As I tore across the lawn, regardless of the bed of flowers which was
Mrs. Canby's pride, Kate's cry was repeated, this time in a more
intense tone. An instant later I dashed across the porch and into the
room through the door that, as I have said, stood wide open.

I found my sister standing in the middle of the floor, holding in her
hand a heavy umbrella with which she had evidently been defending
herself. She was pale, and trembled from head to foot.

"What is it, Kate?" I exclaimed. "Where is the fellow?"

"Oh, Roger!" she gasped. "I'm so glad you've come. A tramp was here--
he robbed-- robbed the desk-- the window--"

She pointed to the open window on the opposite side of the room. Then
her breast heaved, the umbrella slipped from her grasp, and she sank
into a chair.

"Are you hurt?" I cried anxiously.

"No, no-- but the money-- it is gone! What will Mrs. Canby say?"

And overcome with the dreadful thought, my sister fainted dead away.

As for myself I felt sick at heart. John Stumpy had been there-- the
widow's money had been stolen. What could be done?

Meanwhile, Dick Blair had come in. His common sense told him what had
happened, and he set to work to restore my sister to consciousness.

"Will you stay here with Kate?" I asked.

"Certainly," he returned promptly. "But where are you going? After
that tramp?"

"Yes."

"Be careful, for he may be a desperate character."

"I'm not afraid of him. I'm going to get that money back or know the
reason why," was my determined reply; and I meant every word I said.

To my mind it was absolutely necessary that I recover the stolen
property. It would have been bad enough to have had it taken when the
Widow Canby was at home, but it had been stolen when left in my
charge, and that was enough to make me turn Darbyville district up
side down before letting the matter drop.

Besides, there was still another important factor in the case. I knew
well enough that if the money was not recovered, there would be plenty
of people mean enough to intimate that I had had something to do with
its disappearance. The Strong honor was considered low by many, and
they would not hesitate to declare that I was only following in my
father's footsteps.

To a person already suffering under an unjust accusation such an
intimation is doubly stinging, and when I told Dick that I was not
afraid of Mr. John Stumpy, I meant that I would rather face the robber
now than the Darbyville people later on.

"I want to take the pistol," I added.

"All right. There is the box of extra cartridges. Do you want the
lantern?"

"Yes; I may want to use it before I return. I'll blow it out now."

Our conversation had lasted but a few seconds, and an instant after I
was on my way, the lantern on my left arm and the pistol in my right
hand.

"Take good care of Kate," I called back as I passed out.

"I will," replied Dick. "Don't stay away too long, if you don't find
the fellow."

I passed around to the other side of the garden, where an open gateway
led to the pear orchard. I felt pretty certain that John Stumpy had
pursued this course, and I entered the orchard on a run.

The thief, I reckoned, was not over five minutes ahead of me. To be
sure, he could easily hide, but it was not likely that he would care
to remain in the neighborhood, unless it was really necessary for him
to see Mr. Aaron Woodward.

When I got well into the orchard, where it was darker than in the
garden, I listened intently, hoping that I might hear some sound that
would guide me.

But all was silent. Occasionally a night bird fluttered through the
trees and a frog gave a dismal croak, but otherwise not a sound broke
the stillness.

I continued on my way toward the road, and reaching the fence, paused
again.

Had the thief jumped over? If so, which way had he gone, up, down, or
into the woods beyond? It was a perplexing question. Perhaps if I had
been in a story book I might have found some clew to direct me. But I
was not that kind of a hero. I was only an everyday boy, and
consequently no clew presented itself.

I stood by the fence for several minutes, my eyes and ears on the
alert to catch anything worthy of notice. I judged it was near
midnight, and hardly had I thought of the matter before the distant
town bells tolled the hour of twelve.

As the echo of the last stroke died away, two figures came slowly up
the road. As they drew nearer, I recognized Moran and Pultzer, the two
Models members who had assisted at my capture.

I was astonished at their appearance. What on earth could they be
doing out at this time of night?

As they drew near I thought for many reasons that it would not be
advisable to show myself, and I stepped behind a tree.

"I don't care what you say," said Pultzer, "Dunc was half scared to
death when we came away."

"I guess he didn't think what a serious matter it was when he asked us
to go into it," returned Moran. "It's the worst affair I ever got
into."

"Ditto myself," responded Pultzer.

"And if we get out without being caught, you'll never find me in
another such," continued the other earnestly.

"I wonder what Dunc's father will say when he hears of it?"

"And all the rest of the Darbyville people? Of course they've got to
lay it to some one."

I surmised that they must be speaking of what they had done to me. I
never dreamed that they were discussing a subject much more serious.

"I'm glad Dick Blair wasn't along to-night," went on Moran. "Dick is
not to be trusted any more. He kicked awfully at the idea of tying up
Strong this noon."

I was gratified to hear this bit of news. I liked Dick in many
respects, and now I was almost ready to look upon him as a friend.

"Strong didn't give in quite as much as Dunc thought he would. Hang
it, if I didn't admire his grit."

"So did I. Wonder how he's getting along in the old tool house. We
must release him first thing in the morning."

"No need of doing that, gentlemen," I put in, stepping out from behind
the tree. "I am--"

But it would have been useless for me to say more, as no one would
have heard me.

At the first sound of my voice both of the Models had started in
alarm, and then, led by Pultzer, they dashed up the road as fast as
their feet could carry them.

At first I was amazed at their actions, and then, as the
ridiculousness of the situation presented itself, I smiled. "A guilty
conscience needeth no accuser," it is said, and this truth was
verified to the letter.

