CHAPTER XIV.

THE UPSHOT OF THE WHOLE MATTER.

“Where is Benson now?” asked Wallace, as soon as he could speak. “What did you do with him?”

“We left him on the beach with the sheriff; but I wouldn’t advise you to go around there,” said Dick, as Wallace handed his bridle to Forbes and moved away. “Mr. Newton desired me to say to all of you that he doesn’t wish to be interrupted.”

“You shut your mouth, and keep your advice until you are asked for it!” said Wallace, fiercely.

Knowing Benson as well as he did, he dared not leave him alone with the officer; so he kept on, and presently those who remained behind heard loud voices on the other side of the cabin.

An animated conversation was kept up for a minute or two, and then the officer appeared, bringing Wallace with him. The latter was angry and excited, while the sheriff’s face wore a determined look.

“Steve,” said he, addressing one of the horsemen, and speaking in an authoritative tone of voice, “I shall have to ask you to take charge of this young man.”

“Hello! He’s been arrested,” whispered Dick.

“And I ask you once more, and for the last time, to take your hands off me!” howled Wallace, trying in vain to twist his arm out of the officer’s grasp. “You want to look out for me, for I’m dangerous when I’m riled.”

“Arthur, if you don’t behave yourself, I shall put you under close restraint,” said Mr. Newton, sternly.

“You mean by that, that you will put the bracelets on me, I suppose!” yelled Wallace, who acted for all the world like a crazy boy. “You can’t do it. Now, I am going to show you what Wild Harry is made of.”

Before the officer could prevent it, Wallace thrust his hand into his hip-pocket, and when he brought it out again, he brought with it an ivory-handled revolver.

The spectators looked at it with the utmost consternation depicted on their countenances, and Mr. Stebbins, uttering a cry of alarm, started up his horse, from which he had never once dismounted, and almost ran over Bob and George in his eagerness to get out of harm’s way.

There is no doubt, whatever, that Wallace intended to use the weapon he had so unexpectedly produced; but fortunately for himself and all concerned, he had to deal with men who were not easily intimidated, and who did not allow their astonishment to prevent them from acting quickly and promptly.

Before Wallace could think twice, the revolver was wrenched from his grasp, and the broad-shouldered Steve, rushing upon him from behind, clasped him around the arms, pinning them securely to his side.

A moment later there were two ominous “clicks,” and when Steve, in obedience to a sign from the officer, released his hold upon the captive, the latter was powerless, his wrists being encircled by a pair of hand-cuffs.

“This is the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of. I don’t understand it at all,” said the sheriff.

And the reason he did not understand it was because he had not yet gone to the bottom of the matter. He knew more about it before two days more had passed over his head.

“Forbes,” shouted Wallace, after he had made several desperate but unsuccessful attempts to pull off the hand-cuffs, “where’s your gun? Why do you stand there looking instead of helping me?”

This question very naturally suggested the idea that possibly the youth appealed to have something dangerous about him, and two or three of the party at once moved toward him, with the intention of satisfying themselves on that point.

But Forbes did not wait to be searched. The ease with which his companion had been conquered took all the courage out of him, and he handed out his “gun”—a nickel-plated revolver—before he was asked for it.

The sheriff put it into his pocket, to keep company with the one he had taken from Wallace, and then went back to the front of the cabin to hear the rest of Benson’s confession, leaving two prisoners instead of one in Steve’s charge.

He did not think it necessary to put Forbes under “close restraint,” for the latter was thoroughly cowed, and quite as willing to make a clean breast of the whole matter as Benson was.

All these things, which we have been so long in describing, occupied but a very short time in taking place—probably not over ten minutes.

The spectators had had but little to say, because their astonishment held them speechless. They had barely time to recover from the surprise occasioned by one startling disclosure before they were called upon to be surprised at something else.

They were all satisfied on one point, and that was that the events of the preceding night had been the means of unearthing the thieves of whom they had so long stood in fear.

But, like Bob Howard, they could not for the life of them see why boys in their circumstances, who had indulgent parents, comfortable homes and everything in the way of benefits and amusements that reasonable boys ought to ask for, could become criminals.

When the sheriff came back, accompanied by Benson, who was crying as though he had been whipped, they stared at him very hard, in the hope of seeing something in the officer’s face that would enlighten them on this point; but they were disappointed.

They could only judge of the result of his long interview with Benson by his actions. Without saying a word, he tied the bundles which Uncle Ruben had dug out of the ground, fastened them to the horn of his saddle and mounted his horse.

When he was ready to start, he said, addressing himself to George and his friends:

“Now, boys, I am going back to the village.”

“Do you want us to go with you?” asked Dick.

“No, I do not,” answered the officer. “I shall probably—”

At this point Uncle Ruben interrupted him. He was no less astonished than the others were by the incidents that had transpired during the last few minutes, and he was angry and disgusted, too.

