Beadle's Half Dime Library (no. 282) (1882 12 19)
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Single Ni THE TYPO DETECTIVE; of, WEASEL, THE BCY TRAMP. BY HDWARD WiILLbTyT, AUTHOR OF “OZARK ALB,” ‘ FEATHERWEIGHT,” '‘ ASA BOOTT, THE STEAMBOAT BOY,” ¥TC., WTO. — w* MB FLOURISHED HIS STICK, AND CAME ON, BUT STOPPED SC DDENLY AS PR STARED INTO THE MUZZLE 2¥ A COCKED REVOLVER
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4 7 2. The Typo Detective ; WEASEL, THE BOY TRAMP. BY EDWARD WILLETT, AUTHOR OF “OZARK ALF,” ‘‘ FEATHERWEIGHT,” “ASA SCOTT,” ETC., ETC., ETC, _ CHAPTER I. SUDDENLY DEAD. A TALL and well-formed young man, plainly ‘put paetly dressed, stepped out of the Hvening Post building in New York, one summer after- noon, and headed toward the nearest elevated railway station. - As he reached the other side of Broadway he was slapped. on the shoulder and accosted by another young man. “Why, George Lumley!” exclaimed his acquaintance. ‘ Where have you been for this long time, and what have you been doing with yourself?” “Just jogging along at the same old trot,” replied Lumley. **T have been wanting to see you, George, and have wondered why you hadn’t looked me up. I have not forgotten the business you spoke to me about, and you can have a sit on the Herald now, if you want it,” ; “IT am very much obliged to you, Al, and must confess that I don’t deserve your kindness after treating you so shabbily. ut the fact is that | have made a change since I saw you last.” ** What sort of a change?” “Tam boarding at home and lodging at the same place.” ** You don’t mean to say that you bave gone and got married?” * Not quite so bad as that,” replied Lumley. “But Iam living out of town, and my sister Clara is keeping house for me. We are orphans, you know, and must stick together an help gach other, and she is by all odds the best and dearest girl I have yet come across,” *T remember meeting her several yearsago,” said the other. ‘She was a little thing then, but a very sweet and pretty cbild.” “She bas grown up to be ever so much pret- tier and sweeter. But you must come out and see us, Al. We have a real nice little bitofa house near Yonkers, with flowers and trees and grass, and everything lovely. We are as me as can be, and you can’t have any idea, until ‘ou see it, how pleasant Clara makes the place. ‘o get out there from the city is the one great delight of my life. It is because I have settled down in that style that I don’t want to stick type on a morning paper, but prefer to jog along at the old trot. I make less money, but have more comfort. Just come out and see me, and you will agree that it won’t do to give the t's <p “Twill be very glad to go, George. Your hours don’t suit me; but I can put a sub on some night, and take a run up to Youkers with you.” “Allrizht. That will please me to a dot, and Clara will be glad to see you. Drop mea note to let ne know when saa can get off, or call around . t the Post, and I will take you to the Chateau. ° Lumley. Good-by, Al! hurry to cate. my train.” Lizht-bearted George Lumley hastened away, and solid Al Benedict looked after him. ‘As good and true a fellow as ever lived,” mused the latter. ‘‘ Ill warrant that his sister is as fair as a rose and assweet asapeach. As goon as I can get off 1 will take them in.” When he stepped from the train that had car- ried him as nearly as possible to his destination, George Lumley noticed among those who board- ed the cars at the station a well-dressed young man who carried a small valise, and who was evidently excited. He had the appearance 9 one who had hurried to catch the train, and yy it was plain thathe had notat that mome reached the station. It was this young man’s anxiety to get off that attracted George Lumley’s attention to him; but he thought no more about him as the train rolled away. He had to walk a considerable distance to reach his home; but he was fond of walking, and the route wasa pleasant one, and it was cheering to think of Clara’s welcome and her brig pppoe table. fter Jeaving the village he struck into a country road, and followed it about a quarter ofamile. Then he turied asideintoa path that must The Typo Detective. led through a piece of woods, affording him a short cut to bis house. It was near sunset, there was no breeze stir- ring, and the air in the little forest was close and beavy; but the shade was agreeable, and the abundant green foliage was a treat to one who had just emerged from that wilderness of brick and morter known as New York. George Lumley walked on briskly and cheer- ra and his heart was full of thankfulness for the blessings life gave him, although it had taken so much from him. At about the middle of the grove the path de- scended slightly to the bed of a little stream, then dried up, and in the hollow at the left was a moist spot which had been a small pond. At the edge of that spot, among the weeds and bushes, Lumley saw something that made him Sys and turn pale. t had’the appearance of a woman’s dress, of a light, striped material. His heart flew up into his throat, a deadly fear came over him, and his limbs shook be- neath him until he could scarcely stir. His sister Clara had such a dress, and she often saun ered down that path tomeet him when he returned from the city. If the dress had been in motion, or in a na- tural position, there would have been nothing to frighten him. _ But it was prone upon the ground, and noth- ing. stirred its quiet folds. ‘ara would have seen him as he approached, and her sweet and merry voice would at once have been raised to greet him. But there was not the least sound to break the deathlike stillness of that shady, tranquil grove. George Lumley moved forward slowly, drag- ging his feet, rather than carried by them, and at every step his dreadful doubt becamea sicken- ing certainty. t was Clara’s dress. lt was a woman who lay there motionless, and never to move. It was Clara herself, and she was dead! She lay on her side, with her face toward him. Her right hand, stretched out, held a few wild flowers, and her left hand was thrown across her breast, where there was a horrible ee on the light fabric of her dress—a stain of blood. Summoning all his strength and resolution, he approached her, and bent over her. Her body was yet warm, but she was dead, quite dead, and a wound in her breast from which blood had flowed plentifully showed what had caused her death. She had béen shot set gr the heart. Lumley staggered to feet, and hurried away. His brain er 7] ~ ghee ae - os nite purpose except that of seeking help. e ran throtgh the wood, and reached a cottage at the end of the path. This cottage adjoined his own, and he was well acquainted with its occupants, : At the front door he sugk in a swoon, and fell heavily upon the porch, unable to declare his needs or to ask tance. Fortunately he was seen as he came up the walk, and his fall was heard; but the accident caused delay, as no one could guess what was the matter with him. e While his friends were busy in restoring him to his senses, one of them hastened to his house to bring his sister to his help, but brought back the news that the house was locked, and Miss Lumley was not to be found. Then it began os be surmised that something had happened to ara. Y This suspicion was confirmed by the first words he uttered as soon as he was sufficiently. recovered to speak. ‘Tt is Clara,” he answered, in reply to friend- ly questions, ‘She is dead—murdered—down there in the grove!” : More help was summoned, and Lumley, as soon as he could walk, led his friends and neighbors down the path to the spot where he had found his sister’s body. It was still there and had not been disturbed. He told how he had found it, and a physician who had come with the party step forward to make an examination, though it was too plain that the murdered wonian was beyond medical kelp. ; “Wait a moment!” exclaimed Lumley, as a sudden thought struck him. He remembered that he had noticed some tracks in the soft soil near the body, and he wished to inspeet them, as they might afford a ible clew to the murderer. j In the twilight that followed the setting sun he examined those tracks carefully, and count- ed them. They were a few footmarks, made b the shoe or boot of some man who had a sronll foot and was well shod. With the assistance of the physician, he mea- sured them, and made a memoranda of the mea- surements. Then he saw another mark that drew from him an eager exclamation. In the dark and moist earth where the little ond had been, was the imprint of a hand. t was a left hand, and. doubtless a man’s hand, though it was a small one. The peculiari- ty of this impression, aside from its small size, was the fact that the little finger was miesin from the second joint, the figure in tbe eart showing exactly how much of that member had beer lost. This mark was also carefully measured and recorded, and the physician promised the young man that he would return and take a cast of the impression. “Go on and make your examination,” said Lumley. ‘1 know the worst now, and am cool enough.” The wound was speedily examined, and the physician declared that it had been made by a pistol bullet, which bad pierced the girl's heart, and had lodged near her spine. No further ex- amination could be made, except by order of the coroner. While some of the party went for a cot that was to serve as a stretcher, Lumley and the others carefally, searched the vicinity for sigus that could indicate how or by whom the dead girl had been shot down; but they found no- thing more. There was nothing to speak of a struggle, and no pistol or other weapon could be discovered. Suicide was quite out of the question, and it could only be said that Clara Lumley had been secretly and foully murdered, for some unknown reason, by some person unknown. CHAPTER Il. MORE MYSTERIES. Tue inquest that was held —— the body of Clara Lumley disclosed no further facts of im- portance, and her murder remained as at a mystery as when she was discovered by her brother. She had had no enemy as far as was known. How could such a sweet and amiable girl have had an enemy! Nor had she had any very inti- mate friends. Her kind and obliging disposition had made friends for her wherever she went; but no person could ever have been justified in calling himself her lover. Although he was quite sure that she never had poh secrets frcm bim, George had searched carefully among her belongings for some letter or scrap of paper or token that might givea clew to the cause of ber cruel fate. The search had cost bim many a tear, and he bad found nothing. No bit of yr that had in any respect the appearance of a love letter had she left behind her. ~ j The suggestion at first thrown out, that some discarded suitor might have sought to avengo himself upon her for his disappointment, was necessarily thrown aside. 4 Yet her murderer must baye seen and faced her, as she was shot in the breast, with an aim that could not have been made more fatal. Robbery had not been the motive of the mur- der, as she had nothing of value about her, except a little plain jewelry, which was on her person when she was found dead in the grove. She bad evidently locked up her cottage, put the key of the front door in her pocket, and walked down the path through the grove to meet ber brother, who was always regular in his time of returning from the city. At the dry bed of the little pond she bad sto: ped to gather some wild blossoms, and it must have been while she was thus employed that she was stricken down, shot through the heart. The murderer was no tramp, buta person who could afford to wear a fine shoe or boot, as the tracks showed. The tracks also showed that he had examined his victim after firing the fatal shot, and had made sure that the horrid work had been thoroughly done before he left the t. Pre there was any person upon whom a shadow of suspicion cou!d hayé been thrown, it was her brother, who was the only person known to have been in the grove that evening. But such a thought was too abhorrent and improbable to be for a moment entertained by anybody. They wore not only brother and sis er, but were noted for theimbrotberly and sisterly sffection. They were known to be orphans, and all the world to each other. Their neighbors were sure that a cross word could never have been spoken between them. The physician was corfid: a
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that she had been shot down before the train that brought George from the city could have reached the depot. And there, in the soft soil, were the tracks of the man who must have been the murderer, and the tell-tale print of his left hand. There was no person in the neighborhood who was known to have lost the little finger of the left hand, and no such person had been seen in the vicinity of the grove. The coroner and the police did all they could do, and no effort was left untried to find a clew to the criminal; but everybody was utter- ly at a loss, ‘* Murdered by some person unknown to the jury,” was the only verdict that could be ren- dered, and the sudden death of Clara Lumley continued to be a mystery. The bullet that pierced her heart had been extracted, and it was given to her brother af- ter the inquest. It was a pistol-bullet of large caliber, and had lost but little of its shape or weight, and the size and style of the weapon could easily be determined by experts. rge Lumley did not lack for sympathy in his great affliction. He had not supposed that he bad so many friends, until this sorrow brought them out. uring his brief residence in that suburb he and his sister, and especially Cl.ra, who was better known among the neigh- bors, bad endeared themselves to not a few, and offers of consolation and practical assist- ance came to him abundantly from sources where he would not bave looked forthem. His way was made as smooth as possible, and bis sister’s remains were largely attended to the grave. But he could stay there no longer. The cot- tage was ried i'd after Clara’s death, and every- thing remin him of her too painfully. 2 determined to get rid of his household treasures, which bad been treasures only while his sister was there to enjoy them, and to go far away from the spot which had for so short a time, been a little Paradise to him. For this purpose he must see bis landlord, who was a near neighbor, and abandon bis lease. He knew little of this gentleman, Mr. Fred- erick Lyster, except that he was a childless widower, who seemed to be possessed of a coin- fortable independence. He bad been kind to his young tenants; but George Lumley was difti- dent about asking such a favor as the canceling of his lease, which had the better part of a year to run. He was put at bis ease as soon as Mr. Lyster invited him into the house. “T think I can guess what you have come for,” said that gentleman, ‘* You want to give up the cottage you have rented from me and go away. “You are a good guesser,” replied George. “If I can compromise the matter in any wa we No compromise will be needed. You have met with a great misfortune here, and I want to make way aseasy asIcan. I am quite willing that you should give up the house, and I can easily find a tenant for it. What are you going to do with your household stuff? Had you thought of selling it at auction?” A George wpe that such was his intention, ‘It would be a pity co sacrifice it in that way. Perhaps you had better let me take it off your hands at a fair valuation. I can save myself on it, as I need be in no hurry to sell.” ‘* You are very kind indeed, Mr, Lyster,” said the young man. “I could not have expected that you would be so liberal to me, of whom you know so little.” “I know how to feel for you, my young friend, as I have had a greas deal of trouble of my own. Indeed, though your trouble is a great one, mine is much greater. You know that your sister is dead, and you can visit ber grave. You have at least the consolation of certainty, But I do not know what fate has befallen. my lost ones, or whether they are in this world or the next.” “What have you lost, Mr. Lyster?’ asked George. i 2 ‘Everything that is worth having. You see we here alone in the world with no one to care for; yet I had a loving wife and two children who were’very dear to me. I know that my wife is dead, but my children—where are they? I only know that they are aeayl Lumley ventured to ask how they were lost. “I wish Lknew. That would be a little satis- faction. About a year after I moved into this — anda year ietowe the death of my wife, _ my little daughter Lena—a bright child of five —was missed from her home oneday. Tha is The Typo Detective. all I know about it. Ste simply disappeared, vanishing as if she had melted into the air. I caused ail the country about here to be thor- oughly searched, and every river or brook or pond that she could possibly have reached was carefully Mahe offered e large reward, and employed the best detective talent, but ey never find the faintest trace of my lost child. “That stroke killed my wife. She died within a year, and a little more than a year after ber death I received another blow. My son Willie, a httle fellow bardly big enough to toddle about, disappeared in the same way. He was missing —spirited away—and I could not even guess what had become of bim. Again I used all the means at my disposal; but my best efforts were unavailing, and from that day to this I have | never heard of my two children.” “Perhaps you bad an enemy,” suggested Lum y. “> -re was only one man I knew of who cou. |. ve had any cause to dislike me. That was a {urmer partner of mine, named Joseph Blackman. 1 had trusted a great deal to him, and in time distovered that he was swindlin | me heavily. His rhe was sO mean an shameful that I exposed him and had him ar- rested; but he escaped punishment under a technicality, and cleared out. Then I retired from business, and shortly after my retirement my misfortunes began.” **Do you know what became of hiw, sir?” “He went to one of the Western States and settled\down on a farm. I sent a detective out there and spent considerable money in watch- ing bim, as he was the only person whom I eould sonnet but nothing could be discovered that would connect him in any way with the disappearance of my cbildren.” : George Lumley was so deeply interested in Mr, Lyster’s story of his great losses that for the time he forgot his own affliction and put his sympathy intoa few words that came right from the heart. ** That is not all,” said Mr. Lyster. ‘I have just received another blow. Having deprived me of my family, the fates, or whatever my ursuers may be, have struck at my property. hat is a small matter, compared with my other losses; but it seems to me to show a settled pur- pose toruin me. There is a considerable piece of property near mine which I have long wished to own. The county records showed that it belonged to a non-resident named Jones, and I advertised for him, but heard nothing from him. Lately he turned up, with the avowed purpose of looking after his property and paying the taxes on it, I heard of bis ar- rival, saw bim and made bim an offer for the property. He asked a heavy price, but at last we came to terms, I paid him for the land fully as much as it was worth, and took his deed properly executed and acknowledged. ‘“‘T did not record the deed immediately, as I ought to have done, but went to New York, where I had some pressing business, leaving the deed locked in the desk you see in this room, That was the same day on which your sister was murdered. I returned from the city in the evening, by the train following that which brought you. Iwas excited by your tronble, and did not go home until a late hour. Even then I did not look for the deed, and when I opened the desk in the morning it was gone.” ‘* Was it stolen?’ asked Lumley. “No doubt of that. I had left no one at home but my housekeeper, an_eld woman who is very bard of hearing, and I believe it was stolen during my absence, as I doubt if this house could have been entered without my knowledge while I was here.” ‘*But you can prove tbat the deed was exe- cuted and acknowledged.” “That is just what I cannot do. The.next day, after I had searched the house thoroughly, I called on the justice of the peace who had taken the acknowldgement, but he was dead. He had died suddenly that morning, of heart disease.” “Tt was fate,” said the young man. “Everything is fated, Isuppose; but lam con- vinced that behind this fate there was some devil- ish human will. Thedeath of the justice of the | peace “ers be called fate; but there was a pur- | pose _in the stealing of my deed. Let it pass, | . Lumley. I have only spoken of these mt. | ters to show you that I can sympathize with | you in your afflictions. Ihave been robbed of a large portion of my property; but I had no children to inherit it, What do you propose to do, my young friend?” : ‘LT shall stieyto my trade, of course, for the sake of a) ing; Duty aacan *o travel over the hi Se EE OE Si a RE EE ee AS es <3 ee en das ea oe oie ow 3 country, and will not feel like stopping lon, in one place. Perbaps in my wanderings war come across the man who killed my sister.” r. Lyster shook bis head. “But I bave a clew,” urged Limley. “T have the measurement of bis foot, and the print of his hand, and the bullet from his pis- tol. And I saw something at the station thet evening, as I landed, that set me to thinking.” ‘What was that?” asked Mr. Lyster. Lumley told of the well-dressed young man, carrying a valise, who had been in such a burry to board the up train, and who had frequent] come into his memory since his sister’s death.” ‘*That mast be merely a fancy,” said bis new friend. ‘‘ Young men of that class are contin- ually coming and going, and of course some of them must be ina hurry. It will be Jike look- ing for a needle in a haystack, to try to match the prints of that foot and that hand; but, if you travel far, and see many people, there is just a chance.” George Lurtiey was obliged to admit that the chance was very faint; but he could not help» conneeting the man he had seen at the station, not only with his sister’s murder, but with Mr, Lyster’s recent loss. CHAPTER IIlk. ‘ON THE TRAMP. A YOUNG man was sloWly trudging aleng a dusty road in Southern Indiana, Any one who had ever seen him would easily have eo the intelligent face and fine form of George Lumley, in spite of his shabby attire and h travel-worn appearance. “ ; He carried an unattractive carpet-bag, slung over his shoulder at the end of a stick, and a person not thoroughly acquainted with the cis- tinctive features of tramps would have set hii down as one of those pests of rural distriate, But even such a ge would have perceived his mistake when he contrasted the young miu with a Soting specimen of the tribe, as Le & mega 2 2 soon might bave done, Turning a bend in the road Lumley canie upon two undoubted tramps, a man and a boy, seated in the shade of aspreading oak. . The man had “‘ al] the symptoms” of the class to which he belonged. He was not shoeless, but the scraps of old leather that for shois seemed ready to drop from his feet, and his up- per garments were in not much better con- dition, while his beard and hair wers shaggy and unkempr, and bis face and hands appeared to be quite unacquainted with soap ant w oe The boy might have been feurteen or fifteen years old, but there was a look of premature age in his pinched face that made b ance deceptive. He was barefooted, oy ere were : pair of ra oe slung by one suspender, a torn an y sh and the remains of an old straw hat. 4 j Both were busy gnawing at bones and scraps of meat, which they took from a dirty rag, and the man was getting the lion’s share of the scanty meal, " : é Lumley approached them, moved partly Wa compassion and partly by curiosity, unslung carpet-bag and opened it. ** Suppose I he P you toa little better dinner than that,” he said, and both looked up at him in surprise. He took from a paper four substantial sand- wiches, divided them ey between the two tramps, and sat down to Bt . They devoured the bread and meat raven- ously, and then Lumley took @ flask from his ocket, filled a small tin cup With liquor, and anded it to the man, who swallowed it with a gulp, without offering a taste to the boy. “You ’re what I call the right sort, mister,” he said, as he wiped bis mouth with his ragged coat-sleeve, ‘Wedon’t come across the likes of you of’en. ru 7? “T didn’t want it,” replied Lumley. ““W'ot'll you doll a dinner, then(” ’ “T am going on to the next town, and will pick up what I want there.” ** How’ll you @tt it?” ‘ cx have a shilling or two left, and can buy t. ‘* A shillin’, hey? You're an Hastern man, I reckon. Air you on the tramp?” ‘Tam what is known asa tramping jour,” Lumley answered. ’ ‘Oh, a printer? You ain’t no sort of a pro- fessional outside co’ that; are yon?” “T believe not.” some of the chaps w’ot com pickin’ up little thines arqund loose, If yee wap em shail —F a aT — te along ai “Cause we all have our ups mag ain and Le: am” a) es in’ that’ jhey find lay lay, ae But you 've g’in us all your — - Sos LAS } a
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wanted to make a big raise, I mought let you into a good thing, what you mought call a soft and wearthy snap.” ‘* What is it?’ asked Lumley. ‘“Thar’s a house not fur from here that stands off to itself, and that’s easy to git into—no dogs —and thar’s piles of money in it, as I’ve been told. I ain’t pressin’ this thing onto you—l’ve i a pardner on the beat about here, who will glad to go in with me; but you've showed a Christian heart, and L want to treat you like a Christian.” “*T haven't got to be that kind of a Christian yet,” replied the young man, as he rose from the grass. ‘‘ Good-day, my friend. lam going mips ar,” “I don’t believe they will bother me,” remark- ed the young man, ‘as lam looking for work.” | “So am I, and I’m nigh skeered to death fur fear I'll find it. That’s w’ot’s the matter with me. Solong, young man!” The boy had not said a word during this dialogue, but bad kept his eyes fastened on George Lumley’s pleasant face, and he looked after him wistfully as he went away, The young printer trudged along the dusty road, but had not gone far from the spot where he left the two tramps, when he heard sounds of screaming and cursing behind him. Looking back, he saw the boy running to- ward him, followed at a little distance by the mau, who was brandishing a stick. The boy seemed to be frightened nearly out of bis wits, and the man was loudly threatening to break every bone in his body. George Lumley was not the kind of person who would quietly stand by and see a little fel- low abused, and he thought that the time had come when he must organize himself into a so- ciety for the prevention of cruelty to children. The boy seemed to pluck up courage at the sight of Lumley. He ran faster, and in a few moments sheltered himself behind the young man, ** Please don’t Jet him beat me!” he exclajmed almost breathlessly. ‘ I’m ’feared he'll kil e.” “All right, bub,” replied Lumley, as he pa his carpet-bag and stick to the ground, while he pat his hand in his hip pocket, where it rested on the butt of a pistol. “Now I’ve got you, you young scalawag!” shouted the man. ‘‘Now I'll give you such « lambastin’ as ll make you wish you was never horned!” “Halt, there!” ordered Lumley. ‘ What is the matter with you?” The man slackened his speed, but still came on. “1 want that young brat,” he cried. “I owe him a whalin’, and mean to give it to him,” “Not just now. Better bank your fires and Jet your boiler cool.” “You el’ar the track, or you'll git hurt, too!” retorted the eg “ Thar’s blood in my eye.” He, flourished his stick, and came on, but stopped suddenly as he stared into the muzzle of a cocked revolver, "Is this your son?” asked Lumley. Peta ag 0’ your business,” sulkily replied the oe “No, I ain’t,” said the boy. “He ain’t nothin’ to me, ’cept he makes me go on the tramp with him, and beats me like sin,” ' *He’s my ’printice,” remarked the man. bl. es sort of a master you are,” replied Lumley. ‘Do you want te go with him, bub?” “No, I don’t, mister, He swore he’d kill me, _ justa Tittle bit ago, and I won’t never go back to bim no more, not if I die for it.” “Come ane with me, them. I don’t believe you belong to him, and youare not fat enough to kill, anyhow.” “Tl git even with you for this, you cussed fly-by-night!” exclaimed the tramp, and he sent after the twoa red hot stream of oaths, which w stronger and louder @ they increased their distance from him, : But George Lumley walked right along, pay- ing no attention to the storm of abuse, He was thinking of something else just then, and it — occurred to him that he had an elephant on The elephant was a sma one, to be sure, Lut the question of what he should do with it ws quite as serious as if it had been bigger. Te youn, con vd had not thought of this when | he took little fellow from the tramp; but tls problam sdon pressed upon him, and he Tesh. to quemion the boy. “3S ct wwe is not your father, who is he?” Qe aRal. cn en cad ppp rere enone pmeeon The Typo Detective. ‘“ He’s a reg’lar tramp,” replied the boy, “and they call him Three-fingered Jack.” “Why do they give him that namef’ “Cause he hain’t got but three fingers on his left hand. The little finger’s gone.” The typo was startled. In the course of his wanderings he had not yet meta man who was maimed in that manner, although he had noticed the. hands of a great many men, Fora moment he was half inclined to turn back and renew his acquaintance with Three-fingered Jack. But it was impossible that the broad handed tramp, with his big flat feet, could be the same pewo whose delicate foot and hand prints had been left in the soft soil where Clara Lumley was murdered. Surely it was not worth while to pursue him, thought Lumley, as he walked on. “How long have you been with him?” he asked. “Two winters, and nigh onto two summers,” answered the boy. “Where did you come from?’ “Didn’t come from nowhar in partic’lar.” “Who brought you up?” ‘Nobody, as I knows on.” “But you must have been brought up some- how and by pomenonie: “*Reckon I waskicked up, mister.” “It does look as if that was the way of it. You seem to be on my hands now, bub, and I must confess that I don’t know what to do with you. Whatis your name?’ ‘* Weasel.” “That is no name at all, more?” ‘“Thar was some folks wot usened to call me Perry Wessel; but it’s got to be mos’ly Weasel, and Three-fingered Jack he never called me nothin’ but Weasel.” ‘Weasel it must be, then, or Perry. Why did you run away from Three-fingered Jack to- day” Hf Well, mister, the fact is that he was gwine to crack a crib to-night, ‘long with a chap called Buck, who’sa sort o’ pardner o’ hisn, and he told me that he was gwine to take me along to help. But I was skee at it, and didn’t want to be put through no windy at night. Sol up and said I wouldn't do it, and he said I should, and I said I’d run away first. Then hesaid he'd teach me suthin, and made a grab at me and missed me. Then hdmp with his stick, and swore he'd break every bone in my poy and I broke and run like a quarter hoss until I cotched up with you, mister.” “You may call me ur, Lumley, bub. Do you know where the crib is that he meant to crack?” “Oh, yes. It’s Mr. Blackman’s house, ’bout two mile this side o’ Vinson, It’s a big place, that is, and thar’s sure to be dorgs.” Here was another coincidence that startled Lumley. He remembered that his friend, Frederick Lyster, in speaking of his afflictions, had mentioned a man named Blackman as the possible cause of his losses. Blackman had emi- rated toa Western State, and here, in Indiana, the young typo had for the first time encoun- tered a man of that name. Yet it could not be called an uncommon name, and there might be nothing in the coincidence, “Perhaps that was the chance that Three- fingered Jack offered me this morning,” he said, “'T reckon it was, Mr, Lumley.” “Now, Weasel, I will tell you what we are going, to do. You shall show me the way to r. Blackman’s place, and we will tell him of the job that was put up to crack his' crib. Do you understand?’ “Bet Ido, But I’m skeered. They moight Ln ody notion to shet me up as one o’ Jack’s Ss. “T won't let them do that, bub, I will see that you are straight with the law.” “But ef Jack should ever git hold on it, he’d make pot-pie of this chicken.” “JT will stand between you and him, too. You are going to be on the honest lay after this, Weasel, and to get a right scart you will have to do this thing. But there is one point that may bother youa little, and I want you to get hold of it at once’ I am going to be deaf and dumb.” ; The boy opened his eyes, and stared at his new protector and preceptor. “What ce you mean by that, Mr. Lumley?” “T mean that after this I am to be deaf and dumb—can’t hear or speak a word, You know what that is?” f¢ Yaas; but how am I ever gwine to telk to Is there nothing wish you could read and write.” . “Read and writs” joyfully exclaimed the “Yai jest bet} I km do that. I chored to you? ‘I don’t know how we will manage that. I boy. ‘ for a school-marm oncet, quite a while, and she tort me a heap. But she got to whalin’ me more’n I liked, and I run off. Lumley drew from under his vest a smalk slate and a pencil, attached to a string around bis neck, and made the boy sit down and write. Woasel’s spelling was pretty bad, and he labored at his writing, as if long out of practice; but, ape typo assured him, he “‘ made a fair fist of; t. “Now we will get along, bub,” said Lumley, “if you will be sure to remember that I am deaf and dumb.” “All right, sir. But I’d Jike to know, Mr. Lumley, what sort of a lay you are on.” ‘Never mind that, Weasel. It is enough for fa to know at present that it is a square and onest one.” > CHAPTER IV. DROPPING INTO A JOB. Mr. BLACKMAN’S house was, as Perry Wessel had described it, ‘‘a big place.” That is tosay, it was a fine house for that section of country, Yet it was only a good-sized square frame build- ing, with no attempt at architectural beauty except a rather ugly bay window, and the grounds were neither well laid out nor well cared for. George Lumley entered the premises at the front gate, regardless of the barking of a big dog that was evidently chained. “Better go ’round the back way, mister,’ advised the boy. the front door.” But the typo walked right on without seeming to hear this suggestion, and then Weasel sud- denly remembered that his protector was deat and dumb. There was a bell knob at the front door, and Lumley’s vigorous pull was answered by a red- faced servant woman, who glared angrily at the two callers, “No tramps wanted here!” she said, as she savagely ordered them away. Lumley pointed at his mouth and ears, and. shook his head, as if to make her understand bis unfortunate condition. Then he took out his slate and pencil, and began to write. The woman repeated her order, and threatened ar ag the dog loose if they did not clear out. “He ain't no tramp, missus,” explained Weasel, thinking that the time bad come f him to put in a word. ‘He don’t know what “ They’ll git mad if we tackle you “a He's deaf and dumb.” “Take him away from here then,” she re- lied. “* We hain’t got nothin’ for the likes of im. There’s the gate. Be off wid yez!” ‘* What is the matter, Bridget?’ This question come from the interior of the house, and was asked in clear and musical tones that made the typo’s face brighten up. “It's a pair o tramps, Miss Lizzie—a big ‘un and a little ’un—and they won't ge away, and wan of thim says he’s dafe and dumb, and J don’t belave a wurrud of it.” “Tf he is dumb, how can he tell you sof? asked the sweet voice, and the speaker stepped oo og the <gaetn ‘ at eee @ proved to be a graceful and pretty girl o: sixteen or seventeen, — etait men with a merry smile on her face that well became her, As she saw the young printer standing at the door, he did not have the appearance of an or- dinary tramp, and there was an answering smile on his intelligent countenance. ‘He don’t look as if he means any harm, Biddy,” she said as she came forward, ‘‘ What do you want, young man?” Lumley held out his slate, on which be had written these words: : “T wish to see Mr. Blackman on business of importance to him.” He wrotesuch a clear and neat running hand, that she was confirmed in her belief that he could not be a professional tramp. ‘*Wait a moment,” she said, as she took the slate, ‘‘ and I will speak to my father.” Then, reflecting that the young man was deaf, she waved her hand, accompanying the gesture with a smile, She entered a room at the end of the ball, in which a tall man, with iron-gray hair, and partly bald, was seated ata desk, sorting some papers. “What is it now, Lizzie?’ he asked, without looking up. ‘““A man and a boy, sir, at the front door. Bridget said they were tramps, and wanted to drive them away. But one of them is deaf an& dumifs, and he does not look like a regular tramp, Tt seems that he wants to see you particularly and ho wrote this on his slaty.”
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‘That is not the style of writing I would ox- from a tramp,” said the gentleman, as he read the two lines. ‘I will go to the door, Lizzie, and see what he wants.” At the door his dark eyes, looking keenly from under shaggy brows, took in the young typo at 8 glance, and he wrote on the slate in a business- like hand: “Tam Mr. Blackman, What do you want?” but it is hot out here and I am tired,” wrote Lumley in reply. Mr. Blackman motioned to the writer to | follow him, and led the way toward the back room. There was a disposition to bar out Perry | decidedly Weasel, whose appearance was and trampish; but Lumley took the slate, wrote: “You need the boy. He can tell you more about the matter than I can.” So the two visitors were ushered into Mr. Blackman’s private room, followed by the young lady, and were given seats, ragged and dirty Wessel being sent into a corner alone. Bridget jooked in from the hall, and the expression of her red face showed her disapproval of the entire | performance. Lumley at once took his slate, and wrote these words: ““T have accidentally learned of a plan to rob your house to-night. If you will question this boy, he can tell you all about it.” Mr. Blackman proceeded to question the boy, who hesitated, stammered, and looked piteously at his protector, and Lumley hastened to remark on bis slate that the boy was afraid of getting into trouble because be had been a companion of the man who planned the robbery. Mr, Blackman assured the young tramp that no harm would come to bim, and be began to teil the story in his own way. George Lumley was on thorns forfear that the sham of his deaf and dumb “racket” would be discovered by care- Jessness of the boy in repeating conversations in which adeafand dumb man could not have taken part. But Weasel had got it firmly fixed in his mind that his protector was to be deaf and dumb, and he passed through the ordeal splen- didly, making no blunder, and giving no con- versations buf those between himself and the tramp master from whom he had run away. Mr. Blackman asked the boy but a few qnes- tions, and turned to Lumley when the story was ended, nodd'‘ng as if to let the typo know that he fully understood the matter. Thena slate conversation ensued between the two men. * This is very impor'ant, if trie,” wrote Mr, ‘Blackman, ‘I believe it, and will be on my guard. Who are you, snd where are you going to?” “My namais George Lumley, and I am a printer. TU am going to Vinson to look for work.” “Do you expect to find work there?’ ‘There is always work for a good workman.” ‘That is the way to talk, My son is the pub- lisher and editor of the Vinson Vindicator, and he wants a good hand. He vill soon be here.” A brisk pull made the door-bell jingle sharp- ly, and Mr. Blackman dropped the slate, “There is Arthur!” he said. door, Bridget, and let him in.” Mr. Arthur Blackman walked briskly to the backroom. He wasa tall and lithe young man, wearing a mustache and side whiskers, with dark eyes like bis father’s, and black hair, His face was a pleasing one, and theshade of melan- choly that darkened it made it no less so, He was surprised at the company he saw assembled in Mr. Blackmen’s room, and that gentleman hastened to explain the situation to rim, “ Allright,” he said. ‘For warned is fore- armed. We can easily take care of a couple of tramps, when we are on the lookout for them. This man is a printer, you say, sir? Deaf and dumb, too? That must be very unhandy for him. How am I going to talk to him?” Mr. Blaci:man pointed to the slate. seized it, and questions and answe' quickly between him and Lumley. ‘* Where are you from, and what can you do?” asked the proprietor of the Vindicator. ‘From Rev York offices. I am a quick and correct type-setter, and a fair hand at job work.” “pay thirty-five cents a thousand. I will try you on piece work, if you are willing.” 1: Fg ae antigo slag ci tina ow long you me * As long as I are suisse” : The young gentleman read the last question and answer to his father, “ That is pretty independent,” he said, “ But passed Arthur | **T have something of importance to tell you; | tramping jours, who ouly work jong get money for a spree, or to take them to the next town. I say, father, it is too late for this man to go on to Vinson this evening. Suppose we keep him here until morning, and then I will take him down in my buggy.” was communicated to Lumley, who gladly ac- cepted, have a chance to wash and brush himself up, and this offer gave him yet more pleasure. It seemed to be the prveucn opinion that Perry Wessel was beyond the reach of washing and brushing; but he was turned over to Bridget, who was directed to do what she could for him, As George Lumley attended to his toilet, with which he took all possible pains, it seemed to him that he was quite fortunate in dropping into a job, and in finding such a pleasant place to pass the night. CHAPTER V. THE TRAMPS’ ATTACK. Suprer was ready when George Lumley had finished putting himself in order, and he had antscausiel ia well that there was nothing of the appearance of the tramp about him when he came down, He was received with a smile and a friendly grasp of the hand by Arthur Blackman. ‘‘Wather,” said that young gentleman, ‘‘ Mr. Lumley is going to eat with us, He is quite a gentlemanly looking young fellow, Don’t you think so, Lizzie?” ‘Indeed he is,” replied the young lady, with a glance and a blush that would have conveyed her meaning to the young printer, even if he had not had the use of his ears. As it was,the compliment sent a blush into his face, which be was obliged to cover with a sneeze. “The boy,’ said Arthur, ‘is evidently a tramp, who will have to be provided for in the kitchen.” Then he seized the slate and asked Lumley what he expected to do with that boy. “ T shall try to take care of him and give him a fair start,” was the reply. “All right, I will help you. Sit down to gag r. Blackman took the head of the table, Liz- zie poured out the tea, and Lumley and Arthur were seated opposite each other, There was no difficulty in helping the deaf and dumb man at the table. The appetite is a ready interpreter, and his wants were easily supplied. He had evidently learned to read countenances and decipher expressions, and this faculty was quite noticeable in his intercourse with Lizzie Blackman, from whose glances and motions he appeared to take her meaning as well as if she had spoken, ‘Really, Lizzie,” said her brother, “‘ ou get ov admirably with our deaf mute friend, and [ | don’t believe IT shall have much trouble with “Run to the | him in the office. Iam quite curious to get at his history and to find out bow a deaf mute of a task to talk to him.” : “Perhaps he can get at sometbing of what we say by the motions of our lips,” said Lizzie, who could not easily aceustom herself to the idea of talking shout a young man in his pres- ence as if be was absent. Then a strange circumstance happened to the guest. Fl» suddenly dropped his knife and fork and stared steadily, with a look of horror, at Avthur Blackman—not at that young gentle- man’s face or at the portion of bis body that was visible, but at his left hand, which he had one sed to hold up, with the back of it toward the t®ble. The little finger of that band was missing! “What is the matter?” arked Lizzie, and Mr. Blackman drew back and stared at bis guest. Arthur noticed the direction of Lumley’s paze and pointed at his maimed hand with an inquiring look, he typo picked up his knife and fork, but seemed to be unable to withdraw his eyes from tbat band, and the look of herror deepened on his face, Arthur Blac*man seized the slate, on which he hastily wrote, ‘Born so,” and handed it across the table. Lumley read the words, and changed color as he became conscious of the notice his strange conduct had attracted. He continued his suppw without raising his eyes irom his plate, enough to | Mr. Blackman assented, and the proposition | He was also informed that be could | learned the printing business, but it is too much | ee ee = | Queer fellow, that,” said Arthur, “ Who | would have thought that such a little thing | could frighten or shock anybody?” ‘itis very strange,” replied Mr, Blackman, “T hope he is net wrong in his head.” | Thesight of that maftned hand bad startled | George Lumley into a train of thought that | made bim forget for the moment where he wes and what he was doing, He was carried back at once to the twiligls | scene in the grove near Yonkers Where he bud stood by the dead body of his murdered sister, and had seen in the soft soil the pot of just ; such a maimed hand, with that of a sméll and shapely foot. He bad already noticed Arthur Blackman’s feet, and they fitted the image in his mind, and there was the hand for which he had been seek- ing so long, over such a wide reach of country, and among such varied associations. Was it possible that this pleasant, gentleman- ly, and open-hearted young man was the villain who had slain bis sister? Healso recalled the brief glimpses he had had of the well-dressed young man who had been so eager to board the train at the railway station on that fatal evening. He remembered him as tall and slim, like Arthur Blackman, but had carried away no impression of his features, ex- cept that he waS'sure that he had worn no beard of any sort. But tall and slim young men, with small feet and hands, were plentiful enough, and there must be many who had lost the little finger of the left hand, though he had as yet met none of them but the tramp and Arthur Blackman, Even if this should be the man he was hunt- ing, bis hand alone would never fasten the crime upon him, and it was necessary to ‘learn the particulars of his past life, trusting to time and chance to worm bis secret from him, Lumley resolved that his stay in Vinson should not be a short one, that he would keep bis faculties on the alert, and that be would be careful to restrain any such emotion .as sip possibly give Arthur Blackman the alarm. At bedtime a man who worked on the place was called in, to pass the night in the house, and Mr, Blackman and his son examined ; weapons, of which they had a large supply. ne pistol was offered to Lumley; but he showed own, and shook his head. The typo was sent to sleep in a large, garret like room over the kitchen, which was an ad- dition, or afterthought, at the rear of the square house, Perry Wessel was about to be sent to the barn, but he begged to be aliowed to remain with his protector. ‘Vm afeared of the barn,” he said, ‘and I don’t want no bed nor nothin’, If I may sleep on the floor in Mr. Lumley’s room, Ill be very, very thankful.” The young typo was tired day’s tramp, but sleep was in cide which interested him the most deeply. He had never seen a face that attracted tim so strongly, nor ever heard a voice that wer t to his. heurt so easily. It was hard to believe that the owner of such a face and such a voice ec uld Le the sister of a murderer, and Arthur Plack- man did not look like a murderer, in +pite of bis” tell-tale hand and foot, hen he thought of Lizzie Blackman’s face, he was ready to declare that his vommeioue must be groundless; when he thought of her brother’s hand, he felt ther he ~ must shun that fair face and forget thit sve © voice. The outcome of these contre ctory moods was the conclusion that he must be very careful what be said and did, and must watch and wait patiently for circumstauees to strengthen or dispel his suspicions. As he was thus thinking, Inlled by the boy’s breathing and by the patter of a light rain on | the roof, he fell asleep. : | _ As he slept he was seized bya dream that had | the shape and form of a nightmare. He was oppressed by the feeling that there was some dark and awful presence in the room— ~ | something that he could not see nor feel, or even guess at, but that was slowly and surely ap- procctoe him with the intention of smothering m svhere he lay. The Pheri! stood by him and Nerdy him. Hetried tospeak, to call fon help, but not ufter a sound. He strove painfully to bores | i the bonds of slumber, but was unable to stir hand | : or foot. He knew that he must rise and confngna 4 ue
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_ Then Mr. Lumley mounted him, and you come | 6 ‘ The Typo Detective, his foe; but a mortal terror had possession of | further danger to be apprehended, and all but ee and he was as motionless as if bound to his ed, At last, as he was expecting death and de- spising himself for his cowardice, the nightmare | loosened its gripe, and he awoke. He drew aj} long breath of relief and turned his eyes toward the window, to make sure that he was awake and safe, The night was very dark, and nothing but blackness was visible; but he was sure that there was something or somebody in the room. ide was positive that he heard breathing, and knew that it was not the breathing of the boy, as it was like the faint murmuring of some large A celd chill came over him, but instantly passed eff, as he was no coward when h* was awake. He was considering whether he should get up and strike a light, when the scratching of & match teld him that it was a human being with whem he had te do. He leeked teward the sound, and saw a newly lighted match shine from behind a hand in the that was shading it. The hand was a left hand, big and broad, and the little finger was | '& In another instant the light flamed up, and he knew that Tiree-fingered Jack had come to perform the task that he had set himself to do. Lumley felt for his pistol, and was about to wpring out of bed, when a dark object moved swiftly and silently along the floor and hurled iteelf against the tramp, striking him in the | stomach. With a smothered curse and a deep groan Three-fingered Jack doubled up, and fell heavily on the fleor. The next mement the active young typo was on of him, and bad turned him on his face, g ene knee against the small of his back, | and maces his wrists crossed. Perry Wessel, who had been the dark object that shot across the floor, had extricated him- self from the heap and hastened to strike a light. Directly a candle was burning on the mantel- piece, and the boy was at the side of his friend y te assist him in the struggle, The noise of the fall had aroused Arthur Blackman and his father, who came running into the room-—the young man first—and a | at the open window and the group on the told them what was the matter. As Lumley, with Arthur’s help, was fying the rn the deep bark of the watch-dog was and then the sound outside of a hoarse voice in a sort of stage whisper: “Jack! Isay, Jack! Anythin’ up, Jack?” Mr. Blackman stepped to the window and sent a pis ol-shet into the darkness at the sound, and another at the rustling of the foliage, as some aor ye broke away and ran from the neighbor- of the house. By this time saree Gears Jack was scourely bound, and was seated with his back to the wall, where he glared savagely at his captors, but a 8 spite at George Lumley and Perry Cr? “You've done this, you two scalawags!” he said, with a shower of oaths and obscene abuse. “If I don’t git even with you fur this, 1 hope I may be strung up to a tree afore mornin’.* As the boy was evidently che afraid of the captures burglar, Three-finge: Jack was down-stairs and consigned to the cus- | tody of the hired man, and Mr. Blackman and his son returned te inquire how the intruder had ‘een discovered and caught. Arthur questioned Weasel, as the speaking partner of the firm, and the boy told a straight and clear story. “T woke up,” he said, ‘‘and knowed thar was somebedy or somethin’ in the room; but I was so bad skeered that I couldn’t speak nor stir, ontil the light was struck, and then I was ‘wuss skeered when I saw who it was. I was afeared he would carry moe off and kill me, and would hurt Mr. Lumley. So I meant to git ahead lags = I could, and let myself one like askyrocket. I amagay young butter, [ am, and I socked my head right into his bread-pan. in.” “You are a fine, brave boy,” said Artbur, ‘“and I can tell you that you will lose nothing by this night’s work.” Though Lumley had listened to Weasel’s story ‘with intense interest, bis face was as stolid as if he had not heard a word. When it was ex- Pats to him on the slate, he gave the boy th his hands, and patted his frowsy head ap- . provingly. ’ As firs: Jack qvas well pizioned, and watcled by an armed gard, there was no the hired man returned to their beds, CHAPTER VI. WEASEL AS A JOCKEY. In the morning the young typo had the pleas- ure of eating breakfast with Lizzie Blackman, and he gave himself up to the enjoyment of her presence, doing his best to shut from his thoughts the dark suspicions raised by her brother’s maimed hand, Artbur told ber the whole story of the capture of the tramp, and both of them spoke higbly in praise of Weasel and his protector. It was hard for Lumley to hear these compliments without blushing; but he played his part well, though he was sorry at the time that it wassuch a part as prevented him from speaking. But he knew that it was impossible to eat his cake and have it, too, and that he could not have the privilege of being dumb and of speaking when he felt in- clined to do so. He noticed that Mr. Blackman took little part in the conversation about the attempt at rob- bery, answering briefly when spoken to, and having the appearance of a man who was weighed down by some secret trouble. After breakfast Arthur Blackman’s buggy was brought around, and Lumley followed bim | into the seat with his sachel, while Perry Wes- sel found room at their feet. Neither the typo nor the boy asked to be p’r- mitted to see the captured tramp, as they had reasons of their own for not wishing to lay eyes on him again. Mr. Blackman said little at parting, and it seemed to Lumley that he felt relieved at get- ting rid of his guests. But Lizzie spoke an in- vitation to come again with her lips and in her manner, Arthur interpreted it to Lumley, who acknowledged it as well as he could in dumb | show, and she bowed and smiled as the buggy drove away. Vinson proved to be a good-sized country town, fairly built up, and kept in decent order, though there wera more drinking saloons than one would have thought necessary for the ac- commodation of the people. The Vindicator office was on the first floor of a two-story frame building, the upper floor being mostly used as lodging-rooms for the em- ployees of the paper. It had the appearance of a neatly-kept Voie ope office, with two hand- resses, and a fair allowance of job material. he force then at work was composed of two men and two boys, and George Lumley was to make the third man. “Tve got another hand, boys,” announced Arthur Blackman, as he entered the office, ‘“* and I think he is a good one, This is the man— George Lumley, The other two men greeted him, but got no reply to their salutations, **Oh, you needn’t try to talk to him,” said Blackman. ‘ Heis deaf and dumb,” A short and stout man, Tom Cripps by name, who acted as the pressman of the estab- lishment, as well as a compositor, laid his stick on his case, and burst into a laugh. “That won't do,” he said. “I am not going to have that deaf and dumb game played on me ain. “What do you mean, Tom?” asked Blackman. ‘*T mean that I bave seen enough of that sort of thing. When I was working at a small town over in Illinois, a nice young jour came along, who pretended to be deaf anddumb. The boss set him to work, and he was a good workman, and nobody could find any sort of fault with him; but none of us believed there was anything the matter with his ears or his mouth. We tried all sorts of games to prove that he could hear, and to make him speak; but none of thom would work, and at last we had to give it up and set him down as deaf and dumb. He kept it up for about three months, until he took a notion to leave the town. ‘Then, after he had drawn what was coming to him, be bid us all good-by, and could hear and speak as well as as anybody.” ‘‘What induced him #0 practice such a de- ception?” asked the editor. “*Durned if [know. Just to see how far he could carry it, I suppose. Some folks are fond of playing queer games, though there is noth- ing to be made by it.” thur Blackman said that he did not believe his new hand was disposed to play any game, and used the slate to inform Lumley that he to. look after the boy. and you must let me fit him ont on advertising account, You may go with me.and seethat the job is done to suit you.” aE Lumley was glad enough to accept. thig Jib- eral offer, and Weasel was at once taken to the only clothing store the town afforded, where he was soon supplied with a suit of clothes and such other articles as he would require in his new position. Artbur Blackman then trotted his new friends back to the printing office, where the boy wa? sent up-stairs, and directed to wash thoroughly and array himself in his new garments. He came down with a shining face, and Tom Cripps, who professed to be a good hair-cutter, proceeded to shear off bis shaggy locks. When this job was completed, it was wonder- ful what a transformation had been effected in Weasel. Cleaned, and trimmed, and decently dressed, he was seen to be a boy of good appear- ance, with an intelligent face, bright blue eyes, and a form that wanted only a few weeks of sufficient feeding to be quite comely. Barring a little awkwardness, caused by the novelty of his attire, be sustained the character of a re- spectable member of society very fairly. “Would you know him, now?” asked Cripps, turning suddenly to George Lumley. But there was nothing in Lumley’s blank face to indicate that he bad heard the question, “He plays it well,” muttered Cripps, as he turned away, Arthur Blackiuan offered Lumley a chance to: lodge at the printing office: but a glance at the rooms made him shake his head, and bis em- ployer went with him and Weasel in search of a boarding house, They easily found a suitable place, and the typo and the boy moved into their room with their baggage, which consisted of Lumley’s sachel and a small bundle belonging to Wease. In the afternoon they sauntered out to the grounds of the County Fair, which was in pro- gress near the town, and discovered that a horse-race was on hand. This naturally attracted both of them, and they were soon mingling with the throngs of people who were collected near the grand stand. Among those who were prominently inter- ested in the race was Arthur Blackman, who proved to be the owner of Vinson Chief, a horse from whom he expected a great performance. The Chief was a gray horse, tall and gaunt, and anything but handsome, but reputed to possess unusual speed and bottom. He would have been the fayorite in the betting, but for a quality that was freely spoken of as * uncer- tain.” It seemed to be the prevalent opinion that he was a wild and vicious animal, and too unreliable to be considered an entirely safe in- vestment. The race was to be a mile and a half dash, free to all, for a purse of $300, and it was ne- cessary to circle the quarter-mile track six times, When Lumley and Perry Wessel appeared on the track, Vinson Chief was being aired by his jockey, who had orders tu give him a prelimi- nary canter around the track, and Arthur Black- man was eagerly taking all the bets he could get against the gaunt gray horse. His confidence seemed to be warranted by the quiet and easy manner in which the gray started off, and by the admirable action of his long limbs. “This is one of the Chief's good days,” said his owner, ‘and I have a sure thing on him this time.” ‘* You can’t allers tell,” replied an old farmer. **That’s a mighty deceivin’ brute of yourn.” ‘‘ A hundred to fifty that he wins this race,’ said Arthur, ready to back his good opinion of the horse. “It’s a bet,” replied the farmer, ashe pulled out a roll of bills. At that moment the Chief was nearly around the track, going steadily and nicely, and com- pletely under the control of his driver. But, as be drew near the crowd about the grand stgmd, he suddenly shied, threw up bis head, came to a dead stop, and then whirled swiftly around, with his bind legs in the air and his nose to the ground, sending his rider to the earth like shot from a shovel. A cry went up from the crowd and there . was a rush to the place where the disaster had occurred. The jockey was found to be stunned, with one of his arms broken, and it was the opinion of a physician who happened to be present that he was in internally. It wae certain that he would not beable to mount a bh hile. tha’ as in a yer, mg aly aa if gutisfied with the
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spot where he came to a halt, and he was quiet enough as his owner sadly led him down the track, while the jockey was being carried away on a litter. “That winds me up,” said Arthur. ‘I am more grieved on the boy’s account than on my own; but it means a big loss for me, as I am out of the race now, and all my bets are play or pay.” 4 ain't you find ary other boy to ride the erittur?”’ asked the old farmer at his side, “No, ‘There is not.a boy left. who could ride in this race, and nobody would dare to mount the Chief now, anyhow.” A sharp elbow nudged him in the side. He looked down, and saw Perry Wessel gazing at him eagerly. “« Piease let me ride him, mister,” begged the boy. cf You!” exclaimed Arthur, in utter amazo- ment, ‘‘No, bub; I don’t think you are ready to die just yet.” “He can’t fling me,” insisted Weasel. ‘‘ That feller oughter ha’ gi’n him the stick as soon as he shied.” “Thar’s sense in what he says,” remarked the old farmer, and Arthur Blackman looked at the boy earnestly, “Do you really believe you could ride this horse?” he asked. “IT can ride anythin’,” replied Weasel, “‘ and I’ve rid qua’ter hosses afore now.” “But this is no quarter race. You have to run six quarters to win.” “T know that, mister. All I’ve got to do is to stick on and keep the hoss a-goin’.” ay, “Yes, that is all, and enough, too. Well, it is make or break with me. If you are willing to risk your bones, you may ride the brute.” Weasel pulled off his coat, and in a twinkling was perched on the back of the tall steed. He handled the bridle-rein and the whip iu a jockey-like manner, and was fairly in a line with the others when they were called to the start. There were five other starters, and they got a ‘ood send-off, Vinson Chief at the tail of the eap, and dragging behind as they circled around the track, He was evidently in no hurry, and his rider did not seem anxious to press bim to his speed, The gray did not improve his pace when the horses swept around the last turn of the quar- ter, and Arthur Blackman watched him anx- iously, as he drew near the spot where he had thrown his jockey, to see if he meant to repeat the maneuver. His intention was vicious enough; but, justas he started to shy, Weasel brought the whip down on his flanks again and again, startling him out of his purpose, and sending him flying under the wire at a gait that promised to speed- ly bring him to the front. - He did go to the froat, and was leading the string when they were half around the track; but he agein dropped behind, and as he ap- proached the wire he again attempted to try the tacties by which he had got rid of his first rider, But Weasel was again too quick for him, cutting him with the whip so savagely that he went over the line at a whirling pace, and once more he led the string. His rider did not again allow him to slacken his pace, but lashed him around the track, keeping him well in the lead to the stand. Then the Chief, with a snort of rage, took the bit between his teeth, and tore down the track at the top of bis speed. ‘He has run away!” was the general cry. ‘(Let him run!” said his excited owner. ‘‘ He is going to win this race.” | ; This prediction seemed likely to prove true, if the boy could stick on the horse, and if the Chief’s frenzy should not prompt bim to some mad deed that would defy all pk oe The wild horse went whirling around the track, exciting the others to dotheir best to over- take him, and Weasel sat him like a statue, his feet well braced, and bis hands firmly grasping the rein, At the place of the first difficulty the boy again plied the whip, sending the Chief across the line likea tornado, It was evident that the horse was beyond control; but his headlong course carried him around the track, and the only danger was that he might stop short, or endeavor to bolt the ring. If he made any such attempt, it was foiled by his rider’s whip, which gave him no rest, but kept him at such a rate of speed that he had no time to meditate mischief. So he circled around the course again and again, far ahead of the others, until he came sweeping toward the stand on the last quarter. Meen the question was whether the boy would The Typo Detective. be able to stop him, and not a voice was heard but all eyes were fastened on him, as he dashed under the wire. Instantly Weasel had fairly climbed upon his neck, and there he was sawing at the bit, with the rein wrapped around his wrists. The tall gray horse had had enough, and he suffered himself to be halted, and Arthur Blackman quietly led him away, trembling and panting, ) CHAPTER VII. THE CONVERSION OF TOM CRIPPS, As Lumley was going home from the race, he saw the figure of a man slinking away in the distance, and thought he recognized it. He pointed it out to Weasel, and the boy’s look of consternation said that he, also, thought that he recognized it. This circumstance weighed upon the mind of the typo, and when he went to the printing office the next morning, he had a brief slate conversation with Arthur Blackman, ‘When are we to be called on to give evi- dence against the tramp who was taken at your father’s house?” wrote Putaey. ‘“Not at all,” wrote the editor, after a little hesitation. “Why so?” “Tt seems that my father felt sorry for the fellow, and turned him loose.” “That is queer,” wrote Lumley. “Yes, it is queer.” Tbe typo was obliged to be satisfied with this information; but he did not fail to caution Perry Wessel at noon, “ Three-fingered Jack is loose,” he said. ‘‘ That was the man we saw last evening. You must be careful where you go and what you do,” Communication with his benefactor by writ- ing was something to which Weasel did not take kindly. In fact, he had not been able to fully “catch on” to Lumley’s deafness and dumbness, saposelng those infirmities to have been assumed for a temporary purpose, and that there would soon be an end of them, Conse- quently he had of late frequently spoken to his friend as if expecting an answer, and had worn a puzzled look when Lumley took no notice of spoken words. When he had spelen out the warning on the slate, he wrote this question: ** How long are you goan to be on this lay?” ‘What lay?” asked Lumley. ° “ Can’t speak or hear.” “Perhaps a long time. