CHAPTER XVI.

HOW ONE TELEGRAM WAS RECEIVED.

Bob Howard and his companion had other reasons besides those of which we have spoken, for feeling at peace with themselves and all the world.

By hard work and strict attention to their books, they had succeeded in winning an enviable position in their class, and this night was to wind up their connection with the academy in a blaze of glory.

George had written an essay on “Unconscious Influence,” which was a very creditable effort for a boy of his years, and Bob had been chosen, without one dissenting voice, to deliver the valedictory.

Their trunks were packed, their tickets had been purchased, and their landlady had promised to give them an early breakfast, so that they could reach the depot in time to catch the western-bound train that passed through the village at six o’clock.

“The time draws near,” said Bob, with a tragic air, as he glanced at the little clock on the mantelpiece. “In five hours we shall have made our last bow to a Montford audience. The only thing I regret is the absence of my father; but he was not at all well when I last heard from him, and he didn’t feel as though he could stand the journey. By this time to-morrow, if nothing happens to delay us, we shall be hurrying to meet him as fast as steam can carry us. I tell you, George, you may make up your mind to see some fun when we get out there in that wilderness, and for once in your life you will have hunting, fishing, and horseback riding until you are heartily tired of them all. Father has a pack of splendid hounds, and it will make you laugh to see them in pursuit of an antelope or prairie wolf. When you grow weary of that sport, you can go out with a double-barrel and shoot grouse and sage-hens over as fine a brace of setters as ever drew to a scent. Trout streams are plenty, and any one who can throw the fly can snatch out such beauties as you don’t see here in the Eastern States this side of the Rangeley Lakes. There is one thing we must do, George, as soon as we can gain father’s consent—we must clear up a certain mystery that hangs over those mountains.”

“I have often heard you speak of it,” replied George, with a smile; “but you have never told me what it is.”

“If I could tell you, it wouldn’t be a mystery, would it? You needn’t laugh about it, for there _is_ a mystery there, and in all that country there is no one who has ever been able to solve it. The Indians or some of the trappers might do it, but they won’t try, for their superstition makes them timid. Several parties, composed of settlers and soldiers, and one or two scientific expeditions from Eastern colleges, have started out from our valley, declaring that they wouldn’t come back until the thing was cleared up; but they have always returned, after a few weeks’ absence, in a most dilapidated condition.”

“There must be a good many obstacles to be overcome,” said George, “but you may count on me every time.”

“All right. I shall some day put your courage to the test. Now I will tell you what I have decided to do. If my father is no worse when I reach home, I shall go to college. He wants me to do it, and I should like to carry out his wishes, although I expect to be a ranchman all my life. If he requires my presence at home, I shall remain there, and you must stay with me. I will give you a position as herdsman at good wages, and will pay you in money or sheep, or both, just as you prefer. You can make enough in a few years, by steady work and economy, to start a ranch of your own on a small scale.”

“You are very kind, Bob,” said George.

“No, I am not. I am only selfish. I am thinking quite as much of my own comfort and pleasure as I am of yours. I don’t want to stay out there with no congenial companion to help me while away the time. It is lonely, especially in winter, when we are snowed up or confined to the house for days at a time by those furious storms that we call ‘blizzards.’ And since you have no home of your own, and no father or mother, why shouldn’t you go with me?”

“Wouldn’t it be more agreeable for you to take your Cousin Arthur out there with you?” asked George. “I have often heard you speak of him.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” answered Bob, quickly. “His father—Uncle Bob, after whom I was named—treated my father most shamefully, and they have not seen each other for years. Father has forgiven him, and Uncle Bob now and then writes him very friendly letters; but I am afraid of Uncle Bob, for I know that he is cunning and vindictive, and always on the lookout for a chance to work some injury to those he does not like, because my mother often told me so. I have seen him and Arthur several times, but I did not like either of them. There is too much ‘Oily Gammon’ about Uncle Bob, while Arthur is—Well, the less said about him the better. I wouldn’t take him into my father’s house under any consideration, for his presence there would be enough to rob life of all its pleasure. I say, George!” exclaimed Bob, suddenly, “What is that on the table there by your elbow?”

George raised his arm, and, discovering the brown envelope, he picked it up and looked at it.

