What Happened to Tad, by Mary E. Ropes │ Project Gutenberg

"NOW look here, boy! I ain't a-goin' to have no more words about it. Your mother must—"

"She ain't my mother, nor I'll never call her so, never! Not if I live a hundred year; so don't try to make me, dad."

"Well, I dare say it won't matter such a great deal to your stepmother what you call her, so long as you do what you're told, Tad. But please to understand, my lad, that if you kick up a rumpus here, and make things unpleasant for my wife, you'll hear of it again from me, as sure as my name's James Poole."

"But, dad," pursued the boy, "she ain't kind to the children, leastways only to her own kid. She beats poor little Bert, and boxes Nell's ears for the least thing."

"Tiresome spoilt brats! Serve 'em right!" retorted the man. "But anyhow, Tad, it ain't your business. You may as well understand, once for all, that I mean she shall be missis here, and manage the home her own way. Now go along, will you! I've no more time to waste on tale-tellin' and grumblin'."

"It's wicked! It's a shame!" muttered Teddie Poole (or Tadpole as his friends had nicknamed him). "This has got to end somehow!"

But his father only growled under his breath, caught up his cap, and left the house.

"Yes, it's too bad; everything's against me and them two poor chil'en. Dad's number two—she don't care for 'em one little bit, though nothin's too good for that great, thumpin', squealin' baby of hers. I'd take Bert and Nell right off somewheres, only I couldn't keep 'em and look after 'em—poor mites!"

Then with a heavy heart, Tad betook himself to his work. It was not much of a place that the boy had got. He was only a grocer's lad at four shillings a week, but it was better than nothing, and he did his work willingly enough, though he was often footsore and weary with running or standing about from morning till night.

There was a great deal of good in poor Tad. When his own mother died, he tried to take care of his little brother and sister, and often denied himself for their sake.

But when at last James Poole married again, the boy bitterly resented his stepmother's harsh ways with her husband's children. And since her own baby's birth, things at home had been worse than ever. She grudged to Bert and Nell every moment of time that she was obliged to give them, and even the very food they ate. She had no sympathy for their childish troubles, no tender words or caresses for anyone but her own baby boy; while towards Tad, who had from the first made no secret of his feelings, she showed in return a dislike which had something almost malignant about it.

Several times the lad had complained to his father, but his words had produced no effect except still more to enrage his stepmother against him. And now Tad had made another appeal, and had once again failed.

All day long, he turned the matter over in his mind as he ran his errands or helped his master, Mr. Scales, to make up parcels in the shop. Life at home was becoming unbearable—impossible—he told himself. What was to be done?

Once the grocer glanced at him with a comical, puzzled smile on his fat, good-natured face, but Tad never looked up, and presently his master said:

"Before you put them little packets up in brown paper, Teddie, just see if they are all right, will you?"

The lad obeyed, but as he began to look through his packets of grocery, he flushed hotly.

"I can't think how I could have been so stupid, sir," he said penitently; "why, here's sugar and salt got mixed somehow, and the bacon rashers has gone and wrapped theirselves up with the yaller soap. Oh my! And a pound of taller dips is broke loose all among the currants, till they looks just like the hats of them 'ketch-'em-alive' fellers. Oh, sir, I'm awful sorry."

"It isn't often you make such mistakes, my boy," he said kindly, "so I must forgive you this time. But it seems to me, Tad, that you've something on your mind."

"Ah well, you think so now, but perhaps things will mend in a day or two, and then you'll feel more hopeful."

Tad shook his head, but did not reply. He tried, however, to put his troubles out of his mind for the present, and to give his undivided attention to his work, so as to make no more mistakes. He did not reach home that evening until eight, and his father and stepmother were sitting at table. Bert, half undressed, was sobbing in a corner, his face to the wall, and little Nell was wailing in her cot upstairs, having been put to bed supperless for some childish offence.

"Late again, Tad!" exclaimed Mrs. Poole crossly. "Why can't you be home in good time?"

"I don't believe that's anything but a excuse," retorted the woman. "It's a deal more likely as how you've been playin' round with them rude street boys that you learns your pretty manners from."

"I came straight home," said he; "I ran all the way to try and get back quick. I don't tell lies, and I think you ought to believe me."

"Hark at that, now! Jim, just do hark at that! Ought to, forsooth! Ain't there any other thing, if you please, that I ought to do?"

"Shut up, will you?" roared James Poole, bringing his heavy fist down upon the table. "Am I never to have a minute's peace at home?"

"No, everybody knows you never do nothin'," sneered his stepmother. "You're just one of they poor critturs that's put upon all the time by other folks, when you're as innercent as a angel."

"Bein' Saturday," said Tad, coming round to his father's side, "Mr. Scales paid me as usual. Here's the money for you, dad!" and he put down four shillings on the table.

"No, my boy; I know I've took your wages till now, but I find your mother—your stepmother—likes to have it herself, and it's all the same to me."

Tad did not even glance at Mrs. Poole, but deliberately gathered up the coins and pocketed them, saying:

"Then, since you don't want my earnin's, dad, I'll keep 'em, for from to-day I'm a-goin' to feed myself."

And not waiting to hear any more, he went upstairs to his little garret room, and bolted himself in to brood over his wrongs, and think out some way of escape from the influences of a home that had grown so hateful.

CHAPTER II

NO sleep did Tad get that night, tired though he was. He was thinking so hard that he could not close his eyes. Things had come to a climax at last, and something must be done. His stepmother and he hated each other cordially, and his efforts to stand up for the children only made matters worse both for himself and them.

There were only two courses open to Tad now, and to one of these he must commit himself on the following day. Either he must eat humble pie, submit his will entirely to his stepmother, and have no choice of his own in anything, or he must go quite away, away as far as he could—and try to shift for himself.

The thought of remaining at home, to be sneered at, and scolded, and abused by Mrs. Poole, was intolerable. The idea of submitting to her, and thus acknowledging her authority, he put from him as altogether too bitter a pill to be swallowed. There remained, then, only the other alternative, and that was to cut adrift from all his belongings, and go away.

The thing that troubled him most about this plan, next to leaving little Bert and Nell, was that he knew it would be nothing but a delight to Mrs. Poole to get rid of him, and he could not bear to give her pleasure even by carrying out this plan of his own.

"I'd like oncommon to punish her—punish her well!" said the boy to himself, as he tossed uneasily on his bed and stared before him into the darkness. "I'd like to make her real unhappy as she's always makin' us. Go away I'm bound to, but I must do something beside as 'll make her laugh t'other side of her mouth."

For some moments Tad thought intently. At last, with a sudden bound, he found himself, in his excitement, standing in the middle of the floor.

And again he laughed to himself—a hard laugh that told a sad tale of its own, and showed what a terrible power, even over the soft young heart of early youth, have the stony influences of injustice and cruelty.

With the first dawn of Sunday morning, Tad rose and dressed himself noiselessly. Into an old satchel-basket, that his master had given him, he packed his clothes and his one spare pair of boots. His brush and comb, and a very few other little matters, were added, and then he covered all neatly with a sheet of newspaper, after which he put the basket away in the cupboard till he should want it.

Tad knew his stepmother's Sunday habits and customs, and quite hoped that he should presently have a chance to carry out the plans for his own escape and for the accomplishing of the revenge which he had promised himself.

The boy had eaten no supper, and had passed a sleepless night, and he began to feel sick and faint by the time his little preparations were completed, so that he was glad to lie down again.

About seven o'clock he heard his father's voice calling him, and he jumped up and ran out of his room.

"Come and dress the children, Tad," said James Poole; "your stepmother have got a headache, and means to stay quiet till near dinner time."

Tad smiled, well pleased. He knew that this was the usual Sunday headache, which needed a long sleep and a plentiful dinner for its cure, and he had reckoned upon it as a most important part of his plans. He dressed Bert and Nell, and then the baby. But this last was not an easy thing to do, for the child wriggled and squirmed like an eel.

Meanwhile James Poole lighted the fire and got breakfast ready, and presently all sat down but Tad.

"You heard what she said to me last night, dad, didn't you? After that and what I answered her, I ain't goin' to eat nothin' more of her providin'."

And Tad's face burned at the remembrance of the insulting words that had brought him to this resolution. His heart was hot within him as with a smouldering fire, while he said to himself, "Ah well—my turn's comin'."

"Don't be such a fool, Tad," said his father; "here, take your tea, and I'll cut you some bread and butter."

Tad was just longing for some food. He had not eaten a mouthful since an early tea in Mr. Scales' little back parlour the day before. But it was not for nothing that Mrs. Poole had often called him "the most obstinatious little beast of a boy" she'd ever seen. And since he had made up his mind not to eat again at his father's table, he stuck to his resolution, rash and foolish as it was.

"No, dad, no," he said. "I'll make shift to get a bite somewheres or other later on, but I ain't goin' to unsay what I said last night—not for no one."

"You forget it's Sunday, lad, you can't buy any food," said James Poole; "and besides, though you may be able to starve for a day, you can't keep on doin' of it, so that sooner or later you're bound to break your resolution. Now don't be an obstinate mule, but eat your breakfast, or you'll be makin' yourself ill."

Not to be shaken in his purpose, he set the baby on his father's knee, and went to his room.

There, seeing his overcoat hanging up on a nail on the door, he recalled to mind that, two days before, his master had given him some broken biscuits that had remained behind after the whole ones were sold. He had put them into the pocket of his light overcoat, just as he was leaving the shop, and had not once thought of them till now. Very thankful to be able to appease his ravenous hunger, the lad sat down and ate up the biscuits to the very last crumb, washing down the dry, stale morsels with a drink of water from his jug.

Then feeling much better for his meal, he went downstairs again, cleared the breakfast table, and washed the crockery and spoons, afterwards making up the fire and tidying the kitchen, all of this being his accustomed Sunday work.

When all was in order, he dressed Bert and Nell for morning Sunday School, and took them there, returning home quickly, for he knew he should be called upon to mind the baby, and take him out; and this—for reasons of his own—he did not mind doing to-day.

An hour later, while James Poole sat reading his paper and smoking a pipe in the chimney corner, and while great, fat, lazy Mrs. Poole turned in bed and commenced another nap to the accompaniment of some terrific snores, Tadpole slipped away with the baby in his arms, and the basket strapped to his waist.

He did not care to say good-bye to his father; had not James Poole taken his wife's part when she was cruel and unjust? As for Bert and Nell, Tad had given each of them a tearful embrace as he left them at the school door—a long, loving kiss that would have set them wondering and asking questions, had they been just a little older. But as it was, they did not notice the difference in their brother's manner.

"Now comes my revenge!" muttered the lad. "My one bit of pleasure in all this bad business. Oh, Mrs. P., you shall have a few jolly hours to-day, if I can manage it for you."

And with a vindictive light in his eyes, Tad walked away, on and on, till he left the town behind him, and came out into a country road between hedges, with a meadow on one side, and a copse and plantation on the other. Finding at last a gate to the meadow, he climbed over it, nearly dropping the child in his scramble. Once over, he went further into the field to be out of sight of anyone passing on the road, for he had no wish, just as his little plan promised success, to be taken up as a trespasser.

For some time he walked about with the child, till at last the little fellow fell asleep. Then Tad laid him in a soft, sheltered place under a tree, and spread a shawl, kept up by the handle of the basket, to keep off the wind and the sun. Then he stood looking at the baby with a malicious grin on his lips.

"It's all right so far," said he to himself. "When dinner time comes, and no me nor no baby turns up, Mrs. P. will begin to have the lovely time I've been wishin' her; and when I think she's had about enough of it, I'll carry baby back, and leave him on the doorstep, or somewheres handy, and then off I goes on my travels, like a prince in one of them fairy tales."

CHAPTER III

THE baby awoke after awhile, and cried a little, but Tad was too good and experienced a nurse not to have anticipated and arranged for what the child would want. He quickly produced from the basket the little one's feeding-bottle and some milk, and very soon the baby, quite satisfied and happy, was creeping about on the grass and playing with some flowers that Tad found for him. And when he wearied of this, the boy rocked him to sleep again in his arms.

Then, wearied by his own sleepless night, he lay down beside the child for a much-needed nap. His last feeling, before dropping into dreamland, being one of grim rejoicing in the recollection that his stepmother must already be in a "fine taking,"—as he would have expressed it,—about her baby. Tad had made up his mind not to carry the child back until dark, "for fear," he said to himself, "of being nabbed." But already it was afternoon, and in these autumn days the darkness came early.

When Tad awoke from a sound sleep of several hours, the twilight was creeping over earth and sky. The quiet rest had much refreshed him, and baby too had waked up in a happy mood, and looked so much less like his mother than usual, that Tad felt fonder of the poor little fellow than ever before, and even kissed his little round face when he picked him up.

Carrying the basket on his arm, and the baby over his shoulder, Tad walked across the meadow, and came to a stile leading out on to a common, where was a gipsy encampment.

A couple of carts were drawn up near the hedge on one side of the field, four or five stiff-legged, scraggy horses were grazing hungrily on the short, stubbly grass, while not far from a fire, which blazed merrily under a black pot, sat a little company of brown-skinned, rough-looking men and women, and a few children played about around them.

It helped to pass the time, watching the gipsies, so Tad, with the baby in his arms, got over the stile, and drawing nearer to the picturesque group, stood looking at the people, and hungrily sniffing the savoury steam that rose from the cooking-pot.

Presently a young woman rose from among the little company, and came towards Tad.

Tad gladly consented, and as the air was growing chill, he joined the group of gipsies as they gathered closer round the fire. The young woman took the baby from him, and fondled and rocked it while Tad ate his supper.

"'Tain't long since she lost her own child," said one of the men to Tad, "and this little un ain't onlike him."

When the lad had finished his meal, he thought he had perhaps better set off on a little spying expedition, to see if the coast was clear for him to take the baby home; for he did not wish to be met by any search parties coming to look for him and his little charge.

But to do his spying safely; he ought to leave the child here; and turning to the young woman, who was walking to and fro with the baby, crooning to it, and putting it to sleep in the usual motherly fashion, he said:

"I've got a errand to run, missis, and maybe it'll take me a hour or more. Would you have the goodness just to mind the little un for me till I can come back for him? I'll be as quick as I can."

"It'll be all right," replied the woman, with an eager light in her dark eyes. "I'll see to the baby. You needn't hurry, neither. He's goin' off to sleep again, and there's no fear but what he'll be quite quiet and content."

Thanking her warmly, away went the Tadpole, carrying his big head high, and putting all possible speed into his slender body and thin legs. He spent over an hour in dodging about and looking here and there for possible pursuers. But he met no search parties, and feeling now more sure than ever of being able to carry out his plan to the very end, he came leisurely back to the common where he had left the gipsy camp.

It was quite dark now; he could just see the dull glow of the fire's dying embers, but nothing else. As he came nearer, however, what were his surprise and dismay to find that the place was deserted. Gone were the carts, the horses, the people, and worst of all, gone too was the baby. It was as if the whole encampment had melted into thin air—vanished as utterly as the scenes of a dream.

"They must have crossed the common and come out into a road beyond," thought Tad.

And hoping to overtake them and get back the child, he started at a quick run, often stumbling in the darkness, and once or twice falling outright. After going some distance, he reached a place where four roads met, leading off in various directions. Meanwhile the darkness had deepened, no moon or stars lightened the gloom, and Tad began to realise the hopelessness of trying to follow the gipsies, who, no doubt, had employed their usual cunning to elude pursuit. Utterly baffled and at fault in his search, and well-nigh stunned by the misfortune that had come upon him, the lad stood still at the cross roads, and tried to collect his thoughts.

His intention had been only to give his stepmother a thorough fright, by way of paying her out for some of the unkindness he and Bertie and Nell had received from her. But now the matter had been taken out of his hands, and it looked very much as if, not only Mrs. Poole, but he himself and the baby too, were likely to suffer from this revenge that he had so carefully planned.

"What a mess I've got into, to be sure!" sighed Tad as he peered round with weary eyes, vainly searching the thick darkness. "Whatever shall I do?"

His first impulse was to run home, confess the whole story to his father, and let him do what was best for the recovery of the baby. Tad's conscience told him that this clearly would be the right thing to do. But then, if he acted thus, it meant that he must face his stepmother's fury, and give up, for the present, at least, his plan of leaving home. He felt sure that Mrs. Poole would never believe that he had not deliberately and wilfully deserted the baby. He was certain she would never give him credit for his intention to bring her child safely back when the purposes of his boyish vengeance had been fulfilled.

