CHAPTER X.

RECAPTURED.

On the morning after Benny Mallow's party hardly a boy started for the brook or the woods. This was not because the dissipation of the previous night had made them overweary, or too heavy and late a supper had induced headaches, or the party itself had to be talked over. Each of these reasons might have kept a boy or two at home, but the real cause that prevented the majority going about their usual diversions was fear of meeting the escaped counterfeiter. Where the information came from no one thought to inquire, but the report was circulated among the boys quite early in the morning that the criminal was armed with two heavy revolvers that some secret confederate had passed through the window to him, and that he would on no account allow himself to be captured alive.

This story justified the stoutest-hearted boy, even if he owned a rifle, in preferring to keep away from any and all places in which such a person might hide, but the story seemed afterward to have been only half told, for as it passed through Napoleon Nott's lips a bowie-knife, a sword-cane, a bottle of poison, and a long piece of a prison chain were neatly added to the bad man's armament, so no boy felt ashamed to confess to any other boy that he really was afraid to venture beyond the edge of the town.

"You can never tell where such fellows may hide," said Sam Wardwell to several boys who had gathered at the school wood-pile, which was a general rendezvous for boys who had nothing in particular to do. "I've read in the police reports in the New York paper that father takes of policemen finding thieves and murderers and other bad men in the queerest kind of places. They're very fond of hiding in stables."

"Then I know one thing," said Ned Johnston, promptly--"our hens may steal nests all over the hay-loft, and hatch all the late chickens they want to, to die as soon as the frost comes, but I won't go inside of our barn again until that man is found."

"And I'll stay out of our stable," said Bert Sharp, "though it is fun to go in there, sometimes, when a fellow hasn't anything else to do, and tickle the horse's flanks to see him kick."

"You ought to be kicked yourself for doing such a mean trick," said Charlie Gunter. "Where else do they hide, Sam?"

"Oh, all sorts of places," said Sam--"sometimes inside of barrels. And just think of it! there's at least twenty empty barrels in the yard of our store, besides a great big hogshead that would hold six counterfeiters."

"Perhaps he's in that hogshead now, with his confederate," suggested Charlie Gunter. "Can't we all get on the roof of the store and look down into it?"

"I won't go," said Ned Johnston, very decidedly; "they might shoot up at us."

"One fellow," continued Sam, "was found buried just under the top of the ground; he just had his nose and mouth out so he could breathe, but he had even those covered with some grass so as to hide them."

"How did he bury himself?" asked Canning Forbes.

"The paper didn't say," answered Sam. "I suppose his pals dug the hole and covered him up."

"My!" exclaimed Benny Mallow. "I won't dare to go out into the garden to gather tomatoes or pull corn for mother."

"Perhaps he's behind that very fence," suggested Napoleon Nott. "I had a book that told about a Frenchman that laid so close against a fence that the police walked right past him without seeing him, and then he got up and killed them, and buried them, and--"

"Keep the rest for to-morrow, Notty," suggested Canning Forbes; "but put plenty of salt on, so it won't spoil. We've got as much of it as we can swallow to-day."

"I wonder why Paul don't come out?" said Will Palmer.

"He isn't at home," said Benny; "and Mr. Morton is very much worried about him, too; but I told him that he needn't be afraid; that Paul could take care of himself even in a fight with a counterfeiter."

"Good for you, Benny!" exclaimed Will Palmer. "If Paul only had his rifle with him, I'd back him against the worst character in the world. But say, boys, while we're lounging about here the fellow may have been captured and brought back to jail. Let's go up and see."

All that could be learned, when the jail was reached, was that the Sheriff had sworn in ten special deputies, and these, with the Sheriff himself, were scouring the town and the adjacent country. The Sheriff had wanted to make a deputy of Mr. Morton, for men who were sure they could recognize the prisoner at sight were very scarce; but the teacher had excused himself by saying he was not yet legally a citizen of Laketon. Mr. Wardwell said to two or three gentlemen that this was undoubtedly a mere trick to cover the teacher's foolish tenderness toward the prisoner whom he had visited so often, and some of the gentlemen said that they shouldn't wonder if Mr. Wardwell was right.

When dinner-time came an unforeseen trouble occurred to the boys: they could not go in a crowd to dinner, unless some boy felt like inviting the crowd to take dinner with him, and no boy felt justified in doing that unless he first asked his mother whether she had enough for so many; so the party divided, each boy retaining his trusty stick, and going with beating heart past every fence and wood-pile behind which he could not see.

Benny Mallow had just reached home, with his heart away up in the top of his throat, and stuck there so tight that he was sure he could not swallow a mouthful, no matter how nice the dinner might be, when he saw, crossing his street, and at least a quarter of a mile away, three people, one of whom he was sure must be Paul. He shaded his eyes, looked intently for an instant, and then became so certain that it was Paul, whom he felt himself simply dying to see, that he forgot his heart and his dinner, and even the danger that might lurk in any one of a dozen places by the way; he even dropped his stick as he sped away as fast as he could run. By the time he reached the place at which he had seen the men the party was two squares farther to the left, and Benny was panting terribly; but as he now saw that it was indeed Paul whom he had seen, he continued to run.

After gaining considerably on the trio, however, Benny suddenly stopped, for he noticed that one of the three carried a pistol. What could it mean? Could it be?--why, yes, certainly; the man was one of the deputy-sheriffs, and the man beside whom Paul was walking--holding by one arm, in fact, as if he were dragging him along--must be the prisoner.

Benny was no longer afraid. Paul, he was sure, could protect him against at least six desperate criminals if necessary, even without the help of a deputy-sheriff with a pistol. "Mister," gasped Benny, as he overtook the officer, who walked a little in the rear of the others, "did--Paul--oh, my!--did Paul--catch the--the prisoner?"

"No, Benny, no," exclaimed Paul, who had looked backward on hearing Benny's voice; "I hadn't anything to do with catching him."

"He would have done it, though; I'll bet a hundred to one he would," said the deputy, "if he had met him before I did. I don't believe that boy knows what it is to be afraid."

"Of course he doesn't," said Benny, proudly.

"Benny," said Paul, "come around here by me; don't be afraid."

Benny obeyed, though rather fearfully, for the prisoner, with his face rather dirty, and bleeding besides, was not an assuring object to be so close to.

"Benny," said Paul, "don't you go to telling the boys that I had any share in catching--in catching this man. You know how such stories get about if there's the slightest excuse for them."

"I won't," said Benny; "but I can tell that you helped bring him in, can't I? because you're doing it, you know."

"Don't say that either," Paul replied. "I'm not helping at all--not to bring him in, that is. The man is very tired; he's been in the woods all night, lying on the ground, and he's had no breakfast; he is weak, and I'm helping him, not the Sheriff. Don't you see how the poor fellow leans against me?"

"Yes," said Benny. Then he dropped his voice to a whisper and said, "Would you mind telling him that I'm sorry for him too, even if he did--"

"Tell him yourself," said Paul, quickly. "And go on the other side of him and give him a lift."

Benny obeyed the last half of Paul's instructions, but the strangeness of his position made him entirely forget the first part, and he was wicked enough to wish that, as they reached the more thickly settled part of the town, people who saw them might think, if only for an hour or two, that he and Paul, two boys, had caught the dreadful counterfeiter. And his wish was gratified even more than he had dared to hope, for suddenly they came face to face with Ned Johnston, who gave them just one wondering look, and then flew about town and told every boy that the prisoner had been caught, and that Paul and Benny did it.

Arrived at the jail, the deputy pointed with his pistol to the still open door.

"One moment, please," said the prisoner. "Boys, I am very much obliged to you. Will you shake hands?"

He put out his hand toward Benny as he spoke, and Benny took it; then he gave a hand to Paul, and Paul looked him straight in the face so long that Benny was sure he was going to make certain of the man's looks in case he ever broke loose again and had to be followed. Then the man went into his cell, and Paul stood by until he saw the three great bolts securely shot, after which he and Benny went together toward their homes.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE CHILDREN'S PRAYER.

Our Father, from the heaven's bright dome Look down on us this day; Hallowed Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done alway. Give us this day our daily bread, Forgive, as we forgive, And let our hearts be also fed, That we in Thee may live. Into temptation lead us not; Deliver us from ill; May life's hard trials be forgot, Or borne as Thou dost will! O lend us of Thy strength to bear The burdens Thou dost send, That we break not beneath the care, Enduring to the end! For Thine the kingdom is, and Thine The glory and the power; While day by day our lives decline, To meet the mortal hour.

THE ROVERINGS AND THE PARADE.

BY MATTHEW WHITE, JUN.

The family had just moved into apartments on the Avenue; that is, they had one room in Mrs. Smilley's tall and narrow boarding-house, the window of which looked out on the most fashionable street in the city. The two Eds slept in a trundle-bed that in the daytime could be pushed out of sight underneath the big bedstead. So everything was very neat and compact.

It was the year of a Presidential election, and one morning at breakfast Mr. Rovering looked up from his paper to remark, "My dear, I see there's to be a torch-light procession to-night, and--"

"Oh my! what fun!" cried Edward, dropping his fork into his coffee-cup, and stirring vigorously in his excitement. "It'll go past here."

Edgar too was preparing to exclaim joyously as soon as he should become rid of the potato he had in his mouth, when Mr. Rovering suddenly made a severe gesture of disapproval, and said, "No, no, my son, we must not look at it; it is in honor of the other party."

Thus that point was settled, and the two Eds tried hard all day to forget there was going to be a parade in the evening, and to console themselves with the promise that they should be taken to a country circus some time next summer.

Mrs. Rovering entirely approved of her husband's honorable resolve, and that night saw that the blinds were closely drawn, and the trundle-bed pulled out promptly at nine o'clock.

The Eds, in spite of their circusy anticipations, wore rather long faces as they prepared to retire, and both Mr. and Mrs. Rovering, in their parental kindness of heart, felt glad as they reflected that the uproar of the procession would probably be made at so late an hour as not to awaken their obedient darlings.

The fond father, indeed, even went so far as to add to the already tempting next summer's programme the promise of purchasing five cents' worth of pea-nuts before the show began.

Under this soothing treatment the two Eds presently dropped off to sleep in the most obliging fashion possible, and their elders were congratulating one another on the dark spot their window would make in the general illumination, when there came a knock on the door, and callers for Mrs. Rovering were announced.

The horrified lady gave one glance at the card, which read "Hon. Fielding Rollup," and another at the trundle-bed, and then she and Mr. Rovering bent down and shoved the latter out of sight, with the Eds still sleeping peacefully within it.

The next instant the visitors were ushered in, consisting of the whole Rollup family, father, mother, and five children, and as the latter at once made for the window, it speedily transpired what they had all come for--to see the parade!

Mr. Rovering grew quite pale as this conviction was forced upon him, for the Rollups were large purchasers of Rovering & Co.'s fire-works every July, so it would never do to offend them. And yet how could Mr. Rovering be so disloyal to his own party as to have his window not only thrown wide open, but full of enthusiastic spectators of the other party's procession?

In the midst of these dismal reflections there was another knock at the door, and the Boxes "just dropped in," as they expressed it.

Fortunately there were only three of them; but Master Freddie Box proved to be a whole family in himself, for while the rest of the party--eleven in all, including Mr. and Mrs. Rovering--kept edging nearer and nearer to the window, he occupied himself in exploring every nook and corner of the room in search of fire-crackers. He peered into the vases on the mantel-piece, crawled under the sofas, looked behind the fire-screen, and tilted everything movable in the apartment.

Meanwhile the hands of the clock had crept around to nearly ten, the street below swarmed with surging crowds, and every time a shout arose the seven Rollups and the two Boxes all tried to put their heads out of the window at once, while Mr. and Mrs. Rovering were obliged to content themselves with a fine view of the latest style in back hair.

It was during one of these false alarms that a cry from young Master Box attracted the general attention within-doors.

"Robbers! thieves! murder!" he shrieked, withdrawing his hand from under the bed, from whence there now began to issue the most dismal succession of howls.

"The Eds!" exclaimed Mr. Rovering.

"The trundle-bed!" moaned his wife, and at that moment the parade began to appear.

Meanwhile the two Eds had been released from their odd prison-house, and were staring about them with wondering eyes.

"Is it the circus?" queried Edgar, seeing the crowd in the room and hearing the music in the street.

"Where are the pea-nuts?" demanded his brother; but as at that instant Mrs. Rovering recovered, and bethought herself that her sons were still in their night-clothes, they were hurried behind the screen to be dressed.

It appeared on examination that the only reason the two Eds had not been smothered outright was that the mattress in the trundle was a very thin one, having, in fact, been expressly manufactured for a boarding-house, and thus there was room for enough air to come in over the sides to keep breath in the boys' bodies until Freddie Box woke them up.

But now everybody's attention was turned to the street again, for torches were waving wildly, boys shouting, men cheering, and the crowd pushing in a way that everybody loves to watch.

The young Rollups, who were not particularly little if they were young, hung half out of the window in solid double layers; then behind them, and clutching their sacks and jackets to prevent accidents, were the Honorable and his wife; next stood Mr. and Mrs. Box, each very short, trying to see over the shoulders of Mr. and Mrs. Rollup, who were both very tall; and in the rear of them tip-toed Mr. and Mrs. Rovering, who had by this time overcome their political scruples, and were now trying by every possible means to obtain a glimpse of the reflection from a lantern or to spell out a word now and then on a banner, which by dint of dodging to look under this one's elbow, over that one's head, and around another's arm, they sometimes succeeded in doing.

As for Freddie Box and the two Eds, they would never have known whether it was men or kangaroos that were parading if a brilliant idea had not suddenly presented itself to the ever-active brain of Master Fred. This he made haste to confide to his young hosts, whereupon they all three hurried off down stairs, and presently came staggering back with a tall step-ladder, which they proceeded to set up behind the crowd at the window in stealthy triumph. Then they quickly scrambled to the top, where they had such a magnificent view of everything that Box junior could not refrain from giving vent to a crow of delight.

At the same instant there was a louder shout than usual in the street below, and Mrs. Box, in her absorbing curiosity to know what was going on, turned to see if there was anything upon which she could stand, when her eye fell on the step-ladder. And then, as another round of applause was given by the throng, she mounted to the step below the Eds in a flash.

"Hip, hip, hurrah! zip, bang, boom!" went the procession until nearly midnight, and the group at the Roverings' window looked and cheered and screamed and waved their handkerchiefs until the last torch zigzagged out of sight. Then they all turned away, and discovered Mrs. Box on the step-ladder.

"Come, my dear," said her husband, when he had overcome his astonishment, "it's time we were going;" but no sooner had Mrs. Box made a movement to descend than the step-ladder creaked so terribly that she declared it would fall if she did not remain perfectly quiet.

Mr. Box begged and entreated her to come down, but she obstinately refused to move hand or foot lest she should precipitate her boy to the floor.

"I care not for myself," she affirmed, "but for him--and them," indicating the two Eds.

"Let Freddie creep around you and come down first," finally suggested Mr. Box, looking quite wild with despair and sleepiness; but this too proved of no avail.

What was to be done? Here it was past midnight, the house was being locked up, Mr. and Mrs. Rovering were yawning, and the trundle-bed waited to be filled.

Still the fact remained that the step-ladder had creaked, and Mrs. Box vowed she would remain where she was until broad noon before she would bring down her son and her friends' sons with violence to the floor.

"Look! look, somebody!" cried Freddie. "I guess another p'rade's coming."

That was sufficient. Mrs. Box went down the ladder even quicker than she had gone up, rushed to the window, and stared up and down the street. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Freddie, hustling the two Eds in front of him, descended to the floor with such speed that just as the three were clear of it the step-ladder tottered and fell with a crash.

Master Fred's drums turning out to belong to a section of the paraders moving homeward through the next avenue, the Boxes speedily hurried off in that direction, leaving the Roverings to settle for the broken step-ladder and give their landlady notice that they had decided to move into back rooms on a side street.

HOW "QUIET QUENTIN" WON THE VICTORIA CROSS.

"So you want me to tell you something about the Victoria Cross, eh?" said Private Jack Phillips, of the --th Lancers, as he sat over his bread and cheese outside the door of the "First and Last," amid a circle of open-mouthed listeners. "Well, I can just do that; for although I never got it myself (worse luck!), I've got a friend who did, only the other day; and he wasn't a soldier, neither, but only a sort o' clerk. Think o' that, now!

"There's a many different kinds of crosses, but I can only call to mind three or four just this minute. First and foremost, there's our own Victoria, made o' gun-metal (the guns taken in the Crimea, you know). There's a V to support the cross, which hangs from a clasp with two laurel branches on it; and upon the cross there's the English lion and crown, with 'For Valor' underneath, 'cause it's only given for some special feat o' bravery in presence of the enemy. The ribbon's red for the army, and blue for the navy; and there's a pension of ten pounds" (fifty dollars) "goes along with it.

