Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

"THERE'S A GUINEA WAITING FOR ANYONE
WHO CATCHES THE YOUNG SCAMPS."
Frontispiece.]                                      

THE MYSTERY

OF

HOYLE'S MOUTH

OR

The Adventures of Two Runaway Boys

BY M. E. ROPES

AUTHOR OF

"VASSIA," "JAN DOON, THE LION TAMER," ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. AYTON SYMINGTON

LONDON:

THE SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION

57 AND 59 LUDGATE HILL, E.C.

PRINTED BY
MORRISON AND GIBB LIMITED
EDINBURGH

CONTENTS

CHAP.

I. TAKING FRENCH LEAVE

II. THE FAIR, AND AFTER

III. ON THE WHARF

IV. THE STOWAWAYS

V. "OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN INTO THE FIRE"

VI. WAS IT A DREAM?

VII. HOME IN HOYLE'S MOUTH

VIII. GHOST AND SPIES

IX. CAPTURED BY THE GHOSTS

X. THE SMUGGLER BAND

XI. IN FOR IT

XII. THE GHOST AGAIN

XIII. WHO WAS THE GHOST?

XIV. A BRAVE "NO"

XV. DAVEY'S BRIGHT IDEA

XVI. A QUEER VOYAGE

XVII. A MILKMAN TO THE RESCUE

XVIII. THE CLAWS OF THE LEOPARD

XIX. TREASON

XX. A TERRIBLE DISASTER

XXI. THE TAKING OF JEZEBEL

XXII. A DANGEROUS REFUGE

XXIII. BROTHERS

XXIV. CONCLUSION

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THERE'S A GUINEA WAITING FOR ANYONE
WHO CATCHES THE YOUNG SCAMPS  Frontispiece

A TALL, DARK-DRAPED FORM, HOLDING A TORCH

DRAGGING BY THE COLLAR TOM HUGHES

HER EYES BLINKED UNDER THE LIGHT OF THE LANTERN

THE MYSTERY OF HOYLE'S MOUTH

CHAPTER I.

TAKING FRENCH LEAVE.

"IT'S the last day of the fair at Bristol, uncle; I suppose I may go. It will only be missing one afternoon at school, and that doesn't matter a bit. I may go, Uncle Zach, mayn't I?"

"I am sorry to disappoint you, Davey, but I am obliged to say no. You are not so well up in your lessons that you can afford to play truant for an afternoon. Besides, you can't go without money, and I have none to spare, to say nothing of the chance of your getting into mischief at the fair, where there are always some bad characters about."

"But, uncle, there's to be a circus, and a man showing off some wild beasts he's tamed, and there's swings, and merry-go-rounds, and conjurers, and lots of other things."

"That may well be, my boy," replied Zachariah Coleman, with a wise little nod which Davey thought extremely provoking. "But all this does not alter the fact that you're a dull boy at school, always at the bottom of your class, and that you haven't yet mastered the three R's; and, therefore—"

"But, Uncle Zach—"

"Enough! Enough, Davey!" said his aunt, a prim, but kindly-looking little woman, with cheeks like a russet apple. She had kept silence hitherto, seemingly absorbed in darning one of her husband's huge socks, but now she could not refrain from putting in her word.

"Tease your uncle no more, my boy. He has never denied you anything that was for your good. Ah, Davey, I dread lest I should see in you that spirit of disobedience and restless adventure that made your brother run away from home. Your mother never recovered from that shock, and died when you were but two years old, and your father wasn't long in following. Beware of such a spirit as poor Harry's, my lad, unless you would bring down our grey hairs—your uncle's and mine—with sorrow to the grave. Haven't we brought you up like our own? And don't we love you as such? So, Davey, give up the fair like a man, and I'll make you a treacle posset and a dish of ginger snaps for your supper, when your lessons are done."

Davey was too full of his own wilful and rebellious thoughts just then to respond to his Aunt Patty's kind words. And had he not turned away at that moment, and left the room, good Mrs. Coleman and her husband could not but have noticed the sullen frown on his brow, the obstinate compression of his lips.

"I 'will' go to the fair!" he said, under his breath, as he closed the door after him. "I'll do as I please! And what's more, I'll get Tom Hughes to go with me. What if Uncle Zach has forbidden me to have anything to do with him! I am not a child to be wheedled, and coaxed, and forbidden, and punished. I'm thirteen, and not a fool either. There's other things to know beside the three R's uncle's always talking about; and how am I to learn them if I'm never to see the world at all?"

In spite of, or, indeed, because of the resolution he had come to, Davey at dinner-time said not another word about the fair, and good Aunt Patty thought he had entirely given up the idea.

"But aren't you starting for school rather too early, child?" she said, as Davey appeared at the kitchen door with his cap on.

"There's no harm, surely, in being there a bit sooner, is there, Aunt Patty?" said the lad, a flush deepening the colour in his brown cheek; for he was not used to deception, and could not control his face.

"No, lad, no," replied Mrs. Coleman, "I won't scold you for that; and now you've been such a good boy, and given up the fair, I've none but praise for you. Good-bye, dear."

Aunt Patty's voice and words were kind, and for a moment Davey's heart almost relented, for he felt dreadfully guilty in deceiving anyone so good and trusting as this old aunt of his, who had been a real mother to him ever since he could remember.

For a moment or two he stood on the doorstep irresolute, but the thought of the fair and all its many attractions overcame the feeble scruples of his conscience. With a "Good-bye," which he tried to make as natural as possible, though his heart was beating wildly, and his voice felt choked and queer, he left the cottage, and running down a little lane, which extended for some distance at the back of the row of houses, he paused at one of them, looked up at an open window, and gave a low whistle.

An evil-looking face, set on a pair of misshapen shoulders, appeared at a window a moment, then vanished, and almost at once a lad of about sixteen (but so stunted and deformed that he was no taller than Davey) came out and closed the door softly behind him.

"Gran's having a nap," said he with a grin; "so it's a good time for me to get away."

"And what about your master, the cobbler, that you're 'prenticed to, Tom? Did he give you a holiday?" said Davey.

"Well no, leastways, not exactly," replied the youth, with a leer and a chuckle. "But what about yourself, Davey! Did old Zach and Patty think better of it, and allow you to go?"

"Well no, leastways, not exactly," said Davey, with a feeble imitation of Tom's impudent manner and ugly leer.

"Oh, I see!" remarked the lad, as he walked with long, crooked strides by Davey's side. "Well, I'm glad you've took your own way at last. It'll make a man of you, it will. But now let's think about the fair! Have you any money?"

"Only this," said Davey, taking out a few coppers which proved to be about sevenpence.

"We shall want more than this for the show," remarked Tom, coolly. "Why, half a crown is nothing at a fair."

"But haven't you any money?" inquired Davey.

"Course not!" said Tom with a grin. "You stand treat for us both. That's only fair, if I show you round and have all the trouble of you. Ain't it?"

"Well," rejoined Davey, despondingly, "I don't see what the two of us are to do with only sevenpence."

"My, Davey, you are a soft one," said Tom, laughing heartily. "What have you got in your pockets? Let's have a look?"

So Davey obediently took out first a very decent knife—his uncle's present to him last Christmas; then a red-bordered linen handkerchief, a knitted woollen scarf, and, lastly, a small compass set in silver.

"Good!" said Tom, with a covetous glance, which took in all the articles, dwelling longest, however, upon the compass. "We'll carry all these to the pawnshop, and get enough on them to have a royal time."

"The 'kerchief, scarf and knife, if you please," interposed Davey, "but not the compass. That's Uncle Zach's, and it was only lent me to show a friend, but I forgot to give it back. Don't put the compass in your pocket, Tom, do you hear?"

"Hold your tongue, you baby!" cried Tom. "Surely it's as safe in my pocket as in yours. Come along, or we shall never get to the fair."

It was decided that Tom should go alone into the pawnshop, for Davey was shy of entering; but he put his hand on the elder lad's arm ere Tom passed in at the dingy door.

"Now mind, Tom," said he, "that compass is not mine, and I won't have anything done with it."

Tom nodded and laughed, and vanished into the shop, while Davey, feeling profoundly distrustful of his companion, and much exercised in his mind generally, waited outside, counting the watches that hung in a long row across the dusty window, and studying the dreary placard above them, bearing the ominous words, "Unredeemed Pledges."

He did not, however, have to wait long. Tom was out in a very few moments, and presently the boys had left the village behind them.

"Well, what have you got on those three things?" asked Davey, as the lads walked together along the country road.

Tom put his hand in his pocket, and jingled some coins.

"Enough to see pretty well everything," said he. "Come along, Davey."

"But please give me Uncle Zach's compass, Tom. I'd feel safer to carry it myself. I would indeed," said Davey earnestly.

"Would you, then?" replied the hunchback. "Would you really? Well then, little boys can't have everything they want, and I must say no to that, and if you're wise, you'll hold your tongue about it."

Davey was about to protest, when Tom pointed to a horse and light two-wheeled cart standing by a gate leading into a field.

"Look at that," said he; "where's the driver, I wonder!" And Tom peered through the gate in all directions.

"He's nowhere to be seen," said Davey, "but what do you want with him, Tom?"

"Want with him? Oh nothing, thank you," said Tom, derisively. "I should think not! I was only thinking how quick this nag could get us to the fair."

CHAPTER II.

THE FAIR, AND AFTER.

ONCE more Tom looked all round, but no one was to be seen. Deftly, he slipped the reins from over the gate-post, and said to Davey, "Quick, jump in!"

"What!" cried the boy. "Do you mean to steal a horse and cart?"

"And who talks of stealing them, youngster? Not me! We're only going to the fair the easiest way we can. The driver shouldn't leave his trap here if he doesn't want folks to make use of it. Now then, jump in, or as sure as my name's Tom Hughes, I'll leave you behind."

Another moment and the lads were rattling along the high road behind a fast-trotting cob, Tom holding the reins and not sparing the whip.

Less than half an hour's drive brought them in sight of the fair, which was held in a large open space just outside the city of Bristol. Here the boys alighted, and Davey was for turning the horse round, and letting him find his way home.

But Tom said, "No, I've a better idea than that. Let him graze here on the common, with the reins trailing on the ground; then when he's found, his master will think he's run away of himself."

So the lads left the horse and cart to take care of themselves, and were soon lost in the crowd, and absorbed in the wonders and delights of the fair. For the fairs of sixty years ago were on a different scale from those of more modern times, and, to the working-classes especially, presented many attractions unknown to us in these days.

Davey was not altogether happy, however, even in the midst of all the excitement and amusement. His conscience pricked him, and he could not quite forget that these were stolen pleasures, and that everything had been wrong from the start. Then, too, he was beginning to be afraid of Tom, and yet he had not the courage to separate from him. Indeed, as Tom had all the money, separation was out of the question, unless Davey was willing to give up the remaining sights of the fair and trudge home alone, and this he was by no means disposed to do.

So the boys saw the various shows together, and rode the dappled and piebald wooden horses that went lumbering on in the circle of the merry-go-round; though Davey, for one, did not much enjoy this pastime. To his guilty conscience everyone who looked at him seemed to know of his sin, and every moment he expected to have a hand laid on his shoulder.

At last there remained only the circus and wild beast performance to see. And now a bell was rung, and the boys paid their money at the entrance of a great canvas tent, and were soon seated on one of the benches, several rows of which ran all round the central ring.

There was the usual pad-riding, with all sorts of tricks of jugglery and dancing; and there was the highly-educated cream-coloured horse that sat down on a chair to have its pinafore put on, drank its tea out of a tin mug, rang a bell for the clown to clear the table, and afterwards fired off a pistol in a duel with a donkey, which donkey immediately fell down and breathed its last for full two minutes, when it got up and walked out as though nothing unusual had happened.

After this came a wonderful pig, and some performing dogs, and a pair of musical brother-clowns. And then, at last, there was a mighty shout and a great clapping of hands, and a young man walked into the ring, followed by a huge cage on wheels, drawn by three strong horses.

The cage was divided into three compartments. The first contained a noble lion and lioness, the second, a large brown bear, and the third, a pair of fine leopards.

The young man touched a spring, and the wire divisions were drawn up, leaving the animals free to mingle. He then entered the cage, and put the beasts through all sorts of performances, but, unlike most tamers, he had not even a whip, and he never shouted at the creatures, or excited or angered them. It was evident that they had been most carefully and patiently trained, and were docile enough to obey the voice of their master, whose kindly caress, when they had successfully done their part, seemed to reward them amply.

This was the last item in the circus programme, and as the lads left the tent, they found that the darkness had come.

"Oh, dear me!" sighed Davey. "Just think, Tom, of that long walk home! And what will uncle and aunt say to me! How I wish I'd never come."

"Shut up," hissed Tom, suddenly pulling Davey behind one of the booths. "There's a constable. Hark! What's he saying?"

The lads listened eagerly, and heard the constable say to a group of people, "Has anyone here met the two boys who were seen driving a bay cob, the property of Farmer Jenkins, towards the common about three o'clock this afternoon? The cart and horse are found, but Farmer Jenkins is in a terrible rage, and determined to punish the young vagabonds."

"What do they look like, constable?" inquired a man standing by the great tent.

"One of them is a deformed lad, believed to be Thomas Hughes, and his companion was recognised by a neighbour as Davey Coleman. And look here, my man, there's a guinea waiting for anyone who catches the young scamps, and if that isn't handsome, why—"

But Tom and Davey waited to hear no more. They dropped on their hands and knees, and crawled away into the deep shadow of a clump of trees. Then, getting round to the back of these, where they could not be seen, they held a brief consultation.

"We can't go home after that, eh, Davey," said Tom with a leer.

"No, that we can't," assented Davey. "But what is to be done, Tom?"

"There's nothing for it but to run away for good," replied Tom.

"For good?" cried Davey in alarm.

"Now don't go and be nasty; it's your fault quite as much as mine," snarled Tom.

"That's a lie!" said Davey, roundly. "But there, Tom, it's no use quarrelling since we're in the same box. I wouldn't care so much if I knew how I could send Uncle Zach's compass back to him. How can I do it, Tom?"

"You can't do it," answered the lad.

"And why?"

"Because," said Tom, with a wicked grin, "because, my pretty little innocent, I've pawned it, and here's the ticket."

"Then we're real thieves after all," sobbed Davey, "and if we're caught, we shall be put in prison?"

"That's about it," responded Tom, pleasantly.

CHAPTER III.

ON THE WHARF.

"THERE'S only one thing to do—that I can see," said Tom after a pause, during which poor Davey was feeling as if his sins had indeed found him out, and he had come to what looked very like a jumping-off place in his history.

"Yes, there's only one thing to do, Davey," repeated Tom. "We must go down through the town (before all that crowd gets there) and see if anything's going on near the quay or the wharf, where all the shipping is. Maybe we shall get a job of work, or a place to sleep in, or a meal given to us."

"How much money have you got left, Tom?"

"Not a penny, you simpleton. Do you suppose to-day's fun has cost nothing?"

Davey gave a gasp and a sob. To be penniless, and homeless, and hungry, to have to hide or be hunted, and perhaps caught like any common thief—and, worst of all, to be tied to Tom Hughes, who would always be a clog about his neck, dragging him down, down—! Here was a price to pay for his own way—an act of wilful disobedience, and an afternoon of pleasure!

   "'The way of transgressors is hard!'"

Where had he heard those words which come into his mind now unbidden, unwelcome? Ah, yes—they had been in his Sunday-school lesson last Sunday. Only last Sunday,—and yet how long ago it seemed now!

A sigh ending in a sob broke the silence, and might have touched a heart less hard than Tom's. But the deformed lad only turned round, showing his teeth in a savage grin as he muttered contemptuously:

"Stop that whimpering, you baby-face! Look over there! See the constable looking for me and you? Let's cut, double quick, or we shall be nabbed. Come!" And seizing Davey's hand, he ran across the common, half dragging his companion, and threading his way in and out among the booths, the sheds, the stalls, and the carts belonging to the fair, until they came out at last on to a lower level of the common, a hollow that dipped suddenly, then sloped more gradually down towards the town.

Here, far away from the lights of the fair and safe for the moment from pursuit, the boys dropped panting upon the short grass.

"There's still a goodish way to go," said Tom, when he had got his breath. "So we may as well rest here for a bit, for we shan't have another chance perhaps—not for a while at least."