No—he did not feel he could muster courage enough to return home to such a greeting as hers would be, and yielding to the whispers of his cowardice, he determined to set out on his travels at once, without seeing any of his home people again, and leaving the baby to take its chance. Still, since his conscience gave him some sharp pricks as to the fate of the child entrusted to his care, he resolved that on the following day, he would send by post, from the first town or village through which he passed, a letter to his father, telling him just how it had happened that the little one was carried off by the gipsies who had been encamped on the common outside the town. This resolve arrived at, Tad felt a little comforted, and set out to walk to a place some six miles distant, where he intended to pass the night.

In thus running away, he was conscious of only two causes of regret. One was his separation from Bert and Nell, and the other that he was obliged to give up his situation. He had feared to let Mr. Scales know he was leaving home, lest he should be stopped. So now he could not help thinking of the little ones crying because he did not come home to put them to bed as usual; and also of what his kind master would say when Monday morning came, but with it no boy to take the shutters down, and sweep out the shop, and get everything ready for the business of the day.

"Still—all said and done—at least I'm free!" said Tad to himself. "I've shook off that horrid stepmother of mine, and it shan't be my fault if I ever see her again."

So saying the lad drew himself up, and strode at a great pace along the dark road, and tried hard to believe that he had never been so happy in all his life.

CHAPTER IV

IT was late that night before Tad reached the village of Pine Hill and approached the little, homely, old-fashioned inn which went by the name of "The Traveller's Rest," this being the sign of the first inn ever built in the place, hundreds of years before.

The house was kept by a very respectable man, called Anthony Robson, and Tad had often heard his father speak of Tony Rob (as he called him) in high terms as a thoroughly good fellow.

"Please can I have a bit of supper and a corner to lie down in?" asked Tad, timidly addressing the landlord, whose burly form was resting in a big armchair in the chimney corner.

Apparently he was having a little rest and a last pipe before locking up his house for the night and going to bed.

Tony Robson stared at the lad for what seemed to Tad an age before he replied. Then as he saw him cringe a little before the questioning gaze fixed upon him, he said:

"Ain't you rather a whipper-snapper to be goin' journeyin' by yourself at this time of night, and Sunday too? What's your name?"

Tad hesitated, with downcast eyes. If he gave his real name, the landlord might prevent his going any further; for he knew James Poole, and would guess that the boy was going away from his home without leave.

Then as Tony, with his face growing a little stern and suspicious, again asked the question, the boy replied with the first name he could think of—Hal Barnes—this being the name of one of his former school-fellows who was now a farmer's boy living some miles from Ponderton.

The second lie is always easier than the first, and to this question Tad replied glibly enough:

"I'm a-goin' to Crest Mount, sir; goin' after a page's place up at the squire's. I'm to see him at ten sharp to-morrow mornin', and I couldn't do this unless I slept here to-night, for I comes from beyond Ponderton. Else I don't care for takin the road Sunday, and wouldn't have done it, if I could anyways manage different."

"Dear me!" said Tad to himself. "How nat'ral and easy all that pretty little tale sounded!"

The landlord seemed to think so too, for his face lost its stern expression, and he said:

"Oh, that's it, is it? But Crest Mount is a goodish way, even from here; a matter of five mile or so."

"Well now," said Tony Robson, "I take it you don't want nothin' very expensive in the way of supper and bed, do you?"

"No, sir, I haven't got much money, and I can't afford anything but the cheapest."

"It's too late to cook you anything, and the wife's gone to bed, but you can have a slice of ham and a cut of the home-made loaf, and a pint mug of milk. Will that do for supper?"

"And as for a bed, what do you say to a good shakedown of clean hay in the loft? It's sweet and wholesome, and you won't have to pay nothin' for it, so that'll leave you able to afford a bit of breakfast in the mornin'. My dame shall give you a good bowl of oatmeal and milk afore you start off for Crest Mount."

And glad to get out of answering any more questions, and of being forced to draw upon his imagination for his facts, he ate his supper and then thankfully went to bed in the loft among the scented hay, where, being very weary, he fell asleep at once, only coming back to consciousness when the landlord's stable-boy came in for hay for the horses of some early travellers.

Tad ate his porridge, paid his reckoning, and walked briskly on, avoiding the busy high roads as much as possible, and taking short cuts across fields and through copses, lest he should chance to meet some one he knew.

Once, about three miles from Crest Mount, he got a lift in a baker's cart, so it was only noon when he reached the place. There he bought at the post-office, which was also a stationer's shop, a sheet of paper, a pencil, an envelope, and a penny stamp, and carrying them to the Green where there were some benches, he sat down and wrote to his father, giving him an account of how the baby had been stolen, and adding that as he did not dare to face his stepmother after what had happened, he should not come home any more. He sent his best love to Bert and Nell, expressed a hope that the baby might soon be found, and remained James Poole's dutiful son, Tad.

When the letter was posted, the boy felt as though he had shaken off a weight. Now he need stay no longer in Crest Mount; he would only just buy himself a little loaf and a couple of apples for his dinner, and then push on towards a small seaport called Upland Bay.

Though Ponderton—the place where he had lived all his life—was not very far from the coast, Tad had never yet seen the sea. But he had read wonderful things about it in the absurd penny dreadfuls that he had got hold of now and again. His head was full of pirates, of marvellous adventures on strange islands, of grand discoveries of countless treasures in all sorts of unlikely places. Also he had a vague idea that, somehow or other, the sea brought luck sure and certain, and that if he could only manage to get to the shore, his fortune was as good as made.

He walked on all day, only stopping now and again to ask his way, or to beg a drink of water or buttermilk at the farms he passed. But it was dark by the time he reached the little town of Upland Bay—a picturesque place, perched high upon a bold cliff, while, on the inland side, a wide reach of breezy downs and cornfields stretched away for miles, as it seemed to Tad when he peered through the darkness.

As he trudged up the High Street, looking curiously about him, and eagerly inhaling the cool, strong, salt air, he was suddenly brought to a stand in front of the police-station. For there, in full glare of a lamp, he saw a large written notice posted up. With blanched cheeks and starting eyes he read these words:

"Missing since yesterday morning, Sunday, September 2nd, Edward Poole of Ponderton, aged fourteen, having with him a baby boy about eight months old. When last seen was carrying the child and a basket through the streets of Ponderton. The lad has a big head and thin body, and was dressed in a dark grey suit with a cap of the same, and the baby in a red flannel dress and coat. A reward will be paid to anyone giving information that may lead to the finding of the lad and infant."

Here, at least, in this out-of-the-way place, Tad had thought to feel himself safe; but even here the hue and cry was after him, and a reward offered for his capture. Assuredly Mrs. Poole had lost no time. The telegraph had been set to work, and probably at every little town and village within twenty miles of Ponderton, a written notice had been posted.

CHAPTER V

LIKE one in a bad dream, Tad stood and stared at the placard. There was something very ominous and startling, on coming for the first time into this little town, to find his secret, his story there before him.

"Ay there it is!" he muttered. "My name and my clothes and all, so as the perlice should be sure to catch me. Catch me? Ay, and so they may yet."

"Why, here I am, with my big head, and thin body, and I'm wearin' of that very grey suit and cap, and a bobby might just step out and nab me this minute. Now what can I do," Tad asked himself, "to put the bobbies off the scent and make 'em think there's no Edward Poole in the place?"

Musing intently, the lad had moved stealthily away, and turned down a narrow, dark street, where he was less likely to be noticed. Once round the corner, he quickened his pace until he came to a little archway leading into some kind of a court. Here he undid his satchel, produced from it an old snuff-coloured suit that he used to wear when doing dirty work, and proceeded to exchange his tidy grey clothes for the shabby brown, packing the former carefully away in the satchel. He turned his cap inside out, and put it on well forward, shading his eyes; then turning his frayed collar up round his throat, he emerged from the sheltering archway.

The clouds had been gathering for the last hour or two, and now the rain began to fall, the lamps were dim and blurred, and the lad's courage revived. A big cookshop attracted him by its savoury odours, which made the hungry boy's mouth water. While he was gazing in and wondering which of all the good things he should choose if he could afford a hearty supper, two men came up, and also paused for a look.

Tad, feeling fairly safe in his old brown clothes, did not move away at once, and had not indeed taken much notice of them or their conversation, until a sentence—a single sentence—of their talk, turned him faint and sick with fear, and set him trembling all over.

"I say, Bill, they say there's more partic'lars now about that there scoundrel of a boy. You know which I mean—the artful young chap what run off with the baby; disappeared with his poor little half-brother."

Not daring to move lest he should be noticed, afraid almost to breathe, Tad listened intently.

"Yes," replied Fred; "it 'pears as if this lad Poole was a wonderful jealous, spiteful sort of chap, and they're half afeared he may have got rid of the baby somehow, just out of pure wickedness—and then run away."

"Wouldn't I like to catch the young gallows-bird!" remarked Bill so savagely that Tad would have turned and fled that minute, but that he must have given himself away there and then by so doing. "I've got a dear little un of my own," resumed Bill in a softened voice, "only about eight months old too, and I know just how I'd feel to anyone as tried to treat him unjust and unfair."

"Well," remarked the man Fred, "one comfort is that there's little chance of the boy gettin' clear away. He's safe to be nabbed sooner or later; I only wish I'd the doin' of it."

Then the two men went into the shop, and Tad, with a white, drawn face and quaking limbs, moved away from the shop window.

After wandering about among the darkest and poorest streets in the town, he found his way at last to the harbour, where several small coasters and smacks were about to sail, for the wind was fair, and the tide just on the turn.

"Please, sir, don't you want someone to help on board your boat?" asked Tad of the skipper of the largest vessel.

"Oh, lots!" replied Tad, with vivid recollections of the sea-stories he had read.

"A pirate, you know, sir; I've read all about them, and they has the jolliest kind of a life, takin' treasure ships and hidin' away the gold and di'monds on desert islands where there's no end of wonderful things, and then I've—"

"Shut up!" roared the skipper. "Of all the precious young fools I ever see, you're the biggest—far away. If them's the sort of yarns you spin, you'd never do no good aboard of the 'Mariar-Ann.' So hold your noise and be off with you. I'll be bound you're a runaway from home, and your mother 'll be comin' along lookin' for you presently."

"I haven't got a mother, but it's true I want to get away out of this. I'll do anything, everything you tell me if you'll take me to sea with you."

"Now look here, youngster," said the man, "I ain't goin' to get myself into a mess, not for nobody. Tell the truth—are you in hidin'?"

"It's too long a story to tell here," replied the boy, peering about him distrustfully into the darkness. "Take me on board and I'll tell you all."

"Take you aboard and run the risk of bein' took up myself, for helpin' you away? Not if I know it! And now I think of it—" he added half to himself—"wasn't there some sort of notice up in the town about a lad wanted by the police? Here, Tim," he called to a man who was at work on the vessel. "What did you tell me you see wrote up at the station?" And the skipper turned his head to hear his mate's reply.

"There—you see, you young scamp," said the skipper, when—his suspicions confirmed—he turned once more to address Tad.

But to his surprise, he found himself talking into empty space. The culprit at the bar had not waited for the verdict. Tad was gone.

CHAPTER VI

WHEN the wind blew the clouds away about midnight, and the moon came out, the cold white light falling upon a lonely high road revealed a wretched figure toiling on with weary, dragging steps, his garments heavy with rain.

This miserable tramp was Tad. He still carried his satchel, but that too was drenched, and when he stopped and groped in it for some food to stay the pangs of hunger, he pulled out only a squashy mess of pulp which had once called itself a penny roll, but which now bore no resemblance whatever—not even a family likeness—to that dainty.

With a sigh and a glance of disgust, Tad threw the sop into the ditch at the side of the road, and plodded on, splashing recklessly through the deep mud and puddles. The road, bounded on the right by cornfields, had run along the cliff keeping close to the coastline. But now the way cut straight across the shoulder of a promontory, and began to dip to a gorge on the further side, between mighty jagged walls where some long ago convulsion of nature had broken the cliff line of the shore.

This gully widened towards the beach, ending there, above high-water mark, in soft, deep, white sand which gleamed like silver in the moonlight.

To the heavy sleepful eyes of the traveller, the spot looked inviting enough. Sheltered from the wind, dry under foot, and as lonely and deserted as ever a fugitive and a vagabond could desire, this rocky, sand-carpeted nook seemed a very haven of refuge to poor Tad. Slowly and cautiously picking his way among the irregularities of the gorge, the forlorn lad clambered down, and presently found himself in the sandy corner which promised so welcome a refuge.

Here, by the white light of the moon, he crawled in and out among the rocks till he found a deep bed of dry sand with large boulders all round it, so that it was quite a sheltered nest, shutting out the keen autumn wind, and screening him too from observation, had there been anyone to see.

Here, then, nestling down among the rocks, and burrowing into the sand like a rabbit, poor Tad, lulled by the quiet, monotonous wash of the waves on the shingle lower down, fell sound asleep—so sound that he heard nothing, saw nothing. Till in broad daylight, he awoke suddenly with the feeling of something cold against his cheek. And starting up, he found a little rough cur gazing inquisitively into his face, with its comical head on one side. It was the little, chill, black nose of the animal rubbing against his cheek that had waked him.

Tad sprang to his feet alarmed. The sun was high in the heavens; the hour could not be far from noon. He had almost slept the clock round. Only half awake still, he stared about him with frightened eyes. Where there was a dog there might also be people—people who might have heard his story, and would perhaps recognise him for the hunted young scapegrace who was supposed to have done away with his little half-brother.

Hither and thither, with panic-stricken gaze, peered poor Tad, but no human form was in sight. He walked a few steps further to get a wider view of the shore. Rounding a corner of rock, he spied, in the cleft of a boulder, a gleam of colour. As he came nearer, he saw that the gleam of colour was the corner of a red bandanna kerchief tied round something, in the form of a bundle. But as the boy—cramped and stiff with lying for twelve hours in damp things—stooped painfully to examine the bundle, the dog leaped past him, and lay down by the rock with his forepaws on the knot of the kerchief. Made bold by hunger, and feeling sure the bundle contained food, Tad laid his hand upon it and tried to lift it, but as he did so, the dog growled and showed his teeth. Evidently the animal had been sent to guard the bundle, and the owner of both would be back presently.

By this time the boy was perfectly ravenous with hunger, and ready to do anything for a meal. He did not, however, wish to run the risk of being bitten, and so he at first tried to divert the dog's attention by throwing a stick towards the water for him to fetch. But the sharp little cur saw through his design, and would not budge an inch.

Then Tad took up an ocean cat-o'-nine-tails of tough, leathery seaweed, and tried to frighten the poor little beast away, but it only whined, and crouched still closer to the rock.

Made quite desperate by the little animal's faithful resistance, Tad at last dragged an old shirt out of his satchel, threw the clinging folds over the dog's head and body, tied the sleeves together round the little creature, and rolled it, struggling and snapping vainly, into a long, bolster-like bundle. This he laid down on the sand, with two large stones on the outer folds to keep the dog from extricating itself. Then he snatched up the red kerchief and unknotted it. Oh joy! What a delightful dinner met the glad eyes of the famished lad. Several thick slices of bread and butter, a couple of hard-boiled eggs, part of the heel of a Dutch cheese, and a solid-looking, brown-crusted, seed loaf, together with a tin flask of cold coffee.

Tad's first impulse was to sit right down, then and there, and gorge himself with the food. But fear for his safety mastered even the impulse of his hunger, and he remembered that the owner of the dog and the red bundle would certainly be returning soon.

Looking about him, uncertain what to do for the best, the lad espied a little boat, moored to a rock in shallow water, not very far from the place where he was standing. And the idea occurred to him that he might get to the boat by wading, row off to a little rocky islet about half a mile out to sea, and—

"Then," said he to himself, "I shall be safe, and I'll have time to think what to do next."

Another swift look round to see that no one was coming yet—then the boy ran down the beach, waded into the water, scrambled into a boat, and at once cast off the loop of string which held her to a jutting point of the rock.

The tide had turned, and away slipped the boat on a receding wave, into deeper water. For a few minutes Tad, in his great hunger, was so busy discussing the contents of the red bundle, that he was conscious of nothing else. But, as the first sharp pangs of famine were assuaged, he glanced about him, and seeing that the tide and current were carrying him away from the island, he threw down the remnants of his stolen meal, so as to take up the oars, which he had not thought of before.

