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                        _RAIL AND WATER SERIES._

                            BOOKS FOR BOYS.

                            By KIRK MUNROE.


             =Under Orders=: THE STORY OF A YOUNG REPORTER.
             =Prince Dusty=: A STORY OF THE OIL REGIONS.
             =Cab and Caboose=: A STORY OF RAILROAD LIFE.
             =The Coral Ship=: A STORY OF THE FLORIDA REEF.


             Each 12mo. Illustrated                  $1.25

[Illustration: ONE OF THE GREAT OIL TANKS HAD BEEN STRUCK BY LIGHTNING,
AND NOW A RAGING, ROARING MASS OF FLAME SHOT UP. (_Page 96._)]


  RAIL AND WATER SERIES




                              PRINCE DUSTY
                       A STORY OF THE OIL REGIONS


                                   BY

                              KIRK MUNROE

 AUTHOR OF “UNDER ORDERS,” “THE FLAMINGO FEATHER,” “DERRICK STERLING,”
                  “DORYMATES,” “CAMPMATES,” etc., etc.


                              ILLUSTRATED


                          G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
              NEW YORK                              LONDON
       27 WEST TWENTY-THIRD ST.      27 KING WILLIAM ST., STRAND
                        The Knickerbocker Press
                                  1891




                            COPYRIGHT, 1891
                                   BY
                              KIRK MUNROE


                   The Knickerbocker Press, New York
                  Electrotyped, Printed, and Bound by
                          G. P. Putnam’s Sons

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CONTENTS.


  CHAPTER                                                           PAGE
      I.— A PRINCE AND PRINCESS GO IN SEARCH OF ADVENTURES             1

     II.— A PRESENT FROM A FAIRY GODMOTHER                             8

    III.— BRACE BARLOW THE “MOONLIGHTER”                              17

     IV.— A TORPEDO MAN’S PERIL                                       25

      V.— ARTHUR AND HIS COUSINS                                      33

     VI.— A GALLANT RESCUE AND ITS REWARD                             40

    VII.— UNCLE PHIN’S PLAN                                           49

   VIII.— AWAKENED AT MIDNIGHT                                        58

     IX.— A HURRIED FLIGHT                                            66

      X.— ON BOARD THE ARK                                            74

     XI.— UNCLE PHIN’S DANGER                                         82

    XII.— A TORRENT OF FLAME                                          90

   XIII.— HOW THE ARK WAS SAVED                                       98

    XIV.— A CAMP OF TRAMPS                                           107

     XV.— ARTHUR’S FIGHT TO SAVE RUSTY                               115

    XVI.— THE MEANING OF SOME QUEER SIGNS                            123

   XVII.— PLEASANT DRIFTINGS                                         130

  XVIII.— THE ARK IS STOLEN                                          139

    XIX.— PENNILESS WANDERERS IN A STRANGE CITY                      148

     XX.— A RAILROAD EXPERIENCE                                      154

    XXI.— CARRIED OFF IN A FREIGHT CAR                               164

   XXII.— SAVING THE KEYSTONE EXPRESS                                172

  XXIII.— CROSSING THE ALLEGHANIES                                   182

   XXIV.— A BRAVE STRUGGLE WITH POVERTY                              189

    XXV.— FINDING A HOME                                             199

   XXVI.— COLONEL DALE OF DALECOURT                                  207

  XXVII.— A “GENUINE CHUMP”                                          216

 XXVIII.— A FEW FACTS CONCERNING PETROLEUM                           224

   XXIX.— LOCATING AN OIL WELL                                       234

    XXX.— THE DALE-DUSTIN MYSTERY                                    243

   XXXI.— A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT                                    250

  XXXII.— SHOOTING A “DUSTER”                                        259

 XXXIII.— SAVED BY THE SIGN OF THE TRAMP                             266

  XXXIV.— AN OIL SCOUT OUTWITTED                                     274

   XXXV.— DEVELOPING AN OIL REGION                                   283

  XXXVI.— ARTHUR REMEMBERS HIS FRIENDS                               290




                             ILLUSTRATIONS.


                                                                    PAGE
 ONE OF THE GREAT OIL TANKS HAD BEEN STRUCK BY LIGHTNING,
   AND NOW A RAGING, ROARING MASS OF FLAME SHOT UP        _Frontispiece_

 PRINCE DUSTY AND CYNTHIA SET OUT ON THEIR ADVENTURES                  4

 PRINCE DUSTY AND HIS FAIRY GODMOTHER                                  8

 A HURRIED FLIGHT BY MOONLIGHT                                        70

 STANDING STEADILY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE TRACK HE SWUNG
   HIS DANGER SIGNAL TO AND FRO                                      180

 THE FAIRY GODMOTHER FINDS PRINCE DUSTY                              198

 WITH A MIGHTY ROAR LIKE THAT OF THUNDER, A DENSE VOLUME
   OF GAS BURST FORTH                                                264

 “YES, THAT’S SANDY’S MARK,” SAID ONE OF THEM, “THERE’S
   NO GOING BACK ON THAT”                                            272




                              PRINCE DUSTY

                      A STORY OF THE OIL REGIONS.




                               CHAPTER I.
           A PRINCE AND PRINCESS GO IN SEARCH OF ADVENTURES.


Twelve-year-old Arthur Dale Dustin did not look the least bit like a
Prince, sitting perched on the topmost rail of the zig-zag fence that
bright September afternoon. As he dangled his bare brown legs idly, he
wistfully watched his cousins at the play in which they would not allow
him to join. He loved to play as dearly as any other boy; but somehow or
other he was always left out of their games by the boisterous crew of
little Dustins whom he called cousins. He tried his best to like what
they liked, and to be one with them; but something always seemed to
happen to prevent.

Once when they all went to see the well that his uncle, John Dustin, was
drilling, deep down into the ground, with the hope of striking
petroleum, they found the men away, and, for a few minutes, had the
place to themselves. Thereupon Cousin Dick, who was two years older than
Arthur, climbed up the derrick, and, watching his chance, sprang on the
end of the great walking beam, that was working slowly up and down with
ponderous strokes. Here he rode on the back of his mighty wooden steed
for a few seconds, while the other children shouted and clapped their
hands with admiration.

Then Dick came down and dared Arthur to perform the same feat; but the
boy held back. He was not afraid, not a bit of it; and even if he had
been he would gladly have done anything Dick dared do, merely to win his
good-will and that of the others. But his Uncle John had forbidden them
even to go near the derrick or the engine unless he was there to look
after them. The others seemed to have forgotten this; but Arthur
remembered it, and so refused to ride on the walking beam because it
would be an act of disobedience. Then Cousin Dick sneered at him, and
called him a “’Fraid-cat,” and all the others, except tender-hearted,
freckle-faced little Cynthia, took up the cry and shouted, “’Fraid-cat!
’Fraid-cat!” as they crowded around him and pushed him into the derrick.

Just then Uncle John returned and the others ran away, leaving poor
Arthur, looking very confused and red in the face, standing in the
middle of the derrick floor. Then, when his uncle in a stern voice asked
him what he was doing in that place which he had been strictly forbidden
to enter, Arthur hung his head and would not say anything; for he was
too brave a lad to be a “tell-tale,” and too honest to tell a lie. So
his Uncle John said that he was a naughty boy who had led the other
children into mischief, and that he might go right home and get into
bed, and stay there for the rest of the day as a punishment.

Poor Arthur obeyed; and, as he walked slowly toward the only place in
the world he could call his home, great tears rolled down his cheeks.
When the other children, who were hiding in the bushes, saw them they
called out, “Cry-baby! Cry-baby!” Only little Cynthia ran out and put
her arm about his neck and said she was sorry; but Dick pulled her
roughly away.

Another time when Cynthia asked Arthur to build a house for her dolls,
under the roots of a great tree that had blown down just on the edge of
the woods back of the house, he, being an obliging little soul,
consented at once to do so. Under the huge mass of roots and earth they
played happily enough at making believe it was a cave, and Cynthia was
radiant with delight over the beautiful time they were having. For a
little while Arthur experienced the novel feeling of being perfectly
happy. Then, all of a sudden, a shower of earth and gravel came rattling
down on them from above, and with it came a mocking chorus of “Girl-boy!
Girl-boy! Look at the girl-boy playing with dolls!” and little Cynthia
began to cry over the ruin of her beautiful baby-house.

[Illustration: PRINCE DUSTY AND CYNTHIA SET OUT ON THEIR ADVENTURES.
(_Page 5._)]

Upon this, with a quick blaze of indignation, Arthur picked up a bit of
stick and flung it with all his strength at the tormentors who had
brought tears to his little cousin’s eyes. It was aimed at nobody in
particular; but it happened to strike Dick on the cheek and make a
slight cut, from which the blood flowed. Thereupon the big boy ran
crying home to his mother, and told her that Arthur had struck him with
a stick, in proof of which story he showed his bloody face. Then Mrs.
Dustin, who always acted upon the impulse of the moment, took down the
apple switch from over the mantel-piece and gave her nephew a whipping,
which she said would be a lesson to him. Poor little Cynthia tried to
explain how it had all happened; but her mother had no time to listen,
and only told her and the other children to come away from the bad boy,
and not go near him again that day.

Some days after this, when all the others had gone on a fishing
expedition, upon which they had refused to let Arthur and Cynthia
accompany them, the boy proposed a beautiful plan to his little cousin.
He remembered the fairy tales his own dear mother used to read to him,
and now he said:

“Let us make believe we are a Prince and Princess, Cynthia, and go out
into the world in search of adventures.”

Cynthia had not the remotest idea of what was meant by “adventures”; but
she was willing to agree to anything that Arthur might propose.

So the two children set forth, and nobody noticed them as they went out
of the front gate and walked, hand in hand, down the dusty road.

They had not gone far before they discovered a poor little robin just
learning to fly, that had fallen into a ditch by the roadside, where in
a few moments more he would have been drowned. Of course they rescued
him, and, while the old mother and father birds flew about them uttering
cries of distress and begging them not to hurt their baby, Cynthia dried
his wings and carefully wiped the mud from his downy feathers with her
pinafore. Then Arthur climbed over a fence and gently placed the little
trembling thing down in the soft grass on the other side.

Next they found a yellow butterfly, whose pretty wings were all tangled
in a spider’s web. Of course they set him free, and had the pleasure of
seeing him flutter joyously away. Arthur said these were beautiful
adventures, and both the children looked eagerly forward to finding some
more; but they walked nearly a mile, and were becoming very hot and
tired, before they met with another.

All of a sudden, as they were passing a cottage by the roadside, they
were startled by a deep, loud bark, and turning they saw a big
Newfoundland dog bound over the front fence, and come dashing directly
toward them. Now, while Arthur was very fond of dogs that he was
acquainted with, he was also very much afraid of strange dogs,
especially big ones; and his first impulse upon this occasion was to run
away. Then he remembered that he was a Prince, and that princes were
always brave. So he told Cynthia to run as fast as she could, and hide
in the bushes. As she did this the brave little fellow turned a bold
front, though he was trembling in every limb, toward the enemy. The next
instant the big dog sprang upon him, threw him down, rolled him in the
dust, and then stood over him wagging a bushy tail, and barking with
delight at what he had done.




                              CHAPTER II.
                   A PRESENT FROM A FAIRY GODMOTHER.


Arthur, who thought he was certainly to be killed, shut his eyes, and
for nearly a minute lay perfectly still. He opened them on hearing a
trampling of hoofs, a jingling of harness, and a loud “Whoa.” Then, no
longer seeing the dog, he quickly scrambled to his feet. He was right
under the noses of a pair of splendid horses, and behind them was a fine
carriage, from which a beautiful lady was just stepping.

“Why, little boy,” she said, as she took Arthur’s hand and led him away
from in front of the horses, “don’t you know that you came very near
being run over? and that it is dangerous to be playing out here in the
middle of the road? Now run into the house, and ask your mother to brush
your clothes, and don’t ever do so again.”

[Illustration: PRINCE DUSTY AND HIS FAIRY GODMOTHER. (_Page 8._)]

“But I don’t live here,” said Arthur, lifting his dust-covered little
face to the gracious one bent down to him. “I live a long way off, and
I’m a Prince, and Cynthia is a Princess, and we were looking for
adventures, when a big dog knocked me down; but he didn’t hurt Cynthia,
because I defended her, the same as princes do in the stories my own
mamma used to read to me.”

“So you are a Prince, are you?” laughed the lady; “then you must be
‘Prince Dusty.’ Well, if you will get into my carriage, and show me the
way, I will take you home to your castle. But where is your Princess?
What did you say her name was?”

“It is Cynthia,” replied Arthur, “and there she comes now.”

As he spoke, poor, terrified little Cynthia came timidly out from the
bushes where she had been hiding, and crying with fright, for the last
three minutes.

Then the beautiful lady took them both into her carriage, and ordered
the coachman to drive on, while she soothed and comforted the children,
and wiped Arthur’s dusty face with her own embroidered handkerchief.

She looked curiously at him when he told her that his name was Arthur
Dale Dustin, that his dearest mamma and papa were dead, and that he used
to live in New York, but that now he lived with Cynthia’s father and
mother, who were his Uncle John and Aunt Nancy. She asked him several
questions about himself; but always seemed to forget his name and only
called him “Prince Dusty.”

When they reached the Dustin house she kissed both the children
good-bye, and gave Arthur a beautiful copy of Hans Christian Andersen’s
“Fairy Tales,” that she had in the carriage with her. On the fly-leaf
she wrote, with a tiny gold pencil that hung from her watch-chain: “To
Prince Dusty from his Fairy Godmother.” Then she said she must hurry on,
and drove away, leaving the children standing by the roadside and
staring after the carriage so long as the faintest cloud of dust from
its wheels was visible.

As they turned slowly into the front gate, and walked toward the house,
Arthur drew a long breath and said: “Cynthia, that is the very most
beautiful adventure I ever heard of. It’s beautifuller even than the
stories my own mamma used to tell, and I’ve got this lovely book to show
that it is all true.”

Poor Arthur was not allowed to enjoy the possession of his book very
long, for his Aunt Nancy, who had been alarmed at the children’s
disappearance, and now gave them only bread and water for their dinner,
took it from him, and laid it on a high shelf, saying that it was
altogether too handsome a book for a little boy to have.

Arthur begged, and pleaded with tears in his eyes, that he might be
allowed to keep his book, claiming justly that it was his very own, and
had been given to him to do as he pleased with; but all to no purpose.
His Aunt Nancy only said that she would give it to him when the proper
time came; and then, adding that she was too busy now to be bothered
with him, she bade him get out of the house, and not let her see him
again before sundown.

So the sensitive little chap walked slowly away, trying in vain to choke
back the indignant sobs that would persist in making themselves heard,
and feeling very bitterly the injustice of his Aunt Nancy’s action. He
longed for sympathy in this time of trial, and for some friendly ear
into which he might pour his griefs. Even Cynthia’s company was denied
him, for she was seated in the kitchen under her mother’s watchful eye,
taking slow, awkward stitches in the patchwork, a square of which was
her allotted task for each day.

“I’ll find Uncle Phin,” said Arthur to himself, “and tell him all about
it, and perhaps he will somehow find a way to get my book again, and
then I’ll ask him to take me away from here, to some place where I can
keep it always.”

Somewhat cheered by having a definite purpose in view, the forlorn
little fellow started across the fields toward a distant wood-lot, in
which he knew his sympathizing old friend and adviser was at work.

Uncle Phin was a white-headed, simple-hearted, old negro, who, some
years before, had been a slave belonging to Colonel Arthur Dale, of
Dalecourt, Virginia. He had been the constant attendant, in her daily
horseback rides, of the Colonel’s only daughter, the lovely Virginia
Dale, to whom her father had formally presented him, as a birthday gift,
when she was fifteen years old.

Three years later the spirited girl, refusing to marry the man whom her
father had selected for her, ran away with Richard Dustin, a young
Northerner recently graduated from a New England university, who had
accepted a professorship in one of the Virginia colleges. This marriage
proved so terrible a disappointment to her father that, in his anger, he
declared he would never receive a communication from her, nor see her
again, and he never did. The young couple, accompanied by the faithful
Uncle Phin, went to New York. There their only child, a boy, named
Arthur Dale after the grandfather who refused to recognize him, was
born, and there they lived in the greatest happiness until the child was
nearly eleven years old. Then the beautiful young mother died, leaving
Richard Dustin utterly heartbroken. Soon afterward he removed with his
idolized boy and Uncle Phin, who had filled the position of nurse and
constant protector to Arthur from infancy, to the home of his childhood,
a little rocky farm in Northwestern Pennsylvania.

He had but one relative in the world, a brother, who lived near one of
the mushroom-like towns that sprang up during the early days of
petroleum. When, a year after the death of his wife, Richard Dustin was
also laid in the grave, it was in the family of this brother, John
Dustin, that Arthur and Uncle Phin found a home.

Richard Dustin left no property save the rocky farm that was too poor
even to support a mortgage. As his brother John had a large family, the
new burdens now thrust upon him were not very warmly welcomed. In fact
Mrs. Dustin strongly urged her husband not to receive them. She was
Arthur’s Aunt Nancy, a hard, unsympathetic, overworked woman, who
grudged every morsel of food that the new-comers ate, and seemed to
consider that everything given to Arthur was just so much stolen from
her own children.

Uncle Phin, it is true, worked faithfully to do what he could toward
earning the bread eaten by himself and his “lil Marse,” as he persisted
in calling Arthur, but he was old and feeble, and the best that he could
do did not amount to much. The scanty, but neat, city-made wardrobe that
Arthur brought with him to his new home, had not been replenished by a
single garment, and now the boy’s clothes were shabby and outgrown to
such a degree, that his mother’s heart would have ached could she have
seen him.

Although he was a thoughtful, imaginative child, he was remarkably
strong and active for his age. He had learned to read and write at his
mother’s knee, and his father had, during the last year of his life,
found his only pleasure in planning and directing the boy’s education.
Arthur was therefore as far in advance of his cousins in this respect as
he was in refinement and ideas of honor. He was so very different from
them that, though he tried hard to love them and make them love him,
they, with the exception of little Cynthia, to whom he was an ideal of
perfection, united in cordially disliking him.

This dislike was clearly shown, and resulted in many a heartache and
many an unjust punishment to the lonely orphan boy. Many a night he
slipped from his little cot bed in the back shed, and creeping to where
Uncle Phin slept on a hay-mow in the barn, poured his troubles with
bitter tears into the sympathetic ears of the old negro.

Then the faithful soul would open wide his arms, and nestling the fair
head of his “lil Marse” against his broad bosom, would soothe and
comfort him with gentle croonings and quaint quavering plantation
melodies. His singing was always accompanied by a slow rocking motion of
the body, and finally the blue, tear-swollen eyes would close, and the
boy would drop into a sleep full of beautiful dreams, in which he always
saw his own dear father and mother. Then Uncle Phin’s frosted head would
droop lower and lower, until he too was asleep and dreaming of his long
ago cabin home under the magnolia trees of old Virginia. Thus these two
would comfort each other until morning.

Now, choking with a sense of injustice and wrong at the hands of his
Aunt Nancy, little Prince Dusty fled across the fields in search of this
friend. He was filled with the determination to beg Uncle Phin to take
him away from that hated place, to some other where they might live
happily together for always and always.




                              CHAPTER III.
                     BRACE BARLOW THE MOONLIGHTER.


Besides Uncle Phin and Cynthia, Arthur had one other friend whom he
seldom saw now, but whom he was always glad to meet. This was Brace
Barlow, a stalwart, good-natured, young fellow, about twenty-five years
old, who seemed so big and strong to the little boy, that the latter
called him his “dear giant.” He worked for Arthur’s uncle when the boy
first came to live with the Dustins, and had immediately taken a great
fancy to the gentle little fellow. He taught Arthur to ride horseback,
to drive a team, and to swim, and was always ready to tell him stories
of adventures in the oil region. Besides these things, he took pains
patiently to explain where the oil came from, and how wells were
drilled, deep down into the earth to its hiding-places.

Some months before the time with which this story opens, Brace Barlow
left Mr. Dustin’s employ, and, much to Arthur’s dismay, became a
“moonlighter.”

Now to understand what a “moonlighter” is, one must know at least as
much as Arthur did about oil wells. They are holes about the size of an
ordinary stove-pipe, bored, by means of immensely heavy iron drills,
hundreds and sometimes thousands of feet into the earth, until they
reach the layer of porous sandstone that holds the oil, just as a sponge
holds water.

With the oil in this sandstone are vast quantities of gas, that exert an
enormous pressure upon it; and the moment an opening is made to where it
is, this gas forces the oil to the surface, often driving it forth in
great spurts and fountain-like jets. Such a well is called a “gusher,”
and from it the oil flows for days, weeks, and sometimes for years.
After a while, however, the supply of oil or gas, or both, becomes
exhausted, so that the stream no longer rises above the mouth of the
well. Then a pump is used, and by means of it the oil is pumped up, just
as water is from an ordinary well. But the supply of oil always
decreases, until, by and by, the pump no longer brings it up in paying
quantities.

For some years after the discovery of oil, these exhausted wells were
abandoned, and their owners sunk new ones in other places. At length,
however, a wise man who had studied the situation very carefully,
concluded that if, by any means, the oil-bearing rock could be shattered
for a considerable distance around the bottom of these old wells, the
flow of oil might be increased, and it might again be produced from them
in paying quantities. So he invented a torpedo that could be exploded at
any required depth in a well. It was simply a long tin tube, closed at
the lower end, and filled with nitro-glycerine. This is one of the most
terrible explosives ever discovered; and though it is only ordinary
sweet glycerine, such as is used for chapped faces and hands, mixed with
nitric acid, it is ten times more powerful than gunpowder, and explodes
upon receiving a very slight shock or blow.

A torpedo of this kind, lowered to the bottom of an oil well, and
exploded by means of a sharp-pointed iron weight dropped upon it,
shatters a large area of oil-bearing rock, and the oil or gas, comes
rushing to the surface as when the well was first opened. This operation
is called “shooting a well”; the lowering of a torpedo into position, a
thousand feet or more below the surface of the earth, is called “placing
a shot,” and the men who undertake this dangerous business are called
“torpedo men” or “well-shooters.”

The person who invented this process of well-shooting, and obtained a
patent on it, charged so much for the use of his torpedoes that to shoot
a well was an expensive undertaking. Many oil producers thought they
could not afford it, or that their exhausted wells were not worth the
further expenditure of so much money. Under these circumstances a class
of reckless, daring fellows sprang into existence, who made a business
of manufacturing torpedoes, and secretly shooting wells without paying
the inventor the royalty to which his patent entitled him. Thus they
were able to do the work much more cheaply than the regular torpedo men,
and a great number of well owners were willing to employ them for the
sake of what money they would thus save.

As these men generally worked at night they were called “moonlighters,”
and many thrilling tales of the desperate risks run by them, are still
told in the oil regions. The inventor of the torpedo, who was the only
man having a legal right to use it, was of course most anxious to detect
and punish these “moonlighters,” and for this purpose he employed a
number of spies. These spies, or detectives, were generally mounted on
fleet horses, and whenever they discovered a “moonlighter” driving along
the lonely roads, with his load of nitro-glycerine, they gave chase to
him. Then he would whip up his spirited team, and drive away at full
speed, reckless of consequences, and only intent upon escaping from his
pursuers.

Thus it often happened that people sleeping in the vicinity of those
quiet mountain roads were awakened at night by the sound of galloping
horses, the rattle of a light wagon, and the shouts of its pursuers.
They would hold their breath and wait in anxious suspense until the
sounds died away, happy if they did not hear the awful roar of an
explosion, that meant instant death to all who were anywhere near that
ill-fated wagon.

When it is remembered that such an explosion could be caused by the
breaking of a wheel, the upsetting of the wagon, or even its sudden
striking against a rock or stump, and that such an accident would result
in the instantaneous and complete disappearance of men, horses, wagon,
and everything within reach of the awful stuff, it will be understood
what terrible risks the “moonlighters” ran in pursuit of their illegal
business, and what reckless men they were. As the patent on oil-well
torpedoes expired some years ago, and anybody can now use them who
chooses to do so, there are no longer any “moonlighters,” but at the
time of this story they were numerous, and Arthur’s friend, Brace
Barlow, was one of the most daring of them all.

To have his “dear giant” engage in a pursuit at once so wrong and so
dangerous was a great grief to the honest, loving little soul, and at
every opportunity he pleaded with Brace to give it up. But the young man
would only laugh, saying that he had as much right to shoot wells and
risk his life as anybody else, and that it was the easiest way of making
money he knew of.

At length, however, about daylight one morning, he came to the Dustin
house, bruised, bleeding, and with an awe-stricken look on his usually
merry face. Waking his little friend, he said he had come to tell him
that his moonlighting days were over, and that hereafter he was to be an
honest well-shooter, in the service of the rightful owner of the torpedo
patent.

“Oh, I am so glad!” cried the boy, “only I wish you would work at
something else, and never touch the awful glycerine again.”

“I can’t give it up entirely, little one,” replied Brace. “Its very
danger makes it exciting, and any other life would seem tame after it.”

“Well,” said Arthur, “if you must be one, I am glad you are going to be
an honest torpedo man. But, ‘dear giant,’ are you hurt? What makes you
look so queer?”

Then Brace told him that about an hour before, he had been driving
quietly along, with fifty quarts of nitro-glycerine stowed snugly under
his buggy seat, toward a well that he was to shoot at daylight, when the
sound of galloping hoofs gave warning that a detective was on his track.
He instantly whipped up his horses, and, as they sprang forward, his
light buggy was nearly upset by striking some obstacle, and he was
thrown to the ground with such force as to be partially stunned. As he
lay there the detective dashed past without noticing him, and overtaking
the runaway team a minute later probably tried to stop them. They must
have swerved to one side, the buggy had undoubtedly been upset, and a
terrific explosion instantly followed. When Brace reached the spot no
trace of man, horses, or wagon, was to be found, and only a great hole
in the ground marked the scene of the catastrophe.

The boy shuddered as he listened to this story, and for days afterward
his sunny face was clouded by its memory. Still he found some comfort in
reflecting that nothing less than some such terrible lesson would have
made an honest torpedo man of his dear “moonlighter,” with whom, from
that time forward, his friendship became stronger than ever.




                              CHAPTER IV.
                         A TORPEDO MAN’S PERIL.


On the day that Arthur played at being a Prince, and was on his way to
unfold the sad result of that experience to Uncle Phin, he met Brace
Barlow driving out of an old wood road that led to his nitro-glycerine
magazine, hidden in the loneliest depths of the forest.

At sight of his little friend, Brace reined in his horses and stopped
for a moment’s chat with him.

In spite of the young man’s warning that he had a load of the “stuff”
under the seat, Arthur ran forward and clambered up into the wagon
beside him.

“Oh, I am so glad to see you, ‘dear giant’!” he began impulsively,
“because——” Here he paused.

He had been about to pour into this friend’s ear all his troubles, and
make a complaint against his Aunt Nancy; but it suddenly occurred to him
that by so doing he would be only acting the part of a tale-bearer,
which his father had taught him most heartily to despise. Telling things
to Uncle Phin was different. He was quite certain that Brace could not
help him in his present trouble, and so, when the latter asked with a
smile, “Because what, little one?” he answered:

“Because I love you, and I am always glad to see the people I love. Are
you going to shoot a well? Can’t I go with you? Aunt Nancy says I am to
stay out of her sight until sunset, and the boys have gone fishing, and
Cynthia’s doing her patchwork, and I haven’t a single thing to do.
Please let me go.”

“Well, I don’t know,” replied Brace Barlow, reflectively. “I don’t
suppose there is really any danger; still——”

“Danger!” exclaimed Prince Dusty, scornfully. “Do you suppose I am any
more afraid of danger than you are, even if you are a great, big man and
I am only a little boy? Well, I’m not. Your old glycerine can’t be any
worse than lightning, and I’m not a bit afraid of that. Besides, if I am
always going to live in this oil region, I ought to learn all about its
dangers, so that I’ll know enough to keep away from them. Perhaps when I
have grown to be a giant, like you, I will want to be a well-shooter
too, and how can I if I haven’t learned how?”

This array of argument was too much for Brace to answer, and so, saying,
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to take you with me just this once,” he
chirruped to his horses, and, driving much more slowly and carefully
than usual, turned into the road that led to the well he was engaged to
shoot.

They reached the place without incident, and Arthur helped carry into
the derrick the bundle of bright tin tubes that had been lashed to a
couple of curved iron supports at one side of the wagon. He also helped
place in position the reel on which was wound two thousand feet of stout
cord, by means of which the torpedo was to be let down into the well.
This line was run through a pulley that hung directly above the well,
and its end terminating in an iron hook, dangled close to the mouth of
the deep, dark hole.

When these preparations were made, Brace Barlow began to fit and fasten
together several lengths of small tin pipe until they formed a
continuous tube about fifty feet long. This is called the “anchor,” and
was to be attached to the lower end of the shell, or large torpedo tube,
so that when the whole was lowered into the well, it would support the
torpedo at a height of fifty feet above the bottom.

Arthur was allowed to assist in fitting the anchor tubes, and also in
making the shell ready to be filled with its deadly explosive. When the
cans of nitro-glycerine were brought into the derrick, all the men
employed about the place retired to a respectful distance from it. Then
Brace insisted that Arthur should also go away, and leave him alone to
finish the delicate and dangerous job of loading the shell, lowering it
into position, and exploding it.

The boy begged to be allowed to stay, declaring that he was not in the
least afraid, and would keep as still as a mouse. But Brace would not
listen for a moment to his pleadings, and very slowly the little fellow
walked away to what he considered a safe distance, though it was not
nearly so far as the men had gone.

At this time the empty shell, which was a large tin tube about twenty
feet long, was, with its anchor attached, hanging in the well so that
its upper end was just above the surface. It hung from a very shallow
iron hook, at the end of the stout cord arranged for the purpose; and
Brace Barlow now proceeded slowly and cautiously to pour the
nitro-glycerine into it. The stuff was the color of soft soap, and about
as thick as syrup.

He had been thus engaged but a few minutes, when Arthur, who was nearer
to him than anybody else, heard him call, “Come here, quick, somebody,
and help me!”

Without a moment’s hesitation or thought of fear, the brave little
fellow ran swiftly to the derrick, exclaiming, as he reached it, “Here I
am, Brace! What do you want?”

“You here, you dear little chap!” cried the torpedo man, “I didn’t mean
that you should come; but perhaps after all you will do better than
another, and I must have help at once. You see the hook has slipped off
the shell, and I only caught the torpedo in time to save it from
dropping and exploding before I was ready. Then the weight of the cord
pulled the hook up so that I can’t reach it. Now if you can climb up the
side of the derrick, holding the drill rope in close to you till you
reach the proper height, then swing out, catch hold of that hook, and
slide down the drill rope with it in your hand, you will do what I want
as well as if you were the biggest man in the world. Do you think you
can?”

“I can try,” replied the boy, who took in the whole situation at a
glance, and he at once began to climb the ladder that led to the top of
the tall derrick.

It seemed that while Brace was filling the torpedo, and had nearly
completed his task, he found it necessary to shift the position of the
shell slightly. As he lifted it, the shallow hook slipped from the bail,
or handle of stout copper wire, and flew up just beyond his reach. To
let go of the torpedo was out of the question, for it would have fallen
down the well and probably exploded from concussion with the iron tubing
lining the hole before it had gone many feet. This explosion would have
fired the quart or more of glycerine still remaining in one of the cans
on the derrick floor, and Brace Barlow would instantly have disappeared
from human view. The weight of the torpedo was so great that he could
not support it very long; and so, unless assistance came to him promptly
when he called, he must have let the thing drop, and suffered the
consequences.

But help had come promptly; and a twelve-year-old boy, forgetting all
thoughts of danger, and urged on by the love he bore his friend, was
climbing the derrick, swinging out into space on the heavy drill rope,
clutching the dangling iron hook, and sliding down with it in his hand.
Then, instead of timidly reaching it to Brace, he stepped boldly up and
attached it to the copper bail of the torpedo that was cutting deep into
the flesh of the strong hand that held it, and must in another minute
have let it go.

As the well-shooter, with a pale face, rose from his strained position,
he clasped the boy in his arms, exclaiming: “Little one, you have done
for me this day what any man might be proud of doing for a friend; and,
so long as I live, I will never forget the service nor cease to be
indebted to you.”

When the filling of the torpedo was completed, it was cautiously lowered
a thousand feet to the bottom of the well, the “Go Devil,” a heavy,
pointed bit of iron that was to explode it, was dropped, and, seizing
Arthur in his arms, Brace Barlow ran swiftly from the spot.

A few seconds later the solid earth was shaken and there was a heavy but
muffled roar. Directly afterwards a vast column of oil shot up through
the derrick sixty feet into the air, and fell back to earth in a
glistening cloud of amber-colored spray. The shot was a perfect success;
and for months afterwards the old well again flowed at the rate of
twenty barrels a day.

As Brace and his little friend rode homewards they stopped in the first
lonely bit of forest to explode the still dangerous but empty
nitro-glycerine cans. This was done by placing them on the ground,
lighting the end of a short fuse attached to a cap thrust into one of
them, and driving rapidly away. The explosion was terrific, and its roar
was like that of a hundred-pounder gun. Arthur said it was better than
any Fourth of July he had ever known.




                               CHAPTER V.
                        ARTHUR AND HIS COUSINS.


