"There is a great hole in the chimney," said Levi.

"I know there is; but I stopped that up a month ago. I hadn't no mortar nor nothin', and I just nailed a board over the hole."

"That's the way the fire took," added Levi, wondering at the carelessness of his uncle.

"I didn't suppose there was any heat up here, twenty foot from the fire," replied the old man, sheepishly.

"Aunt Susan had a rousing fire in the oven. The wind was pretty fresh, and I suppose the sparks caught on the dry board. It is clear enough to me that no one set the house on fire."

"I suppose they didn't, then; but somebody stole my money. Mebbe you'll prove that n.o.body didn't steal it."

"I am willing to take your word for that;" and the miser's visible sufferings were all-sufficient to convince any person that the money was gone, whether any one had stolen it or not.

Levi tried in vain to obtain a clew to the lost treasure. He knew of no one that had visited the house during the fire who was bad enough to steal, unless it was Dock Vincent; but it was not right to suspect even him of the crime without some evidence. Neither Levi nor his uncle saw how Dock could have taken off the board, removed the bags, and then restored the covering, while there were so many people in the house.

Dock Vincent, after his discharge from the state prison, had gone to New York, where he had been employed as the mate of a steamer. Six months before the story opens, his brother, residing in Boston, had died, and as the deceased had no family, his property, amounting to twenty-one thousand dollars, had been equally divided among his two brothers and one sister. Dock fully believed that seven thousand dollars on Cape Ann would entirely wipe out the disgrace of having served a term in the state prison, and he returned to Rockport, dressed in a nice suit of black.

Dock was mistaken; seven thousand dollars would not varnish his character so that good men would a.s.sociate with him. He bl.u.s.tered and swelled, and declared that he had been taken up for nothing; that this was not a free country; and that he was a better man than thousands in town who had never been to the state prison. He never forgave Levi for thwarting his plans, and swore roundly that he would be the ruin of him and of Mr. Watson.

The best friend Dock had was Nathan Fairfield, and the miser was not willing to believe that Dock had robbed him of his gold. After Levi went home that day, his uncle persisted that he had stolen the money.

CHAPTER IV.

THE PLANK OVER THE CHASM.

A week of indescribable misery to Nathan Fairfield pa.s.sed away; but no trace of the robber or the money had been obtained. The constables and the deputy sheriff had visited the premises, and carefully considered all the facts, without affording the miserable man a particle of consolation. He groaned from morning till night, forlorn and desolate, declaring that he should come to want, and die in the poorhouse.

Probably the money the wretch had lost was not a fifth part of his fortune, and he was in no more danger of coming to want than the sea was of being dried up. But he felt as though he had lost all; and if he had been stripped of everything, he could hardly have suffered more. He felt poor, and wanted to earn money in some way. The dog-fish season had opened favorably, and he was actually preparing to go into the business of catching them. Dock Vincent had promised him the use of a dory,--for he could not afford to buy one,--and he had taken Levi's old lines and repaired them for use.

Mr. Fairfield groaned and sighed all day long while he worked upon his fishing-lines and his trolls. He could not tell who had stolen his money, and in his hatred of his nephew, he still persisted in suspecting him. There was no proof, and he could do nothing but believe that Levi was the thief. It was useless to say anything or do anything, for Levi was so popular that justice could not be had.

The lines, the troll, and the bait were all ready, and the old man carried them down to the landing-place where Dock had left the dory.

Along the sh.o.r.e of this part of Cape Ann there is a succession of rocky peninsulas, extending out into the sea. Between these are the beaches, stretching in semicircles from bluff to bluff, as they have been fashioned by the mighty waves which roll in from the open ocean. On these sandy sh.o.r.es the billows chant their solemn melody all day and all night long, and break with sharper pitch and fiercer swell upon the jagged rocks that form the headlands.

On the road, but a few rods from Mr. Fairfield's, and near one of these peninsulas, was the house of Dock Vincent, where his family had always lived, even when he was in New York. The end of the headland curved round so as to leave a portion of the water behind it protected from the force of the sea, thus forming a sheltered landing-place. Off this point lay The Starry Flag, and on the rocks where the boatmen usually embarked were several skiffs, and among them Dock Vincent's dory, which Mr. Fairfield was to use.