What were the boy's feelings when he found that there were no oars in the boat at all; they must have been left on shore, together with the sail and the boat-hook.

With an exclamation of fear and horror, Tad turned his eyes despairingly towards the beach, hoping to see someone who would come in another boat to his rescue, for his little craft, borne swiftly on the ebb of the tide, was drifting steadily out to sea. But no—not a soul was in sight anywhere on land, and not a fishing-smack upon the water, far as the eye could reach.

Overwhelmed with despair at this new misfortune that had befallen him, and perceiving dimly that this, like the others, was clearly the outcome of his own wrong-doings, the poor lad in despair threw himself down in the bottom of his drifting boat, sobbing and crying till he fell asleep again from exhaustion; fell asleep rocked by the swaying and heaving of the waters; hushed into a deep and dreamless rest by their wash and whisper.

CHAPTER VII

With these words ringing in his ears, Tad sprang to his feet, nearly upsetting the little boat. The sun had gone down, the soft twilight was stealing over sea and sky, and close to him was a vessel, a good-sized schooner, laden with timber; even her decks were piled with it.

The skipper, a fat, red-headed, freckled man, with kind, blue eyes and a big voice, was looking over the ship's side at the poor solitary waif, in the oarless, sail-less boat, while another man threw a rope to Tad and called to him to catch hold. The boy had just sense enough to obey, and the sailor drew the boat close, and in a minute or two Tad was safe on the deck of the schooner.

"And how do you come to be making a voyage all by yourself?" cried a second sailor.

"What's up with your parents, I'd like to know," remarked a third, "that they lot you go to sea in a cockleshell?"

"Shut up, boys, and hold your noise, all of you!" said the red-haired man in a voice like a speaking-trumpet. "Time enough for all that later on. Can't you see, you three blind bats, that the lad's half dead with cold and hunger and fear? Here, Frank," he called to a tall boy who appeared just then from the cuddy with a big metal teapot in his hand, "take the youngster to your place, and let him have a wash and a warm, and then give him some tea and cold corned beef, and afterwards bring him below to me."

So, an hour later, poor Tad, clean and comfortable, and with his appetite satisfied, was ushered into the trim cabin, where the skipper sat finishing his own meal.

"Now then, my young voyager," said he, as Tad stood silently before him, "give an account of yourself! How did you happen to be floatin' round in the sea, as I found you?"

"We're bound for Granville with Norwegian pine," said the skipper; "and as I can't alter my course for you, you've got to go along of me."

"Then I don't see but what we must stop the ship, and put you aboard your small boat—as we're towin' at this present moment—and let you drift; then, as sure as my name's Jeremiah Jackson, you'll go to the bottom of the sea the first breeze that comes. If you like that better than France, I'll give the orders at once." And the big skipper laughed.

"Well, sir," said Tad, after a minute's reflection, "maybe, arter all, it won't be such a bad thing for me to go to France, considerin'—"

"Considerin' what, boy? Now then, make a clean breast of it and tell the truth."

The captain gave a low whistle, and a quick glance at the lad's downcast face, then he said:

"Well sir—to tell the truth, there's several things I done, but the perlice ain't arter me for them. It's for the things I ain't done that they're arter me."

"It seems to me you must be clean off your head, child, to tell me such nonsense," remarked the skipper. "Now then, try and give me something I can believe."

So plucking up courage, and seeing real kindness in the fat skipper's face, Tad told his story, beginning with the home miseries and his longing to revenge himself on his stepmother; then his making off with his little half-brother, and the disappearance of the child with the gipsies; his subsequent adventures and escapes, his thefts and dodges and lies, and the misfortune that had followed him all the way through—all this Tad told without keeping back anything.

Jeremiah Jackson listened attentively, only interrupting the boy's narrative now and again to ask a question, if Tad's hesitating speech did not succeed in making his meaning clear.

But when the lad paused at last, adding only, "That's all, sir," the skipper said:

"Yes, sir," rejoined Tad; "everything's gone agen me from the first; I can't think why."

"Shall I tell you?" asked Jeremiah, a kind, pitying look coming into his blue eyes, and making his big broad face almost beautiful; "it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks." Then, seeing that Tad did not understand, he added, "When we set out on a wrong and dangerous road, lad, we can scarce wonder—it seems to me—if we meets with ill luck. S'posin' now, that instead of gettin' out my chart and studyin' my course, careful and sure, I just let the ship drive afore the wind, whose fault would it be, think you, Teddie Poole, if we run slap up agen a rock and come to be a wreck? But judgin' from what you've been tellin' me, that's very like what you done."

Tad was silent. Deep down in his heart, where his conscience was awakening, he felt the truth of what the skipper said.

"I know it's been very hard for you, my poor boy. I don't wonder you wanted to run away from home, nor I don't blame you for doin' it—things bein' as they was. But the trick you played on your stepmother was a mean thing, and it's out of this wrong-doin' that all the rest of the bad things has come, makin' of you a thief and a vagabond."

"Well," said the skipper, "maybe you won't relish what I'm goin' to say, but if I was you I'd ask this here old Jeremiah Jackson to carry me back to England when he sails from Granville in a week's time for Southampton. And then, lad, I'd make the best of my way home again—even if I had to tramp it; and I'd tell the bobbies and my dad too the whole truth, and take brave and patient anything as comes after, whether it be the lock-up or a good hidin'. No, Teddie Poole, don't look at me so! That would be the straight, right, manly thing to do, and what's more, it would be the Christian thing too."

Tad hung his head. Jeremiah Jackson had asked a hard thing, a very hard thing. And yet the good man's words had touched him; he felt the skipper was right. But he shrank from all that he felt sure awaited him at home. The thought of his stepmother's relentless wrath daunted him. He could almost see her frowning, hateful face, and hear his father's stern voice and hard words. All that he must do and suffer if he took the course suggested to him, came to his mind now, and overwhelmed him with dread.

"Think it out, lad, to-night," said Jeremiah, "and ask the good Lord Who ain't far—so the Scripture says—from anyone of us, to help you to do the right, and leave the rest with Him."

CHAPTER VIII

THE "Stormy Petrel," as Jeremiah Jackson's vessel was called, remained nearly a week at Granville, discharging her cargo, and loading again with various goods for Southampton.

During these days Tad was in a miserably uncertain state of mind. At one time he would almost resolve to take the good skipper's advice, and go home to face bravely anything that might happen. At another, he shrank from the thought of returning, and felt as though he could far more easily brave any amount of unknown dangers, than go back to the home troubles that he knew so well.

On the afternoon of the day before the schooner was to sail, Tad was standing about on the wharf feeling very unhappy, and very uncertain as to what course to take. While he wandered listlessly round, he met a boy about twelve years of age, with a monkey in his arms. A small organ was strapped across the lad's shoulders, and when he turned the handle of the instrument, it ground out a horrible parody of a popular French tune, and the monkey, leaping from its bearer's arms, danced a queer kind of hornpipe on the top of the organ, tossing its little red cap in the air, and pretending to be in the best of good spirits. What a feeble pretence this was, however, even Tad could see, for the poor little beast had a face almost as pinched and woebegone as that of the organ boy, and that was saying a great deal.

As it happened, Tad was still mooning over the second half of his dinner, so much absorbed was he in perplexing thought. All on board the schooner had been too busy that day to have a proper dinner set out, and Tad had received his rations of bread and salt pork, and a substantial baked apple dumpling, and had been told to go on shore and eat it there. The bread and meat had been eaten, and the first hunger being appeased, Tad had once more fallen into a brown study, out of which he was roused only when the poor little organ lad and his monkey had come quite near, and were casting longing glances upon the dumpling which Tad held—only half folded in paper—in his hand.

The mute language of want is one which the eyes speak very plainly. At least this language is plain enough to those who have suffered from hunger, and Tad knew only too well what it was to be hungry. So when he saw the longing look in the eyes both of boy and beast, he promptly handed over his dumpling, and for a while forgot his own troubles in the delight with which his bounty was received.

The organ boy broke off a generous piece first for his little charge, then sitting down in a quiet corner of the wharf, he began to eat his own share, gratefully smiling and nodding his thanks to Tad, but not saying a word.

"The little chap's a Frenchman, for sure," said Tad to himself, "and can't speak no English, and he sees plain enough as how I ain't a countryman of his. That's why he don't try to talk to me. Still he may have learned a few words of English while he carried his organ round; I'll try him and see if he understands me."

"Look here," said Tad, laying a hand on the little lad's shoulder to arrest his attention, "are you a French boy, or what?"

The child shook his head, but whether this meant that he was not a French boy or that he did not understand what was being said to him, Tad could not tell.

"I do wish I knowed if you can understand what I says to you," said Tad; "I'd like to have a talk with you if you do but understand and speak a little bit of English. Now, what's your name?"

"Hush, not so loud! I'm English, like you; my name's Phil Bates, but I've a French master, and he's forbidden me to speak to any of my own people, and if he catches me at it, don't he beat me just!"

His tone and manner were quiet and restrained, and his language more refined than might have been expected in a boy of his appearance and employment.

"Oh, my aunt, (her I lived with after father and mother died) she sort of sold me to old Foxy. She was poor and had some children of her own, and was glad to be rid of me, and so Foxy (Renard is his name) gave a half sov for me, and he's got me, worse luck!"

"No, Foxy went over to England for something or other. We was livin' not far from Southampton, and he happened to see me standin' at auntie's cottage door, and her close by. And says he to her in that wonderful lingo of his, 'Mine good womans, is dis so pretty boy your own cheaild?'

"So then Foxy says, 'It is for such boy dat I am looking, good madame; dis one will be quaite suit for my work, and I will give truly gold for him, one piece of ten shilling for the cheaild, and wat you call half crown for his clothes—all dat he have. So den mine good womans, is dis one bargain?'

"Yes, in course he did. Well—my aunt she says 'No' when he asks her if that was a bargain, and she cried a bit and said somethin' about her poor dead sister's child, and cried again and said 'Yes' to Foxy, and—well—here I am!"

And the boy stuffed the last remnant of the apple dumpling into his mouth, and getting up, slung the organ over his shoulder, and took the monkey in his arms again. He was just moving away, when a harsh, hoarse voice behind Tad said angrily:

"And wat is dis dat I hear? Can it be dat de boy Anglais wat am in my care to learn de French language have once again disobey, and is speaking his mudder tongue? Ah, mine cheaild, you did not tink dat over dere, hiding and watching 'mong de rubbidge on de water side, was your master! But now who am you?" went on Renard, addressing himself to Tad, "and how come you to dis country?"

"I came on that schooner," replied the lad, pointing towards the "Stormy Petrel."

"Den widout doubt you shall return to Angleterre in dis same boat?" suggested the man.

"La France is a lov'ly country, mon cher," remarked Renard. "It shall be better for you to stay here; go not back across de sea."

"But I ain't got nothin' to do here," said Tad. "No country's lovely when a chap's starvin'."

"Good! Den hark at me!" said Foxy, laying one brown, claw-like hand on Tad's shoulder, and fixing his yellow-green eyes on the boy's face. "Let sail away dat ship, and you take service wid me. Philipe here, and his so lov'ly monkey shall your camarades be, and we weel go togedder about, and all so gay happy be—eh?"

Tad did not answer. Here again was an offer which he did not find it easy either to accept or refuse. Instinctively, he shrank from this cat-eyed man, with his repulsive face and his strange lingo. And yet, would he be worse off with him than with his home people? For all Tad's lessons—hard though they had been—had not yet taught him that to choose the right—however unpromising—was the only safe way. He was still on the lookout for the easiest and pleasantest path through life, and had no thought of seeking first the kingdom of heaven and the righteousness of God.

Renard waited quietly for a minute or two, furtively watching the boy's face. Tad glanced round and saw him, and recoiled from him as from some poisonous reptile. Indeed his fear of the man was so real that he hesitated to say the words which would pledge him to this new and strange service. Perhaps after all he would have decided to return with Jeremiah Jackson to England, had not Phil, the organ boy, gazed wistfully up into Tad's eyes, whispering "Do—do join us! I'm that lonely and desp'rate as I don't know how to bear myself."

"You really want me?" said Tad, to whom—after all his many experiences—the thought of being wanted by some one was very sweet.

"That settles it, then!" said Tad. "All right, mister," he added, turning to Renard, "I don't mind working for you, only what about wages?"

"Ah, mine good friend, we shall talk of dat leetle affairs later. And for de present, will you not fetch your tings from de boat?" suggested Foxy with a leer that showed a line of black, ragged stumps of teeth.

"I've got nothin' save a very few clothes," answered Tad, "but I'll bring 'em at once, and say good-bye to Jeremiah Jackson at the same time."

"Jeremie Jacqueson?" repeated Foxy. "Say you dat he is de man wat sailed you to la France?"

"De matter is dat you shall not make your adieu to Jeremie," replied Foxy with a threatening look. "He is enemy of me, and he weel hold you back and not suffer you to come wid me."

"Nonsense, mister," said Tad, "he's got no right to interfere; I can do as I please."

"Fetch dose tings of your, but say not one leetle word to Jeremie of old Renard; so den all will go well, and when de ship sail, you shall be far from here, and Jeremie, my enemy, finds you not."

Once more Tad hesitated. This secrecy did not please him; and besides, it seemed ungrateful to leave the good skipper without a word of acknowledgment and farewell.

The wily Frenchman saw the hesitation, and determined to clinch the matter once for all.

"Ma foi, mine boy!" said he roughly. "If it like you not to do wat I tell you, go—go to your Jeremie, and come not back. I shall find oders dat weel be enchante to work for good, kind, old Renard," and the man took little Phil by the arm and began to walk away.

"Stop, stop, mister!" cried Tad. "Wait for me. I'll just run on board for my things, and I'll be with you in a minute. I promise I won't tell the skipper nothin', as you say he ain't no friend of yours."

Tad kept his word, and in three minutes he had joined the Frenchman and little Phil, and thereby started on a new and perilous road in his journey of life.

CHAPTER IX

OLD Renard, as Tad soon found, was a Jack-of-all-trades. He could turn his hand to most things, though he did no sort of work well or thoroughly. But he was a bit of a tinker, a basket-maker, and mender; he could do a bit of rough cobbling for any villager who wanted a pair of boots mended; he could put a passable patch in a pair of trousers; and he could even play the dentist after a fashion of his own, and take out teeth, often getting a sound tooth by mistake, and very cheerfully giving any amount of pain for his fee.

Then, too, he was a bit of a pedlar, and generally carried about with him a box of cheap jewellery, relics, and knick-knacks, on which, by aid of his glib tongue, he made a fair profit. He also sold patent pills and ointments and quack remedies to the ignorant folk, besides earning many a dishonest penny by the telling of their fortunes. But it was by the lads in his employ that he made the most regular part of his income, and Tad soon found that his new work was by no means a bed of roses, and that old Foxy was quite as fully bent upon making him serve with rigour, as were the old Egyptian task-masters with their Israelite bondsmen.

Every morning, early, Phil and Tad were sent out into the streets of any town in which they happened to be. Phil had his little organ and monkey Jacko, and Tad was obliged to carry a much larger and noisier instrument, which sent forth a hoarse mingling of howl and screech when he turned the stiff handle, eliciting much bad language from people condemned to listen to it.

Every day the lads were compelled to give their master a certain sum. Sometimes they earned a little more, sometimes less, but not a sou did he ever abate of the sum to be paid to him; and if the required amount were not forthcoming every night on their return, the boys met with punishment more or less severe, according to the state of intoxication reached at the time by their master. For Renard was a heavy drinker, though seldom helplessly drunk. His was a head accustomed to alcohol, and he could take a great deal without other results than to make him quarrelsome and violent. But in the later stages of his drinking bouts, he became utterly unreasonable and a perfect savage, beating the lads unmercifully, and using horrible language.

It was only when he was tired out, exhausted with his own violence, that he fell into a deep sleep, and then the two English boys dared to talk freely after they lay down to rest, exchanging confidences, telling their respective stories, and giving each other the sympathy which was now their only comfort.

To ensure that his little slaves did not run away from him, Renard had taken from them everything that belonged to them save the poor clothes they wore. He had sold their little possessions and pocketed the proceeds; and now he chuckled with an evil triumph as they left him in the morning, for he well knew that even if they tried to escape from the bondage in which he held them, they could not get far. Without money, or articles which they could turn into money, and also without friends—what could they do in a foreign land? Even the so-called musical instruments they carried were worthless, and no pawnbroker in his senses would have advanced ten centimes upon them.

