CHAPTER XI.

ON THE RIVER ROAD

Mont Gray hastened to the Corney postoffice with all possible speed. For his own sake, as well as for Deb's he wished to dispatch his business as quickly as possible, so as to devote the remainder of the day to hunting up Jack.

He was afraid that something out of the ordinary had befallen his friend. He had not wished to add to Deb's already deep anxiety, but he knew Jack too well to imagine that the young machinist would willfully keep his sister in ignorance of his whereabouts.

This feeling upon the young man's part might not have been so strong had all other surroundings been more tranquil. But since the shut-down at the tool works the air had been filled with murmurs of dissatisfaction--augmented largely by the suspension of the bank, and everywhere there prevailed a vague feeling that something was about to happen.

One thing was certain. Not a single one of his employes were satisfied with Mr. Felix Gray's management, and there were plenty of hot-headed men who wished him joy over his burnt mansion.

It did not take Mont long to post the letters, and then he struck out at once for the Farrell place.

It was a glorious morning, bright and clear, and when he reached the Redrock road he found the birds singing as merrily as could be.

In spite of the unpleasant things that had happened, Mont felt wonderfully light-hearted, the secret of which was that he was doing something for Deb--a service which he knew she would appreciate, and one which, therefore, he was more than willing to do.

As the young man walked along the river bank whistling cheerily to himself he espied a man coming toward him.

A moment later he recognized the individual as Andy Mosey.

"Wonder what he is doing out here," said Mont to himself. "Perhaps the prison keeper was right, and Jack is on his track--may be watching his chance to get evidence to convict him." When the discovery took place Mont was at a spot where the road ran close to the bank, and here he waited for the Irishman to come up.

As Mosey approached, it was easy to see that he had been drinking heavily. In truth it was but the continuance of his potations of the previous day.

"He had better take care, or he'll go over the bank, sure," was the young man's mental observation, as he watched the reeling form.

As Mosey drew nearer Mont noticed that his eyes were deeply sunken, and that despite the drink, his face looked pale and haggard.

"Possibly he is worried over his wrongdoings," thought Mont, hitting more truth than he imagined. "It's a pity such a strong fellow can't keep from liquor."

The Irishman shuffled directly toward Mont, without apparently noticing him.

"Hello," exclaimed the young man, sharply. "Where bound?"

The Irishman started up in surprise.

"Where you--hic--goin'?" he asked.

"I'm looking for Jack Willington. Have you seen him?"

Mosey gave a shudder. The remembrance of that awful scene in the old mill still hung in his mind.

"No--hic--no," he answered hastily. "Oi haven't see the b'y for two days," and he gave a lurch outward.

"Take care!" exclaimed Mont. "If you tumble over that bank you'll never get out again."

The Irishman drew as far away as possible from the water.

"You're roight, Mont, me b'y," he mumbled. "It's sure death, and no--hic--foolin'."

"So you're certain that you haven't seen Jack?" continued Mont. "He has been out here I know."

The effect of his last words was a truly astonishing one. With a cry of drunken rage, Mosey sprang toward him, his eyes blazing with fury.

"Ye can't come it over--hic--me!" he shouted. "Ye think ye're schmart, but yo're left this--hic--toime."

"What do you mean?" ejaculated Mont.

The extraordinary change in the Irishman's manner nearly dumbfounded him.

"Ye know well enough."

"Then you have seen him?" exclaimed the young man. "Oh, I see. He knows a thing or two about you, and----"

"He don't know--hic--nothin',--now," hiccoughed the Irishman. The liquor had muddled his brain.

"What!" gasped Mont, with a sudden sense of horror. "You--you----" he began.

He was standing with his heels against a small rock that overhung the bank.

"Ye can foind out fer--hic--yerself!" snarled Mosey, and with a quick spring he gave the young man a push that sent him spinning over backward. Mont tried to catch hold of the rock, but the smooth surface slipped from under his hands. He grasped the small bushes--they came out by the roots. He felt himself going down--down;--the glint of the sunshine upon the water sparkled in his face and then?

Mosey got down flat on the rocks and crawling to the edge, peered over the bank. He saw Mont's hat rise to the surface, and float swiftly along with the bounding stream.

"He's gone!" he muttered, hoarsely, after waiting for further signs of his victim. "Gone to the bottom!"

He crawled back to the middle of the road, and arose to his feet.

The awful occurrence had for the time sobered him, and he moved forward without a stagger.

"Bad worruk Oi'm doin'!" he muttered to himself. "Phat will Dennis say?"

The thought of his brother-in-law's possible condemnation of his actions made him shiver. He turned and slowly retraced his steps from whence he had come. He had not quite reached the spot when Corrigan's voice sounded in his ear.

"Where have you been?" he demanded.

"Oi thought Oi'd go to Corney, but Oi changed me moind," was Mosey's reply.

"Good thing you did. They want you up there."

"Phat for?"

Mosey had stopped at the door, and now looked at his brother-in-law sharply.

"Oh, for setting fire to Gray's house," said Corrigan, with a laugh.

"Oh, Oi thought----" the Irishman suddenly checked himself. "Say, Oi didn't see ye on the road," he continued.

"I came up by the back way," replied Corrigan.

"Phy?"

Corrigan made no reply. To tell the truth, he did not wish Mosey to know that he had stolen Jack's model, and that precious article was now safely hidden in the loft of the mill.

"Phy don't ye answer me question?" continued Andy Mosey.

"Oh, I thought I'd try the other way for a change," said Corrigan, as lightly as possible. "How is the young fellow?" he continued, changing the subject.

"He's--he's gone," faltered Mosey. "He--he had a mishap, and fell into the wather."

"Drowned?"

"Yes."

Corrigan gave a whistle of surprise. He was on the point of asking the particulars, but suddenly changed his mind.

"Well, I'm glad he's out of the way," he declared.

Mosey walked into the mill, and sat down on a bench, the picture of fear and misery. Corrigan did not pay any further attention to him, but went upstairs and examined the model he had stolen.

"It is a beautiful piece of work!" was his mental comment, "and if I only work it right I'll make a neat stake out of it!" he added as he hid it away again.