Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed

KILLYKINICK

By MARY T. WAGGAMAN

Author of
"Billy Boy," "The Secret of Pocomoke,"
"White Eagle," "Tommy Travers," etc.

THE AVE MARIA

NOTRE DAME, INDIANA

Copyright, 1917
By D. E. HUDSON, C. S. C.

KILLYKINICK.

I.--THE "LEFT OVERS."

It was the week after Commencement. The corridors, class-rooms, and study
hall of Saint Andrew's stretched in dim, silent vistas; over the tennis
court and the playground there brooded a dead calm; the field, scene of so
many strenuous struggles, lay bare and still in the summer sunlight; the
quadrangle, that so lately had rung to parting cheer and "yell," might
have been a cloister for midnight ghosts to walk. The only sign or sound
of life came from the open archways of the Gym, where the "left overs" (as
the boys who for various reasons had been obliged to summer at Saint
Andrew's) were working off the steam condensed, as Jim Norris declared, to
the "busting" point by the last seven days.

A city-bound college has its limitations, and vacation at Saint Andrew's
promised to be a very dull affair indeed. The "left overs" had tried
everything to kill time. At present their efforts seemed bent on killing
themselves; for Jim Norris and Dud Fielding, sturdy fellows of fourteen,
were doing stunts on the flying trapeze worthy of professional acrobats;
while Dan Dolan, swinging from a high bar, was urging little Fred Neville
to a precarious poise on his shoulder.

Freddy was what may be called a perennial "left over." He had been the
"kid" of Saint Andrew's since he was five years old, when his widowed
father had left him in a priestly uncle's care, and had disappeared no one
knew how or where. And as Uncle Tom's chosen path lay along hard, lofty
ways that small boys could not follow, Fred had been placed by special
privilege in Saint Andrew's to grow up into a happy boyhood, the pet and
plaything of the house. He was eleven now, with the fair face and golden
hair of his dead girl-mother, and brown eyes that had a boyish sparkle all
their own.

They looked up dubiously at Dan now,--"daring Dan," who for the last year
had been Freddy's especial chum; and to be long-legged, sandy-haired,
freckle-nosed Dan's chum was an honor indeed for a small boy of eleven.
Dan wore frayed collars and jackets much too small for him; his shoes were
stubby-toed and often patched; he made pocket money in various ways, by
"fagging" and odd jobbing for the big boys of the college. But he led the
classes and games of the Prep with equal success; and even now the Latin
class medal was swinging from the breast of his shabby jacket.

Dan had been a newsboy in very early youth; but, after a stormy and often
broken passage through the parochial school, he had won a scholarship at
Saint Andrew's over all competitors.

"An' ye'll be the fool to take it," Aunt Winnie had said when he brought
the news home to the little attic rooms where she did tailor's finishing,
and took care of Dan as well as a crippled old grandaunt could. "With all
them fine gentlemen's sons looking down on ye for a beggar!"

"Let them look," Dan had said philosophically. "Looks don't hurt, Aunt
Win. It's my chance and I'm going to take it."

And he was taking it bravely when poor Aunt Win's rheumatic knees broke
down utterly, and she had to go to the "Little Sisters," leaving Dan to
summer with the other "left overs" at Saint Andrew's.

"Swing up," he repeated, stretching a sturdy hand to Fred. "Don't be a
sissy. One foot on each of my shoulders, and catch on to the bar above my
head. That will steady you."

Freddy hesitated. It was rather a lofty height for one of his size.

"You can't hold me," he said. "I'm too heavy."

"Too heavy!" repeated Dan, laughing down on the slender, dapper little
figure at his feet. "Gee whilikins, I wouldn't even _feel_ you!"

This was too much for any eleven-year-old to stand. Freddy was not very
well. Brother Timothy had been dosing him for a week or more, and these
long hot summer days made his legs feel queer and his head dizzy. It was
rather hard sometimes to keep up with Dan, who was making the most of his
holiday, as he did of everything that came in his way. Freddy was
following him loyally, in spite of the creeps and chills that betrayed
malaria. But now his brown eyes flashed fire.

"You're a big brag, Dan Dolan!" he said, stung by such a taunt at his size
and weight. "Just you try me!"

And catching Dan's hand he made a spring to his waist and a reckless
scramble to his shoulders.

"Hooray!" said Dan, cheerily. "Steady now, and hold on to the bar!"

"Do you feel me now?" said Fred, pressing down with all his small weight
on the sturdy figure beneath him.

"A mite!" answered Dan. "Sort of like a mosquito had lit on me up there."

"Do you feel me now?" said Fred, bringing his heels down with a dig.

"Look out now!" cried Dan, sharply. "Don't try dancing a jig up there.
Hold to the bar."

But the warning came too late. The last move was too much for the
half-sick boy. Freddy's head began to turn, his legs gave way--he reeled
down to the floor, and, white and senseless, lay at Dan's feet.

In the big, book-lined study beyond the quadrangle, Father Regan was
settling final accounts prior to the series of "retreats" he had promised
for the summer; while Brother Bart, ruddy and wrinkled as a winter apple,
"straightened up,"--gathering waste paper and pamphlets as his superior
cast them aside, dusting book-shelves and mantel, casting the while many
an anxious, watchful glance through the open window. The boys were
altogether too quiet this morning. Brother Bart distrusted boyish quiet.
For the "Laddie," as he had called Freddy since the tiny boy had been
placed six years ago in his special care, was the idol of the good man's
heart. He had washed and dressed and tended him in those early years with
almost a woman's tenderness, and was watching with jealous anxiety as
Laddie turned from childish ways into paths beyond his care. Dan Dolan was
Brother Bart's especial fear--Dan Dolan, who belonged to the rough outside
world from which Laddie had been shielded; Dan Dolan, who, despite tickets
and medals, Brother Bart felt was no mate for a little gentleman like his
boy.

"They're quarely still this morning," he said at last, giving voice to his
fear. "I'm thinking they are at no good."

"Who?" asked Father Regan, looking up from the letter he was reading.

"The boys," answered Brother Bart,--"the four of them that was left over
with us."

"Four of them?" repeated the Father, who, with the closing of the schools,
had felt the burden of his responsibilities drop. "True, true! I quite
forgot we have four boys with us. It must be dull for the poor fellows."

"Dull!" echoed Brother Bart, grimly,--"dull is it, yer reverence? It's in
some divilment they are from morning until night. There's no rule for
vacation days, as Mr. Linton says; and so the four of them are running
wild as red Indians, up in the bell tower, and in the ice pond that's six
feet deep with black water, and scampering over the highest ledge of the
dormitory roof, till my heart nearly leaps from my mouth."

"Poor fellows!" said Father Regan, indulgently. "It's hard on them, of
course. Let me see! Colonel Fielding and his wife are in the Philippines,
I remember, and asked to leave Dudley with us; and Judge Norris couldn't
take Will with him to Japan; and there's our own little Fred of
course,--we always have him; and--"

"That dare-devil of a Dan Dolan, that's the worst of all!" burst forth
Brother Bart. "It's for me sins he was left here, I know; with the Laddie
following everywhere he leads, like he was bewitched."

"Poor Danny! Aren't you a little hard on him, Brother Bart?" was the
smiling question.

"Sure I am, I am,--God forgive me for that same!" answered Brother Bart,
penitently. "But I'm no saint like the rest of ye; and Laddie crept into
my heart six years ago, and I can't put him out. Wild Dan Dolan is no fit
mate for him."

"Why not?" asked Father Regan, gravely, though there was a quizzical gleam
in his eye.

"Sure, because--because--" hesitated Brother Bart, rather staggered by the
question. "Sure ye know yerself, Father."

"No, I don't," was the calm reply. "Dan may be wild and mischievous--a
little rough perhaps, poor boy!--but he will do Freddy no harm. He is a
bright, honest, manly fellow, making a brave fight against odds that are
hard to face; and we must give him his chance, Brother Bart. I promised
his good old aunt, who was broken-hearted at leaving him, that I would do
all I could for her friendless, homeless boy. As for mischief--well, I
rather like a spice of mischief at his age. It is a sign of good health,
body and soul. But we must try to give it a safer outlet than roofs and
bell towers," he added thoughtfully. "Let me see! If we could send our
'left overs' some place where they could have more freedom. Why--why, now
that I think of it" (the speaker's grave face brightened as he took up the
letter he had been reading), "maybe there's a chance for them right here.
Father Tom Rayburn has just written me that Freddy has fallen heir to some
queer old place on the New England coast. It belonged to his mother's
great-uncle, an old whaling captain, who lived there after an eccentric
fashion of his own. It seems that this ship was stranded on this island
more than fifty years ago, and he fixed up the wreck, and lived there
until his death this past month. The place has no value, Father Tom
thinks; but he spent two of the jolliest summers of his own boyhood with
an old Captain Kane at Killykinick."

"Killykinick?" echoed Brother Bart. "That sounds Irish, Father."

"It does," laughed Father Regan. "Perhaps the old captain was an Irishman.
At any rate, there he lived, showing a light every night at his masthead
to warn other ships off,--which was quite unnecessary of course, as the
government attends to all such matters now."

"It must be a queer sort of a place," said Brother Bart, doubtfully. "But
it might do Laddie good to get a whiff of the salt air and a swim in the
sea. He isn't well, Brother Timothy says, and as everyone can see. He has
a touch of the fever every day; and as for weight, Dan Dolan would make
two of him. And his mother died before she was five and twenty. God's holy
will be done!" Brother Bart's voice broke at the words. "But I'm thinking
Laddie isn't long for this world, Father. There's an angel-look in his
face that I don't like to see." And the old Brother shook his head
lugubriously.

Father Regan laughed.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that! I've seen plenty of just such angels,
Brother Bart, and they grew up into very hardy, mortal men, who had to
scuffle their way through life like the rest of us. But Freddy is looking
a little peaked of late, as I noticed on Commencement Day. I think that,
as you say, a breath of salt air would be good for him. We might send all
four off together to this place of his."

"Is it Dan Dolan with the rest?" asked Brother Bart, in dismay.

"Why, of course! We couldn't keep poor Dan here all alone," was the
answer.

"He'll have Laddie climbing the rocks and swimming the seas like--like a
wild Indian," said the good man, despairingly.

"What! That angel boy of yours, Brother Bart?" laughed the priest.

"Aye, aye!" answered the good Brother. "I'm not denying that Laddie has a
wild streak in him. It came from his poor young father, I suppose. Arrah!
has there never been word or sign from him, Father?" queried Brother Bart,
sorrowfully.

"Never," was the grave reply,--"not since he disappeared so strangely six
years ago. I presume he is dead. He had been rather a wild young fellow;
but after his wife's death he changed completely, reproached himself for
having, as he said, broken her heart, and got some morbid notion of not
being a fit father for his child. He had lost his faith and was altogether
unbalanced, poor man! Luckily, Freddy inherits a fortune from his mother,
and is well provided for; and now comes this other heritage from the old
great-uncle--Killykinick. I really think--O God bless me! What is the
matter?" asked the speaker, turning with a start, as, reckless of rules
and reverence, two white-faced boys burst unannounced into the room.

"It's--it's--it's Freddy Neville, Father!" panted Jim Norris.

"Laddie,--my Laddie! What's come to him?" cried Brother Bart.

"He's tumbled off the high bar," gasped Dud Fielding, "and he is lying all
white and still, and--and dead, Father!"

II.--OLD TOP.

There was a hurried rush to the scene of accident; but first aid to the
injured had already been rendered. Freddy lay on the Gym floor, pillowed
on Dan's jacket, and reviving under the ministration of a sturdy hand and
a very wet and grimy pocket-handkerchief.

"What did you go tumbling off like that for?" asked Dan indignantly as the
"angel eyes" of his patient opened.

"Don't know," murmured Freddy, faintly.

"I told you to stand steady, and you didn't,--you jumped!" said Dan.

"So--so you'd feel me," answered Fred, memory returning as the darkness
began to brighten, and Brother Bart and Brother Timothy and several other
anxious faces started out of the breaking clouds. "But I'm not hurt,--I'm
not hurt a bit, Brother Bart."

"Blessed be God for that same!" cried the good Brother, brokenly, as,
after close examination, Brother Timothy agreed to this opinion. "And it
wasn't the fault of the rapscallions wid ye that ye're not killed
outright. To be swinging like monkeys from a perch, and ye half sick and
lightheaded! Put him in the bed, Brother Timothy; and keep him there till
we see what comes of this."

So Freddy was put to bed in the dim quiet of the infirmary, to watch
developments. Brother Timothy gave him an old fashioned "drought," and he
went to sleep most comfortably. He woke up feeling very well indeed, to
enjoy an appetizing repast of chicken broth and custard. But when this
went on for two days, Freddy began to grow restless.

Infirmary life was very well in school time; indeed, when there were other
patients not too sick to share its luxuries, it proved rather a pleasant
break in the routine of class-room and study-hall. In fact, a late
epidemic of measles that filled every bed had been a "lark" beyond Brother
Timothy's suppression. But the infirmary in vacation, with no chance for
the pillow fights that had made the "measles" so hilarious, with no boy in
the next bed to exchange confidences and reminiscences, with no cheery
shouts from the playground and quadrangle, with only the long stretch of
bare, spotless rooms, white cots, and Brother Timothy rolling pills in the
"doctor shop," the infirmary was dull and dreary indeed.

"Can't I get up to-day, Brother?" asked Freddy on the third morning, as
Brother Timothy took away a breakfast tray cleared to the last crumb of
toast.

"No," replied the Brother, who from long dealing with small boys had
acquired the stony calm of a desert sphinx. Beneath it he was a gentle,
patient, wise old saint, who watched and prayed over his patients in a way
they little guessed. "No, you can't."

"Gee!" said Freddy, with a rebellious kick at the counterpane. "The bump
on my head is gone and I'm not sick at all."

"We're not so sure of that," answered Brother Tim. "You've had
temperature."

"What's 'temperature'?" asked Freddy, roused with interest.

"Never mind what it is, but you'll have to stay here till it goes,"
answered Brother Tim, with decision.

And Freddy could only lay back on his pillows in hopeless gloom, watching
the shadows of the big elm by his window flickering over curtain and
coverlet. The great elm--or "Old Top," as it had been affectionately
called by generations of students--was the pride of the college grounds.
Many a newcomer felt his heart warm to his strange surroundings when he
found the name of father or grandfather cut into the rough bark, where men
who had made later marks on history's page had left youthful sign manual.
More than once the growth of the college buildings had threatened to
encroach upon Old Top; but the big elm held its prior claim, and new
dormitory or infirmary was set back that it might rule with kingly right
in its historic place.