So passed the days and weeks, and autumn merged into winter. Frost and sleet and bitter winds made the lives of the poor boys yet harder to bear.

Scantily fed, yet more scantily clothed, housed like dogs, their suffering was great, while old Foxy appeared to take a malicious pleasure in their misery, and taunted them cruelly when he saw them especially downhearted and sad.

At first Tad bore all these new troubles with a kind of dogged, stubborn patience. Even such a life as this, he told himself, was better than that he had led at home, and as he had made up his mind to rough it, rough it he would.

But after a while the growing brutality of Renard roused the lad's hatred and instinct of retaliation, and the man himself would have shrunk in startled horror, had he guessed what dark and murderous thoughts began to fill the brain of this poor, ill-used drudge of his.

But it never occurred to old Foxy that there might be danger to himself resulting from his treatment of the lads if he drove them to desperation. He had no notion of their doing anything worse than trying to run away, or possibly robbing him of food or a few sous; and if they did either of these things, he thought he knew how to deal with them.

Time went on, and now Christmas was close at hand: at least it wanted only ten days to the twenty-fifth, a festive season for many, but not for poor Phil and Tad. Poor gentle little Phil was sadder than ever now, for the great cold had killed Jacko, and the boy, who had dearly loved his little companion, grieved sorely over his loss, and clung the more closely to Tad as his only friend and sole comforter.

One day Renard and the lads were tramping along a high road, on their way to a place some miles away. Stopping to rest awhile and eat their poor dinner, they were joined by two men who were evidently known to Renard.

The newcomers, after a little talk, drew old Foxy away from the spot where the boys were seated munching their crusts and drinking cold barley coffee out of a bottle. Here the men were quite out of earshot, and a whispered conversation commenced, which seemed, from the mysterious faces and gestures of the speakers, to be of the utmost interest and importance.

Presently it appeared that the two men were to accompany Renard and his boys on their journey, for when dinner was over, all rose and walked together towards the town, which was reached about nightfall.

The lads slept on straw in a shed in the suburbs that night, and would have been thankful to rest undisturbed till morning, for they were very weary. But they were roused about midnight by their master's hissing whisper:

Tad sat up staring straight before him, only half awake, while Phil rubbed his heavy eyes and groaned.

"Why," said Tad, "surely it's the middle of the night, master; what do you want with us? We are both tired and need to sleep."

"Hold dat tongue of yours, and get you up," replied Foxy sharply; "dat is all you have to do. And be queek if you would not haf the steek."

So very weary, and full of fear and foreboding, the boys rose and followed Foxy out into the road, where, much to their surprise, a light spring cart and good horse were awaiting them, the two strange men sitting in front.

"Now then, Renard," said Paul, the one who held the reins, "in with the children and yourself! The luggage is in already, you say? Good! Now are you ready?"

"They are all in, Paul," said Jean, his companion; "drive on, my friend; anyway it will be one o'clock before we get there."

Paul drew the whip across the horse's flanks, the animal sprang forward, fell into a spanking trot, and soon left the little town far behind.

CHAPTER X

THE lads dared not exchange even so much as a whisper during their drive, for old Foxy was close beside them in the back of the cart. But both Phil and Tad felt that they had cause for dread now if never before. Anything so unusual as a midnight drive, in the company, too, of strangers, had never happened before, and the poor boys, as they thought over everything, realised that a crisis of some sort was at hand.

Of the two, Tad was the more miserable. With him, hitherto, temptation had invariably meant yielding, had brought fresh sin and new troubles. And now he feared lest once more he should fall and sink yet deeper in the mire.

Since Phil and he had been constant companions, Tad's conscience had once more awakened. He felt that Phil was a far better boy than he was himself, for in all the trials, the troubles, the miseries that had befallen this poor orphan child, he had not lost his honesty, his truthfulness, nor his simple faith in God.

Tad was conscious of this, and aware, too, for the first time for years, of a longing now and again to be a better lad, more like pure-hearted, gentle little Phil; for there was growing up in his heart for this friend and fellow-sufferer of his, a great love such as he had not hitherto thought he could feel for anyone.

The truest of all books tells us that even a child is known by his doings, whether they be pure and whether they be right; and Tad, so strong in his self-will, and so weak in temptation, had taken knowledge of his little friend, and had come to know that in this frail boy there was a certain moral strength wanting in himself.

And now an occasional glance at Phil's small, pale face as the white moonlight fell upon it set Tad wondering why this child was so different from himself, and whether the events of this night would bring to them both serious consequences, or leave them as they found them.

He was still deep in thought when the cart stopped. For some time it had been driven across what looked like a common, a wide open space, with no buildings of any sort upon it; but now the halt was made at a little gate, almost hidden by the bushy growth of underwood and young trees forming a copse, which began where the common ended, and which, though bare and leafless now, cast a deep shadow over the road.

In silence the driver and his companion got down from the front seat, and Renard and the boys from the back. Tad noticed that the man Paul took from under the seat a small canvas bag, in which some things rattled, and also a little parcel which he slipped into his coat pocket. The boys looked at each other, a vague horror and fear dawning in their faces—a foreboding of danger.

Summoning up his sinking courage, Tad touched Renard on the arm, and said in a whisper:

"Dat's not you beezness," he replied. "You keep wid me and speak not." And taking the boys by the arm, one on each side, he strode on behind the driver and his mate, their feet making no sound on the moss-grown pathways along the deep shadows of which Paul now and again turned the light of a lantern, so that the little party could see where they were going.

Presently the copse ended in another gateway which led into a garden, and here, with flower-beds and ornamental trees all round it, in a situation which, in summer time, must have been beautiful indeed, stood an old-fashioned, quaint, two-storeyed house. A wing, on the right of the building, extended as far as what apparently was a stable yard, for it was divided from the garden by a wall and a high gate. As the men and lads stood—still within the shadow of the trees—looking about them, the deep growl and bark of a large dog sounded from the further side of the wall.

"Hark at that!" whispered Renard to Paul. "It must cease or our journey is fruitless."

Slipping off his shoes, and signing to his companions to follow his example, he trod noiselessly across the gravel-walk, and reaching the gate in a few strides, flung the meat over.

There was a little fierce rush and growl, a savage snap of powerful jaws and click of hungry teeth, then a muffled, choking howl, a smothered groan, and silence.

After waiting a minute or two, Paul stole back to the little group still standing in the deep shadow.

"That one will bark no more," remarked he. "Now come—there is nothing to fear. The monsieur and his lady are quite old, and there are only women servants in the place. Follow me."

And Paul led the way round the house to the back, where a little scullery or wash-house was built out into the garden, with the kitchen apparently behind it. In the wall of the scullery, a small window was open.

Paul now whispered a few words in Renard's ear. And the latter nodded and said, "Oui, parfaitement," then turned to the boys, who stood by wondering what was coming next.

For a minute or so, old Foxy looked first at one of the lads, then at the other, then back at the window, as though measuring with his eye the available space. At last, making up his mind, he leaned forward, and spoke in Phil's ear:

"Philipe, you shall go in dere, and tro' de house, and you weel for us open de big door or a weendow if de door be deeficult. Hear you?"

Tad's scared eyes were fixed upon his friend's face, and he saw the thin cheeks blanch, but the boy's gaze, fixed upon Foxy, was clear and steadfast, and his pale lips were resolute.

"Ma foi! Why answer you not, Philipe?" said his master, after a moment's silence. "Hear you?"

"Yes, master, I hear," replied the boy, in a low, firm voice that somehow thrilled Tad to the heart.

"Den do wat I tell. Go in dere!" And Renard pointed a crooked forefinger at the window. "Queek, queek!" added he, as Phil did not stir, "or you weel be sorry." And a threatening look in the man's dark, evil face gave emphasis to his words.

Tad held his breath with a strange, mingled feeling of horror, wonder, and admiration, as he saw his little companion draw himself up, and look straight and unfaltering into Foxy's green eyes. Another moment, and the childish voice said firmly:

"Wat is dat you say? You weel not?" said Foxy in an angry whisper. "But wait a leetle, it am you dat shall pay later, when old Renard give you de steek." Then he turned to Tad and said: "You did hear me wat I say to Philipe; well now I tell you same. Go you in dere and open to us, Edouard."

Tad met his cruel master's wicked, green eyes, then glanced at Paul and Jean, who were impatiently waiting. The lad's courage was a poor one at best, and though he well knew that the crime of burglary was intended, and that he was required to help the burglars, he would never have found strength to withstand the pressure put upon him, had not Phil just at that moment laid his little, frail hand on his friend's shoulder and said:

"Brave it out, Tad! Don't give in!" And then Tad heard the boy add under his breath: "O Lord, please help us, and save us from being wicked."

"Will I?" repeated Tad, shamed out of his cowardice by Phil's example. "Will I, master? No, then—I just won't, so there!"

CHAPTER XI

RENARD turned in a white rage towards the men, Paul and Jean, who were standing impatiently waiting for the result of the parley with the two lads.

"What can I do?" he whispered, his utterance thick with passion. "One cannot use force; there might be an outcry which would rouse the whole house. What then is to be done?"

"Since you have failed, Renard, in your half of the bargain," said he, "you cannot expect to share in the profits. Go away now, you and these useless boys of yours."

"Enough, Renard; go without more words. Your belongings which are in the cart we will leave at No. 9 in the village to-morrow. There—that is all we have to say to you—now go."

With a snarl of savage disappointment and rage, Renard, taking the boys by the arm, led them away down the dark, shady walk by which they had come, and out once more into the road, where, under the shadow of two great trees, stood the cart and the patient horse.

"Oh, but you weel pay for dis, mine sweet boys!" muttered Renard, as he dragged the reluctant lads along. "Yes, you weel pay for dis—as de English say—tro' de nose. Dis night you have make me lose lot of moneys, and old Renard, he forgives not; dat you shall remember for effer. Amen."

A village well-known to Foxy was not far distant, and towards this he now led the two boys, muttering awful threats in mingled French and English, and swearing horribly under his breath. When they hung back, or for a moment struggled to free themselves, his cruel clutches forced them on.

In this fashion the village was reached, a place which at this hour looked like a little city of the dead, for there was not a light in the one straggling street of which the hamlet consisted. But Renard went straight to a small house standing back a few paces from the crooked thoroughfare in a narrow strip of weed-grown garden. Here he knocked in a peculiar way—not at the door, but at the window, and in a minute or two the door was opened to him. A few words passed between him and the man who opened the door, then Renard and the boys were shown into a room on the ground floor, where were two straw mattresses and a couple a three-legged stools and a table.

Setting down the candle which the owner of the house had given him, Foxy locked the door, and pulled off his rusty overcoat, first drawing from one of the pockets a coil of stout cord. Then sitting down on one of the stools, he proceeded to twist and knot this cord, until he had fashioned out of it a kind of rough cat-o'-nine-tails or scourge. But he glanced up now and again, and the malignant look on his ugly face—a mingling of frown and leer, full of evil triumph and covert menace—sent a shudder of fearful expectation through the chilled forms of the two lads huddled together on one of the straw mattresses.

In a few minutes the instrument of punishment was completed, and Renard, getting up from his seat, came towards the bed, and brandishing his scourge, said to Tad:

"Now, Edouard, hark to me! You shall take this wiep and you weel beat Philipe teel I tell you assez—enough. And as for you, Philipe, put off your coat, dat do wiep may work well. So! Allons! Begeen, and forget not dat you master is—"

"What!" cried Tad, aghast. "What, master! You want me to set upon this poor little chap and flog him? You don't mean it—you can't!"

"Mais certainement I mean it!" replied Foxy, showing his teeth. "Take dis wiep of cords and beat well Philips, or—" and the man's face assumed a yet more evil and threatening aspect.

"Don't anger him no more, dear Tad," said Phil in a whisper. "Do as he tells you. I can bear it. I ain't afeared of a thrashin' that I haven't deserved. There, I'm quite ready, and you'll see I won't cry nor make a sound."

But Tad that night had learned a great lesson while he stood with the burglars outside the little window of the outhouse. He had seen this gentle little lad brave the utmost that three villains could do to him, rather than commit a crime in obedience to their commands—a crime of which, but for Phil's example, Tad felt that he himself should certainly have been guilty.

And now—could he inflict pain upon this brave child, for fear of anything Renard could do? No—the lesson had not been lost upon the lad. True he had been on the downward track ever since he ran away from home, but here was the chance for a step up. Once more a chance lay before him, and his resolve was taken.

Pulling himself together, he rose and faced Renard, looking full in the cruel green eyes without flinching.

"Master," said he firmly, "Phil is little, and I'm big, and what's more, he haven't done nothin' wrong, and I ain't a-goin' to lay a finger on him—not for you nor no one. I won't—no matter what you say nor what you do."

For a minute old Foxy stared at the lad, hardly able to believe his own ears. But when Tad repeated: "I wouldn't do master, not if it were ever so," the man raised his sinewy right arm and with a blasphemous oath struck him down upon the mattress where Phil was lying. Then snatching up the scourge which he had dropped for a moment in the surprise of Tad's refusal to obey him, he began to use it upon both the boys, Tad managing to cover his little friend, now and again, with his own broader back, thus shielding him from many a blow.

The flogging went on till Renard's arm was tired and weak. Then he flung the instrument of torture aside, and going back to the corner where he had thrown his coat, he drew out of one of its capacious pockets a bottle of spirit, and sitting down upon the second mattress, began to drink, muttering ominously the while.

We have said that, as a rule, Foxy only became more excited and furious the more he took, and that he managed to stop short of the helpless stage. But this night, either because he was more weary than usual, or that he had a greater craving for the stimulant in which he habitually indulged, he went on drinking steadily until he passed from the raving and excited stage into a drunken stupor, and at last rolled over on the straw couch quite unconscious, the now empty bottle escaping from his listless hand.

For a little while Tad and Phil lay still. Sore and aching all over, they had eagerly watched their master in the various stages of his intoxication, and now they half feared lest he should be only shamming, to see what they would do.

But at last his stertorous breathing convinced the lads that he was in a stupor. Tad was the first to sit up, and Phil, glancing at him, was frightened at the expression of his friend's face. The eyes were hard and sullen, the mouth rigid, and a dogged scowl was sot deep between the brows.

"Now at last," said Tad with a gasp, "we can take some kind of revenge upon that brute for all he's made us suffer. I'd like to kill him—I would; he deserves it. But I suppose we must be content with robbin' him. Where does he keep the tin, Phil?"

The younger lad caught Tad's arm with a look of fear and horror. "Are you crazy, Tad?" he whispered. "Do you want to be as wicked as he is? After standin' out agen bein' burglars, are we goin' to be common thieves! Think, Tad—only think a moment! You must be well-nigh off your head, dear old boy, to speak of such a thing."

"Yes, that's true; and so let's clear out, and run away from Foxy. Better starve or die of cold alone and out in the open than live longer with this brute. Come, Tad—come quick, afore he wakes up."

"But we can't get out," whispered the elder lad. "Foxy locked the door, and the key's in his right trouser pocket, and he's lyin' on that side; we can't get it nohow."

"Then we'll get out at the winder," replied Phil. "See, it opens down the middle, and we can just squeeze through. Be quick, Tad; Foxy's snorin' like a hog now, but he may wake at any time."

Picking up their coats and caps, the boys opened the window, and just managed to get through, though for Tad it was a pretty tight fit.

Then away they went, lame, battered, and sore with their recent blows, but running at their best pace down the dark, crooked street, pausing not even to take breath, until they found themselves well outside the village, with miles of quiet open country stretching away before them, and a faint dawn just streaking the far-off east.

CHAPTER XII

"THERE'S one thing I wish we'd been able to do," said Phil, as soon as he could get breath enough to speak.

"Warn the people at that house we went to rob, and let 'em know there was burglars about," replied Phil. "I never thought of it till now, but we might have set up a screech or a loud whistle just to wake folks, and maybe frighten Paul and Jean and Foxy."

"All the same," rejoined Phil the uncompromising, "I think we ought to have done it."

"Well, we can't help ourselves now," remarked Tad, with a sigh of relief, for his was not a martyr's spirit, and it had never occurred to him to reproach himself until Phil suggested that they had neglected their duty.

"No," he repeated, "we can't help ourselves now; it's hours since we left them fellows, and any mischief as was to be done has been done already. So it's no good goin' back, to say nothin' of our bein' sure to meet Foxy."

"We mustn't get into his hands no more, whatever happens," said he; "but he'll try and catch us, you may be sure, Tad."

"Yes," assented Tad, "we know too much about him not to be dangerous now we've run away. So of course he'll want to find us, and we'll have to look out."

"We'd better not keep to the high roads in the daytime," said Phil; "if we do, he's sure to track us sooner or later."

"The thing is, what can we do? Where can we go?" muttered Tad more to himself than to his companion. "Have you any money, Phil?"

"Nor I. And how we're to get food and shelter, or find work to keep us, goodness knows."

"God knows," corrected Phil gravely, "and it's a comfort He does know. But now come on, Tad; we must put some miles between us and old Foxy afore the next few hours is over."

For another half-hour they trudged along the road, talking busily, and trying to form some plan of action for the future. By this time the sun was rising, and the tardy winter morn had begun.

"We must take to the fields now," said Phil. "We mustn't be seen on the road by any folks goin' to market, for old Foxy will be sure to ask everybody he meets if they've seen us, and if they had, why, it would end in our bein' nabbed. Come along, Tad!"

So the boys left the highway, and clambering over a gate, walked along a strip of low marsh-land, which was, however, dry now with the frost.

Here, sheltered from view by the hedge, they followed the windings of the road for some distance, feeling quite safe. But as the morning advanced, and the excitement of their escape subsided, the pangs of hunger and thirst became almost intolerable. And when they spied in the distance a little house standing among trees, they resolved to go there and beg for something to eat.

As they approached nearer, they saw that the house was not an ordinary cottage, but a substantial and neatly built, though small, building of two storeys. It had a stable and coach-house at the back, and a little yard where cocks and hens were crowing and clucking over a feed of grain just thrown out to them.

A pale, dark-eyed, sad-faced woman answered the timid knock at the door which Tad gave.

"What would you, my children?" she asked gently. "You look weary and ill. What ails you? Tell me!" And her kind eyes rested with a wondering pity upon Phil, whose thin, patient, white little face appealed to her motherly heart.

"We are starving, madame," said Tad, in the queer French he had picked up during his short stay in France; "and we have not a sou to buy bread. Will you, of your goodness, give us something to eat, that we may have strength to pursue our journey?"

"Oui, certainement," replied the woman kindly. "Come into my kitchen, children; there sit down by the hearth, and warm yourselves, while I make ready for you."

Soon a plentiful meal of hot milk and bread, and thick pancakes of buckwheat flour, was put before them. As the famished lads ate and drank their fill, their hospitable hostess paused now and again in her work, to smile at them approvingly, and heap their plates, and replenish their cups with a fresh supply of food and drink.

At last the cravings of appetite were satisfied, and seeing how weary and sleepy the boys looked, the good woman said:

"Listen, my children; I can see that you need rest; indeed one would think you had had no sleep all night. Now there is clean straw laid on the floor of my apple room, at the back of the house. Would you not like to lie down there and rest—both of you—for a few hours?"

"And thank you, oh, thank you for your goodness!" said Phil, glancing up gratefully with wistful, moistened eyes. For after all that the boys had known of late of hardship, privation, and above all of cruelty—they could hardly accept without tears, the motherly kindness of this gentle-hearted stranger.

She led them to the back of the house, and opening a door, ushered them into the little room where the winter fruit stores were kept. On shelves round the walls were arranged, in tidy rows, on clean paper, rosy-cheeked apples, and hard, sound, brownish-green baking pears, while on the straw in one corner reposed several enormous golden pumpkins. Dried herbs of many kinds hung in bunches from strings carried across the room just below the rafters of the low roof, and little lath boxes of various seeds had a small shelf all to themselves. But on the floor, at the corner of the room furthest from the door, was a thick mass of fresh straw and hay, dry and fragrant, and to this the woman pointed.

As they crept thankfully into their cosy bed, she went and fetched a horse-blanket and covered them carefully with such sweet, womanly tenderness, that Phil caught her hand and kissed it, and Tad looked up into the kind, sad face, his own softened and made beautiful by gratitude. Then with a gentle "Sleep well, my children!" their new friend left them to their repose.

The boys must have slept about eight hours, for when they awoke it seemed to be late in the afternoon. The sun was no longer shining in through the slats of the shutter window; indeed the daylight appeared already to be on the wane. Moreover, a voice which somehow was familiar, and dreamily associated in their minds with something distinctly unpleasant, sounded in their ears, and presently roused them to full consciousness.

And the boy sat up, the old, fearful, hunted look coming back into the face just lately so serene in sleep.

"Yes—but don't you know the voice?" gasped Tad. "It's that man Paul, one of them burglars."

"No, no," rejoined Tad; "but p'raps this is where he lives, and maybe he's just got home. Listen, Phil; we'd better be quite sure it's he, and if the woman's told him anything, afore we makes up our mind what to do."

Still as mice, the lads lay buried in the straw under the blanket, and listened breathlessly. Part of the talk they could not hear, only a low murmur of two voices reaching their ears.

"Enough, Claudine; why waste my time and patience with those everlasting remonstrances of thine? See here, could all thy industry or mine, year in, year out, win such a pretty bauble as this?"

Here there was a pause, as though the man were showing the woman something. Then he went on:

"Let me put it about thy neck, my dear! Why dost thou draw back? It is but a plain gold cross and chain such as any woman may wear; take it!"

"Never, Paul," replied the woman's voice passionately. "Never will I wear stolen goods. Oh, my husband!—" And here her voice broke, and she went on sobbingly, "thou art breaking my heart and spoiling my life and thine own. Think how happy we were only a short time ago, before the evil days of thy friendship with Jean Michel and his companions! Why not be content with honest labour, instead of living in fear and remorse as we must? For this is now the third time that thou hast returned from a bad night's work, bringing me gifts which I can but refuse as accursed things."

"The things I bring home are but a little love-token for thee, Claudine. The rest of our booty finds its way to the smelting-pot of our Hebrew friends in the town, and thenceforth tells no tales. And as for my safety, wife, no fears. We work in crape masks, and we cover our tracks with skill. The only danger is now and then from our accomplices."

Then the man told his wife how he and Jean had been joined by Renard and his lads on the previous night, and how, at the last moment, the boys had refused to do their master's bidding, so that Renard and they had been ordered off as worse than useless for the job they had in hand.

"And the danger is," added Paul, "lest that dirty old rascal or one of the brats should carry some story about us to the police, just out of spite. As it was, we had a great deal of needless trouble. Had the boys been content to enter and open to us, all would have been so simple, so easy. But since they refused, we were forced to break in, and this made noise, and some of the household were roused, so that we could not get all we had hoped; and this, after our precautions, and our clever poisoning of the dog, was too bad! Ah!" added Paul fiercely. "Could I but lay hands on those two little rascals, I would teach them to disobey again!"

"Did they then refuse to enter and open to thee and thy companions, Paul?" asked the woman.

"Yes, they said they would not go, and even the threats of their master availed not; and we could not use force for fear of an outcry."

"Tell me, what like were the lads?" inquired Claudine. "Were they small or big? French or—"

"Why, wife, what makes then so curious about a matter that, of a truth, concerns thee not?" said Paul suspiciously. "Thou art never likely to set eyes upon the young miscreants. That greedy old bag-of-bones—Renard, the thief, mountebank, tailor, tinker, and what not—has got the lads, body and soul, and he is not likely to let them out of his sight."

"No, certainly not. With their master they spoke the English tongue, and a hard, jaw-breaking, cursed language it is too. One of the boys was little with a pale face, and the other taller, with a big round head like one of thine own pumpkins, Claudine. Ah, let me but catch them, the young monkeys! And in the space of ten minutes, no one should know them for the same children."

To this the woman made no reply that the lads could hear; but they had heard enough to make them look at each other in renewed fear and horror.

The slatted, wooden shutter which served as a window was only fastened by a hook on one side. Tad stole across the straw-covered floor, slipped the hook out of the ring, and the shutter swung open. Swiftly and noiselessly the boys got out, and found themselves in a small back garden communicating by a gate with the yard, and divided only by a low fence from a lane, the tall, bare trees of which they could see rising above the fence. To clamber over, and drop down into the lane on the other side, was the work of a moment. Then away—away, in the fading light, as though flying for their lives—sped the two poor lads, once more fugitives and vagabonds in a strange land.

CHAPTER XIII

THE plentiful meal and long sleep obtained through Claudine's hospitality and kindness, had done the lads good service. And when they recovered from their excitement and first dread of pursuit, and found themselves clear of the neighbourhood of the house, they felt strong enough to push on at a fair pace. The darkness was coming so rapidly, that the boys thought they might with perfect safety keep to the road. Along the road accordingly they trudged, looking carefully about them, however, and ready to hide under a hedge or crouch in a ditch, or dodge behind a tree at the wayside, at the least sound or threatening of danger.

It was about eight o'clock, and they were beginning to think of making a halt for a rest of half an hour or so, when a slow, heavy rumbling of wheels along the highway made them look round.

"Why, Phil," said Tad, "it's some of them travellin' carts the tramps and gipsies use, ain't it?"

"Looks like 'em," replied Phil. "I wonder if the people would give us a lift just to the next town or wherever it is they're goin'!"

Phil accordingly left his companion's side, and stepping into the middle of the road, bade the man a very courteous good evening, adding:

"My friend and I are very weary, monsieur, having come far. Would you have the goodness to suffer us to ride in one of your carts for a little way?"

"Certainly, my child, with pleasure," replied the old fellow kindly. "Get in here. My wife Sophie and a friend of hers are inside, but there is still plenty of room. The carts coming behind are for the most part full of children and the things we are taking to sell at a fair."

So saying, the old man stopped the horse, and the lads clambered into the cart, where they were kindly received by the two women, who were busily employed weaving rush baskets by the light of a little oil lamp.

"Sit down there, my children," said Sophie, pointing to a sort of bench which extended the whole length of the cart, like the seat of an omnibus.

"Maybe the boys are hungry," suggested the other woman, "and we cannot get supper till we find a good place for camping out."

"Give them some bread to stay their hunger till then, Pelagie," answered Sophie.

And presently the lads were each munching away at a substantial hunch of bread sprinkled with salt.

On jolted the cart, followed by three others, but it was ten o'clock that night before the caravan came to a place suitable for an encampment. Tad and Phil, grateful for the kindness shown them, and delighted to make themselves useful, helped to unharness the horses, and tether them to stakes which they drove into the ground. They brought water from a little stream, and gathered together, from under the trees by the roadside, a quantity of dead wood for a fire.

The spot that had been chosen for camping out, was a tract of waste land between two hills of limestone rock. The place was strewn with stones, but was quite dry, and the fire blazed up merrily, shedding a welcome warmth, for the night was cold.

Over this fire, as soon as it burned clear and hot, the huge soup-pot was hung. Into it had been put a big lump of the prepared spiced and salted lard (a mixture of beef and hog's fat clarified and cured) of which the Norman peasantry make their usual soup.

Then as the grease melted in the pot, vegetables of several sorts were added, but chiefly potatoes, onions, and winter cabbage, with all the stale crusts and odds and ends of food remaining over from the day's rations. The pot was then filled up with water, a handful of salt mixed with peppercorns being thrown in. And soon this wonderful mixture was simmering musically over the fire, emitting a very savoury odour.

While waiting for supper to be ready, some of the grown-up people belonging to the caravan drew to the fire, and sat down on the short, dry stubble.

The children were already asleep in the waggons. A few of the women took out their knitting and worked their long needles rapidly, the bright steel gleaming in the fitful flare of the firelight. The men fed their horses, for there was not grass enough for their food, and went round looking for more wood to feed the fire, or sat in the circle, shaping garden sticks and broom-handles to sell at the fair.

As for Tad and Phil, when there seemed to be nothing further for them to do, they came and joined the cosy party round the fire, seating themselves between kind old Sophie and Pelagie.

At first there was a great deal of jabbering going on, but nothing to arrest the attention of the lads.

But suddenly Phil caught Tad's arm, and whispered, "Listen, Tad! What's the woman saying?"

Tad listened accordingly, and having learned enough now of the Normandy patois French to understand what was said, when he paid close attention, he at once became interested. For a woman of the party had said to old Sophie:

"I forgot to ask thee, Sophie, did a letter reach thee from Angleterre, from thy daughter, as we passed through the town?"

"Ay, tell us!" cried another voice. "Thou knowest well, good mother, that all that interests thee has interest also for us."

"After the last letter that came, I told you, did I not, my friends," said the old woman, "how unhappy my poor child was?"

"Yes, but not wherefore she was so vexed in spirit," replied Bernadine, a big woman with a baby in her arms. "Was that English gipsy husband of hers unkind to her?"

"No, no, Bernadine; from the time that Jake the gipsy saw and loved my Marie when she was in service over there, he has been as kind as any husband could be, and for love of him she is more than half English already; but—"

CHAPTER XIV

"SHE lost her little one when it was six months old," answered the old woman, "and she was grieving and pining, and well-nigh heart-broken, when one day le bon Dieu sent her, in a strange, unlooked-for way, another child!"

"It was like this, my friends. The gipsy troupe into which my daughter Marie married, were encamped one day on a common, and thither came a lad with an infant in his arms. Towards evening, he sauntered up to the camp and met Marie, and asked her if she would take care of the baby for a while, he having business elsewhere. Marie gladly took the child, having no thought then but to give it back when its young guardian returned.

"But night came on, and the old gipsy chief gave the word to move on, and the boy had not returned. And then arose the great longing in Marie's heart to keep the baby boy—did I say it was a boy?—to comfort her for the loss of her own infant. She yielded to the temptation, and the troupe left the neighbourhood that night, the stranger child with them, and Marie's sore heart has healed now she has a little one in her arms again. Albeit she writes me that she cannot but think sometimes of the child's mother, who may be sorrowing even yet over the loss of her baby."

"Said thy daughter nought of coming over to France to see thee?" asked the big Bernadine.

"Pardon; yes she did say that she and her husband were trying to scrape together money enough to bring her over, for it is three full years since she left with the English family, and she is a dutiful daughter, God be thanked, and would fain see her old parents again."

"I cannot tell for sure, but it may be soon. The troupe are near Southampton now, and thence, I have heard, sail many English vessels for la France. But who knows if Marie will get the money for her voyage?"

"Knowest thou, mother Sophie," said a man who had not hitherto spoken a word, "that if Marie be caught by the police of the country, she could be severely punished for stealing that child?"

"Yes, it is a dangerous thing to do, and I wonder much that she has escaped till now."

"She wrote me that, for safety's sake, she burned all the little boy's clothes, and dressed him in her own baby's things. And also, for the first month, she coloured his skin and hair with walnut juice and water, to make him dark like her own child. After that the troupe moved so far away, that she thought all danger was past."

"Without doubt she was right," said Pierre; "indeed it has proved so, since—but stay—who is that approaching us across the open, from the road?"

"Perhaps he is cold and hungry," suggested old Jacques, Sophie's husband. "If so, he is welcome to a share of our fire and our supper."

But just then Tad glanced in the direction of the newcomer, and gave a smothered gasp.

And Phil looked and rose instantly to his feet, followed by Tad. The younger boy turned to Sophie.

"Good mother, we thank and bless you for your goodness to us, poor stranger boys," he said, "and we ask of you one more favour. This man who now is coming towards us is a wicked, cruel master, from whom, after sore treatment, we have only just escaped. If he catches us, he will surely kill us. So we must go away at once, and we entreat you, betray us not. Say not that two boys were here but now. He cannot have seen us yet; so far we are safe; so, for the love of heaven, tell him naught."

"Fear not, my poor children, he shall know nothing from me, nor indeed from any of us; eh, my friends?"

The next moment the two lads, parting from the circle round the dancing firelight, had vanished into the darkness.

As the poor lads fled once more from the approach of the old enemy, they were at first almost in despair. And no wonder; for they had believed themselves out of reach of pursuit at last. And now to see that wicked old Foxy apparently tracking them like a sleuthhound, was a dreadful thing.

But as their fear gradually subsided, they began to feel that Renard's appearance among the French gipsies was no indication what over of his knowing where they (Tad and Phil) were; and that, had he seen them sitting with their hospitable entertainers round the fire, he would probably have been to the full as much surprised as they had been to see him.

But it gave the lads a renewed sense of danger to have caught sight, even for a moment, of the man who had shown himself so treacherous a companion, so cruel a master, and it was not strange that Tad presently said despondingly:

"Out of France? That's easier said than done," rejoined Phil. "And how are we to get out of this country?"

"I don't know, I'm sure! That's the worst of it. We seem headed off all round. But I did hear that this road leads to St. Malo, and that English vessels is always comin' in and out of there. There may p'r'aps be some chance for us, Phil, if we get to St. Malo."

"That's just what old Foxy's reckonin' upon our thinkin'," replied Phil, "and that's why he's come along this road after us, I should say. And he'll have a much better chance to nab us down at St. Malo than he's had here in the country, where there's always places to hide in. It's risky, and just think how long we might have to stay in the town before we'd a chance of crossin' over to England—if ever the chance came at all."

"Ay, I didn't think of that," answered Tad. "I wish we was back in Granville, I do; I'd like to turn in our tracks this minute and go right back there. Renard would never think of our doin' that, and would go on to St. Malo lookin' for us. At Granville, p'raps we might see Captain Jeremiah Jackson again with his schooner; he that picked me up when I was floatin' about in a open boat."

"But dare you think of goin' back to England at all?" asked Phil. "After what you've told me, I shouldn't think you'd want to go home. Think of your stepmother, Tad, and the police that was after you for takin' away your little brother!"

In his longing to get away from the dangers and troubles that beset him in France, Tad had forgotten those that drove him from his native place, and were still awaiting him there. Now he was silent for some time, turning things over in his mind. What Phil said was true, only too true. Hard as things had been for him in France, they would be worse still in England, unless indeed he could do something to deserve and ensure a welcome at home, and also prove to the police that he had not been guilty of any crime with regard to his little brother.

"You're right enough, Phil," he said at last. "There's one thing, and only one, that would make it possible for me to go home."

"Just this, kidnappin' that child again, and carryin' of him home to his mother."

"That's a hard nut to crack," said he. "And I don't see much chance myself of your goin' to England now or ever, if it hangs on gettin' hold of the baby again. Oh Tad, what a pity you didn't begin your runnin' away from home quite by yourself; it's havin' had that baby for the one day, as has made all the mischief."

Again Tad was silent. Phil's words were quite true; he knew now how very dearly he had paid for that bit of revenge upon his stepmother. Once more he was thinking things over, and going back to the very beginning—to the wrong start he had made on that Sunday which now seemed so very long ago. The events of the last few days had worked a change in the boy. He was beginning dimly to see how, from first to last, he had been his own enemy, and how he had himself to thank for the worst of his misfortunes.

Phil's influence and example too had shown him, more clearly than he had ever perceived it before, the difference between right and wrong, while it strengthened the affection which he felt for this child, the reverence that he could not withhold, when he thought of the courageous soul in so frail a form.

By contrasting what he was beginning to know of himself with the estimate he had made of Phil's character, he could not help feeling what a cowardly, selfish, contemptible sort of a fellow he had been throughout.

"It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks," Jeremiah Jackson had said, and Tad had proved to his cost how true these words were. Just as some kinds of blindness can only be cured by the surgeon's knife, so there are some forms of blindness of the soul, for which the Great Physician has to use sharp remedies, ere it can see itself as it is, and turn repenting to Him Who alone giveth sight to the spiritually blind.

"I'm a bad lot, I am, Phil!" said the boy at length, after a long silence, during which he was taking stock of what he was worth, and finding how little it amounted to. "Yes, I'm a bad lot, Phil, more's the pity!"

"You've been awfully good and kind to me, Tad," replied Phil, turning towards him affectionately, and putting a confiding hand through his arm. "Yes, you've been like a brother to me, ever since that day at Granville when you give me and the monkey your baked dumplin'. What's that you're sayin', Tad dear? Do I love you? Rather! Of course I love you true and faithful, dear old man."

"I don't deserve it, Phil, and that's the truth," he said humbly; "but if you'll keep on doin' of it, I'll try to deserve it. There! That's a bargain!"

"Let's try and help each other to be good!" said Phil simply. "Mother used to tell me as how, if we chose, we might always have the Lord on our side. And if we did have Him, we was more than a match for any enemy. Do you remember that story in the Bible, Tad, about 'Lisha, when his enemies came and got all round the place where he was? There was chariots and horsemen and a great host—all sent to take that one poor feller. No wonder his servant was frightened and said, 'Alas, my master, how shall we do?' For thinks he to hisself, 'Here we are—the two of us—all by our lone; no one to care for us, nor no one to help us, and the enemy down there a-spreadin' hisself like a green baize.' Do you call to mind the story, Tad?"

"Well," said Phil, "then what does 'Lisha do but pray to God to open the servant's eyes, and the answer to that there prayer must have come mighty quick, for all of a sudden, the man saw plain enough what he'd never thought of afore—that the mountain was full of chariots and horsemen of fire, round about 'Lisha; and that there was more friends than enemies; many more for than agen them. But as mother said," added Phil, "God's host were there afore the servant's eyes were opened, only he didn't know it. And that's how it is with us sometimes. We think we're all alone, because we don't see the chariots and horsemen of fire round about us, and we don't understand how much we may be helped, if we will, nor how ready the Lord is to hear and answer if we pray."

"I shouldn't wonder if you was right, Phil," said Tad; "howsumdever there ain't no 'Lisha nowadays, nor no chariots and horsemen of fire to come between old Foxy or Paul and us poor lads—worse luck! And when we can't see nothin', it's hard to believe that help's near. But now, Phil, I've got a idea, so just you listen and tell me what you think of it. Other things bein' equal, we'd like to leave France and get back to England, eh?"

"Right so far, then. But you see I can't go back unless I can take the kid home with me."

"Well then, here's what I'm a-goin' to propose. Let's go back to them tramps, or gipsies, or whatever they are, and ask if they'll let us live with them for the present. They're kind people, and if we help them all we can, it'll go hard but we'll earn our board and lodgin'."

"Well?" said Phil, feeling that the most important of what Tad had set out to say, was unsaid as yet.

"Well," repeated Tad, "my idea was this, that we should stay on with them, movin' when and where they did, and livin' their life until—"

"Ah, I see what you mean!" cried Phil. "Until Sophie's daughter, Marie, came with the baby, and then—"

"Yes, that's it! Steal the baby again, and cut away," said Tad, "and trust to chance for gettin' across the Channel."

"No," said he firmly, "no more stealin' of babies, nor of nothin' else! It would be a wicked and ongrateful thing to do to them, as had been good to us, and beside I don't hold with bein' so secret and sly."

"But we want to get hold of the child," argued Tad, "and we can't get him onless we take him like that."

"I don't know; maybe we can," replied Phil; "anyway I'd try fair means first. And besides, Marie might remember your face, and know you again, and then she'd be extra careful not to give you a chance to steal the baby."

"I'd not thought of that," said Tad. "Well, Phil, say that we go back to old Sophie and Jacques and their people, and live with them, if they'll have us, and anyway, if Marie and the baby come or not, we'll have time to look about us and think what we'll do next."

"Yes, that's a good plan," replied Phil; "we can't do better as I knows of. But while we're talkin' of goin' back to the caravan, here we are walkin' on, and gettin' further away every minute."

"That's true; come, let's turn now and go back; but as we may chance to meet old Foxy, we'd better crawl along in the shadow of the hedge, one behind the other, and not talk at all."

This was slow progress, but the only safe course, as they proved very soon. For they heard steps approaching along the road, when they had gone a part of their return journey, and in the darkness they heard old Renard's heavy, shuffling step, and the low muttering in which—like Saul of Tarsus, before his conversion—he seemed to be breathing out threatening and slaughter, thus pleasantly beguiling the loneliness of the way. That he had other and yet more dangerous consolation too, was proved beyond all doubt; for almost opposite to the boys, as they crouched trembling under the hedge, Renard paused, and they heard a cork taken from a bottle, and then deep swallows of drink; probably the stimulant in which his soul chiefly delighted; the new and fiery cognac which is reckoned among the worst and most harmful of intoxicants.

But it was not until his footfall had ceased to sound upon the hard road, that the lads dared to creep from their hiding-place, and resume their journey back to the camp.

CHAPTER XV

IT is said, and with truth, that all, or nearly all, wandering races are rich in the grace of hospitality, and these French gipsies, or rather tramps of a mixed race, had kind hearts, as Tad and Phil proved.

Poor, outcast, homeless creatures as they were, strangers in a strange land, these good people had asked of them but few questions, but made the boys heartily welcome, giving them permission to continue with the troupe so long as it suited them to do so.

Old Jacques had said, furthermore, when he yielded to the earnest entreaty of the lads, "Yes, my children, and I accept your offer of service. We are not rich, and we cannot afford to keep anyone in idleness. You will therefore work as we do, and be one with us in all things, subject also to the laws that govern us. For we have our own rules which we strictly enforce, and punishment is inflicted upon all those who break them."

The boys had readily promised obedience. Any rule, any yoke of service, would be light, and even pleasant, after the miseries of their late servitude, and now they gladly resolved to be docile, industrious, and helpful. Very soon they found they were taken at their word, and that there was no want of employment for anyone willing and able. They learned the art of basket-making, Phil's slender hands being specially clever in this. They made flower-sticks, clothes-pegs, twig-brooms, and broom-handles. They caned chairs, mended kitchen furniture for the poor people, and did a little rough tinkering. Phil, too, soon proved himself a good hand at weaving big rush hats for farm labourers, and very proud he was when he could hand over into good mother Sophie's care a handful of coppers, the wages of his industry.

Tad, on the other hand, was just as useful in the heavier and rougher work, and in the daily routine duties of the camp. He felt it no indignity to be a hewer of wood and drawer of water to the kind people who had extended towards him and Phil so generous a helping hand in their dire distress and destitution.

Ready in all things else to do the gipsies' bidding, the boys had begged that they should never be sent on errands that necessitated their going any distance alone. They had told Jacques and Sophie enough of their story to bespeak the sympathy and protection of the good old couple, and to show them that a meeting with Renard, Paul, or Jean might prove dangerous to their freedom, and possibly even to their lives. So the lads were kept to duties within the precincts of the camp; and in the busy, out-of-door life which they led, they lost, after a while, all fear of the evil men, the dread of whose reappearance had hitherto haunted them like evil phantoms.

For some time they heard nothing more about Marie and her plans. But one day Sophie and Jacques were talking together, and Tad heard what was said. The gipsies had decided to go on the next day to St. Malo, and encamp in a piece of waste ground about half a mile out of the town.

"At the town post-office, a letter from our daughter will probably be awaiting us," Sophie had said, "and let us hope she will soon follow it, coming by one of the steamers that bring passengers to this port."

The next day the little procession of gipsy vans passed through the town, not stopping, however, anywhere until it reached the open space where the troupe could encamp without fear of disturbing anyone, or being themselves molested.

One morning Tad and Phil were busy helping Sophie and Pelagie with the noonday meal. It was not often these gipsies had meat or poultry of any kind, but to-day one of the party had bought from a farmer's man, for a mere trifle, an antiquated rooster of venerable aspect, and the whole company were in high glee at the thought of adding this dainty to the usual soup.

But first old chanticleer must be plucked and cleaned, and Tad was set to work at this, while Phil helped to wash turnips and carrots, and peel onions and potatoes for the pot-au-feu.

Jacques and one or two of the men had gone into the town to call at the post-office and make some necessary purchases, and the rest of the troupe were employed about the camp in various ways.

It was one of those mild mornings in March which come sometimes, closely following a storm of wind and rain, and which give, in their balmy freshness and sweetness, promise of the yet fairer time at hand.

Light-hearted as the birds, the boys were chattering over their work, breaking out, now and again, into some fragment of English song, when a voice behind them said, "Bon jour, mine cheeldren! So I you have found at de last, you were naughty boys. Oh unkind and tankless to run yourselves away from de good, kind master, from dis poor old Renard dat did lofe you so moche!"

The boys started and turned. Tad, in his horror, almost tumbled the ancient fowl—now partially denuded of his scant feathers—into the fire, and Phil overturned the big basin of water into which he was putting his peeled vegetables.

"Ah, mine leetle dears!" went on Renard with his evil, sneering smile. "You am agitate. It is widout doubt from de joy to see once more you dear old master. Ah, truly yes. Well now we am discover one anoder, you shall bote come back to me, and all weel be as before, but steel better. Oh yes, believe me, mine dears, so moche better."

The lads, paralysed with terror, still said nothing, and just at that moment, up came old Sophie and Pelagie to see if the provisions in hand were ready yet for the big pot which they had filled at the brook. As Sophie approached, Tad made a spring, and falling on his knees before her, caught her gown.

"Oh dear mother, good mother Sophie, here is this dreadful man!" he cried. "It is he—our master of whom we told you! Give us not up to him! For God's sake suffer him not to take us away with him!"

Phil said nothing, but he too had come near, and with pleading eyes fixed on the old woman's face, awaited her answer.

"Surely, monsieur, I have seen you before! Did you not come to us some nights ago, on the other side of St. Malo?"

"Madame, you are right," replied Renard, doffing his greasy cap and making a low bow which had about it an insulting air of mockery.

"These are they, madame, sans doute. The eye of love—such love as I have for these dear petits garcons—" and Foxy showed his teeth—"is not to be deceived."

"What then do you want, monsieur, now you have found them?" asked Mother Sophie.

"Madame, you are a stranger to me!" cried Foxy. "You know not—how should you?—this heart of mine, or you would not make such an inquiry. Unworthy, ungrateful as these children are, I am ready (such is my magnanimous nature!) to forgive and receive them back into my affection and my service."

"Hein, monsieur! Eh bien!" cried the strident voice of Pelagie, who had hitherto stood silent. "But what say the boys to this? You say you are willing to have them back; now the question is, are they ready to return to you? For there should be two sides to a bargain, monsieur, as all the world knows."

"You have reason, Pelagie," said Sophie quietly. "What say you, my children?" and the old woman's voice softened, and her face grew tender and pitiful, as the lads clung to her in their fear and distress. "What say you, will you go with Monsieur Renard, your former master?"

"You see, monsieur, that these lads do not wish to avail themselves of the kindness you offer them, so there is nothing more to be said, and I will wish you bon jour, Monsieur Renard."

"And know you not, you stupid gipsy woman," he shrieked, "that I—Jules Renard—have a right to these children? And I swear to you—ugly old hag that you are—if you give them not up to me this very minute, I will bring the police from, the town, and then, not only will the lads have to come with me, but you will be punished for detaining them."

"Ah, Monsieur Renard, if it comes to talk of police, perchance you are not the only one who may have somewhat to say," remarked a deep, stern voice behind Foxy. And good old Jacques, backed by two of the troupe—stalwart nephews of his—appeared on the scene. "Listen, my friend; we have information that you, and two worthy companions of yours, were more or less concerned in a burglary not very far from here, and their names and the home of one of them are known to us. We are quiet people, Monsieur Renard, and we seek no quarrel with any; but another word from you, another threat against us or these children, and at once we give in our information at headquarters at St. Malo. And as for your treatment of the boys—there is a law in France to protect them, and to punish those who sin against them. Look to yourself, you fox by name and fox by nature. Seek not to meddle with these lads, or you may find yourself where you would rather not be."

The stern, uncompromising manner and words of the old gipsy seemed to make an impression on Renard, who cowered and cringed as the man was speaking. But he turned it off lightly, only saying as he turned away:

"That is all nonsense; you could not hurt me if you would. But of course I will not press this matter of the boys, if they do not wish to return to me. Keep them, if you like to do so, and I wish you joy of your bargain. You will repent it some day."

Once more bowing low, cap in hand, and a sardonic leer on his thin lips, Renard bade the gipsies good day, while, watching him till out of sight on the St. Malo road, Tad and Phil at last dared to breathe freely once more.

CHAPTER XVI

"PHIL, Phil, they're just comin'. I'm first, 'cause I ran on before; but they're—"

"Who, Tad?" inquired Phil, who was sitting under the shelter of Mother Sophie's cart, very busy finishing a huge hat.

"You know I went with Father Jacques to St. Malo, this morning," explained Tad. "Well, the chap at the little place on the quay said the passengers by the boat 'Princess,' had arrived, and was now in the Custom House.