Yet I was sorry that I had not had a chance to speak to them. I wanted
to question them in regard to the thief. Perhaps they had seen him,
and if so, I did not want to miss my chance of getting upon his track.

Jumping over the fence, I walked slowly down the road, but not in
hopes of meeting John Stumpy. If he was anywhere near, the approach of
the two boys had certainly driven him into hiding.

Suddenly I thought of the tool house. The tramp had spoken of
returning to the place. He evidently knew the road. I determined to go
to the spot and make a search at once.

It was no easy matter to find my way back to the tool house, and at
the risk of being seen I lit the lantern.

As I walked along I wondered how my sister and Dick were faring. No
doubt Kate had been much surprised to see who was with her on her
recovery, and I sincerely hoped that the shock Stumpy had given her
would not have any evil effects. She was a sensitive girl, and such
happenings were calculated to try her nerves severely.

At length I came within sight of the clearing. Here I hesitated for an
instant, and then, pistol in hand, approached the tool house boldly.

The door was still open, and I entered, only to find the place empty.

With a sigh I realized that my journey thither was a useless one.
Nothing remained but to go back to the road, and I was about to leave
again when the rays of the lantern fell upon a white object lying on
the floor.

I picked it up. It was a common square envelope. Thinking it contained
a letter I turned it over to read the address. Judge of my
astonishment when I read the following:--

Dying Statement of Nicholas Weaver Concerning the Forgeries for which
Carson Strong Was Sent to State's Prison.

  CHAPTER VII

 A WAR OF WORDS

No words of mine can express the feeling that came over me as I read
the superscription written on the envelope I had picked up in the old
tool house.

Was it possible that this envelope contained the solution of the
mystery that had taken away our good name and sent my father to
prison? The very thought made me tremble.

The packet was not a thick one. In fact, it was so thin that for an
instant I imagined the envelope was empty. But a hasty examination
proved my fears groundless.

In nervous excitement I put the lantern down on the top of a barrel,
and then drew from the envelope the single shoot of foolscap that it
contained. A glance showed me that the pages were closely written in a
cramped hand extremely difficult to read.

For the moment I forgot everything else-- forgot that the Widow
Canby's house had been robbed and that I was on the track of the
robber-- and drawing close to the feeble light the lantern afforded,
strove with straining eyes and palpitating heart to decipher the
contents of the written pages.

  "I, Nicholas Weaver, being on the point of death from pneumonia, do
  make this my last statement, which I hereby swear is true in every
  particular."

This was the beginning of the document which I hoped would in some way
free my father's character from the stain that now rested on it.

Exactly who Nicholas Weaver was I did not know, though it ran in my
mind that I had heard this name mentioned by my father during the
trial.

Beyond the opening paragraph I have quoted the handwriting was almost
illegible, and in the dim light it was only here and there that I
could pick out such words as "bank," "assumed," "risk," "name," and so
forth, which gave but an inkling of the real contents of the precious
document.

"It's too bad," was my thought. "I'd give all I possess to be able to
read this right off, word for word."

Hardly had the reflection crossed my mind when a noise outside
startled me. I had just time enough to thrust the paper into my pocket
when the door was swung open and the tramp appeared.

He was evidently as much surprised as I was, for he stopped short in
amazement, while the short pipe he carried between his lips fell
unnoticed to the floor.

I rightly conjectured he had not noticed the light of the lantern and
fully believed the tool house tenantless.

"You here!" he cried.

"It looks like it, doesn't it?" was all I could find to reply, and as
I spoke my hand sought the pistol I carried.

"What brought you here?" he demanded roughly.

"I came after you," I returned as coolly as I could; and by this time
I had the pistol where it could be brought into instant use.

"What do you want of me?"

"I want you to hand over the money you stole awhile ago."

"What are you talking about? I never stole any money."

"You did. You broke into the Widow Canby's house less than an hour
ago. Come, hand over that money."

The fellow gave a coarse laugh. "Ha! ha! do you think I'm to be
bluffed by a boy? Get home with you, before I hammer you for calling
me a thief."

"That's just what you are, and I don't intend to go until you hand
over the money, John Stumpy," I returned decidedly.

"Ha! you know my name?"

I bit my lip. I was sorry for the slip I had made. But I put on a bold
front. "I know what you are called," I replied.

"What I am called?"

"Yes."

"What do you mean? Come, out with it."

"I will when I please. In the meantime hand over that money."

"You talk like a fool!" he cried.

"Never mind. You'll find I won't act like one."

"What do you know about me?" he went on curiously, believing, no
doubt, that he was perfectly safe from attack.

"I know more than you think. I know you are a burglar, and may be
worse."

"I'll kill you!" he cried, rushing forward.

"Stand where you are!" I returned, pulling out the pistol. "Don't stir
a step."

He did not see the weapon until he was fairly upon me. The glint of
the nickeled steel made him shiver.

"Don't shoot!" he cried in sudden terror, that showed he was a coward
at heart. "Don't-- don't shoot."

"I won't if you do as I tell you."

"Do what?"

"Give up the widow's money."

"See here, young fellow, you've made a mistake. I never was near the
widow's house, 'cepting this morning."

"I know better. You just broke open her desk and stole over two
hundred dollars."

"It's a mistake. Put down the pistol and I'll tell you all about it."

"I'm not such a fool, Mr. John Stumpy, or whatever your name is," was
my decided reply.

The tone of my voice disconcerted the man, for he paused as if not
knowing what to say next.

"Say, young feller, do you want to make some money?" he asked
suddenly, after a short pause.

The change in his manner surprised me.

"How?" I asked, although I knew about what was coming.