Many were the stories and legends of which Old Top was the hero. In the
"great fire" its boughs had proven a ladder of safety before modern
"escapes" were known. Civil-War veterans told of hunted scouts hiding, all
unknown to the Fathers, in its spreading branches; while the students'
larks and frolics to which it had lent indulgent ear were ancient history
at many a grandfather's fireside.

But, like all things earthly, the big tree was growing old; a barbed wire
fencing surrounded the aging trunk, and effectively prohibited climbing
the rotten and unsafe branches. Even cutting names was forbidden. Freddy
had been the last allowed, as the "kid" of the house, to put his initials
beneath his father's. It had been quite an occasion, his eleventh
birthday. There had been a party (Freddy always had ten dollars to give a
party on his birthday); and then, surrounded by his guests, still
gratefully appreciative of unlimited ice cream and strawberries, he had
carefully cut "F. W. N. 19--" beneath the same signature of twenty years
ago. It was then too twenty years ago. It was then too hilarious an
occasion for sad reflection; but lying alone in the infirmary to-day,
Freddy's memories took doleful form as he recalled the "F. W. N." above
his own, and began to think of his father who had vanished so utterly from
his young life.

He had only the vaguest recollection of a tall, handsome "daddy" who had
tossed him up in his arms and frolicked and laughed with him in a very
dim, early youth. He could recall more clearly the stern, silent man of
later years, of whom the five-year-boy had been a little afraid. And he
retained a vivid memory of one bewildering evening in the dusky parlor of
Saint Andrew's when a shaking, low voiced father had held him tight to his
breast for one startling moment, and then whispered hoarsely in his ear,
"Good-bye, my little son,--good-bye for ever!" It was very sad, as Freddy
realized to-day (he had never considered the matter seriously
before),--very sad to have a father bid you good-bye forever. And to have
your mother dead, too,--such a lovely mother! Freddy had, in his small
trunk, a picture of her that was as pretty as any of the angels on the
chapel windows. And now he had "temperature," and maybe he was going to
die, too, like some of those very good little boys of whom Father Martin
read aloud on Sundays.

Freddy's spirits were sinking into a sunless gloom, when suddenly there
came a whistle through the open window,--a whistle that made him start up
breathless on his pillow. For only one boy in Saint Andrew's could achieve
that clear high note. It was Dan Dolan calling,--but how, where? Freddy's
window was four stories high, without porch or fire escape and that
whistle was almost in his ear. He pursed up his trembling lips and
whistled back.

"Hi!" came a cautious voice, and the leafy shadows of Old Top waved
violently. "You're there, are you? Brother Tim around?"

"No," answered Freddy.

"Then I'll swing in for a minute." And, with another shake of Old Top, Dan
bestrode the window ledge,--a most cheery-looking Dan, grinning broadly.

"How--how did you get up?" asked Freddy, thinking of the barbed wire
defences below.

"Dead easy," answered Dan. "Just swung across from the organ-loft windows.
They wouldn't let me come up and see you. Brother Bart, the old softy,
said I'd excite you. What's the matter, anyhow? Is it the tumble--or
typhoid?"

"Neither," said Fred. "I feel fine, but Brother Tim says I've got
temperature."

"What's that?" asked Dan.

"I don't know," replied Freddy. "You better not come too near, or you may
catch it."

"Pooh, no!" said Dan, who was poised easily on his lofty perch. "I never
catch anything. But I'll keep ready for a jump, or Brother Tim will catch
me, and there will be trouble for sure. And as for Brother Bart, I don't
know what he'd do if he thought I had come near you. Jing! but he gave it
to me hot and heavy about letting you get that tumble! He needn't. I felt
bad enough about it already."

"Oh, did you, Dan?" asked Fred, quite overcome by such an admission.

"Rotten!" was the emphatic answer.

"Couldn't eat any dinner, though we had cherry dumpling. And Brother Bart
rubbed it in, saying I had killed you. Then I got the grumps, and when Dud
Fielding gave me some of his sass we had a knock-out fight that brought
Father Rector down on us good and strong. I tell you it's been tough lines
all around. And this is what you call--vacation!" concluded Dan,
sarcastically.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" said Freddy. "The tumble didn't hurt me much. I guess I
was sort of sick anyhow. And to fight Dud Fielding!" The speaker's eyes
sparkled. "Oh, I bet you laid him out, Dan!"

"Didn't I, though! Shut up one eye, and made that Grecian nose of his look
like a turnip. It ain't down yet," answered Dan, with satisfaction. "He
fired me up talking about Aunt Win."

"Oh, did he?" asked Freddy, sympathetically.

"Yes: said I ought to be ditch-digging to keep her out of the poorhouse,
instead of pushing in with respectable boys here. Sometimes I think that
myself," added Dan in another tone. "But it wasn't any of that blamed
plute's business to knock it into me."

"But it isn't true: your aunt isn't in the poorhouse, Dan?" said Freddy,
eagerly.

"Well, no, not exactly," answered Dan. "But she is with the Little
Sisters, which is next thing to it. And I ain't like the rest of you, I
know; and don't need Dud Fielding to tell me. But just let me get a good
start and I'll show folks what Dan Dolan can do. I'll be ready for
something better than a newsboy or a bootblack."

"O Dan, you'll never be anything like that!" said Freddy, in dismay.

"I have been," was the frank reply. "Given many a good shine for a nickel.
Could sell more papers than any little chap on the street. Was out before
day on winter mornings to get them hot from the press, when I hadn't
turned seven years old. But I ain't going back to it,--no, sir!" Dan's
lips set themselves firmly. "I'm on the climb. Maybe I won't get very far,
but I've got my foot on the ladder. I'm going to hold my own against Dud
Fielding and all his kind, no matter how they push; and I told Father
Rector that yesterday when they were plastering up Dud's eye and nose."

"O Dan, you didn't!"

"Yes, I did. I was just boiling up, and had to bust out, I guess. And when
he lectured us about being gentlemen, I told him I didn't aim at anything
like that. I wasn't made for it, as I knew; but I was made to be a man,
and I was going to hold up like one, and stand no shoving."

"O Dan!" gasped Freddy, breathlessly. "And--and what did he say?"

"Nothing," answered Dan, grimly. "But from the looks of things, I rather
guess I'm in for a ticket of leave. That's why I'm up here. Couldn't go
off without seeing you,--telling you how sorry I was I let you get that
fall off my shoulders. I oughtn't to have dared a kid like you to
fool-tricks like that. I was a big dumb-head, and I'd like to kick myself
for it. For I think more of you than any other boy in the college, little
or big,--I surely do. And I've brought you something, so when I'm gone you
won't forget me."

And Dan dived into his pocket and brought out a round disk of copper about
the size of a half dollar. It was rimmed with some foreign crest, and name
and date.

"An old sailor man gave it to me," said Dan, as he reached over to
Freddy's bed and handed him the treasure. "He was a one-legged old chap
that used to sit down on the wharf sort of dazed and batty, until the boys
roused him by pelting and hooting at him; and then he'd fire back curse
words at them that would raise your hair. It was mean of them, for he was
old and lame and sick; and one day I just lit out a couple of measly
little chaps and ducked them overboard for their sass. After that we were
sort of friends, me and old 'Nutty,' as everyone called him. I'd buy
tobacco and beer for him, and give him an old paper now and then; and when
he got down and out for good Aunt Win made me go for the priest for him
and see him through. He gave me this at the last. He had worn it on a
string around his neck, and seemed to think it was something grand. It's a
medal for bravery that the poor old chap had won more than forty years
ago. Ben Wharton offered me a dollar for it to put in his museum, but I
wouldn't sell it. It seemed sort of mean to sell poor old Nutty's medal.
But I'd like to give it to you, so you'll remember me when I've gone."

"Oh, but you're not--not going away, Dan!" said Freddy. "And I can't take
your medal, anyhow. I'd remember you without it. You're the best chum I
ever had,--the very best. And--and--"

The speaker broke off, stammering; for a second visitor had suddenly
appeared at his bedside: Father Regan who had entered the infirmary
unheard and unseen, and who now stood with his eyes fixed in grave
displeasure on the daring Dan.

III.--A JUDGMENT.

"Dan Dolan!" said Father Regan, as the reckless interloper flushed and
paled beneath his steady gaze.

"Dan Dolan!" echoed Brother Tim, who had come in behind his honored
visitor. "How ever did he get past me! I've been saying my beads at the
door without this half hour."

"Swung in by Old Top," ventured Dan, feeling concealment was vain.

"You dared Old Top at this height, when scarcely a bough is sound! You
must be mad, boy. It is God's mercy that you did not break your neck.
Don't you know the tree is unsafe?"

"Yes, Father," answered Dan. "But--but I had to see Freddy again, and they
wouldn't let me come up. I just _had_ to see him, if it killed me."

And there was a sudden break in the young voice that startled his hearer.
But a glance at the dizzy and forbidden height of Old Top and Father Regan
was stern again.

"Why did you have to see him, if it killed you?" he asked briefly.

"Because I wanted to tell how bad I felt about letting him get hurt,
because--because he has been better to me than any boy in the school,
because--because--" (again Dan's tone grew husky) "I just had to bid
Freddy good-bye."

"O Father, no, no!" Freddy burst out tremulously. "Don't let him say
good-bye! Don't send Dan away, Father, please! He won't fight any more,
will you, Dan?"

"I am not promising that," answered Dan, sturdily. "I won't stand shoving
and knocking, not even to keep my place here."

"O Dan!" cried Freddy, in dismay at such an assertion. "Why, you said you
would work day and night to stay at Saint Andrew's!"

"Work, yes," replied Dan, gruffly. "I don't mind work, but I won't ever
play lickspittle."

"And is that the way ye'd be talking before his reverence?" broke in
Brother Tim, indignantly. "Get out of the infirmary this minute, Dan
Dolan; for it's the devil's own pride that is on yer lips and in yer
heart, God forgive me for saying it."

"We'll settle this later," said Father Regan, quietly. "Go down to my
study, Dan, and wait for me. I have a message for Freddy from his uncle."

"O Dan, Dan!" (There was a sob in the younger boy's voice as he felt all
this parting might mean.) "I'll--I'll miss you dreadfully, Dan!"

"Don't!" said Dan, gripping his little comrade's hand. "I ain't worth
missing. I'm glad I came, anyhow, to say good-bye and good-luck, Freddy!"
And he turned away at the words, with something shining in his blue eyes
that Father Regan knew was not all defiance.

It was a long wait in the study. Dan had plenty of time to think, and his
thoughts were not very cheerful. He felt he had lost his chance,--the
chance that had been to him like the sudden opening of a gate in the grim
stone wall of circumstances that had surrounded him,--a gate beyond which
stretched free, sunlit paths to heights of which he had never dreamed. He
had lost his chance; for a free scholarship at Saint Andrew's depended on
good conduct and observance of rules as well as study; and Dan felt he had
doubly and trebly forfeited his claim. But he would not whine. Perhaps it
was only the plucky spirit of the street Arab that filled his breast,
perhaps something stronger and nobler that steadied his lip and kindled
his eye, as he looked around the spacious, book-lined room, and realized
all that he was losing--had lost. For Dan loved his books,--the
hard-earned scholarship proved it. Many a midnight hour had found him,
wrapped in his worn blankets, studying by the light of a flaring
candle-end stuck perilously on his bedpost, after good Aunt Win had
thriftily put out the lamp, and believed Danny was sound asleep
preparatory to a start on his beat at break of day.

"One of the brightest, clearest, quickest minds I ever knew," Dan's
teacher had told Father Regan when awarding the scholarship,--"if he can
only keep the track. But he has a bold spirit, and it will be hard on him
among all those 'high-steppers' of yours at Saint Andrew's. He is likely
to bolt and break away."

But Dan had been too busy with his books all the year to mind
"high-steppers." His patched jacket kept the head of the classes, and his
stubby-toed shoes marched up every month to get the ticket, and he had
helped more than one heavy-witted "high-stepper" through conditions that
threatened to put him out of the race. Most of the Saint Andrew's boys
were manly youngsters, with whom jackets and shoes did not count against
brain and brawn; and strong, clever, quick-witted Dan had held his place
in schoolroom and playground unquestioned. But there were exceptions, and
Dud Fielding was one of them. He had disliked the "poor scholar" from the
first. Dud was a tall, handsome fellow, filled with ideas of his own
importance; and Dan had downed him more than once in field and class-room,
to his great disgust. Worst than all, in appreciation of his careful
costuming, Dan had alluded to him as "Dudey,"--a boyish liberty which,
considering the speaker's patched jacket, Master Fielding could not
forgive. It was the repetition of this remark, when Dud had appeared
garbed in a summer suit of spotless linen, that had precipitated
yesterday's fight.

Altogether, with all the restraints and interests of school time removed,
vacation was proving a perilous period to the "left-overs" at Saint
Andrew's. Dan realized this as, turning his back on the book-lined room,
with his hands thrust in his pockets, looking gloomily out of the broad
window that opened on the quadrangle, he stood awaiting "judgment." He
expected no mercy: he felt grimly he had no claim to it. Maybe if he had a
rich father or uncle or somebody grand and great to speak up for him, he
might be given another chance; but a poor boy who, as Dud Fielding said,
ought to be "ditch digging"--Dan choked up again at the thought that,
after all, perhaps Dud was right: he was not the sort to be pushing in
here. He ought to be out in his own rough world, working his own rough
way. All those fancies of his for better, higher things had been only
"pipe dreams."

But jing, it would be hard to give up! Dan looked out at the quadrangle
where he had led so many a merry game; at the ball field, scene of battle
and victory that even Dud Fielding could not dispute; at the long stretch
of the study hall windows opposite; at the oriel of the chapel beyond. All
spoke to him of a life that had been like air and sunshine to a plant
stretching its roots and tendrils in the dark.

And he must leave it all! He must go back again to the old ways, the old
work! He was big enough now to drive a butcher's wagon, or clean fish and
stuff sausages at Pete Patterson's market store; or--or--there were other
things he could do that a fellow like him must do when he is "down and
out." And while he still stared from the window, the grim, dogged look
settling heavier upon his young face, Dan caught a footstep behind him,
and turned to face Father Regan.

