season, without Roger Eliot to raise the spondulicks, we couldn’t git
one. They’ve got some new players, too, that are said to be rippers. I
tell yeou, boys, I’m worried.”

“It’s just as bad to worry as it is to be overconfident,” said Ben
Stone, the captain of the eleven, appearing among them. “It’s my opinion
they’ve been trying to get our goat by setting afloat a lot of hot air
about the strength of their team and their wonderful new players. If we
go onto the field feeling a bit shy of them, which is doubtless what
they want, they will try to get the jump on us at the start. But we’re
not going to let them work that trick. Has anyone seen Sage? I wonder
where he is.”

Fred Sage, who was usually one of the first to be on hand, had not
arrived, and when, a short time later, he still remained absent, the
captain’s wonderment took on a touch of anxiety.

“Here, Hooker,” he called to Roy, who, as a substitute, was getting into
his armor, “do you know anything about Sage? He isn’t around.”

“I’ve been wondering where he was,” confessed Hooker. “I haven’t seen
him since I left him in front of his house this forenoon.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Jack Nelson maliciously, “he’s suffering from an
attack of indigestion. Wild duck is pretty heavy food, you know.”

“Look out,” retorted Roy, “that you don’t have to eat crow yet.”

Another five minutes passing, and the quarterback failing to arrive,
Stone decided to send out for him.

“Here, Tommy,” he called to Tommy Shea, the mascot of the team, “you go
find Sage and tell him to get a move on. We must have our regular
warming up before the game, and I’ll guarantee Barville is on the field
now. I can’t see what’s happened to keep him away. Stir yourself,
Tommy.”

As the little fellow dusted out of the gymnasium there came through the
momentarily opened door the sound of a hearty Barville cheer, which,
doubtless, proclaimed the advent of the visitors on the adjacent field.

“They must have plenty of confidence in their team,” said Bob Collins,
“for they’ve certainly sent over a big bunch of rooters. People have
been coming from Barville in all sorts of turnouts for the past two
hours.”

“All the more gate money for us,” exulted the optimistic Cooper. “In
fancy I can hear the merry jingle of their quarters. They can give us as
many as they please, but we’ll give them no quarter to-day.
Nevertheless, without Sage we’d be a quarter short, and we’d feel it
before the end of the first half. Mercy! I surrender! Spare me!”

No one paid the slightest attention to him, however, which led him
disgustedly to mutter something about casting pearls before swine.

In a short time Tommy Shea returned, followed closely by Sage, whose
face was flushed and who betrayed some tokens of unusual excitement. At
least, this was what the watchful Piper thought, and he became, if
possible, more watchful than ever.

“Met him on the way, captain,” the mascot reported to Stone.

“You’re late, Fred,” said Ben sharply. “We’re ready to go out now, all
but you. Anything the matter?”

“No—no, nothing the matter,” was the somewhat faltering answer, as Sage
began ripping off his clothes, having given Tommy Shea the key to open
his locker. “I had—some things to do at home, and I didn’t—I didn’t
realize it was so late.”

“Lame excuse,” whispered Piper to himself. “Something has happened,
sure. He’s in a perfect stew.”

While Fred was hurriedly preparing for the field, Stone called the
others around him and talked to them earnestly, laying out a plan of
campaign for the first quarter. At first he addressed them all in a
general way, after which he singled out individual members of the eleven
and gave each one advice and instructions. Ere he had gone through the
list Sage was completely dressed for the game and apparently drinking in
the captain’s words, although to Piper it seemed that he listened with a
distinct effort which betrayed a tendency of his mind to wander.

“Just a word to you, Sage,” said Stone in conclusion. “Keep things
moving on the jump. Don’t waste any time over your signals when we’re on
the offensive. I have an idea that Barville will try to rush us off our
feet at the start, and we mustn’t let them do that. We’ll hammer them
hard as we can with straight football to begin with, and hold back our
trick plays for use in emergencies. Of course if we quickly get within
striking distance of their goal, and they hold us for a down that
doesn’t give us a proper gain, you may see fit to try a trick or to work
the forward pass. Now come on, everybody; let’s go out with a snap and
show that we’re alive.”

From the gymnasium to the players’ entrance of the field was only a
short distance, and Ben led his sturdy followers at a swift pace. The
visitors were practicing at one end of the field, watched and encouraged
by the surprisingly large gathering of Barville supporters who had
followed them to Oakdale. As the shocky-haired locals dashed out into
the open space they were given a lusty cheer by the majority of the
assembled spectators. At once two footballs were put into use by them,
and they went at the work of warming up with commendable method and
ginger.

It was a hazy autumn afternoon, the sky being overcast with a filmy
veil, through which the sun shone with a muffled orange glow. A tempered
southwest wind was blowing steadily, but not with sufficient vigor to
give much advantage to the defenders of the western goal. For the
spectators on the seats, light outer wraps were needed, even though the
air was not crisp enough to make first-class football weather.

With their coach watching them closely, the Barville lads were making an
impression by their snappy practice, in which short dashes, every man
starting fast and running low, seemed to be a particular feature.

Stone took this in at a glance, even while he did not appear to give the
rival team as much as momentary attention. It was a reminder, however,
that for the past week he had striven constantly to drill into the heads
of his teammates the necessity for rapidity in both assault and defence,
and the advantage of hitting the opposing line low and hard.

Among the followers of professional sports there can be no such genuine
loyalty and enthusiasm as that shown by the adherents of school and
college teams; for, as a class, the supporters of such teams are, like
the players, heart and soul in the game. In most cases the contestants
they are backing and on whom they pin their hopes are known to them
personally, which fact establishes between them such friendly personal
relations as seldom exist between masses of spectators and
professionals; and always a well-earned victory is a thing to be
rejoiced over by the satisfied supporter of the triumphant team, like a
piece of personal good fortune.

The referee for this game came from Clearport, and was equally
acceptable and satisfactory to both teams, having demonstrated in other
contests his absolute impartiality and fairness. At the proper moment he
walked briskly out upon the field and held a low-spoken consultation
with the two captains. A coin was tossed, and, Oakdale obtaining the
choice, Ben took the western goal.

The cheering of the spectators sank to a murmur, and was followed by a
few tense moments of silence as the youthful gladiators spread out over
the outlined chalk marks and made ready for the kick-off. Barville had
been given the ball, and the referee placed it carefully upon a little
soft mound of earth formed by his own hands at the exact center of the
field. A short distance away Copley, the fullback, who was to make the
kick, balanced and steadied himself, his eyes fastened on the huge
yellow egg. The referee retreated; the whistle sounded. With tensed
muscles, the players crouched a bit, ready for the dash.

Copley advanced, quickening his steps. With perfect judgment, he came
into position with the proper stride, swung his lusty right leg with
vigor, and, following the plunk of his foot against the ball, the
pigskin went sailing and soaring far into Oakdale’s territory.

                              CHAPTER XIV.

                           THE FIRST QUARTER.

Warren and Forest, the Barville ends, raced along in a desperate dash,
closing in as the ball began to fall. Rodney Grant was waiting for the
oncoming pigskin, balanced ready for action, his arms outstretched. He
made a clean, fair catch, and was off like a broncho of his native
state, quirt-stung and spur-jabbed. On one side Warren was blocked off,
but on the other Forest came in like a charging fury and flung himself
at the Texan. Down they went on the thirty-yard line, with the other
players converging toward that spot.

Remembering Stone’s admonition to hustle and line up without loss of a
moment, the Oakdale boys strained every nerve to get quickly into
position for the first scrimmage. This was their opportunity to show
Barville right off the reel what real snappy aggression meant.

“Lively! lively!” urged Stone; and, ere the line of the locals seemed
fully formed, Sage began barking the signal. He spat out the numbers
sharply, every one clear and distinct, and Oakdale went into Barville
like a whirlwind before the visitors were fully set for defence. The
result was a gain of eighteen yards, made in a style which seemed to
carry the Barville boys completely off their feet, with the exception of
the sturdy fullback, Copley, who yanked down the runner and prevented
what had promised to be a clean break through the defence, and what
might have given the man with the pigskin a running chance to score.

The home crowd went wild over this apparently demoralizing attack of the
Oakdale boys, and there were many who, forming a hasty judgment,
declared their conviction that the locals outclassed the visitors.

Sanger, who knew Stone as a rather slow and methodical chap, had not
imagined for a moment that the Oakdale captain would spur his team to a
point of such rapid aggression. The Barville leader, however, was not
slow to grasp the fact that he had made an error in judgment, and his
voice was heard calling sharply to his somewhat disorganized men as he
ordered them to get into position to stop the next charge. Copley came
up somewhat dazed by the shock of the collision with the runner; but the
latter was even more dazed, and was so long about finding his place in
the formation that Barville was given sufficient time to make ready for
defence.

Three stingy yards were all Oakdale could make on another line plunge;
and when, following this, a round-the-end run promised more satisfactory
results, the argus-eyed referee dismayed the shrieking adherents of the
team by penalizing the locals for holding.

Barville took heart at once and fought Oakdale tooth and nail, until the
latter team was compelled to kick rather than take the chance of losing
the ball on downs. Stone, who had a lusty leg, booted the pigskin into
the enemy’s territory, where Larry Groove, the left halfback, scooped it
on the jump, dodged Hopper, and came all the way back to the center line
before he was slammed to the turf. Of course this gave the Barville
crowd its chance to cheer madly, and their cries mingled with the
Oakdale plaudits for the tackler.

“Ginger up! ginger up!” Lee Sanger was calling, as he crouched behind
Bart Rock, the center. “Signal! signal!” Then he reeled off a few sharp
numbers, and the youthful contestants leaped at one another like tigers.

Again and again they crashed together, but Oakdale stubbornly held its
ground until an unexpected fluke—a bad pass and a muff—gave Sage a
splendid opportunity. The ball came bounding to his very feet, with
Rollins and Tuttle blocking off two of the enemy, the only ones who
seemed to realize just what had happened, and Fred had time to scoop the
ball up and a fine chance to get away with it for a run.

Instead of doing so, Sage stared for a moment at the pigskin, as if he
did not realize what it was. And when he awoke from this brief spell of
numbness and started into life and action, it was Nelson who flung
himself on the oval, to be pinned down by Hope, who had finally bucked
Tuttle aside.

In this manner, through the faltering of Sage, Barville, although she
lost the ball, stopped what might have been a gain of ground by the
locals.

Piper, who seemed to see everything, saw this, although he was too far
away at the time of the fumble to get his hands on the pigskin. Sleuth
glared at Sage.

“Something wrong,” he panted to himself. “First time he ever did a thing
like that.”

“Wake up! wake up!” Stone was calling sharply. “Positions! Get ready!
Come on, Sage, give us the signal.”

“Signal!” said Sage, and then he paused, as if collecting his thoughts.
“Signal!” he repeated. “5-11-16-24.”

It was the former line-bucking play, which, through experience thus
quickly obtained, Barville was ready to meet. Instead of a gain, the
result was a loss of two yards, the visitors actually bearing the line
of the home team back.

As the tangled mass of men untwined, following the blast of the whistle,
Sage heard Stone calling in his ear:

“Vary it, Fred. Something else; something else, quick!”

The quarterback gave himself a shake. The men were hopping into the
line-up, and the Barvilleites, now equally alert and ready, were
planting themselves for defence. Straight old-fashioned line-bucking,
with no varying plays, had already become ineffective, and Sage gave the
signal for the double pass and the criss-cross. The ball went to Nelson,
who shot toward the right, Grant closing in as if to support him, but
passing across his very heels and taking the pigskin as he passed.
Cooper blocked the right end off. Piper put his body into the right
tackle and bore him in the opposite direction. A hole was opened at
precisely the proper moment, and through it went the Texan at full
speed.

  THE FULLBACK CAME CHARGING ACROSS, FORCING RODNEY
  TOWARD THE SIDE LINE.—Page 156.]

The main body of the enemy’s back field had been led into starting in
the wrong direction. The right halfback, who was one of these, saw
through the play a moment too late to reach Grant. The fullback,
however, came charging across, forcing Rodney out toward the side line.
It seemed that the Texan would be run out of bounds, but ten feet from
the border of the field he deceived the charging fullback by a sudden
half-pivoting swerve, and the would-be tackler’s fingers barely scraped
his canvas jacket as he shot by.

The crowd rose and roared, for Grant was flying over the chalk marks
with giant strides, followed by the players of both teams. Head thrown
back, nostrils expanded, Rodney covered the ground as if his very life
depended on it.

“Touchdown!” howled the excited Oakdale spectators. “Touchdown!
touchdown!”

There was no preventing it. Over the Barville goal line went Grant,
planting the ball favorably for a goal. He did not seem to hear the
school cheer, which, with his name tagged at the end, came rolling
across the field. His manner was grim and businesslike; his attention
was entirely centered upon the matter in hand.

There was no need to punt the ball out. Brought forth properly by the
referee, it gave Oakdale a most favorable chance to boot it over the
bar, and Stone performed the trick.

As the teams changed positions on the field, the Oakdale captain found
time to rest his hand for a moment on the shoulder of Sage and speak a
few low, hasty words to him. In response Fred nodded.

Soon they were at it again, but Barville, apparently nothing
disheartened, resumed the struggle more fiercely and grimly than ever.
The tide of battle ebbed and flowed, neither side gaining any great
advantage, until presently a long, shrill blast of the whistle announced
the end of the first scrimmage.

As the boys jogged off the field, Chipper Cooper gave Piper a slap on
the back, crying:

“Well, we put one across on ’em all right.”

“Yes,” nodded Sleuth; “but Sage lost an opportunity for us before that.
He isn’t right to-day. There’s something the matter with him, or I’m a
dunce.”

                              CHAPTER XV.

                       THE PLAYER WHO BLUNDERED.

The elation of the Oakdale players over making a touchdown and goal in
the first quarter was quickly subdued by their captain, who, in the
privacy of the gym, sternly informed them that they should have done
much better.

“It was a lucky stab, nothing less,” said Ben. “Only for the
resourcefulness and speed of Grant, they would have held us scoreless.
We threw away fine opportunities, one splendid chance in particular;
and, although we got the start on them to begin with, we made nothing by
it. Unless we do better, we’ll be outplayed in the next quarter, mark
what I say.”