"And says Father Jacques to me, 'My daughter Marie was to come in the "Princess." Wait here a moment while I go up to the Custom House.'

"So I waited, and sure enough, the Customs door opened, and out comes the woman, and on her arm the little un, growed into quite a big boy, and lookin' as though he could run alone as well as me or you."

"But Father Jacques, he calls out to me, 'Here, Edouard, run back to the camp and tell the mother we come.'

"Oh yes, and she and Pelagie set to work to make coffee for Marie. It would be tea if we was in England. My eye! Shouldn't I like a good cup of tea again!"

"Well now," said Phil, sitting down again to his work, "what do you think of doin' about that child?"

"I give it up; ask me another," replied Tad, half vexed, half laughing. "Blest if I know what to do! I want to get back to England, and yet I can't go home without the child, and—"

"I don't know about that," replied Tad, "can't promise. 'Taint likely Marie 'll give up the little chap of her own free will, just when she's got used to him and all. No, Phil, nor I don't see no great harm neither, in takin' him away. He ain't no property of hers. She stole him, and it would only be givin' her tit for tat."

"My mother used to say two wrongs don't make a right, Tad, and after all it wasn't Marie who stole him first of all. It was you."

"But I never meant to keep him, you see; I was a-goin' to take him home when I'd given his mother one for herself."

"Tad, listen to me," said Phil; "you've been so nice and good and dear this long while now, and always done things I asked you, even when they was hard. Now do promise me, dear old chap, that you won't do nothin' but what's quite straightforward and honest." And Phil looked up in the elder boy's face with that wistful entreaty in his eyes which Tad had always found it hard to resist.

But he was in a perverse mood to-day. One of his unreasonable, restless fits was upon him too, and the thought of some wild, lawless adventure was sweet to him. Some lessons Tad had learned from the teachings of adversity and from Phil's influence and example, but in many ways he was the old self-willed Tad still. No—assuredly he would not allow himself to be persuaded into making this promise, for if he did, he must keep it, and then—why then some good chance might slip by, and he might never get back to England at all.

"No, Phil," he said. "I won't promise; how can I tell what may turn up? And I ain't goin' to tie myself in a hard knot for you nor no one. So there!"

The recognition which Tad had tried to avoid was bound to come some time, and come it did the very next morning. Marie was strolling about the camp field with the child toddling beside her, when she met Tad face to face. He cast down his eyes and would have passed on, but she stopped him.

"Where have I seen you before, my boy?" she asked in French. But suddenly her face changed, she snatched the baby up, and held him close. "Ah," she added, "I remember now; yet it seems almost impossible."

Still Tad said nothing, and there was a dead silence between them for what seemed like a very long while.

"Yes, missis, when—when you stole that there child as you've got in your arms. He's my little brother, he is."

"I don't believe it," said Marie, speaking now in English. "If he'd been your brother, you wouldn't have trusted him to a stranger like me, or you'd have come back sooner to fetch him."

"Well, anyhow he's my half-brother," said Tad, "and how was I to know you was goin' to run off with him? You looked honest enough, and I thought you was so."

"Good? Then hold your tongue about it still, and I'll make it worth your while," said Marie. "I love the child and he loves me, and I mean to bring him up as my own. Has he got a mother livin'?"

"He had, seven months ago," replied Tad, "and I s'pose she ain't dead yet. That sort in general makes out to live," added the lad with a sniff of disgust.

"That story's too long to tell," replied Tad, not over civilly, for he was chafed at the woman's manner, and the attitude she had assumed as regarded the child.

"Don't know, missis," said Tad, "and what's more I must get to my work now." And he turned away and joined Mother Sophie, helping her to scour some pots and pans down by the brookside.

The foregoing conversation Tad repeated to Phil that night, adding, "Now you see, Phil, what I said was true. A woman like that won't part with the little 'un willin' and free, and I'll never get him at all unless I take him and French leave at one and the same time. After this talk as have passed betwixt me and Marie, what say you now?"

"Just what I said afore, Tad. It's no use doin' wrong to bring about what we want to happen. Cheatin' and story-tellin' and stealin' and deceivin' is wicked, and sooner or later people gets paid out that does them things, no matter what the reason is."

"Tad, dear, don't turn away lookin' so vexed. I want to help you; I will help you, if you'll let me. Let me have a talk with Marie and tell her your story, and how you've been hunted about just because of the child. I can't help thinkin' she'll be sorry for you, and let you have the little 'un, or what would be better, let you go with her on the steamer when she starts for Southampton to go back to her husband. Shall I tell—?"

"It's no use, Phil!" cried Tad. "If you'd seen her face to-day when she spoke of the baby, you'd never believe she could change."

"Well," persisted Phil, "s'posin' she won't listen to us, still maybe Father Jacques and Mother Sophie would. We did a foolish thing, Tad, not to say all we knowed, when we heard the old folks tellin' what Marie had written in her letter. If we'd spoke of it there and then, and they'd heard your story, they'd have been on our side now—maybe."

"Well, well," said Tad impatiently, "that's bygones—that is! What's the use of thinkin' about it?"

"If Marie don't give up the baby here, she could be made to in England," said Phil. "Why don't you write to your dad, as soon as we know when she's goin' back? Tell him she's got the child, and he'll take care of the rest."

"How stoopid you are, Phil! That ain't all I'm after," said Tad crossly. "The baby ain't everything; I want to go back to England myself. If Dad got the baby home, he wouldn't care a straw what became of me; and that old cat of a stepmother of mine would be glad enough if nothin' was never heard of me no more. So you see I might stay here all my life. I must take the child myself or be here for good and all."

"Well, if Marie will let you have him, that's all right," said Phil; "but Tad, dear, don't do nothin' you'll be sorry for after. Remember how you told me of such a many things you'd had to make a choice of, and you said you'd chose what you thought you'd like best, or what seemed easiest, and only see what have come of it! And it was only when we made up our minds not to do wrong, that God sort of opened up the way afore us, and got us clean away out of old Foxy's clutches. Tad, dear, them as tries to do the right thing God always helps, but no one can't expect help from Him if he does wrong."

"Shut up with your preachin', Phil!" cried Tad impatiently. "If you was a parson and me the congregation, stuck fast in the pews, I'd be bound to listen; but you ain't, and I ain't, so hold your noise. The baby's my half-brother, not yours; he wasn't stole from you—was he? So it's none of your business. I'll do as I choose—I will—so there!"

Tad had never before spoken harshly to his companion, and even as he uttered the words, his heart and conscience smote him.

He saw Phil's head droop suddenly, and the thin cheek flush and pale again. He even thought he heard a half-suppressed sob, when the little fellow turned away without another word.

But like Pharaoh of old, he hardened his heart, muttering, "What if he be hurt a bit! Sarve him right for meddlin' with what don't consarn him."

Then he went off to his work of hobbling the horses for the night, at the other end of the field, and nothing more passed between him and Phil, nor did they see each other again till morning.

CHAPTER XVII

SOME days passed, and meanwhile Tad's idea of running off with the child secretly was so much in his mind, unresisted, unchecked, that at last it became a distinct purpose for which he began once more to plot and plan. The foolishness and the utter recklessness of such a proceeding were lost sight of in his great desire to accomplish what he had at heart, namely his return to England and the restoration of the baby to its mother, by way of securing safety and a welcome for himself. The difficulties and dangers he did not take into account because he would not. Obstinately bent upon carrying out his idea, he made everything else yield; he was even prepared to part from Phil, rather than give up his purpose.

We have seen that during the time of the worst of the troubles that had befallen the boys, Tad's heart had softened, his character had improved. But the great change by which all things are made new, had not yet come into the boy's soul. Self-will still ruled there, and it would need a yet sharper lesson ere the altar of this idol could be thrown down, and its sceptre broken.

Since the day when Phil's remonstrance and appeal had called forth those cruel words from Tad, the younger boy had not ventured to mention the subject. But he had gone about with a heavy heart and a sad face, for he loved Tad dearly, and the estrangement between them hurt him sorely.

He was anxious, too, for he could see plainly enough by the sullen, brooding look in Tad's face, that he had by no means relinquished his idea, but was only considering how best to work it out. Phil did not know what to do. He could not bear the thought of acting the tale-bearer, of going to Marie and warning her against his friend. Still less could he entertain the idea of saying anything to Jacques and Sophie. So that, between disloyalty to Tad on the one hand, and disloyalty to their kind friends on the other, Phil was indeed in straits—and very sore straits for a child of his years. He could only hope that the time of Marie's departure would come soon, and that meanwhile Tad would have no chance to carry off Baby Victor, as his gipsy mother called him.

One morning about a week later, Marie received a letter from her husband, who announced his intention of coming over to fetch her. He said he should be sailing in a little vessel belonging to a friend, and he hoped to be at St. Malo shortly. He intended, he said, to spend a day or two with his father and mother-in-law, and then take his wife and the child back to England in the same boat that had brought him.

"I must go to meet my husband to-night, mother," said Marie, two days later; "the boat is sure to be in."

"No, mother, I hardly think it would be well to do so. Poor Victor has seemed very feverish and languid these last days, and the night air would be bad for him. I will put him to bed before I go, and he will then sleep, I hope, and so will not miss me."

"Pelagie will attend to him should he cry," said Sophie, "but I daresay he will sleep soundly till thy return."

Phil did not overhear this conversation, but Tad happened to be at work close by, and heard every word.

"This is goin' to be my chance!" he said to himself. "For once in a way I'm in luck, but I'll not tell Phil or he'd spoil all the fun."

During the time that had gone by since first he meditated flight with the baby, Tad had contrived to scrape together a little money. Now and again, when in the town with Jacques, he had earned a sou or two, holding horses or carrying boxes and parcels from the wharf, or running errands, and the coppers he received Jacques allowed him to keep for himself. So that he had about a franc and twenty-five centimes, as nearly as possible one shilling of our money.

At dinner that day he asked for more bread, and hid a big hunch away in his pocket. This was all the preparation that he could make for his journey, and blindly, obstinately, set upon his own way he must indeed have been, to think of undertaking it so poorly equipped. But there is no limit to the foolhardiness of self-will, when once it has, like a runaway horse, got the bit between its teeth; and so was it now with poor Tad's besetting sin.

As evening approached, circumstances favoured the lad's design, for Phil was called by one of the men to accompany him to a neighbouring hamlet with baskets to sell, and Pelagie occupied herself with preparing supper contained in the usual big pot, into which she was shredding herbs of many kinds. For now the wild green plants were coming up with tender shoots, and none knew better than the gipsy woman which of them lent an appetising flavour to the soup.

"Here, Edouard," said she to Tad, who was loafing about and watching his chance. "Step into Marie's waggon, will you, and look at the child. If he seems restless or uneasy, take him up and rock him gently in your arms till he is quiet. You can stay with him, for I do not need your help here. Go then at once; I shall be more at ease if I know you are with him."

Tad, with an eagerness which he tried to hide, turned to obey. He entered the waggon where his little half-brother was fast asleep, and stood looking at him a moment by the light of a tiny lamp fixed into a brass socket on one of the walls of the cart.

The little fellow's cheeks were scarlet, and through the parted lips the breath came in a quick, irregular way which was not natural.

"Ought I to take him when he ain't quite well?" thought Tad; but once more his great desire conquered all conscientious scruples. "It's now or never," he muttered.

And having made up his mind, he looked all round for some warm wrap in which to enfold the little fellow. Presently he saw a large, dark cloak of Marie's hanging from a nail. This he reached down, lifted the baby very cautiously, and throwing the cloak over him, even covering the face, he stepped out of the cart, peering round suspiciously for fear someone might be watching.

It was already dusk, and another of the waggons stood between him and Pelagie, screening him from view. The rest of the troupe were scattered in various directions. No one was near but Pelagie, and she was preoccupied with her cooking.

A few long, stealthy strides and Tad had reached the road. Here he paused a moment, looking this way and that, screened by some bushes; but no one was in sight.

"Now for Granville and England!" he said to himself, and gathering the living bundle closer in his arms, he set off at a quick walk in an opposite direction from that which led to St. Malo. He had before him a long tramp, he knew, for Granville was nearly sixteen miles away.

What he was to do when he got there was not very easy to determine, but what he hoped for was to find Jeremiah Jackson and his "Stormy Petrel," and get a free passage over to Southampton. He had no idea, however, how often the skipper made his voyages, and therefore he knew he might have to wait a long time. But he had not considered how the baby and he were to live while thus waiting. Self-will is generally short-sighted, and does not take into account possible consequences, when following its own headlong course.

The baby's weight, Tad soon found, was far greater now than it had been on that memorable Sunday nearly seven months ago. And the pace at which the runaway started to-night from the gipsy camp slowed down perforce after a while. By this time the night had closed in, and Tad was thankful for the darkness which hid this last evil deed of his. For now that the first excitement was over, he was beginning to feel that the deed was indeed evil. And as he trudged along, carrying the thrice-kidnapped child, he gradually realised to some extent what he was doing, and what a heavy price he was paying for his own way.

Again before him, in the mirror of memory, rose the earnest, patient face of little Phil whom he had so disloyally deserted. Again he saw the look of pain which his own cruel words had called into those wistful eyes, those sensitive lips. Yes, he had lost Phil, dearly though they had loved each other, bitterly though they had suffered together. Then too, how had he requited dear old Mother Sophie and Father Jacques for all their kindness? Yes—they too were now among the losses which he had that night sustained. These true friends lost; and all for what?

Poor Tad was obliged to confess to himself that he had precious little to show in exchange. True he had gratified his self-will, but so far the gratification was of a decidedly qualified character. He was growing very tired, and so hungry that he was obliged to stop and take out his piece of bread to munch as he went along. Then, too, the child had begun to wail piteously in a hoarse voice that frightened him, and Granville was still nine miles off.

But for the demon Pride which kept whispering in his ear, the lad would have turned back even now to the camp; but he told himself that he could not bear to return to his friends confessing himself in the wrong. No, he felt he must go on now, having, by this last act of his, cut himself adrift from all who had befriended him.

All night Tad walked on, but in the morning he got a lift in a light cart that was going in to an early market at Granville. Worn and jaded and utterly disheartened, he and his now slumbering charge were driven into the town.

"The brat is a-goin' to be ill, I do believe," said Tad, peering down into the little flushed face lying against his shoulder. "Just like my luck!"

"Had you not better take him to a doctor?" said the driver of the cart. "There is one living in this street, and he is very kind to the poor; he is sure not to charge you anything."

And the man set him down at the doctor's door. Early as was the hour, quite a number of people were waiting to see the doctor, so it was some time before Tad's turn came. But it came at last, and the baby was unwrapped and examined.

"Monsieur the doctor," said Tad, "will you please tell me if the child will be all right directly, for I want to take him to England very soon."

"To England?" he repeated. "No indeed, my boy, he must go no further than Granville Hospital. I tell you the little one is very ill; he has got inflammation of the lungs, and you may be very thankful if he pulls through at all!"

CHAPTER XVIII

"THEN all that I've done is wuss than lost," said Tad to himself as he walked slowly away from the hospital where he had left his little brother. "I've run away on the sly and walked all night; I've carried off a sick child as can't be no good to me; I've broke with Phil and with the gipsies; and all for what? To stay here and starve in the streets while maybe the child dies in the hospital, and if he do die, why then good-bye to any home-goin' at all. Just my luck I can't seem to compass nothing at all, I can't."

That night he slept under an old boat which was turned on its side awaiting repairs on the shore, above high-water mark. A more unhappy lad it would have been hard to find under God's great canopy of sky than Tad when he awoke next morning, cold, hungry, with a remorseful conscience and an anxious heart. After buying a small loaf of bread which was to last him all day, he walked down to the quay, which he had good cause to remember, for it was here he had first met Renard. But the thought of old Foxy was not uppermost in his mind as he sauntered round, looking idly about him at the varied shipping, and at the busy crowd loading and unloading the vessels. His wretched experiences with his late master seemed to him now something very remote, almost forgotten in the nearness of his more recent troubles.

So much absorbed was Tad in his own miserable reflections, and the utter collapse of every plan he had made, that he started like one awakened out of sleep, when a long, claw-like hand grasped his arm, and a well-known, hateful voice said almost in his ear, "Ah, bon jour, mine dear cheeile! So I you have found at de last!" And a grin of evil triumph made even uglier and more repulsive than ever Renard's wicked face. Tad started as though from some noxious reptile. All the memories of his sufferings and those of Phil at the hands of this man rushed upon him with overwhelming force, and he gazed into Renard's green eyes, fascinated and speechless.