Davey did not answer. There were tears on his cheeks, and he sorely missed that red-bordered handkerchief of his, which it was not at all likely he would ever see again. His thoughts travelled home. What were Uncle Zach and Aunt Patty doing just now? Were they anxious about him? Had his aunt made that treacle posset and those ginger snaps in expectation of his return? And what would the good old people say when the report reached them that their nephew had been seen with Tom Hughes, the worst lad in all S—, driving to the fair in Farmer Jenkins's light cart?

Deep in the brownest of all brown studies, Davey sat staring gloomily before him, not noticing that his companion had risen to his feet.

"Now then, Davey, are you going to sit here all night?" said Tom. "Come along, or we shan't get there before the constable."

It did not take the lads long to reach the outlying streets of the city, and Tom, who knew his way about here, dodged up one street and down another, wriggling through many a dark alley, and through several evil-smelling courts, before he found himself, with the breathless Davey, upon a wharf where a number of vessels were moored.

Around one good-sized schooner there seemed to be a great deal of commotion. The captain was himself superintending the taking in of a quantity of goods lying on the wharf, and the men were working hard, and grumbling not a little over their toil.

"Here, you lads! Do you want a job?" cried the captain, as Tom and Davey approached the place where he stood.

"Yes, sir," exclaimed both boys, eagerly.

"Then lend a hand here, will you? We've got to get out with the tide two hours hence, and goodness knows how we shall do it. If you'll help my men, you shall each have a shilling."

So Tom and Davey set to work with a will. Tom, in spite of his stunted growth and his deformity, was strong enough, and Davey had always been an active lad, and had his fair share of strength too. The cargo was taken into the vessel and stowed away in the hold, and the work was nearly completed, when the captain said, "We've got through quicker than I expected, so I'll run home and get my supper. Here, you lads, here's your money; you've worked well. Good-night to you."

"Good-night, sir," replied Tom and Davey, and the captain walked away.

As he did so, Tom whispered, "Now's our time, Davey!"

"To do what?" asked the boy.

"Why, to get away, of course," replied Tom.

"And where are we to get to?"

"Well, of all the stoopid little chaps that ever was, you're the stoopidest," remarked Tom, viciously. "Look here, baby-face, we can't stay in Bristol; we've got to go, and pretty quick too, and here's our chance!"

"I don't see any chance," said Davey, doggedly.

"You? No, you never see nothing!" sneered Tom. "It's well I've eyes and wits enough for the two of us. Listen! This boat is bound for the Bay of Carmarthen, where it's to call at several small places—one of the sailors told me that. Now I don't, of course, know what 'you're' going to do, young master, but 'I' mean to be on board this schooner when she goes out with the tide."

"But the captain won't take us unless we pay," said Davey, innocently.

Tom's sides shook with silent laughter.

"That's why I'm not going as cabin passenger," said he at last. "I'm part of the cargo, and the cargo's down there, you see, in the hold."

"Oh, dear me!" sighed poor Davey.

"But you shan't say again that I've got you into trouble," went on Tom; "so if you go with me, it must be of your own free will. And what's more, you must make up your mind quick for once, for when the skipper comes back, our chance is gone. Look, the stevedores and the men are going across to the gin-shop for a last glass. Now's our time! If you're not coming with me, Davey, good-bye, for I'm off!"

CHAPTER IV.

THE STOWAWAYS.

WITHOUT stopping for an answer, Tom stepped across to the vessel, and lowered himself down into the hold, and Davey, with his brain in a whirl, followed. The lads felt their way about till they found a nook between two rows of great bags and barrels. Here they crouched down, and waited breathlessly, in terror lest they should be discovered.

After what seemed to them a terribly long time, the ringing voice of the captain was heard, the sailors came on board, and presently the boys heard the captain say, "Just look round the hold, and see that all's right and in order."

"Ay, sir," replied a voice.

And then hearing heavy steps advancing along the deck, the lads squeezed themselves still further back among the cargo, crouching low and compressing into as little space as possible. Down came the man with his light, and looked about, moving one or two of the smaller things.

"We're nothing like so full as usual, skipper," he called up to the captain, "but there'll be no squalls for the next twenty-four hours, so the things won't take no harm from not being packed solid."

"Are you sure?" asked the captain.

"Ay, sir, pretty sure."

"All right, then. Close the main hatchway, and see that all's ready for sailing. The tide has turned, and we must be off."

The hatchway was closed, and the boys were now in perfect darkness, but they could hear distinctly all that was going on over their heads on deck; the shouted orders, the rapid footsteps of the men, the coiling of rope, the first slow cautious turning of the paddles of the clumsy tug-boat which had come to help the schooner out to sea.

But after a while, the fussy little steamer—puffing and blowing as though terribly out of breath with its exertions—cast off the sailing vessel and steamed back into port. For a minute or two, the schooner rocked idly on the waves. Then the wind caught the sails, and strange and sweet in the ears of the young stowaways sounded the wash of the water as the vessel sailed out to sea.

Indeed, everything was so strange, and the marvel of their escape was so wonderful to them, that for some time the boys were quite silent, deep in thought.

But at last Davey whispered, "Oh, Tom, I'm awfully hungry."

"Are you?" jeered Tom. "Now I think of it, so am I. We've had nothing to eat since dinner. Did you bring any grub with you this morning?"

"Not a scrap," replied Davey, mournfully.

"Then we're in a bad way," said Tom, "for it'll be long enough before we stop anywhere and can get ashore to buy anything to eat."

"It seems to me it would have been better to let ourselves be caught by the constable than to come here to starve to death," said Davey, dolefully.

"Hold your tongue, you milk-sop, if you can't speak more chirpy than that!" exclaimed Tom. "'I' don't mean to starve if I can help it, so here goes for a hunt for something to eat! There ought to be some grub about here."

So saying, Tom crept out of his nook, and began to grope his way about the hold, poking and punching every bag, box, or basket, and even putting his nose down to smell anything that seemed likely to contain food.

At last, Davey heard him give a joyous exclamation.

"What is it, Tom?" he asked.

"I've found a bag of ship biscuits," said Tom, "and I've slit a hole in it with my knife, and here's a biscuit to stop your grumbling."

Davey thankfully accepted the stolen food, and began to munch steadily, while Tom, whose curiosity and covetousness were sharpened by hunger, resumed his voyage of discovery among the barrels, bags, and hampers of the cargo.

Another ten minutes of silence, and then a chuckle of delight and triumph.

"What is it now, Tom?" inquired Davey, with his mouth full of biscuit.

"Reach out your hand and I'll show you! Bless me, how dark it is! Where are you?"

Another minute of groping, and Tom thrust into Davey's hand a thick wedge of something that smelt very good to a hungry lad.

"What—cheese?" cried Davey.

"Ay, cheese. I found a whole one, and as my knife hadn't been left at the pawnshop, I was able to cut these pieces out, one for each of us."

"It does taste good!" said Davey. "I never knew before how nice hard biscuits and cheese could be."

Tom sat down in his old corner and began to eat his supper, pluming himself the while upon his cleverness in providing himself and his companion with a meal.

"You'd never have thought of looking about for provisions, Davey, I'll be bound," said he. "You'd have just sat down in a corner and done a cry and starved all night."

"Yes—I daresay," replied Davey, shortly.

"Well, now, I shouldn't wonder if you're thankful I'm with you," pursued Tom. "What could you have done without me?"

"Nothing, and I shouldn't have wanted to do anything either, for if I'd gone alone to Bristol this wouldn't have happened," said Davey. "I shouldn't have pawned Uncle Zach's compass, nor driven off with the farmer's cob and got a constable after me."

"It's just like your mean way, Davey, to lay all the blame on me," remarked Tom, throwing his cheese rind away. "But, after all, you sweet boy, 'twasn't I that made you disobey your people and go to the fair, was it? And, likewise, if only you'd returned the compass to old Zach when you should, I couldn't have pawned it, now, could I? It seems to me that it's a case of pot and kettle."

This was plain speaking, and Davey did not enjoy it, but there was truth in it, and this he could not deny. For a long while he sat in sullen silence, paying little attention to Tom, until the voice of the latter roused him suddenly.

"I say, Davey, it seems to me there's a smell of burning down here. There's certainly smoke somewhere near."

"Yes, I can smell it," answered Davey. "How could it have come?"

"That fellow who came down here to see that all was right was smoking," said Tom. "Maybe some of the red ashes out of his pipe have set fire to something. I must have a hunt round and see where it is, for a fire in this hole means a great deal to everybody on board, but to none so much as us, since we can't get out."

"Oh, Tom!" said Davey, shaking all over with this new dread. "Do you think we're going to be burnt up or smothered in this awful place?"

"If you was alone here, you baby, I should say that's what was sure to happen to you," replied Tom, in a voice of hard contempt; for he had no patience with anyone who was physically a coward and helpless in an emergency. "But as you've got 'me' here," he added, vain-gloriously, "there's a chance for you. Don't sit snivelling in the corner, but get up and poke about, and smell round as I'm doing, for the quicker we find out where this fire is, the better for you and me and the whole ship's company."

So Davey got up and began to grope about, feeling his way among the cargo, until he came to a place where the smoke was very thick and pungent, and the air quite hot.

"It's here, Tom," said Davey; "come and help me move this wooden box. There's the fire behind it, I'm sure."

Tom came over at once, stumbling along in the dark in the direction from which Davey's voice proceeded.

Together the boys managed to move the box, and as they did so, they started back with a cry of horror, for a flame shot up into the dark like a red danger signal, and made a horrible crackling noise.

"We can't put that out without water nor nothing," said Tom. "It's got well alight, and stamping on it or trying to smother it is no good now."

"Then what's to be done?" questioned Davey, receding from the fire, which was creeping on slowly but surely.

"Well," said Tom, "you can take your choice of two things. Either you can stay here quiet and choke or burn, or you can let the crew overhead know what's going on down here, and take our chance with them."

"It's like you to talk about choice, Tom," said Davey, coughing as the smoke caught him by the throat for an instant. "There's no choice at all, for it's certain death to stay here."

"All right," said Tom, coolly; "your mind's made up, I suppose. Here goes, then!"

And making his way to the open space just under the main hatchway, he caught up a pole with a hook at the end, used probably for dragging the cases and baskets from the remote corners of the hold, and with the wooden end, he began to bang with all his might against the covering of the hatchway.

"Help!" he cried, his voice sounding strangely hoarse and muffled in the heavy air of that close place. "Help! Fire! The ship's afire! Help! Help!"

And Davey's shriller tones rang out as the boy joined his companion—

"Fire! Fire in the hold! Help! Help!"

CHAPTER V.

"OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN INTO THE FIRE."

THE fire crept on, the smoke thickened, and the two lads redoubled their cries and made all the noise they could to attract the attention of the crew. But to them, it seemed hours before the welcome tread of feet was heard, and the skipper's strong voice shouting his orders to open the hatchway.

As the pure, sweet air rushed into that close, hot, smoke-filled hole, the lads gave a cry of joy and relief, and inhaled it in deep breaths.

"What's this?" said the skipper, sternly. "How came you here? Why, bless me—it's—"

But just then a cloud of smoke came puffing forth out of the hold, nearly choking the lads, and filling captain and crew with dismay. They forgot all about Tom and Davey, and set to work to put out the fire. Happily it was soon got under, but it was not until this was accomplished, and things were somewhat reduced to order, that the skipper sent for the young stowaways to be brought into his little cabin, and asked them what was the meaning of their presence on board his vessel.

Then Tom, who was nothing if not ingenious and plausible, and had long been used to draw upon fiction for his facts, began a highly interesting and touching tale, stating that his name was Charles Harris, that Davey was his younger brother, that their father's cousin, with whom they lived (as they were orphans), had turned burglar, and wanted them to join his gang, but that they, having been carefully brought up by pious parents, could not consent to such a life of sin, and had refused. Whereupon this cousin had abused them both so cruelly, that they had been forced to run away.

Tom further stated that they had relatives in South Wales, and that these would, he knew, befriend them. But having no means of getting so far, they had ventured to hide in the hold of the schooner, to get a free passage to Carmarthen Bay.

By this time Tom had quite entered into the spirit of this thrilling tale, and was even adding some new and wonderful facts, when Davey's face, full of surprise and dismay, attracted the captain's attention.

"I say, youngster," said he, with a shrewd twinkle in his eye, "you look as if all this was new to you."

"Yes, sir, and so it is," replied Davey, simply. "Only it's—"

Here Tom kicked him sharply, under the cabin table, and frowned at him with a look of menace, which Davey could not misunderstand. But it was too late; the mischief was done.

"It's what, my boy?" asked the skipper. "Now then, let's hear your version of the story!" And he drew Davey nearer to him, and looked searchingly into the downcast face.

"No, sir, please not," said the boy, earnestly. "I've no story to tell—I mean, none that I'd like to. We've run away from home—that much is true, sir—and if only you'll be good enough to take us to Wales in your ship, we'll be everlastingly grateful to you."

"And after all, Mr. Skipper," put in Tom, with a modest assurance, which sat very quaintly on his impudent face, "you wouldn't have found out that fire in the hold, maybe, till too late, but for us; and you might p'raps think that this service we done you is worth our passage."

"You're a nice young man at a bargain!" remarked the captain, the ghost of a smile just hovering about his lips. "But there's something in what you say, Charles Harris, and I'm not the man to forget it. So then, you young vagabonds, unless I drop you overboard (and I'm not at all sure that this wouldn't serve you right!) there's nothing for me to do but to take you on with me, and put you ashore at the first port we're bound for."

"Where might that be, skipper?" questioned Tom, with an affable smile.

"Tenby, in Pembrokeshire," was the reply. "We've goods for that place, though what with the fire and water there's been in the hold,—to say nothing of two young rascals who may have been up to all sorts of mischief,—I'm afraid there won't be anything much worth landing. But now, lads, it's late, and you'll be wanting to sleep. Here's a couple of blankets. Wrap yourselves up and lie down here on the floor. Have you had anything to eat lately?"

The boys looked at each other in silence, and Davey coloured and hung his head. But at last, he said—

"Please, sir, we were very hungry, and we found some biscuits and cheese in the hold, and that's what we've had."

"You young vagabonds, you don't deserve helping," said the skipper, "when you've been and helped yourselves like this, damaging goods that don't belong to me, nor yet to the ship. It would be no more than your merits if I flogged you, and handed you over to the Tenby police afterwards."

But the skipper had a kind heart for all his gruff speaking, and with a little grunt, he opened a little cupboard, and took out a jug of cold tea, a piece of boiled salt pork, half a loaf, two mugs, and a knife and fork. Then cutting each of the lads a substantial sandwich, and pouring out tea for them both, he bade them good-night, after warning Tom not to be up to any pranks.

"Oh, Tom, did you hear what he said?" whispered Davey, as the two lads lay side by side on the cabin floor.

"What was it?" asked Tom, sleepily.

"Why, that about handing us over to the constable at Tenby," said Davey. "Fancy coming so far, and going through so much, to be locked up in a strange place as soon as we get there! Oh, Tom, it would be just dreadful, wouldn't it?"

But all the answer Davey got was a deep snore, and whether this meant yes or no, he could not tell.

CHAPTER VI.

WAS IT A DREAM?

THE voyage was safely over, but it was late in the afternoon by the time the boys were able to land, as the tide was out, and the schooner had to wait for some hours before there was water enough for her to enter the harbour. Nothing more was said about the police, and the skipper parted from them kindly, though not without a warning word to Tom.

"See that you don't get into any more mischief, Charles Harris," said he, "dragging your young brother along with you, or else—"

"Please, sir, he's not my—" began Davey, but Tom pulled him roughly away.

"You needn't go and put your foot in everything," he growled. "Now come along; brothers or no brothers, we've got to stick together. We're in the same boat, and if we separate, one has to go 'overboard;' just you remember that!"

Tenby sixty years ago was not what Tenby is now. The town was much smaller, and consisted of a very different class of houses. Upon St. Catherine's Mount (the little rocky islet off the south-east shore), there was no fort at that time, but only a coast-guard's hut or two, whence a look-out was kept for smugglers. The sand hills were not so extensive as they are at present, and the marsh—some of which is now redeemed, and used as grazing ground—was a big expanse of dreary swamp, haunted by the heron and other long-legged waders.