After this bit of general talk, he selected several of the players for
special advice and criticism. Lastly he spoke to the quarterback, whose
eyes, although fixed on Stone, held a far-away look, which seemed to
indicate lack of attention.

“Sage,” said Ben sharply, “Sage, listen to me.”

“Yes, sir,” said Fred, with a start.

“Several times you were woefully slow with your signals, and you know
that the swift aggression of a team depends mainly upon the quarterback.
No matter how prompt and ready the players may be, they can’t play fast
when a quarter dawdles over his signals. It’s not like you to be slow,
and I fail to understand it. You missed a fine chance to take advantage
of a Barville fumble, and, only for Nelson, those chaps would have
obtained possession of the ball after losing it on a bungling pass and
letting it bound to your very feet. Are you sick?”

Fred’s face was crimson. “No, sir, I’m not sick,” he answered. “I’m all
right.”

“Then it’s up to you to get into the game and play as if you were all
right.”

“I will, depend on it,” promised the quarterback.

Before the boys returned to the field Roy Hooker found an opportunity to
speak privately with his friend.

“Get a brace on, Fred—get a brace on,” urged Roy. “If you don’t, they’ll
blame it on our little outing last night. I never saw you so punk
before. Your wits seem to be wool-gathering.”

“I guess that’s right,” acknowledged Fred regretfully. “I’ll get into
gear now. Watch me.”

“Has anything happened to worry you?”

“Nun-no,” faltered Sage, “not a thing.” But, somehow, Roy felt that his
chum had not spoken the truth.

The second quarter opened quite as fiercely as the first, but with
Barville plainly prepared for quick, savage work and ready to contribute
her part of it. Indeed, the visitors seemed the more aggressive, even
though Oakdale improved all the opportunities that were offered; and,
presently, after some eight minutes of play, the home team found itself
making a desperate defence on its own thirty-yard line. Right there,
after a first down had yielded no gain, Barville tried the forward pass
and executed it successfully, cutting down the distance to the home
team’s goal by fully one half.

“Hold them, boys—you’ve got to hold them!” was the cry from the Oakdale
crowd.

“Got ’em going!” came from the visiting spectators. “Keep it up, boys!
Put the ball over for a touchdown! You can do it!”

Barville had found a weak spot in Oakdale’s line, and, mercilessly
buffeted and battered, Bob Collins, the left guard, showed signs of
grogginess. With only fifteen yards to gain, the visitors followed the
forward pass with another assault on Collins, which, although they made
only a slight gain, left him groaning on the ground. Promptly attended
by a doctor, Collins pluckily tried to stand on his pins and resume his
place in the line; but the moment he was released by supporting hands he
staggered, being prevented from falling only by the quickness of Nelson
in catching him.

Stone saw that Collins could not continue and ordered him to the side
line, at the same time calling for Hooker. Surprised that he should be
selected from the waiting substitutes, Roy promptly responded.

“Get in there at left guard, Hooker,” directed Stone, “and see if you
can stop that hole.”

Fresh and exultant, Roy took his place in the line, and, when Barville
tried the quality of the substitute, the hole was found to be stopped
effectively. Not another foot could the visitors gain through Oakdale’s
left wing.

Blocked and held, Barville apparently decided to try for a field goal,
even though success at that would leave the home team still in the lead.
It was Stone, however, who suspected a fake and hurriedly warned his
players; and Ben’s perception baffled the smashing charge of the
visitors, who were held for the final down, thus losing the ball.

Of course no time was lost in booting the pigskin away from that
dangerous point.

Nothing daunted over this failure, Barville resumed the battering
process, occasionally varying it with an end run or some peculiar piece
of strategy of her own concoction. But the locals, stronger on the
defence than the offence, refused for the time being to let the enemy
regain the lost advantage.

In the last minutes of the quarter, with Oakdale in possession of the
ball, Sage once more betrayed surprising slowness and even symptoms of
confusion in giving the signals. This was true to such an extent that
finally, in desperation, Stone went in at quarter himself, letting Fred
play fullback. And even then Sage was slow about getting into the plays.

The quarter ended with the score unchanged.

In the second period of rest the Oakdale captain drew the quarterback
apart from the others and talked to him with great earnestness. Of those
who watched the two, Piper took special note of the fact that Sage
seemed discouraged and downcast, and it was evident that Stone was
seeking by every possible manner of encouragement to brace him up. With
Fred at his best, no one else on the team could fill his position nearly
as well, and for this reason Ben was extremely loath to make a change.

Collins, having recovered from the gruelling he had received, was
anxious to get back into the game, and he made an appeal to Stone the
moment Ben finished his talk with Sage. Hooker, however, had done
surprisingly well, and the captain told Collins that he would have wait
until, during the course of the play, an opportunity offered for him to
return.

The Oakdale boys were now showing few signs of elation, for the second
quarter had led them to realize that the two teams were more evenly
matched than they had supposed, and that, doubtless, they had been
rather lucky in securing six points in the first quarter, to say nothing
of their success in holding Barville in check after that.

In the last minute before they returned to the field, Stone called all
the players around him and hastily gave them a plan of action. As soon
as the ball came into their possession, unless they should chance to get
it so close to their own line that a kick would be necessary, they were
to line up and attempt a series of three varied plays, without waiting
for signals. He was careful to make them all understand precisely what
those plays were to be, and in what order they would be carried out.
Having made certain that no man misunderstood these directions, he led
them back to the gridiron.

It was Barville’s kick-off, but Copley’s effort was somewhat weak, and
Nelson ran the ball almost to the forty-five yard line before he bit the
dirt. This made it especially favorable for the carrying out of Stone’s
plans, and the Oakdale players lined up, eager to get the start on their
antagonists then and there.

Tuttle, with the ball between his feet, took one quick backward glance,
and, seeing the others springing into position, prepared to snap it.
Just as he was on the point of doing so, he was astounded to hear Sage
cry:

“Signal!” Following which, Fred rattled off some numbers which called
for a play entirely different from that agreed upon.

A bit confused, Tuttle snapped the ball to Sage, who passed it instantly
to Grant. The confusion of the center was likewise felt by every member
of the team, which led to faltering and gave the enemy a chance to
overwhelm them and bear them back for a loss of more than five yards.

In the midst of the untangling mass Stone reached Sage, grasped him by
the shoulder and almost snarled into his ear:

“What’s the matter with you? What made you do that? You know we had
arranged to work three plays without signals.”

“I—I forgot,” said Fred. “I’m sorry, but I forgot, captain.”

“Well, you messed things finely! It’s too late now. Get into action and
see if you can make up for the blunder somehow.”

Apparently Sage tried hard to atone, and for a time he displayed a
return to his best form. His blunder, however, had greatly disturbed the
others, and the entire team betrayed such uncertainty and lack of
cohesive, united action that the home crowd was dismayed. In a few
moments Oakdale was compelled to surrender the ball on a kick.

After this the quarter was heartbreaking in many ways. Twice the
visitors threatened Oakdale’s goal, and twice they were repulsed. In her
turn Oakdale had an opportunity that set her supporters into a frenzy of
hope and enthusiasm. An end run that netted thirty yards was followed by
a trick play that yielded ten more, and then came a forward pass which
placed the locals within striking distance of the enemy’s goal.

Right there Sage once more dashed Oakdale’s hopes. The team had two sets
of signals. This was necessary to enable them to switch from one set to
the other in case their opponents should get wise to the signals in use.
Now, however, Sage put them all into confusion by mixing the signals
himself in such a manner that it was impossible to tell which of two
plays he had called for. Then he made a bad pass, which was followed by
a fumble, and Barville, coming through Oakdale like water through a
sieve, got the ball.

Immediately Stone ordered Sage out of the game. Nelson was placed at
quarter, and his position was filled by a substitute.

                              CHAPTER XVI.

                      REMARKABLE BEHAVIOR OF SAGE.

Crestfallen and deeply chagrined, Sage attempted to watch the game from
the side line. He gave no heed to the substitutes, who stared at him and
muttered among themselves. His face, at first flushed, gradually lost
its color until it became almost ghastly and haggard. He saw the
exultant, confident Barville team, with the ball in its possession,
tearing to pieces the defence of the locals in a manner that promised
disaster for Oakdale.

“They’ll seek explanations in the next intermission,” he whispered to
himself. “I can’t answer their questions.”

Turning suddenly, he left the field. Having passed outside, he made a
dash for the gymnasium, in which he began ripping off his sweat-soaked
football togs in a manner that was almost frantic. He did not pause for
a shower, knowing that there would be no time for it if he wished to get
away before his teammates appeared. Dully he seemed to hear the cheering
of the crowd upon the field, taking notice in a benumbed way that the
Barville cry was swelling stronger and more triumphant.

Leaving his playing togs as he had dropped them, he dashed bareheaded
from the gymnasium, flinging himself into his coat as he ran. Round the
corner he darted, scudded down Lake Street until the entrance to the
academy yard was reached, ran panting across the yard and settled into a
rapid walk when his feet were presently on the path that led across lots
between Middle and High Streets.

He had made his escape none too soon, for barely was he out of sight
when the third quarter ended and the Oakdale players came hurrying
toward the gymnasium. They were a soiled, battered, weary-looking band,
and more than one seemed to totter in his stride. In the gym they flung
themselves down upon benches and blankets, some even sprawling upon the
floor.

“Cripes!” groaned Sile Crane. “Them fellers sartainly made us fight. We
barely held ’em.”

“If they’d had another minute they’d have scored,” sighed Harry Hopper.
“They’re better trained than we are. They’re like iron. That’s what a
coach does for a team.”

Two chaps were rubbing Chipper Cooper’s left ankle, which he had
wrenched in a scrimmage. The smell of witch hazel and arnica filled the
room.

“Look at the confounded thing,” snapped Chipper, his face contorted by
grimaces of pain. “You can almost see it swell. I’ll be as lively as a
toad on that bum peg.”

“If Sage hadn’t messed things up!” muttered Rodney Grant, as if speaking
to himself. “What was the matter with him, anyhow?”

“Where is Sage?” asked Stone, looking around. “I don’t believe he came
in from the field. Here, Shea, go bring Sage.”

Piper touched Ben on the arm.

“Don’t bother to send for him, captain,” he advised.

“Why not?”

“You won’t find him out there. He’s gone.”

“Gone—where? Why——”

“I don’t know where,” said Sleuth; “but he’s gone. Here are his field
clothes just as he dropped them. He didn’t even stop to put them away.”

Astonishment was plainly revealed in Stone’s face.

“I don’t understand it,” he finally said in a low tone. “I can’t see why
Fred should desert us like this. What will we do if——” He checked
himself abruptly.

“He’s run away! He’s quit!” cried Nelson. “What do you know about that,
fellows?”

Hooker rose to the defence of his chum. “I’m dead sure Fred is sick,” he
said. “There’s no other explanation for his actions. He wouldn’t
acknowledge it, but he must be sick. You all know what a football
enthusiast he is, and you never before saw him put up such a numb,
bungling game.”

“At least,” said Stone, “if he had to quit, he might have let me know.”

The inexplicable action of Sage seemed to cast a heavier shadow upon the
team. Desperately though Stone sought to rally his players, he could not
help feeling that the effort was profitless. They returned to the game
in a spiritless, almost sullen humor, which made them, although they
fought stubbornly, quite unable to cope with the persistent, determined,
undaunted visitors; and, with the opportunity in their grasp, the
Barvilleites presently hammered out a touchdown and kicked the tying
goal.

Oakdale made a mighty effort to hold the game to a draw, and for a time
it seemed that such would be the result. In the very last minute of
play, however, getting within the home team’s twenty-five yard line, the
visitors made a field goal.

As the ball soared over the crossbar a groan of dismay came from the
Oakdale spectators.

“That settles it,” declared a keenly disappointed man. “Our boys are
beaten.”

He was right; the game ended with Barville victorious and jubilant.

It was a sore and disgruntled bunch of fellows who took their showers
and rubdowns in the gymnasium. With scarcely an exception, they were
disposed to place the blame of their defeat entirely upon Sage. Vainly
Hooker tried to defend his friend.

“He ran away without a word,” reminded Grant. “There’s sure no excuse
for that.”

“Nary bit,” agreed Crane. “He done us a dirty turn to-day, and it’ll
take a whole lot of explainin’ to put him right with the bunch.”

Roy was the first to leave the gymnasium, and he started almost at a run
for Sage’s home.

“I don’t understand it myself,” he muttered, as he hurried along. “I
can’t imagine what threw Fred into such a pitiful condition. I hope he
can explain.”

As he came within view of Fred’s home he discovered his chum and Mr.
Sage standing near the open stable door, apparently engaged in
conversation. At the same moment Fred seemed to espy Roy, and
immediately, with a quick word to his father, he darted into the stable
and disappeared.

Mr. Sage walked out to meet Hooker. There was a strange expression on
the man’s face, and Roy fancied that he seemed somewhat nervous and
distraught.

“I’d like to see Fred a minute,” said Hooker.

“I’m sorry,” was the answer, “but he’s not feeling well. He can’t see
you.”

His perplexity greatly augmented, Roy stared at the man.

“Is he ill?”

Andrew Sage seemed to hesitate. Lifting a hand to his lips, he coughed
behind it.

“Well, not—er—not exactly ill,” he answered; “but he isn’t feeling well
enough to talk with anyone, Roy. I hope you don’t mind?”

This treatment from his comrade piqued Hooker. “I didn’t suppose,” he
said, “that Fred would refuse to see me unless he was dangerously ill in
bed—and I know he isn’t that. It’s all right, though. Will you please
tell him that Barville won the game?”

Turning, he walked slowly away, his brow knitted with perplexity.

“I can’t understand it,” he told himself once more. “It’s too much for
me. He isn’t sick, that’s sure; and still, his father says that he
doesn’t feel well. Possibly,” he added resentfully, “the information
that Barville trimmed us will make him feel better.”

                             CHAPTER XVII.

                      WORK OF THE YOUNG DETECTIVE.

That evening a group of somewhat doleful-looking boys gathered in front
of the Oakdale post-office and shivered as they discussed the game.
Without a single dissenting voice they blamed Sage for their failure to
win from Barville.