He had come up there on purpose to find the chickens, which he had killed himself, in order that he might have some excuse for accusing George of robbing his hen-roost, and his failure to produce the evidence he had so carefully prepared exasperated him. It looked now as though his nephew was going to get off scot free.

“Look here, Newton,” exclaimed Uncle Ruben, “ain’t you goin’ to arrest George, too?”

The officer replied very decidedly that he was not.

“What for?” demanded Uncle Ruben.

“Because I understand my business, and have no desire to put an innocent boy to any trouble.”

“Well, it’s mighty strange where my two Plymouth Rock chickens have gone to. They was wuth two dollars,” whined Uncle Ruben, who thought quite as much of money as Mr. Stebbins did.

The sheriff made no reply. Addressing himself to George, he said:

“I shall probably need your services on Monday morning.”

“Very good, sir,” answered George. “Do you want me to go down to the village?”

“No, I will come up here. And, Dick, I shall no doubt find you and Bob at the academy if I have occasion to serve a summons on you? All right. Good-by! I am sorry that we have put you to so much trouble and anxiety.”

“I am not,” said Bob cheerfully. “This thing was bound to happen, sooner or later, and now it is over.”

The sheriff and his party rode away, and the three boys went around to the front of the cabin and seated themselves on the bench.

“Do you know, Dick, that we had a very narrow escape last night?” said Bob, who was the first to speak.

“Of course I do. Didn’t you see that window this morning? It was full of holes, and if we had been there—”

“I wasn’t thinking of that. I mean it was a lucky thing for us that we didn’t try to approach the house after we drove the robbers away. While you were telling your story to the sheriff, I heard Mr. Stebbins say to a man near him that he stood guard at that window all night, ready to shoot the first one of us who showed himself.”

“And he would have done it without realizing what he was about,” replied George. “His fright took away all his sense. But what do you suppose the sheriff is coming up here for on Monday morning?”

That was a question that neither Dick nor Bob could answer. Like the causes that had impelled Wallace and his companions to take up stealing as a pastime, it was a mystery, and so it would remain until time unravelled it.

While they were discussing the matter, Dick Langdon caught a momentary glimpse of something that brought him to his feet and sent him post-haste into the cabin. When he came out again, he carried his double-barrel in his hands, and his cartridge-belt was buckled about his waist.

“Have you fellows forgotten that we are hungry, and that dinner was to be served immediately?” he asked. “Now make yourselves useful as well as ornamental, while I go out and shoot a squirrel. I just saw one run up that hickory tree.”

Dick moved away with stealthy footsteps, holding his gun in readiness for a shot, and Bob and George went about their work in that listless, die-away manner that boys always assume when they are compelled to do something in which they feel no interest. Their excitement had taken away their appetites.

Their tongues were busier than their hands, and as soon as Bob found an opportunity to do so, he asked George why it was that Uncle Ruben had manifested so strong a desire to get him into trouble. The latter replied by telling as much of his private history as he cared to reveal to a boy who was almost a stranger to him, and when he ceased speaking, Bob said:

“You may have the satisfaction of knowing that from this time on you need never see him again, unless you are willing to do so. Wallace and the others will be brought to trial, of course, and you will have to appear as a witness. When you go down to the village in obedience to the summons, be sure and take all your clothes with you, for you are not coming back here to live like a wild Injun,” he added with a laugh.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that our old janitor is going to leave next Monday night—he’s real hateful, and the boys played so many tricks on him, that he can’t stand it any longer—and you are to take his place. Dick and I have settled it.”

George could hardly believe that he had heard aright. If Uncle Ruben had succeeded in proving that he was a chicken-thief, he could not have been more amazed. He saw a bright prospect opening before him. All he asked was an opportunity to get an education, and he would answer for his own future.

“Lend me your knife long enough to open this can of milk,” said Bob. “It’s bigger and stronger than mine. That’s the way the thing stands. You are to take care of the buildings—there is another fellow there who looks out for the grounds—ring the bell at certain hours, and see to it that the boys don’t run off with it, or the ropes belonging to it, every chance they get. You’ll have to report us for every violation of the rules, and take a good thrashing every time you do it. You’ll have to attend to lots of things that I can’t think of now, and, in return, you’ll get your books and schooling free, and money enough to keep you in clothes. Professor Boyle says he thinks you are just the boy he has been looking for.”

“But I don’t know him,” stammered George.

“No matter. I know him, and so does Dick. My father knew him well when they were boys together, and that is the reason he sends me so far away from home to go to school.”

“You are at the bottom of this, Bob—you and Dick—but I don’t know how to thank you for it,” said George, at length.

“Do you remember what you said to me when you brought my gun up from the bottom of the lake?” asked Bob. “You needn’t try.”

George thought it best to act upon this advice, for he could not find words with which to express his gratitude.