Coming up from the harbour, the lads found their way into the town, where there were some shops and a market. Here, with the shilling that each of them had earned in helping to load the schooner, they bought some bread and cheese. And Davey, in addition, purchased a piece of soap and two cheap cotton handkerchiefs, also a yard of coarse unbleached stuff to serve for a towel; and on these his last penny was spent. As for Tom, he had a deep-rooted dislike to soap and water, and only jeered at what he considered Davey's luxurious habits.

As the two lads were walking up the main street, their attention was attracted to a goldsmith's shop, in which some tempting wares were displayed. Just then a gentleman passed them and entered the shop, and as the lads peered through the glass, they saw a number of things taken out of the window to be shown to him. Suddenly the young man who was serving him, gave a tilt to a tray of trinkets which he was lifting out of the window on to the counter, and two of them—a little golden ball locket and a ring with a red stone—rolled away towards the door.

In one moment, Tom had sprung to the doorway and picked up the trinkets. With a rapid movement, he slipped the ring into his mouth, holding it in his cheek. Then, with the golden ball between his finger and thumb, he entered the shop, and touching his cap, handed the locket to the young man.

"This was just by the doorway, sir," said Tom, "and happening to see it, I picked it up; having been brought up honest, me and my young brother, of course I could do no other than bring it in to you, poor as we are."

"Thank you, my lad," said the shopman, "and here's a shilling for you!"

Tom touched his cap again with a "Thank you kindly, sir," and joining Davey outside, surprised him very much by hurrying him away through the town till they reached the corner where a road ran down a steep hill, and out into the country.

"What's wrong, Tom?" enquired Davey, pausing breathless at this corner. "Why are you hurrying so?"

"Let's get right away out of this, and I'll tell you, or rather I'll show you something," replied Tom.

Very soon they got into a quiet country road, with the marsh below them on the left, and rising ground with fields and woods to their right.

Then, with a furtive look round, Tom took the ring out of his mouth, and holding it up in the waning light said, "Now then, Davey! What do you think of that?"

Davey was struck dumb with amazement and horror, and Tom began to boast of his cleverness in getting possession of the ring, while receiving also a shilling for his honesty. But when Davey still kept silence, the elder lad turned to him impatiently.

"What now, Baby-face? Can't you speak? My eye! What a look you've got on you!"

"Tom Hughes," said Davey at last, "I can't stand this sort of thing no longer. Me and you have got to part. Tell me which way you want to go, and I'll go the other. I've been wrong enough anyway, but I won't be mixed up with any more wickedness, so I tell you! Now look here! Here's two roads, which will you take? And then we part for good."

Tom burst out laughing, and put the ring away in his pocket.

"You little ass!" he said. "You don't think you're going to shake me off so easy? Why, you dear innocent boy, that pretty face of yours will be worth ten shillings a week to me some day. Part? No, indeed. Come along, it's getting near nightfall, and we must find some place to sleep in. We've got our suppers with us, and had a drink at the spring up yonder, so now all we want is a good sleeping-place. Look over there; do you see that wood on the hill? We can find some quiet sheltered place there, I'm sure. Come, Davey!" And hooking his arm in that of his reluctant companion, they followed the road till they came to a narrow lane, leading away to the right.

"This will take us straight there," said Tom.

And the two lads walked along the lane, in the deepening twilight, and then up a short, but steep ascent. This brought them into a wood, where, to their left, rose a huge rock, and in its face gaped a great mouth, black as night itself, while round it grew ivy, and moss, and lichens, like coarse hair upon some giant's cheeks and chin.

"Why, look, here's a cave!" cried Tom. "It must be nice and dry up here on the hill. Come and let's see if we can't find a good place for a bed."

So saying, Tom cautiously entered the cavern, followed by Davey. They felt their way about, now and then stumbling—in the darkness—over a stone, but at last they reached an angle in the rocky wall where the floor of the cave was level, and where they would be sheltered from the wind.

"Come now, I call this fine!" said Tom, with a deep breath of satisfaction, as he rested his crooked shoulders against the rock, and pulled out of his pocket the parcel containing his supper.

Davey ate his own portion almost in silence. His companion's presence was becoming intolerable to him. Now, as never before, he realised what he had brought upon himself by that wrong step which he had taken; for had he not become, by his own act in the first instance, a fugitive and a vagabond upon the face of the earth? Heavy hearted, almost in despair, he at last fell asleep, though not until Tom had been snoring for an hour or so in his own place a few yards away.

A TALL, DARK-DRAPED FORM, HOLDING A TORCH.

And while Davey slept, a very strange dream came to him. He thought that as he was lying there, he saw standing over him a tall, dark-draped form, holding a torch, which shed a red light all about the cave, and illuminated with a lurid glare a long, white face, and two great dark eyes, with a shadow as of death about them. And then he thought that the pale lips moved, and that a doleful voice half moaned, half chanted these words,—

   "Woe to the evil-doers! Woe to them that lead the young astray! Woe to the secret dwellers in dark places, when destruction shall come upon them! Behold, I am seeking, and ever seeking, but I find him not; that son—that son, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow."

Then it seemed to Davey as if he started up out of his sleep and looked about him. Was that the flare of a torch just disappearing through the cave entrance? Did he catch a feeble echo of the chanting cry, "Woe to them! Woe!" or was it indeed only a dream?

Tom was breathing heavily, and did not appear to have stirred. All around was still as the grave.

Davey's heart was thumping at a dreadful rate, but by and by, he persuaded himself that he had only been dreaming, and lay down again to sleep fitfully until morning.

CHAPTER VII.

HOME IN HOYLE'S MOUTH.

DAVEY said nothing to Tom next morning about his curious dream—if dream it was. He knew that his companion would laugh and jeer at him, and if there was one thing that he dreaded more than ghosts, it was ridicule.

But from this night, he began to feel a growing horror of the cave, and he did his best to persuade Tom to go away, and to let them search for another place wherein to make their headquarters. But Tom knew that owing to his theft of the ring, which was sure to be missed sooner or later, he would be safest in hiding for the present, and that this lonely cave in the wood was the best spot for purposes of concealment.

So when Davey entreated him to come away, he at first only laughed at him, treating the matter as a joke, and afterwards, when the younger lad pressed him to make the change, he flatly refused to leave.

During the daytime, however, the boys explored the neighbouring country, and though they avoided Tenby, they visited other towns and villages, frequently receiving gifts of food and pence from the kind-hearted farmers and peasants, who were touched by Tom's harrowing tales of woe.

On the day following the appearance of Davey's ghost, it was late in the evening before the lads returned to the cave, and they were both so weary that they were glad to lie down as soon as they had eaten their supper. This time, however, Davey did not occupy the corner where he had slept the night before, but found another still more sheltered place farther on in the cave, a tiny cell shut in on all sides but one, and with only a narrow entrance. In the rock-wall just over his head, moreover, there was a small crack or fissure, which let in the fresh air from the outside; and this was a great comfort, as was also the feeling that he was no longer very near Tom, whose presence was becoming more and more hateful to him.

The night passed quite quietly; Davey had no dreams, and heard no noises, save the sighing of the wind in the trees, and the more distant murmur of the waves breaking upon the sandy beach just below the village of Penally.

And so passed several nights spent in the cave, while the days found the lads out in the country, or down on the sands gathering mussels on the rocks. These shell-fish they ate raw, breaking them open with a stone, and many a meal they made thus, satisfying their hunger on that which cost them nothing.

In this sort of savage life Tom Hughes really seemed to revel. The freedom, the utter absence of restrictions of all kinds, the uncertainty, the haphazard of every day as it came, amused and excited him; even a certain element of danger which attended the circumstances of his life, was not without its attraction, for there are some boys who have the wild instincts of the outlaw so strongly developed in them, that they will run risk, and brave danger and even disgrace, to shake off all the restraints of the usual everyday life.

But for Davey, on the contrary, things were daily growing more unbearable. First of all, his conscience was never at rest, and was constantly upbraiding him. His thoughts, too, were always turning homeward. He well knew how anxious his good old uncle and aunt must be about him, and he had begun to miss and long for the love and care to which they had accustomed him.

Then, too, the lad had been brought up to be cleanly and neat in his person, and now he felt degraded by the impossibility of keeping himself decent. Still, he did what he could, for every morning he took his piece of soap and his yard of cotton cloth, and went out to a little brook that ran down the hill, filling and overflowing, as it went, a sort of basin worn in the rock. Here he had a good wash, taking off his clothes and shaking them well to get rid of the dust. Moreover, he washed his shirt too, after a fashion, hanging it over the brambles to dry, and then putting it on again, for he had no change of garments.

He had also contrived, by means of Tom's knife, which he borrowed, to make for himself a kind of substitute for a comb, out of a smooth bit of wood that he found. And with this, after dipping his head in the rock basin, and rubbing it well with his towel, he managed to scrape the tangles out of his thick locks, and reduce them to some sort of order. But still the boy felt ashamed of these miserable makeshifts, and yet more so that he should have for his constant companion anyone so dirty and warped—body and mind—as Tom Hughes. And he never ceased revolving in his mind plans for getting rid, once for all, of his companion, and finding his way back to Bristol, even if he had to tramp it barefoot all the way.

By this time the boys had learned—by talking with the people in the villages, who readily gave them all the information they could—that the cave in the wooded hill was called Hoyle's Mouth, and was supposed to be haunted. For labourers passing down the hill past the cavern at night had heard, they solemnly declared, strange noises proceeding from the depths of Hoyle's Mouth, most lamentable cries and howls, horrible laughter, and clanking of chains, with heavy blows, as of solid metal upon rock.

There was a tradition, the country folk said, that a succession of caves of various sizes led from Hoyle's Mouth to a passage which ran away underground for miles, until it merged in the well-known Hogan Cave, under the keep of Pembroke Castle. But there was no one who seemed able to verify this rumour; and as no one, on the other hand, would contradict it, the tradition only served to render the place more ghostly and uncanny, and to make Davey increasingly anxious to get away from it.

What the lad would have done, had the present state of things continued, it is impossible to say, for he was growing desperate, and had even thought seriously of giving himself up to the police, rather than live as he was doing now. But something happened about this time which turned the whole course of events into another channel, preparing Davey Coleman for yet greater changes and yet stranger experiences in the future.

CHAPTER VIII.

GHOSTS AND SPIES.

SOMEWHERE about twelve o'clock one night, Davey awoke quite suddenly from a deep and dreamless sleep. Strange sounds were in his ears, and a feeling of dread and sinking lay like a dead weight at his heart.

Around him all was dark, and through the narrow entrance to his tiny cell, he could perceive nothing. But sundry horrible and unaccountable noises were rudely breaking the silence of Hoyle's Mouth, and setting the lad's pulses beating hard and fast, till he felt sick and faint with their throbbing. Yes, there could be no doubt about it now; these were precisely the sounds of which the villagers had spoken; they had not lied—the place was really haunted. Hark! Yes—there were the doleful cries and howls that he and Tom had heard described; and the demoniac laughter in wild, mad bursts, and the rattling of fetters and chains, and the heavy blows—muffled as though by distance—but distinct notwithstanding, and followed by grievous shrieks and groans.

There could be nothing human in such a din as this, Davey thought. Surely nothing but ghosts, and very unhappy ghosts too, could give vent to such sounds as these! Quaking and trembling, Davey listened breathlessly.

The noises went on for a few minutes more, and then died away. But the boy fancied that at intervals still he could catch yet fainter and further sounds of rumbling and creaking, with shuffling as of several feet on a stone floor.

He lay there, afraid to move, shaking with fear and horror, and his teeth chattering with cold; for the autumn nights were growing chill, and he had nothing to cover him—exposed there on the bare rock—but his jacket.

Suddenly, however, he started up into a sitting posture, and began to sniff the air. Could it be? Was he not mistaken? No, there was a faint smell of smoke—wood smoke.

"Queer ghosts these!" said the boy to himself, plucking up courage as the homely, familiar odour, bringing back so many memories, pleasant and painful, filled his nostrils. "I never heard of them making fires, but maybe Welsh ghosts are chillier than others. I'm sure I'm cold enough for a Welsh ghost myself, and I only wish I could warm myself at that fire."

Davey sat quite still for a minute or so, thinking matters over. Then he got up, slipped on his jacket and boots, and peeped cautiously forth from his cell.

All was pitch dark, save where the moonlight, struggling through the tangle of gnarled branches, cast a weird, pale patch of light just across the threshold of Hoyle's Mouth, a wan radiance that left the rest of the outer cave in yet deeper shadow.

As Davey stood then, peering round-eyed into the darkness, he heard a whisper, and presently Tom stood beside him.

"Awake, Davey? Did you hear the row? What about that smoke? A cave can't be set afire like a ship's hold; what do you make of it?"

"I don't know what to make of it," said Davey in a hushed, frightened voice.

"Well, I'm going to have a look, and try and find out where it comes from," said Tom.

"Then I'll go too," said Davey.

And the two lads began to grope their way through the outer chamber of the cave towards a narrow passage, of which the villagers had told them, but which they had never yet found courage to explore.

On they went, but slowly and cautiously, with careful feet, and arms outstretched; for without light, it was not easy to keep from knocking up against the rocky projections in their way.

The smell of the burning wood, though still not strong, grew more distinct as they neared the passage, and it was evident that it came from that direction.

"Here's the entrance," whispered Tom; "the passage is very small, and we'll have to creep through. Now for it! And mind you don't speak once you're in!"

And getting down on his hands and knees, he crept in, followed by Davey.

The passage ended in a tiny chamber some six feet wide, as the boys could tell by a faint glimmer of light that seemed to come from another passage beyond, the entrance of which they could just see before them.

"Do you mean to go any further?" whispered Davey, with his lips close to Tom's ear.

"Why, yes; what's the use of getting so far only to turn back again? I'm not afraid of ghosts, leastways not when they've got light and fire. But you needn't come if you don't want to. You was always a bit of a coward," added Tom, scornfully.

"I'm not a coward, and I'm going if you are," replied Davey, indignantly.

And the two lads entered another long, low passage, down which they crept as before.

As they neared the end of this corridor, they saw whence the light had come that had served to guide their steps for the last part of the way. For through a rough doorway, which was only partially filled up by a wooden shutter laid lightly against the rocky opening, a warm, bright glow streamed forth—a glow of fire and of lamp, and in the air, mingling with the scent of the wood smoke, were the fumes of hot grog and tobacco. Then Tom, who had been creeping along upon hands and knees, raised himself cautiously to a standing posture, on the right side of the doorway, and peeped round the rough wall through the opening between the shutter and the rock into the next cave.

"What is it? Oh, Tom, what is it?" gasped Davey, as he saw his companion's face suddenly change, and his eyes open wide, staring with amazement and fear.

But Tom heard nothing. His attention was concentrated upon the scene before him, and he had eyes and ears for naught else.

"If you won't tell me," whispered Davey, "I'll see for myself."

And standing up on the left of the doorway, he, too, peered in through the wide chink on his side. But at that moment a sudden whiff of pungent smoke caught the boy's nose and throat, and he gave a violent sneeze, followed by a shrill shriek of horror at what he had done.

"Ha! What's that?" bellowed a deep bass voice. "Spies! Spies! Here, my men, ferret the sneaking lubbers out!"

And paralysed with fear, Davey dropped with his face to the ground.

CHAPTER IX.

CAPTURED BY THE GHOSTS.

THE first things that Davey dimly realised, were that the shutter in the rock doorway was thrown down inwards with a loud crash, and that he himself was being lifted by a pair of strong arms, as though he were a baby.

A moment later, he became conscious that he was set down in front of a big wood fire, and that several pairs of eyes were regarding him. His own wandered round bewildered at the suddenness of what had befallen him. He could hardly persuade himself that he was not in a dream, and he half fancied that he should wake up presently and find himself in his little cell in the outer chamber of Hoyle's Mouth.

"Now then, young shaver, when you're quite sure you'll know us all again next time you see us, perhaps you'll turn this way."

It was the big bass voice that spoke, and hearing it again, Davey felt quite sure that the mighty arms that had lifted him with such ease belonged to that voice. He pulled himself together, stood up straight, and tried to collect his thoughts.

"I'll answer any questions you please to ask me, sir," said he, "but I'd like to know what's become of Tom. Where's Tom, sir?"

The great big man with the deep bass voice gave a laugh that matched the rest of him.

"Come, come," said he, "you tell me you're ready to answer questions, and then, you young monkey, before I can get breath to ask you one, you begin to question me."

"Yes, sir," replied Davey; "I couldn't think what had become of Tom."

"And who may Tom be, my young man?"

"He's the boy that was with me looking in here when—when I sneezed, sir, and—and—the shutter fell down. We've been living together in the first cave."

"And how came you there?"

"We'd run away from home, sir, and we were mixed up in some—some scrapes that made us want to hide. And as we'd no money, we looked about for a place to sleep in, where we wouldn't have to pay rent, and we found Hoyle's Mouth, sir."

"Well, and how did you like it?"

"Not over well, sir."

"Ah, damp and cold, eh?"

"It wasn't so much that, sir, as that it was such a terrible ghosty place."

At this statement, made in all possible simplicity, a regular burst of laughter went round, beginning with the big-voiced man.

"That's good to hear, captain, ain't it?" said a rough-looking sailor, with a shaggy red head and beard. "It's always a satisfaction to know you've done what you tried to do."

Davey looked round the little group, and found the laughter rather infectious.

"Oh yes, I see now, of course," said he, chuckling a little hysterically. "It was all of you that did the noises we heard to-night?"

The big man addressed as captain nodded. "Yes," said he, "but if it's to bring folks ghost hunting, we'd better stop it."

"I wonder," said Davey, thoughtfully, "if you had anything to do with a dream, or ghost, or something that frightened me the other night?"

"Tell us what you saw," said the captain.

"Well," said Davey, "I thought I woke up in the night and saw a tall figure in black, with a burning torch in its hand, and it half cried and half sang some words as it stood by me."

"Can you remember the words?" asked a young man, with a very pale face and sad expression.

"I can remember some of them; they was something like these," said Davey:

   "'Woe to the evil-doers! And to them that lead the young astray. Behold, I am seeking, but I find him not—that son, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.'

"There was some more, but I've forgot them."

There was silence for a moment or two, then Davey said, "Was it a dream, please, sir, or did any of you do it?"

But the captain did not at once reply. His eyes were fixed upon the young fellow who sat near him, and who had asked Davey the last question. The youth had covered his pale, sad face with both his thin hands, and was sitting silent, with bowed head.

"No, my lad," he said at last, "that wasn't our doing; most likely it was a dream. But now let's—"

Just then there was a sound of footsteps and voices, and a man in sailor's clothes entered, dragging by the collar Tom Hughes.

DRAGGING BY THE COLLAR TOM HUGHES.

"Ah, Ben!" cried the captain. "So you've got him?"

"Ay, sir, and a tough job I've had, too," replied Ben, a tall, muscular fellow, with a stubbly beard growing round his cheeks and chin. "For of all the artful, slippery, dodging sarpints, this lad's the worst. And but for his not knowing all the ins and outs of the caves and passages as well as me, in the dark, he'd have won clear at last, spite of all I could do."

"Well, as you've got me now," said Tom, sullenly, "and I'm not going to run away again just this minute—seeing that I'm out of breath—you might stop choking a fellow, I think."

"So this is the companion you were inquiring about, my lad?" said the captain to Davey. "Well, I wish you joy of him! Now then, you, Tom what's your name, I want your story! Speak up like a man, and try to tell the truth, though that'll be a hard matter I fancy, from the look of you."

Thus encouraged, Tom, always glib of tongue, began, nothing loth, one of his harrowing tales, which had so often drawn, as by magic, the coins from the pockets of kindly, credulous folks. But he had not gone far before an uproarious laugh rang echoing through the cave; and the captain said—

"That won't do, my man! Try again."

Nothing abashed, Tom recommenced on an entirely different tack. But once more he was unceremoniously stopped, just as he was describing in detail a pathetic conversation between himself and a wicked stepmother (conjured into existence for the occasion), whom his patience and goodness (according to his own modest account) at last melted to tears of repentance.

"Thank you! This is wonderful interesting, but not at all what we want," said the captain, with a warning note in his voice, like a roll of a big bass drum. "I see it's no use going to you for the truth; you don't keep it in stock."

"Well then," retorted Tom, as impudent as ever, "if you've done with me, maybe you'll let me go. I'm not at all anxious to stay here," he added in a stagey voice, "having duties that calls me elsewhere."

"I'm sorry to stand in the way of such duties as yours must be," said the captain, grimly, "but I have my ideas of duty too. However, as I'd be glad to be quit of you for half an hour or so, while I talk with the small boy—here, Ben, just take this Tom out, and put him in the safe for a bit."

"The safe?" repeated Tom, trying to hide his fear and anxiety by speaking in a mocking, jeering tone—"I must be a precious treasure indeed, if you've got to keep me in a safe."

"And so you are, my boy," replied Ben, "you are indeed—a precious treasure—dear, I should say, at any price."

"You're not going to put Tom away in an iron box, are you, sir?" asked Davey, as Tom was dragged out, kicking and struggling.

"No, no; of course not. It's only a cave that we call a safe, because, having only one entrance, we can make it quite secure. But now, youngster, you haven't told me your name."

"Davey Coleman, sir."

"And you come from?"

"A village near Bristol."

Then, encouraged by the captain's kindly manner, Davey began at the beginning, and told his story, hiding none of his own grievous faults, but giving the whole truth quite simply, and without even excusing himself. And the captain and his men listened attentively, only asking a brief question now and again.

At last Davey finished by adding confidingly, "And now, please, sir, do you think you could put me in the way of getting home again? For that's what I want to do. My uncle and aunt must be very anxious about me."

The captain shook his head, with an odd smile, and one of the men said—

"My heart alive! What does he take us for?"

"Not for what we are!" said the young fellow with the sad face. "Be sure of that."

"No! Johnnie," responded the captain, "that remains for him to learn."

CHAPTER X.

THE SMUGGLER BAND.

"THAT remains for him to learn, and the sooner the better," said the captain, "for some of us must be out of this before daylight. But first we must make up our minds what to do with these boys.

"To keep them with us," he continued, "is, of course, a dangerous experiment, but to let them go might be ruin; for if they set out to explain the ghostly noises of Hoyle's Mouth, we should have the Preventive men down on us in no time. We were fools to lay ourselves open to surprise by not blocking up this cavern entrance completely with stones, since the other is all we use. But it seemed safe enough, such a long, winding way as it is from the big outer cave! Who'd have thought of spies coming? And after such a noise, too, as we'd been making, quite as much as we ever make at any time we're here, to frighten people away."

"Well, captain, and what think you to do with these lads?" asked Red Beard.

"I'd like to hear what any of you may have to say," replied the captain.

"Boys is a terrible nuisance," said Ben, feelingly; "they're always more bother to look after than any other living crittur. Still, letting these go is too great a risk to run. So I vote we keep the lads, captain, and bind them fast by the promises and threats we're all bound by."

"Yes," said the pale-faced youth called Johnnie, "I don't see that we can help ourselves."

Red Beard and the others seeming to be of the same mind, it was settled that the boys should join the band.

"Now, Ben Rait, fetch in that Tom," said the captain, "and I'll tell him what he's got to do, and this boy here can attend to all that's said, and take his turn later."

So Tom was fetched in, looking somewhat subdued. His native impudence had yielded a little to fear, and he had, for him, almost a pensive expression, which sat awkwardly upon his misshapen features.

"P'raps, after a little quiet thought in the safe," remarked the captain, pleasantly, "you may have guessed what our business is, as I can see you're a knowing card enough. But in case you don't yet quite understand, I'll just tell you, Tom. What's your name?"

"Hughes—Thomas Hughes, sir."

"Well, look here, Thomas Hughes, we're smugglers—free traders, if that's a better name. We've got a tidy craft of our own, and a hold for right goods, and a false bottom for the contraband, such as spirits, and lace, and scents, and tobacco."

"Good lack!" exclaimed Tom. "What fun!"

"Not always, young man; not always, by a long way!" replied the captain, drily. "There's hardship in it, and there's danger in it too, but you'll learn all that by experience soon enough. Well, to make things plain in a few words, we don't all live here in this cave when we come back from our voyages. Two of us stay in the cave sometimes, but the rest go to our homes and families, while we're on land, except those nights when we've goods to store; then we come here—as to-night.

"You see, Tom Hughes," he continued, "I make no secret of our business, for, as you're one of us, you're bound to know what we're about. I don't ever buy a pig in a poke myself, nor I won't let others do it neither. So now it's clear to you how matters stand, and you must solemnly promise me three things. First, that you will obey orders, and do, without question, anything that is required of you; secondly, that you will not try to escape; and thirdly, that you will never turn informer and traitor, and betray us or the secrets of the cave. We have a rule as to certain penalties and punishments for anyone who breaks his solemn promise and vow, but I won't mention it now, and I hope, for your own sake, you will never come to know anything about it through any fault of your own. Now, Tom Hughes, if you engage to do all I've said, sign your name here," and then the captain produced a book, a quill, and an inkhorn, and pushed the rough deal table from a corner where it was standing, to the centre of the cave.

So Tom signed, binding himself without a compunction, without a scruple, to this new life from which he might well have shrunk, even at first sight. He then laid down the quill, and turned away with his chin in the air, and a complacent smirk on his face, as if to say, "Here am I! Look at me! I belong to a band of bold men, and there's not one of them that's braver and cleverer than me. Dear me, yes, Tom Hughes will make his mark yet!"

"Here, Ben," called the captain, "you've shown yourself a good nabber of spies and a good jailor. Now, I want you to be lady's maid to that dirty young rascal. Take him to the spring cave and give him a thorough scrub, and cut off all his hair, and find him some clean clothes. He can't be one of us and go round looking as dirty as he does now. If we're poor," and here the captain grinned—"at least, as the little story-books say, we're scrupulously clean."

"All right, sir," said Ben, and laying his iron grasp on the shoulder of the reluctant Tom, he led him away protesting wildly against this hard condition of his captivity.

"And now, Davey Coleman, it's your turn!" said the big man.

And Davey, who had been listening and making up his mind, felt that his turn had come indeed.

CHAPTER XI.

IN FOR IT.

"YOU'VE heard all that's been said, Davey Coleman," said the captain, "but to make sure of your understanding it, I'll put the questions before you once more.

"Now—to begin with. Do you solemnly promise to obey orders?"

"Yes, sir," replied Davey, readily; "leastways, so long as you don't tell me to do anything that's wrong. You see, sir," he added, as he looked wonderingly round at the amused faces of the men—"I've done a fair lot of shady things lately, or stood by and, seen them done—and I'm not going to do any more."

"That's a queer sort of obedience you're promising," remarked the captain. "But now for question number two! Will you pledge me your word not to betray us? You've done the spy and found us out. To be an informer is only a step further," and the big man's voice sounded threatening.

"I'll promise with all my heart, never, never to betray you. And as for acting the spy, sir, me and Tom heard noises, and wanted to see what made them. How could we tell that the ghosts were smugglers, and that the noise was made to keep people away? I'm not a spy, and I wouldn't be an informer for anything. Please believe me, sir, it's gospel truth."

"What do you think, Johnnie—may we trust him?"

"I'll be surety for the boy, captain," replied Johnnie. "I believe he means fair."

"I do, indeed I do," cried Davey.

"And what do you say, my men?" asked the captain.

"Boys is a terrible nuisance, as Ben would say," remarked Red Beard, "but I don't think this little shaver's going to give us much trouble. Don't make him sign at all, captain; he's told us fair and square enough all he means to do and not to do, and I vote we let him go. He ain't like that Tom Cat that Ben's engaged with. There's not one of us as won't have to keep an eye on 'him;' he's a black one in more ways than one."

"He'll be several shades lighter by the time Ben's done with him," laughed the captain.

"When do we sail?" asked Spankle, a tall, middle-aged man with sly, greenish eyes, and a constant smile.

"To-morrow morning," replied the captain, "or rather this morning, for we're well into the small hours now."

"Do you take the Tom Cat with you, sir?" inquired Red Beard.

"Yes, I daren't leave him behind."

"And Davey Coleman?"

"Davey stays here with Johnnie and Ben."

"Mayn't I stay instead of Ben this time, captain?" asked Spankle. "I'm sure it's my turn to lie by ashore. 'Taint fair to put more work on one than an—"

"Silence!" thundered the captain, interrupting the grumbler by turning and sternly confronting him. "I allow no complaining and no interference. It's a mark of special confidence when I trust a man to stay behind here instead of sailing with me, and it will be time enough for you to ask for the privilege when you've acted so as to deserve it."

Spankle did not dare reply to the captain's sharp rebuke, but his little sly, green-grey eyes flashed fire for a moment, and his fixed smile looked far more wicked than a frown.

The captain turned to Johnnie.

"Go, Johnnie," said he, "and see if Ben has got through with Tom, for it's time we were moving. The tide will be high now, and the boat afloat at our back door."

Johnnie disappeared, but came back in a minute, followed by Ben and Tom, the latter so changed in appearance that Davey hardly knew him. His skin was clean and clear, his hair cropped close to his head, and he was dressed in a loose, rough sailor suit, which somewhat hid his deformity. He looked very sulky and cross, however, and made no answer when the captain said laughingly—

"Come, come, Thomas Hughes, you've walked out of Ben Rait's hands as taut and trim as you can be, and you do him vast credit, I will say. Now bid good-bye to Davey, and come along with me."

"Say good-bye to Davey?" repeated Tom. "Why, isn't Davey going too? Then I won't neither; me and him shall stay behind together."

"What! Another?" roared the captain. "Any more mutineering and my cat-o'-nine-tails will teach you what's what, you rascal! Now hold your tongue, and follow Red Beard and Spankle and the rest. No! You needn't look out for Ben; he's not coming; you'll have to wash yourself in future, and if you don't do it proper, I'll have you swabbed down with my deck every morning, till you learn to mend your manners. Good-night, Davey, boy! Good-night to you, Ben and Johnnie! Lie close, and don't be going out in the daytime, unless it's to places where you're not known, and then only for real need and good reason."

"I'd like to come and see you off in the boat, if I might," said Davey, "though how a boat can get near this place I can't imagine. Why, there's no water anywhere within a mile of it, is there?"

"That's all you know about it," replied the captain, "but you may come with us if you wish, and see where we keep our back door; and Johnnie, you'd better come too, for Davey would never find his way home alone."

So saying, the captain, carrying a lantern, joined his men in the corridor outside the second entrance to the large cave, this second opening being exactly opposite to the one through which Tom and Davey had played spy.

Davey followed, holding Johnnie's arm, for the way was full of stones and very unequal. Down the narrow winding corridor the little procession went, through cave after cave, some lofty and roomy, some very small; through great arched tunnels where stalactites hung like icicles, and water dripped from springs in the rocks above.

On went the little company along the winding way, but Davey noticed that all these caves and passages led more or less down-hill, and at last a blast of fresh, sweet, cool air proved to Davey that they were nearing the end of their underground journey.

Another moment and they stood on a little platform of rock, almost at the head of a small creek or inlet of the sea. This ran up a narrow cleft in the cliff, which just here jutted out into a bold headland, at whose base, even at low tide, there was no beach, but only a narrow line of rough, jagged rocks. The tide was at flood, and a boat moored to the platform was heaving gently up and down.

"There," said the captain, in a hushed voice, "this is our back door, and here there's no admittance except on business. No one knows of it but ourselves, and even the Preventive men can't see us here, the place is so sheltered under the cliff. Now Tom, tumble in. There's a place in the bow where you can sit. Now my men, give way; the tide's just on the turn, and will carry us out easy."

CHAPTER XII.

THE GHOST AGAIN.

JOHNNIE and Davey watched the retreating boat in its noiseless progress until it was lost to sight in the darkness. Then they moved back from the stone platform into the low entrance of the cave, and, from the inside, rolled up two or three pieces of rock, till every sign of an opening in the cliff was gone.

Then carrying the captain's lantern with one hand, and holding Davey's arm with the other, Johnnie, with his companion, walked back to the big cave, where they found the fire replenished and Ben very busy getting ready a meal, though whether it was to serve as supper or breakfast was not quite clear. But, happily, that did not matter.

A good long sleep refreshed Davey, and after dinner on the following day, he helped Johnnie and Ben to wash the rock floor and sprinkle clean dry sand on it, after which he lent a hand in various little jobs.

But as it got dark, and Ben was thinking about filling up the entrance nearest to Hoyle's Mouth in the wood, Johnnie said—

"Before we roll up that rock, I'd like just to go with you, Davey, to the cave where you and Tom used to sleep, and where you saw the ghost. I haven't been there for a long while, and I wonder if things are just as they used to be."

"I wouldn't go if I was you, Johnnie," said Ben, with a significant emphasis in his looks and his words. "It can't do no good, whatever happens. Don't go!"

