At eight o'clock he went to bed as usual. He felt no desire to sleep, and would not have dared to do so if he had. He heard the old kitchen clock strike ten. The house was still, for all had long ago retired to their rest, and he could hear the sonorous snores of the paupers in the adjoining rooms. His heart beat quick with anxiety. It was a novel position in which he found himself. He had been accustomed to do everything fairly and "above board," and the thought of rising from his bed and sneaking out of the house like a thief was repulsive to him. But it was a good cause, in his estimation, and he did not waste much sentiment upon the matter. A conspiracy had been formed to cheat him of his hopes and of his future happiness, and it seemed right to him that he should flee from those with whom he could not successfully contend.

Carefully and stealthily he crept out of bed, and put on his best clothes, which were nothing to boast of at that, for there was many a darn and many a patch upon the jacket and trousers. Stockings and shoes were luxuries in which Harry was not indulged in the warm season; but he had a pair of each, which he took under his arm.

Like a mouse he crept down stairs, and reached the back door of the house without having disturbed any of its inmates. There were no locks on the poorhouse doors, for burglars and thieves never invaded the home of the stricken, forsaken paupers.

The door opened with a sharp creak, and Harry was sure he was detected. For several minutes he waited, but no sound was heard, and more carefully he opened the door wide enough to permit his pa.s.sage out.

He was now in the open air, and a sensation of relief pervaded his mind. He was free. No man was his master in this world, and he had not learned to think much of the other world. As he pa.s.sed through the cow yard he heard the old gray mare whinny, and he could not resist the temptation to pay her a parting visit. They had been firm friends for years, and as he entered the barn she seemed to recognize him in the darkness.

"Good-by, old Prue. I am going away to leave you," said Harry, in low tones, as he patted the mare upon her neck. "I hope they will use you well. Next to Mr. Nason, you have been my best friend. Good-by, old Prue."

The mare whinnied again, as though she perfectly comprehended this affectionate speech, and wished to express her sympathy with her young friend in her own most eloquent language. Perhaps Harry could not render the speech into the vernacular, but he had a high appreciation of her good feeling, and repeated his caresses.

"Good-by, old Prue; but, before I go, I shall give you one more feed of oats--the very last."

The localities of the barn were as familiar to him as those of his own chamber; and taking the half peck measure, he filled it heaping full of oats at the grain chest as readily as though it had been clear daylight.

"Here, Prue, is the last feed I shall give you"; and he emptied the contents of the measure into the trough. "Good-by, old Prue; I shall never see you again."

The mare plunged her nose deep down into the savory mess, and seemed for a moment to forget her friend in the selfish gratification of her appet.i.te. If she had fully realized the unpleasant fact that Harry was going, perhaps she might have been less selfish, for this was not the first time she had been indebted to him for extra rations.

Pa.s.sing through the barn, the runaway was again in the open air.

Everything looked gloomy and sad to him, and the scene was as solemn as a funeral. There were no sounds to be heard but the monotonous chirp of the cricket, and the dismal piping of the frogs in the meadow. Even the owl and the whip-poor-will had ceased their nocturnal notes, and the stars looked more gloomy than he had ever seen them before.

There was no time to moralize over these things, though, as he walked along, he could not help thinking how strange and solemn everything seemed on that eventful night. It was an epoch in his history; one of those turning points in human life, when all the works of nature and art, borrowing the spirit which pervades the soul, a.s.sume odd and unfamiliar forms. Harry was not old enough or wise enough to comprehend the importance of the step he was taking; still he was deeply impressed by the strangeness within and without.

Taking his bundle from the hollow stump, he directed his steps toward Pine Pleasant. He walked very slowly, for his feelings swelled within him and r.e.t.a.r.ded his steps. His imagination was busy with the past, or wandering vaguely to the unexplored future, which with bright promises tempted him to press on to the goal of prosperity. He yearned to be a man; to leap in an instant over the years of discipline, that yawned like a great gulf between his youth and his manhood. He wanted to be a man, that his strong arm might strike great blows; that he might win his way up to wealth and honor.

Why couldn't he be a great man like Squire Walker. Squire West wouldn't sound bad.

"One has only to be rich in order to be great," thought he. "Why can't I be rich, as well as anybody else? Who was that old fellow that saved up his fourpences till he was worth a hundred thousand dollars? I can do it as well as he, though I won't be as mean as they say he was, anyhow. There are chances enough to get rich, and if I fail in one thing, why--I can try again."

Thus Harry mused as he walked along, and fixed a definite purpose before him to be accomplished in life. It is true it was not a very lofty or a very n.o.ble purpose, merely to be rich; but he had been obliged to do his own philosophizing. He had not yet discovered the true philosopher's stone. He had concluded, like the alchemists of old, that it was the art of turning anything into gold. The paupers, in their poverty, had talked most and prayed most for that which they had not. Wealth was to them the loftiest ideal of happiness, and Harry had adopted their conclusions. It is not strange, therefore, that Harry's first resolve was to be a rich man.

"Seek ye _first_ the kingdom of heaven, and all these things shall be added unto you," was a text which he had often heard repeated; but he did not comprehend its meaning, and he had reversed the proposition, determined to look out for "all these things" first.

The village clock struck eleven, and the peal of the clear notes on the silent air cut short his meditations, and admonished him to quicken his pace, or Ben would reach the place of rendezvous before him. He entered the still shades of Pine Pleasant, but saw nothing of his confederate. Seating himself on the familiar rock in the river, he returned to his meditations.

He had hardly laid down his first proposition in solving the problem of his future success, before he was startled by the discovery of a bright light in the direction of the village. It was plainly a building on fire, and his first impulse was to rush to the meeting house and give the alarm; but prudence forbade. His business was with the great world and the future, not with Redfield and the present.

A few moments later the church bell pealed its startling notes, and he heard the cry of fire in the village. The building, whatever it was, had become a ma.s.s of fierce flames, which no human arm could stay.

While he was watching the exciting spectacle, he heard footsteps in the grove, and Ben Smart, out of breath and nearly exhausted, leaped upon the rock.

"So you are here, Harry," gasped he.

"I am, Ben," replied Harry. "Where is the fire?"

"We have no time to waste now," panted Ben, rousing himself anew. "We must be off at once."

Ben descended to the lower side of the rock, and hauled a small flat-bottomed boat out of the bushes that grew on the river's brink.

"Where is the fire, Ben?" persisted Harry.

"Never mind the fire now; jump into the boat, and let us be off."

Harry obeyed, and Ben pushed off from the rock.

"Where are you going?" asked Harry, not much pleased either with the imperative tone or the haughty reserve of his companion.

"Down the river. Take the paddle and steer her; the current will take her along fast enough. I am so tired I can't do a thing more."

Harry took the paddle and seated himself in the stern of the boat, while Ben, puffing and blowing like a locomotive, placed himself at the bow.

"Tell me now where the fire is," said Harry, whose curiosity would not be longer resisted.

"_Squire Walker's barn._"

CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT THE NAVIGATION OF THE RIVER IS DIFFICULT AND DANGEROUS

Harry was astounded at this information. Ben was exhausted, as though he had been running very hard; besides, he was much agitated--more so than the circ.u.mstances of the occasion seemed to justify. In connection with the threat which his companion had uttered that day, these appearances seemed to point to a solution of the burning building. He readily understood that Ben, in revenge for the indignity the squire had cast upon him, had set the barn on fire, and was now running away by the light of it.

This was more than he had bargained for. However ill-natured he felt towards the squire for his proposal to send him to Jacob Wire's, it never occurred to him to retaliate by committing a crime. His ideas of Christian charity and of forgiveness were but partially developed; and though he could not feel right towards his powerful enemy, he felt no desire to punish him so severely as Ben had done.

His companion gave him a short answer, and manifested no disposition to enlarge upon the subject; and for several minutes both maintained a profound silence.

The boat, drifting slowly with the current, was pa.s.sing from the pond into the narrow river, and it required all Harry's skill to keep her from striking the banks on either side. His mind was engrossed with the contemplation of the new and startling event which had so suddenly presented itself to embarra.s.s his future operations. Ben was a criminal in the eye of the law, and would be subjected to a severe penalty if detected.

"I shouldn't have thought you would have done that," Harry observed, when the silence became painful to him.

"Done what?" asked Ben, sharply.

"Set the barn afire."

"Who said I set it afire?"

"Well, I can see through a millstone when there is a hole in it."

"I didn't say I set the barn afire."

"I know you didn't; but you said you meant to pay the squire off for what he had done to you."