair +than he fell asleep and dreamed. It is not improbable. The power of +dreams is great on children's minds, as all of you may know. But in +the face of these developments I can hardly bring myself to accept +this theory. There is too much method in the child's madness. It +looks more like the outcome of some desperate move on the part of +this defence to win the game which they have seen slipping from their +control. It looks like a deep-laid plan to rob my aged and honored +client of the credit to which he is entitled for rescuing this boy at +the risk of his life, for caring for him through poverty and disease, +for finding him when his own mother had given him up for dead, and +restoring him to the bosom of his family. It looks as though they +feared that this old man, already trembling on the brink of the grave, +would snatch some comfort for his remaining days out of the pittance +that he might hope to collect from this vast estate for services that +ought to be beyond price. It looks as though hatred and jealousy were +combined in a desperate effort to crush the counsel for the plaintiff. +The counsel for the plaintiff can afford to laugh at their animosity +toward himself, but he cannot help his indignation at their plot. Now, +let us see. + +"It is acknowledged that the boy Ralph spent the larger part of +yesterday afternoon at the house of this defendant, and was fed and +flattered till he nearly lost his head in telling of it. That is a +strange circumstance, to begin with. How many private consultations +he has had with counsel for defence, I know not. Neither do I know +what tempting inducements have been held out to him to turn traitor +to those who have been his truest friends. These things I can only +imagine. But that fine promises have been made to him, that pictures +of plenty have been unfolded to his gaze, that the glitter of gold and +the sheen of silver have dazzled his young eyes, there can be little +doubt. So he has seen visions and dreamed dreams, at will; he has +endured terrible temptations, and fought great moral battles, by +special request, and has come off more than victor, in the counsel's +mind. To-day everything is ready for the carrying-out of their skilful +scheme. At the right moment the counsel gives the signal, and the boy +darts in, hatless, shoeless, ragged, and dusty, for the occasion, and +tragic to the counsel's heart's content, and is put at once upon the +stand to tell his made-up tale, and--" + +Sharpman heard a slight noise behind him, and some one exclaimed:-- + +"He has fainted!" + +The lawyer stopped in his harangue and turned in time to see Ralph +lying in a heap on the floor, just as he had slipped that moment from +his chair. The boy had listened to Goodlaw's praises of his conduct +with a vague feeling that he was undeserving of so much credit for it. +But when Sharpman, advancing in his speech, charged him with having +dreamed his story, he was astounded. He thought it was the strangest +thing he had ever heard of. For was not Mr. Sharpman there, himself? +and did not he know that it was all real and true? He could not +understand the lawyer's allegation. Later on, when Sharpman declared +boldly that Ralph's statement on the witness-stand was a carefully +concocted falsehood, the bluntness of the charge was like a cruel +blow, and the boy's sensitive nerves shrank and quivered beneath it; +then his lips grew pale, his breath came in gasps, the room went +swimming round him, darkness came before his eyes, and his weak body, +enfeebled by prolonged fasting and excitement, slipped down to the +floor. + +The people in the court-room scrambled to their feet again to look +over into the bar. + +A man who had entered the room in time to hear Sharpman's brutal +speech pushed his way through the crowd, and hurried down to the place +where Ralph was lying. It was Bachelor Billy. + +In a moment he was down on his knees by the boy's side, chafing the +small cold hands and wrists, while Mrs. Burnham, kneeling on the other +side, was dipping her handkerchief into a glass of water, and bathing +the lad's face. + +Bachelor Billy turned on his knees and looked up angrily at Sharpman. +"Mayhap an' ye've killet 'im," he said, "wi' your traish an' your +lees!" Then he rose to his feet and continued: "Can ye no' tell when +a lad speaks the truth? Mon! he's as honest as the day is lang! But +what's the use o' tellin' ye? ye ken it yoursel'. Ye _wull_ be fause +to 'im!" + +His lips were white with passion as he knelt again by the side of the +unconscious boy. + +"Ye're verra gude to the lad, ma'am," he said to Mrs. Burnham, who had +raised Ralph's head in her arms and was pressing her wet handkerchief +against it; "ye're verra gude, but ma mind is to tak' 'im hame an' +ten' till 'im mysel'. He was ower-tired, d'ye see, wi' the trooble an' +the toil, an' noo I fear me an they've broke the hert o' 'im." + +Then Bachelor Billy, lifting the boy up in his arms, set his face +toward the door. The people pressed back and made way for him as he +passed up the aisle holding the drooping body very tenderly, looking +down at times with great compassion into the white face that lay +against his breast; and the eyes that watched his sturdy back until +it disappeared from view were wet with sympathetic tears. + +When the doors had closed behind him, Sharpman turned again to the +jury, with a bitterly sarcastic smile upon his face. + +"Another chapter in the made-up tragedy," he said, "performed with +marvellous skill as you can see. My learned friend has drilled his +people well. He has made consummate actors of them all. And yet he +would have you think that one is but an honest fool, and that the +other is as innocent as a babe in arms." + +Up among the people some one hissed, then some one else joined in, +and, before the judge and officers could restore order in the room, +the indignant crowd had greeted Sharpman's words with a perfect +torrent of groans and hisses. Then the wily lawyer realized that he +was making a mistake. He knew that he could not afford to gain the +ill-will of the populace, and accordingly he changed the tenor of his +speech. He spoke generally of law and justice, and particularly of the +weight of evidence in the case at bar. He dwelt with much emphasis on +Simon Craft's bravery, self-sacrifice, poverty, toil, and suffering; +and, with a burst of oratory that made the walls re-echo with the +sound of his resonant voice, he closed his address and resumed his +seat. + +Then the judge delivered the charge in a calm, dispassionate way. He +reviewed the evidence very briefly, warning the jury to reject from +their minds all improper declarations of any witness or other person, +and directing them to rest their decision only on the legal evidence +in the case. He instructed them that although the boy Ralph's +declaration that he was not Robert Burnham's son might be regarded by +them, yet they must also take into consideration the fact that his +opinion was founded partly, if not wholly, on hearsay, and, for that +reason, would be of little value to them in making up their decision. +Any evidence of the alleged conversation at Mr. Sharpman's office, he +said, must be rejected wholly. He warned them to dismiss from their +minds all prejudice or sympathy that might have been aroused by the +speeches of counsel, or the appearance of witnesses in court, and to +take into consideration and decide upon but one question, namely: +whether the boy Ralph is or is not the son of the late Robert Burnham: +that, laying aside all other questions, matters, and things, they must +decide that and that alone, according to the law and the evidence. + +When the judge had finished his charge a constable was sworn, and, +followed by the twelve jurors, he marched from the court-room. + +It was already after six o'clock, so the crier was directed to adjourn +the court, and, a few minutes later, the judge, the lawyers, the +witnesses, and the spectators had all disappeared, and the room +was empty. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +A WRIT OF HABEAS CORPUS. + + +Every one expected that the jury would come into court with a verdict +at the opening of the session on Tuesday morning. There was much +difference of opinion, however, as to what that verdict would be. + +But the morning hours went by and the jury still remained in their +room. The constable who watched at the door shook his head and smiled +when asked about the probability of an early agreement. No one seemed +to know just how the jury stood. + +Sharpman and his client had been greatly disheartened on Monday night, +and had confessed as much to each other; but the longer the jury +remained out the more hope they gathered. It was apparent that the +verdict would not be rendered under the impulses of the moment; and +that the jury were applying the principles of cold law and stern logic +to the case, there seemed to be little doubt. + +But, as a matter of fact, the jury were doing no such thing. + +They believed, to a man, that Ralph had told the truth, and that such +an event as he had described had actually taken place in Sharpman's +office; and, notwithstanding the judge's charge, they were trying to +harmonize Ralph's statement with the evidence of the witnesses who +had corroborated Simon Craft's story. This led them into so many +difficulties that they finally abandoned the effort, and the questions +before them were gradually reduced to just one. That question was not +whether Ralph was the son of Robert Burnham; but it was: which would +be better for the boy, to decide in favor of the plaintiff or of the +defendant. If they found for the plaintiff, they would throw the +boy's fortune into the hands of Craft and Sharpman, where they feared +the greater part of it would finally remain. If they found for the +defendant, they would practically consign the lad to a life of +homelessness and toil. It was to discuss and settle this question, +therefore, that the jury remained locked up in their room through so +many hours. + +The day wore on and no verdict was rendered. Sharpman's spirits +continued to rise, and Goodlaw feared that his case was lost. + +At four o'clock the jury sent in word that they had agreed, and a few +minutes later they filed into the court-room. When their verdict had +been inspected by the judge it was given to the prothonotary to read. +He faced the jury, saying:-- + +"Gentlemen of the jury, listen to your verdict as the court has it +recorded. In the case wherein Simon Craft, guardian of the estate +of Ralph Burnham, a minor, is plaintiff, and Margaret Burnham, +administrator of the estate of Robert Burnham, deceased, is defendant, +you say you find for the defendant, and that the boy Ralph is _not_ +the son of Robert Burnham. So say you all?" + +The jury nodded assent, and the verdict was filed. That settled it. +Craft and Sharpman were beaten. + +It was very strange that a solid truth, backed up by abundant and +irreproachable evidence, presented under the strict rules of law and +the solemn sanction of an oath, should be upset and shattered by a +flimsy falsehood told by an unknown adventurer, heard unawares by +a listening child, and denied a proper entrance into court. It was +strange but it was very true. Yet in that ruin was involved one of +the boldest schemes for legal plunder that was ever carried into the +courts of Luzerne County. + +Sharpman felt that a fortune had slipped from his grasp, and that he +had lost it by reason of his own credulity and fear. He saw now the +mistake he had made in not defying Rhyming Joe. He knew now that the +fellow never would have dared to appear in court as a witness. He felt +that he had not only lost his money, but that he had come dangerously +near to losing what character he had, also. He knew that it was all +due to his own fault, and he was humiliated and angry with himself, +and bitter toward every one who had sided with the defendant. + +But if Sharpman's disappointment was great, that of his client was +tenfold greater. + +Simon Craft was in a most unenviable mood. At times, indeed, he grew +fairly desperate. The golden bubble that he had been chasing for eight +years had burst and vanished. He had told the truth, he had been +honest in his statements, he had sought to do the boy and the boy's +mother a great favor, and they had turned against him, and the verdict +of the jury had placed upon him the stigma of perjury. This was the +burden of his complaint. But aside from this he was filled with bitter +regret. If he had only closed his bargain with Robert Burnham on the +day it had been made! If he had only made his proposition to Mrs. +Burnham as he had intended doing, instead of going into this wild +scheme with this visionary lawyer! This was his silent sorrow. His +misery was deep and apparent. He had grown to be ten years older in a +day. This misfortune, he said, bitterly, was the result of trying to +be honest and to do good. This was the reward of virtue, these the +wages of charity. + +Tired, at last, of railing at abstract principles of right, he turned +his attention to those who had been instrumental in his downfall. The +judge, the jury, and the attorney for the defence, all came in for a +share of his malignant hatred and abuse. For Mrs. Burnham he had only +silent contempt. Her honest desire to have right done had been too +apparent from the start. The only fault he had to find with her was +that she did not come to his rescue when the tide was turning against +him. But against Ralph the old man's wrath and indignation were +intense. + +Had he not saved the child from death? Had he not fed and clothed and +cared for him during five years? Had he not rescued him from oblivion, +and made every effort to endow him with wealth and position and an +honored name? And then, to think that in the very moment when these +efforts were about to meet with just success, this boy had turned +against him, and brought ruin and disgrace upon him. Oh, it was too +much, too much! + +If he could only have the lad in his possession for a week, he +thought, for a day, for an hour even, he would teach him the cost of +turning traitor to his friends. Oh, he would teach him! + +Then it occurred to him that perhaps he might get possession of the +boy, and permanent possession at that. Had not Ralph sworn that he was +Simon Craft's grandson? Had not the jury accepted Ralph's testimony +as true? And had not the court ordered judgment to be entered on the +jury's verdict? Well, if the court had declared the boy to be his +grandson, he was entitled to him, was he not? If the boy was able to +earn anything, he was entitled to his earnings, was he not? If he was +the child's grandfather, then he had authority to take him, to govern +him, to punish him for disobedience--was not that true? + +Old Simon rose from his chair and began to walk up and down the room, +hammering his cane upon the floor at every step. + +The idea was a good one, a very good one, and he resolved to act upon +it without delay. He would go the very next day and get the boy and +take him to Philadelphia. + +But suppose Ralph should refuse to go, and suppose Bachelor Billy, +with his strong arms, should stand by to protect the lad from force, +what then? Well, there was a law to meet just such a case as that. He +knew of an instance where a child had been taken by its grandfather by +virtue of a writ of _habeas corpus_. + +He would get such a writ, the sheriff should go with him, they would +bring Ralph to court again; and since the law had declared the boy to +be Simon Craft's grandson, the law could do nothing else than to place +him in Simon Craft's custody. Then the old man went to bed, thinking +that in the morning he would get Sharpman to prepare for him the +papers that would be necessary to carry his plan into execution. + +He derived much pleasure from his dreams that night, for he dreamed +of torturing poor Ralph to his heart's content. + +When Bachelor Billy left the court-room that Monday evening with his +unconscious burden in his arms, he remained only long enough in the +court-house square to revive the boy, then he took him to the railway +station, and they went together, by the earliest train, to Scranton. + +The next morning Ralph felt very weak and miserable, and did not leave +the house; and Bachelor Billy came home at noon to see him and to +learn what news, if any, had been received from Wilkesbarre. Both he +and Ralph expected that a verdict would be rendered for the defendant, +in accordance with Ralph's testimony, and neither of them were +surprised, therefore, when Andy Gilgallon came up from the city after +supper and informed them that the jury had so found. That settled the +matter, at any rate. It was a relief to Ralph to know that it was at +an end; that he was through with courts and lawyers and judges and +juries, and that there need be no further effort on his part to escape +from unmerited fortune. The tumult that had raged in his mind through +many hours was at last stilled, and that night he slept. He wanted +to go back the next morning to his work at the breaker, but Bachelor +Billy would not allow him to do so. He still looked very pale and +weak, and the anxious man resolved to come home at noon again that day +to see to the lad's health. + +Indeed, as the morning wore on, Ralph acknowledged to himself that he +did not feel so well. His head was very heavy, and there was a bruised +feeling over the entire surface of his body. It was a dull day, too; +it rained a little now and then, and was cloudy all the morning. He +sat indoors the most of the time, reading a little, sleeping a little, +and thinking a great deal. The sense of his loss was coming back upon +him very strongly. It was not so much the loss of wealth, or of name, +or of the power to do other and better things than he had ever done +before that grieved him now. But it was that the dear and gentle lady +who was to have been his mother, who had verily been a mother to him +for one sweet day, was a mother to him no longer. To feel that he was +nothing to her now, no more, indeed, than any other ragged, dust-black +boy in Burnham Breaker, this was what brought pain and sorrow to his +heart, and made the hot tears come into his eyes in spite of his +determined effort to hold them back. + +He was sitting in his accustomed chair, facing the dying embers of a +little wood fire that he had built, for the morning was a chilly one. + +Behind him the door was opened and some one entered the room from the +street. He thought it was Bachelor Billy, just come from work, and +he straightened up in his chair and tried to wipe away the traces of +tears from his face before he should turn to give him greeting. + +"Is that you, Uncle Billy?" he said; "ain't you home early?" + +He was still rubbing industriously at his eyes. Receiving no answer he +looked around. + +It was not Uncle Billy. It was Simon Craft. + +Ralph uttered a cry of surprise and terror, and retreated into a +corner of the room. Old Simon, looking at him maliciously from under +his bushy brows, gradually extended his thin lips into a wicked smile. + +"What!" he exclaimed, "is it possible that you are afraid of your +affectionate old grandfather? Why, I thought you desired nothing so +much as to go and live with him and be his pet." + +The boy's worst fears were realized. Old Simon had come for him. + +"I won't go back with you!" he cried. "I won't! I won't!" Then, +changing his tone to one of appealing, he continued: "You didn't come +for me, did you, gran'pa? you won't make me go back with you, will +you?" + +"I'm afraid I can't do without you any longer," said Craft, coming +nearer and looking Ralph over carefully. "I'm getting old and sick, +and your presence will be a great comfort to me in my declining years. +Besides, my affection for you is so great that I feel that I couldn't +do without you; oh, I couldn't, I couldn't possibly!" And the old man +actually chuckled himself into a fit of coughing at his grim sarcasm. + +"But I don't want to go," persisted the boy. "I'm very happy here. +Uncle Billy's very good to me, an' I'd ruther stay, a good deal +ruther." + +At the mention of Uncle Billy's name Old Simon's smile vanished and he +advanced threateningly toward the boy, striking his cane repeatedly on +the floor. + +"It don't matter what you want," he said, harshly; "you were crazy to +be my grandson; now the law says you are, and the law gives me the +right to take you and do what I choose with you. Oh, you've got to go! +so get your hat and come along, and don't let's have any more nonsense +about it!" + +"Gran'pa--Gran'pa Simon!" exclaimed the terrified boy, shrinking still +farther away, "I can't go back to Philadelphy, I can't! I couldn't +live, I'd die if I went back there! I'd--" + +Craft interrupted him: "Well, if you do die, it won't be because +you're killed with kindness, I warrant you. You've cheated me out of +a living and yourself out of a fortune; you've made your own bed, now +you've got to lie in it. Come on, I say! get your hat and come along!" + +The old man was working himself into a passion. There was danger in +his eyes. Ralph knew it, too, but the thought of going back to live +with Simon Craft was such a dreadful one to him that he could not +refrain from further pleading. + +"I know I belong to you, Gran'pa Simon," he said, "an' I know I've got +to mind you; but please don't make me go back to live with you; please +don't! I'll do anything else in the world you want me to; I'll give +you ev'ry dollar I earn if you'll let me stay here, ev'ry dollar; an' +I'll work hard, too, ev'ry day. I'll--I'll give you--I'll give you-- + +"Well, what'll you give me? Out with it!" + +It was a desperate chance; it called for sacrifice, but Ralph felt +that he would offer it gladly if he could thereby be saved. + +"I'll give you," he said, "all the money I've got saved up." + +"How much money have you got saved up?" The light of hatred in the +man's eyes gave place, for the time being, to the light of greed. + +"About thirty-two dollars." + +"Well, give it to me, then, and be quick about it!" + +Ralph went to a small closet built into the wall over the chimney, and +took from it a little box. + +That box contained his accumulated savings. With a large portion of +the money he had thought to buy new clothing for himself. He had +determined that he would not go to live with Mrs. Burnham, dressed +like a beggar. He would have clothes befitting his station in life. +Indeed, he and Uncle Billy were to have gone out the day before to +make the necessary purchases; but since the change came the matter had +not been thought of. Now he should pay it to Simon Craft as the price +of his freedom. He was willing and more than willing to do so. He +would have given all he ever hoped to earn to save himself from that +man's custody, and would have considered it a cheap release. + +He took the money from the box,--it was all paper money,--and counted +it carefully out into Old Simon's trembling hand. There were just +thirty-two dollars. + +"Is that all?" said Craft, folding the bills and putting them into an +inside pocket as he spoke. + +"Yes, that's all." + +"You haven't got any more hidden around the house anywhere, have you? +Don't lie to me, now!" + +"Oh, no! I've given you ev'ry cent I had, ev'ry single cent." + +"Well, then, get your hat and come along." + +"Wh--what?" Ralph was staring at the man in astonishment. He thought +he had just bought his freedom, and that he need not go. + +"Get your hat and come along, I say; and be quick about it? I can't +wait here all day." + +"Where--where to?" + +"Why, home with me, of course. Where would I take you?" + +"But I gave you the money to let me stay here with Uncle Billy; you +said you would take it for that." + +"No, I didn't. I told you to give it to me. The money belongs to me +the same as you do. Now, are you coming, or do you want me to help +you?" + +Ralph's face was white with indignation. He had been willing to do +what was right. He thought he had made a fair bargain; but now, +this--this was an outrage. His spirit rose against it. The old sense +of fearlessness took possession of him. He looked the man squarely +in the eyes. His voice was firm and his hands were clenched with +resolution. "I will not go with you," he said. + +"What's that?" Craft looked down on the boy in astonishment. + +"I say I will not go with you," repeated Ralph; "that's all--I won't +go." + +Then the old man's wrath was let loose. + +"You beggar!" he shouted, "how dare you disobey me! I'll teach you!" +He raised his cane threateningly as he spoke. + +"Hit me," said Ralph, "kill me if you want to; I'd ruther die than go +back to live with you." + +Old Simon grasped his cane by its foot and raised it above his +head. In another instant it would have descended on the body of the +unfortunate boy; but in that instant some one seized it from behind, +wrenched it from Craft's weak grasp, and flung it into the street. + +It was Bachelor Billy; He had entered at the open door unseen. He +seized Craft's shoulders and whirled him around till the two men stood +face to face. + +"Mon!" he exclaimed, "mon! an' yon steck had a-fallen o' the lad's +head, I dinna ken what I s'ould 'a' done till ye. Ye're lucky to be +auld an' sick, or ye s'ould feel the weight o' ma han' as it is." + +But Craft was not subdued. On the contrary his rage grew more fierce. +"What's the boy to you?" he shouted, savagely. "You leave us alone. He +belongs to me; he shall go with me." + +It was a full half-minute before Bachelor Billy's dull mind grasped +the situation. Meanwhile he was looking down into Ralph's white face. +Then he turned again to Craft. + +"Never!" he said, solemnly. "Ye s'all never tak' 'im. I'll see the lad +in his grave first." After a moment he continued, "It's no' safe for +ye to stay longer wi' us; it's better ye s'ould go." + +Then another man entered at the open door. It was the sheriff of +Luzerne County. He held the writ of _habeas corpus_ in his hand. + +"Why didn't you wait for me," he said, turning angrily to Craft, +"instead of coming here to pick a quarrel with these people?" + +"That's none of your business," replied the old man. "You've got your +writ, now do your duty or I'll--" A fit of coughing attacked him, and +he dropped into a chair to give way to it. + +The sheriff looked at him contemptuously for a moment, then he turned +to Bachelor Billy. + +"This miserable old man," he said, "has had a writ of _habeas corpus_ +issued, commanding you to produce immediately before the judge at +Wilkesbarre the body of the boy Ralph. It is my place to see that the +writ is properly executed. There's no help for it, so I think you had +better get ready, and we will go as soon as possible." And he handed +to Bachelor Billy a copy of the writ. + +"I ha' no time to read it," said Billy, "but if the judge says as the +lad s'ould gae to court again, he s'all gae. We mus' obey the law. An' +I s'all gae wi' 'im. Whaur the lad gae's I s'all gae. I s'all stay by +'im nicht an' day. If the law says he mus' live wi' Seemon Craft, then +I s'all live wi' Seemon Craft also. I ha' nursit 'im too long, an' +lovit 'im too weel to turn 'im alone into the wolfs den noo." + +In a minute or two Craft recovered, but the coughing had left him very +weak. He rose unsteadily to his feet and looked around for his cane. +He had grown calm. He thought that the game was his at any rate, and +that it was of no use for him to lose strength over it. "You'll walk +faster than I," he said, "so I'll be going. If I miss this train I +can't get started to Philadelphia with the boy before to-morrow." He +tottered out into the road, picked up his cane, and trudged on down +the hill toward the city. + +It was not long before the two men and the boy were ready to go also. + +"Keep up your courage, my son," said the sheriff kindly, for the sight +of Ralph's face aroused his sympathy. "Keep up your courage; the court +has got to pass on this matter yet. You don't have to go with the old +man till the judge says so." + +"Tak' heart," added Bachelor Billy, "tak' heart, laddie. It's not all +ower wi' us yet. I canna thenk as any law'd put a lamb i' the wolf's +teeth." + +"I don't know," said the sheriff, as they stood on the step for a +moment before leaving the house. "I don't know how you'll make it. I +suppose, as far as the law's concerned, the old man's on the right +track. As near as I can make out, the way the law-suit turned, he has +a legal right to the custody of the child and to his earnings. But, if +I was the lad, he'd no sooner get me to Philadelphia than I'd give him +the slip. You've done it once, Ralph, you can do it again, can't you?" + +"I don't know," answered the boy, weakly; "I don't believe I'd try. If +I have to go back with him I wouldn't live very long any way, an' it +wouldn't pay to run away again. It don't make much difference; I ain't +got anybody left now but Uncle Billy, an', if he goes with me, I guess +I can stan' it till it's through with." + +It was the first time in his life that Ralph had ever spoken in so +despondent a way, and Bachelor Billy was alarmed. "Bear up, lad," he +said, "bear up. We'll mak' the best o' it; an' they canna do much harm +till ye wi' Uncle Billy a-stannin' by." + +Mrs. Maloney had come to her door and stood there, looking at the trio +in sorrowful surprise. + +"Good-by, Mrs. Maloney!" said Ralph going up to her. "It ain't likely +I'll ever come back here any more, an' you've been very good to me, +Mrs. Maloney, very good indeed, an'--an'--good-by!" + +"An' where do ye be goin' Ralphy?" + +"Back to Gran'pa Simon's, I s'pose. He's come for me and he's got a +right to take me." + +The sheriff was looking uneasily at his watch. "Come," he said, "we'll +have to hurry to catch the train." + +The good woman bent down and kissed the boy tenderly. "Good-by to ye, +darlin'," she said, "an' the saints protict ye." Then she burst into +tears, and, throwing her apron up before her face, she held it against +her eyes and went, backward, into the house. + +Ralph laid hold of Bachelor Billy's rough hand affectionately, and +they walked rapidly away. + +At the bend in the street, the boy turned to look back for the last +time upon the cottage which had been his home. A happy home it had +been to him, a very happy home indeed. He never knew before how dear +the old place was to him. The brow of the hill which they were now +descending hid the house at last from sight, and, with tear-blinded +eyes, Ralph turned his face again toward the city, toward the misery +of the court-room, toward the desolate and dreadful prospect of a life +with Simon Craft. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +BACK TO THE BREAKER. + + +It was a dull day in the court-room at Wilkesbarre. The jury trials +had all been disposed of, and for the last hour or more the court +had been listening to an argument on a rule for a new trial in an +ejectment case. It was a very uninteresting matter. Every one had +left the court-room with the exception of the court officers, a few +lawyers, and a half-dozen spectators who seemed to be there for the +purpose of resting on the benches rather than with any desire to hear +the proceedings before the court. + +The lawyers on both sides had concluded their arguments, and the judge +was bundling together the papers in the case and trying to encircle +the bulky package with a heavy rubber band. + +Then the court-room door was opened, and the sheriff came down the +aisle, accompanied by Ralph and Bachelor Billy. A moment later, Simon +Craft followed them to the bar. Sharpman, who was sitting inside the +railing by a table, looked up with disgust plainly marked on his face +as the old man entered and sat down beside him. + +He had prepared the petition for a writ of _habeas corpus_, at Craft's +request, and had agreed to appear in his behalf when the writ should +be returned. He shared, in some small degree, the old man's desire for +revenge on those who had been instrumental in destroying their scheme. +But, as the day wore on, the matter took on a slightly different +aspect in his mind. In the first place, he doubted whether the court +would order Ralph to be returned into Craft's custody. In the next +place, he had no love for his client. He had been using him simply +as a tool; it was time now to cast him aside since he could be of no +further benefit to him. Besides, the old man had come to be annoying +and repulsive, and he had no money to pay for legal services. Then, +there was still an opportunity to recover some of the personal +prestige he had lost in his bitter advocacy of Craft's cause before +the jury. In short, he had deliberately resolved to desert his client +at the first opportunity. + +The sheriff endorsed his return on the writ and filed it. + +The judge looked at the papers, and then he called Bachelor Billy +before him. "I see," he said, "that you have produced the body of the +boy Ralph as you were directed to do. Have you a lawyer?" + +"I ha' none," answered the man. "I did na ken as I needit ony." + +"We do not think you do, either, as we understand the case. The +prothonotary will endorse a simple return on the writ, setting forth +the production of the boy, and you may sign it. We think that is all +that will be necessary on your part. Now you may be seated." + +The judge turned to Sharpman. + +"Well, Mr. Sharpman," he said, "what have you to offer on the part of +your client?" + +Sharpman arose. "If the court please," he responded, "I would +respectfully ask to be allowed, at this juncture, to withdraw from +the case. I prepared and presented the petition as a matter of duty +to a client. I do not conceive it to be my duty to render any further +assistance. That client, either through ignorance or deception, has +been the means of placing me in a false and unenviable light before +the court and before this community, in the suit which has just +closed. I have neither the desire nor the opportunity to set myself +right in that matter, but I do wish and I have fully determined to +wash my hands of the whole affair. From this time forth I shall have +nothing to do with it." + +Sharpman resumed his seat, while Craft stared at him in astonishment +and with growing anger. + +He could hardly believe that the man who had led him into this scheme, +and whose unpardonable blunder had brought disaster on them both, was +now not only deserting him, but heaping ignominy on his head. Every +moment was adding to his bitterness and rage. + +"Well, Mr. Craft," said the judge, "what have you to offer in this +matter? Your attorney seems to have left you to handle the case for +yourself; we will hear you." + +"My attorney is a rascal," said Craft, white with passion, as he +arose. "His part and presence in that trial was a curse on it from the +beginning. He wasn't satisfied to ruin me, but he must now seek to +disgrace me as well. He is--" + +The judge interrupted him:-- + +"We do not care to hear your opinion of Mr. Sharpman; we have neither +the time nor the disposition to listen to it. You caused this +defendant to produce before us the body of the boy Ralph. They are +both here; what further do you desire?" + +"I desire to take the boy home with me. The judgment of this court +is that he is my grandson. In the absence of other persons legally +entitled to take charge of him, I claim that right. I ask the court to +order him into my custody." + +The old man resumed his seat, and immediately fell into his customary +fit of coughing. + +When he had recovered, the judge, who had in the meantime been writing +rapidly, said:-- + +"We cannot agree with you, Mr. Craft, as to the law. Although the +presumption may be that the jury based their verdict on the boy's +testimony that he is your grandson, yet their verdict does not state +that fact specifically, and we have nothing on the record to show it. +It would be necessary for you to prove that relation here and now, by +new and independent evidence, before we could place the boy in your +custody under any circumstances. But we shall save you the trouble of +doing so by deciding the matter on other grounds. The court has heard +from your own lips, within a few days, that you are, or have been, +engaged in a business such as to make thieving and lying a common +occurrence in your life. The court has also heard from your own lips +that during the time this child was in your custody, you not only +treated him inhumanly as regarded his body, but that you put forth +every effort to destroy what has since proved itself to be a pure and +steadfast soul. A kind providence placed it in the child's power to +escape from you, and the same providence led him to the door of a man +whose tenderness, whose honor, and whose nobility of character, no +matter how humble his station in life, marks him as one eminently +worthy to care for the body and to minister to the spirit of a boy +like this. + +"We feel that to take this lad now from his charge and to place him +in yours, would be to do an act so utterly repugnant to justice, to +humanity, and to law, that, if done, it ought to drag us from this +bench in disgrace. We have marked your petition dismissed; we have +ordered you to pay the cost of this proceeding, and we have remanded +the boy Ralph to the custody of William Buckley." + +Simon Craft said not a word. He rose from his chair, steadied himself +for a moment on his cane, then shuffled up the aisle, out at the door +and down the hall into the street. Disappointment, anger, bitter +hatred, raged in his heart and distorted his face. The weight of +years, of disease, of a criminal life, sat heavily upon him as he +dragged himself miserably along the crowded thoroughfare, looking +neither to the right nor the left, thinking only of the evil burden of +his own misfortunes. Now and then some one who recognized him stopped, +turned, looked at him scornfully for a moment, and passed on. Then he +was lost to view. He was never seen in the city of Wilkesbarre again. +He left no friends behind him there. He was first ridiculed, then +despised, and then--forgotten. + + * * * * * + +It was two weeks after this before Ralph was able to return to his +work. So much excitement, so much mental distress and bodily fatigue +in so short a time, had occasioned a severe shock to his system, and +he rallied from it but slowly. + +One Monday morning, however, he went back to his accustomed work at +the breaker. + +He had thought that perhaps he might be ridiculed by the screen-room +boys as one who had tried to soar above his fellows and had fallen +ignominiously back to the earth. He expected to be greeted with +jeering words and with cutting remarks, not so much in the way of +malice as of fun. He resolved to take it calmly, however, and to give +way to no show of feeling, hoping that thus the boys would soon forget +to tease him. + +But when he came among them that morning, looking so thin, and +pale, and old, there was not a boy in all the waiting crowd who had +the heart or hardihood to say an unpleasant word to him or to give +utterance to a jest at his expense. + +They all spoke kindly to him, and welcomed him back. Some of them did +it very awkwardly indeed, and with much embarrassment, but they made +him to understand, somehow, that they were glad to see him, and that +he still held his place among them as a companion and a friend. It was +very good in them, Ralph thought, very good indeed; he could scarcely +keep the tears back for gratitude. + +He took his accustomed bench in the screen-room, and bent to his task +in the old way; but not with the old, light heart and willing fingers. +He had thought never to do this again. He had thought that life held +for him some higher, brighter, less laborious work. He had thought to +gain knowledge, to win fame, to satisfy ambition. But the storm came +with its fierce blasts of disappointment and despair, and when it had +passed, hope and joy were engulfed in the ruins it left behind it. +Henceforth there remained nothing but this, this toilsome bending over +streams of flowing coal, to-day, to-morrow, next week, next year. And +in the remote future nothing better; nothing but the laborer's pick +and shovel, or, at best, the miner's drill and powder-can and fuse. In +all the coming years there was not one bright spot to which he could +look, this day, with hope. The day itself seemed very long to him, +very long indeed and very tiresome. The heat grew burdensome; the +black dust filled his throat and lungs, the ceaseless noise became +almost unendurable; the stream of coal ran down and down in a dull +monotony that made him faint and dizzy, and the bits of blue sky seen +from the open windows never yet had seemed to him to be so far and far +away. + +But the day had an end at last, as all days must have, and Ralph came +down from his seat in the dingy castle to walk with Bachelor Billy to +their home. + +They went by a path that led through green fields, where the light of +the setting sun, falling on the grass and daisies, changed them to a +golden yellow as one looked on them from the distance. + +When they turned the corner of the village street, they were surprised +to see horses and a carriage standing in front of Mrs. Maloney's +cottage. It was an unaccustomed sight. There was a lady there talking +to Mrs. Maloney, and she had a little girl by her side. At the second +look, Ralph recognized them as Mrs. Burnham and Mildred. Then the lady +descended from her carriage and stood at the door waiting for Bachelor +Billy and the boy to come to her. But Ralph, looking down at his black +hands and soiled clothing, hesitated and stopped in the middle of the +road. He knew that his face, too, was so covered with coal-dust as to +be almost unrecognizable. He felt that he ought not to appear before +Mrs. Burnham in this guise. + +But she saw his embarrassment and called to him. + +"I came to see you, Ralph," she said. "I want to talk to you both. May +I go into your house and find a chair?" + +Both boy and man hurried forward then with kindly greetings, and +Bachelor Billy unlocked the door and bade her enter. + +She went in and sat in the big rocking-chair, looking pale and weak, +while Ralph hurried away to wash the black dust from his face and +hands. + +"Ye were verra kind, Mistress Burnham," said the man, "to sen' Ralph +the gude things to eat when he waur sick. An' the perty roses ye gie'd +'im,--he never tired o' watchin' 'em." + +"I should have come myself to see him," she replied, "only that I too +have been ill. I thought to send such little delicacies as might tempt +his appetite. I knew that he must be quite exhausted after so great a +strain upon his nervous system. The excitement wore me out, and I had +no such struggle as he had. I am glad he has rallied from the shock." + +"He's not ower strang yet; ye ken that by lukin' at 'im; but he's a +braw lad, a braw lad." + +The lady turned and looked earnestly into Bachelor Billy's face. + +"He's the bravest boy," she said, "the very bravest boy I ever knew +or heard, of, and the very best. I want him, Billy; I have come here +to-night to ask you if I may have him. Son or no son, he is very dear +to me, and I feel that I cannot do without him." + +For a minute the man was silent. Down deep in his heart there had been +a spark of rejoicing at the probability that Ralph would stay with him +now indefinitely. He had pushed it as far out of sight as possible, +because it was a selfish rejoicing, and he felt that it was not right +since it came as a result of the boy's misfortune. + +And now suddenly the fear of loss had quenched it entirely, and the +dread of being left alone came back upon him in full force. + +He bit his lip before replying, to help hold back his mingled feeling +of pleasure at the bright prospect opening for Ralph, and of pain for +the separation which must follow. + +"I dinna ken," he said at last, "how aught could be better for the +lad than bein' wi' ye. Ye're ower kin' to think o' it. It'll be hard +partin' wi' im, but, if the lad wishes it, he s'all gae. I ha' +no claim on 'im only to do what's best for 'im as I ken it. He's +a-comin'; he'll speak for 'imsel'." + +Ralph came back into the room with face and hands as clean as a +hurried washing could make them. "What thenk ye," said Bachelor Billy +to him, "that the lady wants for ye to do?" + +"I don't know," replied the boy, looking uneasily from one to the +other; "but she's been very good to me, an', whatever it is, I'll try +to do it." + +"I want you to go home with me, Ralph," said Mrs. Burnham, "and live +with me and be my son. I am not sure yet that you are not my child. We +shall find that out. With the new light we have we shall make a new +search for proofs of your identity, but that may take weeks, perhaps +months. In the meantime I cannot do without you. I want you to come to +me now, and, whatever the result of this new investigation may be, I +want you to stay with me and be my son. Will you come?" + +She had taken both the boy's hands and had drawn him to her, and was +looking up into his face with tenderness and longing. + +Ralph could not speak. He was dumb with the joy of hearing her kindly +earnest words. A light of great gladness broke in upon his mind. The +world had become bright and beautiful once more. He was not to be +without home and love and learning after all. Then came second +thoughts, bringing doubt, hesitancy, mental struggling. + +Still he was silent, looking out through the open door to the eastern +hills, where the sunlight lingered lovingly with golden radiance. On +the boy's face the lights and shadows, coming and going, marked the +progress of the conflict in his mind. + +The lady put her arm around him and drew him closer to her, regardless +of his soiled and dusty clothing. She was still looking into his eyes. + +"You will come, will you not, Ralph? We want you so much, so very +much; do we not, Mildred?" she asked, turning to her little daughter, +who stood at the other side of her chair. + +"Indeed we do," answered the child. "Mamma wants you an' I want you. +I don't have anybody to play wiv me half the time, 'cept Towser; an' +yeste'day I asked Towser if he wanted you, an' Towser said 'bow,' an' +that means 'yes.'" + +"There! you see we all want you, Ralph," said Mrs. Burnham, smiling; +"the entire family wants you. Now, you will come, won't you?" + +The boy had looked across to the little girl, over to Bachelor Billy, +who stood leaning against the mantel, and then down again into the +lady's eyes. It was almost pitiful to look into his face and see the +strong emotion outlined there, marking the fierceness of the conflict +in his mind between a great desire for honest happiness and a stern +and manly sense of the right and proper thing for him to do. At last +he spoke. + +"Mrs. Burnham," he said, in a sharp voice, "I can't, I can't!" + +A look of surprise and pain came into the lady's face. + +"Why, Ralph!" she exclaimed, "I thought,--I hoped you would be glad +to go. We would be very good to you; we would try to make you very +happy." + +"An' I'll give you half of ev'ry nice thing I have!" spoke out the +girl, impetuously. + +"I know, I know!" responded Ralph, "it'd be beautiful, just as it was +that Sunday I was there; an' I'd like to go,--you don't know how I'd +like to,--but I can't! Oh, no! I can't!" + +Bachelor Billy was leaning forward, watching the boy intently, +surprise and admiration marking his soiled face. + +"Then, why will you not come?" persisted the lady. "What reason have +you, if we can all be happy?" + +Ralph stood for a moment in deep thought. + +"I can't tell you," he said, at last. "I don't know just how to +explain it, but, some way, after all this that's happened, it don't +seem to me as though I'd ought to go, it don't seem to me as though +it'd be just right; as though it'd be a-doin' what--what--Oh! I can't +tell you. I can't explain it to you so'st you can understand. But I +mus'n't go; indeed, I mus'n't!" + +At last, however, the lady understood and was silent. + +She had not thought before how this proposal, well meant though it +was, might jar upon the lad's fine sense of honor and of the fitness +of things. She had not realized, until this moment, how a boy, +possessing so delicate a nature as Ralph's, might feel to take a +position now, to which a court and jury had declared he was not +entitled, to which he himself had acknowledged, and to which every one +knew he was not entitled. + +He had tried to gain the place by virtue of a suit at law, he had +called upon the highest power in the land to put him into it, and his +effort had not only ended in ignominious failure, but had left him +stamped as a lineal descendant of one whose very name had become a +by-word and a reproach. How could he now, with the remotest sense of +honor or of pride, step into the place that should have been occupied +by Robert Burnham's son? + +The lady could not urge him any more, knowing what his thought was. +She could only say:-- + +"Yes, Ralph; I understand. I am very, very sorry. I love you just the +same, but I cannot ask you now to go with me. I can only hope for a +day when we shall know, and the world shall know, that you are my son. +You would come to me then, would you not, Ralph?" + +"Indeed I would!" he said. "Oh, _indeed_ I would!" + +She drew his head down upon her bosom and kissed his lips again +and again; then she released him and rose to go. She inquired very +tenderly about his health, about his work, about his likes in +the way of books and food and clothing; and one could see that, +notwithstanding her resolution to leave Ralph with Bachelor Billy, she +still had many plans in her mind, for his comfort and happiness. She +charged Billy to be very careful of the boy; she kissed him again, and +Mildred kissed him, and then they stepped into the carriage and the +restless brown horses drew them rapidly away. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +THE FIRE IN THE SHAFT. + + +A boy with Ralph's natural courage and spirit could not remain long +despondent. Ambition came back to him with the summer days, and hope +found an abiding place in his breast once more. It was not, indeed, +the old ambition to be rich and learned and famous, nor the hope that +he should yet be surrounded with beauty in a home made bright by a +mother's love. + +All these things, though they had not faded from his mind, were +thought of only as sweet dreams of the past. His future, as he looked +out upon it now, did not hold them; yet it was a future that had in +it no disappointment, no desolation, no despair. The path before him +was a very humble one, indeed, but he resolved to tread it royally. +Because the high places and the beautiful things of earth were not for +him was no reason why he should sit and mourn his fate in cheerless +inactivity. He determined to be up and doing, with the light and +energy that he had, looking constantly ahead for more. He knew that in +America there is always something better for the very humblest toiler +to anticipate, and that, with courage, hope, and high endeavor to +assist him, he is sure to reach his goal. + +Ralph resolved, at any rate, to do all that lay in his power toward +the attainment of useful and honorable manhood. He did not set his +mark so very high, but the way to it was rough with obstacles and +bordered with daily toil. + +His plan was, simply to find better places for himself about the +breaker and the mines, as his age and strength would permit, and so to +do his work as to gain the confidence of his employers. When he should +become old enough, he would be a miner's laborer, then a miner, and +perhaps, eventually, he might rise to the position of a mine boss. +He would improve his leisure with self study, get what schooling he +could, and, finally, as the height of his ambition, he hoped that, +some day, he might become a mining engineer; able to sink shafts, to +direct headings, to map out the devious courses of the mine, or to +build great breakers like the one in which he spent his days. + +Having marked out his course he began to follow it. He labored +earnestly and with a will. The breaker boss said that no cleaner coal +was emptied into the cars at the loading place than that which came +down through Ralph's chute. + +His plan was successful as it was bound to be, and it was not long +before a better place was offered to him. It was that of a driver boy +in the mine below the breaker. He accepted it; the wages were much +better than those he was now receiving, and it was a long step ahead +toward the end he had in view. + +But the work was new and strange to him. He did not like it. He did +not think, at first, that he ever could like it. It was so dark in +the mines, so desolate, so lonely. He grew accustomed to the place, +however, as the days went by, and then he began not to mind it so +much after all. He had more responsibility here, but the work was not +so tiresome and monotonous as it had been in the screen-room, and he +could be in motion all the time. + +He went down the shaft every morning with a load of miners and +laborers, carrying his whip and his dinner-pail, and a lighted lamp +fastened to the front of his cap. When he reached the bottom of +the shaft he hurried to the inside plane, and up the slope to the +stables to get his mule. The mule's name was Jasper. Nobody knew why +he had been named Jasper, but when Ralph called him by that name he +always came to him. He was a very intelligent animal, but he had +an exceedingly bad habit of kicking. + +It was Ralph's duty to take the mule from the stable, to fasten him +to a trip of empty mine cars, and to make him draw them to the little +cluster of chambers at the end of the branch that turned off from the +upper-level heading. + +This was the farthest point from the shaft in the entire mine. The +distance from the head of the plane alone was more than a mile, and +it was from the head of the plane that Ralph took the cars. When he +reached the end of his route he left one car of his trip at the foot +of each chamber in which it was needed, gathered together into a new +trip the loaded cars that had been pushed down to the main track for +him, and started back with them to the head of the plane. + +He usually made from eight to ten round trips a day; stopping at noon, +or thereabouts, to eat the dinner with which the Widow Maloney had +filled his pail. All the driver boys on that level gathered at the +head of the plane to eat their dinners, and, during the noon-hour, +the place was alive with shouts and songs and pranks and chattering +without limit. These boys were older, stronger, ruder than those in +the screen-room; but they were no less human and good-hearted; only +one needed to look beneath the rough exterior into their real natures. +There were eight of them who took trips in by Ralph's heading, but, +for the last half-mile of his route, he was the only driver boy. It +was a lonesome half-mile too, with no working chambers along it, +and Ralph was always glad when he reached the end of it. There was, +usually, plenty of life, though, up in the workings to which he +distributed his cars. One could look up from the air-way and see the +lights dancing in the darkness at the breast of every chamber. There +was always the sharp tap, tap of the drill, the noise of the sledge +falling heavily on the huge lumps of coal, sometimes a sudden rush of +air against one's face, followed by a dull report and crash that told +of the firing of a blast, and now and then a miner's laborer would +come running a loaded car down to the heading or go pushing an empty +one back up the chamber. + +There was a laborer up in one of these chambers with whom Ralph had +formed quite a friendship. His name was Michael Conway. He was young +and strong-limbed, with huge hairy arms, a kind face, and a warm +heart. + +He had promised to teach Ralph the art of breaking and loading coal. +He expected, he said, to have a chamber himself after a while, and +then he would take the boy on as a laborer. Indeed, Ralph had already +learned many things from him about the use of tools and the handling +of coal and the setting of props. But he did not often have an +opportunity to see Conway at work. The chamber in which the young man +was laboring was the longest one in the tier, and the loaded car was +usually at the foot of it when Ralph arrived with his trip of lights; +so that he had only to run the empty car up into the air-way a few +feet, take on the loaded one, and start back toward the plane. + +But one afternoon, when he came up with his last trip for the day, he +found no load at the foot of Conway's chamber, and, after waiting a +few minutes, he went up to the face to investigate. He found Conway +there alone. The miner for whom the young man worked had fallen sick +and had gone out earlier than usual, so his laborer had finished +the blast at which the employer had been at work. It was a blast of +top-coal, and therefore it took longer to get it down and break it up. +This accounted for the delay. + +"Come up here with ye," said Conway to the boy; "I want to show ye +something." + +Ralph climbed up on to the shelf of coal at the breast of the chamber, +and the man, tearing away a few pieces of slate and a few handfuls of +dirt from a spot in the upper face, disclosed an opening in the wall +scarcely larger than one's head. A strong current of air coursed +through it, and when Conway put his lamp against it the flame was +extinguished in a moment. + +"Where does it go to?" asked Ralph. + +"I don't just know, but I think it must go somewhere into the workin's +from old No. 1 slope. The boss, he was in this mornin', and he said he +thought we must be a-gettin' perty close to them old chambers." + +"Does anybody work in there?" + +"Oh, bless ye, no! They robbed the pillars tin years ago an' more; I +doubt an ye could get through it at all now. It's one o' the oldest +places in the valley, I'm thinkin'. D'ye mind the old openin' ye can +see in the side-hill when ye're goin' up by Tom Ballard's to the +Dunmore road?" + +"Yes, that's where Uncle Billy worked when he was a miner." + +"Did he, thin! Well, that's where they wint in. It's a long way from +here though, I'm thinkin'." + +"Awful strong wind goin' in there, ain't they?" + +"Yes, I must block it up again, or it'll take all our air away." + +"What'll your miner do to-morrow when he finds this place?" + +"Oh, he'll have to get another chamber, I guess." + +The man was fastening up the opening again with pieces of slate and +coal, and plastering it over with loose wet dirt. + +"Well," said Ralph, "I'll have to go now. Jasper's gettin' in a hurry. +Don't you hear 'im?" + +Conway helped the boy to push the loaded car down the chamber and +fasten it to his trip. + +"I'll not be here long," said the man as he turned back into the +air-way, "I'll take this light in, an' pick things up a bit, an' quit. +Maybe I'll catch ye before ye get to the plane." + +"All right! I'll go slow. Hurry up; everybody else has gone out, you +know." + +After a moment Ralph heard Conway pushing the empty car up the +chamber, then he climbed up on his trip, took the reins, said, +"giddep" to Jasper, and they started on the long journey out. For +some reason it seemed longer than usual this night. But Ralph did not +urge his beast. He went slowly, hoping that Conway would overtake him +before he reached the plane. + +He looked back frequently, but Mike, as every one called him, was not +yet in sight. + +The last curve was reached, and, as the little trip rounded it, +Ralph's attention was attracted by a light which was being waved +rapidly in the distance ahead of him. Some one was shouting, too. He +stopped the mule, and held the cars back to listen, but the sound +was so broken by intervening pillars and openings that all he could +catch was: "Hurry! hurry--up!" He laid the whip on Jasper's back +energetically, and they went swiftly to the head of the plane. There +was no one there when he reached it, but half-way down the incline he +saw the light again, and up the broad, straight gallery came the cry +of danger distinctly to his ears. + +"Hurry! hurry! The breaker's afire! The shaft's a-burnin'!--run!" + +Instinctively Ralph unhitched the mule, dropped the trace-chains, +and ran down the long incline of the plane. He reached the foot, +rounded the curve, and came into sight of the bottom of the shaft. +A half-dozen or more of men and boys were there, crowding in toward +the carriage-way, with fear stamped on their soiled faces, looking +anxiously up for the descending carriage. + +"Ralph, ye're lucky!" shouted some one to the boy as he stepped +breathless and excited into the group. "Ye're just in time for +the last carriage. It'll not come down but this once, again. It's +a-gettin' too hot up there to run it Ye're the last one from the end +chambers, too. Here, step closer!" + +Then Ralph thought of Conway. + +"Did Mike come out?" he asked. "Mike Conway?" + +As he spoke a huge fire-brand fell from the shaft at their feet, +scattering sparks and throwing out smoke. The men drew back a little, +and no one answered Ralph's question. + +"Has Mike Conway come out yet?" he repeated. + +"Yes, long ago; didn't he, Jimmy?" replied some one, turning to the +footman. + +"Mike Conway? no it was Mike Corcoran that went out. Is Conway back +yet?" + +"He is!" exclaimed Ralph, "he is just a-comin'. I'll tell 'im to +hurry." + +Another blazing stick fell as the lad darted out from among the men +and ran toward the foot of the plane. + +"Come back, Ralph!" shouted some one, "come back; ye've no time; the +carriage is here!" + +"Hold it a minute!" answered the boy, "just a minute; I'll see 'im on +the plane." + +The carriage struck the floor of the mine heavily and threw a shower +of blazing fragments from its iron roof. At the same moment a man +appeared from a lower entrance and hurried toward the group. + +"It's Conway!" cried some one; "he's come across by the sump. Ralph! +ho, Ralph!" + +"Why, where's Ralph?" asked Conway, as he crowded on to the carriage. + +"Gone to the plane to warn ye," was the answer." + +"Wait the hoisting bell, then, till I get 'im." + +But the carriage was already moving slowly upward. + +"You can't do it!" shouted some one. + +"Then I'll stay with 'im!" cried Conway, trying to push his way off. +"Ralph, oh, Ralph!" + +But the man was held to his place by strong arms, and the next moment +the smoking, burning carriage was speeding up the shaft for the last +time. + +Ralph reached the foot of the plane and looked up it, but he saw no +light in the darkness there. Before he had time to think what he +should do next, he heard a shout from the direction of the shaft:-- + +"Ralph! oh, Ralph!" + +It was Conway's voice. He recognized it. He had often heard that voice +coming from the breast of Mike's chamber, in kindly greeting. + +Quick as thought he turned on his heel and started back. He flew +around the curve like a shadow. + +"Wait!" he cried, "wait a minute; I'm a-comin'!" + +At the foot of the shaft there was a pile of blazing sticks, but there +was no carriage there, nor were there any men. He stumbled into the +very flames in his eagerness, and called wildly up the dark opening: + +"Wait! come back! oh, wait!" + +But the whirring, thumping noise of a falling body was the only answer +that came to him, and he darted back in time to escape destruction +from a huge flaming piece of timber that struck the floor of the mine +with a great noise, and sent out a perfect shower of sparks. + +But they might send the carriage down again if he rang for it. + +He ran across and seized the handle of the bell wire and pulled it +with all his might. The wire gave way somewhere above him and came +coiling down upon his head. He threw it from him and turned again +toward the opening of the shaft. Then the carriage did descend. It +came down the shaft for the last time in its brief existence, came +like a thunderbolt, struck the floor of the mine with a great shock +and--collapsed. It was just a mass of fragments covered by an iron +roof--that was all. On top of it fell a storm of blazing sticks and +timbers, filling up the space at the foot, piling a mass of wreckage +high into the narrow confines of the shaft. + +Ralph retreated to the footman's bench, and sat there looking vaguely +at the burning heap and listening to the crash of falling bodies, and +the deep roar of the flames that coursed upward out of sight. He could +hardly realize the danger of his situation, it had all come upon him +so suddenly. He knew, however, that he was probably the only human +being in the mine, that the only way of escape was by the shaft, and +that that was blocked. + +But he did not doubt for a moment that he would be rescued in time. +They would come down and get him, he knew, as soon as the shaft could +be cleared out. The crashing still continued, but it was not so loud +now, indicating, probably, that the burning wreckage had reached to a +great height in the shaft. + +The rubbish at the foot had become so tightly wedged to the floor of +the mine that it had no chance to burn, and by and by the glow from +the burning wood was entirely extinguished, the sparks sputtered and +went out, and darkness settled slowly down again upon the place. + +Ralph still sat there, because that was the spot nearest to where +human beings were, and that was the way of approach when they should +come to rescue him. + +At last there was only the faint glimmer from his own little lamp +to light up the gloom, and the noises in the shaft had died almost +entirely away. + +Then came a sense of loneliness and desolation to be added to his +fear. Silence and darkness are great promoters of despondency. But he +still hoped for the best. + +After a time he became aware that he was sitting in an atmosphere +growing dense with smoke. The air current had become reversed, at +intervals, and had sent the smoke pouring out from among the charred +timbers in dense volumes. It choked the boy, and he was obliged to +move. Instinctively he made his way along the passage to which he was +most accustomed toward the foot of the plane. + +Here he stopped and seated himself again, but he did not stay long. +The smoke soon reached him, surrounded him, and choked him again. He +walked slowly up the plane. When he reached the head he was tired and +his limbs were trembling. He went across to the bench by the wheel and +sat down on it. He thought to wait here until help should come. + +He felt sure that he would be rescued; miners never did these things +by halves, and he knew that, sooner or later, he should leave the mine +alive. The most that he dreaded now was the waiting, the loneliness, +the darkness, the hunger perhaps, the suffering it might be, from +smoke and foul air. + +In the darkness back of him he heard a noise. It sounded like heavy +irregular stepping. He was startled at first, but it soon occurred +to him that the sounds were made by the mule which he had left there +untied. + +He was right. In another moment Jasper appeared with his head +stretched forward, sniffing the air curiously, and looking in a +frightened way at Ralph. + +"Hello, Jasper!" + +The boy spoke cheerily, because he was relieved from sudden fright, +and because he was glad to see in the mine a living being whom he +knew, even though it was only a mule. + +The beast came forward and pushed his nose against Ralph's breast +as if seeking sympathy, and the boy put up his hand and rubbed the +animal's face. + +"We're shut in, Jasper," he said, "the breaker's burned, an' things +afire have tumbled down the shaft an' we can't get out till they clean +it up an' come for us." + +The mule raised his head and looked around him, then he rested his +nose against Ralph's shoulder again. + +"We'll stay together, won't we, old fellow? We'll keep each other +company till they come for us. I'm glad I found you, Jasper; I'm very +glad." + +He patted the beast's neck affectionately; then he removed the bridle +from his head, unbuckled the harness and slipped it down to the +ground, and tried to get the collar off; but it would not come. He +turned it and twisted it and pulled it, but he could not get it over +the animal's ears. He gave up trying at last, and after laying the +remainder of the harness up against the wheel-frame, he sat down on +the bench again. + +Except the occasional quick stamping of Jasper's feet, there was no +sound, and Ralph sat for a long time immersed in thought. + +The mule had been gazing contemplatively down the plane into the +darkness; finally he turned and faced toward the interior of the mine. +It was evident that he did not like the contaminated air that was +creeping up the slope. Ralph, too, soon felt the effect of it; it +made his head light and dizzy, and the smoke with which it was laden +brought back the choking sensation into his throat. He knew that he +must go farther in. He rose and went slowly along the heading, over +his accustomed route, until he reached a bench by a door that opened +into the air-way. Here he sat down again. He was tired and was +breathing heavily. A little exertion seemed to exhaust him so. He +could not quite understand it. He remembered when he had run all the +way from the plane to the north chambers with only a quickening of the +breath as the result. He was not familiar with the action of vitiated +air upon the system. + +Jasper had followed him; so closely indeed that the beast's nose had +often touched the boy's shoulder as they walked. + +Ralph's lamp seemed to weigh heavily on his head, and he unfastened it +from his cap and placed it on the bench beside him. + +Then he fell to thinking again. He thought how anxious Bachelor Billy +would be about him, and how he would make every effort to accomplish +his rescue. He hoped that his Uncle Billy would be the first one to +reach him when the way was opened; that would be very pleasant for +them both. + +Mrs. Burnham would be anxious about him too. He knew that she would; +she had been very kind to him of late, very kind indeed, and she came +often to see him. + +Then the memory of Robert Burnham came back to him. He thought of the +way he looked and talked, of his kind manner and his gentle words. He +remembered how, long ago, he had resolved to strive toward the perfect +manhood exemplified in this man's life. He wondered if he had done the +best he could. The scenes and incidents of the day on which this good +man died recurred to him. + +Why, it was at this very door that the little rescuing party had +turned off to go up into the easterly tier of chambers. Ralph had not +been up there since. He had often thought to go over again the route +taken on that day, but he had never found the time to do so. He had +time enough at his disposal now, however; why not make the trip up +there? it would be better than sitting here in idleness to wait for +some sign of rescue. + +He arose and opened the door. + +The mule made as if to follow him. + +"You stay here, Jasper," he said, "I won't be gone long." + +He shut the door in the animal's face and started off up the +side-heading. There had not been much travel on this road during the +last year. Most of the chambers in this part of the mine had been +worked out and abandoned. + +As the boy passed on he recalled the incidents of the former journey. +He came to a place where the explosion at that time had blown out the +props and shaken down the roof until the passage was entirely blocked. + +He remembered that they had turned there and had gone up into a +chamber to try to get in through the entrances. But they had found the +entrances all blocked, and the men had set to work to make an opening +through one of them. Ralph recalled the scene very distinctly. With +what desperate energy those men worked, tearing away the stones +and dirt with their hands in order to get in the sooner to their +unfortunate comrades. + +He remembered that while they were doing this Robert Burnham had +seated himself on a fallen prop, had torn a leaf from his memorandum +book and had asked Ralph to hold his lamp near by, so that he could +see to write. He filled one side of the leaf, half of the other side, +folded it, addressed it, and placed it in the pocket of his vest. Then +he went up and directed the enlargement of the opening and crawled +through with the rest. Here was the entrance, and here was the +opening, just as it had been left. Ralph clambered through it and went +down to the fall. The piled-up rocks were before him, as he had seen +them that day. Nothing had been disturbed. + +On the floor of the mine was something that attracted his attention. +He stooped and picked it up. It was a piece of paper. + +There was writing on it in pencil, much faded now, but still distinct +enough to be read. He held his lamp to it and examined it more +closely. He could read writing very well, and this was written +plainly. He began to read it aloud:-- + + "My DEAR WIFE,--I desire to supplement the letter sent to you from + the office with this note written in the mine during a minute of + waiting. I want to tell you that our Ralph is living; that he is + here with me, standing this moment at my side." + +The paper dropped from the boy's trembling fingers, and he stood for +a minute awe-struck and breathless. Then he picked up the note and +examined it again. It was the very one that Robert Burnham had written +on the day of his death. Ralph recognized it by the crossed lines of +red and blue marking the page into squares. + +Without thinking that there might be any impropriety in doing so, he +continued to read the letter as fast as his wildly beating heart and +his eyes clouded with mist would let him. + + "I have not time to tell you why and how I know, but, believe me, + Margaret, there is no mistake. He is Ralph, the slate-picker, + of whom I told you, who lives with Bachelor Billy. If he should + survive this trying journey, take him immediately and bring him up + as our son; if he should die, give him proper burial. We have set + out on a perilous undertaking and some of us may not live through + it. I write this note in case I should not see you again. It will + be found on my person. Do not allow any one to persuade you that + this boy is not our son. I _know_ he is. I send love and greeting + to you. I pray for God's mercy and blessing on you and on our + children. + + "ROBERT." + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +A PERILOUS PASSAGE. + + +For many minutes Ralph stood, like one in a dream, holding the slip of +paper tightly in his grasp. Then there came upon him, not suddenly, +but very gently and sweetly, as the morning sunlight breaks into a +western valley, the broad assurance that he was Robert Burnham's son. +Here was the declaration of that fact over the man's own signature. +That was enough; there was no need for him to question the writer's +sources of knowledge. Robert Burnham had been his ideal of truth and +honor; he would have believed his lightest word against the solemn +asseveration of thousands. + +The flimsy lie coined by Rhyming Joe no longer had place in his mind. +He cared nothing now for the weakness of Sharpman, for the cunning of +Craft, for the verdict of the jury, for the judgment of the court; he +_knew_, at last, that he was Robert Burnham's son, and no power on +earth could have shaken that belief by the breadth of a single hair. + +The scene on the descending carriage the day his father died came back +into his mind. He thought how the man had grasped his hands, crying, +in a voice deep and earnest with conviction:-- + +"Ralph! Ralph! I have found you!" + +He had not understood it then; he knew now what it meant. + +He raised the paper to the level of his eyes, and read, again and +again, the convincing words:-- + + "Do not allow any one to persuade you that this boy is not our + son. I _know_ he is." + +Then Ralph felt again that honest pride in his blood and in his +name, and that high ambition to be worthy of his parentage, that had +inspired him in the days gone by. Again he looked forward into the +bright future, to the large fulfilment of all his hopes and desires, +to learning, culture, influence, the power to do good; above all, to +the sweetness of a life with his own mother, in the home where he had +spent one beautiful day. + +He had drawn himself to his full height; every muscle was tense, his +head was erect with proud knowledge, high hope flashed from his eyes, +gladness dwelt in every feature of his face. + +Then, suddenly, the light went out from his countenance, and the old +look of pain came back there. + +His face had changed with his changing thought as it did that day +in the court-room at Wilkesbarre. The fact of his imprisonment had +returned into his mind, and for the moment it overcame him. He sat +down on a jutting rock to consider it. Of what use was it to be Robert +Burnham's son, with two hundred feet of solid rock between him and the +outside world, and the only passage through it blocked with burned and +broken timbers? + +For a time despondency darkened his mind and despair sat heavily upon +him. He even wished that the joy of this new knowledge had not come to +him. It made the depth of his present misfortune seem so much greater. + +But, after a while, he took heart again; courage came back to him; the +belief that he would be finally saved grew stronger in his mind; hope +burned up brightly in his breast, and the pride of parentage within +him filled him with ambition to do what lay in his power to accomplish +his own deliverance. It was little he could do, indeed, save to wait +with patience and in hope until outside help should come, but this +little, he resolved, should be done with a will, as befitted his birth +and position. + +He folded the precious bit of paper he had found and fastened it in +his waistcoat pocket so that he should not lose it as Robert Burnham +had lost it; then he took up his lamp and went back through the +half-walled entrance, down the chamber and along the side-heading to +the air-way door where Jasper had been left. + +There was a small can of oil sitting just inside the door-way. It +was the joint property of Ralph and the door-boy. It was fortunate, +he thought, that he had selected that place for it, as he was now in +great need of it. He filled his lamp, from which the oil had become +nearly exhausted, and then passed out through the door. + +The mule was still there and uttered a hoarse sound of welcome when he +saw the boy. + +"I found somethin' up there, Jasper," said Ralph, as he sat down +on the bench and began to pat the beast's neck again, "somethin' +wonderful; I wish I could tell you so you could understand it; it's +too bad you can't, Jasper; I know you'd be glad." + +The mule seemed to recognize the pleasantness of the lad's voice and +to enjoy it, and for a long time Ralph sat there petting him and +talking to him. + +Finally, he became aware that the air about him was growing to be very +bad. It made him feel sick and dizzy, and caused his heart to beat +rapidly. + +He knew that he must go farther in. He thought, however, to make an +attempt to get out toward the shaft first. It might be that it had +grown clearer out there, it might be that the rescuers were already +working down toward him. He started rapidly down the heading, but +before he had gone half-way to the head of the plane, the smoke and +the foul air were so dense and deadly that he had to stop and to crawl +away from it on his hands and knees. He was greatly exhausted when he +reached the air-way door again, and he sat on the bench for a long +time to rest and to recover. + +But he knew that it was dangerous to remain there now, and, taking the +can of oil with him, he started slowly up the heading. He did not know +how soon he should get back here, and when the oil in his lamp should +give out again he desired to be able to renew it. + +The mule was following closely behind him. It was a great comfort, +too, to have a living being with him for company. He might have been +shut up here alone, and that would have been infinitely worse. + +At the point where the branch leading to the new chambers left the +main heading, Ralph turned in, following his accustomed route. +It seemed to him that he ought to go to places with which he was +familiar. + +He trudged along through the half-mile of gang-way that he had always +found so lonely when he was at work, stopping now and then to rest. +For, although he walked very slowly, he grew tired very easily. He +felt that he was not getting into a purer atmosphere either. The air +around him seemed to lack strength and vitality; and when, at last, he +reached the tier of chambers that it had been his duty to supply with +cars, he was suffering from dizziness, from shortness of breath, and +from rapid beating of the heart. + +At the foot of Conway's chamber Ralph found a seat. He was very weak +and tired and his whole frame was in a tremor. + +He began to recall all that he had heard and read about people being +suffocated in the mines; all the stories that had ever been told to +him about miners being shut in by accident and poisoned with foul air, +or rescued at the point of death. He knew that his own situation was +a critical one. He knew that, with the shaft crowded full of wreckage +and giving no passage to the air, the entire mine would eventually +become filled with poisonous gases. He knew that his present physical +condition was due to the foulness of the atmosphere he was breathing. +He felt that the situation was becoming rapidly more alarming. The +only question now was as to how long this vitiated air would support +life. Still, his courage did not give way. He had strong hope that he +would yet be rescued, and he struggled to hold fast to his hope. + +The flame of his lamp burned round and dim, so dim that he could +scarcely see across the heading. + +The mule came up to him and put out his nose to touch the boy's hand. + +"I guess we may as well stay here. Jasper," he said. "This is the +furthest place away from the shaft, an' if we can't stan' it here we +can't stan' it nowhere." + +The beast seemed to understand him, for he lay down then, with his +head resting on Ralph's knee. They remained for a long time in that +position, and Ralph listened anxiously for some sound from the +direction of the shaft. He began to think finally that it was foolish +to expect help as yet. No human being could get through the gas and +smoke to him. The mine would first need to be ventilated. But he felt +that the air was growing constantly more foul and heavy. His head was +aching, he labored greatly in breathing, and he seemed to be confused +and sleepy. He arose and tried to walk a little to keep awake. He knew +that sleep was dangerous. But he was too tired to walk and he soon +came back and sat down again by the mule. + +"I'm a-tryin', Jasper," he said, "I'm a-tryin' my best to hold out; +but I'm afraid it ain't a-goin' to do much good; I can't see much +chance"-- + +He stopped suddenly. A thought had struck him. He seized his lamp +and oil-can and pushed ahead across the air-way and up into Conway's +chamber. + +The mule arose with much difficulty and staggered weakly after him. A +new hope had arisen in the boy's heart, an inspiration toward life had +put strength into his limbs. + +At the breast of the chamber he set down his lamp and can, climbed up +on to the shelf of coal, and began tearing out the slate and rubbish +from the little opening in the wall that Conway had that day shown to +him. If he could once get through into the old mine he knew that he +should find pure air and--life. + +The opening was too small to admit his body, but that was nothing; +there were tools here, and he still had strength enough to work. He +dragged the drill up to the face but it was too heavy for him to +handle, and the stroke he was able to make with it was wholly without +effect. His work with the clumsy sledge was still less useful, and +before he had struck the third blow the instrument fell from his +nerveless hands. + +He was exhausted by the effort and lay down on the bed of coal to +rest, gasping for breath. + +He thought if only the air current would come from the other mine +into this what a blessing it would be; but, alas! the draft was the +other way. The poisoned air was being drawn swiftly into the old +mine, making a whistling noise as it crossed the sharp edges of +the aperture. + +Ralph knew that very soon the strong current would bring in smoke and +fouler air, and he rose to make still another effort. He went down +and brought up the pick. It was worn and light and he could handle it +more easily. He began picking away at the edges of coal to enlarge the +opening. But the labor soon exhausted him, and he sat down with his +back against the aperture to intercept the passage of air while he +recovered his breath. + +He was soon at work again. The hope of escape put energy into his weak +muscles. + +Once, a block as large as his two hands broke away and fell down on +the other side. That was a great help. But he had to stop and rest +again. Indeed, after that he had very frequently to stop and rest. + +The space was widening steadily, but very, very slowly. + +After a time he threw down the pick and passed his head through the +opening, but it was not yet large enough to receive his body. + +The air that was now coming up the chamber was very bad, and it was +blue with smoke, besides. + +The boy bent to his task with renewed energy; but every blow exhausted +him, and he had to wait before striking another. He was chipping the +coal away, though, piece by piece, inch by inch. + +By and by, by a stroke of rare good-fortune, a blow that drew the pick +from the lad's weak hands and sent it rattling down upon the other +side, loosened a large block at the top of the opening, and it fell +with a crash. + +Now he could get through, and it would be none too soon either. He +dropped his oil-can down on the other side, then his lamp, and then, +after a single moment's rest, he crawled into the aperture, and +tumbled heavily to the floor of the old mine. + +It was not a great fall; he fell from a height of only a few feet, but +in his exhausted condition it stunned him, and he lay for some minutes +in a state of unconsciousness. + +The air was better in here, he was below the line of the poisoned +current, and he soon revived, sat up, picked up his lamp, and looked +around him. + +He was evidently in a worked-out chamber. Over his head in the +side-wall was the opening through which he had fallen, and he knew +that the first thing to be done was to close it up and prevent the +entrance of any more foul air. + +There was plenty of slate and of coal and of dirt near by, but he +could not reach up so high and work easily, and he had first to build +a platform against the wall, on which to stand. + +It took a long time to do this, but when it was completed he stood up +on it to put the first stone in place. + +On the other side of the opening he heard a hoarse sound of distress, +then a scrambling noise, and then Jasper's nose was pushed through +against his hand. The mule had stood patiently and watched Ralph while +he was at work, but when the boy disappeared he had become frightened, +and had clambered up on the shelf of coal at the face to try to follow +him. He was down on his knees now, with his head wedged into the +aperture, drawing in his breath with long, forced gasps, looking +piteously into the boy's face. + +"Poor Jasper!" said Ralph, "poor fellow! I didn't think of you. I'd +get you in here too if I could." + +He looked around him, as if contemplating the possibility of such a +scheme; but he knew that it could not be accomplished. + +"I can't do it, Jasper," he said, rubbing the animal's face as he +spoke. "I can't do it. Don't you see the hole ain't big enough? an' I +couldn't never make it big enough for you, never." + +But the look in Jasper's eyes was very beseeching, and he tried to +push his head in so that he might lay his nose against Ralph's breast. + +The boy put his arms about the beast's neck. + +"I can't do it, Jasper," he repeated, sobbing. "Don't you see I can't? +I wisht I could, oh, I wisht I could!" + +The animal drew his head back. His position was uncomfortable, and it +choked him to stretch his neck out that way. + +Ralph knew that he must proceed with the building of his wall. One +after another he laid up the pieces of slate and coal, chinking in +the crevices with dirt, keeping his head as much as possible out of +the foul current, stopping often to rest, talking affectionately to +Jasper, and trying, in a childish way, to console him. + +At last his work was nearly completed, but the gruff sounds of +distress from the frightened mule had ceased. Ralph held his lamp up +out of the current, so that the light would fall through the little +opening, and looked in. + +Jasper lay there on his side, his head resting on the coal bottom, a +long, convulsive respiration at intervals the only movement of his +body. He was unconscious, and dying. The boy drew back with tears in +his eyes and with sorrow at his heart. The beast had been his friend +and companion, not only in his daily toil, but here also, in the +loneliness and peril of the poisoned mine. For the time being, he +forgot his own misfortunes in his sympathy for Jasper. He put his face +once more to the opening. + +"Good-by, Jasper!" he said, "good-by, old fellow! I couldn't help it, +you know, an'--an' it won't hurt you any more--good-by!" + +He drew back his head, put the few remaining stones in place, chinked +the crevices with dirt and culm, and then, trembling and faint, +he fell to the floor of the old mine, and lay there, panting and +exhausted, for a long time in silent thought. + +But it was not of himself he was thinking; it was of poor old Jasper, +dying on the other side of the black wall, deserted, barred out, +alone. + +Finally it occurred to him that he should go to some other place in +the mine. The poisonous gases must still be entering through the +crevices of his imperfectly built and rudely plastered wall, and it +would be wise for him to get farther away. His oil had nearly burned +out again, and he refilled his lamp from the can. Then he arose and +went down the chamber. + +It was a very long chamber. When he reached the foot of it he found +the entrances into the heading walled up, and he turned and went along +the air-way for a little distance, and then sat down to rest. + +For the first time he noticed that he had cut his hands badly, on the +sharp pieces of coal he had been handling, and he felt that there was +a bruise on his side, doubtless made when he fell through the opening. + +Hitherto he had not had a clear idea as to the course he should pursue +when he should have obtained entrance into the old mine. His principal +object had been to get into pure air. + +Now, however, he began to consider the matter of his escape. It was +obvious that two methods were open to him. He could either try to make +his way out alone to the old slope near the Dunmore road, or he could +remain in the vicinity of Conway's chamber till help should reach him +from the Burnham mine. + +But it might be many hours before assistance would come. The shaft +would have first to be cleared out, and that he knew would be no easy +matter. After that the mine would need to be ventilated before men +could make their way through it. All this could not be done in a day, +indeed it might take many days, and when they should finally come in +to search for him, they would not find him in the Burnham mine; he +would not be there. + +If he could discover the way to the old slope, and the path should be +unobstructed, he would be in the open air within half an hour. In the +open air! The very thought of such a possibility decided the question +for him. And when he should reach the surface he would go straight +to Mrs. Burnham, straight to his mother, and place in her hands the +letter he had found. She would be glad to read it; she would be +very, very glad to know that Ralph was her son. Sitting there in the +darkness and the desolation he could almost see her look of great +delight, he could almost feel her kisses on his lips as she gave him +tender greeting. Oh! it would be beautiful, so beautiful! + +But, then, there was Uncle Billy. He had come near to forgetting him. +He would go first to Uncle Billy, that would be better, and then they +would go together to his mother's house and would both enjoy her words +of welcome. + +But if he was going he must be about it. It would not do to sit there +all night. All night? Ralph wondered what time it had come to be. +Whether hours or days had passed since his imprisonment he could +hardly tell. + +He picked up his lamp and can and started on. At no great distance he +found an old door-way opening into the heading. He passed through it +and began to trudge along the narrow, winding passage. He had often to +stop and rest, he felt so very weak. A long time he walked, slowly, +unsteadily, but without much pain. Then, suddenly, he came to the end +of the heading. The black, solid wall faced him before he was hardly +aware of it. He had taken the wrong direction when he entered the +gallery, that was all. He had followed the heading in instead of out. +His journey had not been without its use, however, for it settled +definitely the course he ought to take to reach the slope, and that, +he thought, was a matter of no little importance. + +He sat down for a few minutes to rest, and then started on his return. +It seemed to be taking so much more time to get back that he feared he +had passed the door-way by which he had entered the heading. But he +came to it at last and stopped there. + +He began to feel hungry. He wondered why he had not thought to look +for some one's dinner pail, before he came over into the old mine. He +knew that his own still had fragments of food in it; he wished that +he had them now. But wishing was of no use, the only thing for him +to do was to push ahead toward the surface. When he should reach his +mother's house his craving would be satisfied with all that could +tempt the palate. + +He started on again. The course of the heading was far from straight, +and his progress was very slow. + +At last he came to a place where there had been a fall. They had +robbed the pillars till they had become too weak to support the roof, +and it had tumbled in. + +Ralph turned back a little, crossed the air-way and went up into the +chambers, thinking to get around the area of the fall. He went a long +way up before he found an unblocked opening. Then, striking across +through the entrances, he came out again, suddenly, to a heading. He +thought it must have curved very rapidly to the right that he should +find it so soon, if it were the one he had been on before. But he +followed it as best he could, stopping very often to catch a few +moments of rest, finding even his light oil-can a heavy burden in his +hands, trying constantly to give strength to his heart and his limbs +by thoughts of the fond greeting that awaited him when once he should +escape from the gloomy passages of the mine. + +The heading grew to be very devious. It wound here and there, with +entrances on both sides, it crossed chambers and turned corners till +the boy became so bewildered that he gave up trying to trace it. He +pushed on, however, through the openings that seemed most likely +to lead outward, looking for pathways and trackways, hungering, +thirsting, faint in both body and spirit, till he reached a solid wall +at the side of a long, broad chamber, and there he stopped to consider +which way to turn. He struck some object at his feet. It was a pick. +He looked up at the wall in front of him, and he saw in it the +filled-up entrance through which he had made his way from the Burnham +mine. + +It came upon him like a blow, and he sank to the floor in sudden +despair. + +This was worse than anything that had happened to him since the time +when he ran back to the shaft to find the carriage gone and its place +filled with firebrands. His journey had been such a mournful waste of +time, of energy, and of hopeful anticipation. + +But, after a little, he began to think that it was not quite so bad as +it might have been after all. He had his lamp and his oil-can, and +he was in a place where the air was fit to breathe. That was better, +certainly, than to be lying on the other side of the wall with poor +old Jasper. He forced new courage into his heart, he whipped his +flagging spirits into fresh activity, and resolved to try once more to +find a passage to the outside world. + +But he needed rest; that was apparent. He thought that if he could lie +down and be quiet and contented for fifteen or twenty minutes he would +gain strength and vigor enough to sustain him through a long journey. +He arose and moved up the chamber a little way, out of the current of +poisoned air that still sifted in through the crevices of his rudely +built wall. + +Here he lay down on a place soft with culm, to take his contemplated +rest, and, before he was aware of it, sleep had descended on him, +overpowered him, and bound him fast. But it was a gracious victor. It +put away his sufferings from him; it allayed his hunger and assuaged +his thirst, it hid his loneliness and dispelled his fear, and it +brought sweet peace for a little time to his troubled mind. He was +alone and in peril, and far from the pure air and the bright sunlight +of the upper world; but the angel of sleep touched his eyelids just as +gently in the darkness of this dreadful place as though he had been +lying on beds of fragrant flowers, with white clouds or peaceful stars +above him to look upon his slumber. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +IN THE POWER OF DARKNESS. + + +Ralph slept, hour after hour. He dreamed, and moved his hands uneasily +at intervals, but still he slept. There were no noises there to +disturb him, and he had been very tired. + +When he finally awoke the waking was as gentle as though he had been +lying on his own bed at home. He thought, at first, that he was at +home; and he wondered why it was so very dark. Then he remembered that +he was shut up in the mines. It was a cruel remembrance, but it was +a fact and he must make the best of it. While he slept his oil had +burned out, and he was in total darkness. He felt for his oil-can and +found it. Then he found his lamp, filled it by the sense of touch, and +lighted it. He always carried matches; they had done him good service +in the mines before this. He was very thankful too, that he had +thought to bring the oil-can. Without it he would have been long ago +in the power of darkness. He was still hungry, and thirsty too, very +thirsty now, indeed. + +He arose and tried to walk, but he was so dizzy that he had to sit +down again. He felt better after a little, though, very much better +than before he had taken his rest. He wondered how long he had slept, +and what progress was being made, if any, toward his rescue. He went +down to the opening in the wall, and held his lamp up to it. Threads +of smoke were still curling in through the slate and culm, and the air +that crept in was very bad. Then, for a little time, Ralph sat there +and listened. He thought that possibly he might hear some distant +sound of rescue. But there was no noise; the silence was burdensome. + +His thirst increased and he was hot and feverish. + +At last he rose with the determination to carry out his plan of +searching for the old slope. + +He knew that it would be worse than useless to stay here. + +Besides, he hoped that he might find a stream of water on the way at +which to quench his thirst. + +He thought of the letter in his pocket, and the desire grew strong +within him to read it again. He took it out, unfolded it, and held it +close to the light, but there seemed to be a mist before his eyes and +he could not distinguish the words. He knew what it contained, though, +and that was sufficient for him. He was Robert Burnham's son. His +father had been brave and manly; so would he be. His father would have +kept up heart and courage to the end, no matter what fate faced him. +He determined that the son should do no less. He would be worthy of +his parentage, he would do all that lay in his power to accomplish his +own safety; if he failed, the fault should not be his. + +He folded and replaced the letter, picked up his oil-can, fastened +his lamp to his cap and started down the chamber. He felt that he was +strong with the strength of inspiration. It seemed to him, too, that +he was very light in body. It seemed almost as though he were treading +on air, and he thought that he was moving very fast. + +In reality his steps were heavy and halting, and his way down the long +chamber was devious and erratic. His fancied strength and elasticity +were born of the fever in his blood. + +He came to the heading. He knew, now, which way to turn, and he passed +down it in what he thought was rapid flight. + +But here was the fall again. What was to be done now? His last attempt +to get around it had been disastrous. He would not try that plan +again. He would work his way through it this time and keep to the +heading. + +He climbed slowly up over the fallen rock and coal and let himself +down upon the other side. But it took his breath away, this climbing, +and he had to wait there a little while to recover it. There was a +clear space before him, though, and he made good progress through it +till he came again to the fall. + +In this place the rock was piled higher and it was more difficult of +ascent. But he clambered bravely up, dragging his oil-can with him; +then he moved out along the smooth, sloping surfaces of fallen slate, +keeping as close as possible to the wall of the heading, climbing +higher and higher, very slowly now, and with much labor, stopping +often to rest. + +He came, at last, to a place where the space between the fallen rock +and the roof above it was so narrow that he could scarcely squeeze his +slender body through it. When he had done so he found himself on the +edge of a precipice, a place where a solid mass had fallen like a +wall, and had made a shelf so high that the feeble rays of Ralph's +lamp would not reach to the bottom of it. The boy crawled, trembling, +along the edge of this cliff, trying to find some place for descent. + +The oil-can that he carried made his movements cumbersome; the surface +of the rock was smooth and hard to cling to; his limbs were weak and +his fingers nerveless. + +He slipped, the can fell from his hand, he tried to recover it, +slipped further, made a desperate effort to save himself, failed, and +went toppling over into the darkness. + +The height was not very great, and he was not seriously injured by +the fall; but it stunned him, and he lay for some time in a state of +unconsciousness. + +When he came to himself, he knew what had happened and where he was. +He tried to rise, but the effort pained him and he lay back again. He +was in total darkness. His lamp had fallen from his cap and become +extinguished. He reached out to try and find it and his hand came in +contact with a little stream of water. The very touch of it refreshed +him. He rolled over, put his mouth to it and drank. It was running +water, cool and delicious, and he was very, very thankful for it. + +In the stream he found his lamp. The lid had flown open, the oil was +spilled out, and the water had entered. The can was not within reach +of him as he lay. He raised himself to his hands and knees and groped +around for it. He began to despair of ever finding it. It would be +terrible, he thought, to lose it now, and be left alone in the dark. + +But at last he came upon it and picked it up. It was very light; he +felt for the plug, it was gone; he turned the can upside down, it was +empty. + +For the moment his heart stopped beating; he could almost feel the +pallor in his face, he could almost see the look of horror in his own +eyes. From this time forth he would be in darkness. It was not enough +that he was weak, sick, lost and alone in the mysterious depths of +this old mine, but now darkness had come, thick darkness to crown his +suffering and bar his path to freedom. His self-imposed courage had +almost given way. It required matchless bravery to face a peril such +as this without a murmur, and still find room for hope. + +But he did his best. He fought valiantly against despair. + +It occurred to him that he still had matches. He drew them from his +pocket and counted them. There were seven. + +He poured the water from the chamber of his lamp and pulled out the +wick and pressed it. He thought that possibly he might make it burn a +little longer without oil. He selected one of the matches and struck +it against the rock at his side. It did not light. The rock was wet +and the match was spoiled. + +The next one he lighted by drawing it swiftly across the sleeve of his +jacket. But the light was wasted; the cotton wick was still too wet to +ignite. + +There was nothing left to him, then, save the matches, and they would +not light him far. But it was better to go even a little way than to +remain here. + +He rose to his feet and struck a match on his sleeve, but it broke +short off at the head, and the sputtering sulphur dropped into the +stream and was quenched. He struck another, this time with success. +He saw the heading; the way was clear; and he started on, holding one +hand out before him, touching at frequent intervals the lower wall of +the passage with the other. + +But his side pained him when he tried to walk: he had struck it +heavily in his last fall; and he had to stop in order to relieve it. +After a time he arose again, but in the intense darkness and with that +strange confusion in his brain, he could not tell in which direction +to go. + +He lighted another match; it sputtered and went out. + +He had two matches left. To what better use could he put them than to +make them light him as far as possible on his way? He struck one of +them, it blazed up, and with it he lighted the stick of the imperfect +one which he had not thrown away. He held them up before him, and, +shielding the blaze with his hand, he moved rapidly down the narrow +passage. + +He knew that he was still in the heading and that if he could but +follow it he would, in time, reach the slope. + +His light soon gave out; darkness surrounded him again, but he kept +on. + +He moved from side to side of the passage, feeling his way. + +His journey was slow, very slow and painful, but it was better to keep +going, he knew that. + +He had one match left but he dared not light it. He wanted to reserve +that for a case of greater need. + +The emergency that called for its use soon arose. + +The heading seemed to have grown suddenly wider. He went back and +forth across it and touched all the pillars carefully. The way was +divided. One branch of the gallery bore to the right and another to +the left. + +Straight ahead was a solid wall. Ralph did not know which passage to +enter. To go into one would be to go still farther and deeper into the +recesses of the old mine; to go into the other would be to go toward +the slope, toward the outer world, toward his mother and his home. + +If he could only see he could choose more wisely. + +Had the necessity arisen for the use of his last match? + +He hesitated. He sat down to rest and to consider the question. It +was hard to think, though, with all that whirling and buzzing in his +fever-stricken brain. + +Then a scheme entered his mind, a brilliant scheme by which he +should get more light. He resolved to act upon it without delay. He +transferred everything from the pockets of his jacket to those of his +waistcoat. Then he removed this outer garment, tore a portion of it +into strips, and held it in one hand while he made ready to light his +last match. He held his breath while he struck it. + +It did not light. + +He waited a minute to think. Then he struck it again, this time with +success. He touched it to the rags of his coat, and the oil-soaked +cloth flashed brightly into flame. He held the blazing jacket in his +hand, looked around him for one moment to choose his way, and then +began to run. + +It was a travesty on running, to be sure, but it was the best he could +do. He staggered and stumbled; he lurched rapidly ahead for a little +space and then moved with halting steps. His limbs grew weak, his +breath came in gasps, and the pain in his side was cutting him like a +knife. + +But he thought he was going very rapidly. He could see so nicely too. +The flames, fanned by the motion, curled up and licked his hand and +wrist, but he scarcely knew it. + +Then his foot struck some obstacle in the way and he fell. For a +moment he lay there panting and helpless, while the burning cloth, +thrown from him in his fall, lighted up the narrow space around him +till it grew as clear as day. But all this splendid glow should not be +wasted; it would never do; he must make it light him on his journey +till the last ray was gone. + +He staggered to his feet again and ran on into the ever growing +darkness. Behind him the flames flared, flickered, and died slowly +out, and when the last vestige of light was wholly gone he sank, +utterly exhausted, to the floor of the mine, and thick darkness +settled on him like a pall. + +A long time he lay there wondering vaguely at his strange misfortunes. +The fever in his blood was running high, and, instead of harboring +sober thought, his mind was filled with fleeting fancies. + +It was very still here, so still that he thought he heard the +throbbing in his head. He wondered if it could be heard by others who +might thus find where he lay. + +Then fear came on him, fear like an icy hand clutching at his breast, +fear that would not let him rest, but that brought him to his feet +again and urged him onward. + +To die, that was nothing; he could die if need be; but to be shut up +here alone, with strange and unseen things hovering about him in the +blackness, that was quite beyond endurance. He was striving to get +away from them. He had not much thought, now, which way he went, he +cared little for direction, he wished only to keep in motion. + +He had to stop at times to get breath and to rest his limbs, they +ached so. But, whenever he stood still or sat down to rest, the +darkness seemed to close in upon him and around him so tightly as to +give him pain. He would not have cared so much for that, though, if it +had not been filled with strange creatures who crept close to him to +hear the throbbing in his head. He could not bear that; it compelled +him to move on. + +He went a long way like this, with his hands before him, stumbling, +falling, rising again, stopping for a moment's rest, moaning as he +walked, crying softly to himself at times like the sick child that he +was. + +Once he felt that he was going down an inclined way, like a long +chamber; there had been no prop or pillar on either side of him for +many minutes. Finally, his feet touched water. It grew to be ankle +deep. He pushed on, and it reached half-way to his knees. This would +never do. He turned in his tracks to retreat, just saved himself +from falling, and then climbed slowly back up the long slope of the +chamber. + +When he had reached the top of it he thought he would lie down and try +not to move again, he was so very tired and sick. + +In the midst of all his fancies he realized his danger. He knew that +death had ceased to be a possibility for him, and had come to be more +than probable. + +He felt that it would be very sad indeed to die in this way, alone, +in the dark, in the galleries of this old mine; it was not the way +Robert Burnham's son should have died. It was not that he minded +death so much; he would not have greatly cared for that, if he could +only have died in his mother's arms, with the sweet sunlight and the +fresh air and the perfume of flowers in the room. That, he thought, +would have been beautiful, very beautiful indeed. But this, this was +so different. + +"It is very sad," he said; "poor Ralph, poor boy." + +He was talking to himself. It seemed to him that he was some one else, +some one who stood by trying to pity and console this child who was +dying here alone in the awful darkness. + +"It's hard on you," he said, "I know it's hard on you, an' you've +just got to where life'd be worth a good deal to you too. You had +your bitter an' the sweet was just a-comin'; but never mind, my boy, +never mind; your Uncle Billy says 'at heaven's a great sight better +place 'an any you could ever find on earth. An', then, you're Robert +Burnham's son, you know, an' that's a good deal to think of; +you're--Robert Burnham's--son." + +For a long time after this there was silence, and the boy did not +move. Then fear came back to him. He thought that the darkness was +closing in again upon him, that it pressed him from above, from right +and left, that it crowded back his breath and crushed his body. He +felt that he must escape from it. + +He was too weak now to rise and walk, so he lifted himself to his +hands and knees and began to move away like a creeping child. + +There were many obstacles in his path, some of them imaginary, most of +them real. There were old mine caps, piles of dirt, pieces of slate, +and great lumps of coal on' which he cut his hands and bruised his +knees. But he met and passed them all. He was intent only on getting +away from these dreadful powers of darkness, they tortured him so. + +And he did get away from them. He came to a place where the space +about him seemed large, where the floor was smooth, and the air so +clear and pure that he could breathe it freely. + +Utter darkness, indeed, surrounded him, but it was a darkness not +peopled with evil beings; it was more like the sweet darkness of a +summer night, with the fragrance of dew-wet flowers in the air. + +He leaned against a pillar to rest. He thought to stay here until the +end should come. + +He was not suffering from any pain now; he was glad of that. And he +should die peacefully, leaving no wrong behind him, with no guilt +upon his conscience, no sin upon his soul. He was glad of that too. +He wondered if they would know, when they found his body, that he was +Robert Burnham's son. Suppose they should never find it out. Suppose +the days and months and years should pass away, and no one ever know +what high honor came to him while yet he lived on earth. That would be +sad, very, very sad; worse even than death itself. But there was a way +for him to make it known. He thought that some sweet voice was telling +him what to do. + +He took from his waistcoat pocket the paper that declared his birth, +unfolded it once, pressed it to his lips once, took pins from the edge +of the collar of his vest, and pinned the letter fast upon the bosom +of his flannel shirt. + +It took him a long time to do this in the darkness, his hands were so +very weak and tremulous, but, when it was done, he smoothed the paper +over carefully and was content. + +"They'll know it now," he said gently to himself, "they'll surely know +it now. They'll no sooner find me here than they'll know who I am, an' +who my mother is, an' where to take me. It's just the same, just the +same as though I was alive myself to tell 'em." + +He leaned back then, and closed his eyes and lay quite still. He felt +no pain from his cut and bleeding hands and knees, nor from his burned +wrist, nor from his bruised body. He was not hungry any more, nor +thirsty, nor suffering for breath. He was thinking, but he thought +only of pleasant things. He remembered no evil, neither any person who +had done him evil. + +Off somewhere in the distance he could see blue sky, and the tips of +waves glancing in the sunlight, and green fields, and long stretches +of yellow grain. It seemed very real to him, so real that he wondered +if he was still lying there in the darkness. He opened his eyes to +see. Yes, it was dark, very dark. + +The faint noise of dripping water came to his ears from somewhere in +the mine below him. It reminded him of a tiny waterfall he had once +seen under the shadow of a great rock on the bank of Roaring Brook. +It was where a little stream, like a silver thread, ran down across +the mossy covering of the edge and went drip, dripping into the +stone-walled basin far below. He wondered if the stream was running +there this day, if the tall rock-oak was bending yet above it, if the +birds sang there as gayly as they sang that happy day when first he +saw it. + +For a little time he thought that he was indeed there. He found it +hard to make himself believe that he was still in the mine, alone. But +he was not alone; he knew that he was not alone. He felt that friends +were somewhere near him. They were staying back in the shadow so that +they should not disturb him. They would come to him soon, when--when +he should waken. + +He did not move any more, his eyes were closed and he seemed to be +sleeping. His breath came gently, in long respirations. The precious +letter rose and fell with the slow heaving of his breast. + +Down in the darkness the water dripped as placidly as pulses beat. For +the rest there was no sound, no motion. + +Once the boy stirred a little and opened his eyes. + +"Is that you, Uncle Billy?" he said. "Come an' sit down an' rest a +little, an' then we'll go out. I think I got lost or--or somethin'." + +His Uncle Billy was not there. The darkness about him held no human +being save himself, but the vision was just as real to him, and the +coming was just as welcome as though it had all been true. + +"Why, how strange you look, Uncle Billy; an' you're a-laughin' at +me--what! does she? Well, I'll go to her just as soon as I get out, +just as soon. How did she find it out? I was goin' to be the first to +tell her. I'm glad she knows it, though." + +After a moment he continued:-- + +"Oh, no, Uncle Billy; I shouldn't ever do that, I couldn't. You've +been too good to me. You've been awful good to me, Uncle Billy--awful +good." + +Again silence fell. Thick darkness, like a veil, wrapped the +unconscious child in its folds. Black walls and winding galleries +surrounded him, the "valley of the shadow" lay beyond him, but on his +breast he bore the declaration of his birth, and in his heart he felt +that "peace of God which passeth understanding." + +Down in the darkness the water dripped; up in the earth's sky the +stars were out and the moon was shining. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +A STROKE OF LIGHTNING. + + +It was a hot day at Burnham Breaker. The sun of midsummer beat +fiercely upon the long and sloping roofs and against the coal-black +sides of the giant building. + +Down in the engine-room, where there was no air stirring, and the +vapor of steam hung heavily in the atmosphere, the heat was almost +insupportable. + +The engineer, clothed lightly as he was, fairly dripped with +perspiration. The fireman, with face and neck like a lobster, went +out, at intervals, and plunged his hands and his head too into the +stream of cool water sent out from the mine by the laboring pumps. + +Up in the screen-room, the boys were sweltering above their chutes, +choking with the thick dust, wondering if the afternoon would never be +at an end. + +Bachelor Billy, pushing the cars out from the head, said to himself +that he was glad Ralph was no longer picking slate. It was better that +he should work in the mines. It was cool there in summer and warm in +winter, and it was altogether more comfortable for the boy than it +could be in the breaker; neither was it any more dangerous, in his +opinion, than it was among the wheels and rollers of the screen-room. +He had labored in the mines himself, until the rheumatism came and put +a stop to his under-ground toil. He mourned greatly the necessity that +compelled him to give up this kind of work. It is hard for a miner to +leave his pillars and his chambers, his drill and powder-can and fuse, +and to seek other occupation on the surface of the earth. The very +darkness and danger that surround him at his task hold him to it with +an unaccountable fascination. + +But Bachelor Billy had a good place here at the breaker. It was not +hard work that he was doing. Robert Burnham had given him the position +ten years and more ago. + +Even on this hot mid-summer day, the heat was less where he was than +in any other part of the building. A cool current came up the shaft +and kept the air stirring about the head, and the loaded mine-cars +rose to the platform, dripping cold water from their sides, and that +was very refreshing to the eye as well as to the touch. + +It was well along in the afternoon that Billy, looking out to the +north-west, saw a dark cloud rising slowly above the horizon, and said +to Andy Gilgallon, his assistant, that he hoped it would not go away +without leaving some rain behind it. + +Looking at it again, a few minutes later, he told Andy that he felt +sure there would be water enough to lay the dust, at any rate. + +The cloud increased rapidly in size, rolling up the sky in dark +volumes, and emitting flashes of forked lightning in quick succession. + +By and by the face of the sun was covered, and the deep rumbling of +the thunder was almost continuous. + +There was a dead calm. Not even at the head of the shaft could a +particle of moving air be felt. + +"Faith! I don't like the looks o' it, Billy," said Andy Gilgallon, +as a sharp flash cut the cloud surface from zenith to horizon, and a +burst of thunder followed that made the breaker tremble. + +"No more do I," replied Bachelor Billy; "but we'll no' git scart afoor +we're hurt. It's no' likely the buildin' 'll be washit awa'." + +"Thrue for ye! but this bit o' a steeple ud be a foine risting-place +for the lightnin's fut, an' a moighty hot fut it has, too--bad 'cess +to it!" + +The man had been interrupted by another vivid flash and a sharp crack +of thunder. + +The mountains to the north and west were now entirely hidden, and the +near hills were disappearing rapidly behind the on-coming storm of +rain. Already the first drops were rattling sharply on the breaker's +roof, and warning puffs of wind were beating gently against the side +of the shaft-tower. + +"I'm glad Ralph's no' workin' i' the screen-room," said Bachelor +Billy, as he put up his hand to shield his eyes from the blinding +glare. "It'd be a fearfu' thing to ha' the breaker hit." + +The fury of the storm was on them at last. It was as though the +heavens were shattered. + +Billy looked out upon the dreadful onslaught of the elements with awe +and wonder on his face. His companion crouched against the timbers of +the shaft in terror. + +Then--lightning struck the breaker. + +People who sat in their houses a mile away started up in sudden fright +at the fierce flash and terrible report. + +A man who was running toward the engine-room for shelter was blinded +and stunned by the glare and crash, and fell to his knees. + +When he rose again and could use his eyes, he saw men and boys +crowding from the building out into the pouring rain. But the breaker +was on fire. Already the shaft-tower was wrapped in smoke and lighted +with flame. Some one in authority stood in the door of the engine-room +giving orders. + +The carriage was descending the shaft. When it came up it was loaded +with men. It went down again, almost with the rapidity of lightning +itself. + +The engineer was crowding his servant of iron and steel to the utmost. +The men of the next load that came up had hardly time to push +each other from the carriage before it darted down again into the +blackness. + +The flames were creeping lower on the shaft timbers, and were rioting +among the screens. + +The engine-room was hot and stifling. The engineer said he was +hoisting the last load that could be brought out. + +When it reached the surface Conway leaped from among the men and stood +in the door of the engine-room. + +"Let it down again!" he shouted. "Ralph is below yet, the boy. I'll go +down myself an' git 'im." + +He heard a crash behind him, and he turned in time to see the iron +roof of the carriage disappear into the mouth of the shaft. + +The burning frame-work at the head had ceased to support it, and it +had fallen down, dragging a mass of flaming timbers with it. + +Conway went out into the rain and sat down and cried like a child. + +Afterward, when the storm had partially subsided, a wagon was stopped +at the door of the office near the burning breaker, the limp body of +Bachelor Billy was brought out and placed in it, and it was driven +rapidly away. They had found him lying on the track at the head with +the flames creeping dangerously near. He was unconscious when they +came to him, he was unconscious still. They took him to his room at +Mrs. Maloney's cottage, and put him in his bed. The doctor came soon, +and under his vigorous treatment the man lost that deathly pallor +about his face, but he did not yet recover consciousness. The doctor +said he would come out of it in time, and went away to see to the +others who had been injured. + +The men who had brought the invalid were gone, and Mrs. Maloney was +sitting by him alone. + +The storm had passed, the sun had come out just long enough to bid +a reassuring "good-night" to the lately frightened dwellers on the +earth, and was now dropping down behind the western hills. + +A carriage stopped at Bachelor Billy's door and a moment later Mrs. +Burnham knocked and entered. + +"I heard that he had suffered from the stroke," she said, looking at +the still form on the bed, "and I came to see him. Is he better?" + +"He ain't come out of it yet, ma'am," responded Mrs. Maloney, "but +the doctor's been a-rubbin' of im' an' a-givin' 'im stimmylants, an' +he says it's all right he'll be in the course of a few hours. Will ye +have a chair, ma'am?" + +"Thank you. I'll sit here by him a while with the fan and relieve you. +Where is Ralph?" + +"He's not come yet, ma'am." + +"Why, Mrs. Maloney, are you sure? Is it possible that anything has +happened to him?" + +"To shpake the trut', ma'am, I'm a bit worried about 'im meself. But +they said to me partic'ler, as how ivery man o' thim got out o' the +mine befoor the carriage fell. Most like he's a-watchin' the fire an' +doesn't know his Uncle Billy's hurted. Ye'll see 'im comin' quick +enough when he hears that, I'm thinkin'." + +Mrs. Burnham had seated herself at the bedside with the fan in her +hand. + +"I'll wait for him," she said; "perhaps he'll be here soon." + +"I'll be lookin' afther the supper, thin," said Mrs. Maloney, "the +lad'll be hungry whin he comes," and she left the room. + +Bachelor Billy lay very quiet, as if asleep, breathing regularly, his +face somewhat pale and his lips blue, but he had not the appearance of +one who is in danger. + +A few minutes later there came a gentle knock at the street door. Mrs. +Burnham arose and opened it. Lawyer Goodlaw stood on the step. She +gave him as courteous greeting as though she had been under the roof +of her own mansion. + +"I called at your home," he said, as he entered, "and, learning that +you had come here, I concluded to follow you." + +He went up to the bed and looked at Bachelor Billy, bending over him +with kind scrutiny. + +"I heard that the shock had affected him seriously," he said, "but he +does not appear to be greatly the worse for it; I think he'll come +through all right. He's an honest, warm-hearted man. I learned the +other day of a proposition that Sharpman made to him before the trial; +a tempting one to offer to a poor man, but he rejected it with scorn. +I'll tell you of it sometime; it shows forth the nobility of the man's +character." + +Goodlaw had crossed the room and had taken a seat by the window. + +"But I came to bring you news," he continued. "Our detective returned +this morning and presented a full report of his investigation and its +result. You will be pleased with it." + +"Oh, Mr. Goodlaw! is Ralph--is Ralph--" + +She was leaning toward him with clasped hands. + +"Ralph is your son," he said. + +She bowed her head, and her lips moved in silence. When she looked up, +there were tears in her eyes, but her face was radiant with happiness. + +"Is there any, any doubt about it now?" she asked. + +"None whatever," he replied. + +"And what of Rhyming Joe's story?" + +"It was a pure falsehood. He does not tire of telling how he swindled +the sharpest lawyer in Scranton out of a hundred and fifty dollars, by +a plausible lie. He takes much credit to himself for the successful +execution of so bold a scheme. But the money got him into trouble. He +had too much, he spent it too freely, and, as a consequence, he is +serving a short term of imprisonment in the Alleghany county jail for +some petty offence." + +The tears would keep coming into the lady's eyes; but they were tears +of joy, not of sorrow. + +"I have the detective's report here in writing," continued Goodlaw; +"I will give it to you that you may read it at your leisure. Craft's +story was true enough in its material parts, but a gigantic scheme was +based on it to rob both you and your son. The odium of that, however, +should rest where the expense of the venture rested, on Craft's +attorney. It is a matter for sincere congratulation that Ralph's +identity was not established by them at that time. He has been +delivered out of the hands of sharpers, and his property is wholly +saved to him. + +"I learn that Craft is dying miserably in his wretched lodgings in +Philadelphia. With enough of ill-gotten gain to live on comfortably, +his miserly instincts are causing him to suffer for the very +necessities of life." + +"I am sorry for him," said the lady; "very sorry." + +"He is not deserving of your sympathy, madam; he treated your son with +great cruelty while he had him." + +"But he saved Ralph's life." + +"That is no doubt true, yet he stole the jewelry from the child's +person and kept him only for the sake of obtaining ransom. + +"This reminds me that it is also true that he had an interview with +your husband on the day of Mr. Burnham's death. What took place +between them I cannot ascertain, but I have learned that afterward, +while the rescuing party were descending into the mine, your husband +recognized Ralph in a way that those who saw and heard him could not +at the time understand. Recent events, however, prove beyond a doubt +that your husband knew, on the day he died, that this boy was his +son." + +Mrs. Burnham had been weeping silently. + +"You are bringing me too much good and comforting news," she said; "I +am not quite able to bear it all, you see." + +She was smiling through her tears, but a look of anxiety crossed her +face as she continued:-- + +"I am worried about Ralph. He has not yet come from the breaker." + +She glanced up at the little clock on the shelf, and then went to look +out from the window. + +The man on the bed moved and moaned, and she went back to him. + +"Perhaps we had better send some one to look for the boy," said +Goodlaw. "I will go myself--" + +He was interrupted by the opening of the door. Andy Gilgallon stood +on the threshold and looked in with amazement. He had not expected to +find the lady and the lawyer there. + +"I come to see Bachelor Billy," he said. "Me an' him work togither at +the head. He got it worse nor I did. I'm over it, only I'm wake yit. +The likes o' it was niver seen afoor." + +He looked curiously in at the bed where his comrade was lying. + +"Come in," said Mrs. Burnham, "come in and look at him. He's not +conscious yet, but I think he'll soon come to himself." + +The man entered the room, walking on the toes of his clumsy shoes. + +"Have you seen anything of Ralph since the fire?" continued the lady. + +Andy stopped and looked incredulously at his questioner. + +"An' have ye not heard?" he asked. + +"Heard what, Andy?" she replied, her face paling as she noted the +man's strange look. + +"Why, they didn't get 'im out," he said. "It's in the mine he is, +sure, mum." + +She stood for a moment in silence, her face as white as the wall +behind her. Then she clasped her hands tightly together and all the +muscles of her body grew rigid in the desperate effort to remain calm +for the sake of the unconscious man on the bed, for the sake of the +lost boy in the mine, for the sake of her own ability to think and to +act. + +Goodlaw saw the struggle and rose from his chair. + +"It's a dangerous imprisonment," he said, "but not, of necessity, a +fatal one." + +She still stood staring silently at the messenger who had brought to +her these dreadful tidings. + +"They're a-thryin' to get to the mouth o' the shaft now," said Andy. +"They're a-dhraggin' the timbers away; timbers wid the fire in 'em +yit. Ye'd be shtartled to see 'em, mum." + +Then the lady spoke. + +"I will go to the shaft," she said. Her carriage was already at the +door; she started toward it, throwing a light wrap across her arm as +she went. + +Again the man on the bed moved and moaned. + +"Stay with him," she said to Andy, "until I come myself, or send some +one to relieve you. See that he has everything he needs. He is my +charge." + +Goodlaw helped her to the carriage. + +"Will you come with me?" she asked. + +He seated himself beside her and they were driven away. There was +little that he could say to comfort and assure her. The shock was too +recent. The situation of her son was too perilous. + +Darkness was coming on when they reached the scene of the disaster; +one or two stars were already out, and the crescent of the new moon +was hanging in the west. Great clouds of white smoke were floating +away to the east, and where the breaker had that morning stood there +was now only a mass of charred and glowing ruins. + +There were many people there, people who talked in low tones and +who looked on with solemn faces. But there were no outcries nor +lamentations; there was but one person, a boy, shut up in the mine, +and he was kin to no one there. + +Up at the south-west corner of the pile they were throwing water on +the ruins. An engine had been brought up from the city and was pouring +a steady stream on the spot where the shaft was thought to be. + +Many men were engaged in cutting and pulling away the burned timbers, +handling them while they were yet glowing with fire, so eager were +they to forward the work of rescue. + +The superintendent of the mines was there, directing, encouraging, +and giving a helping hand. He saw Mrs. Burnham and came up to her +carriage. + +"It was a very disastrous lightning stroke," he said; "the property of +the company is in ruins, but as yet no lives have been lost. There is +but one person in the mine, the boy Ralph; you both know him. We are +clearing away the wreckage from the mouth of the shaft as rapidly as +possible, in the hope that we may get down there in time to save his +life. Our people have directed me to spare no effort in this matter. +One life, even though it is that of an unknown boy, is not too poor a +thing for us to try, by every possible means, to save." + +"That boy," said Goodlaw, "is Mrs. Burnham's son." + +"Is it possible! Has he been identified, then, since the trial?" + +"Fully, fully! My dear sir, I beg that you will do all that lies in +your power to save this life for your company's sake, then double your +effort for this lady's sake. She has no such fortune as this boy is to +her." + +Mrs. Burnham had sat there pale-faced and eager-eyed. Now she spoke:-- + +"What is the prospect? What are the chances? Can you surely save him? +Tell me truly, Mr. Martin?" + +"We cannot say certainly," replied the superintendent; "there are too +many factors in the problem of which we are yet ignorant. We do not +know how badly the shaft is choked up; we do not know the condition +of the air in the mine. To be frank with you, I think the chances are +against rescuing the boy alive. The mine soon fills with poisonous +gases when the air supply is cut off." + +"Are you doing all that can be done?" she asked. "Will more men, more +money, more of anything, help you in your work?" + +"We are doing all that can be done," he answered her. "The men are +working bravely. We need nothing." + +"How soon will you be able to go down and begin the search?" + +The man thought for a moment before replying. + +"To-morrow," he said, uncertainly. "I think surely by to-morrow." + +She sank back into the carriage-seat, appalled by the length of time +named. She had hoped that an hour or two at the farthest would enable +them to reach the bottom of the shaft. + +"We will push the work to the utmost," said Martin, as he hurried +away. "Possibly we shall be able to get in sooner." + +Goodlaw and Mrs. Burnham sat for a long time in silence, watching the +men at their labor. Word had been passed among the workers that the +missing boy was Mrs. Burnham's son, and their energetic efforts were +put forth now for her sake as well as for the lad's. For both mother +and son held warm places in the hearts of these toiling men. + +The mouth of the shaft had been finally uncovered, a space cleared +around it, and the frame of a rude windlass erected. They were +preparing to remove the debris from the opening. + +Conway came to the carriage, and, in a voice broken with emotion, told +the story of Ralph's heroic effort to save a human life at the risk of +his own. He had little hope, he said, that Ralph could live till they +should reach him; but he should be the first, he declared, to go into +the mine in search of the gallant boy. + +At this recital Mrs. Burnham wept; she could restrain her tears no +longer. + +At last Goodlaw persuaded her to leave the scene. He feared the effect +that continued gazing on it might have upon her delicate nerves. + +The flashing of the lanterns, the huge torches lighting up the +darkness, the forms of men moving back and forth in the smoky +atmosphere, the muscular and mental energy exhibited, the deep +earnestness displayed,--all this made up a picture too dramatic and +appalling for one whose heart was in it to look at undismayed. + +Arrangements were made for a messenger service to keep Mrs. Burnham +constantly informed of the progress of the work, and, with a +parting appeal to those in charge to hasten the hour of rescue, the +grief-stricken mother departed. + +They drove first to Bachelor Billy's room. Andy was still there and +said he would remain during the night. He said that Billy had spoken +once or twice, apparently in his right mind, and was now sleeping +quietly. + +Then Mrs. Burnham went to her home. She passed the long night in +sleepless anxiety, waiting for the messages from the mine, which +followed each other in slow succession. They brought to her no good +news. The work was going on; the opening was full with wreckage; the +air was very bad, even in the shaft. These were the tidings. It was +hardly possible, they wrote, that the boy could still be living. + +Long before the last star had paled and faded in the western sky, or +the first rays of the morning sun had shot across the hills, despair +had taken in her heart the place of hope. She could only say: "Well, +he died as his father died, trying to save the lives of others. I have +two lost heroes now to mourn for and be proud of, instead of one." + +But even yet there crossed her mind at times the thought that +possibly, possibly the one chance for life as against thousands and +thousands for death might fall to her boy; and the further and deeper +thought that the range of God's mercy was very wide, oh, very wide! + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +AT THE DAWN OF DAY. + + +It was not until very late on the morning following the storm that +Bachelor Billy came fully to his senses and realized what had +happened. + +He was told that the breaker had been struck by lightning and burned +to the ground, and that his own illness was due to the severity of the +electric shock. + +He asked where Ralph was, and they told him that Ralph was up at the +mine. They thought it wiser that he should not know the truth about +the boy just yet. + +He thought to get up and dress himself, but he felt so weak and +bruised, and the strong metallic taste in his mouth nauseated him so, +that he yielded to the advice of those who were with him and lay down +again. + +He looked up anxiously at the clock, at intervals, and seemed to be +impatient for the noon hour to arrive. He thought Ralph would come +then to his dinner. He wondered that the boy should go away and leave +him for so long a time alone in his illness. + +The noon hour came, but Ralph did not come. + +Andy Gilgallon returned and tried to divert the man's mind with +stories of the fire, but the attempt was in vain. + +At one o'clock they made a pretence of sending Mrs. Maloney's little +girl to look for Ralph, in order to quiet Bachelor Billy's growing +apprehension. + +But he remained very anxious and ill at ease. It struck him that there +was something peculiar about the conduct of the people who were with +him when Ralph's name was mentioned or his absence discussed. A +growing fear had taken possession of his mind that something was +wrong, and so terribly wrong that they dared not tell it to him. + +When the clock struck two, he sat up in the bed and looked at Andy +Gilgallon with a sternness in his face that was seldom seen there. + +"Andy," he said, "tha's summat ye're a-keepin' fra me. If aught's +happenit to the lad I want ye s'ould tell me. Be he hurt, be he dead, +I wull know it. Coom noo, oot wi' it, mon! D'ye hear me?" + +Andy could not resist an appeal and a command like this. There was +something in the man's eyes, he said afterwards, that drew the truth +right out of him. + +Bachelor Billy heard the story calmly, asked about the means being +taken for the boy's rescue, and then sat for a few moments in quiet +thought. + +Finally he said: "Andy, gi' me ma clothes." + +Andy did not dare to disobey him. He gave his clothes to him, and +helped him to dress. + +The man was so sick and dizzy still that he could hardly stand. He +crossed the room, took his cap from its hook and put it on his head. + +"An' where do yez be goin' to I donno?" inquired Andy, anxiously. + +"I'm a-goin' to the breaker," replied Bachelor Billy. + +"Ah, man! but ye're foolish. Ye'll be losin' your own life, I warrant, +an' ye'll be doin' no good to the boy." + +But Billy had already started from the door. + +"I might be able to do a bit toward savin' 'im," he said. "An' if he's +beyon' that, as mos' like he is, I s'ould want to get the lad's body +an' care for it mysel'. I kenned 'im best." + +The two men were walking up through the narrow street of the village. + +"I hear now that it's Mrs. Burnham's son he is," said Andy. "Lawyer +Goodlaw came yesterday wid the news." + +Billy did not seem surprised. + +He trudged on, saying simply:-- + +"Then he's worthy of his mither, the lad is, an' of his father. I'm +thankfu' that he's got some one at last, besides his Uncle Billy, +happen it's only to bury 'im." + +The fresh, cool air seemed to have revived and strengthened the +invalid, and he went on at a more rapid pace. But he was weak enough +still. He wavered from side to side as he walked, and his face was +very pale. + +When the two men reached the site of the burned breaker, they went +directly to the opening to learn the latest news concerning the +search. There was not much, however, for them to hear. The shaft was +entirely cleaned out and men had been down into the mine, but they had +not been able to get far from the foot, the air was so very bad. + +A rough partition was being built now, down the entire depth of the +opening, a cover had been erected over the mouth of the shaft, and a +fan had been put up temporarily, to drive fresh air into the mine and +create an atmosphere there that would support life. + +It was not long after the arrival of the two men before another party +of miners stepped into the bucket to be lowered into the mine. + +Bachelor Billy asked to be allowed to go with them, but his request +was denied. They feared that, in his present condition, the foul air +below would be fatal to him. + +The party could not go far from the foot of the shaft, no farther, +indeed, than the inside plane. But they found nothing, no sign +whatever of the missing boy. + +Others went down afterward, and pushed the exploration farther, and +still others. It seemed probable that the lad, driven back by the +smoke and gas, had taken refuge in some remote portion of the mine; +and the portion that he would be apt to choose, they thought, would +be the portion with which he had been most familiar. They therefore +extended the search mainly in that direction. + +But it was night before they reached those chambers which Ralph had +been accustomed to serve with cars. They looked them over thoroughly; +every entrance and every corner was scrutinized, but no trace of the +imprisoned boy could be found. + +Bachelor Billy had not left the place. He had been the first to hear +the report of each returning squad, but his hope for the lad's safety +had disappeared long before the sun went down. When night came on he +went up on the bank and sat under the tree on the bench; the same +bench on which he had sat that day in May to listen to the story of +Ralph's temptation. His only anxiety now was that the child's body +should be brought speedily from the foul air, so that the face might +be kept as fair as possible for the mother's sake. + +Conway, who had gone down into the mine with the first searching +party, had been overcome by the foul air, and had been brought out +insensible and taken to his home. But he had recovered, and was now +back again at the shaft. It seemed to him, he said, as though he was +compelled to return; as though there was something to be done here +that only he could do. He was sitting on the bench now with Bachelor +Billy, and they were discussing the lad's heroic sacrifice, and +wondering to what part of the mine he could have gone that the search +of half a day should fail to disclose his whereabouts. + +A man who had just come out from the shaft, exhausted, was assisted up +the bank by two companions, and laid down on the grass near the bench, +in the moonlight, to breathe the fresh air that was stirring there. + +After a little, he revived, and began to tell of the search. + +"It's very strange," he said, "where the lad could have gone. We +thought to find him in the north tier, and we went up one chamber and +down the next, and looked into every entrance, but never a track of +him could we get." + +He turned to Conway, who was standing by, and continued:-- + +"Up at the face o' your chamber we found a dead mule with his collar +on. The poor creature had gone there, no doubt, to find good air. He'd +climbed up on the very shelf o' coal at the breast to get the farthest +he could. Did ye ever hear the like?" + +But Conway did not answer. A vague solution of the mystery of Ralph's +disappearance was dawning on him. He turned suddenly to the man, and +asked:-- + +"Did ye see the hole in the face when ye were there; a hole the size +o' your head walled up with stone-coal?" + +"I took no note o' such a thing. What for had ye such a hole there, +an' where to?" + +"Into the old mine," said Conway, earnestly, "into old No. 1. The boy +saw it yisterday. I told 'im where it wint. He's broke it in, and +crawled through, he has, I'll bet he has. Come on; we'll find 'im +yet!" and he started rapidly down the hill toward the mouth of the +shaft. + +Bachelor Billy rose from the bench and stumbled slowly after him; +while the man who had told them about the mule lifted himself to his +elbows, and looked down on them in astonishment. + +He could not quite understand what Conway meant. + +The superintendent of the mine had gone. The foreman in charge of the +windlass and fan stood leaning against a post, with the light of a +torch flaring across his swarthy face. + +"Let me down!" cried Conway, hastening to the opening. "I know where +the boy is; I can find 'im." + +The man smiled. "It's against orders," he responded. "Wait till Martin +comes back an' the next gang goes in; then ye can go." + +"But I say I know where the boy is. I can find 'im in half an hour. +Five minutes delay might cost 'im his life."-- + +The man looked at Conway in doubt and wonder; he was hesitating +between obedience and inclination. + +Then Bachelor Billy spoke up, "Why, mon!" he exclaimed, "what's orders +when a life's at stake? We _mus'_ go doon, I tell ye! An ye hold us +back ye'll be guilty o' the lad's daith!" + +His voice had a ring of earnestness in it that the man could not +resist. He moved to the windlass and told his helpers to lower the +bucket. Conway entreated Bachelor Billy not to go down, and the +foreman joined in the protest. They might as well have talked to +the stars. + +"Why, men!" said Billy, "tha's a chance as how the lad's alive. An +that be so no ither body can do for 'im like me w'en he's foond. I +wull go doon, I tell ye; I _mus'_ go doon!" + +He stepped carefully into the bucket, Conway leaped in after him, and +they were lowered away. + +At the bottom of the shaft they found no one but the footman, whose +duty it was to remain steadily at his post. He listened somewhat +incredulously to their hasty explanations, he gave to them another +lighted lamp, and wished them good-luck as they started away into the +heading. + +In spite of his determination and self-will, Bachelor Billy's strength +gave out before they had reached the head of the plane, and he was +obliged to stop and rest. Indeed, he was compelled often to do this +during the remainder of the journey, but he would not listen to any +suggestion that he should turn back. The air was still very impure, +although they could at times feel the fresh current from the shaft at +their backs. + +They met no one. The searching parties were all south of the shaft +now, this part of the mine having been thoroughly examined. + +By the time the two men had reached the foot of Conway's chamber, +they were nearly prostrated by the foul air they had been compelled +to breathe. Both were still feeble from recent illnesses and were +without the power to resist successfully the effects of the poisoned +atmosphere. They made their way up the chamber in silence, their limbs +unsteady, their heads swimming, their hearts beating violently. At the +breast Conway clambered up over the body of the mule and thrust his +lighted lamp against the walled-up aperture. + +"He's gone through here!" he cried. "He's opened up the hole an' gone +through." + +The next moment he was tearing away the blocks of slate and coal +with both hands. But his fingers were stiff and numb, and the work +progressed too slowly. Then he braced himself against the body of the +mule, pushed with his feet against Ralph's rude wall, and the next +moment it fell back into the old mine. He brushed away the bottom +stones and called to his companion. + +"Come!" he said, "the way's clear an' we'll find better air in there." + +But Bachelor Billy did not respond. He had fallen against the lower +face of coal, unconscious. Conway saw that he must do quick work. + +He reached over, grasped the man by his shoulders, and with superhuman +effort drew him up to the shelf and across the body of the mule. Then, +creeping into the opening, he pulled the helpless man through with him +into the old mine, and dragged him up the chamber out of reach of the +poisoned current. He loosened his collar and chafed his wrists and the +better air in there did the rest. + +Bachelor Billy soon returned to consciousness, and learned where he +was. + +"That was fulish in me," he said, "to weaken like that; but I'm no' +used to that white damp. Gi' me a minute to catch ma breath an' I'll +go wi' ye." + +Conway went down and walled up the opening again. When he came back +Bachelor Billy was on his feet, walking slowly down the chamber, +throwing the light of his lamp into the entrances on the way. + +"Did he go far fra the openin,' thenk ye?" he asked. "Would he no' +most like stay near whaur he cam' through?" + +Then he tried to lift up his voice and call to the boy; but he was too +weak, he could hardly have been heard across the chamber. + +"Call 'im yoursel', Mike," he said; "I ha' no power i' my throat, +some way." + +Conway called, loudly and repeatedly. There was no answer; the echoes +came rattling back to their ears, and that was all that they heard. + +"Mayhap he's gone to the headin'," said Billy, "an" tried to get oot +by the auld slope." + +"That's just what he's done," replied Conway, earnestly; "I told 'im +where the old openin' was; he's tried to get to it." + +"Then we'll find 'im atween here an' there." + +The two men had been moving slowly down the chamber. When they came to +the foot of it, they turned into the air-way, and from that they went +through the entrance into the heading. At this place the dirt on the +floor was soft and damp, and they saw in it the print of a boy's shoe. + +"He's gone in," said Bachelor Billy, examining the foot-prints, "he's +gone in toward the face. I ken the place richt well, it's mony's the +time I ha' travelled it." + +They hurried in along the heading, not stopping to look for other +tracks, but expecting to find the boy's body ahead of them at every +step they took. + +When they reached the face, they turned and looked at each other in +surprise. + +"He's no' here," said Billy. + +"It's strange, too," replied Conway. "He couldn't 'a' got off o' the +headin'!" + +He stooped and examined the floor of the passage carefully, holding +his lamp very low. + +"Billy," he said, "I believe he's come in an' gone out again. Here's +tracks a-pointin' the other way." + +"So he has, Mike, so he has; the puir lad!" + +Bachelor Billy was thinking of the disappointment Ralph must have felt +when he saw the face of the heading before him, and knew that his +journey in had been in vain. + +Already the two men had turned and were walking back. + +At the point where they had entered the heading they found foot-prints +leading out toward the slope. They had not noticed them at first. + +They followed them hastily, and came, as Ralph had come, to the fall. + +"He's no' climbit it," said Billy. "He's gone up an' around it. The +lad knew eneuch aboot the mines for that." + +They passed up into the chambers, but the floor was too dry to take +the impress of footsteps, and they found no trace of the boy. + +When they reached the upper limit of the fall, Billy said:-- + +"We mus' turn sharp to the left here, or we'll no' get back. It's a +tarrible windin' headin'." + +But Conway had discovered tracks, faintly discernible, leading across +into a passage used by men and mules to shorten the distance to the +inner workings. + +"He's a-goin' stret back," said Billy, sorrowfully, as they slowly +followed these traces, "he's a-goin' stret back to whaur he cam' +through." + +Surely enough the prints of the child's feet soon led the tired +searchers back to the opening from Conway's chamber. + +They looked at each other in silent disappointment, and sat down for a +few moments to rest and to try to think. + +Bachelor Billy was the first to rise to his feet. + +"Mike," he said, "the lad's i' this auld mine. Be it soon or late I +s'all find 'im. I s'all search the place fra slope to headin'-face. I +s'all no' gae oot till I gae wi' the boy or wi' 'is body; what say ye? +wull ye help?" + +Conway grasped the man's hand with a pressure that meant more than +words, and they started immediately to follow their last track back. +They passed up and down all the chambers in the tier till they reached +the point, at the upper limit of the fall, where Ralph had turned into +the foot-way. Their search had been a long and tiresome one and had +yielded to them no results. + +They began to appreciate the fact that a thorough exploration of the +mine could not be made in a short time by two worn-out men. Billy +blamed himself for not having thought sooner to send for other and +fresher help. + +"Ye mus' go now, Mike," he said. "Mayhap it'd take days wi' us twa +here alone, an' the lad's been a-wanderin' aroun' so." + +But Conway demurred. + +"You're the one to go," he said. "You can't stan' it in here much +longer, an' I can. You're here at the risk o' your life. Go on out +with ye an' get a bit o' the fresh air. I'll stay and hunt for the +boy till the new men comes." + +But Bachelor Billy was in earnest. + +"I canna do it," he said. "I would na get farther fra the lad for +warlds, an' him lost an' a-dyin' mayhap. I'll stan' it. Never ye fear +for me! Go on, Mike, go on quick!" + +Conway turned reluctantly to go. + +"Hold out for an hour," he shouted back, "an' we'll be with ye!" + +Before the sound of his footsteps had died away, Billy had picked up +his lamp again and started down on the easterly side of the fall, +making little side excursions as he went, hunting for foot-prints on +the floor of the mine. + +When he came to the heading, he turned to go back to the face of the +fall. It was but a few steps. There was a little stream of water +running down one side of the passage and he lay down by it to drink. +Half hidden in the stream he espied a miner's lamp. He reached for it +in sudden surprise. He saw that it had been lately in use. He started +to his feet and moved up closer to the fall, looking into the dark +places under the rock. His foot struck something; it was the oil-can. +He picked it up and examined it. There was blood on it; and both can +and lamp were empty. He looked up at the face of the fall and then +the truth came slowly into his mind. The boy had attempted to climb +through that wilderness of rock, had reached the precipice, had fallen +to the floor, had spilled his oil, and had wandered off into the +dreadful darkness, hurt and helpless. + +"Oh, the puir lad!" he said, aloud. "Oh, the puir dear lad! He canna +be far fra here," he continued, "not far. Ralph! Ralph!" + +He waited a moment in silence, but there was no answer. Then, hastily +examining the passage as he went, he hurried down along the heading. + +At one place he found a burned match. The boy had gone this way, then. +He hastened on. He came to a point where two headings met, and stopped +in indecision. Which route had Ralph taken? He decided to try the one +that led to the slope. He went in that way, but he had not gone ten +rods before he came upon a little heap of charred rags in the middle +of the passage. He could not understand it at first; but he was not +long in discovering what it meant. Ralph had burned his jacket to +light up the path. + +"Ah! the sufferin' child!" he murmured; "the dear sufferin' child!" + +A little further along he saw a boy's cap lying in the way. He picked +it up and placed it in his bosom. He brushed away a tear or two +from his eyes and hastened on. It was no time to weep over the lad's +sufferings when he expected to find his body at every step he took. +But he went a long distance and saw no other sign of the boy's +passage. He came to a place at last where the dirt on the floor of the +heading was wet. He bent down and made careful scrutiny from side to +side, but there were no foot-prints there save his own. He had, in his +haste gone too far. He turned back with a desperate longing at his +heart. He knew that the lad must be somewhere near. + +At one point, an unblocked entrance opened from the heading into the +air-way at an acute angle. He thought the boy might have turned into +that, and he passed up through it and so into the chambers. He stopped +at times to call Ralph's name, but no answer ever came. He wandered +back, finally, toward the fall, and down into the heading where +the burned coat was. After a few moments of rest, he started again, +examining every inch of the ground as he went. This time he found +where Ralph had turned off into the air-way. He traced his foot-prints +up through an entrance into the chambers and there they were again +lost. But he passed on through the open places, calling as he went, +and came finally to the sump near the foot of the slope. He held his +lamp high and looked out over the black surface of the water. Not far +away the roof came down to meet it. A dreadful apprehension entered +the man's mind. Perhaps Ralph had wandered unconsciously into this +black pool and been drowned. But that was too terrible; he would +not allow himself to think of it. He turned away, went back up the +chamber, and crossed over again to the air-way. Moving back a little +to search for foot-prints, he came to an old door-way and sat clown by +it to rest--yes, and to weep. He could no longer think of the torture +the child must have endured in his wanderings through the old mine and +keep the tears from his eyes. He almost hoped that death had long ago +come to the boy's relief. + +"Oh, puir lad!" he sobbed, "puir, puir lad!" + +Below him, in the darkness, he heard the drip of water from the roof. +Aside from that, the place was very, very still. + +Then, for a moment, his heart stopped beating and he could not move. + +He had heard a voice somewhere near him saying:-- + +"Good-night, Uncle Billy! If I wake first in the mornin', I'll call +you--good-night!" + +It was what Ralph was used to saying when he went to bed at home. But +it was not Ralph's voice sounding through the darkness; it was only +the ghost of Ralph's voice. + +In the next moment the man's strength returned to him; he seized his +lamp and leaped through the old door-way, and there at his feet lay +Ralph. The boy was living, breathing, talking. + +Billy fell on his knees beside him and began to push the hair back +from his damp forehead, kissing it tenderly as he did so. + +"Ralph," he said, "Ralph, lad, dinna ye see me? It's your Uncle Billy, +Ralph, your Uncle Billy." + +The boy did not open his eyes, but his lips moved. + +"Did you call me, Uncle Billy?" he asked. "Is it mornin'? Is it +daylight?" + +"It'll soon be daylight, lad, verra soon noo, verra soon." + +He had fastened his lamp in his cap, placed his arms gently under the +child's body, and lifted him to his breast. He stood for a moment +then, questioning with himself. But the slope was the nearest and the +way to it was the safest, and there was no time to wait. He started +down the air-way on his journey to the outer world, bearing his burden +as tenderly as a mother would have borne her babe, looking down at +times into the still face, letting the tears drop now and then on the +paper pinned to the boy's breast. + +He stopped to rest after a little, holding the child on his knees as +he sat, and looking curiously at the letter, on which his tears had +fallen. He read it slowly by the light of his lamp, bending back the +fold to do so. He did not wonder at it. He knew what it meant and why +the boy had fastened it there. + +"Ye s'all gae to her, lad," he said, "ye s'all gae to the mither. I'm +thankfu', verra thankfu', that the father kenned the truth afoor he +deed." + +He raised his precious burden to his heart and began again his +journey. + +The water in the old sump had risen and flowed across the heading and +the air-way and far up into the chambers, and he was compelled to go +around it. The way was long and devious; it was blocked and barred; +he had often to lay his burden down and make an opening through some +walled-up entrance to give them room for passage. + +There were falls in his course, and he clambered across rough hills +of rock and squeezed through narrow openings; but every step brought +him nearer to the slope, and this thought nerved him to still greater +effort. Yet he could not wholly escape the water of the sump. He had +still to pass through it. It was cold and black. It came to his ankles +as he trudged along. By and by it reached to his knees. When it grew +to be waist-deep he lifted the child to his shoulder, steadied himself +against the side wall of the passage and pushed on. He slipped often, +he became dizzy at times, there were horrible moments when he thought +surely that the dark water would close over him and his precious +burden forever. But he came through it at last, dripping, gasping, +staggering on till he reached the foot of the old slope. There he sat +down to rest. From away back in the mine the echoing shouts of the +rescuing party came faintly to his ears. Conway had returned with +help. He tried to answer their call, but the cry stuck in his throat. + +He knew that it would be folly for him to attempt to reach them; he +knew also that they would never trace his course across that dreadful +waste of water. + +There was but one thing to do; he must go on, he must climb the slope. + +He gave one look up the long incline, gathered his burden to his +breast and started upward. The slope was not a steep one. There were +many in that region that were steeper; but to a man in the last stage +of physical exhaustion, forcing his tired muscles and his pain-racked +body to carry him and his helpless charge up its slippery way, it was +little less than precipitous. + +It was long too, very long, and in many places it was rough with +dislodged props and caps and fallen rock. + +Many and many a time Bachelor Billy fell prone upon the sloping floor, +but, though he was powerless to save himself, though he met in his own +body the force of every blow, he always held the child out of harm's +way. + +He began to wonder, at last, if he could ever get the lad to the +surface; if, within fifty rods of the blessed outer air, he would not +after all have to lie down and die with Ralph in his arms. + +But as soon as such thoughts came to him he brought his tremendous +will and magnificent courage to the rescue, and arose and struggled +on. + +The boy had not spoken since the journey began, nor had he opened his +eyes. He was still unconscious, but he was breathing; his heart was +beating, there was life in his body, and that was all that could be +asked or hoped for. + +At last! oh, at last! The straight, steep, dreadful half mile of slope +was at Bachelor Billy's back. He stood out once more in the free and +open air. Under his feet were the grass and flowers and yielding soil; +over his head were the shining stars, now paling in the east; below +him lay the fair valley and the sleeping town clothed lightly in the +morning mist; and in his arms he still held the child who had thought +never again to draw breath under the starry sky or in the dewy air. +There came a faint breeze, laden with all the fragrance of the young +morning, and it swept Ralph's cheek so gently that the very sweetness +of it made his eyes to open. + +He looked at the reddening east, at the setting stars still glowing in +the western sky, at the city church spires rising out of the sea of +silver mist far down below him, and then at last up into the dear old +face and the tear-wet eyes above him, and he said: "Uncle Billy, oh, +Uncle Billy! don't you think it's beautiful? I wish--I wish my mother +could see it." + +"Aye, lad! she s'all look upon it wi' ye, mony's the sweet mornin' +yet, an it please the good God." + +The effort to look and to speak had overpowered the weary child, and +he sank back again into unconsciousness. + +Then began the journey home. Not to the old cottage; that was Ralph's +home no longer, but to the home of wealth and beauty now, to the +mansion yonder in the city where the mother was waiting for her boy. + +Aye! the mother was waiting for her boy. + +They had sent a messenger on horseback shortly after midnight to tell +her that the lad's tracks had been found in the old mine, that all the +men at hand had started in there to make the search more thorough, +that by daylight the child would be in her arms, that possibly, oh! by +the merest possibility, he might still be living. + +So through the long hours she had waited, had waited and watched, +listening for a footfall in the street, for a step on the porch, for +a sound at her door; yet no one came. The darkness that lay upon the +earth seemed, also, to lie heavily on her spirit. + +But now, at last, with the gray light that told of coming day, there +crept into her heart a hope, a confidence, a serenity of faith that +set it quite at rest. + +She drew back the curtains and threw open the windows to let in the +morning air. + +The sky above the eastern hilltops was aglow with crimson; in the +zenith it was like the color of the sweet pale rose. + +She felt and knew that her boy was living and that very soon he would +be with her. Doubt had disappeared wholly from her mind. She threw +open the great hall doors that he might have a gracious and a fitting +welcome to his home. + +She went up once more to the room in which he was to lie until health +should return to him, to see that it was ready to receive him. + +When she again descended the stairs she saw the poor, bent figure of +a man, carrying a burden in his arms, staggering weakly up the walk, +laboring with awful effort at the steps of the porch. He was wet and +wretched, he was hatless and ragged, but on his soiled face was a +smile befitting one of God's angels. + +He kissed his burden tenderly, and gave it into the lady's arms. + +He said:-- + +"I've brought 'im to ye fra the edge o' daith. His title to your luve +is pinnit on 'is breast. I'm thankfu'--thankfu' for ye--both." + +Bachelor Billy's work was done. He had lived to place his dearest +treasure in the safest place on earth; there was nothing left for him +to do. He sank down gently to the floor of the broad hall. The first +sunlight of the new day flashed its rays against the stained-glass +windows, and the windows caught them and laid them in coverlets of +blue and gold across the prostrate form of this humblest of earth's +heroes. + +Under them was no stain visible, no mark of poverty, no line of pain; +he lay like a king in state with the cloth of gold across his body, +and a crown of gold upon his head; but his soul, his brave, pure, +noble soul, ah! that was looking down from the serene and lofty +heights of everlasting life. + + * * * * * + +Yes, he lived, Ralph lived and became well and strong. He took his +name and his estates and chose his mother for his guardian; and life +for him was very, very beautiful. + +The summer passed and the singing birds grew silent in the woods and +fields. The grain stood golden, and the ripe fruit dropped from vine +and tree. October came, with her frosty nights and smoky days. She +dashed the hill-sides with her red and yellow, and then she held her +veil of mist for the sun's rays to shine through, lest the gorgeous +coloring should daze the eyes of men. + +On one of these most beautiful autumnal days, Ralph and his mother +went driving through the country roads, gathering golden-rod and +purple aster and the fleecy immortelle. When they returned they passed +through the cemetery gates and drove to one spot where art and nature +had combined to make pleasant to the living eye the resting-places +of the dead, and they laid their offering of fresh wild-flowers upon +the grave of one who had nobly lived and had not ignobly died. Above +the mound, a block of rugged granite rose, bearing on its face the +name and age and day of death of William Buckley, and also this +inscription:-- + + "Having finished his work, by the will of God he fell asleep." + +As they drove back toward the glowing west, toward the pink clouds +that lay above the mountain-tops behind which the sun had just now +disappeared, toward the bustling city and the dear, dear home, Ralph +lifted up his face and kissed his mother on her lips. But he did not +speak; the happiness and peace within him were too great for words. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10449 *** diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3686757 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #10449 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10449) diff --git a/old/10449.txt b/old/10449.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9a2b12a --- /dev/null +++ b/old/10449.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13064 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Burnham Breaker, by Homer Greene + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + + + + +Title: Burnham Breaker + +Author: Homer Greene + +Release Date: December 13, 2003 [eBook #10449] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: US-ASCII + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BURNHAM BREAKER*** + + +E-text prepared by Charles Aldarondo, Keren Vergon, William Flis, and the +Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team. Special thanks to +Mike Greene and the Little Greene Schoolhouse +(http://www.users.nac.net/mgreene/Homer_Greene_Museum.html) for supplying +missing pages for this rare book. + + + +BURNHAM BREAKER + +BY + +HOMER GREENE + +AUTHOR OF "THE BLIND BROTHER" + + + + + + + +TO MY FATHER, + +WHOSE GRAY HAIRS I HONOR, AND WHOSE PERFECT MANHOOD I REVERE, + +THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR. + +HONESDALE, PENN., SEPT. 29, 1887. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +CHAPTER + + I. A SURPRISE IN THE SCREEN-ROOM + + II. A STRANGE VISITOR + + III. A BRILLIANT SCHEME + + IV. A SET OF RESOLUTIONS + + V. IN SEARCH OF A MOTHER + + VI. BREAKING THE NEWS + + VII. RHYMING JOE + + VIII. A FRIEND IN NEED + + IX. A FRIEND INDEED + + X. AT THE BAR OF THE COURT + + XI. THE EVIDENCE IN THE CASE + + XII. AT THE GATES OF PARADISE + + XIII. THE PURCHASE OF A LIE + + XIV. THE ANGEL WITH THE SWORD + + XV. AN EVENTFUL JOURNEY + + XVI. A BLOCK IN THE WHEEL + + XVII. GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY + + XVIII. A WRIT OF HABEAS CORPUS + + XIX. BACK TO THE BREAKER + + XX. THE FIRE IN THE SHAFT + + XXI. A PERILOUS PASSAGE + + XXII. IN THE POWER OF DARKNESS + + XXIII. A STROKE OF LIGHTNING + + XXIV. AT THE DAWN OF DAY + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +A SURPRISE IN THE SCREEN-ROOM. + + +The city of Scranton lies in the centre of the Lackawanna coal-field, +in the State of Pennsylvania. Year by year the suburbs of the city +creep up the sides of the surrounding hills, like the waters of a +rising lake. + +Standing at any point on this shore line of human habitations, you can +look out across the wide landscape and count a score of coal-breakers +within the limits of your first glance. These breakers are huge, dark +buildings that remind you of castles of the olden time. They are +many-winged and many-windowed, and their shaft-towers rise high up +toward the clouds and the stars. About the feet of those in the valley +the waves of the out-reaching city beat and break, and out on the +hill-sides they stand like mighty fortresses built to guard the lives +and fortunes of the multitudes who toil beneath them. But they are not +long-lived. Like human beings, they rise, they flourish, they die and +are forgotten. Not one in hundreds of the people who walk the streets +of Scranton to-day, or who dig the coal from its surrounding hills, +can tell you where Burnham Breaker stood a quarter of a century ago. +Yet there are men still living, and boys who have grown to manhood, +scores of them, who toiled for years in the black dust breathed out +from its throats of iron, and listened to the thunder of its grinding +jaws from dawn to dark of many and many a day. + +These will surely tell you where the breaker stood. They are proud to +have labored there in other years. They will speak to you of that time +with pleasant memories. It was thought to be a stroke of fortune to +obtain work at Burnham Breaker. It was just beyond the suburbs of the +city as they then were, and near to the homes of all the workmen. The +vein of coal at this point was of more than ordinary thickness, and of +excellent quality, and these were matters of much moment to the miners +who worked there. Then, the wages were always paid according to the +highest rate, promptly and in full. + +But there was something more, and more important than all this, to be +considered. Robert Burnham, the chief power in the company, and the +manager of its interests, was a man whose energetic business qualities +and methods did not interfere with his concern for the welfare of his +employees. He was not only just, but liberal and kind. He held not +only the confidence but the good-will, even the affection, of those +who labored under him. There were never any strikes at the Burnham +mines. The men would have considered it high treason in any one to +advocate a strike against the interests of Robert Burnham. + +Yet it was no place for idling. There were, no laggards there. Men +had to work, and work hard too, for the wages that bought their daily +bread. Even the boys in the screen-room were held as closely to their +tasks as care and vigilance could hold them. Theirs were no light +tasks, either. They sat all day on their little benches, high up in +the great black building, with their eyes fixed always on the shallow +streams of broken coal passing down the iron-sheathed chutes, and +falling out of sight below them; and it was their duty to pick the +particles of slate and stone from out these moving masses, bending +constantly above them as they worked. It was not the physical exertion +that made their task a hard one; there was not much straining of the +joints or muscles, not even in the constant bending of the body to +that one position. + +Neither was it that their tender hands were often cut and bruised by +the sharp pieces of the coal or the heavy ones of slate. But it was +hard because they were boys; young boys, with bounding pulses, chafing +at restraint, full to the brim with life and spirit, longing for the +fresh air, the bright sunlight, the fields, the woods, the waters, the +birds, the flowers, all things beautiful and wonderful that nature +spreads upon the earth to make of it a paradise for boys. To think of +all these things, to catch brief glimpses of the happiness of children +who were not born to toil, and then to sit, from dawn to mid-day and +from mid-day till the sun went down, and listen to the ceaseless +thunder of moving wheels and the constant sliding of the streams of +coal across their iron beds,--it was this that wearied them. + +To know that in the woods the brooks were singing over pebbly bottoms, +that in the fields the air was filled with the fragrance of blossoming +flowers, that everywhere the free wind rioted at will, and then to +sit in such a prison-house as this all day, and breathe an atmosphere +so thick with dust that even the bits of blue sky framed in by +the open windows in the summer time were like strips of some dark +thunder-cloud,--it was this, this dull monotony of dizzy sight and +doleful sound and changeless post of duty, that made their task a hard +one. + +There came a certain summer day at Burnham Breaker when the labor and +confinement fell with double weight upon the slate-pickers in the +screen-room. It was circus day. The dead-walls and bill-boards of the +city had been gorgeous for weeks and weeks with pictures heralding the +wonders of the coming show. By the turnpike road, not forty rods from +where the breaker stood, there was a wide barn the whole side of which +had been covered with brightly colored prints of beasts and birds, of +long processions, of men turning marvellous somersaults, of ladies +riding, poised on one foot, on the backs of flying horses, of a +hundred other things to charm the eyes and rouse anticipation in the +breasts of boys. + +Every day, when the whistle blew at noon, the boys ran, shouting, from +the breaker, and hurried, with their dinner-pails, to the roadside +barn, to eat and gaze alternately, and discuss the pictured wonders. + +And now it was all here; beasts, birds, vaulting men, flying women, +racing horses and all. They had seen the great white tents gleaming +in the sunlight up in the open fields, a mile away, and had heard the +distant music of the band and caught glimpses of the long procession +as it wound through the city streets below them. This was at the noon +hour, while they were waiting for the signal that should call them +back into the dust and din of the screen-room, where they might dream, +indeed, of circus joys while bending to their tasks, but that was all. +There was much wishing and longing. There was some murmuring. There +was even a rash suggestion from one boy that they should go, in spite +of the breaker and the bosses, and revel for a good half-day in the +pleasures of the show. But this treasonable proposition was frowned +down without delay. These boys had caught the spirit of loyalty +from the men who worked at Burnham Breaker, and not even so great a +temptation as this could keep them from the path of duty. + +When the bell rang for them to return to work, not one was missing, +each bench had its accustomed occupant, and the coal that was poured +into the cars at the loading-place was never more free from slate and +stone than it was that afternoon. + +But it was hot up in the screen-room. The air was close and stifling, +and heavy with the choking dust. The noise of the iron-teethed rollers +crunching the lumps of coal, and the bang and rattle of ponderous +machinery were never before so loud and discordant, and the black +streams moving down their narrow channels never passed beneath these +dizzy boys in monotony quite so dull and ceaseless as they were +passing this day. + +Suddenly the machinery stopped. The grinding and the roaring ceased. +The frame-work of the giant building was quiet from its trembling. The +iron gates that held back the broken coal were quickly shut and the +long chutes were empty. + +The unexpected stillness was almost startling. The boys looked up in +mute astonishment. + +Through the dust, in the door-way at the end of the room, they saw the +breaker boss and the screen-room boss talking with Robert Burnham. +Then Mr. Burnham advanced a step or two and said:-- + +"Boys, Mr. Curtis tells me you are all here. I am pleased with your +loyalty. I had rather have the good-will and confidence of the boys +who work for me than to have the money that they earn. Now, I intend +that you shall see the circus if you wish to, and you will be provided +with the means of admission to it. Mr. Curtis will dismiss you for the +rest of the day, and as you pass out you will each receive a silver +quarter as a gift for good behavior." + +For a minute the boys were silent. It was too sudden a vision of +happiness to be realized at once. Then one little fellow stood up on +his bench and shouted:-- + +"Hooray for Mr. Burnham!" The next moment the air was filled with +shouts and hurrahs so loud and vigorous that they went echoing +through every dust-laden apartment of the huge building from head to +loading-place. + +Then the boys filed out. One by one they went through the door-way, +each, as he passed, receiving from Mr. Burnham's own hand the shining +piece of silver that should admit him to the wonders of the "greatest +show on earth." + +They spoke their thanks, rudely indeed, and in voices that were almost +too much burdened with happiness for quiet speech. + +But their eyes were sparkling with anticipation; their lips were +parted in smiles, their white teeth were gleaming from their +dust-black faces, each look and action was eloquent with thoughts of +coming pleasure. And the one who enjoyed it more than all the others +was Robert Burnham. + +It is so old that it was trite and tiresome centuries ago, that saying +about one finding one's greatest happiness in making others happy. But +it has never ceased to be true; it never will cease to be true; it is +one of those primal principles of humanity that no use nor law nor +logic can ever hope to falsify. + +The last boy in the line differed apparently in no respect from +those who had preceded him. The faces of all of them were black with +coal-dust, and their clothes were patched and soiled. But this one had +just cut his hand, and, as he held it up to let the blood drip from it +you noticed that it was small and delicate in shape. + +"Why, my boy!" exclaimed Mr. Burnham, "you have cut your hand. Let me +see." + +"'Taint much, sir," the lad replied; "I often cut 'em a little. You're +apt to, a-handlin' the coal that way." The man had the little hand in +his and bent to examine the wound. "That's quite a cut," he said, "as +clean as though it had been made with a knife. Come, let's wash it off +and fix it up a little." + +He led the way to the corner of the room, uncovered the water-pail, +dipped out a cup of water, and began to bathe the bleeding hand. + +"That shows it's good coal, sir," said the boy, "Poor coal wouldn't +make such a clean cut as that. The better the coal the sharper 'tis." + +"Thank you," said Mr. Burnham, smiling. "Taking the circumstances into +consideration, I regard that as the best compliment for our coal that +I have ever received." + +The hand had been washed off as well as water without soap could do +it. + +"I guess that's as clean as it'll come," said the boy. "It's pirty +hard work to git 'em real clean. The dirt gits into the corners so, +an' into the chaps an' cuts, an' you can't git it all out, not even +for Sunday." + +The man was looking around for something to bind up the wound with. +"Have you a handkerchief?" he asked. + +The boy drew from an inner pocket what had once been a red bandanna +handkerchief of the old style, but alas! it was sadly soiled, it was +worn beyond repair and crumpled beyond belief. + +"'Taint very clean," he said, apologetically. "You can't keep a +han'kerchy very clean a-workin' in the breaker, it's so dusty here." + +"Oh! it's good enough," replied the man, noticing the boy's +embarrassment, and trying to reassure him, "it's plenty good enough, +but it's red you see, and red won't do. Here, I have a white one. This +is just the thing," he added, tearing his own handkerchief into strips +and binding them carefully about the wounded hand. "There!" giving the +bandage a final adjustment; "that will be better for it. Now, then, +you're off to the circus; good-by." + +The lad took a step or two forward, hesitated a moment, and then +turned back. The breaker boss and the screen-room boss were already +gone and he was alone with Mr. Burnham. + +"Would it make any dif'rence to you," he asked, holding up the silver +coin, "if I spent this money for sumpthin' else, an' didn't go to the +circus with it?" + +"Why, no!" said the man, wonderingly, "I suppose not; but I thought +you boys would rather spend your money at the circus than to spend it +in almost any other way." + +"Oh! I'd like to go well enough. I al'ays did like a circus, an' I +wanted to go to this one, 'cause it's a big one; but they's sumpthin' +else I want worse'n that, an' I'm a-tryin' to save up a little money +for it." + +Robert Burnham's curiosity was aroused. Here was a boy who was willing +to forego the pleasures of the circus that he might gratify some +greater desire; a strong and noble one, the man felt sure, to call for +such a sacrifice. Visions of a worn-out mother, an invalid sister, a +mortgaged home, passed through his mind as he said: "And what is it +you are saving your money for, my boy, if I am at liberty to ask?" + +"To'stablish my'dentity, sir." + +"To do what?" + +"To'stablish my'dentity; that's what Uncle Billy calls it." + +"Why, what's the matter with your identity?" + +"I ain't got any; I'm a stranger; I don't know who my 'lations are." + +"Don't know--who--your relations are! Why, what's your name?" + +"Ralph, that's all; I ain't got any other name. They call me Ralph +Buckley sometimes, 'cause I live with Uncle Billy; but he ain't my +uncle, you know,--I only call him Uncle Billy 'cause I live with him, +an'--an' he's good to me, that's all." + +At the name "Ralph," coming so suddenly from the lad's lips, the man +had started, turned pale, and then his face flushed deeply. He drew +the boy down tenderly on the bench beside him, and said:-- + +"Tell me about yourself, Ralph; where do you say you live?" + +"With Uncle Billy,--Bachelor Billy they call him; him that dumps at +the head, pushes the cars out from the carriage an' dumps 'em; don't +you know Billy Buckley?" + +The man nodded assent and the boy went on:-- + +"He's been awful good to me, Uncle Billy has; you don't know how good +he's been to me; but he ain't my uncle, he ain't no 'lation to me; I +ain't got no 'lations 'at I know of; I wish't I had." + +The lad looked wistfully out through the open window to the far line +of hills with their summits veiled in a delicate mist of blue. + +"But where did Billy get you?" asked Mr. Burnham. + +"He foun' me; he foun' me on the road, an' he took me in an' took care +o' me, and he didn't know me at all; that's where he's so good. I was +sick, an' he hired Widow Maloney to tend me while he was a-workin', +and when I got well he got me this place a-pickin' slate in the +breaker." + +"But, Ralph, where had you come from when Billy found you?" + +"Well, now, I'll tell you all I know about it. The first thing 'at I +'member is 'at I was a-livin' with Gran'pa Simon in Philadelphy. He +wasn't my gran'pa, though; if he had 'a' been he wouldn't 'a' 'bused +me so. I don't know where he got me, but he treated me very bad; an' +when I wouldn't do bad things for him, he whipped me, he whipped me +awful, an' he shet me up in the dark all day an' all night, 'an didn't +give me nothin' to eat; an' I'm dreadful 'fraid o' the dark; an' I +wasn't more'n jest about so high, neither. Well, you see, I couldn't +stan' it, an' one day I run away. I wouldn't 'a' run away if I could +'a' stood it, but I _couldn't_ stan' it no longer. Gran'pa Simon +wasn't there when I run away. He used to go off an' leave me with Ole +Sally, an' she wasn't much better'n him, only she couldn't see very +well, an' she couldn't follow me. I slep' with Buck the bootblack that +night, an' nex' mornin', early, I started out in the country. I was +'fraid they'd find me if I stayed aroun' the city. It was pirty near +afternoon 'fore I got out where the fields is, an' then a woman, she +give me sumpthin' to eat. I wanted to git away from the city fur's I +could, an' day-times I walked fast, an' nights I slep' under the big +trees, an' folks in the houses along the road, they give me things +to eat. An' then a circus came along, an' the man on the tiger wagon +he give me a ride, an' then I went everywhere with the circus, an' +I worked for 'em, oh! for a good many days; I worked real hard too, +a-doin' everything, an' they never let me go into their show but once, +only jest once. Well, w'en we got here to Scranton I got sick, an' +they wouldn't take me no furder 'cause I wasn't any good to 'em, an' +they went off an' lef me, an' nex' mornin' I laid down up there along +the road a-cryin' an' a-feelin' awful bad, an' then Uncle Billy, he +happened to come that way, an' he foun' me an' took me home with him. +He lives in part o' Widow Maloney's house, you know, an' he ain't got +nobody but me, an' I ain't got nobody but him, an' we live together. +That's why they call him Bachelor Billy, 'cause he ain't never got +married. Oh! he's been awful good to me, Uncle Billy has, awful good!" +And the boy looked out again musingly into the blue distance. + +The man had not once stirred during this recital. His eyes had been +fixed on the boy's face, and he had listened with intense interest. + +"Well, Ralph," he said, "that is indeed a strange story. And is that +all you know about yourself? Have you no clew to your parentage or +birthplace?" + +"No, sir; not any. That's what I want to find out when I git money +enough." + +"How much money have you now?" + +"About nine dollars, countin' what I'll save from nex' pay day." + +"And how do you propose to proceed when you have money enough?" + +"Hire a lawyer to 'vestigate. The lawyer he keeps half the money, an' +gives the other half of it to a 'tective, an' then the 'tective, he +finds out all about you. Uncle Billy says that's the way. He says if +you git a good smart lawyer you can find out 'most anything." + +"And suppose you should find your parents, and they should be rich and +give you a great deal of money, how would you spend it?" + +"Well, I don't know; I'd give a lot of it to Uncle Billy, I guess, +an' some to Widow Maloney, an'--an' I'd go to the circus, an'--but I +wouldn't care so much about the money, sir, if I could have folks like +other boys have. If I could only have a mother, that's what I want +worst, a mother to kiss me every day, an' be good to me that way, like +mothers are, you know; if I could only jest have that, I wouldn't want +nothin' else, not never any more." + +The man turned his face away. + +"And wouldn't you like to have a father too?" he asked. + +"Oh, yes, I would; but I _could_ git along without a father, a real +father. Uncle Billy's been a kind o' father to me; but I ain't never +had no mother, nor no sister; an' that's what I want now, an" I want +'em very bad. Seems, sometimes, jes' as if I _couldn't_ wait; jes' as +if I couldn't stan' it no longer 'thout 'em. Don't--don't you s'pose +the things we can't have is the things we want worst?" + +"Yes, my boy: yes. You've spoken a truth as old as the ages. That +which I myself would give my fortune for I can never have. I mean my +little boy who--who died. I cannot have him back. His name too was +Ralph." + +For a few moments there was silence in the screen-room. The child was +awed by the man's effort to suppress his deep emotion. + +At last Ralph said, rising:-- + +"Well, I mus' go now an' tell Uncle Billy." + +Mr. Burnham rose in his turn. + +"Yes," he said, "you'll be late for the circus if you don't hurry. +What! you're not going? Oh! yes, you _must_ go. Here, here's a silver +dollar to add to your identity fund; now you can afford to spend the +quarter. Yes," as the boy hesitated to accept the proffered money, +"yes, you _must_ take it; you can pay it back, you know, when--when +you come to your own. And wait! I want to help you in that matter of +establishing your identity. Come to my office, and we'll talk it over. +Let me see; to-day is Tuesday. Friday we shall shut down the screens a +half-day for repairs. Come on Friday afternoon." + +"Thank you, sir; yes, sir, I will." + +"All right; good-by!" + +"Good-by, sir!" + +When Ralph reached the circus grounds the crowds were still pushing in +through the gate at the front of the big tent, and he had to take his +place far back in the line and move slowly along with the others. + +Leaning wearily against a post near the entrance, and watching the +people as they passed in, stood an old man. He was shabbily dressed, +his clothes' were very dusty, and an old felt hat was pulled low on +his forehead. He was pale and gaunt, and an occasional hollow cough +gave conclusive evidence of his disease. But 'he had a pair of sharp +gray eyes that looked out from under the brim of his hat, and gave +close scrutiny to every one who passed by. The breaker boys, who had +gone into the tent in a body some minutes earlier, had attracted his +attention and aroused his interest. By and by his eyes rested upon +Ralph, who stood back in the line, awaiting the forward movement of +the crowd. The old man started perceptibly at sight of the boy, and +uttered an ejaculation of surprise, which ended in a cough. He moved +forward as if to meet him; then, apparently on second thought, he +retreated to his post. But he kept his eyes fixed on the lad, who was +coming slowly nearer, and his thin face took on an expression of the +deepest satisfaction. He turned partly aside, however, as the boy +approached him, and stood with averted countenance until the lad had +passed through the gate. + +Ralph was just in time. He had no sooner got in and found a seat, with +the other breaker boys, away up under the edge of the tent, than the +grand procession made its entrance. There were golden chariots, there +were ladies in elegant riding habits and men in knightly costumes, +there were prancing steeds and gorgeous banners, elephants, camels, +monkeys, clowns, a moving mass of dazzling beauty and bright colors +that almost made one dizzy to look upon it; and through it all the +great band across the arena poured its stirring music in a way to +make the pulses leap and the hands and feet keep time to its sounding +rhythm. + +Then came the athletes and the jugglers, the tight-rope walkers and +the trapeze performers, the trained dogs and horses, the clowns and +the monkeys, the riding and the races; all of it too wonderful, too +mirthful, too complete to be adequately described. At least, this was +what the breaker boys thought. + +After the performance was ended, they went out to the menagerie tent, +in a body, to look at the animals. + +One of the boys became separated from the others, and stood watching +the antics of the monkeys, and laughing gleefully at each comical +trick performed by the grave-faced little creatures. Looking up, he +saw an old man standing by him; an old man with sharp gray eyes and +dusty clothes, who leaned heavily upon a cane. + +"Curious things, these monkeys," said the old man. + +"Ain't they, though!" replied the boy. "Luk at that un, now!--don't he +beat all? ain't he funny?" + +"Very!" responded the old man, gazing across the open space to where +Ralph stood chattering with his companions. + +"Sonny," said he, "can you tell me who that boy is, over yonder, with +his hand done up in a white cloth?" + +"That boy w'ats a-talkin' to Jimmy Dooley, you mean?" + +"Yes, the one there by the lion's cage." + +"You mean that boy there with the blue patch on his pants?" + +"Yes, yes! the one with his hand bandaged; don't you see?" + +"Oh, that's Ralph." + +"Ralph who?" + +"Ralph nobody. He ain't got no other name. He lives with Bachelor +Billy." + +"Is--is Bachelor Billy his father?" + +"Naw; he ain't got no father." + +"Does he work with you in the mines?" + +"In the mines? naw; we don't work in the mines; we work in the +screen-room up t' the breaker, a-pickin' slate. He sets nex' to me." + +"How long has he been working there?" + +"Oh, I donno; couple o' years, I guess. You want to see 'im? I'll go +call 'im." + +"No; I don't care to see him. Don't call him; he isn't the boy I'm +looking for, any way." + +"There! he's a-turnin' this way now. I'll have 'im here in a minute; +hey, Ralph! Ralph! here he comes." + +But the old man was gone. He had disappeared suddenly and +mysteriously. A little later he was trudging slowly along the dusty +road, through the crowds of people, up toward the city. He was +smiling, and muttering to himself. "Found him at last!" he exclaimed, +in a whisper, "found him at last! It'll be all right now; only be +cautious, Simon! be cautious!" + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +A STRANGE VISITOR. + + +It was the day after the circus. Robert Burnham sat in his office on +Lackawanna Avenue, busy with his afternoon mail. As he laid the last +letter aside the incidents of the previous day recurred to him, and he +saw again, in imagination, the long line of breaker-boys, with happy, +dusty faces, filing slowly by him, grateful for his gifts, eager for +the joys to come. The pleasure he had found in his generous deed +stayed with him, as such pleasures always do, and was manifest even +now in the light of his kindly face. + +He had pondered, too, upon the strange story of the boy Ralph. It had +awakened his interest and aroused his sympathy. He had spoken to his +wife about the lad when he went home at night; and he had taken his +little daughter on his knee and told to her the story of the boy who +worked all day in the breaker, who had no father and no mother, and +whose name was--Ralph! Both wife and daughter had listened eagerly +to the tale, and had made him promise to look carefully to the lad +and help him to some better occupation than the drudgery of the +screen-room. + +But he had already resolved to do this, and more. The mystery +surrounding the child's life should be unravelled. Obscure and humble +though his origin might be, he should, at least, bear the name to +which his parentage entitled him. The more he thought on this subject, +the wider grew his intentions concerning the child. His fatherly +nature was aroused and eager for action. + +There was something about the lad, too, that reminded him, not so much +of what his own child had been as of what he might have been had he +lived to this boy's age. It was not alone in the name, but something +also in the tone of voice, in the turn of the head, in the look of +the brown eyes; something which struck a chord of memory or hope, and +brought no unfamiliar sound. + +The thought pleased him, and he dwelt upon it, and, turning away from +his table with its accumulation of letters and papers, he looked +absently out into the busy street and laid plans for the future of +this boy who had dropped so suddenly into the current of his life. + +By and by he heard some one in the outer office inquiring for him. +Then his door was opened, and a stranger entered, an old man in shabby +clothes, leaning on a cane. He was breathing heavily, apparently from +the exertion of climbing the steps at the entrance, and he was no +sooner in the room than he fell into a violent fit of coughing. + +He seated himself carefully in a chair at the other side of the table +from Mr. Burnham, placed a well worn leather satchel on the floor by +his side, and laid his cane across it. + +When he had recovered somewhat from his shortness of breath, he said: +"Excuse me. A little unusual exertion always brings on a fit of +coughing. This is Mr. Robert Burnham, I suppose?" + +"That is my name," answered Burnham, regarding his visitor with some +curiosity. + +"Ah! just so; you don't know me, I presume?" + +"No, I don't remember to have met you before." + +"It's not likely that you have, not at all likely. My name is Craft, +Simon Craft. I live in Philadelphia when I'm at home." + +"Ah! Philadelphia is a fine city. What can I do for you, Mr. Craft?" + +"That isn't the question, sir. The question is, what can _I_ do for +_you_?" + +The old man looked carefully around the room, rose, went to the door, +which had been left ajar, closed it noiselessly, and resumed his seat. + +"Well," said Mr. Burnham, calmly, "what can you do for me?" + +"Much," responded the old man, resting his elbows on the table in +front of him; "very much if you will give me your time and attention +for a few moments." + +"My time is at your disposal," replied Burnham, smiling, and leaning +back in his chair somewhat wearily, "and I am all attention; proceed." + +Thus far the old man had succeeded in arousing in his listener only +a languid curiosity. This coal magnate was accustomed to being +interrupted by "cranks" of all kinds, as are most rich men, and +often enjoyed short interviews with them. This one had opened the +conversation in much the usual manner, and the probability seemed to +be that he would now go on to unfold the usual scheme by which his +listener's thousands could be converted into millions in an incredibly +short time, under the skilful management of the schemer. But his very +next words dispelled this idea and aroused Robert Burnham to serious +attention. + +"Do you remember," the old man asked, "the Cherry Brook bridge +disaster that occurred near Philadelphia some eight years ago?" + +"Yes," replied Burnham, straightening up in his chair, "I do; I have +good reason to remember it. Were you on that train?" + +"I was on that train. Terrible accident, wasn't it?" + +"Terrible; yes, it was terrible indeed." + +"Wouldn't have been quite so bad if the cars hadn't taken fire and +burned up after they went down, would it?" + +"The fire was the most distressing part of it; but why do you ask me +these questions?" + +"You were on board, I believe, you and your wife and your child, and +all went down. Isn't that so?" + +"Yes, it is so. But why, I repeat, are you asking me these questions? +It is no pleasure to me to talk about this matter, I assure you." + +Craft gave no heed to this protest, but kept on:-- + +"You and your wife were rescued in an unconscious state, were you not, +just as the fire was creeping up to you?" + +The old man seemed to take delight in torturing his hearer by +calling up painful memories. Receiving no answer to his question, he +continued:-- + +"But the boy, the boy Ralph, he perished, didn't he? Was burned up in +the wreck, wasn't he?" + +"Stop!" exclaimed Burnham. "You have said enough. If you have any +object in repeating this harrowing story, let me know what it is at +once; if not, I have no time to listen to you further." + +"I have an object," replied Craft, deliberately, "a most important +object, which I will disclose to you if you will be good enough to +answer my question. Your boy Ralph was burned up in the wreck at +Cherry Bridge, wasn't he?" + +"Yes, he was. That is our firm belief; what then?" + +"Simply this, that you are mistaken." + +"What do you mean?" + +"Your boy is not dead." + +Burnham started to his feet, unable for the moment to speak. His face +took on a sudden pallor, then a smile of incredulity settled on his +lips. + +"You are wild," he said; "the child perished; we have abundant proof +of it." + +"I say the child is not dead," persisted the old man; "I saw +him--yesterday." + +"Then, bring him to me. Bring him to me and I will believe you." + +Burnham had settled down into his chair with a look of weary +hopelessness on his face. + +"You have no faith in me," said Craft. "Mere perversity might make you +fail to recognize the child. Suppose I show you further proofs of the +truth of what I say." + +"Very well; produce them." + +The old man bent down, took his leather hand-bag from the floor, and +placed it on the table before him. The exertion brought on a spasm of +coughing. When he had recovered from this, he drew an old wallet from +his pocket and took from it a key, with which he unlocked the satchel. +Then, drawing forth a package and untying and unrolling it, he shook +it out and held it up for Robert Burnham to look at. It was a little +flannel cloak. It had once been white, but it was sadly stained +and soiled now. The delicate ribbons that had ornamented it were +completely faded, and out of the front a great hole had been burned, +the edges of which were still black and crumbling. + +"Do you recognize it?" asked the old man. + +Burnham seized it with both hands. + +"It is his!" he exclaimed. "It is Ralph's! He wore it that day. Where +did you get it? Where did you get it, I say?" + +Craft did not reply. He was searching in his hand-bag for something +else. Finally he drew out a child's cap, a quaint little thing of +velvet and lace, and laid it on the table. + +This, too, was grasped by Burnham with eager fingers, and looked upon +with loving eyes. + +"Do you still think me wild?" said the old man, "or do you believe now +that I have some knowledge of what I am talking about?" + +His listener did not answer the question. His mind seemed to be far +away. He said, finally:-- + +"There--there was a locket, a little gold locket. It had his father's +picture in it. Did--did you find that?" + +The visitor smiled, opened the wallet again, and produced the locket. +The father took it in his trembling hands, looked on it very tenderly +for a moment, and then his eyes became flooded with tears. + +"It was his," he said at last, very gently; "they were all his; tell +me now--where did you get them?" + +"I came by them honestly, Mr. Burnham, honestly; and I have kept them +faithfully. But I will tell you the whole story. I think you are ready +now to hear it with attention, and to consider it fairly." + +The old man pushed his satchel aside, pulled his chair closer to the +table, cleared his throat, and began:-- + +"It was May 13, 1859. I'd been out in the country at my son's, and was +riding into the city in the evening. I was in the smoking-car. Along +about nine o'clock there was a sudden jerk, then half a dozen more +jerks, and the train came to a dead stop. I got up and went out with +the rest, and we then saw that the bridge had broken down, and the +three cars behind the smoker had tumbled into the creek. I hurried +down the bank and did what I could to help those in the wreck, but it +was very dark and the cars were piled up in a heap, and it was hard to +do anything. Then the fire broke out and we had to stand back. But I +heard a child crying by a broken window, just where the middle car had +struck across the rear one, and I climbed up there at the risk of my +life and looked in. The fire gave some light by this time, and I saw +a young woman lying there, caught between the timbers and perfectly +still. A sudden blaze showed me that she was dead. Then the child +cried again; I saw where he was, and reached in and pulled him out +just as the fire caught in his cloak. I jumped down into the water +with him, and put out the fire and saved him. He wasn't hurt much. It +was your boy Ralph. By this time the wreck was all ablaze and we had +to get up on the bank. + +"I took the child around among the people there, and tried to find +out who he belonged to, but no one seemed to know anything about him. +He wasn't old enough to talk distinctly, so he couldn't tell me much +about himself; not anything, in fact, except that his name was Ralph. +I took him home with me to my lodgings in the city that night, and +the next morning I went out to the scene of the accident to try to +discover some clew to his identity. But I couldn't find out anything +about him; nothing at all. The day after that I was taken sick. The +exertion, the exposure, and the wetting I had got in the water of the +brook, brought on a severe attack of pneumonia. It was several months +before I got around again as usual, and I am still suffering, you see, +from the results of that sickness. After that, as my time and means +and business would permit, I went out and searched for the boy's +friends. It is useless for me to go into the details of that search, +but I will say that I made every effort and every sacrifice possible +during five years, without the slightest success. In the meantime the +child remained with me, and I clothed him and fed him and cared for +him the very best I could, considering the circumstances in which I +was placed. + +"About three years ago I happened to be in Scranton on business, and, +by the merest chance, I learned that you had been in the Cherry Brook +disaster, that you had lost your child there, and that the child's +name was Ralph. Following up the clew, I became convinced that this +boy was your son. I thought the best way to break the news to you was +to bring you the child himself. With that end in view, I returned +immediately to Philadelphia, only to find Ralph--missing. He had +either run away or been stolen, I could not tell which. I was not +able to trace him. Three months later I heard that he had been with a +travelling circus company, but had left them after a few days. After +that I lost track of him entirely for about three years. Now, however, +I have found him. I saw him so lately as yesterday. He is alive and +well." + +Several times during the recital of this narrative, the old man had +been interrupted by spasms of coughing, and, now that he was done, he +gave himself up to a violent and prolonged fit of it. + +Robert Burnham had listened intently enough, there was no doubt of +that; but he did not yet seem quite ready to believe that his boy was +really alive. + +"Why did you not tell me," he asked, "when the child left you, so that +I might have assisted you in the search for him?" + +Craft hesitated a moment. + +"I did not dare to," he said. I was afraid you would blame me too +severely for not taking better care of him, and I was hoping every day +to find him myself." + +"Well, let that pass. Where is he now? Where is the boy who, you say, +is my son?" + +"Pardon me, sir, but I cannot tell you that just yet. I know where he +is. I can bring him to you on two days' notice. But, before I do that, +I feel that, in justice to myself, I should receive some compensation, +not only for the care of the child through five years of his life, but +also for the time, toil, and money spent in restoring him to you." + +Burnham's brow darkened. + +"Ah! I see," he said. "This is to be a money transaction. Your object +is to get gain from it. Am I right?" + +"Exactly. My motive is not wholly an unselfish one, I assure you." + +"Still, you insist upon the absolute truth of your story?" + +"I do, certainly." + +"Well, then, what is your proposition? name it." + +"Yes, sir. After mature consideration, I have concluded that three +thousand dollars is not too large a sum." + +"Well, what then?" + +"I am to receive that amount when I bring your son to you." + +"But suppose I should not recognize nor acknowledge as my son the +person whom you will bring?" + +"Then you will pay me no money, and the boy will return home with me." + +Burnham wheeled suddenly in his chair and rose to his feet. "Listen!" +he exclaimed, earnestly. "If you will bring my boy to me, alive, +unharmed, my own boy Ralph, I will give you twice three thousand +dollars." + +"In cash?" + +"In cash." + +"It's a bargain. You shall see him within two days. But--you may +change your mind in the meantime; will you give me a writing to secure +me?" + +"Certainly." + +Mr. Burnham resumed his seat and wrote hurriedly, the following +contract:-- + +"This agreement, made and executed this thirtieth day of June, 1867, +between Simon Craft of the city of Philadelphia, party of the first +part, and Robert Burnham of the city of Scranton, party of the second +part, both of the state of Pennsylvania, witnesseth that the said +Craft agrees to produce to the said Burnham, within two days from this +date, the son of the said Robert Burnham, named Ralph, in full life, +and in good health of body and mind. And thereupon the said Burnham, +provided he recognizes as his said son Ralph the person so produced, +agrees to pay to the said Craft, in cash, the sum of six thousand +dollars. Witness our hands and seals the day and year aforesaid. + +"ROBERT BURNHAM." [L.S.] + +"There!" said Burnham, handing the paper to Craft; "that will secure +you in the payment of the money, provided you fulfil your agreement. +But let me be plain with you. If you are deceiving me or trying to +deceive me, or if you should practise fraud on me, or attempt to do +so, you will surely regret it. And if that child be really in life, +and you have been guilty of any cruelty toward him, of any kind +whatever, you will look upon the world through prison bars, I promise +you, in spite of the money you may obtain from me. Now you understand; +go bring the boy." + +The old man did not answer. He was holding the paper close to his +eyes, and going over it word by word. + +"Yes," he said, finally; "I suppose it's all right. I'm not very +familiar with written contracts, but I'll venture it." + +Burnham had risen again from his chair, and was striding up and down +the floor. + +"When will you bring him?" he asked; "to-morrow?" + +"My dear sir, do not be in too great haste; I am not gifted with +miraculous powers. I will bring the boy here or take you to him within +two days, as I have agreed." + +"Well, then, to-day is Tuesday. Will you have him here by Friday? +Friday morning?" + +"By Friday afternoon, at any rate." + +The old man was carefully wrapping up the articles he had exhibited, +and putting them back into his hand-bag. Finally, Burnham's attention +was attracted to this proceeding. + +"Why," he exclaimed, "what are you doing? You have no right to those +things; they are mine." + +"Oh no! they are mine. They shall be given to you some time perhaps; +but, for the present, they are mine." + +"Stop! you shall not have them. Those things are very precious to me. +Put them down, I say; put them down!" + +"Very well. You may have these or--your boy. If you force these things +from me, you go without your child. Now take your choice." + +Old Simon was very calm and firm. He knew his ground, and knew that he +could afford to be domineering. His long experience in sharp practice +had not failed to teach him that the man who holds his temper, in a +contest like this, always has the best of it. And he was too shrewd +not to see that his listener was laboring under an excitement that +was liable at any moment to break forth in passionate speech. He was, +therefore, not surprised nor greatly disturbed when Burnham exclaimed, +vehemently:-- + +"I'll have you arrested, sir! I'll force you to disclose your secret! +I'll have you punished by the hand of the law!" + +"The hand of the law is not laid in punishment on people who are +guilty of no crime," responded Craft, coolly; "and there is no +criminal charge that you can fairly bring against me. Poverty is my +worst crime. I have done nothing except for your benefit. Now, Mr. +Burnham you are excited. Calm yourself and listen to reason. Don't you +see that if I were to give those things to you I would be putting out +of my hands the best evidence I have of the truth of my assertions?" + +"But I have seen you produce them. I will not deny that you gave them +to me." + +"Ah! very good; but you may die before night! What then?" + +"Die before night! Absurd! But keep the things; keep them. I can do +without them if you will restore the child himself to me. When did you +say you would bring him?" + +"Friday afternoon." + +"Until Friday afternoon, then, I wait." + +"Very well, sir; good day!" + +"Good day!" + +The old man picked up his cane, rose slowly from his chair, and, with +his satchel in his hand, walked softly out, closing the door carefully +behind him. + +Robert Burnham continued his walk up and down the room, his flushed +face showing alternately the signs of the hope and the doubt that were +striving for the mastery within him. + +For eight years he had believed his boy to be dead. The terrible +wreck at Cherry Brook had yielded up to him from its ashes only a few +formless trinkets of all that had once been his child's, only a few +unrecognizable bones, to be interred, long afterward, where flowers +might bloom above them. The last search had been made, the last clew +followed, the last resources of wealth and skill were at an end, and +these, these bones and trinkets were all that could be found. Still, +the fact of the child's death had not been established beyond all +question, and among the millions of remote possibilities that this +world always holds in reserve lingered yet the one that he might after +all be living. + +And now came this old man with his strange story, and the cap and the +cloak and the locket. Did it mean simply a renewal of the old hope, +destined to fade away again into a hopelessness duller than the last? + +But what if the man's story were true? What if the boy were really in +life? What if in two days' time the father should clasp his living +child in his arms, and bear him to his mother! Ah! his mother. She +would have given her life any time to have had her child restored to +her, if only for a day. But she had been taught early to believe that +he was dead It was better than to torture her heart with hopes that +could only by the rarest possibility be fulfilled. Now, now, if he +dared to go home to her this night, and tell her that their son was +alive, was found, was coming back to them! Ah! if he only dared! + +The sunlight, streaming through the western window, fell upon him as +he walked. It was that golden light that conies from a sun low in the +west, when the days are long, and it illumined his face with a glow +that revealed there the hope, the courage, the honor, the manly +strength that held mastery in his heart. + +There was a sudden commotion in the outer office. Men were talking in +an excited manner; some one opened the door, and said:-- + +"There's been an accident in the breaker mine, Mr. Burnham." + +"What kind of an accident?" + +"Explosion of fire-damp." + +"What about the men?" + +"It is not known yet how many are injured." + +"Tell James to bring the horses immediately; I will go there." + +"James is waiting at the door now with the team, sir." + +Mr. Burnham put away a few papers, wrote a hurried letter to his wife, +took his hat and went out and down the steps. + +"Send Dr. Gunther up to the breaker at once," he said, as he made +ready to start. + +The fleet horses drew him rapidly out through the suburbs and up the +hill, and in less than twenty minutes he had reached the breaker, and +stopped at the mouth of the shaft. + +Many people had already assembled, and others were coming from all +directions. Women whose husbands and sons worked in the mine were +there, with pale faces and beseeching words. There was much confusion. +It was difficult to keep the crowd from pressing in against the mouth +of the shaft. Men were busy clearing a space about the opening when +Robert Burnham arrived. + +"How did it happen?" he said to the mine boss as he stepped from his +wagon. "Where was it?" + +"Up in the north tier, sir. We don't know how it happened. Some one +must 'a' gone in below, where the fire-damp was, with a naked lamp, +an' touched it off; an' then, most like, it run along the roof to the +chambers where the men was a-workin'. I can't account for it in no +other way." + +"Has any one come out from there?" + +"Yes, Billy Williams. He was a-comin' out when it went off. We found +him up in the headin', senseless. He ain't come to yet." + +"And the others?" + +"We've tried to git to 'em, sir, but the after-damp is awful, an' we +couldn't stan' it; we had to come out." + +"How many men are up there?" + +"Five, as we count 'em; the rest are all out." + +The carriage came up the shaft, and a half-dozen miners, with dull +eyes and drawn faces, staggered from it, out into the sunlight. It +was a rescuing party, just come from a vain attempt to save their +unfortunate comrades. They were almost choked to death themselves, +with the foul air of the mine. One of them recovered sufficiently to +speak. + +"We got a'most there," he gasped; "we could hear 'em a-groanin'; but +the after-damp got--so bad--we--" He reeled and fell, speechless and +exhausted. + +The crowd had surged up, trying to hear what the man was saying. +People were getting dangerously near to the mouth of the shaft. Women +whose husbands were below were wringing their hands and crying out +desperately that some one should go down to the rescue. + +"Stand back, my friends," said Burnham, facing the people, "stand back +and give these men air, and leave us room to work. We shall do all in +our power to help those who are below. If they can be saved, we shall +save them. Trust us and give us opportunity to do it. Now, men, who +will go down? I feel that we shall get to them this time and bring +them out. Who volunteers?" + +A dozen miners stepped forward from the crowd; sturdy, strong-limbed +men, with courage stamped on their dust-soiled faces, and heroic +resolution gleaming from their eyes. + +"Good! we want but eight. Take the aprons of the women; give us the +safety-lamps, the oil, the brandy; there, ready; slack off!" + +Burnham had stepped on to the carriage with the men who were going +down. One of them cried out to him:-- + +"Don't ye go, sir! don't ye go! it'll be worth the life o' ye!" + +"I'll not ask men to go where I dare not go myself," he said; "slack +off!" + +For an instant the carriage trembled in the slight rise that preceded +its descent, and in that instant a boy, a young slender boy, pushed +his way through the encircling crowd, leaped in among the men of the +rescuing party, and with them went speeding down into the blackness. + +It was Ralph. After the first moment of surprise his employer +recognized him. + +"Ralph!" he exclaimed, "Ralph, why have you done this?" + +"I couldn't help it, sir," replied the boy; "I had to come. Please +don't send me back." + +"But it's a desperate trip. These men are taking their lives in their +hands." + +"I know it, sir; but they ain't one o' them whose life is worth so +little as mine. They've all got folks to live an' work for, an' I +ain't. I'll go where they don't dare. Please let me help!" + +The men who were clustered on the carriage looked down on the boy in +mute astonishment. His slight figure was drawn up to its full height; +his little hands were tightly clenched; out from his brown eyes +shone the fire of resolution. Some latent spirit of true knighthood +had risen in his breast, had quenched all the coward in his nature, +and impelled him, in that one moment that called for sacrifice and +courage, to a deed as daring and heroic as any that the knights of old +were ever prompted to perform. To those who looked upon him thus, the +dust and rags that covered him were blotted out, the marks of pain and +poverty and all his childish weaknesses had disappeared, and it seemed +to them almost as though a messenger from God were standing in their +midst. + +But Robert Burnham saw something besides this in the child's face; he +saw a likeness to himself that startled him. Men see things in moments +of sublimity to which at all other times their eyes are blinded. He +thought of Craft's story; he thought of the boy's story; he compared +them; a sudden hope seized him, a conviction broke upon his mind like +a flash of light. + +This boy was his son. For the moment, all other thoughts, motives, +desires were blotted from his mind. His desperate errand was lost to +sight. The imperilled miners were forgotten. + +"Ralph!" he cried, seizing the boy's hand in both of his; "Ralph, I +have found you!" + +But the child looked up in wonder, and the men who stood by did not +know what it meant. + +The carriage struck the floor of the mine and they all stepped off. +The shock at stopping brought Burnham to himself. This was no time, +no place to recognize the lad and take him to his heart. He would do +that--afterward. Duty, with a stern voice, was calling to him now. + +"Men," he said, "are you ready? Here, soak the aprons; Ralph, take +this; now then, come on!" + +Up the heading, in single file, they walked swiftly, swinging their +safety-lamps in their hands, or holding them against their breasts. +They knew that up in the chambers their comrades were lying prostrate +and in pain. They knew that the spaces through which they must pass to +reach them were filled with poisonous gases, and that in those regions +death lurked in every "entrance" and behind every "pillar." But they +hurried on, saying little, fearing little, hoping much, as they +plunged ahead into the blackness, on their humane but desperate +errand. + +A half-hour later the bell in the engine-room tinkled softly once, and +then rang savagely again and again to "hoist away." The great wheel +turned fast and faster; the piston-rods flew in and out; the iron +ropes hummed as they cut the air; and the people at the shaft's mouth +waited, breathless with suspense, to see what the blackness would +yield up to them. The carriage rose swiftly to the surface. On it four +men, tottering and exhausted, were supporting an insensible body in +their midst. The body was taken into strong arms, and borne hurriedly +to the office of the breaker, a little distance away. Then a boy +staggered off the carriage and fell fainting into the outstretched +arms of Bachelor Billy. + +"Ralph!" cried the man, "Ralph, lad! here! brandy for the child! +brandy, quick!" + +After a little the boy opened his eyes, and gazed wonderingly at the +people who were looking down on him. Then he remembered what had +happened. + +"Mr. Burnham," he whispered, "is--is he alive?" + +"Yes, lad; they've took 'im to the office; the doctor's in wi' 'im. +Did ye fin' the air bad?" + +The child lay back with a sigh of relief. + +"Yes," he said, "very bad. We got to 'em though; we found 'em an' +brought 'em out. I carried the things; they couldn't 'a' got along +'ithout me." + +The carriage had gone down again and brought up a load of those who +had suffered from the fire. They were blackened, burned, disfigured, +but living. One of them, in the midst of his agony, cried out:-- + +"Whaur is he? whaur's Robert Burnham? I'll gi' ma life for his, +an' ye'll save his to 'im. Ye mus' na let 'im dee. Mon! he done +the brawest thing ye ever kenned. He plungit through the belt o' +after-damp ahead o' all o' them, an' draggit us back across it, mon by +mon, an' did na fa' till he pullit the last one ayont it. Did ye ever +hear the like? He's worth a thousan' o' us. I say ye mus' na let 'im +dee!" + +Over at the breaker office there was silence. The doctor and his +helpers were there with Robert Burnham, and the door was closed. Every +one knew that, inside, a desperate struggle was going on between life +and death. The story of Burnham's bravery had gone out through the +assembled crowds, and, with one instinct and one hope, all eyes were +turned toward the little room wherein he lay. Men spoke in whispers; +women were weeping softly; every face was set in pale expectancy. +There were hundreds there who would have given all they had on earth +to prolong this noble life for just one day. Still, there was silence +at the office. It grew ominous. A great hush had fallen on the +multitude. The sun dropped down behind the hills, obscured in mist, +and the pallor that precedes the twilight overspread the earth. + +Then the office door was opened, and the white-haired doctor came +outside and stood upon the steps. His head was bared and his eyes +were filled with tears. He turned to those who stood near by, and +whispered, sadly:-- + +"He is dead." + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +A BRILLIANT SCHEME. + + +Lackawanna Avenue is the principal thoroughfare in the city of +Scranton. Anthracite Avenue leads from it eastwardly at right angles. + +Midway in the second block, on the right side of this last named +street, there stood, twenty years ago, a small wooden building, but +one story in height. It was set well back from the street, and a stone +walk led up to the front door. On the door-post, at the left, was a +sign, in rusty gilt letters, reading:-- + + JOHN R. SHARPMAN, + ATTORNEY AT LAW. + +On the morning following his interview with Robert Burnham, Simon +Craft turned in from Anthracite Avenue, shuffled along the walk to the +office door, and stood for a minute examining the sign, and comparing +the name on it with the name on a bit of paper that he held in his +hand. + +"That's the man," he muttered; "he's the one;" and he entered at the +half-opened door. + +Inside, a clerk sat, busily writing. + +"Mr. Sharpman has not come down yet," he said, in answer to Craft's +question. "Take a chair; he'll be here in twenty minutes." + +The old man seated himself, and the clerk resumed his writing. + +In less than half an hour Sharpman came in. He was a tall, well-built +man, forty years of age, smooth-faced, with a clerical cast of +countenance, easy and graceful in manner, and of pleasant address. + +After a few words relating to a certain matter of business, the clerk +said to his employer,-- + +"This man has been waiting some time to see you, Mr. Sharpman." + +The lawyer advanced to Craft, and shook hands with him in a very +friendly way. "Good-morning, sir," he said. "Will you step into my +office, sir?" + +He ushered the old man into an inner room, and gave him an easy, +cushioned chair to sit in. Sharpman was nothing, if not gracious. Rich +and poor, alike, were met by him with the utmost cordiality. He had +a pleasant word for every one. His success at the bar was due, in no +small degree, to his apparent frankness and friendliness toward all +men. The fact that these qualities were indeed apparent rather than +real, did not seem to matter; the general effect was the same. His +personal character, so far as any one knew, was beyond reproach. But +his reputation for shrewdness, for sharp practice, for concocting +brilliant financial schemes, was general. It was this latter +reputation that had brought Simon Graft to him. + +This morning Sharpman was especially courteous. He regretted that his +visitor had been obliged to wait so long. He spoke of the beautiful +weather. He noticed that the old man was in ill health, and expressed +much sorrow thereat. Finally he said: "Well, my friend, I am at your +service for any favor I can do you." + +Craft was not displeased with the lawyer's manner. On the contrary, +he rather liked it. But he was too shrewd and far-sighted to allow +himself to be carried away by it. He proceeded at once to business. He +took from an inner pocket of his coat the paper that Robert Burnham +had given to him the day before, unfolded it slowly, and handed it to +Sharpman. + +"I want your opinion of this paper," he said. "Is it drawn up in legal +shape? Is it binding on the man that signed it?" + +Sharpman took the paper, and read it carefully through; then he looked +up at Craft in unfeigned surprise. + +"My dear sir!" he said, "did you know that Robert Burnham died last +night?" + +The old man started from his chair in sudden amazement. + +"Died!" he exclaimed. "Robert Burnham--died!" + +"Yes; suffocated by foul air in his own mine. It was a dreadful +thing." + +Craft dropped into his chair again, his pale face growing each moment +more pale and gaunt, and stared at the lawyer in silence. Finally he +said: "There must be some mistake. I saw him only yesterday. He signed +that paper in my presence as late as four o'clock." + +"Very likely," responded Sharpman: "he did not die until after six. +Oh, no! there is no mistake. It was this Robert Burnham. I know his +signature." + +The old man sat for another minute in silence, keen disappointment +written plainly on his face. Then a thought came to him. + +"Don't that agreement bind his heirs?" he gasped, "or his estate? +Don't somebody have to pay me that money, when I bring the boy?" + +The lawyer took the paper up, and re-read it. "No;" he said. "The +agreement was binding only on Burnham himself. It calls for the +production of the boy to him personally; you can't produce anything to +a dead man." + +Old Simon settled back in his chair, a perfect picture of gaunt +despair. + +Sharpman continued: "This is a strange case, though. I thought that +child of Burnham's was dead. Do you mean to say that the boy is still +living?" + +"Yes; that's it. He wasn't even hurt. Of course he's alive. I know +it." + +"Can you prove it?" + +"Certainly!" + +The lawyer gazed at his visitor, apparently in doubt as to the man's +veracity or sanity, and again there was silence. + +Finally Craft spoke. Another thought had come to him. + +"The boy's mother; she's living, ain't she?" + +"Burnham's widow? Yes; she's living." + +"Then I'll go to her! I'll make a new contract with her. The money'll +be hers, now. I'll raise on my price! She'll pay it. I'll warrant +she'll pay it! May be it's lucky for me, after all, that I've got her +to deal with instead of her husband!" + +Even Sharpman was amazed and disgusted at this exhibition of cruel +greed in the face of death. + +"That's it!" continued the old man in an exulting tone; "that's the +plan. I'll go to her. I'll get my money--I'll get it in spite of +death!" + +He rose from his chair, and grasped his cane to go, but the excitement +had brought on a severe fit of coughing, and he was obliged to resume +his seat until it was over. + +This delay gave Sharpman time to think. + +"Wait!" he said, when the old man had finally recovered; "wait a +little. I think I have a plan in mind that is better than yours--one +that will bring you in more cash." + +"More cash?" Craft was quiet and attentive in a moment. The word +"cash" had a magical influence over him. + +Sharpman arose, closed the door between the two rooms tightly, and +locked it. "Some one might chance to intrude," he explained. + +Then he came back, sat down in front of his visitor, and assumed an +attitude of confidence. + +"Yes," he said, "more cash; ten times as much." + +"Well, what's your plan?" asked the old man, somewhat incredulously. + +"Let me tell you first what I know," replied the lawyer. "I know that +Mrs. Burnham believes this boy to be dead; believes it with her whole +mind and heart. You would find it exceedingly difficult to convince +her to the contrary. She would explain away your proofs: she would +fail to recognize the child himself. Such an errand as you propose +would be little better than useless." + +Sharpman paused. + +"Well, what's your plan?" repeated Craft, impatiently. + +The lawyer assumed a still more confidential attitude. + +"Listen! Burnham died rich. His wealth will mount well up into the +hundreds of thousands. He leaves a widow and one daughter, a little +girl. This boy, if he is really Burnham's son, is entitled to one +third of the personal property absolutely, to one third of the real +estate at once, and to one fourth of the remainder at his mother's +death. Do you understand?" Old Simon nodded. This was worth listening +to. He began to think that this shrewd lawyer was going to put him +in the way of making a fortune after all. Sharpman continued: "Now, +the boy is a minor. He must have a guardian. The mother would be the +guardian preferred by law; but if, for any reason, she should fail +to recognize the boy as her son, some one else must be appointed. It +will be the duty of the guardian to establish his ward's identity in +case it should be disputed, to sue for his portion of the estate, if +necessary, and to receive and care for it till the boy reaches his +majority. The usual guardian's commission is five per cent, retainable +out of the funds of the estate. Do you see how the management of such +an estate would be a fortune to a guardian, acting within the strict +letter of the law?" + +Craft nodded again, but this time with eagerness and excitement. He +saw that a scheme was being opened up to him that outrivalled in +splendid opportunities any he had ever thought of. + +After a pause Sharpman asked, glancing furtively at his client:-- + +"Do you think, Mr. Craft, that you could take upon your shoulders the +duties and responsibilities attendant upon such a trust? In short, +could you act as this boy's guardian?" + +"Yes, no doubt of it"; responded the old man, eagerly. "Why, I would +be the very person. I am his nearest friend." + +"Very well; that's my opinion, too. Now, then, as to the boy's +identity. There must be no mistake in proving that. What proof have +you? Tell me what you know about it." + +Thus requested, Craft gave to the lawyer a detailed account of the +disaster at the bridge, of the finding and keeping of Ralph, of his +mysterious disappearance, and of the prolonged search for him. + +"Day before yesterday," continued the old man, "I was watching the +crowds at the circus,--I knew the boy was fond of circuses,--an who +should go by me into the tent but this same Ralph. I made sure he was +the identical person, and yesterday I went to Robert Burnham, and got +that paper." + +"Indeed! Where does the boy live? what does he do?" + +"Why, it seems that he works at picking slate, in Burnham's own +breaker, and lives with one Bachelor Billy, a simple-minded old +fellow, without a family, who took the boy in when he was abandoned by +the circus." + +"Good!" exclaimed the lawyer; "good! we shall have a capital case. But +wait; does Mrs. Burnham know of your interview with her husband, or +about this paper?" + +"I don't know. I left the man at his office, alone." + +"At what hour?" + +"Well, about half-past four, as nearly as I can judge." + +"Then it's not at all probable that she knows. He went from his office +directly to the breaker, and died before she could see him." + +"Well, how shall we begin?" said Craft, impatiently. "What's the first +thing to be done?" Visions of golden thousands were already floating +before his greedy eyes. + +"We shall not begin at all, just yet," said Sharpman. "We'll wait till +the horror and excitement, consequent upon this disaster, have passed +away. It wouldn't do to proceed now; besides, all action should be +postponed, at any rate, until an inventory of the estate shall have +been filed." + +A look of disappointment came into old Simon's face. The lawyer +noticed it. "You mustn't be in too much of a hurry," he said. "All +good things come slowly. Now, I'll tell you what I propose to do. +After this excitement has passed over, and the lady's mind has become +somewhat settled, I will go to her myself, and say to her frankly that +you believe her son to be still alive. Of course, she'll not believe +me. Indeed, I shall be very careful to put the matter in such a shape +that she will not believe me. I will say to her, however, that you +have employed me to prosecute your claim for services to the child, +and that it will be necessary to have a guardian appointed against +whom such action may be taken. I will suggest to her that if she will +acknowledge the boy to be her son, she will be the proper person to +act as his guardian. Of course, she will refuse to do either. The rest +is easy. We will go into court with a petition setting forth the facts +in the case, stating that the boy's mother has refused to act as his +guardian, and asking for your appointment as such. Do you see?" + +"Oh, yes! that's good; that's very good, indeed." + +"But, let me see, though; you'll have to give bonds. There's the +trouble. Got any money, or any rich friends?" + +"Neither; I'm very poor, very poor indeed, Mr. Sharpman." + +"Ah! that's awkward. We can do nothing without bondsmen. The court +wouldn't let us touch a penny of that fund without first giving good +bonds.". + +The look of disappointment and trouble had returned into the old man's +face. "Ain't there some way you could get bonds for me?" he asked, +appealingly. + +"Well, yes, I suppose I might procure bondsmen for you; I suppose I +might go on your bond myself. But you see no one cares to risk his +fortune in the hands of a total stranger that way. We don't know you; +we don't know what you might do." + +"Oh! I should be honest, Mr. Sharpman, perfectly honest and discreet; +and you should not suffer to the value of a cent, not a single cent." + +"No doubt your intentions are good enough, my dear sir, but it +requires great skill to handle so large an estate properly, and a +single error in judgment on your part might cost thousands of dollars. +Good intentions and promises are well enough in their way, but they +are no security against misfortune, you see. I guess we'll have to +drop the scheme, after all." + +Sharpman arose and walked the floor in apparent perplexity, while +Craft, resting his hands on his cane, and staring silently at the +lawyer, tried to conceive some plan to prevent this golden opportunity +from eluding his grasp. Finally Sharpman stopped. + +"Craft," he said, "I'll tell you what I'll do. If you will give me a +power of attorney to hold and manage all the funds of the trust until +the boy shall have attained his majority, I'll get the necessary bonds +for you." + +Craft thought a moment. The proposition did not strike him favorably. +"That would be putting the whole thing out of my hands into yours," he +said. + +"Ah! but you would still be the boy's guardian, with right to use all +the money that in your judgment should be necessary, to maintain and +educate him according to his proper station in life. For this purpose +I would agree to pay you three thousand dollars on receipt of the +funds, and three thousand dollars each year thereafter, besides your +guardian's commission, which would amount to eight or ten thousand +dollars at least. I would also agree to pay you a liberal sum for +past services, say two or three thousand dollars. You would have no +responsibility whatever in the matter. I would be liable for any +mistakes you might make. You could use the money as you saw fit. What +do you say?" + +The scheme appeared to Simon Craft to be a very brilliant one. He saw +a great fortune in it for himself, if he could only depend on the +lawyer's promises. + +"Will you give me a writing to this effect?" he asked. + +"Certainly; we shall have a mutual agreement." + +"Then I'll do it. You'll get the lion's share I can see that easy +enough; but if you'll do what you say you will, I shan't complain. +Then will I have a right to take the boy again?" + +"Yes, after your appointment; but I don't think I would, if I were +you. If he is contented and well off, you had better let him stay +where he is. He might give you the slip again. How old is he now?" + +"I don't know exactly; somewhere between ten and twelve, I think." + +"Well, his consent to the choice of a guardian is not necessary; but I +think it would be better, under the circumstances, if he would go into +court with us, and agree to your appointment. Do you think he will?" + +Old Simon frowned savagely. + +"Yes, he will," he exclaimed. "I'll make him do it. I've made him do +harder things than that; it's a pity if I can't make him do what's for +his own benefit now!" He struck the floor viciously with his cane. + +"Easy," said the lawyer, soothingly, "easy; I fear the boy has been +his own master too long to be bullied. We shall have to work him in a +different way now. I think I can manage it, though. I'll have him come +down here some day, after we get Mrs. Burnham's refusal to acknowledge +him, and I'll explain matters to him, and show him why it's necessary +that you should take hold of the case. I'll use logic with him, and +I'll wager that he'll come around all right. You must treat boys as +though they were men, Craft. They will listen to reason, and yield to +persuasion, but they won't be bullied, not even into a fortune. By the +way, I don't quite understand how it was, if Burnham was searching +energetically for the boy, and you were searching with as much energy +for the boy's father all those years, that you didn't meet each other +sooner." + +Craft looked up slyly from under his shaggy eyebrows. + +"May I speak confidentially?" he asked. + +"Certainly." + +"Well, then, I didn't wear myself out hunting for the boy's friends, +for the first year or two. Time increases the value of some things, +you know--lost children, particularly. I knew there was money back +of the boy by the looks of his clothes. I kept matters pretty well +covered up for a while; allowed that he was my grandson; made him +call me 'Grandpa'; carried the scheme a little too far, and came near +losing everything. Now, do you see?" + +Sharpman nodded, and smiled knowingly. "You're a shrewd man, Craft," +he said. + +But the old man's thought had returned to the wealth he believed to +be in store for him. "What's to be done now?" he asked. "Ain't there +something we can start on?" + +"No; we can do nothing until after I have seen the widow, and that +will be a couple of months yet at least. In the meantime, you must not +say a word to any one about this matter. The boy, especially, must not +know that you have been here. Come again about the first of September. +In the meantime, get together the evidence necessary to establish the +boy's identity. We mustn't fail in that when it comes to an issue." + +"I'll have proof enough, no fear of that. The only thing I don't like +about the business is this waiting. I'm pretty bad here," placing his +bony hand on his chest; "no knowing how long I'll last." + +"Oh! you're good for twenty years yet," said Sharpman, heartily, +taking him by the hand, and walking with him to the door. "A--are you +pretty well off for money? Would trifling loan be of any benefit to +you?" + +"Why, if you can spare it," said the old man, trying to suppress his +evident pleasure at the offer; "if you can spare it, it would come in +very handy indeed." + +Sharpman drew a well-filled wallet from his pocket, took two bills +from it, folded them together, and placed them into Craft's trembling +fingers. "There," he said, "that's all right; we won't say anything +about that till we come into our fortune." + +Old Simon pocketed the money, mumbling his thanks as he did so. The +two men shook hands again at the outer door, and Craft trudged down +the avenue, toward the railroad station, his mind filled with visions +of enormous wealth, but his patience sorely tried by the long delay +that he must suffer before his fingers should close upon the promised +money. + +Sharpman returned to his office to congratulate himself upon the happy +chance that had placed so rich an opportunity within his grasp. If the +old man's story were true--he proposed to take steps immediately to +satisfy himself upon that point--then he saw no reason why he should +not have the management of a large estate. Of course there would be +opposition, but if he could succeed so far as to get the funds and the +property into his hands, he felt sure that, in one way or another, he +could make a fortune out of the estate before he should be compelled +to relinquish his hold. As for Simon Craft, he should use him so +far as such use was necessary for the accomplishment of his object. +After that he would or would not keep faith with him, as he chose. +And as for Ralph, if he were really Robert Burnham's son, he would +be rich enough at any rate, and if he were not that son he would +not be entitled to wealth. There was no use, therefore, in being +over-conscientious on his account. + +It was a brilliant scheme, worth risking a great deal on, both of +money and reputation, Sharpman resolved to make the most of it. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +A SET OF RESOLUTIONS. + + +It was the morning of the third day after the disaster at Burnham +Shaft. The breaker boys were to go that morning, in a body, to the +mansion of their dead employer to look for the last time on his face. +They had asked that they might be permitted to do this, and the +privilege had been granted. + +Grief holds short reign in young hearts, it is true; but the sorrow +in the hearts of these children of toil was none the less sincere. +Had there been any tendency to forget their loss, the solemn faces +and tearful eyes of those who were older than they would have been +a constant reminder. + +As Robert Burnham had been universally beloved, so his death was +universally mourned. The miners at Burnham Shaft felt that they had +especial cause for grief. He had a way of coming to the mines and +looking after them and their labor, personally, that they liked. He +knew the names of all the men who worked there, and he had a word of +kindly greeting for each one whom he met. When he came among them out +of the darkness of heading or chamber, there seemed, somehow, to be +more light in the mines, more light and better air, and a sense of +cheeriness and comfort. And, after he had gone, you could hear these +men whistling and singing at their tasks for hours; the mere fact of +his presence had so lightened their labors. The bosses caught this +spirit of friendliness, and there was always harmony at Burnham +Breaker and in the Burnham mines, among all who labored there in any +way whatever. But the screen-room boys had, somehow, come to look upon +this man as their especial friend. He sympathized with them. He seemed +to understand how hard it was for boys like they were to bend all day +above those moving streams of coal. He always had kind words for them, +and devised means to lessen, at times, the rigid monotony of their +tasks. They regarded him with something of that affection which a +child has for a firm, kind parent. Moreover, they looked upon him as a +type of that perfect manhood toward which each, to the extent of his +poor ability, should strive to climb. Even in his death he had set for +them a shining mark of manly bravery. He had died to rescue others. If +he had been a father to them before, he was a hero to them now. But he +was dead. They had heard his gentle voice and seen his kindly smile +and felt the searching tenderness of his brown eyes for the last time. +They would see his face once more; it would not be like him as he was, +but--they would see it. + +They had gathered on the grass-plot, on the hill east of the breaker, +under the shadow of a great oak-tree. There were forty of them. They +were dressed in their best clothes; not very rich apparel to be sure, +patched and worn and faded most of it was, but it was their very best. +There was no loud talking among them. There were no tricks being +played; there was no shouting, no laughter. They were all sober-faced, +earnest, and sorrowful. + +One of the boys spoke up and said: "Tell you what I think, fellows; I +think we ought to pass res'lutions like what the miners they done." + +"Res'lutions," said another, "w'at's them?" + +"W'y," said a third, "it's a little piece o' black cloth, like a veil, +w'at you wear on your arm w'en you go to a fun'al." + +Then some one proposed that the meeting should first be duly +organized. Many of the boys had attended the miners' meetings and knew +something about parliamentary organization. + +"I move't Ralph Buckley, he be chairman," said one. + +"I second the move," said another. The motion was put, and Ralph was +unanimously elected as chairman. + +"They ain't no time to make any speech," he said, backing up against +the tree in order to face the assemblage. "We got jest time to 'lect a +sec'etary and draw out some res'lutions." + +"I move't Jimmie Donnelly be sec'etary." + +"I second Jimmie Donnelly." + +"All you who want Jimmie Donnelly for sec'etary, hol' up your right +han's an' say yi." + +There was a chorus of yi's. + +"I move't Ed. Williams be treasher." + +Then the objector rose. "Aw!" he said, "we don't want no treasher. +W'at we want a treasher for? we ain't goin' to spen' no money." + +"You got to have a treasher," broke in a youthful Gushing, "you got to +have one, or less your meetin' won't be legal, nor your res'lutions, +neither!" + +The discussion was ended abruptly by some one seconding the nomination +of Ed. Williams, and the motion was immediately put and carried. + +"Now," said another young parliamentarian, "I move't the chairman pint +out a committee of three fellows to write the res'lutions." + +This motion was also seconded, put, and carried, and Ralph designated +three boys in the company, one of whom, Joe Foster, had more than an +ordinary reputation for learning, as a committee on resolutions; and, +while they went down to the breaker office for pen, ink, and paper, +the meeting took a recess. + +It was, indeed, a task for those three unlearned boys to express in +writing, their grief consequent upon the death of their employer, +and their sympathy for his living loved ones, but they performed it. +There was some discussion concerning a proper form for beginning. One +thought they should begin by saying, "Know all men by these presents." + +"But we ain't got no presents to give 'em," said another, "an' if we +had it ain't no time to give any presents." + +Joe Foster had attended the meeting at which the resolutions by the +miners were adopted, and after recalling, as nearly as possible, the +language in which they were drawn, it was decided to begin:--"We, the +breaker boys, of Burnham Breaker, in mass meeting met"-- + +After that, with the exception of an occasional dispute concerning the +spelling of a word, they got on very well, and came, finally, to the +end. + +"You two write your names on to it," said Jack Murphy; "I won't put +mine down; two's enough." + +"Oh! we've all got to sign it," said Joe Foster; "a majoriky ain't +enough to make a paper like this stan' law." + +"Well, I don't b'lieve I'll sign it," responded Jack; "I don't like +the res'lutions very well, anyway." + +"Why not? they're jest as you wanted 'em--oh, I know! you can't write +your name. + +"Well, I guess I could, maybe, if I wanted to, but I don't want to; +I'm 'fraid I'd spile the looks o' the paper. You's fellows go ahead +an' sign it." + +"I'll tell you what to do," said Joe; "I'll write your name jest as +good as I can, an' then you can put your solemn cross on top of it, +an' that'll make it jest as legal as it can be got." + +So they arranged it in that way. Joe signed Jack Murphy's name in his +very best style, and then Jack took the pen and under Joe's explicit +directions, drew one line horizontally through the name and another +line perpendicularly between the two words of it, and Joe wrote +above it: "his solem mark." This completed the resolutions, and +the committee hurried back with them to the impatient assembly. +The meeting was called to order again, and Joe Foster read the +resolutions. + +"That's jest the way I feel about it," said Ralph, "jest the way that +paper reads. He couldn't 'a' been no better to us, no way. Boys," he +continued, earnestly, forgetting for the time being his position, "do +you 'member 'bout his comin' into the screen-room last Tuesday an' +givin' us each a quarter to go t' the circus with? Well, I'd cut my +han' that day on a piece o' coal, an' it was a-bleedin' bad, an' he +see it, an' he asked me what was the matter with it, an' I told 'im, +an' he took it an' washed it off, he did, jest as nice an' careful; +an' then what d'ye think he done? W'y he took 'is own han'kerchy, his +own han'kerchy, mind ye, an' tore it into strips an' wrapped it roun' +my han' jest as nice--jest as nice--" + +And here the memory of this kindness became so vivid in Ralph's mind +that he broke down and cried outright. + +"It was jes' like 'im," said one in the crowd; "he was always a-doin' +sumpthin' jes' like that. D'ye 'member that time w'en I froze my ear, +an' he give me money to buy a new cap with ear-laps on to it?" + +The recital of this incident called from another the statement of some +generous deed, and, in the fund of kindly reminiscence thus aroused, +the resolutions came near to being wholly forgotten. But they were +remembered, finally, and were called up and adopted, and it was agreed +that the chairman should carry them and present them to whoever +should be found in charge at the house. Then, with Ralph and Joe +Foster leading the procession, they started toward the city. Reaching +Laburnum Avenue, they marched down that street in twos until they came +to the Burnham residence. There was a short consultation there, and +then they all passed in through the gate to the lawn, and Ralph and +Joe went up the broad stone steps to the door. A kind-faced woman +met them there, and Ralph said: "We've come, if you please, the +breaker boys have come to--to--" The woman smiled sweetly, and said: +"Yes, we've been expecting you; wait a moment and I will see what +arrangements have been made for you." + +Joe Foster nudged Ralph with his elbow, and whispered:-- + +"The res'lutions, Ralph, the res'lutions; now's the time; give 'em to +her." + +But Ralph did not hear him. His mind was elsewhere. As his eyes +grew accustomed to the dim light in the hall, and he saw the +winding staircase with its richly carved posts, the beauty of the +stained-glass windows, the graceful hangings, the broad doors, the +pictures, and the flowers, there came upon him a sense of strange +familiarity with the scene. It seemed to him as though sometime, +somewhere, he had seen it, known it all before. The feeling was so +sudden and so strong that it made him faint and dizzy. + +The kind-featured woman saw the pallor on his face and the tremor on +his lips, and led him to a chair. She ascribed his weakness to sorrow +and excitement, and the dread of looking on a dead face. + +"Poor boy!" she said. "I don't wonder at it; he was more than generous +to us all." + +But Joe, afraid that the resolutions he had labored on with so much +diligence would be forgotten, spoke of them again to Ralph. + +"Oh, yes," said Ralph, with a wan smile, "oh, yes! here's the +res'lutions. That's the way the breaker boys feel--the way it says in +this paper; an' we want Mrs. Burnham to know." + +"I'll take it to her," said the woman, receiving from Ralph's hands +the awkwardly folded and now sadly soiled paper. "You will wait here a +moment, please." + +She passed up the broad staircase, by the richly colored window at the +landing, and was lost to sight; while the two boys, sitting in the +spacious hall, gazed, with wondering eyes, upon the beauty which +surrounded them. + +The widow of Robert Burnham sat in the morning-room of her desolated +home, talking calmly with her friends. + +After the first shock incident upon her husband's death had passed +away, she had made no outcry, she grew quiet and self-possessed, she +was ready for any consultation, gave all necessary orders, spoke +of her dead husband's goodness to her with a smile on her face, and +looked calmly forth into the future. The shock of that terrible +message from the mines, two days ago, had paralyzed her emotional +nature, and left her white-faced and tearless. + +She had a smile and a kind word for every one as before; she had eaten +mechanically; but she had lain with wide-open eyes all night, and +still no one had seen a single tear upon her cheeks. This was why they +feared for her; they said, + + "She must weep, or she will die." + +Some one came into the room and spoke to her. + +"The breaker boys, who asked to come this morning, are here." + +"Let them come in," she said, "and pass through the parlors and look +upon him; and let them be treated with all kindness and courtesy." + +"They have brought this paper, containing resolutions passed by them, +which they would like to have you read." + +Mrs. Burnham took the paper, and asked the woman to wait while she +read it. There was something in the fact that these boys had passed +resolutions of sympathy that touched her heart. She unfolded the +soiled paper and read:-- + + Wee, the braker Boys of burnham braker in mass meeting met Did + pass thease res'lutions. first the braker Boys is all vary sory + indede Cause mister Burnham dide. + + second Wee have A grate dele of sympathy for his wife and his + little girl, what has got to get along now without him. third wee + are vary Proud of him cause he dide a trying to save John Welshes + life and pat Morys life and the other mens lifes. fourth he was + vary Good indede to us Boys, and they ain't one of us but what + liked him vary mutch and feel vary bad. fift Wee dont none of us + ixpect to have no moar sutch good Times at the braker as wee did + Befoar. sixt Wee aint scollers enougth to rite it down just what + wee feel, but wee feel a hunderd times more an what weave got rote + down. + + JOE FOSTER, comity, + + PAT DONNELLY, comity, + + his solem mark + + JACK + MURFY comity. + +The widow laid aside the paper, put her face in her hands, and began +to weep. There was something in the honest, unskilled way in which +these boys had laid their hearts open before her in this time of +general sorrow, that brought the tears into her eyes at last, and for +many minutes they flowed without restraint. Those who were with her +knew that the danger that had menaced her was passed. + +After a little she lifted her head. + +"I will see the boys," she said. "I will thank them in person. Tell +them to assemble in the hall." + +The message was given, and the boys filed into the broad hall, and +stood waiting, hats in hand, in silence and in awe. + +Down the wide staircase the lady came, holding her little girl by the +hand, and at the last step they halted. As Ralph looked up and saw her +face, pallid but beautiful, and felt the influence of her gracious yet +commanding presence, there came over him again that strange sensation +as of beholding some familiar sight. It seemed to him that sometime, +somewhere, he had not only seen her and known her, but that she had +been very close to him. He felt an almost uncontrollable impulse to +cry out to her for some word, some look of recognition. Then she began +to speak. He held himself firmly by the back of a chair, and listened +as to a voice that had been familiar to him in some state of being +prior to his life on earth. + +"Boys," said the lady, "I come to thank you in person for your +assurances of sympathy for me and for my little daughter, and for your +veneration for the dead. I know that his feeling toward you was very +kind, that he tried to lighten your labors as he could, that he hoped +for you that you would all grow into strong, good men. I do not wonder +that you sorrow at his loss. This honest, simple tribute to his memory +that you have given to me has touched me deeply. + +"I cannot hope to be as close to you as he was, but from this time +forth I shall be twice your friend. I want to take each one of you by +the hand as you pass by, in token of our friendship, and of my faith +in you, and my gratitude toward you." + +So, one by one, as they passed into the room beyond, she held each +boy's hand for a moment and spoke to him some kind word, and every +heart in her presence went out to her in sympathy and love. + +Last of all came Ralph. As leader of the party he had thought it +proper to give precedence to the rest. The lady took his hand as he +came by, the same hand that had received her husband's tender care; +but there was something in his pallid, grief-marked face, in the brown +eyes filled with tears, in the sensitive trembling of the delicate +lips, as she looked down on him, that brought swift tenderness for him +to her heart. She bent over and lifted up his face to hers, and kissed +his lips, and then, unable longer to restrain her emotion, she turned +and hastened up the stairway, and was lost to sight. + +For many minutes Ralph stood still, in gratified amazement. It was +the first time in all his life, so far as memory served him, that any +one had kissed him. And that this grief-stricken lady should be the +first--it was very strange, but very beautiful, indeed. He felt that +by that kiss he had been lifted to a higher level, to a clearer, purer +atmosphere, to a station where better things than he had ever done +before would be expected of him now; he felt, indeed, as though it +were the first long reach ahead to attain to such a manhood as was +Robert Burnham's. The repetition of this name in his mind brought him +to himself, and he turned into the parlor just as the last one of the +other boys was passing out. He hurried across the room to look upon +the face of his friend and employer. It was not the unpleasant sight +that he had feared it might be. The dead man's features were relaxed +and calm. A smile seemed to be playing about the lips. The face had +all its wonted color and fulness, and one might well have thought, +looking on the closed eye-lids, that he lay asleep. + +Standing thus in the presence of death, the boy had no fear. His only +feeling was one of tenderness and of deep sorrow. The man had been so +kind to him in life, so very kind. It seemed almost as though the lips +might part and speak to him. But he was dead; this was his face, this +his body; but he, himself, was not here. Dead! The word struck harshly +on his mind and roused him from his reverie. He looked up; the boys +had all gone, only the kind-faced woman stood there with a puzzled +expression in her eyes. She had chanced to mark the strong resemblance +between the face of the dead man and that of the boy who looked upon +it; a resemblance so striking that it startled her. In the countenance +of Robert Burnham as he had looked in life, one might not have noticed +it, but-- + + "Sometimes, in a dead man's face, + To those that watch it more and more, + A likeness, hardly seen before, + Comes out, to some one of his race." + +It was so here. The faces of the dead man and of the living boy were +the faces of father and son. + +Ralph turned away, at last, from the lifeless presence before him, +from the searching eyes of the woman, from the hall with its dim +suggestions of something in the long ago, and went out into the +street, into the sunlight, into the busy world around him; but from +that time forth a shadow rested on his young life that had never +darkened it before,--a shadow whose cause he could not fathom and +whose gloom he could not dispel. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +IN SEARCH OF A MOTHER. + + +Three months had gone by since the accident at Burnham Shaft. They +were summer months, full of sunshine and green landscapes and singing +birds and blossoming flowers and all things beautiful. But in the +house from which the body of Robert Burnham had been carried to the +grave there were still tears and desolation. Not, indeed, as an +outward show; Margaret Burnham was very brave, and hid her grief +under a calm exterior, but there were times, in the quiet of her own +chamber, when loneliness and sorrow came down upon her as a burden +too great for her woman's heart to bear. Still, she had her daughter +Mildred, and the child's sweet ways and ceaseless chatter and fond +devotion charmed her, now and then, into something almost like +forgetfulness. She often sighed, and said: "If only Ralph had lived, +that I might have both my children with me now!" + +One morning, toward the middle of September, Lawyer John H. Sharpman +rang the bell at the door of the Burnham mansion, sent his card up to +Mrs. Burnham, and seated himself gracefully in an easy-chair by the +parlor window to wait for her appearance. + +She came soon and greeted him with gracious dignity. He was very +courteous to her; he apologized for coming, in this way, without +previous announcement, but said that the nature of his errand seemed +to render it necessary. + +"I am sure no apology is required," she replied; "I shall be pleased +to listen to you." + +"Then I will proceed directly to the matter in hand. You remember, of +course, the Cherry Brook disaster and what occurred there?" + +"I shall never forget it," she said. + +"I have a strange thing to tell you about that, an almost incredible +thing. An old man has visited me at my office, within the last few +days, who claims to have saved your child from that wreck, to have +taken him to his own home and cared for him, and to know that he is +living to-day." + +The woman rose from her chair, with a sudden pallor on her face, too +greatly startled, for the moment, to reply. + +"I beg you to be calm, madam," the lawyer said; "I will try to speak +of the matter as gently as possible." + +"Ralph!" she exclaimed, "my Ralph! did you say that he is living?" + +"So this old man says. I am simply telling you his story. He seems to +be very much in earnest, though I am bound to say that his appearance +is somewhat against him." + +"Who is he? Bring him here! I will question him myself. Bring the +child to me also; why did you not bring the child?" + +"My dear lady, I beg that you will be calm; if you will allow me I +will explain it all, so far as lies in my power." + +"But if my boy is living I must see him; I cannot wait! It is cruel to +keep him from me!" + +Sharpman began to fear that he had injured his cause by presenting the +case too strongly. At this rate the lady would soon believe, fully, +that her son had been saved and could be restored to her. With such a +belief in her mind the success of his scheme would be impossible. It +would never do to let her go on in this way; he began to remonstrate. + +"But, madam, I am telling to you only what this man has told to me. I +have no means of proving his veracity, and his appearance, as I have +said, is against him. I have agreed to assist him only in case he is +able to establish, beyond question, the boy's identity. Thus far his +statements have not been wholly satisfactory." + +Mrs. Burnham had grown more calm. The startling suddenness of +the proposition that Ralph was living had, for the time being, +overmastered her. Now she sank back into her chair, with pale face, +controlling her emotion with an effort, trying to give way to reason. + +"What does he say?" she asked. "What is this old man's story?" + +Sharpman repeated, in substance, old Simon's account of the rescue, +giving to it, however, an air of lightness and improbability that it +had not had before. + +"It is possible," he added, "that the evidence you have of the child's +death is sufficient to refute this man's story completely. On what +facts do you rest your belief, if I am at liberty to ask?" + +"The proofs," she replied, "have seemed to us to be abundant. +Neither Mr. Burnham nor myself were in a condition to make personal +investigation until some days had elapsed from the time of the +accident, and then the wreck had been cleared away. But we learned +beyond doubt that there was but one other child in the car, a bright, +pretty boy of Ralph's age, travelling with his grandfather, and that +this child was saved. No one had seen Ralph after the crash; no +article of clothing that he wore has ever been found; there were only +a few trinkets, fireproof, that he carried in the pocket of his skirt, +discovered in the ashes of the wreck." + +The lady put her hands to her eyes as if to shut out the memory of +some dread sight. + +"And I presume you made diligent inquiry afterward?" questioned the +lawyer. + +"Oh, yes! of the most searching nature, but no trace could be found +of our child's existence. We came to the firm belief, long ago, that +he died that night. The most that we have dared to hope is that his +sufferings were not great nor prolonged." + +"It seems incredible," said Sharpman, "that the child could have been +saved and cared for, without your knowledge, through so long a period. +But the man appears to be in earnest, his story is a straightforward +one, and I feel it to be my duty to examine into it. Of course, his +object is to get gain. He wants compensation for his services in the +matter of rescuing and caring for the child. He seems also to be very +desirous that the boy's rights should be established and maintained, +and has asked me to take the matter in hand in that respect as well. +Are you prepared to say, definitely, that no evidence would induce you +to believe your child to be living?" + +"Oh, no! not that. But I should want something very strong in the +way of proof. Let this man come and relate his story to me. If it is +false, I think I should be able to detect it." + +"I advised him to do so, but, aside from his appearance, which is +hardly in harmony with these surroundings, I think he would prefer not +to hold a personal conference with the boy's friends. I may as well +give you my reason for that belief. The old man says that the boy ran +away from him two or three years ago, and I have inferred that the +flight was due, partially, at least, to unkind treatment on Craft's +part. I believe he is now afraid to talk the matter over with you +personally, lest you should rebuke him too severely for his conduct +toward the child and his failure to take proper care of him. He +is anxious that all negotiations should be conducted through his +attorney. Rather sensitive, he is, for a man of his general stamp." + +"And did the child return to him?" asked the lady, anxiously, not +heeding the lawyer's last remark. + +"Oh, no! The old man searched the country over for him. He did not +find him until this summer." + +"And where was he found?" + +"Here, in Scranton." + +"In Scranton! That is strange. Is the boy here still?" + +"He is." + +"Where does he live? who cares for him?" + +Sharpman had not intended to give quite so much information, but he +could not well evade these questions and at the same time appear to be +perfectly honest in the matter, so he answered her frankly: + +"He lives with one William Buckley, better known as 'Bachelor Billy.' +He works in the screen-room at Burnham Breaker." + +"Indeed! by what name is he known?" + +"By your son's name--Ralph." + +"Ralph, the slate-picker! Do you mean that boy?" + +It was Sharpman's turn to be surprised. + +"Do you know him?" he asked, quickly. + +"I do," she replied. "My husband first told me of him; I have seen him +frequently; I have talked with him so lately as yesterday." + +"Ah, indeed! I am very glad you know the boy. We can talk more +intelligently concerning him." + +"Do I understand you, then, to claim that Ralph, the slate-picker, is +my son? this boy and no other?" + +"That is my client's statement, madam." + +The lady leaned back wearily in her chair. + +"Then I fear you have come upon a futile errand, Mr. Sharpman," she +said. + +But, from the lawyer's stand-point, it began to look as if the errand +was to be successful. He felt that he could speak a little more +strongly now of Ralph's identity with Mrs. Burnham's son without +endangering his cause. + +"Can you remember," he said, "nothing about the lad's appearance +that impressed you--now that you know the claim set up for hi--that +impressed you with a sense of his relationship to you?" + +"Nothing, sir, nothing whatever. The boy is a bright, frank, manly +fellow; I have taken much interest in him from the first. His sorrow +at the time of my husband's death touched me very deeply. I have been +several times since then to look after his comfort and happiness. I +saw and talked with him yesterday, as I have already told you. But he +is not my son, sir, he is not my son." + +"Pardon me, madam! but you must remember that time works wonders in a +child's appearance; from three to eleven is a long stretch." + +"I appreciate that fact, but I recall no resemblance whatever. My baby +had light, curling hair, large eyes, full round cheeks and chin, a +glow of health and happiness in his face. This lad is different, very +different. There could not have been so great a change. Oh, no, sir! +your client is mistaken; the boy is not my son; I am sure he is not." + +Sharpman was rejoiced. Everything was working now exactly according to +his plan. He thought it safe to push his scheme more rapidly. + +"But my client," he said, "appears to be perfectly sincere in his +belief. He will doubtless desire me to institute legal proceedings to +recover for the boy his portion of Robert Burnham's estate." + +"If you can recover it," she said, calmly, "I shall transfer it to +the child most cheerfully. I take it, however, that you must first +establish his identity as an heir?" + +"Certainly." + +"And do you think this can be done against my positive testimony?" + +"Perhaps not; that remains to be seen. But I do not desire to +contemplate such a contingency. My object, my sole object, is to +obtain a harmonious settlement of this matter outside of the courts. +That is why I am here in person. I had hoped that I might induce you +to acknowledge the boy as your son, to agree to set off his interest +in his father's estate, and to reimburse my client, to some extent, +for his care and services. This is my only wish in the matter, I +assure you." + +"Why, as to that," she replied, "I am willing to recognize services +performed for any one; and if this old man has rescued and cared for +the boy, even though he is not my son--I have enough; if the man is in +want, I will help him, I will give him money. But wait! did you say he +had been cruel to the child? Then I withdraw my offer. I have no pity +for the harsh task-masters of young children. Something to eat, to +drink, to wear,--I will give him that,--nothing more." + +"I am to understand, then, that you positively decline to acknowledge +this boy as your son?" asked the lawyer, rising. + +"With the evidence that I now have," she said, "I do. I should be glad +to assist him; I have it in mind to do so; he is a brave, good boy, +and I love him. But I can do nothing more, sir,--nothing more." + +"I regret exceedingly, madam, the failure of my visit," said Sharpman, +bowing himself toward the door. "I trust, I sincerely trust, that +whatever I may find it in my heart and conscience to do in behalf +of this boy, through the medium of the courts, will meet with no +bitterness of feeling on your part." + +"Certainly not," she replied, standing in matronly dignity. "You could +do me no greater favor than to prove to me that this boy is Ralph +Burnham. If I could believe that he is really my son, I would take him +to my heart with inexpressible joy. Without that belief I should be +false to my daughter's interest to compel her to share with a stranger +not only her father's estate but also her mother's affection." + +"Madam, I have the most profound respect for your conscience and your +judgment. I trust that no meeting between us will be less pleasant +than this one has been. I wish you good-morning!" + +"Good-morning, sir!" + +Sharpman bowed himself gracefully out, and walked briskly down the +street, with a smile on his face. The execution of his scheme had met, +thus far, with a success which he had hardly anticipated. + + * * * * * + +Every one about Burnham Breaker knew Bachelor Billy. No one ever knew +any ill of him. He was simple and unlearned, but his heart was very +large, and he was honest and manly to the marrow of his bones. He +had no ties of family or of kin, but every one who knew him was his +friend; every child who saw him smiled up instinctively into his face; +he was a brother to all men. Gray spots were coming in his hair, his +shoulders were bowed with toil, and his limbs were bent with disease, +but the kind look never vanished from his rugged face, and the kind +word never faltered on his lips. He went to his task at Burnham +Breaker in the early morning, he toiled all day, and came home at +night, happy and contented with his lot. + +His work was at the head of the shaft, at the very topmost part of the +towering breaker. When a mine car came up, loaded with coal, it was +his duty to push it to the dump, some forty feet away, to tip it till +the load ran out, and then to push it back to the waiting carriage. +Michael Maloney had been Billy's assistant here, in other years; but, +one day, Michael stepped back, inadvertently, into the open mouth of +the shaft, and, three minutes later, his mangled remains were gathered +up at the foot. Billy knew that Michael's widow was poor, with a +family of small children to care for, so he came and hired from her +a part of her cottage to live in, and took his meals with her, and +paid her generously. To this house he had taken Ralph. It was not an +elegant home, to be sure, but it was a home where no harsh word was +spoken from year's end to year's end; and to Ralph, fresh from his +dreadful life with Simon Craft, this was much, oh! very much, indeed. +The boy was very fond of "Uncle Billy," as he called him, and the days +and nights he spent with him were not unhappy ones. But since the day +when Mrs. Burnham turned his face to hers, and kissed him on his lips, +there had been a longing in his heart for something more; a longing +which, at first, he could not quite define, but which grew and +crystallized, at last, into a strong desire to merit and possess the +fond affection, and to live in the sweet presence, of a kind and +loving mother. He had always wanted a mother, ever since he could +remember. The thought of one had always brought a picture of perfect +happiness to his mind. But never, until now, had that want reached so +great proportions. It had come to be the leading motive and ambition +of his life. He yearned for mother-love and home affection, with an +intensity as passionate, a desire as deep, as ever stirred within the +heart of man. He had not revealed his longing to Bachelor Billy. He +feared that he might think he was discontented and unhappy, and he +would not have hurt his Uncle Billy's feelings for the world. So the +summer days went by, and he kept his thought in this matter, as much +as possible, to himself. + +It had come to be the middle of September. There had been a three days +rain, which had so freshened the parched grass and checked the fading +of the leaves, that one might readily have thought the summer had +returned to bring new foliage and flowers, and to deck the earth for +still another season with its covering of green. + +But it had cleared off cold. + +"It'd be nice to have a fire to-night, Uncle Billy," said Ralph, as +the two were walking home together in the twilight, from their day's +work at the breaker. + +"Wull, lad," was the reply, "ye ha' the wood choppit for it, ye can +mak' un oop." + +So, after supper, Ralph built a wood fire in the little rude grate, +and Billy lighted his clay pipe, and they both drew their chairs up +before the comfortable blaze, and watched it while they talked. + +It was the first fire of the season, and they enjoyed it. It seemed to +bring not only warmth but cheer. + +"Ain't this nice, Uncle Billy?" said Ralph, after quite a long +silence. "Seems kind o' home-like an' happy, don't it?" + +"Ye're richt, lad! Gin a mon has a guid fire to sit to, an' a guid +pipe o' 'bacca to pull awa' on, what more wull ye? eh, Ralph!" + +"A comfortable room like this to stay in, Uncle Billy," replied the +boy, looking around on the four bare walls, the uncarpeted floor, and +the rude furniture of the room, all bright and glowing now in the +light of the cheerful fire. + +"Oh! the room's guid enook, guid enook," responded the man, without +removing the pipe from his mouth. + +"An' a nice bed, like ours, to sleep in." + +"True for ye lad; tired bones rest well in a saft bed." + +"An' plenty to eat, too, Uncle Billy; that's a good thing to have." + +"Richt again, Ralph! richt again!" exclaimed Billy, enthusiastically, +pushing the burning tobacco down in the bowl of his pipe. "An' the +Widow Maloney, she do gi' us 'mazin' proper food, now, don't she? D'ye +min' that opple pie we had for sooper, lad?" + +"Yes, that was good," said Ralph, gazing absently into the fire. +"They's only one thing more we need, Uncle Billy, an' that's somebody +to love us. Not but what you an' me cares a good deal for each other," +added Ralph, apprehensively, as the man puffed vigorously away at his +pipe, "but that ain't it. I mean somebody, some woman, you know, 'at'd +kiss us an' comfort us an' be nice to us that way." + +Billy turned and gazed contemplatively at Ralph. "Been readin' some +more o' them love-stories?" he asked, smiling behind a cloud of smoke. + +"No, I ain't, an' I don't mean that kind. I mean your mother or your +sister or your wife--it'd be jes' like as though you had a wife, you +know, Uncle Billy." + +Again, the man puffed savagely at his pipe before replying. + +"Wull," he said at last, "na doot it'd be comfortin' to have a guid +weef to care for ye; but they're an awfu' trooble, Ralph, women +is,--an awfu' trooble." + +"But you don't know, Uncle Billy; you ain't had no 'xperience." + +"No more am I like to have. I'm a gittin' too auld now. I could na get +me a weef an' I wanted one. Hoot, lad! think o' your Uncle Billy wi' a +weef to look after; it's no' sensiba, no' sensiba," and the man took +his pipe from his mouth and indulged in a hearty burst of laughter at +the mental vision of himself in matrimonial chains. + +"But then," persisted Ralph, "you'd have such a nice home, you know; +an' somebody to look glad an' smile an' say nice things to you w'en +you come home from work o' nights. Uncle Billy, I'd give a good deal +if I had it, jes' to have a home like other boys has, an' mothers an' +fathers an' sisters an' all that." + +"Wull, lad, I've done the bes' I could for ye, I've--" + +"Oh, Uncle Billy!" interrupted the boy, rising and laying his hand +on the man's shoulder affectionately, "you know I don't mean that; +I don't mean but what you've been awful good to me; jes' as good as +any one ever could be; but it's sumpthin' dif'rent from that 'at I +mean. I'm thinkin' about a home with pirty things in it, books, an' +pictures, an' cushions, the way women fix 'em you know, an'--an' a +mother; I want a mother very much; I think it'd be the mos' beautiful +thing in the world to have a mother. You've had one, ain't you, Uncle +Billy?" + +The man's face had taken on a pleased expression when Ralph began with +his expostulation, but, as the boy continued, the look changed into +one of sadness. + +"Yes, lad," he said, "an' a guid mither she waur too. She died an' +went to heaven it's mony a year sin', but I still min' the sweet +way she had wi' me. Ye're richt, laddie, there's naught like a +blessed mither to care for ye--an' ye never had the good o' one +yoursel'"--turning and looking at the boy, with an expression of +wondering pity on his face, as though that thought had occurred to +him now for the first time. + +"No, I never had, you know; that's the worst of it. If I could only +remember jest the least bit about my mother, it wouldn't seem so bad, +but I can't remember nothing, not nothing." + +"Puir lad! puir lad! I had na thocht o' that afoor. But, patience, +Ralph, patience; mayhap we'll find a mither for ye yet." + +"Oh, Uncle Billy! if we could, if we only could! Do you know, +sometimes w'en I go down town, an' walk along the street, an' see +the ladies there, I look at ev'ry one I meet, an' w'en a real nice +beautiful one comes along, I say to myself, 'I wisht that lady was my +mother,' an' w'en some other one goes by, I say, 'I wonder if that +ain't my mother.' It don't do no good, you know, but it's kind o' +comfortin'." + +"Puir lad!" repeated Billy, putting his arm around the boy and drawing +him up closer to his chair, "Puir lad!" + +"You 'member that night I come home a-cryin', an' I couldn't tell w'at +the matter was? Well, it wasn't nothin' but that. I come by a house +down there in the city, w'ere they had it all lighted up, an' they +wasn't no curtains acrost the windows, an' you could look right in. +They was a havin' a little party there; they was a father an' a mother +an' sisters and brothers an' all; an' they was all a-laughin' an' +a-playin' an' jest as happy as they could be. An' they was a boy there +'at wasn't no bigger'n me, an' his mother come an' put her arms aroun' +his neck an' kissed him. It didn't seem as though I could stan' it, +Uncle Billy, I wanted to go in so bad an' be one of 'em. An' then it +begun to rain, an' I had to come away, an' I walked up here in the +dark all alone, an' w'en I got here they wasn't nothin' but jest one +room, an' nobody but you a-waitin' for me, an'--no! now, Uncle Billy, +don't! I don't mean nothin' like that--you've been jest as good to me +as you could be; you've been awful good to me, al'ays! but it ain't +like, you know; it ain't like havin' a home with your own mother." + +"Never min', laddie; never min'; ye s'all have a hame, an' a mither +too some day, I mak' na doot,--some day." + +There was silence for a time, then Bachelor Billy continued:-- + +"Gin ye had your choice, lad, what kin' o' a mither would ye choose +for yoursel'?" + +"Oh! I don't know--yes, I do too!--it's wild, I know it's wild, an' +I hadn't ought to think of it; but if I could have jest the mother I +want, it'd be--it'd be Mrs. Burnham. There! now, don't laugh, Uncle +Billy; I know it's out o' all reason; she's very rich, an' beautiful, +an' everything; but if I could be her boy for jest one week--jest one +week, Uncle Billy, I'd--well, I'd be willin' to die." + +"Ye mak' high choice, Ralph, high choice; but why not? ye're as like +to find the mither in high places as in low, an' liker too fra my way +o' thinkin'. Choose the bes', lad, choose the bes'!" + +"But she's so good to us," continued the boy, "an' she talks so nice +to us. You 'member the time I told you 'bout, w'en we breaker boys +went down there, all of us, an' she cried kin' o' soft, an' stooped +down an' kissed me? I shouldn't never forgit that if I live to be a +thousan' years old. An' jes' think of her kissin' me that way ev'ry +night,--think of it Uncle Billy! an' ev'ry mornin' too, maybe; +wouldn't that be--be--" and Ralph, at a loss for a fitting wor to +represent such bliss as that, simply clasped his hands together and +gazed wistfully into the fire. After a minute or two he went on: "She +'membered it, too. I was 'fraid she'd never know which boy it was she +kissed, they was so many of us there; but she did, you know, an' she's +been to see me, an' brought me things, ain't she? an' promised to help +me find out about myself jest the same as Mr. Burnham did. Oh dear! I +hope she won't die now, like he did--Uncle Billy! oh, Uncle Billy!" +as a sudden thought struck in on the boy's mind, "if she was--if Mrs. +Burnham _was_ my mother, then Mr. Burnham would 'a' been my father +wouldn't he?" + +"Na doot, lad, na doot." + +"Robert Burnham--would 'a' been--my father. Oh!" The boy drew himself +up to his full height and stood gazing into the fire in proud +contemplation of such overwhelming happiness and honor. + +There was a knock at the door. Ralph went and opened it, and a young +man stepped in. + +"Ah! good evening!" he said. "Does a man by the name of Buckley live +here? William Buckley?" + +"That's my name," responded Billy, rising from his chair. + +"And are you Ralph?" asked the young man, turning to the boy. + +"Yes, sir, that's my name, too," was the quick reply. + +"Well, Ralph, can you take a little walk with me this evening, as far +as Lawyer Sharpman's office?" + +"Wha' for do ye want the lad?" asked Billy, advancing and placing a +chair for the stranger to sit in. + +"Well, to speak confidentially, I believe it's something about his +parentage." + +"Who his father an' mother waur?" + +"Yes." + +"Then he s'all go wi' ye if he like. Ralph, ye can put on the new +jacket an' go wi' the mon." + +The boy's heart beat tumultuously as he hurried on his best clothes. + +At last! at last he was to know. Some one had found him out. He was no +longer "nobody's child." + +He struggled into his Sunday coat, pulled his cap on his head, and, +in less than ten minutes he was out on the road with the messenger, +hurrying through the frosty air and the bright moonlight, toward +Sharpman's office. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +BREAKING THE NEWS. + + +Simon Craft and Lawyer Sharpman were sitting together in the rear room +of the latter's law office. The window-shades were closely drawn, +shutting out the mellow light of the full moon, which rested brightly +and beautifully on all objects out of doors. + +The gas jet, shaded by a powerful reflector, threw a disk of light +on the round table beneath it, but the corners of the room were in +shadow. It was in a shaded corner that Craft was sitting, resting his +folded arms on his cane, while Sharpman, seated carelessly by the +table, was toying with a pencil. There were pleased looks on the faces +of both men; but old Simon seemed to have grown thinner and feebler +during the summer months, and his cough troubled him greatly. + +Sharpman was saying: "If we can succeed in managing the boy, now, +as well as we have managed the mother, I think we are all right. I +somewhat fear the effect of your presence on him, Craft, but he may +as well see you to-night as later. You must keep cool, and be gentle; +don't let him think you are here for any purpose but his good." + +"Oh! you may trust me, Mr. Sharpman," responded the old man, "you may +trust me. I shall get into the spirit of the scheme very nicely." + +"What kind of a boy is he, any way? Pretty clear-headed?" + +"Well, yes, middling; but as obstinate as a mule. When he gets his +mind set on a thing, it's no use to try to budge him. I've whipped him +till he was black and blue, and it didn't do a penny's worth of good." + +"You should have used moral suasion, Craft; that's the way to treat +boys. Get their confidence, and then you can handle them. Well, we'll +get Ralph's mind fixed on the fact that he is Mrs. Burnham's son, and +see how he'll stick to that. Hark! There they come now. Sooner than I +expected." + +The outer door of the office was opened, and Ralph and the young man +entered. The messenger disappeared into the inner room, but after a +minute or two he came out and ushered Ralph into the presence of the +lawyer. Sharpman arose, greeted the boy pleasantly and shook hands +with him, and Ralph thought that lawyers were not such forbidding +people after all. + +"Do you recognize this gentleman?" said Sharpman, turning, with a wave +of his hand, toward old Simon. + +The old man was sitting there with his hands crossed on his cane, and +with a grim smile on his gaunt face. Ralph looked intently, for a +moment, into the shadow, and then, with an exclamation of surprise and +fear on his lips, he stepped back toward the door. + +"I won't go!" he cried; "don't make me go back with him, sir!" turning +his distressed face to the lawyer, as he spoke. + +Sharpman advanced and took the boy by the hand and led him to a chair. +"Don't be afraid," he said, gently, "there's no cause for alarm. You +shall not go back with him. He is not here to take you back, but to +establish your identity." + +Then a new fear dawned upon Ralph's mind. + +"He ain't my grandfather!" he exclaimed. "Simon Craft ain't my +grandfather. He wouldn't never 'a' whipped me the way he done if he'd +a-been truly my grandfather." + +Craft looked up at Sharpman with a little nod. The boy had identified +him pretty plainly, and proved the truth of his story to that extent +at least. + +"Oh, no!" said the lawyer, "oh, no! Mr. Craft is not your grandfather; +he doesn't claim to be. He has come here only to do you good. Now, be +calm and reasonable, and listen to what we have to tell you, and, my +word for it, you will go back to Billy Buckley's to-night with a heart +as light as a feather. Now, you'll take my advice, and do that much, +won't you?" + +"Yes, I will," said Ralph, settling himself into his chair, "I will, +if I can only find out about my father 'n' mother. But I won't go back +to live with him; I won't never go back there!" + +"Oh, no!" replied Sharpman, "we'll find a better home for you than Mr. +Craft could ever give you. Now, if you will sit still and listen to +us, and take our advice, we will tell you more things about yourself +than you have ever thought of knowing. You want to hear them, don't +you?" + +"Well, yes," replied Ralph, smiling and rapidly regaining his +composure; "yes, of course." + +"I thought so. Now I want to ask you one or two questions. In the +first place, what do you remember about yourself before you went to +live with Mr. Craft?" + +"I don't remember anything, sir,--not anything." + +"Haven't you a faint recollection of having been in a big accident +sometime; say, for instance, a railroad disaster?" + +"No--I don't think I have. I think I must 'a' dreamed sumpthin' like +that once, but I guess it never happened to me, or I'd 'member more +about it." + +"Well, Ralph, it did happen to you. You were riding in a railroad car +with your father and mother, and the train went through a bridge. A +good many people were killed, and a good many more were wounded; but +you were saved. Do you know how?" + +Ralph did not answer the question. His face had suddenly paled. + +"Were my father an' mother killed?" he exclaimed. + +"No, Ralph, they were not killed. They were injured, but they +recovered in good time." + +"Are they alive now? where are they?" asked the boy, rising suddenly +from his chair. + +"Be patient, Ralph! be patient! we will get to that in time. Be seated +and answer my question. Do you know how you were saved?" + +"No, sir; I don't." + +"Well, my boy," said the lawyer, impressively, pointing his finger +toward Craft, "there is the man who saved you. He was on the train. He +rushed into the wreck at the risk of his life, and drew you from the +car window. In another minute it would have been too late. He fell +back into the river holding you in his arms, but he saved you from +both fire and water. The effort and exposure of that night brought on +the illness that has resulted in the permanent loss of his health, and +left him in the condition in which you now see him." + +Ralph looked earnestly at old Simon, who still sat, quiet and +speechless, chuckling to himself, and wishing, in his heart, that he +could tell a story as smoothly and impressively as Lawyer Sharpman. + +"An' do I owe my life to him?" asked the boy. "Wouldn't I 'a' been +saved if he hadn't 'a' saved me?" + +"It is not at all probable," replied Sharpman. "The flames had already +reached you, and your clothing was on fire when you were drawn from +the car." + +It was hard for Ralph to believe in any heroic or unselfish conduct on +the part of Simon Craft; but as he felt the force of the story, and +thought of the horrors of a death by fire, he began to relent toward +the old man, and was ready to condone the harsh treatment that he had +suffered at his hands. + +"I'm sure I'm much obliged to 'im," he said, "I'm much obliged to 'im, +even if he did use me very bad afterwards." + +"But you must remember, Ralph, that Mr. Craft was very poor, and he +was ill and irritable, and your high temper and stubborn ways annoyed +him greatly. But he never ceased to have your best interests at heart, +and he was in constant search of your parents, in order to restore you +to them. Do you remember that he used often to be away from home?" + +"Yes, sir, he used to go an' leave me with ole Sally." + +"Well, he was away searching for your friends. He continued the search +for five years, and at last he found your father and mother. He +hurried back to Philadelphia to get you and bring you to your parents, +as the best means of breaking to them the glad news; and when he +reached his home, what do you suppose he found?" + +Ralph smiled sheepishly, and said: "I 'xpect, maybe, I'd run away." + +"Yes, my boy, you had. You had left his sheltering roof and his +fostering care, without his knowledge or consent. Most men would have +left you, then, to struggle on by yourself, as best you could; and +would have rewarded your ingratitude by forgetfulness. Not so with +Mr. Craft. He swallowed his pain and disappointment, and went out to +search for you. He had your welfare too deeply at heart to neglect +you, even then. His mind had been too long set on restoring you to +loving parents and a happy home. After years of unremitting toil +he found you, and is here to-night to act as your best and nearest +friend." + +Ralph had sat during this recital, with astonishment plainly depicted +on his face. He could scarcely believe what he heard. The idea that +Simon Craft could be kind or good to any one had never occurred to him +before. + +"I hope," he said, slowly, "I hope you'll forgive me, Gran'pa Simon, +if I've thought wrong of you. I didn't know 'at you was a-doin' all +that for me, an' I thought I was a-havin' a pirty hard time with you." + +"Well," said Craft, speaking for the first time since Ralph's +entrance. "Well, we won't say anything more about your bad behavior; +it's all past and gone now, and I'm here to help you, not to scold +you. I'm going to put you, now, in the way of getting back into your +own home and family, if you'll let me. What do you say?" + +"I'm sure that's very good in you, an' of course I'd like it. You +couldn't do anything for me 'at I'd like better. I'm sorry if I've +ever hurt your feelin's, but--" + +"How do you think you would like to belong to a nice family, Ralph?" +interrupted Sharpman. + +"I think it'd make me very happy, sir." + +"And have a home, a beautiful home, with books, pictures, horses, fine +clothes, everything that wealth could furnish?" + +"That'd be lovely, very lovely; but I don't quite 'xpect that, an' +what I want most is a good mother, a real, nice, good mother. Haven't +you got one for me? say, haven't you got one?" + +The boy had risen to his feet and stood with clasped hands, gazing +anxiously at Sharpman. + +"Yes, my boy, yes," said the lawyer, "we've found a good mother for +you, the best in the city of Scranton, and the sweetest little sister +you ever saw. Now what do you think?" + +"I think--I think 'at it's most too good to be true. But you wouldn't +tell me a lie about it, would you? you wouldn't do that, would you?" + +"Oh, no! Ralph; good lawyers never lie, and I'm a good lawyer." + +"An' when can I see 'em? Can I go to 'em to-night? I don't b'lieve I +can wait,--I don't b'lieve I can!" + +"Ralph! Ralph! you promised to be quiet and reasonable. There, be +seated and wait till you hear us through. There is something better +yet for you to know. Now, who do you suppose your mother is? She lives +in Scranton." + +Ralph sat, for a moment, in stupid wonder, staring at Sharpman. Then +a brilliant thought, borne on by instinct, impulse, strong desire, +flashed like a ray of sunlight, into his mind, and he started to his +feet again, exclaiming:-- + +"Mrs. Burnham! it can't be! oh, it can't be! tell me, is it Mrs. +Burnham?" + +Craft and Sharpman exchanged quick glances of amazement, and the +latter said, impressively:-- + +"Yes, Ralph, Mrs. Burnham is your mother." + +The boy stood for another moment, as if lost in thought; then he cried +out, suddenly: "And Mr. Burnham, he--he was my--my father!" and he +sank back into his chair, with a sudden weakness in his limbs, and a +mist before his eyes. + +For many minutes no one spoke. Then Ralph asked, quietly,-- + +"Does--does she know?" + +"Now, Ralph," said Sharpman, "now comes the strangest part of the +story. Your mother believes you to be dead. She believes that you +perished in the accident at Cherry Brook, and has mourned for you ever +since the time of that disaster." + +"Am I the boy--am I the Ralph she lost?" + +"The very one, but we cannot make her think so. I went to her, myself, +this morning, and told her that you are alive. I told her who you are, +and all about you. She knows you, but she will not believe that you +are her son. She wants better evidence than we can give to her, +outside of the courts." + +"An' won't she never believe it? won't she never take me?" + +The boy's voice and look revealed the sudden clashing of his hope. + +"Oh, yes, Ralph! in time; I do not doubt that in good time she will +recognize you and take you to her home. She has so long believed you +to be dead that it is hard for her to overcome the prejudice of that +belief." + +Then another fear came into the lad's mind. + +"Are you sure," he cried out, "that I am her boy? are you sure I'm the +right one?" + +"Oh, yes!" said the lawyer, assuringly, "oh, yes! there's no mistake +about that, there isn't the shadow of a doubt about that. We shall +establish your identity beyond question; but we shall have to do it in +the courts. When it is once done no one can prevent you from taking +the name and the property to which you are entitled and using them as +you see fit." + +"But my mother!" said Ralph, anxiously, "my mother; she's all I care +about; I don't want the property if I can't have her." + +"And you shall have her, my boy. Mrs. Burnham said to me this morning, +that, until your claim was duly proved in a court of law, she would +have no legal right to accept you as her son; but that, when your +identity is once established in that way, she will receive you into +her home and her heart with much joy." + +Ralph looked up with brightening eyes. + +"Did she say that?" he exclaimed, "an' will she do it?" + +"I have no doubt of it, none whatever." + +"Then let's get at it right away," said the boy, impatiently, "it +won't take very long, will it?" + +"Oh! some little time; several months, may be; may be longer." + +Ralph's face fell again. + +"I can't wait that long!" he exclaimed; "I'll go to her myself; I'll +tell her ev'rything; I'll beg her to take me. Do you think she would? +do you?" + +"Oh, Ralph! now be reasonable. That would never do. In the first +place, it would be useless. She has seen you, she knows you; she says +you are not her son; you can't prove it to her. Besides that, she has +no legal right to take you as her son until the courts have passed +upon the question of your identity. If she should attempt to do so, +the other heirs of Robert Burnham would come in and contest your +claim, and you would be in a far worse position to maintain your +rights than you are now,--oh! far worse. No, you must not go to Mrs. +Burnham, you must not go to her at all, until your sonship is fully +established. You must keep cool, and wait patiently, or you will +destroy every chance you have." + +"Well, then, I'll try to; I'll try to wait an' do what you tell me to; +what shall I do first?" + +"The first thing to be done, Ralph, is to have the court appoint a +guardian for you. You can't do anything for yourself, legally, you +know, till you are twenty-one years old; and whatever action is taken +in your behalf, must be taken by a guardian. It will be his place to +establish your identity, to restore you to your mother, and to take +care of your property. Now, who would you prefer to have act in that +capacity?" + +"Well, I don't know; there's Uncle Billy, he's the best friend I've +got; wouldn't he do?" + +"Do you mean William Buckley, with whom you are living?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Why, he would do if he were rich, or had rich friends who would go +on his bond. You see, the guardian would have to give a bond to the +extent of a great many thousand dollars for the faithful performance +of his duties. Could Buckley do that?" + +"I'm afraid not, sir. He ain't rich, himself, an' I never heard of his +havin' any rich friends." + +"Whom else can you think of?" + +"Won't Mrs. Burnham do?" + +"Oh, no! it might be necessary for the guardian to bring suit against +her." + +"There ain't anybody else that I can think of," said Ralph, +despairingly, after a moment's pause. + +"Well, then, I don't know what we shall do. If you can't find some one +who is able to qualify for this trust, we may as well stop right here. +I guess we've done all we can for the boy, Mr. Craft?" + +Craft nodded and smiled. He was enjoying the lawyer's diplomacy with +Ralph, exceedingly. + +The lad was again in the depths of anxiety. He looked from one to the +other of the men with appealing eyes. + +"Ain't they some way to fix it, Mr. Sharpman?" he said. "Can't you do +sumpthin' for me?" + +"Oh! I couldn't be your guardian, my boy, the law wouldn't allow that; +and Mr. Craft, here, hasn't money enough. I guess we'll have to give +up the idea of restoring you to your mother, and let you go back to +work in the breaker again." + +"That'd be too bad," said the boy. "Don't do that; I couldn't stan' +that--now. Can't you see my mother again, Mr. Sharpman, an' get her to +take me--some way?" + +"It can't be done, Ralph. There's only one way to fix it, and that is +to get a guardian for you. If we can't do that, we may as well give it +all up." + +The anxiety and disappointment expressed in the lad's face was pitiful +to look upon. + +Then Craft spoke up. + +"Ralph has been very unkind and ungrateful to me," he said, "but I +have always been his best friend. I saved his life; and I've spent +time and money and lost my health on his account. But I'm willing to +do him a favor yet, if he thinks he can appreciate it. I'll act as his +guardian and take care of his property for him, if he'll be a good boy +and do as we tell him." + +"I'll do everything I can," said Ralph, eagerly, "'ceptin' to go back +an' live with you; everything--but Mr. Sharpman said you wasn't rich +enough." + +"No, I ain't," responded the old man; "and I don't know how to get +around that difficulty, unless Mr. Sharpman will help me and be my +bondsman." + +Ralph turned his face pleadingly to Sharpman. + +"Oh, now, Craft!" said the lawyer, smiling, and shaking his head, +"don't you think you are presuming a little too much on my friendship? +If you were the only one to be trusted, why, I might do it; but in +this case I would have to depend on the boy as well, and there's no +knowing how he would misbehave. According to your own story, he is a +wilful, wrong-headed lad, who has already rewarded your kindness to +him with base ingratitude. Oh, no! I could trust you, but not him." + +"Mr. Sharpman!" pleaded the boy, "Mr. Sharpman, I never meant to be +mean or unkind to Gran'pa Simon. I never knew't he saved my life, +never. I thought he abused me, I did; I was sure of it; that's the +reason I run away from 'im. But, you see, I'm older now; I'd be more +reason'ble; I'll do anything you tell me to, Mr. Sharpman,--anything, +if you'll only fix it for Gran'pa Simon so's't he can help me get back +to my mother." + +The lawyer sat for a few moments as if lost in thought. Finally, he +raised his head and said:-- + +"I've a great mind to try you, Ralph. Do you think I can really place +full confidence in you?" + +"Yes, sir; oh, yes, sir!" + +"And will you follow my advice to the letter, and do just what I tell +you to do in this matter?" + +"Yes, sir; I will." + +"Well, then," said Sharpman, turning to Craft, "I think I'll trust the +boy, and I'll assist you in your bonds. I know that we both have his +interest at heart, and I believe that, together, we can restore his +rights to him, and place him in the way of acceptance by his family. +Ralph," turning again to the boy, "you ought to be very thankful to +have found two such good friends as Mr. Craft and myself." + +"Yes, sir, I am. You'll do everything you can for me, won't you? as +quick as you can?" + +"Oh, yes! Mr. Craft will be your guardian, and I will be his bondsman +and lawyer. Now, I think we understand each other, and I guess that's +all for to-night." + +"When do you want me to come again?" + +"Well, I shall want you to go to Wilkesbarre with me in a few days, to +have the appointment of guardian made; but I will send for you. In the +meantime you will keep on with your work as usual, and say nothing to +any person about what we have told you. You'll do that, won't you?" + +"Yes, sir, I will. But, Uncle Billy--can't I tell him? he'll be awful +glad to know." + +"Well, yes, you may tell Billy, but charge him to keep it a profound +secret." + +"Oh! he will, he will; he'll do anything like that 'at I ask 'im to." + +Ralph picked up his cap and turned to go; he hesitated a moment, then +he crossed the room to where old Simon still sat, and, standing before +him, he said:-- + +"I'm sorry you're sick, Gran'pa Simon. I never meant to do wrong by +you. I'll try to do w'at's right, after this, anyway." + +The old man, taken by surprise, had no answer ready; and Sharpman, +seeing that the situation was likely to become awkward, stepped +forward and said: "Oh! I've no doubt he'll be all we can desire now." + +He took the boy's hand, and led him toward the door. "I see my clerk +has gone," he said; "are you afraid to go home alone?" + +"Oh, no! It's moonlight; an' besides, I've gone home alone lot's o' +nights." + +"Well, good luck to you! Good-night!" + +"Good-night!" + +The office door closed behind the boy, and he went out into the street +and turned toward home. + +The moon was bright and full, and a delicate mist hung close to the +earth. It was a very beautiful night. Ralph thought he had never seen +so beautiful a night before. His own footsteps had a musical sound in +his ears, as he hurried along, impatient to reach Bachelor Billy, and +to tell to him the wonderful news,--news so wonderful that he could +scarcely realize or comprehend it. Mr. Sharpman said he would be going +back home to-night with a heart as light as a feather. And so he was, +was he not? He asked his heart the question, but, somehow, it would +not say yes. There was a vague uneasiness within him that he could not +quite define. It was not because he doubted that he was Mrs. Burnham's +son; he believed that fact implicitly. It was not so much, either, +that he could not go to her at once; he could wait for that if the end +would only surely bring it. But it seemed to him that he was being +set up in a kind of opposition to her; that he was being placed in a +position which might lead to an estrangement between them: and that +would be a very sad result, indeed, of this effort to establish his +identity. But Mr. Sharpman had assured him that Mrs. Burnham approved +of the action that was about to be taken in his behalf. Why, then, +should he fear? Was it not absurd to cloud his happiness with the +dread of something which would never come? Away with doubts! away +with fears! he would revel, for to-night at least, in the joy of his +new knowledge. Mrs. Burnham was his mother; was not that beautiful, +beautiful? Could he, in his wildest flight of fancy or desire, have +ever hoped for more than that? But there was something more, and that +something was that Robert Burnham was his father. Ah! that was, beyond +all question, the highest honor that could ever rest upon a boy,--to +be the son of a hero! Ralph threw back his head and shoulders with +instinctive, honest pride as this thought filled his mind and heart, +and his quick step grew more elastic and more firm as he hurried on +along the moonlit path. + +He was out beyond the city limits now, climbing the long hill +toward home. He could see Burnham Breaker, standing out in majestic +proportions, black and clear-cut against the moon-illumined sky. +By and by the little mining village came into view, and the row of +cottages, in one of which the Widow Maloney lived; and finally the +light in Bachelor Billy's window. When Ralph saw this he broke into a +run, and sped swiftly along the deserted street, with the whole glad +story of his parentage and his prospects crowding to his tongue. + +Billy was still sitting by the fire when the boy burst into the room; +but he had fallen asleep, and his clay pipe had dropped from his +fingers and lay broken on the hearth. + +"Uncle Billy! oh, Uncle Billy! what do you think?" + +"Why, Ralph, lad, is that yo'? I mus' 'a' been asleep. Whaur ye been, +eh?" + +"W'y don't you 'member? I went to Lawyer Sharpman's office." + +"True for ye, so ye did. I forgot; an' did ye--" + +"Oh, Uncle Billy! what _do_ you think? Guess who I am; guess!" + +"Why, lad, don't frighten a mon like that. Ye'll wake the neeborhood. +Who be ye, then?" + +"Guess! guess! Oh, you'd never guess! I'm Ralph Burnham; I'm Mrs. +Burnham's son!" + +Bachelor Billy's hands dropped lifelessly to his knees, his mouth and +eyes came wide open with unfeigned astonishment, and, for the moment, +he was speechless. Finally he found breath to exclaim: "Why, Ralph, +lad; Ralph, ye're crazy,--or a-jokin'! Don't joke wi' a mon that way, +Ralph; it ain't richt!" + +"No, but, Uncle Billy, it's true; it's all true! Ain't it splendid?" + +"Be ye sure o' that, Ralph? be ye sure o' it?" + +"Oh! they ain't no mistake about it; they couldn't be." + +"Well, the guid Lord save ye, lad!" and Billy looked the boy over +carefully from head to foot, apparently to see if he had undergone any +change during his absence. Then he continued: "Coom, sit ye, then; sit +ye, an' tell us aboot it a'; how happenit it, eh?" + +Again they drew their chairs up before the replenished fire, and Ralph +gave a full account of all that had occurred at the lawyer's office. + +By virtue of his own faith he inspired Bachelor Billy with equal +confidence in the truth of the story; and, by virtue of his own +enthusiasm, he kindled a blaze of enthusiasm in the man's heart that +glowed with hardly less of brightness than that in his own. Very late +that night they sat there, these two, talking of what the future held +for Ralph; building bright castles for him, and high hopes, with +happiness beyond measure. It was only when the fire burned out and +left its charred coals in the iron grate-bars and on the hearth that +they went to bed, the one to rest in the dreamless sleep that follows +in the path of honest toil, and the other to wake often from his +feverish slumber and stare down into the block of moonlight that fell +across his bed through the half-curtained window of the room, and +wonder whether he had just dreamed it all, or whether he had, indeed, +at last, a birthright and a name. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +RHYMING JOE. + + +Ten days after the evening interview at Sharpman's office, Ralph +received a message from the lawyer instructing him to be at the +railroad station on the following morning, prepared to go to +Wilkesbarre. + +So Bachelor Billy went alone that day to the breaker, and Ralph stayed +behind to make ready for his journey. + +He dressed himself in his best clothes, brushed them carefully, put a +little money in his pocket, and, long before the appointed hour, he +was at the station, waiting for Sharpman. + +The lawyer did not come until it was nearly time for the train to +start. He greeted Ralph very pleasantly, and they took a seat together +in the car. It was a beautiful autumn morning, and the nature-loving +boy enjoyed greatly the changing views from the car window, as the +train bore them swiftly on through the picturesque valley of the +Lackawanna. After reaching, at Pittston, the junction with the +Susquehanna River, the scenery was grander; and, as they passed down +through the far-famed Wyoming Valley, Ralph thought he had never +before seen anything quite so beautiful. On the whole it was a +delightful journey. Sharpman was in excellent spirits and made himself +very agreeable indeed. He seemed to enjoy answering the boy's bright +questions, and listening to his shrewd remarks and frank opinions. It +was not until they were nearing Wilkesbarre that the special object +of their trip was mentioned; then the lawyer informed Ralph that they +would go directly to court, and instructed him that if the judge +should ask him whom he wished for his guardian, Ralph was to reply +that he desired the appointment of Simon Craft. That matter being +thoroughly understood, they went on to talk of what they should do in +the future. + +"It will be necessary, eventually," said Sharpman, "to bring a formal +suit against Mrs. Burnham, as administrator, to recover your interest +in the estate; but, judging from what she has intimated to me, I don't +anticipate any serious opposition on her part." + +"I'm sorry, though," responded Ralph, "that they's got to be a +law-suit. Couldn't we make it so plain to her, some way, 'at I'm her +son that we needn't have any suit?" + +"I am afraid not. Even though she, herself, were convinced, she would +have no right to distribute a portion of the estate to you against the +objection of her daughter's guardian. There is no way but to get a +judgment of the court in the matter." + +"Well, why couldn't she jes' take my part, an' give it to her +daughter's guarden, an' then take me home to live with her without any +propaty? Wouldn't that do? I'd a good deal ruther do that than have a +law-suit. A man hates to go to law with his own mother, you know." + +Sharpman smiled and replied: "That would be a very generous offer, +indeed; but I am afraid even that would not do. You would have no +right to make such an agreement before you are twenty-one years old. +Oh, no! we must have a law-suit, there is no other way; but it will be +a mere matter of form; you need have no fear concerning it." + +The train reached Wilkesbarre, and Ralph and the lawyer went directly +from the station to the court-house. There were very few people in the +court-room when they entered it, and there seemed to be no especial +business before the court. Sharpman went down into the bar and shook +hands with several of the attorneys there. The judge was writing +busily at his desk. After a few moments he laid his pen aside and +read a long opinion he had prepared in the matter of some decedent's +estate. Ralph could not understand it at all, and his mind soon +wandered to other subjects. After the reading was finished and one or +two of the lawyers had made short speeches, there was a pause. Then +Sharpman arose, and, drawing a bundle of papers from his pocket, he +read to the court from one of them as follows:-- + + "TO THE HONORABLE, THE JUDGE OF THE ORPHANS' COURT OF LUZERNE + COUNTY:-- + + "The petition of Ralph Burnham, by his next friend Simon Craft, + respectfully represents that the petitioner is a minor child of + Robert Burnham, late of the city of Scranton in said county, + deceased, under the age of fourteen years; that he is resident + within the said county and has no guardian to take care of his + estate. He therefore prays the court to appoint a guardian for + that purpose. + + "RALPH BURNHAM. + By his next friend, SIMON CRAFT. + Dated, Sept. 26, 1867." + +"Your Honor will notice that the petition is duly sworn to," said +Sharpman, handing the paper to the clerk, who, in turn, handed it to +the judge. There was a minute of silence. The lawyers were all staring +at Sharpman in astonishment. + +Then, the judge spoke. + +"Mr. Sharpman, I was not aware that Robert Burnham left more than one +child living; a girl, for whom we have already made appointment of a +guardian." + +"I was not aware of that fact either," rejoined Sharpman, "until very +recently; but it is a fact, nevertheless; and we are here now, asking +that a way be prepared by which this heir may come into his rightful +portion of his father's estate." + +"This is a peculiar case," responded the judge; "and I think we should +have some other basis than this on which to act; some affidavit of +facts." + +"I came prepared to meet that objection," said Sharpman. "I will now +read, if the court please, a statement of the facts in the case." He +unfolded another paper and read a long and detailed account of the +wreck, of Ralph's rescue by Simon Craft, of the old man's care and +keeping of the boy, of the finding of Ralph's parents, the lad's +desertion, the recent discovery of his whereabouts, of Craft's toil +and sacrifice in the matter, and of Ralph's desire to be restored to +his family. This was signed and sworn to by Simon Craft. + +The judge sat for a moment in silence, as if studying the effect of +this affidavit. + +"Has the mother been notified," he said finally, "that this child +is living, and, if so, why does not she appear here to make this +application?" + +"I will answer that question, your Honor, by reading the following +affidavit," replied Sharpman. + + "LUZERNE COUNTY, SS.: + + "John H. Sharpman, attorney at law of said county, being duly + sworn according to law, deposes, and says: that, on the fifteenth + day of September, A.D. 1867, he called upon Mrs. Margaret Burnham, + the widow of Robert Burnham, late of the city of Scranton, + deceased, and administrator of the said Robert Burnham's estate, + and informed her of the facts set forth in the foregoing affidavit + of Simon Craft. She acknowledged her acquaintance with the boy + Ralph, herein mentioned, but refused to acknowledge him as the + son of Robert Burnham, or to grant him any legal interest in the + estate of the said Robert Burnham. A notice, a copy of which is + hereto attached, has been served on the said Margaret Burnham, + warning her that application will be made to the Orphans' Court, + on this day, at this hour, for the appointment of a guardian for + the boy Ralph. + + "JOHN H. SHARPMAN. + Sworn and subscribed before me, + Sept. 26, 1867. + ISRAEL DURHAM, + _Justice of the Peace_." + +"Does any one appear for Mrs. Burnham in this matter?" inquired the +judge, addressing the assembly of lawyers. + +An elderly man, short and thick-set, with gray hair and moustache, +arose, and said:-- + +"I have been informed, as Mrs. Burnham's attorney, that such a +proceeding as this was in contemplation. I appreciate your Honor's +careful scrutiny of the matter before making an appointment; but, so +long as we do not recognize the boy as Robert Burnham's son, it would +hardly be justifiable for us to interfere in the simple appointment +of a guardian for him. Inasmuch, however, as the avowed purpose is +to make an attack on the Burnham estates, we shall insist that the +guardian enter into a bond of sufficient amount and value to cover any +damages which may accrue from any action he may see fit to take." + +"Have you prepared a bond, Mr. Sharpman?" inquired the judge. + +"We have," replied Sharpman, producing still another paper. + +"Mr. Goodlaw," continued the judge, addressing Mrs. Burnham's +attorney, "will you look at the bond and see if it is satisfactory to +you?" + +Mr. Goodlaw took the bond, examined it, and returned it to the clerk. +"I have no objection to make to it," he said. + +"Then we will approve the bond, Mr. Sharpman, and make the +appointment. You have named Simon Craft as guardian. We are wholly +unacquainted with him. Have you consulted with the boy in this matter? +What does he say?" + +"I have brought the boy into court, so that, notwithstanding his legal +inability to make choice for himself, your Honor might be satisfied as +to his wish in the matter. This is the boy," as Ralph, obedient to the +lawyer's summons, came into the bar and stood beside him. The judge +scrutinized the lad closely, and the lawyers leaned forward in their +chairs, or came nearer for the purpose of better observation. Ralph +felt somewhat embarrassed, standing there to be stared at so, but the +voice of the judge soon reassured him. + +"Ralph," he said, "is this application for a guardian made according +to your desire?" + +"Yes, sir," replied the boy; "Mr. Sharpman says I ought to have one." + +"And whom do you choose for your guardian?" + +"Gran'pa Simon, sir." + +Sharpman looked annoyed, and whispered something to Ralph. + +"I mean Simon Craft," said the boy, correcting himself. + +"Is Simon Craft your grandfather?" asked the judge, sternly. + +"Oh, no! I guess not. He made me call 'im that. I never had no +grandfather; but Mr. Sharpman says that Robert Burnham was my +father--and--and he's dead." + +The judge looked down at the lad somewhat uncertainly, then he said: +"Well, Ralph, that will do; we'll make the appointment, but," turning +to Sharpman, "we shall watch this matter closely. We shall see that +justice is done to the child in any event." + +"It is my earnest wish," responded Sharpman, "that your Honor shall +do so. My only object in the matter is to see that this boy, whom I +firmly believe to be Robert Burnham's son, is restored to his family +and estates, and that this old man, who has saved the lad's life, and +has spent and endured much for him through many years, is adequately +rewarded in his old age." + +The judge endorsed the papers and handed them to the clerk, and +Sharpman walked up the aisle with Ralph to the door of the court-room. + +"I have business," said the lawyer, "which will keep me here the rest +of the day. Can you find your way back to the station?" + +"Oh, yes!" + +"Here is something to pay your fare with;" offering a piece of money +to the boy. + +"I've got enough," said Ralph, declining to accept it, "plenty; I'll +get home all right." + +"Well, the train will leave at noon. I'll send for you when we want +you again. Good-by!" + +"Good-by!" + +Ralph went down the steps, out at the door, and across the court-house +yard. He was not sure that he struck into the right street to go to +the station, there were so many streets radiating from the court-house +square. But it did not much matter; there was plenty of time before +the train would start, and he thought he would like to walk about a +little, and see something of the city. He felt like walking off, too, +a feeling of dissatisfaction concerning what had just been done in +court. It was too much in the nature of an adverse proceeding to seem +quite right to him; he was fearful that, somehow, it would estrange +his mother from him. He thought there ought to be some simpler way to +restore him to his family, some way in which he and his mother could +act jointly and in undoubted harmony. He hoped it would all come out +right, though. He did not know what better he could do, at any rate, +than to follow the advice of his lawyer; and, besides that, he had +promised to obey him implicitly in this matter, and he must keep +his promise. He had no thought that he was being used merely as an +instrument in the hands of designing men. + +It was with this vague feeling of unrest at his heart, and with his +mind occupied by uneasy thought, that he walked leisurely down the +street of this strange city, paying little attention to his course, +or to what was going on around him. + +Finally he thought it was time he should have reached the station, or +at least made some attempt to find it; so he quickened his steps a +little, and looked out ahead of him. + +There was a man standing on the next corner, and Ralph stopped and +asked him if he was on the right road to get to the station. The man +laughed good-naturedly, and told him he was on the right road to get +away from it, and advised him to retrace his steps for four blocks, +then to go two blocks to the left, and there he would find a street +running diagonally across the town, which, if he would follow it, +would take him very near to the station. He would have to hurry, too, +the man said, if he wanted to catch the noon train. + +So Ralph turned back, counting the blocks as he went, turning at +the right place, and coming, at last, to the street described. But, +instead of one street running diagonally from this point there were +two or three; and Ralph did not know which one to follow. He asked +a boy, who was passing by with a basket on his shoulder, where the +station was, and the boy, bending his neck and looking at him, said,-- + +"I guess this's the way you want to go, sonny," pointing down one +of the streets, as he spoke, and then whistling a merry tune as he +trudged on with his burden. + +Ralph turned into the street designated, and hurried down it, block +after block; but he did not reach the station, nor did he see any +place that looked like it. He seemed to be in the suburbs, too, in a +locality the surroundings of which impressed him unpleasantly. The +buildings were small and dilapidated, there was a good deal of rubbish +on the sidewalks and in the streets, a few ragged children were +playing in the gutter near by, shivering with cold as they ran about +in bare, dirty feet, and a drunken man, leaning against a post on the +opposite corner, was talking affectionately to some imaginary person +in the vicinity. Ralph thought that this, certainly, was not where he +ought to be. He walked more slowly, trying to find some one who would +give him reliable directions. + +At the corner of the block there was a house that looked somewhat +better than its neighbors. It had a show-window projecting a +few inches into the street, and in the window was a display of +wine-bottles, and a very dirty placard announcing that oysters would +be served to customers, in every style. On the ground-glass comprising +the upper part of the door, the words "Sample Room" were elaborately +lettered. Ralph heard some one talking inside, and, after a moment of +hesitation, concluded to go in there and make his inquiry, as the need +of finding his way had come to be very pressing. Coming in, as he did, +from the street, the room was quite dark to his eyes, and he could not +well make out, at first, who were in it. But he soon discovered a man +standing, in his shirt-sleeves, behind a bar, and he went up to him +and said:-- + +"Will you please tell me, sir, which is the nearest way to the +railroad station?" + +"Which station d'ye want to go to, bub?" inquired the man, leaning +over the bar to look at him. + +"The one you take the train for Scranton from." + +"Which train for Scranton d'ye want to take?" + +"The one't leaves at noon." + +"Why that train goes in just five minutes. You couldn't catch that +train now, my little cupid, if you should spread your wings and fly to +the station." + +It was not the bar-tender who spoke this time; it was a young man who +had left his chair by the stove and had come up closer to get a better +look at the boy. He was just slipping a silver watch back into his +vest pocket. It was a black silk vest, dotted with little red figures. +Below the vest, encasing the wearer's legs very tightly, were a pair +of much soiled corduroy pantaloons that had once been of a lavender +shade. Over the vest was a short, dark, double-breasted sack coat, now +unbuttoned. A large gaudy, flowing cravat, and an ill-used silk hat, +set well back on the wearer's head, completed this somewhat noticeable +costume. + +There was a good-natured looking face under the hat though, smooth and +freckled; but the eyes were red and heavy, and the tip of the straight +nose was of quite a vermilion hue. + +"No, my dear boy," he continued,-- + + "You can't catch it, + And I can't fetch it, + +"so you may as well take it easy and wait for the next one." + +"When does the next one go?" inquired Ralph, looking up at the strange +young man, but with his eyes still unaccustomed to the darkness of the +room. + +"Four o'clock, my cherub; not till four o'clock. Going up on that +train myself, and I'll see you right through:-- + + "Oh, sonny! if you'll wait and go with me, + How happy and delighted I should be." + +Then the young man did a strange thing; he took hold of Ralph's arm, +led him to the window, turned his face to the light and scrutinized it +closely. + +"Well, I'll be kicked to death by grasshoppers!" he exclaimed, at +last, "have I found--do I behold--is this indeed the long lost Ralph?" + +The boy had broken away from him, and stood with frightened, wondering +face, gazing steadily on the young man, as if trying to call something +to memory. Then a light of recognition came into his eyes, and a smile +to his lips. + +"Why!" he exclaimed, "it's Joe; it's Rhymin' Joe!" + +"A happy meeting," said the young man, "and a mutual remembrance. +Heart speaks to heart. + + "The hand of friendship, ever true, + Brings you to me and me to you. + +"Mr. Bummerton," turning to the bar-tender, "allow me to introduce my +esteemed young friend, Mr. Ralph Craft, the worthy grandson of an old +acquaintance." + +Mr. Bummerton reached a burly hand over the bar and shook hands +cordially with Ralph. "Glad to meet your young friend," he said. + +"Well," continued Rhyming Joe, "isn't it strange how and under what +circumstances old cronies sometimes meet? I cast my eyes on you and I +said to myself, 'that young man has a familiar look to me.' I listened +to your voice and I remarked to my inner consciousness, 'that voice +lingers somewhere in the depths of of memory.' I turn your face to the +light, and lo and behold! I reveal to my astonished gaze the features +of my old friend, Ralph. + + "No tongue can tell my great delight, + At seeing you again to-night. + +"Of course it isn't night yet, you know, but the pressing exigencies of +rhyme often demand the elimination, as it were, of a small portion of +time." + +Ralph was glancing uneasily about the room. "Gran'pa Simon ain't +anywheres around is he?" he asked, letting his eyes rest, with careful +scrutiny, on a drunken man asleep in a chair in a dark corner. + +"No, my boy," answered Joe, "he isn't. I haven't seen the dear old +saint, for, lo, these many moons. Ah!--let me see! did you not leave +the patriarch's sweet home circle, somewhat prematurely, eh? + + "Gave the good old man the slip + Ere the cup could touch the lip?" + +"Yes," said Ralph, "I did. I run away. He didn't use me right." + +"No, he didn't, that's so. Come, be seated--tell me about it. Oh! +you needn't fear. I'll not give it away. Your affectionate grandpa +and I are not on speaking terms. The unpleasant bitterness of our +estrangement is sapping the juices of my young life and dragging the +roses from my cheeks. + + "How sad when lack of faith doth part + The tender from the toughened heart!" + +Rhyming Joe had drawn two chairs near to the stove, and had playfully +forced Ralph into one of them, while he, himself, took the other. + +The bar-tender came out from behind his bar and approached the couple. + +"Oh, by the way," he asked, "did ye have a ticket for your passage up, +or was ye goin' to pay your fare?" + +"Oh, no!" said Ralph, "I ain't got any ticket. Mr. Sharpman paid my +fare down, but I was goin' to pay it back, myself." + +The man stood, for a few minutes, listening to the reminiscences of +their Philadelphia life which Ralph and Joe were recalling, then he +interrupted again:-- + +"How'd ye like to have some dinner, me boy? Ain't ye gittin' a little +hungry? it's after noon now." + +"Well, I am a bit hungry," responded Ralph, "that's a fact. Do you get +dinners here for people?" + +"Oh, certainly! jest as good a dinner as ye'll git anywhere. Don't +charge ye for nothing more'n ye actially eat, neither. Have some?" + +"Well, yes," said the boy, "I guess so; I won't have no better chance +to get any, 'fore I get home." + +"I think," said Rhyming Joe, as the man shuffled away, "that my young +friend would like a dish of soup, then a bit of tenderloin, and a +little chicken-salad, and some quail on toast, with the vegetables +and accessories. For dessert we will have some ices, a few chocolate +eclairs and lady-fingers, and a cup of black coffee. You had better +bring the iced champagne with the dinner, and don't forget the +finger-bowls." + +Before the last words were out of the speaker's mouth, the bar-tender +had disappeared through a door behind the bar, with a wicked smile on +his face. + +It seemed a long time, to Ralph, before the man came back, but when +he did come, he carried in his hands a tray, on which were bowls of +oyster soup, very thin, a few crackers, and two little plates of dirty +butter. He placed them on a round table at one side of the room, and +Ralph and Joe drew up their chairs and began to eat. + +The man came again, a few minutes afterward, with bread, and pork, and +cabbage, and coffee. + +On the whole, it was much better than no dinner, and Ralph's hunger +prevented him from being very critical. The warm food seemed to have +the effect of making him more communicative, and he was allowing his +companion to draw out from him, little by little, as they sat and ate, +the whole story of his life since leaving Simon Craft. Rhyming Joe +appeared to be deeply interested and very sympathetic. + +"Well, you did have a hard time, my dear lad," he said, "out on the +road with that circus company. I travelled with a circus company once, +myself, in the capacity of special entertainer of country people and +inspector of watches and jewelry, but it brings tears to my eyes now, +to remember how ungratefully they treated me." + +"That's jes' like they did me," said Ralph; "w'en I got sick up there +at Scranton, they hadn't no furder use for me, an' they went away an' +lef' me there alone." + +"That was a sad plight to be in. How did you meet that emergency?" + +"I didn't meet it at all. Bachelor Billy, he met it; he foun' me, an' +cured me, an' I live with him now, an' work in the breaker." + +"Ah, indeed! at work. _Laborarium est honorarium_, as the Latin poet +has it. How often have I wished that it were possible for me to earn +my bread by the sweat of my brow; but, alas!--" + +"Ain't it?" interrupted Ralph. + +"No, my dear boy, it isn't. I have been afflicted, from my youth up, +with a chronic disease which the best physicians of both continents +have pronounced imminently dangerous to both life and happiness, if +physical exercise be immoderately indulged in." + +"What is it?" asked Ralph, innocently. + +"Indolentia, my dear boy, indolentia; a terrible affliction. But how +about Grandpa Simon? Has he discovered your retreat? + + "Has the bald, bad eagle of the plain + Swooped down upon his prey again?" + +"Well, not hardly that," responded Ralph, "but he's foun' me." + +"Indeed! And what is his state of mind concerning you now?" + +"He ain't my grandfather," said the boy, abruptly. + +"Ain't your grandfather! You startle me." + +"No, he ain't no relation to me." + +"You take my breath away! Who are you, then?" + +"I'm Ralph Burnham. I'm Robert Burnham's son." + +Ralph had not meant to disclose so much, in this place, to this +fellow, but the words came out before he thought. It did not matter +much anyway,--every one would soon know it. + +"Robert Burnham's son? You don't mean the rich coal proprietor who +died at his mine in Scranton last spring?" + +"Yes, he's the one I mean. I'm his son." + +Rhyming Joe leaned across the table, lifted up the boy's chin, and +looked into his eyes. "My dear young friend," he said, "I fear you +have fallen into evil ways since you passed out of the range of my +beneficent influence. But you should not try to impose so glittering a +romance on the verdant credulity of an old acquaintance at the first +meeting in many weary years." + + "To your faithful friend and true, + Tell the truth, whate'er you do." + +"Tis true!" asserted Ralph, stoutly. "Gran'pa Simon says so, an' +Lawyer Sharpman says so, an' Mrs. Burnham, she--she--she almost +believes it, too, I guess." + +The bar-tender approached again and asked what else they would have. + +"A little something to wash the dinner down with, Bummerton," said +Joe, turning again quickly to Ralph. + +"Then why don't you live in the Burnham mansion?" he asked, "and leave +rude toil for others?" + +"'Cause my mother ain't able to reco'nize me yet; she can't do it till +the suit's ended. They's other heirs, you know." + +"Suit! what suit? are you going to have a suit over it?" + +The bar-tender brought a bottle, a pitcher of water, two glasses, and +a bowl of sugar. + +"Yes," replied the boy, sadly, "I s'pose we've got to. Gran'pa Simon, +he's been 'pointed my garden. He ain't so bad a man as he used to be, +Gran'pa Simon ain't. He's been sick a good deal lately, I guess." + +Rhyming Joe paid no attention to these last remarks, but he seemed to +be deeply interested in the law-suit mentioned. He took time to pour +some of the contents of the bottle into each glass, then he filled the +glasses up with water and stirred a goodly quantity of sugar into the +one he pushed toward Ralph. + +"What is it?" asked the boy. "Uncle Billy an' me's temperance; we +don't drink nothin' much but water." + +"Oh!" responded Joe, "this is purely a temperance drink; it's made up +from wheat, just the same as you get in your white bread. They have to +drink it here in Wilkesbarre, the water is so bad. + + "When man and water both are ill, + A little wheat-juice fills the bill. + +"Try some, you'll find it good." + +Ralph was thirsty, and he sipped a little of the mixture; but he did +not like it very well, and he drank no more of it. + +"Who is going to carry on the suit for you?" continued Rhyming Joe; +"have you got a lawyer?" + +"Oh, yes! Lawyer Sharpman; he's very smart, too. He's goin' to manage +it." + +"And when will the trial come off? Perhaps I may be of some assistance +to you and to my quondam friend, your sometime grandfather. I would +drop all bitterness of feeling, all vain enmity, if I might do the +revered patriarch a favor. + + "My motto has been, and my motto is yet, + That it frequently pays to forgive and forget." + +"Oh! I don't know," Ralph replied; "it'll be two or three months yet, +anyway, I guess." + +Rhyming Joe gazed thoughtfully at the stove. + +Bummerton came and began to take away the dishes. + +"What's your bill, landlord?" inquired Joe. + +"D'ye want the bill for both of ye?" + +"Certainly. My young friend here, if I remember rightly, invited me to +dine with him. I am his guest, and he foots the bills. See?" + +Ralph did not remember to have asked Rhyming Joe to dine with him, but +he did not want to appear mean, so he said:-- + +"Yes, I'll foot the bill; how much is it?" taking out his little +leather wallet as he spoke. + +"It'll be three dollars," said Bummerton; "a dollar an' a quarter +apiece for the dinner, an' a quarter apiece for the drinks." + +Ralph looked up in amazement. He had never before heard of a dinner +being worth so much money. + +"Oh! it's all right," said Joe. "This is rather a high-priced hotel; +but they get up everything in first-class style, do you see? + + "If in style you drink and eat, + Lofty bills you'll have to meet." + +"But I ain't got that much money," said Ralph, unstrapping his wallet. + +"How much have ye got?" inquired the bar-tender. + +"I've only got a dollar'n eighty-two cents." + +"Well, you see, sonny," said Bummerton, "that ain't more'n half +enough. Ye shouldn't order such a fancy dinner 'nless ye've got money +to pay for it." + +"But I didn't know it was goin' to cost so much," protested Ralph. +"Uncle Billy an' me got jest as good a dinner last Fourth o' July at +a place in Scranton, an' it didn't cost both of us but seventy cents. +Besides, I don't b'lieve--" + +"Look here, Bummerton!" said Joe, rising and leading the bar-tender +aside. They whispered together for a few moments and then returned. + +"It's all right," said Joe. "You're to pay him what money you have, +and he's to charge the remainder on my bill. I'll stand the rest of it +for you. + + "I'll be that precious 'friend in need,' + Who proves himself a friend indeed." + +"Then," said Ralph, "I won't have any money left to pay my fare back +home." + +"Oh, I'll see to that!" exclaimed Joe. "I invited you to ride up with +me, didn't I? and of course I'll pay your fare; _das verstekt sich_; +that goes without saying. + + "I'll never desert you, oh, never! he spake, + We'll stand by each other, asleep or awake." + +It was not without much misgiving that Ralph gave the dollar and +eighty-two cents to the bar-tender, and returned the empty wallet to +his pocket. But Rhyming Joe soon engaged him again in conversation. +The young man seemed to be deeply interested in the movement to +restore the boy to his family rights and possessions. He asked +many questions about it, about Craft, about Sharpman, about Ralph's +knowledge of himself; the whole ground, indeed, was gone over +carefully from the beginning to the present; even the probabilities of +the future were fully discussed. + +In the meantime, the liquor in the bottle was steadily diminishing in +quantity, as a result of Rhyming Joe's constant attention to it, and +Ralph thought he began to detect evidences of intoxication in the +speech and conduct of his friend. His nose appeared to be getting +redder, his eyelids were drooping, he was sinking lower into his +chair, his utterance was growing thick, and his voice had a sleepy +tone. + +Ralph, too, felt sleepy. The excitement and exercise of the morning, +the hearty dinner, the warm, close room, and the fumes of alcohol in +the atmosphere, were all having their effect on his senses. He saw, +dimly, that Joe's chin was resting on his breast and that his eyes +were closed; he heard him mutter in a voice that seemed to come from +some distant room:-- + + "Of all 'e bowls I s-s-smell or see, + The wassail bowl's 'e bowl f-f-for me," + +and the next moment both man and boy were fast asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +A FRIEND IN NEED. + + +When Ralph awoke, it was quite dark in the room. He was still sitting +at the round table, but Rhyming Joe had disappeared from the other +side of it. He looked around the room, and saw that an oil-lamp was +burning behind the bar, and that two or three rough-looking men stood +there with the bar-tender, talking and drinking. But the young man who +had dined with him was nowhere to be seen. Ralph arose, and went over +to the bar. + +"Can you tell me where Joe is, please?" he asked of the bar-tender. + +"Joe? Oh, he went out a half-an-hour ago. I don't know where he went, +sonny." And the man went on filling the glasses, and talking to the +other men. Ralph stood for a moment, in deep thought, then he asked:-- + +"Did Joe say when he would be back?" + +The bar-tender paid no attention to him, and, after a few moments, the +boy repeated the question. + +"Mr. Bummerton, did Joe say when he would be back?" + +"No, he didn't," responded the man, in a surly tone; "I don't know +nothing about him." + +Ralph went back, and stood by the stove to consider the matter. He +thought it was very strange. He could hardly believe that Rhyming Toe +had intended to desert him in this way. He preferred to think that the +fellow had become helpless, and that Bummerton had dragged him into +some other room. He knew that Joe used to get that way, years before, +in Philadelphia. He had seen much of him during the wretched period of +his life with Simon Craft. Joe and the old man were together a great +deal during that time. They were engaged jointly in an occupation +which was not strictly within the limit of the law, and which, +therefore, required mutual confidence. The young fellow had, +apparently, taken a great liking to Ralph, had made much of him in +a jovial way, and, indeed, in several instances, had successfully +defended him against the results of Old Simon's wrath. The child had +come to regard him as a friend, and had not been displeased to meet +him, after all these years, in this unexpected manner. He had had a +general idea that the young man's character was not good, and that his +life was not moral, but he had not expected to be badly treated by +him. Now, however, he felt compelled to believe that Joe had abused +the privileges of friendship. The more he thought of it, the more sure +he became that he had been deceived and deserted. He was alone in a +strange city, without money or friends. What was to be done? + +Perhaps the bar-tender, understanding the difficulty, would help him +out of it. He resolved to apply to him. + +"Mr. Bummerton," he said, approaching the bar again, "now't Joe's +gone, an' I ain't got no money, I don't see how I'm goin' to git home. +Could--could you lend me enough to pay my fare up? I'll send it back +to you right away. I will,--honest!" + +The man pushed both his hands into the pockets of his pantaloons, and +stood for a minute staring at the boy, in feigned astonishment. + +"Why, my little innocent!" he exclaimed, "what do ye take me for; +a reg'lar home for the friendless? No, I ain't in the charitable +business jist now. By the way, did ye know that the law don't allow +hotel-keepers to let boys stay in the bar-room? Fust thing I know +they'll be a constable a-swoopin' down on me here with a warrant. +Don't ye think ye'd better excuse yourself? That's the door over +yonder, young feller." + +Ralph turned, without a word, went to the door, opened it, and stepped +into the street. It was very dark outside, and a cold wind was blowing +up. He stood, for a few minutes, on the corner, shivering, and +wondering which way to go. He felt very wretched indeed; not so much +because he was penniless and lost, as because he had been deceived, +abused, and mocked. He saw through the whole scheme now, and wondered +how he had fallen so easily into it. + +On a distant corner there was a street-lamp, burning dimly, and, +without much thought of where he was going, the boy started toward it. + +There were other drinking-saloons along the street, and he could hear +loud talking and quarrelling in them as he passed by. A man came +out from one of them and hailed him gruffly. It frightened him, and +he started to run. The man followed him for a little way, shouting +savagely, and then turned back; but Ralph ran on. He stumbled, +finally, on the uneven pavement, and fell headlong, bruising his side +and hurting his wrist. His cap had rolled off, and it took him a +long time to find it. Then he crossed the street to avoid a party of +drunken revellers, and limped along until he came to the lamp that he +had seen from the distance. Down another street there were a number of +lights, and it looked more inviting; so he turned in that way. After +he had gone two or three blocks in this direction, avoiding carefully +the few persons whom he met, he turned again. The streets were +growing lighter and wider now, and there were more people on them, +and that was something to be thankful for. Finally he reached a busy, +well-lighted thoroughfare, and turned into it, with a sigh of relief. +He had not walked very far along it before he saw, over to the right, +surrounded by lights, a long, low building, in the middle of an open +square. It occurred to him, suddenly, that this was the railroad +station, and he hurried toward it. When he reached the door he +remembered that he was without money, but he thought he would go in at +any rate. He was very tired, and he knew of no better place in which +to stop and rest. So he went into the waiting-room, and sat down on a +bench, and looked around him. + +There were not many people there, but they began to come very soon, +and kept coming until the room was nearly full. Finally, there was a +puffing of a locomotive out on the track, and a ringing of an engine +bell, and the door-keeper called out:-- + +"All aboard for Pittston, Scranton, and Carbondale!" + +The people crowded toward the door, and just then a carriage drove up +to the other side of the station, and a gentleman and a lady and a +little girl came into the waiting-room from the street entrance. The +lady was in deep mourning; but, as she threw aside her veil for a +moment, Ralph recognized her as Mrs. Burnham, and the little girl as +her child. His heart gave a great throb, and he started to his feet. + +The gentleman was saying: "I trust you will reach home safely and +comfortably." + +And Mrs. Burnham replied: "Oh, there is no doubt of it, Mr. Goodlaw! I +have telegraphed to James to meet us at the station; we shall be there +before nine o'clock." + +"I will see that you are comfortably settled," he said, as they +crossed the room toward the waiting train. + +For a moment Ralph stood, wondering and uncertain. Then there came +into his mind a sudden resolution to speak to them, to tell them who +he was, and why and how he was here, and ask them to help him. He +started forward, but they were already passing out at the door. He +pushed hurriedly by several people in his effort to overtake them, but +the man who stood there punching tickets stopped him. + +"Where's your ticket, sonny?" he asked. + +"I ain't got any," replied Ralph. + +"Then you can't get out here." + +"But I want to find Mrs. Burnham." + +"Who's Mrs. Burnham?" + +"The lady't just went out." + +"Has she got a ticket for you?" + +"No, but she'd give me money to get one--I think." + +"Well, I can't help that; you can't go out Come, stand aside! you're +blocking up the way." + +The people, crowding by, pushed Ralph back, and he went and sat down +on the bench again. + +The bell rang, the conductor shouted "All aboard!" and the train +moved off. + +Ralph's eyes were full of tears, and his heart was very heavy. It +was not so much because he was friendless and without money that he +grieved, but because his mother,--his own mother,--had passed him by +in his distress and had not helped him. She had been so close to him +that he could almost have put out his hand and touched her dress, and +yet she had swept by, in her haste, oblivious of his presence. He +knew, of course, that, if he had spoken to her, or if she had seen and +known him, she would gladly have befriended him. But it was not her +assistance that he wanted so much as it was her love. It was the +absence of that sympathy, that devotion, that watchful care over every +step he might take, that motherly instinct that ought to have felt his +presence though her eyes had been blinded; it was the absence of all +this that filled his heart with heaviness. + +But he did not linger long in despair; he dashed the tears from his +eyes, and began to consider what he should do. He thought it probable +that there would be a later train; and it was barely possible that +some one whom he knew might be going up on it. It occurred to him that +Sharpman had said he would be busy in Wilkesbarre all day. Perhaps he +had not gone home yet; if not, he might go on the next train, if there +was one. It was worth while to inquire, at any rate. + +"Yes," said the door-keeper, in answer to Ralph's question, "there'll +be another train going up at eleven thirty-five." + +"Do you know Mr. Sharpman?" asked the boy, timidly. + +"Mr. who?" + +"Mr. Sharpman, the lawyer from Scranton." + +"No, I don't know him,--why?" + +"Oh, I didn't know but you might know w'ether he'd gone home or not; +but, of course, if you don't know 'im you couldn't tell." + +"No, I don't know anything about him," said the man, stretching +himself on the bench for a nap. + +Ralph thought he would wait. Indeed, there was nothing better for him +to do. It was warm here, and he had a seat, and he knew of no other +place in the city where he could be so comfortable. The clock on the +wall informed him that it was eight in the evening. He began to feel +hungry. He could see, through a half-opened door, the tempting array +of food on the lunch-counter in another room; but he knew that he +could get none, and he tried not to think of eating. It was very +quiet now in the waiting-room, and it was not very long before Ralph +fell to dozing and dreaming. He dreamed that he was somewhere in deep +distress, and that his mother came, looking for him, but unable to see +him; that she passed so close to him he put out his hand and touched +her; that he tried to speak to her and could not, and so, unaware of +his presence, she went on, leaving him alone in his misery. + +The noise of persons coming into the room awoke him, finally, and he +sat up and rubbed his eyes and looked around him. He saw, by the clock +on the wall, that it was nearly train time. The escaping steam from +the waiting engine could already be heard outside. People were buying +tickets and making their way hurriedly to the platform; but, among all +those who came in and went out, Ralph could not discover the familiar +face and figure of Sharpman, nor, indeed, could he see any one whom +he knew. + +After the passengers had all gone out, the door-keeper called Ralph to +him. + +"Find your man?" he asked. + +"Do you mean Mr. Sharpman?" + +"Yes." + +"No, he didn't come in. I guess he went home before." + +The door-keeper paused and looked thoughtful. Finally he said:-- + +"You want to go to Scranton?" + +"Yes, that's where I live." + +"Well, I'll tell you what you do. You git onto that train, and when +Jim Coleman--he's the conductor--when he comes around to punch your +ticket, you tell him I said you were to be passed. Now you'll have to +hurry; run!" + +The kind-hearted door-keeper saw Ralph leap on to the train as it +moved slowly out, and then he turned back into the waiting-room. +"Might as well give the lad a lift," he said to a man who stood by, +smiling; "he looked awful solemn when the last train before went and +left him. Jim won't put him off till he gits to Pittston, anyway." + +Ralph found a vacant seat in the car and dropped into it, breathless +and excited. His good luck had come to him all in a moment so, that it +had quite upset him. + +He did not just understand why the door-keeper's word should be good +for his passage, but the conductor would know, and doubtless it was +all right. + +The train went rumbling on through the darkness; the lamps, hanging +from the ceiling, swayed back and forth; the people in the car were +very quiet,--some of them, indeed, were already asleep. + +By and by, the conductor came in, a slender, young-looking man, with +a good-natured face. He greeted several of the passengers pleasantly, +and came down the aisle, punching tickets to the right and left, till +he reached the seat where Ralph was. + +"Ticket?" he asked. + +"I ain't got any," said the boy. + +"What's the reason?" + +"W'y, I lost all my money, an' I couldn't buy one, an' I couldn't see +nobody't I knew, an' the man't tended door, he said tell you to pass +me up." + +The conductor smiled, as he recognized a familiar scheme of the +kind-hearted door-keeper, but he said, trying to speak sternly:-- + +"The man had no right to tell you that. Our rules are very strict. No +one can ride without a ticket or a pass. Where do you want to go?" + +"To Scranton; I live there," said Ralph, his voice faltering with +apprehension. + +"Well, I suppose I ought to stop the train and put you off." + +Ralph looked out through the car window, at the blackness outside, and +his face took on a look of fear. + +"I'm very sorry," he said, "I'm awful sorry. I wouldn't 'a' got on +if I'd 'a' known it. Do you think you've _got_ to put me off--right +away?" + +The conductor looked out through the window, too. + +"Well," he said, "it's pretty dark, and I hate to stop the train +between stations. I guess I'll have to let you ride to Pittston, +anyway. You'll get out there, won't you? it's the first stop." + +"Oh, yes! I'll get out there," said Ralph, much relieved, settling +back into his seat as the conductor left. + +The train dashed on through the night, rumbling, rocking, waking the +echoes now and then with its screaming whistle, and finally it pulled +into the station at Pittston. + +True to his bargain, Ralph stepped from the train. Two or three other +people left it at the same time and hurried away up the street; then +the puffing engine pulled the cars out again into the darkness. + +The boy stood, for a moment or two, wondering what he should do +now. The chill night air made him shiver, and he turned toward +the waiting-room. But the lights were already out there, and the +station-master had locked himself into his office. Off to the left he +saw the street lamps of West Pittston, dotting the blackness here and +there like dim, round stars; and between them and him the dark water +of the river reflected the few lights that shone on it. Finally, Ralph +walked down the length of the platform and turned up the street at the +end of it. + +In a minute or two he had reached Main Street, and stood looking up +and down it, trying to decide which way to go. On the other side, and +a little to the right, he saw a man standing on the corner, under a +street lamp, and looking at him. + +He was an honest-looking man, Ralph thought; may be he would tell him +what to do. He crossed over and went down to where the man stood. + +"Please, mister," he said, "I'd like to find a place to stay all +night." + +The man looked down on him wonderingly, but not unkindly. + +"Is it a hotel ye're after?" he asked. + +"Well, not hardly. I ain't got any money. I only want a place to stay +where I won't be in the dark an' cold alone all night." + +"Do ye belong in Pittston, I don' no'?" + +"No, I live in Scranton." + +"Sure, the train jist wint for there. Why didn't ye go with it?" + +"Well, you see, I didn't have any ticket, an' the conductor, he told +me to--to--he asked me if I wouldn't jest as lieve git off here." + +The man gave a low whistle. + +"Come along with me," he said, "it's little I can do for yez, but it's +better nor the strate." He led the way up the pavement of the side +street a few steps, unlocked a door and entered a building, and Ralph +followed him. + +They seemed to be in a sort of retiring room for the use of the +adjoining offices. A gas light was burning dimly. There was a table +in the room, and there were some chairs. Some engineering tools stood +in one corner, some mining tools in another; caps were hanging on the +wall, and odds and ends of many kinds were scattered about. + +The man took down a heavy overcoat, and spread it on the table. + +"There," he said, "ye can slape on that." + +"That'll be very nice," said Ralph; "it'll be a sight better'n stayin' +out in the street all night." + +"Right ye are, me lad! Compose yoursilf now. Good-night, an' swate +drames to yez! I'm the watchman; I'll be out an' in; it's nothing here +that'll hurt ye, sure; good-night!" and the man went out, and locked +the door after him. + +It was warm in the room, and very comfortable, and it was not long +after the boy laid down on the improvised bed before he was sound +asleep. He did not wake until the day began to dawn, and the watchman +came in and shook him; and it was some moments after he was roused +before he could make out just where he was. But he remembered the +situation, finally, and jumped down on to the floor. + +"I've had a good sleep," he said. "I'm a great deal obliged to you." + +"Don't shpake of it, lad," said the man; "don't shpake of it. Will ye +wash up a bit?" + +"Yes, I would like to," replied Ralph, "very much." + +He was shown the way to the basin and water, and after a few moments +he came back fresh and clean. + +"Ye wouldn't like a bit to ate now, would ye?" asked the watchman, who +had been busying himself about the room. + +"Oh, I can get along very well without it," replied the boy; "you've +done enough for me." + +"Whin did ye ate last?" + +"Well, it must 'a' been some after noon yestaday." + +The man went to a closet and took down a dinner-pail. + +"I've a bit left o' me last-night's dinner," said he; "an' av ye're +the laste bit hungry ye'll not be makin' me carry it home with me." He +had spread a newspaper on the table, and had laid out the pieces of +food upon it. + +"Oh, I am hungry!" responded Ralph, looking eagerly over the tempting +array. "I'm very hungry; but you've been too good to me already, an' +you don't know me, either." + +The man turned his face toward the door, and stood for a minute +without speaking. Then he said, huskily:-- + +"Ate it lad, ate it. Bless your sowl, there's a plinty more where that +come from." + +The boy needed no further urging. He ate the food with great relish, +while the watchman stood by and looked on approvingly. When the meal +was finished, Ralph said:-- + +"Now, I'll be a-goin'. I can't never thank you enough. Maybe I can do +sumpthin' for you, some time, but--" + +"Howld your tongue, now! Didn't I tell ye not to shpake of it?" + +The boy opened the door and looked out upon the dawning day. + +"Ain't it nice!" he said. "I can git along splendid in the daylight. +I ain't afraid, but it's awful lonesome in the dark, 'specially when +you're away from home this way." + +"An' where do ye be goin' now?" inquired the watchman. + +"Home; to Scranton. I can walk there, so long as it's daylight. Oh! I +can git along beautiful now. Which is the bes' way to go?" + +The man looked down at him wonderingly for a moment. "Well, ye do bate +the--the--the prisidint!" he said, going with him to the corner of the +street. "Now, thin, go up the strate straight,--I mean straight up the +strate,--turn nayther to the right nor the lift, an whin the strate +inds, follow the road up the river, an' be it soon or late ye'll come +to Scranton." + +"Thank you! Good-by. I'll al'ays remember you." + +"Good-by, me lad! an' the saints attind ye!" + +They shook hands cordially, and Ralph started up the street on his +long journey toward home, while the watchman turned back to his +duties, with his heart full of kindness and his eyes full of tears. +But he never, never forgot the homeless lad whom he fed and sheltered +that autumn night. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +A FRIEND INDEED. + + +It had been understood, when Ralph went to Wilkesbarre that morning, +that he should return in the afternoon. Bachelor Billy was very much +surprised, therefore, when he returned from his work, not to find +the boy waiting for him. Indeed, he had more than half expected that +Ralph would come up to the breaker to walk home with him, or would, at +least, meet him on the way. The Widow Maloney had not seen him, she +said; and when supper was ready she sent her little girl down the road +to look for him, and to tell him to hurry home. + +Before they had finished eating, the child came back, saying that she +could not find him. They were not worried about him, though; they +thought he had been delayed at court, and would come in on one of the +later trains. So, after supper, Billy lighted his pipe and walked down +toward the city, hoping to meet the lad. He went on until he reached +the railroad station. They told him there that the next train would be +in from Wilkesbarre in about an hour. He concluded to wait for it, so +he sat on one of the benches, and watched the people coming and going, +and smoked his clay-pipe in comparative comfort. The train came at +last, and the passengers from it crowded through the hall-way, and out +into the street. But among them all Bachelor Billy could not discover +Ralph. He saw Mrs. Burnham coming from the cars, though, and it +occurred to him that possibly she might know something about the boy. +She had doubtless come from Wilkesbarre; indeed it was not unlikely +that she had been in court. He did not hesitate to inquire of her; she +knew him very well, and always had a kind word for him when she came +to see Ralph. + +He took off his cap and approached her. "Beggin' your pardon, Mistress +Burnham," he said, "but ha' ye seen aught o' Ralph?" + +The lady stopped in surprise, but in a moment she recognized the man, +and, throwing aside her veil, she replied: "Oh, Billy, is that you? +Ralph, did you say? I have not seen him. Why?" + +"He went to Wilkesbarre the day, ma'am, an' he s'ould 'a' comit hame +sooner, an' I thocht mayhap ye might 'a' rin across the lad, d'ye see. +Pardon me for a-stoppin' o' ye." + +The lady still stood, holding her child by the hand. + +"Did he go alone?" she asked. + +"No, he went doon wi' Muster Sharpman." + +"And has Mr. Sharpman returned?" + +"I did na thenk to ask; that was fulish in me,--I s'ould 'a' gone +there first." + +"I think Mr. Sharpman will look after him. I do not think you need to +worry; perhaps it was necessary for them to remain overnight. But, if +Ralph does not come in the morning, you must let me know, and I shall +assist you in searching for him." + +"Thank ye, Mistress Burnham, thank ye, kindly! I canna feel greatly +concernit ower the lad, sin' he's verra gude at carin' for himsel'. +But, gin he does na come i' the mornin', I s'all mak' search for 'im. +Here's James a-waitin' for ye"; going ahead, as he spoke, to stand by +the fretting horses while James held open the carriage door. + +"Good-night, Billy!" came from inside the coach as it rolled away; and +"Good-night, Billy!" echoed the sweet voice of the child. + +"Good-nicht to both o' ye!" he shouted, standing to watch them until +the carriage disappeared into the darkness. + +"She's verra kin'," he said to himself, as he walked up the street +toward home, "verra kin', but it's no' sic a care as the lad's ane +mither s'ould ha' ower 'im, an' he awa' fra hame i' the darkness o' +the nicht so. But she dinna ken, she dinna ken as he be her son. Coom +a day when that's plain to her, an' she'd spare naught to save 'im fra +the ghost o' danger." + +When Bachelor Billy reached home, Mrs. Maloney was at the door to +ask about Ralph. The man told her what Mrs. Burnham had said, and +expressed an earnest hope that the boy would come safely back in the +morning. Then' he went to his room, started a fire in the grate, and +sat down, by it to smoke. + +It was already past his customary bed-time, but he could not quite +make up his mind to go to bed without Ralph. It seemed a very lonely +and awkward thing for him to do. They had gone to bed together every +night for nearly three years, and it is not easy to break in upon such +a habit as that. + +So Billy sat by the fire and smoked his pipe and thought about the +boy. He was thoroughly convinced that the child was Robert Burnham's +son, and all of his hopes and plans and ambitions, during these days, +were centred in the effort to have Ralph restored his family, and +to his rights as a member of that family. It would be such a fine +thing for the boy, he thought. In the first place, he could have an +education. Bachelor Billy reverenced an education. To him, it was +almost a personality. He held that, with an education, a man could +do anything short of performing miracles; that all possibilities of +goodness or greatness that the world holds were open to him. The very +first thing he would choose for Ralph would be an education. Then the +child would have wealth; that, too, would be a great thing for him +and, through him, for society. The poor would be fed, and the homeless +would be sheltered. He was so sure of the boy's honest heart and +moral firmness that he knew wealth would be a blessing to him and not +a curse. + +And a beautiful home! Once he had been in Robert Burnham's house; and, +for days thereafter, its richness and beauty and its homelike air had +haunted him wherever he went. Yes, the boy would have a beautiful +home. He looked around on the bare walls and scanty furniture of his +own poor dwelling-place as if comparing them with the comforts and +luxuries of the Burnham mansion. The contrast was a sharp one, the +change would be great. But Ralph was so delicate in taste and fancy, +so high-minded, so pure-souled, that nothing would be too beautiful +for him, no luxury would seem strange, no life would be so exalted +that he could not hold himself at its level. The home that had haunted +Bachelor Billy's fancy was the home for Ralph, and there he should +dwell. But then--and the thought came suddenly and for the first time +into the man's mind--when the boy went there to live, he, Billy, would +be alone, _alone_. He would have no one to chatter brightly to him +at the dawn of day, no one to walk with him to their daily tasks at +Burnham Breaker, to eat from the same pail with him the dinner that +had been prepared for both, to come home with him at night, and fill +the bare room in which they lived with light and cheer enough to flood +a palace. Instead of that, every day would be like this day had been, +every night would be as dull and lonely as the night now passing. + +How could he ever endure them? + +He was staring intently into the fire, clutching his pipe in his hand, +and spilling from it the tobacco he had forgotten to smoke. + +The lad would have a mother, too,--a kind, good, beautiful mother to +love him, to caress him, to do a million more things for him than his +Uncle Billy had ever done or ever could do. And the boy would love his +mother, he would love her very tenderly; he ought to; it was right +that he should; but in the beauty and sweetness of such a life as that +would Ralph remember him? How could he hope it? Yet, how could he bear +to be forgotten by the child? How could he ever bear it? + +In his intensity of thought the man had risen to his feet, grasping +his clay pipe so closely that it broke and fell in fragments to the +hearth. + +He looked around again on the bare walls of his home, down on his own +bent form, on his patched, soiled clothing and his clumsy shoes, then +he sank back into his chair, covered his face with his hands, and gave +way to tears. He had lived in this world too long not to know that +prosperity breeds forgetfulness, and he felt already in his heart a +foretaste of the bitterness that should overwhelm him when this boy, +whom he loved as his own child, should leave him alone, forgotten. + +But after a time he looked up again. Pleasanter thoughts were in +his mind. They were thoughts of the days and nights that he and +the boy had spent together, from the time when he had found him, +sick, helpless, and alone, on the dusty highway, in the heat of the +midsummer sun, to these days that were now passing, with their strange +revelations, their bright hopes, their shadowy fears. + +But in all his thought there was no touch of disappointment, no trace +of regret. It was worth it all, he told himself,--worth all the care +he had given to the boy, all the money he had spent to restore him +to health, worth all he had ever done or ever could do for him, just +to have had the lad with him for a year, a month, a week: why it was +worth it all and more, yes, vastly more, just to have felt the small +hand laid once on his arm, to have seen the loving eyes look up once +into his, and to have heard the clear voice say, "Dear Uncle Billy" in +the confiding way he knew so well. + +It was nearly midnight when Bachelor Billy went to bed, and long after +that hour before he fell asleep. + +He awoke several times during the night with a sense of loneliness +and desolation pressing down upon him, and he arose early to prepare +for his day's work. It was arranged at the breakfast-table that Mrs. +Maloney's oldest girl should go down to Lawyer Sharpman's office to +inquire about Ralph, and Billy was to come home at noon, contrary to +his custom, to hear her report. + +Daylight is a great promoter of natural cheer, and the man went away +to his work with a strong hope in his heart of Ralph's speedy return; +and when the long morning had passed and he hurried back to his home, +he half expected that the boy would meet him on the way. But he was +disappointed; even Mrs. Maloney's girl had no news for him. She had +been to Sharpman's office twice, she said, and had not found him in, +though the clerk had told her that Mr. Sharpman had returned from +Wilkesbarre the day before. + +Billy decided then that it was time to make active search for the boy, +and when he had finished a hurried dinner, he put on his best clothes +and started for the city. He thought it would be wise for him to +go first to Sharpman's office and learn what he could there. The +lawyer had not yet returned from lunch, but the clerk said he would +positively be in at half-past one, so Billy took the proffered chair, +and waited. Sharpman came promptly at the time, greeted his visitor +cordially, and took him into his private office. + +"Well, my friend; what can I do for you?" he asked. + +"I cam' to see aboot Ralph, sir; Ralph as lives wi' me." + +"Oh! are you Buckley? William Buckley?" + +"I am, sir. I want to know when saw ye the lad last?" + +"Why, about eleven o'clock yesterday. He came up on the noon train, +didn't he?" + +"I ha' no' seen 'im." + +"Haven't seen him!" exclaimed Sharpman, in a voice expressive of much +alarm. "Haven't seen him since when, man?" + +"Not sin' yester-mornin', when I said 'good-by' till the lad, an' went +t' the breaker. I got scared aboot 'im, an' cam' to look 'im oop." + +Bachelor Billy had become infected with Sharpman's alarm. + +"Well, we _must_ look him up," said the lawyer, putting on his hat, +which he had just laid aside, and taking up a light overcoat. "Come, +we'll go down to the station and see if we can learn anything of him +there." + +Sharpman was really very anxious about the boy; it would interfere +sadly with his scheme to have Ralph disappear again, now. The two men +went out from the door together and down the street at a rapid pace. +But they had not taken two steps around the corner into Lackawanna +Avenue, when they came face to face with the missing boy. He was a +sorry sight, limping slowly along, covered with dust, exhausted from +his journey. He was no less surprised to meet Bachelor Billy and the +lawyer, than they were to meet him, and all three stood speechless, +for a moment, with astonishment. + +"Why, Ralph!" exclaimed Billy, "Ralph, lad, whaur ye been?" + +But Ralph did not know what to say. An overwhelming sense of shame +at his unfortunate adventure and at his wretched condition had come +suddenly to him, and the lawyer's sharp eyes, fixed steadily upon him, +increased his embarrassment not a little. + +"Why don' ye speak, lad? Tell Uncle Billy what's happenit to ye; coom +noo!" and the man took the child's hands affectionately into his. + +Then Ralph spoke. From a full heart, poor lad, he made his confession. + +"Well, Uncle Billy, I got lost in Wilkesbarre; I wasn't used to it, +an' I went into a saloon there, an' they got all my money, an' I got +onto the train 'ithout a ticket, an' the conductor put me off, an' I +had to walk the rest o' the way home; an' I'm pirty tired, an' dirty, +an' 'shamed." + +Sharpman laughed aloud. + +"Ah! that's Wilkesbarre charity," he said; "you were a stranger, and +they took you in. But come, let's go back to my office and talk it +over." + +Secluded in the lawyer's private room Ralph told the whole story of +his adventures from the time he left Sharpman at the court-house door. + +When he had finished, Bachelor Billy said, "Puir lad!" then, turning +to Sharpman, "it was no' his fau't, thenk ye?" + +"Oh, no!" said the lawyer, smiling, "any one might have met with the +same fate: dreadful town, Wilkesbarre is, dreadful! Have you had any +dinner, Ralph?" + +"No, sir," said Ralph, "I haven't." + +"Well, come into my wash-room and brighten yourself up a little. +You're somewhat travel-stained, as it were." + +In ten minutes Ralph reappeared, looking clean and comparatively +fresh. + +"Now," said Sharpman, "you don't resemble quite so strongly the man +who went down from Jerusalem to Jericho. Here, take this," reaching +out some money, "and go down to the restaurant on the corner and +surprise yourself with the best dinner you can buy. Oh, you can pay +it back," as the boy hesitated about accepting the money; "we'll call +it a loan if you like. Come, you agreed to obey my instructions, you +know. Buckley will wait here for you till you get back. Now, don't +hurry!" he said, as Ralph passed out at the door, "there's plenty of +time." + +For some minutes after the boy's departure, Sharpman and Bachelor +Billy sat talking over Ralph's recent adventure. Then the conversation +turned to the prospect for the future, and they agreed that it was +very bright. Finally, the lawyer said:-- + +"He was pretty sick when you first found him, wasn't he?" + +"He was that, verra bad indeed." + +"Called a doctor for him, didn't you?" + +"Oh, yes! Dr. Gunther. He comed every day for a for'night, an' often +he comed twice i' the same day. He was awfu' sick, the chil' was." + +"Footed the doctor's bill, I suppose, didn't you?" + +"Oh, yes, yes; but I did na min' that so long's the lad got well." + +"Had to pay the woman to nurse him and look after him, I take it?" + +"Oh! well, yes; but she needit the money, mon, an' the lad he needit +the noorsin', an' it was doin' a bit double good wi' ma siller, do ye +see?" + +"Well, you've housed and clothed and fed the boy for a matter of three +years or thereabouts, haven't you?" + +"Why, the lad's lived wi' me; he had a right to't. He's the same as my +own son'd be, min' ye." + +"You collect his wages, I presume?" + +"Oh, now! what'd I be doin' wi' the wee bit money that a baby like +him'd earn? He's a-savin' o' it. It ain't much, but mayhap it'll buy +a bit o' schoolin' for the lad some day. Ye s'ould see the braw way +he'll read an' write now, sir." + +Sharpman sat for some time as if in deep thought. Finally, he said:-- + +"Look here, Buckley! You're a poor man; you can't afford to throw away +what little money you earn, nor to let an opportunity slip for turning +an honest penny. You have done a good deal for the boy; I don't see +why you shouldn't be rewarded." + +"I've had ma reward, sir, i' the blessin' o' the lad's company." + +"Yes, that's all very true, but a man must not rob himself; it's +not right. You are getting along in years; you should have a little +something to lay by for old age. We are sure to establish Ralph's +identity, and to recover his interest in his father's estate. I know +that the boy would be delighted to have you paid out of the funds that +would come into our hands, and I am very certain that Mrs. Burnham +would be proud to have your services acknowledged in that way. The +basis of compensation would not be so much the time, labor, and money +actually expended by you, as it would be the value of the property +rescued and cared for. That would figure into a very nice sum. I think +you had better let me manage it, and secure for you something to lay +by for a rainy day, or for old age that is sure to fall on you. What +do you say?" + +But Bachelor Billy had risen to his feet, excited, and in earnest. + +"I'm a poor mon, Muster Sharpman," he said, "an' money's worth a deal +to me, but I could na tak' it for a-doin' what I ha' for Ralph." + +"Why, I am sure your services have been of infinite value, both to the +boy and to his mother." + +"Mayhap! mayhap! that's no' for me to say. But I canna do it. I could +na look ony mon i' the eye wi' a cent o' the lad's money i' ma purse. +It'd seem as though I'd been a-doin' for 'im a' these years wi' a +purpose to get it back in siller some day, an' I never did; I never +thocht o' it, sir. The chil's been as free an' welcome as the sunshine +wi' me. The bit money I ha' spent, the bit care I ha' had wi' 'im, why +that was paid back wi' dooble interest the first week he could sit oop +i' the bed an' talk. It's a blessin' to hear the lad talk to ye. Na, +na! do what ye can for Ralph. Spare naught to get his rightfu' dues; +but me, there's not a penny comin' to me. I've had ma pay, an' that +lang sin', lang sin', do ye mind." + +The lawyer waved his hand, as much as to say: "Very well, you're a +fool, but it's not my fault. I have placed the opportunity within your +reach; if you do not choose to grasp it, you're the loser, not I." But +Sharpman felt that he was the loser, nevertheless. + +He knew that his shrewd scheme to use this honest man as a tool for +the furtherance of his own ends had fallen through, and that the +modest sum which he had expected to gain for himself in this way would +never be his. + +He was not quite so cordial when Ralph returned from his dinner; and, +after a few words of admonition to the boy, he dismissed the pair, and +set himself diligently to the task of preparing a new scheme to take +the place of the one that had just vanished. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +AT THE BAR OF THE COURT. + + +When Ralph went to his work at the breaker on the morning after his +return from Wilkesbarre, he was met with curious glances from the men, +and wondering looks and abrupt questions from the boys. It had become +generally known that he claimed to be Robert Burnham's son, and that +he was about to institute proceedings, through his guardian, to +recover possession of his share of the estate. There was but little +opportunity to interrogate him through the morning hours: the flow of +coal through the chutes was too rapid and constant, and the grinding +and crunching of the rollers, and the rumbling and hammering of the +machinery, were too loud and incessant. + +Ralph worked very diligently too; he was in the mood for work. He +was glad to be at home again and able to work. It was much better +than wandering through the streets of strange towns, without money +or friends. Nor were his hands and eyes less vigilant because of the +bright future that lay before him. He was so certain of the promised +luxuries, the beautiful home, the love of mother and sister, the means +for education,--so sure of them all that he felt he could well afford +to wait, and to work while waiting. This toil and poverty would last +but a few weeks, or a few months at the longest; after that there +would be a lifetime of pleasure and of peace and of satisfied +ambitions. + +So hope nerved his muscles, and anticipation brought color to his +cheeks and fire to his eyes, and the thought of his mother's kiss +lent inspiration to his labor, and no boy that ever worked in Burnham +Breaker performed his task with more skill and diligence than he. + +When the noon hour came the boys took their dinner-pails and ran down +out of the building and over on the hill-side, where they could lie on +the clean grass in the warm September sunshine, and eat and talk until +the bell should call them again to work. + +Here, before the recess was over, Ralph joined them, feeling very +conscious, indeed, of his embarrassing position, but determined to +brave it out. + +Joe Foster set the, ball rolling by asking Ralph how much he had to +pay his lawyer. Some one else followed it up with a question relating +to his expectations for the future, and in a very few minutes the boy +was the object of a perfect broadside of interrogations. + +"Will you have a hoss of your own?" asked Patsey Welch. + +"I don't know," was the reply; "that depen's on what my mother'll +think." + +"Oh! she'll give you one if you want 'im, Mrs. Burnham will," said +another boy; "she'll give you everything you want; she's ter'ble good +that way, they say." + +"Will you own the breaker, an' boss us boys?" came a query from +another quarter. + +Before Ralph could reply to this startling and embarrassing question, +some one else asked:-- + +"How'd you find out who you was, anyway?" + +"Why, my lawyer told me," was the reply. + +"How'd he find out?" + +"Well, a man told him." + +"What man?" + +"Now, look here, fellows!" said Ralph, "I ain't goin' to tell you +everything. It'd predujuice my case too much. I can't do it, I got no +right to." + +Then a doubting Thomas arose. + +"I ain't got nothin' agin him," he began, referring to Ralph, "he's a +good enough feller--for a slate-picker, for w'at I know; but that's +all he is; he ain't a Burnham, no more'n I be, if he was he wouldn't +be a-workin' here in the dirt; it ain't reason'ble." + +Before Ralph could reply, some one took up the cudgel for him. + +"Yes, he is too,--a Burnham. My father says he is, an' Lawyer Sharpman +says he is, an' you don't know nothin' 'bout it." + +Whereupon a great confusion of voices arose, some of the boys denying +Ralph's claim of a right to participate in the privileges allotted to +the Burnham family, while most of them vigorously upheld it. + +Finally, Ralph made his voice heard above the uproar:-- + +"Boys," he said, "they ain't no use o' quarrellin'; we'll all find out +the truth about it 'fore very long. I'm a-goin' to stay here an' work +in the breaker till the thing's settled, an' I want you boys to use me +jest as well as ever you did, an' I'll treat you jest the same as I +al'ays have; now, ain't that fair?" + +"Yes, that's fair!" shouted a dozen boys at a time. "Hooray for Ralph +Burnham!" added another; "hooray!" + +The cheers were given with a will, then the breaker bell rang, and the +boys flocked back to their work. + +Ralph was as good as his word. Every morning he came and took his +place on the bench, and picked slate ten hours a day, just as the +other boys did; and though the subject of his coming prosperity was +often discussed among them, there was never again any malice or +bitterness in the discussion. + +But the days and weeks and months went by. The snows of winter came, +and the north winds howled furiously about the towering heights of +Burnham Breaker. Morning after morning, before it was fairly light, +Ralph and Bachelor Billy trudged through the deep snow on their way to +their work, or faced the driving storms as they plodded home at night. +And still, so far as these two could see, and they talked the matter +over very often, no progress was being made toward the restoration of +Ralph to his family and family rights. + +Sharpman had explained why the delay was expedient, not to say +necessary; and, though the boy tried to be patient, and was very +patient indeed, yet the unquiet feeling remained in his heart, and +grew. + +But at last there was progress. A petition had been presented to +the Orphans' Court, asking for a citation to Margaret Burnham, as +administrator of her husband's estate, to appear and show cause why +she should not pay over to Ralph's guardian a sufficient sum of money +to educate and maintain the boy in a manner befitting his proper +station in life. An answer had been put in by Mrs. Burnham's attorney, +denying that Ralph was the son of Robert Burnham, and an issue had +been asked for to try that disputed fact. The issue had been awarded, +and the case certified to the Common Pleas for trial, and placed on +the trial list for the May term of court. + +As the time for the hearing approached, the preparations for it grew +more active and incessant about Sharpman's office. + +Old Simon had taken up his abode in Scranton for the time being, and +was on hand frequently to inform and advise. Witnesses from distant +points had been subpoenaed, and Ralph, himself, had been called on +several occasions to the lawyer's office to be interrogated about +matters lying within his knowledge or memory. + +The question of the boy's identity had become one of the general +topics of conversation in the city, and, as the time for the trial +approached, public interest in the matter ran high. + +In those days the courts were held at Wilkesbarre for the entire +district. Lackawanna County had not yet been erected out of the +northern part of Luzerne, with Scranton as its county seat. + +There were several suits on the list for the May term that were to be +tried before the Burnham case would come on, so that Ralph did not +find it necessary to go to Wilkesbarre until Thursday of the first +week of court. + +Bachelor Billy accompanied him. He had been subpoenaed as a witness, +and he was glad to be able to go and to have an opportunity to care +for the boy during the time of the trial. + +Spring comes early in the valley of the Susquehanna; and, as the train +dashed along, Ralph, looking from the open window of the car, saw the +whole country white with the blossoms of fruit-bearing trees. The +rains had been frequent and warm, and the springing vegetation, rich +and abundant, reflected its bright green in the waters of the river +along all the miles of their journey. The spring air was warm and +sweet, white clouds were floating in the sky, birds were darting here +and there among the branches of the trees, wild flowers were unfolding +their modest beauty in the very shadow of the iron rails. Ralph saw +and felt it all, his spirit rose into accord with nature, and hope +filled his heart more abundantly than it ever had before. + +When he and Bachelor Billy went into the court-room that afternoon, +Sharpman met them and told them that their case would probably not +be reached that day, the one immediately preceding it having already +taken much more time in the trial than had been expected. But he +advised them not to leave the city. So they went out and walked about +the streets a little, then they wandered down along the river bank, +and sat there looking out upon the water and discussing the method and +probable outcome of the trial. + +When supper-time came, they went to their boarding-house, a cottage in +the suburbs, kept by a man who had formerly known Bachelor Billy in +Scranton. + +The next morning when they went into court the lawyers were making +their addresses to the jury in the case that had been heard on the +previous day, and Ralph and Billy listened to the speeches with +much interest. The judge's charge was a long one, and before it +was concluded the noon-hour had come. But it was known, when court +adjourned, that the Burnham case would be taken up at two o'clock. +Long before that time, however, the benches in the court-room were +filled with people, and even the precincts of the bar were invaded. +The suit had aroused so much interest and excitement that hundreds +of people came simply to see the parties and hear the evidence in +the case. + +At two o'clock Mr. Goodlaw entered, accompanied by Mrs. Burnham and +her little daughter, and all three took seats by a table inside +the bar. + +Sharpman came in a few minutes later, and Simon Craft arose from his +place near the railing and went with him to another table. Ralph, who +was with Bachelor Billy down on a front bench, scarcely recognized the +old man at first, there was so marked a change in his appearance. He +had on a clean new suit of black broadcloth, his linen was white and +well arranged, and he had been freshly shaven. Probably he had not +presented so attractive an appearance before in many years. It was all +due to Sharpman's money and wit. He knew how much it is worth to have +a client look well in the eyes of a jury, and he had acted according +to his knowledge. + +So Old Simon had a very grandfatherly air as he took his seat by the +side of his counsel and laid his cane on the floor beside him. + +After arranging his papers on the table, Sharpman arose and looked +back over the crowded court-room. Finally, catching sight of Ralph, +he motioned to him to come inside the bar. The boy obeyed, but not +without embarrassment. He saw that the eyes of all the people in the +room were fixed on him as he crossed the open space and dropped into a +chair by the side of Craft. But he had passed Mrs. Burnham on his way, +and she had reached out her gloved hand and grasped his little one and +held him by her for a moment to look searchingly and longingly into +his face; and she had said to him some kind words to put him at his +ease, so that the situation was not so very trying, after all. + +The clerk began to call a jury into the box. One by one they answered +to their names, and were scrutinized closely by the lawyers as they +took their places. Then Sharpman examined, carefully, the list of +jurors that was handed to him, and drew his pen through one of the +names. It was that of a man who had once suffered by reason of the +lawyer's shrewdness, and he thought it best to challenge him. + +"Call another juror," he said, passing the list to Goodlaw, who also +struck a name from it, added a new one, and passed it back. + +The jury was finally settled, the challenged men were excused, and the +remaining twelve were duly sworn. + +Then Sharpman arose to open his case. With rapid detail he went over +the history of Ralph's life from the time of the railroad accident +to the day of the trial. He dwelt upon Simon Craft's kindness to the +child, upon his energetic search for the unknown parents, and, later, +for the boy himself; of his final success, of his constant effort in +Ralph's behalf, and his great desire, now, to help him into the family +and fortune to which his birth entitled him. "We shall show to you all +of these facts, gentlemen of the jury," said Sharpman, in conclusion. +"We shall prove to you, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that this boy is +Margaret Burnham's son and an heir to Robert Burnham's estates; and, +having done so, we shall expect a verdict at your hands." + +The lawyer resumed his seat, spent a few moments looking over his +papers, and then said, in a tone of mingled respect and firmness:-- + +"We desire, if your Honor please, to call Mrs. Burnham for the purpose +of cross-examination." + +"That is your privilege under the law," said the judge. + +"Mrs. Burnham," continued Sharpman, "will you kindly take the stand?" + +"Certainly," replied the lady. + +She arose, advanced to the witness-stand, received the oath, and took +her chair with a matronly dignity and kindly grace that aroused the +sympathy and admiration of all who saw her. She gave her name, the +date of her marriage to Robert Burnham, the fact of his death, and the +names and ages of her children. In the course of the examination, she +was asked to describe the railway journey which ended in the disaster +at Cherry Brook, and to give the details of that disaster as she +remembered them. + +"Can you not spare me that recital, sir?" she said. + +"No one would be more willing or glad to do so, madam," responded +Sharpman, "than I, but the whole future of this fatherless boy is +hanging upon this examination, and I dare not do it. I will try to +make it easier for you, however, by interrogation." + +She had hidden her face in her hands a moment before; now she raised +it, pallid, but fixed with strong determination. + +"Go on," she said, "I will answer you." + +Sharpman stood for a moment as if collecting his thoughts, then he +asked: "Did you and your husband, accompanied by your child Ralph and +his nurse, leave your home in Scranton on the thirteenth day of May, +1859, to go by rail to the city of Philadelphia?" + +"We did." + +"Was the car in which you were riding well filled?" + +"It was not; no, sir." + +"How many children were in that car besides your son?" + +"Only one." + +"A boy?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"About how old?" + +"About Ralph's age, I should think." + +"With whom was he travelling?" + +"With an elderly gentleman whom he called, 'Grandpa.'" + +"Before you reached Philadelphia, did the bridge over Cherry Creek +give way and precipitate the car in which you were riding into the bed +of the stream?" + +"It did; yes, sir." + +"Immediately before that occurred where was your child?" + +"He was sitting with his nurse in the second seat ahead of us." + +"And the other child, where was he?" + +"Just across the aisle." + +"Did you see that other child after the accident?" + +"I did not; I only know that he survived it." + +"How do you know it?" + +"We learned, on inquiry, that the same old gentleman and little +child went on to the city in the train which carried the rescued +passengers." + +"You and your husband were both injured in the disaster, were you +not?" + +"We were." + +"And the nurse lost her life?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"How long was it after the accident before you began the search for +your child?" + +"It was nearly three days afterward before we were sufficiently +recovered to be able to do anything." + +"Did you find any trace of him?" + +"None whatever." + +"Any clothing or jewelry?" + +"Only a few trinkets in the ashes of the wreck." + +"Is it your belief that Ralph perished in that disaster?" + +"It is; yes, sir." + +"Would it take strong evidence to convince you to the contrary?" + +"I think it would." + +"Ralph," said Sharpman, turning to the boy, "stand up!" + +The lad arose. + +"Have you seen this boy before?" continued the lawyer, addressing the +witness again. + +"I have," she replied, "on several occasions." + +"Are you familiar with his face, his expression, his manner?" + +"To a great extent--yes, sir." + +"Do you recognize him as your son Ralph?" + +She looked down, long and searchingly, into the boy's face, and then +replied, deliberately, "No, sir, I do not." + +"That is all, Mrs. Burnham." + +Ralph was surprised and disappointed. He had not quite expected this. +He had thought she would say, perhaps, that she would receive him as +her son when his claim was duly proven. He would not have wondered +at that, but that she should positively, under oath, deny their +relationship to each other, had not been to him, before, within the +range of possibility. His brightness and enthusiasm were quenched +in a moment, and a chill crept up to his heart, as he saw the lady +come down from the witness-stand, throw her widow's veil across her +face, and resume her seat at the table. The case had taken on a new, +strange, harsh aspect in his sight. It seemed to him that a barrier +had been suddenly erected between him and the lady whom he had learned +to love as his mother; a barrier which no verdict of the jury or +judgment of the court, even though he should receive them, would help +him to surmount. + +Of what use were these things, if motherly recognition was to be +denied him? He began to feel that it would be almost better to go back +at once to the not unpleasant home with Bachelor Billy, than to try to +grasp something which, it now seemed, was lying beyond his reach. + +He was just considering the advisability of crossing over to Sharpman +and suggesting to him that he was willing to drop the proceedings, +when that person called another witness to the stand. This was a +heavily built man, with close-cropped beard, bronzed face, and one +sleeve empty of its arm. He gave his name as William B. Merrick, and +said that he was conductor of the train that broke through the Cherry +Brook bridge, on the night of May 13, 1859. + +"Did you see, on your train that night," asked Sharpman, "the witness +who has just left the stand?" + +"I cannot be positive," the man replied, "but, to the best of my +recollection, the lady was a passenger in the rear car." + +"With whom was she travelling?" + +"With a gentleman whom I afterward learned was her husband, a little +boy some two or three years of age, and the child's nurse." + +"Were there any other children on the train?" + +"Yes, one, a boy of about the same age, riding in the same car in +company with an elderly gentleman." + +"Did you see either of these children after the disaster?" + +"I saw one of them." + +"Which one?" + +"I supposed, at the time, that it was the one who accompanied the old +gentleman." + +"Why did you suppose so?" + +"Because I saw a child who bore marks of having been in the wreck +riding in the car which carried the rescued passengers to the city, +and he was in company with an elderly man." + +"Was he the same elderly man whom you saw with the child before the +accident?" + +"I cannot say; my attention was not particularly called to him before +the accident; but I supposed he was the one, from the fact of his +having the child with him." + +"Could you, at this time, recognize the man whom you saw with the +child after the accident?" + +"I think so. I took especial notice of him then." + +"Look at this old gentleman, sitting by me," said Sharpman, waving his +hand toward Craft, "and tell me whether he is the one." + +The man turned his eyes on Old Simon, and looked at him closely for a +full minute. + +"Yes," he replied, "I believe he is the one. He has grown older and +thinner, but I do not think I am mistaken." + +Craft nodded his head mildly in assent, and Sharpman continued:-- + +"Did you take particular notice of the child's clothing as you saw it +after the accident; could you recognize, at this time, the principal +articles of outside wear that he had on?" + +"I think I could." + +Sharpman paused as if in thought. + +After he had whispered for a moment with Craft, he said to the +witness:-- + +"That is all, for the present, Mr. Merrick." Then he turned to the +opposing counsel and said:-- + +"Mr. Goodlaw, you may take the witness." + +Goodlaw fixed his glasses more firmly on his nose, consulted briefly +with his client, and then began his cross-examination. + +After drawing out much of the personal history of the witness, he went +with him into the details of the Cherry Brook disaster. + +Finally he asked:-- + +"Did you know Robert Burnham in his lifetime?" + +"A gentleman by that name called on me a week after the accident to +make inquiries about his son." + +"Did you say to him, at that time, that the child must have perished +in the wreck?" + +"I think I did; yes, sir." + +"On what did you base your opinion?" + +"On several circumstances. The nurse with whom he was sitting was +killed outright; it would seem to have been impossible for any one +occupying that seat to have escaped instant death, since the other +car struck and rested at just that point. Again, there were but two +children on the train. It took it for granted that the old man and +child whom I saw together after the accident were the same ones whom I +had seen together before it occurred." + +"Did you tell Mr. Burnham of seeing this old man and child after the +accident?" + +"I did; yes, sir." + +"Did you not say to him positively, at that time, that they were the +same persons who were sitting together across the aisle from him +before the crash came?" + +"It may be that I did." + +"And did you not assure him that the child who went to the city, on +the train that night after the accident was not his son?" + +"I may have done so. I felt quite positive of it at that time." + +"Has your opinion in that matter changed since then?" + +"Not as to the facts; no, sir; but I feel that I may have taken too +much for granted at that time, and have given Mr. Burnham a wrong +impression." + +"At which time, sir, would you be better able to form an opinion,--one +week after this accident occurred, or ten years afterward?" + +"My opinion is formed on the facts; and I assure you that they were +not weighted with such light consequences for me that I have easily +forgotten them. If there were any tendency to do so, I have here a +constant reminder," holding up his empty sleeve as he spoke. "My +judgment is better, to-day, than it was ten years ago. I have learned +more; and, looking carefully over the facts in this case in the light +I now have, I believe it possible that this son of Robert Burnham's +may have been saved." + +"That will do," said Goodlaw. The witness left the stand, and the +judge, looking up at the clock on the wall, and then consulting his +watch, said:-- + +"Gentlemen, it is nearly time to adjourn court. Mr. Sharpman, can you +close your case before adjourning time?" + +"That will be impossible, your Honor." + +"Then, crier, you may adjourn the court until to-morrow morning at +nine o'clock." + +The crier made due proclamation, the spectators began to crowd out of +the room, the judge left the bench, and the lawyers gathered up their +papers. Ralph, on his way out, again passed by Mrs. Burnham, and she +had for him a smile and a kind word. Bachelor Billy stood waiting at +the door, and the boy went down with him to their humble lodgings in +the suburbs, his mind filled with conflicting thoughts, and his heart +with conflicting emotions. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +THE EVIDENCE IN THE CASE. + + +When court opened on Saturday morning, all the persons interested in +the Burnham suit were present, and the court-room was crowded to even +a greater extent than it had been on the previous day. Sharpman began +the proceedings by offering in evidence the files of the Register's +court, showing the date of Robert Burnham's death, the issuing +of letters of administration to his widow, and the inventory and +appraisement of his personal estate. + +Then he called Simon Craft to the witness-stand. There was a stir of +excitement in the room; every one was curious to see this witness and +to hear his evidence. + +The old man did not present an unfavorable appearance, as he sat, +leaning on his cane, dressed in his new black suit, waiting for the +examination to begin. He looked across the bar into the faces of the +people with the utmost calmness. He was perfectly at his ease. He knew +that what he was about to tell was absolutely true in all material +respects, and this fact inspired him with confidence in his ability to +tell it effectually. It relieved him, also, of the necessity for that +constant evasion and watchfulness which had characterized his efforts +as a witness in other cases. + +The formal questions relating to his residence, age, occupation, etc., +were answered with alacrity. + +Then Sharpman, pointing to Ralph, asked the witness:-- + +"Do you know this boy?" + +"I do," answered Craft, unhesitatingly. + +"What is his name?" + +"Ralph Burnham." + +"When did you first see him?" + +"On the night of May 13, 1859." + +"Under what circumstances?" + +This question, as by previous arrangement between attorney and +witness, opened up the way for a narration of facts, and old Simon, +clearing his throat, leaned across the railing of the witness-box and +began. + +He related in detail, and with much dramatic effect, the scenes at the +accident, his rescue of the boy, his effort at the time to find some +one to whom he belonged, and the ride into the city afterward. He +corroborated conductor Merrick's story of the meeting on the train +which carried the rescued passengers, and related the conversation +which passed between them, as nearly as he could remember it. + +He told of his attempts to find the child's friends during the few +days that followed, then of the long and desperate illness from which +he suffered as a result of his exertion and exposure on the night +of the accident. From that point, he went on with an account of his +continued care for the child, of his incessant search for clews to +the lad's identity, of his final success, of Ralph's unaccountable +disappearance, and of his own regret and disappointment thereat. + +He said that the lad had grown into his affections to so great an +extent, and his sympathy for the child's parents was such, that he +could not let him go in that way, and so he started out to find him. + +He told how he traced him from one point to another, until he was +taken up by the circus wagon, how the scent was then lost, and how the +boy's whereabouts remained a mystery to him, until the happy discovery +at the tent in Scranton. + +"Well," said Sharpman, "when you had found the boy, what did you do?" + +"I went, the very next day," was the reply, "to Robert Burnham to tell +him that his son was living." + +"What conversation did you have with him?" + +"I object," interposed Goodlaw, "to evidence of any alleged +conversation between this witness and Robert Burnham. Counsel should +know better than to ask for it." + +"The question is not a proper one," said the judge. + +"Well," continued Sharpman, "as a result of that meeting what were you +to do?" + +"I was to bring his son to him the following day." + +"Did you bring him?" + +"I did not." + +"Why not?" + +"Mr. Burnham died that night." + +"What did you do then?" + +"I went to you for advice." + +"In pursuance of that advice, did you have an interview with the boy +Ralph?" + +"I did." + +"Where?" + +"At your office." + +"Did you explain to him the facts concerning his parentage and +history?" + +"They were explained to him." + +"What did he say he wished you to do for him?" + +Goodlaw interrupted again, to object to the testimony offered as +incompetent and thereupon ensued an argument between counsel, which +was cut short by the judge ordering the testimony to be excluded, and +directing a bill of exceptions to be sealed for the plaintiff. + +The hour for the noon recess had now come, and court was adjourned to +meet again at two o'clock. + +When the afternoon session was called, Sharpman announced that he was +through with the direct examination of Craft. + +Then Goodlaw took the witness in hand. He asked many questions about +Craft's personal history, about the wreck, and about the rescue of the +child. He demanded a full account of the way in which Robert Burnham +had been discovered, by the witness and found to be Ralph's father. He +called for the explicit reason for every opinion given, but Old Simon +was on safe ground, and his testimony remained unshaken. + +Finally, Goodlaw asked:-- + +"What is your occupation, Mr. Craft?" and Craft answered: "I have no +occupation at present, except to see that this boy gets his rights." + +"What was your occupation during the time that this boy lived with +you?" + +"I was a travelling salesman." + +"What did you sell?" + +"Jewelry, mostly." + +"For whom did you sell the jewelry?" + +"For myself, and others who employed me." + +"Where did you obtain the goods you sold?" + +"Some of it I bought, some of it I sold on commission." + +"Of whom did you buy it?" + +"Sometimes I bought it at auction, or at sheriff's sales; sometimes of +private parties; sometimes of manufacturers and wholesalers." + +Goodlaw rose to his feet. "Now, as a matter of fact, sir," he said, +sternly, "did not you retail goods through the country that had been +furnished to you by your confederates in crime? and was not your house +in the city a place for the reception of stolen wares?" + +Craft's cane came to the floor with a sharp rap. "No, sir!" he +replied, with much indignation; "I have never harbored thieves, nor +sold stolen goods to my knowledge. You insult me, sir!" + +Goodlaw resumed his seat, looked at some notes in pencil on a slip of +paper, and then resumed the examination. + +"Did you send this boy out on the streets to beg?" he asked. + +"Well, you see, we had pretty hard work sometimes to get along and get +enough to eat, and--" + +"I say, did you send this boy out on the streets to beg?" + +"Well, I'm telling you that sometimes we had either to beg or to +starve. Then the boy went out and asked aid from wealthy people." + +"Did you send him?" + +"Yes, I did; but not against his will." + +"Did you sometimes whip him for not bringing back money to you from +his begging excursions?" + +"I punished him once or twice for telling falsehoods to me." + +"Did you beat him for not bringing money to you when you sent him out +to beg?" + +"He came home once or twice when I had reason to believe that he had +made no effort to procure assistance for us, and--" + +Goodlaw rose to his feet again. + +"Answer my question!" he exclaimed. "Did you beat this boy for not +bringing back money to you when you had sent him out to beg?" + +"Yes, I did," replied Craft, now thoroughly aroused, "and I'd do it +again, too, under the same circumstances." + +Then he was seized with a fit of coughing that racked his feeble body +from head to foot. A tipstaff brought him a glass of water, and he +finally recovered. + +Goodlaw continued, sarcastically,-- + +"When you found it necessary to correct this boy by the gentle +persuasion of force, what kind of a weapon did you use?" + +The witness answered, mildly enough, "I had a little strip of leather +that I used when it was unavoidably necessary." + +"A rawhide, was it?" + +"I said a little strip of leather. You can call it what you choose." + +"Was it the kind of a strip of leather commonly known as a rawhide?" + +"It was." + +"What other mode of punishment did you practise on this child besides +rawhiding him?" + +"I can't recall any." + +"Did you pull his ears?" + +"Probably." + +"Pinch his flesh?" + +"Sometimes." + +"Pull his hair?" + +"Oh, I shouldn't wonder." + +"Knock him down with your fist?" + +"No, sir! never, never!" + +"Did you never strike him with the palm of your hand?" + +"Well, I have slapped him when my patience with him has been +exhausted." + +"Did any of these slaps ever happen to push him over?" + +"Why, he used to tumble onto the floor sometimes, to cry and pretend +he was hurt." + +"Well, what other means of grandfatherly persuasion did you use in +correcting the child?" + +"I don't know of any." + +"Did you ever lock him up in a dark closet?" + +"I think I did, once or twice; yes." + +"For how long at a time?" + +"Oh, not more than an hour or two." + +"Now, didn't you lock him up that way once, and keep him locked up all +day and all night?" + +"I think not so long as that. He was unusually stubborn. I told him he +could come out as soon as he would promise obedience. He remained in +there of his own accord." + +"Appeared to like it, did he?" + +"I can't say as to that." + +"For how long a time did you say he stayed there?" + +"Oh, I think from one afternoon till the next." + +"Did he have anything to eat during that time?" + +"I promised him abundance if he would do as I told him." + +"Did he have anything to eat?" emphatically. + +"No!" just as emphatically. + +"What was it he refused to do?" + +"Simply to go on a little errand for me." + +"Where?" + +"To the house of a friend." + +"For what purpose?" + +"To get some jewelry." + +"Was the jewelry yours?" + +"I expected to purchase it." + +"Had it been stolen?" + +"Not to my knowledge." + +"Did the boy think it had been stolen?" + +"He pretended to." + +"Was that the reason he would not go?" + +"It was the reason he gave." + +"Have the city police found stolen goods on your premises?" + +"They have confiscated goods that were innocently purchased by me; +they have robbed me." + +"Did you compel this boy to lie to the officers when they came?" + +"I made him hold his tongue." + +"Did you make him lie?" + +"I ordered him not to tell where certain goods were stored in the +house, on pain of being thrashed within an inch of his life. The goods +were mine, bought with my money, and it was none of their business +where they were." + +"Did you not command the boy to say that there were no such goods in +the house?" + +"I don't know--perhaps; I was exasperated at the outrage they were +perpetrating in the name of law." + +"Then you did make him lie?" + +"Yes, if you call it lying to protect your own property from robbers, +I did make him lie!" + +"More than once?" + +"I don't know." + +"Did you make him steal?" + +"I made him take what belonged to us." + +"Did you make him _steal_, I say!" + +"Call it what you like!" shouted the angered and excited old man. +He had become so annoyed and harassed by this persistent, searching +cross-examination that he was growing reckless and telling the truth +in spite of himself. Besides, it seemed to him that Goodlaw must know +all about Ralph's life with him, and he dared not go far astray in his +answers. + +But the lawyer knew only what Craft himself was disclosing. He based +each question on the answers that had preceded it, long practice +having enabled him to estimate closely what was lying in the mind of +the witness. + +"And so," continued Goodlaw, "when you returned from one of your trips +into the country you found that the boy had disappeared?" + +"He had." + +"Were you surprised at that?" + +"Yes, I was." + +"Had you any idea why he went away?" + +"None whatever. He was well fed and clothed and cared for." + +"Did it ever occur to you that the Almighty made some boys with hearts +so honest that they had rather starve and die by the roadside than be +made to lie and steal at home?" + +The old man did not answer, he was too greatly surprised and angered +to reply. + +"Well," said Sharpman, calmly, "I don't know, if your Honor please, +that the witness is bound to be sufficiently versed in the subject of +Christian ethics to answer questions of that kind." + +"He need not answer it," said the judge. + +Then Sharpman continued, more vehemently: "The cross-examination, +as conducted by the eminent counsel, has, thus far, been simply an +outrage on professional courtesy. I ask now that the gentleman be +confined to questions which are germane to the issue and decently +put." + +"I have but a few more questions to ask," said Goodlaw. + +Turning to the witness again, he continued: "If you succeed in +establishing this boy's identity, you will have a bill to present for +care and moneys expended and services performed on his account, will +you not?" + +"I expect so; yes, sir." + +"As the service continued through a period of years, the bill will +amount now to quite a large sum, I presume?" + +"Yes, I nave done a good deal for the boy." + +"You expect to retain the usual commission for your services as +guardian, do you not?" + +"I do." + +"And to control the moneys and properties that may come into your +hands?" + +"Well--yes." + +"About how much money, all together, do you expect to make out of this +estate?" + +"I do not look on it in that light, sir; I am taking these proceedings +simply to compel you and your client to give that boy his rights." + +This impudent assertion angered Goodlaw, who well knew the object of +the plot, and he rose from his chair, saying deliberately:-- + +"Do you mean to swear that this is not a deep-laid scheme on the part +of you and your attorney to wrest from this estate enough to make a +fortune for you both? Do you mean to say mat you care as much for this +boy's rights as you do for the dust in your path?" + +Craft's face paled, and Sharpman started to his feet, red with +passion. + +"This is the last straw!" he exclaimed, hoarsely; "now I intend"-- + +But the judge, fearing an uncontrollable outbreak of temper, +interrupted him, saying:-- + +"Your witness need not answer the question in that form, Mr. Sharpman. +Mr. Goodlaw, do you desire to cross-examine the witness further?" + +Goodlaw had resumed his seat and was turning over his papers. + +"I do not care to take up the time of the court any longer," he said, +"with this witness." + +"Then, Mr. Sharpman, you may proceed with further evidence." + +But Sharpman was still smarting from the blow inflicted by his +opponent. "I desire, first," he said, "that the court shall take +measures to protect me and my client from the unfounded and insulting +charges of counsel for the defence." + +"We will see," said the judge, "that no harm comes to you or to your +cause from irrelevant matter interjected by counsel. But let us get on +with the case. We are taking too much time." + +Sharpman turned again to his papers and called the name of "Anthony +Henderson." + +An old man arose in the audience, and made his way feebly to the +witness-stand, which had just been vacated by Craft. + +After he had been sworn, he said, in reply to questions by Sharpman, +that he was a resident of St. Louis; that in May, 1859, he was on his +way east with his little grandson, and went down with the train that +broke through the bridge at Cherry Brook. + +He said that before the crash came he had noticed a lady and gentleman +sitting across the aisle from him, and a nurse and child a few seats +further ahead; that his attention had been called to the child +particularly, because he was a boy and about the age of his own little +grandson. + +He said he was on the train that carried the rescued passengers to +Philadelphia after the accident, and that, passing through the car, +he had seen the same child who had been with the nurse now sitting +with an old man; he was sure the child was the same, as he stopped +and looked at him closely. The features of the old man he could not +remember. For two days he searched for his grandson, but being met, on +every hand, by indisputable proof that the child had perished in the +wreck, he then started on his return journey to St. Louis, and had not +since been east until the week before the trial. + +"How did the plaintiff in this case find you out?" asked Goodlaw, on +cross-examination. + +"I found him out," replied the witness. "I learned, from the +newspapers, that the trial was to take place; and, seeing that it +related to the Cherry Brook disaster, I came here to learn what little +else I might in connection with my grandchild's death. I went, first, +to see the counsel for the plaintiff and his client." + +"Have you learned anything new about your grandson?" + +"No, sir; nothing." + +"Have you heard from him since the accident?" + +"I have not." + +"Are you sure he is dead?" + +"I have no doubt of it." + +"Can you recognize this boy," pointing to Ralph, "as the one whom you +saw with the nurse and afterward with the old man on the night of the +accident?" + +"Oh, no! he was a mere baby at that time." + +"Are you positive that the boy in court is not your grandson?" + +"Perfectly positive, there is not the slightest resemblance." + +"That will do." + +The cross-examination had done little more than to strengthen the +direct testimony. Mrs. Burnham had thrown aside her veil and gazed +intently at the witness from the moment he went on the stand. She +recognized him as the man who sat across the aisle from her, with his +grandchild, on the night of the disaster, and she knew that he was +telling the truth. There seemed to be no escape from the conclusion +that it was her child who went down to the city that night with Simon +Craft. Was it her child who escaped from him, and wandered, sick and +destitute, almost to her own door? Her thought was interrupted by +the voice of Sharpman, who had faced the crowded court-room and was +calling the name of another witness: "Richard Lyon!" + +A young man in short jacket and plaid trousers took the witness-stand. + +"What is your occupation?" asked Sharpman, after the man had given his +name and residence. + +"I'm a driver for Farnum an' Furkison." + +"Who are Farnum and Furkison?" + +"They run the Great European Circus an' Menagerie." + +"Have you ever seen this boy before?" pointing to Ralph. + +"Yes, sir." + +"When?" + +"Three years ago this summer." + +"Where?" + +"Down in Pennsylvania. It was after we left Bloomsburg, I think, I +picked 'im up along the road an' give 'im a ride on the tiger wagon." + +"How long did he stay with you?" + +"Oh, I don't remember; four or five days, maybe." + +"What did he do?" + +"Well, not much; chored around a little." + +"Did he tell you where he came from?" + +"No, nor he wouldn't tell his name. Seemed to be afraid somebody'd +ketch 'im; I couldn't make out who. He talked about some one he called +Gran'pa Craft two or three times w'en he was off his guard, an' I +reckoned from what he said that he come from Philadelphy." + +"Where did he leave you?" + +"Didn't leave us at all. We left him; played the desertion act on +'im." + +"Where?" + +"At Scranton." + +"Why?" + +"Well, he wasn't much use to us, an' he got sick an' couldn't do +anything, an' the boss wouldn't let us take 'im no further, so we left +'im there." + +"Are you sure this is the boy?" + +"Oh, yes! positive. He's bigger, an' looks better now, but he's the +same boy, I know he is." + +"Cross-examine." + +This last remark was addressed to the defendant's attorney. + +"I have no questions to ask," said Goodlaw, "I have no doubt the +witness tells the truth." + +"That's all," said Sharpman, quickly; then, turning again toward the +court-room, he called: + +"William Buckley!" + +Bachelor Billy arose from among the crowds on the front benches, and +made his way awkwardly around the aisle and up to the witness-stand. +After the usual preliminary questions had been asked and answered, he +waited, looking out over the multitude of faces turned toward him, +while Sharpman consulted his notes. + +"Do you know this boy?" the lawyer asked, pointing to Ralph. + +"Do I know that boy?" repeated Billy, pointing also to Ralph, "'deed I +do that. I ken 'im weel." + +"When did you first see him?" + +"An he's the son o' Robert Burnham, I seen 'im first i' the arms o' +'is mither a matter o' ten year back or so. She cam' t' the breaker +on a day wi' her gude mon, an' she had the bairnie in her arms. Ye'll +remember it, na doot, Mistress Burnham," turning to that lady as he +spoke, "how ye said to me 'Billy,' said ye, 'saw ye ever so fine a +baby as'"-- + +"Well, never mind that," interrupted Sharpman; "when did you next see +the boy?" + +"Never till I pickit 'im up o' the road." + +"And when was that?" + +"It'll be three year come the middle o' June. I canna tell ye the +day." + +"On what road was it?" + +"I'll tell ye how it cam' aboot. It was the mornin' after the circus. +I was a-comin' doon fra Providence, an' when I got along the ither +side o' whaur the tents was I see a bit lad a-layin' by the roadside, +sick. It was him," pointing to Ralph and smiling kindly on him, "it +was Ralph yonner. I says to 'im, 'What's the matter wi' ye, laddie?' +says I. 'I'm sick,' says 'e, 'an' they've goned an' lef me.' 'Who's +lef' ye?' says I. 'The circus,' says he. 'An' ha' ye no place to go?' +says I. 'No,' says 'e, 'I ain't; not any.' So I said t' the lad as he +s'ould come along wi' me. He could na walk, he was too sick, I carried +'im, but he was no' much o' a load. I took 'im hame wi' me an' pit +'im i' the bed. He got warse, an' I bringit the doctor. Oh! but he +was awfu' sick, the lad was, but he pullit through as cheerfu' as ye +please. An' the Widow Maloney she 'tended 'im like a mither, she did." + +"Did you find out where he came from?" + +"Wull, he said little aboot 'imsel' at the first, he was a bit +afraid to talk wi' strangers, but he tellit, later on, that he cam' +fra Philadelphy. He tellit me, in fact," said Billy, in a burst of +confidence, "that 'e rin awa' fra th'auld mon, Simon Craft, him that's +a-settin' yonner. But it's small blame to the lad; ye s'ould na lay +that up again' 'im. He _had_ to do it, look ye! had ye not, eh, +Ralph?" + +Before Ralph could reply, Sharpman interrupted: "And has the boy been +with you ever since?" + +"He has that, an' I could na think o' his goin' awa' noo, an it would +na be for his gret good." + +"In your intercourse with the boy through three years, have you +noticed in him any indications of higher birth than is usually found +among the boys who work about the mines? I mean, do his manners, modes +of thought, impulses, expressions, indicate, to your mind, better +blood than ordinary?" + +"Why, yes," replied the witness, slowly grasping the idea, "yes. He +has a way wi' 'im, the lad has, that ye'd think he did na belong amang +such as we. He's as gentle as a lass, an' that lovin', why, he's that +lovin' that ye could na speak sharp till 'im an ye had need to. But +ye'll no' need to, Mistress Burnham, ye'll no' need to." + +The lady was sitting with her veil across her face, smiling now and +then, wiping away a tear or two, listening carefully to catch every +word. + +Then the witness was turned over to the counsel for the defence, for +cross-examination. + +"What else has the boy done or said to make you think he is of gentler +birth than his companions in the breaker?" asked Goodlaw, somewhat +sarcastically. + +"Why, the lad does na swear nor say bad words." + +"What else?" + +"He's tidy wi' the clothes, an' he _wull_ be clean." + +"What else?" + +"What else? wull, they be times when he says things to ye so quick +like, so bright like, so lofty like, 'at ye'd mos' think he was na +human like the rest o' us. An' 'e fears naught, ye canna mak' 'im +afeard o' doin' what's richt. D'ye min' the time 'e jumpit on the +carriage an' went doon wi' the rest o' them to bring oot the burnit +uns? an' cam' up alive when Robert Burnham met his death? Ah, mon! no +coward chiel 'd 'a' done like that." + +"Might not a child of very lowly birth do all the things you speak of +under proper training and certain influences?" + +"Mayhap, but it's no' likely, no' likely. Hold! wait a bit! I dinna +mean but that a poor mon's childer can be bright, braw, guid boys an' +girls; they be, I ken mony o' them mysel'. But gin the father an' the +mither think high an' act gentle an' do noble, ye'll fin' it i' the +blood an' bone o' the childer, sure as they're born. Now, look ye! I +kenned Robert Burnham, I kenned 'im weel. He was kind an' gentle an' +braw, a-thinkin' bright things an' a-doin' gret deeds. The lad's like +'im, mind ye; he thinks like 'im, he says like 'im, he does like 'im. +Truth, I daur say, i' the face o' all o' ye, that no son was ever more +like the father than the lad a-settin' yonner is like Robert Burnham +was afoor the guid Lord took 'im to 'imsel'." + +Bachelor Billy was leaning forward across the railing of the +witness-stand, speaking in a voice that could be heard in the remotest +corner of the room, emphasizing his words with forceful gesticulation. +No one could for a moment doubt his candor and earnestness. + +"You are very anxious that the plaintiff should succeed in this suit, +are you not?" asked Goodlaw. + +"I dinna unnerstan' ye, sir." + +"You would like to have this boy declared to be a son of Robert +Burnham, would you not?" + +"For the lad's sake, yes. But I canna tell ye how it'll hurt me to +lose 'im fra ma bit hame. He's verra dear to me, the lad is." + +"Have you presented any bill to Ralph's guardian for services to the +boy?" + +"Bill! I ha' no bill." + +"Do you not propose to present such a bill in case the plaintiff is +successful in this suit?" + +"I tell ye, mon, I ha' no bill. The child's richt welcome to all that +I 'a' ever done for 'im. It's little eneuch to be sure, but he's +welcome to it, an' so's 'is father an' 'is mother an' 'is gardeen; an' +that's what I tellit Muster Sharpman 'imsel'. An the lad's as guid to +them as 'e has been wi' me, they'll unnerstan' as how his company's a +thing ye canna balance wi' gold an' siller." + +Mrs. Burnham leaned over to Goodlaw and whispered something to him. He +nodded, smiled and said to the witness: "That's all, Mr. Buckley," and +Bachelor Billy came down from the stand and pushed his way back to a +seat among the people. + +There was a whispered conversation for a few moments between Sharpman +and his client, and then the lawyer said:-- + +"We desire to recall Mrs. Burnham for one or two more questions. Will +you be kind enough to take the stand, Mrs. Burnham?" + +The lady arose and went again to the witness-stand. + +Craft was busy with his leather hand-bag. He had taken a parcel +therefrom, unwrapped it and laid it on the table. It was the cloak +that Old Simon had shown to Robert Burnham on the day of the mine +disaster. Sharpman took it up, shook it out, carried it to Mrs. +Burnham, and placed it in her hands. + +"Do you recognize this cloak?" he asked. + +A sudden pallor overspread her face. She could not speak. She +was holding the cloak up before her eyes, gazing on it in mute +astonishment. + +"Do you recognize it, madam?" repeated Sharpman. + +"Why, sir!" she said, at last, "it is--it was Ralph's. He wore it the +night of the disaster." She was caressing the faded ribbons with her +hand; the color was returning to her face. + +"And this, Mrs. Burnham, do you recognize this?" inquired the lawyer, +advancing with the cap. + +"It was Ralph's!" she exclaimed, holding out her hands eagerly to +grasp it. "It was his cap. May I have it, sir? May I have them both? I +have nothing, you know, that he wore that night." + +She was bending forward, looking eagerly at Sharpman, with flushed +face and eyes swimming in tears. + +"Perhaps so, madam," he said, "perhaps; they go with the boy. If we +succeed in restoring your son to you, we shall give you these things +also." + +"What else have you that he wore?" she asked, impatiently. "Oh! did +you find the locket, a little gold locket? He wore it with a chain +round his neck; it had his--his father's portrait in it." + +Without a word, Sharpman placed the locket in her hands. Her fingers +trembled so that she could hardly open it. Then the gold covers parted +and revealed to her the pictured face of her dead husband. The eyes +looked up at her kindly, gently, lovingly, as they had always looked +on her in life. After a moment her lips trembled, her eyes filled with +tears, she drew the veil across her face, and her frame grew tremulous +with deep emotion. + +"I do not think it is necessary," said Sharpman, courteously, "to pain +the witness with other questions. I regard the identification of these +articles, by her, as sufficiently complete. We will excuse her from +further examination." + +The lady left the stand with bowed head and veiled face, and Conductor +Merrick was recalled. + +"Look at that cloak and the cap," said Sharpman, "and tell me if they +are the articles worn by the child who was going to the city with this +old man after the accident." + +"To the best of my recollection," said the witness, "they are the +same. I noticed the cloak particularly on account of the hole burned +out of the front of it. I considered it an indication of a very narrow +escape." + +The witness was turned over to the defence for cross-examination. + +"No questions," said Goodlaw, shortly, gathering up his papers as if +his defeat was already an accomplished fact. + +"Mr. Craft," said Sharpman, "stand up right where you are. I want to +ask you one question. Did the child whom you rescued from the wreck +have on, when you found him, this cap, cloak, and locket?" + +"He did." + +"And is the child whom you rescued that night from the burning car +this boy who is sitting beside you here to-day?" + +"They are one and the same." + +Mrs. Burnham threw back her veil, looked steadily across at Ralph, +then started to her feet, and moved slightly toward him as if to clasp +him in her arms. For a moment it seemed as though there was to be a +scene. The people in the audience bent forward eagerly to look into +the bar, those in the rear of the room rising to their feet. + +The noise seemed to startle her, and she sank back into her chair and +sat there white and motionless during the remainder of the session. + +Sharpman arose. "I believe that is our case," he said. + +"Then you rest here?" asked the judge. + +"We rest." + +His Honor continued: "It is now adjourning time and Saturday night. I +think it would be impossible to conclude this case, even by holding an +evening session; but perhaps we can get through with the testimony so +that witnesses may be excused. What do you say, Mr. Goodlaw?" + +Goodlaw arose. "It may have been apparent to the court," he said, +"that the only effort being put forth by the defence in this case is +an effort to learn as much of the truth as possible. We have called no +witnesses to contradict the testimony offered, and we expect to call +none. But, lest something should occur of which we might wish to take +advantage, we ask that the evidence be not closed until the meeting of +court on Monday next." + +"Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Sharpman?" inquired the judge. + +"Perfectly," replied that lawyer, his face beaming with good nature. +He knew that Goodlaw had given up the case and that his path was now +clear. + +"Then, crier," said the judge, "you may adjourn the court until Monday +next, at two o'clock in the afternoon." + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +AT THE GATES OF PARADISE. + + +The result of the trial seemed to be a foregone conclusion. Every one +said there was no doubt, now, that Ralph was really Robert Burnham's +son. People even wondered why Mrs. Burnham did not end the matter by +acknowledging the boy and taking him to her home. + +And, indeed, this was her impulse and inclination, but Goodlaw, in +whose wisdom she put much confidence, had advised her not to be in +haste. They had had a long consultation after the adjournment of court +on Saturday evening, and had agreed that the evidence pointed, almost +conclusively, to the fact that Ralph was Mrs. Burnham's son. But the +lawyer said that the only safe way was to wait until the verdict of +the jury should fix the status of the boy beyond question. It would be +but a day or two at the most. + +Then Ralph might be taken by his mother, and proceedings could be at +once begun to have Simon Craft dismissed from the post of guardian. +Indeed, it had been with this end in view that Goodlaw had made his +cross-examination of Craft so thorough and severe. He had shown, as +he intended to, from the man's own lips that he was unfit to have +possession either of the child or of his property. + +This danger was now making itself more and more apparent to Sharpman. +In the excitement of the trial, he had not fully realized the probable +effect which the testimony elicited from his client by the opposing +counsel might have. + +Now he saw what it could lead to; but he had sufficient confidence in +himself to believe that, in the time before action in that phase of +the case should become necessary, he could perfect a plan by which to +avert disaster. The first and best thing to be done, however, under +any circumstances, was to keep the confidence and friendship of +Ralph. With this thought in mind, he occupied a seat with the boy as +they rode up from Wilkesbarre on the train that night, and kept him +interested and amused until they reached the station at Scranton. + +He said to him that he, Sharpman, should go down to Wilkesbarre early +on Monday morning, and that, as it might be necessary to see Ralph +before going, the boy had better call at his office for a few moments +on Sunday evening. Ralph promised to do so, and, with a cordial +handshake, the lawyer hurried away. + +It is seldom that the probable outcome of a suit at law gives so great +satisfaction to all the parties concerned in it as this had done. +Simon Craft was jubilant. At last his watching and waiting, his hoping +and scheming, were about to be rewarded. It came in the evening of +his life to be sure, but--better late than never. He had remained in +Wilkesbarre Saturday night. He thought it useless to go up to Scranton +simply to come back again on Monday morning. He spent the entire day +on Sunday planning for the investment of the money he should receive, +counting it over and over again in anticipation, chuckling with true +miserly glee at the prospect of coming wealth. + +But Ralph was the happiest one of all. He knew that on the coming +Monday the jury would declare him to be Robert Burnham's son. + +After that, there would be nothing to prevent his mother from taking +him to her home, and that she would do so there was no longer any +doubt. When he awoke Sunday morning and thought it all over, it seemed +to him that he had never been so near to perfect happiness in all his +life before. + +The little birds that came and sang in the elm-tree by his window +repeated in their songs the story of his fortune. The kind old sun +beamed in upon him with warmest greeting and heartiest approval. + +Out-of-doors, the very atmosphere of the May day was redolent with +all good cheer, and Ralph took great draughts of it into his lungs +as he walked with Bachelor Billy to the little chapel at the foot of +the hill, where they were used to going to attend the Sunday morning +service. In the afternoon they went, these two, out by the long way to +the breaker. Ralph looked up at the grim, black monster, and thought +of the days gone by; the days of watchfulness, of weariness, of +hopeless toil that he had spent shut up within its jarring walls. + +But they were over now. He should never again climb the narrow steps +to the screen-room in the darkness of the early morning. He should +never again take his seat on the black bench to bend above the stream +of flowing coal, to breathe the thick dust, and listen to the rattling +and the roaring all day long. That time had passed, there was to be no +more grinding toil, no more harsh confinement in the heat and dust, +no more longing for the bright sunlight and the open air, nor for the +things of life that lay beyond his reach. The night was gone, the +morning was come, the May day of his life was dawning, wealth was +lying at his feet, rich love was overshadowing him; why should he not +be happy? + +"Seems jest as though I hadn't never had any trouble, Uncle Billy," he +said, "as though I'd been kind o' waitin' an' waitin' all along for +jest this, an' now it's here, ain't it?" + +"Yes, lad." + +"An' some way it's all so quiet an' smooth like, so peaceful, don't +you know. She--she seems to be so glad 'at she needn't keep me away +from her no longer after the trial's over. I think she wants me to +come, don't you? It ain't like most law-suits, is it?" + +"She's a lovin' lady, an' I'm a-thinkin' they're a-meanin' to deal +rightly by ye, Ralph." + +There was a pause. They were sitting on the bank in the shadow of +the breaker, and the soft wind was bringing up to them the perfume +of apple-blossoms from the orchard down by the road-side. Silence, +indeed, was the only means of giving fitting expression to such quiet +joy as pervaded the boy's heart. + +A man, driving along the turnpike with a horse and buggy, turned up +the road to the breaker, and stopped in front of Bachelor Billy and +the boy. + +"Is this Ralph?" he asked. + +"Yes," said the boy, "that's me." + +"Well, Mrs. Burnham would like to see you. She sent me over to bring +you. I went to your house, and they said most likely I'd find you up +here. Just jump in and we'll drive right down." + +Ralph looked up inquiringly at Bachelor Billy. + +"Go on, lad," he said; "when the mither sen's for ye, ye mus' go." +Ralph climbed up into the buggy. + +"Good-by, Uncle Billy," he called out, as they started away down the +hill. + +Bachelor Billy did not answer. A sudden thought had come to him; a +sudden fear had seized him. He stood for a moment motionless; then he +started to run after the retreating carriage, calling as he ran. They +heard him and stopped. In a minute he had reached them. + +"Ralph," he said, hastily, "ye're not goin' now for gude? Ye'll coom +back the nicht, won't ye, Ralph? I couldn't--I couldn't abide to have +ye go this way, not for gude. It's--it's too sudden, d'ye see." + +His voice was trembling with emotion, and the pallor about his lips +was heightened by the forced smile that parted them. Ralph reached out +from the buggy and grasped the man's rough hand. + +"I ain't leavin' you for good, Uncle Billy," he said. "I'm comin' back +agin, sure; I promise I will. Would you ruther I wouldn't go, Uncle +Billy?" + +"Oh, no! ye mus' go. I shouldn't 'a' stoppit ye. It was verra fulish +in me. But ye see," turning to the driver apologetically, "the lad's +been so long wi' me it's hard to part wi' 'im. An' it cam' ower me +so sudden like, that mayhap he'd not be a-comin' back, that I--that +I--wull, wull! it's a' richt, ye need na min' me go on; go on, lad, +an' rich blessin's go wi' ye!" and Bachelor Billy turned and walked +rapidly away. + +This was the only cloud in the otherwise clear sky of Ralph's +happiness. He would have to leave Bachelor Billy alone. But he had +fully resolved that the man who had so befriended him in the dark days +of his adversity should not fail of sharing in the blessings that were +now at hand. + +His mind was full of plans for his Uncle Billy's happiness and +welfare, as they rode along through the green suburban streets, with +the Sunday quiet resting on them, to the House where Ralph's mother +waited, with a full heart, to receive and welcome her son. + +She had promised Goodlaw that she would not take the boy to her home +until after the conclusion of the trial. He had explained to her that +to anticipate the verdict of the jury in this way might, in a certain +event, prejudice not only her interests but her son's also. And the +time would be so short now that she thought surely she could wait. +She had resolved, indeed, not to see nor to speak to the lad, out of +court, until full permission had been granted to her to do so. Then, +when the time came, she would revel in the brightness of his presence. + +That there still lingered in her mind a doubt as to his identity was +nothing. She would not think of that. It was only a prejudice fixed +by long years of belief in her child's death, a prejudice so firmly +rooted now that it required an effort to cast it out. + +But it would not greatly matter, she thought, if it should chance that +Ralph was not her son. He was a brave, good boy, worthy of the best +that could come to him, and she loved him. Indeed, during these last +few days her heart had gone out to him with an affection so strange +and a desire so strong that she felt that only his presence could +satisfy it. She could not be glad enough that the trial, now so nearly +to its close, would result in giving to her a son. It was a strange +defeat, indeed, to cause her such rejoicing. On this peaceful Sunday +morning her mind was full with plans for the lad's comfort, for his +happiness and his education. But the more she thought upon him the +greater grew her longing to have him with her, the harder it became +to repress her strong desire to see him, to speak to him, to kiss his +face, to hold him in her arms. In the quiet of the afternoon this +longing became more intense. She tried to put it away from her, but it +would not go; she tried to reason it down, but the boy's face, rising +always in her thought, refuted all her logic. She felt that he must +come to her, that she must see him, if only long enough to look into +his eyes, to touch his hand, to welcome him and say good-by. She +called the coachmen then, and sent him for the boy, and waited at the +window to catch the first glimpse of him when he should appear. + +He came at last, and she met him in the hall. It was a welcome such as +he had never dreamed of. They went into a beautiful room, and she drew +his chair so close to hers that she could hold his hands, and smooth +his hair back now and then, and look down into his eyes as she talked +with him. She made him repeat to her the whole story of his life from +the time he could remember, and when he told about Bachelor Billy +and all his kindness and goodness, he saw that her eyes were filled +with tears. + +"We'll remember him," she said; "we'll be very good to him always." + +"Mrs. Burnham," asked Ralph, "do you really an' truly believe 'at I'm +your son?" + +She evaded the question skilfully. + +"I'm not Mrs. Burnham to you any more," she said. "You are my little +boy now and I am your mother. But wait! no; you must not call me +'mother' yet, not until the trial is over, then we shall call each +other the names we like best, shall we not?" + +"Yes; an' will the trial be over to-morrow, do you think?" + +"I hope so. I shall be glad to have it done; shall not you?" + +"Oh, yes; but so long as it's comin' out so nice, I don't care so very +much. It's all so good now 'at it couldn't be much better. I could +stan' it another day or two, I guess." + +"Well, my dear, we will be patient. It cannot but come out right. Are +you glad you are coming here to live with me, Ralph?" + +"Yes, ma'am, I am; I'm very much delighted. I've always wanted a +mother; you don't know how much I've wanted a mother; but I never +'xpected--not till Gran'pa Simon come--I never 'xpected to get such a +lovely one. You don't know; I wisht I could tell you; I wisht I could +do sumpthin' so 'at you'd know how glad I am." + +She leaned over and kissed him. + +"There's only one thing you can do, Ralph, to show me that; you can +come back here when the trial is over and be my boy and live with me +always." + +"Oh, I'll come!" + +"And then we'll see what you shall do. Would you like to go to school +and study?" + +"Oh, may I?" + +"Certainly! what would you like to study?" + +"Readin'. If I could only study readin' so as to learn to read real +good. I can read some now; but you know they's such lots o' things to +read 'at I can't do it fast enough." + +"Yes, you shall learn to read fast, and you shall read to me. You +shall read books to me." + +"What! whole books?--through?" + +"Yes, would you like that?" + +"Oh!" and the boy clasped his hands together in unspeakable delight. + +"Yes, and you shall read stories to Mildred, your little sister. I +wonder where she is; wouldn't you like to see her?" + +"Yes, ma'am, I would, very much." + +"I'll send for her." + +"You'll have books of your own, you know," continued the lady, as she +returned across the room, "and playthings of your own, and a room of +your own, near mine, and every night you'll kiss me good-night, will +you not, and every morning you will kiss me good-morning?" + +"Oh, indeed I will! indeed!" + +In through the curtained door-way came little Mildred, her blond +curls tossing about her face, her cheeks rosy with health, her eyes +sparkling with anticipation. + +She had seen Ralph and knew him, but as yet she had not understood +that he was her brother. She could not comprehend it at once, there +were many explanations to be made, and Ralph's story was retold; but +when the fact of his relation to her became fixed in her mind, it was +to her a truth that could never afterward be shaken. + +"And will you come to live with us?" she asked him. + +"Yes," said Ralph, "I 'xpect to." + +"And will you play with me?" + +"Well, I--I don't know how to play girl's plays, but I guess I can +learn," he said, looking inquiringly up into his mother's face. + +"You shall both learn whatever you like that is innocent and healthful +and pretty to play, my children." + +The house-maid, at the door, announced dinner. + +"Come," said the lady, placing an arm about each child, "come, let us +eat together and see how it seems." + +She drew them gently to the dining-room and placed them at the table, +and sat where she could look from one to the other and drink in the +joy of their presence. + +But Ralph had grown more quiet. It was all so new and strange to him +and so very beautiful that he could do little more than eat his food, +and answer questions, and look about him in admiring wonder. + +When dinner was finished the afternoon had grown late, and Ralph, +remembering Bachelor Billy's fear, said that he ought to go. They did +not try to detain him; but, with many kind words and good-wishes and +bright hopes for the morrow, they kissed him good-night and he went +his way. The sky was still cloudless; the cool of the coming evening +refreshed the air, the birds that sing at twilight were already +breaking forth into melody as if impatient for the night, and Ralph +walked out through it all like one in a dream. + +It was so much sweeter than anything he had ever heard of or thought +of, this taste of home, so much, so very much! His heart was like a +thistle bloom floating in the air, his feet seemed not to touch the +ground; he was walking as a spirit might have walked, buoyed up by +thoughts of all things beautiful. He reached the cottage that for +years had been his home, and entered it with a cry of gladness on +his lips. + +"Oh, Uncle Billy! it was--it was just like heaven!" He had thrown +himself upon a stool at the man's feet, and sat looking up into the +kindly face. + +Bachelor Billy did not answer. He only placed his hand tenderly on the +boy's head, and they both sat, in silence, looking out through the +open door, until the pink clouds in the western sky had faded into +gray, and the deepening twilight wrapped the landscape, fold on fold, +in an ever thickening veil. + +By and by Ralph's tongue was loosened, and he told the story of his +visit to Mrs. Burnham. He gave it with all fulness; he dwelt long and +lovingly on his mother's beauty and affection, on his sister's pretty +ways, on the splendors of their home, on the plans marked out for him. + +"An' just to think of it!" he exclaimed, "after to-morrow, I'll be +there ev'ry day, _ev'ry day_. It's too beautiful to think of, Uncle +Billy; I can't help lookin' at myself an' wonderin' if it's me." + +"It's verra fine, but ye've a richt to it, lad, an' ye desarve it, an' +it's a blessin' to all o' ye." + +Again they fell into silence. The blue smoke from Billy's pipe went +floating into the darkness, and up to their ears came the sound of +distant church bells ringing out their music to the night. + +Finally, Ralph thought of the appointed meeting at Sharpman's office, +and started to his feet. + +"I mus' hurry now," he said, "or he'll think I ain't a-comin'." + +The proposed visit seemed to worry Bachelor Billy somewhat. He did +not like Sharpman. He had not had full confidence in him from the +beginning. And since the interview on the day of Ralph's return from +Wilkesbarre, his faith in the pureness of the lawyer's motives had +been greatly shaken. He had watched the proceedings in Ralph's case as +well as his limited knowledge of the law would allow, and, though he +had discovered nothing, thus far, that would injure or compromise the +boy, he was in constant fear lest some plan should be developed by +which Ralph would be wronged, either in reputation or estate. + +He hesitated, therefore, to have the lad fulfil this appointment. + +"I guess I'd better go wi' ye," he said, "mayhap an' ye'll be afeared +a-comin' hame i' the dark." + +"Oh, no, Uncle Billy!" exclaimed the boy, "they ain't no use in your +walkin' way down there. I ain't a bit afraid, an' I'll get home +early. Mr. Sharpman said maybe it wouldn't be any use for me to go to +Wilkesbarre to-morrow at all, and he'd let me know to-night. No, don't +you go! I'm a-goin' to run down the hill so's to get there quicker; +good-by!" + +The boy started off at a rapid pace, and broke into a run as he +reached the brow of the hill, while Bachelor Billy unwillingly resumed +his seat, and watched the retreating form of the lad until it was +swallowed up in the darkness. + +Ralph thought that the night air was very sweet, and he slackened his +pace at the foot of the hill, in order to enjoy breathing it. + +He was passing along a street lined with pretty, suburban dwellings. +Out from one yard floated the rich perfume of some early flowering +shrub. The delicious odor lingered in the air along the whole length +of the block, and Ralph pleased his fancy by saying that it was +following him. + +Farther on there was a little family group gathered on the porch, +parents and children, talking and laughing, but gently as became the +day. Very happy they seemed, very peaceful, untroubled and content. It +was beautiful, Ralph thought, very beautiful, this picture of home, +but he was no longer envious, his heart did not now grow bitter nor +his eyes fill full with tears. His own exceeding hope was too great +for that to-night, his own home joys too near and dear. + +Still farther on there was music. He could look into the lighted +parlor and see the peaceful faces of those who stood or sat there. A +girl was at the piano playing; a young, fair girl with a face like the +faces of the pictured angels. They were all singing, a familiar sacred +song, and the words came floating out so sweetly to the boy's ears +that he stopped to listen:-- + + "O Paradise! O Paradise! + Who doth not crave for rest? + Who would not seek the happy land, + Where they that loved are blest; + Where loyal hearts and true + Stand ever in the light, + All rapture through and through, + In God's most holy sight?" + +Oh, it was all so beautiful! so peaceful! so calm and holy! + +Ralph tried to think, as he started on, whether there was anything +that he could have, or see, or do, that would increase his happiness. +But there was nothing in the whole world now, nothing more, he said to +himself, that he could think to ask for. + + "Where loyal hearts and true, + Stand ever in the light." + +The words came faintly from the distance to his ears as the music died +away, the gentle wind brought perfumed air from out the shadows of the +night to touch his face. The quiet stars looked down in peace upon +him, the heart that beat within his breast was full with hope, with +happiness, with calm content. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +THE PURCHASE OF A LIE. + + +Lawyer Sharpman sat in his office on Sunday evening, meditating on his +success in the Burnham suit and planning to avert the dangers that +still lay in his path. + +Old Simon's disclosures in court were a source of much anxiety to him. +Goodlaw's design in bringing them out was apparent, and he felt that +it must in some way be thwarted. Of what use was it to establish the +boy's identity if he could not control the boy's fortune? He was glad +he had asked Ralph to call. He intended, when he should come, to have +a long talk with him concerning his guardian. He hoped to be able to +work into the boy's mind a theory that he had been as well treated +during his stay with Simon Craft as circumstances would permit. He +would remind him, in the most persuasive manner possible, that Craft +was old and ill and easily annoyed, that he was poor and unable to +work, that his care for and maintenance of Ralph were deeds of the +purest generosity, and that the old man's entire connection with the +matter was very creditable to him, when all the adverse circumstances +against which he had to struggle were taken into account. If he could +impress this view of the case strongly enough upon Ralph's mind, he +should not greatly fear the result of possible proceedings for the +dismissal of the guardian. This, at any rate, was the first thing to +be done, and to-night was the time to do it. + +He had been lying back in his chair, with his hands locked behind his +head. He now straightened himself, drew closer to the table, turned up +the gas, looked over some notes of evidence, and began to mark out a +plan for his address to the jury on the morrow. He was sitting in the +inner room, the door between that and the outer room being open, but +the street door closed. + +After a little he heard some one enter and walk across the floor. He +thought it must be Ralph, and he looked up to welcome him. But it was +dark in the outer office, and he could not see who came, until his +visitor was fairly standing in the door-way of his room. + +It was not Ralph. It was a young man, a stranger. He wore a pair of +light corduroy pantaloons, a checked vest, a double-breasted sack +coat, and a flowing red cravat. + +He bowed low and said:-- + +"Have I the honor of addressing Mr. Sharpman, attorney at law?" + +"That is my name," said the lawyer, regarding his visitor with some +curiosity, "will you walk in?" + +"With pleasure, sir." + +The young man entered the room, removed his high silk hat from his +head, and laid it on the table, top down. Then he drew a card case +from an inner pocket, and produced and handed to the lawyer a soiled +card on which was printed in elaborate letters the following name and +address:-- + +L. JOSEPH CHEEKERTON, + +PHILADELPHIA. + +"_Rhyming Joe_." + +While Sharpman was examining the card, his visitor was forming in his +mind a plan of procedure. He had come there with a carefully concocted +lie on his tongue to swindle the sharpest lawyer in Scranton out of +enough money to fill an empty purse. + +"Will you be seated, Mr. Cheekerton?" said the lawyer, looking up from +the card. + +"Thank you, sir!" + +The young man drew the chair indicated by Sharpman closer to the +table, and settled himself comfortably into it. + +"It is somewhat unusual, I presume," he said, "for attorneys to +receive calls on Sunday evening:-- + + "But this motto I hold as a part of my creed, + The better the day, why, the better the deed. + +"Excuse me! Oh, no; it doesn't hurt. I've been composing extemporaneous +verse like that for fifteen years. Philosophy and rhyme are my forte. +I've had some narrow escapes to be sure, but I've never been deserted +by the muses. Now, as to my Sunday evening call. It seemed to be +somewhat of a necessity, as I understand that the evidence will be +closed in the Burnham case at the opening of court to-morrow. Am +I right?" + +"It may be, and it may not be," said Sharpman, somewhat curtly. "I am +not acquainted with the plans of the defence. Are you interested in +the case?" + +"Indirectly, yes. You see, Craft and I have been friends for a good +many years, we have exchanged confidences, and have matured plans +together. I am pretty well acquainted with the history of his +successes and his failures." + +"Then it will please you to know that he is pretty certain to meet +with success in the Burnham suit." + +"Yes? I am quite delighted to hear it:-- + + "Glad to know that wit and pluck + Bring their owner such good-luck. + +"But, between you and me, the old gentleman has brought some faculties +to bear on this case besides wit and pluck." + +"Ah, indeed?" + +"Yes, indeed! You see, I knew all about this matter up to the time +the boy ran away. To tell the truth, the old man didn't treat the lad +just right, and I gave the little fellow a pointer on getting off. Old +Simon hasn't been so friendly to me since, for some reason. + + "Strange what trifles oft will tend + To cool the friendship of a friend. + +"In fact, I was not aware that the boy had been found, until I heard +that fact from his own lips one day last fall, in Wilkesbarre. We +met by a happy chance, and I entertained him on account of old +acquaintance's sake." + +In a moment the story of Ralph's adventure in Wilkesbarre returned to +Sharpman, and he recognized Rhyming Joe as the person who had swindled +the lad out of his money. He looked at the young man sternly, and +said:-- + +"Yes; I have heard the story of that chance meeting. You were +very liberal on account of old acquaintance's sake, were you not? +entertained the boy till his pocket was empty, didn't you?" and the +lawyer cast a look of withering contempt on his visitor. + +But Rhyming Joe did not wither. On the contrary, he broke into a merry +fit of laughter. + +"Good joke on the lad, wasn't it?" he replied. "A little rough, +perhaps, but you see I was pretty hard up just then; hadn't had a +square meal before in two days. I'll not forget the boy's generosity, +though; I'll call and see him when he comes into his fortune; he'll be +delighted to receive me, I've no doubt. + + "For a trifle like that he'll remember no more, + In the calm contemplation of favors of yore." + +But, let that pass. That's a pretty shrewd scheme Old Simon has on +foot just now, isn't it? Did he get that up alone or did he have a +little legal advice? I wouldn't have said that he was quite up to it +all, himself. It's a big thing. + + "A man may work hard with his hands and his feet + And find but poor lodging and little to eat. + But if he would gather the princeliest gains + He must smother his conscience and cudgel his brains." + +Sharpman looked sternly across at his visitor. "Have you any business +with me?" he said; "if not, my time is very valuable, and I desire to +utilize it." + +"I beg pardon, sir, if I have occupied time that is precious to you. +I had no particular object in calling except to gratify a slight +curiosity. I had a desire to know whether it was really understood +between you--that is whether the old man had enlightened you as to who +this boy actually is--that's all." + +"There's no doubt as to who the boy is. If you've come here to give me +any information on that point, your visit will have been useless. His +identity is well established." + +"Yes? Well, now I have the good-fortune to know all about that child, +and if you are laboring under the impression that he is a son of +Robert Burnham, you are very greatly mistaken. He is not a Burnham at +all." + +Sharpman looked at the young man incredulously. "You do not expect +me to believe that?" he said. "You certainly do not mean what you +are saying?" + +There was a noise in the outer room as of some one entering from +the street. Sharpman did not hear it; he was too busily engaged in +thinking. Rhyming Joe gave a quick glance at the room door, which +stood slightly ajar, then, turning in his chair to face the lawyer, he +said deliberately and with emphasis:-- + +"I say the boy Ralph is not Robert Burnham's son." + +For a moment Sharpman sat quietly staring at his visitor; then, in a +voice which betrayed his effort to remain calm, he said:-- + +"What right have you to make such a statement as this? How can you +prove it?" + +"Well, in the first place I knew the boy's father, and he was not +Robert Burnham, I assure you." + +"Who was he?" + +"Simon Craft's son." + +"Then Ralph is--?" + +"Old Simon's grandchild." + +"How do you happen to know all this?" + +"Well, I saw the child frequently before he was taken into the +country, and I saw him the night Old Simon brought him back. He was +the same child. The young fellow and his wife separated, and the old +man had to take the baby. I was on confidential terms with the old +fellow at that time, and he told me all about it." + +"Then he probably deceived you. The evidence concerning the railroad +disaster and the rescue of Robert Burnham's child from the wreck is +too well established by the testimony to be upset now by such a story +as yours." + +"Ah! let me explain that matter to you. The train that went through +the bridge was the express. The local was twenty minutes behind it. +Old Simon and his grandchild were on the local to the bridge. An +hour later they came down to the city on the train which brought the +wounded passengers. I had this that night from the old man's own lips. +I repeat to you, sir, the boy Ralph is Simon Craft's grandson, and I +know it." + +In the outer room there was a slight noise as of some person drawing +in his breath sharply and with pain. Neither of the men heard it. +Rhyming Joe was too intent on giving due weight to his pretended +disclosure; Lawyer Sharpman was too busy studying the chances of +that disclosure being true. It was evident that the young man was +acquainted with his subject. If his story were false he had it too +well learned to admit of successful contradiction. It was therefore of +no use to argue with him, but Sharpman thought he would see what was +lying back of this. + +"Well," he said, calmly, "I don't see how this affects our case. +Suppose you can prove your story to be true; what then?" + +The young man did not answer immediately. He took a package of +cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Sharpman. It was +declined. He lighted one for himself, leaned back in his chair, +crossed his legs, and began to study the ceiling through the rings +of blue smoke which came curling from his nostrils. Finally he said: +"What would you consider my silence on this subject worth, for a +period of say twenty-four hours?" + +"I do not know that your silence will be of material benefit to us." + +"Well, perhaps not. My knowledge, however, may be of material injury +to you." + +"In what way?" + +"By the disclosure of it to your opponent." + +"What would he do with it?" + +"Use it as evidence in this case." + +"Well, had you not better go to him?" + +Rhyming Joe laid his cigarette aside, straightened up in his chair, +and again faced the lawyer squarely. + +"Look here, Mr. Sharpman," he said, "you know, as well as I do, that +the knowledge I hold is extremely dangerous to you. I can back up +my assertion by any amount of corroborative detail. I am thoroughly +familiar with the facts, and if I were to go on the witness-stand +to-morrow for the defendant in this suit, your hopes and schemes would +vanish into thin air. Now, I have no great desire to do this; I have +still a friendly feeling left for Old Simon, and as for the boy, he +is a nice fellow, and I would like to see him prosper. But in my +circumstances, as they are at present, I do not feel that I can afford +to let slip an opportunity to turn an honest penny. + + "If a penny saved is a penny earned, + Then a penny found is a penny turned." + +Sharpman was still looking calmly at his visitor. "Well?" he said, +inquiringly. + +"Well, to make a long story short, if I get two hundred dollars +to-night, I keep my knowledge of Simon Craft and his grandson to +myself. If I don't get two hundred dollars to-night, I go to Goodlaw +the first thing to-morrow morning and offer my services to the +defence. I propose to make the amount of a witness fee out of this +case, at any rate." + +"You are attempting a game that will hardly work here," said Sharpman, +severely. "You will find yourself earning two hundred dollars for the +state in the penitentiary of your native city if you persist in that +course." + +"Very well, sir; you have heard my story, you have my ultimatum. You +are at liberty to act or not to act as you see fit. If you do not +choose to act it will be unnecessary for me to prolong my visit. I +will have to rise early in the morning, in order to get the first +Wilkesbarre train, and I must retire without delay. + + "The adage of the early bird, + My soul from infancy has stirred, + And since the worm I sorely need + I'll practise, now, that thrifty creed." + +Rhyming Joe reached for his hat. + +Sharpman was growing anxious. There was no doubt that the fellow +might hurt them greatly if he chose to do so. His story was not an +improbable one. Indeed, there was good reason to believe that it might +be true. His manner tended to impress one with its truth. But, true or +false, it would not do to have the statement get before that jury. The +man must be detained, to give time for further thought. + +"Don't be in a hurry," said Sharpman, mildly; "let's talk this matter +over a little more. Perhaps we can reach an amicable understanding." + +Rhyming Joe detected, in an instant, the weakening on the lawyer's +part, and increased his audacity accordingly. + +"You have heard my proposition, Mr. Sharpman," he said; "it is the +only one I shall make, and I must decline to discuss the matter +further. My time, as I have already intimated, is of considerable +value to me." + +"But how can you expect me to decide on your proposition without first +consulting my client? He is in Wilkesbarre. Give us time. Wait until +morning; I'll go down on the first train with you." + +"No, I don't care to have Old Simon consulted in this matter; if I +had cared to, I should have consulted him myself; I know where he is. +Besides, his interest in the case is very small compared with yours. +You are to get the lion's share, that is apparent, and you, of course, +are the one to pay the cost. It is necessary that I should have the +money to-night; after to-night it will be too late." + +Sharpman arose and began pacing up and down the room. He was inclined +to yield to the man's demand. The Burnham suit was drawing rapidly to +a successful close. If this fellow should go on the witness-stand and +tell his plausible story, the entire scheme might be wrecked beyond +retrieval. But it was very annoying to be bulldozed into a thing in +this way. The lawyer's stubborn nature rebelled against it powerfully. +It would be a great pleasure, he thought, to defy the fellow and turn +him into the street. Then a new fear came to him. What would be the +effect of this man's story, with its air of genuineness, on the mind +of so conscientious a boy as Ralph? He surely could not afford to +have Ralph's faith interfered with; that would be certain to bring +disaster. + +He made up his mind at once. Turning quickly on his heel to face his +visitor, he said:-- + +"I want you to understand that I'm not afraid of you nor of your +story, but I don't want to be bothered with you. Now, I'll tell you +what I'll do. I'll give you one hundred dollars in cash to-night, on +condition that you will leave this town by the first train in the +morning, that you'll not go to Wilkesbarre, that you'll not come back +here inside of a year, and that you'll not mention a word of this +matter to any one so long as you shall live." + +The lawyer spoke with determined earnestness. Rhyming Joe looked up at +the ceiling as if in doubt. + +Finally, he said:-- + + "Split the difference and call it even, + A hundred and fifty and I'll be leavin'." + +Sharpman was whirling the knob of his safe back and forth. At last he +flung open the safe-door. + +"I don't care," he said, looking around at his visitor, "whether your +story is true or false. We'll call it true if that will please you. +But if I ever hear of your lisping it again to any living person, I +give you my word for it you shall be sorry. I pay you your own price +for your silence; now I want you to understand that I've bought it and +it's mine." + +He had taken a package of bank-notes from a drawer in his safe, had +counted out a portion of them, and now handed them to Rhyming Joe. + +"Certainly," said the young man, "certainly; no one can say that I +have ever failed to keep an honest obligation; and between you and me +there shall be the utmost confidence and good faith. + + "Though woman's vain, and man deceives, + There's always honor among--gentlemen. + +"I beg your pardon! it's the first time in fifteen years that I have +failed to find an appropriate rhyming word; but the exigencies of a +moment, you will understand, may destroy both rhyme and reason." + +He was folding the bills carefully and placing them in a shabby purse +while Sharpman looked down on him with undisguised ill will. + +"Now," said the lawyer, "I expect that you will leave the city on the +first train in the morning, and that you will not stop until you have +gone at least a hundred miles. Here! here's enough more money to pay +your fare that far, and buy your dinner"; and he held out, scornfully, +toward the young man, another bank-bill. + +Rhyming Joe declined it with a courteous wave of his hand, and, +rising, began, with much dignity, to button his coat. + +"I have already received," he said, "the _quid pro quo_ of the +bargain. I do not sue for charity nor accept it. Reserve your +financial favors for the poor and needy. + + "Go find the beggar crawling in the sun, + Or him that's worse; + But don't inflict your charity on one + With well filled purse." + +Sharpman looked amused and put the money back into his pocket. Then a +bit of his customary politeness returned to him. + +"I shall not expect to see you in Scranton again for some time, Mr. +Cheekerton," he said, "but when you do come this way, I trust you will +honor me with a visit." + +"Thank you, sir. When I return I shall expect to find that your +brilliant scheme has met with deserved success; that old Craft has +chuckled himself to death over his riches; and that my young friend +Ralph is happy in his new home, and contented with such slight remnant +of his fortune as may be left to him after you two are through with +it. By the way, let me ask just one favor of you on leaving, and +that is that the boy may never know what a narrow escape he has had +to-night, and may never know that he is not really the son of Robert +Burnham. It would be an awful blow to him to know that Old Simon is +actually his grandfather; and there's no need, now, to tell him. + + "'Where ignorance is bliss,' you know the rest, + And a still tongue is generally the best." + +"Oh, no, indeed! the boy shall hear nothing of the kind from me. I am +very much obliged to you, however, for the true story of the matter." + +Under the circumstances Sharpman was outdoing himself in politeness, +but he could not well outdo Rhyming Joe. The young man extended his +hand to the lawyer with a respectful bow. + +"I shall long remember your extreme kindness and courtesy," he said. + + "Henceforth the spider of a friendship true, + Shall weave its silken web twixt me and you." + +My dear sir, I wish you a very good night!" + +"Good-night!" + +The young man placed his silk hat jauntily on his head, and passed +through the outer office, whistling a low tune; out at the street door +and down the walk; out into the gay world of dissipation, down into +the treacherous depths of crime; one more of the many who have chained +bright intellects to the chariot wheels of vice, and have been dragged +through dust and mire to final and to irretrievable disaster. + +A moment later a boy arose from a chair in the outer office and +staggered out into the street. It was Ralph. He had heard it all. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +THE ANGEL WITH THE SWORD. + + +Ralph had entered the office just as Rhyming Joe reached the point of +his disclosure. He had heard him declare, in emphatic tones: "I say +the boy Ralph is not Robert Burnham's son." + +It was as though some one had struck him. He dropped into a chair and +sat as if under a spell, listening to every word that was uttered. He +was powerless to move or to speak until the man who had told the cruel +story had passed by him in the dark and gone down the walk into the +street. + +Then he arose and followed him; he did not know just why, but it +seemed as if he must see him, if only to beg him to declare that the +story he had just heard him tell was all a lie. And yet Ralph believed +that Rhyming Joe had told the truth. Why should he not believe him +when Sharpman himself had put such faith in the tale as to purchase +the man's silence with money. But if the story were true, if it _were_ +true, then it should be known; Mrs. Burnham should know it, Mr. +Goodlaw should know it, Mr. Sharpman should not conceal it, Rhyming +Joe must not be allowed to depart until he had told it on the +witness-stand, in open court. He must see him, Ralph thought; he must +find him, he must, in some way, compel him to remain. The sound of the +man's footsteps had not yet died away as the boy ran after him along +the street, but half-way down the block his breath grew short, his +heart began to pound against his breast, he pressed his hand to his +side as if in pain, and staggered up to a lamp-post for support. + +When he recovered sufficiently to start on, Rhyming Joe had passed +out of both sight and hearing. Ralph hurried down the street until he +reached Lackawanna Avenue, and there he stopped, wondering which way +to turn. But there was no time to lose. If the man should escape him +now he might never see him again, he might never hear from his lips +whether the dreadful story was really and positively true. He felt +that Rhyming Joe would not lie to him to-night, nor deceive him, nor +deny his request to make the truth known to those who ought to know +it, if he could only find him and speak to him, and if the man could +only see how utterly miserable he was. He plunged in among the Sunday +evening saunterers, and hurried up the street, looking to the right +and to the left, before and behind him, hastening on as he could. Once +he thought he saw, just ahead, the object of his search. He ran up to +speak to him, looked into his face, and--it was some one else. + +Finally he reached the head of the avenue and turned up toward the +Dunmore road. Then he came back, crossed over, and went down on the +other side of the street. Block after block he traversed, looking into +the face of every man he met, glancing into doorways and dark corners, +making short excursions into side streets; block after block, until +he reached the Hyde Park bridge. He was tired and disheartened as he +turned back and wondered what he should do next. Then it occurred to +him that he had promised to meet Mr. Sharpman that night. Perhaps the +lawyer was still waiting for him. Perhaps, if he should appeal to him, +the lawyer would help him to find Rhyming Joe, and to make the truth +known before injustice should be done. + +He turned his steps in the direction of Sharpman's office, reached +it finally, went up the little walk, tried to open the door, and +found it locked. The lights were out, the lawyer had gone. Ralph was +very tired, and he sat down on the door-step to rest and to try to +think. He felt that he had made every effort to find Rhyming Joe and +had failed. To-morrow the man would be gone. Sharpman would go to +Wilkesbarre. The evidence in the Burnham case would be closed. The +jury would come into court and declare that he, Ralph, was Robert +Burnham's son--and it would be all a lie. Oh, no! he could not let +that be done. His whole moral nature cried out against it. He must +see Sharpman to-night and beg him to put a stop to so unjust a cause. +To-morrow it might be too late. He rose and started down the walk to +find the lawyer's dwelling. But he did not know in which direction to +turn. A man was passing along the street, and Ralph accosted him:-- + +"Please, can you tell me where Mr. Sharpman lives?" he asked. + +"I don't know anything about him," replied the man gruffly, starting +on. + +In a minute another man came by, and Ralph repeated his question. + +"I don't know where he does live, sonny," said the man, "but I know +where he would live if I had my choice as to his dwelling-place; he'd +reside in the county jail," and this man, too, passed on. + +Ralph went back and sat down on the steps again. + +The sky had become covered with clouds, no stars were visible, and it +was very dark. + +What was to be done now? He had failed to find Rhyming Joe, he had +failed to find Lawyer Sharpman. The early morning train would carry +both of them beyond his reach. Suppose it should? Suppose the case at +Wilkesbarre should go on to its predicted end, and the jury should +bring in their expected verdict, what then? + +Why, then the law would declare him to be Robert Burnham's son; the +title, the position, the fortune would all be his; Mrs. Burnham would +take him to her home, and lavish love and care upon him; all this +unless--unless he should tell what he had heard. Ah! there was a +thought. Suppose he should not tell, suppose he should let the case go +on just as though he had not known the truth, just as though he had +stayed at home that night instead of coming to the city; who would +ever be the wiser? who would ever suspect him of knowing that the +verdict was unjust? He might yet have it all, all, if only he would +hold his tongue. His heart beat wildly with the thought, his breath +came in gasps, something in his throat seemed choking him. But that +would be wrong--he knew it would be wrong, and wicked; a sense of +shame came over him, and he cast the tempting thought aside. + +No, there was but one thing for him, as an honest boy, to do, and that +was to tell what he had heard. + +If he could tell it soon enough to hold the verdict back, so much the +better, if he could not, still he had no right to keep his knowledge +to himself--the story must be known. And then farewell to all his +hopes, his plans, his high ambition. No beautiful home for him now, +no loving mother nor winsome sister nor taste of any joy that he had +thought to know. It was hard to give them up, it was terrible, but it +must be done. + +He fell to thinking of his visit to his mother. It seemed to him as +though it were something that had taken place very long ago. It was +like a sweet dream that he had dreamed as a little boy. He wondered +if it was indeed only that afternoon that it had all occurred. It +had been so beautiful, so very beautiful; and now! Could it be that +this boy, sitting weak, wretched, disconsolate, on the steps of this +deserted office, in the night-time, was the same boy whose feet had +scarcely touched the ground that afternoon for buoyant happiness? Oh, +it was dreadful! dreadful! He began to wonder why he did not cry. He +put up his hands to see if there were any tears on his cheeks, but he +found none. Did only people cry who had some gentler cause for tears? + +But the thought of what would happen if he should keep his knowledge +to himself came back again into his mind. He drove it out, but it +returned. It had a fascination about it that was difficult to resist. +It would be so easy simply to say nothing. And who would ever know +that he was not Mrs. Burnham's son? Why, Old Simon would know, but he +would not dare to tell; Lawyer Sharpman would know, but he would not +dare to tell; Rhyming Joe would know, but he would not dare to tell, +at least, not for a long time. And suppose it should be known after +a year, after two years or longer, who would blame him? he would be +supposed to have been ignorant of it all; he would be so established +by that time in his new home that he would not have to leave it. They +might take his property, his money, all things else, but he knew that +if he could but live with Mrs. Burnham for a year she would never let +him leave her, and that was all he cared for at any rate. + +But then, he himself would know that he had no right there; he would +have to live with this knowledge always with him, he would have to +walk about with an ever present lie on his mind and in his heart. He +could not do that, he would not do it; he must disclose his knowledge, +and make some effort to see that justice was not mocked. But it was +too late to do anything to-night. He wondered how late it was. He +thought of Bachelor Billy waiting for him at home. He feared that the +good man would be worried on account of his long absence. A clock in a +church tower not far away struck ten. Ralph started to his feet, went +out into the street again, and up toward home. + +But Uncle Billy! what would Uncle Billy say when he should tell him +what he had heard? Would he counsel him to hold his tongue? Ah, no! +the boy knew well the course that Uncle Billy would mark out for him. + +But it would be a great blow to the man; he would grieve much +on account of the lad's misfortune; he would feel the pangs of +disappointment as deeply as did Ralph himself. Ought he not to be +spared this pain? + +And then, a person holding the position of Robert Burnham's son could +give much comfort to the man who had been his dearest friend, could +place him beyond the reach of possible want, could provide well +for the old age that was rapidly approaching, could make happy and +peaceful the remnant of his days. Was it not the duty of a boy to +do it? + +But, ah! he would not have the good man look into his heart and see +the lie there, not for worlds. + +Ralph was passing along the same streets that he had traversed in +coming to the city two hours before; but now the doors of the houses +were closed, the curtains were drawn, the lights were out, there was +no longer any sound of sweet voices at the steps, nor any laughter, +nor any music in the air. A rising wind was stirring the foliage of +the trees into a noise like the subdued sobbing of many people; the +streets were deserted, a fine rain had begun to fall, and out on the +road, after the lad had left the suburbs, it was very dark. Indeed, it +was only by reason of long familiarity with the route that he could +find his way at all. + +But the storm and darkness outside were not to be compared with the +tempest in his heart; that was terrible. He had about made up his +mind to tell Bachelor Billy everything and to follow his advice when +he chanced to think of Mrs. Burnham, and how great her pain and +disappointment would be when she should know the truth. He knew that +she believed him now to be her son; that she was ready to take him +to her home, that she counted very greatly on his coming, and was +impatient to bestow on him all the care and devotion that her mother's +heart could conceive. It would be a bitter blow to her, oh, a very +bitter blow. It would be like raising her son from the dead only to +lay him back into his grave after the first day. + +What right had he to inflict such torture as this on a lady who had +been so kind to him? What right? Did not her love for him and his love +for her demand that he should keep silence? But, oh! to hear the sound +of loving words from her lips and know that he did not deserve them, +to feel her mother's kisses on his cheek and know that his heart was +dark with deep deceit. Could he endure that? could he? + +As Ralph turned the corner of the village street, he saw the light +from Bachelor Billy's window shining out into the darkness. There were +no other lights to be seen. People went early to bed there; they must +rise early in the morning. + +The boy knew that his Uncle Billy was waiting for him, doubtless with +much anxiety, but, now that he had reached the cottage, he stood +motionless by the door. He was trying to decide what he should do and +say on entering. To tell Uncle Billy or not to tell him, that was the +question. He had never kept anything from him before; this would be +the first secret he had not shared with him. And Uncle Billy had been +so good to him, too, so very good! Yes, he thought he had better tell +him; he would do it now, before his resolution failed. He raised his +hand to lift the latch. Again he hesitated. If he should tell him, +that would end it all. The good man would never allow him to act a +falsehood. He would have to bid farewell to all his sweet dreams of +home, and his high plans for life, and step back into the old routine +of helpless poverty and hopeless toil. He felt that he was not quite +ready to do that yet; heart, mind, body, all rebelled against it. He +would wait and hope for some way out, without the sacrifice of all +that he had longed for. His hand fell nerveless to his side. He still +stood waiting on the step in the beating rain. + +But then, it was wrong to keep silent, wrong! wrong! wrong! + +The word went echoing through his mind like the stern sentence of +some high court; conscience again pushed her way to the front, and +the struggle in the boy's heart went on with a fierceness that was +terrible. + +Suddenly the door was opened from the inside, and Bachelor Billy +stood there, shading his eyes with his hand and peering out into the +darkness. + +"Ralph," he said, "is that yo' a-stannin' there i' the rain? Coom in, +lad; coom in wi' ye! Why!" he exclaimed, as the boy entered the room, +"ye're a' drippin' wet!" + +"Yes, Uncle Billy, it's a-rainin' pirty hard; I believe I--I believe I +did git wet." + +The boy's voice sounded strange and hard even to himself. Bachelor +Billy looked down into his face questioningly. + +"What's the matter wi' ye, Ralph? Soun's like as if ye'd been +a-cryin'. Anything gone wrong?" + +"Oh, no. Only I'm tired, that's all, an'--an' wet." + +"Ye look bad i' the face. Mayhap an' ye're a bit sick?" + +"No, I ain't sick." + +"Wull, then, off wi' the wet duddies, an' we'll be a-creepin' awa' to +bed." + +As Ralph proceeded to remove his wet clothing, Bachelor Billy watched +him with increasing concern. The boy's face was white and haggard, +there were dark crescents under his eyes, his movements were heavy and +confused, he seemed hardly to know what he was about. + +"Has the lawyer said aught to mak' ye unhappy, Ralph?" inquired Billy +at last. + +"No, I ain't seen Mr. Sharpman. He wasn't in. He was in when I first +went there, but somebody else was there a-talkin' to 'im, an' I went +out to wait, an' w'en I got back again the office was locked, so I +didn't see 'im." + +"Ye've been a lang time gone, lad?" + +"Yes, I waited aroun', thinkin' maybe he'd come back, but he didn't. I +didn't git started for home" till just before it begun to rain." + +"Mayhap ye got a bit frightened a-comin' up i' the dark?" + +"No--well, I did git just a little scared a-comin' by old No. 10 +shaft; I thought I heard a funny noise in there." + +"Ye s'ould na be oot so late alone. Nex' time I'll go wi' ye mysel'!" + +Ralph finished the removal of his wet clothing, and went to bed, glad +to get where Bachelor Billy could not see his face, and where he need +not talk. + +"I'll wait up a bit an' finish ma pipe," said the man, and he leaned +back in his chair and began again his slow puffing. + +He knew that something had gone wrong with Ralph. He feared that he +was either sick or in deep trouble. He did not like to question him +too closely, but he thought he would wait a little before going to bed +and see if there were any further developments. + +Ralph could not sleep, but he tried to lie very still. A half-hour +went by, and then Bachelor Billy stole softly to the bed and looked +down into the lad's face. He was still awake. + +"Have you got your pipe smoked out, Uncle Billy?" he asked. + +"Yes, lad; I ha' just finished it." + +"Then are you comin' to bed now?" + +"I thocht to. Do ye want for anything?" + +"Oh, no! I'm all right." + +The man began to prepare for bed. + +After a while Ralph spoke. + +"Uncle Billy!" + +"What is it, lad?" + +"I've been thinkin', s'pose this suit should go against us, do you +b'lieve Mrs. Burnham would do anything more for me?" + +"She's a gude woman, Ralph. Na doot she'd care for ye; but ye could +na hope to have her tak' ye to her hame, an they proved ye waur no' +her son." + +"An' then--an' then I'd stay right along with you, wouldn't I?" + +"I hope so, lad, I hope so. I want ye s'ould stay wi' me till ye find +a better place." + +"Oh, I couldn't find a better place to stay, I know I couldn't, 'xcept +with my--'xcept with Mrs. Burnham." + +"Wull, ye need na worry aboot the matter. Ye'll ha' naught to fear fra +the trial, I'm thinkin'. Gae to sleep noo; ye'll feel better i' the +mornin', na doot." + +Ralph was silent, but only for a minute. A new thought was working +slowly into his mind. + +"But, Uncle Billy," he said, "s'pose they should prove, to-morrow, 'at +Simon Craft is my own gran'father, would I have to--Oh! Uncle Billy!" + +The lad started up in bed, sat there for a moment with wildly staring +eyes, and then sprang to the floor trembling with excitement and fear. + +"Oh, don't!" he cried; "Uncle Billy, don't let him take me back there +to live with him! I couldn't stan' it! I couldn't! I'd die! I can't +go, Uncle Billy! I can't!" + +"There, there, lad! ha' no fear; ye'll no' go back, I'll no' let ye." + +The man had Ralph in his arms trying to quiet him. + +"But," persisted the boy, "he'll come for me, he'll, make me go. If +they find out I'm his gran'son there at the court, they'll tell him to +take me, I know they will!" + +"But ye're no' his gran'son, Ralph, ye've naught to do wi' 'im. Ye're +Robert Burnham's son." + +"Oh, no, Uncle Billy, I ain't, I--" He stopped suddenly. The certain +result of disclosing his knowledge to his Uncle Billy flashed +warningly across his mind. If Bachelor Billy knew it, Mrs. Burnham +must know it; if Mrs. Burnham knew it, Goodlaw and the court must know +it, the verdict would be against him, Simon Craft would come to take +him back to the terrors of his wretched home, and he would have to +go. The law that would deny his claim as Robert Burnham's son would +stamp him as the grandson of Simon Craft, and place him again in his +cruel keeping. + +Oh, no! he must not tell. If there were reasons for keeping silence +before, they were increased a hundred-fold by the shadow of this last +danger. He felt that he had rather die than go back to live with Simon +Craft. + +Bachelor Billy was rocking the boy in his arms as he would have rocked +a baby. + +"There, noo, there, noo, quiet yoursel'," he said, and his voice was +very soothing, "quiet yoursel'; ye've naught to dread; it'll a' +coom oot richt. What's happenit to ye, Ralph, that ye s'ould be so +fearfu'?" + +"N--nothin'; I'm tired, that's all. I guess I'll go to bed again." + +He went back to bed, but not to sleep. Hot and feverish, and with his +mind in a tumult, he tossed about, restlessly, through the long hours +of the night. He had decided at last that he could not tell what he +had heard at Sharpman's office. The thought of having to return to +Simon Craft had settled the matter in his mind. The other reasons +for his silence he had lost sight of now; this last one outweighed +them all, and placed a seal upon his tongue that he felt must not +be broken. + +Toward morning he fell into a troubled sleep and dreamed that Old +Simon was holding him over the mouth of Burnham Shaft, threatening to +drop him down into it, while Sharpman stood by, with his hands in his +pockets, laughing heartily at his terror. He managed to cry out, and +awoke both himself and Bachelor Billy. He started up in bed, clutching +at the coverings in an attempt, to save himself from apparent +disaster, trembling from head to foot, moaning hoarsely in his fright. + +"What is it, Ralph, lad, what's ailin' ye?" + +"Oh, don't! don't let him throw me--Uncle Billy, is that you?" + +"It's me, Ralph. Waur ye dreamin'? There, never mind; no one s'all +harm ye, ye're safe i' the bed at hame. Gae to sleep, lad, gae to +sleep." + +"I thought they was goin' to throw me down the shaft. I must 'a' been +a-dreamin'." + +"Yes, ye waur dreamin'. Gae to sleep." + +But Ralph did not go to sleep again that night, and when the first +gray light of the dawning day came in at the cottage window he arose. +Bachelor Billy was still wrapped in heavy slumber, and the boy moved +about cautiously so as not to waken him. + +When he was dressed he went out and sat on a bench by the door. The +storm of the night before had left the air cool and sweet, and it +refreshed him to sit there and breathe it, and watch the sun as it +came up from behind the long slanting roof of Burnham Breaker. + +But he was very miserable, very miserable indeed. It was not so much +the sense of fear, of pain, of disappointment that disturbed him now, +it was the misery of a fettered conscience, the shadow of an ever +present shame. + +Finally the door was opened and Bachelor Billy stepped out. + +"Good mornin', Uncle Billy," said the boy, trying to speak cheerfully. + +"Gude mornin' till ye, Ralph! Ye're up airly the mornin'. I mak' free +to say ye're a-feelin' better." + +"Yes, I am. I didn't sleep very well, but I'm better this mornin'. I +wisht it was all over with--the trial I mean; you see it's a-makin' me +kind o' nervous an'--an' tired. I can't stan' much 'xcitement, some +way." + +"Wull, ye'll no' ha' lang to wait I'm a-thinkin'. It'll be ower the +day. What aboot you're gaein' to Wilkesbarre?" + +"I don't know. I guess I'll go down to Mr. Sharpman's office after a +while, an' see if he's left any word for me." + +Mrs. Maloney appeared at her door. + +"The top o' the mornin' to yez!" she cried, cheerily. "It's a fine +mornin' this!" + +Both Bachelor Billy and Ralph responded to the woman's hearty +greeting. She continued: + +"Ye'll be afther gettin' out in the air, I mind, to sharpen up the +appetites; an' a-boardin' with a widdy, too, bad 'cess to ye!" + +Mrs. Maloney was inclined to be jovial, as well as kind-hearted. +"Well, I've a bite on the table for yez, an ye don't come an' ate it, +the griddle-cakes'll burn an' the coffee'll be cowld, an'--why, Ralph, +is it sick ye are? sure, ye're not lookin' right well." + +"I wasn't feelin' very good las' night, Mrs. Maloney, but I'm better +this mornin'." + +The sympathetic woman took the boy's hand and rubbed it gently, and, +with many inquiries and much advice, she led him to the table. He +forced himself to eat a little food and to drink something that the +good woman had prepared for him, which, she declared emphatically, +would drive off the "wakeness." + +Bachelor Billy did not take his dinner with him that morning as usual. +He said he would come back at noon to learn whether anything new +had occurred in the matter of the lawsuit, and whether it would be +necessary for Ralph to go to Wilkesbarre. + +He was really much concerned about the boy. Ralph's conduct since the +evening before had been a mystery to him. He knew that something was +troubling the lad greatly; but, whatever it was, he had faith that +Ralph would meet it manfully, the more manfully, perhaps, without his +help. So he went away with cheering predictions concerning the suit, +and with kindly admonition to the boy to remain as quiet as possible +and try to sleep. + +But Ralph could not sleep, nor could he rest. He was laboring under +too much excitement still to do either. He walked nervously about the +cottage for a while, then he started down toward the city. He went +first to Sharpman's office, and the clerk told him that Mr. Sharpman +had left word that Ralph need not go to Wilkesbarre that day. Then he +went on to the heart of the city. He was trying to divert himself, +trying to drown his thought, as people try who are suffering from the +reproaches of conscience. + +He walked down to the railroad station. He wondered if Rhyming Joe had +gone. He supposed he had. He did not care to see him now, at any rate. + +He sat on a bench in the waiting-room for a few minutes to rest, +then he went out into the street again. But he was very wretched. It +seemed to him as though all persons whom he met looked down on him +disdainfully, as if they knew of his proposed deceit, and despised him +for it. A lady coming toward him crossed to the other side of the walk +before she reached him. He wondered if she saw disgrace in his face +and was trying to avoid him. + +After that he left the busy streets and walked back, by a less +frequented route, toward home. The day was very bright and warm, but +the brightness had a cold glare in Ralph's eyes, and he actually +shivered as he walked on in the shade of the trees. He crossed to the +sunny side of the street, and hurried along through the suburbs and +up the hill. + +Widow Maloney called to him as he reached the cottage door, to ask +after his health; but he told her he was feeling better, and went on +into his own room. He closed the door behind him, locked it, and threw +himself down upon the bed. He was very wretched. Oh, very wretched, +indeed. + +He had decided to keep silent, and to let the case at Wilkesbarre go +on to its expected end, but the decision had brought to him no peace; +it had only made him more unhappy than he was before. But why should +it do this? Was he not doing what was best? Would it not be better +for Uncle Billy, for Mrs. Burnham, for himself? Must he, for the sake +of some farfetched moral principle, throw himself into the merciless +clutch of Simon Craft? + +Thus the fight began again, and the battle in the boy's heart went on +with renewed earnestness. He gave to his conscience, one by one, the +reasons that he had for acting the part of Robert Burnham's son; good +reasons they were too, overwhelmingly convincing they seemed to him; +but his conscience, like an angel with a flaming sword, rejected all +of them, declaring constantly that what he thought to do would be a +grievous wrong. + +But whom would it wrong? Not Ralph Burnham, for he was dead, and it +could be no wrong to him; not Mrs. Burnham, for she would rejoice to +have this boy with her, even though she knew he was not her son; not +Bachelor Billy, for he would be helped to comfort and to happiness. +And yet there stood the angel with the flaming sword crying out always +that it was wrong. + +But whom would it wrong? himself? Ah! there was a thought--would it be +wronging himself? + +Well, would it not? Had it not already made a coward of him? Was it +not degrading him in his own eyes? Was it not trying to stifle the +voice of conscience in his breast? Would it not make of him a living, +walking lie? a thing to be shunned and scorned? Had he a right to +place a burden so appalling on himself? Would it not be better to face +the toil, the pain, the poverty, the fear? Would it not be better even +to die than to live a life like that? + +He sprang from the bed with clenched hands and flashing eyes and +swelling nostrils. A fire of moral courage had blazed up suddenly in +his breast. His better nature rose to the help of the angel with the +flaming sword, and together they fought, as the giants of old fought +the dragons in their path. Then hope came back, and courage grew, and +resolution found new footing. He stood there as he stood that day +on the carriage that bore Robert Burnham to his death, the light of +heroism in his eyes, the glow of splendid faith illuming his face. He +could not help but conquer. He drove the spirit of temptation from his +breast, and enthroned in its stead the principle of everlasting right. +There was no thought now of yielding; he felt brave and strong to meet +every trial, yes, every terror that might lie in his path, without +flinching one hair's breadth from the stern line of duty. + +But now that his decision was made, he must act, and that promptly. +What was the first thing to be done? Why, the first thing always was +to confide in Uncle Billy, and to ask for his advice. + +He seized his hat and started up the village street and across the +hill to Burnham Breaker There was no lagging now, no indecision in his +step, no doubt within his mind. + +He was once more brave, hopeful, free-hearted, ready to do anything or +all things, that justice might be done and truth become established. + +The sun shone down upon him tenderly, the birds sang carols to him on +the way, the blossoming trees cast white flowers at his feet; but he +never stayed his steps nor turned his thought until the black heights +of Burnham Breaker threw their shadows on his head. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +AN EVENTFUL JOURNEY. + + +The shaft-tower of Burnham Breaker reached up so high from the surface +of the earth that it seemed, sometimes, as if the low-hanging clouds +were only a foot or two above its head. In the winter time the wind +swept wildly against it, the flying snow drifted in through the wide +cracks and broken windows, and the men who worked there suffered from +the piercing cold. But when summer came, and the cool breeze floated +across through the open places at the head, and one could look down +always on the green fields far below, and the blossoming gardens, +and the gray-roofed city, and the shining waters of the Lackawanna, +winding southward, and the wooded hills rising like green waves to +touch the far blue line of mountain peaks, ah, then it was a pleasant +place to work in. So Bachelor Billy thought, these warm spring days, +as he pushed the dripping cars from the carriage, and dumped each load +of coal into the slide, to be carried down between the iron-teethed +rollers, to be crushed and divided and screened and re-screened, till +it should pass beneath the sharp eyes and nimble fingers of the boys +who cleansed it from its slate and stone. + +Billy often thought, as he dumped a carload into the slide, and saw a +huge lump of coal that glistened brightly, or glowed with iridescent +tints, or was veined with fossil-marked or twisted slate, that +perhaps, down below in the screen-room, Ralph's eyes would see the +brightness of the broken lump, or Ralph's fingers pick the curious +bits of slate from out the moving mass. And as he fastened up the +swing-board and pushed the empty car to the carriage, he imagined how +the boy's face would light up with pleasure, or his brown eyes gleam +with wonder and delight in looking on these strange specimens of +nature's handiwork. + +But to-day Ralph was not there. In all probability he would never +be there again to work. Another boy was sitting on his bench in the +screen-room, another boy was watching rainbow coal and fern-marked +slate. This thought in Bachelor Billy's mind was a sad one. He pushed +the empty car on the carriage, and sat down on a bench by the window +to consider the subject of Ralph's absence. + +Something had gone wrong at the foot of the shaft. There were no cars +ready for hoisting, and Billy and his co-laborer, Andy Gilgallon, were +able to rest for many minutes from their toil. + +As they sat looking down upon the green landscape below them, Bachelor +Billy's attention was attracted to a boy who was hurrying along the +turnpike road a quarter of a mile away. He came to the foot of the +hill and turned up the path to the breaker, looking up to the men in +the shaft-tower as he hastened on, and waving his hand to them. + +"I believe it's Ralph," said Billy, "it surely is. An ye'll mind both +carriages for a bit when they start up, Andy, I'll go t' the lad," and +he hurried across the tracks and down the dark and devious way that +led to the surface of the earth. + +At the door of the pump-room he met Ralph. "Uncle Billy!" shouted the +boy, "I want to see you; I've got sumpthin' to tell you." + +Two or three men were standing by, watching the pair curiously, and +Ralph continued: "Come up to the tree where they ain't so much noise; +'twon't take long." + +He led the way across the level space, up the bank, and into the +shadow of the tree beneath which the breaker boys had gathered a year +before to pass resolutions of sympathy for Robert Burnham's widow; + +They were no sooner seated on the rude bench than Ralph began:-- + +"I ought to 'a' told you before, I done very wrong not to tell you, +but I couldn't raise the courage to do it till this mornin'. Here's +what I want you to know." + +Then Ralph told, with full detail, of his visit to Sharpman's office +on Sunday evening, of what he had heard there, of his subsequent +journey through the streets of the city, of his night of agony, of his +morning of shame, of his final victory over himself. + +Bachelor Billy listened with intense interest, and when he had heard +the boy's story to the end he dashed the tears from his eyes and said: +"Gie's your han' Ralph; gie's your twa han's! Ye're a braw lad. Son or +no son o' Robert Burnham, ye're fit to stan' ony day in his shoes!" + +He was looking down with strong admiration into the boy's pale face, +holding the small hands affectionately in both of his. + +"I come just as quick as I could," continued the boy, "after I got +over thinkin' I'd keep still about it, just as quick as I could, to +tell you an' ask you what to do. I'll do anything 'at you tell me it's +right to do, Uncle Billy, anything. If you'll only say I must do it, +I will. But it's awful hard to do it all alone, to let 'em know who I +am, to give up everything so, an' not to have any mother any more, nor +no sister, nor no home, nor no learnin', nor nothing; not anything at +all, never, any more; it's terrible! Oh, Uncle Billy, it's terrible!" + +Then, for the first time since the dreadful words of Rhyming Joe fell +on his ears in the darkness of Sharpman's office, Ralph gave way to +tears. He wept till his whole frame shook with the deep force of his +sobs. + +Bachelor Billy put his arm around the boy and drew him to his side. He +smoothed back the tangled hair from the child's hot forehead and spoke +rude words of comfort into his ears, and after a time Ralph grew +quiet. + +"Do you think, Uncle Billy," asked Ralph, "'at Rhymin' Joe was +a-tellin' the truth? He used to lie, I know he did, I've heard 'im +lie myself." + +"It looks verra like, Ralph, as though he might 'a' been a-tellin' o' +the truth; he must 'a' been knowin' to it all, or he could na tell it +so plain." + +"Oh! he was; he knew all about it. I remember him about the first +thing. He was there most all the time. But I didn't know but he might +just 'a' been lyin' to get that money." + +"It's no' unlikely. But atween the twa, I'd sooner think it was the +auld mon was a-tellin' o' the lee. He has more to make out o' it, do +ye see?" + +"Well, there's the evidence in court." + +"True, but Lawyer Sharpman kens the worth o' that as well as ony o' +us. An he was na fearfu' that the truth would owerbalance it, he wadna +gi' a mon a hunderd an' fifty dollars to hold his tongue. I'm doubtfu' +for ye, Ralph, I'm verra doubtfu'." + +Ralph had believed Rhyming Joe's story from the beginning, but he felt +that this belief must be confirmed by Uncle Billy in order to put it +beyond question. Now he was satisfied. It only remained to act. + +"It's all true," he said; "I know it's all true, an' sumpthin's got to +be done. What shall I do, Uncle Billy?" + +The troubled look deepened on the man's face. + +"Whether it's fause or true," he replied, "ye s'ould na keep it to +yoursel'. She ought to know. It's only fair to go an' tell the tale to +her an' let her do what she thenks bes'." + +"Must I tell Mrs. Burnham? Must I go an' tell her 'at I ain't her +son, an' 'at I can't live with her, an' 'at we can't never be happy +together the way we talked? Oh, Uncle Billy, I can't do that, I +can't!" + +He looked up beseechingly into the man's face. Something that he saw +there--pain, disappointment, affection, something, inspired him with +fresh courage, and he started to his feet and dashed the tears from +his eyes. + +"Yes, I can do it too!" he exclaimed. "I can do anything 'at's right, +an' that's right. I won't wait; I'll go now." + +"Don't haste, lad; wait a bit; listen! If the lady should be gone to +court ye mus' gae there too. If ye canna find her, ye mus' find her +lawyer. One or the ither ye s'ould tell, afoor the verdict comes; +afterwards it might be too late." + +"Yes, I'll do it, I'll do it just like that." + +"Mos' like ye'll have to go to Wilkesbarre. An ye do I'll go mysel'. +But dinna wait for me. I'll coom when I can get awa'. Ye s'ould go on +the first train that leaves." + +"Yes, I unnerstan'. I'll go now." + +"Wait a bit! Keep up your courage, Ralph. Ye've done a braw thing, an' +ye're through the worst o' it; but ye'll find a hard path yet, an' +ye'll need a stout hert. Ralph," he had taken both the boy's hands +into his again, and was looking tenderly into his haggard face and +bloodshot eyes; the traces of the struggle were so very plain--"Ralph, +I fear I'd cry ower ye a bit an we had the time, ye've sufferit so. +An' it's gude for ye, I'm thinkin', that ye mus' go quick. I'd make ye +weak, an' ye need to be strang. I canna fear for ye, laddie; ye ken +the right an' ye'll do it. Good-by till ye; it'll not be lang till I +s'all go to ye; good-by!" + +He bent down and kissed the boy's forehead and turned him to face +toward the city; and when Ralph had disappeared below the brow of the +hill, the rough-handed, warm-hearted toiler of the breaker's head +wiped the tears from his face, and climbed back up the steep steps, +and the long walks of cleated plank, to engage in his accustomed task. + +There was no shrinking on Ralph's part now. He was on fire with the +determination to do the duty that lay so plainly in his sight. He did +not stop to argue with himself, he scarcely saw a person or a thing +along his path; he never rested from his rapid journey till he reached +the door of Mrs. Burnham's house. + +A servant came in answer to his ring at the bell, and gave him +pleasant greeting. She said that Mrs. Burnham had gone to Wilkesbarre, +that she had started an hour before, that she had said she would come +back in the early evening and would doubtless bring her son with her. + +Ralph looked up into the woman's face, and his eyes grew dim. + +"Thank you," he said, repressing a sob, and he went down the steps +with a choking in his throat and a pain at his heart. + +He turned at the gate, and looked back through the half-opened door +into the rich shadows that lay beyond it, with a ray of crimson light +from the stained glass window cleaving them across, and then his eyes +were blinded with tears, and he could see no more. The gates of his +Eden were closed behind him; he felt that he should never enter them +again. + +But this was no time for sorrow and regret. + +He wiped the tears from his eyes and turned his face resolutely toward +the heart of the city. + +At the railroad station he was told that the next train would leave +for Wilkesbarre at twelve o'clock. + +It lacked half an hour of that time now. There was nothing to do but +to wait. He began to mark out in his mind the course he should pursue +on reaching Wilkesbarre. He thought he would inquire the way to Mr. +Goodlaw's office, and go directly to it and tell the whole story to +him. Perhaps Mrs. Burnham would be there too, that would be better +yet, more painful but better. Then he should follow their advice as +to the course to be pursued. It was more than likely that they would +want him to testify as a witness. That would be strange, too, that +he should give such evidence voluntarily as would deprive him of a +beautiful home, of a loving mother, and of an honored name. But he was +ready to do it; he was ready to do anything now that seemed right and +best, anything that would meet the approval of his Uncle Billy and of +his own conscience. + +When the train was ready he found a seat in the cars and waited +impatiently for them to start. For some reason they were late in +getting away, but, once started, they seemed to be going fast enough +to make up for lost time. + +In the seats behind Ralph was a merry party of young girls. Their +incessant chatter and musical laughter came to his ears as from a long +distance. At any former time he would have listened to them with great +pleasure; such sounds had an unspeakable charm for him; but to-day his +brain was busied with weightier matters. + +He looked from the car window and saw the river glancing in the +sunlight, winding under shaded banks, rippling over stony bottoms. +He saw the wooded hill-sides, with the delicate green of spring upon +them fast deepening into the darker tints of summer. He saw the giant +breakers looming up, black and massive, in the foreground of almost +every scene. And yet it was all scarcely more to him than a shadowy +dream. The strong reality in his mind was the trying task that lay +before him yet, and the bitter outcome, so soon to be, of all his +hopes and fancies. + +At Pittston Junction there was another long delay. Ralph grew very +nervous and impatient. + +If the train could have reached Wilkesbarre on time he would have had +only an hour to spare before the sitting of the court. Now he could +hope for only a half-hour at the best. And if anything should happen +to deprive him of that time; if anything _should_ happen so that he +should not get to court until after the case was closed, until after +the verdict of the jury had been rendered, until after the law had +declared him to be Robert Burnham's son; if anything _should_ happen! +His face flushed, his heart began to beat wildly, his breath came in +gasps. If such a thing were to occur, without his fault, against his +will and effort, what then? It was only for a moment that he gave way +to this insidious and undermining thought. Then he fought it back, +crushed it, trampled on it, and set his face again sternly to the +front. + +At last the train came, the impatient passengers entered it, and they +were once more on their way. + +It was a relief at least to be going, and for the moment Ralph had a +faint sense of enjoyment in looking out across the placid bosom of the +Susquehanna, over into the tree-girt, garden-decked expanse of the +valley of Wyoming. Off the nearer shore of a green-walled island in +the river, a group of cattle stood knee-deep in the shaded water, a +picture of perfect comfort and content. + +Then the train swept around a curve, away from the shore, and back +among the low hills to the east. Suddenly there was a bumping together +of the cars, an apparently powerful effort to check their impetus, a +grinding of the brakes on the wheels, a rapid slowing of the train, +and a slight shock at stopping. + +The party of girls had grown silent, and their eyes were wide and +their faces blanched with fear. + +The men in the car arose from their seats and went out to discover the +cause of the alarm. Ralph went also. The train had narrowly escaped +plunging into a mass of wrecked coal cars, thrown together by a +collision which had just occurred, and half buried in the scattered +coal. + +To make the matter still worse the collision had taken place in a deep +and narrow cut, and had filled it from side to side with twisted and +splintered wreckage. + +What was to be done? the passengers asked. The conductor replied +that a man would be sent back to the next station, a few miles away, +to telegraph for a special train from Wilkesbarre, and that the +passengers would take the train from the other side of the wreck. And +how long would they be obliged to wait here? + +"Well, an hour at any rate, perhaps longer." + +"That means two hours," said an impatient traveller, bitterly. + +Ralph heard it all. An hour would make him very late, two hours would +be fatal to his mission. He went up to the conductor and asked,-- + +"How long'd it take to walk to Wilkesbarre?" + +"That depends on how fast you can walk, sonny. Some men might do it in +half or three quarters of an hour: you couldn't." And the man looked +down, slightingly, on the boyish figure beside him. + +Ralph turned away in deep thought. If he could walk it in +three-quarters of an hour, he might yet be in time; time to do +something at least. Should he try? + +But this accident, this delay, might it not be providential? Must he +always be striving against fate? against every circumstance that would +tend to relieve him? against every obstacle thrown into his path to +prevent him from bringing calamity on his own head? Must he?--but the +query went no further. The angel with the flaming sword came back to +guard the gates of thought, and conscience still was king. He would do +all that lay in his human power, with every moment and every muscle +that he had, to fulfil the stern command of duty, and then if he +should fail, it would be with no shame in his heart, no blot upon his +soul. + +Already he was making his way through the thick underbrush along the +steep hill-side above the wreck, stumbling, falling, bruising his +hands and knees, and finally leaping down into the railroad track on +the other side of the piled-up cars. From there he ran along smoothly +on the ties, turning out once for a train of coal cars to pass him, +but stopping for nothing. A man at work in a field by the track asked +him what the matter was up the line; the boy answered him in as few +words as possible, walking while he talked, and then ran on again. +After he had gone a mile or more he came to a wagon-road crossing, and +wondered if, by following it, he would not sooner reach his journey's +end. He could see, in the distance, the smoke arising from a hundred +chimneys where the city lay, and the road looked as though it would +take him more directly there. He did not stop long to consider. He +plunged ahead down a little hill, and then along on a foot-path by the +side of the wagon-track. The day had grown to be very warm, and Ralph +removed his jacket and carried it on his arm or across his shoulder. +He became thirsty after a while, but he dared not stop at the houses +along the way to ask for water; it would take too much time. He met +many wagons coming toward him, but there seemed to be few going in to +the city. He had hoped to get a ride. He had overtaken a farmer with +a wagon-load of produce going to the town and had passed him. Two or +three fast teams whirled by, leaving a cloud of dust to envelop him. +Then a man, riding in a buggy, drove slowly down the road. Ralph +shouted at him as he passed:-- + +"Please, sir, may I have a ride? I'm in a desp'ate hurry!" + +But the man looked back at him contemptuously. "I don't run a stage +for the benefit of tramps," he said, and drove on. + +Ralph was discouraged and did not dare to ask any one else for a ride, +though there seemed to be several opportunities to get one. + +But he came to a place, at last, where a little creek crossed the +road, a cool spring run, and he knelt down by it and quenched his +thirst, and considered that if he had been in a wagon he would have +missed the drink. The road was somewhat disappointing to him, too. It +seemed to turn away, after a little distance, from the direct line to +the city, and to bear to the west, toward the river. He feared that +he had made a mistake in leaving the railroad, but he only walked the +faster. Now and then he would break into a run and keep running until +his breath gave out, then he would drop back into a walk. + +His feet began to hurt him. One shoe rubbed his heel until the pain +became so intense that he could not bear it, and he sat down by the +roadside and removed his shoes and stockings, and then ran on in his +bare feet. The sunlight grew hotter; no air was stirring; the dust +hung above the road in clouds. Deep thirst came back upon the boy; +his limbs grew weak and tired; his bared feet were bruised upon the +stones. + +But he scarcely thought of these things; his only anxiety was that the +moments were passing, that the road was long, that unless he reached +his journey's end in time injustice would be done and wrong prevail. + +So he pressed on; abating not one jot of his swiftness, falling +not one hair's breadth from his height of resolution, on and on, +foot-sore, thirsty, in deep distress; but with a heart unyielding +as the flint, with a purpose strong as steel, with a heroism more +magnificent than that which meets the points of glittering bayonets +or the mouths of belching cannon. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +A BLOCK IN THE WHEEL. + + +At half-past one o'clock people began to loiter into the court-house +at Wilkesbarre; at two the court-room was full. They were there, the +most of them, to hear the close of the now celebrated Burnham case. + +The judge came in from a side door and took his seat on the bench. +Beneath him the prothonotary was busy writing in a big book. Down in +the bar the attorneys sat chatting familiarly and pleasantly with one +another. Sharpman was there, and Craft was at his elbow. + +Goodlaw was there, and Mrs. Burnham sat in her accustomed place. The +crier opened court in a voice that could be heard to the farthest end +of the room, though few of the listeners understood what his "Oyez! +oyez! oyez!" was all about. + +Some opinions of the court were read and handed down by the judge. The +prothonotary called the jury list for the week. Two or three jurors +presented applications for discharge which were patiently considered +and acted on by the court. + +The sheriff arose and acknowledged a bunch of deeds, the title-pages +of which had been read aloud by the judge. + +An attorney stepped up to the railing and presented a petition to the +court; another attorney arose and objected to it, and quite a little +discussion ensued over the matter. It finally ended by a rule being +granted to show cause why the petition should not be allowed. Then +there were several motions made by as many lawyers. All this took much +time; a good half-hour at least, perhaps longer. + +Finally there was a lull. The judge was busily engaged in writing. The +attorneys seemed to have exhausted their topics for conversation and +to be waiting for new ones. + +The jury in the Burnham case sat listlessly in their chairs, glad that +their work in the matter at issue was nearly done, yet regretful that +a case had not been made out which might have called for the exercise +of that large intelligence, that critical acumen, that capacity +for close reasoning, of which the members of the average jury +feel themselves to be severally and collectively possessed. As it +was, there would be little for them to do. The case was extremely +one-sided, "like the handle on a jug," as one of them sententiously +and somewhat scornfully remarked. + +The judge looked up from his writing. "Well, gentlemen," he said, "are +you ready to proceed in the case of 'Craft against Burnham'?" + +"We are ready on the part of the plaintiff," replied Sharpman. + +Goodlaw arose. "If it please the court," he said, "we are in the same +position to-day that we were in on Saturday night at the adjournment. +This matter has been, with us, one of investigation rather than of +defence. + +"Though we hesitate to accept a statement of fact from a man of Simon +Craft's self-confessed character, yet the corroborative evidence seems +to warrant a belief in the general truth of his story. + +"We do not wish to offer any further contradictory evidence than that +already elicited from the plaintiff's witnesses. I may say, however, +that this decision on our part is due not so much to my own sense of +the legal barrenness of our case as to my client's deep conviction +that the boy Ralph is her son, and to her great desire that justice +shall be done to him." + +"In that case," said the judge, "I presume you will have nothing +further to offer on the part of the plaintiff, Mr. Sharpman?" + +"Nothing," replied that gentleman, with an involuntary, smile of +satisfaction on his lips. + +"Then," said Goodlaw, who was still standing, "I suppose the evidence +may be declared closed. I know of no--" He stopped and turned to see +what the noise and confusion back by the entrance was about. The eyes +of every one else in the room were turned in that direction also. A +tipstaff was trying to detain Ralph at the door; he had not recognized +him. But the boy broke away from him and hurried down the central +aisle to the railing of the bar. In the struggle with the officer he +had lost his hat, and his hair was tumbled over his forehead. His face +was grimy and streaked with perspiration; his clothes were torn and +dusty, and in his hand he still carried his shoes and stockings. + +"Mr. Goodlaw!" he exclaimed in a loud whisper as he hastened across +the bar, "Mr. Goodlaw, wait a minute! I ain't Robert Burnham's son! I +didn't know it till yestaday; but I ain't--I ain't his son!" + +The boy dropped, panting, into a chair. Goodlaw looked down on him +in astonishment. Old Simon clutched his cane and leaned forward with +his eyes flashing fire. Mrs. Burnham, her face pale with surprise and +compassion, began to smooth back the hair from the lad's wet forehead. +The people back in the court-room had risen to their feet, to look +down into the bar, and the constables were trying to restore order. + +It all took place in a minute. + +Then Ralph began to talk again:-- + +"Rhymin' Joe said so; he said I was Simon Craft's grandson; he told--" + +Sharpman interrupted him. "Come with me, Ralph," he said, "I want to +speak with you a minute." He reached out his hand, as if to lead him +away; but Goodlaw stepped between them, saying, sternly:-- + +"He shall not go! The boy shall tell his story unhampered; you shall +not crowd it back down his throat in private!" + +"I say the boy shall go," replied Sharpman, angrily. "He is my client, +and I have a right to consult with him." + +This was true. For a moment Goodlaw was at his wit's end. Then, a +bright idea came to him. + +"Ralph," he said, "take the witness-stand." + +Sharpman saw that he was foiled. + +He turned to the court, white with passion. + +"I protest," he exclaimed, "against this proceeding! It is contrary +to both law and courtesy. I demand the privilege of consulting with +my client!" + +"Counsel has a right to call the boy as a witness," said the judge, +dispassionately, "and to put him on the stand at once. Let him be +sworn." + +Ralph pushed his way up to the witness-stand, and the officer +administered the oath. He was a sorry-looking witness indeed. + +At any other time or in any other place, his appearance would have +been ludicrous. But now no one laughed. The people in the court-room +began to whisper, "Hush!" fearing lest the noise of moving bodies +might cause them to lose the boy's words. + +To Goodlaw it was all a mystery. He did not know how to begin the +examination. He started at a venture. + +"Are you Robert Burnham's son?" + +"No, sir," replied Ralph, firmly. "I ain't." + +There was a buzz of excitement in the room. Old Simon sat staring +at the boy incredulously. His anger had changed for the moment into +wonder. He could not understand the cause of Ralph's action. Sharpman +had not told him of the interview with Rhyming Joe--he had not thought +it advisable. + +"Who are you, then?" inquired Goodlaw. + +"I'm Simon Craft's grandson." The excitement in the room ran higher. +Craft raised himself on his cane to lean toward Sharpman. "He lies!" +whispered the old man, hoarsely; "the boy lies!" + +Sharpman paid no attention to him. + +"When did you first learn that you are Mr. Craft's grandson?" +continued the counsel for the defence. + +"Last night," responded Ralph. + +"Where?" + +"At Mr. Sharpman's office." + +The blood rushed suddenly into Sharpman's face. He understood it all +now; Ralph had overheard. + +"Who told you?" asked Goodlaw. + +"No one told me, I heard Rhymin' Joe--" + +Sharpman interrupted him. + +"I don't know," he said, "if the court please, what this boy is trying +to tell nor what wild idea has found lodgement in his brain; but I +certainly object to the introduction of such hearsay evidence as +counsel seems trying to bring out. Let us at least know whether the +responsible plaintiff in this case was present or was a party to this +alleged conversation." + +"Was Mr. Craft present?" asked Goodlaw of the witness. + +"No, sir; I guess not, I didn't hear 'im, any way." + +"Did you see him?" + +"No, sir; I didn't see 'im. I didn't see either of 'em." + +"Where were you?" + +"In the room nex' to the street." + +"Where did this conversation take place?" + +"In the back room." + +"Was the door open?" + +"Just a little." + +"Who were in the back room?" + +"Mr. Sharpman an' Rhymin' Joe." + +"Who is Rhyming Joe?" + +"He's a man I used to know in Philadelphy." + +"When you lived with Craft?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"What was his business?" + +"I don't know as anything. He used to bring things to the house +sometimes, watches an' things." + +"How long have you known Rhyming Joe?" + +"Ever since I can remember." + +"Was he at Craft's house frequently?" + +"Yes, sir; most all the time." + +An idea of the true situation of affairs was dawning upon Goodlaw's +mind. That Ralph had overheard Rhyming Joe say to Sharpman that the +boy was Simon Craft's grandson was evident. But how to get that fact +before the jury in the face of the rules of evidence--that was the +question. It seemed to him that there should be some way to do it, and +he kept on with the examination in order to gain time for thought and +to lead up to the point. + +"Did Mr. Sharpman know that you were in his office when this +conversation took place?" + +"No, sir; I guess not." + +"Did Rhyming Joe know you were there?" + +"No, sir; I don't believe he did." + +"From the conversation overheard by you, have you reason to believe +that Rhyming Joe is acquainted with the facts relating to your +parentage?" + +"Yes, sir; he must know." + +"And, from hearing that conversation, did you become convinced that +you are Simon Craft's grandson and not Robert Burnham's son?" + +"Yes, sir, I did. Rhymin' Joe said so, an' he knows." + +"Did you see Rhyming Joe last night?" + +"No, sir. Only as he passed by me in the dark." + +"Have you seen him to-day?" + +"No, sir; he promised to go away this mornin'." + +"To whom did he make that promise?" + +Sharpman was on his feet in an instant, calling on Ralph to stop, and +appealing to the court to have the counsel and witness restricted to +a line of evidence that was legal and proper. He saw open before him +the pit of bribery, and this fearless boy was pushing him dangerously +close to the brink of it. + +The judge admonished the defendant's attorney to hold the witness +within proper bounds and to proceed with the examination. + +In the meantime, Goodlaw had been thinking. He felt that it was of the +highest importance that this occurrence in Sharpman's office should be +made known to the court and the jury, and that without delay. There +was but one theory, however, on which he could hope to introduce +evidence of all that had taken place there, and he feared that that +was not a sound one. But he determined to put on a bold face and make +the effort. + +"Ralph," he said, calmly, "you may go on now and give the entire +conversation as you heard it last night between Mr. Sharpman and +Rhyming Joe." + +The very boldness of the question brought a smile to Sharpman's face +as he arose and objected to the legality of the evidence asked for. + +"We contend," said Goodlaw, in support of his offer, "that neither the +trustee-plaintiff nor his attorney are persons whom the law recognizes +as having any vital interest in this suit. The witness on the stand is +the real plaintiff here, his are the interests that are at stake, and +if he chooses to give evidence adverse to those interests, evidence +relevant to the matter at issue, although it may be hearsay evidence, +he has a perfect right to do so. His privilege as a witness is as high +as that of any other plaintiff." + +But Sharpman was on the alert. He arose to reply. + +"Counsel forgets," he said, "or else is ignorant of the fact, that +the very object of the appointment of a guardian is because the law +considers that a minor is incapable of acting for himself. He has no +discretionary power in connection with his estate. He has no more +right to go on the witness-stand and give voluntary hearsay evidence +which shall be adverse to his own interests than he has to give away +any part of his estate which may be under the control of his trustee. +A guardian who will allow him to do either of these things without +objection will be liable for damages at the hands of his ward when +that ward shall have reached his majority. We insist on the rejection +of the offer." + +The judge sat for a minute in silence, as if weighing the matter +carefully. Finally he said:-- + +"We do not think the testimony is competent, Mr. Goodlaw. Although the +point is a new one to us, we are inclined to look upon the law of the +case as Mr. Sharpman looks on it. We shall be obliged to refuse your +offer. We will seal you a bill of exceptions." + +Goodlaw had hardly dared to expect anything else. There was nothing +for him to do but to acquiesce in the ruling of the court. + +Ralph turned to face him with a question on his lips. + +"Mr. Goodlaw," he said, "ain't they goin' to let me tell what I heard +Rhymin' Joe say?" + +"I am afraid not, Ralph; the court has ruled that conversation out." + +"But they won't never know the right of it unless I tell that. I've +got to tell it; that's what I come here for." + +The judge turned to the witness and spoke to him, not unkindly:-- + +"Ralph, suppose you refrain from interrogating your counsel, and let +him ask questions of you; that is the way we do here." + +"Yes, sir, I will," said the boy, innocently, "only it seems too bad +'at I can't tell what Rhymin' Joe said." + +The lawyers in the bar were smiling, Sharpman had recovered his +apparent good-nature, and Goodlaw began again to interrogate the +witness. + +"Are you aware, Ralph," he asked, "that your testimony here to-day +may have the effect of excluding you from all rights in the estate +of Robert Burnham?" + +"Yes, sir, I know it." + +"And do you know that you are probably denying yourself the right to +bear one of the most honored names, and to live in one of the most +beautiful homes in this community?" + +"Yes, sir, I know it all. I wouldn't mind all that so much though if +it wasn't for my mother. I've got to give her up now, that's the worst +of it; I don't know how I'm goin' to stan' that." + +Mrs. Burnham, sitting by her counsel, bent her head above the table +and wept silently. + +"Was your decision to disclose your knowledge reached with a fair +understanding of the probable result of such a disclosure?" + +"Yes, sir, it was. I knew what the end of it'd be, an' I had a pirty +hard time to bring myself to it, but I done it, an' I'm glad now 'at +I did." + +"Did you reach this decision alone or did some one help you to it?" + +"Well, I'll tell you how that was. All't I decided in the first place +was to tell Uncle Billy,--he's the man't I live with. So I told him, +an' he said I ought to tell Mrs. Burnham right away. But she wasn't +home when I got to her house, so I started right down here; an' they +was an accident up on the road, an' the train couldn't go no further, +an' so I walked in--I was afraid I wouldn't get here in time 'less +I did." + +"Your long walk accounts for your dusty and shoeless condition, I +suppose?" + +"Yes, sir; it was pirty dusty an' hot, an' I had to walk a good ways, +an' my shoes hurt me so't I had to take 'em off, an' I didn't have +time to put 'em on again after I got here. Besides," continued the +boy, looking down apologetically at his bruised and dusty feet, "I +hurt my feet a-knockin' 'em against the stones when I was a-runnin', +an' they've got swelled up so 'at I don't believe I could git my shoes +on now, any way." + +Many people in the room besides Mrs. Burnham had tears in their eyes +at the conclusion of this simple statement. + +Then Ralph grew white about the lips and looked around him uneasily. +The judge saw that the lad was faint, and ordered a tipstaff to bring +him a glass of water. Ralph drank the water and it refreshed him. + +"You may cross-examine the witness," said Goodlaw to the plaintiff's +attorney. + +Sharpman hardly knew how to begin. But he felt that he must make an +effort to break in some way the force of Ralph's testimony. He knew +that from a strictly legal point of view, the evidence was of little +value, but he feared that the boy's apparent honesty, coupled with his +dramatic entrance, would create an impression on the minds of the jury +which might carry them to a disastrous verdict. He leaned back in his +chair with an assumed calmness, placed the tips of his fingers against +each other, and cast his eyes toward the ceiling. + +"Ralph," he said, "you considered up to yesterday that Mr. Craft and I +were acting in your interest in this case, did you not?" + +"Yes, sir; I thought so." + +"And you have consulted with us and followed our advice until +yesterday, have you not?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"And last night you came to the conclusion that we were deceiving +you?" + +"Yes, sir; I did." + +"Have you any reason for this opinion aside from the conversation you +allege that you heard?" + +"I don't know as I have." + +"At what hour did you reach my office last evening?" + +"I don't know, I guess it must 'a' been after eight o'clock." + +"Was it dark?" + +"It was jest dark." + +"Was there a light in the office when you came in?" + +"They was in the back room where you an' Rhymin' Joe were." + +"Did you think that I knew when you came into the office?" + +"I don't believe you did." + +"Why did you not make your presence known?" + +"Well, I--I--" + +"Come, out with it! If you had any reason for playing the spy, let's +hear what it was." + +"I didn't play the spy. I didn't think o' bein' mean that way, but +when I heard Rhymin' Joe tell you 'at I wasn't Robert Burnham's son, +I was so s'prised, an' scart-like 'at I couldn't speak." + +This was a little more than Sharpman wanted, but he kept on:-- + +"How long were you under the control of this spirit of muteness?" + +"Sir?" + +"How long was it before the power to speak returned to you?" + +"Oh! not till Rhymin' Joe went out, I guess. I felt so bad I didn't +want to speak to anybody." + +"Did you see this person whom you call Rhyming Joe?" + +"Only in the dark." + +"Not so as to recognize him by sight?" + +"No, sir." + +"How did you know it was he?" + +"By the way he talked." + +"How long is it since you have been accustomed to hearing him talk?" + +"About three years." + +"Did you see me last night?" + +"I caught a glimpse of you jest once." + +"When?" + +"When you went across the room an' gave Rhymin' Joe the money." + +Sharpman flushed angrily. He felt that he was treading on dangerous +ground in this line of examination. He went on more cautiously. + +"At what time did you leave my office last night?" + +"Right after Rhymin' Joe did. I went out to find him." + +"Then you went away without letting me know of your presence there, +did you?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Did you find this Rhyming Joe?" + +"No, sir, I couldn't find 'im." + +"Now, Ralph, when you left me at the Scranton station on Saturday +night, did you go straight home?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Did you see any one to talk with except Bachelor Billy that night +after you left me?" + +"No, sir." + +"Where did you go on Sunday morning?" + +"Uncle Billy an' me went down to the chapel to meetin'." + +"From there where did you go?" + +"Back home." + +"And had your dinner?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"What did you do after that?" + +"Me an' Uncle Billy went up to the breaker." + +"What breaker?" + +"Burnham Breaker." + +"Why did you go there?" + +"Jest for a walk, an' to see how it looked." + +"How long did you stay there?" + +"Oh, we hadn't been there more'n fifteen or twenty minutes 'fore Mrs. +Burnham's man came for me an' took me to her house." + +Sharpman straightened up in his chair. His drag-net had brought up +something at last. It might be of value to him and it might not be. + +"Ah!" he said, "so you spent a portion of yesterday afternoon at Mrs. +Burnham's house, did you?" + +"Yes, sir, I did." + +"How long did you stay there?" + +"Oh! I shouldn't wonder if it was two or three hours." + +"Did you see Mrs. Burnham alone?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Have a long talk together?" + +"Yes, sir, a very nice long talk." + +Sharpman thought that if he could only lead the jury, by inference, +to the presumption that what had taken place to-day was understood +between Ralph and Mrs. Burnham yesterday it would be a strong point, +but he knew that he must go cautiously. + +"She was very kind to you, wasn't she?" + +"Yes, sir; she was lovely. I never had so good a time before in all my +life." + +"You took dinner with her, I suppose?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Have a good dinner?" + +"It was splendid." + +"Did you eat a good deal?" + +"Yes, sir, I think I eat a great deal." + +"Had a good many things that were new to you, I presume?" + +"Yes, sir, quite a good many." + +"Did you think you would like to go there to live?" + +"Oh, yes! I did. It's beautiful there, it's very beautiful. You don't +know how lovely it is till you get there. I couldn't help bein' happy +in a home like that, an' they couldn't be no nicer mother'n Mrs. +Burnham is, nor no pirtier little sister. An' everybody was jest as +good to me there! Why, you don't know what a--" + +The glow suddenly left the boy's face, and the rapture fled from his +eyes. In the enthusiasm of his description he had forgotten, for the +moment, that it was not all to be his, and when the memory of his loss +came back to him, it was like a plunge into outer darkness. He stopped +so unexpectedly, and in such apparent mental distress that people +stared at him in astonishment, wondering what had happened. + +After a moment of silence he spoke again: "But it ain't mine any +longer; I can't have any of it now; I've got no right to go there at +all any more." The sadness in his broken voice was pitiful. Those who +were looking on him saw his under lip tremble and his eyes fill with +tears. But it was only for a moment. Then he drew himself up until +he sat rigidly in his chair, his little hands were tightly clenched, +his lips were set in desperate firmness, every muscle of his face +grew tense and hard with sudden resolution. It was a magnificently +successful effort of the will to hold back almost overpowering +emotion, and to keep both mind and body strong and steady for any +ordeal through which he might have yet to pass. + +It came upon those who saw it like an electric flash, and in another +moment the crowded room was ringing with applause. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY. + + +Sharpman had not seen Ralph's expression and did not know what the +noise was all about. He looked around at the audience uneasily, +whispered to Craft for a moment, and then announced that he was done +with the witness. He was really afraid to carry the examination +further; there were too many pit-falls along the way. + +Goodlaw, too, was wise enough to ask no additional questions. He +did not care to lay grounds for the possible reversal of a judgment +in favor of the defendant, by introducing questionable evidence. +But he felt that the case, in its present aspect, needed farther +investigation, and he moved for a continuance of the cause for two +days. He desired, he said, to find the person known as Rhyming Joe, +and to produce such other evidence as this new and startling turn of +affairs might make necessary. + +Craft whispered to Sharpman that the request should be agreed to, +saying that he could bring plenty of witnesses to prove that Rhyming +Joe was a worthless adventurer, notorious for his habits of lying; +and stoutly asserting that the boy was positively Ralph Burnham. But +Sharpman's great fear was that if Rhyming Joe should be brought back, +the story of the bribery could no longer be hushed; and he therefore +opposed the application for a continuance with all his energy. + +The court ruled that the reasons presented were not sufficient to +warrant the holding of a jury at this stage of the case for so long a +time, but intimated that in the event of a verdict for the plaintiff a +motion for a new trial might be favorably considered by the court. + +"Then we have nothing further to offer," said Goodlaw. + +Sharpman resumed his seat with an air of satisfaction, and sat for +full five minutes, with his face in his hand, in deep thought. + +"I think," he said, finally, looking up, "that we shall present +nothing in rebuttal. The case, as it now stands, doesn't seem to call +for it." He had been considering whether it would be safe and wise for +him to go on the witness-stand and deny any portion of Ralph's story. +He had reached the conclusion that it would not. The risk was too +great. + +"Very well," said the judge, taking up his pen, "then the evidence is +closed. Mr. Goodlaw, are you ready to go to the jury?" + +Goodlaw, who had been, during this time, holding a whispered +conversation with Ralph, arose, bowed to the court, and turned to +face the jurors. He began his speech by saying that, until the recent +testimony given by the boy Ralph had been produced in court, he had +not expected to address the jury at all; but that that testimony had +so changed the whole tenor of the case as to make a brief argument for +the defence an apparent necessity. + +Fortified by the knowledge of the story that Rhyming Joe had told, as +Ralph had just whispered it to him, Goodlaw was able to dissipate, +greatly, the force of the plaintiff's evidence, and to show how +Craft's whole story might easily be a cleverly concocted falsehood +built upon a foundation of truth. He opened up to the wondering minds +of the jurors the probable scheme which had been originated by these +two plotters, Craft and Sharpman, to raise up an heir to the estates +of Robert Burnham, an heir of whom Craft could be guardian, and a +guardian of whom Sharpman could be attorney. He explained how the +property and the funds that would thus come into their hands could be +so managed as to leave a fortune in the pocket of each of them before +they should have done with the estate. + +"The scheme was a clever one," he said, "and worked well, and no +obstacle stood in the way of these conspirators until a person known +as Rhyming Joe came on the scene. This person knew the history of +Ralph's parentage and saw through Craft's duplicity; and, in an +unguarded moment, the attorney for the plaintiff closed this man's +mouth by means which we can only guess at, and sent him forth to hide +among the moral and the social wrecks that constitute the flotsam and +the jetsam of society. But his words, declaring Simon Craft's bold +scheme a fabric built upon a lie, had already struck upon the ears and +pierced into the heart of one whose tender conscience would not let +him rest with the burden of this knowledge weighing down upon it. What +was it that he heard, gentlemen? We can only conjecture. The laws of +evidence drop down upon us here and forbid that we should fully know. +But that it was a tale that brought conviction to the mind of this +brave boy you cannot doubt. It is for no light cause that he comes +here to publicly renounce his right and title to the name, the wealth, +the high maternal love that yesterday was lying at his feet and +smiling in his face. The counsel for the plaintiff tries to throw +upon him the mantle of the eavesdropper, but the breath of this boy's +lightest word lifts such a covering from him, and reveals his purity +of purpose and his agony of mind in listening to the revelation that +was made. I do not wonder that he should lose the power to move on +hearing it. I do not wonder that he should be compelled, as if by +some strange force, to sit and listen quietly to every piercing word. +I can well conceive how terrible the shock would be to one who came, +as he did, fresh from a home where love had made the hours so sweet +to him that he thought them fairer than any he had ever known before. +I can well conceive what bitter disappointment and what deep emotion +filled his breast. But the struggle that began there then between +his boyish sense of honor and his desire for home, for wealth, for +fond affection, I cannot fathom that;--it is too deep, too high, +too terrible for me to fully understand. I only know that honor was +triumphant; that he bade farewell to love, to hope, to home, to the +brightest, sweetest things in all this world of beauty, and turned his +face manfully, steadfastly, unflinchingly to the right. With the help +and counsel of one honest man, he set about to check the progress of a +mighty wrong. No disappointment discouraged him, no fear found place +in his heart, no distance was too great for him to traverse. He knew +that here, to-day, without his presence, injustice would be done, +dishonesty would be rewarded, and shameless fraud prevail. It was +for him, and him alone, to stop it, and he set out upon his journey +hither. The powers of darkness were arrayed against him, fate scowled +savagely upon him, disaster blocked his path, the iron horse refused +to draw him, but he remained undaunted and determined. He had no time +to lose; he left the conquered power of steam behind him, and started +out alone through heat and dust to reach the place of justice. With +bared, bruised feet and aching limbs and parched tongue he hurried, +on, walking, running, as he could, dragging himself at last into the +presence of the court at the very moment when the scales of justice +were trembling for the downward plunge, and spoke the words that +checked the course of legal crime, that placed the chains of hopeless +toil upon his own weak limbs, but that gave the world--another hero! + +"Gentlemen of the jury, I have labored at the bar of this court for +more than thirty years, but I never saw before a specimen of moral +courage fit to bear comparison with this; I never in my life before +saw such a lofty deed of heroism so magnificently done. And do you +think that such a boy as this would lie? Do you think that such a boy +as this would say to you one word that did not rise from the deep +conviction of an honest heart? + +"I leave the case in your hands, gentlemen; you are to choose between +selfish greed and honest sacrifice, between the force of cunning craft +and the mighty power of truth. See to it that you choose rightly and +well." + +The rumble of applause from the court-room as Goodlaw resumed his seat +was quickly suppressed by the officers, and Sharpman arose to speak. +He was calm and courteous, and seemed sanguine of success. But his +mind was filled with the darkness of disappointment and the dread of +disaster; and his heart was heavy with its bitterness toward those who +had blocked his path. He knew that Ralph's testimony ought to bear but +lightly on the case, but he feared that it would weigh heavily with +the jury, and that his own character would not come out stainless. He +hardly hoped to save both case and character, but he determined to +make the strongest effort of which he was capable. He reviewed the +testimony given by Mrs. Burnham concerning her child and his supposed +tragic death; he recalled all the circumstances connected with the +railroad accident, and repeated the statements of the witnesses +concerning the old man and the child; he gave again the history of +Ralph's life, and of Simon Craft's searching and failures and success; +he contended, with all the powers of logic and oratory at his command, +that Ralph Burnham was saved from the wreck at Cherry Brook, and Was +that moment sitting by his mother before the faces and eyes of the +court and jury. + +"Until to-day," he said, "every one who has heard this evidence, and +taken interest in this case, has believed, as I do, that this boy is +Robert Burnham's son. The boy's mother believed it, the counsel for +the defence believed it, the lad himself believed it, his Honor on the +bench, and you, gentlemen in the jury-box, I doubt not, all believed +it; indeed it was agreed by all parties that nothing remained to be +done but to take your verdict for the plaintiff. But, lo! this child +makes his dramatic entrance into the presence of the court, and, under +the inspired guidance of defendant's counsel, tells his story of +eavesdropping, and when it is done my learned friend has the temerity +to ask you to throw away your reason, to dismiss logic from your +minds, to trample law under your feet, to scatter the evidence to the +four winds of heaven, and to believe what? Why, a boy's silly story of +an absurd and palpable lie? + +"I did not go upon the witness-stand to contradict this fairy tale; it +did not seem to be worth the while. + +"Consider it for a moment. This youth says he came to my office last +night and found me in the inner room in conversation with another +person. I shall not deny that. Supposing it to be true, there was +nothing strange or wrong in it, was there? But what does this boy whom +my learned friend has lauded to the skies for his manliness and honor +do next? Why, according to his own story, he steals into the darkness +of the outer office and seats himself to listen to the conversation +in the inner room, and hears--what? No good of himself certainly. +Eavesdroppers never do hear good of themselves. But he thinks he hears +the voice of a person whom no one in this court-room ever heard of or +thought of before, nor has seen or heard of since--a person who, I +daresay, has existence only in this child's imagination; he thinks +he hears this person declare that he, Ralph, is not Robert Burnham's +son, and, by way of embellishing his tale, he adds statements which +are still more absurd, statements on the strength of which my learned +friend hopes to darken in your eyes the character of the counsel for +the plaintiff. I trust, gentlemen, that I am too well known at the bar +of this court and in this community to have my moral standing swept +away by such a flimsy falsehood as you see this to be. And so, to-day, +this child comes into court and declares, with solemn asseveration, +that the evidence fixing his identity beyond dispute or question is +all a lie; and what is this declaration worth? His Honor will tell +you, in his charge, I have no doubt, that this boy's statement, +founded, as he himself says, on hearsay, is valueless in law, and +should have no weight in your minds. But I do not ask you to base your +judgment on technicalities of law. I ask you to base it simply on the +reasonable evidence in this case. + +"What explanation there can be of this lad's conduct, I have not, as +yet, been ably, fully, to determine. + +"I have tried, in my own mind, to throw the mantle of charity across +him. I have tried to think that, coming from an unaccustomed meal, his +stomach loaded with rich food, he no sooner sank into the office chair +than he fell asleep and dreamed. It is not improbable. The power of +dreams is great on children's minds, as all of you may know. But in +the face of these developments I can hardly bring myself to accept +this theory. There is too much method in the child's madness. It +looks more like the outcome of some desperate move on the part of +this defence to win the game which they have seen slipping from their +control. It looks like a deep-laid plan to rob my aged and honored +client of the credit to which he is entitled for rescuing this boy at +the risk of his life, for caring for him through poverty and disease, +for finding him when his own mother had given him up for dead, and +restoring him to the bosom of his family. It looks as though they +feared that this old man, already trembling on the brink of the grave, +would snatch some comfort for his remaining days out of the pittance +that he might hope to collect from this vast estate for services that +ought to be beyond price. It looks as though hatred and jealousy were +combined in a desperate effort to crush the counsel for the plaintiff. +The counsel for the plaintiff can afford to laugh at their animosity +toward himself, but he cannot help his indignation at their plot. Now, +let us see. + +"It is acknowledged that the boy Ralph spent the larger part of +yesterday afternoon at the house of this defendant, and was fed and +flattered till he nearly lost his head in telling of it. That is a +strange circumstance, to begin with. How many private consultations +he has had with counsel for defence, I know not. Neither do I know +what tempting inducements have been held out to him to turn traitor +to those who have been his truest friends. These things I can only +imagine. But that fine promises have been made to him, that pictures +of plenty have been unfolded to his gaze, that the glitter of gold and +the sheen of silver have dazzled his young eyes, there can be little +doubt. So he has seen visions and dreamed dreams, at will; he has +endured terrible temptations, and fought great moral battles, by +special request, and has come off more than victor, in the counsel's +mind. To-day everything is ready for the carrying-out of their skilful +scheme. At the right moment the counsel gives the signal, and the boy +darts in, hatless, shoeless, ragged, and dusty, for the occasion, and +tragic to the counsel's heart's content, and is put at once upon the +stand to tell his made-up tale, and--" + +Sharpman heard a slight noise behind him, and some one exclaimed:-- + +"He has fainted!" + +The lawyer stopped in his harangue and turned in time to see Ralph +lying in a heap on the floor, just as he had slipped that moment from +his chair. The boy had listened to Goodlaw's praises of his conduct +with a vague feeling that he was undeserving of so much credit for it. +But when Sharpman, advancing in his speech, charged him with having +dreamed his story, he was astounded. He thought it was the strangest +thing he had ever heard of. For was not Mr. Sharpman there, himself? +and did not he know that it was all real and true? He could not +understand the lawyer's allegation. Later on, when Sharpman declared +boldly that Ralph's statement on the witness-stand was a carefully +concocted falsehood, the bluntness of the charge was like a cruel +blow, and the boy's sensitive nerves shrank and quivered beneath it; +then his lips grew pale, his breath came in gasps, the room went +swimming round him, darkness came before his eyes, and his weak body, +enfeebled by prolonged fasting and excitement, slipped down to the +floor. + +The people in the court-room scrambled to their feet again to look +over into the bar. + +A man who had entered the room in time to hear Sharpman's brutal +speech pushed his way through the crowd, and hurried down to the place +where Ralph was lying. It was Bachelor Billy. + +In a moment he was down on his knees by the boy's side, chafing the +small cold hands and wrists, while Mrs. Burnham, kneeling on the other +side, was dipping her handkerchief into a glass of water, and bathing +the lad's face. + +Bachelor Billy turned on his knees and looked up angrily at Sharpman. +"Mayhap an' ye've killet 'im," he said, "wi' your traish an' your +lees!" Then he rose to his feet and continued: "Can ye no' tell when +a lad speaks the truth? Mon! he's as honest as the day is lang! But +what's the use o' tellin' ye? ye ken it yoursel'. Ye _wull_ be fause +to 'im!" + +His lips were white with passion as he knelt again by the side of the +unconscious boy. + +"Ye're verra gude to the lad, ma'am," he said to Mrs. Burnham, who had +raised Ralph's head in her arms and was pressing her wet handkerchief +against it; "ye're verra gude, but ma mind is to tak' 'im hame an' +ten' till 'im mysel'. He was ower-tired, d'ye see, wi' the trooble an' +the toil, an' noo I fear me an they've broke the hert o' 'im." + +Then Bachelor Billy, lifting the boy up in his arms, set his face +toward the door. The people pressed back and made way for him as he +passed up the aisle holding the drooping body very tenderly, looking +down at times with great compassion into the white face that lay +against his breast; and the eyes that watched his sturdy back until +it disappeared from view were wet with sympathetic tears. + +When the doors had closed behind him, Sharpman turned again to the +jury, with a bitterly sarcastic smile upon his face. + +"Another chapter in the made-up tragedy," he said, "performed with +marvellous skill as you can see. My learned friend has drilled his +people well. He has made consummate actors of them all. And yet he +would have you think that one is but an honest fool, and that the +other is as innocent as a babe in arms." + +Up among the people some one hissed, then some one else joined in, +and, before the judge and officers could restore order in the room, +the indignant crowd had greeted Sharpman's words with a perfect +torrent of groans and hisses. Then the wily lawyer realized that he +was making a mistake. He knew that he could not afford to gain the +ill-will of the populace, and accordingly he changed the tenor of his +speech. He spoke generally of law and justice, and particularly of the +weight of evidence in the case at bar. He dwelt with much emphasis on +Simon Craft's bravery, self-sacrifice, poverty, toil, and suffering; +and, with a burst of oratory that made the walls re-echo with the +sound of his resonant voice, he closed his address and resumed his +seat. + +Then the judge delivered the charge in a calm, dispassionate way. He +reviewed the evidence very briefly, warning the jury to reject from +their minds all improper declarations of any witness or other person, +and directing them to rest their decision only on the legal evidence +in the case. He instructed them that although the boy Ralph's +declaration that he was not Robert Burnham's son might be regarded by +them, yet they must also take into consideration the fact that his +opinion was founded partly, if not wholly, on hearsay, and, for that +reason, would be of little value to them in making up their decision. +Any evidence of the alleged conversation at Mr. Sharpman's office, he +said, must be rejected wholly. He warned them to dismiss from their +minds all prejudice or sympathy that might have been aroused by the +speeches of counsel, or the appearance of witnesses in court, and to +take into consideration and decide upon but one question, namely: +whether the boy Ralph is or is not the son of the late Robert Burnham: +that, laying aside all other questions, matters, and things, they must +decide that and that alone, according to the law and the evidence. + +When the judge had finished his charge a constable was sworn, and, +followed by the twelve jurors, he marched from the court-room. + +It was already after six o'clock, so the crier was directed to adjourn +the court, and, a few minutes later, the judge, the lawyers, the +witnesses, and the spectators had all disappeared, and the room +was empty. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +A WRIT OF HABEAS CORPUS. + + +Every one expected that the jury would come into court with a verdict +at the opening of the session on Tuesday morning. There was much +difference of opinion, however, as to what that verdict would be. + +But the morning hours went by and the jury still remained in their +room. The constable who watched at the door shook his head and smiled +when asked about the probability of an early agreement. No one seemed +to know just how the jury stood. + +Sharpman and his client had been greatly disheartened on Monday night, +and had confessed as much to each other; but the longer the jury +remained out the more hope they gathered. It was apparent that the +verdict would not be rendered under the impulses of the moment; and +that the jury were applying the principles of cold law and stern logic +to the case, there seemed to be little doubt. + +But, as a matter of fact, the jury were doing no such thing. + +They believed, to a man, that Ralph had told the truth, and that such +an event as he had described had actually taken place in Sharpman's +office; and, notwithstanding the judge's charge, they were trying to +harmonize Ralph's statement with the evidence of the witnesses who +had corroborated Simon Craft's story. This led them into so many +difficulties that they finally abandoned the effort, and the questions +before them were gradually reduced to just one. That question was not +whether Ralph was the son of Robert Burnham; but it was: which would +be better for the boy, to decide in favor of the plaintiff or of the +defendant. If they found for the plaintiff, they would throw the +boy's fortune into the hands of Craft and Sharpman, where they feared +the greater part of it would finally remain. If they found for the +defendant, they would practically consign the lad to a life of +homelessness and toil. It was to discuss and settle this question, +therefore, that the jury remained locked up in their room through so +many hours. + +The day wore on and no verdict was rendered. Sharpman's spirits +continued to rise, and Goodlaw feared that his case was lost. + +At four o'clock the jury sent in word that they had agreed, and a few +minutes later they filed into the court-room. When their verdict had +been inspected by the judge it was given to the prothonotary to read. +He faced the jury, saying:-- + +"Gentlemen of the jury, listen to your verdict as the court has it +recorded. In the case wherein Simon Craft, guardian of the estate +of Ralph Burnham, a minor, is plaintiff, and Margaret Burnham, +administrator of the estate of Robert Burnham, deceased, is defendant, +you say you find for the defendant, and that the boy Ralph is _not_ +the son of Robert Burnham. So say you all?" + +The jury nodded assent, and the verdict was filed. That settled it. +Craft and Sharpman were beaten. + +It was very strange that a solid truth, backed up by abundant and +irreproachable evidence, presented under the strict rules of law and +the solemn sanction of an oath, should be upset and shattered by a +flimsy falsehood told by an unknown adventurer, heard unawares by +a listening child, and denied a proper entrance into court. It was +strange but it was very true. Yet in that ruin was involved one of +the boldest schemes for legal plunder that was ever carried into the +courts of Luzerne County. + +Sharpman felt that a fortune had slipped from his grasp, and that he +had lost it by reason of his own credulity and fear. He saw now the +mistake he had made in not defying Rhyming Joe. He knew now that the +fellow never would have dared to appear in court as a witness. He felt +that he had not only lost his money, but that he had come dangerously +near to losing what character he had, also. He knew that it was all +due to his own fault, and he was humiliated and angry with himself, +and bitter toward every one who had sided with the defendant. + +But if Sharpman's disappointment was great, that of his client was +tenfold greater. + +Simon Craft was in a most unenviable mood. At times, indeed, he grew +fairly desperate. The golden bubble that he had been chasing for eight +years had burst and vanished. He had told the truth, he had been +honest in his statements, he had sought to do the boy and the boy's +mother a great favor, and they had turned against him, and the verdict +of the jury had placed upon him the stigma of perjury. This was the +burden of his complaint. But aside from this he was filled with bitter +regret. If he had only closed his bargain with Robert Burnham on the +day it had been made! If he had only made his proposition to Mrs. +Burnham as he had intended doing, instead of going into this wild +scheme with this visionary lawyer! This was his silent sorrow. His +misery was deep and apparent. He had grown to be ten years older in a +day. This misfortune, he said, bitterly, was the result of trying to +be honest and to do good. This was the reward of virtue, these the +wages of charity. + +Tired, at last, of railing at abstract principles of right, he turned +his attention to those who had been instrumental in his downfall. The +judge, the jury, and the attorney for the defence, all came in for a +share of his malignant hatred and abuse. For Mrs. Burnham he had only +silent contempt. Her honest desire to have right done had been too +apparent from the start. The only fault he had to find with her was +that she did not come to his rescue when the tide was turning against +him. But against Ralph the old man's wrath and indignation were +intense. + +Had he not saved the child from death? Had he not fed and clothed and +cared for him during five years? Had he not rescued him from oblivion, +and made every effort to endow him with wealth and position and an +honored name? And then, to think that in the very moment when these +efforts were about to meet with just success, this boy had turned +against him, and brought ruin and disgrace upon him. Oh, it was too +much, too much! + +If he could only have the lad in his possession for a week, he +thought, for a day, for an hour even, he would teach him the cost of +turning traitor to his friends. Oh, he would teach him! + +Then it occurred to him that perhaps he might get possession of the +boy, and permanent possession at that. Had not Ralph sworn that he was +Simon Craft's grandson? Had not the jury accepted Ralph's testimony +as true? And had not the court ordered judgment to be entered on the +jury's verdict? Well, if the court had declared the boy to be his +grandson, he was entitled to him, was he not? If the boy was able to +earn anything, he was entitled to his earnings, was he not? If he was +the child's grandfather, then he had authority to take him, to govern +him, to punish him for disobedience--was not that true? + +Old Simon rose from his chair and began to walk up and down the room, +hammering his cane upon the floor at every step. + +The idea was a good one, a very good one, and he resolved to act upon +it without delay. He would go the very next day and get the boy and +take him to Philadelphia. + +But suppose Ralph should refuse to go, and suppose Bachelor Billy, +with his strong arms, should stand by to protect the lad from force, +what then? Well, there was a law to meet just such a case as that. He +knew of an instance where a child had been taken by its grandfather by +virtue of a writ of _habeas corpus_. + +He would get such a writ, the sheriff should go with him, they would +bring Ralph to court again; and since the law had declared the boy to +be Simon Craft's grandson, the law could do nothing else than to place +him in Simon Craft's custody. Then the old man went to bed, thinking +that in the morning he would get Sharpman to prepare for him the +papers that would be necessary to carry his plan into execution. + +He derived much pleasure from his dreams that night, for he dreamed +of torturing poor Ralph to his heart's content. + +When Bachelor Billy left the court-room that Monday evening with his +unconscious burden in his arms, he remained only long enough in the +court-house square to revive the boy, then he took him to the railway +station, and they went together, by the earliest train, to Scranton. + +The next morning Ralph felt very weak and miserable, and did not leave +the house; and Bachelor Billy came home at noon to see him and to +learn what news, if any, had been received from Wilkesbarre. Both he +and Ralph expected that a verdict would be rendered for the defendant, +in accordance with Ralph's testimony, and neither of them were +surprised, therefore, when Andy Gilgallon came up from the city after +supper and informed them that the jury had so found. That settled the +matter, at any rate. It was a relief to Ralph to know that it was at +an end; that he was through with courts and lawyers and judges and +juries, and that there need be no further effort on his part to escape +from unmerited fortune. The tumult that had raged in his mind through +many hours was at last stilled, and that night he slept. He wanted +to go back the next morning to his work at the breaker, but Bachelor +Billy would not allow him to do so. He still looked very pale and +weak, and the anxious man resolved to come home at noon again that day +to see to the lad's health. + +Indeed, as the morning wore on, Ralph acknowledged to himself that he +did not feel so well. His head was very heavy, and there was a bruised +feeling over the entire surface of his body. It was a dull day, too; +it rained a little now and then, and was cloudy all the morning. He +sat indoors the most of the time, reading a little, sleeping a little, +and thinking a great deal. The sense of his loss was coming back upon +him very strongly. It was not so much the loss of wealth, or of name, +or of the power to do other and better things than he had ever done +before that grieved him now. But it was that the dear and gentle lady +who was to have been his mother, who had verily been a mother to him +for one sweet day, was a mother to him no longer. To feel that he was +nothing to her now, no more, indeed, than any other ragged, dust-black +boy in Burnham Breaker, this was what brought pain and sorrow to his +heart, and made the hot tears come into his eyes in spite of his +determined effort to hold them back. + +He was sitting in his accustomed chair, facing the dying embers of a +little wood fire that he had built, for the morning was a chilly one. + +Behind him the door was opened and some one entered the room from the +street. He thought it was Bachelor Billy, just come from work, and +he straightened up in his chair and tried to wipe away the traces of +tears from his face before he should turn to give him greeting. + +"Is that you, Uncle Billy?" he said; "ain't you home early?" + +He was still rubbing industriously at his eyes. Receiving no answer he +looked around. + +It was not Uncle Billy. It was Simon Craft. + +Ralph uttered a cry of surprise and terror, and retreated into a +corner of the room. Old Simon, looking at him maliciously from under +his bushy brows, gradually extended his thin lips into a wicked smile. + +"What!" he exclaimed, "is it possible that you are afraid of your +affectionate old grandfather? Why, I thought you desired nothing so +much as to go and live with him and be his pet." + +The boy's worst fears were realized. Old Simon had come for him. + +"I won't go back with you!" he cried. "I won't! I won't!" Then, +changing his tone to one of appealing, he continued: "You didn't come +for me, did you, gran'pa? you won't make me go back with you, will +you?" + +"I'm afraid I can't do without you any longer," said Craft, coming +nearer and looking Ralph over carefully. "I'm getting old and sick, +and your presence will be a great comfort to me in my declining years. +Besides, my affection for you is so great that I feel that I couldn't +do without you; oh, I couldn't, I couldn't possibly!" And the old man +actually chuckled himself into a fit of coughing at his grim sarcasm. + +"But I don't want to go," persisted the boy. "I'm very happy here. +Uncle Billy's very good to me, an' I'd ruther stay, a good deal +ruther." + +At the mention of Uncle Billy's name Old Simon's smile vanished and he +advanced threateningly toward the boy, striking his cane repeatedly on +the floor. + +"It don't matter what you want," he said, harshly; "you were crazy to +be my grandson; now the law says you are, and the law gives me the +right to take you and do what I choose with you. Oh, you've got to go! +so get your hat and come along, and don't let's have any more nonsense +about it!" + +"Gran'pa--Gran'pa Simon!" exclaimed the terrified boy, shrinking still +farther away, "I can't go back to Philadelphy, I can't! I couldn't +live, I'd die if I went back there! I'd--" + +Craft interrupted him: "Well, if you do die, it won't be because +you're killed with kindness, I warrant you. You've cheated me out of +a living and yourself out of a fortune; you've made your own bed, now +you've got to lie in it. Come on, I say! get your hat and come along!" + +The old man was working himself into a passion. There was danger in +his eyes. Ralph knew it, too, but the thought of going back to live +with Simon Craft was such a dreadful one to him that he could not +refrain from further pleading. + +"I know I belong to you, Gran'pa Simon," he said, "an' I know I've got +to mind you; but please don't make me go back to live with you; please +don't! I'll do anything else in the world you want me to; I'll give +you ev'ry dollar I earn if you'll let me stay here, ev'ry dollar; an' +I'll work hard, too, ev'ry day. I'll--I'll give you--I'll give you-- + +"Well, what'll you give me? Out with it!" + +It was a desperate chance; it called for sacrifice, but Ralph felt +that he would offer it gladly if he could thereby be saved. + +"I'll give you," he said, "all the money I've got saved up." + +"How much money have you got saved up?" The light of hatred in the +man's eyes gave place, for the time being, to the light of greed. + +"About thirty-two dollars." + +"Well, give it to me, then, and be quick about it!" + +Ralph went to a small closet built into the wall over the chimney, and +took from it a little box. + +That box contained his accumulated savings. With a large portion of +the money he had thought to buy new clothing for himself. He had +determined that he would not go to live with Mrs. Burnham, dressed +like a beggar. He would have clothes befitting his station in life. +Indeed, he and Uncle Billy were to have gone out the day before to +make the necessary purchases; but since the change came the matter had +not been thought of. Now he should pay it to Simon Craft as the price +of his freedom. He was willing and more than willing to do so. He +would have given all he ever hoped to earn to save himself from that +man's custody, and would have considered it a cheap release. + +He took the money from the box,--it was all paper money,--and counted +it carefully out into Old Simon's trembling hand. There were just +thirty-two dollars. + +"Is that all?" said Craft, folding the bills and putting them into an +inside pocket as he spoke. + +"Yes, that's all." + +"You haven't got any more hidden around the house anywhere, have you? +Don't lie to me, now!" + +"Oh, no! I've given you ev'ry cent I had, ev'ry single cent." + +"Well, then, get your hat and come along." + +"Wh--what?" Ralph was staring at the man in astonishment. He thought +he had just bought his freedom, and that he need not go. + +"Get your hat and come along, I say; and be quick about it? I can't +wait here all day." + +"Where--where to?" + +"Why, home with me, of course. Where would I take you?" + +"But I gave you the money to let me stay here with Uncle Billy; you +said you would take it for that." + +"No, I didn't. I told you to give it to me. The money belongs to me +the same as you do. Now, are you coming, or do you want me to help +you?" + +Ralph's face was white with indignation. He had been willing to do +what was right. He thought he had made a fair bargain; but now, +this--this was an outrage. His spirit rose against it. The old sense +of fearlessness took possession of him. He looked the man squarely +in the eyes. His voice was firm and his hands were clenched with +resolution. "I will not go with you," he said. + +"What's that?" Craft looked down on the boy in astonishment. + +"I say I will not go with you," repeated Ralph; "that's all--I won't +go." + +Then the old man's wrath was let loose. + +"You beggar!" he shouted, "how dare you disobey me! I'll teach you!" +He raised his cane threateningly as he spoke. + +"Hit me," said Ralph, "kill me if you want to; I'd ruther die than go +back to live with you." + +Old Simon grasped his cane by its foot and raised it above his +head. In another instant it would have descended on the body of the +unfortunate boy; but in that instant some one seized it from behind, +wrenched it from Craft's weak grasp, and flung it into the street. + +It was Bachelor Billy; He had entered at the open door unseen. He +seized Craft's shoulders and whirled him around till the two men stood +face to face. + +"Mon!" he exclaimed, "mon! an' yon steck had a-fallen o' the lad's +head, I dinna ken what I s'ould 'a' done till ye. Ye're lucky to be +auld an' sick, or ye s'ould feel the weight o' ma han' as it is." + +But Craft was not subdued. On the contrary his rage grew more fierce. +"What's the boy to you?" he shouted, savagely. "You leave us alone. He +belongs to me; he shall go with me." + +It was a full half-minute before Bachelor Billy's dull mind grasped +the situation. Meanwhile he was looking down into Ralph's white face. +Then he turned again to Craft. + +"Never!" he said, solemnly. "Ye s'all never tak' 'im. I'll see the lad +in his grave first." After a moment he continued, "It's no' safe for +ye to stay longer wi' us; it's better ye s'ould go." + +Then another man entered at the open door. It was the sheriff of +Luzerne County. He held the writ of _habeas corpus_ in his hand. + +"Why didn't you wait for me," he said, turning angrily to Craft, +"instead of coming here to pick a quarrel with these people?" + +"That's none of your business," replied the old man. "You've got your +writ, now do your duty or I'll--" A fit of coughing attacked him, and +he dropped into a chair to give way to it. + +The sheriff looked at him contemptuously for a moment, then he turned +to Bachelor Billy. + +"This miserable old man," he said, "has had a writ of _habeas corpus_ +issued, commanding you to produce immediately before the judge at +Wilkesbarre the body of the boy Ralph. It is my place to see that the +writ is properly executed. There's no help for it, so I think you had +better get ready, and we will go as soon as possible." And he handed +to Bachelor Billy a copy of the writ. + +"I ha' no time to read it," said Billy, "but if the judge says as the +lad s'ould gae to court again, he s'all gae. We mus' obey the law. An' +I s'all gae wi' 'im. Whaur the lad gae's I s'all gae. I s'all stay by +'im nicht an' day. If the law says he mus' live wi' Seemon Craft, then +I s'all live wi' Seemon Craft also. I ha' nursit 'im too long, an' +lovit 'im too weel to turn 'im alone into the wolfs den noo." + +In a minute or two Craft recovered, but the coughing had left him very +weak. He rose unsteadily to his feet and looked around for his cane. +He had grown calm. He thought that the game was his at any rate, and +that it was of no use for him to lose strength over it. "You'll walk +faster than I," he said, "so I'll be going. If I miss this train I +can't get started to Philadelphia with the boy before to-morrow." He +tottered out into the road, picked up his cane, and trudged on down +the hill toward the city. + +It was not long before the two men and the boy were ready to go also. + +"Keep up your courage, my son," said the sheriff kindly, for the sight +of Ralph's face aroused his sympathy. "Keep up your courage; the court +has got to pass on this matter yet. You don't have to go with the old +man till the judge says so." + +"Tak' heart," added Bachelor Billy, "tak' heart, laddie. It's not all +ower wi' us yet. I canna thenk as any law'd put a lamb i' the wolf's +teeth." + +"I don't know," said the sheriff, as they stood on the step for a +moment before leaving the house. "I don't know how you'll make it. I +suppose, as far as the law's concerned, the old man's on the right +track. As near as I can make out, the way the law-suit turned, he has +a legal right to the custody of the child and to his earnings. But, if +I was the lad, he'd no sooner get me to Philadelphia than I'd give him +the slip. You've done it once, Ralph, you can do it again, can't you?" + +"I don't know," answered the boy, weakly; "I don't believe I'd try. If +I have to go back with him I wouldn't live very long any way, an' it +wouldn't pay to run away again. It don't make much difference; I ain't +got anybody left now but Uncle Billy, an', if he goes with me, I guess +I can stan' it till it's through with." + +It was the first time in his life that Ralph had ever spoken in so +despondent a way, and Bachelor Billy was alarmed. "Bear up, lad," he +said, "bear up. We'll mak' the best o' it; an' they canna do much harm +till ye wi' Uncle Billy a-stannin' by." + +Mrs. Maloney had come to her door and stood there, looking at the trio +in sorrowful surprise. + +"Good-by, Mrs. Maloney!" said Ralph going up to her. "It ain't likely +I'll ever come back here any more, an' you've been very good to me, +Mrs. Maloney, very good indeed, an'--an'--good-by!" + +"An' where do ye be goin' Ralphy?" + +"Back to Gran'pa Simon's, I s'pose. He's come for me and he's got a +right to take me." + +The sheriff was looking uneasily at his watch. "Come," he said, "we'll +have to hurry to catch the train." + +The good woman bent down and kissed the boy tenderly. "Good-by to ye, +darlin'," she said, "an' the saints protict ye." Then she burst into +tears, and, throwing her apron up before her face, she held it against +her eyes and went, backward, into the house. + +Ralph laid hold of Bachelor Billy's rough hand affectionately, and +they walked rapidly away. + +At the bend in the street, the boy turned to look back for the last +time upon the cottage which had been his home. A happy home it had +been to him, a very happy home indeed. He never knew before how dear +the old place was to him. The brow of the hill which they were now +descending hid the house at last from sight, and, with tear-blinded +eyes, Ralph turned his face again toward the city, toward the misery +of the court-room, toward the desolate and dreadful prospect of a life +with Simon Craft. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +BACK TO THE BREAKER. + + +It was a dull day in the court-room at Wilkesbarre. The jury trials +had all been disposed of, and for the last hour or more the court +had been listening to an argument on a rule for a new trial in an +ejectment case. It was a very uninteresting matter. Every one had +left the court-room with the exception of the court officers, a few +lawyers, and a half-dozen spectators who seemed to be there for the +purpose of resting on the benches rather than with any desire to hear +the proceedings before the court. + +The lawyers on both sides had concluded their arguments, and the judge +was bundling together the papers in the case and trying to encircle +the bulky package with a heavy rubber band. + +Then the court-room door was opened, and the sheriff came down the +aisle, accompanied by Ralph and Bachelor Billy. A moment later, Simon +Craft followed them to the bar. Sharpman, who was sitting inside the +railing by a table, looked up with disgust plainly marked on his face +as the old man entered and sat down beside him. + +He had prepared the petition for a writ of _habeas corpus_, at Craft's +request, and had agreed to appear in his behalf when the writ should +be returned. He shared, in some small degree, the old man's desire for +revenge on those who had been instrumental in destroying their scheme. +But, as the day wore on, the matter took on a slightly different +aspect in his mind. In the first place, he doubted whether the court +would order Ralph to be returned into Craft's custody. In the next +place, he had no love for his client. He had been using him simply +as a tool; it was time now to cast him aside since he could be of no +further benefit to him. Besides, the old man had come to be annoying +and repulsive, and he had no money to pay for legal services. Then, +there was still an opportunity to recover some of the personal +prestige he had lost in his bitter advocacy of Craft's cause before +the jury. In short, he had deliberately resolved to desert his client +at the first opportunity. + +The sheriff endorsed his return on the writ and filed it. + +The judge looked at the papers, and then he called Bachelor Billy +before him. "I see," he said, "that you have produced the body of the +boy Ralph as you were directed to do. Have you a lawyer?" + +"I ha' none," answered the man. "I did na ken as I needit ony." + +"We do not think you do, either, as we understand the case. The +prothonotary will endorse a simple return on the writ, setting forth +the production of the boy, and you may sign it. We think that is all +that will be necessary on your part. Now you may be seated." + +The judge turned to Sharpman. + +"Well, Mr. Sharpman," he said, "what have you to offer on the part of +your client?" + +Sharpman arose. "If the court please," he responded, "I would +respectfully ask to be allowed, at this juncture, to withdraw from +the case. I prepared and presented the petition as a matter of duty +to a client. I do not conceive it to be my duty to render any further +assistance. That client, either through ignorance or deception, has +been the means of placing me in a false and unenviable light before +the court and before this community, in the suit which has just +closed. I have neither the desire nor the opportunity to set myself +right in that matter, but I do wish and I have fully determined to +wash my hands of the whole affair. From this time forth I shall have +nothing to do with it." + +Sharpman resumed his seat, while Craft stared at him in astonishment +and with growing anger. + +He could hardly believe that the man who had led him into this scheme, +and whose unpardonable blunder had brought disaster on them both, was +now not only deserting him, but heaping ignominy on his head. Every +moment was adding to his bitterness and rage. + +"Well, Mr. Craft," said the judge, "what have you to offer in this +matter? Your attorney seems to have left you to handle the case for +yourself; we will hear you." + +"My attorney is a rascal," said Craft, white with passion, as he +arose. "His part and presence in that trial was a curse on it from the +beginning. He wasn't satisfied to ruin me, but he must now seek to +disgrace me as well. He is--" + +The judge interrupted him:-- + +"We do not care to hear your opinion of Mr. Sharpman; we have neither +the time nor the disposition to listen to it. You caused this +defendant to produce before us the body of the boy Ralph. They are +both here; what further do you desire?" + +"I desire to take the boy home with me. The judgment of this court +is that he is my grandson. In the absence of other persons legally +entitled to take charge of him, I claim that right. I ask the court to +order him into my custody." + +The old man resumed his seat, and immediately fell into his customary +fit of coughing. + +When he had recovered, the judge, who had in the meantime been writing +rapidly, said:-- + +"We cannot agree with you, Mr. Craft, as to the law. Although the +presumption may be that the jury based their verdict on the boy's +testimony that he is your grandson, yet their verdict does not state +that fact specifically, and we have nothing on the record to show it. +It would be necessary for you to prove that relation here and now, by +new and independent evidence, before we could place the boy in your +custody under any circumstances. But we shall save you the trouble of +doing so by deciding the matter on other grounds. The court has heard +from your own lips, within a few days, that you are, or have been, +engaged in a business such as to make thieving and lying a common +occurrence in your life. The court has also heard from your own lips +that during the time this child was in your custody, you not only +treated him inhumanly as regarded his body, but that you put forth +every effort to destroy what has since proved itself to be a pure and +steadfast soul. A kind providence placed it in the child's power to +escape from you, and the same providence led him to the door of a man +whose tenderness, whose honor, and whose nobility of character, no +matter how humble his station in life, marks him as one eminently +worthy to care for the body and to minister to the spirit of a boy +like this. + +"We feel that to take this lad now from his charge and to place him +in yours, would be to do an act so utterly repugnant to justice, to +humanity, and to law, that, if done, it ought to drag us from this +bench in disgrace. We have marked your petition dismissed; we have +ordered you to pay the cost of this proceeding, and we have remanded +the boy Ralph to the custody of William Buckley." + +Simon Craft said not a word. He rose from his chair, steadied himself +for a moment on his cane, then shuffled up the aisle, out at the door +and down the hall into the street. Disappointment, anger, bitter +hatred, raged in his heart and distorted his face. The weight of +years, of disease, of a criminal life, sat heavily upon him as he +dragged himself miserably along the crowded thoroughfare, looking +neither to the right nor the left, thinking only of the evil burden of +his own misfortunes. Now and then some one who recognized him stopped, +turned, looked at him scornfully for a moment, and passed on. Then he +was lost to view. He was never seen in the city of Wilkesbarre again. +He left no friends behind him there. He was first ridiculed, then +despised, and then--forgotten. + + * * * * * + +It was two weeks after this before Ralph was able to return to his +work. So much excitement, so much mental distress and bodily fatigue +in so short a time, had occasioned a severe shock to his system, and +he rallied from it but slowly. + +One Monday morning, however, he went back to his accustomed work at +the breaker. + +He had thought that perhaps he might be ridiculed by the screen-room +boys as one who had tried to soar above his fellows and had fallen +ignominiously back to the earth. He expected to be greeted with +jeering words and with cutting remarks, not so much in the way of +malice as of fun. He resolved to take it calmly, however, and to give +way to no show of feeling, hoping that thus the boys would soon forget +to tease him. + +But when he came among them that morning, looking so thin, and +pale, and old, there was not a boy in all the waiting crowd who had +the heart or hardihood to say an unpleasant word to him or to give +utterance to a jest at his expense. + +They all spoke kindly to him, and welcomed him back. Some of them did +it very awkwardly indeed, and with much embarrassment, but they made +him to understand, somehow, that they were glad to see him, and that +he still held his place among them as a companion and a friend. It was +very good in them, Ralph thought, very good indeed; he could scarcely +keep the tears back for gratitude. + +He took his accustomed bench in the screen-room, and bent to his task +in the old way; but not with the old, light heart and willing fingers. +He had thought never to do this again. He had thought that life held +for him some higher, brighter, less laborious work. He had thought to +gain knowledge, to win fame, to satisfy ambition. But the storm came +with its fierce blasts of disappointment and despair, and when it had +passed, hope and joy were engulfed in the ruins it left behind it. +Henceforth there remained nothing but this, this toilsome bending over +streams of flowing coal, to-day, to-morrow, next week, next year. And +in the remote future nothing better; nothing but the laborer's pick +and shovel, or, at best, the miner's drill and powder-can and fuse. In +all the coming years there was not one bright spot to which he could +look, this day, with hope. The day itself seemed very long to him, +very long indeed and very tiresome. The heat grew burdensome; the +black dust filled his throat and lungs, the ceaseless noise became +almost unendurable; the stream of coal ran down and down in a dull +monotony that made him faint and dizzy, and the bits of blue sky seen +from the open windows never yet had seemed to him to be so far and far +away. + +But the day had an end at last, as all days must have, and Ralph came +down from his seat in the dingy castle to walk with Bachelor Billy to +their home. + +They went by a path that led through green fields, where the light of +the setting sun, falling on the grass and daisies, changed them to a +golden yellow as one looked on them from the distance. + +When they turned the corner of the village street, they were surprised +to see horses and a carriage standing in front of Mrs. Maloney's +cottage. It was an unaccustomed sight. There was a lady there talking +to Mrs. Maloney, and she had a little girl by her side. At the second +look, Ralph recognized them as Mrs. Burnham and Mildred. Then the lady +descended from her carriage and stood at the door waiting for Bachelor +Billy and the boy to come to her. But Ralph, looking down at his black +hands and soiled clothing, hesitated and stopped in the middle of the +road. He knew that his face, too, was so covered with coal-dust as to +be almost unrecognizable. He felt that he ought not to appear before +Mrs. Burnham in this guise. + +But she saw his embarrassment and called to him. + +"I came to see you, Ralph," she said. "I want to talk to you both. May +I go into your house and find a chair?" + +Both boy and man hurried forward then with kindly greetings, and +Bachelor Billy unlocked the door and bade her enter. + +She went in and sat in the big rocking-chair, looking pale and weak, +while Ralph hurried away to wash the black dust from his face and +hands. + +"Ye were verra kind, Mistress Burnham," said the man, "to sen' Ralph +the gude things to eat when he waur sick. An' the perty roses ye gie'd +'im,--he never tired o' watchin' 'em." + +"I should have come myself to see him," she replied, "only that I too +have been ill. I thought to send such little delicacies as might tempt +his appetite. I knew that he must be quite exhausted after so great a +strain upon his nervous system. The excitement wore me out, and I had +no such struggle as he had. I am glad he has rallied from the shock." + +"He's not ower strang yet; ye ken that by lukin' at 'im; but he's a +braw lad, a braw lad." + +The lady turned and looked earnestly into Bachelor Billy's face. + +"He's the bravest boy," she said, "the very bravest boy I ever knew +or heard, of, and the very best. I want him, Billy; I have come here +to-night to ask you if I may have him. Son or no son, he is very dear +to me, and I feel that I cannot do without him." + +For a minute the man was silent. Down deep in his heart there had been +a spark of rejoicing at the probability that Ralph would stay with him +now indefinitely. He had pushed it as far out of sight as possible, +because it was a selfish rejoicing, and he felt that it was not right +since it came as a result of the boy's misfortune. + +And now suddenly the fear of loss had quenched it entirely, and the +dread of being left alone came back upon him in full force. + +He bit his lip before replying, to help hold back his mingled feeling +of pleasure at the bright prospect opening for Ralph, and of pain for +the separation which must follow. + +"I dinna ken," he said at last, "how aught could be better for the +lad than bein' wi' ye. Ye're ower kin' to think o' it. It'll be hard +partin' wi' im, but, if the lad wishes it, he s'all gae. I ha' +no claim on 'im only to do what's best for 'im as I ken it. He's +a-comin'; he'll speak for 'imsel'." + +Ralph came back into the room with face and hands as clean as a +hurried washing could make them. "What thenk ye," said Bachelor Billy +to him, "that the lady wants for ye to do?" + +"I don't know," replied the boy, looking uneasily from one to the +other; "but she's been very good to me, an', whatever it is, I'll try +to do it." + +"I want you to go home with me, Ralph," said Mrs. Burnham, "and live +with me and be my son. I am not sure yet that you are not my child. We +shall find that out. With the new light we have we shall make a new +search for proofs of your identity, but that may take weeks, perhaps +months. In the meantime I cannot do without you. I want you to come to +me now, and, whatever the result of this new investigation may be, I +want you to stay with me and be my son. Will you come?" + +She had taken both the boy's hands and had drawn him to her, and was +looking up into his face with tenderness and longing. + +Ralph could not speak. He was dumb with the joy of hearing her kindly +earnest words. A light of great gladness broke in upon his mind. The +world had become bright and beautiful once more. He was not to be +without home and love and learning after all. Then came second +thoughts, bringing doubt, hesitancy, mental struggling. + +Still he was silent, looking out through the open door to the eastern +hills, where the sunlight lingered lovingly with golden radiance. On +the boy's face the lights and shadows, coming and going, marked the +progress of the conflict in his mind. + +The lady put her arm around him and drew him closer to her, regardless +of his soiled and dusty clothing. She was still looking into his eyes. + +"You will come, will you not, Ralph? We want you so much, so very +much; do we not, Mildred?" she asked, turning to her little daughter, +who stood at the other side of her chair. + +"Indeed we do," answered the child. "Mamma wants you an' I want you. +I don't have anybody to play wiv me half the time, 'cept Towser; an' +yeste'day I asked Towser if he wanted you, an' Towser said 'bow,' an' +that means 'yes.'" + +"There! you see we all want you, Ralph," said Mrs. Burnham, smiling; +"the entire family wants you. Now, you will come, won't you?" + +The boy had looked across to the little girl, over to Bachelor Billy, +who stood leaning against the mantel, and then down again into the +lady's eyes. It was almost pitiful to look into his face and see the +strong emotion outlined there, marking the fierceness of the conflict +in his mind between a great desire for honest happiness and a stern +and manly sense of the right and proper thing for him to do. At last +he spoke. + +"Mrs. Burnham," he said, in a sharp voice, "I can't, I can't!" + +A look of surprise and pain came into the lady's face. + +"Why, Ralph!" she exclaimed, "I thought,--I hoped you would be glad +to go. We would be very good to you; we would try to make you very +happy." + +"An' I'll give you half of ev'ry nice thing I have!" spoke out the +girl, impetuously. + +"I know, I know!" responded Ralph, "it'd be beautiful, just as it was +that Sunday I was there; an' I'd like to go,--you don't know how I'd +like to,--but I can't! Oh, no! I can't!" + +Bachelor Billy was leaning forward, watching the boy intently, +surprise and admiration marking his soiled face. + +"Then, why will you not come?" persisted the lady. "What reason have +you, if we can all be happy?" + +Ralph stood for a moment in deep thought. + +"I can't tell you," he said, at last. "I don't know just how to +explain it, but, some way, after all this that's happened, it don't +seem to me as though I'd ought to go, it don't seem to me as though +it'd be just right; as though it'd be a-doin' what--what--Oh! I can't +tell you. I can't explain it to you so'st you can understand. But I +mus'n't go; indeed, I mus'n't!" + +At last, however, the lady understood and was silent. + +She had not thought before how this proposal, well meant though it +was, might jar upon the lad's fine sense of honor and of the fitness +of things. She had not realized, until this moment, how a boy, +possessing so delicate a nature as Ralph's, might feel to take a +position now, to which a court and jury had declared he was not +entitled, to which he himself had acknowledged, and to which every one +knew he was not entitled. + +He had tried to gain the place by virtue of a suit at law, he had +called upon the highest power in the land to put him into it, and his +effort had not only ended in ignominious failure, but had left him +stamped as a lineal descendant of one whose very name had become a +by-word and a reproach. How could he now, with the remotest sense of +honor or of pride, step into the place that should have been occupied +by Robert Burnham's son? + +The lady could not urge him any more, knowing what his thought was. +She could only say:-- + +"Yes, Ralph; I understand. I am very, very sorry. I love you just the +same, but I cannot ask you now to go with me. I can only hope for a +day when we shall know, and the world shall know, that you are my son. +You would come to me then, would you not, Ralph?" + +"Indeed I would!" he said. "Oh, _indeed_ I would!" + +She drew his head down upon her bosom and kissed his lips again +and again; then she released him and rose to go. She inquired very +tenderly about his health, about his work, about his likes in +the way of books and food and clothing; and one could see that, +notwithstanding her resolution to leave Ralph with Bachelor Billy, she +still had many plans in her mind, for his comfort and happiness. She +charged Billy to be very careful of the boy; she kissed him again, and +Mildred kissed him, and then they stepped into the carriage and the +restless brown horses drew them rapidly away. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +THE FIRE IN THE SHAFT. + + +A boy with Ralph's natural courage and spirit could not remain long +despondent. Ambition came back to him with the summer days, and hope +found an abiding place in his breast once more. It was not, indeed, +the old ambition to be rich and learned and famous, nor the hope that +he should yet be surrounded with beauty in a home made bright by a +mother's love. + +All these things, though they had not faded from his mind, were +thought of only as sweet dreams of the past. His future, as he looked +out upon it now, did not hold them; yet it was a future that had in +it no disappointment, no desolation, no despair. The path before him +was a very humble one, indeed, but he resolved to tread it royally. +Because the high places and the beautiful things of earth were not for +him was no reason why he should sit and mourn his fate in cheerless +inactivity. He determined to be up and doing, with the light and +energy that he had, looking constantly ahead for more. He knew that in +America there is always something better for the very humblest toiler +to anticipate, and that, with courage, hope, and high endeavor to +assist him, he is sure to reach his goal. + +Ralph resolved, at any rate, to do all that lay in his power toward +the attainment of useful and honorable manhood. He did not set his +mark so very high, but the way to it was rough with obstacles and +bordered with daily toil. + +His plan was, simply to find better places for himself about the +breaker and the mines, as his age and strength would permit, and so to +do his work as to gain the confidence of his employers. When he should +become old enough, he would be a miner's laborer, then a miner, and +perhaps, eventually, he might rise to the position of a mine boss. +He would improve his leisure with self study, get what schooling he +could, and, finally, as the height of his ambition, he hoped that, +some day, he might become a mining engineer; able to sink shafts, to +direct headings, to map out the devious courses of the mine, or to +build great breakers like the one in which he spent his days. + +Having marked out his course he began to follow it. He labored +earnestly and with a will. The breaker boss said that no cleaner coal +was emptied into the cars at the loading place than that which came +down through Ralph's chute. + +His plan was successful as it was bound to be, and it was not long +before a better place was offered to him. It was that of a driver boy +in the mine below the breaker. He accepted it; the wages were much +better than those he was now receiving, and it was a long step ahead +toward the end he had in view. + +But the work was new and strange to him. He did not like it. He did +not think, at first, that he ever could like it. It was so dark in +the mines, so desolate, so lonely. He grew accustomed to the place, +however, as the days went by, and then he began not to mind it so +much after all. He had more responsibility here, but the work was not +so tiresome and monotonous as it had been in the screen-room, and he +could be in motion all the time. + +He went down the shaft every morning with a load of miners and +laborers, carrying his whip and his dinner-pail, and a lighted lamp +fastened to the front of his cap. When he reached the bottom of +the shaft he hurried to the inside plane, and up the slope to the +stables to get his mule. The mule's name was Jasper. Nobody knew why +he had been named Jasper, but when Ralph called him by that name he +always came to him. He was a very intelligent animal, but he had +an exceedingly bad habit of kicking. + +It was Ralph's duty to take the mule from the stable, to fasten him +to a trip of empty mine cars, and to make him draw them to the little +cluster of chambers at the end of the branch that turned off from the +upper-level heading. + +This was the farthest point from the shaft in the entire mine. The +distance from the head of the plane alone was more than a mile, and +it was from the head of the plane that Ralph took the cars. When he +reached the end of his route he left one car of his trip at the foot +of each chamber in which it was needed, gathered together into a new +trip the loaded cars that had been pushed down to the main track for +him, and started back with them to the head of the plane. + +He usually made from eight to ten round trips a day; stopping at noon, +or thereabouts, to eat the dinner with which the Widow Maloney had +filled his pail. All the driver boys on that level gathered at the +head of the plane to eat their dinners, and, during the noon-hour, +the place was alive with shouts and songs and pranks and chattering +without limit. These boys were older, stronger, ruder than those in +the screen-room; but they were no less human and good-hearted; only +one needed to look beneath the rough exterior into their real natures. +There were eight of them who took trips in by Ralph's heading, but, +for the last half-mile of his route, he was the only driver boy. It +was a lonesome half-mile too, with no working chambers along it, +and Ralph was always glad when he reached the end of it. There was, +usually, plenty of life, though, up in the workings to which he +distributed his cars. One could look up from the air-way and see the +lights dancing in the darkness at the breast of every chamber. There +was always the sharp tap, tap of the drill, the noise of the sledge +falling heavily on the huge lumps of coal, sometimes a sudden rush of +air against one's face, followed by a dull report and crash that told +of the firing of a blast, and now and then a miner's laborer would +come running a loaded car down to the heading or go pushing an empty +one back up the chamber. + +There was a laborer up in one of these chambers with whom Ralph had +formed quite a friendship. His name was Michael Conway. He was young +and strong-limbed, with huge hairy arms, a kind face, and a warm +heart. + +He had promised to teach Ralph the art of breaking and loading coal. +He expected, he said, to have a chamber himself after a while, and +then he would take the boy on as a laborer. Indeed, Ralph had already +learned many things from him about the use of tools and the handling +of coal and the setting of props. But he did not often have an +opportunity to see Conway at work. The chamber in which the young man +was laboring was the longest one in the tier, and the loaded car was +usually at the foot of it when Ralph arrived with his trip of lights; +so that he had only to run the empty car up into the air-way a few +feet, take on the loaded one, and start back toward the plane. + +But one afternoon, when he came up with his last trip for the day, he +found no load at the foot of Conway's chamber, and, after waiting a +few minutes, he went up to the face to investigate. He found Conway +there alone. The miner for whom the young man worked had fallen sick +and had gone out earlier than usual, so his laborer had finished +the blast at which the employer had been at work. It was a blast of +top-coal, and therefore it took longer to get it down and break it up. +This accounted for the delay. + +"Come up here with ye," said Conway to the boy; "I want to show ye +something." + +Ralph climbed up on to the shelf of coal at the breast of the chamber, +and the man, tearing away a few pieces of slate and a few handfuls of +dirt from a spot in the upper face, disclosed an opening in the wall +scarcely larger than one's head. A strong current of air coursed +through it, and when Conway put his lamp against it the flame was +extinguished in a moment. + +"Where does it go to?" asked Ralph. + +"I don't just know, but I think it must go somewhere into the workin's +from old No. 1 slope. The boss, he was in this mornin', and he said he +thought we must be a-gettin' perty close to them old chambers." + +"Does anybody work in there?" + +"Oh, bless ye, no! They robbed the pillars tin years ago an' more; I +doubt an ye could get through it at all now. It's one o' the oldest +places in the valley, I'm thinkin'. D'ye mind the old openin' ye can +see in the side-hill when ye're goin' up by Tom Ballard's to the +Dunmore road?" + +"Yes, that's where Uncle Billy worked when he was a miner." + +"Did he, thin! Well, that's where they wint in. It's a long way from +here though, I'm thinkin'." + +"Awful strong wind goin' in there, ain't they?" + +"Yes, I must block it up again, or it'll take all our air away." + +"What'll your miner do to-morrow when he finds this place?" + +"Oh, he'll have to get another chamber, I guess." + +The man was fastening up the opening again with pieces of slate and +coal, and plastering it over with loose wet dirt. + +"Well," said Ralph, "I'll have to go now. Jasper's gettin' in a hurry. +Don't you hear 'im?" + +Conway helped the boy to push the loaded car down the chamber and +fasten it to his trip. + +"I'll not be here long," said the man as he turned back into the +air-way, "I'll take this light in, an' pick things up a bit, an' quit. +Maybe I'll catch ye before ye get to the plane." + +"All right! I'll go slow. Hurry up; everybody else has gone out, you +know." + +After a moment Ralph heard Conway pushing the empty car up the +chamber, then he climbed up on his trip, took the reins, said, +"giddep" to Jasper, and they started on the long journey out. For +some reason it seemed longer than usual this night. But Ralph did not +urge his beast. He went slowly, hoping that Conway would overtake him +before he reached the plane. + +He looked back frequently, but Mike, as every one called him, was not +yet in sight. + +The last curve was reached, and, as the little trip rounded it, +Ralph's attention was attracted by a light which was being waved +rapidly in the distance ahead of him. Some one was shouting, too. He +stopped the mule, and held the cars back to listen, but the sound +was so broken by intervening pillars and openings that all he could +catch was: "Hurry! hurry--up!" He laid the whip on Jasper's back +energetically, and they went swiftly to the head of the plane. There +was no one there when he reached it, but half-way down the incline he +saw the light again, and up the broad, straight gallery came the cry +of danger distinctly to his ears. + +"Hurry! hurry! The breaker's afire! The shaft's a-burnin'!--run!" + +Instinctively Ralph unhitched the mule, dropped the trace-chains, +and ran down the long incline of the plane. He reached the foot, +rounded the curve, and came into sight of the bottom of the shaft. +A half-dozen or more of men and boys were there, crowding in toward +the carriage-way, with fear stamped on their soiled faces, looking +anxiously up for the descending carriage. + +"Ralph, ye're lucky!" shouted some one to the boy as he stepped +breathless and excited into the group. "Ye're just in time for +the last carriage. It'll not come down but this once, again. It's +a-gettin' too hot up there to run it Ye're the last one from the end +chambers, too. Here, step closer!" + +Then Ralph thought of Conway. + +"Did Mike come out?" he asked. "Mike Conway?" + +As he spoke a huge fire-brand fell from the shaft at their feet, +scattering sparks and throwing out smoke. The men drew back a little, +and no one answered Ralph's question. + +"Has Mike Conway come out yet?" he repeated. + +"Yes, long ago; didn't he, Jimmy?" replied some one, turning to the +footman. + +"Mike Conway? no it was Mike Corcoran that went out. Is Conway back +yet?" + +"He is!" exclaimed Ralph, "he is just a-comin'. I'll tell 'im to +hurry." + +Another blazing stick fell as the lad darted out from among the men +and ran toward the foot of the plane. + +"Come back, Ralph!" shouted some one, "come back; ye've no time; the +carriage is here!" + +"Hold it a minute!" answered the boy, "just a minute; I'll see 'im on +the plane." + +The carriage struck the floor of the mine heavily and threw a shower +of blazing fragments from its iron roof. At the same moment a man +appeared from a lower entrance and hurried toward the group. + +"It's Conway!" cried some one; "he's come across by the sump. Ralph! +ho, Ralph!" + +"Why, where's Ralph?" asked Conway, as he crowded on to the carriage. + +"Gone to the plane to warn ye," was the answer." + +"Wait the hoisting bell, then, till I get 'im." + +But the carriage was already moving slowly upward. + +"You can't do it!" shouted some one. + +"Then I'll stay with 'im!" cried Conway, trying to push his way off. +"Ralph, oh, Ralph!" + +But the man was held to his place by strong arms, and the next moment +the smoking, burning carriage was speeding up the shaft for the last +time. + +Ralph reached the foot of the plane and looked up it, but he saw no +light in the darkness there. Before he had time to think what he +should do next, he heard a shout from the direction of the shaft:-- + +"Ralph! oh, Ralph!" + +It was Conway's voice. He recognized it. He had often heard that voice +coming from the breast of Mike's chamber, in kindly greeting. + +Quick as thought he turned on his heel and started back. He flew +around the curve like a shadow. + +"Wait!" he cried, "wait a minute; I'm a-comin'!" + +At the foot of the shaft there was a pile of blazing sticks, but there +was no carriage there, nor were there any men. He stumbled into the +very flames in his eagerness, and called wildly up the dark opening: + +"Wait! come back! oh, wait!" + +But the whirring, thumping noise of a falling body was the only answer +that came to him, and he darted back in time to escape destruction +from a huge flaming piece of timber that struck the floor of the mine +with a great noise, and sent out a perfect shower of sparks. + +But they might send the carriage down again if he rang for it. + +He ran across and seized the handle of the bell wire and pulled it +with all his might. The wire gave way somewhere above him and came +coiling down upon his head. He threw it from him and turned again +toward the opening of the shaft. Then the carriage did descend. It +came down the shaft for the last time in its brief existence, came +like a thunderbolt, struck the floor of the mine with a great shock +and--collapsed. It was just a mass of fragments covered by an iron +roof--that was all. On top of it fell a storm of blazing sticks and +timbers, filling up the space at the foot, piling a mass of wreckage +high into the narrow confines of the shaft. + +Ralph retreated to the footman's bench, and sat there looking vaguely +at the burning heap and listening to the crash of falling bodies, and +the deep roar of the flames that coursed upward out of sight. He could +hardly realize the danger of his situation, it had all come upon him +so suddenly. He knew, however, that he was probably the only human +being in the mine, that the only way of escape was by the shaft, and +that that was blocked. + +But he did not doubt for a moment that he would be rescued in time. +They would come down and get him, he knew, as soon as the shaft could +be cleared out. The crashing still continued, but it was not so loud +now, indicating, probably, that the burning wreckage had reached to a +great height in the shaft. + +The rubbish at the foot had become so tightly wedged to the floor of +the mine that it had no chance to burn, and by and by the glow from +the burning wood was entirely extinguished, the sparks sputtered and +went out, and darkness settled slowly down again upon the place. + +Ralph still sat there, because that was the spot nearest to where +human beings were, and that was the way of approach when they should +come to rescue him. + +At last there was only the faint glimmer from his own little lamp +to light up the gloom, and the noises in the shaft had died almost +entirely away. + +Then came a sense of loneliness and desolation to be added to his +fear. Silence and darkness are great promoters of despondency. But he +still hoped for the best. + +After a time he became aware that he was sitting in an atmosphere +growing dense with smoke. The air current had become reversed, at +intervals, and had sent the smoke pouring out from among the charred +timbers in dense volumes. It choked the boy, and he was obliged to +move. Instinctively he made his way along the passage to which he was +most accustomed toward the foot of the plane. + +Here he stopped and seated himself again, but he did not stay long. +The smoke soon reached him, surrounded him, and choked him again. He +walked slowly up the plane. When he reached the head he was tired and +his limbs were trembling. He went across to the bench by the wheel and +sat down on it. He thought to wait here until help should come. + +He felt sure that he would be rescued; miners never did these things +by halves, and he knew that, sooner or later, he should leave the mine +alive. The most that he dreaded now was the waiting, the loneliness, +the darkness, the hunger perhaps, the suffering it might be, from +smoke and foul air. + +In the darkness back of him he heard a noise. It sounded like heavy +irregular stepping. He was startled at first, but it soon occurred +to him that the sounds were made by the mule which he had left there +untied. + +He was right. In another moment Jasper appeared with his head +stretched forward, sniffing the air curiously, and looking in a +frightened way at Ralph. + +"Hello, Jasper!" + +The boy spoke cheerily, because he was relieved from sudden fright, +and because he was glad to see in the mine a living being whom he +knew, even though it was only a mule. + +The beast came forward and pushed his nose against Ralph's breast +as if seeking sympathy, and the boy put up his hand and rubbed the +animal's face. + +"We're shut in, Jasper," he said, "the breaker's burned, an' things +afire have tumbled down the shaft an' we can't get out till they clean +it up an' come for us." + +The mule raised his head and looked around him, then he rested his +nose against Ralph's shoulder again. + +"We'll stay together, won't we, old fellow? We'll keep each other +company till they come for us. I'm glad I found you, Jasper; I'm very +glad." + +He patted the beast's neck affectionately; then he removed the bridle +from his head, unbuckled the harness and slipped it down to the +ground, and tried to get the collar off; but it would not come. He +turned it and twisted it and pulled it, but he could not get it over +the animal's ears. He gave up trying at last, and after laying the +remainder of the harness up against the wheel-frame, he sat down on +the bench again. + +Except the occasional quick stamping of Jasper's feet, there was no +sound, and Ralph sat for a long time immersed in thought. + +The mule had been gazing contemplatively down the plane into the +darkness; finally he turned and faced toward the interior of the mine. +It was evident that he did not like the contaminated air that was +creeping up the slope. Ralph, too, soon felt the effect of it; it +made his head light and dizzy, and the smoke with which it was laden +brought back the choking sensation into his throat. He knew that he +must go farther in. He rose and went slowly along the heading, over +his accustomed route, until he reached a bench by a door that opened +into the air-way. Here he sat down again. He was tired and was +breathing heavily. A little exertion seemed to exhaust him so. He +could not quite understand it. He remembered when he had run all the +way from the plane to the north chambers with only a quickening of the +breath as the result. He was not familiar with the action of vitiated +air upon the system. + +Jasper had followed him; so closely indeed that the beast's nose had +often touched the boy's shoulder as they walked. + +Ralph's lamp seemed to weigh heavily on his head, and he unfastened it +from his cap and placed it on the bench beside him. + +Then he fell to thinking again. He thought how anxious Bachelor Billy +would be about him, and how he would make every effort to accomplish +his rescue. He hoped that his Uncle Billy would be the first one to +reach him when the way was opened; that would be very pleasant for +them both. + +Mrs. Burnham would be anxious about him too. He knew that she would; +she had been very kind to him of late, very kind indeed, and she came +often to see him. + +Then the memory of Robert Burnham came back to him. He thought of the +way he looked and talked, of his kind manner and his gentle words. He +remembered how, long ago, he had resolved to strive toward the perfect +manhood exemplified in this man's life. He wondered if he had done the +best he could. The scenes and incidents of the day on which this good +man died recurred to him. + +Why, it was at this very door that the little rescuing party had +turned off to go up into the easterly tier of chambers. Ralph had not +been up there since. He had often thought to go over again the route +taken on that day, but he had never found the time to do so. He had +time enough at his disposal now, however; why not make the trip up +there? it would be better than sitting here in idleness to wait for +some sign of rescue. + +He arose and opened the door. + +The mule made as if to follow him. + +"You stay here, Jasper," he said, "I won't be gone long." + +He shut the door in the animal's face and started off up the +side-heading. There had not been much travel on this road during the +last year. Most of the chambers in this part of the mine had been +worked out and abandoned. + +As the boy passed on he recalled the incidents of the former journey. +He came to a place where the explosion at that time had blown out the +props and shaken down the roof until the passage was entirely blocked. + +He remembered that they had turned there and had gone up into a +chamber to try to get in through the entrances. But they had found the +entrances all blocked, and the men had set to work to make an opening +through one of them. Ralph recalled the scene very distinctly. With +what desperate energy those men worked, tearing away the stones +and dirt with their hands in order to get in the sooner to their +unfortunate comrades. + +He remembered that while they were doing this Robert Burnham had +seated himself on a fallen prop, had torn a leaf from his memorandum +book and had asked Ralph to hold his lamp near by, so that he could +see to write. He filled one side of the leaf, half of the other side, +folded it, addressed it, and placed it in the pocket of his vest. Then +he went up and directed the enlargement of the opening and crawled +through with the rest. Here was the entrance, and here was the +opening, just as it had been left. Ralph clambered through it and went +down to the fall. The piled-up rocks were before him, as he had seen +them that day. Nothing had been disturbed. + +On the floor of the mine was something that attracted his attention. +He stooped and picked it up. It was a piece of paper. + +There was writing on it in pencil, much faded now, but still distinct +enough to be read. He held his lamp to it and examined it more +closely. He could read writing very well, and this was written +plainly. He began to read it aloud:-- + + "My DEAR WIFE,--I desire to supplement the letter sent to you from + the office with this note written in the mine during a minute of + waiting. I want to tell you that our Ralph is living; that he is + here with me, standing this moment at my side." + +The paper dropped from the boy's trembling fingers, and he stood for +a minute awe-struck and breathless. Then he picked up the note and +examined it again. It was the very one that Robert Burnham had written +on the day of his death. Ralph recognized it by the crossed lines of +red and blue marking the page into squares. + +Without thinking that there might be any impropriety in doing so, he +continued to read the letter as fast as his wildly beating heart and +his eyes clouded with mist would let him. + + "I have not time to tell you why and how I know, but, believe me, + Margaret, there is no mistake. He is Ralph, the slate-picker, + of whom I told you, who lives with Bachelor Billy. If he should + survive this trying journey, take him immediately and bring him up + as our son; if he should die, give him proper burial. We have set + out on a perilous undertaking and some of us may not live through + it. I write this note in case I should not see you again. It will + be found on my person. Do not allow any one to persuade you that + this boy is not our son. I _know_ he is. I send love and greeting + to you. I pray for God's mercy and blessing on you and on our + children. + + "ROBERT." + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +A PERILOUS PASSAGE. + + +For many minutes Ralph stood, like one in a dream, holding the slip of +paper tightly in his grasp. Then there came upon him, not suddenly, +but very gently and sweetly, as the morning sunlight breaks into a +western valley, the broad assurance that he was Robert Burnham's son. +Here was the declaration of that fact over the man's own signature. +That was enough; there was no need for him to question the writer's +sources of knowledge. Robert Burnham had been his ideal of truth and +honor; he would have believed his lightest word against the solemn +asseveration of thousands. + +The flimsy lie coined by Rhyming Joe no longer had place in his mind. +He cared nothing now for the weakness of Sharpman, for the cunning of +Craft, for the verdict of the jury, for the judgment of the court; he +_knew_, at last, that he was Robert Burnham's son, and no power on +earth could have shaken that belief by the breadth of a single hair. + +The scene on the descending carriage the day his father died came back +into his mind. He thought how the man had grasped his hands, crying, +in a voice deep and earnest with conviction:-- + +"Ralph! Ralph! I have found you!" + +He had not understood it then; he knew now what it meant. + +He raised the paper to the level of his eyes, and read, again and +again, the convincing words:-- + + "Do not allow any one to persuade you that this boy is not our + son. I _know_ he is." + +Then Ralph felt again that honest pride in his blood and in his +name, and that high ambition to be worthy of his parentage, that had +inspired him in the days gone by. Again he looked forward into the +bright future, to the large fulfilment of all his hopes and desires, +to learning, culture, influence, the power to do good; above all, to +the sweetness of a life with his own mother, in the home where he had +spent one beautiful day. + +He had drawn himself to his full height; every muscle was tense, his +head was erect with proud knowledge, high hope flashed from his eyes, +gladness dwelt in every feature of his face. + +Then, suddenly, the light went out from his countenance, and the old +look of pain came back there. + +His face had changed with his changing thought as it did that day +in the court-room at Wilkesbarre. The fact of his imprisonment had +returned into his mind, and for the moment it overcame him. He sat +down on a jutting rock to consider it. Of what use was it to be Robert +Burnham's son, with two hundred feet of solid rock between him and the +outside world, and the only passage through it blocked with burned and +broken timbers? + +For a time despondency darkened his mind and despair sat heavily upon +him. He even wished that the joy of this new knowledge had not come to +him. It made the depth of his present misfortune seem so much greater. + +But, after a while, he took heart again; courage came back to him; the +belief that he would be finally saved grew stronger in his mind; hope +burned up brightly in his breast, and the pride of parentage within +him filled him with ambition to do what lay in his power to accomplish +his own deliverance. It was little he could do, indeed, save to wait +with patience and in hope until outside help should come, but this +little, he resolved, should be done with a will, as befitted his birth +and position. + +He folded the precious bit of paper he had found and fastened it in +his waistcoat pocket so that he should not lose it as Robert Burnham +had lost it; then he took up his lamp and went back through the +half-walled entrance, down the chamber and along the side-heading to +the air-way door where Jasper had been left. + +There was a small can of oil sitting just inside the door-way. It +was the joint property of Ralph and the door-boy. It was fortunate, +he thought, that he had selected that place for it, as he was now in +great need of it. He filled his lamp, from which the oil had become +nearly exhausted, and then passed out through the door. + +The mule was still there and uttered a hoarse sound of welcome when he +saw the boy. + +"I found somethin' up there, Jasper," said Ralph, as he sat down +on the bench and began to pat the beast's neck again, "somethin' +wonderful; I wish I could tell you so you could understand it; it's +too bad you can't, Jasper; I know you'd be glad." + +The mule seemed to recognize the pleasantness of the lad's voice and +to enjoy it, and for a long time Ralph sat there petting him and +talking to him. + +Finally, he became aware that the air about him was growing to be very +bad. It made him feel sick and dizzy, and caused his heart to beat +rapidly. + +He knew that he must go farther in. He thought, however, to make an +attempt to get out toward the shaft first. It might be that it had +grown clearer out there, it might be that the rescuers were already +working down toward him. He started rapidly down the heading, but +before he had gone half-way to the head of the plane, the smoke and +the foul air were so dense and deadly that he had to stop and to crawl +away from it on his hands and knees. He was greatly exhausted