But Johnnie seemed to have a strange longing to go, and Ben, after once more trying to dissuade him from it, at last ceased speaking.

So Johnnie lighted the lantern, and he and Davey set out, keeping their eyes and ears well open for fear of surprise, though, indeed, there was little chance of this. Pleasure-seekers and explorers never came after dusk, and as for the peasants in the neighbourhood, they avoided the vicinity of Hoyle's Mouth, never approaching it except under necessity, for fear of meeting the ghosts, whose horrible noises some of them had heard from time to time.

Carefully picking their way, Davey and Johnnie went slowly on, till they reached the narrow passage which led right into the great outer cave. Here Davey took the ring of the lantern between his teeth and crawled into and through the little corridor, followed by Johnnie.

But just as they were about to emerge, and get into a standing posture, Davey caught sight of a tall, black-draped form, that he recognised at a glance as the ghost of his supposed dream. As before, it was carrying a kind of torch, or flaming brand of wood, and it glided hither and thither, with the old chanting, monotonous cry, varied a little, but in substance the same.

   "Woe to them! Woe to those who lead the young astray! The wrath of God shall overtake them! I seek, but I find not, him whom my soul loveth. Oh, my son! My son! The only son of his mother, and she was a widow."

On first perceiving the figure, Davey had closed the lantern, and now he remained perfectly still while the wandering ghost glided hither and thither, waving the torch, and peering into the dark corners and rocky cells, as though making diligent search.

"Do you see, Johnnie?" whispered Davey softly over his shoulder. "There it is again; it was no dream after all, was it?"

There came no answer from Johnnie, but a gasp and smothered groan, which made Davey wonder.

"Surely he isn't frightened!" he said to himself. "Why, even 'I'm' not that this time."

But suddenly there was a sound of footsteps, and of voices in the wood outside the cave.

"Tiresome old crittur!" said a woman's voice, in high-pitched, nasal tones. "She must have come to this dreadful place again! She's always running here, whenever we leave her alone for a couple of hours. Why, she ran away in the night a little while ago, and never got back till nigh upon two in the morning, and a fine state I was in about her, to be sure!"

"What on earth does she do it for?" asked a man's voice, as the couple paused on the threshold of the cave.

"Do it for? Why, she's mad, of course; perfectly stark, staring mad."

Upon the faces of the new-comers the fitful torchlight flickered redly, now and then, as they stood there, but the ghost seemed to take no notice of them.

"Come along, old gal!" shouted the woman. "You won't find nothing in that place. Such a hunt as I've had for you!"

The black figure turned a long, white face upon the speaker, and cried:

   "But my son, my son!"

"All right, come with me and look for him! Maybe he's at the bottom of the hill, or p'raps he's gone home. One must humour her, or she'd stay here all night," added the woman aside to her companion. "Such a place as it is too! And the noise, they do say, is dreadful sometimes, when the ghosts go to work. Ah, now she's coming! Come along then, Liza, there's a good soul. Come home along of old 'Tilda."

The tall figure glided to the threshold of the cave, where a hand took from her the torch. The woman went on one side of the poor mad creature, the man on the other, and Davey heard the woman say—

"I'm sure I'm much obligated to you for coming with me to look for her, Mat Barnes, for I dursn't come here by myself, and my husband (the brother of this poor crittur here) is ill in bed to-day."

Then the three moved slowly off together down the wooded hill.

But Davey, as he scrambled out of the low passage, and made his way to the opening of the cave, heard once more the mournful, haunting cry borne on the wind, that rustled the drying leaves of the trees in the wood,—

   "Woe to them! Woe!"

"Oh, Ben, to think of me seeing my ghost again!" said Davey, when he and Johnnie found their way back into the warm, bright cave where Ben was sitting.

"No, did you, my boy?" replied Ben, speaking to Davey, but looking beyond at Johnnie, who stood near the fire.

"Yes, Ben," Davey went on, "and a man and a woman came to the mouth of the cave to look for the ghost, and the woman called it Old Gal, and said it was her husband's sister, and quite mad. So you can see it's only a woman, after all, and now I'm sure there's no such things as ghosts. Some turn out to be smugglers, and some are mad people, but the real ghost isn't to be found, and—"

Here Davey paused and glanced at Johnnie. The young man turned and showed a ghastly face.

"What is it, Johnnie? Are you ill?" cried the boy anxiously, for Johnnie and he had already come to be good friends, and the sight of that suffering face was painful to him. "Oh, Ben, do look at Johnnie!"

But by this time, Johnnie had covered his face with his hands, and was crying as though his heart would break.

"Oh, my poor dear! My poor old dear," he sobbed; "and my hands are tied and I can do nothing for you! God Almighty, help and comfort my poor, poor dear!"

CHAPTER XIII.

WHO WAS THE GHOST?

IN the course of the next few days, during which Johnnie and Davey were much thrown together, the former related his story—a story which explained all that was mysterious about the wandering ghost of Hoyle's Mouth; a tale so very sad, that Davey ceased to wonder at the expression of the young man's face.

Johnnie's father—George Grey—had been a bad man, who, after a wild life, had at last died in prison, leaving nothing but debts behind him. His widow and son set to work to try to pay these debts, but their joint earnings hardly did more than enable them to live. Then the poor woman was taken ill with brain fever and removed to a hospital, where she remained for many weeks. When she recovered, her mind and body were alike so sadly weakened, that she was unable any longer to work for a living.

It was just at this time of trouble that the proprietor and captain of the schooner "Dart" offered to Johnnie Grey a berth on board his vessel. And when the young man answered that his object, if he changed his employment at all, would be only to increase his earnings, and that his wages as a sailor would be no more than he was making at present, Captain Smythe (who had known Johnnie for some time, and liked him) hinted that there was other money coming in, as the sailors, one and all, were entitled to a percentage on the profits of certain goods. The captain did not openly speak of smuggling as a part of his business, but his hints were so broad, that Johnnie could not mistake them.

For a time the youth hesitated to enter upon what he rightly guessed was an unlawful and a dishonest calling. But at last the thought of being able to keep his mother in some sort of comfort, and perhaps even to pay his father's debts, induced him to join the smuggler band. This, of course, necessitated his separating from his mother, and seeing her only now and then: and the parting from her son and from the home where they had lived together, seemed to give the last blow to a mind already shattered. She became quite crazy, being under the delusion that Johnnie had been enticed away by the evil companions who had helped to ruin her husband.

In her madness, she was always looking for him, especially in any out-of-the-way places, where she thought he might be hiding. And, indeed, it startled Johnnie sometimes to find that, mad as she was, an inkling of the truth appeared now and again to flash across her poor, darkened consciousness. Johnnie had placed her with her brother and his wife, but she often wandered away in her strange quest, and gave a good deal of trouble to those in charge of her.

It was in spite of the warnings of his conscience that Johnnie had joined Captain Smythe's band, and since doing so he had never been able to regain his peace of mind. He had known well enough that he was doing wrong, and, though he did evil that good might come, the evil was there present with him all the time, while the good had proved to be more than doubtful.

Bound hand and foot by his vows to the smuggler band, he was not able personally to look after his mother's well-being, and he never was happy about her, for he could not be sure that his aunt was always kind to her, or that the poor woman received all the attention and the little comforts for which he paid.

In the eyes of the world Johnnie was simply one of the sailors belonging to the schooner "Dart," as smart a little trading vessel as was ever seen in or out of Carmarthen Bay. The young fellow, too, was supposed to live on board the ship, unless, indeed, as happened sometimes, the captain sent him on shore to help Ben Rait in delivering goods.

As for Ben himself, it was easier for him. He had a home at Penally, and his wife was in the secret and helped him. Ben was the captain's oldest hand and confidant, and to him was intrusted the greater portion of the smuggled goods, which he disposed of in various directions with much skill and secrecy, handing over the proceeds to Captain Smythe, who made a fair division of the profits, giving to each man his share.

These, with many other particulars of the smugglers' life and work, Davey came to know; and the more he heard, the more he felt convinced that this life was not for him, and that sooner or later he must separate himself from company and associations so dangerous both to soul and body.

Meanwhile, however, he was living quietly with Johnnie in the cave, seeing no one else but Ben, and him only occasionally. He had not once, so far, been asked to do anything against his sense of right, but had only helped with the little everyday duties of keeping things clean in the cave, cooking the simple meals, or in the evenings gathering drift-wood which was washed up the creek sometimes in considerable quantities, and when dried made bright fires, and had the advantage of costing nothing.

Davey was the more restful and content during this quiet time spent in the cave for the relief of being separated from Tom, whose presence had become intolerable to him. That wrong-doing brings its own punishment, Davey had proved to his cost. His wilful and disobedient choice of a companion when he ran away to the fair at Bristol had become a daily chastisement to him, and was, moreover, a warning ever before his eyes, showing him how utterly hateful sin could make a soul and body, and to what he himself might come if he indulged in wrong-doing.

But an end to the lad's quiet and peace was at hand.

One night Ben came in to say that the "Dart" was riding at anchor just under Caldy Island, and would be coming up with the tide and unloading some of her cargo in Tenby harbour next morning. This would not take long, but she had one or two other places to call at, after which she was to return to the Caldy anchorage for the night. Thence a boat would be sent across between ten and twelve, with such contraband goods as the "Dart" had brought.

Captain Smythe had invited two coastguards-men, whose stations were on the cliff not far from the creek, to sup with him at the "Family Coach," just outside Penally, so the coast would be clear, and the boat might steal up the creek unobserved, and discharge at the platform in perfect safety.

When the purposes of the captain's hospitality had been served, and the goods safely stowed in the cave, he said good-night to his guests, found his way down to the shore, and gave the cry of the night-hawk as a signal that he was ready for his boat. In a few moments, the boat appeared round a rocky point, and the men pulled in for him, and then headed for the creek, landing him at the back door of Hoyle's Mouth.

"I've only a few minutes to stay," said Captain Smythe, as he came upon Johnnie and Davey, who had been helping Ben to stow away goods, "but I wanted just to tell you that we're sailing again in a very few days' time, and that you're both to go with us this voyage. But meanwhile, Davey, I've a little errand for you."

"Yes, sir," replied Davey; "I'll be very glad indeed, sir, provided—"

"Provided what?" questioned the captain, a little roughly.

Davey made an effort, and spoke out manfully. "Provided, sir, it ain't anything that will make me wish afterwards I hadn't done it."

"I'm the judge of that," said the captain, curtly. "Now hear what I've got to say."

CHAPTER XIV.

A BRAVE "NO."

"DO you know your way to Tenby from here, David Coleman," began Captain Smythe, "or don't you?"

"Yes, sir, I think I do," replied Davey, wondering what was coming next.

"Are you known there at all?"

"No, sir, I can't be. Me and Tom Hughes was together in Tenby, but only for an hour or two. Folks might know him again, but not me, I think."

"Well, my lad, Johnnie here has given me such a good character of you, that I'm going to trust you with a little bit of business that I wouldn't give to everybody."

"Yes, sir," said Davey, smiling.

"And mind you, my lad, if you do my commission quick and clever, as a boy should, I'll take care you shan't go unrewarded."

"Thank you, sir, you're very good to me," replied Davey, gratefully. "When would you like me to go?"

"To-morrow about dusk, my boy, and I'll give you all your directions now, as I may not be in again just yet. First of all, Johnnie will find you a basket and some straw. Then Ben will give you a dozen bottles of Hollands, and you and Johnnie must pack them carefully in the straw. On the top there is to be a layer of empty wine bottles, and if the constable or anyone should happen to ask you what you've got there, you're to say empty bottles, that are being returned to Mr. Owen Griffiths, of High Street. When you get there with the basket, ask to see the master himself—not his man, mind. And say you've brought Captain Smythe's empty bottles, and is there anything to go back? Then if he says, 'But how do I know that you're really Captain Smythe's messenger?' you'll say—

"'Tis the Dutchmen knows what's what,
  And they likes their bottles squat.'

"Then he'll empty your basket, and you must bring it back, and come by the wood entrance, and knock at the rock that's put up there, and Johnnie or Ben will let you in. Now, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir, but—"

"Now, no words about it!" said the captain, frowning. "What I've told you to do is easy enough."

"Yes, sir, it's quite easy, but mayn't I just ask you a question?" said Davey.

"Make haste, then, for I'm in a hurry," said the captain.

"Please, sir, why am I to say I've got only empty bottles (suppose I'm asked), when most of them in the basket is full ones?"

"Why, so that they mayn't be looked at, or any way, not below the top layer, of course," replied Captain Smythe, coolly. "Mr. Owen Griffiths is one of my customers, but he and I wouldn't care to have all Tenby know it. He happens just now to be out of this special sort of spirit, and so I want to send him a little to go on with. Now are you satisfied."

"Please, sir," said Davey, "I can't do this errand for you."

"What?" exclaimed the captain. "After keeping you in idleness all this time, you ungrateful young puppy. I didn't expect this of you, after all my kindness."

Davey's face worked, and his eyes filled; he had hard work to keep from crying.

"Oh, sir," he murmured, with trembling lips, "there's nothing I wouldn't do for you, if only you'd asked me to serve you some other way. Indeed, I'm not ungrateful, as you think. But if I'm going to start afresh, I can't have nothing to do with smuggled goods and the secrets of them. I'm very thankful for what you've done for me, Captain Smythe, but I can't—"

"Do the only thing that would in some sort repay me—eh!" said the captain, angrily. "Well, then, I'll just tell you what I mean to do with you. You shall stay here in this cave—a close prisoner—until the 'Dart' sails, and then I'll just take you over to France, or Belgium, or the Hook of Holland, and put you ashore there. Then, maybe, I can at least stop your blabbing all my secrets at home."

"He won't blab, sir," interposed Johnnie, who had not spoken hitherto. "He promises never to betray us, and Davey will keep his promise."

"I mean to keep it, sir; indeed I do," said Davey.

For all answer, Captain Smythe turned on his heel.

"See that the young scamp doesn't go out alone, Johnnie. Keep this entrance blocked up (he can't move the rock alone), and never leave the back door open, except at high tide. Do you hear?"

"Yes, sir," said Johnnie.

Then, when the captain was gone, the young man said, "Well, Davey, you've got yourself into a nice mess now, though you may be right, after all."

"I must get out of this somehow," said the lad.

"You can't," replied Johnnie. "You heard my orders; I daren't disobey them. By the bye, can you swim?"

"Not a stroke, Johnnie."

"Then you're as much a prisoner as if you were in gaol," said Johnnie; "there's no way out for you by land or sea."

Davey made no reply.

But that night, long after Johnnie was asleep, Davey was deep in thought, wondering how to make his escape. For hours he tossed restlessly, but towards morning a bright idea struck him, and he lay pondering it in his mind.

CHAPTER XV.

DAVEY'S BRIGHT IDEA.

THE next day, after dark, the captain unexpectedly turned up, and stayed talking with Johnnie Grey for quite half an hour. It was one of Captain Smythe's little ways to take people thus by surprise. He sat down by the fire, for the evening was chill, but he took no notice whatever of Davey.

The boy, however, was too full of his own thoughts to heed the slight, nor did he listen at all to the conversation between the captain and Johnnie, until, the mention of Tom's name arresting his attention, he looked up from the fishing-net that he was mending by the light of an oil-lamp in the corner, and caught these words, spoken by the captain—

"The thing I like least," said he musingly, "is the queer sort of friendship that's sprung up between Tom and Spankle. Now, as you know, Spankle's the only one of my crew that I've never felt quite sure of, and I don't half care for him and the lad to be so thick as they are. However, they can't do much harm so long as they're aboard of the ship, and on shore we must all keep an eye on them. Spankle's none too straight, of that I'm certain, but self-interest will most likely keep him true to us. As for that Tom Cat, I don't believe one could find the young villain's match anywhere. We've made a poor bargain with both these lads; they're bad eggs—both of them."

So saying, and with a lowering glance at Davey, Captain Smythe nodded good-night to Johnnie, and went his way, lantern in hand, to the back door, where the small boat, in charge of Ben Rait, was waiting for them.

On the following evening, Johnnie had occasion to go out on some business for the captain, for he—next to Ben—was the most trusted of all the crew.