"I've kept you waiting longer than I expected, Dan, but I had great news
for Freddy,--news that took some time to tell." The speaker sank into the
tall stiff-backed chair known to many a young sinner as the "judgment
seat." "Now" (the clear, keen eyes fixed themselves gravely on the boy) "I
want to have a talk with you. Things can not go on in this way any longer,
even in vacation time. I must say that, after the last year's good record,
I am disappointed in you, Dan,--sorely disappointed."

"I'm sorry, Father," was the respectful answer, but the grim, hard look on
the young face did not change. "I've made a lot of trouble, I know."

"You have," was the grave answer, "and trouble I did not expect from you.
Still, circumstances have been against you, I must confess. But this does
not alter the fact that you have broken strict rules that even in vacation
we can not relax,--broken them deliberately and recklessly. You are
evidently impatient of the restraint here at Saint Andrew's; so I have
concluded not to keep you here any longer, Dan."

"I'm not asking it, Father." Dan tried bravely to steady voice and lip.
"I'm ready to go whenever you say."

"To-morrow, then," continued Father Regan,--"I've made arrangements for
you to leave to-morrow at ten. Brother Francis will see that your trunk is
packed to-night."

"Yes, Father," said Dan, somewhat bewildered at the friendly tone in which
this sentence was delivered. "I'd like to see Mr. Raymond and Mr. Shipman
before I go, and thank them for all they've done for me; and Father Roach
and Father Walsh and all of them; and to say I'm sorry I made any
trouble."

"Good gracious," laughed Father Regan, "one would think you were on your
dying bed, boy!"

"I--I feel like it," blurted out Dan, no longer able to choke down the
lump in his throat. "I'd rather die, a good deal."

"Rather die!" exclaimed Father Regan,--"rather die than go to
Killykinick!"

"Killykinick!" echoed Dan, breathlessly. "You're not--not sending me to a
Reform, Father?"

"Reform!" repeated the priest.

"For I won't go," said Dan, desperately. "You haven't any right to put me
there. I'm not wild and bad enough for that. I'll keep honest and
respectable. I'll go to work. I can get a job at Pete Patterson's sausage
shop to-morrow."

"Reform! Sausage shop! What are you talking about, you foolish boy, when I
am only sending you all off for a summer holiday at the seashore?"

"A summer holiday at the seashore!" echoed Dan in bewilderment.

"Yes, at Freddy's place--Killykinick. I have just heard from his uncle,
and he thinks it would be a fine thing to send Freddy up there to shake
off his malaria. There's a queer old house that his great-uncle left him,
and an old sailor who still lives there to look out for things; and all
the boating, bathing, swimming, fishing a set of lively young fellows can
want; so I am going to ship you all off there to-morrow morning with
Brother Bart. It's plain you can't stand six weeks of vacation here,
especially when there will be a general retreat for the Fathers next
month. You see, I simply have to send you away."

"And you mean--you mean--" (Dan's voice trembled, his eyes shone,)--"you
mean I can come back?"

"Come back, of course, when school opens."

"Jing!" said Dan, drawing a long breath. "I--I thought you were putting me
out for good and all. I thought, with the fight and the climb and hurting
Freddy I--I had done for myself. I thought--" Here Dan's feelings became
too much for him, and he could only gulp down the sob that rose in his
throat, with a look that went to Father Regan's kind heart.

"My poor boy, no, no! Put you out of Saint Andrew's for good and all! I
never thought of such a thing for a moment. Of course I object seriously
to fighting, to your reckless venture to Old Top; but--well, you had
strong temptations, and in vacation time one must not be too severe. At
Killykinick there will be more elbow-room. Have you ever been to the
seashore?"

"Never farther than the wharfs. But I can swim and dive and float,"
answered Dan, wisely reserving the information that, as a member of the
"Wharf Rats," he had been ducked overboard at the age of six, to sink or
swim.

"Good!" said Father Regan. "Then you'll have a fine time. And I am
depending on you to look out for the other boys. They have grown up in
softer ways, and are not used to roughing it, as it is likely you will
have to rough it at Killykinick. But it will be good for you all,--for you
all," repeated the speaker cheerily, as he saw in Dan's brightening face
the joyful relief the boy did not know how to speak. "And you will come
back ready for double 'X' work in the fall. I am looking for great things
from you, Dan. You've made a fine start, my boy! Keep it up, and some day
you will be signing all the capital letters to Dan Dolan's name that Saint
Andrew's can bestow."

"Sure I don't know about that, Father," said Dan, his speech softening
into Aunt Winnie's Irish tones with the warming of his heart. "You're very
good to me, but sometimes I think--well, what I thrashed Dud Fielding for
telling me: that I've no right to be pushing into a grand school like
this. I ought to keep my place."

"And where is your place?" was the calm question.

"Sure, sure--" Dan hesitated as he recalled a very checkered childhood.
"Now that Aunt Winnie is all broke up, I can't say, Father."

"Then I will tell you, my boy! Just now, by the goodness and guidance of
God, it is here,--here, where you have equal rights with any boy in the
school. You have won them in winning your scholarship; they are yours as
justly as if you had a father paying a thousand a year. There may be a
little rough rubbing now and then from fellows like Dud Fielding;
but--well, everything that is worth having has its cost. So stand to your
colors! Be, as you said yesterday, neither a bully nor a coward, but a
man. Now go to see Aunt Winnie and bid her good-bye. Tell her I am sending
you off for the jolliest kind of a holiday to Killykinick."

"I--I don't know how to thank you, Father!" stammered Dan, feeling that
his blackened sky had suddenly burst into rainbow light.

"Don't try," was the kind answer. "I understand, Dan. God bless you, my
boy!"

And, laying his hand for a moment on Dan's sandy thatch of hair, Father
Regan dismissed the case.

IV.--AUNT WINNIE.

It was a delighted Dan that bounded down the broad staircase and took a
flying leap from the stone portico of the great hall door.

"Hello!" said Jim Norris, who was lazily stretched on the grass, reading.
"Is that a jump or a kick out?"

"A jump," answered Dan, grinning: "though I was primed for the other,
sure. How is Dudey's nose?"

"Coming down," said Jim, who was an easy-going mixer, whom everybody
liked. "About the size and shape of a spring radish to-day. My, but he's
hot against you, Dan! Look out for him! Snake in the grass is nothing to
Dud Fielding on the boil. Won't even rattle fairly before he strikes."

"Wouldn't take the glad hand if I stretched it out to him and said I was
sorry?" asked Dan. "Just now I feel like being at peace with everybody."

"Not much!" said Jim, impressively. "Or if he did there would be a snake
sting ready for you, all the same. I know Dud Fielding. He'll get even
with you if he dies for it."

"All right!" was the cheerful reply. "Let him get even then. Have you
heard about Killykinick, Jim?"

"Yes: Father Regan told me. I don't know what or where it is, but I'm
ready for a start if it's a cannibal isle. Anything is better than dying
of dullness here. Where are you off so fast, Dan?"

"To see my aunt. She--she--" There was a moment's hesitation, for Dan knew
all the admission meant to boys like Jim. But he added boldly: "She is at
the Little Sisters', you know, and I want to bid her good-bye before I
leave."

"Of course you do. These old aunts are great," said Jim, with a friendly
nod. "I've got one myself up in the country. Wears bonnets and gowns that
look as if they came out of the Ark. But, golly, she can make doughnuts
and apple pies that beat the band! I'd rather spend a week at Aunt
Selina's than any place I know. Going to walk or ride, Dan?"

"Walk," was the answer. "I generally do. It's good for my health."

"Not on a day like this. I've got a pocketful of car tickets," said Jim,
shaking a dozen or so out on the grass. "We'll have no use for them at
Killykinick. Help yourself."

"No," said Dan, sturdily. "Thank you all the same, Jim! But I don't mind
walking a bit. I'll match you at a game of tennis when I get back, and do
you up."

"All right!" answered Jim, who, though slow and lazy and a bit dull at his
books, was a gentleman through and through. Three generations of Norrises
had cut their names on Old Top.

And, lighter hearted for this friendliness, Dan kept on his way by short
cuts and cross streets until he reached the quiet suburb where the modest
buildings of the "Little Sisters" stretched long and wide behind their
grey stone walls. He was admitted by a brisk, kind little old woman, who
was serving as portress; and after some parley, was shown up into Aunt
Winnie's room. It was spotless in its cleanliness and bare save for the
most necessary articles of furniture. There were three other old ladies
about in various stages of decrepitude, who seemed only dully conscious of
Dan's appearance; but Aunt Winnie, seated in her armchair by the window,
started up in tremulous rapture at sight of her boy. Despite her age and
infirmity, she was still a trig little body, with snow-white hair waved
about a kind old wrinkled face and dim soft eyes, that filled with tears
at "Danny's" boyish hug and kiss.

"It's a long time ye've been coming," she said reproachfully. "I thought
ye were forgetting me entirely, Danny lad."

"Forgetting you!" echoed Dan. "Now, you know better than to talk like
that, Aunt Win. I'm thinking of you day and night. I've got no one else to
think of but you, Aunt Win."

"Whisht now,--whisht!" Aunt Winnie sank her voice to a whisper, and nodded
cautiously towards the nearest old lady. "She do be listening, lad. I've
told them all of the grand, great college ye're at, and the fine, bright
lad ye are, but I've told them nothing more. Ye're not to play the poor
scholar here."

"Oh, I see!" said Dan, grinning. "Go on with your game then, Aunt Win."

"I'm not looking to be remembered," Aunt Winnie continued dolefully. "What
with all the French and Latin ye have to study, and the ball playing that
you're doing. I can't look for you to think of a poor lone lame woman like
me."

"Aunt Win!" burst forth Dan, impetuously.

"Whisht!" murmured Aunt Win again, with a glance at the old lady who was
blinking sleepily. "Don't ye be giving yerself away. And I suppose it's
the fine holiday that ye're having now wid the rest of yer mates," she
went on.

"Yes," said Dan, feeling he could truthfully humor the old lady's harmless
pride here. "We're off to-morrow for the jolliest sort of a time at the
seashore. Freddy Neville, the nicest little chap in college, has a place
up somewhere on the New England coast, and four of us are going there for
the summer."

And Danny launched into eager details that made Aunt Winnie's eyes open
indeed. But there was a little quiver in her voice when she spoke.

"Ah, that's fine for you,--that's fine for you indeed, Danny! We can talk
plain now; for" (as a reassuring snore came from her dozing neighbor)
"thank God, she's off asleep! It's the grand thing for you to be going
with mates like that. It's what I'm praying for as I sit here sad and
lonely, Dan, that God will give ye His blessing, and help ye up, up, up,
high as mortal man can go."

"And you with me, Aunt Win," said Dan, who, seated on the footstool of the
chair, was smoothing her wrinkled hand.

"Ah, no, my lad, I don't ask that! I'm not asking that at all, Danny. I'll
not be houlding to ye, and dragging ye down while ye're climbing. And
whisper, lad, while there's no one listening: it's naither wise nor best
for ye to be coming here."

"Why not?" asked Dan, for he knew that he was the light of poor Aunt Win's
eyes and the joy of her old heart.

"Because--because," faltered Aunt Winnie, "though it's fibs I've been
telling about yer grandeur and greatness--God forgive me that same!--the
old busybodies around will be wondering and prating about why ye lave me
here, Dan,--because I might be a shame to ye before all the fine
gentlemen's sons that have taken ye up,--because" (Aunt Win's voice broke
entirely) "a poor old woman like me will only hurt and hinder ye, Dan."

"Hurt and hinder me!" echoed Dan, who, with all his cleverness, could not
understand the depths and heights of good old Aunt Winnie's love.

"Aye, lad, hurt and hinder ye; for ye're on the way up, and I'll not be
the one to hould ye back. I do be dreaming grand dreams of ye, Danny
lad,--dreams that I don't dare to spake out."

"Whisper them, then, Aunt Win," urged Dan, softly. "Maybe I'll make them
come true."

"Ye couldn't," said the old woman, her dim eyes shining. "Only God in
heaven can do that. For I dream that I see you on His altar, the brightest
place that mortal man can reach. I'll ne'er live to see that dream come
true, Danny; but I believe it would make my old heart leap if I was under
the sod itself."

"O Aunt Win, Aunt Win!" Dan lifted the wrinkled hand to his lips. "That is
a great dream, sure enough. Sometimes, Aunt Win, I--I dream it myself.
But, then, a rough-and-tumble fellow like me, always getting into scrapes,
soon wakes up. But one thing is sure: you can't shake me, Aunt Win.
Dreaming or waking, I'll stick to you forever."

"Ah, no, lad,--no!" said the old woman, tremulously. "I'd not have ye
bother with me. Sure it's the fine place I have here, with my warm room
and nice bed, and the good Little Sisters to care for me, and the chapel
close to hand. But I miss our own little place, sure, sometimes, Danny
dear! I miss the pot of flowers on the window (it's against the rule to
grow flowers here), and me own little blue teapot on the stove, and Tabby
curled up on the mat before the fire."

Aunt Winnie broke down and sobbed outright, while Danny was conscious of a
lump in his throat that held him dumb.

"Poor Tabby!" continued Aunt Winnie. "I hope the Mulligans are good to
her, Dan. D'ye ever see her as ye pass their gate?"

"I do," answered Dan. "Molly Mulligan has tied a blue ribbon around her
neck, and she is the pride of the house."

"And she has forgotten me, of course!" sighed Aunt Winnie. "But what could
I expect of a cat!"

"Forgotten you? Not a bit! Molly says she steals into your room upstairs
and cries for you every night."

"Ah, it was the sore parting for us all, God help us!" said Aunt Winnie,
brokenly. "But as long as it brings you luck, lad, I'll never complain.
This is the holy place to die in, and what could a poor sick ould woman
ask more?"

"A lot--a lot more!" burst forth Danny, passionately. "You should have a
place to live and be happy in, Aunt Win. You should have your own fire and
your own teapot, and your own cat in your own home; and I mean to get it
back for you just as quick as I can."

"Whisht! whisht!" said Aunt Win, nervously, as the old lady nearby roused
up, startled from her nap.

"It's time ye were going, Danny; for ye're a long way from college, and I
wouldn't keep ye against rules. I hope ye'll have a fine time at the
seashore, with the fishing and boating and all the other sports. Good-bye
and God bless ye, lad, until we meet again! Good-bye, Danny dear!" And,
realizing from the wide-open eyes of the old lady near him that all
confidential communications were over, Dan kissed Aunt Win's withered
cheek, and, his heart swelling with feelings he could not speak, took his
way back to Saint Andrew's, all his dreams, hopes, ambitions for the
future strangely shaken.