As Arthur and Brace Barlow returned from the well-shooting described in
the preceding chapter, the latter set the boy down at a cross-road but a
short distance from the Dustin house. Here the little fellow bade his
“dear giant” good-night, and ran homeward, feeling happier than he had
for a long time. Though he hardly realized the full value of the service
he had just rendered to his friend, he was sure that he had been useful
at a critical moment; he knew that he had been praised for what he had
done, and he felt more manly than ever before.

It was quite late when he reached the front gate, where faithful little
Cynthia was anxiously watching for him and wondering where he could be.

“Oh, Cynthia!” he cried, as he drew near and saw her, “I’ve had such a
lovely time! I have been shooting a well with Brace Barlow, and I
climbed up the derrick and got a hook that had slipped away from him,
and brought it down; and he said I was a brave boy, and had saved his
life, though I don’t see exactly how; and then we had a splendid Fourth
of July time, blowing up the cans; and it sounded like a real truly
cannon; and the very minute I get grown up I’m going to be a
well-shooter.”

It was absolutely necessary for the enthusiastic little fellow to pour
into sympathetic ear the tale of what he had done. He had performed a
brave act, and in the first flush of his excitement he longed to be
praised for it, as we all do whenever we have done anything that we
consider especially good, or worthy of commendation. It is a reward of
merit to which all who have earned it are entitled; and to withhold just
praise is as cruel as to extend unjust censure.

Cynthia would not have been guilty of any such unkindness. Her eyes
opened wide as she listened to the tale her Prince told of his own
deeds, and she was just catching her breath to tell him how splendid she
thought them, when they were startled by the sound of a harsh voice,
calling, “Arthur! Cynthia! come into the house this minute, you naughty
children. Don’t you know better than to be staying out there breathing
the night air?”

“A boy must breathe some kind of air, Aunt Nancy, and when it is night
time I don’t see how he can help breathing night air,” laughed Arthur,
as he reached the house; for not even his aunt’s harsh tones could at
once dispel his good spirits.

“What do you mean by talking back to me?” asked Mrs. Dustin. “I say that
night air is poison, and no member of my family, even if he is a young
interloper, shall breathe a drop of it, not so long as I can help it.
Now, not another word. I know where you’ve been this whole blessed
afternoon. You’ve been off with Brace Barlow, who ought to have more
sense than to encourage your badness, shooting wells, and trying to get
yourself blown into mince-meat, just to make more trouble for me. Yes, I
know all about it, in spite of your sly ways. Now, you may go right to
bed, and not a morsel of supper shall you have this night, which may be
it’ll be a lesson that you will remember for one while, anyway.”

Mr. John Dustin, who sat smoking his evening pipe by an open window,
rarely interfered with his wife’s management of the children; but now he
spoke up saying:

“That won’t do, wife; you only gave the boy bread and water for his
dinner, and it won’t do to send him to bed without any supper. I believe
in proper punishment, where it is deserved, as much as anybody; but when
it comes to starving, that’s quite another thing. It shall never be said
that my brother Richard’s only son was starved in his uncle’s house. So
give the boy his supper, and plenty of it. Then you can send him to bed
if you see fit.”

Mrs. Dustin knew that when her husband spoke in this tone he meant to be
obeyed; so, without a word, she set a plain but bountiful meal before
Arthur. From a long experience of bread-and-water punishments and
supperless nights the boy was wise enough to eat heartily all that he
possibly could, in spite of his heavy heart. He ate in silence, and for
some time nobody else spoke; only Dick, who sat at the farther end of
the room with the other children, chuckled and made faces behind
Arthur’s back, for the benefit, and to the huge delight, of his
companions. He was greatly pleased at the result of his tale-bearing;
for it was he who, overhearing Arthur tell Cynthia that he had been
well-shooting with Brace Barlow, had hurried to the house, and repeated
the information, with some picturesque additions of his own devising, to
his mother.

Once, during the silent meal, little Cynthia tried to create a diversion
in her cousin’s favor by remarking timidly to nobody in particular, but
to the company in general, “Arthur says Brace Barlow says he saved his
life.”

“Who says what?” inquired Mrs. Dustin, turning quickly and fixing her
sharp eyes on the little girl’s face.

“Brace Barlow says—I mean Arthur says Brace Barlow says—he saved his——”

“Oh, fiddlesticks!” interrupted her mother; “you don’t know what you’re
talking about. It isn’t at all likely that either of them did anything
of the kind. The sort of danger Brace Barlow goes into is quick and
sure. When it once gets started there isn’t any chance for life-saving,
or for telling of it afterwards. Arthur ought to know better than to go
round boasting in that way to a little girl like you, and I should think
he’d be ashamed of himself for doing it.”

Arthur listened to this unjust speech with a flushed face and a feeling
of choking indignation; but he did not say a word. Young as he was, he
had already learned that in a contest with an unreasonable person
silence is the weapon of wisdom.

After finishing his supper the forlorn little fellow, accepting his
punishment without a murmur, though he could not imagine what wrong he
had done, retired to his cot in the woodshed, where he was quickly
blessed by the presence of sleep the comforter.

The next day was the bright one in September with which this story
opens, and Arthur is introduced as he sits on the top rail of a zig-zag
fence watching the other children at play.

Fired by the accounts of his adventure of the day before as narrated to
them, at second-hand by Cynthia, for Arthur could not be induced to say
another word concerning it, his cousins had determined to have a
miniature well-shooting of their own. They spent the entire morning in
the construction of a very shaky little derrick, about six feet high,
and now they were busy drilling a well, which they hoped to put down to
a depth of at least two feet. When it was finished they proposed to
shoot it by means of a cannon-cracker, that they had saved over from the
Fourth of July for use on some such special occasion.

The scheme was well planned, and seemed likely to be carried out; for
the children were enthusiastic over it, and, under Dick’s direction,
worked most diligently. Arthur would gladly have joined in this
fascinating occupation; but the others would not have him. As Dick
scornfully remarked: “What can a city chap like you know about building
derricks and drilling wells? You wasn’t raised in the oil region.”

So Arthur was forced to content himself with sitting on the fence and
watching them. Occasionally he turned for a chat with Uncle Phin, who
was cutting brush in the field behind him, and who took a long rest
whenever he reached the end of a row that brought him anywhere near his
“lil marse.” Finally, after one of these rests, during which Arthur had
paid no attention to the operations at the miniature derrick, he left
his perch and followed Uncle Phin for a short distance into the thick
brush.




                              CHAPTER VI.
                    A GALLANT RESCUE AND ITS REWARD.


Arthur had hardly left his perch before he was startled by a perfect
babel of sounds coming from where the children were at play. There were
yells and shouts of laughter, mingled with cries of pain and an angry
screaming, together with piteous calls of “Arthur! oh, Arthur! Come and
make ’em stop!”

Like a young deer the boy bounded out of the brush and over the fence,
followed, much more slowly by Uncle Phin. Arrived upon the scene, he
quickly comprehended the situation. In an unfortunate moment, just as
the well was completed and ready to be shot, Cynthia’s dearly loved
little white kitty came demurely walking in that direction looking for
her mistress. At sight of the little animal a brilliant idea flashed
through Dick’s mind, and he at once proceeded to carry it out. He said:

“We can’t have much fun shooting a dry well anyhow, ’cause there won’t
be any oil to fly up in the air; but I’ll tell you what. Let’s have an
execution by ’lectricity. It’ll be immense, and here’s the prisoner
already waiting to be executed.”

Thus saying, the cruel boy snatched up the little white kitty, and,
bidding the others hold Cynthia, who was ready to make a furious
struggle in defence of her pet, he ran with it to the derrick. Here,
with the make-believe drill rope, he hung it by the tail, so that the
little pink nose was but a few inches from the ground. Then, lighting
the fuse of the great cannon-cracker, he placed it directly beneath the
victim, who was now uttering piteous cries of pain and terror, and ran
to where the others were shouting with delight over the new and
thrilling diversion so unexpectedly prepared for them.

Poor, desperate little Cynthia, kicking, biting, scratching, but
struggling in vain with the young rascals who held her fast, began, as a
last resort, to call upon Arthur, the brave Prince who had defended her
against the big dog, and she did not call in vain.

Hatless and breathless, with the fire of righteous wrath blazing in his
blue eyes, the plucky boy came flying to the rescue. He had no thought
of the overwhelming odds against him. The princes of his fairy tales
fought whole armies single-handed, and why should not he? His impetuous
speed carried him right through the shouting group assembled to witness
the execution of the hapless kitty, and two of them were flung to the
ground before they knew of his presence. An instant later he reached the
little derrick. The fuse had burned down into the body of the big
cracker, and in another second it would explode. Without the faintest
trace of hesitation, the little fellow seized it and flung it behind
him.

An explosion followed almost instantly, and was accompanied by a yell of
pain. The moment Dick recognized Arthur, and perceived his intention, he
sprang after his cousin, and was directly in line when the
cannon-cracker came flying toward him. It struck him and fell to the
ground, exploding as it did so, and burning his bare feet painfully.

Furious with rage the cowardly young bully rushed at Arthur, who was
releasing the white kitty from her unhappy position, and with a savage
blow knocked the little fellow down. Then he jumped on him and began to
pummel him, screaming “Take that, will you! And that! I’ll teach you!
I’ll show you who’s boss round here!”

All at once these cruel cries were changed to yells of dismay, as,
whack! whack! whack! a shower of stinging blows fell upon Dick’s
shoulders. Uncle Phin, who had followed Arthur as fast as he was able,
had arrived just in time to save his “lil Marse” from any severe injury
at the hands of his enraged cousin, and to administer, with a stout
stick, the thrashing that the young rascal so well deserved.

In less than a minute cowardly Cousin Dick and his frightened followers
were scampering away towards the house, where they proposed to lay their
side of the case promptly before their mother. Cynthia had gone after
her beloved kitty, and brave little “Prince Dusty,” who had flung
himself into Uncle Phin’s arms, was sobbing as though his heart would
break.

“Soh, Honey, soh, don’t you cry now,” murmured the old man, in soothing
tones. “’Member dat while you is a Dustin by name, you’s a Dale by
breedin, an comes of Dale stock. You’s mos a man now, a young gen’lm’n,
an it won’t nebber do fer sich as you is to cry like a lilly gal. Soh,
now, Honey, soh.”

Neither of them heard the quick, determined step that approached them
from behind, and so occupied was poor, troubled Uncle Phin in soothing
and comforting his charge, that it was an easy matter for Mrs. Dustin to
snatch the trembling boy from his arms. Then she marched rapidly away,
without a word; but dragging her victim relentlessly after her.

Uncle Phin half started to his feet when he first realized what was
happening; but sank back again with a groan, and a murmured “De good
Lawd hab mussy on His Lamb.”

Then he bowed his frosted head on his knees and the hot tears trickled
slowly between his black fingers.

While he thus sat helpless and despairing, poor Arthur was taken to the
house and there whipped, until the apple-tree switch broke, and his Aunt
Nancy’s strength was exhausted. Then, telling the boy that this was a
lesson for him to remember as long as he lived, she bade him go to the
woodshed, which was his sleeping-room, and stay there until she should
release him.

During this undeserved punishment not a cry had escaped from the boy,
nor had a tear found its way to his eyes. He bit his under-lip and
clenched his hands, but not a sound did he utter. He remembered what
Uncle Phin had just told him. He was almost a man now, and no man,
especially a Dale, would cry for a whipping. So, though the little face
was drawn and white, and the boy trembled until he could hardly stand,
he held out to the end as bravely as ever a martyr under torture, and
when he was thrust into his cheerless shed, he sat on the edge of his
rude bed rigid and tearless. His mind was in a furious whirl, but above
all was the overwhelming sense of injustice and outrage.

Finally he sprang to his feet, crying, “I hate you! I hate you! I hate
you!” and then, flinging himself on his bed, he gave way to a burst of
passionate weeping.

“Oh, mamma!” he cried, “my own mamma! why don’t you come for me and take
me away from this dreadful place? I can’t stay here any longer! Indeed I
can’t, mamma! oh, come for me; do come! Please, mamma, come for me, and
take me to where you are!”

For nearly an hour the forlorn child cried for the dear ones who had
left him; then his sobs gradually died away, and, utterly exhausted, he
fell into a troubled sleep.

In the meantime little Cynthia, who only found her dear kitty after a
long search, met her father coming home from his work, and when he
inquired what was the matter with his daughter, and who had made her
cry, she told him the truth of all that had happened, so far as she knew
it. Mr. Dustin had begun to suspect that Arthur was ill-treated by his
cousins, and as he listened to Cynthia’s story, his face grew very
stern, and he said: “This matter must be looked into.”

When they reached the house, and he was told that Arthur had been
severely punished for trying to kill Cynthia’s kitten, and for fighting
with Dick who had rescued it, and that Uncle Phin had beaten Dick, Mr.
Dustin’s anger could not be restrained. He said:

“Wife, I am afraid you have made a terrible mistake, and punished an
innocent child for performing a noble act. If what Cynthia tells me is
true, and I believe it is, Master Dick is the boy who tormented his
little sister, and would have killed her pet. Master Dick is the coward
who thrashed a little fellow two years younger than himself, for bravely
rescuing the victim of his cruelty. Master Dick is the one who told a
lie to hide his own wickedness and cause his cousin to receive the
punishment he himself deserved. And Master Dick is the boy who is aching
for the whipping that I shall give him before he is many minutes older.

“In regard to my dead brother’s child, I want it understood that so long
as he remains under my roof he is never again to be punished for any
fault, real or fancied; and if anybody has any complaints to make
against him, they must make them to me. As for Uncle Phin, if it is true
that he beat one of my children, he must leave this place, and look for
a home elsewhere, which I shall tell him to-morrow.”

Every word of this was heard by the old negro, who was sitting on a
bench in the little vine-colored porch, close under an open window, of
the room in which Mr. Dustin stood. The old man, who had not known of
the cruel punishment inflicted upon his “lil Marse,” was waiting
patiently for Arthur to come out and bring him his supper, as the boy
had done every evening since they came there to live.

Now he said to himself: “Dat’s all right, Marse Dustin. I did beat yo
boy, an I do it agin if heem tetch my honey lamb; but yo sha’n’t nebber
hab de chance to tun ole Phin Dale from yo house. No, sah; he done go of
his own sef, befo ebber he ’lowin you to do sich a ting. An when he go
he isn’t gwine erlone. No, sah.”

Just then little Cynthia came out with his supper, and said that Arthur
was asleep. The old man ate his frugal meal in silence; but a train of
thoughts was passing through his head much more rapidly than usual. They
were all travelling in the same direction, and it was back toward his
old Virginia home.




                              CHAPTER VII.
                           UNCLE PHIN’S PLAN.


After finishing his supper on the memorable evening of Arthur’s unjust
punishment, Mr. John Dustin stepped softly into the woodshed, which, in
that overcrowded household, had seemed to be the only place that could
be given up for an extra sleeping-room. He closed the door behind him,
and, by the light of a candle that he carried, gazed long and earnestly
at the tear-stained face of the child who lay on a rude cot. It was hot
and flushed, and the sleeping boy tossed and moaned as though visited by
unhappy dreams. Once he called out: “Don’t let them whip me, mamma! I
haven’t been naughty. Indeed I have not!”

At this the man, as though fearful of awakening the sleeper, hastily
retired from the place, and there was a suspicious moisture in his eyes
as he re-entered the other room.

Here he said: “Wife, I believe we have treated that little chap very
unjustly. My brother Richard was the most truthful and honorable boy and
man I ever knew, and I am inclined to think the son takes after his
father. Hereafter I shall try to make his life pleasanter and happier,
and in this I want you to help me.”

Mrs. Dustin made no answer to this, for her heart was hardened against
the orphan lad, and she really believed him to be the sly bad boy that
Dick strove to make him appear. “I will watch him more closely than
ever, and show him up in his true light yet,” she thought, as she bent
her head over her sewing so that her husband could not see her face. “He
sha’n’t stand in the way of my children, and I’ll believe my own Dick’s
word before his every time,” was her mental resolve.

Knowing nothing of his wife’s thoughts, Mr. Dustin was already taking
steps to insure Arthur’s greater comfort. He went to the pantry and
brought from it a bowl of milk, a loaf of new bread, and a plate of
ginger cookies made that day. With these he again entered Arthur’s
sleeping-room, and softly placed them on a chair where, by the light of
the moon that was just rising, the boy would see them whenever he should
awake. Once, while he was thus engaged, Mrs. Dustin opened her mouth to
remonstrate against such a lavish provision of food for a mere child;
but a glance at her husband’s determined face caused her to change her
mind, and she wisely remained silent.

There had been another and more appreciative witness of Mr. Dustin’s
thoughtful act. It was Uncle Phin, who, kneeling outside the shed and
gazing through an open chink in its rough wall, was waiting patiently
for the family to retire that he might have a private and undetected
conversation with his “lil Marse.”

As Mr. Dustin again left the shed, the old man said softly to himself:

“De good Lawd bress you fer what you is jes done, Marse Dustin. You is
got some ob pore Marse Richard’s goodness into you after all. If it
warn’t fer de ole Miss an dem wicked chillun, me an lil Marse would try
an stick it out awhile longer. But it can’t be did. No, sah, it can’t be
did.” Here the old man shook his white head sorrowfully. “Dem young
limbs is too powerful wicked, an ole Miss, she back ’em up. Fer a fac,
ole Phin got ter tote his lamb away fum heah, an maybe de good Lawd lead
us to de green fiels ob de still waters, where we kin lie down in
peacefulness.”

An hour later, when the lights of the house were extinguished and all
was still with the silence of sleep, Uncle Phin cautiously opened the
shed door, and tip-toeing heavily to where Arthur lay, rested his horny
hand gently on the boy’s white forehead.

The child opened his eyes and smiled, as, by the moonlight, now flooding
the place, he saw who was bending over him.

“Sh-h-h, Honey,” whispered Uncle Phin, with warning finger uplifted;
“git up quiet like a fiel mouse an come erlong wif me. Sh-h-h!”

Then the old man and the child stole softly away, the former not
forgetting to carry with him the supply of food provided by Mr. Dustin.
As quietly as two shadows they moved across the open space between the
house and the barn.

Not until they were safe in his particular corner of the hay-mow did
Uncle Phin venture to speak aloud. Here he drew a long breath of
satisfaction, for in this place they could talk freely and without
danger of being overheard.

First he made Arthur drink all that he could from the bowl of milk and
eat heartily of the bread and cakes that Mr. Dustin had left for him.
After eating the food, of which he stood so greatly in need, and which
the old man assured him had been left by one “ob de good Lawd’s own
rabens,” Arthur said:

“Oh, Uncle Phin, I’ve tried as hard as I can to be good, and make them
all love me here, but they won’t do it. No matter what I do, it seems to
be the wrong thing, and I only get punished for it. I am getting almost
afraid to try and do right any more, and if we stay here much longer I’m
pretty sure I shall grow to be a bad boy, such as my own dear mamma and
papa wouldn’t love. Now don’t you think we might run away and live
somewhere else, where it would be more easy to be good than it is here?
Do you think it would be very wrong if we did? I’m sure Aunt Nancy would
be glad to have us go, and perhaps Uncle John would too.”

“Why, Honeybug!” cried the old man delightedly, “dat ar is prezactly
what yo ole Unc Phin’s been projeckin to hissef—only you mus’n’t call it
runnin away, like you was a pore niggah. A Dale don’t nebber run away.
He only change de spere ob his libbin, when he gits tired ob one place,
an’ takes up wif anudder, same like we’s a gwine ter. I’s been
considerin fer a long while back dat dese yere Dustins, who isn’t much
better ’n pore white trash no how, wasn’t de bestest company fer a
thorobred Dale like you is.”

“Hush, Uncle Phin! You must not speak so of my uncle’s family. He was my
dear papa’s own brother, and they are the only relatives I have in the
world,” said Arthur.

“No, dey isn’t, Honey. Dey isn’t de onliest ones what you got in de
worl. You is got a granpaw libin yet. A monsrus fine gen’lm’n he is, and
he’s place one ob de fines’ in all Ferginny, if I does say it. He’s
quality, he is, an Dalecourt is yo own properest home.”

“But I have never seen my Grandpapa Dale, and he doesn’t know me, and I
don’t believe he wants to,” replied Arthur; adding sadly: “There doesn’t
seem to be anybody in the whole world that wants to know me, except you,
and Brace Barlow, and Cynthia. Besides Dalecourt is a long way off, and
it would take a great deal of money to get there, and we haven’t any at
all, and I don’t believe even you could find the way to it if we should
try and go there.”

“Dint I uster lib dere, Honey, and dint I come frum dere? What fo you
spec I can’t go whar I come frum?”

“But coming from a place and going back to it are very different
things,” replied Arthur, wisely.

“So dey is, Honey, ob cose dey is,” agreed Uncle Phin, who was not yet
ready to disclose his plans.

“But we will go away somewhere and live together, won’t we?” pleaded
Arthur. “I don’t suppose we could take my ‘dear Giant’ and Cynthia with
us; but if we only could, wouldn’t we be happy?”

“Ob cose we’se a gwine leab dish yere place,” replied the old man. “You
jes trus yo Unc Phin, an he fin a way to trabble, an a place fer to go.”

Then he told the boy that he should go away before daylight, and might
remain several days making preparations for their journey. He would not
say where he was going, because he wanted Arthur to be able to say
honestly he did not know, if he were asked. He instructed the boy to
collect all his little belongings, including his scanty wardrobe, and
have them ready for a start at a moment’s notice. “Itll be in de night
time, Honey, in de middle ob de night, an ole Phin ’ll creep in an wake
you, same like he did erwhile ago. So don’t you be afeared when you
wakes up sudden an fin’s him stan’in alongside ob you.”

“No, I won’t be afraid, and Ill be ready whenever you come for me,”
replied the little fellow; “but don’t stay long away, because I shall be
so lonely without you.”

Uncle Phin promised that he would not be a single minute longer than was
necessary to make preparations, and Arthur was about to go back to the
house, when a sudden thought flashed into his mind, and he exclaimed:
“Oh, my book, my precious book that the beautiful lady gave me! I can’t
leave it behind, and Im afraid Aunt Nancy won’t let me have it.”

Then, in answer to Uncle Phin’s inquiries, he had to tell him the whole
story of his adventures as a Prince, which he had not heretofore found
an opportunity of relating, and in which the old man was greatly
interested. He was particularly pleased with the title bestowed upon his
“lil Marse” by the beautiful lady, and said: “You is a shuah ’nough
Prince, Honey, if dere ebber was one in dis worl, only you won’t always
be Prince Dusty. Some day youll be a Prince somefin else. But you mus
hab yo book, in cose you mus, an we’ll make out to git hol ob it somehow
or nudder.”

Comforted by this assurance, and filled with the new hopes raised by
their prolonged conversation, Arthur flung his arms about the old man’s
neck and kissed him good-night and good-bye. Then slipping from the
hay-mow he sped back to the house, carrying the empty dishes, from which
Uncle Phin had taken the remnants of food for his own use.




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                         AWAKENED AT MIDNIGHT.


The next morning Mrs. Dustin was greatly surprised on coming down-stairs
to find that no fire had been made in the kitchen stove, and that the
water-buckets, standing on a shelf over the sink, were empty. Nothing of
this kind had happened since Arthur and Uncle Phin came there to live,
nearly two months before; for to light the fire and bring fresh water
into the house were among the very first of Uncle Phin’s morning duties.
Arthur had meant to get up very early this morning and do these things,
with a vague hope that the old negro’s absence might not be noticed; but
he was so thoroughly exhausted by the events of the preceding day and
night, that he overslept and only awoke with a start as his Aunt Nancy
entered the kitchen.

Now, wide-awake, the boy lay trembling in bed and wondered what would
happen. He heard his aunt go out to the barn and call “Phin! Uncle
Phin!” but there was no answer, though the call was repeated several
times. Then she came back muttering something about “lazy and worthless
old niggers,” and Arthur heard her making the fire. Still anxious to
take Uncle Phin’s place as far as possible, he jumped up, and hastily
slipping on his ragged clothes, picked up an armful of wood that he
carried into the kitchen.

His aunt looked at him sharply: “Where is Phin?” she demanded.

“I do not know,” answered the boy.

“Humph! I might have expected you would say that,” she replied. “How did
you know I wanted any wood, then?”

“I heard you calling Uncle Phin, and thought perhaps that was what you
wanted him for,” was the reply.

“Well, then, if you know so well what I want, perhaps you know that I
want you to get out of this kitchen and keep out of the way while I am
getting breakfast,” said Mrs. Dustin, angrily.

It is always those whom we have injured the most that we dislike the
most; and, with the recollection of her cruelty toward this gentle child
fresh in her mind, the mere sight of him filled her with anger.

So the little fellow wandered out to the barn, and felt very lonely as
he climbed up on the hay-mow to make sure that his dearest earthly
friend had indeed gone. He sat down to wonder where Uncle Phin was, and
how long it would be before he would come to take him away from that
unhappy place. He wished that he might stay right where he was, and not
be compelled to see any of the family again, and was feeling very
wretched and forlorn generally. All at once he heard Cynthia’s voice
calling the chickens around her on the barn floor where she fed them
every morning. Here was somebody for whom he cared, and the thought that
he was so soon to leave her, probably forever, filled him with a pang of
mingled pain and love.

He slid down from the hay-mow to where his little cousin stood, and as
she threw her arms about his neck and kissed him and told him how much
she loved him and how sorry she was for him, he began to realize how
hard it would be to part from her, and to wonder if after all he ought
to run away with Uncle Phin.

Cynthia was a loving and lovable little soul, and though she had a
freckled face, it was lighted by a pair of glorious brown eyes. Her hair
was of a rich brown, flecked with specks of red gold where the sunlight
shone through it. It was just such hair as the sun loves to kiss, and
the merry wind delighted to toss it into the most bewitching tangles
whenever it was not closely imprisoned under the little pink sun-bonnet.
It reminded Arthur of his own dear mother’s hair, and often when they
were playing together he would snatch off the pink sun-bonnet just for
the pleasure of seeing it ripple down over her shoulders. His own used
to be long, almost as long as Cynthia’s, but his Aunt Nancy had cut it
off when he first came to live there, and it had been clipped short ever
since, greatly to Uncle Phin’s sorrow.

While Arthur and Cynthia were feeding the chickens, and the former was
almost forgetting his recent loneliness, Mr. Dustin came into the barn.
He greeted both the children pleasantly, and even kissed them, a thing
that Arthur wondered at, for he could not remember that it had ever
happened before. Then he asked, “Do you know where Uncle Phin is,
Arthur?”

“I think he has gone away,” replied the boy, flushing and looking down,
for it seemed somehow as though he were not exactly telling the truth.

“Do you know where he has gone?”

“No, sir, I do not,” was the honest reply, and the boy looked his
questioner squarely in the face as he made it.

“Well, I believe you, of course,” said his uncle, “and I suppose he must
have taken it into his head to leave us, though it seems very strange
that he should have done so without bidding you good-bye, or telling you
where he was going.”

This was too much for Arthur’s sense of honor, and speaking up manfully,
he said: “He did tell me he was going away, Uncle John, and bid me
good-bye but he didn’t tell me where he was going, and he didn’t want me
to say anything about it unless I had to.”

“I am glad you have told me this,” said Mr. Dustin, “and since he has
gone I must say I am not very sorry. Now come in to breakfast.”

That morning Mr. Dustin took Arthur and Cynthia with him to the well he
was drilling, and, to their great delight, allowed them to stay there
all day. When they reached home that evening Arthur was so emboldened by
his uncle’s unusual kindness, that he ventured, in his presence, to make
mention of the book of fairy tales that his Aunt Nancy had taken from
him. He said:

“Isn’t the book the beautiful lady gave me my very own, Aunt Nancy?”

“I suppose it is,” answered Mrs. Dustin, shortly.

“Well, then, don’t you think I might have it just to look at?”

“I said you might have it when I got ready to give it to you.”

Then Mr. Dustin inquired what book they referred to, and when it was
explained to him he said:

“Well, I guess your aunt is ready to let you have it this very minute,
aren’t you, wife?”

There was no mistaking his meaning; and, very ungraciously, Aunt Nancy
took the precious book down from its high shelf and tossed it on the
table.

Arthur seized it eagerly, and until the children were sent to bed they
and Mr. Dustin enjoyed looking at its many beautiful illustrations. That
night Arthur slept with it under his pillow and it must have influenced
his dreams for they were very pleasant ones.

The following day was also a happy one for Arthur and Cynthia, for they
spent most of it sitting close together under the roots of the great
overturned tree that was their especial retreat absorbed in the book,
and discussing, in their wise childish way, several of its charming
stories that Arthur read aloud to his little cousin.

The boy was beginning to think that life in this place was not so very
cheerless after all, and was becoming more than ever doubtful of the
expediency of running away, when an incident took place that restored
all his previous resolves. Cynthia had been called in by her mother to
sew on her hated patchwork, and Arthur was sitting alone, when suddenly
a great, squirming, half-dead snake was dropped on him from above. With
a cry of horror the startled boy sprang up just in time to see his
Cousin Dick’s grinning face, and hear him say, “That’s only part of what
you’ll get before long, you little sneak, you.”

That night as he slept with his precious book clasped tightly in his
arms, he was again awakened by a hand laid lightly on his forehead. As
he sprang to a sitting posture, Uncle Phin bent lovingly over him,
saying:

“Sh-h-h, Honey! Ebberyting’s ready, an it’s high time fer us to be
gittin away frum hyar.”




                              CHAPTER IX.
                           A HURRIED FLIGHT.


There was no need for Arthur to ask any questions, when he was roused in
the middle of the second night after Uncle Phin’s departure. He realized
at once what was required of him, and the heaviness of sleep instantly
vanished, leaving him keenly wide awake. Stepping softly from his bed,
he quickly dressed, while the old negro gathered together everything
belonging to his “lil Marse,” and placed the things in a corn-sack that
he had brought for that purpose.

“Is dat yo book, Honey?” he whispered, noticing the volume of fairy
tales lying on the bed.

“Yes, that is my own precious book that the beautiful lady gave me; but
don’t put it in the bag, Uncle Phin, I want to carry it myself.”

Then the thoughtful little fellow, since he could not bid Cynthia
good-bye, and feared she might feel hurt if he went away without a word,
begged his companion to wait, just a minute, while he wrote her a note.
He wrote it by the bright moonlight, on a bit of brown paper, with the
stump of a lead-pencil, so that it was not a very elegant production,
but it answered its purpose, and was tenderly cherished for many a day
by the little girl who received it the next morning. In it, in a big,
scrawling hand, was written:

  “DEAR CYNTHIA: I have been so much trouble here, specially to Aunt
  Nancy and Dick, that I am going away with uncle Fin, to find another
  home. I love you dearly, and sometime I hope I shall come back and
  see you. Good-bye, from

                                           “Your loving cousin,
                                                             “ARTHUR.”

Although the old negro was in a hurry to be off, he waited patiently
while Arthur slowly wrote this note. To him writing was one of the most
mysterious and difficult of arts; and, gazing admiringly at the young
penman, he murmured to himself:

“What a fine lilly gen’l’man him be to be shuah. Him only twelve year
ole; but settin dar an er writin like he was a hundred.”

When the note was finished it was pinned to the pillow of the cot bed,
and, with a lingering look at the place that had sheltered him for a
year, the child stepped out and softly closed the door. Then clasping
his precious book tightly under his arm, and trustingly following the
old negro, Arthur started on the wonderful journey that was to change
the whole course of his life, though he was still ignorant of their
destination.

When they were safely behind the barn, out of sight and hearing of the
house; Uncle Phin stopped and said:

“Dere’s only one ting trubblin dis yeah ole woolly head. Kin you tell,
Honey, fer shuah, what way de ribber ober yander is a runnin’?”

“Which, the Alleghany? Why, south, of course,” answered Arthur,
wondering at the question.

“Dat’s what I lowed it done!” exclaimed the old man. “I knowed it didn’
run yeast, kase dat ar way de sun rise, and I knowed it didn’ run wes,
kase dat ar way him a settin; but I wasn’ rightly shuah him didn’ run to
de norf. I was figgerin all de time dough on him running to de souf, an
now we’m git back to ole Ferginny easy an sartin.”

“To Virginia!” cried Arthur, in dismay. “Are we going to try and go way
to Virginia, Uncle Phin?”

“Ob cose we is, Honey. We’se er gwine to Ferginny, an Dalecourt, an yo
granpaw, an de lil ole cabin by the magnole tree. We is gwine to yo own
shuah ’nough home, Honey.”

“But how are we ever going to travel so far?”

“You’ll see, Honey! you’ll see dreckly,” chuckled the other. “I’se got a
great ’sprise in sto fer you. Hyar’s de kerridge a waitin on us now, and
Misto Barlow is gwine dribe us to the steamboat.”

They were now on the road, at some distance from the house, and as Uncle
Phin spoke, Arthur saw, drawn up to one side in the shadow of a clump of
trees, Brace Barlow’s team, and, leaning against the light wagon, the
young man himself.

“Oh, Brace!” he cried, springing forward the moment he saw who it was,
“I’m so glad! I didn’t want to go away without seeing you again. Are you
really going with us?”

“I wish I could go with you all the way, my boy, and see you safe to
your journey’s end, but you know I can’t leave my old mother. So I am
only going to give you a lift for a little way and see that you get a
good start. Jump in quick now for we’ve got a long drive ahead of us and
I must be back by daylight.”