"I've got nearly three hundred dollars in cash with me. I'll give you
fifty of it if you'll go home and say you couldn't find me."

"Thank you; I'm not doing business that way," I rejoined coldly.

"Fifty dollars ain't to be sneezed at," he went on insinuatingly.

"I wouldn't care if you offered me fifty thousand," I cried sharply.
"I'm no thief."

"Humph; don't you suppose I know who you are?" he went on. "You're the
son of a thief. Do you hear that?-- the son of a thief! What right
have you got to set yourself up to be any better than your father was
afore you?"

"Take care!" I cried, my blood fairly boiling as I spoke. He saw his
mistake.

"I didn't mean no harm, partner. But what's the use of being high
toned when it don't pay?"

"It always pays to be honest," I said firmly.

"There are those who don't think so any more than I," he replied.

"My father never was a thief. They may say all they please, I will
always think him innocent."

"Humph!"

"If it hadn't been for men like you and Nicholas Weaver, my father
would never be in prison."

The words were out before I knew it. They were most injudicious ones.

"What do you mean?" gasped the man. "What do you know about Nick
Weaver?"

"More than you imagine. When he died he made a confession--"

"It's false. Nick Weaver wasn't in his right mind when he died,
anyhow."

"Perhaps he was."

"What you--" began the man. Then he paused and began a rapid search in
his pockets. "You've got that paper," he cried hoarsely. "Give it up,"
and as he spoke, John Stumpy took a threatening step toward me.

"Stand back!" and I raised the pistol.

I was trembling in every limb, but I actually believe I would have
fired it if he had rushed upon me.

"I won't. Give up that paper."

"Never. I'll die first."

And die I would. His earnestness convinced me of the letter's worth.
If it contained that which could clear my father's name, only death
would be the means of parting me from it.

"Give it up, I say! Do you think I'm to be defeated by a boy?"

"Stand back!"

I raised the pistol on a level with his head. As I did so, he made a
dash forward and caught up a stick which was lying near.

"I'll fix you!" he roared, and swinging the billet over his head, he
brought it down with all his force on my arm, causing the pistol to
fly from my hand into a corner beyond.

"Now we'll see who's master here," he cried exultingly. "You're a
smart boy, but you don't know everything!" Rushing over to the corner,
he secured the pistol and aimed it at me. "Now, we'll settle this
matter according to my notions," he went on triumphantly.

  CHAPTER VIII

 THE STRUGGLE

I was deeply chagrined at the unexpected turn affairs had taken, and I
felt decidedly uncomfortable as John Stumpy levelled the weapon at my
head. I could readily see that the battle of words was at an end.
Action was now the order of the day. I wondered what the fellow would
do next; but I was not kept long in suspense.

"Now, it's my turn, young fellow," he remarked, with a shrewd grin, as
I fell back.

"Well, what do you want?" I asked, as coolly as I could recognizing
the fact that nothing was to be gained by "stirring him up."

"You'll see fast enough. In the first place, hand over that paper."

I was silent. I did not intend to tell a falsehood by saying I did not
have it, nor did I intend to give it up if it could possibly be
avoided.

"Did you hear what I said?" continued Stumpy, after a pause.

"I thought you said the paper wasn't valuable," I returned, more to
gain time than anything else.

"Neither it ain't, but, just the same, I want it. Come, hand it over."

He was getting ugly now, and no mistake. What was to be done?

As I have mentioned before, it would have been useless to call for
help, as no one would have heard the calls.

Suddenly the thought struck me to try a bit of deception. I put my
hand in my pocket and drew out the empty envelope.

"Is that what you want?" I asked, holding it up.

"Reckon it is," he returned eagerly. "Just toss it over."

Somewhat disappointed that he did not approach me and thus give me a
chance of attacking him, I did as requested. It fell at his feet, and
he was not long in transferring it to his pocket.

"Next time don't try to walk over a man like me," he said sharply. "I
know a thing or two, and I'm not to be downed by a boy."

"Are you satisfied?" I asked calmly, though secretly exultant that he
had not discovered my trick.

"Not yet. You followed me when you had no business to, and now you've
got to take the consequences."

"What are you going to do?"

"You'll see soon enough. I ain't the one to make many mistakes. Years
ago I made a few, but I ain't making no more."

"You knew my father quite well, didn't you?" I inquired in deep
curiosity.

"As the old saying goes, 'Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no
lies.' Maybe I didn't; maybe I did."

"I know you did."

"Well, what of it? So did lots of other people."

"But not quite as well as you and Nicholas Weaver and Mr. Aaron
Woodward," I continued, determined to learn all I could.

"Ha! What do you know of them?" He scowled at me. "Reckon you've been
reading that paper of Nick's putty closely. I was a fool for not
tearing it up long ago."

"Why did you keep it-- to deliver it to Mr. Wentworth?"

It was a bold stroke and it told. Stumpy grew pale in spite of the
dirt that covered his face, and the hand that held the pistol
trembled.

"Say, young fellow, you know too much, you do. I suppose you read that
paper clear through, did you?"

"As you say: Maybe I didn't; maybe I did."

"Perhaps you wasn't careful of it. Maybe I'd better examine it," he
added.

My heart sank within me. In another moment the deception I had
practised would be known-- and then?

He fumbled in his pocket and drew forth the envelope. He could not
extract the letter he supposed it contained with one hand very well,
and so lowered the pistol for a moment.

This was my chance. Unarmed I was evidently in his power. If I could
only escape from the tool house!

The door still stood partly open, and the darkness of night-- for the
moon had gone down-- was beyond. A dash and I would be outside. Still
the tramp stood between me and liberty. Should I attack him or
endeavor to slip to one side?

I had but an instant to think; another, and it would be too late. John
Stumpy was fumbling in the envelope. His eyes were searching for the
precious document.

With a single bound I sprang against him, knocking him completely off
his feet. Then I made another jump for the door.

But he was too quick for me. Dropping the envelope and the pistol, he
caught me by the foot, and in an instant both of us were rolling on
the floor.

It was an unequal struggle. Strong as I was for a boy of my age, I was
no match for this burly man. Turn and twist all I could, he held me in
his grip while he heaped loud imprecations upon my head.

In our movements on the floor we came in contact with the lantern and
upset it, smashing the frame as well as the glass.

For a moment darkness reigned. Then a tiny light from the corner lit
up the place. The flames had caught the shavings.

"The place is on fire!" I cried in horror.

"Yes, and you did it," replied the tramp.

"It was you!" I returned stoutly, and, as a matter of fact, it may be
as well to state that John Stumpy's foot had caused the accident.

"Not much; it was your fault, and you've got to take the blame."

As the rascal spoke, he caught me by the throat, squeezing it so
tightly that I was in great danger of being choked to death.

"Let-- let up!" I gasped.

The choking continued. My head began to grow dizzy, and strange lights
danced before my eyes. I protested against this proceeding as
vigorously as I could by kicking the man sharply and rapidly.

But Stumpy now meant to do me real injury. He realized that I knew too
much for his future welfare. In fact, he, no doubt, imagined I knew
far more than I really did. If I was out of the way for all time so
much the better for him.

"Take that!" he suddenly cried, and springing up he brought his heel
down with great force on my head.

I cannot describe the sensation that followed. It was as if a sharp,
blinding pain had stung me to the very heart. Then my senses forsook
me.

How long I lay in a comatose state I do not know. Certainly it could
not have been a very long time-- probably not over five or six
minutes.

In the meantime the fire rapidly spread igniting the barrels that were
stored in the tool house, and climbing up the walls of the building to
the roof.

When I recovered my senses, my face was fairly scorched, and no sooner
had I opened my eyes than they were blinded by smoke and flame.

By instinct rather than reason I staggered to my feet. I was so weak I
could hardly stand, and my head spun around like a top. Where was the
door?

I tottered to one side and felt around. There was the window tightly
closed. The door I knew was opposite.

Reeling, I made my way through the smoke that now seemed to fill my
lungs, to where I knew the door to be. Oh, horror! it was closed and
secured!

"Heaven help me now!" burst from my parched lips. "Am I to be roasted
alive?"

With all my remaining strength I threw myself against the door. Once,
and again, and still it did not budge.

"Help! help!" I called at the top of my voice.

No answer came to my cry. The fire behind me became hotter and hotter.
The roof had now caught, and the sparks fell down upon me in a perfect
shower.

Another moment and it would be all over. With a brief prayer to God
for help in my dire need, I attacked the door for the last time.

At first it did not budge. Then there was a creaking, a sharp crack,
and at last it flew wide open.

Oh, how grateful was the breath of fresh air that struck me! I
stumbled out into the clearing and opened wide my throat to take in
the pure draught.

Then for the first time I realized how nearly I had been overcome. I
could no longer stand, and swooning, sank in a heap to the ground.

  CHAPTER IX

 NEW TROUBLE

"He's alive, boys."

These were the words that greeted my ears on recovering my senses. I
opened my eyes and saw that I was surrounded by a number of boys and
men.

"How did you come here?" asked Henry Morse, a sturdy farmer who lived
in the neighborhood.

I was too much confused to make any intelligent reply. Rising to a
sitting position, I gazed around.

The tool house had burned to the ground, there being no means at hand
to extinguish the fire. The glare of the conflagration had called out
several dozens of people from Darbyville and the vicinity, several of
whom had stumbled upon me as I lay in the clearing.

"What's the matter, Roger?" asked Larry Simpson, a young man who kept
a bookstore in the town.

"The matter is that I nearly lost my life in that fire," I replied.

"How did you come here?"

As briefly as I could I related my story, leaving out all references
to my personal affairs and the finding of Nicholas Weaver's statement.
At present I considered it would do no good to disclose what I knew on
those points.

"I think I saw that tramp yesterday," said Larry after I had finished.
"He bought a sheet of paper and an envelope in my store, and then
asked if he could write a letter there."

"And did he?" I asked in curiosity.

"Yes. At first I hated to let him do it,-- he looked so
disreputable,-- but then I thought it might be an application for a
position, and so told him to go ahead."

"Who did he write to? do you know?"

"Somebody in Chicago, I think."

"Do you remember the name?"

"He tried the pen on a slip of paper first. It wouldn't work very
well. But I think the name was Holtzmann, or something similar."

I determined to remember the name, thinking it might prove of value
sometime.

"The thing of it is," broke in Henry Morse, "what has become of this
Stumpy? If he stole the Widow Canby's money, it's high time somebody
was after him."

"That's true," ejaculated another. "Have you any idea which way the
fellow went?"

Of course I had not. Indeed, I was hardly in condition to do any
rational thinking, much less form an opinion. The thief might be in
hiding close at hand, or he might be miles away.

"Some of us had better make a search," put in another. "Come, boys,
we'll spread out and scour the woods."

"That's a good idea," said Tony Parsons, the constable of the town.
"Meanwhile, Roger Strong, let us go to Judge Penfold's house and put
the case in his hands. He'll get out a warrant, and perhaps a reward."

I thought this was a good idea, and readily assented, first, however,
getting one of the boys to promise that he would call at the widow's
house and quiet Kate's fears concerning my whereabouts.