Across the end of the headland, a few rods from the extreme point, was a natural chasm in the rocks, through which the water flowed at high tide. It was about ten feet wide, and rather more than this in depth.

Across it a plank had been placed for the convenience of fishermen and others.

On the next headland, which terminated in Mike's Point, was the new summer residence of Mr. Watson. He had made a landing-pier, which was available at half tide; but Levi kept his boat at the old moorings, because the place was sheltered from the violence of the north-east winds, and it was less than half a mile across to the house where he usually took in his pa.s.sengers.

Mr. Fairfield went down to the dory, and put his fishing-gear on board.

He did it as a man goes to a funeral. He had been a fisherman in his younger days, but it was a bitter necessity, in his view, which now compelled him to resume it when he was old and stiff. While he was stowing the bait and lines in the skiff, Dock Vincent came down to see him. He had laid aside his suit of black, and now wore a full seaman's rig.

"Well, Squire Fairfield, have you heard anything from your money yet?"

demanded Dock, as he seated himself on a rock.

"Not a thing; and 'tain't likely I ever shall, nuther," replied Mr.

Fairfield, with a most distressing expression on his face.

"Haven't you any idea what has become of it?"

"Not the leastest grain in the world. It's gone, and that's all I know about it. I did think Levi took it, and I hain't got done thinkin' so yet."

"What made you think he took it?" asked Dock, with no little interest manifested on his ugly face.

"Well, he come to the house when I wan't in, though I was close by and see him go in. He went up garret and got a little saw-mill he made. I went up to the house, and was just goin' to see where he was; but I stopped a minute in the kitchen to tell my wife she was wastin' the wood, and Levi went out afore I see him. A little while arter, the fire bruk out, and arter that my money was gone. Levi's most eighteen, and it stands to reason he don't want no little saw-mill to play with."

"Of course he don't," added Dock, encouragingly.

"He said arterwards that he wanted to show it to the Watson gal. But what does a city gal like her keer about a saw-mill? and nuther on 'em hain't been near it sence."

"That shows how much they care about it," said Dock, who was evidently prepared to indorse the old man's philosophy.

"I can't help thinkin' Levi set the house afire, and then took the money," continued Mr. Fairfield, ignoring the current explanation of the cause of the fire. "My wife says 'tain't so, because the boy has all the money he wants, and don't have no occasion to steal; but Levi hain't no more idee of the vally of money than he has of flyin', and he throws it away as reckless as a sailor arter he comes home from a Cape Horn v'y'ge."

"I know he does; if he had to earn it, he wouldn't be quite so free with it."

"Levi hates me, 'f I am his uncle, and never did nothing but take good keer of his money for him--he hates me like destruction; and that's what makes me think he done it. He's a bad boy, if he is go'n' to jine the church. Folks will find him out one of these days, and then they'll know I told the truth about him."

"Could anybody else have taken the money? That's the p'int."

"Not's I know on--least ways n.o.body but you and Mat Mogmore."

"You don't think I took it--do you?"

"I hain't been able to think so," replied the miser, looking up into the face of Dock. "I allers thought you set too much by me to sarve me sech a trick as that. I've lent you a good deal of money one time 'n another."

"But I paid you ten per cent. for it. I didn't take your money, and I know Mat Mogmore didn't. I was with him all the time he was in the house. We worked together."

"It stands to reason, then, that Levi took it; I can't help thinkin'

so."

"They say he carries a good many things to your house," suggested Dock.

"Kerries a good many things to my house!" repeated the miser with a sneer. "Mebbe he does. What sort of things does he kerry there?

Chickens and turkeys, and surlines and ribs of beef, and sech truck! He knows I don't want sech things, and he does it jest to aggravate me. If he wants to do anything for me, why don't he gim me the money he pays out for 'em? That's what I want to know."

"I don't think you've hit the nail on the head this time, Mr.

Fairfield," added Dock, who evidently had a theory of his own to propose. "They say you are worth some thirty or forty thousand dollars, Mr. Fairfield."

"Bless ye! I ain't wuth no sech money. I've got a little or sunthin, but I expect to lose it all."

"Well, call it twenty thousand, then."