when he +reached the air-way door again, and he sat on the bench for a long +time to rest and to recover. + +But he knew that it was dangerous to remain there now, and, taking the +can of oil with him, he started slowly up the heading. He did not know +how soon he should get back here, and when the oil in his lamp should +give out again he desired to be able to renew it. + +The mule was following closely behind him. It was a great comfort, +too, to have a living being with him for company. He might have been +shut up here alone, and that would have been infinitely worse. + +At the point where the branch leading to the new chambers left the +main heading, Ralph turned in, following his accustomed route. +It seemed to him that he ought to go to places with which he was +familiar. + +He trudged along through the half-mile of gang-way that he had always +found so lonely when he was at work, stopping now and then to rest. +For, although he walked very slowly, he grew tired very easily. He +felt that he was not getting into a purer atmosphere either. The air +around him seemed to lack strength and vitality; and when, at last, he +reached the tier of chambers that it had been his duty to supply with +cars, he was suffering from dizziness, from shortness of breath, and +from rapid beating of the heart. + +At the foot of Conway's chamber Ralph found a seat. He was very weak +and tired and his whole frame was in a tremor. + +He began to recall all that he had heard and read about people being +suffocated in the mines; all the stories that had ever been told to +him about miners being shut in by accident and poisoned with foul air, +or rescued at the point of death. He knew that his own situation was +a critical one. He knew that, with the shaft crowded full of wreckage +and giving no passage to the air, the entire mine would eventually +become filled with poisonous gases. He knew that his present physical +condition was due to the foulness of the atmosphere he was breathing. +He felt that the situation was becoming rapidly more alarming. The +only question now was as to how long this vitiated air would support +life. Still, his courage did not give way. He had strong hope that he +would yet be rescued, and he struggled to hold fast to his hope. + +The flame of his lamp burned round and dim, so dim that he could +scarcely see across the heading. + +The mule came up to him and put out his nose to touch the boy's hand. + +"I guess we may as well stay here. Jasper," he said. "This is the +furthest place away from the shaft, an' if we can't stan' it here we +can't stan' it nowhere." + +The beast seemed to understand him, for he lay down then, with his +head resting on Ralph's knee. They remained for a long time in that +position, and Ralph listened anxiously for some sound from the +direction of the shaft. He began to think finally that it was foolish +to expect help as yet. No human being could get through the gas and +smoke to him. The mine would first need to be ventilated. But he felt +that the air was growing constantly more foul and heavy. His head was +aching, he labored greatly in breathing, and he seemed to be confused +and sleepy. He arose and tried to walk a little to keep awake. He knew +that sleep was dangerous. But he was too tired to walk and he soon +came back and sat down again by the mule. + +"I'm a-tryin', Jasper," he said, "I'm a-tryin' my best to hold out; +but I'm afraid it ain't a-goin' to do much good; I can't see much +chance"-- + +He stopped suddenly. A thought had struck him. He seized his lamp +and oil-can and pushed ahead across the air-way and up into Conway's +chamber. + +The mule arose with much difficulty and staggered weakly after him. A +new hope had arisen in the boy's heart, an inspiration toward life had +put strength into his limbs. + +At the breast of the chamber he set down his lamp and can, climbed up +on to the shelf of coal, and began tearing out the slate and rubbish +from the little opening in the wall that Conway had that day shown to +him. If he could once get through into the old mine he knew that he +should find pure air and--life. + +The opening was too small to admit his body, but that was nothing; +there were tools here, and he still had strength enough to work. He +dragged the drill up to the face but it was too heavy for him to +handle, and the stroke he was able to make with it was wholly without +effect. His work with the clumsy sledge was still less useful, and +before he had struck the third blow the instrument fell from his +nerveless hands. + +He was exhausted by the effort and lay down on the bed of coal to +rest, gasping for breath. + +He thought if only the air current would come from the other mine +into this what a blessing it would be; but, alas! the draft was the +other way. The poisoned air was being drawn swiftly into the old +mine, making a whistling noise as it crossed the sharp edges of +the aperture. + +Ralph knew that very soon the strong current would bring in smoke and +fouler air, and he rose to make still another effort. He went down +and brought up the pick. It was worn and light and he could handle it +more easily. He began picking away at the edges of coal to enlarge the +opening. But the labor soon exhausted him, and he sat down with his +back against the aperture to intercept the passage of air while he +recovered his breath. + +He was soon at work again. The hope of escape put energy into his weak +muscles. + +Once, a block as large as his two hands broke away and fell down on +the other side. That was a great help. But he had to stop and rest +again. Indeed, after that he had very frequently to stop and rest. + +The space was widening steadily, but very, very slowly. + +After a time he threw down the pick and passed his head through the +opening, but it was not yet large enough to receive his body. + +The air that was now coming up the chamber was very bad, and it was +blue with smoke, besides. + +The boy bent to his task with renewed energy; but every blow exhausted +him, and he had to wait before striking another. He was chipping the +coal away, though, piece by piece, inch by inch. + +By and by, by a stroke of rare good-fortune, a blow that drew the pick +from the lad's weak hands and sent it rattling down upon the other +side, loosened a large block at the top of the opening, and it fell +with a crash. + +Now he could get through, and it would be none too soon either. He +dropped his oil-can down on the other side, then his lamp, and then, +after a single moment's rest, he crawled into the aperture, and +tumbled heavily to the floor of the old mine. + +It was not a great fall; he fell from a height of only a few feet, but +in his exhausted condition it stunned him, and he lay for some minutes +in a state of unconsciousness. + +The air was better in here, he was below the line of the poisoned +current, and he soon revived, sat up, picked up his lamp, and looked +around him. + +He was evidently in a worked-out chamber. Over his head in the +side-wall was the opening through which he had fallen, and he knew +that the first thing to be done was to close it up and prevent the +entrance of any more foul air. + +There was plenty of slate and of coal and of dirt near by, but he +could not reach up so high and work easily, and he had first to build +a platform against the wall, on which to stand. + +It took a long time to do this, but when it was completed he stood up +on it to put the first stone in place. + +On the other side of the opening he heard a hoarse sound of distress, +then a scrambling noise, and then Jasper's nose was pushed through +against his hand. The mule had stood patiently and watched Ralph while +he was at work, but when the boy disappeared he had become frightened, +and had clambered up on the shelf of coal at the face to try to follow +him. He was down on his knees now, with his head wedged into the +aperture, drawing in his breath with long, forced gasps, looking +piteously into the boy's face. + +"Poor Jasper!" said Ralph, "poor fellow! I didn't think of you. I'd +get you in here too if I could." + +He looked around him, as if contemplating the possibility of such a +scheme; but he knew that it could not be accomplished. + +"I can't do it, Jasper," he said, rubbing the animal's face as he +spoke. "I can't do it. Don't you see the hole ain't big enough? an' I +couldn't never make it big enough for you, never." + +But the look in Jasper's eyes was very beseeching, and he tried to +push his head in so that he might lay his nose against Ralph's breast. + +The boy put his arms about the beast's neck. + +"I can't do it, Jasper," he repeated, sobbing. "Don't you see I can't? +I wisht I could, oh, I wisht I could!" + +The animal drew his head back. His position was uncomfortable, and it +choked him to stretch his neck out that way. + +Ralph knew that he must proceed with the building of his wall. One +after another he laid up the pieces of slate and coal, chinking in +the crevices with dirt, keeping his head as much as possible out of +the foul current, stopping often to rest, talking affectionately to +Jasper, and trying, in a childish way, to console him. + +At last his work was nearly completed, but the gruff sounds of +distress from the frightened mule had ceased. Ralph held his lamp up +out of the current, so that the light would fall through the little +opening, and looked in. + +Jasper lay there on his side, his head resting on the coal bottom, a +long, convulsive respiration at intervals the only movement of his +body. He was unconscious, and dying. The boy drew back with tears in +his eyes and with sorrow at his heart. The beast had been his friend +and companion, not only in his daily toil, but here also, in the +loneliness and peril of the poisoned mine. For the time being, he +forgot his own misfortunes in his sympathy for Jasper. He put his face +once more to the opening. + +"Good-by, Jasper!" he said, "good-by, old fellow! I couldn't help it, +you know, an'--an' it won't hurt you any more--good-by!" + +He drew back his head, put the few remaining stones in place, chinked +the crevices with dirt and culm, and then, trembling and faint, +he fell to the floor of the old mine, and lay there, panting and +exhausted, for a long time in silent thought. + +But it was not of himself he was thinking; it was of poor old Jasper, +dying on the other side of the black wall, deserted, barred out, +alone. + +Finally it occurred to him that he should go to some other place in +the mine. The poisonous gases must still be entering through the +crevices of his imperfectly built and rudely plastered wall, and it +would be wise for him to get farther away. His oil had nearly burned +out again, and he refilled his lamp from the can. Then he arose and +went down the chamber. + +It was a very long chamber. When he reached the foot of it he found +the entrances into the heading walled up, and he turned and went along +the air-way for a little distance, and then sat down to rest. + +For the first time he noticed that he had cut his hands badly, on the +sharp pieces of coal he had been handling, and he felt that there was +a bruise on his side, doubtless made when he fell through the opening. + +Hitherto he had not had a clear idea as to the course he should pursue +when he should have obtained entrance into the old mine. His principal +object had been to get into pure air. + +Now, however, he began to consider the matter of his escape. It was +obvious that two methods were open to him. He could either try to make +his way out alone to the old slope near the Dunmore road, or he could +remain in the vicinity of Conway's chamber till help should reach him +from the Burnham mine. + +But it might be many hours before assistance would come. The shaft +would have first to be cleared out, and that he knew would be no easy +matter. After that the mine would need to be ventilated before men +could make their way through it. All this could not be done in a day, +indeed it might take many days, and when they should finally come in +to search for him, they would not find him in the Burnham mine; he +would not be there. + +If he could discover the way to the old slope, and the path should be +unobstructed, he would be in the open air within half an hour. In the +open air! The very thought of such a possibility decided the question +for him. And when he should reach the surface he would go straight +to Mrs. Burnham, straight to his mother, and place in her hands the +letter he had found. She would be glad to read it; she would be +very, very glad to know that Ralph was her son. Sitting there in the +darkness and the desolation he could almost see her look of great +delight, he could almost feel her kisses on his lips as she gave him +tender greeting. Oh! it would be beautiful, so beautiful! + +But, then, there was Uncle Billy. He had come near to forgetting him. +He would go first to Uncle Billy, that would be better, and then they +would go together to his mother's house and would both enjoy her words +of welcome. + +But if he was going he must be about it. It would not do to sit there +all night. All night? Ralph wondered what time it had come to be. +Whether hours or days had passed since his imprisonment he could +hardly tell. + +He picked up his lamp and can and started on. At no great distance he +found an old door-way opening into the heading. He passed through it +and began to trudge along the narrow, winding passage. He had often to +stop and rest, he felt so very weak. A long time he walked, slowly, +unsteadily, but without much pain. Then, suddenly, he came to the end +of the heading. The black, solid wall faced him before he was hardly +aware of it. He had taken the wrong direction when he entered the +gallery, that was all. He had followed the heading in instead of out. +His journey had not been without its use, however, for it settled +definitely the course he ought to take to reach the slope, and that, +he thought, was a matter of no little importance. + +He sat down for a few minutes to rest, and then started on his return. +It seemed to be taking so much more time to get back that he feared he +had passed the door-way by which he had entered the heading. But he +came to it at last and stopped there. + +He began to feel hungry. He wondered why he had not thought to look +for some one's dinner pail, before he came over into the old mine. He +knew that his own still had fragments of food in it; he wished that +he had them now. But wishing was of no use, the only thing for him +to do was to push ahead toward the surface. When he should reach his +mother's house his craving would be satisfied with all that could +tempt the palate. + +He started on again. The course of the heading was far from straight, +and his progress was very slow. + +At last he came to a place where there had been a fall. They had +robbed the pillars till they had become too weak to support the roof, +and it had tumbled in. + +Ralph turned back a little, crossed the air-way and went up into the +chambers, thinking to get around the area of the fall. He went a long +way up before he found an unblocked opening. Then, striking across +through the entrances, he came out again, suddenly, to a heading. He +thought it must have curved very rapidly to the right that he should +find it so soon, if it were the one he had been on before. But he +followed it as best he could, stopping very often to catch a few +moments of rest, finding even his light oil-can a heavy burden in his +hands, trying constantly to give strength to his heart and his limbs +by thoughts of the fond greeting that awaited him when once he should +escape from the gloomy passages of the mine. + +The heading grew to be very devious. It wound here and there, with +entrances on both sides, it crossed chambers and turned corners till +the boy became so bewildered that he gave up trying to trace it. He +pushed on, however, through the openings that seemed most likely +to lead outward, looking for pathways and trackways, hungering, +thirsting, faint in both body and spirit, till he reached a solid wall +at the side of a long, broad chamber, and there he stopped to consider +which way to turn. He struck some object at his feet. It was a pick. +He looked up at the wall in front of him, and he saw in it the +filled-up entrance through which he had made his way from the Burnham +mine. + +It came upon him like a blow, and he sank to the floor in sudden +despair. + +This was worse than anything that had happened to him since the time +when he ran back to the shaft to find the carriage gone and its place +filled with firebrands. His journey had been such a mournful waste of +time, of energy, and of hopeful anticipation. + +But, after a little, he began to think that it was not quite so bad as +it might have been after all. He had his lamp and his oil-can, and +he was in a place where the air was fit to breathe. That was better, +certainly, than to be lying on the other side of the wall with poor +old Jasper. He forced new courage into his heart, he whipped his +flagging spirits into fresh activity, and resolved to try once more to +find a passage to the outside world. + +But he needed rest; that was apparent. He thought that if he could lie +down and be quiet and contented for fifteen or twenty minutes he would +gain strength and vigor enough to sustain him through a long journey. +He arose and moved up the chamber a little way, out of the current of +poisoned air that still sifted in through the crevices of his rudely +built wall. + +Here he lay down on a place soft with culm, to take his contemplated +rest, and, before he was aware of it, sleep had descended on him, +overpowered him, and bound him fast. But it was a gracious victor. It +put away his sufferings from him; it allayed his hunger and assuaged +his thirst, it hid his loneliness and dispelled his fear, and it +brought sweet peace for a little time to his troubled mind. He was +alone and in peril, and far from the pure air and the bright sunlight +of the upper world; but the angel of sleep touched his eyelids just as +gently in the darkness of this dreadful place as though he had been +lying on beds of fragrant flowers, with white clouds or peaceful stars +above him to look upon his slumber. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +IN THE POWER OF DARKNESS. + + +Ralph slept, hour after hour. He dreamed, and moved his hands uneasily +at intervals, but still he slept. There were no noises there to +disturb him, and he had been very tired. + +When he finally awoke the waking was as gentle as though he had been +lying on his own bed at home. He thought, at first, that he was at +home; and he wondered why it was so very dark. Then he remembered that +he was shut up in the mines. It was a cruel remembrance, but it was +a fact and he must make the best of it. While he slept his oil had +burned out, and he was in total darkness. He felt for his oil-can and +found it. Then he found his lamp, filled it by the sense of touch, and +lighted it. He always carried matches; they had done him good service +in the mines before this. He was very thankful too, that he had +thought to bring the oil-can. Without it he would have been long ago +in the power of darkness. He was still hungry, and thirsty too, very +thirsty now, indeed. + +He arose and tried to walk, but he was so dizzy that he had to sit +down again. He felt better after a little, though, very much better +than before he had taken his rest. He wondered how long he had slept, +and what progress was being made, if any, toward his rescue. He went +down to the opening in the wall, and held his lamp up to it. Threads +of smoke were still curling in through the slate and culm, and the air +that crept in was very bad. Then, for a little time, Ralph sat there +and listened. He thought that possibly he might hear some distant +sound of rescue. But there was no noise; the silence was burdensome. + +His thirst increased and he was hot and feverish. + +At last he rose with the determination to carry out his plan of +searching for the old slope. + +He knew that it would be worse than useless to stay here. + +Besides, he hoped that he might find a stream of water on the way at +which to quench his thirst. + +He thought of the letter in his pocket, and the desire grew strong +within him to read it again. He took it out, unfolded it, and held it +close to the light, but there seemed to be a mist before his eyes and +he could not distinguish the words. He knew what it contained, though, +and that was sufficient for him. He was Robert Burnham's son. His +father had been brave and manly; so would he be. His father would have +kept up heart and courage to the end, no matter what fate faced him. +He determined that the son should do no less. He would be worthy of +his parentage, he would do all that lay in his power to accomplish his +own safety; if he failed, the fault should not be his. + +He folded and replaced the letter, picked up his oil-can, fastened +his lamp to his cap and started down the chamber. He felt that he was +strong with the strength of inspiration. It seemed to him, too, that +he was very light in body. It seemed almost as though he were treading +on air, and he thought that he was moving very fast. + +In reality his steps were heavy and halting, and his way down the long +chamber was devious and erratic. His fancied strength and elasticity +were born of the fever in his blood. + +He came to the heading. He knew, now, which way to turn, and he passed +down it in what he thought was rapid flight. + +But here was the fall again. What was to be done now? His last attempt +to get around it had been disastrous. He would not try that plan +again. He would work his way through it this time and keep to the +heading. + +He climbed slowly up over the fallen rock and coal and let himself +down upon the other side. But it took his breath away, this climbing, +and he had to wait there a little while to recover it. There was a +clear space before him, though, and he made good progress through it +till he came again to the fall. + +In this place the rock was piled higher and it was more difficult of +ascent. But he clambered bravely up, dragging his oil-can with him; +then he moved out along the smooth, sloping surfaces of fallen slate, +keeping as close as possible to the wall of the heading, climbing +higher and higher, very slowly now, and with much labor, stopping +often to rest. + +He came, at last, to a place where the space between the fallen rock +and the roof above it was so narrow that he could scarcely squeeze his +slender body through it. When he had done so he found himself on the +edge of a precipice, a place where a solid mass had fallen like a +wall, and had made a shelf so high that the feeble rays of Ralph's +lamp would not reach to the bottom of it. The boy crawled, trembling, +along the edge of this cliff, trying to find some place for descent. + +The oil-can that he carried made his movements cumbersome; the surface +of the rock was smooth and hard to cling to; his limbs were weak and +his fingers nerveless. + +He slipped, the can fell from his hand, he tried to recover it, +slipped further, made a desperate effort to save himself, failed, and +went toppling over into the darkness. + +The height was not very great, and he was not seriously injured by +the fall; but it stunned him, and he lay for some time in a state of +unconsciousness. + +When he came to himself, he knew what had happened and where he was. +He tried to rise, but the effort pained him and he lay back again. He +was in total darkness. His lamp had fallen from his cap and become +extinguished. He reached out to try and find it and his hand came in +contact with a little stream of water. The very touch of it refreshed +him. He rolled over, put his mouth to it and drank. It was running +water, cool and delicious, and he was very, very thankful for it. + +In the stream he found his lamp. The lid had flown open, the oil was +spilled out, and the water had entered. The can was not within reach +of him as he lay. He raised himself to his hands and knees and groped +around for it. He began to despair of ever finding it. It would be +terrible, he thought, to lose it now, and be left alone in the dark. + +But at last he came upon it and picked it up. It was very light; he +felt for the plug, it was gone; he turned the can upside down, it was +empty. + +For the moment his heart stopped beating; he could almost feel the +pallor in his face, he could almost see the look of horror in his own +eyes. From this time forth he would be in darkness. It was not enough +that he was weak, sick, lost and alone in the mysterious depths of +this old mine, but now darkness had come, thick darkness to crown his +suffering and bar his path to freedom. His self-imposed courage had +almost given way. It required matchless bravery to face a peril such +as this without a murmur, and still find room for hope. + +But he did his best. He fought valiantly against despair. + +It occurred to him that he still had matches. He drew them from his +pocket and counted them. There were seven. + +He poured the water from the chamber of his lamp and pulled out the +wick and pressed it. He thought that possibly he might make it burn a +little longer without oil. He selected one of the matches and struck +it against the rock at his side. It did not light. The rock was wet +and the match was spoiled. + +The next one he lighted by drawing it swiftly across the sleeve of his +jacket. But the light was wasted; the cotton wick was still too wet to +ignite. + +There was nothing left to him, then, save the matches, and they would +not light him far. But it was better to go even a little way than to +remain here. + +He rose to his feet and struck a match on his sleeve, but it broke +short off at the head, and the sputtering sulphur dropped into the +stream and was quenched. He struck another, this time with success. +He saw the heading; the way was clear; and he started on, holding one +hand out before him, touching at frequent intervals the lower wall of +the passage with the other. + +But his side pained him when he tried to walk: he had struck it +heavily in his last fall; and he had to stop in order to relieve it. +After a time he arose again, but in the intense darkness and with that +strange confusion in his brain, he could not tell in which direction +to go. + +He lighted another match; it sputtered and went out. + +He had two matches left. To what better use could he put them than to +make them light him as far as possible on his way? He struck one of +them, it blazed up, and with it he lighted the stick of the imperfect +one which he had not thrown away. He held them up before him, and, +shielding the blaze with his hand, he moved rapidly down the narrow +passage. + +He knew that he was still in the heading and that if he could but +follow it he would, in time, reach the slope. + +His light soon gave out; darkness surrounded him again, but he kept +on. + +He moved from side to side of the passage, feeling his way. + +His journey was slow, very slow and painful, but it was better to keep +going, he knew that. + +He had one match left but he dared not light it. He wanted to reserve +that for a case of greater need. + +The emergency that called for its use soon arose. + +The heading seemed to have grown suddenly wider. He went back and +forth across it and touched all the pillars carefully. The way was +divided. One branch of the gallery bore to the right and another to +the left. + +Straight ahead was a solid wall. Ralph did not know which passage to +enter. To go into one would be to go still farther and deeper into the +recesses of the old mine; to go into the other would be to go toward +the slope, toward the outer world, toward his mother and his home. + +If he could only see he could choose more wisely. + +Had the necessity arisen for the use of his last match? + +He hesitated. He sat down to rest and to consider the question. It +was hard to think, though, with all that whirling and buzzing in his +fever-stricken brain. + +Then a scheme entered his mind, a brilliant scheme by which he +should get more light. He resolved to act upon it without delay. He +transferred everything from the pockets of his jacket to those of his +waistcoat. Then he removed this outer garment, tore a portion of it +into strips, and held it in one hand while he made ready to light his +last match. He held his breath while he struck it. + +It did not light. + +He waited a minute to think. Then he struck it again, this time with +success. He touched it to the rags of his coat, and the oil-soaked +cloth flashed brightly into flame. He held the blazing jacket in his +hand, looked around him for one moment to choose his way, and then +began to run. + +It was a travesty on running, to be sure, but it was the best he could +do. He staggered and stumbled; he lurched rapidly ahead for a little +space and then moved with halting steps. His limbs grew weak, his +breath came in gasps, and the pain in his side was cutting him like a +knife. + +But he thought he was going very rapidly. He could see so nicely too. +The flames, fanned by the motion, curled up and licked his hand and +wrist, but he scarcely knew it. + +Then his foot struck some obstacle in the way and he fell. For a +moment he lay there panting and helpless, while the burning cloth, +thrown from him in his fall, lighted up the narrow space around him +till it grew as clear as day. But all this splendid glow should not be +wasted; it would never do; he must make it light him on his journey +till the last ray was gone. + +He staggered to his feet again and ran on into the ever growing +darkness. Behind him the flames flared, flickered, and died slowly +out, and when the last vestige of light was wholly gone he sank, +utterly exhausted, to the floor of the mine, and thick darkness +settled on him like a pall. + +A long time he lay there wondering vaguely at his strange misfortunes. +The fever in his blood was running high, and, instead of harboring +sober thought, his mind was filled with fleeting fancies. + +It was very still here, so still that he thought he heard the +throbbing in his head. He wondered if it could be heard by others who +might thus find where he lay. + +Then fear came on him, fear like an icy hand clutching at his breast, +fear that would not let him rest, but that brought him to his feet +again and urged him onward. + +To die, that was nothing; he could die if need be; but to be shut up +here alone, with strange and unseen things hovering about him in the +blackness, that was quite beyond endurance. He was striving to get +away from them. He had not much thought, now, which way he went, he +cared little for direction, he wished only to keep in motion. + +He had to stop at times to get breath and to rest his limbs, they +ached so. But, whenever he stood still or sat down to rest, the +darkness seemed to close in upon him and around him so tightly as to +give him pain. He would not have cared so much for that, though, if it +had not been filled with strange creatures who crept close to him to +hear the throbbing in his head. He could not bear that; it compelled +him to move on. + +He went a long way like this, with his hands before him, stumbling, +falling, rising again, stopping for a moment's rest, moaning as he +walked, crying softly to himself at times like the sick child that he +was. + +Once he felt that he was going down an inclined way, like a long +chamber; there had been no prop or pillar on either side of him for +many minutes. Finally, his feet touched water. It grew to be ankle +deep. He pushed on, and it reached half-way to his knees. This would +never do. He turned in his tracks to retreat, just saved himself +from falling, and then climbed slowly back up the long slope of the +chamber. + +When he had reached the top of it he thought he would lie down and try +not to move again, he was so very tired and sick. + +In the midst of all his fancies he realized his danger. He knew that +death had ceased to be a possibility for him, and had come to be more +than probable. + +He felt that it would be very sad indeed to die in this way, alone, +in the dark, in the galleries of this old mine; it was not the way +Robert Burnham's son should have died. It was not that he minded +death so much; he would not have greatly cared for that, if he could +only have died in his mother's arms, with the sweet sunlight and the +fresh air and the perfume of flowers in the room. That, he thought, +would have been beautiful, very beautiful indeed. But this, this was +so different. + +"It is very sad," he said; "poor Ralph, poor boy." + +He was talking to himself. It seemed to him that he was some one else, +some one who stood by trying to pity and console this child who was +dying here alone in the awful darkness. + +"It's hard on you," he said, "I know it's hard on you, an' you've +just got to where life'd be worth a good deal to you too. You had +your bitter an' the sweet was just a-comin'; but never mind, my boy, +never mind; your Uncle Billy says 'at heaven's a great sight better +place 'an any you could ever find on earth. An', then, you're Robert +Burnham's son, you know, an' that's a good deal to think of; +you're--Robert Burnham's--son." + +For a long time after this there was silence, and the boy did not +move. Then fear came back to him. He thought that the darkness was +closing in again upon him, that it pressed him from above, from right +and left, that it crowded back his breath and crushed his body. He +felt that he must escape from it. + +He was too weak now to rise and walk, so he lifted himself to his +hands and knees and began to move away like a creeping child. + +There were many obstacles in his path, some of them imaginary, most of +them real. There were old mine caps, piles of dirt, pieces of slate, +and great lumps of coal on' which he cut his hands and bruised his +knees. But he met and passed them all. He was intent only on getting +away from these dreadful powers of darkness, they tortured him so. + +And he did get away from them. He came to a place where the space +about him seemed large, where the floor was smooth, and the air so +clear and pure that he could breathe it freely. + +Utter darkness, indeed, surrounded him, but it was a darkness not +peopled with evil beings; it was more like the sweet darkness of a +summer night, with the fragrance of dew-wet flowers in the air. + +He leaned against a pillar to rest. He thought to stay here until the +end should come. + +He was not suffering from any pain now; he was glad of that. And he +should die peacefully, leaving no wrong behind him, with no guilt +upon his conscience, no sin upon his soul. He was glad of that too. +He wondered if they would know, when they found his body, that he was +Robert Burnham's son. Suppose they should never find it out. Suppose +the days and months and years should pass away, and no one ever know +what high honor came to him while yet he lived on earth. That would be +sad, very, very sad; worse even than death itself. But there was a way +for him to make it known. He thought that some sweet voice was telling +him what to do. + +He took from his waistcoat pocket the paper that declared his birth, +unfolded it once, pressed it to his lips once, took pins from the edge +of the collar of his vest, and pinned the letter fast upon the bosom +of his flannel shirt. + +It took him a long time to do this in the darkness, his hands were so +very weak and tremulous, but, when it was done, he smoothed the paper +over carefully and was content. + +"They'll know it now," he said gently to himself, "they'll surely know +it now. They'll no sooner find me here than they'll know who I am, an' +who my mother is, an' where to take me. It's just the same, just the +same as though I was alive myself to tell 'em." + +He leaned back then, and closed his eyes and lay quite still. He felt +no pain from his cut and bleeding hands and knees, nor from his burned +wrist, nor from his bruised body. He was not hungry any more, nor +thirsty, nor suffering for breath. He was thinking, but he thought +only of pleasant things. He remembered no evil, neither any person who +had done him evil. + +Off somewhere in the distance he could see blue sky, and the tips of +waves glancing in the sunlight, and green fields, and long stretches +of yellow grain. It seemed very real to him, so real that he wondered +if he was still lying there in the darkness. He opened his eyes to +see. Yes, it was dark, very dark. + +The faint noise of dripping water came to his ears from somewhere in +the mine below him. It reminded him of a tiny waterfall he had once +seen under the shadow of a great rock on the bank of Roaring Brook. +It was where a little stream, like a silver thread, ran down across +the mossy covering of the edge and went drip, dripping into the +stone-walled basin far below. He wondered if the stream was running +there this day, if the tall rock-oak was bending yet above it, if the +birds sang there as gayly as they sang that happy day when first he +saw it. + +For a little time he thought that he was indeed there. He found it +hard to make himself believe that he was still in the mine, alone. But +he was not alone; he knew that he was not alone. He felt that friends +were somewhere near him. They were staying back in the shadow so that +they should not disturb him. They would come to him soon, when--when +he should waken. + +He did not move any more, his eyes were closed and he seemed to be +sleeping. His breath came gently, in long respirations. The precious +letter rose and fell with the slow heaving of his breast. + +Down in the darkness the water dripped as placidly as pulses beat. For +the rest there was no sound, no motion. + +Once the boy stirred a little and opened his eyes. + +"Is that you, Uncle Billy?" he said. "Come an' sit down an' rest a +little, an' then we'll go out. I think I got lost or--or somethin'." + +His Uncle Billy was not there. The darkness about him held no human +being save himself, but the vision was just as real to him, and the +coming was just as welcome as though it had all been true. + +"Why, how strange you look, Uncle Billy; an' you're a-laughin' at +me--what! does she? Well, I'll go to her just as soon as I get out, +just as soon. How did she find it out? I was goin' to be the first to +tell her. I'm glad she knows it, though." + +After a moment he continued:-- + +"Oh, no, Uncle Billy; I shouldn't ever do that, I couldn't. You've +been too good to me. You've been awful good to me, Uncle Billy--awful +good." + +Again silence fell. Thick darkness, like a veil, wrapped the +unconscious child in its folds. Black walls and winding galleries +surrounded him, the "valley of the shadow" lay beyond him, but on his +breast he bore the declaration of his birth, and in his heart he felt +that "peace of God which passeth understanding." + +Down in the darkness the water dripped; up in the earth's sky the +stars were out and the moon was shining. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +A STROKE OF LIGHTNING. + + +It was a hot day at Burnham Breaker. The sun of midsummer beat +fiercely upon the long and sloping roofs and against the coal-black +sides of the giant building. + +Down in the engine-room, where there was no air stirring, and the +vapor of steam hung heavily in the atmosphere, the heat was almost +insupportable. + +The engineer, clothed lightly as he was, fairly dripped with +perspiration. The fireman, with face and neck like a lobster, went +out, at intervals, and plunged his hands and his head too into the +stream of cool water sent out from the mine by the laboring pumps. + +Up in the screen-room, the boys were sweltering above their chutes, +choking with the thick dust, wondering if the afternoon would never be +at an end. + +Bachelor Billy, pushing the cars out from the head, said to himself +that he was glad Ralph was no longer picking slate. It was better that +he should work in the mines. It was cool there in summer and warm in +winter, and it was altogether more comfortable for the boy than it +could be in the breaker; neither was it any more dangerous, in his +opinion, than it was among the wheels and rollers of the screen-room. +He had labored in the mines himself, until the rheumatism came and put +a stop to his under-ground toil. He mourned greatly the necessity that +compelled him to give up this kind of work. It is hard for a miner to +leave his pillars and his chambers, his drill and powder-can and fuse, +and to seek other occupation on the surface of the earth. The very +darkness and danger that surround him at his task hold him to it with +an unaccountable fascination. + +But Bachelor Billy had a good place here at the breaker. It was not +hard work that he was doing. Robert Burnham had given him the position +ten years and more ago. + +Even on this hot mid-summer day, the heat was less where he was than +in any other part of the building. A cool current came up the shaft +and kept the air stirring about the head, and the loaded mine-cars +rose to the platform, dripping cold water from their sides, and that +was very refreshing to the eye as well as to the touch. + +It was well along in the afternoon that Billy, looking out to the +north-west, saw a dark cloud rising slowly above the horizon, and said +to Andy Gilgallon, his assistant, that he hoped it would not go away +without leaving some rain behind it. + +Looking at it again, a few minutes later, he told Andy that he felt +sure there would be water enough to lay the dust, at any rate. + +The cloud increased rapidly in size, rolling up the sky in dark +volumes, and emitting flashes of forked lightning in quick succession. + +By and by the face of the sun was covered, and the deep rumbling of +the thunder was almost continuous. + +There was a dead calm. Not even at the head of the shaft could a +particle of moving air be felt. + +"Faith! I don't like the looks o' it, Billy," said Andy Gilgallon, +as a sharp flash cut the cloud surface from zenith to horizon, and a +burst of thunder followed that made the breaker tremble. + +"No more do I," replied Bachelor Billy; "but we'll no' git scart afoor +we're hurt. It's no' likely the buildin' 'll be washit awa'." + +"Thrue for ye! but this bit o' a steeple ud be a foine risting-place +for the lightnin's fut, an' a moighty hot fut it has, too--bad 'cess +to it!" + +The man had been interrupted by another vivid flash and a sharp crack +of thunder. + +The mountains to the north and west were now entirely hidden, and the +near hills were disappearing rapidly behind the on-coming storm of +rain. Already the first drops were rattling sharply on the breaker's +roof, and warning puffs of wind were beating gently against the side +of the shaft-tower. + +"I'm glad Ralph's no' workin' i' the screen-room," said Bachelor +Billy, as he put up his hand to shield his eyes from the blinding +glare. "It'd be a fearfu' thing to ha' the breaker hit." + +The fury of the storm was on them at last. It was as though the +heavens were shattered. + +Billy looked out upon the dreadful onslaught of the elements with awe +and wonder on his face. His companion crouched against the timbers of +the shaft in terror. + +Then--lightning struck the breaker. + +People who sat in their houses a mile away started up in sudden fright +at the fierce flash and terrible report. + +A man who was running toward the engine-room for shelter was blinded +and stunned by the glare and crash, and fell to his knees. + +When he rose again and could use his eyes, he saw men and boys +crowding from the building out into the pouring rain. But the breaker +was on fire. Already the shaft-tower was wrapped in smoke and lighted +with flame. Some one in authority stood in the door of the engine-room +giving orders. + +The carriage was descending the shaft. When it came up it was loaded +with men. It went down again, almost with the rapidity of lightning +itself. + +The engineer was crowding his servant of iron and steel to the utmost. +The men of the next load that came up had hardly time to push +each other from the carriage before it darted down again into the +blackness. + +The flames were creeping lower on the shaft timbers, and were rioting +among the screens. + +The engine-room was hot and stifling. The engineer said he was +hoisting the last load that could be brought out. + +When it reached the surface Conway leaped from among the men and stood +in the door of the engine-room. + +"Let it down again!" he shouted. "Ralph is below yet, the boy. I'll go +down myself an' git 'im." + +He heard a crash behind him, and he turned in time to see the iron +roof of the carriage disappear into the mouth of the shaft. + +The burning frame-work at the head had ceased to support it, and it +had fallen down, dragging a mass of flaming timbers with it. + +Conway went out into the rain and sat down and cried like a child. + +Afterward, when the storm had partially subsided, a wagon was stopped +at the door of the office near the burning breaker, the limp body of +Bachelor Billy was brought out and placed in it, and it was driven +rapidly away. They had found him lying on the track at the head with +the flames creeping dangerously near. He was unconscious when they +came to him, he was unconscious still. They took him to his room at +Mrs. Maloney's cottage, and put him in his bed. The doctor came soon, +and under his vigorous treatment the man lost that deathly pallor +about his face, but he did not yet recover consciousness. The doctor +said he would come out of it in time, and went away to see to the +others who had been injured. + +The men who had brought the invalid were gone, and Mrs. Maloney was +sitting by him alone. + +The storm had passed, the sun had come out just long enough to bid +a reassuring "good-night" to the lately frightened dwellers on the +earth, and was now dropping down behind the western hills. + +A carriage stopped at Bachelor Billy's door and a moment later Mrs. +Burnham knocked and entered. + +"I heard that he had suffered from the stroke," she said, looking at +the still form on the bed, "and I came to see him. Is he better?" + +"He ain't come out of it yet, ma'am," responded Mrs. Maloney, "but +the doctor's been a-rubbin' of im' an' a-givin' 'im stimmylants, an' +he says it's all right he'll be in the course of a few hours. Will ye +have a chair, ma'am?" + +"Thank you. I'll sit here by him a while with the fan and relieve you. +Where is Ralph?" + +"He's not come yet, ma'am." + +"Why, Mrs. Maloney, are you sure? Is it possible that anything has +happened to him?" + +"To shpake the trut', ma'am, I'm a bit worried about 'im meself. But +they said to me partic'ler, as how ivery man o' thim got out o' the +mine befoor the carriage fell. Most like he's a-watchin' the fire an' +doesn't know his Uncle Billy's hurted. Ye'll see 'im comin' quick +enough when he hears that, I'm thinkin'." + +Mrs. Burnham had seated herself at the bedside with the fan in her +hand. + +"I'll wait for him," she said; "perhaps he'll be here soon." + +"I'll be lookin' afther the supper, thin," said Mrs. Maloney, "the +lad'll be hungry whin he comes," and she left the room. + +Bachelor Billy lay very quiet, as if asleep, breathing regularly, his +face somewhat pale and his lips blue, but he had not the appearance of +one who is in danger. + +A few minutes later there came a gentle knock at the street door. Mrs. +Burnham arose and opened it. Lawyer Goodlaw stood on the step. She +gave him as courteous greeting as though she had been under the roof +of her own mansion. + +"I called at your home," he said, as he entered, "and, learning that +you had come here, I concluded to follow you." + +He went up to the bed and looked at Bachelor Billy, bending over him +with kind scrutiny. + +"I heard that the shock had affected him seriously," he said, "but he +does not appear to be greatly the worse for it; I think he'll come +through all right. He's an honest, warm-hearted man. I learned the +other day of a proposition that Sharpman made to him before the trial; +a tempting one to offer to a poor man, but he rejected it with scorn. +I'll tell you of it sometime; it shows forth the nobility of the man's +character." + +Goodlaw had crossed the room and had taken a seat by the window. + +"But I came to bring you news," he continued. "Our detective returned +this morning and presented a full report of his investigation and its +result. You will be pleased with it." + +"Oh, Mr. Goodlaw! is Ralph--is Ralph--" + +She was leaning toward him with clasped hands. + +"Ralph is your son," he said. + +She bowed her head, and her lips moved in silence. When she looked up, +there were tears in her eyes, but her face was radiant with happiness. + +"Is there any, any doubt about it now?" she asked. + +"None whatever," he replied. + +"And what of Rhyming Joe's story?" + +"It was a pure falsehood. He does not tire of telling how he swindled +the sharpest lawyer in Scranton out of a hundred and fifty dollars, by +a plausible lie. He takes much credit to himself for the successful +execution of so bold a scheme. But the money got him into trouble. He +had too much, he spent it too freely, and, as a consequence, he is +serving a short term of imprisonment in the Alleghany county jail for +some petty offence." + +The tears would keep coming into the lady's eyes; but they were tears +of joy, not of sorrow. + +"I have the detective's report here in writing," continued Goodlaw; +"I will give it to you that you may read it at your leisure. Craft's +story was true enough in its material parts, but a gigantic scheme was +based on it to rob both you and your son. The odium of that, however, +should rest where the expense of the venture rested, on Craft's +attorney. It is a matter for sincere congratulation that Ralph's +identity was not established by them at that time. He has been +delivered out of the hands of sharpers, and his property is wholly +saved to him. + +"I learn that Craft is dying miserably in his wretched lodgings in +Philadelphia. With enough of ill-gotten gain to live on comfortably, +his miserly instincts are causing him to suffer for the very +necessities of life." + +"I am sorry for him," said the lady; "very sorry." + +"He is not deserving of your sympathy, madam; he treated your son with +great cruelty while he had him." + +"But he saved Ralph's life." + +"That is no doubt true, yet he stole the jewelry from the child's +person and kept him only for the sake of obtaining ransom. + +"This reminds me that it is also true that he had an interview with +your husband on the day of Mr. Burnham's death. What took place +between them I cannot ascertain, but I have learned that afterward, +while the rescuing party were descending into the mine, your husband +recognized Ralph in a way that those who saw and heard him could not +at the time understand. Recent events, however, prove beyond a doubt +that your husband knew, on the day he died, that this boy was his +son." + +Mrs. Burnham had been weeping silently. + +"You are bringing me too much good and comforting news," she said; "I +am not quite able to bear it all, you see." + +She was smiling through her tears, but a look of anxiety crossed her +face as she continued:-- + +"I am worried about Ralph. He has not yet come from the breaker." + +She glanced up at the little clock on the shelf, and then went to look +out from the window. + +The man on the bed moved and moaned, and she went back to him. + +"Perhaps we had better send some one to look for the boy," said +Goodlaw. "I will go myself--" + +He was interrupted by the opening of the door. Andy Gilgallon stood +on the threshold and looked in with amazement. He had not expected to +find the lady and the lawyer there. + +"I come to see Bachelor Billy," he said. "Me an' him work togither at +the head. He got it worse nor I did. I'm over it, only I'm wake yit. +The likes o' it was niver seen afoor." + +He looked curiously in at the bed where his comrade was lying. + +"Come in," said Mrs. Burnham, "come in and look at him. He's not +conscious yet, but I think he'll soon come to himself." + +The man entered the room, walking on the toes of his clumsy shoes. + +"Have you seen anything of Ralph since the fire?" continued the lady. + +Andy stopped and looked incredulously at his questioner. + +"An' have ye not heard?" he asked. + +"Heard what, Andy?" she replied, her face paling as she noted the +man's strange look. + +"Why, they didn't get 'im out," he said. "It's in the mine he is, +sure, mum." + +She stood for a moment in silence, her face as white as the wall +behind her. Then she clasped her hands tightly together and all the +muscles of her body grew rigid in the desperate effort to remain calm +for the sake of the unconscious man on the bed, for the sake of the +lost boy in the mine, for the sake of her own ability to think and to +act. + +Goodlaw saw the struggle and rose from his chair. + +"It's a dangerous imprisonment," he said, "but not, of necessity, a +fatal one." + +She still stood staring silently at the messenger who had brought to +her these dreadful tidings. + +"They're a-thryin' to get to the mouth o' the shaft now," said Andy. +"They're a-dhraggin' the timbers away; timbers wid the fire in 'em +yit. Ye'd be shtartled to see 'em, mum." + +Then the lady spoke. + +"I will go to the shaft," she said. Her carriage was already at the +door; she started toward it, throwing a light wrap across her arm as +she went. + +Again the man on the bed moved and moaned. + +"Stay with him," she said to Andy, "until I come myself, or send some +one to relieve you. See that he has everything he needs. He is my +charge." + +Goodlaw helped her to the carriage. + +"Will you come with me?" she asked. + +He seated himself beside her and they were driven away. There was +little that he could say to comfort and assure her. The shock was too +recent. The situation of her son was too perilous. + +Darkness was coming on when they reached the scene of the disaster; +one or two stars were already out, and the crescent of the new moon +was hanging in the west. Great clouds of white smoke were floating +away to the east, and where the breaker had that morning stood there +was now only a mass of charred and glowing ruins. + +There were many people there, people who talked in low tones and +who looked on with solemn faces. But there were no outcries nor +lamentations; there was but one person, a boy, shut up in the mine, +and he was kin to no one there. + +Up at the south-west corner of the pile they were throwing water on +the ruins. An engine had been brought up from the city and was pouring +a steady stream on the spot where the shaft was thought to be. + +Many men were engaged in cutting and pulling away the burned timbers, +handling them while they were yet glowing with fire, so eager were +they to forward the work of rescue. + +The superintendent of the mines was there, directing, encouraging, +and giving a helping hand. He saw Mrs. Burnham and came up to her +carriage. + +"It was a very disastrous lightning stroke," he said; "the property of +the company is in ruins, but as yet no lives have been lost. There is +but one person in the mine, the boy Ralph; you both know him. We are +clearing away the wreckage from the mouth of the shaft as rapidly as +possible, in the hope that we may get down there in time to save his +life. Our people have directed me to spare no effort in this matter. +One life, even though it is that of an unknown boy, is not too poor a +thing for us to try, by every possible means, to save." + +"That boy," said Goodlaw, "is Mrs. Burnham's son." + +"Is it possible! Has he been identified, then, since the trial?" + +"Fully, fully! My dear sir, I beg that you will do all that lies in +your power to save this life for your company's sake, then double your +effort for this lady's sake. She has no such fortune as this boy is to +her." + +Mrs. Burnham had sat there pale-faced and eager-eyed. Now she spoke:-- + +"What is the prospect? What are the chances? Can you surely save him? +Tell me truly, Mr. Martin?" + +"We cannot say certainly," replied the superintendent; "there are too +many factors in the problem of which we are yet ignorant. We do not +know how badly the shaft is choked up; we do not know the condition +of the air in the mine. To be frank with you, I think the chances are +against rescuing the boy alive. The mine soon fills with poisonous +gases when the air supply is cut off." + +"Are you doing all that can be done?" she asked. "Will more men, more +money, more of anything, help you in your work?" + +"We are doing all that can be done," he answered her. "The men are +working bravely. We need nothing." + +"How soon will you be able to go down and begin the search?" + +The man thought for a moment before replying. + +"To-morrow," he said, uncertainly. "I think surely by to-morrow." + +She sank back into the carriage-seat, appalled by the length of time +named. She had hoped that an hour or two at the farthest would enable +them to reach the bottom of the shaft. + +"We will push the work to the utmost," said Martin, as he hurried +away. "Possibly we shall be able to get in sooner." + +Goodlaw and Mrs. Burnham sat for a long time in silence, watching the +men at their labor. Word had been passed among the workers that the +missing boy was Mrs. Burnham's son, and their energetic efforts were +put forth now for her sake as well as for the lad's. For both mother +and son held warm places in the hearts of these toiling men. + +The mouth of the shaft had been finally uncovered, a space cleared +around it, and the frame of a rude windlass erected. They were +preparing to remove the debris from the opening. + +Conway came to the carriage, and, in a voice broken with emotion, told +the story of Ralph's heroic effort to save a human life at the risk of +his own. He had little hope, he said, that Ralph could live till they +should reach him; but he should be the first, he declared, to go into +the mine in search of the gallant boy. + +At this recital Mrs. Burnham wept; she could restrain her tears no +longer. + +At last Goodlaw persuaded her to leave the scene. He feared the effect +that continued gazing on it might have upon her delicate nerves. + +The flashing of the lanterns, the huge torches lighting up the +darkness, the forms of men moving back and forth in the smoky +atmosphere, the muscular and mental energy exhibited, the deep +earnestness displayed,--all this made up a picture too dramatic and +appalling for one whose heart was in it to look at undismayed. + +Arrangements were made for a messenger service to keep Mrs. Burnham +constantly informed of the progress of the work, and, with a +parting appeal to those in charge to hasten the hour of rescue, the +grief-stricken mother departed. + +They drove first to Bachelor Billy's room. Andy was still there and +said he would remain during the night. He said that Billy had spoken +once or twice, apparently in his right mind, and was now sleeping +quietly. + +Then Mrs. Burnham went to her home. She passed the long night in +sleepless anxiety, waiting for the messages from the mine, which +followed each other in slow succession. They brought to her no good +news. The work was going on; the opening was full with wreckage; the +air was very bad, even in the shaft. These were the tidings. It was +hardly possible, they wrote, that the boy could still be living. + +Long before the last star had paled and faded in the western sky, or +the first rays of the morning sun had shot across the hills, despair +had taken in her heart the place of hope. She could only say: "Well, +he died as his father died, trying to save the lives of others. I have +two lost heroes now to mourn for and be proud of, instead of one." + +But even yet there crossed her mind at times the thought that +possibly, possibly the one chance for life as against thousands and +thousands for death might fall to her boy; and the further and deeper +thought that the range of God's mercy was very wide, oh, very wide! + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +AT THE DAWN OF DAY. + + +It was not until very late on the morning following the storm that +Bachelor Billy came fully to his senses and realized what had +happened. + +He was told that the breaker had been struck by lightning and burned +to the ground, and that his own illness was due to the severity of the +electric shock. + +He asked where Ralph was, and they told him that Ralph was up at the +mine. They thought it wiser that he should not know the truth about +the boy just yet. + +He thought to get up and dress himself, but he felt so weak and +bruised, and the strong metallic taste in his mouth nauseated him so, +that he yielded to the advice of those who were with him and lay down +again. + +He looked up anxiously at the clock, at intervals, and seemed to be +impatient for the noon hour to arrive. He thought Ralph would come +then to his dinner. He wondered that the boy should go away and leave +him for so long a time alone in his illness. + +The noon hour came, but Ralph did not come. + +Andy Gilgallon returned and tried to divert the man's mind with +stories of the fire, but the attempt was in vain. + +At one o'clock they made a pretence of sending Mrs. Maloney's little +girl to look for Ralph, in order to quiet Bachelor Billy's growing +apprehension. + +But he remained very anxious and ill at ease. It struck him that there +was something peculiar about the conduct of the people who were with +him when Ralph's name was mentioned or his absence discussed. A +growing fear had taken possession of his mind that something was +wrong, and so terribly wrong that they dared not tell it to him. + +When the clock struck two, he sat up in the bed and looked at Andy +Gilgallon with a sternness in his face that was seldom seen there. + +"Andy," he said, "tha's summat ye're a-keepin' fra me. If aught's +happenit to the lad I want ye s'ould tell me. Be he hurt, be he dead, +I wull know it. Coom noo, oot wi' it, mon! D'ye hear me?" + +Andy could not resist an appeal and a command like this. There was +something in the man's eyes, he said afterwards, that drew the truth +right out of him. + +Bachelor Billy heard the story calmly, asked about the means being +taken for the boy's rescue, and then sat for a few moments in quiet +thought. + +Finally he said: "Andy, gi' me ma clothes." + +Andy did not dare to disobey him. He gave his clothes to him, and +helped him to dress. + +The man was so sick and dizzy still that he could hardly stand. He +crossed the room, took his cap from its hook and put it on his head. + +"An' where do yez be goin' to I donno?" inquired Andy, anxiously. + +"I'm a-goin' to the breaker," replied Bachelor Billy. + +"Ah, man! but ye're foolish. Ye'll be losin' your own life, I warrant, +an' ye'll be doin' no good to the boy." + +But Billy had already started from the door. + +"I might be able to do a bit toward savin' 'im," he said. "An' if he's +beyon' that, as mos' like he is, I s'ould want to get the lad's body +an' care for it mysel'. I kenned 'im best." + +The two men were walking up through the narrow street of the village. + +"I hear now that it's Mrs. Burnham's son he is," said Andy. "Lawyer +Goodlaw came yesterday wid the news." + +Billy did not seem surprised. + +He trudged on, saying simply:-- + +"Then he's worthy of his mither, the lad is, an' of his father. I'm +thankfu' that he's got some one at last, besides his Uncle Billy, +happen it's only to bury 'im." + +The fresh, cool air seemed to have revived and strengthened the +invalid, and he went on at a more rapid pace. But he was weak enough +still. He wavered from side to side as he walked, and his face was +very pale. + +When the two men reached the site of the burned breaker, they went +directly to the opening to learn the latest news concerning the +search. There was not much, however, for them to hear. The shaft was +entirely cleaned out and men had been down into the mine, but they had +not been able to get far from the foot, the air was so very bad. + +A rough partition was being built now, down the entire depth of the +opening, a cover had been erected over the mouth of the shaft, and a +fan had been put up temporarily, to drive fresh air into the mine and +create an atmosphere there that would support life. + +It was not long after the arrival of the two men before another party +of miners stepped into the bucket to be lowered into the mine. + +Bachelor Billy asked to be allowed to go with them, but his request +was denied. They feared that, in his present condition, the foul air +below would be fatal to him. + +The party could not go far from the foot of the shaft, no farther, +indeed, than the inside plane. But they found nothing, no sign +whatever of the missing boy. + +Others went down afterward, and pushed the exploration farther, and +still others. It seemed probable that the lad, driven back by the +smoke and gas, had taken refuge in some remote portion of the mine; +and the portion that he would be apt to choose, they thought, would +be the portion with which he had been most familiar. They therefore +extended the search mainly in that direction. + +But it was night before they reached those chambers which Ralph had +been accustomed to serve with cars. They looked them over thoroughly; +every entrance and every corner was scrutinized, but no trace of the +imprisoned boy could be found. + +Bachelor Billy had not left the place. He had been the first to hear +the report of each returning squad, but his hope for the lad's safety +had disappeared long before the sun went down. When night came on he +went up on the bank and sat under the tree on the bench; the same +bench on which he had sat that day in May to listen to the story of +Ralph's temptation. His only anxiety now was that the child's body +should be brought speedily from the foul air, so that the face might +be kept as fair as possible for the mother's sake. + +Conway, who had gone down into the mine with the first searching +party, had been overcome by the foul air, and had been brought out +insensible and taken to his home. But he had recovered, and was now +back again at the shaft. It seemed to him, he said, as though he was +compelled to return; as though there was something to be done here +that only he could do. He was sitting on the bench now with Bachelor +Billy, and they were discussing the lad's heroic sacrifice, and +wondering to what part of the mine he could have gone that the search +of half a day should fail to disclose his whereabouts. + +A man who had just come out from the shaft, exhausted, was assisted up +the bank by two companions, and laid down on the grass near the bench, +in the moonlight, to breathe the fresh air that was stirring there. + +After a little, he revived, and began to tell of the search. + +"It's very strange," he said, "where the lad could have gone. We +thought to find him in the north tier, and we went up one chamber and +down the next, and looked into every entrance, but never a track of +him could we get." + +He turned to Conway, who was standing by, and continued:-- + +"Up at the face o' your chamber we found a dead mule with his collar +on. The poor creature had gone there, no doubt, to find good air. He'd +climbed up on the very shelf o' coal at the breast to get the farthest +he could. Did ye ever hear the like?" + +But Conway did not answer. A vague solution of the mystery of Ralph's +disappearance was dawning on him. He turned suddenly to the man, and +asked:-- + +"Did ye see the hole in the face when ye were there; a hole the size +o' your head walled up with stone-coal?" + +"I took no note o' such a thing. What for had ye such a hole there, +an' where to?" + +"Into the old mine," said Conway, earnestly, "into old No. 1. The boy +saw it yisterday. I told 'im where it wint. He's broke it in, and +crawled through, he has, I'll bet he has. Come on; we'll find 'im +yet!" and he started rapidly down the hill toward the mouth of the +shaft. + +Bachelor Billy rose from the bench and stumbled slowly after him; +while the man who had told them about the mule lifted himself to his +elbows, and looked down on them in astonishment. + +He could not quite understand what Conway meant. + +The superintendent of the mine had gone. The foreman in charge of the +windlass and fan stood leaning against a post, with the light of a +torch flaring across his swarthy face. + +"Let me down!" cried Conway, hastening to the opening. "I know where +the boy is; I can find 'im." + +The man smiled. "It's against orders," he responded. "Wait till Martin +comes back an' the next gang goes in; then ye can go." + +"But I say I know where the boy is. I can find 'im in half an hour. +Five minutes delay might cost 'im his life."-- + +The man looked at Conway in doubt and wonder; he was hesitating +between obedience and inclination. + +Then Bachelor Billy spoke up, "Why, mon!" he exclaimed, "what's orders +when a life's at stake? We _mus'_ go doon, I tell ye! An ye hold us +back ye'll be guilty o' the lad's daith!" + +His voice had a ring of earnestness in it that the man could not +resist. He moved to the windlass and told his helpers to lower the +bucket. Conway entreated Bachelor Billy not to go down, and the +foreman joined in the protest. They might as well have talked to +the stars. + +"Why, men!" said Billy, "tha's a chance as how the lad's alive. An +that be so no ither body can do for 'im like me w'en he's foond. I +wull go doon, I tell ye; I _mus'_ go doon!" + +He stepped carefully into the bucket, Conway leaped in after him, and +they were lowered away. + +At the bottom of the shaft they found no one but the footman, whose +duty it was to remain steadily at his post. He listened somewhat +incredulously to their hasty explanations, he gave to them another +lighted lamp, and wished them good-luck as they started away into the +heading. + +In spite of his determination and self-will, Bachelor Billy's strength +gave out before they had reached the head of the plane, and he was +obliged to stop and rest. Indeed, he was compelled often to do this +during the remainder of the journey, but he would not listen to any +suggestion that he should turn back. The air was still very impure, +although they could at times feel the fresh current from the shaft at +their backs. + +They met no one. The searching parties were all south of the shaft +now, this part of the mine having been thoroughly examined. + +By the time the two men had reached the foot of Conway's chamber, +they were nearly prostrated by the foul air they had been compelled +to breathe. Both were still feeble from recent illnesses and were +without the power to resist successfully the effects of the poisoned +atmosphere. They made their way up the chamber in silence, their limbs +unsteady, their heads swimming, their hearts beating violently. At the +breast Conway clambered up over the body of the mule and thrust his +lighted lamp against the walled-up aperture. + +"He's gone through here!" he cried. "He's opened up the hole an' gone +through." + +The next moment he was tearing away the blocks of slate and coal +with both hands. But his fingers were stiff and numb, and the work +progressed too slowly. Then he braced himself against the body of the +mule, pushed with his feet against Ralph's rude wall, and the next +moment it fell back into the old mine. He brushed away the bottom +stones and called to his companion. + +"Come!" he said, "the way's clear an' we'll find better air in there." + +But Bachelor Billy did not respond. He had fallen against the lower +face of coal, unconscious. Conway saw that he must do quick work. + +He reached over, grasped the man by his shoulders, and with superhuman +effort drew him up to the shelf and across the body of the mule. Then, +creeping into the opening, he pulled the helpless man through with him +into the old mine, and dragged him up the chamber out of reach of the +poisoned current. He loosened his collar and chafed his wrists and the +better air in there did the rest. + +Bachelor Billy soon returned to consciousness, and learned where he +was. + +"That was fulish in me," he said, "to weaken like that; but I'm no' +used to that white damp. Gi' me a minute to catch ma breath an' I'll +go wi' ye." + +Conway went down and walled up the opening again. When he came back +Bachelor Billy was on his feet, walking slowly down the chamber, +throwing the light of his lamp into the entrances on the way. + +"Did he go far fra the openin,' thenk ye?" he asked. "Would he no' +most like stay near whaur he cam' through?" + +Then he tried to lift up his voice and call to the boy; but he was too +weak, he could hardly have been heard across the chamber. + +"Call 'im yoursel', Mike," he said; "I ha' no power i' my throat, +some way." + +Conway called, loudly and repeatedly. There was no answer; the echoes +came rattling back to their ears, and that was all that they heard. + +"Mayhap he's gone to the headin'," said Billy, "an" tried to get oot +by the auld slope." + +"That's just what he's done," replied Conway, earnestly; "I told 'im +where the old openin' was; he's tried to get to it." + +"Then we'll find 'im atween here an' there." + +The two men had been moving slowly down the chamber. When they came to +the foot of it, they turned into the air-way, and from that they went +through the entrance into the heading. At this place the dirt on the +floor was soft and damp, and they saw in it the print of a boy's shoe. + +"He's gone in," said Bachelor Billy, examining the foot-prints, "he's +gone in toward the face. I ken the place richt well, it's mony's the +time I ha' travelled it." + +They hurried in along the heading, not stopping to look for other +tracks, but expecting to find the boy's body ahead of them at every +step they took. + +When they reached the face, they turned and looked at each other in +surprise. + +"He's no' here," said Billy. + +"It's strange, too," replied Conway. "He couldn't 'a' got off o' the +headin'!" + +He stooped and examined the floor of the passage carefully, holding +his lamp very low. + +"Billy," he said, "I believe he's come in an' gone out again. Here's +tracks a-pointin' the other way." + +"So he has, Mike, so he has; the puir lad!" + +Bachelor Billy was thinking of the disappointment Ralph must have felt +when he saw the face of the heading before him, and knew that his +journey in had been in vain. + +Already the two men had turned and were walking back. + +At the point where they had entered the heading they found foot-prints +leading out toward the slope. They had not noticed them at first. + +They followed them hastily, and came, as Ralph had come, to the fall. + +"He's no' climbit it," said Billy. "He's gone up an' around it. The +lad knew eneuch aboot the mines for that." + +They passed up into the chambers, but the floor was too dry to take +the impress of footsteps, and they found no trace of the boy. + +When they reached the upper limit of the fall, Billy said:-- + +"We mus' turn sharp to the left here, or we'll no' get back. It's a +tarrible windin' headin'." + +But Conway had discovered tracks, faintly discernible, leading across +into a passage used by men and mules to shorten the distance to the +inner workings. + +"He's a-goin' stret back," said Billy, sorrowfully, as they slowly +followed these traces, "he's a-goin' stret back to whaur he cam' +through." + +Surely enough the prints of the child's feet soon led the tired +searchers back to the opening from Conway's chamber. + +They looked at each other in silent disappointment, and sat down for a +few moments to rest and to try to think. + +Bachelor Billy was the first to rise to his feet. + +"Mike," he said, "the lad's i' this auld mine. Be it soon or late I +s'all find 'im. I s'all search the place fra slope to headin'-face. I +s'all no' gae oot till I gae wi' the boy or wi' 'is body; what say ye? +wull ye help?" + +Conway grasped the man's hand with a pressure that meant more than +words, and they started immediately to follow their last track back. +They passed up and down all the chambers in the tier till they reached +the point, at the upper limit of the fall, where Ralph had turned into +the foot-way. Their search had been a long and tiresome one and had +yielded to them no results. + +They began to appreciate the fact that a thorough exploration of the +mine could not be made in a short time by two worn-out men. Billy +blamed himself for not having thought sooner to send for other and +fresher help. + +"Ye mus' go now, Mike," he said. "Mayhap it'd take days wi' us twa +here alone, an' the lad's been a-wanderin' aroun' so." + +But Conway demurred. + +"You're the one to go," he said. "You can't stan' it in here much +longer, an' I can. You're here at the risk o' your life. Go on out +with ye an' get a bit o' the fresh air. I'll stay and hunt for the +boy till the new men comes." + +But Bachelor Billy was in earnest. + +"I canna do it," he said. "I would na get farther fra the lad for +warlds, an' him lost an' a-dyin' mayhap. I'll stan' it. Never ye fear +for me! Go on, Mike, go on quick!" + +Conway turned reluctantly to go. + +"Hold out for an hour," he shouted back, "an' we'll be with ye!" + +Before the sound of his footsteps had died away, Billy had picked up +his lamp again and started down on the easterly side of the fall, +making little side excursions as he went, hunting for foot-prints on +the floor of the mine. + +When he came to the heading, he turned to go back to the face of the +fall. It was but a few steps. There was a little stream of water +running down one side of the passage and he lay down by it to drink. +Half hidden in the stream he espied a miner's lamp. He reached for it +in sudden surprise. He saw that it had been lately in use. He started +to his feet and moved up closer to the fall, looking into the dark +places under the rock. His foot struck something; it was the oil-can. +He picked it up and examined it. There was blood on it; and both can +and lamp were empty. He looked up at the face of the fall and then +the truth came slowly into his mind. The boy had attempted to climb +through that wilderness of rock, had reached the precipice, had fallen +to the floor, had spilled his oil, and had wandered off into the +dreadful darkness, hurt and helpless. + +"Oh, the puir lad!" he said, aloud. "Oh, the puir dear lad! He canna +be far fra here," he continued, "not far. Ralph! Ralph!" + +He waited a moment in silence, but there was no answer. Then, hastily +examining the passage as he went, he hurried down along the heading. + +At one place he found a burned match. The boy had gone this way, then. +He hastened on. He came to a point where two headings met, and stopped +in indecision. Which route had Ralph taken? He decided to try the one +that led to the slope. He went in that way, but he had not gone ten +rods before he came upon a little heap of charred rags in the middle +of the passage. He could not understand it at first; but he was not +long in discovering what it meant. Ralph had burned his jacket to +light up the path. + +"Ah! the sufferin' child!" he murmured; "the dear sufferin' child!" + +A little further along he saw a boy's cap lying in the way. He picked +it up and placed it in his bosom. He brushed away a tear or two +from his eyes and hastened on. It was no time to weep over the lad's +sufferings when he expected to find his body at every step he took. +But he went a long distance and saw no other sign of the boy's +passage. He came to a place at last where the dirt on the floor of the +heading was wet. He bent down and made careful scrutiny from side to +side, but there were no foot-prints there save his own. He had, in his +haste gone too far. He turned back with a desperate longing at his +heart. He knew that the lad must be somewhere near. + +At one point, an unblocked entrance opened from the heading into the +air-way at an acute angle. He thought the boy might have turned into +that, and he passed up through it and so into the chambers. He stopped +at times to call Ralph's name, but no answer ever came. He wandered +back, finally, toward the fall, and down into the heading where +the burned coat was. After a few moments of rest, he started again, +examining every inch of the ground as he went. This time he found +where Ralph had turned off into the air-way. He traced his foot-prints +up through an entrance into the chambers and there they were again +lost. But he passed on through the open places, calling as he went, +and came finally to the sump near the foot of the slope. He held his +lamp high and looked out over the black surface of the water. Not far +away the roof came down to meet it. A dreadful apprehension entered +the man's mind. Perhaps Ralph had wandered unconsciously into this +black pool and been drowned. But that was too terrible; he would +not allow himself to think of it. He turned away, went back up the +chamber, and crossed over again to the air-way. Moving back a little +to search for foot-prints, he came to an old door-way and sat clown by +it to rest--yes, and to weep. He could no longer think of the torture +the child must have endured in his wanderings through the old mine and +keep the tears from his eyes. He almost hoped that death had long ago +come to the boy's relief. + +"Oh, puir lad!" he sobbed, "puir, puir lad!" + +Below him, in the darkness, he heard the drip of water from the roof. +Aside from that, the place was very, very still. + +Then, for a moment, his heart stopped beating and he could not move. + +He had heard a voice somewhere near him saying:-- + +"Good-night, Uncle Billy! If I wake first in the mornin', I'll call +you--good-night!" + +It was what Ralph was used to saying when he went to bed at home. But +it was not Ralph's voice sounding through the darkness; it was only +the ghost of Ralph's voice. + +In the next moment the man's strength returned to him; he seized his +lamp and leaped through the old door-way, and there at his feet lay +Ralph. The boy was living, breathing, talking. + +Billy fell on his knees beside him and began to push the hair back +from his damp forehead, kissing it tenderly as he did so. + +"Ralph," he said, "Ralph, lad, dinna ye see me? It's your Uncle Billy, +Ralph, your Uncle Billy." + +The boy did not open his eyes, but his lips moved. + +"Did you call me, Uncle Billy?" he asked. "Is it mornin'? Is it +daylight?" + +"It'll soon be daylight, lad, verra soon noo, verra soon." + +He had fastened his lamp in his cap, placed his arms gently under the +child's body, and lifted him to his breast. He stood for a moment +then, questioning with himself. But the slope was the nearest and the +way to it was the safest, and there was no time to wait. He started +down the air-way on his journey to the outer world, bearing his burden +as tenderly as a mother would have borne her babe, looking down at +times into the still face, letting the tears drop now and then on the +paper pinned to the boy's breast. + +He stopped to rest after a little, holding the child on his knees as +he sat, and looking curiously at the letter, on which his tears had +fallen. He read it slowly by the light of his lamp, bending back the +fold to do so. He did not wonder at it. He knew what it meant and why +the boy had fastened it there. + +"Ye s'all gae to her, lad," he said, "ye s'all gae to the mither. I'm +thankfu', verra thankfu', that the father kenned the truth afoor he +deed." + +He raised his precious burden to his heart and began again his +journey. + +The water in the old sump had risen and flowed across the heading and +the air-way and far up into the chambers, and he was compelled to go +around it. The way was long and devious; it was blocked and barred; +he had often to lay his burden down and make an opening through some +walled-up entrance to give them room for passage. + +There were falls in his course, and he clambered across rough hills +of rock and squeezed through narrow openings; but every step brought +him nearer to the slope, and this thought nerved him to still greater +effort. Yet he could not wholly escape the water of the sump. He had +still to pass through it. It was cold and black. It came to his ankles +as he trudged along. By and by it reached to his knees. When it grew +to be waist-deep he lifted the child to his shoulder, steadied himself +against the side wall of the passage and pushed on. He slipped often, +he became dizzy at times, there were horrible moments when he thought +surely that the dark water would close over him and his precious +burden forever. But he came through it at last, dripping, gasping, +staggering on till he reached the foot of the old slope. There he sat +down to rest. From away back in the mine the echoing shouts of the +rescuing party came faintly to his ears. Conway had returned with +help. He tried to answer their call, but the cry stuck in his throat. + +He knew that it would be folly for him to attempt to reach them; he +knew also that they would never trace his course across that dreadful +waste of water. + +There was but one thing to do; he must go on, he must climb the slope. + +He gave one look up the long incline, gathered his burden to his +breast and started upward. The slope was not a steep one. There were +many in that region that were steeper; but to a man in the last stage +of physical exhaustion, forcing his tired muscles and his pain-racked +body to carry him and his helpless charge up its slippery way, it was +little less than precipitous. + +It was long too, very long, and in many places it was rough with +dislodged props and caps and fallen rock. + +Many and many a time Bachelor Billy fell prone upon the sloping floor, +but, though he was powerless to save himself, though he met in his own +body the force of every blow, he always held the child out of harm's +way. + +He began to wonder, at last, if he could ever get the lad to the +surface; if, within fifty rods of the blessed outer air, he would not +after all have to lie down and die with Ralph in his arms. + +But as soon as such thoughts came to him he brought his tremendous +will and magnificent courage to the rescue, and arose and struggled +on. + +The boy had not spoken since the journey began, nor had he opened his +eyes. He was still unconscious, but he was breathing; his heart was +beating, there was life in his body, and that was all that could be +asked or hoped for. + +At last! oh, at last! The straight, steep, dreadful half mile of slope +was at Bachelor Billy's back. He stood out once more in the free and +open air. Under his feet were the grass and flowers and yielding soil; +over his head were the shining stars, now paling in the east; below +him lay the fair valley and the sleeping town clothed lightly in the +morning mist; and in his arms he still held the child who had thought +never again to draw breath under the starry sky or in the dewy air. +There came a faint breeze, laden with all the fragrance of the young +morning, and it swept Ralph's cheek so gently that the very sweetness +of it made his eyes to open. + +He looked at the reddening east, at the setting stars still glowing in +the western sky, at the city church spires rising out of the sea of +silver mist far down below him, and then at last up into the dear old +face and the tear-wet eyes above him, and he said: "Uncle Billy, oh, +Uncle Billy! don't you think it's beautiful? I wish--I wish my mother +could see it." + +"Aye, lad! she s'all look upon it wi' ye, mony's the sweet mornin' +yet, an it please the good God." + +The effort to look and to speak had overpowered the weary child, and +he sank back again into unconsciousness. + +Then began the journey home. Not to the old cottage; that was Ralph's +home no longer, but to the home of wealth and beauty now, to the +mansion yonder in the city where the mother was waiting for her boy. + +Aye! the mother was waiting for her boy. + +They had sent a messenger on horseback shortly after midnight to tell +her that the lad's tracks had been found in the old mine, that all the +men at hand had started in there to make the search more thorough, +that by daylight the child would be in her arms, that possibly, oh! by +the merest possibility, he might still be living. + +So through the long hours she had waited, had waited and watched, +listening for a footfall in the street, for a step on the porch, for +a sound at her door; yet no one came. The darkness that lay upon the +earth seemed, also, to lie heavily on her spirit. + +But now, at last, with the gray light that told of coming day, there +crept into her heart a hope, a confidence, a serenity of faith that +set it quite at rest. + +She drew back the curtains and threw open the windows to let in the +morning air. + +The sky above the eastern hilltops was aglow with crimson; in the +zenith it was like the color of the sweet pale rose. + +She felt and knew that her boy was living and that very soon he would +be with her. Doubt had disappeared wholly from her mind. She threw +open the great hall doors that he might have a gracious and a fitting +welcome to his home. + +She went up once more to the room in which he was to lie until health +should return to him, to see that it was ready to receive him. + +When she again descended the stairs she saw the poor, bent figure of +a man, carrying a burden in his arms, staggering weakly up the walk, +laboring with awful effort at the steps of the porch. He was wet and +wretched, he was hatless and ragged, but on his soiled face was a +smile befitting one of God's angels. + +He kissed his burden tenderly, and gave it into the lady's arms. + +He said:-- + +"I've brought 'im to ye fra the edge o' daith. His title to your luve +is pinnit on 'is breast. I'm thankfu'--thankfu' for ye--both." + +Bachelor Billy's work was done. He had lived to place his dearest +treasure in the safest place on earth; there was nothing left for him +to do. He sank down gently to the floor of the broad hall. The first +sunlight of the new day flashed its rays against the stained-glass +windows, and the windows caught them and laid them in coverlets of +blue and gold across the prostrate form of this humblest of earth's +heroes. + +Under them was no stain visible, no mark of poverty, no line of pain; +he lay like a king in state with the cloth of gold across his body, +and a crown of gold upon his head; but his soul, his brave, pure, +noble soul, ah! that was looking down from the serene and lofty +heights of everlasting life. + + * * * * * + +Yes, he lived, Ralph lived and became well and strong. He took his +name and his estates and chose his mother for his guardian; and life +for him was very, very beautiful. + +The summer passed and the singing birds grew silent in the woods and +fields. The grain stood golden, and the ripe fruit dropped from vine +and tree. October came, with her frosty nights and smoky days. She +dashed the hill-sides with her red and yellow, and then she held her +veil of mist for the sun's rays to shine through, lest the gorgeous +coloring should daze the eyes of men. + +On one of these most beautiful autumnal days, Ralph and his mother +went driving through the country roads, gathering golden-rod and +purple aster and the fleecy immortelle. When they returned they passed +through the cemetery gates and drove to one spot where art and nature +had combined to make pleasant to the living eye the resting-places +of the dead, and they laid their offering of fresh wild-flowers upon +the grave of one who had nobly lived and had not ignobly died. Above +the mound, a block of rugged granite rose, bearing on its face the +name and age and day of death of William Buckley, and also this +inscription:-- + + "Having finished his work, by the will of God he fell asleep." + +As they drove back toward the glowing west, toward the pink clouds +that lay above the mountain-tops behind which the sun had just now +disappeared, toward the bustling city and the dear, dear home, Ralph +lifted up his face and kissed his mother on her lips. But he did not +speak; the happiness and peace within him were too great for words. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BURNHAM BREAKER*** + + +******* This file should be named 10449.txt or 10449.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/4/4/10449 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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