As the spirited horses dashed away over the moonlit road with Arthur
nestled between Brace and Uncle Phin on the single seat of the wagon,
the boy learned how it happened that his friend had been induced to aid
them in their flight. Uncle Phin had gone directly to him two nights
before, and roused his indignation by describing the unhappy life his
young charge was leading, and how much he suffered at the hands of Mrs.
Dustin and her children. Then he told Brace of Dalecourt, and gave him
to understand that Colonel Dale was ready to receive his grandson with
open arms, whenever he should go to him.

The kind-hearted young fellow, entertaining a sincere regard for the
little chap who had recently rendered him so great a service, readily
agreed to a plan that promised so much of good to the boy, and willingly
consented to assist him and Uncle Phin to make a start on their journey.
He devoted two whole days to the task of preparing for it, and did so
much more than Uncle Phin had dared ask or hope for, as to win the old
man’s everlasting gratitude and render the first stage of their journey
comparatively easy.

[Illustration: A HURRIED FLIGHT BY MOONLIGHT. (_Page 70._)]

For some time Arthur enjoyed the exciting night ride over the steep
mountain roads, across deep valleys, and through forests, all bathed in
the glorious, unclouded moonlight. He did not ask whither he was being
taken. Nestled warmly between his two best friends he felt perfectly
safe and happy. He knew that they would do what was best for him, and
the very mystery and uncertainty attending this part of their journey
lent it a fascination. At length his weary head nodded, the heavy
eyelids closed, and, sound asleep, he was unconscious of his
surroundings until the horses stopped, and he awoke to find himself
being lifted from the wagon.

There was a gleam of moonlit water in his eyes, and as he dimly realized
that he was on the bank of a river, strong arms bore him into the cabin
of a queer-looking craft that lay moored to the forest trees. Here the
boy was gently laid down, and was vaguely conscious that Brace Barlow
was bidding him good-bye, when the sleepy eyelids again closed and the
child passed into dream-land.

The young man stood looking at the sleeping boy for a full minute. As he
did so he said softly: “Dear little chap! I hate to have you go away,
and to think I may never see you again. But I suppose it’s the best
thing to be done, or I wouldn’t have lifted a hand to help it along. I
only hope it will come out all right, and that you’ll have a happier
life in the place you’re going to than you ever could have had here. God
bless you.”

It was a benediction, as well as the farewell of one brave soul to
another. As he uttered it the young man slipped a bank bill between two
pages of the book the boy had clasped so closely, but which had now
fallen from his hands.

“It’s little enough,” he said to himself as he turned away, “but it’s
all I’ve got, and may be it will help him out of a fix some time.” Then
he went out to assist Uncle Phin, who was casting off the fastenings of
the boat, and preparing to push it from the shore.

In another minute the clumsy old craft had swung clear of the bank, and
was moving slowly down stream in the shadow of the great trees that grew
to the water’s edge. Brace Barlow watched it until it became a part of
the shadows, and he could no longer distinguish the white-headed figure
bending over the long sweep that was made to do duty as a steering oar
or rudder. Then he again mounted the seat of his light wagon, and
started on his long homeward drive, feeling more lonely than he had ever
felt in all his life.




                               CHAPTER X.
                           ON BOARD THE ARK.


The craft on which the old man and the sleeping boy were now slowly
drifting down the broad, moonlit stream, was a tiny house-boat, such as
are common on all American rivers. It had floated down, empty and
ownerless, with the high waters of the preceding spring, and had
stranded and been left by the receding flood at the point where Uncle
Phin discovered it some weeks before. It was a small, flat-bottomed
scow, on which was built a low house, ten feet long and six wide. This
house contained but a single room; and beyond it, at either end, the
deck of the scow projected about four feet. At each end of the house was
a door, and on each side a square hole or window, that closed with a
wooden shutter.

At the stern was a steering oar, as has been stated. It hung on a swivel
and its long handle projected up over the end of the roof, on which the
steersman stood. From each side of the roof hung a heavy sweep, by means
of which the craft might be slowly propelled or turned in any desired
direction. When not in use, the lower ends of these could be lifted from
the water by ropes attached to their blades, and fastened to the sides
of the house. A rude ladder reached from each of the small end decks to
the top of the roof. The whole affair was strong and in good condition,
but rough and unpainted.

When it came down with the flood and stranded on the river bank, it
contained nothing in the shape of furniture, save a couple of bunks
built against the sides, the same number of rough benches, and several
shelves put up here and there in convenient corners.

Uncle Phin had not thought of making use of this stranded craft, when he
first found it among the trees that he was marking to be cut down for
firewood. He slept in it one night, and merely regarded it as a
convenient shelter that he could occupy when working in that distant and
lonely place. When, however, he and Arthur conceived the idea of running
away, and he made up his mind that if they did, it must be to travel in
the direction of Dalecourt, a vision of the little old house-boat
crossed his mind.

If it could only be got into the water, and should prove to be tight and
sound, how easy and pleasant it would be to float down the river in it.
Whenever they had gone as far as they saw fit by water, they could
probably sell the boat for enough money to meet their expenses on the
rest of the journey. It seemed a fine scheme, and Uncle Phin hastened to
lay it before Brace Barlow and ask his advice concerning it.

The young man listened to it with great interest, and then they drove
over to take a look at the stranded craft. After a careful examination,
Brace said that, with a little calking of its seams, the boat could be
made tight and river-worthy, and that Uncle Phin’s plan seemed to him a
first-class one. He furthermore offered his own labor and the use of his
team to help prepare the craft for its voyage, and get it once more
afloat.

This offer was thankfully accepted, and the two succeeding days had been
busy ones for both men and horses. It was found necessary to make
several trips back and forth between Brace Barlow’s house and the “Ark,”
as he called the boat. Then they calked her open seams, and smeared them
thickly with pitch. They constructed a rude track of straight young
tree-trunks, from the boat to the water, into which, aided by rollers,
long levers, and the horses, they finally succeeded in launching her.
After this they had the sweeps to make, and, as there was no stove,
Uncle Phin built a fireplace in the middle of the floor, near one end of
the cabin. This he did by forming a square of large rocks, filling it
with small stones, and covering the whole with a thick layer of earth.
They filled the bunks with sweet, fresh straw, and made pillows of the
flour sacks stuffed with the same material. Brace Barlow covered one of
these bunks with a coarse sheet and a blanket drawn from his own slender
stock of household goods. Uncle Phin had his own bedding, that consisted
of a thin old army blanket and a tattered comforter. He also had an axe,
which was the only piece of valuable property that he possessed.

Then Brace Barlow bought several cooking utensils, a few dishes, and a
small supply of provisions, to which he added potatoes and a dozen eggs
from his own little farm.

When all this had been accomplished, the two men surveyed their work
with great satisfaction, and nothing but his duty to his mother
prevented Brace Barlow from joining the party and making the voyage down
the river with them.

From information furnished by Uncle Phin the young man gained an idea
that the greater part of their journey was to be performed by water, and
that Dalecourt was somewhere in West Virginia, within a few miles of the
point to which the ark could be navigated.

This was also Uncle Phin’s idea when he learned that the river on which
his craft was launched flowed into the Ohio, which in turn washed one of
the borders of West Virginia. This new name meant nothing to him. There
had been but one Virginia when he left it, and even of its extent he had
not the slightest conception. He imagined that, once within the borders
of the State, it would be a simple matter to discover and reach his old
home. All he knew of travelling and distances was, that when he followed
his young mistress to New York, the journey occupied less than two days,
and that the one from New York to the oil country had been accomplished
in about the same space of time. So now, while he was well aware that a
boat, drifting with the current, would not travel quite as fast as a
train of cars, he did not, for a moment, doubt that two or three weeks
or a month at the very most, would see them safely established beneath
the stately magnolias of Dalecourt.

Had he known that between the place where they must leave their boat and
their destination, there stretched a weary distance of nearly five
hundred miles, much of which was across rugged mountain ranges, it is
probable that even his stout heart would have shrunk from so great an
undertaking. But he had no knowledge of this, and, as happily ignorant
of what was before them as was his beloved “lil Marse,” now sleeping so
peacefully on his bed of straw, the old man floated contentedly over the
gleaming waters, and recalled bright pictures of the dear old home he
hoped so soon to see.

The night was far advanced; he was worn out with the fatiguing labor of
the preceding two days, there was no sound to disturb him, and so, after
a while, his head sunk low over the steering oar, and ere long he too
was fast asleep.

Thus, with no wakeful eye to determine her course, the Ark drifted on
through the night; now in deep shadows of great hills or dark forests,
then across long stretches of silvery moonlight; here caught by an eddy
and turned slowly round and round; there held for a moment on the point
of some glistening sand-bar from which she would slowly swing off and
again move ahead.

While the occupants of the boat still slept, the moonlight paled before
the rosy dawn of a new day, and at last a mischievous beam from the
round red sun, just peeping over the eastern hills, found its way into
the little cabin and shone full across Arthur’s eyes. In a moment the
boy was wide-awake, and gazing upon his strange surroundings with the
utmost bewilderment. He heard no sound, perceived no motion, and had not
the faintest idea that he was on a boat. He only wondered whose this
strange house was, where it was, and what had become of Uncle Phin, of
whom he could see no sign.

He almost expected to hear his Aunt Nancy’s harsh voice calling him.
Then the events of the preceding night came slowly back to him; and,
with a thrill of joy he remembered that he was far from her dreaded
presence, and had actually started on a journey toward his own dear
mother’s beautiful home.

But he must get up and find out where he was, and what had become of
Brace Barlow and Uncle Phin. At the very moment he stepped from his
straw-filled bunk there came a crash and a shock that flung him to the
floor. At the same instant he heard a frightened cry and a loud splash.
Regaining his feet he sprang to one of the open doors and looking out
saw nobody. Then he ran to the other, with the same result. He was
evidently alone on some sort of a boat, which at that moment was
drifting beneath a great iron bridge.




                              CHAPTER XI.
                          UNCLE PHIN’S DANGER.


For a moment poor Arthur, who knew nothing of boats and had never been
on one before unless it was a New York ferry-boat, stood irresolute and
frightened, without the slightest idea of what had happened or what he
ought to do. The cry that he heard had not sounded a bit like Uncle
Phin’s voice, and if it was his what had become of him? He was not on
the boat, nor, so far as Arthur could discover, was he in the water.
Upon seeing the bridge overhead the boy readily comprehended that the
shock which had flung him to the floor was caused by the boat drifting
against one of its great stone piers; but this did not explain Uncle
Phin’s disappearance.

In his fear and distress of mind he began to call wildly: “Uncle Phin!
Oh, dear Uncle Phin! where are you?”

“Hyar I is, Honey,” came a feeble voice from the other end of the boat,
and Arthur sprang joyfully in that direction.

As the boat had swung around on striking the bridge pier, its after end
now pointed down stream, and Arthur had been standing at the bow, gazing
back on the place where he was afraid Uncle Phin had been left. Now, as
he reached the other end of the boat, he saw the old man’s white head
and black face, just on the surface of the water, but a short distance
from where he stood. He seemed to be sitting astride of some object, to
which he clung desperately. Every now and then it would sink, and poor
Uncle Phin would disappear completely, only to re-appear a moment later,
spluttering, choking, and exhibiting every sign of the utmost terror.

For a moment Arthur did not in the least comprehend the situation, and
could not imagine what it was to which Uncle Phin was clinging. When it
suddenly occurred to him that it was the long steering sweep, the other
end of which projected above his head over the roof of the cabin, his
first impulse, and the one on which he acted, was to spring to this
inboard end and throw his weight upon it, with the idea of lifting the
old negro clear of the water. As the steering sweep was a very nicely
balanced see-saw, and as Uncle Phin’s body in the water, weighed less
than Arthur’s out of it, the boy’s effort was crowned with a complete
success, though its result was not exactly what he had anticipated.

To be sure, as Arthur flung himself upon one end of the long pole, the
old man, astride the bit of plank fastened to its other end, was lifted
into the air. It was, however, so suddenly and unexpectedly, that he
lost his balance, toppled over, and again disappeared headforemost
beneath the water. At the same time the boy, at the inner end of the
see-saw, was bumped down on the cabin roof. Then Uncle Phin’s end again
descended into the water, just in time for the old man to grasp it as he
came to the surface.

With great difficulty he struggled into his former position, and turning
a reproachful gaze on Arthur said:

“Don’t you do it again, Honey. I’se no doubt you means all right; but
anodder fling like dat ar, would drown de old man shuah.”

“I didn’t mean to, Uncle Phin! Indeed, I didn’t!” cried poor Arthur, in
great distress. “I only meant to try and help you and lift you from the
water.”

“Well, you done it, Honey, shuah ’nuff; but I wouldn’ try no more sich
’speriments. If you’ll frow me de end ob de rope, what’s lying jes
inside the do, and tie de odder end to dat ar pos, I reckin I kin pull
myself up outen de water.”

Arthur quickly did as directed, and in a few minutes more had the
satisfaction of seeing his dear old friend rescued from his perilous
position, and seated safely on the deck. As the water-soaked man sat
there, recovering from his exhaustion, and grateful for the warmth of
the hot morning sun, he shook his head, and said:

“I allus heerd tell dat salorin was a resky bizness, an dat dem what
goes down into de sea in ships sees wonerful tings; but I nebber spected
ole Phin Dale ebber sperience it all fer his own sef.”

After his strength was somewhat restored, Uncle Phin instructed Arthur
to keep a sharp look-out for any more bridges, and went into the cabin
to light a fire and prepare breakfast. A good supply of dry wood and a
box of matches having been provided, he quickly had a cheerful blaze
crackling on his rude hearth. While it was burning down to a bed of red
coals, he mixed the meal, salt, and water, that he intended should be
transformed into a corn-pone, set the coffee water on to boil, and cut
two slices of bacon. The smoke of the fire found its way out of the
cabin through a square hatch that Brace Barlow had cut in the roof
directly above it.

In less than an hour the bed of coals had done its duty. The corn-pone
had been baked on a flat stone, previously rubbed with a bacon rind, and
set up at a sharp angle in the hottest corner of the fireplace. The
slices of bacon were done to a turn, and four fresh eggs had been fried
with them. The coffee was hot and strong, and there was maple sugar to
sweeten it. Taken altogether, it was a breakfast that would have pleased
a much more fastidious person than hungry little Arthur Dale Dustin, and
he enjoyed it as, it seemed to him, he never had enjoyed a meal before.

Uncle Phin’s delight at seeing his “lil Marse” eat so heartily was
unbounded, and they both found so much pleasure in their novel
housekeeping that the mishap of an hour before was forgotten, and they
would willingly have agreed to drift along in this happy way for the
rest of their lives.

After every scrap of food had been eaten, and only grounds remained in
the coffee-pot, Uncle Phin began to clear the table, which was an empty
packing-box, shake the table-cloth, which was a newspaper, and wash the
dishes; while Arthur set to work to tidy up the cabin. He made the beds,
which only took about one minute each, placed his precious book
carefully on one of the shelves, and then looked about for a broom with
which to sweep the floor. There was none.

“Why, Uncle Phin!” exclaimed the boy, “if we haven’t come off and
forgotten the broom!”

“So we has, Honey! so we has!” replied the old man, pausing in his work
and assuming an expression of mock dismay, “I ricollec now, when de
furnichure man putten in dem elergent brack walnut bedstids, he say,
’Misto Phin Dale, don you fergit somefin’; and I say, ‘No, Misto
Furnichure man, I reckin not.’ Now, he mus er been meanin de broom all
de time, an hyar we is come off an lef it behin.”

“You are making fun of me, you know you are,” laughed Arthur; “but
really, I do need a broom very much, for I can’t make this place look
tidy without one.”

“You mus hab one, ob cose,” said Uncle Phin, “an we’ll jes run inter de
sho and fin some white birch trees, an Unc Phin make you a twig broom,
jes de fines you ebber seen.”

They were both glad of an excuse to stop and make a landing, for they
were enjoying their voyage so much that they feared it might come to an
end more quickly than they wished it to. So they went on deck, and
watched for a good opportunity to run ashore.

At last they drifted close into a grassy bank, above which were a number
of huge oil tanks, a brick building, and a neat white cottage. It was a
pumping station on one of the great pipe lines through which crude
petroleum is conveyed from the wells of the oil region to the distant
seaboard refineries. At that time it was thought necessary to have relay
stations of tanks, and pumps to force the oil along from one to another,
every five or six miles. Of late years, however, the pumps have grown
larger and stronger, until, on a recently constructed pipeline leading
into Chicago, one immense pumping engine forces the oil along the entire
distance of 250 miles.

As the Ark drifted slowly along in front of this pleasant-looking place,
Uncle Phin, directing Arthur how to steer, loosened the side sweep that
was farthest from shore, and, by rowing with it, headed their craft in
toward the bank. In a minute more she was so close to it that Arthur
could easily spring to the narrow beach, carrying with him the end of a
rope, that he made fast to a tree.




                              CHAPTER XII.
                          A TORRENT OF FLAME.


When the boat was properly secured, Uncle Phin, leaving Arthur to look
out for it, shouldered his axe and went in search of a birch tree.
Within half an hour he returned, bringing a great bundle of twigs and
the interesting information that there was a little boy and a little
girl up in the bushes picking blackberries.

“Oh, can’t I go up there and pick some too?” asked Arthur; “they would
be so good for dinner, and if I got enough you might make a pie, you
know.” He was fully in earnest, for he had such firm faith in Uncle
Phin’s culinary skill that he believed he could make anything good to
eat that anybody else could.

The old man only laughed at this, but said he might go if he wanted to;
and the boy, taking a tincup in which to hold the berries, ran off,
happily enough, to find the children. When he discovered them they were
both standing still, bashfully looking at him, the little girl, in a
pink sun-bonnet that reminded him of Cynthia’s, half hidden behind her
brother and evidently just ready to run away.

The new-comer at once opened conversation by saying: “How do you do? I
am very glad to see you, because I haven’t very many friends. My name is
Arthur Dale Dustin. What is yours?”

The boy said his was Bert and his sister’s was Sue, and that their other
name was Chapman. He added that their father was engineer of the pumping
station, and that nobody else lived anywhere near there.

Within five minutes they were thoroughly well acquainted, and were all
busily picking the luscious berries that abounded in that vicinity.
Arthur said it reminded him of a fairy story, and little Sue Chapman
said she loved fairy tales, only she had not heard very many. So Arthur
began to tell them the story of the “Mermaid,” which was one that he had
read to Cynthia; but he could not remember it very well, and said if
they would go down with him to where he lived he would read it to them
out of his book.

They readily agreed to this, and were so delighted with the queer
house-boat and all that they saw on it that it was some time before they
were ready to listen to the story of the mermaid. When it was finished
they said they must go home now, but invited Arthur to come up to the
house and see them after dinner.

That afternoon he met Mr. Chapman and Mrs. Chapman, and saw the great
pumping engine at work, and was allowed to climb up and look into one of
the large tanks that held thousands of barrels of oil, and had
altogether a most interesting and happy time. The best of all though was
playing with the dogs, of which there were three, a mother and two
half-grown pups, all thoroughbred bull terriers.

The boy enjoyed these so much, and was so fascinated with their
playfulness and intelligence, and Mr. Chapman took such a fancy to him,
that he told Bert and Sue they might make their new friend a present of
one of the pups if they wished.

As Arthur had never owned a real live pet in his life, this seemed a
most generous offer and he thanked the Chapmans warmly. They gave him
his choice of the two pups, and each showed so many good points that it
was a long time before he could make up his mind which to take. At
length he chose one that was brindled, and had a white tip to his tail.
His name was “Russet,” but as the young Chapmans called him “Rusty,”
Arthur decided that he would call him so too.

He carried the pup in his arms down to the boat; but all the way it
cried piteously at being taken from its home, and struggled hard to get
free. Arthur made a bed for it at the foot of his own bunk and tried to
feed it, but the pup refused to accept his kindness, and only cried and
whined and begged to be let out at one of the closed doors. Finally even
good-natured Uncle Phin lost his patience and said the pup needed a good
whipping to make him keep quiet.

“Oh, no, indeed, Uncle Phin!” exclaimed Arthur, reproachfully; “I
wouldn’t whip him for anything. How would you like to be whipped because
you cried at being taken away from your mamma? I’ve made up my mind that
I won’t make him unhappy any longer; and so, though I should love dearly
to keep him if he wanted to stay, I shall just carry him back to his
home.”

True to this resolve, the tender-hearted little fellow did carry poor
“Rusty” back up the hill, and was made even happier by witnessing the
extravagant joy of the pup and the mother dog at once more seeing each
other, than he had been by receiving the Chapmans’ gift.

They made him stay to supper, after which the whole family said they
would escort him down to the boat, of which Bert and Sue had talked so
much, that their parents were curious to see it. So, taking a lantern
with them, for it was growing dark, they started down the slope, at the
bottom of which they met Uncle Phin, just coming to look for his “lil
Marse,” at whose long absence he had grown anxious.

Mr. Chapman, who was much interested in this voyage of the old negro and
his young master, had brought down a small lamp and a gallon of oil for
it, as a present to them; for Arthur had told him that they had no light
on board. Mrs. Chapman brought a loaf of bread. Bert brought half a
dozen eggs laid by his own hen, and little Sue, who could think of
nothing else, brought a bunch of flowers from her own garden. They had a
very merry time over the presentation of these gifts, for each of which
Uncle Phin returned thanks in his own funny, earnest way.

When Arthur said he wished he had something to give in return for them
to remember him by, Mrs. Chapman said that if he would only read to them
one of the stories out of his fairy book that the children had told her
of, it would be one of the most acceptable presents he could make them.
This the boy was willing enough to do, and when the new lamp was lighted
and placed on the packing-box that served as a table, and they had all
found seats, he read to them the story of “Little Klaus” who made
bushels of money by everything that he undertook.

When he finished they all thanked him, and Bert said if he had a bushel
of money he would buy a pony. Little Sue said she would get a great big
doll, as big as a live baby, that could talk; and her mother said if
they only had money enough, they would live near a town where they could
have neighbors, and where the children could go to school. Mr. Chapman
said it would be very nice to have a bushel of money and a fine house,
but that they should be very thankful for the one they had, especially
when such a storm was coming up, as was about to burst over them at that
moment.

Sure enough it was thundering, and the guests of the evening had not
been gone from the Ark many minutes before great drops of rain began to
fall. Nearer and nearer swept the storm, and blacker and blacker grew
the night, until the awful glare of the lightning was almost continuous,
and the crash of the thunder was deafening. Silently, hand in hand, the
two occupants of the house-boat sat and watched it.

Suddenly there fell a blinding, dazzling ball of fire, accompanied by
such an awful burst of thunder as shook the solid earth. The next
instant the whole sky was lighted by a vast column of flame that seemed
to spring from the hillside directly above the place where the Ark lay
moored. One of the great oil tanks had been struck by the lightning, and
now a raging, roaring mass of flame shot up fifty feet into the air
above it, lighting the river and the whole storm-swept country for miles
around with its fierce, lurid glare. It was a grand but fearful sight,
and the boy clung closer to the old man, as he gazed upon it with an
eager fascination.

They could not at first understand the deep booming sounds that they
began to hear above the roar of the storm, soon after the fire broke
out, and which were repeated at regular intervals of a few minutes each.
Then Arthur remembered what Brace Barlow had told him about firing
cannon-balls into burning oil tanks, that the oil might run out through
the holes thus made, and the danger of an explosion be lessened. Mr.
Chapman was shooting at this tank with a small cannon that he kept on
hand for just such an emergency.

All at once the contents of the tank seemed to boil over. A fountain of
blazing oil burst from it and poured down its sides, the oil running
from the shot-holes near its base took fire, and in another instant a
fierce torrent of flame came rushing down the slope, directly toward the
little house-boat moored at its foot.

Poor Uncle Phin dropped on his knees in an agony of fear, crying: “O
Lawd! O de good Lawd, hab mussy on us, an deliber us frum de fiery
funness”; while to Arthur it seemed as though they were in most imminent
peril.




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                         HOW THE ARK WAS SAVED.


If the wind had been blowing from across the river, so as to hold the
Ark close to the bank against which she was moored, nothing could have
saved her from destruction by the torrent of blazing oil that rushed
down the slope. Even her occupants would have stood but a slight chance
of escaping. The stream of leaping flame was so wide, and came toward
them with such extraordinary swiftness, that, before they could have
reached the shore and run beyond its limits in either direction, it
would have been upon them. Their only chance would have been to throw
themselves into the swift current of the river from the opposite side of
their boat, with the hope of gaining the bank at a safe distance below.

Uncle Phin was helpless with terror and completely bewildered by the
suddenness of the peril that threatened them. Thus it was entirely owing
to Arthur’s presence of mind and quick wit, that their boat was saved
and they escaped the necessity of taking the desperate plunge that would
probably have drowned one or both of them. The boy had noticed that the
storm came from over the hills on their side of the river, and how, as
the fierce blasts swept down and struck the broadside of the Ark, she
tugged and strained at her moorings. Now he remembered this, and was
quick to turn his observations to account.

Seizing the axe he severed at a single blow the rope holding the boat at
one end, and then, running to the other, cut that with equal promptness.
Next, thrusting a long pole into Uncle Phin’s trembling hands, he bade
the old man shove off from shore with all his might, at one end, while,
with a lighter pole, he did the same thing at the other. Their feeble
strength would have availed little but for the powerful aid lent by the
favoring gale. While this hurled the advancing flames fiercely toward
them, it also drove them, at first slowly, then more rapidly, beyond
reach of the danger.

There were hardly ten feet of open water between the Ark and the shore
she had just left when the flames sprang down the bank and began to
spread over the surface of the river, the oil burning here as readily as
on land. For a minute it seemed as though the fire must catch and devour
them after all. Its flames leaped eagerly forward, like a million
writhing serpents, with red-forked tongues, darting after their prey.

“Push, Uncle Phin! Push for your life!” shouted Arthur from his end of
the boat, where he was breathlessly exerting every ounce of strength
that his sturdy young frame could yield.

“I’se a pushin, Honey!” answered the old man, with the veins of his
forehead standing out like whipcords. “I is a pushin; but onless de good
Lawd pushin wif us, we hain’t got no show.”

But the good Lord did push with these, his helpless ones, and his strong
wind bore their drifting boat forward faster than it did the hungry
flames. The current, of course, set them down stream at the same time,
and thus, moving in a diagonal direction, they soon found themselves in
safety. They were beyond the limits of the sea of fire, that extended
for a mile down the river, and a quarter of that distance out toward its
centre. Then the old man and the boy laid down their now useless poles
and watched the wonderfully beautiful but fearful sight, while they
recovered their spent breath.

The great tank was still vomiting forth sheets of flame and clouds of
smoke. None of the others had caught fire, and an occasional gleam of
light, reflected from the white walls of the Chapmans’ cottage, showed
them that it was still safe.

At length, as they were rapidly nearing the opposite side of the river,
the current bore them around a sharp turn that almost instantly hid the
whole glowing scene from them, and plunged them into a darkness, the
more intense on account of the recent glare.

With this turn of the river the gale, now acting on the other side of
the boat, drove it back toward the bank they had left, and thus, for
several hours, as they followed the windings of the crooked stream, they
were carried now almost to one side and then nearly to the other. As
they could see absolutely nothing of where they were, or whither they
were going, they were quite ignorant of their surroundings. Nor did they
know what happened when, about midnight, their boat was driven violently
upon some obstruction, and its movement was suddenly arrested.

The storm had passed so that there was no longer any lightning to give
instantaneous photographs of the scene about them. The wind still blew a
gale; and, as they could hear it lashing the branches of the forest
trees, apparently directly above their heads, they concluded that they
must have been driven ashore.

Although both Arthur and Uncle Phin were too excited, and too anxious,
to go to bed, there was nothing they could do to improve their situation
until the morning light should disclose its features. So they closed the
doors and windows of their house and lighted the new lamp. How snug and
cheerful the rude little cabin now looked. How home-like it seemed, and
what a fine shelter it was from the gale that was howling outside.

Arthur said he was hungry; and, as Uncle Phin said he was hungry also,
they drew upon their slender store of provisions for a light lunch,
after which Arthur read aloud from his book the tale of “The Steadfast
Lead Soldier.” The old negro thought it a very nice story, though not so
good as it would be had the lead soldier been alive. Then he told
Arthur, for about the thousandth time, the story of how Brer Rabbit and
Brer Fox went a-fishing, and before it was finished the tired child was
fast asleep. Then Uncle Phin lifted him gently into his bunk, and
finding that the gale had subsided, almost to a calm, concluded to go to
bed himself.

So the Ark was again left to take care of itself, and when its inmates
next awoke it was not only broad daylight, but nearly noon. They now
discovered that their craft had indeed been driven ashore, on the same
side of the river that they had left the preceding evening, though, of
course, several miles below the pumping station. There were now no
houses in sight, nor any traces of human beings, nothing so far as they
could see but a thick forest. After a few ineffectual efforts they found
that it was useless to try and push the Ark off with poles into deep
water. She was hard and fast aground, and they could not budge her a
single inch.

So they decided to have breakfast first and make up their minds what to
do afterwards, and while Uncle Phin prepared the simple meal, Arthur
made the beds and swept out the cabin with his fine new broom of birch
twigs.

After breakfast, or rather after dinner; for, although they did not know
it, it was past one o’clock before they finished their meal, the entire
crew of the Ark got overboard to examine her situation. They found she
had grounded on a sand-bar that afforded her an easy resting-place, but
which also held her in a firm grasp. Uncle Phin cut down a young tree,
trimmed off its branches, and, using it as a lever, with a large rock as
a fulcrum, tried to pry the boat off the bar, but to no purpose. The
combined strength of the old man and the boy produced not the slightest
effect upon her, and no wonder, for all the strength they could command
was but weakness, compared with what was needed.

It was a very unfortunate situation, particularly as they had only
provisions enough to last a few days, and knew not where they were to
obtain more. Then, too, as it was now the month of October, no more high
water could be expected that year, and, in the meantime, the river would
be apt to fall lower and lower, leaving their boat high and dry.

In going ashore to cut his lever, Uncle Phin had discovered a road,
running parallel with the river. Now he proposed to walk down this road
until he came to a house, in the hope of obtaining help, provided Arthur
was not afraid to remain alone and look after the Ark.

Of course Arthur was not afraid, he scorned the idea. What should he be
afraid of? It was not likely that anybody would hurt a little boy like
him. So Uncle Phin left him, and, wading ashore, disappeared down the
forest road.

For some time the boy amused himself about the boat; but his resources
were few, and after an hour or so, he grew lonely, and began to watch
anxiously for Uncle Phin’s return. Exposed to the full glare of the
afternoon sun, the boat became as hot as an oven; and finally Arthur
decided to take his book and wade ashore. There he would find a
comfortable place, in the cool shade of the trees, from which he might
the sooner perceive anybody approaching along the road.

He found just such a place as he had longed for; a deliciously cool,
shady glade, surrounded by spreading oak trees, and commanding a limited
view of the road. After sitting here for some time, he discovered that
there were ripe berries on the opposite side of the glade. When he had
gathered and eaten these, he saw more berries beyond them, and still
more at a greater distance. Then he found some lovely flowers, and
thought it would be a fine idea to gather enough of them to decorate the
cabin of the Ark against Uncle Phin’s return. So he strolled carelessly
on, from berries to flowers, and from one flower to another, until, all
at once, the deepening shadows roused him to a knowledge of the fact
that the sun was setting, and that he could no longer see either the
road or the river.




                              CHAPTER XIV.
                           A CAMP OF TRAMPS.


It was evidently high time to be getting home, and the boy started back
in the direction he had just come. He was certain that it was the right
direction, and yet the trees and bushes kept getting thicker and
thicker, and he missed the open glades through which he had been
strolling. This was clearly the wrong track; and, facing directly about,
he now attempted to retrace his latest course.

It was rapidly growing dark; strange night sounds were beginning to be
heard in the forest, and a great dread began to clutch at the boy’s
heart. Was he really lost, as the Babes in the Wood had been, and would
he die there, and be covered with leaves, so that even his body could
not be found, and nobody would ever know what had become of him?

He began to call aloud; but only the forest echoes mocked him, and the
night birds answered him with harsh cries. At length it was too dark to
even try and walk any farther. The little fellow, frightened and weary,
sank down at the foot of a great tree, that seemed to lean over him with
an air of protection and sympathy.

He would not cry. Uncle Phin had said that none of the Dales ever cried
after they were grown up, and he was a Dale, almost grown up. Two or
three big tears rolled silently down his cheeks; but then that was
something that might happen to almost anybody, at any time. It could not
be counted as crying.

As he sat there in the darkness, trying to be brave because he was a
Dale, the sound of a peculiar, long-drawn, far-away cry, caused him
involuntarily to look around; though, of course, he did not expect to
see anything through the darkness. He did see something, though, and it
was a light. It was not a bright, clear light; but a dim glow, just
visible between the tree trunks, and evidently at quite a distance from
where he sat.

The boy’s spirits rose with a bound. He dashed away the stealthy tear
drops, and sprang to his feet. Things were coming out all right after
all; for a light meant people, who, according to simple-hearted little
Arthur’s experience of the world, would be kind to him. They would
probably invite him to stay to supper, and show him the way to the Ark
afterwards. Then he would ask them to help him and Uncle Phin get the
boat afloat, and his becoming lost would turn out to be the very best
kind of a thing that could have happened after all.