"Then there's the Iron Cross of Germany, given for bravery in action, same as our own Victoria. Mr. Archibald Forbes, the great war correspondent that you've all heerd of, got it in the war of 1870 for bringin' in a wounded German under fire. Then there's the French Cross o' the Legion of Honor, started by old Napoleon Bonaparty when he was a-fightin' against _us_; but that's given to painters, and writers, and inventors, and all sorts o' fellows besides soldiers. They say old Nap used sometimes to give the cross off his own breast to any man that he saw do anything werry good; and the man that got it was fit to jump out of his skin for joy.

"Then there's the Rooshian Cross of St. George, the biggest of all their orders, which is more to any Rooshian soldier than if he'd been made a General. I've heerd tell of some battle where one o' them Rooshian Marshals, seeing his men giving way, pulled a lot o' these Georges out of his pocket, and shied 'em right in among the enemy, callin' out, 'Lads, who's for the Cross of St. George?' The minute his men saw _that_, for'ard they all went like mad, and swept the enemy all to nowhere. Pretty 'cute of the old chap, wasn't it? We found one of 'em on the body of a Rooshian officer that was killed at Balaklava; but none of us liked to take it, 'cause we thought that as he'd never have parted with it living, he ought to keep it dead; and so we just buried it with him. 'Twas a cross with all four sides equal, and the figure o' St. George and the Dragon in gold on a white ground, and very pretty it looked.

"But I was a-going to tell you about that man who got the Victoria Cross without bein' a soldier. You see, just before the Mutiny, a lot of us were quartered at a little place on the Upper Ganges called Huttee-Bagh. The chief of the station (who's like what a district magistrate 'ud be in England) had a young fellow for under-secretary whose father had run through all his property, and died without leavin' enough to bury him; so the lad had to come out to India and work for a livin'.

"Quentin Masterton his name was; it's one I won't forget in a hurry, nor my comrades neither. Some of our officers used to call him Quentin Durward, after that feller in Sir Walter Scott; but the most of 'em called him 'Quiet Quentin,' 'cause he was always so quiet and gentle that he seemed to have nothin' in him at all. But hadn't he, just? Wait a bit.

"Well, the Mutiny broke out, and one morning, first thing we knew, the whole place was full of sepoys, yellin' and firin' like so many madmen. Most of our men were killed before they knew what hurt 'em, and the rest of us fought our way down to the river, with the ladies in the centre, and got on board one o' them big rice boats that they have out there. But before half of us were aboard, a fresh lot o' the villains came howling down upon us, and we had to turn to and fight 'em again.

"_Then_ you should have seen 'Quiet Quentin'!--he did the work of five men all to himself. When our two officers were killed, _he_ led us on, and gave the black rogues sich a dose that they fairly turned tail and ran. Before they could rally again we were all in the boat; but she wouldn't budge, and then we found she was hard and fast to a rope under the water.

"Quick as lightning Quentin Masterton jumps overboard, cuts the rope, and _shoves the boat away from him_, right out into the stream, just as another gang of the rascals came pouring down upon him. There was a crackle of musketry along the bank, and down went poor Quentin. We saw his head rise once, and then, bang! there came another volley, and down he went for good.

"_That_ was a sore sight for us all, I tell ye. Some of the ladies cried outright, and we men felt the biggest cowards that ever was for lettin' him do it. But we soon had something else to think about, for all that night and all the next day we were drifting along, with nothing to eat, seeing the smoke of the burning villages all round us, and expecting to be attacked every minute.

"At last, by God's mercy, we fell in with a British detachment, which brought us safe across country to General S----'s division; and when we got there, whom should we see, all alive and jolly, but 'Quiet Quentin'?

"Sich a hurrah as we gave then you never heerd in your life; and we crowded about him, and nearly pulled him to bits, tellin' him that we'd all thought him dead.

"'Not a bit,' says he, laughing; 'there's plenty of life in me yet. You see, I dived as they fired at me, and then let my cap float up to the top, keeping myself well in the shadow of the bushes; and while they were peppering the cap I got off.'

"Just then the old General (who'd been listening with his eyes wide open) asked what all this meant; and when we told him he faces round on Masterton and says, quite angry like, 'Why didn't you tell me all this before?'

"'How could I?' says Masterton; ''twould be blowing my own trumpet.'

"'Well,' says the General, 'I'll blow it for you, and pretty loud, too. You shall have the Victoria Cross for this, my boy, as sure as my name's Richard S----.'

"And so he _did_ have it, sure enough; and if you can find me any man that deserves it better, why, I'll be werry glad to see him, that's all."

[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 53, November 2.]

THE BOY-GENERAL.

BY EDWARD CARY.