It was now early morning, and we had no difficulty in making our way
through the woods to the main road.

"Guess we won't find the judge up yet," remarked Tony Parsons as we
hurried along. "I've never yet found him out of bed afore seven
o'clock. It will make him mighty mad to get up afore this time."

"I'm sorry to disturb him," I replied, with something of awe at the
thought of rousing a magistrate of the law.

"But it's got to be done," went on Parsons, with a grave shake of his
head, "unless we all want to be murdered and robbed in our beds!"

"That's true. I'd give all I'm worth to catch that tramp."

"Reckon Widow Canby'll be dreadfully cut up when she hears about the
robbery."

"I suppose so."

"She may blame you, Roger. You see if it was anybody else, it would be
different. But being as it's you, why--"

"I know what you mean," I returned bitterly. "No one in Darbyville
believes I can be honest."

"I ain't saying nothing against you, Roger," returned Parsons,
hastily. "I reckon you ain't no worse than any other boy. But you know
what public sentiment is."

"So I do; but public sentiment isn't always right," was my spirited
answer.

"Who did you say those boys were that tied you up?" went on the
constable, to change the subject.

"Duncan Woodward was the principal one."

"Phew! Reckon he didn't think tying you up would prove such a serious
matter."

"If it hadn't been for that, the robbery might have been prevented. I
would have been home guarding the widow's property, as she expected me
to do."

"Reckon so you would."

"In a certain sense I hold Duncan Woodward and his followers
responsible for what has occurred."

"Phew! What will Mr. Woodward say to that, I wonder?"

"I can't help what he says. I'm not going to bear all the blame when
it isn't my fault."

"No, neither would I."

At length we reached the outskirts of the town. Judge Penfold lived at
the top of what was termed the Hill, the aristocratic district of the
place, and thither we made our way.

"Indeed, but the judge ain't stirring yet!" exclaimed the Irish girl
who came to answer our summons at the door.

"Then wake him at once," said Parsons. "Tell him there has been a most
atrocious robbery and assault committed."

"Mercy on us!" said the girl, lifting up her hands in horror. "And who
was it, Mr. Parsons?"

"Never mind who it was. Go at once."

"I will that! Robbery and assault. Mercy on us!"

And leaving us standing in the hall, the hired girl sped up the front
stairway.

"The judge will be down as soon as he can," she reported on her
return.

We waited as patiently as we could. While doing so I revolved what had
occurred over in my mind, and came to the conclusion that the crime
would be a difficult one to trace. John Stumpy had probably made good
use of his time, knowing that even if I had lost my life in the fire
my sister would still recognize him as the thief.

Suddenly I thought of the written confession that must yet remain in
my pocket, and I was on the point of assuring myself that it was still
safe when a heavy foot-step sounded overhead, and Judge Penfold came
down.

The judge was a tall, slender men of fifty, with hollow cheeks, a
pointed nose, and a sharp chin. His voice was of a peculiarly high and
rasping tone, and his manner far from agreeable.

"What's the trouble?" he demanded, and it was plain to see that he did
not relish having his early morning sleep broken.

"Widow Canby's house was robbed last night," replied the constable;
and he gave the particulars.

Judge Penfold was all ears at once. Indeed, it may be as well to state
that he was a widower and had paid Widow Canby much attention, which,
however, I well knew that good lady heartily resented. No doubt he
thought if he could render her any assistance it would help along his
suit.

"We must catch the fellow at once," he said. "Parsons, you must catch
him without fail."

"Easier said than done, judge," replied the constable, doubtfully.
"Where am I to look for him? The country around here is pretty large."

"No matter. You are constable, and it is your duty to seek him out. I
will sign the warrant for his arrest, and you must have him in jail by
to-night, without fail."

"I'll do what I can, judge," returns Parsons, meekly.

"Strong, I'll have to bind you over as a witness."

"Bind me over?" I queried in perplexity. "What do you mean?"

"Hold you, unless you can give a bond to appear when wanted."

"But I had nothing to do with the burglary."

"You are principal accuser of this John Stumpy."

"Well, I'll promise to be on hand whenever wanted."

"That is not sufficient. Your character is-- is not-- ahem! of the
best, and--"

"Why is my character not of the best?" I demanded.

"Well, ahem! Your father, you see--"

"Is innocent."

"Perhaps-- perhaps, but, nevertheless, I will have to hold you.
Parsons, I will leave him in your charge."

"You have no right to arrest me," I cried, for I knew very little of
the law.

"What's that?" demanded Judge Penfold, pompously. "You forget I am the
judge of that."

"I don't care," I burst out. "I have done no wrong."

"It ain't that, Roger. Many innocent men are held as witnesses," put
in Parsons.

"But I've got to attend to Mrs. Canby's business," I explained.

"I fancy Mrs. Canby would rather get on the track of her money," said
Judge Penfold severely. "Can you furnish bail?"

I did not know that I could. The woman who had been robbed was my only
friend, and she was away.

"Then you'll have to take him to the lockup, Parsons."

This news was far from agreeable. It would be no pleasant thing to be
confined in the Darbyville jail, not to say anything of the anxiety it
might cause Kate. Besides, I wanted to follow up John Stumpy. I was
certain I could do it fully as well as the constable.

"Come, Roger, there is no help for it," said Parsons, as I still
lingered. "It's the law, and it won't do any good to kick."

"Maybe not, but, nevertheless, it isn't fair."

We walked out into the front hall, the judge following us.

"Of course if you can get bail any time during the day I will let you
go," he said; "I will be down in my office from nine to twelve and two
to four."

"Will you offer a reward for the capture of the man?" I asked.