While these thoughts passed through his mind, the boy was making his
way, as rapidly as possible, through the woods in the direction of the
light, that grew brighter and more distinct with each step. He still
carried his precious book in one hand, and the great bunch of flowers
that he had gathered, in the other. Suddenly he came to an abrupt pause
on the edge of a shallow ravine, through which laughed and tumbled a
small brook. The sides of the ravine were quite steep, and, almost at
his feet, the boy saw a sight that filled him with amazement.

About a glowing fire, occupying all sorts of easy positions, were
grouped a number of men and one boy. They were ragged, dirty, and
unshaven. Their clothes were made up of odds and ends. Some of them were
smoking short black pipes; some were talking loudly; and others lay
perfectly still, as though asleep. Two of the number seemed to be
preparing supper; for they were at work about the fire, and were
evidently anxious regarding the contents of some tin cans, and several
battered kettles. At a short distance from the fire were two or three
rude huts of poles and branches.

Although Arthur did not know it at the time, this was a tramps’ camp, to
which all these vagrants of society, who happened to be prowling about
that part of the country, flocked when night overtook them. Sometimes
one or more, who were tired of tramping, and who had begged or stolen a
stock of provisions, would remain here for several days, so that, from
early spring until quite late in the autumn, the camp was never without
a greater or less number of occupants.

Now, although Arthur had never had any practical experience with tramps,
except to gaze curiously, from a respectful distance, at the few
specimens he had seen, he instinctively shrank from making his presence
known to the rough-looking fellows gathered beneath him. It was pleasant
to see the cheerful firelight, to hear the sound of voices, and to know
that there were other human beings besides himself in that dark forest.
It would also be very pleasant to the hungry boy if he could have some
supper. Still, to venture down among those men might prove very
unpleasant. So Arthur wisely decided to bear his hunger as best he
might, and study them from a safe distance, at least for a while longer.

All at once, from some part of the camp beyond the circle of firelight,
came the same melancholy long-drawn cry that had first directed the
boy’s attention to this place, and he now recognized it as the howl of a
dog in distress.

At the sound, the largest and most powerful of all the tramps, who had
been lying motionless stretched at full length on the ground, sprang up,
and in a fierce voice exclaimed:

“You Kid, fetch that pup here! we’ll see if we can’t give him something
to ki-yi for, or else we’ll stop his infernal yelp entirely.”

The one boy of the camp, who answered to the name of “Kid,” and was a
tough-looking young rascal, larger and apparently a year or two older
than Arthur, hastened to obey this command. He disappeared, and in a
minute returned dragging after him, by means of a bit of rope about its
neck that was evidently choking it, a dog. As the bright firelight fell
full upon the animal, Arthur was amazed to recognize it as the very one
that had been presented to him by the Chapmans the day before. There
could be no doubt of it; for there were the same erect sharp-pointed
ears, the same white-tipped little tail, and the same brindled markings.
It was indeed poor Rusty; and Arthur’s heart ached to see him in so
wretched a plight. How could he have come there? What were they about to
do with him? This last question was quickly answered.

The big tramp took the rope from the lad’s hand, at the same time
bidding him go and cut a hickory switch. “See that it’s a good one too,”
he added.

This command was obeyed as the other had been, and in a few minutes the
switch was ready.

“Now whale him while I hold him,” ordered the big tramp, savagely.
“We’ll give him a chance to do all his howling at once, and then we’ll
have some peace for the rest of the night. Lay it on solid, and if you
kill him, so much the better.”

Arthur’s blood boiled at these words. How could anybody be so cruel?
Would the boy dare beat _his_ dog?

The heavy switch was uplifted and brought down with vicious force on the
animal’s back. The dog uttered a sharp cry of pain and terror.

Again was the switch lifted; but before it could descend it was snatched
from the boy’s hand and flung away; while he was confronted by a sturdy
young figure with blazing eyes. “How dare you strike my dog?” cried
Arthur, in a voice that choked and trembled with anger. “He is mine! My
very own! And I won’t have him hurt. I won’t, I say.”

The other boy stared at this one in open-mouthed amazement, while the
tramps, who had been startled by the sight of the strange little figure,
as it dashed into their camp from the dark forest, now gathered about
the two to see the fun.

“Well, my bantam,” said the big tramp to Arthur, “I don’t know who you
are, nor where you come from; but you talk pretty big about _your_ dog.
Kid here says it’s his dog, and I reckon you’ll have to settle it
between you. Can you fight?”

“I don’t want to fight,” replied Arthur, looking the big tramp bravely
in the face.

“Oh, well then, it’s the Kid’s dog, and he’ll do as he pleases with him.
Kid, give the cur a kick.”

The boy lifted his foot but again Arthur sprang in front of him. “You
sha’n’t kick him, even if I have to fight you to make you stop it!” he
cried. Then he clenched his fists, and his face grew very pale.

“That’s right, sonny!” said the big tramp, approvingly. “I’ll back you
and hold your picture-book and nosegay. Take off your jacket like a
little man. Now, fellers, form a ring and give the bantams a fair show.”




                              CHAPTER XV.
                     ARTHUR’S FIGHT TO SAVE RUSTY.


In all his life Arthur had never before found it necessary to fight,
though he had certainly received provocation enough from his Cousin Dick
to do so more than once. His own father had taught him to hate fighting
and to avoid it if possible, as he would anything else that was
ungentlemanly and wrong. At the same time Mr. Dustin had been too wise a
man not to know that occasions may arise in everybody’s life when it
becomes absolutely necessary to fight. He believed, for instance, that
it is right and proper to do so in defence of the weak and helpless who
have claims upon us for protection, provided that is the only way of
defending them, and this principle he had thoroughly instilled into his
child’s mind.

Mr. Dustin also believed that every boy should be taught to use the
weapons with which nature has provided him—namely, his fists—for the
protection of himself and others, just as he should be taught to read
and write or do a thousand other things necessary to his success and
happiness in life.

Thus believing, and having been himself one of the best boxers in his
college gymnasium, he had begun to instruct his little son in the art of
self-defence on the very day that the boy’s mother began to teach him
his letters. Now, therefore, although Arthur had never fought a battle
with any other boy, he had a very fair knowledge of what he ought to do
under the circumstances, and of how to do it.

All his father’s talks upon the subject flashed into his mind, and he
seemed to remember every word of them. He could almost hear the dear
voice say: “Never fight if you can help it, but if the time comes that
you feel it to be your duty, then pitch in with all your heart, with all
your strength, and with all your skill. Then fight just as long as you
can stand, or until you have won a victory.”

In the present instance, surrounded as he was by fierce-looking,
hard-hearted men, who acknowledged no law but that of brute force, and
with poor little Rusty crouching at his feet, so certain was the boy of
his duty, that he prepared for the coming struggle with a brave heart,
though with a very white face.

The boy called “Kid” was perfectly willing to fight; in fact, there was
nothing he enjoyed more, especially when, as in this case, he saw the
prospect of an easy victory before him. So, as he stood up in front of
Arthur, the firelight disclosed a broad grin on his dirty face. He
looked so much stronger and heavier than his antagonist, that some of
the men were touched with pity for the little fellow, and murmured that
it wasn’t a square deal.

“That’s all right,” said the big tramp, who had taken charge of the
affair. “The young chap’s got sand or else he wouldn’t be here. He’s
been talking pretty big too, and now he’s got the chance to show whether
he can back up his words or not.”

To the amazement of the spectators the battle was a long and a hard one;
for the new-comer’s pluck and skill were evenly matched against the
other’s weight and a dogged pride that forbade him to yield to one
younger and smaller than himself. Still, he was in the wrong, and he
knew it; while Arthur was in the right, and knew that he was. The boy
who was fighting in defence of the weak and the helpless never once
thought of giving in, and so the other had to. They finally went to the
ground together, with Arthur on top, and this ended the struggle. The
“Kid” began to cry: “Lemme up! lemme up! I don’t want to fight no more
wid a perfessional. Lemme up!”

Then Arthur left him, and walked to where poor little Rusty was
crouching, with his rope held by one of the tramps. Taking the rope in
his hand, and lifting his brave, flushed face, blood-stained from a
slight cut on his forehead, to that of the big tramp who had ordered the
pup to be beaten, the boy asked: “Is he my dog now?”

“Of course he is, sonny; of course he is!” answered the big man,
promptly. “You’ve fought the bulliest kind of a fight for him, and I’d
like to see the man as would try to take him from you.”

As he spoke, the big tramp glared about him, as though wishing somebody
would dare dispute his words, but nobody did. Every one of those who now
crowded about the boy, anxious to shake hands with him and congratulate
him on his victory, expressed the heartiest approval of what the big man
said. They all seemed to regard Arthur as a hero, and to feel highly
honored by his presence in their camp. Even _his_ dog received a full
share of praise and petting, and was utterly bewildered by the sudden
turn in the tide of popular opinion concerning him.

Seeing that the young champion was rendered uncomfortable by the
over-officiousness of those who crowded about him, the big tramp, who
seemed to exercise an acknowledged authority over them, ordered the rest
to clear out, and leave the little chap to him. Then he took Arthur to
the brook, and bathed his face and hands, and even his bare feet, in its
cool waters, with a degree of tenderness surprising in one so big and
rough.

A few minutes later supper was announced, and the big tramp made Arthur
sit beside him on the ground, in front of a kettle that contained a most
delicious-smelling stew of chicken and potatoes and onions and green
corn, and several other things. To be sure, Arthur was obliged to eat
his portion out of a hastily improvised bowl of birch bark, made for him
by his big friend, with a rude wooden spoon provided by the same
ingenious individual; but how good it was! How often that bark bowl was
refilled, and how proud the cooks were to have the hero of the feast
thus compliment them so highly.

As for little Rusty, who seemed to recognize Arthur as his friend and
protector, and kept close beside him, there never was a dog treated with
greater consideration. Everybody wanted to feed him, and kept tossing
choice morsels of food to him. He ate everything thus offered, with
perfect impartiality, until at length he had no room for another morsel,
and even the daintiest bits of chicken failed to tempt him.

After supper all the tramps were anxious to learn something of Arthur’s
history, and who had taught him to fight so skilfully, and how he
happened to visit their camp. So he told them about his own dear father,
who had given him boxing lessons, and about living with Uncle John and
Aunt Nancy, and how he and Uncle Phin had decided to go to his
grandfather’s in Virginia, and were travelling in a boat, and how it had
run aground so that they couldn’t get it off, and Uncle Phin had gone in
search of help, and how he happened to get lost in the woods, and
finally how he discovered their camp; all of which was listened to with
absorbing interest.

When he finished, the big tramp spoke up and said: “Well, fellers, from
this little chap’s account of hisself, I don’t see but what him and his
old Uncle Phin is travelling through the country pretty much the same as
we does, like gentlemen of leisure and independent means, as it were. In
fact I should call ’em a couple of honest tramps, as is making their way
through the world without asking no odds of nobody.”

“That’s so,” assented several voices.

“Such being the case,” continued the big man, “It is clearly our dooty
to help ’em out of the fix they’ve got into, and I move that we all go
down to the river, first thing in the morning, and set their old scow
afloat.”

As this motion seemed to meet with general approval, Arthur was
cordially invited to spend the night in the tramps’ camp, and was
assured that they would guide him to the Ark, and that it should be
started on its voyage the very first thing in the morning. As there
really seemed nothing else for him to do, the little fellow accepted the
invitation, though he wished he could get back to the boat that night,
and thus relieve the anxiety that he knew Uncle Phin must be suffering
on account of his unexplained disappearance.

In the meantime he had recovered his book from the big tramp, who had
held it during the fight, and it now lay on the grass beside him. He had
mentioned that he sometimes read stories from this book to Uncle Phin,
and now the big tramp said to him: “Look here, sonny, why won’t you read
a story to us out of your book, just to pass away the time? If you will,
I will give you some information that may prove useful to you in your
travels, but which you can’t find in any book in the world.”




                              CHAPTER XVI.
                    THE MEANING OF SOME QUEER SIGNS.


Arthur said he would gladly read to the tramps if they cared to hear
him, and at the same time he wondered what valuable information the man
could possibly give him.

Then all the tramps gathered as near to him as they could, and Arthur,
sitting where the firelight shone brightest, with one hand laid
protectingly on little Rusty, opened his precious book, and read the
first story he came to, which happened to be that of “The Ugly
Duckling.”

It was a striking picture, that of the fair-haired child, sitting in the
red glow of the firelight, and reading a fairy tale to the rough men
crowded about him, their uncouth figures half disclosed and half hidden
in the dusky shadows. Close behind the big tramp, who was his father,
sat the boy with whom Arthur had fought, still looking sullen and
crestfallen over his recent defeat, and occasionally casting glances of
mingled envy and hate at his rival.

As the tale proceeded, his hard, young face took on a softer expression,
and when it was finished he heaved a great sigh.

“Well, Kid,” said the big tramp, turning to him at the conclusion of the
story, “what do you think of that for a yarn? You are a pretty ugly sort
of a duck yourself, and who knows but what you may turn out to be a swan
after all, some of these fine days.”

“It’ll be a goose more like,” muttered one of the men; and Arthur,
looking pityingly at the lad, wondered which it would be.

Now it was the big tramp’s turn to fulfil his part of the bargain. This
he began to do by taking a bit of chalk from his pocket and drawing with
it several rude figures like these, ❌︎ ❌︎ ɸ — ✓ on a piece of birch
bark. Showing them to Arthur, he told him that these were signs
understood by all the tramps of the country, and that whenever they saw
them chalked on gate-posts or fences or other conspicuous places near
houses, they knew at once what they meant. “This, for instance,” he
said, pointing to one of the signs, “means ‘Stingy people in this house;
won’t give a poor tramp anything.’ This one means, ‘Savage dog in here’;
and this, ‘Good people, and plenty to eat.’” Another meant, “Man here
keeps a gun for tramps”; and still another, “Only women folks here; no
danger.” He also said that the older and best-known tramps had their
private marks or autographs, which were very generally known and
recognized by all the others along their particular lines of travel.

Arthur was greatly interested in this, and made copies of several of the
marks thus shown him, so as to impress them upon his memory, though at
that time he could not foresee that they would ever be of any use. At
the close of this novel lesson, the big tramp told him that his name was
Sandy Grimes, and showed him his own private mark or autograph, which
was M̥, and said that Arthur was at liberty to use it, in proof of their
friendship, whenever he found himself in company with any other tramps.

The boy thanked him politely for this favor, though thinking to himself
that he hoped the time would never come when he should care to claim
such a friendship. Then Arthur said he was tired, and would like to go
to sleep, whereupon Sandy Grimes showed him a bed of dry leaves beside a
big log near enough to the fire to feel its warmth, and told him he
could lie down there. So there the tired little fellow lay, with Rusty
nestled close beside him, and watched the stars twinkling overhead until
he fell asleep.

Although on this occasion Arthur breathed great quantities of the night
air that his Aunt Nancy had declared to be poison, its injurious effects
were not apparent when he awoke the next morning, looking as bright and
fresh as though he had slept in the downiest of beds. To be sure he felt
somewhat stiff and sore; but after his encounter with the young tramp,
it would have been most surprising if he had not.

The sun was just rising as he made his way to the brook to dip his face
in its cool waters; but the camp was already astir. Tramps are
proverbially lazy, but they are always among the earliest of risers.
From the cheap lodging-houses and police-stations of the city they are
turned out at daylight. The same thing happens in the country, where the
thrifty farmer routs them out from his barn or haystacks, and hunger
drives them from their camps at the same early hour. A want of food was
what set this particular camp astir by sunrise on this occasion; for its
occupants had exhausted their entire supply on the feast of the previous
evening. Now they were setting forth to beg, or steal, something to eat
at the nearest farm-houses and villages.

Some of them, careless of their promise made the night before to go with
Arthur and help him and Uncle Phin get their boat afloat, had already
left, while others sullenly refused to keep their word, now that they
were reminded of it. However, five of them, including the big tramp and
his boy, said they were going that way anyhow, and didn’t mind giving
the youngster a lift with his scow if it didn’t take too long and prove
too hard work. So, in a few minutes after leaving his bed by the old
log, Arthur found himself walking down the ravine toward the river in
company with five as disreputable and rascally-looking tramps as could
be found in the country.

He had not forgotten poor little Rusty. Oh, no indeed! Nor had the dog
forgotten him, but now followed close at his heels without paying the
slightest attention to any other person in the party. He had been stolen
by the “Kid” from the Chapmans’ house during the excitement caused by
the burning oil tank, and had evidently suffered much at the hands of
his captor, for never after that day did he see a tramp without growling
and showing his teeth at him.

The tramps’ camp was located but a few hundred yards from the road that
ran along the river bank, and the relief party had hardly turned into it
before Arthur, with a cry of joy, sprang forward and flung himself into
the arms of Uncle Phin, who, looking the picture of misery and utter
dejection, was hobbling toward them.

The old man was so overcome by joy and bewilderment that for a few
moments he was utterly speechless. Then he broke out with “Tank de good
Lawd, Honey, I is foun you! Ole Phin die ob de heart broke shuah if he
didn’t fin you pretty quick, an he’s bin sarchin fo you all de night
long.” This was said with such a heartfelt earnestness, that the boy
realized in a moment how greatly his old friend had suffered.

Although Uncle Phin had found several houses during his absence of the
afternoon before, none of their inmates had been willing to return and
help him get the Ark afloat. He had not got back to it until after
sunset, and then, to his dismay, had found it dark and deserted.

Too greatly distressed to eat or sleep, he had spent the night in
wandering up and down the road hunting, and calling for, his “lil
Marse,” and now that he had found him, his joy was almost too great for
expression.

It was but a short distance to where the Ark lay aground, and it was but
a five minutes’ job for those sturdy tramps to work her off the sand-bar
and set her once more afloat.

The last thing Arthur did before scrambling aboard was to shake hands
with the boy whom he had fought the evening before, and, as he bade him
good-bye, he said: “I hope you won’t be an ‘ugly duckling’ much longer.”

Then, with its three passengers safely aboard, the Ark slowly drifted
away with the current, while the tramps watched it and waved their
tattered hats in farewell to the bravest twelve-year-old boy they had
ever known.




                             CHAPTER XVII.
                          PLEASANT DRIFTINGS.


How really like a home their rude little old house-boat appeared to the
boy, who had been lost in the woods and spent the night in a tramps’
camp, and to the old man, who had passed the long hours in wandering up
and down the lonely road, searching for his lost one. What comforts it
contained, and with what a delightfully easy motion it glided down the
sunlit river. Even Rusty seemed to feel that he was at home, and to
recognize the place; for the moment he was taken into the cabin, he
sprang up on Arthur’s bunk, and nestled down at its foot, where the boy
had prepared a bed for him two days before.

While Uncle Phin was getting ready the breakfast for which they were all
so hungry, Arthur and Rusty, who had fully recovered his spirits, had a
fine game of romp, during which the dog displayed so much intelligence,
and performed so many funny tricks, as to completely win his young
master’s heart.

When breakfast was finished, Uncle Phin and Arthur sat on the cabin
roof, under a bit of an awning that the former had contrived, and talked
of their recent experience, while watching, with the delight of simple
natures, the exquisitely beautiful scenery through which they were
drifting. Between them, apparently appreciating it all as much as they,
sat Rusty, contentedly wagging his tail, the little white tip of which
seemed the emblem of perpetual motion. He had evidently transferred all
his affection to Arthur, and the expression of his honest eyes, as he
turned them upon his young master, was that of love and perfect
confidence.

This day was but the first of many such, during which the Ark, with
frequent stops, drifted down the quiet river, ever southward, and, as
its occupants fondly hoped, ever getting nearer to the far-away home
that they sought. They always tied up to the bank at night, and every
now and then they spent several days in a place, while Uncle Phin sought
odd jobs of work, by which he might earn a little money for the
replenishing of their stock of provisions.

During one of these stops, at a place where there was a large hotel, in
which a number of the summer guests lingered for the enjoyment of the
autumn scenery, something very pleasant happened to them. A boy of just
about Arthur’s age and size, who was staying at the hotel, walked down
to the river bank with his father. They were attracted by the quaint
appearance of the Ark; and, on going close enough to look in at one of
its open doors, were surprised to see that its occupants were an old
negro and a barefooted boy, the first of whom was patching a small
garment, while the other read aloud to him. The new-comers had little
difficulty in forming the acquaintance of Arthur, Uncle Phin, and Rusty,
or in learning their story.

In answer to Uncle Phin’s anxious inquiry as to whether he knew of any
work to be had in that neighborhood, the gentleman said he did not.
Then, with a little hesitation, he added that if Arthur cared to come up
to the hotel that evening, and read a story out of his book at a
children’s entertainment they were going to have, he would give him a
dollar.

Glancing sadly down at his ragged clothes, the boy said he should like
ever so much to do so, but did not see how he could.

Thereupon the gentleman, understanding the glance, said that his present
costume was so picturesque that he wanted him to come just as he was,
ragged, barefooted, and all. So Arthur went, being more proud of his
ability to earn a whole dollar than he was ashamed of his appearance,
and his reading was such a success that all the people were anxious to
know who he was.

When it was over, the kind gentleman invited him to his room, where
Arthur found a complete suit of the other boy’s clothes, including
shoes, stockings, and a round cap, which the gentleman said were for
him, and insisted upon his putting on at once.

So the boy was again dressed, and made to feel like a young gentleman;
and, when he reappeared down-stairs, nobody knew him, at first, for the
one who had read to them.

The next day a gay party of these hotel guests chartered the Ark for an
excursion, and drifted down the river on her, in company with Arthur and
Uncle Phin and Rusty, to a point about five miles below the village,
where carriages were waiting to take them back. For this use of the boat
they paid two dollars, besides leaving enough provisions behind them to
last our friends for several days.

By the kind gentleman, who appeared greatly interested in their journey,
Arthur and Uncle Phin were advised to sell their boat in Pittsburgh, as
that would offer a better market than points farther on, and to take the
cars from there.

So the whole month of October passed before the happy voyage was ended,
and, late one afternoon in November, the Ark was moored at the mouth of
a small creek on the outskirts of the city of Pittsburgh. It was a
region of iron-works, of foundries, furnaces, and rolling mills, a place
of noise and heat, and never-ending weariness. A dense cloud of black
smoke hung low above it that still November evening, and, though the air
was comparatively pure where the boat was moored, its pall-like presence
seemed to cast a foreboding of evil days over the hearts of our
travellers. As the darkness drew on, the smoke clouds were illumined by
a strange, lurid, glare like that of a great volcano. It was a weirdly
beautiful sight; but it filled them with uneasiness; and, after watching
it for a while, they were glad to enter their cosey little cabin, and
close it to all outside influences.

With heavy hearts they prepared and ate their evening meal; for there
was only food enough left for a slender breakfast, and they had no money
with which to purchase more. After supper they began seriously to
consider their plans for the future, of which they had talked but
vaguely thus far.

“Isn’t it too bad that we can’t go all the way in this boat?” said
Arthur.

“It is so, Honey,” replied Uncle Phin, “but dars no use er frettin.
We’ll go by de kyars and be dar in mos no time now.”

“Do you think we’ll get money enough to pay for riding on the cars,
Uncle Phin?”

“Sho, Honey! You doesn’t know much about trabblin, dats a fac; why it
don’t take no money fer to ride on de kyars. De man wif de brass
buttens, what owns ’em, jes gib you a lil ticket, and den you ride as
long as you like.”

Arthur was inclined to doubt this statement; but Uncle Phin was so
positive, that he tried to believe it. The truth was that, on the only
two railroad journeys he had ever taken in his life, Uncle Phin’s
tickets had been bought and paid for without his knowledge, and handed
to the conductor by Mr. Dustin, together with the others for his little
party. Then a conductor’s check had been stuck in the old man’s
hat-band, and he had ridden unquestioned to his journey’s end. Thus he
was led to believe that railroads were built, and cars run upon them,
for the free accommodation of all who were compelled by a hard fate to
move restlessly from place to place, and he felt very grateful for the
kindness thus extended.

“But Brace Barlow said we could sell the Ark for enough money to carry
us the rest of the way when we got here, you told me so, yourself,” said
Arthur, “and what did he mean if it isn’t going to cost anything?”

“Why, Honey, he mean to pay fer de grub we mus hab while we is a
trabblin, an fer de candies and picshur books, what de boy in de kyars
hans roun. You is jes nacherly ’bleeged to pay fer dem, ob cose. Yo
fader allus done dat,” answered the old man.

“Then we will have to sell the Ark to-morrow, I suppose,” said Arthur,
looking regretfully about the rude little cabin that had been so
pleasant a home to him.

“To be shuah, Honey. We jes drap a bit furder down de ribber, inter de
bizness place ob de city, fust ting in de mornin. Den we sell de boat,
an take to de kyars what’s boun fer ole Ferginny, an maybe by to-morrer
night we is all safe an soun at Dalecourt.”

“How much do you think we will get for the boat?”

“I don know per zackly, Honey. It’ll be cordin ter de deman fer boats.
Maybe five dollar, maybe ten. Depens on what dey is er fetchin,” replied
Uncle Phin, whose ideas as to the value of this sort of property were of
the vaguest description.

As their backs were turned to the cabin window that was nearest the
shore, neither Arthur nor Uncle Phin knew that, during this
conversation, an evil-looking face was peering in at them, and that its
owner was an attentive listener to all that they said.

Now, as they looked up, startled by an uneasy growl from Rusty, who had
just detected the stranger’s presence, and sprang barking toward the
window, the face was hastily withdrawn, and appeared no more.




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                           THE ARK IS STOLEN.


The next morning, after eating the very last of their provisions, which
they shared impartially with Rusty, they cast the Ark loose from its
moorings, and allowed it to drift a mile or two down past the city water
front. At length they reached a place of comparative quiet, amid the
bewildering number of steamboats, tugs, and barges, by which they were
now surrounded. It was just below a great bridge that spanned the river
at this point, and here, after half an hour of anxiety and hard work,
they finally succeeded in making their boat fast to the levee.

Then, not knowing what else to do, they waited patiently for some hours,
in the hope that a customer would appear, and make them an offer for the
Ark. But of all the hurrying throngs who passed the place, no one paid
the slightest attention to them. Uncle Phin had just decided that it
would be necessary for him to go ashore, and in some way make it known
that he had a boat for sale, when a stranger came walking briskly toward
them, and sprang aboard.

Growling savagely, Rusty would have flown at the man, whom he recognized
as the one who had looked into the cabin window the evening before, had
not Arthur seized and held him.

“Good-morning,” said the stranger, politely. “Fine watch dog you’ve got
there.”

“Yes,” replied Arthur, “he is; but I never knew him to want to bite
anybody before.”

“Oh, well,” said the man, “he probably isn’t used to city folks; but he
will get over that. I came to ask if this boat is for sale.”

“Of course it is,” replied the boy, delightedly. “We have been hoping
somebody would come along who wanted to buy it.”

Then they showed the stranger all over the boat, explaining to him what
an unusually fine craft it was, and, before long, had told him all he
wanted to know of their history and plans.

He was a shabbily-dressed man; but they were accustomed to seeing such
people, and never for a moment mistrusted him when he said that he was
looking for just that kind of a boat, in which to take his family to New
Orleans for the winter. They only congratulated each other, on securing
a customer so readily, by exchanging sundry significant looks and smiles
behind his back.

At length he asked their price for the boat, and Uncle Phin, emboldened
by his praise of the craft and evident desire to possess her, answered
that, as boats seemed to be in pretty good demand, he thought this one
ought to be worth twenty dollars.

“Nonsense!” exclaimed the stranger. “Twenty dollars! why, she is worth
fifty, if she is worth a cent, and I couldn’t think of offering any less
for her. Say fifty and we’ll call it a bargain.”

Was there ever such a generous and honest man? Both Arthur and Uncle
Phin thought there never was, as they gladly accepted this magnificent
offer, and thanked him for it besides.

“Now,” said the stranger, “business is business, and I should like to
take possession of the boat at once; while I presume you are anxious to
pursue your journey. If you will just step up-town with me to my bank, I
will pay you the fifty dollars, and on the way I will show you the
station of the railroad that goes to Virginia. Then we’ll get a team to
come down here for your baggage, and you’ll be all right.”

Neither Arthur nor the old negro could think of any particular baggage
that they wished to carry with them, unless it was their bedding, and
Uncle Phin’s axe, and they told the stranger so. He said they might
think of something else after they had got their money, and that at any
rate they had better go up-town with him and secure it at once.

Arthur suggested that it might not be safe to leave the boat all alone,
and proposed that Uncle Phin go for the money, while he and Rusty stayed
behind to guard it.

“Oh, that’s all right,” said the stranger. “You never knew such honest
folks as live round here. They wouldn’t touch anything that didn’t
belong to them for the world. Besides I want you both to sign the bill
of sale, and the receipt for the money.”

So, after carefully closing the cabin doors and windows, the trusting
old man, and the boy, ignorant as yet of the world’s wickedness,
accompanied the plausible stranger up-town. Arthur led Rusty by a bit of
rope fastened to the leathern collar Uncle Phin had made for him, and
had some difficulty in keeping him at a safe distance from the stranger,
toward whom the dog seemed to have taken the greatest dislike. Moved by
some impulse that he could not have explained, the boy had also taken
his precious book from its shelf, at the last moment, and now carried it
under his arm.

The stranger continued to be very polite and entertaining, as they
walked through the crowded streets, and pointed out several places of
interest, among others the railway station from which they were to take
the train for Virginia.

They walked so far that Arthur began to grow tired, and was very glad
when they at length entered a fine building, above the doorway of which
he read the word “Bank” in large letters. Here both the old man and the
boy were awed and bewildered by the imposing appearance of the interior
into which they were ushered. They wondered at the number of desks, at
which busy clerks sat writing behind a high and strong iron grating, and
at the crowds of people who stood in long lines before the little
windows in it, or passed hurriedly to and fro. Leading them to a retired
corner, out of the throng, their guide bade them wait there for a few
minutes, while he prepared the papers that it would be necessary for
them to sign, and procured the fifty dollars. Then he mingled with the
crowd of men about them, and disappeared.

For fifteen minutes or so, the attention of the old man and the boy was
fully occupied by the novel scenes about them, and in keeping Rusty
quiet. Then they began to watch anxiously for the stranger’s return, and
to grow somewhat uneasy over his nonappearance. When half an hour had
passed, they were thoroughly alarmed, and began to walk up and down the
crowded space, in front of the iron grating, peering wistfully into the
faces of those who filled it, but without seeing him whom they sought.

At last a man, who had been closely watching their movements for some
time, stepped briskly up to them, and laying a hand on Uncle Phin’s
shoulder said:

“Come, get out of here, old man. I’ve had my eye on you ever since you
came in, and it’s evident that you have no business here.”

“But, boss, we’se a lookin fer——”

“Yes, I know you are looking for something you won’t find here, so clear
out, or else I’ll have to put you out.”

There was no use offering a further resistance to the detective, and so
the next minute our two friends found themselves in the street, utterly
bewildered, and not knowing which way to turn.

“What do you suppose it all means, Uncle Phin?” asked Arthur.

“Don know, Honey. Hit beat de ole man’s ’sperience, and he don pear to
know nuffin about hit.”

“There is something wrong any way,” said the boy, decidedly, “and I
think the best thing we can do is to get back to the boat as quick as
possible.”

By inquiring they found out in which direction the river lay, and
started to make their way to it as fast as they could. It was a long,
weary walk, and when they finally reached the river, they spent nearly
an hour searching and inquiring before they discovered the bridge near
which the Ark had been left.

Now the boat was nowhere to be seen. In vain did they gaze up and down
the river. They saw other house-boats, and many strange craft of all
descriptions, but nothing that looked in the least like the one that had
sheltered them for so long that it seemed like a very home. Then the
truth began to dawn upon them. Their boat had been stolen, probably by
the very man who had persuaded them to accompany him up-town, and then
deserted them.

This belief was finally confirmed by a good-natured boatman of whom they
made some inquiries, and who told them that the craft for which they
were looking had been boarded and taken away by a couple of men more
than two hours before. They had of course floated off down the river,
and the boatman said the only thing for them to do was to hire a tug and
go after her.

As this would have cost at least twenty dollars, and as they did not
have a cent, it was of course out of the question. What were they to do?
And what was to become of them?

It was now late in the afternoon, and in addition to being very tired
they were very hungry. This latter unpleasant sensation was evidently
shared by poor Rusty, who began to whine and look pleadingly up into his
young master’s face. To add to their misery, the dense smoke clouds that
had been hanging lower and lower over the city now enveloped it entirely
in damp, sooty folds, and a cold, drizzling rain began to fall.

Poor Arthur felt so utterly wretched that he would have cried, but for
the remembrance that he was a Dale.




                              CHAPTER XIX.
                 PENNILESS WANDERERS IN A STRANGE CITY.


Friendless and penniless in a strange city; cold, wet, and hungry, with
night near at hand. This was the present condition of little Prince
Dusty and his Uncle Phin, as, realizing that they had been cruelly
deceived and robbed by the stranger who had proposed to purchase their
boat, they turned slowly away from the river. They knew not where to go;
but, moved by the impulse that prompted them to seek shelter from the
storm, they walked toward the buildings on a street that fronted the
broad, sloping levee.

If they only had something to eat, their future might not seem so dark.
Then they could talk over their situation and decide upon some plan. Now
they could neither talk nor think of anything but the terrible hunger
that turned their strength into weakness and drove every other thought
from their minds.