"Ah, ma foi!" chuckled Foxy. "Only to tink! Dis dear boy is so please to see his old master, dat he find not word to speak."

"It's a lie! I ain't pleased!" cried Tad, finding voice at last. "You know very well I'm nothin' of the kind. I hate you, that I do! Let me go!" And he tried to wrench his arm from old Foxy's clutch.

"Oh fie! Fie! Wat naughty tempers have dis dear cheeile!" sighed Renard as he tightened his hold. "Come wid me, mine friend; you shall once again be educate in de college of Monsieur Renard. Widout doubt your jours de fête—wat you call holiday—find demselves too long. Now you weel work."

And old Foxy began to drag his unwilling prisoner along, trying to get him away from the quay and into the town.

Tad did what he could to free himself from the man's hold, but all to no purpose. As well might a fly try to win clear when a spider has hold of him.

The people they met took no heed of him. It was nothing uncommon to see a struggle or even a fight going on here, and nobody interfered; so Tad was almost in despair, when suddenly he caught sight of something that gave him energy and courage.

There, standing on the deck of a trim little vessel drawn close up to the quay, was a burly form surmounted by a bluff; honest, weather-beaten face and a shaggy mass of red hair and beard.

"Oh, Captain Jackson!" shrieked the lad. "Save me! Save me! Foxy's got me again!" And he stretched out his one free arm in passionate entreaty.

The worthy Jeremiah leaped on shore and met Renard face to face. "What's up?" said he. "What's the matter?"

"De matter, Monsieur Jeremie," replied Renard in honeyed tones, "is dat dis poor boy did run away from his kind master, and now he come back, and all weel be well again."

"Never, never!" cried Tad. "Don't believe him, please, captain! He's the awfullest liar that ever was. Please, sir, look at me; don't you call to mind a boy you picked up in a open boat at sea, and how good you was to me? You wanted me to go back with you to England, and I'd near made up my mind to it, when old Foxy here come down with Phil Bates, and coaxed me into goin' along of him. And after that, me and my chum was starved and beaten and ill-treated, and at last, roust of all, we—"

"Weel you be quaite, Edouard?" hissed Renard, giving the boy's arm a violent jerk. "If you hold not your peace," he added in a whisper, "I weel keel you."

"I remember you very well, Teddie Poole," said Jeremiah. "So you don't want to return to the man's service, eh?"

The bluff, good-humoured face looked very grave and stern as Jeremiah Jackson turned once more to Renard.

"Ma foi! And why, Monsieur Jeremie?" inquired Foxy. "You have not de right to say, 'Do dis and dat.'"

"It's no use bullyin' and blusterin', you parley-vooin' scoundrel!" said Jackson stoutly. "Unhand that lad, or I'll tell the world here what I know. If once all Granville heard that you—"

"Enough! Hush, oh hush, Monsieur Jeremie, mine good, dear friend!" whispered Renard, looking round furtively to see if Jackson's rather too plain speaking had been overheard. "It is one leetle joke; say notting more. I am only delight to do you oblige, and if you desire dat I let go dis cheeile, behold I cede heem widout unpleasant. Good morning, Edouard; bon jour to you too, Monsieur Jeremie."

And loosening his hold on Tad, the Frenchman bowed low, cap in hand, and shuffled off towards the town.

CHAPTER XIX

"COME you down into my cabin and tell me what's happened since you bolted from the 'Stormy Petrel' with that sneakin' rascal." And the honest sailor shook his huge fist at the retreating form of old Renard.

Then Tad followed the skipper into the tiny cabin, and there over a good breakfast told his story; told it exactly as things had happened—the whole truth without reserve. It was a relief now to disburden his heavy heart of what was oppressing him so sorely, and to ask for the advice and help of which he stood so urgently in need.

"You want to know what I think you'd best do?" asked Jeremiah as Tad finished his narrative.

"Yes, sir, and whatever you says now, I promise to do it," replied poor Tad. "All along I've been tryin' to choose and to get what I liked best, and I've done nothin' but kick agen pricks, just as you said to me. You see, I haven't forgot, sir."

"Well, Teddie Poole, things bein' as they are, and you in a pretty bad fix, my counsel to you is to send word by letter to the woman you call Marie that the kid is in hospital here, and also to write to your chum Phil as how you're sorry and all that, for what you done. And then—"

"Please, is this boat the 'Stormy Petrel,' and is Captain Jeremiah Jackson here?" called a sweet boyish voice down the companion way.

"Why, if that ain't Phil hisself!" cried Tad. "I'd know his voice in a thousand!" And jumping from his seat, he scrambled up on deck, and rushed straight into Phil's arms.

"Oh Phil, dear Phil, is it really you? And can you ever forgive me—me that have been so bad?" whispered Tad brokenly.

"Hush, dear old man; I know the temptation was a big one to you, and what you done's all forgiven—be sure of that."

"Oh, I knowed what you'd always thought of doin'," answered Phil, "and so we come straight here to Granville in one of the house-waggons, and I ran down to the quay to see if I could find the 'Stormy Petrel,' feelin' sure you'd make for her if she was in port. But Tad," continued Phil, "where's baby Victor? Is he down in the cabin? Marie's here, half mad at losin' him."

"He's very ill, Phil; he's had to be took to the hospital; his chest is awful bad, I'm afeared."

At this Phil turned away from his friend, and stepped off the boat on to the quay to tell Marie this sad news, for she was standing there waiting to hear about the child. The tears welled up in her dark eyes as Phil spoke, but she said nothing, only glancing reproachfully towards Tad ere she turned and went into the town, bending her steps towards the hospital where the little one was lying.

While Tad stood sadly watching her out of sight, he presently saw coming slowly along by the water side good old Mother Sophie. Leaping on shore, he ran to meet her.

"Dear Mother Sophie," he cried, "I have been the most wicked, thankless boy that ever lived, to leave you as I did, after all your goodness. But I am sorry, and oh, I—"

"If you are sorry for having made us so anxious, child, I pardon you. But tell me, Edouard, where is baby Victor?"

"My poor Marie!" sighed the old woman. "She loves Victor so well, and her heart would break were he to die. It will be hard enough anyway to part from him, even if he gets well."

Tad turned in amazement to Phil, who had followed him as he went to meet Mother Sophie.

"Only that I have told Marie, and Father Jacques, and Mother Sophie the whole story," replied Phil, "so now they all know the truth about you and baby. Marie didn't want to give up the child, if once she managed to get him back from you, but her parents wouldn't hear of her keepin' him, after what I'd told them, so if he gets better, you and he and Marie 'll go back to England together if you like."

"Then maybe if I'd told the whole truth to the good people at the beginning, as you begged me to, Phil," he said at last, "I might have got my way without runnin' off with the child at all, and p'raps he wouldn't have been so ill neither."

But Tad went on, "I say, Phil, what a fool I've been for my pains! Captain Jackson was right about kickin' agen the pricks, for here I've took lots of trouble to go crooked, just to find myself wuss off than if I'd gone straight, to say nothin' of makin' no end of bother for others."

"But now, Edouard," put in Mother Sophie, who understood no English, and had no idea what Tad was talking about, "now, Edouard, what do you intend to do? Will you return with your friend the captain this voyage, or—"

"No, no, dear Mother Sophie," answered Tad, "I will not go until baby is better and can go too. You know I couldn't go home without him."

"Here you, Teddie Poole!" called Jeremiah from the deck of his schooner. "I want to speak to you!"

"Will you go home with us in a few days' time, boy?" inquired the captain. "Or would you rather wait till I come again? I expect to be back here in about three weeks, if all be well, and I'll take you and your friends over then if you like. No, don't thank me, my lad!" he added, as Tad gratefully accepted his second offer. "No need for more words about it. It's only my dooty as a man and a Christian, and it's a pleasure into the bargain. And, praise the Lord, the boat's my own, and I've no one's leave to ask."

CHAPTER XX

THE days passed, and Marie returned from her daily visits to the hospital, bringing no better reports.

"But for that long night of exposure to the cold, damp air, baby Victor would never have been so ill," she had said reproachfully to Tad; "and now, through you and your headstrong folly, this precious little life will most likely be lost. You do not deserve to have a brother."

Tad did not resent Marie's hard words. He knew he merited them richly, and he did not attempt to excuse or defend himself. Truly repentant and humble as he had become, he could not undo the grievous consequences of his sin. So he meekly listened to the woman's reproaches, which he felt came from a very sore heart, and were none the less sharp and bitter for that.

At last there came a time when the doctors said that the little one's life hung, as it were, on a thread, and there was hardly a chance that he could recover. And when poor Marie brought back this news, Tad felt that now his cup of misery and of punishment was full indeed.

If the child died, he would feel, all his life long, like a murderer, and go through the world as with the brand of Cain upon his brow.

Towards evening of that day, Phil found him sitting in an out-of-the-way corner, quite overwhelmed with trouble.

"I can't bear it, Phil!" he sobbed. "For baby to be took and me left is too dreadful; me, too, that nobody cares for and nobody wants!"

For all answer Phil nestled close to his friend, and passed a loving arm round his neck. He felt that such trouble as this could not be comforted by mere words, but he also felt that for every burdened heart comfort might be found where he—Phil—had often found it before during his sad young life.

The place where the lads were sitting was quiet and solitary enough, and the darkness was fast stealing on, softly shadowing earth and sky.

By his friend's side Phil knelt, still with an arm round Tad's neck, and then the boy's tender sympathy and loving pity found a voice in fervent prayer to Him Who on earth healed the sick with a word or a touch, and raised the dead, and forgave the sins of those who had gone astray.

For the little life now trembling in the balance, Phil wrestled with cries and tears. For forgiveness for the past, for help in time to come, for strength to do the right whatever might happen—the childish voice, broken by sobs, rose in passionate supplication, thrilling Tad's heart through and through with the consciousness of some unseen Presence, and bringing back to his memory words long forgotten, "'Surely the Lord is in this place; and I knew it not.'"

With hands close clasped, and streaming eyes lifted towards the sky, the awe-struck lad gazed and gazed, half fearing to see, half expecting some visible sign to appear in the dark heavens above him, in answer to that urgent cry for help.

Once more the sweet, plaintive voice broke, sending forth sobbingly the words, so touching in their simplicity,—

"Dear Lord, Thou knows all we want to say and can't. Do it for us; Thou can, and Thou art willin', that we know, cos Thou said so. Send us a answer of peace, for Thy own sake, Amen."

Then there was silence; both boys felt that the place whereon they knelt was holy ground, and neither could bear to break the solemn hush. Hand in hand, and nearer in heart than they had ever been before, the lads went back to the cart.

The matron of the children's ward in the hospital at Granville, seeing Marie's great anxiety, had allowed her to have access to the child whenever she liked. And when the boys returned to the house-waggon, they found that she had not yet got back from her evening visit.

In almost unbearable suspense they sat there on the short turf, waiting for the news which they so dreaded and yet longed for. Not a word had been spoken between them as yet. Tad was seated leaning eagerly forward to catch the first glimpse of Marie on her way home. Phil lay at full length, as though exhausted, his pale face upturned, his eyes closed. Suddenly he sat up, his eyes radiant in the moonlight, a smile upon his lips.

"He heard us, Tad! He heard us!" whispered the boy. "It's all right! Hark! There she comes!"

Tad listened, and heard a light, quick step speeding along, joyful relief in every footfall. II was Marie returning. Both lads sprang to their feet, and ran to meet her.

"All is well, thank God!" cried the woman as she saw them. "The doctors say he will live."

And she passed on to the van to awaken her mother with the joyful tidings, while the boys, left together, crept away, and from glad hearts sent up to heaven the voice of praise and thanksgiving.

With the young, recovery is often a very rapid thing, and that of Marie's adopted child was no exception to this rule.

By the time the "Stormy Petrel" returned to Granville, the little one was well enough to be out for hours in the warm, bright sun, and to bear the voyage home.

Jacques and Sophie would have been glad to keep Phil with them always, for he had greatly endeared himself to them by his unselfishness and gentle ways. But Tad and he could not bear to be parted, and Jeremiah Jackson had held out a hope to the boys that he might give them both a berth on board of his vessel, if they found, on their return to England, that they could find nothing better to do.

So one lovely afternoon, in full spring, Marie and the baby, Tad, and Phil, took leave of the kind gipsies, and going on board the trim little schooner, glided out into the crimson sunset, with a fair wind and all sail set.

Marie's husband had gone back to England two weeks before, being unable to wait till the baby was well enough to travel. A letter had been written to James Poole, and sent to the address of Tad's former home, whence it had been forwarded to the new house, near Southampton, to which the Pooles had recently moved. To this letter Tad's father had sent a kind reply, promising to meet the voyagers on arrival.

Marie had at first intended herself to take the baby to his home, accompanying Tad thither. But on learning that James Poole was to meet his children, and remembering, too, that in stealing the baby on that never-to-be-forgotten Sunday evening, all those months ago, she had exposed herself to a serious risk, and indeed to the certainty of punishment by English law, she thought she had better not show herself at all to the child's father, but find her way to her husband's people as quickly as possible.

Of the parting between Marie and her adopted child we need not say much, but sad as it was, she went through it with courage and determination.

James Poole, as was expected, met the voyagers at Southampton, and Tad was surprised to see how much softened and how gentle his father's face and manner had become. When Tad introduced Phil, James Poole greeted the boy very kindly, and cordially invited him home.

The Pooles had a nice roomy cottage just out of town, and on the way there, Tad's father told him that Mrs. Poole had been a great invalid for four months and more, and quite unable to do any work about the house, so that life had been very hard for all. He said that Nell and Bert were well, and good children on the whole, but running rather wild for want of looking after, and that Mr. Scales the grocer, Tad's former employer, had quite recently written to inquire after his late shop-boy, saying that since Tad left, he had been unable to find a lad to suit him.

On reaching home, it was a sad sight to see Mrs. Poole lying on a couch quite helpless, dependent upon an old woman who came every morning to do the work of the house. But on seeing her baby boy and receiving him into her arms again, the poor mother was so full of joy and content and thankfulness, that the look of suffering passed from her face, and Tad thought he should not be surprised if she got well after all.

In the general rejoicing, no one thought of scolding or blaming the runaway lad, and all listened eagerly while he told his adventures.

Phil too was made much of, and when, in relating his story, Tad told also not sparing nor excusing himself—how Phil had been his good angel, his loving, faithful friend, ever since they had first met, there was not a dry eye in all that little company. And James Poole wrung the little slender hand in his strong palm, Nell and Bert hugged him round the neck, and Mrs. Poole patted his head and called him a dear good lad, till he felt quite shy, for he had never been used to much kindness or attention.

Presently, when the little ones had gone to bed, Mrs. Poole asked Tad to come and sit down by her, and when he did so, she said:

"Tad, dear, God has taught me a many lessons since you left home all them months ago. First there was losin' my baby, and afterwards this illness that came of a fall. But Tad, it wasn't until I began to miss my little one, that I called to mind how you and Nell and Bert had never ceased to miss your mother, and how I never so much as tried to fill her place. And it wasn't till I was laid aside, and needed to have people tender and patient with me, that I remembered I'd never been tender and patient with the poor chil'en I was stepmother to. But now, dear boy, you've come home again, and me and your father we'll both try and make it real home to you, so as it shan't never no more come into your head and heart to run away. Kiss me, Tad, and call me mother, for that's what—God helpin' me—I mean to be to you always."

And now we can say good-bye to Tad the kidnapper, feeling quite sure that never again will he deserve this name.

How he went back to his duties at the grocer's shop, living in Mr. Scales' house all the week, and returning home for Sunday; how he gradually rose in his employer's confidence to a position of trust and of usefulness; how Phil, after a short sojourn with the Pooles, began to pine for something to do, and accepted Jeremiah Jackson's offer of a berth as cabin boy aboard the "Stormy Petrel"; how Marie, by special invitation, came every now and then to see baby Victor, (as she still called him); and how God sent her at last a little baby boy of her very own to comfort her heart; all this we need only just mention, for our story has been told to show that the getting of our own way does not always mean happiness or prosperity.

And since poor Tad Poole had learned this lesson, perhaps we who have followed him step by step in his adventurous career have learned it too.

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of What happened to Tad

WHAT HAPPENED

TO TAD

CHAPTER I