"I cannot do that. The freeholders of the county attend to all such
matters. Parsons, no doubt, will find the scoundrel."

As the judge finished there was a violent ringing of the door bell.
Judge Penfold opened the door and was confronted by Mr. Aaron
Woodward, who looked pale and excited.

"Judge, I want you-- hello! that boy! Judge, I want that boy arrested
at once! Don't you let him escape!"

"Want me arrested?" I ejaculated in astonishment. "What for?"

"You know well enough. You thought to hide your tracks, but I have
found you out. Parsons, don't let him get out of the door. He's a
worse villain than his father was!"

  CHAPTER X

 UNDER ARREST

I will not hesitate to state that I was nearly stunned by Mr. Aaron
Woodward's unexpected statement. I knew that when he announced that I
was a worse villain than my father he meant a good deal.

Yet try as hard as I could it was impossible for me to discover what
he really did mean. I was not conscious of having done him any injury,
either bodily or otherwise. Indeed, of late I had hardly seen the man.
The Widow Canby was not partial to dealings with him, and I never went
near him on my own account.

It was plain to see that the merchant was thoroughly aroused. His face
was pale with anger, and the look he cast upon me was one of bitter
resentment. For the instant he eyed me as if he intended to spring
upon me and choke the life out of my body, and involuntarily I shrank
back. But then I recollected that the minions of the law who stood
beside me would not allow such a course of procedure, and this made me
breathe more freely.

"Yes, sir; he's a worse villain than his father!" repeated Mr. Aaron
Woodward, turning to Judge Penfold; "a most accomplished villain,
sir." And he shook his fist within an inch of my nose.

"What have I done to you, Mr. Woodward?" I demanded, as soon as I
could speak.

"Done, sir? You know very well what you've done, you young rascal!"
puffed the merchant. "Oh, but I'll make you pay dearly for your
villainy."

"I've committed no villainy," I returned warmly. "If you refer to the
way I treated Duncan this morning, why all I've got to say is that it
was his own fault, and I can prove it."

"Treated Duncan? Oh, pshaw! This is far more serious affair than a
boy's quarrel. Don't let him escape, Parsons"-- the last to the
constable, who had his hand on my shoulder.

"No fear, sir," was Parson's reply. "He's already under arrest."

"Under arrest?" repeated the merchant quickly. "Then you've already
heard--"

"He is ahem-- only under detention as a witness," spoke up Judge
Penfold. "I do not think he had anything to do with the theft of the
widow's money."

"Widow's money! What do you mean?"

In a few words Judge Penfold explained the situation. "Isn't this what
you came about?" he asked then.

"Indeed, no, sir. My affair is far more important-- at least to me.
But you can make up your mind that Strong's story is purely fiction.
He is undoubtedly the real culprit, undoubtedly. Takes after his
father."

"My father was an honest man!" I cried out. "I don't care what you or
any one may say! Some day he will be cleared of the stain on his
name."

"Oh, undoubtedly," sneered Mr. Woodward. "Mean while, however, the
community at large had better keep a sharp eye on his son. Whom do you
assert stole the Widow Canby's money?"

"A tramp."

"Humph! A likely story."

"It's true. His name was John Stumpy."

"John Stumpy!"

As Mr. Aaron Woodwind uttered the name, all the color forsook his
face.

"Yes, sir. And he claimed to know you," I went on, my curiosity amused
over the merchant's show of feeling.

"It's a falsehood! I never heard of such a man," cried Mr. Woodward,
but his face belied his words.

"Well, what is your charge against Strong?" asked Judge Penfold,
impatiently, probably tired of being so utterly ignored in the
discussion.

The merchant hesitated.

"I prefer to speak to you about the matter in private," he said
sourly.

"That isn't fair. He ought to tell me what I am accused of," I cried,
"Every one who is arrested has a right to know that. I have done no
wrong and I am not afraid."

"All assumed bravery, Judge Penfold; quite assumed, sir."

"No, sir. Tell me why you want me locked up," I repeated.

But instead of replying Mr. Woodward drew Judge Penfold to the rear
end of the hall and began to speak in so low a tone that I could not
catch a word.

"You don't mean it!" I heard the judge say presently. "Come into the
library and give me the particulars."

The two men passed into the room, closing the door tightly behind
them. They were gone nearly quarter of an hour-- a long wait for me. I
wondered what could be the nature of Mr. Woodward's accusation against
me, but failed to solve the mystery.

At length they came out. Judge Penfold's face was a trifle sterner
than before. Mr. Woodward looked pleased, as if his argument had
proven conclusive.

"You will take Strong to the jail at once," said the judge to Parsons
"and tell Booth to be careful of his prisoner."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't let him escape," added Aaron Woodward, anxiously. "Don't let
him escape, sir, under any circumstances."

"No fear," was Parsons's ready answer. "I never had one of 'em give me
the slip yet."

And with great gravity he drew from his pocket a pair of ancient
handcuffs, one of which he attached to my wrist and the other to his
own.

"Come, Roger. Better take it easy," he said. "No use of kicking.
March!"

"But I'd like to know something about this," I protested. "What
right--"

"It is all quite legal," put in Judge Penfold, pompously. "I
understand the law perfectly."

"But--"

"Say no more. Parsons, take him away."

"I shall see you later," whispered Mr. Woodward in my ear as the
constable hurried me off.

The next instant we were on the street. Arrests in Darbyville were
rare, and by the time we reached the jail we had a goodly following of
boys and idle men, all anxious to know what was up.

"He stole the Widow Canby's money," I heard one man whisper, to which
another replied:--

"Light fingered, eh? Must take after his father. I always knew the
Strongs couldn't be trusted."