Aunt Win,--gentle, loving, heartsick, homesick Aunt Win! Aunt Win, begging
him to give her up lest she should hurt and hinder him in his opening way!
Aunt Win sighing for the little place she had called home, even while she
was ready to give it up forever and die silent and lonely, that her boy
might climb to heights of which she could only dream and never see! Dear,
faithful, true-hearted, self-forgetting Aunt Win! Dan felt his own eyes
blurring as he thought of all she had done, of all she was ready to
sacrifice.

And--and--the other thought followed swiftly: he could give it all back to
her,--the little attic rooms over Mulligans', the flowerpot in the window,
the blue teapot on the stove, Tabby on the hearth-rug,--he could give it
all back to Aunt Win and bring her home. It would be long, long years
before the higher paths into which he had turned would yield even humble
living; but the old ways were open to him still: the "ditch-digging" with
which Dud Fielding had taunted him, the meat wagon, the sausage shop, that
he had been considering only a few hours ago. What right had he to leave
the good old woman, who had mothered him, lonely and heartsick that he
might climb beyond her reach? And yet--yet to give up Saint Andrew's, with
all that it meant to him; to give up all his hopes, his dreams; to turn
his back on those wide corridors and book-lined rooms for counter and
cleaver; to give up,--to give up! Quite dizzy with his contending
thoughts, Dan was striding on his way when a hearty voice hailed him:

"Hello! That you, Dan? Jump in and I'll give you a lift." And Pete
Patterson's ruddy face looked out from the white-topped wagon at the curb.
"I was just thinking of you," said Pete, as Dan willingly sprang up to the
seat at his side; for Pete had been a friendly creditor in the days of the
little attic home when credit was sometimes sorely needed. "Are you in
with the 'high brows' for good and all?"

"I--I don't know," hesitated Dan.

"Because if you're not," continued Pete--"and what tarnation use a sturdy
chap like you will find in all that Latin and Greek stuff, I can't
see,--if you're not in for it, I can give you a chance."

V.--A "CHANCE."

"I can give you a chance," repeated Pete, as he turned to Dan with his
broad, ruddy face illuminated by a friendly smile. "It's a chance I
wouldn't hold out to everybody, but I know you for a wide-awake youngster,
as honest as you are slick. Them two don't go together in general; but
it's the combination I'm looking fur just now, and you seem to have it. I
was thinking over it this very morning. 'Lord, Lord,' sez I to myself, 'if
Dan Dolan hadn't gone and got that eddycation bug in his head, wouldn't
this be the chance for him?"

"What is it?" asked Dan; but there was not much eagerness in his question.
Wide and springy as was the butcher's cart, it did not appeal to him as a
chariot of fortune just now. A loin of beef dangled over his head, a dead
calf was stretched out on the straw behind him. Pete's white apron was
stained with blood. Dan was conscious of a dull, sick repulsion of body
and soul.

"Well, it's this," continued Pete, cheerfully. "You see, I've made a
little money over there at my corner, and I'm planning to spread out,--do
things bigger and broader. There ain't no sort of use in holding back to
hams and shoulders when ye can buy yer hogs on the hoof. That's what I'm
in fur now,--hogs on the hoof; cut 'em, corn 'em, smoke 'em, salt 'em,
souse 'em, grind 'em into sausage meat and headcheese and scrapple, boil
'em into lard. Why, a hog is a regular gold mine when he is handled right.
But I can't handle it in that little corner shop I've got now: there's no
room fur it. But it's too good a business there fur me to give up. So I'm
going to open another place further out, and keep both a-going. And I
can't afford no high-class bookkeeper or clerk, that will maybe jump my
trade and gobble all my profits. What I want is a boy,--a bright,
wide-awake boy that knows enough about figguring to keep my accounts, and
see that no one 'does' me,--a boy that I can send round in the wagon to
buy and sell 'cording to my orders,--a boy that will be smart enough to
pick up the whole business from _a_ to _izzard_, and work up as I worked
up till I kin make him partner. That's the chance I've got, and I believe
you're the boy to take it."

"I--I would have to give up college of course," said Dan, slowly.

"Give up college!" echoed Pete. "Well, I should rather say you would!
There ain't no time fur books in a biz like mine. Now, Dan, what's the
good of college anyhow fur a chap like you? It ain't ez if you were one of
these high mug-a-mugs with a rich father to pay yer way through, and set
you up in a white choker and swallow-tail coat afterwards. What's the good
of a strong, husky fellow fooling along with Latin and Greek, that will
never be no use to him? You'd a heap better spiel plain strong English
that will bring you in the spondulics. Why, look at me! I never had two
years' schooling in my life. It's all I can do to scrawl 'P. J.
Patterson,' so folks can read it, and thump out the rest on a secondhand
typewriter. But that 'ere same scrawl will bring five thousand dollars out
of the bank any time I want it. If I had as much eddycation as you have,
Dan, nobody couldn't keep me in any school in the land another minute.
It's all nonsense,--a dead waste of time and money."

"What would you pay me?" asked Dan, as the big loin of beef above joggled
against his shoulder.

"Well, let me see!" considered Pete. "I ain't paying any fancy price at
start, fur I don't know how things will work out; but I won't be mean with
you, Dan. What do you say to four dollars a week and board?"

"No," answered Dan, promptly. "I don't want your board at all."

"Ye don't?" said Pete in surprise. "It will be good board, Dan: no fancy
fixings but filling, I promise you that,--good and filling."

"I don't care how filling it is," answered Dan, gruffly. "I'd want my own
board, with Aunt Winnie. That's all I'd come to you for,--to take care of
Aunt Winnie."

"Ain't they good to her where she is?" asked Pete, who knew something of
the family history.

"Yes," answered Dan; "but she is not happy: she is homesick, and I want to
bring her--home."

And something in the tone of the boyish voice told Pete that, with Aunt
Winnie and a home, Dan would be secured as his faithful henchman forever.

"I don't blame you," he said. "I've got an old mother myself, and if I
took her out of her little cubby-hole of a house and put her in the marble
halls that folks sing about, she'd be pining. It's women nature, specially
old women. Can't tear 'em up by the roots when they're past sixty. And
that old aunt of yours has been good to you sure,--good as a mother."

"Yes," answered Dan, a little huskily, "good as a mother."

"Then you oughtn't to go back on her sure," said Pete, reflectively.
"Considering the old lady, I'll make it five dollars a week, if you'll
agree for a year ahead, Dan."

"A year ahead!" echoed Dan, thinking of all that year had promised him.

"Yes," said Pete, decidedly. "It must be a year ahead. I can't break you
in at such a big figger, and then hev you bolt the track just as I've got
used to you. I wouldn't give five dollars a week to any other boy in the
world, though I know lots of 'em would jump at it. It's only thinking of
that old mother of mine and how I'd feel in your place, makes me offer it
to you. Five dollars a week will bring your Aunt Winnie back home. And,
between you and me, Dan, if she ain't brought back, she'll be in another
sort of home before long, and past your helping. Mrs. Mulligan was telling
me the other day that she had been out to see her, and she was looking
mighty peaked and feeble,--not complaining of course, but just pining away
natural."

"When will you want me?" blurted out Dan, desperately. "Right off now?"

"Oh, no, no!" was the hasty answer. "I haven't got the other place open
yet, and this 'ere hot weather ain't no time fur it. I'm just laying plans
for the fall. What were you thinking of doing this summer?"

"Going off with a lot of fellows to the seashore. But I'm ready to give it
up," answered Dan, gulping down the lump that rose in his throat.

"No, don't,--don't!" said Pete. "I haven't got things fixed for a start
yet. Won't have them fixed for a couple of months or so. I ain't
a-hurrying you. Just you think this 'ere chance over, and make up your
mind whether it ain't wuth more than all that Greek and Latin they're
stuffing into your head at Saint Andrew's. Then come around somewhere
about the first of September and see me 'bout it. I won't go back on my
offer. It will be five dollars cash down every Saturday night, and no
renigging. I turn off here," concluded Pete, drawing up as they reached a
busy corner. "You'll have to jump down; so bye, bye, Dan my boy, until I
see you again! Remember it's five dollars a week, and a home for Aunt
Winnie."

"I'll remember," said Dan, as, half dazed, he jumped from the wagon and
took his way back to Saint Andrew's.

He entered the cross-crowned gateway that guarded the spacious grounds,
feeling like one in a troubled dream. He could shape nothing clearly: his
past, present, and future seemed shaken out of place like the vari-colored
figures of a kaleidoscope. To give up all his hopes, to shut out the
beautiful vista opening before him and settle down forever to--to--"hogs
on the hoof!" And yet it was his only chance to cheer, to gladden, perhaps
to save gentle Aunt Win's life,--to bring her home again.

But would she be happy at such a sacrifice? Would she not grieve even at
the fireside she had regained over her broken dreams? And Dan would come
down from his dreams and visions (which, after all, are very vague and
uncertain things for boys of thirteen) to Tabby and the teapot, to the
fluttering old hand in his clasp, the trembling old voice in his ear.

The sun was close to its setting; supper was over, he knew; and Jim Norris
was waiting impatiently for his promised game. But he could not think of
tennis just now; still less was he disposed for a meeting with Dud
Fielding, whose voice he could hear beyond the box hedge at his right. So,
turning away from tennis court and playground, Dan plunged into the quiet
shelter of the walk that skirted the high, ivy-grown wall, and was already
growing dim with evening shadows, though lances of sunlight glinting here
and there through the arching pines broke the gloom.

Pacing the quiet way with feeble step was an old priest, saying his
Office. Father Mack's earthly work was done. He could no longer preach or
teach; he was only lingering in the friendly shadows of Saint Andrew's,
waiting his Master's call home; his long, busy life ending in a sweet
twilight peace. Sometimes at retreats or on great feasts, when there was a
crowd of juvenile penitents in the college chapel, Father Mack, gentle and
indulgent, had his place in a quiet corner, where he was rather avoided by
young sinners as a "dying saint."

But Dan, whatever might be his month's record of wrong-doing, had taken to
Father Mack from the first. Perhaps it was something in the Irish voice
that recalled Aunt Winnie; perhaps some deeper sympathy between souls
akin. Though they seldom met, for the old priest had his room in a
building remote from the students' quarters, Father Mack and Dan were fast
friends. His presence here was most unlooked for; and Dan was about to
retire without further intrusion, when the old priest closed his book and
turned to him with a kindly nod.

"You needn't run off. I'm done, my boy. These long, hot days are a bit
hard on me; but I like to stay out here in the evening to say my Office
and watch the sunset. Did you ever watch the sunset, Danny?"

"Yes, Father," answered Dan. "It's great."

"What do you see in it, Danny?" was the low question.

"Oh, all sorts of things, Father,--domes and spires and banners of gold
and red and purple, and pillars of cloud and fire--"

"And gates," broke in Father Mack. "Don't you see the gates, Danny,--gates
that seem to open in the shining way that leads to God's Throne? Ah, it's
a wonderful sight, the sunset, when your day is near done and you are
tired and old,--too old to be picturing and dreaming. I'll soon
see--beyond the cloud and the dream, Danny,--I'll soon see."

The old man paused for a moment, his dim eye kindling, his withered face
rapt. Then suddenly, as if recalled from some cloudy height to earth, his
look and voice changed into fatherly interest.

"Were you looking for me,--were you wanting to talk to me, my son?"

"No--yes--no," faltered Dan, who had not thought of such a thing. "Well,
yes, I believe I do. I'm all muddled up, and maybe you can set me right,
Father Mack. For--for," Dan blurted out without further hesitation, "I
can't see things clear myself. Aunt Winnie is grieving and pining and
homesick at the Little Sisters. She is trying to hide it, but she is
grieving, I know. She broke down and cried to-day when I went to see
her,--cried real sobs and tears. And--and" Dan went on with breathless
haste, "Peter Patterson, that keeps the meatshop at our old corner, has
offered me five dollars a week to come and work for him. To give up Saint
Andrew's--and--and--all it means, Father Mack, and work for him."

VI.--FATHER MACK.

"Give up Saint Andrew's!" repeated Father Mack in a low, startled voice.
"You, Dan! Give up!  Oh, no, my boy,--no!"

"Aunt Winnie will die if I don't," blurted out Dan, despairingly. "Pete
Patterson says so. And I can take her home and give her back her little
rooms over Mulligans', and the blue teapot and Tabby, and everything she
loves. And Pete says I can work up to be his partner."

"His partner,--his partner! In what?" asked Father Mack, anxiously.

"Meat business," answered Dan. "He's made money, and he's going in for it
big,--corning, smoking, sausage, everything. I--I could take care of Aunt
Winnie fine."

"Meat business, sausage? I don't think I understand," said Father Mack, in
bewilderment. "Sit down here, Dan, and tell me all this over again."

Dan took his seat on a broken slab that had been a gravestone before the
old college cemetery had been condemned and removed beyond the limits of
the growing city. It was a very old slab, bearing the Latin title of some
Brother or Father who had died fifty years ago. The sunset fell through a
gap in the pines that showed the western sky, with its open gates, their
pillars of cloud and fire all aglow.

"Tell me slowly, calmly, Dan. My ears are growing dull."

And Dan told his story again, more clearly and less impetuously; while
Father Mack listened, his bent head haloed by the setting sun.

"I can't let Aunt Winnie die," concluded Dan. "You see, I have to think of
Aunt Winnie, Father."

"Yes, I see,--I see, my boy," was the low answer. "And it is only of Aunt
Winnie you are thinking, Dan?"

"Only of Aunt Winnie," replied Dan, emphatically. "You don't suppose
anything else would count against Saint Andrew's, Father. I'd work, I'd
starve, I'd die, I believe, rather than give up my chance here?"

"Yes, yes, it's hard lines sometimes," said Father Mack. "You may find it
even harder as the years go by, Dan. I heard about the trouble
yesterday."

"Oh, did you, Father?" said Dan, somewhat abashed. "Dud Fielding did stir
the old Nick in me for sure."

"Yes," said Father Mack. "And that same fierce spirit will be stirred
again and again, Dan. Despite all your teachers can do for you, there will
be pricks and goads we can not help."

"I know it," answered Dan, sturdily. "I'm ready for them. Saint Andrew's
is worth all the pricks and goads I'll get. But Aunt Winnie, Father,--I
can't forget Aunt Winnie. I've got to take Aunt Winnie back home."

"Would she--wish it, at such--such a cost, Dan?" Father Mack questioned.