Sleuth Piper appeared, hurried into the post-office and presented
himself at the delivery window.

“Look a’ the businesslike bustle of the great detective,” said Crane,
watching Piper through the window. “Anyone would sorter s’pose he
expected to receive about a bushel of important mail. I bet he don’t get
a thing.”

“You lose,” said Hunk Rollins, as a letter was passed out to Sleuth.
“He’s got something.”

Before opening the letter, Piper was seen eagerly scanning the postmark
upon the envelope, and the watchers fancied there was an expression of
mingled excitement and satisfaction upon his face. Coming forth, Sleuth
paused in front of a lighted window a short distance from the others and
tore his letter open. In a moment he was eagerly intent upon the
contents.

“Hi! Who’s the girl, Sleuthy?” called Jack Nelson. “Let us read it, will
you?”

“’Sh!” sibilated Chub Tuttle, spluttering forth munched peanuts with a
hissing sound. “The great detective has a scent.”

“Huh!” grunted Cooper, with a forced laugh. “If that’s so, he’s better
off than I am. I bet on the game, and I haven’t a cent.”

“Look,” urged Nelson—“look at Sleuthy’s face! He’s excited. By Jinks!
that letter must be rather interesting.”

“I’ll get a peep at it,” said Harry Hopper. “I’ll tell you if it’s a
girl’s writing.”

But, although he tiptoed forward with great caution, Sleuth detected his
approach, and, having finished reading the letter, hastily folded the
missive and thrust it into his pocket.

“Go chase yourself, Mr. Sly Boy,” he said, waving Hopper off. “Rubbering
will give you a cramp in the neck sometime.”

Roy Hooker, looking decidedly glum, came slouching along, his hands
thrust deep into his pockets. Immediately Sleuth pounced upon him.

“Just the man I’m looking for,” said Piper, in almost tragic tones.

Roy drew away, seeking to shake Sleuth’s hand from his shoulder.

“Well, I’m not looking for you,” he retorted. “I’ve no particular use
for you, Piper.”

“Come now,” said Sleuth, “I wish to hold a private consultation with you
on a matter of immense moment.”

“Run away and consult with yourself,” snapped Roy. “I don’t like your
company, and you know the reason why.”

But Sleuth grabbed at him again as he made a move to pass on.

“Wait,” whispered Piper. “Perhaps you’d like to know what was the matter
with Sage to-day? I can tell you.”

“The deuce you can!”

“I can,” insisted the other boy. “I’ve solved the mystery.”

“Well, if you know what ailed him, why don’t you tell? I’m sure I’m not
the only one who would like to have the matter cleared up.”

“It’s not a subject for the public ear, Hooker; it’s something to be
talked over privately and discreetly between ourselves. If you want to
know what I know, you’ll just take a little walk with me to some spot
where we’ll be all by our lonesomes. If you don’t want to know, if you
haven’t got any interest in Sage and his affairs, you needn’t bother.”

To say the least, Roy’s curiosity was aroused.

“I’ll wager it will be a waste of time,” he said; “but I’ll listen. What
have you done, concocted some sort of fool deduction about it?”

“I have the straight, solid, indisputable facts right in my inside
pocket. I can tell you something about the Sages that will make your
hair curl. Where shall we go?”

“You say.”

“Down to the bridge. There’s not likely to be anybody around there.”

It was somewhat chilly upon the bridge which spanned the river below
Lake Woodrim, and Hooker’s teeth were inclined to chatter as he leaned
against the railing and invited his companion to “divulge.”

“To begin with,” said Piper, “I want to ask you a question, and I hope
you’ll give me an honest answer. You’ve been mighty chummy with Sage,
and I have a notion that he gave me away by telling you that I was
trying to make a ten-strike by capturing a certain criminal for whom a
large reward is offered. Am I right, or not?”

“Whatever Fred has told me in confidence, I’ll not blow on him. If it
was your object to pump me, Piper, you’re wasting your time—and mine.”

“You don’t have to answer,” said Sleuth instantly. “Your failure to give
me a fair and square reply is sufficient. Sage told you. I knew he
would. Well, I don’t care. I’ve got something to tell you now, and, as I
said, it will make your hair curl.”

He paused impressively, apparently desiring Roy to urge him to go on;
but Hooker, shrugging his shoulders a bit, waited the promised
revelation.

“I want to ask one more question,” said Piper, “and you’ll not betray a
confidence by giving me an answer. Saturday, one week ago, while out
hunting with Sage, you encountered a certain mysterious stranger in the
woods beyond Culver’s Bridge. You talked with the man face to face and
had a fine opportunity to look him over thoroughly. Tell me, did he bear
any personal resemblance to your friend, Sage?”

“Huh!” grunted Roy. “Resemblance? What do you mean?”

“Did he look as if he might be a relative?”

“Why, I—I don’t know. What in the world are you trying to get at, Pipe?”

“That man professed to know the Sages and made inquiries about them.
Nevertheless, at the approach of Fred he ran away, and, although he
pretended to you that he was looking for work hereabouts, as far as I
can learn he has not attempted to obtain employment, and has not been
publicly seen since that day.”

“If you have an idea that he was some relative of the Sages, the mere
fact that he has not been seen seems to knock your theory into a cocked
hat.”

“When I place you in full possession of the facts,” returned Piper, in a
lofty and superior manner, “you’ll perceive that the man’s care not to
attract public attention strengthens the foundations of my theory. You
have not answered my question. Did he look like Fred Sage?”

“In some respects he may have borne a slight resemblance. He had blue
eyes, and Fred’s eyes are blue. But that’s nothing. Come across with
your dope that’s going to make my hair curl.”

“Doesn’t it occur to you as very singular that so little is really known
about the past history of the Sages? This family, consisting of father,
mother and one son, came to Oakdale something like three years ago and
settled here. Yet who is there in this town that can tell where they
came from and how they happened to come? You’re chummy with the
before-mentioned son, Hooker. How much has he ever told you about his
past?”

“Oh, say, Sleuth, if you’re trying to fasten a dark and terrible past
upon Fred Sage, you’ll do nothing but make yourself ridiculous. Why,
anybody knows that he’s been one of the openest, frankest fellows in the
world.”

“Huh! Is that so?” sneered Piper. “Really, he may appear to be all that
you claim, Hooker, but appearances, you should know, are often most
deceptive. Mr. Andrew Sage has the bearing of a country gentleman in
moderate circumstances. Mrs. Sage is apparently a most estimable lady.
These people are regular churchgoers, and have the respect of their
townsfolk. Nevertheless, since living here they have never become
especially intimate with anyone, and you must admit that they are rather
reserved.”

“Aw, rot!” exploded Roy in exasperation. “Simply because people don’t
choose to go about telling everybody their business and all their past
history, you get the notion that they must have some guilty secret they
are trying to cover up. That comes from reading the kind of trash with
which you stuff your mind, Piper.”

“In a very few minutes,” retorted Sleuth, “I’ll make it necessary for
you to take back some of your slurs, Mr. Hooker. You know what country
people are. You know that gossip is one of their chief delights. As a
rule, let a strange family move into a town like Oakdale, and within
thirty days more than fifty per cent of the inhabitants of that place
are conversant with the history of those people as far back as it can be
traced. When the Sages came here the usual curious gossips attempted to
learn things about them. They failed. To me that’s a guarantee that the
Sages, for good and sufficient reasons, desired to keep their family
history from being probed. This thought has occurred to me more than
once, and many a time I’ve told myself that a little investigation of
the before-mentioned Sages might prove interesting to a sensational
degree. Recently I decided to investigate.”

“In other words, you decided to pry into affairs which did not concern
you in the least. Poor business, Piper. The fellow who persists in
poking his nose into a crack is sure to get it pinched some day.”

Not the least ruffled, Sleuth retorted: “The person who puts himself to
extreme trouble to hide his past must have a guilty secret. Sometimes
there are wolves in sheep’s clothing, and for the public weal they
should be exposed. In order to obtain information regarding the Sages,
it was necessary to learn where they came from when they moved to this
town.”

“And you found out?”

“Having decided on a course of action, I never permit anything to baffle
me.”

“How did you do it?”

“Oh, one day I dropped in on Mrs. Sage for a little social call. Fred
wasn’t home, so I waited for him; and, while waiting, I made myself
comfortable, at the lady’s invitation, in the sitting-room. I knew there
must be in that house something which would give me the clue I sought.
It was not long before I discovered the very thing, a family photograph
album. While seemingly amusing myself by looking at the pictures in that
album, I slipped several of them from their places and looked for the
imprint of the photographer. There were pictures of Mr. and Mrs. Sage,
and also of Fred, taken some years ago. Those pictures, I found, bore
the name of a photographer in the town of Rutledge, State of New York. I
lost little time in writing a letter to the postmaster of Rutledge, New
York, making inquiries concerning the Sages. I asked if they had ever
lived in that town. In case they had, I politely requested information
concerning the entire family. To insure an answer, I enclosed a stamped
and addressed envelope.”

“And did you get an answer?”

“Sure,” exulted Piper. “I received it to-night. I have it in my pocket
now. The information it contains is of the most sensational character.
It clears up the mystery of the Sages, and also, I firmly believe, fixes
the identity of the mysterious man you met beyond Culver’s Bridge.”

                             CHAPTER XVIII.

                      SLEUTH’S ASTONISHING THEORY.

Curiosity is one of the most powerful traits in human nature, and in
youth, being to some extent unrestrained, it often reaches its highest
development. It was chiefly curiosity that had led Hooker to listen thus
far to the words of Piper; but now, as if suddenly realizing the full
significance of Sleuth’s self-confessed and shameless prying into the
affairs of others, and remembering at the same time his familiar and
friendly relations with Fred Sage, Roy suddenly seared his companion
with the red-hot iron of contempt and wrath.

“You miserable, sneaking puppy!” he cried. “Under pretence of making a
friendly call, you play a miserable trick like that, do you? I’ve a mind
to give you the finest drubbing you ever had.”

Indeed, so savage and threatening was his attitude that Piper fell back
precipitately, lifting his hands as if to ward off a blow.

“Now you hold on!” he cried. “You hold on, Hooker! You hadn’t better hit
me. Perhaps you think that would be a good way to make me keep still
about what I know concerning the Sages. I’m not going to blow this thing
round to everybody. I chose you because you’re Fred’s chum.”

“Oh, is that so?” scoffed Roy incredulously. “You’ve begun blabbing with
me, and it isn’t likely you’ll stop there. I don’t know what you’ve
found out, but I do know that the way you’ve gone about it to obtain
your information was dirty—just plain dirty.”

“It was thoroughly legitimate,” asserted Sleuth in self-defence. “These
people are living here in our town and associating with our citizens. If
they’re the right sort, there can be no harm in finding out about their
past history. But perhaps you’ve misunderstood me, Hooker. I’m not
making the claim that there’s anything wrong with the Sages we know.”

“Oh, aren’t you?” said Roy in surprise. “I thought you were. If you
haven’t found out that there’s something wrong about them, what the
dickens _have_ you found out that was so wonderful? What is this
sensational thing that’s going to make my hair curl?”

“If you’ll give me a chance and not get fighting mad over it, I’ll tell
you. You know it’s often the case that there’s a black sheep in the most
respectable family.”

“Huh! There are only three persons in this particular family. Where’s
the black sheep?”

“Only three of the family are known at the present time to the people of
Oakdale,” Piper said hastily. “Have you never thought that there might
be at least one other member of this family?”

“Can’t say such a thought ever occurred to me.”

“Listen,” urged Sleuth, “and keep your temper under check until I’m
through. The information I’ve obtained does not reflect upon Andrew
Sage, his wife or his son Fred.”

“Well,” breathed Roy in relief, “there’s considerable satisfaction to be
derived from that statement.”

“The postmaster of Rutledge states that Mr. and Mrs. Sage and their
younger son, Fred, are most estimable people.”

“Whew!” whistled Hooker. “Their younger son, eh? Oh, do you mean that
there’s another—another son we don’t know anything about?”

“There’s another son, of whom we’ve known nothing whatever up to the
present date. I know something about him now, and he’s the black sheep.
It was the criminal act of this elder son, Clarence Sage, that doubtless
added many gray hairs to his mother’s head and led the family, weighted
by the shame of it, to leave Rutledge and seek another home, where no
one would know of their disgrace. Now if you don’t care to hear any more
about the matter,” said Sleuth craftily, “I’ll close up.”

Roy’s aversion to hearing the information Piper had secured was
completely swept away.

“Oh, go on,” he invited, once more leaning against the bridge rail.
“What did this Clarence Sage do?”

“Robbed a bank.”

“In Rutledge?”

“Yes. He was employed in a bank there, and he pilfered fourteen thousand
dollars from the institution.”

“Jove!” muttered Hooker. “I don’t wonder Fred never has mentioned his
brother.”

“The crime was discovered, as such things always are, and Clarence Sage
was arrested, tried, convicted and sent to Sing Sing for a term of
years.”

“My hair curls!” exclaimed Roy. “So Fred has a brother in prison. That’s
a shame!”

“He _had_ a brother in prison. Clarence Sage isn’t there now.”

“Oh, his term has expired?”

“No.”

“Was he pardoned?”

“No.”

“Cæsar’s ghost! What happened then? Is he dead?”

“Well,” answered Sleuth, “in my mind, at least, there is a doubt at this
point. He is supposed to be dead. With two other prisoners, he broke out
of Sing Sing in midwinter and tried to escape by crossing the Hudson on
the ice. The other two convicts were both recaptured. The trio had
separated immediately after getting out of the prison, and neither of
the recaptured rascals knew what had become of Clarence Sage. For more
than two months detectives sought everywhere for Sage, whose apparent
success in avoiding them was both astonishing and perplexing. Eventually
the body of a man was recovered from the river, but in such a condition
that identification was difficult. There were reasons, however, to
believe that the body was that of Clarence Sage. Andrew Sage viewed the
remains and decided that it was his recreant son. The body was buried in
Rutledge, and the grave is marked by a stone bearing the name of
Clarence Sage.”

“Well, then, why do you doubt that he’s dead?”