It was now twenty-four hours since they had eaten a satisfactory meal;
for their mouthful of breakfast had only whetted their appetite for
more. Uncle Phin had known what hunger was before, and was thus somewhat
prepared to bear its sufferings. Even Rusty’s patient dog nature enabled
him to suffer in silence, only revealing his misery by an occasional
whine, and by appealing glances at his young master’s face. To this same
young master, however, the hunger wolf had never seemed so fierce, nor
so terrible, as now. Many a night had the fatherless boy been sent to
bed by his Aunt Nancy without any supper, and at such times he had been
very hungry; but never had he imagined such a longing for food as he now
experienced.

“Oh, Uncle Phin!” he moaned, “can’t you think of any way to get
something to eat? Just a loaf of bread or some crackers. It doesn’t seem
as if I could stand it much longer.”

“Well, Honey! my pore lil honey lamb! de ole man is a rackin his brain,
an a projeckin, an a thinkin, and it’s mo’n likely he’ll strike up wif
some plan dreckly. You see des yeah ’sperience hab kim up powerful
sudden, an its umposserbilities hab tuk me by ’sprise. Now we might sell
dat ar dorg Rusty fer ernough to buy a squar meal, ef we know’d whar to
fin a pusson what wanted a dorg.”

“Sell Rusty, Uncle Phin! Sell my dear little dog! Why, I’d starve
first.”

“Dats it! Dats jes de way I knowed ’t would be,” said the old man,
shaking his head sadly. “Well, dars dat ar book ob yourn. We mighter——”

“My precious book, that the beautiful lady gave me!” cried the boy.
“Why, Uncle Phin, that’s worse than Rusty. I wouldn’t give _it_ up for
anything in the world; not even for a great heaping plate of hot
buckwheat cakes, with maple syrup on them.”

“Or a fat possum roasted in a hole in de groun?” suggested the old man,
his mouth watering at the thought.

“No, nor a beefsteak with baked sweet potatoes, and hot rolls,” said the
boy, who, under the circumstances, was certainly placing a high value on
his book.

“Or a big dish er hominy smoking frum de kittle wif a plenty er pok
gravy,” added Uncle Phin eagerly, unable to conceive of anything more
likely to tempt a hungry little boy than this.

“No, not for anything that was ever cooked, or ever will be, would I
give up my own dear book,” said Arthur stoutly.

They had found a temporary refuge from the rain in a doorway, and stood
within its shelter during this exchange of the tantalizing thoughts
uppermost in their minds. Nearly opposite to them was a street lamp that
had just been lighted, and they watched the lamplighter enviously, as he
shouldered his flaming torch and walked away, whistling merrily,
doubtless to a home and supper.

Now, as in answer to Arthur’s last remark, Uncle Phin was saying: “Well,
den, Honey, I don see but what we’se got er go hungry twel to-morrer,
when maybe I kin git er job er wood sawin,” there came a quick rush of
feet on the wet flagging. Arthur turned to look at the flying figure,
and gave a little cry of recognition, as the light from the street lamp
fell on its face. At the same instant Rusty recognized in it his old
persecutor, the boy with whom his young master had fought in the tramps’
camp. With a growl he sprang forward. Arthur still held the end of his
rope, and the dog’s movement was so sudden that it nearly threw him
down. As it was, he stumbled, and the precious book, so recently the
subject of their conversation, fell to the sidewalk. The next moment
another figure, and this time it was that of Sandy Grimes, the big
tramp, rushed past, evidently in pursuit of his boy, and then all was
again quiet.

Recovering himself, and taking a firmer hold on the rope that held the
still excited Rusty, Arthur stepped forward and picked up his book of
fairy tales. As he did so, a bit of dark paper, that seemed to fall from
between its leaves, fluttered to the wet stones, and this the boy also
picked up. Curious to see what it was, he held it to the light and
uttered a cry of incredulous amazement.

It was a bank bill for five dollars; and, although Arthur did not know
it at the time, it was the same one that his friend, Brace Barlow, had
slipped between the leaves of the book on the night that he bade them
farewell. Why Arthur had not discovered it long before, will always be a
mystery that can only be accounted for by the fact that the book was a
large one, and contained many stories, several of which he had not yet
read. Between the leaves of one of these the bill had probably been all
this time, and now, in the hour of the boy’s sorest need, it came to him
as though it were indeed a gift from the fairy godmother who had written
the inscription upon the fly-leaf of the volume.

Arthur’s excitement was fully shared by Uncle Phin, though with the old
man it assumed a quieter and more reverent form. He said: “De good Lawd
seen de fix we was in, Honey, an He sen dis yeah in place ob er raben,
fer our suppah. Dats what we’se er wantin de mostes, an dats what we
oughter to be gettin de fustes ting.”




                              CHAPTER XX.
                         A RAILROAD EXPERIENCE.


To Uncle Phin’s proposition the boy fully agreed. Even Rusty seemed to
comprehend that his young master’s fortunes had taken a turn for the
better; and, as they started up the street, in search of a place where
they might obtain food, he danced about them barking joyously.

Before long they discovered a very small and humble bake shop, kept by a
colored aunty, who looked almost as old as Uncle Phin; but who was as
stout as he was thin, and whose head was covered by a Madras kerchief of
vivid reds and yellows. She was not expecting any customers this stormy
evening, and at first regarded the new-comers with suspicion, evidently
fearing that they were about to appeal to her for charity. This, by the
way, as they afterwards learned, was her name, “Aunt Charity.” She was,
however, reassured by the sight of the five-dollar bill in Uncle Phin’s
hand, by the old man’s extreme politeness, and by Arthur’s honest blue
eyes. In spite of his clothes being rain-soaked and mud-stained, he was
so evidently a little gentleman, that she involuntarily dropped him a
curtsey when, in winning tones, he said: “Please, ma’am, get us
something to eat. We are nearly starved; but we have the money to pay
for it, and I think we would like to have a good deal of most everything
you have.”

“To be suttinly, sah! To be suttinly, my pore lamb. You shall hab de bes
Aunt Charity kin skeer up, dreckly,” answered the old woman, dropping
her curtsey, and gazing compassionately at the little fellow. “Ef you’d
like to dry yo’sefs, while I’se er gittin sumpin ready, yo’se welkum to
step inter de kitchun, an set by de fire, Misto——” Here she paused and
looked at Uncle Phin, as though waiting for him to complete her sentence
by introducing himself.

“Phin Dale ob Dalecourt, Ferginny,” said the old man, promptly, adding,
“and dis my lil Marse Arthur Dale Dustin. We is a trabblin to his
granpaw’s, an is to take de kyars fo Dalecourt, soon as we is eatin our
suppah.”

As Aunt Charity had also spent the earlier days of her life in Virginia,
a bond of sympathy was at once established between them, and she bustled
about, with surprising agility for one of her size, to make the
travellers comfortable. She had intended supplying their wants from the
counter and well-filled shelves of her little shop; but, after they were
comfortably seated in the friendly warmth of the kitchen stove, she
decided to make a pot of tea, and then to fry a rasher of bacon with
some eggs. Nor did she neglect their immediate wants, while preparing
these things. Hunger was so plainly stamped on their faces, that it
would have been cruel to keep them waiting a single minute before
beginning to satisfy it. So she gave them each a big, shiny-topped bun,
with currants in it, and when she saw Arthur breaking off a piece of his
for Rusty, she immediately got another for the hungry dog.

What a pleasant contrast this cheerful, low-ceiled kitchen, with its
glowing stove, presented to the cold, and wet, and darkness of the
streets through which they were wandering so hopelessly but a few
minutes before. How thoroughly Arthur and Uncle Phin appreciated its
comforts, and what glances, expressive of gratitude and complete
satisfaction, they exchanged as they sat on opposite sides of the stove,
well back so as not to interfere with the ponderous but bustling
movements of the mistress of the establishment.

In the darkest corner of the room was a high, calico-curtained bedstead,
from beneath which projected one end of a low trundle-bed. In this could
just be distinguished two little woolly heads, from which two pairs of
wide-open black eyes gazed wonderingly at the strangers, and the busy
scene about the stove.

When Uncle Phin inquired, with an air of well-feigned interest, if those
were her children, Aunt Charity paused in her work for a moment, and,
standing with arms akimbo, regarded them with great complacency, as she
answered: “No, Misto Phin Dale, deys not my ownly chillun; but deys my
gran’chillun, once remobed. You see deir maw, she my ole man’s fustes
wife’s gal, by her fustes husban’. So when dey came to be twins an’
orfuns at de same time, I wuz deir nex ob kin, an dey nacherly fell to
my sheer ob de estate. Now, I’se gwine gib ’em a eddicashun, and train
’em up fer de whitewash an kalsermine bizness.”

Warm and dry, strengthened and refreshed by their supper, of which
little Rusty had eaten his full share and would now have greatly
preferred lying under the stove to going out into the stormy night, our
travellers again set forth on their journey. Had Aunt Charity’s mite of
a house afforded a spare room she would have invited them to occupy it
until morning; but it did not, and she had no place to offer them. Then,
too, Uncle Phin was most anxious to start at once, now that they had
money, in hopes that it would last until they reached their journey’s
end. So interested had Aunt Charity become in the young lad who was so
bravely seeking a distant home in place of the one where he had been
cruelly and unjustly treated—for Uncle Phin had told her the whole of
Arthur’s history,—that she at first refused to receive any pay for their
supper. Both Arthur and Uncle Phin insisted so strongly that she should,
that at length she consented to take twenty-five cents, but no more. She
also forced into Uncle Phin’s hands a paper bag full of rolls and cakes
for Arthur just as they left, and stood in the doorway watching them
until they were lost to sight in the shadows of the dimly lighted
street.

Aunt Charity had given them directions for reaching the railway station,
so that they had no trouble in finding it. Here they were quickly
bewildered by the hurrying throngs of people and great trucks of baggage
that were being trundled up and down the platform, the puffing and
snorting of engines, and the dazzling white light of the electric lamps.

At last Uncle Phin ventured to address a man in a cap and blue coat,
whom he took to be one of the railway officials.

“Please, sah,” said the old man, bowing humbly and pulling at the brim
of his tattered hat, “which ob de kyars is er gwine to Ferginny?”

“Which way are you bound?” asked the official, sharply. “East or west?”

Uncle Phin did not know.

“Let me see your tickets?”

Uncle Phin had none. “De man haint passen ob ’em roun yet,” he said.

“Are you going to Richmond, Virginia?”

“Near by dar, sah! Clus on to it!” cried the old man, eagerly, delighted
at hearing the familiar name.

“Well, then you want to take the first through train going east, and it
won’t be along till midnight.”

With this the busy railroad man hurried on, leaving our friends gazing
at each other in dismay. Midnight! and now it was only seven o’clock.
What should they do and where should they go to pass those five hours?
They did not dare go very far from the railway station, and so they
wandered aimlessly about in the darkness near it, growing more weary,
more wet, cold, and uncomfortable with each moment.

At length they paused before an empty freight car, one door of which was
partly open. Why not seek shelter from the storm in it?

Nobody saw them as they climbed into the car, which they found to be
half filled with sacks of corn-meal. On these they made themselves quite
comfortable, and here they decided to wait patiently until the lighted
clock on a tower above the station which they could see from the car
door, should tell them that it was nearly midnight. Of course they had
no idea of going to sleep. That would never do; for they must watch the
clock. How slowly its hands crept round. Arthur resolutely turned his
eyes away from it, determined not to look again for at least half an
hour. When satisfied that that length of time had elapsed, he glanced at
its round yellow face, only to find that barely five minutes had passed.
He spoke of this to Uncle Phin, but received no answer. The old man was
fast asleep.

“Poor Uncle Phin!” said the boy to himself. “He must be very tired, and
I won’t wake him till it’s time to go.”

So Arthur watched the lighted clock until it looked like a moon, and
then he rubbed his eyes to make sure that it was not winking and
laughing at him. And then—and then he too was fast asleep, with one arm
thrown about Rusty’s neck, and the only sounds to be heard were the
patter of rain on the roof of the motionless freight car, and the
regular breathing of its three tired occupants.

An hour later two men, carrying lanterns and wearing rubber coats that
glistened with the wet, came along and paused before the freight car.
One of them consulted a way bill. “Yes, this is it,” he said. “No. 201,
corn-meal for Harrisburg. Six sacks to be left at Arden. That’s all
right. Shut her up, Joe. It was mighty careless of those fellows to
leave the door open.”

Then Joe pushed the heavy door to, with a slam. It fastened with a
spring lock, and the men with the lanterns walked away to look up the
rest of their train. A little later an engine came rolling softly along
the wet track to where the car stood. There was a bump, a rattle of
coupling pins and links, a swinging of lanterns, and the car was drawn
away, past the multitude of little red, and green, and yellow lights
twinkling through the rain and darkness like big fire-flies, and marking
the switches.

The car was hauled and pushed hither and thither, and others were
attached to it, until at length a long train was made up. The great
locomotive panted, eager to be off, and its hot breath made little
clouds of fleecy steam, that were edged with flame by the glow from its
open-mouthed furnace. The brakemen were at their posts on the slippery
tops of the cars; the caboose at the rear end of the train looked warm
and comfortable. The red lights, shining like angry eyes, were hung in
position on its sides near the rear end, and freight train No. 15 was in
readiness for a start.

The conductor came from the Train Despatcher’s office with a thin sheet
of yellow paper, on which were written his orders, in his hand.

“No tramps on board to-night, are there, Joe?” he said to his head
brakeman.

“No, sir, not a sign of one. I’ve looked carefully everywhere. It’s too
wet for ’em to travel, I reckon.”

“All right. Let her go.”

Then the conductor swung his glistening lantern, the engineer pulled the
throttle, and Freight No. 15 moved slowly out into the darkness. Its
first stop was at Arden, where it was to side-track and await the
passing of the New York Limited. Here too were to be left six sacks of
meal.

As Brakeman Joe unlocked and pushed open the door of car No. 201, and
the light of his lantern flashed into its dark interior, it fell upon
something that caused him to start and exclaim:

“Great Scott! the tramps are travelling after all, and here they are. A
dog too! Well, if that isn’t cold cheek!”




                              CHAPTER XXI.
                     CARRIED OFF IN A FREIGHT CAR.


Brakeman Joe did not love tramps. His regular work was hard enough,
goodness knows; and when, in addition to it, he had to make a thorough
examination of the whole train at every stopping-place, peering, by the
light of his lantern, between and underneath the cars for tramps, who
might be stealing a ride, he felt that he had good cause to dislike
them. Sometimes he had hard tussles before dislodging them from their
perches and roosts, and many an ugly blow had he received while
performing this duty. Joe had, therefore, learned to deal very promptly,
not to say roughly, with this portion of the travelling public whenever
he found them on or in the cars under his charge.

On this particular night he had made sure, before starting, that there
was not a single tramp on the train, and had in consequence been
anticipating a comparatively easy trip. And now he had, as he supposed,
discovered a whole nest of them snugly stowed away in car No. 201. A dog
too! It was aggravating, and, under the circumstances, it is not to be
wondered at that he hustled them out of there without much regard to
their feelings.

Both Arthur and Uncle Phin had been suddenly awakened, and greatly
alarmed, when Brakeman Joe first slammed and locked the door of the car
in which they had taken refuge from the storm. They had a confused idea
that they had been asleep, though for how long they could not tell, and
now they could no longer see the lighted clock above the railway
station. It might even be midnight, and time for their train to come
along for all they knew. They shouted, and kicked against the locked
door, and Rusty barked; but all in vain. The conductor and Brakeman Joe
had walked away before these noises began, and there was no one else to
hear them.

Then the engine came and pushed and pulled the car about until they had
not the slightest idea of the direction in which they were moving. It
might be forward or backward, east or west, for all they could tell. Nor
was their situation improved when the train, of which car No. 201
finally formed a part, pulled out of the railway yard, and started on
its long journey. They had no idea which way it was going, and Arthur
could have cried as he reflected that they might be travelling in
exactly the opposite direction from that they wished to take, and might
be carried hundreds of miles before their car door was again unlocked.
As he could not do this, because he was a Dale, he only hugged little
Rusty, and tried to be comforted by Uncle Phin’s assurances “Dat de good
Lawd was er gwine ter keer for dem, jes like He did fer de sparrers,
whose hairs was all counted so as dey shouldn’ fall to de groun.”

Arthur’s unhappiness was increased by the fact that he could nowhere
feel his precious book. It had slipped from his grasp as he slept, and
now was nowhere to be found. Thus the first stage of their journey by
rail was a most unhappy one, and they were glad to forget their sorrows
in the sleep that again overcame them a few minutes before the train
made its first stop.

The Arden station was a very small one, in a lonely place, with no
houses near it. It was only a platform with a freight shed at one end,
and a more forlorn place for a stranger to be left on a dark, stormy
night, could hardly be imagined. Arthur and Uncle Phin were not
conscious of the train stopping here, and were only awakened from their
troubled sleep by the light from Brakeman Joe’s lantern flashing in
their faces. They were just sitting up and gazing at him, in a
bewildered way, when this energetic young man hustled them out of the
car in his roughest manner. It was so rough, in fact, that poor Uncle
Phin, impelled by a violent push, slipped on the wet platform, and fell
heavily. He struck one of his knees such a painful blow that, for a few
moments, he was unable to rise, and lay there groaning.

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself to treat an old man so!” cried Arthur to
Brakeman Joe, as with flashing eyes and quivering lips he sprang to his
companion’s side, and endeavored to assist him to his feet.

“Well, what business has the old tramp got to be stealing a ride on my
train?” replied the brakeman, sulkily, though at the same time bending
over Uncle Phin and helping him up.

He was not a bad-hearted young man, this Brakeman Joe; but he was
overworked, and much bothered by tramps. Generally he was good-natured,
and was especially kind and gentle with old people, for he had an old
father at home of whom he was the sole support, and to whom he was
devoted. He had not noticed, in the dim light, that Uncle Phin was old
and white-headed. He had only regarded him as a tramp, who, as everybody
knows, is apt to be young and strong, and well able to perform the labor
that he refuses to undertake out of sheer laziness. So now he helped the
prostrate figure to its feet, said he hoped the old fellow was not much
hurt, and then returned to his task of dragging the six sacks of meal,
that were to be left at Arden, from the car.

“What’s the matter here, Joe?” asked the conductor of the train,
stepping up at this moment.

“Only a couple of stowaways that I found stealing a ride in this car,”
was the answer.

“Tramps, eh?” said the conductor, sharply, flashing the light from his
lantern upon the two trembling figures who stood behind him. “A dog,
too,” he continued, “and I’ll warrant they stole it. I’ve a mind to take
it in payment for their ride. If this was a town I’d have you fellows
arrested and locked up in less than no time. You, and all your kind,
ought to be killed off for the good of the country. As it is I’ll leave
you here to soak in the rain for the rest of the night, and perhaps some
of the worthlessness will be washed out of you by morning. Hello! what’s
this?”

Here the conductor stooped and picked up a small object over which
Brakeman Joe had stumbled, and which he had sent flying out on to the
platform.

It was a book, and the conductor picked it up, wondering where it could
have come from. “‘Andersen’s Fairy Tales,’” he read aloud, holding it up
to his lantern. “The very book my little Kitty was asking me to get for
her only the other day! Well, if this isn’t a find!” Then, turning to
the fly-leaf, he read aloud: “To Prince Dusty, from——”

Here he was interrupted by Arthur, who sprang forward, and, stretching
out his hand for the book, cried: “Please, sir, it’s mine; and I should
feel dreadfully to lose it, and we aren’t tramps, and didn’t mean to
steal a ride. We got locked in by accident, and we have money enough to
pay for everything, and oh! please don’t leave us here in this lonely
place.”

The conductor stared at the boy in amazement. “Well, you do look like a
‘little Dusty’ sure enough, though I can’t say that you are exactly what
I should have fancied a Prince was. Who are you, anyway? And where do
you want to go to?”

Then Arthur, who was completely covered with white dust from the meal
sacks on which he had been sleeping, told the conductor, in as few words
as possible, of the object of their journey, and how they happened to be
locked into car No. 201. He finished by repeating that they had money,
and would willingly pay for the privilege of riding further on the
train, provided it was bound east. This last question was asked most
anxiously, for as yet the boy had not the slightest idea of where they
were.

“Bound east!” exclaimed the conductor. “Of course we are, and there goes
the ‘New York Limited’ now.” As he spoke, an express train, of heavy
vestibuled cars, thundered past them, with a roar and a crash, at such
tremendous speed that in a second it was gone, and its two red eyes,
looking backward, seemed to wink mockingly at the snail-like freight
train, as they were whisked out of sight.

“Now,” said the conductor as the roar of the express dying away
permitted his voice to be again heard, “I’ll tell you what I will do.
You say you are not tramps, and didn’t mean to stow away in that car,
and that you have money enough to pay for your trip. That all may be so,
and it may not. At any rate I haven’t time to investigate your story
now, for we must pull out of here at once. So you and the old man and
the dog just tumble into that caboose, and I’ll carry you along a bit
further. We’ll see about paying for the trip when you decide how far you
want to go, and you shall read a story out of your book to Brakeman Joe
and me, to pay for the ride you have already had. But mind,” he added
threateningly as Arthur began to thank him, “if I find that you have
been telling me any lies, I’ll have you arrested and locked up in the
very first town we come to.”




                             CHAPTER XXII.
                      SAVING THE KEYSTONE EXPRESS.


Conductor Tobin, of freight No. 15, was one of the biggest-hearted and
most generous men on the road. In fact it was largely owing to this that
he had not long ago been promoted from a freight to a passenger train.
He could not bear the thought of taking a place from any of his friends,
whom he thought needed it more than he did. So he always held back, and
let them step up over his head, and rejoiced with them in their good
fortune, and said he would take his turn next time. He had a wife and
one little girl about Arthur’s age, whose name was Katherine, but who
was called “Kitty” for short; and, though the conductor’s pay was small,
they managed to make both ends meet, and lived very happily in
Harrisburg, in a little cottage that they only rented, but which it was
their great desire to own, some day. It was so conveniently situated,
not far from the railroad, and yet in such a nice part of the town that
Mrs. Tobin often said to Conductor Tobin that they could not find one
more to their liking, if they should look for a hundred years, and
Conductor Tobin agreed with her.

Like Brakeman Joe, the only persons with whom Conductor Tobin had no
patience, and upon whom he was very severe whenever they came in his
way, were tramps. In the present case he was pleased with the sweet,
honest face of little “Prince Dusty,” a name that struck his fancy most
happily. It seemed a proof of the truthfulness of Arthur’s claims, that
he possessed, and evidently valued, the very book for which his little
girl had expressed a desire. Thus he became favorably inclined toward
our travellers, and offered to help them on with their journey.

So it happened that, when freight No. 15 pulled slowly and heavily out
from the Arden siding, Arthur and Uncle Phin and Rusty, instead of being
left behind on the storm-beaten platform, were comfortably seated about
the little round stove in the caboose, enjoying its grateful warmth and
very happy over their good fortune.

Soon after starting, Conductor Tobin and Brakeman Joe entered the
caboose, and sat down for a chat with their guests. Uncle Phin was too
fully occupied in nursing his bruised knee to enter very heartily into
the conversation; but Arthur so easily sustained his share of it, that
the trainmen were delighted with his intelligence and ready wit. After
he had told them all that he could about himself, he began to ask them
questions, whereby he gained much information concerning railroad
business in general, and the running of trains in particular. They
allowed him to climb up into the cupola of the caboose, through the four
windows of which he could look out into the night, ahead, behind, and on
both sides. Then they showed him their red and white lanterns, and set
of flags, and explained their uses. He thus learned that, if any
accident happened to their train, it would be the conductor’s first duty
to send a brakeman back on the track to wave a red lantern, and warn
approaching trains of the danger ahead.

“Would a train always stop if a red lantern was waved across the track
ahead of it?” asked Arthur.

“Of course it would,” was the answer, “for if it didn’t it would get
into trouble.”

Brakeman Joe even went so far as to initiate the boy into the mysteries
of his own peculiar department. Of course he did not invite him to walk
over the wet roofs of the moving train, in order to show him how the
brakes of the freight cars were set up; but he gave him a lesson on the
platform of the caboose that answered every purpose.

Then the trainmen brought out their tin lunch pails, and from their
contents, together with those of the paper bag so thoughtfully provided
by Aunt Charity, the merry party of five, for of course the
always-hungry Rusty was included in it, made a hearty midnight supper.

Freight No. 15 had stopped several times to drop or pick up loaded cars;
but, as yet, nothing had been said about leaving the guests behind, or
about Arthur reading a story in payment for the earlier portion of their
ride. At length, when they were toiling slowly up a long, heavy grade,
for they were now climbing the western slope of the Alleghany Mountains,
Conductor Tobin claimed the fulfilment of this promise, and Arthur
willingly undertook to read the story of “The Wild Swans.” Brakeman Joe
was at his post in the cupola on look-out, so of course he could not be
expected to listen to the reading. Nor could the conductor hear very
well, above the roar of the train, though the boy strove to read loudly
and clearly. At length, as it was evident that he was straining his
voice, and also that he was growing very sleepy, kind-hearted Conductor
Tobin gently took the book from his hands, and bade him lie down on a
sort of long bench, covered with a cushion and a blanket, that ran along
one side of the caboose, while he finished the story for himself.

Here, with Rusty nestled close beside him, the tired boy quickly fell
asleep, while Uncle Phin nodded and dozed in a big arm-chair beside the
stove, and the only sounds heard were the panting of the locomotive, and
the rattle of the heavy train as it toiled slowly up the steep grades.

Somewhere near the summit a stop was made for water. During it both
Conductor Tobin and Brakeman Joe went to the forward end of the long
train for a chat with the engineer. They were still talking when it was
time to start ahead, and both men jumped into the cab for a moment that
they might finish what they were saying. Then they began to make their
way back toward the caboose, walking as quickly and surely over the
swaying roofs of the cars as though they had been on solid ground.

It had ceased to rain; but thick, damp mist clouds, were driving over
the mountains, and they at first thought this was the reason why they
did not see the green lights, that should show in the back of the red
caboose lanterns. Then they became anxious, and quickened their steps.
When they reached the end of the train their worst fears were realized.
The caboose was no longer there.

The engineer, happening to look back, saw their swinging lanterns. A
sharp, imperative whistle blast called for brakes. For a few moments
there was a harsh grinding of the iron brake shoes against iron wheels,
and then the train came to a standstill. As it did so Conductor Tobin
ran breathlessly up to the locomotive, shouting: “Back down to the tank!
Side-track the train, and run your engine back after the caboose. It’s
broke loose and gone down the grade! Number 17 is coming up behind us!
There isn’t one chance in ten thousand but what there’ll be a collision!
We’ve got to take that one though, and do what we can.”

Long before he finished speaking Conductor Tobin was in the cab, and the
train was backing rapidly toward the siding. Brakeman Joe had run back
to the little green light at its end, unlocked and thrown over the
lever, so that now a “flying switch” was made, and, while the train ran
in on the siding, the locomotive, previously cut loose from it, still
stood on the main track. Again the lever was thrown over, the green
light, denoting that the main track was open, swung into place, and the
engine seemed to give a great bound as it plunged swiftly down the grade
in pursuit of the runaway caboose.

In the meantime Arthur had been suddenly awakened from his nap by a
peculiar jarring jerk that accompanied the starting of the train, and by
a loud barking from Rusty. For an instant the caboose stood still,
though he could hear the other cars in motion, then it began to move
backwards; at first very slowly, but increasing its speed with each
moment. Although he did not yet realize in the least what had happened,
the boy felt uneasy, and stepping to the door he looked out. Even to his
inexperienced eye the situation was clear at a glance.

A coupling-pin had broken, and the caboose was running away down the
steep grade the train had just climbed.

“Quick, Uncle Phin!” he shouted, “come here quick!” and the old man,
hobbling to the door, found the boy exerting all of his strength upon
the iron brake wheel.

Together they tugged and strained at it until at length they got the
brake set, after a fashion. Of course not as Brakeman Joe’s powerful
arms could have done it, but so that its iron shoes ground with
considerable force against the wheels.

At first it did not seem to have the slightest effect, and the car still
rushed at a fearful speed down the mountain side, whirling around the
sharp curves with sickening lurches that nearly threw its passengers off
their feet.

Suddenly a new terror was added to the situation. From down in the
valley came the shrill whistle of an approaching train, and they knew it
was climbing the grade toward them on the same track. Now their runaway
car struck a short place of comparative level, and its speed seemed to
slacken.

If they could only set that brake up one more notch! It seemed
impossible; but they did it, and the red sparks began to fly from the
grinding wheels.

They were certainly going slower, and, at last, on the beginning of an
abrupt curve, they stopped. Another hundred feet would have sent them
flying down the steepest grade of the mountain.

Arthur bade Uncle Phin take one of the two red lanterns left in the car
and swing it from the front platform. Then, with the other in his hand,
he jumped to the track, and ran at the top of his speed around the curve
ahead of them. He was not a second too soon, for within a hundred yards
of the caboose he was nearly blinded by the sudden glare of an
approaching headlight. Standing steadily in the middle of the track he
swung his danger signal to and fro, until he could feel the hot breath
of the approaching monster, and then he sprang aside.

Its powerful air brakes were already at work, and the “Keystone
Express,” filled with sleeping passengers, came to a standstill within a
few feet of the runaway caboose, just as the engine from the freight
train bumped softly against it from the other direction.

[Illustration: STANDING STEADILY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE TRACK HE SWUNG HIS
DANGER SIGNAL TO AND FRO. (_Page 180._)]

As Conductor Tobin picked Arthur up in his arms and carried him back to
the caboose the tears were streaming down his face, and he said: “God
bless you, lad! You’ve done a thing this night the oldest trainman on
the road might be proud of doing.”




                             CHAPTER XXIII.
                       CROSSING THE ALLEGHANIES.


So little “Prince Dusty,” by remembering what he had been taught, and
having the common-sense to put it into practice, was able to prevent a
terrible disaster. Some boys of his age would have been so frightened at
finding themselves in a runaway car, plunging madly down a
mountain-side, that they would have become panic-stricken and utterly
powerless to help themselves or others. They would have, as people say,
lost their heads; but Arthur was not one of the kind who lose their
heads. He had been sensibly brought up by his practical father, and
taught to face emergencies coolly and calmly. Young as he was, he had
learned to stop and think “What is the best thing to be done?” and then
to do it promptly to the very best of his ability. It does not take long
to think. If the brain is clear and steady, a great many thoughts can
flash through it in a second; and one moment thus spent is worth a
lifetime of thoughtless action.

It would be absurd to claim that Arthur had not been frightened on this
occasion. He had never been so frightened in his life, and it is to be
hoped that he never will be again; but he was too brave a boy to allow
his fright to obtain control of him. Now that the time for being cool
and calm, and for prompt action, had passed, he felt weak and faint, and
was very glad to be picked up and borne tenderly back to the caboose, in
Conductor Tobin’s strong arms. There Uncle Phin was waiting to throw his
arms about his “lil Marse,” and to “tank de good Lawd” for letting him
be the brave, splendid boy that he was.

The runaway caboose was hauled up to where the rest of its train was
waiting on the siding for it, and the “Keystone Express” followed
slowly. Here it stopped for a few minutes, while its engineer and
conductor, and the conductors of the sleeping-cars, all crowded into the
caboose to see and shake hands with the boy who had saved their lives,
and to thank him with trembling voices. They wanted Arthur and Uncle
Phin and Rusty to go with them, and travel, surrounded by every comfort
and luxury that their train could afford; but Arthur said he would
rather stay where he was. This decision made Conductor Tobin and
Brakeman Joe very happy, for they were so proud of their young “railroad
man,” as they called him, that they could not bear the thought of
parting with him.

So, with many a full-hearted “God bless you!” and “We’ll not forget you
in a hurry,” the trainmen of the “Keystone Express” went back to their
places, and it rolled away over the mountains, without its sleeping
passengers being any the wiser for what had happened. Nor did they ever
know of the danger they had escaped; for passengers on railway trains
are never told, if it can be helped, of their narrow escapes from
accidents. It might make them timid about riding in the cars.

Only one passenger knew. He was an elderly gentleman, who, unable to
sleep, had been lying in a lower berth, gazing out into the darkness
through his uncurtained window. He knew of the sudden and unusual
stopping of the train, had seen the swinging lanterns, and had noticed
the engineer and conductors of his own train crowding into the caboose
of Freight No. 15. When the express was once more in motion, he called
the porter of the sleeping-car, and made him tell all he knew of what
had taken place.

When the story was finished, the elderly gentleman sighed regretfully,
and said he wished he had known of it in time to go and see that boy for
himself. He had no boys of his own, and had never cared much for them;
but recent circumstances had caused him to change his mind, and long for
one. He had even come to regard all boys with interest, and now wished
he might have known the brave little fellow whose courage and promptness
of action had, in all probability, saved his life.

After the express had passed on, and Freight No. 15 was again pounding
heavily along over the steel rails, Conductor Tobin and Brakeman Joe sat
by the little caboose stove and talked over the events of the past half
hour. Arthur lay quietly on the blanket-covered bench, with Rusty curled
up at his feet, and Uncle Phin, sitting close beside him, held one of
his hands, as though fearful of losing him.

The two men told each other what a wonderful thing it was that these
stowaways had chosen their particular train, and how thankful they were
that they had not left them at Arden, as they at first intended. They
could not tire of praising the boy for remembering what they had just
taught him, and for being so ready to act upon it. They praised Uncle
Phin, too, for his share of the night’s work, and even little Rusty was
petted and praised for barking to wake Arthur when the caboose broke
loose.