"Cost," repeated Dan, simply. "It wouldn't cost much. The rooms are only a
dollar a week, and Aunt Winnie can make stirabout and Irish stews and
potato cake to beat any cook I know. Three dollars a week would feed us
fine. And there would be a dollar to spare. And she could have her teapot
on the stove again, and Tabby on the hearth-rug, only--only" (the young
face clouded a little) "I'm afraid great as it all would be, she'd be
grieving about her dreams."

"Her dreams!" echoed Father Mack, a little puzzled.

"Yes," said Dan. "You see, I am all she has in the world, and she is awful
soft on me, and since I got into Saint Andrew's she's softer still. She
thinks there's nothing too great or grand for me to do. My, it would make
you laugh, Father, to hear poor old Aunt Winnie's pipe dreams about a
tough chap like me!"

"What does she dream, Dan?" asked the old priest softly.

"I suppose she'd get out of them if she were home where things are natural
like," said Dan; "but now she sits up there in the Little Sisters'
dreaming that I'm going to be a priest,--a rough-and-tumble fellow like
me!"

"Stranger things than that have happened, Dan," said Father Mack, quietly.
"I was a rough-and-tumble fellow myself."

"You, Father!" exclaimed Dan.

"The 'roughest-and-tumblest' kind," said Father Mack, his worn face
brightening into a smile that took away twenty years at least. "I ran away
to sea, Dan, leaving a gentle mother to break her heart for me. When I
came back" (the old face shadowed again) "she was gone. Ah, God's ways are
full of mystery, Dan! I think it was that made me a priest."

Father Mack was silent for a moment. His dim eyes turned to the sunset,
where the cloud curtains were swept asunder, the pillared gates a glory of
crimson and gold. Something in his old friend's face hushed Dan's
questioning until Father Mack spoke again.

"That was a long time ago,--a long time ago. But the thought of it makes
me understand about Aunt Winnie, Dan, and how hard it is to give you up.
Still--still--even of old God asked the firstlings of the flock.
Sacrifice! sacrifice! It is the way to heaven, Dan. Heart, hopes, tears,
blood,--always sacrifice." And again the old speaker paused as if in
troubled thought. "How soon must you make your choice, Dan?" he asked at
length.

"My choice?  About leaving, you mean, Father? Oh, Pete Patterson doesn't
want me until the fall. And I haven't any place to go this summer, if I
give up now. Father Regan is going to send us off to-morrow with Brother
Bart for a summer at the seashore."

"A summer at the seashore! Ah, good, good,--very good!" said Father Mack,
his old face brightening. "That will give us time to think, to pray, Dan.
A summer! Ah, God can work wonders for those who trust Him in a summer,
Dan! Think what He does with the seed, the grain, the fruit. It is not
well to move or to choose hastily when we are in the dark as to God's
will. So say nothing about all this to any one as yet, Dan,--nothing this
summer."

"I won't, Father," agreed Dan.

"And I promise that every day you will be remembered in my Mass, Dan."

"Thank you, Father! That ought to keep me out of trouble sure."

"And now where is this seashore place?" asked Father Mack, quite
cheerfully.

"An island called Killykinick, Father."

"Killykinick?" echoed Father Mack, startled. "You are going to
Killykinick? God bless me, how wonderful!"

"You know the place, Father?" asked Dan, with interest.

"I know it indeed," was the answer. "I was wrecked there in the wild days
of which I told you, Dan, sixty years ago. The 'Maria Teresa' (I was on a
Portuguese ship) went upon the rocks on a dark winter night, that I
thought was likely to be my last. For the first time in my reckless youth
I really prayed. My dear mother, no doubt, was praying for me, too; for I
learned afterwards that it was on that night she died, offering with her
last breath her life for her boy. Well, we held together somehow until
morning, and got off to the shore of Killykinick before the 'Maria Teresa'
went down, loaded with the golden profits of a two years' cruise."

"And did they never get her up?" asked Dan, quite breathless with interest
at this glimpse of a "dying saint's" past.

"Never," answered Father Mack,--"at least never that I heard of. It was
soon afterward that I turned into other ways and lost sight of my old
mates. But I always have remembered the friendly haven of Killykinick. It
was a wild place,--only a few deserted fishermen's huts on the rocky
shore, where we lived on fish and clams until taken off by a passing ship.
But that same rocky shore meant safety, shelter, life. And so in the after
years I have always blessed Killykinick. And you are going there
to-morrow! You will find it all changed,--all changed, I am sure," said
Father Mack, as he slowly rose to his feet, for the sunset was fading now.
"But I will think of you there, Dan,--think of you frolicking over the
rocks and sands where I wandered so long ago a shipwrecked boy. Now it is
time for me to go in, for my old blood chills in the twilight; so I must
say good-bye,--good-bye and God bless you, my boy!"

And, laying his hand for a moment on the boyish head, the old priest
turned away into the deepening shadow of the pines, leaving Dan, who was
beginning to feel vividly conscious that he had missed his supper, to make
a rapid foray into the refectory, where Brother James could always be
beguiled into furnishing bread and jam in and out of time,--having been,
as he assured the belated ones, a boy himself.

There was another belated one this evening. Seated before a tempting
spread of milk toast, demanded by his recent convalescence, was Freddy
Neville, a little pale and peaked perhaps, but doing full justice to a
third creamy slice, and ready for more.

"Why, hello, Fred!" greeted Dan, dropping into the chair beside him. "You
down?"

"Yes," said Fred, spooning his dish vigorously. "I'm well, all right now.
Temperature gone, Brother Tim says. Can't I have a little more toast,
Brother James, please? I'm not half filled up yet. Supper tastes twice as
good down here. I've been out with Brother Bart buying shoes and things to
go to Killykinick, and I'm hungry as a bear."

"Wait a bit then, and I'll bring ye both in some strawberry jam and
biscuits," said Brother James, good-humoredly. "It's the black fast
Brother Tim puts on sick boys, I know. When they came down after the
measles I couldn't get them enough to eat for a month. There now!" And the
good man set forth supplies liberally. "I know what it is. I've been a
hungry boy myself."

"Jing, it's good to be up and out again!" said Freddy, as both boys
pitched into biscuits and jam. "I felt down and out this morning sure,
Dan, and now everything is working fine. We're going to have the time of
our lives this summer, after all. Even Dud Fielding is cooling off, Jim
Norris says, now that his nose has gone down, and he has heard about
Killykinick."

"Who told him?" asked Dan, who did not feel particularly cheered at these
tidings; for Dud's "cooling off" was by no means to be trusted, as he
knew.

"Father Regan, of course. He couldn't send the boys unless they wanted to
go. But when they heard about the old house uncle made out of his ship,
and the row-boats and the sailboat, and the bathing and fishing, they just
jumped at the chance to go. And Jim says there is a fine place not far
off, where Dud spent the season two years ago with some tip toppers, and
he's counting on getting in with them again. So he is tickled all around.
But I'm not caring about Dud or what he likes, so long as I've got you,
Dan, I wouldn't want to go without you."

"Wouldn't you, kid?" asked Dan, softly, for, after all the troubles and
perplexities of the day, his little chum's trusting friendship seemed very
sweet to him.

"N-o-o-o!" answered Freddy, most decidedly. "But I sort of wish Brother
Bart was not going. He'll keep me such a baby!"

"No, he won't. I'll see to that," said Dan, with a twinkle in his eye. "If
there's any way of giving you a good time, I'll do it. And I won't let you
get hurt again either,--no sir! I've had my scare about that. I'm going to
look out for you right. It may be for the last time, but--"

"The last time," interrupted Freddy quickly. "Why will it be the last
time?"

"I mean I may never have a chance at such a jolly holiday again," answered
Dan, suddenly remembering his promise to Father Mack. "But we'll make this
one a hummer. If Killykinick is half what I think it is, we'll make this
chance a hummer you'll never forget."

VII.--A HOLIDAY START.

And the holiday proved to be a "hummer" from the very start. Everybody was
in high spirits. Even Dud Fielding, with his nose happily reduced to its
normal color and size, had lost his "grouch," and was quite himself again,
in a sporting suit of English tweed, ordered from his tailors for
"roughing it." Easy-going Jim was in comfortable khaki; so was little
Fred; while Dan had been privately presented by the Brother wardrobian
with two suits of the same,--"left by boys for the poor," good Brother
Francis had whispered confidentially.

"I fill the bill then, sure," said Dan, with a cheerful grin.

"You do, but many a fine man has done the same before you," answered
Brother Francis, nodding. "I've put a few more things in your trunk, Dan;
take them and God bless you! I've cut off the marks so nobody'll be the
wiser."

Brother Bart's wrinkled face wore a glow of pleasurable excitement as,
after seeing the baggage off, he marshalled his holiday force on the
college porch for the last words of command from his reverend chief.

"Give your orders now, Father; though God knows how I'll be able to keep
this lot up to them. They are not to be killing and drowning themselves
against my will and word."

"Certainly not," said Father Regan, with a smile. "Brother Bart is to be
obeyed, boys, or you'll promptly be ordered home."

"And there is to be no roving off wid pirates and smugglers that may be
doing their devilment along the shore," continued Brother Bart,
anxiously.

"The government looks out for all that now," laughed Father Regan.

"I'm not so sure," said Brother Bart, who had grown up in a wild stretch
of the Irish coast. "It's a wicked world, and we're going beyant the
Lord's light that shines on us here."

"Not at all," was the cheering assurance. "Beach Cliff is only six miles
away, and it has a little church where there is a Mass every Sunday."

"The Lord be praised for that anyhow!" said the good man, with a sigh of
relief. "It's a great burthen that ye've put on my body and soul, Father.
But I'll do me best, and, with God's help, I'll bring the four of them
back safe and sound to ye. Now give us your blessing and we'll be off."

And very soon they were off indeed, speeding on to the busy wharf, scene
of many a "lark" in Dan's boyish past. Here the great steamboat was
awaiting them: for, although the route was longer and more circuitous,
Father Regan had decided it best for his young travellers to make their
journey by sea.

To Jim and Dud such a trip was no novelty; even Freddy had taken more than
one holiday outing with Uncle Tom; but to Dan--Dan whose busy, workaday
childhood had excluded even the delights of a cheap excursion--everything
was wonderfully and deliciously new. He felt like one in a bewildering
dream. As the great floating palace, all aglitter and aglow with splendors
of paint and upholstery hitherto unknown, swung from her moorings out into
the stream, Dan quite forgot the gentility of his surroundings and the
elegant Dud Fielding at his elbow, and waved his hat with a wild "Hurrah"
to half a dozen Wharf Rats who were fishing off the pier.

"Dan Dolan!" rose the shrill-voiced chorus, and six pairs of bare legs
dangling over the water scrambled up to a stand. "Jing! if it ain't Dan
Dolan,--Dan Dolan all diked up like a swell! Hi-yi-yi-yi, Dan! Where are
you going, Dan?"

"Seashore, New England, Killykinick!" Dan shouted back, quite unconscious
of the smiles and stares of the passengers. "Off for the summer! Hooray!"

"Hooray--hooray!" with a series of whoops and catcalls came back the Wharf
Rat's farewells, echoing with such friendly memories of a rough past that
Dan was struck speechless by the fierce contrasting voice in his ear.

"You darned dunderhead!" whispered Dud Fielding. "Can't you keep quiet in
a decent crowd?"

"Eh?" said Dan in bewilderment.

"Don't you see everybody staring at us?" continued Dud, wrathfully. "To be
shouting at dirty little beggars like those and disgracing us all!"

"Disgracing you?" echoed Dan.

"Yes," said Dud, still hot with pride and rage. "And there are the Fosters
on the upper deck,--people I know. Come, Jim, let's cut off before they
see us with this low-down chump."

And Dud led easy-going Jim to the other side of the boat.

"Low-down chump!" Unconscious as he was of any offense, Dan felt the
scornful sting of the words, and his hot blood began to boil; but he
remembered the "pricks and goads" he had resolved to bear bravely, and
shut his lips tight together as Freddy stole a small hand into his own.

With the last "Hi-yi" the Wharf Rats had settled back to their occupation,
and Freddy eyed them from the growing distance most favorably.

"Did you ever fish like that, Dan?" he asked with interest.

"Often," was the brief reply; for Dan was still hot and sore.

"Golly, it must be fun! And did you catch anything, Dan?"

"My dinner," answered Dan, grimly.

"Jing!" exclaimed Freddy, breathlessly. "That was great! When we get to
Killykinick let us go out like those bare legged boys and catch our
dinner, too."

And Dan laughed and forgot he was a "low-down chump" as he agreed they
would catch dinners whenever possible. Then he and Freddy proceeded to
explore the big boat high and low, decks, cabins, saloons, machinery
wherever visible. Freddy, who had made similar explorations with Uncle Tom
as guide, was quite posted in steamboat workings; but it was all new and
wonderful to Dan, who had only dry book-knowledge of levers and cogs and
wheels; and to watch them in action, to gaze down into the fiery depths of
the furnace, to hear the mighty throb of the giant engine,--to see all
these fierce forces mastered by rules and laws into the benignant power
that was bearing him so gently over summer seas, held him breathless with
interest and delight. Even the clang of the first dinner gong could not
distract him from his study of cylinder and piston and shaft and
driving-rod, and all shining mechanism working without pause or jar at
man's command.

"Just as if they had sense," said Dan, thoughtfully,--"a heap more sense
than lots of living folk I know."

"That's what Uncle Tom says," replied Freddy, to whom, in their brief
holidays together, Uncle Tom, cheery and loving, was an authority beyond
question. "He says they work by strict law and rule, and people won't.
They shirk and kick. Jing! if these here engines took to shirking and
kicking where would we be? But they don't shirk and kick against law.
Uncle Tom says they obey, and that's what boys ought to do--obey. Gee!
it's good we're not engines, isn't it, Dan? We'd blow things sky
high.--Here's the second call for dinner," said Freddy, roused from these
serious reflections by the sound of the gong. "We'd better move quick,
Dan, or the ice-cream may give out."

"Can you have ice-cream,--all you want?" asked Dan.

"Well, no," hesitated Freddy, who knew what Dan could do in that
line,--"not like we have at college. They dish it out other places a
little skimp, but they'll give you a good supply of other things to make
up."

Which information Dan soon found to be most pleasantly correct; and,
though the glories of the long dining room, with its corps of low-voiced
waiters, were at first a trifle embarrassing, and Brother Bart's grace,
loudly defying all human respect, attracted some attention to his table,
the boys did full justice to the good things set so deftly before them,
and went through the bill of fare most successfully.

The black waiters grinned as the young travellers proceeded to top off
with apple pie and ice-cream, combined in such generous proportions that
Brother Bart warned them that the sin of gluttony would be on their souls
if they ate another mouthful.

Then Freddy, sorely against his will, was borne off by his good old friend
to rest, according to Brother Tim's last order; while Dan was left to
himself to watch the boat turning into the shore, where a wharf loaded
with truck for shipping jutted out into the stream; and one passenger--a
sturdy, grizzled man in rough, brown hunting corduroy--leaped aboard
followed by two fine dogs. Then the laboring engines, with puff and
shriek, kept on their way; while Dan continued his investigations, and
made friendly overtures to a big deck hand who volunteered to show the
eager young questioner "below."

And "below" they went, down steep, crooked steps that led away from all
the glitter and splendor above, into black depths, lit only by fierce glow
of undying fires. Brawny, half-naked figures fed and stirred the roaring
flames; the huge boilers hissed, the engines panted; but through all the
darkness and discord came the measured beat of the ship's pulse that told
there was no shirk or kick,--that all this mighty mechanism was
"obeying."

And then, this dark sight-seeing over, Dan came up again into the bright,
sunlit deck crowded with gay passengers chatting and laughing. Brother
Bart was making efforts at conversation with an old French priest
returning to his mission in the Canadian forests; Dud had introduced Jim
to his fashionable friends, and both boys were enjoying a box of
chocolates with pretty little Minnie Foster; Freddy was still "resting" in
his stateroom.

All were unmindful of the dark, fiery depths below, where fierce powers
were working so obediently to bear them on their happy, sunlit way, that
was widening each moment now. The smiling shores, dotted with farms and
villages, were stretching away into hazy distance; there was a new swell
in the waves as they felt the heart-beat of the sea. It was all new and
wonderful to Dan; and he stood leaning on the deck rail of a secluded
corner made by a projecting cabin, watching the sunset glory pale over the
swift vanishing shore, when he was suddenly startled by a deep voice near
him that questioned:

"Worth seeing, isn't it?"

Dan looked up and saw the big grizzled stranger in corduroy gazing at the
splendor of the western sky.

"Yes, sir," answered Dan. "It's great! Are we out at sea now?"

"Almost," was the reply. "Not in the full swell yet, but this is our last
sight of land." He nodded to a promontory where the delicate lines of a
lighthouse were faintly pencilled against the sunset.

"Jing!" said Dan, drawing a long breath, "it feels queer to be leaving
earth and sun and everything behind us."

His companion laughed a little harshly. "I suppose it does at your age,"
he said. "Afterwards" (he stopped to light a cigar and puff it into
glow),--"afterwards we get used to it."

"Of course," assented Dan, "because we know we are coming back."

"Coming back!" repeated the other slowly. "We are not always sure of that.
Sometimes we leave the land, the light, behind us forever."

"Oh, not forever!" said Dan. "We would have to strike light and land
somewhere unless we drowned."

"We don't drown," continued the stranger. "We do worse: we drift,--drift
in darkness and night."

Dan stared. His companion had taken his cigar from his lips and was
letting its glow die into ashes.

"Folks do drown sometimes," said Dan. "I tell you if you go round the
bottom of this boat you'd see how we could drown mighty easily. Just a
wheel or crank or a valve a mite wrong,--whewy! we'd all be done for. But
they don't go wrong; that's the wonder of it, isn't it?" said Dan,
cheerfully. "If everybody kept steady and straight as a steam-engine, this
would be a mighty good world."

"No doubt it would," was the reply. "Are you not rather young to be facing
it alone?"

"Oh, I'm not alone!" said Dan, hastily. "I'm off with a lot of other
fellows for the seashore. We are college boys from Saint Andrew's."

"Saint Andrew's?" The stranger started so violently that the dying cigar
dropped from his hold. "Saint Andrew's College, you say, boy! Not Saint
Andrew's in--"

But a clear young voice broke in upon the excited question.

"Dan Dolan! Where are you, Dan? Oh, I've been looking everywhere for
you!"

And, fresh and rosy from his long rest, Freddy Neville bounded out
gleefully to Dan's side.

A low cry burst from the stranger's lips, and he stood staring at the boys
as if turned into stone.

VIII.--A NEW FRIEND.

"Jing, you gave me a scare, Dan!" said Freddy, drawing a long breath of
relief. "I thought you had dropped overboard."

"Overboard!" scoffed Dan. "You must think I'm a ninny. And you have been
sleeping sure! Got to keep this sort of thing up all summer?"

"Oh, no, no!" said Freddy; "only for a few days,--until I get real well
and strong; though Brother Bart will keep fussing over me, I know. Golly,
I wish we had Uncle Tom along with us!"

"All right, is he?" asked Dan.

"Great!" replied Freddy, emphatically. "Doesn't baby you a bit; lets you
row and swim and dive when you go off with him. Most as good as a real
father."

"_Just_ as good, I guess," amended Dan.

"No," said Freddy, shaking his head. "You see, he has other
work--preaching and saying Mass and giving missions--where I don't come
in. He has to leave me at Saint Andrew's because he hasn't any home. It
must be just fine to have a home that isn't a school,--a sort of cosy
little place, with cushioned chairs, and curtains, and a fire that you can
see, and a kitchen where you can roast nuts and apples and smell
gingerbread baking, and a big dog that would be your very own. But you
can't have a home like that when you have a priest uncle like mine."

"No, you can't," agreed Dan, his thoughts turning to Aunt Winnie and her
blue teapot, and the little rooms that, despite all the pinch and poverty,
she had made home.

"And Christmas," went on Freddy, both young speakers being quite oblivious
of the big stranger who had seated himself on a camp stool in the shelter
of the projecting cabin, and, with folded arms resting on the deck rail,
was apparently studying the distant horizon,--"I'd like to have one real
right Christmas before I get too big for it."

"Seems to me you have a pretty good time as it is," remarked Dan: "new
skates and sled, and five dollars pocket money. There wasn't a fellow at
the school of your age had any more."

"That's so," said Freddy; "but they went _home_. A fellow doesn't want
pocket money when he goes home. Dick Fenton had only sixty cents; I lent
him fifteen more to get a card-case for his mother. But he had Christmas
all right, you bet: a tree that went to the ceiling (he helped to cut it
down himself); all the house 'woodsy' with wreaths and berries and
fires,--real fires where you could pop corn and roast apples. He lives in
the country, you see, where money doesn't count; for you can't buy a real
Christmas; it has to be homemade," said Freddy, with a little sigh. "So
I'll never have one, I know."

Then the great gong sounded again to announce supper; and both boys
bounded away to find the rest of their crowd, leaving the big stranger
still seated in the gathering darkness, looking out to sea. As the boyish
footsteps died into silence, he bowed his head upon his hands, and his
breast heaved with a long, shuddering breath as if some dull, slumbering
pain had wakened into life again. Then, in fierce self-mastery, he rose,
stretched his tall form to its full height, and, ascending to the upper
deck, began to pace its dimming length with the stern, swift tread of one
whose life is a restless, joyless march through a desert land.

Meanwhile Brother Bart and his boys had begun to feel the roll of the sea,
and to realize that supper had been a mistake. Jim and Dud had retired to
their staterooms, with unpleasant memories of Minnie Foster's chocolates,
and the firm conviction that they never wanted to see a candy box again.
Brother Bart was ministering to a very white-faced "laddie," and thanking
Heaven he was in the state of grace and prepared for the worst.

"The Lord's will be done, but I don't think any of us will live to see the
morning. There must have been some poison in the food, to take us all
suddint like this."

"Oh, no, Brother Bart!" gasped Freddy, faintly. "I've been this way
before. We're all just--just seasick, Brother Bart--dead seasick."

Even Dan had a few qualms,--just enough to send him, with the sturdy sense
of his rough kind, out into the widest sweep of briny air within his
reach. He made for a flight of stairs that led up into some swaying,
starlit region where there were no other sufferers, and flung himself upon
a pile of life-preservers that served as a pillow for his dizzy head.
Sickness of any sort was altogether new to Dan, and he felt it would be
some relief to groan out his present misery unheard. But the glow of a
cigar, whose owner was pacing the deck, suddenly glimmered above his head,
and the big man in corduroy nearly stumbled over him.

"Hello!" he said. "Down and out, my boy? Here, take a swig of this!" and
he handed out a silver-mounted flask.

"No," said Dan, faintly, "--can't. I've taken the pledge."

"Pooh! Don't be a fool, boy, when you're sick!"

"Wouldn't touch it if I were dying," said Dan. "I'm getting better now,
anyhow. My, but I felt queer for a while! It is so hot and stuffy below.
No more packing in on a shelf for me. I'll stick it out here until
morning."

"And the others,--the little chap who was with you?" the stranger asked
hastily. "Is he--he sick, too?"

"Freddy Neville? Yes, dead sick; but Brother Bart is looking out for him.
Brother Bart is a regular old softy about Freddy. He took him when he was
a little kid and keeps babying him yet."

"He is good to him, you mean?" asked the other, eagerly.

"Good? Well, I suppose you'd call it good. I couldn't stand any such
fussing. Why, when Fred got a tumble in the gym the other day the old man
almost had a fit!"

"A tumble,--a fall; did it hurt him much?" There was a strange sharpness
in the questioner's voice.

"Pooh, no!" said Dan. "Just knocked him out a little. But we were all
getting into trouble at Saint Andrew's, for vacation there is pretty slow;
so Father Regan has sent us off to the seashore for the summer?"

"The seashore? Where?"

"Some queer place called Killykinick," answered Dan, who was now able to
sit up and be sociable.

"Killykinick?" repeated his companion, in a startled tone. "Did you say
you were going to Killykinick?"

"Yes," answered Dan. "Freddy's uncle or cousin or somebody died a while
ago and left him a place there. Freddy has a lot of houses and money and
things all his own. It's lucky he has. He isn't the kind to rough it and
tough it for himself. Not that he hasn't plenty of grit," went on Freddy's
chum, hastily. "He's as plucky a little chap as I ever saw. But he's been
used to having life soft and easy. He is the 'big bug' sort. (I ain't.) So
I'm glad he has money enough to make things smooth at the start, though
his no-'count father did skip off and leave him when he was only five
years old."

"His father left him?" repeated Dan's companion. "Why?"

"Don't know," answered Dan. "Just naturally a 'quitter,' I guess. Lots of
menfolks are. Want a free foot and no bother. But to shake a nice little
chap like Freddy I call a dirty, mean trick, don't you?"

"There might be reasons," was the hesitating rejoinder.

"What reason?" asked Dan, gruffly. "There ain't any sort of reason why a
father shouldn't stick to his job. I hate a 'quitter,' anyhow," concluded
Dan, decisively.

"Wait until you are twenty years older before you say that, my boy!" was
the answer. "Perhaps then you will know what quitting costs and means. But
you're an old chum for that little boy. I saw him with you down below. How
is it that you're such friends?"

And then Dan, being of a communicative nature, and seeing no cause for
reserve, told his new acquaintance all about the scholarship that had
introduced him into spheres of birth and breeding to which he frankly
confessed he could make no claim.

"I'm not Freddy's sort, I know; but he took to me somehow,--I can't tell
why."

Yet as Dan went on with his simple, honest story, his listener, who,
world-wise and world-weary as he was, knew something of the boyish nature
that turns instinctively to what is strong and true and good, felt he
could tell why Freddy took to this rough diamond of a chum.

Dan, in his turn, learned that his new acquaintance was called John Wirt;
that he was off on a vacation trip, hunting and fishing wherever there was
promise of good sport; that he had travelled abroad for several
years,--had been to China, Japan, India, Egypt; had hunted lions and
elephants, seen the midnight sun, crossed Siberian steppes and African
deserts. From a geographical standpoint, Mr. Wirt's story seemed an open
and extensive map, but biographically it was a blank. Of his personal
history, past, present or future, he said nothing. Altogether, Dan and his
new acquaintance had a pleasant hour on the open deck beneath the stars,
and made friends rapidly.

"I wish you were going our way," said Dan, regretfully, as his companion
announced that he was to get off at the first point they touched. "Brother
Bart is going to granny us all, I know. If we had a real strong man like
you around, he wouldn't scare so easily. And there is fine fishing about
Killykinick, they say."

"So I have heard." The stranger had risen now, and stood, a tall shadow
dimly outlined above Dan. "I--I--perhaps I'll drop in upon you. Isn't it
time for you to turn in now?"

"No," answered Dan,--"not into that packing box below. I'm up here for the
night."

"And I'm off before morning, so it's good-bye and good luck to you!"

And, with a friendly nod, Mr. John Wirt strode away down the darkened
deck, leaving Dan to fling himself back upon his life-preservers, and
wonder how, when, or where he had seen their new acquaintance before,--not
at Saint Andrew's; for Mr. Wirt had been abroad, as he had said, ever
since Dan entered the college; not at Milligans' or Pete Patterson's, or
anywhere about his old home. Perhaps he had blacked his shoes or sold him
a newspaper in some half-forgotten past; for surely there was something in
his tone, his glance, his friendly smile that Dan knew.

He felt quite well now. All the dizziness and nausea had vanished, and he
was his own strong, sturdy self again. The roll and swap of the boat were
only the rock of a giant cradle; the surge of the sea, a deep-toned
lullaby soothing him to pleasant dreams; and the sky! Dan had never seen
such a midnight sky. He lay, with his head pillowed in his clasped hands,
looking up at the starry splendor above him with a wonder akin to awe. The
great, blue vault arching above him blazed with light from a myriad stars,
that his books had told him were worlds greater than this on whose wide
waters he was tossing now,--worlds whose history the wisest of men could
never know,--worlds, thousands and millions of them, moving in shining
order by "rule and law."

"Rule and law,"--it was the lesson that seemed to face Dan
everywhere,--down in those black depths he had penetrated to-day, where
valve and lever and gauge held roaring fire and hissing steam, with all
their fierce force, to submission and service; in the polished mechanism
whose steady throb he could feel pulsing beneath him like a giant heart;
in the radiant sky where worlds beyond worlds swept on their mysterious
way--obeying.

With half-formed thoughts like these stirring vaguely in his mind, Dan was
dropping off into pleasant sleep, when he was roused by the sound of
voices and the glimmering of a ship's lantern.

"I think you will find your boy here, sir."

It was Mr. John Wirt, who, with the aid of a friendly deck hand, was
guiding a pale, tottering, very sick Brother Bart to Dan's side.

"Who wants me?" asked the half-wakened Dan, springing to his feet.

"Dan Dolan! Ye young rapscallion!" burst out Brother Bart, almost sobbing
in his relief. "It's down at the bottom of the black sea I thought ye
were. I've been tramping this boat, with this good man holding me up (for
I'm too sick to stand), this half hour. Down wid ye now below stairs with
the rest, where I can keep an eye on ye. Come down, I say!"

IX.--OBEYING ORDERS.

"Down below!" the words struck harshly on Dan's ear for good old Brother
Bart was more used to obedience than command, and he was sick and shaken
and doing his guardian duty under sore stress and strain to-night.

"Go below! What for?" asked Dan, shortly. "I'm all right up here, Brother
Bart. I can't stand being packed in downstairs."

"Stand it or not, I'll not have ye up here," said Brother Bart,
resolutely. "Down with ye, Dan Dolan! Ye were put under my orders, and
ye'll have to mind my words."

"Not when it means being sick as a dog all night," answered Dan,
rebelliously. "I tell you I can't stand it down in that stuffy place
below, and I won't, I am going to stay up here."

"And is that the way ye talk?" said Brother Bart, who had a spirit of his
own. "And it's only what I might look for, ye graceless young reprobate!
God knows it was sore against my will that I brought ye with me, Dan
Dolan; for I knew ye'd be a sore trial first to last. But I had to obey
them that are above me. Stay, then, if you will against my word; for it's
all I have to hold ye, since ye are beyant any rule or law.--We'll go
back, my man," continued Brother Bart to the burly deck hand who had been
supporting his swaying form. "Help me to get down to my bed, in God's
name; for I am that sick I can scarcely see."

And Brother Bart tottered away, leaving Dan standing hot and defiant by
his new friend, Mr. Wirt.

"Sorry to have made trouble for you," said that gentleman; "but when I
found that good old man wandering sick and distracted over the boat,
stirring up everyone in search of a lost boy, there was nothing to do but
give him the tip."

"Freddy may stand it," said Dan, fiercely; "but I won't be grannied. What
harm is there in staying up here?"

"None at all from our standpoint," was the reply; "but the good old
gentleman looks at things in another light. You're under his orders," he
said; and there was a faint, mocking note in the words, that Dan was keen
enough to hear. He was hearing other things too,--the pant of the engines,
the throb of the pulsing mechanism that was bearing him on through
darkness lit only by the radiance of those sweeping worlds above; but that
mocking note in his new friend's voice rose over all.

"Orders!" he repeated angrily. "I bet _you_ wouldn't take any such orders
if you were a boy."

"No, I wouldn't, and I didn't" (there was a slight change in the speaker's
voice as he paused to light a cigar), "and you see where it left me."

"Where?" asked Dan, curiously.

"Adrift," was the answer,--"like this big boat would be if there was no
one to command: beyond rule and law, as that good old friend of yours said
just now,--beyond rule and law."

"Beyond rule and law,--rule and law." The words began to hammer somehow on
Dan's head and heart as he recalled with waking remorse poor Brother Bart
tottering away in the darkness,--Brother Bart, who, as Dan knew, was only
doing his duty faithfully, to the boy under his care,--Brother Bart, who,
like the steamboat, like the stars, was _obeying_.

For a moment or two Mr. Wirt puffed at his cigar silently, while the
fierce fire that had blazed up in Dan's breast sank into bounds, mastered
by the boy's better self, even as he had seen Nature's fierce forces of
flame and steam mastered by higher powers to-day.

"In short," said Mr. Wirt at last, as if he had been having thoughts of
his own, "I am a derelict, my boy."

"What's that?" asked Dan, who had never heard the word before.

"A ship adrift, abandoned by captain and crew,--a wreck that tosses on the
sea, a peril to all that come near it. There is nothing a good sailor
dreads more than a derelict, and he makes it his business to sink it
promptly whenever he can."

"Couldn't he tow it into port?" asked Dan, with interest.

"Not worth the trouble," was the grim answer.

"Jing!" said Dan. "I'd try it, sure."

"Would you?" asked Mr. Wirt.

"Yes," replied Dan, decidedly. "If a ship can float, it must be worth
something. I'd try to fling a hawser about it somewhere, and haul it in
and dry-dock it to find out what was wrong. I've seen an oyster boat, that
was leaking at every seam, calked and patched and painted to be good as
new."

"Perhaps," said Mr. Wirt, with a short laugh; "but the oyster boats don't
go very far a-sea, and derelicts drift beyond hope or help. I am that
kind, and if--if" (the speaker hesitated for a moment),--"if I had a boy
like you, I wouldn't take any chances with him: I'd keep him off my deck;
I'd put him on a sound ship with a wise captain and a steady crew, and he
should be under orders until--well, until he had learned to sail midnight
seas like this by the light of the stars." And, tossing his half-smoked
cigar into the water, Mr. Wirt turned abruptly away without any further
"goodnight."

"He's a queer one," said Dan to himself, as he stared after the tall
figure disappearing in the darkness. "I don't know what he means by his
drifting and derelicts, but I guess it's a sort of talk about breaking
laws and rules like I am doing here to-night. Gee! but Brother Bart is an
old granny; stirring up all this fuss about nothing; and I'll be dead
sick, I know. But I'm under orders" (Dan stretched his arms over his head,
and, drawing a long, reluctant sigh, took a last look at the stars), "and
I guess I'll have to go."

And he went, making his way with some difficulty over the swaying decks
and down deep stairs where the footing was more perilous than the heights
of Old Top; through long stretches of gorgeous saloons whence all the life
and gayety had departed; for, despite the stars, the sea was rough
to-night, and old Neptune under a friendly smile was doing his worst.

Jim and Dud, sturdy fellows that they were, had somewhat recovered their
equilibrium and were dozing fitfully; but little Freddy was still white
and wretched; and poor Brother Bart, all the ruddy glow gone from his
face, lay with his hands clasping his Rosary, very sick indeed.

"Say your prayers as well as ye can, laddie," he moaned to that small
sufferer. "The Lord be merciful to us both if we're not to see the morning
light!--Ah, are ye back, Dan Dolan?" as his eyes fell upon the wandering
sheep of his flock standing beside him. "May God forgive ye for this
night's work! It was the looking for ye that killed me entirely."

"O Brother Bart, no, you're not as bad as that!" said Dan, remorsefully;
"but I'm down here now to take care of you and Freddy, and you see if I
don't do it right."

And Dan, who in the old days of Tabby and the blue teapot had watched with
and waited on Aunt Winnie through many a night of pain, proved as good as
his word. It was as close and hot and stuffy as he had foreseen; the big
boat plunged and rolled so that it was hard to keep his footing; at times
he himself grew so sick that he could scarcely steady his helping hand,
but he never gave up his job. He bathed poor Brother Bart's aching head
with all a woman's tenderness; bandaged Freddy's throbbing temples with
the cold compress that sent him off to sleep; made dizzy forays into
unknown domestic departments for cracked ice and soda water; shocked
Brother Bart out of what he believed his last agony by reporting everyone
on the boat in "the same fix."

"We'll be in smooth water, the men say, by morning; and then you'll be all
right, Brother Bart. Let me bathe your head some more, and try to go to
sleep."

And when at last Brother Bart did fall asleep in the grey glimmer of the
early dawn, it was a very pale, shaking, dizzy Dan that crept out on the
open deck beyond the staterooms for a breath of fresh air. He could not
have climbed to forbidden heights now even if he would. But they were in
smooth waters, and the boat was pushing onto a sandy point, where a branch
railroad came down to the shore. A dozen or more passengers were preparing
to land; among them was Mr. Wirt, with a gun slung to his shoulder, a
knapsack on his back, and his two great tawny dogs pulling in their
leashes impatiently,--all evidently ready for a summer in the wilds.

Dan felt too weak and sick for conversation until Mr. Wirt's eye fell upon
the pale, trembling boy, who, with head bared to the morning breeze, was
clinging weakly to an awning post.

"Why, hello, my lad!" said the gentleman. "What's the matter. I thought
you were all right when I saw you last up above."

"I was," answered Dan, grimly. "But I came down, and, jing! I've had a
night of it, with Brother Bart and Freddy both dead sick on my hands."

"And you nursed them all night?" (There was an odd tremor in the speaker's
voice.) "Are they better this morning?"

"Yes," answered Dan. "They are all right now, sleeping like tops; but they
had a tough time. It was lucky I gave up and came down to look after
them."

"So you obeyed orders, after all. And now you're all broken up yourself?"
said the gentleman, compassionately.

"Pooh, no!" was the sturdy answer. "I don't break up so easily. I'll be
all right, too, in a little while,--after I've had more of this fresh air.
Going to get off here?--" as the boat pushed up to the wharf.

"Yes," said Mr. Wirt. "I'm off to the woods for a few weeks; but--but
maybe you will see me again later. Meanwhile what did the little fellow
call you?"

"Dan,--my name is Dan Dolan," was the answer.

"Then good-bye, Dan!" Mr. Wirt's shapely hand closed over the boy's in a
strong pressure. "You've given me a lesson, Dan,--I won't forget you." And
he was off with his dogs across the gangway to the shore just flushing
with the morning light.

The worst was over; and Dan, worn out with his night of watching, was glad
to creep into his "packing box" of a stateroom, and, flinging himself in
his berth, dropped off to sleep,--a sleep full of strange dreams. They
were wild and troubled dreams at first. He was down in black depths where,
stripped to the waist, he was working amid roaring fires and hissing
steam; he was out on a dark wide ocean, striving to fling a rope to a
wreck drifting helplessly amid thundering breakers; he was up on a
wind-swept deck, with Brother Bart's shaking grasp dragging him down
below. Then suddenly the picture changed: it was not Brother Bart but old
Father Mack whose trembling hand was upon his arm, guiding him through the
leafy shadows of the college walk where they had last talked together.
Beyond and above them was the dazzling glory of the stars, those sweeping
worlds on which the young dreamer had looked last night. But as he walked
on now, the leafy shadows seemed to grow into arched and pillared aisles
rising far, far above him, and the stars were but the countless tapers on
a mighty altar reaching to heights he could not see; and Aunt Winnie, was
kneeling on the steps,--old Aunt Winnie, with clasped hands and uplifted
eyes. Then the guiding hand seemed to tighten on his arm, and it was
Brother Bart again beside him,--Brother Bart, his sturdy, ruddy self
again, shaking him awake.

"I hate to rouse ye, Danny lad" (there was a new friendliness in the old
man's tone), "for it was the long, hard night ye had with us; but we're to
get off here. Praise be to God, our killing journey is nearly done!"

And Dan stumbled out hurriedly to the deck, to find the boat pushing into
the harbor of a quaint old town, whose roofs and spires were glittering in
the noonday sunshine. Pretty sailboats were flitting hither and thither on
sunny wings; the white stretch of beach was gay with bathers; the full
notes of an orchestra came from the band stand on the jutting pier.

"Jing!" exclaimed Dan, in amazement at such a festive scene. "Is this
Killykinick?"

"No," was Dud Fielding's surly answer. "I wish it was. But I mean to cut
over here to the Fosters whenever I can. This is Beach Cliff, where we
have to take a sailboat to Killykinick. And," Dud went on, with deepening
disgust, "I bet it's that old tub that is signalling to us now."

Dan's eyes, following Dud's sullen gaze, saw, among the gaily painted
pleasure craft moored at the wharfs, a clumsy little boat with rusty sides
and dingy sail. An old man stood in the stern waving a tattered flag that,
caught out by the breeze, showed in large faded letters--Killykinick.

X.--ON THE "SARY ANN."

"It's the sign," said Brother Bart gratefully, as he caught sight of the
fluttering pennant. "He was to wave the flag to us so we would know the
boat. Keep together now, boys," continued their anxious guardian, who was
a little bewildered by a rush and struggle to which he was not accustomed.
"Ah, God help them that have to push their way in a world like this! Hold
to my hand, laddie, or ye'll be tramped down. Straight behind me now, the
rest of ye, so ye won't be lost."

And, marshalling his boyish force, Brother Bart pressed on through the
hurrying throngs that surged over gangway (for it was the height of the
holiday season) until he reached the shabby little boat whose occupant was
a very old man with a face brown and wrinkled as tanned leather. A long
scar across his cheek had twisted his mouth into a crooked smile. He spat
a large quid of tobacco into the water, and greeted his passengers with an
old sea dog's growl:

"Been waitin' more than an hour for ye, but that consarned boat ain't
never on time! Hit some pretty rough weather, I reckon, out at sea?"

"We did," answered Brother Bart, with feeling. "It's the mercy of God
we're alive to tell the tale. In with ye, boys, and sit steady. Take the
middle of the boat, laddie, and hold to Dan. Give me a hand to help me in;
for I'm weak and shaking yet. The Lord's will be done, but I never thought
to be sailing the seas in a cockleshell like this," added the good man, as
the boat rocked under his sturdy weight when he sank heavily into his
place.

"I say so, too. Let's hire something better," replied Dud Fielding,
eagerly.

"Thar ain't nothing better or safer than this here 'Sary Ann' along the
shore," said the boat's master, grimly. "I sot every timber in her myself.
She ain't got a crack or a creak in her. I keeled her and calked her, and
I'll lay her agin any of them painted and gilded play-toys to weather the
toughest gale on this here coast. You're as safe in the 'Sary Ann,' Padre,
as if you were in church saying your prayers."

"I'm no Padre," disclaimed Brother Bart, hastily. "I'm only an humble
lay-brother, my good man, that has come to take care of these boys."

"Brother or Father, it's all the same to me," was the gruff answer. "I'm a
hardshell Baptist myself, but I've only good feelings to your kind. My old
captain was one of you, and never a better man walked the deck. Now, duck,
my lads, while I swing out the sail and we'll be off."

The passengers ducked their heads hurriedly while the 'Sary Ann's' boom
swung around. Her tawny sail caught the wind, and she was off with a
light, swift grace that her looks belied.

"Golly, she can clip it!" exclaimed Jim Norris, who had a home on the
Chesapeake and knew all about a boat. "What sort of a rig is she,
anyhow?"

"Mixed like good terbacker," briefly answered the owner, as he leaned back
comfortably at the helm and bit off another chew. "Sloop, skiff,
outrigger, lugger,--she's got the good points of all and none of their
kicks. Not that she ain't got a spirit of her own. Every boat worth
anything hez. Thar's days when she takes the wind and thar's no holdin'
her. You jest have to let her spread her wings to it and go. But, Lord,
let that same wind begin to growl and mutter, let them waves begin to cap
and swell, and the 'Sary Ann' is ready for them, you bet. She will drop
all her fun and frolic, and scud along brave and bare agin the wildest
gale that ever leashed a coast. And them young bloods over yon laugh at
her," continued the 'Sary Ann's' owner, glowering at the gay buildings of
the fashionable "boat club" they were just now passing. "They call her the
Corsair,' which is no Christian name to give an honest boat."

"You're right," said Brother Bart: "And, though you haven't the true
faith, you seem to be a Christian yourself. What is your name, my good
man?"

"Jeroboam Jimson," was the answer. "Leastways that was what I was
christened, my mother going in heavy for Scripture names. I had a twin
brother Nebuchanezzar. Sort of mouth-filling for general use, so we was
naturally shortened down to Neb and Jeb. Most folks call me Jeb yet."

"It comes easier," said Brother Bart; "though I'd never think of giving it
to a man of your years. It seems a pity, with the Litany of the Saints
convenient, to have to go back so far for a name. But that is no fault of
yours, as God knows. Have you been living long in this place we are going
to?"

"More than five and forty years," was the answer,--"since the 'Lady Jane'
struck the rocks off Killykinick, November 27, 1865. I was second mate to
old Captain Kane; and I stood by him until last May, when he took the
cruise that every man has to make by himself. And I'm standing by his ship
'cording to orders yet. 'Blood is thicker than water, mate,' he says to
me; 'I've got to leave all that I have to little Polly Raynor's boy, but
you're to stick to the ship as long as you live. I've hed that put down in
the log with my name to it, and priest and lawyer and doctor as witness.
You're Captain Jeroboam Jimson of the "Lady Jane," in my place, and thar
ain't no land sharks nor water sharks can bother ye.' I lay that's the
chap he called Polly's boy," said Captain Jeb, turning his eyes on Freddy,
who, seated at Brother Bart's side, had been listening, with flattering
interest, to the old sailor's conversation.

"Yes," he spoke up eagerly, "my mother was Polly. Did you know her?"

"I did," said Captain Jeb, nodding. "She came down here once as a bit of a
girl, dancing over the sands like a water kelpie. The old Captain didn't
care much for women folks, but he was sot on her sure. Then she come down
agin as a bride, purty and shy and sweet; but the old man warn't so
pleased then,--growled he didn't know what girls wanted to get married
for, nohow. So you're her boy!" The old man's eyes softened as they rested
on Freddy. "You've got a sort of look of her, though you ain't as
pretty,--not nigh."

Meanwhile the "Sary Ann," her tawny sail swelling in the wind, had left
the gay beach and bathers and boat club of Beach Cliff, and was making the
swell of the waves like a sea bird on the wing.

"Easy now, lass!" cautioned Captain Jeb, as they neared a white line of
breakers, and he stood up firm and strong at the helm. "Steady, all of you
younkers; for we're crossing the bar. Many a good ship has left her bones
on this same reef. Easy, 'Sary Ann'! It's no place for fooling round
here."

And, as if to emphasize his words, the black shadows of a wrecked ship
rose gaunt and grim before them.

"Struck the reef two months ago," explained the Captain, with eye and hand
still steady on his helm. "Can't get her off. Captain fool enough to try
Beach Cliff Harbor without a native pilot! Why, thar ain't no books nor
charts can tell you nothing 'bout navigating round these here islands: you
have to larn it yourself. It's the deceivingest stretch along the whole
Atlantic coast. Thar's times when this here bar, that is biling deep with
water now, is bare enough for one of you chaps to walk across without
wetting your knees. Easy now, 'Sary Ann'! Ketch hold of that rope,
younker, and steady the sail a bit. So thar, we're over the shoals. Now
clip it, my lass" (and the old man swung the sail free),--"clip it fast as
you like for Killykinick."

And, almost as if she could hear the "Sary Ann" leaped forward with the
bulging sail, and was off at the word; while Captain Jeb, the harbor reef
safely passed, leaned back in his boat and pointed out to his young
passengers (for even the elegant Dud was roused into eager curiosity) the
various things of interest on their way: the light ship, the lighthouses,
the fishing fleet stretching dim and hazy on the far horizon, the great
ocean liner only a faint shadow trailing a cloud of smoke in the blue
distance.

"Them big fellows give us the go by now, though time was when they used to
come from far and near; all kinds--Spanish, Portugee, East Indian. Them
was the whaling days, when Beach Cliff was one of the greatest places on
the coast. She stands out so far she hed the first bite at things. All the
sailing ships made for snug harbor here. But, betwixt the steamboats and
the railroads gobbling up everything, and the earth itself taking to
spouting oil, things are pretty dead and gone here now."

"But lots of fine folks come in the summer time," said Dud.

"And there's a church!" exclaimed Brother Bart, who had caught a passing
glimpse of a cross-crowned spire. "Thank God we'll not be beyond the light
and truth entirely! You're to take us to Mass every Sunday, my good man;
and we are to give you a dollar for the trouble of it, to say nothing of
the blessing upon your own soul. Were you ever at Mass?"

"Never," answered Captain Jeb.

"Ah, God help you, poor man!" said Brother Bart. "Sure we never know our
own blessings till we talk with them that's left in the darkness. But it's
not too late for the grace of Heaven to reach you yet. Never been to Mass!
Well, well, well!" Brother Bart shook his head, and, as if unable to cope
with such hopeless religious dearth, relapsed into silence.

"Is it much further to Killykinick?" asked Dan, who, with shining eyes had
been taking in all this novel experience. "Looks like we're heading out to
nowhere."

The "Sary Ann," with the wind full in her sail, seemed bearing off into
sunlit distance, where sky and sea met. There was a faint, shadowy line to
the left; and just beyond, a dim pencil point pierced the cloudless blue.

"That's a lighthouse, isn't it?" asked Jim, who had a sailor's eye.

"Yes," growled Captain Jeb, his leathery face darkening. "Why they wanted
to set up that consarned thing just across from Killykinick, I don't know.
Hedn't we been showing a light thar for nigh onto fifty years? But some of
these know-alls come along and said it wasn't the right kind; it oughter
blink. And they made the old captain pull down the light that he had been
burning steady and true, and the Government sot up that thar newfangled
thing a flashing by clockwork on Numbskull Nob. It did make the old man
hot, sure. 'Shet the window, mate,' he said to me when he was dying and
wanted air badly. 'I can't go off in peace with that devilish thing of
Numbskull Nob a winking at me.' Duck Agin, all hands! 'Sary Ann' swings
around here. Thar's Killykinick to starboard!"

And all hands "ducked" as rope and canvas rattled under Captain Jeb's
guiding hand; and the "Sary Ann" swept from her dancing course to the
boundless blue towards the shadowy line and dim pencil point now growing
into graceful lighthouse and rocky shore. Numbskull Nob, jutting up from a
hidden reef, over which a line of white-capped breakers was booming
thunderously, seemed to justify the presence of the modern light that
warned off closer approach to the island; for the stretch of water that
lay between was a treacherous shoal where many a good ship had stranded in
years gone by, when Killykinick was only a jagged ledge of rock where the
sea birds nested and man had no place. But things had changed now. A rude
but sturdy breakwater made a miniature harbor in which several small boats
floated at their moorings; a whitewashed wharf jutted out into the waves;
the stretch of rocky shore beyond had been roughly terraced into easy
approach.

"Easy now, boys,--easy!" warned Brother Bart anxiously, as the "Sary Ann"
grated against her home pier, and Captain Jeroboam proceeded to make fast.
"Don't be leaping off till you know the way."

But Brother Bart might have called to the dashing waves. This Killykinick
was very different from the desert they had expected; and, with shouts of
delight from Jim, Dud and Dan, even little Freddy sprang ashore. Shrubs
and trees of strange growth nodded and waved amid the rocks; here and
there in sheltered crannies were beds of blooming flowers; and in the lee
of a towering rock that kept off the fury of storm and wind stood the very
queerest house the young explorers had ever seen.

XI.--AT KILLYKINICK.

It was a ship,--a ship with its keel settled deep in the sand, and held
immovable against wind and storm by a rudely built foundation wall of
broken rock. The sunlight blinked cheerfully from the dozen portholes; the
jutting prow bore the weather-worn figurehead of the "Lady Jane,"--minus a
nose and arm, it is true, but holding her post bravely still. Stout
canvas, that could be pegged down or lifted into breezy shelter, roofed
the deck, from which arose the "lookout," a sort of light tower built
around a mast that upheld a big ship lantern; while the Stars and Stripes
floated in glory over all.

For a moment the four young travellers stared breathless at this
remarkable edifice, while Freddy eagerly explained:

"It's my Great-uncle Joe's ship that was wrecked here on Killykinick. He
had sailed in her for years and loved her, and he didn't want to leave her
to fall to pieces on the rocks; and so he got a lot of men, with chains
and ropes and things, and moved her up here and made her into a house."

And a first-class house the "Lady Jane" made, as all the boys agreed when
they proceeded to investigate Great-uncle Joe's legacy. True, there was a
lack of modern conveniences. The sea lapping the sands to the right was
the only bath-room, but what finer one could a boy ask? There was neither
dining room nor kitchen; only the "galley," as Captain Jeb, who came up
shortly to do the honors of this establishment, explained to his guests.
The "galley" was a queer little narrow place in the stern, lined with pots
and pans and dishes scoured to a shine, and presided over by another old
man more crooked and leathery-visaged than Captain Jeb, and who seemed too
deep in the concoction of some savory mixture simmering on his charcoal
stove to give look or word to the newcomers who crowded around him.

"That is Neb," said his brother, in brief introduction. "He don't hev much
to say, but you mustn't mind that. It ain't been altogether clear weather
in his upper deck since he shipped with a durned pirate of a captain that
laid his head open with a marline spike; but for a cook, he can't be beat
by any steward afloat or ashore. Jest you wait till he doses out that
clam-chowder he's making now!"

Then there was the long, low cabin that stretched the full length of the
"Lady Jane," and that--with its four cosy bunks made up shipshape, its big
table, its swinging lamp, its soft bulging chairs (for Great-uncle Joe had
been a man of solid weight as well as worth)--was just the place for boys
to disport themselves in without fear of doing damage. All about were most
interesting things for curious young eyes to see and busy fingers to
handle: telescope, compass, speaking trumpet, log and lead and line that
had done duty in many a distant sea; spears, bows and arrowheads traded
for on savage islands; Chinese ivories and lacquered boxes from Japan. A
white bearskin and walrus tusk told of an early venture into the frozen
North, when bold men were first drawn to its darkness and mystery; while
the Buddha from an Eastern temple, squatting shut-eyed on a shelf, roused
good old Brother Bart into holy horror.

"I never thought to be under the same roof with a haythen idol. Put it
away, my man,--put it out of sight while I'm in yer house; for I can't
stand the looks of it. I'll be after smashing it into bits if ye lave it
under me eyes."

And his indignation was appeased only by the sight of the Captain's room,
which had been respectfully assigned to the "Padre," as Captain Jeb
persisted in calling his older guest.

Here Great-uncle Joe had treasures rare indeed in the good Brother's eye:
a wonderful crucifix of ivory and ebony; the silver altar lamp of an old
Spanish monastery; a Madonna in dull tints that still bore traces of a
master hand; a rosary, whose well-worn beads made Brother Bart's pious
heart warm.

"Indeed he was a God-fearing man, I'm sure, this uncle of laddie's."

"He was," agreed Captain Jeb; "a little rough-talking sometimes, but all
sailors are."

"Well, it's a rough life," said Brother Bart, recalling his own late
experience. "It's little chance it gives you to think or pray. But the old
man ye talk of prayed; I am sure of that. The beads here bear token of
it."

"Aye," answered Captain Jeb. "He held to them to the last as tight as if
they was an anchor chain,--why I don't know."

"That's yer ignorance, poor man!" said Brother Bart, compassionately. "Ye
should pray morning and evening for light, and perhaps ye'll be given the
grace to know what the hould of blessed beads is to a dying hand. Now, if
ye don't mind, I'll rest a bit in this quiet place, and try to say me own
prayers that I missed last night; for it was a sore trying time to me,
both body and soul. There's no harm can come to the boys, now that they
are safe here."

"I wouldn't swear to four younkers like them anywhere," was the grim
answer. "But ye can rest easy, Padre: I'll keep an eye on them, never
fear." And, closing the old Captain's door on his anxious guest, Captain
Jeb proceeded to "keep an eye" on the boys who were exploring Killykinick
in every direction.

As it had little more than half a mile of visible surface, the exploration
was naturally limited; but there was a "deal more below," as Captain Jeb
assured them,--reefs and shoals stretching out in every direction, and
widening every year with the silt carried down from the shore. There were
one or two wide hollows between the rocks, where that same silt,
top-dressed with richer earth imported from more favored spots by Captain
Jeb, served as kitchen garden, in which beans, cabbages and potatoes made
a promising show. On another sheltered slope, green with coarse grass,
brown Betty was pasturing peacefully; while in a henhouse beyond there was
clucking and cackling, cheerfully suggestive of chickens and eggs.

"We used to hev mostly ship rations," said Captain Jeb. "But the old man
got sort of picky and choosy these last years, and turned agin the
hard-tack and old hoss meat that had been good enough for him before. So I
got a few boat-loads of good earth and took to growing things. And things
do grow here for sure, if you only give them a chance. All they want is
root hold; the sun and the air and the soft mists do the rest."

Then there was the pump house; for even the toughest of old "salts" must
have fresh water. And it had cost many a dollar to strike it in these
rocks; but strike it at last the well-borers did, and the pump was roofed
and walled in as Killykinick's greatest treasure.

"Stick round here, younkers, along by the 'Lady Jane' and the wharf and
the garden beds, and down by the 'Sary Ann' and the boats to the south
beach, and you'll be pretty safe. But I'm going to show you a place whar
you can't do no monkey shining, for it ain't safe at all."

And as Captain Jeb spoke he turned to the high wall of rock that had
backed and sheltered the "Lady Jane" for nearly fifty years; and, bending
his thin form, he pushed through a low, narrow opening, with, it is
needless to say, four wide-eyed boys scrambling breathlessly behind
him,--Dan, as usual, in the lead, pulling Freddy on.

For a moment they stumbled in darkness, through which came a thunderous
sound like the swell of some mighty organ under a master hand; and then
they were out in light and space again, with the ocean cliff of
Killykinick arching above and around them in a great cave hollowed by the
beating waves out of solid rock. Wall and roof were rough and jagged,
broken into points and ledges; but the floor was smoothed by the tide into