Piper tapped his forehead. “I believe I’ve got a little gray matter up
here,” he said boastfully. “After reading this letter, it took about
thirty seconds for me to form a theory in which I have the utmost
confidence. My conviction is that Clarence Sage is still alive. I think
he did make good his escape and succeeded handsomely in baffling the
officers who tried to follow him. The body that was taken from the river
and buried under the name of Clarence Sage was that of some other man,
as yet unknown. Perhaps it will continue to be unknown. When this
identification and burial had taken place, danger for the escaped man
was reduced to a minimum. Mind you, I’m not making the assertion that
Andrew Sage knew the body was not that of his son, but what would be
more natural than for him to identify it as such in order to give
Clarence a better chance for freedom? Perhaps, at the time, he really
believed it to be the unfortunate young man. Possibly, through some
means, he has since learned that his son is alive.”

“If you hadn’t read so much detective stuff, such an improbable idea
could not have found lodgment in your crazy garret,” said Hooker. “I
understand you’ve even tried to write stories yourself lately. Say,
Sleuth, if this matter wasn’t so serious, it would be laughable.”

“Your words,” returned Piper, “betray the narrow limits of your
reasoning faculties. I’m not basing my suspicions on mere guesswork,
Hooker.”

“Then, for the love of Mike, what do you base them on?”

“One week ago you met a stranger who behaved in a most peculiar manner.
Apparently of some education and refinement, this man seemed to be
somewhere near the age of Clarence Sage, if Sage still lives. He made
inquiries of you concerning the Sages in Oakdale, and when he learned
that Fred Sage was approaching he took to his heels and got away. He
didn’t dare remain to face Fred in your presence. Why, Hooker—why?
Simply because he knew that in his amazement Fred would call him by name
and give the whole thing away. What do you think about that?”

For a moment or two Roy shook his head. “I don’t believe it. It can’t be
true, Piper. If that’s all you have to base your belief on——”

“Did there seem to be anything especially wrong with Fred last night?”

“No, not that I observed.”

“Well, there surely was something the matter with him to-day. Something
had happened to upset him completely.”

“What do you think it was?”

“It was something tremendous, or it never would have led him to bungle
and blunder the way he did in that game. It was such a tremendous thing
that he could not get it out of his mind so that he might concentrate on
the game. Whenever he dismissed thoughts of it, he played in something
like his usual form for a few minutes, but it kept coming back at him
and putting him on the blink. He denied that he was sick. He denied that
anything had happened to upset him. All this is precisely what would
have happened had he made the amazing discovery to-day that his brother
Clarence was alive.”

“Gee whiz!” breathed Hooker. “I’ll own up that you’ve got me staggered.
If you’re right, Piper, you certainly have got a head on your
shoulders.”

The darkness masked the smile of satisfaction that Sleuth could not
repress.

“You can’t dodge the force of my deductions,” he declared. “Let me give
you a further illustration of my reasoning ability. As an escaped
convict, is it likely that Clarence Sage would lead an honest life? I
admit that he might, but the germ of dishonesty must have been virulent
in his blood, or he, the apparently promising son of highly respectable
parents, would never have committed his first crime. Once a man has
taken a crooked step, he’s almost sure to take others. Supposed to be
dead, Sage surely traveled under a fictitious name. A certain crook,
called James Wilson and known among his pals as Gentleman Jim, bears a
strong resemblance to the young bank-looter who was sent to Sing Sing.
This crook was arrested in the town of Harpersville a short time ago,
but made his escape from the jail, nearly killing the guard as he did
so. A big reward has been offered for Wilson’s capture. The last peg in
my argument is that this Gentleman Jim is none other than Clarence Sage
himself.”

“If that should prove to be right,” said Hooker, “I’ll admit that you’ve
got all the detectives of real life or fiction beaten to a froth.”

                              CHAPTER XIX.

                            THE NIGHT ALARM.

On Sunday night, or, rather, Monday morning, within a few minutes of the
hour of three (Captain Aaron Quinn afterward swore it was at six bells
precisely) occurred the explosion which, although muffled and faintly
heard by two persons only, was of sufficient importance to shake Oakdale
village to its very foundations. The only person actually to hear the
explosion, besides the old sailor, who could not sleep well on account
of his rheumatism, was Jonas Sylvester, the fat and pompous village
night-watch. With the establishment of the bank the town authorities had
decided that a night guard must be employed to patrol the streets, and
Sylvester, whose qualifications may be summed up briefly by the
statement that he weighed nearly three hundred pounds and had no regular
employment, was chosen for the job.

With his greatcoat brass-buttoned tightly to the chin, Officer Sylvester
had paused at the end of Main Street bridge, the southern limit of his
beat, and was stamping his feet and thumping his mittened hands together
when, as he stated later, he heard something like the closing of a
distant heavy door, which seemed accompanied by a slight shock or
jarring of the ground. Wondering vaguely what it was, and recalling that
he had heard that earthquakes, however slight, almost always manifested
themselves by several recurring detonations, Jonas ceased stamping and
thumping and stood quite still in the muffling darkness, his lips parted
as he listened.

“Hokey!” he muttered presently. “What was it? ’Twasn’t thunder, for it’s
out of season, and I’m too fur away to hear a horse kicking up in the
livery stable. The bank——”

Immediately he started puffingly up the street toward the new bank
building.

The clock in the steeple of the Methodist church struck three.

In the meantime, Captain Quinn had been further aroused by his monkey.
Chattering excitedly, the creature leaped upon the old sailor’s breast
and began tweaking at his hair.

“Quit it, ye swab!” rasped the old salt, thrusting the monkey away.
“Back to the fo’cas’le, you imp of mischief. Leave me alone, you scrub,
or I’ll give you a douse of bilge-water.”

But Jocko refused to be repulsed by his irascible master. His chattering
rose to a squeaking shriek as he returned with a bound and gave a
distressing tug at the captain’s whiskers.

“Keelhaul me!” roared Quinn, struggling up and casting the animal to the
floor. “I’ll throw you into the hold and keep you under the hatches for
the rest of the voyage if you try it again, you spawn!”

Even though he now kept beyond his master’s reach, the monkey persisted
in such a chattering uproar and dashed about the dark room in such a
frantic manner that the wondering man, groaning at the necessity,
hoisted himself out of bed, struck a match and looked at the brass-bound
ship’s clock which hung near at hand upon the wall.

“There’s something the matter,” decided Quinn, dropping the burning
match as the flame threatened to scorch his fingers. Then, forgetting
that he was undressed, from force of habit he placed his bare foot upon
the match to extinguish it.

The racket made by the monkey was nothing in comparison to the roar that
broke from the lips of the now thoroughly awakened man, and had anyone
witnessed the tremendous jump which Captain Quinn made he would have
fancied the old tar suddenly cured of his rheumatism. The language which
burst in a torrent from Quinn’s lips was of a decidedly sulphurous
nature.

“You imp of the Old Nick!” he bellowed, making a dive and a grab for the
elusive monkey. “I’ll wring your neck if I get my two hooks on it!”

Jocko, however, bounding over the furniture, skimming the length of a
shelf, and seeming to swing himself along one of the bare walls of the
room, perched on a window ledge beyond immediate reach. If possible,
Captain Quinn was further aroused and enraged by barking his shins upon
a chair.

“Furies!” he breathed. “Where’s my gun? I’ll blow a porthole in the hide
of that infernal pest!”

As if realizing the peril to his very life, Jocko yanked away a mass of
old rags which had completely filled the opening left by a broken
windowpane, and darted through the aperture.

At about this moment Officer Sylvester, hastily approaching the front of
the bank, fancied he saw a dark figure dart around a corner of the
building and disappear. Shivering, more from excitement and exertion
than from the cold, the night-watch pursued that shadowy figure, weapon
in hand. At the back of the building he paused, hearing the voice of the
old sailor raging within the nearby shanty.

“I s’pose it’s that old fool that’s made the disturbance,” muttered
Jonas doubtfully. “Still, I kinder thought I saw something.”

Producing the electric torch he always carried while on duty, he flashed
the light around him, making almost a complete arc of a circle. Suddenly
the light stopped, bearing full upon an iron-barred window in the rear
of the bank building, and there it hung quivering, revealing to
Sylvester’s bulging eyes a most astounding and disturbing fact.

Three of the bars had been cut completely off and bent outward, and
beyond them an entire section of the window glass was missing, leaving
an opening large enough to admit the body of a man.

Almost paralyzed by this amazing discovery, Officer Sylvester felt his
thick knees growing weak beneath him.

“Robbers,” he gasped—“robbers, by the jumping jingoes!”

That very instant there was a flash in the nearby shadows, and, with the
report of a pistol, a bullet almost grazed the torch in Sylvester’s
hand.

The night-watch did not hesitate upon the order of his going, but went
at once. With a yell of terror he took to his heels, and his wild shout
of “Robbers! robbers!” resounded through the main part of the village as
he dashed toward the public square near the post-office. Reaching the
square, he increased his efforts to arouse the townspeople by firing his
revolver several times into the air.

“Marlin spikes and belaying pins!” spluttered Captain Quinn, still
groping for his shotgun. “There’s blazes to pay! The monk wasn’t such a
fool, after all.”

Presently, gun in hand, he flung open his door and stood peering into
the night. He could hear the courageous night-watch shouting from the
square and firing his revolver. But what interested Aaron Quinn far more
was the sight of two figures which seemed to drop from the rear window
of the bank and run away into the darkness.

“Shades of Neptune!” said Captain Quinn. “It’s piracy on the high seas!”

Somewhat tardily, he got into action, lifting the gun and firing into
the darkness which had swallowed the fleeing figures.

                              CHAPTER XX.

                              IN THE BANK.

Naturally, all this shooting and shouting in the early hours of the
morning was sufficient to arouse the villagers. In house after house
lights began to gleam, and ere long half-dressed men were running toward
the square, where, still lustily bellowing, Jonas Sylvester was seeking
with trembling hands to reload his revolver. Hyde, the livery stable
keeper, Stickney, the grocer, Lawyer Francis and others surrounded the
officer and demanded to know the meaning of it all. Others kept coming
from various directions as Jonas told what he had discovered at the rear
of the bank and how nearly he had paid for that discovery with his life.

“Robbers,” cried the livery man—“robbers in the bank? Why didn’t you
capture them?”

“Yes,” demanded the grocer in a high, quavering falsetto, “why didn’t ye
nab ’em? What are you doing here? What do we hire ye for?”

“I tell ye they shot at me,” replied Jonas. “They banged right at me,
and I couldn’t see a soul. They had the advantage. Think of my size.
S’pose I was going to stand still and let them pepper me full of
bullets?”

“Fellow citizens,” said the lawyer, who of them all seemed to retain the
most presence of mind, “if there are robbers in the bank they may escape
while we stand here wasting time in talk. Lead the way, Sylvester; we’re
with you.”

Thus encouraged, the night-watch took the lead, accompanied by the
excited crowd. A few of the more timid ones either held back or hastily
returned to their homes to procure weapons. Some expressed doubts,
declaring their belief that Oakdale’s nocturnal guardian must be
mistaken.

But a single glance through the front window of the bank convinced
Lawyer Francis that something was wrong there beyond dispute. With a
word he called attention to the fact that the light which burned by
night in front of the vault had been extinguished.

“Show us that winder,” commanded Hyde, pushing Sylvester forward.

“Yes, show us the winder,” tremulously urged Stickney, falling back
until nearly all of the crowd were ahead of him.

“Git ready for a bloody encounter,” warned the night-watch. “They’re
desperate men, and they’ll fight to the last gasp.”

“We’ll find there are no robbers in the bank now,” said the lawyer; “and
all this uproar has sent them scampering long before this.”

As they were hurrying round to the rear of the building a voice roared
at them through the darkness.

“Avast there, you lubbers!” it shouted. “You’re too late for action. The
scoundrels hoisted anchor and made sail long ago. By this time they’re
running before the wind under full canvas.”

The old sailor came hobbling swiftly toward them, bearing his gun, his
cane forgotten for the time being.

“Did you see them, Quinn?” asked Lawyer Francis.

“I did that,” was the prompt answer. “I put my lamps on them just as
they got under full headway, and I’ll swear I hurried them some with a
double charge of buckshot.”

“You fired at them?”

“Both barrels at once, and it’s a mercy if I ain’t got a busted shoulder
to pay for it. The old gun near kicked my head off, confound it!”

“How many of them were there? How many did you see?”

“It’s dungeon dark a’most, but I’m certain sure I saw two, at least.”

“Mebbe some of you thought I was lying or a fool,” cried Officer
Sylvester triumphantly. “Now I guess you’ll change your tune. Here’s the
winder. Just look at it.”

The electric torch was again turned on the cut and bended bars, and the
group of men pressed forward, staring and exclaiming.

“Which way did the robbers flee, Quinn?” questioned Lawyer Francis,
grasping the old sea captain’s arm.

“Back that way toward Middle Street,” was the answer.

“They must not escape,” said the lawyer. “They haven’t obtained much of
a start. Let every man arm himself and take up the search. Deputy
Sheriff Pickle and Constable Hubbard must be notified at once. They must
organize posses and scour the country. Will you see to it that this is
done, Sylvester?”

“Yes, your honor,” assured the night-watch.

At this moment a citizen joined the group and announced that Lucius
Timmick, the bank cashier, had arrived and was about to unlock the bank
door. This information led Lawyer Francis to hasten back to the front of
the building, where, pushing his way through the rapidly increasing
crowd, he reached Timmick as the latter finally found his key and
inserted it in the lock.

Doubtless fearful of entering, the cashier hesitated a bit even after
the key had thrown the bolt.

“I’ll accompany you, Mr. Timmick,” said the lawyer. “I think you need
have no fear of encountering any of the rascals within. They have all
fled.”

“Thank you, Mr. Francis,” said Timmick, his voice husky and not quite
under control. “Doubtless you are right, but I think it best that I
should have a few reputable citizens with me when I investigate.”

“I’m here, Timmick; I’m with you,” encouraged Stickney, the grocer,
boldly jabbing his way through the crowd with his sharp elbows. “You’ll
find me ready to back you up if you need assistance.” His courage had
revived amazingly with the assurance that the robbers had fled.