“Why, it is a telegram, addressed to you!” said he, handing it over to his friend, whose face had suddenly grown as pale as death.

“A telegram!” gasped Bob. “It can mean but one of two things. My father is worse, or else he is—”

Bob could say no more. With trembling hands, he tore open the dispatch, and, with one swift glance, made himself master of its contents. Then he pressed his hand to his forehead in a bewildered sort of way, reeled a moment, as if some one had dealt him a stunning blow, and, falling heavily back upon the sofa, he covered his face with his hands and burst into tears. The telegram fluttered out of his nerveless fingers.

George picked it up, and read the following fateful words:

“Your father died very suddenly this morning. Come home immediately, and telegraph me from Leavenworth when to meet you at the station.

G. H. EVANS.”

We will not speak of the scene that followed. Such sorrow as this, which had come upon Bob Howard like a clap of thunder from a clear sky, is too sacred to be intruded upon, even by a sympathizing pen.

It will be enough to say that after the first overwhelming burst of grief had passed away, Bob acted more like a caged tiger than a human being. He longed to fly on the wings of the wind to his far-off home, in order that he might gaze once more upon that loved face before the darkness of the grave shut it out forever from his view.

But steam was the only power that could take him there. The next train left the village at six in the morning, and that was the one Bob had intended to take.

He ate no supper, and when the time came he began preparing himself for the evening’s festivities. What a mockery they seemed to him now!

“Don’t go,” said George, who had tried his best to say something comforting to his almost heart-broken friend. “The professor will not expect anything of you to-night.”

“I shall go and deliver my speech—that is, if I have brains enough to remember it,” said Bob, quietly but firmly. “This sorrow is my own. No one in the wide world has a share in it, and you will see that I have self-control enough to take me through the exercises without detracting in the least from anybody’s enjoyment.”

And he kept his word.

The news of his bereavement had spread all through the village by this time, and not one of the vast audience that crowded the Academy Chapel expected to see him on the stage.

When the valedictory was announced, and the young orator appeared before the footlights, a silence that was almost oppressive fell upon the assembly. They all sympathized with the boy, and their sympathy was so intense that, like the darkness that covered the land of Egypt, it could be _felt_.

Bob’s voice was husky, and trembled a little at first, but he gradually regained the mastery of himself as he proceeded, and, when he ended his peroration, the applause that followed fairly shook the building.

It was a spontaneous outburst of admiration, not for the oratorical effort of the student—which was something better than common—but for the wonderful nerve he exhibited. Few boys could have passed through such an ordeal.

Bob set out for his boarding-house as soon as he left the stage, and when George entered the room, an hour later, he was pacing the floor, with his hands buried deep in his pockets, and his chin resting on his breast. He was calmer now, and he even smiled as he gave his chum an approving slap on the back.

“You did yourself credit to-night, George,” said he. “If I could write an essay like that, I should feel proud of myself. Now, go to bed, and I will have you up at five o’clock in the morning. I will lie down on the sofa when I get tired. I know how to sympathize with you now, for I am alone in the world as you are.”

“There are your uncle and your cousin,” George ventured to remark.

“They are no more to me than they are to you,” replied Bob. “I shall drop them a line, telling them of father’s death, but beyond that, I shall have nothing to do with them. They can stay at their home in Indiana, and you and I will live on the ranch. You are all I have, and you must stick to me.”

Neither of the two boys slept a wink that night. Bob walked the floor, and George lay in bed, watching him through his half-closed eyes.

At half-past five they disposed of a hasty breakfast, said “good-by” to their landlady, and to a few friends among the students who had come to the depot to see them off, and then the fast express whirled them away toward St. Louis.

Up to this time, Bob Howard’s career had been rather an uneventful one; but now, capricious fate had taken him in hand, and ordered that during the next few months his life was to be crowded full of such excitement and adventure, such perils and startling surprises, as never before fell to the lot of any boy.

He was to be given ample opportunity for the exercise of the extraordinary nerve and pluck which he had exhibited while delivering his valedictory, but with this difference:

Then, he was in the presence of friends, who would willingly have made every allowance for him, had any forbearance or consideration on their part been necessary; but hereafter he was to be surrounded by enemies, who were already plotting his ruin, and who stood ready to take every possible advantage of him.

Let us follow that other telegram to its destination, and see who some of these enemies were.