The jail was a small affair, being nothing more than the loft over a
carpenter shop. The jailer was a round-faced man named Booth, who
filled in his spare time by doing odd jobs of carpentering in the shop
downstairs. We found him hard at work glueing some doors together. I
knew him tolerably well, and he evinced considerable surprise at
seeing me in custody.

"What, Roger; arrested! What for?"

"That's what I would like to know," I returned.

In a few words Parsons told him what was to be done, and Booth led the
way upstairs.

" 'Tain't a very secure place," he returned. "Reckon I'll have to nail
down some of the windows unless you'll give me your word not to run
away."

"I'll promise nothing," was my reply. "I'm being treated unfairly, and
I shall do as I think best."

"Then I'll fasten everything as tight as a drum," returned Booth.

Going below, he secured a hammer and some nails, with which he secured
the windows and the scuttle on the roof.

"Reckon it's tight enough now," he said. "Just wait, Parsons, till I
get him a bucket of water."

This was done, and then the two men left me, closing and locking the
door of the enclosed staircase behind them.

The loft was empty, saving a nail keg that stood in one corner of the
floor. Pulling this out, I sat down to think matters over.

Try my best I could not imagine what charge Mr. Aaron Woodward had
brought against me. Yet such had been his earnestness that for the
nonce everything else was driven from my mind.

The sounds of talking below interrupted my meditations. I recognized
Kate's voice, and the next moment my sister stood beside me.

"Oh, Roger!" was all she could say, and catching me by the arm she
burst into tears.

"Don't take it so hard, Kate," I said. "Make sure it will all come out
right in the end."

"But to be arrested like-- like a thief! Oh, Roger, it is dreadful!"

"Never mind. I have done no wrong, and I'm not afraid of the result.
Have they heard anything of John Stumpy yet?"

"Dick Blair says not. Mr. Parsons and the rest are after him, but he
seems to have disappeared for good-- and Mrs. Canby's money with him."

"Have you heard from her yet?"

"No; but I've written her a letter and just posted it to Norfolk."

"She won't get it till day after to-morrow."

"What will she say? Oh, Roger, do you think--"

"No, I don't. The widow always trusted me, and I know she'll take my
word now. She is not so narrow-minded as the very folks who look down
on her."

"But it is awful! Over two hundred dollars! We can never make it up.
We've only got twenty-eight!"

"We can't exactly be called upon to make it up--" I began.

"But we'll want to," put in Kate, hastily.

"I'd feel better if we did. The widow has always been so kind to us."

"How long must you stay here?"

"I don't know. As long as Judge Penfold sees fit, I suppose."

"If only they could catch this John Stumpy."

"I hope so-- for other reasons than those you know, Kate."

"Other reasons?"

"Yes; very important ones, too. John Stumpy knew father well. And he
was mixed up in that-- that miserable affair."

"Oh, Roger, how do you know?"

"I heard him say so. Besides, he dropped a letter that proved it. I
have the letter in my pocket now. It's the dying statement of one
Nicholas Weaver--"

"Nicholas Weaver! He was a clerk with father!"

"So I thought. Who Stumpy is, though, I don't know. Do you?"

"No; but his face I'm sure I've seen before. Let me see the letter.
Have you read it?"

"No; I hadn't time to spell it out, it is so badly written. Maybe you
can read it."

"I'll try," replied Kate. "Hand it over."

I put my hand in my pocket to do so. The statement was gone!

  CHAPTER XI

 AARON WOODWARD'S VISIT

Puzzled and dismayed, I made a rapid search of my clothes-- first one
pocket and then another. It was useless. Beyond a doubt the statement
was nowhere about my person.

I was quite sure it had not been taken from me. Strange as it may
seem, neither Parsons nor Booth had searched me. Perhaps they deemed
it useless to take away the possessions of a poor country boy. My
jack-knife and other odds and ends were still in their accustomed
places.

"It's gone!" I gasped, when I was certain that such was a fact.

"Gone?" repeated Kate.

"Yes, gone, and I don't know where. They didn't take it from me. I
must have lost it."

"Oh, Roger, and it was so important!"

"I know it, Kate. It must have dropped from my pocket down at the tool
house. Perhaps if I go down I can find it."

"Go down?" she queried.

"Oh, I forgot I was a prisoner."

"Never mind, Roger. I'll go down myself."

"Aren't you afraid?"

"Not now. I wouldn't have been of this Stumpy only he came on me so
suddenly. I'll go at once."

"You'd better," said a voice behind her. "Your five minutes is up,
Miss Kate." And Booth appeared at the head of the stairs and motioned
her down.

"Good-by, Roger. I'm so sorry to leave you here alone."

"It's not such a dreadful place," I rejoined lightly. "If you discover
anything, let me know at once."

"Be sure I will." And with this assurance Kate was gone.

I was as sorry for her as I was for myself. I knew all she would have
to face in public-- the mean things people would say to her, the
snubbing she would be called on to bear.

The loss of the statement rendered me doubly downhearted. Oh, how much
I had counted on it, assuring myself over and over again that it would
surely clear my father's name!

Hardly had my sister left me than there were more voices below, and I
heard Mr. Woodward tell Booth that he had an order from Judge Penfold
for a private interview with me.

"Better go right upstairs then, Mr. Woodward," was the jailer's reply.
"He's all alone."

I wondered what the merchant's visit could portend, but had little
time for speculation.

"So, sir, they've got you fast," said Mr. Woodward sharply as he faced
me. "Fast, and no mistake."

"What do you want?" I demanded boldly, coming at once to the front.