Rufus Sprague, the jeweler, and Lemuel Hayden, a leading business man,
both of whom were directors of the bank, were on hand, and with those
four citizens at his back the cashier opened the door. Others who were
inclined to crowd in were commanded to stand back, but one there was
who, crouching low, slipped in unobserved and congratulated himself over
his cleverness as he heard the door relocked. This was Sleuth Piper.

Timmick’s hand found the button and turned on the electric lights. Then
he opened the door in the grating-guarded partition, beyond which was
located the bank vault.

An odor like that of a burnt explosive pervaded the atmosphere of the
place, and increased, if possible, the tingling excitement of the men
who pressed after the cashier, eager to learn just what had happened.
What they now beheld caused them to gasp with dismay.

A number of full sacks of grain had been placed on the floor in front of
the bank vault. This grain had doubtless been brought in the sacks from
the old feed mill, a quarter of a mile away; and the full sacks had been
skilfully arranged in such a position that the outer door of the vault,
blown from its hinges, had fallen upon them. A leather grip stood open
upon the floor, and scattered about on all sides could be seen a full
set of up-to-date burglar’s tools.

“Look,” cried Timmick, aghast, pointing with a trembling finger—“look at
that, gentlemen! Oh, the scoundrels!”

Outside, the crowd, with noses pressed against the cold plate glass of
the big front window, could see everything, and the sound of their
agitated voices reached the ears of those within.

“The bank’s been robbed!” cried Stickney. “The critters must have done
it in a hurry.”

“I don’t think it has been robbed,” said Lawyer Francis. “The inner door
of the vault remains in place. The burglars were detected at their work
before they could complete the job.”

“Let us hope,” said Lemuel Hayden grimly, “that you are right, sir.”

“Open that inside door, Timmick—open it!” spluttered Rufus Sprague.
“Let’s find out if they got anything.”

But the cashier shook his head. “I think, gentlemen,” he said, “we had
better wait until the president arrives. When I open that door I wish to
do so in the presence of Mr. Eliot. At any rate, I think it would not be
advisable to go ahead beneath the watching eyes of that crowd outside
the window. Mr. Stickney, will you draw the shade?”

“Yep, I will,” said Stickney, rejoicing with a feeling of high
importance over the fact that he was one of those who had obtained
admission to the bank. “Whether the robbers got anything or not, it will
be just as well to proceed with our investigation in private.”

Hurrying to the window, he drew the shade, greatly to the disappointment
of the gathered watchers, some of whom expressed their feelings with
considerable emphasis.

There was one person, however, who was not thus deprived of further
knowledge of what was taking place within the bank. In the shadows of
the patrons’ side of the cashier window, Sleuth Piper congratulated
himself again.

                              CHAPTER XXI.

                          WHAT SLEUTH LEARNED.

The excited chattering of the crowd in front of the bank was broken in
upon by the harsh voice of Captain Quinn.

“Ahoy, you blatherskites!” cried the old sailor, appearing upon the edge
of the gathering. “Stow that jabber a minute and tell me if you’ve put
your peepers on my monkey. The little whelp has run away, and he’ll
freeze to death unless I find him. It would break my heart if anything
should happen to my monkey.”

This statement aroused some laughter and provoked a few jeers.

“Go crawl into your bunk, you old pirate,” advised one of the younger
men. “It would be a good thing if your monkey did freeze. The town
wouldn’t miss it—or you, either.”

“Take twenty years off my shoulders,” snarled the old tar, “and I’d lay
you by the heels for that, you swab! You talk bold and sassy to a man
three times your age and crippled with the rheumatics, but I’ve scrubbed
the deck of my vessel with dozens of your kind in my day.”

“Everybody knows that, you old man-handler,” was the retort. “You’ve
cracked the skull of more than one better man, but the law protected you
because you were the master and they were nothing but common sailors.
Oh, we know you here in Oakdale.”

“Yes, and I know you, the whole common crew of ye. You’re brave as
dogfish chasing po’gies until you spy a shark, and then you run and
hide. What are ye doing here? Why ain’t ye off with the men that’s
trying to run down the burglars? You’re afraid. There’s not one of ye’s
got the courage of a squid.”

“If you weren’t so old,” said one of the wrathy listeners, “we’d be
handing you a taste of your own high-sea methods before you could say
half as much.”

“Never mind my age,” bellowed Quinn, squaring away. “Come try it, any
one of ye or the whole crew together. You’ll find it a bit lively while
it lasts, or my name is not Aaron Quinn. Hoist anchor, you blackguards.
Up with your sails, and come at me with every stitch set. What’s the
matter, you lubbers—what’s the matter? Why don’t you come on? Afraid,
eh?—afraid of old Aaron Quinn! A bold lot you are! You can wag your
tongues loud and talk bold, but not one of ye has as much gizzard as a
chicken. Bah!”

With a derisive gesture, he disdainfully turned his back upon them and
slowly moved off into the darkness, seeming deaf to their jeers and
cat-calls.

A few minutes later Urian Eliot appeared, made his way through the
throng that respectfully stepped aside from his path, and was admitted
to the bank. The door had not long been closed behind the president when
it opened again, for Stickney, the grocer, whose manner as he came out
betrayed that he was leaving the place with great reluctance and much
against his will.

“How is it, Stickney?” called one of the gathering. “Did the robbers get
anything, or were they frightened away?”

“Huh!” grunted the grocer, standing on the steps. “I don’t know. They
waited for Eliot before they opened the inner door of the vault, and
when he came he proposed, as I didn’t happen to be a director or some
high muckamuck connected with the bank, that I should leave. And I was
one who risked his life to follow Timmick into that place, not knowing
but we might have to face desperate burglars armed to the very teeth.
That’s the way they treat a fellow citizen who is ready to shed his
blood for them. But what can you expect of men who try to run a bank in
these days without a night watchman of their own? That’s their idea of
economy, perhaps, but it will be a mercy if it hasn’t proved expensive
economy. They take our money in trust and then fail to give it proper
protection. Timmick refused to touch the inner door until Eliot came.
Perhaps it was unlocked. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that the bank
had been cleaned out of every dollar and every scrap of security it
contained. I have an account here myself; seventy-nine dollars balance,
too. If there has been a robbery, somebody will have to make good. They
can afford it, men like Eliot and Hayden and the others; but I can’t
afford to lose it.”

His resentment seemed contagious, and there were others who began
murmuring about the bank officials. But, for the most part, those who
talked loudest had small accounts with the institution or none at all.

“What have they done about catching the scoundrels?” asked Stickney.
“They ought to have ’em by this time.”

He was told that armed squads were searching for the cracksmen, although
there had been no reports of a capture.

“Oh, they’ll let ’em get away, I’ll guarantee,” sneered the grocer. “I
was opposed to the hiring of a night-watch by the town. I said it would
be an extravagant waste of money, and this night proves I was right.”

“Only for him,” reminded some one, “the robbers might have finished the
job and got off without an alarm being raised. Likely nobody would ever
known it till the bank was opened at nine o’clock.”

“He might have nabbed ’em, instead of running away and hollering like a
loon,” asserted Stickney. “He had the chance. If I’d been in his place,
I’d potted the whole bunch. Now it’s doubtful if any one of ’em is
caught. Well, I’m going home to get a little rest before breakfast.”
Apparently it did not occur to the courageous grocer that he might be of
service by joining one of the searching parties.

It was growing light and a curious throng still lingered in front of the
bank hoping to learn if a robbery had actually taken place, when the
door of the building opened again, and this time Sleuth Piper was thrust
forth with such violence that he was saved from sprawling on the
sidewalk only by the quick hand of a man who stood on the lower step.

“Hello, Piper,” said this man, gazing at him in astonishment. “How did
you get in there?”

“Sh!” hissed Sleuth, pulling away. “Never mind, never mind. In pursuance
of my duty, I am liable to be found anywhere. Had they given me a little
time, I might have imparted some information of tremendous moment. But
let them go on. Let them work in the dark. They will need me yet.”

“Tell us, has the bank been robbed?”

“They are now going over the contents of the vault,” was the boy’s
evasive reply. “I’ll not forestall their report by a premature
statement.”

Some one pulled at his sleeve, and, looking around, he saw Roy Hooker.
Willingly he followed Roy, who led the way to the rear of the bank,
where at least a dozen men were gathered outside the window by which the
robbers had obtained entrance.

“You beat the Dutch, Pipe,” said Roy, in a manner bordering on respect.
“How the deuce _did_ you ever get in there?”

Piper explained, taking to himself abundant credit for quick thought,
rapidity of action and amazing cleverness in keeping concealed once he
had slipped inside.

“Well, what did you learn, anyhow?” questioned Hooker. “Did you find out
anything, or did you waste your time?”

“I never waste my time,” retorted Sleuth with dignity. “It was through
my natural desire to learn all that could be learned that I was detected
and ejected. At the present moment the officers of the bank are in the
directors’ room at the rear, going over the securities. There’s a door
leading from that room into the outside corridor, and, in order to hear
and see, I had to open that door. They closed it once, but I opened it
again on a crack, and that aroused the suspicions of Rufus Sprague, who
stepped out quickly and nabbed me. Then, refusing to listen, they
chucked me outside. I was ready to throw a bombshell into their midst,
but I’m glad now that I was restrained from action.”

“What did you propose to tell them, Sleuth?”

“It was on the tip of my tongue to advise them to look for a certain
party known as ‘James Wilson,’ _alias_ ‘William Hunt,’ _alias_ ‘Philip
Hastings,’ _alias_ ‘Gentleman Jim,’ and furthermore and finally, _alias_
Clarence Sage.”

“Then you fancy——”

“Fancy, Hooker? Nay, sir, this is no case of guesswork; I know what I’m
about. Doubtless Sage is as far from Oakdale as his feet could carry him
in the time since the would-be robbers fled.”

“The would-be robbers!” echoed Roy. “Then they really didn’t get
anything?”

“Right there,” said Sleuth, “you touch the one point that as yet remains
inexplicable to me. The inner door of the vault apparently has not been
broken open by the burglars. It was unlocked by Timmick in the presence
of Urian Eliot and the directors. They removed cash and securities to
that back room for investigation. At first everything seemed undisturbed
and they were congratulating themselves, when the discovery was made
that a package of securities amounting to twenty thousand dollars was
missing.”

“Gee!” gasped Hooker. “Then there _was_ a robbery. But how can it be
possible, if the inner door of the vault had not been opened?”

In the gray light of the morning a wise and significant smile flickered
across Piper’s face.

“There’s but one explanation,” he answered. “The men who tried to rob
the bank last night did not get those securities. They were stolen at
some previous time.”

                             CHAPTER XXII.

                          FOLLOWING THE TRAIL.

“Gee whiz!” exclaimed Hooker, astonished. “Who stole them?”

“That question,” admitted Sleuth, “I’m not ready to answer at present.
I’ll focus my marvelous discerning intellect upon it after the would-be
bank robbers are securely in limbo. I’ll guarantee that the posses
searching for them are rushing hither and thither without rhyme, reason
or system. That’s no way to hunt the scoundrels down. Of course they may
blunder upon the fugitives by accident, but the trail should be taken up
and followed in a scientific manner.”

“That’s easy enough to talk about,” said Roy; “but, without the aid of
bloodhounds, how is it to be done?”

“To begin with, we know they fled in this direction, for old Quinn saw
them running from the back of the bank and fired at them. They must have
reached Middle Street a short distance away. It was impossible to follow
their tracks in the dark, but it’s now daylight, and I’m going to try to
pick up the trail.”

“A fine job you’ll do at that,” scoffed the other boy. “Even if you
should find their tracks, you’d need the skill of an Injun to follow
’em.”

“We’ll see,” said Piper—“we’ll see about that. There’s a cedar hedge
running from Main Street to Willow, and any person who dashed through
that hedge at full speed must have left some tokens.”

“Let’s examine the hedge.”

In less than a minute Piper found a place where the branches of the
trimmed cedars were bent and broken. He pointed at it exultantly.

“There’s where one of them went through,” he declared.

“Perhaps it’s where some one, hurrying to the bank, came in from the
other direction.”

“Use your eyes, Hook. The manner in which the cedars are twisted and
bent shows that the person who passed through the hedge came from this
direction, and he was in a hurry, too. Look here! What’s this, Roy? It’s
blood—blood on the bushes!”

No wonder Roy’s eyes bulged as he beheld the slight bloodstain at which
his companion pointed with a triumphant finger.

“Blood!” he muttered. “Why, then——”

“Old Quinn hit one of them, no question about it. There’s a wounded
bank-breaker fleeing for his life somewhere.”

Both lads were now greatly excited, although Sleuth fought hard to
maintain such an air of coolness as he fancied would well become a great
detective.

“By this trail of blood we’ll track him, Hooker,” he said. “If we
capture one of the rascals, perhaps he will squeal on his pals.”

“If _we_ capture him!” spluttered Roy. “What are you talking about? Do
you think we could do it alone? He’s a desperate man, and he’d fight——”

“Are you armed?”

“No.”

“Well, I am,” said Sleuth, displaying a small revolver. “It’s too bad
you have no weapon, but, nevertheless, you may be of great assistance in
capturing the man. If you’ve got nerve enough to stick by me, we’ll try
to run him down.”

“Hadn’t we better get others? Do you think we ought to try it alone?”

“If we call for assistance,” said Sleuth, “and the man is actually
captured, we’ll have to share the reward with others. You know there’s a
large reward offered for the apprehension of the man known as Gentleman
Jim, and it’s not impossible that the fellow who was winged by Aaron
Quinn is Gentleman Jim himself. If we take him, just you and I, we can
whack up on that reward money. I’ll agree to give you a fair share,
providing you stand by me through thick and thin.”

“You’ve certainly got a nerve, Piper, to think of trying such a thing. I
don’t know about it, myself.”

“Oh, well, if you’re scared,” said Sleuth, with no attempt to suppress
his scorn, “I’ll go it alone. I thought you had more sand, Hook.”

“Well, nobody around here has ever figured that you were running over
with sand, yourself,” was the resentful retort. “I guess I’ve got as
much as you have. Go ahead and see what you can do at this job of
trailing.”