Brakeman Joe said that the boy was so evidently cut out for a railroad
man that it would be a pity if he should ever try to become anything
else. He even went so far as to offer Arthur and Uncle Phin a home with
his old father, promising to teach the former all he knew of
railroading, and to get him a place as water-boy on a passenger train.

Arthur gratefully declined this offer, and said he thought they had
better keep on with their journey to the home in which he belonged. At
the same time a genuine love for railroads and everything connected with
them, even including their dangers, had entered his heart that night,
and he determined that some day he would not only be a railroad man, but
a famous one.

They had now passed the summit of the Alleghanies, and day was dawning.
As the night mists rolled away, and the magnificent panorama of
mountain, hill, and valley began to unfold beneath them, Arthur climbed
up into the cupola to watch it. He had never witnessed so glorious a
sunrise as that now flashed back by the clear waters of the Juniata,
which laughed and rippled beside the track. As he drew in long breaths
of the fresh mountain air and gazed on the marvellous beauty of the
ever-widening landscape, the mere fact of being alive and able to enjoy
it all filled him with happiness.

During the morning Freight No. 15 rumbled heavily across the Susquehanna
River and into the beautiful old city of Harrisburg, the proud capital
of one of the greatest and wealthiest States of the Union. Here it was
turned over to a new crew of trainmen, while Conductor Tobin, Brakeman
Joe, and the others who had brought it thus far were at liberty to seek
their homes and a well-earned rest.

Conductor Tobin insisted upon taking our travellers home with him, and,
though Brakeman Joe would gladly have had them as his guests, he was
obliged to yield to the claims of his superior officer. So they all went
to the neat little cottage, not far from the railroad, where, when
warm-hearted Mrs. Tobin learned from her husband what Arthur and Uncle
Phin and Rusty had done, she took the boy at once into her arms and
heart, and shook hands with the old negro, and petted the dog, and said
that her house was honored by having such distinguished guests under its
roof. Then she prepared an extra fine dinner for the occasion, and even
little Rusty was allowed to sit at the table and have his share of it,
“just like folks,” as Mrs. Tobin said.

After dinner Arthur won Kitty’s heart by reading stories to her out of
his precious book, and Uncle Phin won it by carving toys out of bits of
soft pine with his jack-knife, and Rusty won it by performing all his
tricks and playing with her.

That evening Conductor Tobin produced a railroad folder that contained a
map. On this they traced out the course of the journey yet to be
undertaken to the point on the James River not far from Richmond,
Virginia, where Uncle Phin said Dalecourt was located. When their route
had been carefully marked in red ink the map was entrusted to Arthur for
their future guidance.




                             CHAPTER XXIV.
                     A BRAVE STRUGGLE WITH POVERTY.


The following day Conductor Tobin introduced his guests to a freight
conductor on the Northern Central road, who, when he had heard their
story, willingly consented to carry them on his train, which was to go
out that night, as far as Baltimore.

This he did; and when they got there, they had not spent one cent of the
money with which they had left Pittsburgh, and yet they had accomplished
two thirds of their journey.

As the weather was pleasant, they decided to walk from Baltimore, at
least as far as Washington. So the Northern Central conductor set them
down at a small station just outside the city limits of Baltimore. Then,
after pointing out the direction they were to take, he bade them
good-by, and left them to pursue their journey on foot, with light
hearts and a firm faith that they would speedily accomplish it.

From the very outset of this walk Arthur began to realize the value of
the information given him long before, in the tramps’ camp on the
Alleghany, regarding their peculiar signs, as inscribed on fences and
gate-posts. While he and Uncle Phin had some money, it was so very
little for the long journey still ahead of them, that they must use
every means possible to save it. They did not expect to live at
first-class hotels during their travels, or even in cheap
lodging-houses. They only hoped to obtain permission to sleep in barns,
or under haystacks if nothing better offered, and to buy their food of
such farmers’ wives as would let them have what was left over from their
own tables.

Therefore it became very important for them to know who were the
liberal, good-natured people along their route, and which were the ones
from whose doors they would be chased away by dogs, or threatened with
shot-guns. To discover this Arthur kept a sharp look-out for signs by
the roadside.

It was surprising, now that he began to look for them, and to discover
for himself where to look, how many he found. There was hardly a
dwelling along the way but what had the character of its inmates denoted
by rude chalk marks on some conspicuous object in its immediate
vicinity. So by applying only at the houses whose signs were favorable,
they got along very nicely for three days. They were allowed to sleep in
comfortable barns each night, and had several meals given to them
without charge, though they always offered to pay for what they
received. Thus, on the fourth day, when they expected to reach
Washington, they had spent but one dollar of their little store.

As neither of them was used to walking, and as to Uncle Phin’s rheumatic
stiffness of limb was now added a severe pain in the knee that had been
injured by falling on the platform at Arden, their progress was very
slow. It was so slow, in fact, that Arthur began to despair of ever
completing their long journey on foot, and to wonder if no other means
of travel could be found.

He was so busily thinking over the several plans that proposed
themselves, on the evening of that fourth day, that he hardly paid any
attention to the great white dome of the Capitol at Washington that,
looming high above the city, marked the end of this stage of their
journey. Nor did he pay much attention to the black clouds gathering
overhead, until Uncle Phin, who was hobbling painfully along beside him,
said: “We’se er gwine hab a storm, Honey, an I spec hits comin down
rambumptious.” As he spoke there came a wild gust of wind accompanied by
a flurry of rain.

They were on such a lonely stretch of road that there was no house in
sight, and only a haystack in a neighboring field offered the slightest
shelter. So they hurried to it, and burrowing under its leeward side,
found there comparative protection from the storm, which they hoped
would be of short duration.

But it lasted all night, with the wind shifting and blowing from every
quarter; so that, after long hours of sleepless misery, the gray dawn
found them soaked to the skin by the pitiless rain, faint with hunger,
and shivering with cold.

With the first daylight they tried to move on in search of a house; but
when poor Uncle Phin attempted to rise from his cramped position, he
sank back with a groan. His injured knee had swollen and stiffened
during the night, so that every effort to move it now gave him
excruciating pain. He was entirely helpless; and the twelve-year-old
boy, upon whom this new responsibility had so suddenly fallen, was, for
a few moments, overwhelmed by it. Then he rallied bravely, and, saying,
“I am going for help, Uncle Phin, but I’ll be back just as quick as I
can,” he started on a run across the sodden field, toward the road.

In less than half an hour he returned with a team that he had discovered
on its way to the city. Its driver agreed to take them as far as he went
for two dollars, which sum Arthur gladly promised him. He would have
given everything he possessed, and even willingly have resigned his
prospects of finding a home, for the sake of getting his dear old friend
to some shelter in which he could have warmth and food.

With great difficulty they got Uncle Phin into the wagon, where he lay
with his head in Arthur’s lap. Two hours later they were established in
an humble negro boarding-house, to which the driver of the wagon had
taken them. Here they could have a small but neat and well-warmed room
for a dollar a week, payable in advance.

Procuring a cup of hot tea and some broth for Uncle Phin, besides food
for himself and Rusty, completely exhausted Arthur’s slender stock of
money. So, when he had got Uncle Phin to bed, and seen that he was as
comfortable as possible, the brave, tired little fellow started out into
the strange city to try and earn some more.

That day he made twenty-five cents, by holding a horse for several
hours, while its rider was attending to some business in one of the
public buildings. Then, for several days, his fortunes fluctuated; on
one of them he made a whole dollar by running errands, holding horses,
carrying parcels for ladies who were shopping, and by doing, cheerfully
and faithfully, from morning to night, everything that offered, no
matter how hard or disagreeable it was. On other days he made nothing.

At length a piece of good fortune befell him. The holiday season was
drawing near, and the business of the retail stores was greatly
increased. The proprietor of one of them, who had noticed this cheerful
little errand-boy waiting for odd jobs in front of his store, finally
offered him regular work, for a few weeks, at fifty cents a day. For
this he was always to be on hand to open the doors of carriages, carry
parcels for shoppers to the horse-cars, and make himself generally
useful outside the store.

In the meantime, poor Uncle Phin, stricken with rheumatic fever, lay
suffering and groaning in his bed through the long, lonely days of
several weeks, before he was again able to hobble about.

During these weeks of toil, suffering, and anxiety, little Rusty was
Arthur’s constant companion and sole comforter, and the boy grew to love
him better than anything on earth, except Uncle Phin. In going to and
fro from his work each day, he passed a certain house, in which lived a
gentleman who was very fond of dogs. This gentleman noticed Rusty, and
took such a fancy to him that he several times offered to buy him.
Arthur steadily refused these offers, until at length, when Christmas
was past, and there was no more work for him at the store. Then he went
to the gentleman’s house, and trying to speak bravely, but with
quivering lips and tear-filled eyes, told him he might have the dear
little dog for two tickets to Richmond.

Uncle Phin was again able to travel, and intensely anxious to continue
their journey, so as to reach his old home “befo de dawn ob de New
Yeah.” Arthur’s travels had taught him that railroad tickets cost money;
but with all his efforts and self-denials, he had been unable to save
anything from his scanty earnings. So, for Uncle Phin’s sake, he finally
decided to sacrifice his dear Rusty, if by so doing he could obtain the
means of getting to Richmond.

The gentleman gladly, and without asking any questions, accepted this
strange offer, and sent a servant to procure the required tickets. Then
the poor little fellow, after giving Rusty a long parting hug, ran home,
with a heavy heart, and a suspicious moisture glistening in his eyes.

The next day they travelled in the cars to Richmond, and the mere
knowledge that he was once more in old Virginia, seemed to infuse new
life into Uncle Phin. Without a moment’s delay, they started to walk the
ten miles of rough, frozen road that lay between the city and Dalecourt.

The old man’s strength lasted wonderfully, but it gave out when they
were still two miles from their destination; and, tottering to the
doorway of a dilapidated and deserted cabin, that stood on the roadside,
he declared that he could go no farther, and begged his boy companion to
go on without him.

To this Arthur would not listen for a moment; but, helping the old man
into the cabin, he declared they could rest there very comfortably until
morning. Then he gathered a quantity of sticks, broken branches, and
small logs, which he piled in the big fireplace that filled one end of
the cabin’s single room. He had just one match, but it did its duty, and
soon a cheerful blaze was roaring up the old earthen chimney.

Grateful for its warmth, and for even this poor shelter, they prepared
to pass, as best they might in this lonely place, the last night of the
old year. There were no doors or windows to the cabin, so that
everything they did might be plainly seen by any chance passers along
that wintry road.

Arthur still had his book of fairy tales; and, as darkness set in, the
old man begged him to read “jes one lilly story” from it, to help them
forget their wretchedness. So, sitting in the brightest glow of the
firelight, the boy bent his brave, careworn young face over the pages,
and read the touching story of “The Little Match-Girl.”

Her situation and theirs were so much alike, that the story seemed very
real to him; and as he started at the sound of a rustle behind him just
as he closed the book, he looked up, almost expecting to see some
beautiful vision. Nor was he disappointed. A dainty, richly-clad figure
stood in the doorway. As the boy lifted his eyes he uttered a cry of
mingled fear, amazement, and joy. The face into which he was looking was
that of the beautiful lady who had given him this precious book, and who
had written in it “To Prince Dusty, from his Fairy Godmother.”

[Illustration: THE FAIRY GODMOTHER FINDS PRINCE DUSTY. (_Page 198._)]




                              CHAPTER XXV.
                            FINDING A HOME.


Before Arthur could recover in the slightest from his bewilderment at
this wonderful and undreamed-of appearance of his beautiful lady in such
a place, she stepped forward and caught him in her arms. “Oh, my little
Prince Dusty! My dear little Prince Dusty!” she cried. “Where have you
been? How did you get here? Do you know that I am your cousin? Your own
cousin, Harriet Dale, and that I live at Dalecourt? I never was so
utterly amazed in my life as I am to find you here! We knew that you had
left the Dustins; but nobody could tell where, or how, you had gone. And
to think that you should have come to Dalecourt! I don’t see how you
ever found the way! It is the very most wonderful thing I ever heard of!
How did you get here? But, no matter now. How thoughtless I am to stand
here asking all these questions. You look frozen and starved, poor
child, and the first thing is to get you home as quickly as possible.
Who is this with you? Not Uncle Phin! Surely not the Uncle Phin who used
to be so good to me when I was a little girl?”

“Yes, Miss Hatty,” answered the old man, who had scrambled stiffly to
his feet upon her entrance, and now stood with his white head uncovered,
laughing and crying at the same time. “Hit am de same ole Unc Phin, an
he tank de good Lawd he is lib to see a shuah nough Dale once mo. He
done bring lil Marse home, Miss Hatty. Hits been powerful hard wuk; but
de Lawd done sen He rabens, an He fiery chariots, an He pillows ob
smoke, an now He done sen you Miss Hatty, like a bressed angel, fur to
delibber us.”

“He has indeed been very good to us,” said the young lady, gently. “Now
we must get this dear child home at once.”

The carriage in which Miss Hatty was driving home from Richmond, when
her curiosity was attracted by the strange scene in the little old
cabin, was now brought to the door. Uncle Phin, feebly protesting that
it was all too fine and too grand for a “wuffless ole niggah” like him,
was made to take the front seat; while on the other sat Miss Harriet
Dale, with ragged, tired, hungry, but intensely happy Arthur nestled
close beside her.

The perplexing tumult of his feelings was such that, up to this time, he
had not spoken a word; and even now he wondered if it were not all a
beautiful dream, from which he would awake to find himself lying on the
floor of the cabin. It seemed as though his own dear mother must have
come back; that it was her loving arm now thrown protectingly about him,
and he almost feared to speak, lest she might disappear, as she always
did when he waked from dreaming of her. But the beautiful lady was
talking to him and asking him questions.

She could not wait until they reached home to learn how these two had
wandered from the far-away place in which she had met her “Prince
Dusty,” to this one. It was such a wonderful journey for them to have
undertaken, that her impatience to know something of it could not be
restrained. So she asked question after question, that Arthur and Uncle
Phin answered to the best of their ability, until at length she knew
enough of the principal events of their pilgrimage to make it seem
marvellous that they should ever have accomplished it.

Among other things she learned of their experience in the runaway
caboose of freight train No. 15, in the Alleghany Mountains, and this
seemed to interest her more than all the rest.

Then she wanted to know if the book from which Arthur had been reading
to Uncle Phin, and which he now carried clasped tightly in both hands,
could be the same that she had given him so long ago, and how he had
been able to keep it all this time.

“Of course it is,” answered Arthur, “and of course I have kept it. It is
the very most precious thing I own in the world; and nothing but
beautiful things, just like its stories, have happened ever since you
gave it to me. I had to let Rusty go to get us here; but I would never,
never, have let my book go, not even if we had been starving.”

Then Miss Hatty had to be told who Rusty was, and what a dear dog he
was, and how hard it had been to part with him, and how Arthur hoped
there would be some horses for him to hold at Dalecourt, or errands to
be run, so that he could earn money enough to buy him back again.

It was too dark for them to see anything of the Park, once so carefully
kept, but now neglected and overgrown, through which they drove for half
a mile after turning in at the Dalecourt gateway; but Arthur felt a
thrill of happiness when his cousin told him where they were. It seemed
incredible that his long, weary journey, with all its hunger and cold
and suffering, was past, and that he was really at the home he had so
longed to reach. How beautiful it was to be welcomed so warmly and
lovingly, when he had sometimes feared they might not even receive him
at all.

At length the carriage stopped before a great rambling house, that had
been very stately and handsome in bygone years; but which was now so
dilapidated and shabby as to be but a forlorn relic of its former glory.
However, it still contained much of comfort and good cheer; and, as the
great front door was flung open, the warm glow of a huge log fire sprang
out upon the cold darkness, and drove it back. It seemed to Arthur as
though the very house offered him a welcome of light and warmth, and he
loved it from that moment.

From the open doorway stepped an elderly gentleman, with iron-gray hair
and mustache, and an erect military bearing, who called out:

“Welcome home, Niece Harriet! We’ve had lonely holidays without you; and
right glad am I to have you back again.”

“No more so than I am to be here, uncle!” exclaimed Miss Hatty,
springing lightly from the carriage and heartily kissing the elderly
gentleman, who was Colonel Arthur Dale, of Dalecourt, and Arthur’s
grandfather. “And, uncle, I’ve brought home a friend of yours, whom I
picked up on the road. He is the very boy you were speaking of so
recently, who saved your train, in the Alleghanies, from a collision.”

“Eh! what’s that?” cried Colonel Dale. “You have found that boy? How in
the name of goodness—But bring him in! Bring him in where we can have a
look at him. It’s too cold to stand out here any longer.”

So the young lady followed her uncle into the glowing hall, leading
Arthur by the hand, while Uncle Phin hobbled after them. The boy’s mind
was filled with a whirl of conflicting emotions, as he stepped, for the
first time, across the threshold of his mother’s home, and gazed on the
form of his nearest living relative. Had he tried to speak at that
moment his feelings would have choked him; but he gave no outward sign
of his mental condition, except by clasping more firmly the kind hand
that led him forward.

When fairly within the circle of ruddy firelight, that filled the
oak-panelled interior with its cheery glow, Colonel Dale turned for a
look at the stranger whom his niece had so curiously discovered and
brought home with her. As his glance fell on the ragged little figure at
her side, the words that were upon his lips died away, a sudden pallor
overspread his countenance, and he gazed in silence.

What did he see in that sweet face, now so thin and careworn? In its
brave blue eyes? In the fair head of clustering ringlets? What was it
that, for a moment, rendered him speechless and powerless to do aught
save stare? It seemed to him that he saw a spirit.

“Who is he, Harriet?” he almost gasped, at length. “Where did you find
him? He is the living image of my dead daughter?”

“He is that dead daughter’s child, uncle. He is your own grandson
Arthur, and my little ‘Prince Dusty,’” was the answer.

The next instant the boy was clasped in a loving, forgiving, all-atoning
embrace, and had found a place in his grandfather’s heart, that he would
never resign so long as life lasted.




                             CHAPTER XXVI.
                       COLONEL DALE OF DALECOURT.


It is hardly possible to describe the joy that reigned in Dalecourt on
that last night of the year. Colonel Dale and Miss Hatty, and Mrs. Allen
Dale, her mother, all asked Arthur questions at once; and petted, and
fed, and pitied, and praised him, until the poor, tired, happy little
fellow, worn out with excitement, could no longer keep his eyes open,
and was carried off to bed. Nor would it be possible to convey any idea
of what a hero dear old Uncle Phin became in the eyes of the dusky
assembly, who thronged the kitchen, to see him eat his much needed
supper, and to hear of his marvellous adventures while bringing the “lil
Marse” to his own home. All these things can be imagined a great deal
better than they can be described. At the same time it does seem to be
necessary to tell something about the Dales and Dalecourt, and how
Colonel Dale’s niece, Miss Harriet, happened to be the same beautiful
lady who presented Arthur with an illustrated copy of Andersen’s “Fairy
Tales,” in the oil region of Pennsylvania, some months before that happy
New Year’s Eve.

She was the only daughter of Colonel Dale’s youngest brother Allen, and
was therefore own cousin to Arthur’s mother. At the death of her father,
who left them penniless, she and her mother went to Dalecourt to live,
and to keep house for her lonely uncle.

One of the very dearest of Miss Hatty’s school friends lived in the oil
region of Pennsylvania, and during the previous summer she paid this
friend a visit. It was at the conclusion of this visit, and while
driving from her friend’s house to the distant railway station, that she
encountered Arthur and little Cynthia, just as their search for
adventures had led them into trouble.

With her first glance at the boy’s face she was struck by a certain
familiar expression in it, and when he told her his name she wondered if
he might not be her little cousin whom she had never seen. She was not
quite sure of the Dustin part of his name, as it was never allowed to be
mentioned at Dalecourt, so she decided to wait until she could make
further inquiries before claiming the relationship.

As she had barely time to reach the railway station and catch her train,
she was not able to pursue these inquiries just then. She, however, bade
the coachman find out what he could about the Dustins, and also wrote to
her friend for what information she could obtain concerning the child,
in whom she had become so greatly interested. From her mother she
learned that Dustin was the name of the young Northerner whom her cousin
Virginia had married; and when she received an answer to her letter, it
assured her that she had discovered, in that far-away region, her
uncle’s only grandson.

Now came what she feared would prove the most difficult part of her
task. Colonel Dale had forbidden the name of Dustin to be mentioned in
his house, nor had Miss Hatty ever heard him speak as though aware that
he had a grandson living. She at first tried to approach the subject
cautiously, but finding that she was liable to be misunderstood, she at
length told her uncle frankly all that she knew and suspected. To her
great surprise he listened to her willingly and with an eager interest.

Colonel Arthur Dale had been a very selfish man, though he called his
selfishness “family pride.” He had also been a very self-willed one,
though this he would have said indicated strength of character.

Of late years, however, both of these faults had been dealt heavy blows.
The losing of his beautiful daughter Virginia was the first blow. Then
his wife died, and then the war came. It left him a poor man, with a
large but unproductive estate on his hands, and no opportunity, that he
could discover, for going into business and retrieving his shattered
fortunes.

Instead of hardening his nature, these trials softened it. His pride was
broken. He no longer thought of himself alone. His stubbornness
disappeared and he longed for human love and sympathy. His once princely
estate was now so encumbered by mortgages that they promised soon
completely to overwhelm it. In spite of its owner’s efforts to keep the
place in order, it showed evidences of decay and ruin in every
direction. Many of the old family servants still clung to Dalecourt, and
the Colonel was too kind-hearted to turn them away. Thus there was
always a large number of mouths to feed, and each year brought less to
feed them with.

Of late the lonely man had thought much of his dead daughter, and
wondered if her son, the grandson whose existence he had never openly
acknowledged, was still alive, and what sort of a boy he was. Thus, when
his niece began to speak to him on this very subject, he proved an eager
listener to all that she had to say.

“He is one of the very dearest, sweetest, and bravest little fellows I
ever saw,” she cried impulsively. “When I met him he was making believe
to be a prince, and was defending a child, younger than himself, from
what he thought was the savage attack of a big dog. He was so covered
with dust when I picked him up out of the road, that I called him
‘Prince Dusty,’ and the title of ‘Prince’ seems somehow exactly to suit
him. Although he was ragged and barefooted, he was every inch a little
gentleman, and the last I saw of him he was lifting his tattered straw
hat to me, as I drove away.”

The result of this conversation, and of several similar ones that
followed it, was that, toward the end of October, Colonel Dale set out
for the oil region of Pennsylvania, determined to bring his dead
daughter’s child home with him, and thereafter to treat him as his own
son.

He had, by this time, so set his heart upon having the boy to love and
to care for, and had centred so many plans for the future about him,
that to learn, from the Dustins, of Arthur’s absolute and mysterious
disappearance, was a grievous disappointment, for which he was not
prepared. He could not believe that the boy was not still in that
vicinity, and insisted that a search should be made for him throughout
all the surrounding country, though the runaways had been gone for
nearly a month.

Colonel Dale read and re-read the rudely pencilled note that Arthur had
left for Cynthia, and asked to be allowed to keep it: but the child
would not give it up. It was her most treasured possession, and though
he bribed her with money, and candy, and toys, she could not be induced
to part with it.

Brace Barlow, the only person who knew how and in what direction Arthur
and Uncle Phin had gone, was in a distant part of the oil region, so
that he heard nothing of Colonel Dale’s arrival, nor of the eager search
for the little fellow who used to call him “dear giant.”

Arthur’s grandfather even visited the farm that had belonged to his
unacknowledged son-in-law, Richard Dustin, with the faint hope that his
grandson might have sought shelter there.

Finally, after obtaining John Dustin’s promise to telegraph the first
bit of information that he should gain concerning the missing boy, and
also to relinquish all claims upon him in favor of the grandfather, the
disappointed man turned his face homeward. He was not only disappointed
at the unexpected result of his journey; but he was as heavy-hearted as
though death had robbed him of some loved one, and he were now on his
way to bear the sad tidings to those who waited at home.

It was such thoughts as these that drove sleep from his eyes, while the
Keystone express, on which he was a passenger, climbed the western slope
of the Alleghanies, and barely escaped destruction from the runaway
caboose of a freight train, through the prompt action of a boy. If the
sleepless man could only have known that this boy was his own grandson,
how quickly would his sorrow have been changed to joy and pride. As it
was, he was filled with admiration for the brave lad, merely from
listening to the sleeping-car porter’s imperfect account of the affair,
and wished he might have seen and known him.

When he reached home he related this incident to his niece and her
mother as the most thrilling of his trip, and again regretted that he
had not made the acquaintance of its hero.

Now, the fact that his grandson and this young hero were one and the
same boy, and that this boy had voluntarily sought a home under his
roof, was a continual source of joy and pride to Colonel Dale, that he
was at no pains to conceal.

Becomingly dressed, well cared for, and, above all, surrounded by an
atmosphere of love and gentleness, “Prince Dusty” was now such a
handsome, merry little fellow, that he not only completely won the
hearts of his grandfather and the Dalecourt household, but of every one
who came in contact with him.

Now, more bitterly than ever, did Colonel Dale regret his lost fortune,
and shrink from the ruin that, staring him in the face, could not much
longer be averted. The financial difficulties of the family had not been
kept from Arthur, for he was wise beyond his years, and his grandfather
thought it best that he should know exactly how matters stood with them.
It was a great grief to the boy to see his grandpapa and his Cousin
Hatty, both of whom he had learned to love dearly, so troubled; and, in
his wise young way, he pondered deeply over the situation.

At last, one evening as he was bidding them all good-night, he said:
“Grandpapa, I think I have almost thought of a way for us to get a great
deal of money.”

“Have you, my boy?” said the colonel. “That’s good; what is it?”

“Well I haven’t quite thought it all out yet; but I will finish thinking
and tell you what it is in the morning,” replied the boy, smiling
brightly down upon his grandfather, as he bounded up the broad stairway.




                             CHAPTER XXVII.
                           A “GENUINE CHUMP.”


It seemed so absurd that a twelve-year-old boy should be considering
plans for raising the large sum of money necessary to help Colonel Dale
out of his difficulties, that, after Arthur had gone to bed, those who
were left down-stairs found considerable amusement in wondering what his
scheme could be.

His grandfather said it would probably be a proposition to form an
errand-boy trust; while Mrs. Dale thought it would only prove to be some
absurd idea concerning railroad life, that the boy had picked up during
his recent travels. Miss Harriet, however, said that her “Prince Dusty”
was wiser than they imagined, and she did not believe he ever spoke
seriously, upon any subject, without knowing pretty well what he was
saying. So, by talking the matter over, they became greatly interested,
and quite curious to hear what Arthur would have to say the next
morning.

When they began to question him at breakfast time he gravely answered
that he had heard his papa say that the breakfast-table was not the
proper place to discuss business affairs. The seriousness with which
this speech was uttered, caused a general smile, and as Colonel Dale had
been heard to make the very same remark, no objections could be raised
against it.

After breakfast the little fellow invited his grandfather to accompany
him into the library, where he proceeded to unfold his plan. It was
nothing more nor less than that they should go back to Pennsylvania, and
sink a well, for oil, on the farm that his father had left him.

For a moment Colonel Dale looked at the boy to see if he were in
earnest, and then burst into a hearty laugh. “Why, Arthur!” he said at
length, “whatever put such an idea into your head? I don’t know the
first thing about oil wells, and I am afraid that, wise as you are, you
don’t know much more than I do.”

“That’s just it, sir!” replied the boy, eagerly. “And it is because both
of us are ‘chumps’ that we’ll be certain to strike oil. Brace Barlow
always said so. You see, a ‘chump’ is somebody who doesn’t know any more
about oil, or where to find it, than we do. What Brace Barlow says is,
that while those who know all about the business often strike ‘dusters,’
a ‘genuine chump’ always has luck with his first well. Now, you are a
‘genuine chump,’ you know. I’m afraid I am not quite genuine, because
Brace Barlow has told me so much about the business, and because I
helped him shoot a well. But, I think you must be genuine enough for
both of us. It’s a perfectly splendid way to make money, unless you
strike a ‘duster,’ but only ‘sharps’ do that.”

“What do you mean by ‘dusters’ and ‘sharps’? They sound exceedingly like
slang words,” said Colonel Dale, smiling.

“Oh, no, indeed, they are not!” cried Arthur. “Brace Barlow uses them,
and so does Uncle John. A ‘duster’ is a dry well—one that doesn’t have
any oil, you know; and a ‘sharp’ is one who understands all about the
oil business. He is just the most different kind of a man from a
‘chump,’ and is nearly always too wise to make money.”

“But, my boy, your farm is not even in the oil region; so what makes you
fancy that we could strike oil by sinking a well on it?” asked Colonel
Dale.

“Because I know two secrets about it,” answered the boy, mysteriously.
“One day when papa and I were walking in the back wood-lot, we smelled
gas, and by and by we found a tiny place in the rocks where it came out.
Papa lighted it, and it burned beautifully. Then he put it out, and told
me always to remember that place, but not to say anything about it to
anybody until the proper time came. After that papa studied a great deal
about oil, and he found out that our farm was on the forty-five degree
line, and said he was quite sure that oil would some day be found on it.

“So, while he didn’t tell anybody but me about it, he made Uncle John
promise never to sell the farm. I have thought several times, when I
needed money, that I would go back to my farm and get some oil to sell;
but then it has always come some other way, so I haven’t had to touch
it. Then I thought I would save it, until I was ready to be a railroad
man, and wanted to build a railroad of my own. Now I have decided that I
would rather you should have it than to do anything else in the world
with it, and then you can make Dalecourt beautiful again, and we can
always live here and be happy.”

Although at the time Colonel Dale made light of his little grandson’s
plans for acquiring wealth, this curious conversation set him to
thinking, and to looking up all the information concerning oil that he
could obtain. The more he considered the scheme, the more favorably he
was impressed with it, and the more inclined he was to attempt it.

Mrs. Allen Dale thought it was all nonsense; but Miss Harriet was
delighted with it, and begged her uncle to undertake it. “Just think!”
she exclaimed, “how fine it would be, if our little ‘Prince Dusty’
should turn out to be a little oil Prince. Wouldn’t it be splendid?”

At length, when the winter had passed, and the Virginia forests were
putting on their delicate spring robes of leaves and blossoms, Colonel
Dale decided to make the venture, and to sink a “wild-cat” well on the
Pennsylvania farm belonging to his grandson, with the hope of finding
oil.

It was a curious thing for a staid and elderly Virginia planter to
undertake; and, but for the desperate state of his fortunes, it is
doubtful if he would have considered the plan for a moment. As it was,
he mortgaged Dalecourt for the very last cent that could possibly be
raised on it, and, with the few thousand dollars thus obtained, started
for Pennsylvania.

Arthur and Miss Harriet accompanied him; the former, as a matter of
course, because, as he said, he was to be his grandpapa’s partner in
this new business. The latter went to keep house for them while the well
was being sunk, and to continue Arthur’s education, which she had
undertaken when he first came to Dalecourt. Mrs. Dale was to remain in
charge of the beautiful old place, which might so soon pass into the
hands of strangers, and Uncle Phin was also left behind to fill the
responsible position of head gardener.

On the morning that the little party set forth on the journey that, to
them, promised as much of glorious success or disastrous failure as did
ever an ancient voyage of discovery or exploration, Arthur was
enthusiastic over their undertaking, and confident of its complete
success. Miss Harriet was smiling and hopeful. Colonel Dale was serious,
and his face wore an air of quiet determination; while Mrs. Allen Dale
was tearful and doubtful. She bade them good-bye as though she never
expected to see them again; and, when they were gone, she gazed as sadly
about her, as though the last hope of Dalecourt had departed with them.

The journey was a rapid and pleasant one, occupying but two days and one
night, which was in striking contrast to the three months spent by
Arthur and Uncle Phin in traversing the same distance.

Arthur did not manifest much interest in Washington, as they passed
through it. He had suffered too much there to care to renew his
associations with the place. He only looked eagerly from the car window
at all the dogs that were to be seen, with the faint hope that one of
them might be his dear Rusty.

At Harrisburg he tried to point out to his companions Conductor Tobin’s
cottage; and, from there to Pittsburgh, he felt almost certain that
every freight train they passed must be No. 15, and that on each he
recognized Brakeman Joe. He was greatly disappointed that they did not
have time to go and see Aunt Charity; for he gratefully remembered all
those who had been kind to him in the time of his need, and would gladly
have renewed their acquaintance.




                            CHAPTER XXVIII.
                   A FEW FACTS CONCERNING PETROLEUM.


As they approached the oil region, and began to see the tall derricks,
looking like windmill towers, crowning the hilltops, their conversation
naturally turned upon the subject of oil and its production. Arthur
related stories from Brace Barlow’s experience; while Colonel Dale, who,
from weeks of reading, was now as well informed on all matters
pertaining to oil as one can be from books alone, gave them bits of
information concerning its early use and history.

One of Arthur’s stories described the fearfully narrow escape his “dear
giant” once had from a runaway team. He was driving along a lonely road
that ran in the bottom of a narrow valley, and had sixty quarts of
nitro-glycerine snugly stowed under the seat of his buggy. Suddenly he
saw a runaway team attached to a heavy lumber wagon, dashing at a mad
gallop down the road, directly toward him. There was barely time to turn
his own horses into the ditch at one side, and thus leave a narrow space
through which the runaways might have passed in safety, if they had so
chosen.