"What do I want?" repeated the merchant, looking behind him to make
sure that Booth had not followed him. "What do I want? Why, I want to
help you, Strong, that's what I want."

I could not help but smile. The idea of Mr. Woodward helping any one,
least of all myself!

"The only way you can help me is to set me free," I returned.

"Oh, I can't do that. You are held on the Canby charge solely."

"But you told me you wanted me arrested."

"So I did, but I intend to give you a chance-- that is, if you will do
what I want."

"But why did you want me arrested?"

"You know well enough, Strong."

"On the contrary, I haven't the least idea."

"Stuff and nonsense. See here, if you want to get off without further
trouble, hand over those papers."

"What papers?"

"The papers you took last night," replied Mr. Woodward, sharply.

I was truly astonished. How in the world had he found out about the
statement dropped by Stumpy? Was it possible there had been a meeting
between the two? It looked like it.

"I haven't got the papers," I rejoined.

"Don't tell me a falsehood sir," he thundered.

"It's true."

"Do you deny you have the packet?"

"I do."

"Come, Strong, that story won't answer. Hand it over."

"I haven't it."

"Where is it?"

"I lost it," I replied, before I had time to think.

"Lost it!" he cried anxiously.

"Yes, sir," I returned boldly, resolved to make the best of it, now
the cat was out of the bag. "Either that or it was stolen from me."

He looked at me in silence for a moment.

"Do you expect me to believe all your lies?" he demanded finally.

"I don't care what you believe," I answered. "I tell the truth. And
one question I want to ask you, Aaron Woodward. Why are you so anxious
to gain possession of Nicholas Weaver's dying statement?"

The merchant gave a cry of astonishment, nay, horror. He turned pale
and glared at me fiercely.

"Nicholas Weaver's dying statement!" he ejaculated. "What do you know
of Nicholas Weaver?"

Now I had spoken I was almost sorry I had said what I had. Yet I could
not but notice the tremendous effect my words had produced.

"Never mind what I know," I replied. "Why do you take an interest in
it?"

"I? I don't know anything about it," he faltered. "I hardly knew
Nicholas Weaver."

"Indeed? Yet you want his statement."

"No, I don't. I don't know anything about his statement," he continued
doggedly. "I want my papers. I don't care a rap about any one else's."

It was now my turn to be astonished. Evidently I had been on the wrong
track from the beginning.

"If you don't want his statement, I'm sure I don't know what you do
want," I rejoined, and I spoke the exact truth.

"Don't tell lies, Strong. You know well enough. Hand them over."

"Hand what over?"

"The packet of papers."

"I haven't any packet."

"Strong, if you don't do as I demand, I'll send you to prison after
your father."

"I can't help it. I haven't any papers. If you don't believe me,
search me."

"Where have you hidden them?"

"I never had them to hide."

"I know better, sir, I know better," he fumed.

I made no reply. What could I say?

"Do you hear me, Strong?"

For reply I walked over to the slatted window and began to whistle. My
action only increased the merchant's anger.

"For the last time, Strong, will you give up the papers?" he cried.

"For the last time, Mr. Woodward, let me say I haven't got them, never
had them, and, therefore, cannot possibly give them up."

"Then you shall go to prison, sir. Mark my word,-- you shall go to
prison!"

And with this parting threat the merchant hurried down the loft steps
and rapped loudly for Booth to come and let him out.

When he was gone, I sat down again to think over the demand he had
made upon me. To what papers did he refer? In vain I cudgelled my
brain to elicit an answer.

He spoke about sending me to prison, and in such tones as if it were
an easy matter to do. Assuredly he must have some grounds upon which
to base so positive an assertion.

No doubt he was now on his way to Judge Penfold's office to swear out
the necessary papers. I did not know much about the law, but I
objected strongly to going to prison. Once in a regular lockup, the
chances of getting out would be indeed slim.

I reasoned that the best thing to do was to escape while there was a
chance. Perhaps I was wrong in this conclusion, but I was only a
country boy, and I had a horror of stone walls and iron bars.

Escape! No sooner had the thought entered my mind than I was wrapped
up in it. Undoubtedly it was the best thing to do. Freedom meant not
only liberty, but also a chance to hunt down John Stumpy and clear my
father's name.

I looked about the loft for the best means of accomplishing my
purpose. As I have said, the place was over a carpenter shop. The roof
was sloping to the floor, and at each end was a small window heavily
slatted.

The distance to the ground from the window was not less than fifteen
feet, rather a long drop even if I could manage to get the slats
loose, which I doubted, for I had no tools at hand.

I resolved to try the door, and was about to do so when I heard the
bolts shoot back and Booth appeared.

For an instant I thought to trip him up and rush past him, but he
stood on the steps completely blocking the way.

"All right, Roger?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Quite com'table, boy?"

"As comfortable as any one could be in such a place," I rejoined
lightly.

" 'Tain't exactly a parlor," he chuckled. "No easy chairs or sofys;
but the food's good. I'm a-going to get it for you now. Then after
that maybe the judge will call around. I'll bring the dinner in a
minute."

He climbed downstairs, bolting the door after him.

In five minutes-- or ten at the most-- I knew he would be back. After
that there was no telling how long he would stay.

Now, therefore, was the proper time to escape, now or never!

  CHAPTER XII

 A SURPRISE

No time must be lost. Booth lived but a short hundred feet from the
jail, if such it might be called, and if his wife had dinner ready it
would not take him long to bring it.

I surveyed the room in which I was incarcerated critically. Escape by
either window was, as I have intimated, out of the question. On
account of its height, the scuttle was also not to be considered.