Forcing their way through the hedge, they reached Middle Street, where
for a moment Piper hesitated, as if considering the probable course the
fugitive had taken.

“About the time the man got here,” he said, “Jonas Sylvester was waking
people up by his yells and shouts from the square in front of the
post-office. Under such circumstances, fearing to encounter some citizen
of the town who had been aroused by Sylvester, the fleeing man would
avoid the streets as far as possible. I should say he kept straight
across the road here and struck across lots for High Street.”

“Guesswork,” said Hooker.

“Deduction, reasoning, sound judgment,” flung back Sleuth, as he hurried
to examine the top rail of the old slat fence upon the northern side of
the street; “and here’s my proof—a smooch of blood where the man grasped
the rail as he vaulted over the fence.”

“Jinks!” breathed Roy, gazing at the sanguine mark. “You’re right; it’s
there.”

Beyond the fence Piper continued northward, bending forward that he
might search the ground with his eyes. Again and again he pointed to
frozen blood-drippings upon the grass, and, at Sleuth’s heels, Roy felt
his pulse throbbing with a touch of the fierce excitement that
invariably seizes upon one who hunts fleeing men. For the first time in
his life he was beginning to believe that Piper had been underestimated
by those who had scoffed at his ambition to become a great detective.

Across High Street and into the neglected, old-fashioned horse sheds at
the rear of the Methodist church the two boys followed the trail. In one
of those sheds there was a little pool of blood, surrounded by similar
drippings, at which Hooker stared in great fascination.

“He stopped here,” asserted Sleuth. “Concealed by the darkness, he hid
in this shed for some little time. Perhaps he was led to do this through
exhaustion caused by the wound. Perhaps he did so because he heard
citizens running down Main Street toward the bank.”

“Gee!” said Roy, giving himself a shake. “If he’s hurt bad, we’re liable
to come on him any minute. Why, we might have found him here, and
perhaps he’d filled us full of lead. It’s ticklish business, Pipe.”

“He won’t be liable to fight unless cornered, and if we corner him we
must get him foul so he can’t pot us. Come on; time is precious.”

As if the flow from the wound had been partly staunched, the trail now
became decidedly more difficult to follow. Nevertheless, Sleuth traced
it to upper Main Street, some distance below the home of Urian Eliot.
There it again led across the road and into the broad fields beyond.
Through the midst of these fields ran a tiny brook, the banks of which
were lined by scattering clumps of bushes. Here the brown grass was
rather tall, and the boys followed the man’s tracks with little
difficulty. At the point where the fugitive had started to cross the
brook a clay bank some three feet in height had caved beneath his feet.

“He took a tumble here,” said Piper. “There’s where he got on his pins
again. See his tracks, Hook?”

The prints of the man’s feet were plainly to be seen, and, it being no
more than a foot wide at that point, he had crossed the brook at a
stride. On the western side the trail again led northward, and before
long the boys paused within plain sight of the house of the Sages.

“Ah! ha!” breathed Sleuth, with an intonation of deep exultation. “Now
you can see what he was doing. I’m sorry indeed for our mutual friend,
Fred Sage; but duty is duty, and we must not falter.”

“It does look as if he made straight for the Sages’ place,” admitted
Roy.

“No question about it,” nodded Sleuth, grasping his companion’s arm and
drawing him back. “Let’s preserve proper caution. We might be seen.”

“I don’t see anyone stirring around the place.”

“No, but you can see that the front door of the stable is standing open
a bit. That door was not left thus all night long, you can bet on it.”

“I suppose they were woke up by the racket.”

“But why should they go to the stable? If we locate our man there,
Hooker, I’ll stay and keep watch while you go for the officers.”

“I don’t see how we’re going to——”

“We’ll have to retreat a distance, cross the road out of sight of the
house and approach the buildings from the rear. That’s the proper
trick.”

Hooker did not attempt an argument; he left the maneuver to be carried
through by Sleuth, whom he continued to follow without proffering
advice.

Crouching low when the road was reached, they darted across it, one
after the other, circling until they could approach the stable of the
Sages from the rear. To their surprise, they perceived that the small
back door of the building also stood open. Their nerves taut and
tingling, they presently found themselves beside that door, where, with
one hand on his pistol and the other upheld as a signal for caution,
Piper listened intently.

“Can you hear anything?” whispered Roy.

“No,” admitted Sleuth, “nothing that seems significant to me. I’m going
to look in. Keep still.”

Thrusting his head forward, he peered into the gloomy interior of the
building. After a few glances, reaching backward without turning, he
beckoned for the other lad to follow, and entered, walking on his toes.

They were in the very center of the stable floor when a sudden stamping
and a snort caused them both to leap backward, Piper jerking up the hand
in which his nickle-plated revolver quivered tremulously. After a moment
he drew a breath of relief, turning a pallid face toward Roy as he
explained in a whisper:

“Nothing but their cow in the tie-up yonder.”

“Thunder!” sighed Sleuth’s companion. “She gave me an awful start. Don’t
look like we’ll find anything here, Pipe.”

“Wait. I have a theory into which I’ve been led by the sight of the open
doors, but it’s best to proceed carefully and not overlook anything.”

Ten seconds later, not five feet from the slightly opened front doors,
Piper discovered something that added in no small degree to his
self-esteem. Upon the floor near a small grain box was a pool of blood,
and beside that pool he perceived some shreds like ravellings from a
torn cloth.

“Our man was here, Hooker,” he said.

“_Was_ here?” muttered Roy. “Then you think he’s gone?”

“I think his injury was bound up right here in this stable while he sat
there upon that box. I don’t believe he did the work of bandaging the
wound himself.”

“He must be in the house.”

“Don’t jump at conclusions. That’s the trouble with most people. That’s
how they lead themselves astray. The fellow came here. He must have been
pretty badly used up, too. Somebody tied up his injuries. Isn’t it
likely they realized the man would be traced by the blood-drippings? And
is it likely, in that case, that they would think of trying to hide him
here?”

“Why, I don’t know——”

“I don’t _know_, but I’m using logic, reasoning, horse sense. I saw
something as we entered by that open back door which makes me confident
that the fellow continued his flight in that direction. Beyond the
orchard, out there, lie the woods to the north of Turkey Hill.”

“You think he hit out for those woods, do you?”

“I think so, but unless I can find evidence to confirm my belief we’ll
not try to follow him haphazard.”

They left the stable by the door through which they had entered, and
when they were outside Sleuth once more fell to searching the ground
with his eyes.

“Tracks!” he muttered. “There were two of them—two of them! And here’s
the proof that our man was one!”

He picked up a lump of half frozen clay which plainly had fallen from
the boot of a man. It was the sort of clay into which the fugitive had
slumped when the brook bank gave way beneath his feet.

“You’re a wonder, Pipe,” declared Roy, his admiration unrestrained at
last.

“Spare the compliments,” said Sleuth briskly. “We’re off again.”

The trail led through the orchard, beyond which it was plain enough in
the hoarfrost which covered the ground.

“And these tracks weren’t made so long ago, either,” asserted Piper. “It
won’t be so easy to follow them after we get into the woods. Too bad.”

In truth, it was not an easy matter, and they were proceeding with
exasperating slowness when of a sudden Piper whirled and clutched his
companion, exclaiming in a hoarse whisper:

“Hark! Some one coming! Get to cover, Hooker—lively!”

Near by was a fallen tree. Sleuth cleared it with a bound, flinging
himself down behind the thick trunk. His example was followed by Roy,
and there, amid a mass of leaves which the wind had swept into a little
hollow, they knelt, peering over the fallen tree.

Barely were they thus hidden when another boy came crashing at a run
through some bushes and appeared in full view.

It was Fred Sage!

                             CHAPTER XXIII.

                              THE CAPTURE.

Fred was panting, his clothes were torn, and his manner that of one
overwrought with tremendous excitement. He had come from the deeper
woods to the north of Turkey Hill, and was plainly hurrying homeward as
fast as his feet would carry him.

Crouching behind the fallen tree, the two boys gazed in astonishment at
Sage as he passed them. They could hear his panting breath and see his
breast heaving, and into the minds of both leaped the strange thought
that only for his exertions his face would have been ghastly pale. There
was a wild expression in his eyes, like that of a person in great fear.

Hooker remained kneeling, petrified, but Piper partly rose, his lips
open, as if he thought of shouting to the running lad. If this was his
intention, however, he changed his mind, not uttering as much as a
whisper, and stood staring after the hurrying boy, the crashing sounds
of whose movements could be heard for some moments following his
disappearance. Presently those sounds died out and silence fell upon the
woods.

Shaking off his lethargy, Hooker rose. “Well,” he breathed, “what have
you got to say about that, Pipe?”

Sleuth’s forehead was puckered in a momentary frown. Before answering,
he climbed to the bole of the tree and stepped down on the other side,
Roy following.

“It simply confirms my theory,” announced Piper. “Fred is badly scared.
Somewhere yonder in these woods he lately parted from his brother, who
is wounded and a fugitive from justice. That’s quite enough to put
Fred’s nerves on the blink.”

“But why is he running for home that fashion?”

“For one reason, he doesn’t wish to be seen here in the woods by anyone
searching for the bank robbers. For another reason, he must remember
that there is a telltale pool of blood on the floor of his father’s
stable, every trace of which I’ll guarantee will soon be removed after
Fred gets home.”

“I guess you’re right,” admitted Roy regretfully. “I’m sorry about this
business—mighty sorry.”

“I, too, am sorry for Sage,” nodded Piper; “but in matters like this,
where justice and the rights of peaceable citizens are involved,
sentiment must be put aside.”

“Fred’s a good fellow,” muttered Hooker. “We’ve been pretty chummy.”

“Of course he’s a good fellow; nobody disputes that.”

“But to think he has such a brother!”

“That’s his misfortune, not his fault.”

“And he’s trying to help the fellow escape.”

“You’d do the same under similar circumstances, so don’t condemn him.
But while we’re gabbing here the fugitive is getting farther away. Of
course, if he’s badly hurt, as it seems he must be, he can’t cover
ground as fast as he otherwise might.”

“We can’t find him in these woods; we might as well give up that idea.”

“And give up all hope of copping the reward!” exclaimed Sleuth. “Not I.
The slope of Turkey Hill isn’t far away, and from it we can get a good
view of the swamp and the woods. Perhaps we’ll see something of the
fellow by climbing up there. Anyhow, it won’t take us far out of our
course, if we’re going to make for that old camp in the swamp, in which
I fancy our man, at Fred’s suggestion, may try to hide. Don’t quit. Come
on.”

For a short distance Sleuth sought to retrace the trail made by Fred
Sage while hurrying homeward, but this was so slow and exasperating that
presently he abandoned the effort and made straight for Turkey Hill.
There the boys pantingly climbed the first steep slope, soon arriving at
a clearing upon the hillside where the timber had been cut away, leaving
an expanse of unsightly stumps.

“From this spot,” reminded Piper, “Spotty Davis was seen when he shot
Berlin Barker’s hound. Use your eyes, Hooker. See if you can discover
anyone moving in the woods or the open places down yonder.”

For some moments they searched the lower expanse of woods and clearings
with their eyes.

“I don’t see a thing,” muttered Roy presently. “I don’t believe we’ll be
able to——”

“Look at those crows yonder,” interrupted Sleuth, flinging out his hand.

Some distance away, near the base of the hill to the westward, a number
of crows had suddenly risen into the air, cawing wildly.

“We’re not hunting for crows,” reminded Hooker.

“I’ve studied the habits of those birds,” asserted the amateur
detective, “and I’ll guarantee they’ve been suddenly alarmed by
something moving in the woods near by. Hear them cawing? Take it from
me, they are shouting in crow language: ‘Man! man! Here’s a man!’”

“Oh, rot, Piper! You may be pretty wise about some things, but——”

“_There he is!_” rasped Sleuth, suddenly seizing his companion’s arm and
pointing with the other hand. “I saw him—I saw him run across a little
opening! He’s coming back this way, too!”

“Why—why should he do that?” wondered the bewildered Hooker.

“Because, in all probability, he has discovered a posse of searchers
over yonder. He has been compelled to double back on his tracks. We may
be able to cut him off if we hustle.”

Without waiting to see if Roy followed, Piper ran down across the
clearing, dodging hither and thither to avoid the stumps, and plunged
once more into the woods, setting a course calculated to intercept the
fleeing man. Once more he had drawn his revolver, which he carried in
his hand as he ran.

Roy followed instinctively, although it must be confessed that he had
little relish for an encounter with a desperate criminal fleeing from
man-hunters. Sleuth was buoyed by excitement and a sort of fictitious
courage, which, possibly, might desert him in a twinkling when the
decisive moment came. On through the woods he darted, turning hither and
thither to avoid the denser thickets. His ears told him that Roy was
coming, and that was sufficient. Dead branches snapped beneath their
flying feet; in places fallen leaves were scattered with a swish and a
rustle; once or twice both lads felt their heart-strings tug as they
glimpsed black tree trunks, any one of which for a moment might have
been mistaken for a man.

Suddenly they burst out into a rocky bit of pasture land, through which
ran a deep gully. And there, not thirty rods away, was the man!

Evidently warned by the sounds they had made while running through the
woods, he was looking toward them when they appeared, and in every
respect his bearing was that of a creature hunted and nearly cornered.

“Stop!” cried Sleuth, lifting the revolver and halting so suddenly that
Hooker nearly bumped against him. “Throw up your hands!”

Instead of obeying, the man turned toward the gully and made a desperate
attempt to leap across it. Beneath his feet the ground gave way, and the
boys saw him disappear with one arm outflung, as if he had fruitlessly
clutched at the empty air.

“Jerusalem!” burst from Roy’s lips. “He’s gone!”

“And if that tumble doesn’t bump him some, I’m mistaken,” said Sleuth.
“We can get him before he recovers.”

Nevertheless, he exhibited a certain amount of caution and apprehension
as he reached the gully and peered into it.

“He may shoot,” called Hooker, holding back discreetly.

“Not he,” exulted Sleuth. “Here he is! Come on; we’ve got him!”

With seeming recklessness, Piper slid down into the gully, still
gripping his revolver in his right hand.