"I shan't be home till you're asleep, Davey," said Johnnie. "The boat will bring me round to the back door, for there's an extra high tide to-night, and there'll be no difficulty in getting up the creek. The turn of the tide should come at ten, but I shall be in about eleven or half-past, and long before the water goes down too much. Why, it's up even now, and getting on for two feet deep at the platform, though it's only eight o'clock as yet. That entrance is open, and it had better stay so, Davey. I'll fasten it up when I come home. Good-night, my boy."

"Good-night—good-bye—Johnnie," said the lad, looking into Johnnie's face with glistening eyes. "You've been very good to me, Johnnie, and I won't forget it. Thank you for all."

"Now, then, youngster, what's all this about?" said Johnnie, looking wonderingly at Davey's flushed face and moistened eyes. "It isn't a long parting, you know, youngster; I shall be back in two or three hours."

"Yes, Johnnie," was all Davey could say.

And Johnnie went away, down through all the windings of the caves towards the promontory, where the caves ended and the creek began.

As soon as he was gone, Davey hurried to the great pile of wood which stood in the corner, not far from the hearth. A hammer and some nails, with other tools, lay about on a flat slab of rock, which served the men as a carpenter's bench.

Davey selected some strong pieces of plank, and nailed them firmly together criss-cross in raft fashion. Then he gathered from among the drift-wood bundles of dry branches and sticks, and tied them securely with string, afterwards nailing them to his plank-raft to make it more buoyant.

From a flat piece of wood he shaped a rude paddle, and then he searched among the rubbish in the wood pile, till he found an old broom-handle, which he remembered picking up in the creek-bed one evening, some days ago, and for which now he thought to find a use.

His next step was to take off the clothes he was wearing—some that the captain had given him—and to dress himself in his own old garments—all but his boots, which he meant to leave behind.

Then he got hold of a pencil of Johnnie's and scrawled on the deal table the words,—

   "'Good-bye again, dear J., I'm off.'"

The raft was quite a small affair, and light enough for Davey to carry easily, and now he took it on his back, and went groping along through the dark corners and passages down to the water's edge. The boy knew well enough that so small a raft as he had constructed could not possibly serve instead of a boat, or support his weight if he sat upon it. But it might, he thought and hoped, keep him from sinking, and enable him to get round the point of the cliff, and into the wide sandy bay on the other side of it, where he could paddle into shoal water, and wading ashore, make his way into Tenby across the sand hills, or by the strip of beach which was above high-water mark.

He had brought some strong cord with him from the cave, and now he lashed his little raft, like a rude shield to his waist and chest, in such a position that when his legs were in the water, the upper part of his body would be supported by the wood.

CHAPTER XVI.

A QUEER VOYAGE.

DAVEY had now made all his preparations, and was ready to embark.

Young though he was, the lad had too much common sense to feel over sanguine as to the result of his experiment. He could not forget that he ran a great risk of losing his life, in spite of all his precautions. He had never tried anything like this wooden support before, and it might prove insufficient to keep him afloat. Or again, the currents, which were strong with swift eddies on that part of the coast, might seize and sweep him out to sea, or the waves might dash him to death against the rocks outside the point.

Any one of these things might happen to him, and he thought them all over as quietly and calmly as he could, while he stood strapped to his raft, on the platform, which was now more than half covered by the flowing tide.

"Yes, it's a great risk," said the boy to himself, "but there's no other way of getting off from Hoyle's Mouth, and so I'm bound to run the risk. And if worst comes to worst, and I'm killed, even that will be better than to live always with these smugglers, or perhaps be caught and punished at last. Yes—there's nothing for it—I must make this venture."

For a moment more he stood there, alone in the night, by the dark waters of the deepening creek, with the pale stars looking down upon him from the sky. With a sudden reverent impulse, he doffed his cap, and looking upward, committed himself, in a few simple, childish words, to his Father in Heaven, to that love and power in the faith of which he had been brought up, and to which, in his repentance, he had come back with the old sweet belief.

Then, grasping his paddle firmly in his right hand, and the broom-handle in the left, he stepped into the creek, waded on and out into deep water, then threw himself forward, kicking out with his feet, and also propelling himself with his paddle.

To his delight, he floated in that position quite easily, and until he emerged from the creek he had little or no difficulty. But as he came towards the point of rock and encountered the broken waves, his real trouble and danger began. He found there was no risk at all of his sinking, for the raft-shield kept him up; but he had not calculated for his being tumbled and rolled about in the wash of the surf, till he was dazed and half choked.

Still, the boy did not lose his presence of mind; between the waves, he used his paddle to get on as quickly as he could, and his broom-handle stood him in good stead in keeping him off the rocks. Happily there was no wind, and the sea was not rough, or the little voyager would have had but small chance of his life.

As it was—the point was rounded at last, and he found himself floating in quiet, sheltered water, and borne onwards, without any effort of his own, by the rising tide. It was only now, when he was no longer fighting for his life, that he realised how cold the water was, and that his feet and legs were quite benumbed. But already he had touched the sandy bottom of the firm white beach, and now, on his hands and knees, he crawled out of the sea, further and further, till he was above high-water mark, at the base of the sand hills which rounded the bay from cliff to cliff. Here he untied the wet, clinging lashings by which he was bound to the raft, and threw himself down exhausted.

Presently he roused himself, stripped off his clothes, and put them about on the sand to dry, placing stones on them to prevent their being blown away should the wind rise. Next, he scooped out with his hands a great hole in the dry sand of the sand hill, and got into it, covering himself thickly, from chin to toes, with the sand that he had dug out. And there, close and snug as a hare in her form, or a rabbit in its warren, he gradually grew warm with a delicious glow, and presently fell fast asleep.

When Davey awoke, the sun was rising, and over St. Catherine's Mount to the eastward the sky was flushing red, while the isle of Caldy and its rugged sister, St. Margaret's, looked in the shining morning mist, like some strange enchanted land whose beauties were veiled for a while, only to be revealed in their full glory at the appearing of the sun.

Feeling rather stiff and sore, but with a heart overflowing with thankfulness, Davey heaved up the sand, making a small earthquake as he did so, and after giving himself a shake, proceeded to dress, his clothes having dried during the night.

It was only when he was just ready, that a gnawing pain reminded him that he was hungry, and set him wondering where and how, without a friend in Tenby, or a penny in his pocket, he was to get bite or sup to keep body and soul together.

"Well," said he to himself, as he started off at a good pace across the Burrows towards the high, bold, rocky peninsula upon which stood the town of Tenby—"as I've got so far, I suppose I'll get my food somehow. And, any way, it'll never do to be downhearted now; so here goes for a climb!"

CHAPTER XVII.

A MILKMAN TO THE RESCUE.

WHEN Davey made his way up the cliff, he found that the pretty little town of Tenby was still asleep. The streets were deserted, save by a slinking cat or two and a few rakish-looking sparrows. The grand old walls and the five-arched entrance at the head of what is now known as the South Parade, dripped heavy dew-drops from every spray of ivy and flowering weed that clothed with green dress the ancient stone-work.

A strong south-west wind had sprung up, and the big white breakers that fringed the beach with foam, made a dismal noise which mingled with the dirge of the gale as it eddied in and out among the streets, whirling hither and thither every scrap of moveable rubbish that it could find.

The sense of hunger had become acute by this time, and Davey was hardly able to get along, for he was bent nearly double with sharp pain. A poor, piteous little figure he looked, as he crawled on through the silent town, with its closed shops and curtained windows. His head and feet were bare, for the waves had washed away his cap during the voyage round the point, and his socks had also vanished in the same way. His boots had been left behind in the cave, as being too heavy to wear with safety in the water.

His clothes, soiled and threadbare, were covered all over with sand, and his thickly-curling brown hair was a perfect museum in the way of collected specimens of broken shell, sea-weed, dry crab-claws, and other relics of shore and sea.

At last, the boy felt so faint and sick with the pain of his long fast, that he could go no further. Down he dropped with his back against a shop-door, and his drooping head in his hands.

"I say, my young scarecrow, what's up?" asked a rough, but kindly voice, which roused Davey and made him look up.

A jolly-looking milkman had stopped his cart in which he had just driven up from the country, and was gazing at him with curious but compassionate eyes.

"I'm dreadful hungry," said the boy, "and that made me feel so queer that I had to sit down here. I couldn't go further."

"You look starved, boy. Well, well, I think I can help you a bit."

And the good-hearted fellow got out of his cart, filled a large tin mug with new milk from the can, and handed it to Davey, with two thick slices of brown bread and butter which he took out of a paper parcel in a basket.

"There," said he, "my old woman always gives me something to eat on the way up to Tenby, for I've no time for a proper breakfast before starting from home. Eat it up, my lad; I've enough left for myself. No—don't hurry, neither; I'm a bit earlier than usual to-day; Dobbin trotted fast, and the roads were good."

It was only when Davey had nearly finished the food given him that the milkman said, "And now tell me, my boy, how you came to be here in such a plight. You don't look like a common tramp or a beggar."

"Don't I, sir?" questioned Davey, glancing ruefully at his miserable clothing. "I was afraid that was just what I did look like."

"Your clothes—p'raps, but not your face," replied the man, with a kindly smile.

"Then as you're not a tramp or a beggar," continued the milkman, "where's your home? Have you got one?"

"To be sure I have, sir," responded Davey, his eyes filling just at the thought of that dear, far-off home of his. "And it's near Bristol."

"Have you no friends here, and no one you know?"

"No, sir, nobody at all."

"And how does it happen, my lad, that you're all over sand and shells and things?"

"I slept on the beach last night," replied Davey. But seeing in the man's face that he was puzzled about him, he said, "I ran away from home, and I've been through a lot of trouble of one sort and another, and lately I got in with—" Here Davey checked himself, for he was going to say smugglers, and remembered only just in time.

"With what?" asked the milkman.

"A queer set of folks that wanted me to live as they did. I knew I'd soon be just like them if I stayed, so I ran away. It seems to me," continued Davey, after a thoughtful little pause—"it does seem to me as if I'd been doing little else but running away ever since I ran away from my own home. The first time I did it for my own pleasure, but afterwards it's been my punishment. And now, when I'd like nothing so well as to go home and be quiet and safe with Uncle Zach and Aunt Patty, I can't get to them."

"It's hard lines, ain't it?"

"Yes, and it's being my own fault makes it the harder," replied Davey. "But I feel much better now," he added, gratefully; "the bread and milk has made a man of me. I must go about and see if I can get some work anywhere, if it's only to earn my victuals, and maybe an old cap and pair of boots, so as I can set off and walk home."

"Well, my lad, I wish I could do more for you, but I must be away on my round now. The folks are getting up at last in this sleepy place, and will be wanting their milk."

So the milkman drove off, and Davey walked away in the opposite direction, and came to a corner where there was a hoarding, on which were displayed some huge waybills, with brightly coloured pictures of circus horses and their riders, and also of lions, bears, and leopards, with a life-size picture of the handsome young wild beast tamer, Mr. Leo Mendoza.

"Why," said Davey to himself, "if that isn't the very circus that me and Tom went to see in Bristol! It must be making a round, and taking Tenby in its turn."

The poor lad wandered about, bitterly ashamed of his bare head and feet, stared and jeered at by the rude boys of the town, and unable to get a job of any sort. A little girl on the north shore beach divided her lunch cake with him, and later on he gathered a quantity of mussels on the rocks to stay his craving for food, but this was all.

And evening came again, and Davey, disheartened, weary, and shivering, but thankful at least for the darkness that hid his forlorn condition, stole back into the town, hoping against hope for something to turn up for his help.

After a while, he noticed that quite a number of people were walking in one direction, and having nothing else to do, he followed with the crowd, and soon he saw that they were bound for a field just outside the town, and that the big tent which he had cause to remember so well was pitched there. Poor Davey, shut out from the light and warmth inside those canvas walls, walked about the field, and presently found himself at the side of the tent just opposite the entrance where the man was taking the money. Here, in a smaller tent of oblong shape, and quite open in front, stood the great performing cage. The tent was not lighted, and only the deep breathings and occasional growls of the animals showed that they were there.

A little way off, in a corner of the field, some members of the troupe had made a fire on the grass, and were piling up sticks under a big pot—perhaps cooking their supper.

Davey had strolled nearer to them, and was watching the fire and wishing the good folks would invite him to share their meal, when from the place he had just left, in front of the great cage, there came a loud shriek of pain and fear.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE CLAWS OF THE LEOPARD.

DAVEY sprang back to the cage and took in the situation at a glance.

A little crowd of people, curious to see the wild beasts, but unable or unwilling to pay the entrance fee and view the performance, had found out the cage, and had come close to the bars, trying to spy out the animals,—not an easy thing in the darkness,—and a little girl, standing very near the leopard's compartment, had thrust in a stick, and proceeded to stir up the creatures, never thinking of danger.

Suddenly, one of the spotted cats, with a savage snarl, thrust out a paw, and fastened it in the child's dress at the shoulder. The little one tried to draw back, but the claws clutched fast, and the yellow eyes of the leopard, flashing through the dark of the cage, looked as if the beast meant business.

A woman with more courage than the rest of the bystanders, struck at the leopard's paw with an umbrella, and made an effort to snatch the child out of harm's way, but the creature only growled menacingly, and dug its great claws more deeply into the little girl's shoulder, piercing the clothing and grazing the tender flesh beneath.

But at that moment Davey, seeing what was the matter, had darted off at once to the fire, and came rushing back with a long brand well ablaze, which he had snatched from under the boiling pot.

With a shout, he dashed it full in the face of the leopard, and the startled beast withdrew its claws in an instant, and slunk away to the back of the cage.

"Hulloa! What's all this about?" said a voice of authority close by, and the tamer, dressed for his performance in the tight-fitting, glistening costume that he had worn when Davey saw him at Bristol strode up to the little throng. "What's all this about?" he repeated sternly. "Child hurt? Why, how's this? Where's the lad I left here to keep people away from the cage? Here, you there round the fire, bring us a light, will you?"

A light was brought, and the tamer took the little girl tenderly in his arms, and, assisted by the woman who had tried to help her, examined the wounded shoulder.

"Happily the cloth is thick; she is not much hurt," he said presently. "Still," and he turned to the woman, "it may be better to take the child to a doctor; here's money for you," and he put some silver into the woman's hand.

"And now," said he, looking round at each face in turn, "who was it that brought the burning stick and made the leopard let go?"

"Please, sir, it was this boy," said a big lad, thrusting poor Davey forward with the smouldering brand still in his hand.

"Was it you, child?" questioned Mr. Leo Mendoza, looking incredulously at the poor little hatless, barefooted, pale-cheeked creature before him.

"Please, sir, yes, it was me. I'm very sorry if I've hurt your leopard," said Davey, his voice trembling, for he feared he had got himself into trouble again, "but you see, sir, the beast wouldn't let go, and I was afraid he'd pull the child's arm and hand into the cage. That's why I fetched the burning wood out of the fire. I did the best I knew."

"My dear boy, what on earth are you afraid of?" said the tamer, gently. "You did exactly the right thing, and I'm extremely obliged to you. Hark! There's the bell! That's for me and my four-legged children here! Wait about, my boy, can you—till I come to you after the performance? It won't be long. I want to speak to you again. Oh! I have it! Come over to the fire with me. My good friends,—" here the tamer turned with a smile to the little group sitting in the red glow of the cheerful blaze—"just give this lad some supper, will you? He has done me a great service, and I am coming back for him as soon as my turn in the circus is over."

"Sit right down here by me, child," said a comfortable, motherly-looking woman, as Davey stood watching the lithe, graceful figure of Leo Mendoza till it was lost in shadow. "I shouldn't wonder now if you was cold and tired, and hungry and lonely, too!"

"Yes, ma'am, I'm all that," said Davey, his eyes filling at the kind words and yet kinder voice and manner of the good-hearted creature.

"Well, supper's ready; now, Jim, ladle out! The first bowl's for this lad."

Davey ate his supper, warmed himself through and through by the fire, and then fell into a doze, from which he was roused by the clear voice of the tamer ringing out, "Now then, where's my young Knight of the Burning Brand? Where's my waif and stray that bearded the leopard in his den, or rather, singed his beard for him? Ah, here you are, child! Wake up, for I want to talk to you. That boy that I paid to do my bidding has gone off, nobody knows where, and now I want another. What do you say, my little K. of the B. B.! Will you be my helper and right hand?"

And then, before Davey could utter a word in reply, Leo said in low tones—as though to himself—"Have I seen that boy's face before?"

CHAPTER XIX.

TREASON.

NO one who saw Davey Coleman when he arrived in Tenby fresh from his perilous voyage round the headland, and saw him again three days after Mr. Leo Mendoza had engaged his services, would have known him for the same lad. He was dressed in a neat suit, with good boots and a jaunty cap; his curly locks had been cut and trimmed, and he looked as bright and smart an assistant as even so handsome and spruce a tamer could desire.

A very good understanding, moreover, had been established between Davey and his young master, though the boy had been very reticent with Leo, and had told him far less of his past than he had confided to Captain Smythe and Johnnie Grey. He had not even said what his name was, but frankly explained to his master that he had been in a scrape at Bristol while the circus troupe was performing there, and in a number of scrapes of various kinds ever since. And that until he had by his conduct redeemed to some extent his lost character, he felt he did not wish to be called by a name of which he had had reason to be ashamed.

"So, sir," said Davey, "call me anything you please, but I'd rather not tell you my name till you've come to know me well enough, for it does not matter what I'm called."

"All right, my lad," said Leo, laughing, "it's nothing to me, and none of my business. You might be called the Knight of the Burning Brand, but that such a name is a trifle long, and sounds rather fairy-tale-ish. I think I shall call you Waif, because that's what you were when I picked you up, you know."

So Davey was called Waif, and no one in the troupe imagined that this was not his right name.

The lad's duties were simple enough. He had to help his master to feed the animals, and to keep the cages clean, to watch by the big performing cage at night, while waiting for the tamer's turn in the ring, and to be on hand to run errands or do any odds and ends of work that needed doing. The service was easy, and not at all unpleasant, and Davey's master was more than good to him. Indeed, a curiously sudden attachment seemed to have sprung up between these two, and a comprehending sympathy which hardly needed words for its expression.

The boy looked up to and admired his young master, who, in his turn, took to the lad as he had never taken before to any boy in his service; while still and ever he was haunted by the feeling that he had known Davey's face, or one very like it, long ago, though whether in a dream or in reality he could not be sure.

But it must not be thought that the Waif, in this new life of his, had lost his yearning for home. On the contrary, it was as strong in him as ever, but he was waiting now until he had earned money enough to carry him back in respectable fashion, or until—as Leo told him was more than probable—the circus troupe again passed through Bristol, in which case the lad might get home without any expense at all. Meanwhile, he wrote to his uncle and aunt to tell them that he was safe and in good hands, and that he hoped to be with them ere long, if indeed they were willing to forgive him and receive him at home once more.

Late one afternoon, as Davey was returning from an errand on which his master had sent him, and was about to enter the house where Leo and he had apartments, he caught sight of two familiar figures, walking along, side by side, on the opposite pavement.

Could he be mistaken? The thing really seemed almost incredible. And yet no—that stunted, squat, crooked form could be none other than Tom Hughes, and his companion as certainly was Spankle.

Sure that the presence of these two in Tenby must be wholly unknown to Captain Smythe, and fearing, too, that their being here boded no good to the rest of the gang, the lad determined to find out if possible upon what errand they were bound. Accordingly, he crossed the dimly-lighted street and began to follow them.

On they went, till at last they stopped in front of the watch house. Here they stayed talking together very earnestly for a minute or two, then entered the building.

"Here's a pretty kettle of fish!" muttered Davey under his breath. "The traitors! They've made up their minds, out of spite or revenge or something, to betray the band, and that means to give up the Captain, and Ben, and Red Beard, and my dear old Johnnie, and the rest. And if once the secret of Hoyle's Mouth gets known, there's an end to everything. They'll be nabbed, and p'raps hanged, for aught I know. Oh dear! That can't, mustn't be! It shan't be either, if I can prevent it. Why, didn't they feed, and clothe, and keep me? I can never forget all that. And besides, don't I love Johnnie like a brother? Now what can I do for them all?" And leaning up against a wall in the deep shadow, Davey set his wits to work, and at last he made up his mind.

"They must be warned," he said to himself, "and there's no one to carry the warning but me. And they must have it at once, too, or they won't get a chance to clear out and sail off."

Davey rightly concluded that Spankle and Tom would be detained at the police station some time, and he was thankful for this, as every minute was precious to him now.

He hurried home and begged his master to give him leave of absence for a couple of hours, promising to be back by the time he was wanted at his place near the performing cage. Leo could see that the lad was greatly disturbed and much excited, and also that he dared not explain the nature of his errand, so he considerately asked no questions, but gave him leave to go, on condition that he returned to his post in good time for the evening performance.

By this time, Davey's plan of action was formed. His first idea had been to go out to the schooner, then riding at anchor outside the harbour under shelter of the north shore, and warn those on board. But he thought better of this, since he could not be sure whom he should find in charge of the "Dart," and it was of the utmost importance that he should see at least one of the three men whom he knew best, Captain Smythe, Ben Rait, or Johnnie Grey. He knew that the two former had their homes at Penally, and it was thither he resolved to run that evening.

Should he find either of the men at home, well and good; his warning would be given, and the responsibility shifted. If no one was in, he must somehow manage to make his way into the cave, and trust to the chance of finding some of the gang there.

So off he started at a quick pace across the Downs, this being a short cut which lessened the distance by a mile or more.

He had no difficulty in finding the captain's house, but was told by Mrs. Smythe that her husband was not in. A visit to Ben's cottage proved equally fruitless.

"Then there's nothing for it but to go to the cave," said Davey to himself.

So he started again to run, and in about twenty minutes, he found himself at the dark, wood-shadowed entrance to Hoyle's Mouth.

Full of the purpose he had at heart, and having no longer any fears of possible ghosts to trouble or detain him, he groped his way into the cavern, and thence, as quickly as he might, to the narrow corridor, and so on through the winding ways till he reached the great rock which filled up the doorway of the dwelling cave. During his dark and difficult journey he had been thankful to hear once more the horrible noises which had so terrified him when he first heard them echoing through those ghostly caves, for they told him that some of the gang were there, and gave him the assurance that, the object of his errand would be accomplished.

He picked up a fragment of stone against which his foot had struck, and tapped the rock-door sharply thrice, in a way peculiar to the members of the smugglers' band.

"Halloa! What's that?" he heard the deep voice of the captain say.

CHAPTER XX.

A TERRIBLE DISASTER.

"WHO'S there?" demanded Red Beard's rough voice.

Davey thought a moment, then he said—

"'Tis the Dutchman knows what's what,
  And he likes his bottles squat.'"

Then he heard Johnnie say, "Why, Captain, it's Davey Coleman's voice."

"Young rascal!" bellowed Captain Smythe. "If it is, I'll wring for him what little neck he's got. Open the door, my men!"

The rock was rolled away, and there stood Davey.

"It's a matter of life and death I'm come on," said Davey. "I've run all the way from Tenby, first to Penally and then here, to tell you that Spankle and Tom Hughes have split on you. I saw them at the watch house."

"Spankle and Tom Cat!" repeated the captain, while the rest of the gang seemed struck dumb with amazement. "Sure there's no mistake, Davey?"

"Quite sure, sir," replied Davey.

"Then sharp's the word," said Captain Smythe. "Now, my men, we must get all the stuff we've got left here taken out of this,—and back to the ship. Ben, go out through the wood way, and down to Tenby as fast as you can, and bring the schooner a bit nearer this way. You'll find Terry Nicholls on board, and you two can manage her just for that little distance. The rest of you set to and empty the storing cave, and carry the things down to the boat at the back door. Now then, look alive!"

In a moment, the men had set to work, and Davey having done what he came to do, was about to slip away, when the captain turned and came towards him.

"Davey Coleman," said he, "you've done us a good turn that I'll never forget. Another day—if we should be lucky enough to meet again—you shall tell me how you managed to get away from our back door without a boat; you, too—that couldn't swim a stroke!"

The boy groped his way back to the entrance, ran down the hill through the wood, and soon found himself in the little lane leading out into the high road.

Fearing to miss his way in the night (which had now become very dark) if he went by the short cut, he came home by the road, getting a lift for the last part of the journey in a baker's light cart.

The circus performance was in full swing as Davey came up the road towards the field, but it was not yet the hour for Leo's appearance, so the lad was in good time.

Thankful that his errand to Hoyle's Mouth was accomplished, he took up his station at once by the big cage, keeping a sharp look-out lest any of the loiterers should come dangerously near.

"I say, Waif, your master wants you for a minute over there," said one of the circus grooms coming up. "Go at once, will you?"

"Yes, Jim, but please wait here till I come back," said Davey, "and see that nobody gets hurt."

Jim readily agreed, but a moment later he met an old crony of his, and forgetting his charge, walked away with him, gaily chattering.

Leo kept Davey longer than he had expected, and before he could get back to his place, he suddenly heard some awful shrieks and a deafening roar.

Davey rushed back, followed by his master, across the field, and as they did so, a cry was raised, "Where's the tamer? Run and fetch him! The lions are out! The beasts have escaped!"

And sure enough, when Leo and Davey reached the tent with a light, they found that from two of the cages the bolts had been slipped back, the latches lifted, and now the barred doors stood wide open. Ahab and Jezebel, the lion and lioness, were gone, and so was the great bear; only the leopards, snarling and growling and tearing at the cage, remained safely imprisoned.

And while Leo and the Waif stood speechless with horror, unable for the moment to think what to do next, high above the panic-stricken cries of the scattering crowd, Davey heard a wild and melancholy voice that he knew.

   "Woe to them!" it chanted. "Woe to the evil-doers! The beasts of the field shall devour them, the lions shall take them for a prey. Behold, a judgment is come upon them in the name of the Lord; for I, even I, have loosed the bolts and the bars, and let the strong and the fierce go free. Woe to the evil-doers! Woe! And they shall perish from off the face of the earth."

CHAPTER XXI.

THE TAKING OF JEZEBEL.

ALL was confusion in the field round the tents, everybody longing to fly, yet fearing to move a step lest they should encounter one of the beasts that were at large. Leo, Davey, and some of the circus men started out with nets and collars, muzzles, straps, and a light cage on wheels—easily drawn by one man—to try and recapture the fugitives; while poor mad Mrs. Grey was once more found and led off by her sister-in-law, quite unconscious of the terrible mischief that she had done.

As for Spankle and Tom Hughes, having told their story and seen it put into writing, they started off as guides to the company of constables and Preventive men, hastily called together to make a raid upon the smugglers in the cave.

But while all these things were taking place, Captain Smythe and his men had contrived to accomplish a masterly exodus from Hoyle's Mouth. Not only had they managed, at such short notice, to move out bag and baggage, leaving no traces, but they had even gone so far as to block up behind them with rock boulders and stones, some of the passages and the entrances to caves through which they passed in their retreat towards their back door, so that to all appearance there was no thoroughfare.

As for the "Dart," Ben had got up the anchor and sailed—with a fair wind, and unobserved in the darkness—to a place where there was deep water right under the shadow of the cliff, and only a stone's throw from the back door of Hoyle's Mouth.

Five minutes after the smugglers left the platform in their boat, they were on board the schooner. Another five, and they were flying with a strong, fair wind out to sea. They had a good cargo on board, and had intended to start anyway not later than with the early morning tide; so there was nothing very remarkable in their getting off a few hours earlier. Captain Smythe was known to be a smart man, who never lost a moment or a favourable breeze. And as he was the proprietor as well as the master of the schooner, he had no one to consult but himself. Thus nothing that he did of this sort would attract attention or raise suspicion.

But now, leaving the smugglers sailing away, and the Preventive men repairing to the cave, led by Spankle and Tom Hughes, let us follow in their chase of the escaped animals, the tamer, his young assistant, and the attendants.

The whole party were, as was natural, intensely excited and anxious, for who could foretell what dreadful thing might not happen, with three such powerful brutes roaming at large through a thickly populated country? True, they had been tamed, and obeyed their master in the tricks that he had taught them, but no one could answer for it that the savage instincts of the beasts of prey would not return with this sudden freedom from restraint.

An hour of search in the immediate neighbourhood of the field proved fruitless.

"It is of no use trying to track them," said Leo, "unless we have dogs; for we may go miles and never find out where they have hidden themselves."

So some dogs were procured and put upon the scent, but held in leashes lest they should outrun the hunters. Those set upon the bear's track dashed straight away from the cage where the scent was given them, across the field, and down the hill towards the marsh and the coast.

So the trackers divided into two companies—the master of the ring (who had volunteered his services), and some of his men, going after the bear, while Leo, Davey, and the rest followed those dogs that were on the track of the lion and lioness, Ahab and Jezebel.

The night was very dark, the sky full of wild, black clouds, and only the light of the lanterns carried by the men, showed the little party of hunters walking silently, heedfully, headed by a man holding a couple of straining, excited dogs.

Every sound made by the wind seemed like some far-off growl or roar; the very footfalls of the men had a hollow, uncanny sound; there was a sense of danger in the very air, and a secret lurking dread behind every hedge and each clump of bushes. And now the dogs led across country a short distance inland; once or twice they stopped, sniffed about a little copse, then started off again with renewed zest.

At last, passing through a field, the little company came upon a number of sheep and cattle all huddled together in a small space, and apparently quite paralysed with fear.

"There's been mischief here," said Leo in a whisper. "Hark!"

And, in the silence that followed, they could distinctly hear a horrible tearing, crunching noise only a little way off.

The dogs were now wild with excitement, but Leo gave orders that they should be kept back, and that only just those of the men who carried the requisites for the capture of the animals—and firearms in case of their being necessary—should follow him.

Slowly but steadily Leo advanced, Davey alone keeping at his side, the rest coming behind. Another moment, and the tamer turned the light of his lantern full upon what looked like a dark, formless heap in front of him. And while he did so, the tearing and crunching noise ceased, and a warning growl broke the stillness.

"It's Jezebel," whispered Leo. "Here, quick—the net! And you, Waif, take this pistol, and fire if I miss her with the net, and she springs."

So saying, the tamer took a step forward. The lantern, held now by a groom, shed its light clear and full on the tawny body of the lioness, as she lay crouched upon the mangled body of the sheep which she had been devouring—and showed her ears flattened upon her great head like those of a vicious cat.

The tamer struck his foot sharply upon the ground to fix Jezebel's attention upon himself. Then he said, very quietly, but in a voice of unmistakable command, "Jez, old girl, drop it and come here."

HER EYES BLINKED
UNDER THE LIGHT OF THE LANTERN.

The lioness growled again, and sat up on her haunches, licking from her lips the blood of her prey. Her eyes blinked under the light of the lantern, and she seemed uneasy and irresolute.

"Drop it, Jez, and come here!" said the clear, stern voice of the tamer again.

There was a grumbling, complaining noise, half growl half whine, then the great beast, accustomed for years to obey this man, rose, shook herself, and moved a step or two from the carcase and nearer to her master.

A moment of breathless silence—then the net, thrown by a sure and dexterous hand, fell over and around the great cat.

"Pull up taut, my men!" shouted Leo, and the stout cords were drawn tight, and fastened to two trees, the lioness being safely imprisoned between them.

"But what's become of Ahab, I wonder!" said Davey.

"He has very quick ears, and must have heard me coming, and so made off," said Leo. "We must get the dogs on the scent again, and follow. Here, Jack and Tony—" addressing two of the grooms—"will you just stay here with this pistol, and watch Jezebel? I think she's safe enough, but there's no harm in being over-cautious. The rest of you and Waif, come with me."

"Why, bless me!" cried one of the men. "Where are those dogs leading?"

The creatures had turned short off to the left, through a hedge, and then through the brushwood and undergrowth of a wooded hill, and were whining with eagerness.

"What a queer place!" said Leo. "Where are we going to? Good gracious! That looks like a cave in the face of the rock. Do you know it, Waif?"

"Know it?" said the boy. "Yes, sir, indeed I do, and the name of it is Hoyle's Mouth."

CHAPTER XXII.

A DANGEROUS REFUGE.

OUR story goes back to Spankle and Tom Hughes, whom we left just starting for the cave, at the head of quite a goodly company.

The two informers had heard, about a week before, of a reward having lately been offered for every smuggler caught, and their covetous longing for the reward was backed up by the hatred they felt in common for Captain Smythe, and their jealousy of Ben, Johnnie, and Red Beard, who were more trusted than themselves. Also, they had begun to fear for their own personal safety in so dangerous a trade, and thought to do a double stroke of business for their own benefit, by betraying the gang. So now it was with the kind of triumph and satisfaction which only such mean souls can feel, that these two worthies led the way to Hoyle's Mouth.

"I know every stone in the whole of that great cavern," said Tom, boastfully, to a constable who was walking near him. "I'm sure I could find my way about there blindfold. A nice place it is, too," he added with the easy, affable assurance so entirely his own—"yes, a fine place, and but for this conscience of mine being that tender as I couldn't stand by and see such goings on, I might have stayed with the smugglers all my life. But there! My conscience has always stood in the way of my getting on."

"From the looks of you, I should say it might," remarked the policeman, with a little dry chuckle. "But now s'pose you drop what's left of your conscience, and lead the way in with this man Spankle."

Lighted by their lanterns, the whole company entered the cave, Tom and Spankle heading the procession. One by one they crept through the narrow corridor, and so on through the various chambers, till they reached the one that should have led by the opening usually blocked with the great rock boulder—into the big dwelling cave of the smugglers.

But, to the astonishment and chagrin of both the guides, all was changed. Instead of the huge stone door, set in the opening of the cave wall, there were several unequal piles of rocks and stones, some reaching nearly to the roof, others heaped along the entire length of the wall. Nowhere was there the least sign of any opening at all.

"Isn't it just here that the doorway was, Spankle?" asked Tom of his companion.

"Don't ask me," replied Spankle; "I never was much in this place. 'Twas to you I trusted in coming here."

"Now then, Thomas Hughes," said the head constable, "lead on, or we may lose these precious rascals after all."

Tom turned round.

"Well, I never!" said he. "Something's gone and happened to the wall. We can't tell where the opening is."

"Opening? And is it here you expected to find an opening?" questioned the policeman, with fine scorn. "Why, all this stone and rubbish must have been lying here for no end of time. How could anything happen to the wall, you simpleton?"

"I don't know, sir," rejoined Tom, "but somehow it's different."

"Why don't you say at once that you've led us wrong, and don't know anything about it?" cried the constable. "Here's a wild-goose chase all for nothing! You'll hear of this, you two, at headquarters, in a way you won't like."

After some time spent in grumbling and fruitless search after an opening into the big cave, the head man said at last, "There's nothing for it but to go back to Tenby. A fine bother you've made for us, but you shall smart for it—both of you!"

"Oh, indeed! So that's the little game, is it?" said Tom to himself. "Then I won't go back to Tenby at all. I'll hide here, and they'll never miss me. Will you please take my lantern, policeman, while I tie my shoe? Thank you—don't wait for me! I'll be after you in a minute."

The man took the lantern and walked on with the others, who were following Spankle towards the entrance.

Tom hid himself in a corner until they had gone some distance, then he began to walk slowly in the same direction, and heard them talking, but his name was not mentioned. Evidently they had not missed him. Another minute or two and the whole company, all but himself, had left the cave, and were making good their return journey.

"Now then!" said Tom to himself, after waiting to make sure that all was safe. "Now then, it's my turn!"

And he was about to cross the threshold of the cave, when he fancied he heard some soft cushioned footsteps approaching from an opposite direction to that taken by the smuggler-hunters. Patter, patter, over the dry leaves, on came the hushed footfalls; then they paused, and a dark shadow half filled up the mouth of the cave. Just at that moment, the moon struggled from behind the black clouds, and threw a pale, quivering shaft of light right across the space in front of the cave and on to an enormous, tawny beast that stood there, with head erect, with ears on the alert, with fiery eyes, with a shaggy mane, and a waving, tufted tail, and with great, half-open jaws that dripped blood.

With a yell of horror and fear that sounded scarcely human, Tom turned and fled headlong into the inner darkness of the cave. In a more dignified and leisurely manner, the king of beasts followed. There was another shriek, a hollow roar which reverberated horribly through the arches of Hoyle's Mouth,—then came the sound of a fall, and silence. Then another low growl, and again silence.

"Hark, Waif! That was Ahab's voice!" said Leo, as he and Davey stepped into the cave, followed by the rest of the little party.

The dogs were kept outside for fear of infuriating the lion. "Ahab, old man, where are you?"

CHAPTER XXIII.

BROTHERS.

TOM HUGHES was not badly hurt, for the lion had only knocked him down and shaken him a bit. He soon came to himself in the fresh air outside the cave, whither he was conveyed as soon as Ahab was in safe keeping.

More intelligent and less savage than his consort Jezebel, the monarch of beasts had proved far easier to capture. Indeed, at the word of his master, he quietly walked into the cage when it was set down near him, and showed no signs of anger when it was lifted bodily, with him in it, on to the truck, and trundled off down the hill by the grooms towards the spot where they had left Jezebel.

Leo and Waif stayed behind with Tom Hughes until he recovered, and this he did ere long.

The boy opened his eyes, and saw by the light of two lanterns the tamer and Davey bending over him.

Fixing his gaze upon the latter, he muttered, "Bless me if it ain't Davey Coleman! I never!"

At these words, Leo, who had Tom's head on his knee, seemed to forget all about this, and started to his feet, exclaiming, "Davey Coleman! What do you know about Davey Coleman?"

Davey turned to Leo with a smile.

"It's my name, sir," said he; "the name I kept from you because I'd been in scrapes with it. But I don't mind you knowing it now, sir—now you've learned to trust me, and to be sure I love you, and mean never to disgrace you."

"Davey Coleman! Davey Coleman!" repeated the tamer to himself, musingly. "But the name might belong to some other than the one I knew. I say, Waif, have you got a home, and if so, where is it?"

And as Leo spoke, Tom got up unobserved, shook himself like a dog that has been rolling in the dust, and made off down the hill.

"Where's your home, Waif?" again inquired the tamer.

"Near Bristol, sir," replied Davey.

"Your parents died when you were a mere baby?"

"Yes, sir, just so, though how—"

"Never mind that now! Were you adopted by your father's brother and his wife?"

"I was, sir, but—"

"Wait a bit, Waif! Were their names Uncle Zach and Aunt Patty?"

"They were,—they are,—God bless them!" cried Davey.

There was silence for a moment. The young tamer, who never flinched in the presence of the fiercest beast, seemed afraid to say something that was in his mind.

At last, he said with an effort, "Tell me, child, did you ever hear your uncle and aunt speak of a long-lost nephew of theirs, your brother Harry?"

"Indeed, yes, often," replied the lad. "Oh, sir, did you know my brother Harry? Have you met him in foreign parts? Is he living still?"

Again there was silence, and the boy, looking up, saw Leo's breast heaving and his eyes full of tears.

The next moment, the truth flashed upon him, and the brothers were clasped in each other's arms.

It was only when they were walking homeward that Leo recovered himself sufficiently to give an outline of his story.

The death of his parents he did not hear of till long after it occurred, and the letter from the friend who gave him this sad news had told him also that his little brother was adopted by Zach and Patty Coleman. After this, Harry's life had been one of change and adventure. He had been a sailor for a while, and had gone all over the world, living, so to speak, from hand to mouth, and getting into many a mad scrape. But all the excitement and stir of his varying surroundings did not prevent his being haunted by the feeling that he had broken the hearts of his parents. He knew his little brother was better taken care of than if he, Harry, took the child under his own charge; and as he had no other relatives in England, and none anywhere who had any claim on him, he continued to lead a roving life.

It was in the course of this that he discovered by accident that he had a remarkable power over animals, and, feeling that he might turn this gift into a means of livelihood, he took up with the dangerous business of a tamer,—training wild beasts on a system of his own, which forbade cruelty or the rousing of the passions of his refractory pupils.

All this and much more Leo (for we will still call him by his best known name) told Davey as they walked back to Tenby in the grey dawn. So full were they of their own concerns that they had not once thought of Tom. And when they realised that he had got away, they were by no means sorry, Davey especially being thankful to be rid of him.

On the arrival of the brothers, the news met them that the master of the ring and his men had returned without the bear. He had been tracked by the dogs as far as the shore, but the tide, coming up in the bay, had covered the sands, and the dogs lost the scent. The men were too weary to begin a fresh search on the cliff, and so came back empty-handed.

"I can't afford to lose my old Jacob," said Leo to Davey, "so I shall just take an hour or two of rest and something to eat, and then I shall go hunting again. But you'd better remain behind, Davey. You must be tired, and I don't want to drag you any further."

But Davey would not be left behind; so, in about two hours and a half, the brothers set off again, having this time the advantage of the daylight for their venture.

Leo reasoned in this way. Either the bear had taken refuge from the rising tide in some sheltered cleft of the cliff, or some quiet spot further inland, or he had made up his mind to swim to one of the islands that formed a natural breakwater to Tenby, namely, Caldy and St. Margaret's.

If he were still on the mainland, a little persevering tracking with the dogs would discover his whereabouts. If he had risked the danger of a long swim, then Leo resolved to follow him across the water.

The dogs, on being taken to the cliff above the beach to westward of the town, recovered the scent of Bruin, and led on down the cliff and across the Downs, until they came to a corner of the beach on the nearer side of Giltar Point, and nearly opposite to St. Margaret's.

At this place the scent ceased, and there seemed no reason to doubt that Jacob had taken to the water just here, where the passage was narrow, and had swum over to the wild little island.

Leo and his party accordingly procured a boat near Penally, and, while they were bargaining with the owner for the use of it, he told them that a small punt belonging to a fisherman, and moored to a sunken post on the beach, had been stolen during the night or in the early morning, much to the surprise of the man, thefts of this sort being of rare occurrence on these coasts.

"Well, my good fellow," said Leo, as they pushed off, "we're going across to St. Margaret's, and should we chance to see anything of the stolen punt, we'll take her in tow, and bring her back with us, and perhaps the thief too."

"Thank you, sir, and good luck to you," said the fisherman.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CONCLUSION.

LEO had taken the dogs with him on the boat, but on landing, he found that they were practically useless, for they did nothing but scamper madly after the rabbits with which the island swarmed, and would not put nose to the ground for the bear's scent.

So the men divided and went hunting in couples, searching for any footprints or signs of the lost Jacob.

At last one of them called out, "Whether the bear's here or no, here's the punt, at least."

And, sure enough, there it was, drawn up close into a little cove, and made fast to a bush.

"And now for the thief!" said Leo. "If we don't find old Jacob, at least we shan't go back empty-handed."

For a long time Leo and Davey and their attendants searched the island without result. So far, they had not seen even a footprint to show that Bruin was here; but then most of the ground was rock, on which the passing foot would make no impression.

At last, however, Leo and Davey came upon a lower and less rocky part of the island, where there was quite a growth of trees. And here, under a fine elm, lying fast asleep on the soft moss, they found one of the fugitives—the two-legged one.

"This should be the thief, Davey boy," said Leo. "Pity we can't see his face, but he's covered it up with his arm, till one can't make out so much as the tip of his nose. Just keep an eye on him, will you? While I go and fasten that punt on to our boat, or he may manage to give us the slip and make off with it."

So Davey stood by the sleeper, and as he gazed down on him, and noticed the misshapen shoulders, the short neck, and curved limbs, the long gaunt arms and crooked fingers, he recognised the figure of Tom Hughes. By his side was a package tied up in waterproof cloth, and Davey, remembering that the smugglers occasionally used the rocky recesses of St. Margaret's as a hiding-place for such goods as they were prevented from carrying to Hoyle's Mouth, understood that Tom, with his usual keen eye to business, had come over here for the double purpose of escaping from the hands of the police and of obtaining some of the smuggled property wherewith to repair his fallen fortunes. Yes, it was plain enough to Davey, who had such good reason to know Tom thoroughly, that the lad was at his old tricks again, of helping himself to any articles he coveted.

"Come along, Davey," said Leo, returning after only a short absence. "The punt's safe, and now we're after Jacob again. The men have found the print of his feet on the little strip of sandy beach the other side of this point, and he's hiding somewhere near, I'm pretty sure. Have you got his collar and muzzle?"

"Yes," replied the boy. "But what about Tom?"

"Tom? What Tom?"

"Why, this chap asleep here is Tom Hughes, the fellow that ran away when I did, and got me into no end of trouble, and—why, Harry, it was Tom that Ahab got hold of in the cave last night."

"What? This same lad? And now he's stolen the punt?"

"Yes, it's the same," replied Davey.

"Oh, let him sleep. He's safe enough now we've got his boat; he can't get away. Come, Waif."

But Leo and Davey had not been gone a quarter of an hour, when a heavy, shuffling step came cracking and crunching the dry underwood, and an enormous brown bear approached the sleeper, and thrusting his huge muzzle under the lad's arm, began to sniff inquisitively at the face beneath.

Thus rudely aroused, Tom awoke and started up, and Jacob politely drew back a pace. But the lad did not wait to see what Bruin was going to do. Panic-stricken and bewildered as he was, he had just presence of mind enough to snatch up his bundle and throw it in the animal's face, thereby diverting Jacob's attention from himself for a minute.

During this minute of grace, he made a dash to a neighbouring tree, and began to climb it as nimbly as a cat, his long arms giving him a secure hold. And by the time the bear had torn the bundle to pieces with claws and teeth, finding nothing for his trouble but lace and cigars, at which he only sullied in disgust, Tom was perched in a convenient fork, and feeling quite safe.

Probably he would not have felt so safe and happy had the study of Natural History formed any part of such small learning as he had acquired.

However, this lesson was to be taught him by experience, and we may judge of his horror when Jacob, having in his disgust and disappointment made shreds of the bundle, trotted leisurely up to the tree, walked round it several times, sniffing in a very unpleasant manner, and then commenced to climb slowly up its stout stem.

Tom would have screamed for help had he imagined that anyone was within hearing on the island. As it was, feeling himself alone with the formidable brute, he did what he could in his own defence, though his utmost was very little. He snatched off his cap, and throwing it down at the bear, he shouted as loudly as he could, hoping to frighten him.

But Jacob, well accustomed to noise in the circus, took not the slightest notice. He just glanced at the cap as it fell, and then went clambering on with clumsy ease, though whether he was following Tom as friend or foe only his master could have told.

Happily that master was not far-off, and Tom's yells were heard. Just when Bruin was within a few feet of the lad's perch, and Tom had given himself up for lost, Leo, Davey, and some others of the party came running up, and soon put an end to this novel and interesting bear hunt. A touch or two with a long whip enforced Master Jacob's obedience, and coming down much more quickly than he had scrambled up, he was easily muzzled and chained and led away to the boat by Leo, while the men, acting under his orders, got Tom down from his perch, tied his feet and hands, carried him to the shore, and laid him in the stolen punt, which they towed behind them while they started again for the mainland, the bear swimming alongside while his master held the chain.

Arrived on shore, Tom, in spite of his entreaties, was handed over to the indignant owner of the punt, to be dealt with according to his deserts, while the tamer and his company conducted their big truant in a very dripping and crestfallen condition back to Tenby.

It was just before the circus troupe left Tenby for Bristol again, that two items of news reached Davey.

One was that Captain Smythe, of the "Dart," had been severely injured by an accident, and was laid up in a hospital at a French port, whither his wife had gone to tend him. Also that poor, mad Mrs. Grey had died quite suddenly, and that Johnnie had gone abroad to find employment, as the gang of smugglers was broken up, and Captain Smythe was selling the schooner and dismissing her crew.

What became of Spankle, Davey did not hear till later, but he was glad to know then that the traitor had done no good for himself by his attempt to betray his mates; for as he had in no way helped on the ends of justice, and had, moreover, on his own confession, been a confederate of free traders, he was made to serve his time in prison with hard labour, and was told, by way of comfort, that he ought to be thankful to get off so easily.

And now what remains to be told? Surely there is no need to describe in detail the return to Bristol, the joyful welcome accorded to the two prodigals by Uncle Zach and Aunt Patty, or the loving way in which all the past was forgiven and forgotten.

Harry Coleman was too restless a creature to remain long anywhere, and he and his animals soon moved away with the circus troupe. But Davey was only too glad to rest in quiet after all his wanderings, and his series of uncomfortable adventures had amply sufficed to cure his old faults of waywardness and wilful disobedience. When he finished his schooling, he obtained a capital situation, and eventually became the support of the uncle and aunt to whom he owed so much.

Not only was David Coleman well-to-do, so far as worldly goods are concerned, but he was also a thoroughly right-minded and God-fearing man, whose influence was all for good, and for good only. And when he had children of his own, he would often on winter evenings gather them about him, and tell them the story of the adventures of his youth, his running away, his scrapes, the smugglers, his meeting with his brother—in fact, all that has been told in these pages about the Mystery of Hoyle's Mouth.

THE END.