Instead of doing this, they too headed for the ditch, and plunged into
it, just in front of the glycerine buggy. There they fell over each
other, broke the pole, upset their wagon, and became so entangled in the
wreck that they were incapable of further mischief. All this took place
within ten feet of where Brace Barlow sat, on top of his load of
nitro-glycerine, as steadily as though he did not expect, with each
instant, to be blown into a million fragments, and hurled into eternity.

Then Colonel Dale explained what torpedoes are, and why they are used;
and Miss Hatty said she hoped their well would have to be shot, so that
she might witness the operation. Seeing that his companions were
interested in the subject, the Colonel continued to talk of it. He said:

“Although we, naturally, know and hear more about the oil fields of
Pennsylvania than any other, petroleum is also found in a dozen or more
of our own States and territories, as well as in many other countries of
the world. In Pennsylvania it exists in a narrow territory, lying about
fifty miles west of the Alleghany Mountains; and, as the oil-bearing
belt extends in a general northeast and southwest direction, it is
spoken of as lying on a forty-five-degree line.”

“Just as our farm does,” said Arthur.

“Exactly,” said his grandfather, “and I only hope it may not lie over
one of the many barren places that exist on that line.”

“In this part of the country,” he continued, “the drilling of wells and
the handling of oil have been reduced to a state of perfection and
simplicity unknown elsewhere. Consequently, Pennsylvania well drillers,
with their tools, are in demand in many foreign oil fields, and may be
found, commanding large salaries, in Russia, Japan, China, New Zealand,
Canada, the various countries of Western South America, in several of
the West Indian islands, and elsewhere.

“In China immense oil fields exist, in which wells, drilled centuries
ago, are still in use. Natural gas has also been used in that country
for hundreds, and perhaps thousands, of years. It is conveyed from the
wells through bamboo pipes tipped with rude clay burners.

“Petroleum has also been known and used in Burmah for an unknown length
of time, both for light and fuel. Into a shallow oil well of that
country an iron bucket is lowered by means of a rope, passing over a
wooden cylinder. When the bucket is full, two men take hold of the other
end of the rope, and, by running down an inclined plane as long as the
well is deep, draw it to the surface.”

“What a stupid way,” said Miss Hatty.

“Havana, Cuba,” continued Colonel Dale, “was originally named ‘Carine,’
for it was the place where the early voyagers to the new world careened
their vessels and made their seams water-tight with the natural pitch,
or solidified petroleum, that oozed in abundance from the rocks near the
shores of the harbor. Oil springs are very numerous in Cuba, as they are
in many others of the West Indian islands.”

“Wouldn’t it be good if we could find a flowing oil spring on our farm?”
said Arthur, his eyes glistening at the prospect.

“It would certainly be very pleasant,” replied his grandfather. “And,
speaking of flowing springs, the most wonderful flow of petroleum ever
seen in any country, occurred in 1862 in the town of Enniskillen, in the
western part of the Canadian Province of Ontario, along the borders of a
stream called Black Creek. At that time there was so little demand for
oil that it was only bringing ten cents a barrel, though three years
later it was worth ten dollars a barrel in gold.

“The first well in that region was drilled early in the year; and, at
the depth of only one hundred feet, it entered an immense reservoir of
petroleum. Although oil was of so little value at that time, the
reckless settlers of the country seemed possessed of a rage for drilling
wells, apparently merely for the pleasure of seeing it flow from them.
Some of these rudely drilled wells spouted forth thousands of barrels of
oil in a day, and one of them is computed to have flowed at the rate of
10,000 barrels in twenty-four hours. All these fountains and rivers of
oil were allowed to run absolutely to waste. The waters of Black Creek
were covered by it to a depth of six inches, and it formed a film over
the entire surface of Lake Erie.

“At length this vast quantity of oil was set on fire by some mischievous
person, who wished to see what the effect would be. For days Black Creek
was a torrent of raging flames, that leaped and roared with
inconceivable fury and grandeur. It was such a sight as the world never
had seen, and probably never will see again; while the Canadians were so
thoroughly satisfied with their experiment that they have had no desire
to repeat it since.

“It is estimated that, during the spring and summer of 1862, no less
than five millions of barrels of oil ran to waste down the channel of
Black Creek. Three years later that amount of oil would have been worth,
in the United States, a hundred million of dollars.”

“My!” exclaimed Arthur, drawing a long breath. “I don’t believe I should
know what to do with so much money as that.”

“I am afraid you wouldn’t, dear,” laughed Miss Hatty. “I know that I for
one would not dare assume the responsibility of taking care of, and
spending, such an enormous sum. Why, the man who has one hundredth part
of that, or one million, has more money than many princes, and is
wealthy beyond the average conception; while he who has but a thousandth
part of it, or one hundred thousand dollars, is still a rich man.”

Although Arthur hardly comprehended these figures, they interested him,
and he now asked: “How many barrels of oil will we have to get out of
our well, grandpapa, to give us as much money as we need?”

“That is rather a hard question to answer,” laughed Colonel Dale; “for,
as a general thing, the more money people have, the more they think they
need. However, always supposing that it is not a ‘duster,’ as you have
taught me to call a dry hole, if our well yields twenty-five barrels a
day I shall be pleased. If it should yield fifty barrels I should be
perfectly satisfied; while with a daily yield of one hundred barrels, I
should be amazed and delighted. In that case you might well be called a
‘little oil Prince’; for, with oil at three dollars per barrel, your
income would be at the rate of a hundred thousand dollars a year.”

“But suppose it should yield more than a hundred barrels a day?”
persisted Arthur. “How would you feel then?”

“I am sure I do not know,” laughed his grandfather, “for I cannot
conceive of such a thing as happening. I expect I should feel something
as Mr. Kier of Pittsburgh did in 1860, when the oil that he had been
getting at the rate of two or three barrels a day from his salt wells,
and selling as a medicine for fifty cents a half pint, was suddenly
produced in such quantities that the price fell to about ten cents per
barrel. So, if our well should flow too freely, I should be afraid that
its product would become a drug on the market.”

“Just what Mr. Kier’s had been, but ceased to be,” laughed Miss Hatty.

“What?” asked Arthur, innocently.

“Why, a drug on the market. Didn’t uncle say that it was formerly sold
as a medicine?”

“Oh, yes,” said Arthur, soberly, “I see.”

Just then Miss Hatty, who was very fond of figs, invested ten cents in a
small box of “fig tablets,” as the train-boy called them. She and Arthur
at once began to eat them with evident relish, but Colonel Dale refused
the proffered box.

“What do you suppose you are eating?” he asked, smiling.

“Why, figs of course,” answered Miss Hatty.

“Do you call that a fig leaf?” asked her uncle, pointing to one, cut
from green paper, that lay on top of the box.

“No, certainly not. That is only an imitation leaf,” was the answer.

“Well, it is just as much a real leaf as those are real figs.”

“Why, grandpapa, they have seeds in them!” exclaimed Arthur, as though
that was proof positive that they must be real figs.

“To be sure they have,” laughed Colonel Dale. “The imitation would not
be a good one if the seeds were left out. In spite of their seeds, those
figs are made of petroleum; or rather of paraffine, which is one of the
important products of petroleum. Not long ago I came across a list of
over two hundred articles of commerce that are manufactured directly
from this wonderful oil. Among them were these very ‘fig tablets.’ Other
things made from paraffine are chewing-gum, jujube paste, gum-drops,
some jellies and jams, icing for cakes, etc. The list also contained the
names of all our most brilliant dyes, which are produced from the very
lowest residuum of petroleum tar, and several drugs, among which was a
powerful anæsthetic.”

“Well,” said Miss Hatty, “I am glad I am not so wise as some people. It
is very foolish to know too much; for it takes half the pleasure out of
life. Now I am sure I don’t care to eat any more of these kerosene figs,
even if they have got seeds in them; and yet a minute ago I thought them
quite good.”

“Seems to me,” said practical little Arthur, “that it is more foolish
not to eat a thing that tastes good, if it won’t do you any harm, no
matter what it is made of, than it is to be wise.”

“And it seems to me,” said Colonel Dale, “that we had better be
collecting our things and preparing to leave the train; for here is the
station at which we are to get off.”




                             CHAPTER XXIX.
                         LOCATING AN OIL WELL.


It was a comfortable, low-roofed, stone farmhouse, at which the stage
deposited our travellers, after a pleasant drive from the railway
station. To Arthur it seemed very much like a home, so filled was it
with memories of his dear father. As Colonel Dale had notified the
neighbor, who had it in charge, of their coming, everything was in
readiness for them. The house had been aired and swept, its plain but
serviceable furniture dusted and cleaned, lights were burning in all the
lower rooms, and supper was nearly ready.

Miss Hatty, who had never been there before, was charmed with the place,
and hoped that if they lost Dalecourt they could make their home here in
“Prince Dusty’s” castle.

They did not tell anybody why they came into that out-of-the-way part of
the world, and many were the discussions throughout the scattered
neighborhood as to the object of their visit. At length old Deacon
Thackby thought he had discovered the secret and he announced the fact,
with a wise look on his shrewd face, as he and several others stood on
the church steps after a Friday evening meeting.

“I figgered out yesterday,” he said, “why them Dales come here and
settled down like they was going to stay.”

“I thought maybe from the way I see him peering round that p’raps he was
perspecting fer ile,” piped a thin voice at the Deacon’s elbow.

“Ile!” snorted the Deacon, contemptuously. “You’ve got ile on the brain,
brother Moss. Ef thar was any ile raound here wouldn’t some of us that
was borned and brung up in the place have diskivered it long ago? Do you
suppose a stranger, who I reckin never seed a drap of crude in his life,
is a comin to tell us what we never knowed about our own kentry, nor
what our fathers never knowed, nor what nobody never will know?”

“Well——” said the thin voice.

“Well!” interrupted the Deacon. “There’s no use talking. It may be ile
that has brung ’em here; but it’s paint ile, an not petroleum. That
young woman is one of them artiss’s that you hear so much about
nowadays, an she’s here to do some paintin. The boy wanted to come
naturally ’cause it was his home, an the old Cunnel he come to look
after ’em. That’s all thar is about it.”

“What makes you think the young lady is an artist, Deacon?” asked
another of the group.

“I don’t think, I know,” replied Deacon Thackby, decidedly, “an how I
know is ’cause I seen her at it, and ’cause she’s cranky and pernicketly
like they all is. Why, last Wednesday she come down to my old red mill
an did a drawring of it, an called it a beautiful color subjec, an said
she was comin down agin yesterday afternoon to do it in iles. Well, you
know how drefful shabby-looking the old place was, all kinder cluttered
up, an the paint wore off in patches, an them vines hiding the best half
of it.

“It seemed too bad to have her wastin her time on sich as it was, an I
didn’t want folks to look at her picter, when it was done, an say how
shifless I was nohow. So I got the boys out by the break o’ day, an we
put in some good solid work on that mill agin the time she got thar. We
tore down all them pesky vines an burned them up, an cut away the bushes
so as to make a good airy clearin all raound. Then we turned to an giv
the hull outside a fustclass coat of whitewash, from ruff to suller, an
made it look fine.

“We hadn’t more’n finished when she come along with all her fixins,
ready to do it up in iles; but when I went out to show her what we’d
done she didn’t seem a mite grateful. She jest looked disappointed an
miserable an said ‘Oh, Deacon, how could ye?’

“Then she went off, like she felt real bad, an awhile arterwards I see
her settin on the big rock in my hill pasture, wastin all her paints on
one of them common pink an white apple-trees, such as you might see most
any day bout this time o’ year. Oh, yes, she’s a artiss, an cranky like
they all is.”

In the meantime Colonel Dale was quietly, but actively, making
preparations to sink a well, in search of the wealth of oil that he
hoped lay hidden beneath the Dustin farm. On the very first morning
after they reached there he and Miss Hatty and Arthur visited the place
in the back wood-lot where Mr. Dustin and his son had discovered the
tiny gas jet issuing from the rocks. Arthur readily found it again, and
again the application of a lighted match gave proof that it was genuine
gas and would burn.

Then the Colonel said he would leave the location of the well to his
little partner, and asked him to point out the place where he wished the
derrick to stand.

The boy walked hesitatingly around the gas jet for a minute, and then,
returning to where the others stood, said:

“Don’t you think, grandpapa, that Cousin Hatty ’d better be the one to
say where it shall stand? You see I know so much about oil, and you have
got so wise lately, that I am afraid we are not quite such ‘chumps’ as
we ought to be; but Cousin Hatty is a real genuine, and doesn’t know
anything at all. About oil, I mean!” he added quickly, blushing
furiously. “Of course she knows everything else, and that’s what makes
her the very best kind of a ‘chump.’”

“Something like—

                “‘The pork-pie man’s beautiful daughter
                Who rarely knew what she had orter;
                And in quenching a fire,
                Once sought to rise higher,
                Using ile, instead of cold water,’”

laughed Miss Hatty. “However, I will consent to act as the ‘chump’ of
this party for the sake of the common good, and I decide that the well
shall be sunk on this very spot.” Here the young lady thrust a bit of
stick into the ground where she was standing. It was about a hundred
feet from the little gas jet, on the side nearest the house, and Miss
Hatty afterwards acknowledged that she selected it because it was
visible from her window, and she wanted to be able to see the derrick
when it was built.

The spot where that bit of stick stood in the ground instantly acquired
a new interest. It almost seemed as though they could see the tall
derrick that was to rise there, and hear the steady thud of the drill as
it cut its way down through earth and rock to the oil-bed. The very air
seemed to be filled with the odor of petroleum; but perhaps it was only
a whiff of the gas driven towards them by a puff of wind. At any rate,
they felt that a beginning had been made now that the site of the well
was decided upon, and were more than ever anxious to have the work go
speedily forward.

Soon afterwards Colonel Dale visited the old oil region, some twenty
miles away, in which Mr. John Dustin lived, to purchase the necessary
supplies for his well, and to engage experienced men to come and drill
it. It was while he was thus absent that Deacon Thackby persuaded the
neighborhood that the Dales were only there because Miss Hatty was an
“artiss.”

The neighborhood was indeed astonished when it discovered one day that
several loads of lumber had been hauled from the railway station to the
Dustin farm, and that a “rig-builder” was at work with his men erecting
a derrick in the back wood-lot.

“What in the name of common-sense!” ejaculated Deacon Thackby, when he
first heard of what was going on.

“Didn’t I tell ye I thought they was perspecting round fer ile?” piped
brother Moss’ thin voice.

“But thar ain’t no ile within twenty mile of here,” cried Deacon
Thackby. “The man must be a born natural to come wild-catting down here,
and I’m jest a going to tell him so.”

And the Deacon did tell Colonel Dale how foolishly he was, wasting his
money, and how perfectly useless it was to drill for oil in that part of
the country, where, if there was any, it would have been discovered long
ago.

“Has anybody tried sinking a well in this vicinity?” asked Colonel Dale.

“Yes, thar was Sile Pettis put one down ’bout a year ago; but it didn’t
mount to nothing. Thar warn’t no ile into it.”

“How deep did he sink it?” inquired the Colonel, with interest.

“Well, not more than four hundred foot or so,” admitted the Deacon,
reluctantly.

“And the ‘third sand,’ which is the only one in this region that pays—or
at least so I am told,” remarked the Colonel, “is hardly ever struck at
a less depth than one thousand feet. Is Mr. Sile Pettis’ unproductive
well the only thing that makes you think there is no oil about here,
Deacon?”

“Thar ain’t no surface indications, like thar should be if the ile was
right down under us.”

“That is something we must provide for at once,” laughed Arthur’s
grandfather. “I realize that we must have them, Deacon, and just as soon
as I get this well down a thousand feet I will try and show you some of
the finest surface indications in the country.”




                              CHAPTER XXX.
                        THE DALE-DUSTIN MYSTERY.


Although Colonel Dale talked thus bravely and cheerfully, he could not
drive away a heavy, sinking feeling from his heart, nor prevent the
furrows in his face from growing deeper and deeper, as he thought of how
much depended upon the result of this experiment that everybody about
him said was such a foolish waste of both time and money.

Still the work was pushed steadily forward. The graceful derrick was run
rapidly up to a height of sixty feet, and a strong iron pulley wheel was
suspended from its crown. On the derrick floor, at one side, the great
bull wheels, about the shaft of which the drill rope was to be wound,
were placed in position. On the opposite side was set the solid samson
post that was to support the equally solid walking beam. The former was
a section of the squared trunk of an oak tree, let deep into the ground;
while the walking beam was a long and very strong oaken timber, nicely
balanced so that it would work readily up and down. To the end of the
walking beam, that reached into the middle of the derrick, were to be
attached the heavy drills; while the other end was connected with the
ten-horse-power engine that stood in a rough shed but a short distance
from the derrick.

Still beyond this, in the open air, was a rusty boiler, with a pipe
discharging into its open furnace door. This pipe led from a small tank
that was filled by the jet of natural gas, discovered by Arthur and his
father; and natural gas was to be the only fuel used in drilling and
operating the Dale-Dustin well.

At length, after a month of hard work and vexatious delays, the
“rig-builders” finished their labors, and the well drillers came in
their place. To Arthur’s great joy, they were headed by his “dear
giant,” Brace Barlow, who, having heard that his little friend was
interested in a new oil well, applied for and obtained the contract for
drilling it. “And Arthur, lad,” he said, after the first warmth of their
greeting was over, “if this well proves a ‘duster,’ it won’t be because
it isn’t drilled fair enough, or deep enough. I’ll keep the temper screw
turning, and the drill going, till we strike something to stop it, if
it’s only an order to quit, or the bottom of the appropriation.”

Brace Barlow brought with him a delightful surprise for Arthur in the
person of his Cousin Cynthia, who, upon Miss Hatty’s invitation, came to
make a visit at Dustin farm. The two children enjoyed each other so
thoroughly that it was a pleasure to see them together. Arthur had so
much to tell and Cynthia so much to hear concerning his wonderful
journey to Dalecourt, and they had so many plans to make for the future,
that the days were not half long enough for them. In the evenings, when
the day’s work was done, Arthur generally sat with Brace Barlow,
listening to his tales of adventure in the oil region, or relating
incidents of the recent journey, in which Brace was fully as much
interested as Cynthia.

Thus the boy discovered how the mysterious five-dollar bill came to be
in his precious book, and Brace learned of what service it had been to
them.

Day after day the powerful drills worked steadily downward through hard
and soft rock, sometimes descending only six or eight feet in
twenty-four hours, but generally cutting through twenty or thirty feet
of material in a day. The first and second sandstones or “sands” were
passed, and at length the drill was down a thousand feet. At this depth
it had not yet reached the third, or oil-bearing, sandstone. Occasional
puffs of gas came up through the casing of iron pipe that was driven
down as fast as a hole was cut to receive it; but there was no sign of
oil.

The work had now been prosecuted for two months, and with the passage of
time, and the rapid melting away of the few remaining dollars of his
fortune, Colonel Dale’s face grew more furrowed and careworn, and,
though he still tried to maintain a brave front, it was evident that
anxiety was telling heavily upon him.

As the opening of a new district has a very decided effect on the oil
market, all brokers who deal in oil or oil stocks are, of course,
anxious to secure the earliest information concerning the prospects of
the first well sunk in it. If this proves to be a dryhole, and the
district is accordingly believed to be barren, the price of oil remains
firm, with a tendency to go up. If, on the other hand, the new well
happens to be a “gusher,” the price of oil immediately drops. In either
case those who receive the earliest reliable information are able to
make their purchases or sales of oil accordingly and reap large profits.

In order to obtain this information some of the leading brokers and oil
companies employ a class of men called “scouts,” whose duty it is to
find out all about new wells, especially those drilled in districts
hitherto unworked, and to report upon their progress and prospects.
These scouts are always bright young fellows, thoroughly posted in all
details of the oil business; and it is almost impossible to keep the
condition of any well a secret from them, even though the owners
undertake to do so.

Now Colonel Dale had determined to reap, for Arthur’s sake, whatever
benefits were to be gained from an early knowledge of the prospects of
the Dale-Dustin well. For this purpose he had engaged the services of a
broker in Oil City, whom he had undertaken to furnish with the very
earliest information regarding it. As the drill neared the depth at
which it was expected to enter the oil-bearing rock, a number of scouts
began to appear on the scene of operations and to visit the well every
day. On the approach of the critical hour that was to decide the fate of
the experiment, these visitors were politely but firmly requested to
keep off the premises, while the derricks and tanks were boarded up, so
that they might not be able to witness the inside operations from a
distance. The drillers were bound to secrecy regarding the progress of
their work, and a guard was stationed about the well, with orders not to
allow any stranger to approach the derrick. Thus the Dale-Dustin well
became a “mystery,” and the scouts were put to their wits’ end to
discover its condition.

They formed a camp among the thick hemlocks, back of the Dustin farm,
and at the nearest point to the well they could reach. Here one or more
of their number remained on watch night and day, with fleet horses
beside them, ready to bear them to the nearest telegraph station with
the first bit of information they should obtain. From this camp a
powerful field glass was always directed toward the new derrick, the
strokes of the walking beam were counted, and every movement of those
who came out of, or went into, the boarded structure was closely
watched.

During the darkness of night the scouts crept closer, and, with many a
narrow escape from the guards, who constantly patrolled the premises,
watched and listened for any chance bit of news that might thus be
gleaned.

At last their patience and perseverance were rewarded, and they gained
the very information for which they had striven so long. A scout, who
had lain concealed in a clump of low bushes beside the derrick, during
the long hours of a dark, stormy night, overheard a remark not intended
for his ears. It furnished a key to the situation; and, slipping away,
still unobserved, to where his horse was fastened, he galloped rapidly
off in the direction of the village.

In the several oil exchanges of the country, the principal item of news
the next morning was that the Dale-Dustin mystery well had proved a dry
hole; and many were the jokes made concerning the Dustin “duster.”




                             CHAPTER XXXI.
                        A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT.


The Dale-Dustin well was a dry hole. It contained a little gas and
plenty of salt water; but not a drop of oil flowed from it, though, as
Brace Barlow said, the material through which the drill had finally
pierced, at a depth of twelve hundred feet, was as likely looking oil
sand as one would wish to see. The boss driller was greatly puzzled to
account for the present state of affairs, though he was not inclined to
talk much about it. He had so often and so confidently predicted that
this well was not only going to strike oil, but to prove a “gusher,”
that he now had nothing to say.

He spent the greater part of the morning in wandering moodily about the
place, occasionally entering the derrick, and casting reproachful
glances at the idle drills, as though they were in some way responsible
for having opened such a useless hole in the ground. Then he would pick
up a handful of sand, from a little pile on the derrick floor, where the
sand-pump, that brought it from the very bottom of the well, had
deposited it. He would smell of this sand, and taste it, and rub it
slowly between his fingers. Then, with a perplexed shake of his head,
the “dear giant” would throw it away, and again set forth on his
melancholy wanderings about the place. He had discharged and paid off
his men that morning; so now he was left entirely alone with his
thoughts. At length, about noon, he disappeared, and nobody knew what
had become of him.

The night before, his tour of duty, or “tower,” as the oil men say,
began at midnight, when he took charge of the drilling, with one
assistant. They found that the tools had entered the third sand, in
which it had been expected to strike oil, and were rapidly cutting their
way through it. The layer of sandstone at this point was unusually
thick, and it was not until nearly daylight that the drill penetrated
beyond it.

With each drop of the tools, the anxious watchers at the surface
expected a rush of oil; and each time the sand-pump was let down, its
return was eagerly awaited, and its contents were carefully examined.
There were, to be sure, traces of oil; but that was all.

All night long, Colonel Dale sat in the derrick, hardly speaking or
moving, except when he stepped forward to study the contents of the
sand-pump. It was a night of nights to him. His fortunes, and those of
the dear ones dependent upon him, were to be decided by the result of
those few hours’ labor.

A derrick lamp cast an uncertain light over the scene, and threw long
wavering shadows across the floor. Brace Barlow worked the temper screw,
and turned the drill after each stroke, so as to insure its cutting a
perfectly round hole. His assistant labored at the little, glowing forge
in one corner. Here he heated the extra drills, and, on the anvil beside
him, beat their blunted points into sharp, cutting edges with a heavy
hammer.

There was a steady clangor of noise within the boarded structure; while
outside the wind howled dismally. Conversation would have been
difficult; and, under the circumstances, there was nothing that any of
the three men cared to say. Colonel Dale’s face grew whiter and whiter,
as the slow hours passed, and the monotonous working of the tools
produced no result. His eyes were fixed upon the great drill rope, as it
moved steadily up and down, but he did not see it. He saw his dearly
loved grandson, and his niece, thrown on the charity of the world. He
saw Dalecourt, his once beautiful home, and the home of his fathers,
passing from him, and occupied by strangers. He saw himself ruined and
helpless, pointed at by men as an old fool, who had persisted in
squandering his money on a reckless adventure that everybody told him
would only result in failure.

He hardly knew when the monotonous throb of the machinery ceased; but,
in the stillness that followed, he heard the tones of Brace Barlow’s
voice, something like those of a judgment. Standing respectfully and
pityingly before him, the young man said:

“I hate to tell you, Colonel; but it’s no use drilling any further.
We’ve gone clean through the sand without a show. I don’t understand it,
but it’s so all the same, and it would be foolish to spend any more
money on such a ‘duster’ as this hole has proved.”

“Very well, Mr. Barlow,” replied Colonel Dale, speaking calmly and
without a trace of emotion, “pay off the men and discharge them. I am
going to the house for a nap. Please see that I am not disturbed or
awakened.” Then the stricken man, with the merciless hand of ruin
clutching at his throat, walked slowly away from the scene of his high
hopes and bitter disappointment.

In the stillness that followed the stopping of the machinery, Brace
Barlow’s words had been plainly heard by the oil scout, who crouched,
wet, cold, and well-nigh exhausted, in his hiding-place close beside the
derrick. It was what he had waited for; and, an hour later, the news of
the failure of the Dale-Dustin wild-cat well was flashing far and wide
over the wires.

Soon afterward all the world knew of it—that is, all the oil world or
the world that cared to know of such things. The greater part of this
world rejoiced at the news. It was not exactly envy or jealousy that
caused their rejoicing, but perhaps it was a mixture of the two. At any
rate it was that unkind feeling that prompts so many of us to secretly
dislike the person whom we are congratulating on a success, and, again,
to secretly rejoice over his misfortunes, while outwardly sympathizing
with him. A few, a very few people were really grieved by the news and
were sincerely sorry for the old man and the boy whose hopes were dashed
by it.

Deacon Thackby was sorry, but at the same time he found great
satisfaction in saying: “You remember I told you how it would be, an I
give the Cunnel a fair warnin.”

Brace Barlow was sorry; sorry from the very bottom of his great, honest
heart; but as he could find no words to express his sorrow he went away
without having said that he was.

The scouts were sorry; not that it made any great difference to them,
only it would have been so much more fun if the well had proved a
“gusher” instead of a “duster.” Still, as they philosophically remarked,
it would all be the same in the long run. So, after visiting the now
lonely and deserted well to assure themselves that the report concerning
it was true, they packed their hand-bags and departed in search of new
“mysteries.” Only one of their number remained behind, and he was the
one who, having crouched beside the derrick all night long, was so worn
out that he slept through the greater part of the following day. When he
awoke his companions had departed, and as the last train of that day had
also gone he was forced to remain where he was until the next morning.

To a very small, almost unnoticed portion of the world, the news that
the well was a “duster” caused not only unfeigned sorrow, but genuine
consternation. Miss Hatty had always been hopeful of its success, while
Arthur had never for a moment doubted it. He had such absolute faith
that the oil was there and would be found that, with Cynthia’s help, he
had made plans for years to come, all based upon the striking of oil in
the Dale-Dustin well, and the income to be derived from it. He had not
only planned the restoration of Dalecourt and laid out his own career as
a railroad man, but he had given to all of his friends, and especially
to those who had been kind to him and Uncle Phin on their journey,
everything that they most desired.

To Cynthia this had all seemed so real that for several days she had
been in a state of mental bewilderment, trying to decide upon what she
did most desire. To have this responsibility lifted from her mind by the
refusal of the oil well to provide even the smallest income with which
Arthur’s plans might be carried out, was really a great relief to the
little girl. Still she could and did sympathize with Arthur’s distress,
and tried, in her childish way, to comfort him by telling him not to
mind, that it didn’t matter very much any how, and that there were lots
of good times left.

But Arthur did mind, though it was more for his grandfather’s sake than
for his own. Brace Barlow had awakened him at daylight by throwing
pebbles against his window, to tell him the sad news, and ask him to
warn his cousins that Colonel Dale had just gone to bed utterly
exhausted, and must not be disturbed.

Arthur told Miss Hatty and Cynthia, and, after they had eaten a
sorrowful breakfast, they sat and talked of their grief in whispers and
low, awed tones, as though somebody had died.

Miss Hatty, who realized more fully than anybody else her uncle’s
position, and what utter ruin this blow meant for him, was more
distressed even than Arthur, and he almost forgot his own sorrow in his
efforts to comfort her.

“Don’t cry, Cousin Hatty,” he pleaded, as he gently smoothed her hair,
and wondered in his boyish fashion what good crying could do in such a
case as this. “It isn’t so bad after all, when you come to think of it,”
he continued. “Really it isn’t. Even if we can’t go back to Dalecourt,
we have got this place, and it’s a great deal better than some places,
you know, and your mamma and Uncle Phin can come here to live with us,
and I can do lots of things to earn money, and we can be just as happy
as anything. I ought to be the one to work for the rest anyhow, because
it must have been my knowing so much about oil wells that spoiled this
one. I never did feel like a real truly chump, but I thought perhaps you
and grandpapa could make up. I am afraid though the trouble was that it
was more my well than anybody else’s, and so you being chumps didn’t do
any good.”

“You are a dear, blessed little comforter!” cried Miss Hatty, throwing
her arms about her “Prince Dusty” and giving him a great hug. She even
smiled through her tears, whereupon the boy declared that he could
almost see a tiny rainbow at the ends of her eye-lashes.

Then the children went out, but it was only to walk soberly up to the
now silent derrick where it was so lonely, and seemed so queer, that
they did not care to stay long.




                             CHAPTER XXXII.
                          SHOOTING A “DUSTER.”


The long, solemn day wore itself slowly away, and the weight of a great
calamity was so heavy upon it that everybody was glad when night came
and it was time to go to bed.

Although Colonel Dale had not been seen, he had been heard pacing
heavily up and down his room for hours at a time. Miss Hatty had carried
some dinner up-stairs, and begged that he would eat it. Without opening
his door, he said: “Leave me alone to-day, Harriet, and to-morrow I will
again try to face the world.” She thereupon left the tray close beside
the door, and told him that it was there. He did not again answer her,
nor had the tempting dishes been touched at nightfall.

Arthur fell asleep wondering where Brace Barlow had gone, and why his
“dear giant” should have left without bidding him good-bye. Perhaps it
is for this reason that he sprang from his bed so very wide awake when a
tiny pebble rattled against his window, just as it had done the morning
before, when Brace roused him to hear the sorrowful news of the well. It
was earlier this time than it had been then, for the daylight was so
faint that Arthur could just make out that it was his “dear giant” who
again stood beneath his window, looking up and beckoning to him.

“Dress yourself and come down as quickly and softly as you can,” said
the young man, in a loud whisper.

The boy obeyed, wondering what on earth Brace could want with him at
that time of day. In less than five minutes he was down-stairs, and
standing outside, in the damp chill of the early morning.

Brace was waiting for him. Without a word, he led the boy up the hill
back of the house, and into the derrick of the Dale-Dustin well. Not
until then did he speak. Now he said:

“I have called you out, Arthur, lad, because I have got a job on hand
that I can’t very well do alone, and because I wanted your permission to
undertake it. You own half of this well, don’t you?”

“Why, yes,” answered the boy, in surprise; “I suppose I do. Grandpapa
and I are partners, you know.”

“Well, then, as one of the owners, I want your permission to try a shot
in it.”

“In this well?” cried Arthur; “why, I thought you only shot old wells
that had stopped flowing.”

“So we do, generally,” replied Brace. “But, if a shot will help an old
well that won’t flow, why shouldn’t it help a new one that won’t? I’ve
made up my mind that there is oil down in that hole. The sand says there
is, and I never knew it to lie. Now, if that is so, it only needs to be
stirred up a bit; and a good big shot will fetch it, if anything can.
I’ve been up to the magazine, where I had a little of the stuff left,
and have brought down a hundred and twenty quarts. There it is, over
yonder.”

Arthur gave a little start, as, in the dusky corner of the derrick thus
pointed out, he now for the first time saw the well-remembered square
tins, in which the terrible explosive rested so quietly.

“I’ve brought the shells, too,” continued Brace. “Now, I only want you
to say ‘go ahead,’ and then help me put into the Dale-Dustin a bigger
shot than I have ever used before. It can’t do any harm, and it may do a
great deal of good. What do you say? Shall we try it?”

“Of course we will!” cried Arthur, greatly excited. “And, oh, Brace! if
the oil only would come, shouldn’t we be happy?”

“Well, I rather guess we would,” replied the torpedo man, heartily, as
he began making his preparations for the great shot.

Everything had been made ready, on a liberal scale, for the expected oil
that had thus far failed to appear. Two tanks, each capable of holding a
thousand barrels, stood empty and waiting. The casing head was in
position, and the heavy iron “oil-saver” lay near the well, waiting to
be used. Colonel Dale never did anything by halves, and he had been
thoroughly prepared for every emergency, except the striking of a dry
hole. This he had feared and dreaded, but had not really expected.

In less than an hour, the experienced well-shooter and his fearless
young assistant had filled the bright tin tubes with one hundred and
twenty quarts of nitro-glycerine, and they now hung in the well, ready
to be sent to the bottom as one huge torpedo, eighty feet long. Arthur
stood by, without a tremor, as, with steady hands, Brace Barlow emptied
can after can of the awful liquid, and was so quick to lend a helping
hand whenever he could be of assistance, that he seemed to know what was
wanted before the other could utter a request.

So eager and anxious were they, that they hardly spoke while engaged in
their dangerous task.

At length the great torpedo was lowered, slowly and carefully, to the
very bottom of the well, and its line was reeled in. The empty cans had
been carried to a safe distance, and Brace now stood beside the boy, on
the derrick floor, holding the go-devil in his hand. He looked at
Arthur, and the latter understood the look.

“Yes, Brace,” he said, “I want to drop it.” With the utmost coolness and
steadiness of nerve, ‘Prince Dusty’ held the iron-winged messenger of
destruction over the mouth of the well for an instant, and then sped it
on its downward flight, toward the monster waiting a thousand feet
below, to receive it.

Hand in hand the man and the boy fled from the place, out from among the
trees, and down the hillside.

Then came a mighty trembling, like that of an earthquake shock, followed
by the terrible smothered roar, and a few seconds of silence and
suspense.

“There it comes!” shouted Arthur, almost beside himself with excitement,
as a liquid column rose slowly from the mouth of the well to a height of
twenty feet or so, and then fell back.

“No, that’s only the water,” answered Brace Barlow, gazing with strained
eyes and an intense eagerness, such as he had never before known.

Suddenly a black column of mud, water, and burned glycerine rushed to
the top of the derrick. Its blackness was tinged with the yellow of oil,
and Brace had opened his mouth to utter a shout of joy; when, with a
mighty roar like that of thunder, a dense volume of gas burst forth. For
a few moments it enveloped the derrick in an impenetrable, bluish,
cloud. As this cleared away there stood revealed a solid golden column,
six inches in diameter, reaching to the top of the derrick, and breaking
into great jets and fountains of amber-colored spray against the crown
pulley.

[Illustration: WITH A MIGHTY ROAR LIKE THAT OF THUNDER, A DENSE VOLUME
OF GAS BURST FORTH. (_Page 264._)]

The awful force with which that mighty column of oil rushed upward is
beyond conception. Nor can its beauty, as it glowed and throbbed in the
red light of the rising sun, be appreciated, save by those who have
witnessed similar spectacles.

Miss Hatty, who had sprung from her bed terrified and bewildered by the
noise and jar of the shot, saw it as she kneeled by her chamber window,
and breathed a fervent prayer of thankfulness.

Colonel Dale, who had rushed into the open air under the impression that
some terrible convulsion of nature was at hand, saw it; and, strong man
that he was, he trembled like one stricken with a palsy, while great
tears streamed down his haggard and deeply furrowed face.

Brace Barlow and Arthur saw it, and the clear morning air rang with
their shouts of joy.

“There’s no dust in that blessed hole this time!” cried Brace. “She’s a
‘gusher’ if there ever was one, and her like hasn’t been seen for many a
day.”




                            CHAPTER XXXIII.
                    SAVED BY THE SIGN OF THE TRAMP.


It rarely happens, in real life, that people are lifted from the
profoundest depths of grief, poverty, and misfortune, to such heights of
joy and promised prosperity, as was the case with those whose fortunes
depended on the success or failure of the Dale-Dustin oil well, on the
memorable morning of Brace Barlow’s great shot. For many weeks they had
been weighed down by anxiety, and filled with mingled hopes and fears.
For hours they had been prostrated by what seemed utter and unavoidable
ruin. The night had been passed in hopeless sorrow, but in an instant it
was swept away. The rising sun, shining full on that gleaming column of
oil, hurling its mighty torrent from the mysterious recesses where it
had lain hidden for untold ages, filled their hearts with its gladness
and unspeakable glory. For some minutes they could only gaze upon the
scene that it disclosed with incredulous wonder and amazement.

To Colonel Dale and his niece, who had never before witnessed the
shooting of an oil well, the sight was a miracle, and they were at a
loss to account for it.

To Arthur and Brace Barlow, who had not dared hope for such wonderful
results from their torpedo, that golden fountain of oil was at the
moment the most beautiful and desirable thing on earth.

At length, withdrawing his fascinated gaze from it, Arthur saw his
grandfather standing bareheaded, bewildered, and motionless, near the
open door of the frame house. Running to him the excited boy flung
himself into his arms, crying:

“Oh, grandpapa, we’ve shot the ‘duster’ and turned it into the most
beautiful ‘gusher’ that ever was seen! Isn’t it perfectly splendid! And
we are the very most genuine kind of ‘chumps,’ after all, aren’t we? And
I never was so happy in all my life! Were you, grandpapa?”

“No, my boy, I don’t believe I ever was,” answered Colonel Dale, in a
voice almost choked with emotion, “unless it was when you came to me to
be the joy and pride of my old age.”

Then Miss Hatty, who had hastily dressed herself, came running
down-stairs; and she cried and laughed at the same time, as she threw
her arms about the boy and called him her young “oil Prince,” and
declared that he was the dearest, and wisest, and most lovable oil
Prince in all the world.

Beside them stood shy little Cynthia, gazing at the marvel with wide
open eyes, half-frightened and not knowing what to say, but thrilled
with the great happiness and excitement of those about her.

In the meantime hundreds of barrels of the precious oil were pouring
down the hillside and going to waste, in a yellow stream that fretted
and sparkled and tumbled in miniature cascades over the rocks like a
runaway mountain brook. Several men from the neighboring farms,
attracted by the noise of the explosion and the hoarse roar of the
escaping oil and gas, now came hurrying to the spot. Followed by these,
Brace Barlow started toward the derrick to see what could be done to
check the furious torrent and direct it into the empty tanks.

Colonel Dale was about to join them; but, stopped by a sudden thought,
he turned to Arthur and asked him if he could ride to the telegraph
office five miles away and send an important despatch.

“Of course I can, sir,” answered the boy promptly, for after his
experience of that morning he felt that he could do almost anything.

So a message that had been previously thought out was hastily written.
Arthur was charged to make all speed with it and, above all, not to
mention a word of what had taken place at the Dale-Dustin well that
morning to anybody.

As Colonel Dale had found it necessary to ride about the country a great
deal on business connected with the well, he had purchased the horse
that Arthur now rode when they first came there. It was a fine animal,
and the Colonel valued it highly, besides having grown very fond of it.

Now as, unmindful of Arthur’s light weight, it galloped swiftly and
easily along the lonely forest roads, it seemed to fully share its young
rider’s happiness and impatience. Faster and faster they flew, the horse
tossing his head and pulling at the bit, while the boy’s cheeks became
flushed with excitement. His eyes sparkled, and as the fresh morning air
whistled past him it seemed filled with happy fancies. It was a glorious
ride, and he was enjoying it to the utmost when it was interrupted in a
most disagreeable and unexpected manner.

In the very loneliest part of the road, about half way to the village,
two ragged, evil-looking men suddenly sprang out from the bushes by
which they had been concealed. One of them succeeded in seizing the
bridle of Arthur’s horse, and though the startled animal reared and
plunged so as to almost unseat his young rider, the man managed to
retain his hold. When the horse at last became quiet this man said:

“The walking is good enough for young legs like yours, sonny, so I
reckon you’d better light down and lend us this hoss for a bit. My pard
here is lame, so that he can’t keep up with the procession very well,
and we’re in a hurry to get along.”

“But I am in a hurry too,” answered Arthur, trying to speak bravely and
to control the fear that had driven every bit of color from his cheeks.
“And I am going to the village on very important business.”

“It must be _very_ important,” said the tramp with a disagreeable laugh.

“Yes,” spoke up the other, “I reckon it’s as important as buying a stick
of candy; but that’s nothing to the importance of our business. We’re
walking delegates of the society of independent tramps, we are, and our
business can’t wait. So tumble down out of that saddle, young feller,
without wasting any more of our walyable time. If yer don’t I’ll pull
yer down; for we’ve got to have this ere hoss.”

The word “tramp” was as an inspiration to Arthur, and he answered
boldly: “If you steal my horse I shall tell my friend, Sandy Grimes, the
very next time I see him, and he will make you send it back, besides
making you very sorry that you dared do such a thing.”

“What do you know about Sandy Grimes?” asked the man who had the bridle,
while they both looked so uneasily at each other that it was evident the
name was one they knew and feared.

“He is a friend of mine,” replied Arthur, “and he told me I was to
mention his name if any tramps like you ever tried to bother me.”

“How are you going to prove you are a friend of Sandy’s?” asked one of
the men. “You don’t look over much like one of his kind.”

“I’ll prove it this way,” answered the quick-witted boy. As he spoke, he
drew a bit of pencil, and the despatch he was to deliver, from his
pocket. On the back of the latter he made the symbol M̥, that the big
tramp, with whose boy he had fought months before, had shown him.

The two tramps look at it in amazement. “Yes, that’s Sandy’s mark,” said
one of them at length; “there’s no going back on that. But I don’t see
how he ever come to give it to the likes of you. However, seeing that
you’ve got it, and claims Sandy for a friend, I suppose we’ve got to let
you and the hoss go. You’ll have to give us every cent of money that’s
about your clothes, though, for my pard ’ll have to pay his railroad
fare, if he can’t have a hoss to ride.”

Arthur had a dollar that his grandfather had given him, to pay for
sending the telegram, and this he willingly gave up. Then, after the men
had made him turn all his pockets inside out to show that he had no more
money, they let go of his horse’s bridle, and in another moment he had
dashed out of their reach and sight.

[Illustration: “YES, THAT’S SANDY’S MARK,” SAID ONE OF THEM, “THERE’S NO
GOING BACK ON THAT.” (_Page 272._)]

It was an ugly adventure, and one that might have ended seriously for
him, if the boy had lost his head, or allowed his fright to get the
better of him. But, as has been said before, Arthur was not one of the
boys who lose their heads in times of danger, and once more his coolness
and courage had saved him.




                             CHAPTER XXXIV.
                        AN OIL SCOUT OUTWITTED.


Arthur reached the telegraph office without further mishap; but, to his
dismay, the operator refused to send his message unless it was
prepaid,—and he had no money. In spite of Arthur’s pleadings that he
would do so, and of his offer to go home, get the money, and bring it
immediately back with him, the operator steadily refused to send the
despatch, saying that it was against the rules to accept a collect
message from a stranger.

A young man, who was waiting in the office for a train, and who
recognized Arthur as a grandson of the owner of the Dale-Dustin well,
listened with interest to this discussion. At length he stepped up to
the boy, saying: “I know who you are, and I’ll pay for that despatch,
rather than have you put to any inconvenience. You can send the money to
me at any time by postal note, you know. Let me see how many words there
are?”

With this the stranger glanced over Arthur’s telegram, as though to
count the number of words, at the same time drawing a handful of change
from his pocket.

“You must write it out on a regular blank,” said the operator; and this
the stranger kindly did for Arthur, crumpling up the original when he
had finished, and holding it carelessly in his hand, as though there
were no further use for it.

Just then the train came along, and the obliging young man hurried away,
without giving Arthur his address, or even having told his name.

He was the oil scout, who had hidden beside the Dale-Dustin derrick all
night, and thereby learned that the well was a dry hole. When he was
comfortably seated in the car, he drew forth the crumpled original of
the telegram, and again read it. It was:

  “To R. Sims,
        “Petroleum Exchange,
              “Oil City, Pennsylvania:

  “Have not struck the oil yet in any quantities. The well now is
  proving everything bad; but fear a regular duster.

                                                        “ARTHUR DALE.”

“Well, if that isn’t one of the clumsiest despatches I ever read,”
soliloquized the oil scout. “He seems to have tried to work in all the
words he could. How absurd to send news like that, twenty-four hours
after all the world knew it. I should say that the old Colonel was a
little off his base. Perhaps his disappointment has affected his mind. I
must drop in on Sims and congratulate him on getting such early
information. I’ll make him repay me the money I spent on that telegram,
too.”

Then the scout dismissed the subject from his mind, and turned to the
morning paper in which, among other items of oil news, he read of the
collapse of the Dale-Dustin mystery, and found himself spoken of in
highly complimentary terms as having been the first to discover its true
condition.

“That’s the ticket,” he said to himself, “and it certainly ought to
induce a raise of salary. I shall take care that my bosses see that
notice, and if they don’t come down with something handsome, it won’t be
my fault or because their duty is not made clear to them.”

About three o’clock that afternoon, after having stopped at several
other places, the scout reached Oil City, and sauntered into the office
of R. Sims, broker.

“How are you, Sims?” he inquired carelessly, throwing himself into an
arm-chair. “What’s the latest from Dale-Dustin?”

“Everything is lovely there,” answered the broker, who was looking
particularly happy and well satisfied at that moment.

“How’s that?”

“Why, she’s flowing right along, and I got a despatch early this morning
that gave me a good three hours’ start on the market. It’s been a mighty
lucky day for Colonel Dale, and not a bad one for yours truly, I can
tell you. I shouldn’t be surprised if we’d netted a cool hundred
thousand. By the way, your company got badly left! How did that happen?
I thought you were on the spot. The other boys said you were to stay
there until to-day.”

During these remarks the face of the scout grew white and red by turns.
Now he sprang from his chair in a state of the greatest agitation,
crying: “What do you mean, man? The Dale-Dustin is a dry hole! What sort
of a telegram did you receive this morning?”

“Dry hole! well, I should smile!” exclaimed the broker. “There is the
first despatch that I got this morning, and I have had several since
confirming it.”

With this he handed to the scout a telegraph form on which was written:

  “To R. Sims, Petroleum Exchange,
                  “Oil City, Pennsylvania:

  “Have ¬not¬ struck ¬the¬ oil ¬yet¬ in ¬any¬ quantities. ¬The¬ well
  ¬now¬ is ¬proving¬ everything ¬bad¬ but ¬fear¬ a ¬regular¬ duster.

                                                        “ARTHUR DALE.”

“You see,” explained Mr. Sims, “we were afraid some of you scouts might
bribe the operator, or get hold of our despatches in some way. So we
arranged to have all messages referring to the well read just the
opposite of what was really meant, until every other word was crossed
out. Then you see it comes out all right.”

“Oh! it comes out all right, does it?” groaned the scout as he hastily
left the office. “Well, it may be for you, but I am afraid it is all
wrong for me.”

When Arthur returned to the farm after sending his despatch, and with a
keen appetite for the breakfast Miss Hatty had saved for him, he found
that the great stream of oil had been just got under control, and was
rapidly filling the tanks prepared to receive it. He also found a large
gang of men at work laying, with all possible speed, a line of pipe from
the Dale-Dustin tanks to a pumping station of the great seaboard pipe
line that fortunately was located less than a mile away.

The shutting in of that marvellous well was a task that taxed the best
energies of Brace Barlow and those who labored with him to their utmost
for several hours. When it was finally completed it was a feat to be
proud of. Colonel Dale, appreciating the magnitude of the task, offered
$400 reward to any one who should succeed in completing it. Stimulated
by this, Brace and three other men immediately undertook it.

It was a fearful thing to venture into those floods of falling oil and
clouds of suffocating gas; but, in the oil region, men become accustomed
to such perils. Stripping to the waist, these four boldly entered the
derrick, from the sides of which the boarding had previously been torn
away.

There they battled with the rushing torrent, which every now and then
flung them and their appliances to one side as though they were
jackstraws. Occasionally one, or all of them, would dash out for a few
breaths of fresh air, and to rid their lungs of the deadly gases that
hung low over the derrick. Then they would return to the fight, and toil
with the energy and strength of giants.

At length, under a pressure of nearly three thousand pounds, the
oil-saver was slowly forced down upon the fierce stream until its cap
finally met the casing head. A moment later the set screws were turned,
and the torrent of oil was discharging through four two-inch pipes into
the waiting tanks. Its force was as great as though it were impelled by
the pump of a steam fire-engine, and the pipes through which it
discharged throbbed and vibrated under the terrible pulsations of the
flow.

As the men who had accomplished this task came from the derrick, reeking
with the oil, they flung themselves to the ground, so thoroughly
exhausted with their long struggle that, for nearly an hour, they could
not be persuaded to move.

Now the pipe must be hurried to its completion before the tanks
overflowed. More men and more teams must be procured. The well could not
be closed, or the fierce pressure of the imprisoned oil and gas would
blow out its casing, and the waste would be enormous. The tanks were
filling at the rate of five hundred barrels an hour in spite of all
restrictions that could with safety be placed upon the flow, so that in
four hours’ time they would be full and running over. So messengers were
sent in all directions for more men and teams, until the whole country
side was engaged on the work.

Shortly after noon it was finished, and oil from the wonderful
Dale-Dustin well was finding its way into the tanks of the great pipe
line that would convey it to the distant seaboard refineries.

For months this magnificent well poured out thousands of barrels of oil
daily, but after a while it settled down to a steady stream of about
five hundred barrels in each twenty-four hours, which yield, with very
slight diminution, was continued for several years.

When the wearied, but happy occupants of the little farmhouse, retired
that night their prospects for the future were as bright and as full of
promise as, but a few hours before, they had been sad and gloomy. The
well had already more than paid for itself, and it was rapidly yielding
them a fortune at the rate of $1,500 for each hour of the day and night.
Their days of poverty had come to an end, and wealth was literally
flowing in upon them.

It was impossible for Arthur to realize the full meaning of what was
happening for his benefit; but his grandfather and cousin did, and their
rejoicings were more for his sake than for their own. Even they,
however, could have no conception of the effect that the opening of the
Dale-Dustin Well was to have upon that whole region, nor of the magical
changes that were to take place on that lonely farm within a few days.




                             CHAPTER XXXV.
                       DEVELOPING AN OIL REGION.


Brace Barlow’s great shot not only opened the Dale-Dustin well, but it
announced to the world the discovery of a new oil field that promised to
be one of the most productive and valuable in the whole Pennsylvania
region. As its echoes rolled far and wide over the country, they
startled men in all walks of life, bidding them leave their homes and
hasten to where the newly-found reservoirs of petroleum only awaited the
magic touch of the drill to pour forth their floods of wealth. Thousands
of people listened to the call of the echoes, and hundreds gladly
responded to them. From all directions they flocked to the Dustin farm.
They brought with them wealth seeking opportunities for investment, and
they came with empty hands. Experienced oil producers came, and men who
had never seen a well or a derrick. Business men, old and young men,
came; clerks, store-keepers, hotel men, teamsters, carpenters, well
drillers, and torpedo men, lawyers, doctors, and reporters, men of every
age and calling began to pour in to the new oil field the very day after
Arthur Dale Dustin dropped the go-devil down its first well.

They came by rail, in wagons, and on foot. They brought their families,
and they came without them. Within two weeks the new oil town of
Dustindale had sprung into a full-fledged existence. It contained nearly
a thousand inhabitants, and its population was increasing by hundreds
every day. It was a town of tents, huts, shanties, and the lightest of
frame buildings hastily run up at a cost which, in more eligible
localities, would have paid for marble structures of the same size. A
branch railroad, to connect with the main line, five miles away, was
already in process of construction. The lonely Dustin farm was, as
though by the touch of a magic wand, transformed into one of the most
bustling centres of the busy world.

It was not only a busy place, but a wealthy one; for money poured into
it, and was spent as freely as it came. Laborers made ten dollars a day,
and teamsters twenty. Thousands of dollars sent to be invested in wells
and oil lands changed hands daily. Everybody made money easily and
quickly, and the majority of those who did so, seemed possessed of a
craze for spending it, giving it away, throwing it away, or doing
anything else to get rid of it.

Scores of derricks were to be seen, built or building, in every
direction; while by night, as well as by day, was heard the steady clank
of walking-beams, and the dull thud of drills.

New wells were going down on all sides; but, for more than a month, only
one was in operation. It was the magnificent Dale-Dustin, the magnet
that drew this feverish mass of humanity from all places to itself, the
living, throbbing promise that kept them there. They gazed at it with a
never failing delight and with an ever increasing wonder, as it steadily
and without a pause poured forth its thousands of barrels of oil. They
began to believe that it was inexhaustible, and that it might flow thus
to the end of time. To its owners it was bringing in a royal income. At
the same time they had other sources of wealth, more valuable even than
it, though but for it these could have had no existence.

Of all this wonderful development and marvellous activity, Colonel
Arthur Dale, of Virginia, was King, and his grandson was the Crown
Prince.

With the first rush of adventurers to the farm and the first rude growth
of Dustindale, little Cynthia was sent to her own home and Miss Hatty
returned to Dalecourt. She wanted to take Arthur with her, but he begged
so hard to be allowed to stay where he was a while longer that his
grandfather consented to let him. So they two lived quietly on in the
pleasant old farmhouse, that was destined ere long to stand in the
centre of a flourishing town, the marvellous growth of which the boy
watched with wondering eyes.

He took a lively interest in every new well being drilled, and went from
one to another with wise bits of advice, gleaned from his own experience
both as a “chump” and a “sharp.” The rig-builders, perched on lofty
derricks, loved to look down and see him watching them. Sturdy well
drillers smiled as they saw his sober young face, intently studying the
motion of the great walking-beams or the turning of the temper screws,
and they listened with amused gravity to his decidedly expressed
opinions of what should be done or left undone. Profanity ceased as he
drew near, and rough words and manners were laid aside until he had
passed. He was very proud of being the oldest settler in the town; for,
as he said: “You know I lived here long before even you came,
grandpapa.”

To his grandfather the boy was a never-failing source of pride and joy.
He was so gentle and lovable, at the same time so brave and practical
and so unspoiled by all the flattery and attention showered upon him,
that he was a constant marvel and example to the impulsive old Colonel.
To be sure, the latter had never known much about boys; but he certainly
had not imagined that, as a class, they were like this one.

For the sake of his grandson, Colonel Dale made the most of the golden
opportunities now presented to him. At the very beginning of his
operations as an oil producer, he had secured oil leases of large tracts
of land lying on both sides of the Dustin farm. For these he was to give
one quarter of all the oil produced from them, and guaranteed to sink
wells upon them within a certain time. Now he was able to dispose of
these leases, in one-acre lots, for a thousand dollars apiece in money,
and an agreement that gave him one half the oil.

Within ninety days after the Dale-Dustin well began to flow, half of the
Dustin farm had been surveyed into town lots, and sold for half a
million of dollars; while the other half was leased in one-acre lots as
oil territory, in such a manner as to make it worth as much more. In
making these sales, Colonel Dale retained, in Arthur’s name, the
farmhouse with the land immediately surrounding it, and the Dale-Dustin
well.

From all these statements and figures, it will be seen that Arthur’s
plan for relieving his grandfather’s financial difficulties had
succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.

As the summer drew near its close, Colonel Dale, impatient to escape
from business cares and the intense excitement in which they were
living, began to place his affairs in such a shape that he might return
to Dalecourt. Arthur, too, was becoming tired of the oil region, and
longed for a change of scene. He was therefore made very happy by being
told that they would start for Dalecourt early in October, on the very
day of the month that he and Uncle Phin had started on their memorable
journey a year before. This was also the day set for the formal opening
of the branch railroad to Dustindale.

Brace Barlow, who had all this time been in charge of the well that he
had opened, was now appointed superintendent of the entire Dale-Dustin
interests in that part of the country, at a handsome salary. He was to
occupy the farm house, and his mother was to come and live with him.




                             CHAPTER XXXVI.
                     ARTHUR REMEMBERS HIS FRIENDS.


On the evening before they were to go away, Colonel Dale, in his
grandson’s name, invited all the citizens of Dustindale to assemble on
the lawn in front of the farmhouse.

It was a dark night, but the lawn was brilliantly illuminated by
hundreds of natural gas torches, that produced a novel and beautiful
effect. When the guests arrived—and everybody accepted the
invitation—they found that they were to be entertained with fireworks,
by the music of the Dustindale Cornet band, by an address from Colonel
Dale, and with a supper.

The address was a short one, but it was received with tremendous
applause, for it was a presentation, on behalf of Arthur Dale Dustin, to
Dustindale, of the plans for a town-hall, a school-house, and a library,
accompanied by the money to build and equip them.

Then the people crowded about Arthur, and wanted to shake hands with
him, and thank him, and tell him how sorry they were that he was going
away, and he tried to answer every one who spoke to him. He could not
remember afterwards what he said to anybody, it was all so confusing;
but it must have been just what they wanted him to say, for everybody
seemed pleased, and somebody said he was such a fine little fellow that
he should have been a Prince. Then somebody else took this up, and said
he was a Prince, a young oil Prince; which so pleased the fancy of the
people that they at once accepted the title, and cheered again and again
for their oil Prince.

The next morning, when Arthur walked with his grandfather down to the
station of the new railroad, where they were to take the train, he found
a crowd of people gathered about and admiring one of the most beautiful
private cars that ever was seen. It was attached to the rear end of the
passenger train, which was to be the first ever run over that road, and
was so new and fresh-looking that it could evidently never have been
used. All of its outside metalwork was of gleaming brass, and in a
central panel, encircled by a wreath of roses and butterflies, was
inscribed, in golden letters, the name “Cynthia.”

“Just look at that car, grandpapa!” cried Arthur excitedly. “Isn’t it a
beauty? and how queer that its name should be Cynthia.”

“It is strange,” answered Colonel Dale with a smile. “Suppose we step
aboard and see what the inside looks like.”

They entered by the rear door and found themselves in a beautiful saloon
that was furnished with a lounge, table, and easy chairs, and had large
plate-glass windows at the end and on both sides. Beyond this was an
exquisitely appointed bath-room, and opening from it was a large
stateroom, furnished with a low French bedstead, a dressing-table,
writing desk, and easy chair. A smaller stateroom opened beyond this
one. Still further on they saw a dining-room, at the sides of which were
four berths like those in sleeping-cars. Then came a pantry, linen
closet, ice chest, and various other conveniences. Last of all was the
tiny kitchen, looking like a yacht’s galley, and hung all around with
the brightest of cooking utensils.

Arthur was charmed with all that he saw and kept wondering who was to
ride in this wonderful palace on wheels. As he peeped into the kitchen
he hesitated for a moment and then sprang forward with a cry of joy.

There, with a white cap on his head and a snowy apron tied about his
waist, was his own dear old Uncle Phin, his face beaming with delighted
anticipation.

“Yes, Honey!” he cried, after the tumult of Arthur’s greeting had
somewhat subsided. “I jes had ter come. Ole Unc Phin couldn’ trust you
fer ter trabbel wifout him no longer. So I kum to take de charge ob de
cookin ob yo kyar.”

“My car!” cried Arthur in amazement. “What does he mean by my car,
grandpapa?”

“He means,” replied Colonel Dale, “that this car, the ‘Cynthia,’ and all
that it contains is my present to the dearest and best of grandsons, as
a slight acknowledgment of what he has done and is doing for me.”

“Do you mean that this is my very own car, to travel in, and live in,
and do as I please with, grandpapa?” asked the boy, in a slightly awed
tone, as the full import of what he had just heard began to dawn upon
him.

“Precisely that,” was the answer. “And in it, if you choose, we will
travel together over all the important railways of the country, while
you are taking a course of object lessons in the study of how to become
a railroad man. How do you like that for a plan?”

“Why, I never dreamed of one half so splendid!” cried the happy boy. “It
is more like a real fairy tale than anything I ever heard of.”

Just then a young man, in a handsome blue uniform with shining brass
buttons, stepped into the car, and touching his cap to Colonel Dale
announced that it was time for the train to start.

Arthur stared at him for a moment and then exclaimed: “Brakeman Joe! Is
it Brakeman Joe?”

“Conductor Joe, if you please, sir,” said the young man, looking
immensely proud and pleased. “Conductor of this car, and at your orders
to take her wherever you may choose to have her go.”

Then, amid the firing of guns, the cheering of the assembled people, and
a great chorus of “good-bye” and “come back again soon,” the train moved
slowly off, and Arthur had begun his second journey toward Dalecourt.
But under what different circumstances from the other was this journey
undertaken.

As Arthur sat for a while, perfectly still and thinking it all over, his
heart was too full of happiness and gratitude for expression in words.
At length he said:

“Grandpapa, I do believe that I am the very happiest boy in the world,
and I do wish that all other boys could be as happy as I am.”

“I am afraid that all boys do not deserve to be,” replied his
grandfather, smiling; “though, of course, a great many of them do. At
any rate, you now have it in your power to add very greatly to the
happiness of all the deserving and unhappy boys whom you may meet. I do
not know of any better use to which you can put the great wealth that
has been so wonderfully given you; and I am willing you should expend
just as much money as you see fit in that way. The very best use we can
put money to, is to make others happy with it.”

“I think so, too,” exclaimed the boy, with flushed cheeks and sparkling
eyes; “and I would rather spend all the money you can spare in making
people happy, than to do anything else in the world with it. Can’t we
begin with the people who were good and kind to me, when I was trying to
get to you, last year?”

“Of course, we can,” answered Colonel Dale. “I had thought of them, and
have planned this journey so as to follow as nearly as possible the same
route that you and Uncle Phin took, and find all the people we can who
were kind to you.”

They began to carry out this delightful plan of making people happy that
very day, by having the “Cynthia” side-tracked at the station nearest to
where the Chapmans lived, and driving to their house.

Nothing could exceed the astonishment of this kind-hearted family at
again seeing Arthur, and hearing of all the marvellous things that had
happened to him since they last met. Mr. Chapman hitched up his team,
and with his wife, and Bert, and Sue, drove over to the railway station,
to take dinner with Arthur and his grandfather in the beautiful car.

There they renewed their acquaintance with Uncle Phin, and made him feel
very proud, by praising his cooking, and eating heartily of all the good
things that he had provided.

After dinner, Arthur said he wanted to _tell_ them a fairy story,
instead of reading one to them, as he had done before. It was all about
a pretty cottage, near a large city, that had been bought in their name,
and was waiting for them. There was also employment waiting for Mr.
Chapman in that city, and schools to which Mrs. Chapman could send the
children. In the cottage waited the biggest doll that was ever seen for
little Sue, while in the cottage stable waited a pony for Bert. The best
part of this fairy story was, that it was every word true.

The next stop of the “Cynthia” was in Pittsburgh, where Colonel Dale,
and Arthur, and Uncle Phin, all went to see good Aunt Charity, and left
the dear old soul staring in tearful amazement at a check for a larger
amount of money than she had ever seen in all her life. It was given her
for the education of the twins, who were to be brought up to “de
whitewash an de kalsomine bizness.”

Then they went to Harrisburg, where Conductor Tobin’s little house, not
far from the railroad, was bought and presented to him, to be his very
own for always, and where Kitty Tobin was given the handsomest copy of
“Hans Christian Andersen’s Fairy Tales” that could be procured.

As they were walking back to the car from Conductor Tobin’s house, a boy
with a bundle of papers under his arm, stared intently at Arthur for a
moment, and then sprang directly in front of him exclaiming:

“Don’t yer know me? I’m de kid what you licked one time.”

“Why, of course I know you!” cried Arthur, holding out his hand, “and I
am very glad to see you. How do you do, Kid?”

Then the Kid said his name was Billy Grimes, and that ever since he
heard Arthur read that story he had been trying to be something better
than an ugly duck. He had run away from his father in Pittsburgh, soon
after meeting Arthur, because the big tramp wanted to make him steal for
a living, and had gradually worked his way to Harrisburg, where he was
trying to be an honest newsboy.

The result of this fortunate second meeting with Arthur was that, in
less than a month from that time, Master William Grimes was entered as a
pupil in one of the best military schools of the country. There he is
working so hard and doing so well that, before long nobody will remember
that he ever was an “ugly duckling.”

In Washington Colonel Dale went to call on an old friend, and took
Arthur with him. To the boy’s surprise and delight, this friend proved
to be the very gentleman to whom he had sold his dog Rusty. The dog was
still there, and manifested such extravagant joy at again seeing his
former master that the gentleman laughingly said it would be cruel to
part such loving friends any longer. So the dear dog, now more handsome
and knowing than ever, was again presented to the boy who had once
fought to save him from a beating, and Arthur said this was the happiest
thing of the whole journey.

The next day they were once more at Dalecourt, and the very first person
Arthur saw, standing in the doorway as he and Rusty sprang from the
carriage, was Cynthia. Colonel Dale had invited her to come to Dalecourt
to be educated and to live as his daughter, and her father had consented
that she should.

Miss Hatty had been engaged all summer in restoring Dalecourt to even
more than its former glory, so that now it was one of the most beautiful
places in Virginia.

Here we must leave the boy whose wanderings and fortunes we have
followed for a year. Although he is no longer poor, he studies and works
just as hard as though he were, and is all the happier for so doing. He
is still determined to be a railroad man when he grows up, and he still
finds his chief pleasure in turning other people’s sorrow into
happiness.

On that first evening at Dalecourt Miss Hatty went up to his room to
take away the light after he had gone to bed. He was just dropping to
sleep as she bent over him, and kissing his forehead said softly:
“Good-night and pleasant dreams to you, my dear little Prince Dusty!”


                                THE END.

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                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
 4. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.
 5. Enclosed struck through font in ¬not signs¬.