“I never thought it of him,” said Roy, aghast—“never!”

A moment later, peering downward, he saw the other boy bending over the
body of a man who lay amid some rocks at the bottom of the gully.

“Come down,” called Piper chokingly, his voice husky and shaking with
excitement. “We’ve got him cold! He was knocked out, stunned by that
fall.”

  “HERE HE IS! COME ON; WE’VE GOT HIM!”—Page 242.]

Hooker, his courage reviving, descended into the gully, bringing down
with him a small mass of loose earth and stones. He found Piper going
through the pockets of the unconscious man.

“Here,” said Sleuth, passing over an automatic pistol, “take this thing,
Hook. We’ll render him helpless by disarming him so that he can’t do
much when he comes round.”

“Hadn’t—hadn’t we better tie his hands behind his back?” faltered
Hooker.

“If we have to, we will,” assured Sleuth; “but it will be liable to
cause him a great deal of suffering. You can see that he was shot in the
right arm and shoulder. That’s where old Quinn plugged him. His coat
sleeve is all bloody. The coat was removed while his wound was bandaged,
and his arm is hanging loose inside of it now. Certainly he couldn’t run
very fast that way. No wonder he didn’t get away.”

“He isn’t—dead—is he?” whispered Roy, staring at the pale face of the
unfortunate wretch and noting a little trickle of blood which was
running down across the man’s temple from a cut higher up in the edge of
his scalp.

“Oh, I guess not,” answered Piper, with an hysterical little gulp of
laughter. “He struck his head on the rocks down here when he fell, and
that put him to sleep for fair; but I’ll wager he’ll come round all
right pretty soon. This is a big piece of work for us, Hook, old pal.
Five hundred dollars for the capture of Mr. James Wilson, _alias_
Gentleman Jim, won’t divvy up so bad between us. Eh? What?”

“But is he—is he Gentleman Jim?” muttered Roy, staring at the man’s
face. “Have we got the right man?”

“The right man?” echoed Piper. “He must be the right one, or Fred Sage
never would have tried to help him get away. Isn’t he the man you saw
and talked with in the woods beyond Culver’s Bridge?”

“No, he’s not,” answered Roy positively.

“Gee!” gasped Sleuth in dismay. “That’s queer!”

                             CHAPTER XXIV.

                               SUSPICION.

“Not—not the man?” muttered Piper, still staring at the unconscious
captive. “Why, he must be the man—he must be! He can’t be anybody else.”

“He’s not the one I talked with,” reiterated Hooker. “I never saw him
before. That man was larger, taller, better looking.”

“Wait a minute,” said Sleuth, thrusting his hand into his pocket and
bringing out a clipping from a newspaper. “Here’s the description of
James Wilson. About twenty-six years of age, five feet ten inches in
height, weight one hundred and sixty pounds, hair slightly curly, eyes
blue, teeth white and even.”

“Doesn’t come within a thousand miles of fitting this fellow,” asserted
Hooker. “This man is thirty-five, if he’s a minute. He doesn’t stand
more than five feet seven or eight, and he won’t weigh a pound over one
hundred and forty-five. His hair is coarse, black and bristly. Can’t see
the color of his eyes, but look at those teeth! You’d never call them
white and even, would you?”

“I should say not,” acknowledged Piper, in a tone of profound regret.
“This isn’t Gentleman Jim, but it must be one of his pals. Do you
realize what that means, Roy?”

“It means that we’ve caught the wrong bird and won’t get our fingers on
that reward money,” sighed the other boy regretfully.

“It means,” said Sleuth grimly, “that Fred Sage was concerned in
assisting to escape a member of that gang, to whom he is in no way
related. It means that he’s an accomplice. There would be an excuse for
his aiding his brother, but not for rendering assistance to any other
member of the gang. It looks pretty bad for Fred.”

“I can’t believe it,” muttered Roy—“I can’t believe he’d make himself
the accomplice of criminals.”

“I don’t want to believe it, but what else are we to believe?”

“I hope he can explain.”

“_I_ hope he won’t have to.”

“Look out, Pipe, this fellow is coming round.”

The man’s breast heaved, and a faint groan issued from his lips,
following which his eyelids fluttered a bit and then lifted slowly. He
lay there staring dumbly at the two boys, each of whom menaced him with
a loaded pistol. For the time being he did not seem to realize what had
happened.

“It’s no use to try to kick up,” Piper stated warningly. “We’ve got you,
and we’ll have to plug you if you try any tricks.”

Slowly comprehension seemed to creep into the man’s brain, and presently
he made a weak effort, as if trying to sit up, but fell back with a
smothered cry that ended in a groan.

“It’s pretty tough,” said Piper; “but you’ll have to make the best of
it, my man. Fellows engaged in your line of business have to take their
medicine when they run afoul of calamity. What’s your name?”

Until Sleuth had repeated this question three times the man made no
attempt to reply. After the third demand he growled falteringly and
harshly:

“None of your business.”

“Thanks,” said Piper. “I guess your picture is in the rogues’ gallery
somewhere, and your identity will be learned all right when you’re
placed on trial. We’ve disarmed you so you can’t make any sort of a
fight of it, and we’re going to take you back to Oakdale. Our great
regret is that you’re not Gentleman Jim.”

The man looked at them queerly. “Who’s Gentleman Jim?” he growled.

“Bluff,” said Piper—“pure bluff. He’s your pal, and, doubtless, the
leader of the gang who broke into the Oakdale bank last night and blew
open the vault. Poor job, that. It’s tough to be pinched without ever
having lifted a dollar from that bank.”

“You’re a wise young brat!” sneered the man.

“Hark!” exclaimed Hooker at this moment, rising quickly to his feet. “I
hear voices. It must be some of the searchers.”

“I hope so,” said Sleuth, who likewise could hear the sound of voices,
evidently approaching. “I’ll keep this fellow covered, Roy. See who they
are.”

It proved to be a posse headed by Constable Abel Hubbard. From this
armed body of men the captive had fled, having discovered them ahead of
him in the woods. Hooker, seeing and recognizing the men, raised a shout
that brought them hurrying to the gully, and soon the two boys were
vainly trying to answer a score of questions hurled at them
promiscuously.

“Well, I swan to man!” spluttered Constable Hubbard when he presently
understood the situation. “I swan to man, if these two younkers ain’t
ketched one of the rascals! That’s purty clever work for boys, feller
citizens.”

With scarcely an exception they agreed that it was, and Sleuth and Roy
were showered with congratulations.

“We’re rather glad you turned up, constable,” said Piper pompously. “It
relieves us of the trouble of marching this poor wretch back to the
lockup. We’ll turn him over to you with the understanding that we’re to
receive the reward, in case there’s one offered for his apprehension.”

After a time the prisoner was lifted to his feet and boosted out of the
gully, to be marched away toward town by the rejoicing posse. The
shortest route was pursued, which led them down across the fields to the
Barville road and thence into Lake Street.

Piper and Hooker followed.

The appearance of the party in the village created a great sensation;
but when the citizens were informed that Sleuth and Roy had effected the
man’s capture, the sensation was even greater. The boys were plied with
questions. Hooker felt like running away, but Piper seemed to enjoy it
all hugely, and was tireless in describing how the man had been trailed,
although, for some reason, to the relief of his companion, he avoided
mentioning Fred Sage or speaking of the telltale pool of blood upon the
floor of Andrew Sage’s stable.

The captive was confined under guard in the village lockup, and a doctor
was called to give his injury proper attention.

The boys could not learn that anything further in connection with the
bank robbery had transpired. Several armed posses were still searching
in the vicinity of Oakdale, and the surrounding country and towns had
been warned by telephoning, which made it seem most improbable that the
associates of the captured burglar could escape.

“I’m going home for breakfast,” Hooker finally announced.

“I’ve just discovered that I’m hungry myself,” said Sleuth.

At a street corner, having gotten away from the crowd, they paused a
moment. Piper, who had borne himself with no small amount of pride
beneath the eyes of the townspeople, now betrayed a disposition to be
somewhat downcast and gloomy.

“Look here,” said Roy, “I took special notice that you didn’t mention
Fred Sage in connection with the matter. You dodged that, and so I kept
still, too.”

“I was in hopes you’d follow my lead, Hook. Forgot to warn you until it
was too late.”

“But what’s your idea in shielding Sage, if you think he’s guilty?”

“Is he guilty?”

“Why, you know it certainly seems that——”

“It seems so,” nodded Piper; “but, still, I can’t bring myself to
believe that our respected schoolmate and comrade would make himself the
accomplice of criminals. I had this thing figured down to a fine point,
Roy, but I’m willing to admit that my calculations were decidedly upset.
I don’t want to make any charges against Fred until I talk with him face
to face.”

“I’m glad,” breathed Roy—“I’m mighty glad of that. I thought you were
absolutely positive. I own up it does look queer for Fred, but perhaps
he can explain. I’m sure he can. I’ll go to him——”

“No, you won’t,” interrupted Sleuth sharply. “You keep away from him,
Hooker. You let me do this. You’d make a mess of it. There are other
features of this affair that puzzle me a bit. For instance, there are
the missing securities. Queer business that a bank vault which was only
partly broken open should be discovered short to the extent of twenty
thousand dollars in negotiable securities.”

“Haven’t you any theory at all, Sleuth?”

“Only one. As long as I’ve trusted you this far, I may as well go the
limit. Swear silence.”

“All right.”

“Cross your heart.”

“Here goes.”

“Then listen,” whispered Sleuth, after an unnecessary glance around, as
if to make sure no one was within earshot. “I’ve never had much
confidence in that smug, smooth-faced, canting cashier, Timmick. I know
Urian Eliot trusts him, but I wouldn’t. I thought he acted queer while I
was watching him in the bank after the attempted robbery was
discovered.”

“By Jove!” cried Hooker. “I’ve always said he was a sneak. I told Sage
so myself. You’ve hit it—I’ll bet you’ve hit it, Sleuth!”

“Not so loud! Cautious! cautious!” warned Piper. “Now don’t forget your
oath. Don’t breathe this suspicion to a soul. If the robbers didn’t get
those securities last night, and it’s a certain fact that they didn’t,
someone removed them from the vault at an earlier date. The
investigation by the president and the directors led to the discovery
that they were gone.”

“Timmick did it,” said Hooker. “He’s the man.”

                              CHAPTER XXV.

                       THE BOY WHO ACTED GUILTY.

The bank officials were perplexed and mystified. With the arrival of
Urian Eliot the inner door of the vault had been opened by Timmick. It
was evident to them all that the looters had been driven away before
they could open this door, and therefore there was every reason to
believe that the contents of the vault would be found undisturbed.

In order that a thorough examination might be made in the presence of
the president and the others, the cash and securities contained in the
various compartments of the vault had been removed and placed upon a
long oak table in the adjoining directors’ room. This done, the
officials gathered about the table and began the investigation, the
president, pencil in hand, checking everything off on a list that had
been furnished him by Timmick.

Then it was that they were shocked to discover that twenty thousand
dollars’ worth of negotiable securities could not be found. The
suggestion that these securities had been overlooked sent Timmick and
one of the directors back to the vault, but without avail. In a few
moments the cashier and his companion returned, and Timmick’s face was
pale and his voice husky as he said:

“Those securities must be here on this table. They’re not in the vault.
They must be here. They can’t be gone.”

“We’ll go over the list again,” said Urian Eliot. “Let’s do it slowly,
carefully and systematically.”

Their great care in this second inspection simply served to confirm the
fact that the securities were missing, whereupon Timmick collapsed upon
a chair, seemingly on the verge of fainting.

“It’s awful—incomprehensible!” he whispered hoarsely, staring at the
faces of the other men. “I can’t understand it.”

“Nor I,” snapped the little jeweler, rapping his knuckles sharply on the
table and facing the cashier with a piercing eye. “If you can’t explain
it, Mr. Timmick, I don’t know who can.”

“Why—why,” faltered the distressed cashier, “I hope—you don’t mean,
sir——”

“I’m sure Mr. Sprague will not be hasty with an insinuation,”
interrupted Urian Eliot. “I’m sure we all have the utmost confidence in
your integrity, Timmick.”

It was noticeable, however, that none of the others said a word in
support of this assertion, and Mr. Lucius Timmick looked very ill indeed
by the white light of the shaded chandelier.

It was some time after daylight before the officials came forth from the
bank and made inquiries concerning the search for the fugitive crooks.
Later they learned of the remarkable capture by two boys of the wounded
member of the gang, and when the prisoner had been attended by a
physician they sought to obtain some information from him by giving him
a mild sort of “third degree” treatment. The effort, however, resulted
most unsatisfactorily. The prisoner, stretched on a cot in the lockup,
grimly defied them and sullenly refused to answer a single question.

“Aw, go on,” he growled. “You couldn’t make me snitch if you skinned
me.”

“Your accomplices are certain to be captured,” asserted Lemuel Hayden.
“They can’t get away. It is your opportunity to obtain a little clemency
by confessing before any of the others do so.”

“Bite it off,” advised the prisoner. “You’re wasting your wind, old
geezer. I never ties up with squealers.”

About this time Roy Hooker, crowding down a breakfast rendered tasteless
by his excitement, was telling his astounded mother a story that made
her gasp and throw up her hands.

“Mercy!” she cried, staring at him. “You caught one of the robbers—you
and Billy Piper? I never heard of such a thing! Two boys catching a
desperate burglar!”

“We caught him,” laughed Roy, “though perhaps it wouldn’t have been so
easy, only he was pretty weak from his wound and the loss of blood.”

“You’ll be killed some day, Roy,” prophesied his mother. “Now there’s
your father; I didn’t want him to go out with the men who are hunting
the robbers, but he just would go. I’m worried to death for fear he’ll
get shot or something.”

“Wonder what he will say when he hears what Sleuth and I did,” chuckled
Roy, gulping down a final mouthful and pushing back from the table. “Bet
he don’t do as much.” He rose and grabbed his cap.

“Where are you going now?” asked Mrs. Hooker apprehensively. “I won’t be
able to rest easy a minute.”

“Oh, there’s something doing in Oakdale this morning. Only a dead one
could hang around home with so much going on. Don’t worry, mother;
nothing will happen to me. They ought to be marching in some of the
other crooks pretty soon, and I want to see ’em when they come.”

Outside the house, however, he paused, as if doubtful concerning the
course he would pursue, and for some moments he seemed struggling with
contending desires.

“Sleuth didn’t want me to see Fred,” he muttered. “He made me promise I
wouldn’t tell Sage anything. Fred’s my friend. If he’s mixed up in this
rotten business it’s a shame. I’d like to see him a minute; I must see
him. I won’t give anything away, but I’d like to see how he’ll behave.
I’m just going up to his house, that’s all.”

Having arrived at this decision, he hurried up Willow Street, crossing
to Main only after the heart of the village had been left behind. As he
drew near the home of the Sages his pace slackened somewhat, and he
began to realize that he almost dreaded to meet Fred face to face. Even
when he had reached the proper point to turn in from the street he
hesitated and was almost tempted to retrace his steps.

At that moment, as if he had seen Hooker, Fred came out of the house,
and Roy walked into the yard.

“Hello, Hook,” said Sage. “What’s the latest? Have they caught any of
the robbers? My father is down town now.”

It seemed rather singular to Hooker that Fred also was not in the
village, and, furthermore, Roy imagined he could perceive something
unnatural and distraught in his friend’s manner.

“S’pose you’ve heard about Pipe and me?” said Roy.

“No. I’ve been staying home with mother. She’s nervous. Father deposits
at the bank, you know, and he wanted to find out if there had really
been a robbery. What about you and Sleuth?”

“We caught one of the gang,” announced the visitor proudly.

“You—you did?” faltered Sage, seeming to stiffen a bit. “Really and
truly did you and Sleuth catch one of them?”

“Really and truly, old man. We ran him down over behind Turkey Hill and
nabbed him. He’s in the lockup now.”

“Back of Turkey Hill!” said Fred, a bit huskily, and the other boy
fancied his face lost color somewhat. “How—how did you do it?”

“Oh, the fellow was wounded, and it wasn’t much of a trick. Old Quinn
blazed away blindly at the robbers when they ran, and he happened to hit
this one. Of course,” he continued, with a pardonable touch of pride,
“some folks seem to think we did quite a thing in nabbing him.”

“I don’t wonder,” muttered Fred. “Tell me just how you did it.”

With a sudden impulse, Roy strode past his companion, saying: “Come on
into the stable and I’ll tell you.”

“We can talk just as well out here,” said Sage hastily. “Let’s not go in
there.”

“But I want to go in there,” persisted Hooker, keeping on, although his
friend had grasped his arm.

The sliding doors were now nearly closed, but Hooker thrust one of them
back sufficiently to enter, and Fred, ceasing to object, followed into
the building.

At a glance Roy perceived a large damp spot upon the floor, where upon
his previous visit there had been a pool of blood. Every trace of the
blood stains was gone. Turning quickly to Sage, Hooker saw that he was
being watched narrowly, but instantly Fred’s eyelids drooped.

“Sleuth was right in his suspicions, after all,” thought the visitor,
with sinking heart. “If there wasn’t something wrong, they’d never
removed those stains and kept still about it.”

“Tell me,” urged Fred, “how you happened to find this wounded robber.
How did you trace him?”

“I didn’t say we traced him.”

“No, but I supposed—that is, I imagined you must have been led in some
way to search for him over by Turkey Hill.”

“He’s in it—in it up to the neck,” thought Roy, almost bitterly. “It’s a
shame! He seemed like such a fine fellow!”

“What’s the matter?” asked the other lad nervously. “Why don’t you tell
me all about it?”

“Oh, yes, I—I will. You see, it was this way.” He began his story at the
point where he and Piper had discovered the fugitive from their position
in the clearing on the northern shoulder of the hill. In the midst of
the narrative, through which he was hurrying, the boys were startled by
the swift tread of feet, and a moment later several persons, led by
Constable Hubbard, entered the stable.

“What—what is it?” demanded Fred Sage at sight of the men. “What are you
doing here?”

“We’re a-looking for one of them there bank robber critters,” answered
the constable, “and for sartain reasons we’re led to believe he’s hiding
round these premises somewhere. The buildings are surrounded complete,
and he can’t git away.”

                             CHAPTER XXVI.

                            ANOTHER CAPTURE.

Roy Hooker, interrupted in the midst of his narrative by the appearance
of the constable and the posse, was not a little startled, but his
dismay was nothing compared with that of Fred Sage. For a few moments
following the assertion of Abel Hubbard Fred apparently found it
impossible to speak, although he made an effort to do so. Recovering his
voice presently, he falteringly and huskily cried:

“One of the bank robbers here? It’s impossible, Mr. Hubbard! You’re
certainly mistaken.”

“Maybe so,” admitted the constable, rolling a quid of tobacco into his
plump cheek; “but we’ll see about that. I received notice that he was
here from a certain young feller that’s showed himself rather wise and
slick by ketching one of the bunch.”

“By which,” said a voice, as Sleuth Piper stepped forward, “the worthy
officer refers to me.”

“You!” gasped Fred, resentment mingling with his alarm. “You! I might
have guessed it! You’ve got a grudge against me, Piper, and you’ve made
all sorts of trouble for——”

“I positively disclaim any personal animosity,” interrupted Sleuth. “I’m
simply doing my duty, that the ends of justice may be attained. I will
add, Sage, that I’m mighty sorry to see you involved.”

Following this statement he turned somewhat savagely upon Hooker, to
whose side he quickly stepped.

“You’re to blame,” he snapped in a low tone. “You forced me into this
sooner than I intended.”

“_I_ did?” muttered Roy, astonished. “How?”

“You broke your pledge to me. You forgot your solemn oath. I suspected
that you might, and, fortunately, I had my eyes open. I saw you skin up
here to tell Sage, and I lost no time in notifying the constable and
getting him to bring an armed party to search these premises.”

“I’ll bet they don’t find anything,” said Hooker. “I hope not. If they
don’t, it will take some of the swelling out of your head.”

“Time is val’able,” announced Abel Hubbard sagely, “so we’ll begin
s’arching right away. We’ll take the stable fust, and then we’ll go
through the house. Git at it, boys,” he commanded, with a wave of one
pudgy hand.

The men started to obey, but before they could really begin the door of
the little granary at one side of the stable swung open, and a man
stepped out into view.

“If you’re looking for me,” he said coolly, “you needn’t go any further;
but let me state right here that I was in no way concerned in that
attempted bank robbery.”

“Clarence!” gasped Fred Sage.

“The man I met in the woods!” burst from Hooker’s lips.

“Gentleman Jim, or I’ll eat my hat!” exulted Piper. “Nab him, men! He’s
desperate! Don’t let him play any tricks!”

Immediately the man, who was indeed the mysterious stranger with whom
Hooker had conversed, was covered by several loaded guns and commanded
to throw up his hands, an order which he disdainfully obeyed.

“It won’t be necessary to shoot,” he said. “I sha’n’t offer the
slightest resistance.”

“Keep him kivered,” fluttered Constable Hubbard—“keep him kivered till I
put the irons on him!”

Producing a set of old-fashioned manacles, the excited constable
bunglingly snapped them upon the wrists of the man.

“There!” he breathed in deep satisfaction; “we’ve got _you_, all right.
By golly! that boy Piper is a wonder.”

“Constable,” said Sleuth, remindingly, “you mustn’t forget that it was
solely through information supplied by me that Mr. James Wilson, _alias_
Gentleman Jim, was captured. I shall lay claims to the reward offered
for him.”

“I guess you’ll git your share of it, if he’s the feller you think he
is.”

“He’s nobody of the sort,” excitedly asserted Fred Sage. “He’s in no way
connected with the bank robbers. You’re making a dreadful blunder.”

“Then what’s he doing, hiding here?” questioned Hubbard incredulously.
“Mebbe you can explain that.”

“Yes, yes,” faltered Fred, “perhaps—I can.”

“Don’t try it,” implored the prisoner quickly. “It won’t do any good,
Fred; they wouldn’t believe you. I should have gone away yesterday and
saved you all this trouble.”

“It’s awful,” choked young Sage—“awful for you! Oh, what made you come
here at all!”

“Simply because I was a fool and couldn’t keep away,” was the bitter
answer.

“This ain’t no place to chin it over,” said the constable sharply. “It’s
my business to lodge this here gent in the lockup, and I’m going to do
so jest about as quick as I can.”

“Wait a minute,” pleaded Fred. “My mother doesn’t know. She’s in the
house. Doubtless she’s in terror now because of all these armed men
around the place. Wait two minutes, until I can go inside and prevent
her from looking out of the window when you take Clar—this man away.
Won’t you do that much, Mr. Hubbard?”

“I don’t see no reason why I shouldn’t. Go ahead, young feller, and
soothe down your mammy. I’ll give ye jest two minutes, and then we’ll
march this feller off to the caboose.”

Flinging a final resentful look at Piper, Fred hurried into the house.
Sleuth, preening himself proudly, could not refrain from giving Hooker
another jab.

“You did a good thing for yourself, Hook,” he sneered. “By going back on
me, you cut yourself out of any share in the reward money. We’ve got the
feller who calls himself James Wilson; there’s no doubt about that.
Furthermore, you must have observed that Fred called him Clarence, which
fully confirms my deduction that Clarence Sage is not dead, although an
unknown man was buried under that name.”

“It looks as if you’re right, Pipe,” admitted Roy sadly; “but losing a
share of the reward don’t hurt me half as much as knowing what this
means to Fred and his folks.”

“Time’s up,” announced Constable Hubbard, snapping shut the case of his
silver watch and dropping it into his pocket. “Come on, Mr. Crook;
for’ard, march!”

                             CHAPTER XXVII.

                           THE TWO PRISONERS.

As the key rattled in the lock of the heavily barred door the wounded
prisoner looked up from the cot on which he was lying and saw the second
captive marched into the room by Constable Hubbard.

“I guess,” said the constable, “I can chance it to take the irons off ye
while you’re in here, for we’ve got the place guarded by men who would
shoot ye quick as they’d spit if you ever did break out, which ain’t
nohow prob’le.”

“Thank you,” said the man, as Hubbard removed the handcuffs. “I won’t
try to break out, I promise you that.”

“And I’d be a fool if I took any stock in your promise,” said the fat
officer, as he backed out of the room, closing and relocking the door.

With a grimace of pain, the wounded man lifted himself to a sitting
posture on the cot. The eyes of the two prisoners met.

“So they nabbed you after all, Thirteen-thirteen,” said the first
prisoner. “Tough luck, old pal. I told yer to lay low.”

The other man shrugged his shoulders. “I did,” he answered; “but they
surrounded the place and had me pinched, so there was no use trying to
make a run for it. If I’d tried that, the chances were a hundred to one
that the damage to your wing wouldn’t have been a patch compared to what
would have happened to me.”

“Tough luck,” repeated the other. “But they can’t do anything to yer for
this job we made such a rotten mess of. I won’t forget how you tied up
this shoulder of mine, nor how the kid did his best to give me a show to
get away. I’ll swear you wasn’t mixed up in the job here.”

The younger man smiled wearily. “It’s not fear of their nailing this
business onto me that gets me,” he said; “it’s the old case against me.
I was supposed to be dead and buried, you know. Yes, it’s tough luck. I
was born under an unlucky star on the thirteenth day of the month. In
prison I was ‘Number 1313,’ and that was a double sign of bad luck.”

“You made a great break, you and your two pals. When they nabbed the
other pair and couldn’t find you, it seemed that all the luck was yours.
Course, arter I did my bit and was turned loose, I heard you had
croaked. When I was sitting on that box just at day peep trying to stop
the blood that was leaking out of me and you stepped out to give a hand
at the job, you certain looked like a ghost. I couldn’t believe you was
old Thirteen-thirteen till you owned up to it. Then the youngster come
on us, and we had to——”

“That’s the thing I regret most. Look here, Riley, you owe me something,
don’t you?”

“Anything you say, old pal.”

“I bound up your wound the best way I could. My brother caught me at it.
Then we had to bring him into the business, knowing that the searchers
were likely to trace you to that place. If they did so, it was a sure
thing that I’d be nabbed, which must lead to the public knowledge that
Clarence Sage, escaped convict, had not been drowned in the Hudson. In
hopes of avoiding this, my brother guided you into the woods and helped
you as best as he could to get another start in your flight.”

“The kid done his part all right, pal.”

“Now I want you to do yours, Riley.”

“Spiel it off. Lay it out. Put me on. What am I to do?”

“Not one word about my brother and the part he played must escape your
lips. He did it for me, not for you, but you owe him this much: you must
protect him.”

“Bank on it, cull—bank on it. They’ll never jimmy a word of it outer
me.”

“Thanks,” said Clarence Sage, taking the single chair which the lockup
contained and seating himself near the cot. “That relieves my mind in a
measure. Fred’s a fine boy, and it would be a shame to have suspicion
fall on him. My misfortune has cast enough stigma on my unfortunate
family.”

“Say, ’bo, there’s just one thing about you that I don’t like. You don’t
have to put up this misfortune bluff to me. Course it’s always hard luck
when we get laid by the heels on any little job, but seems to me you’re
throwing it out that you was on the level.”

“I was,” asserted Clarence Sage grimly, almost fiercely. “I was
arrested, tried and convicted for a crime I never committed. If this
were not true, I wouldn’t think of saying so now. Somebody else looted
the bank, and I believe I know the man. It was on his testimony
principally that I was convicted. He saved himself, but the knowledge
that he sent an innocent man to Sing Sing may possibly have caused him
some uneasy and regretful moments.”

“Well,” said Riley slowly, as he narrowly eyed his fellow prisoner, “you
spiels it like you was talking gospel. Mebbe it’s true.”

“It _is_ true,” asserted Clarence Sage. “Think what it meant, Riley, not
only to me, but to my people. I have the finest mother a boy ever had.
The thought of her shame and suffering has been gall and wormwood to
me.”

“My old mother,” said Riley, with a touch of sentiment, “was dead and
buried before I was pinched the first time, thank Heaven!”

Sage bowed his head and spoke in a low tone, his gaze fixed upon the
floor.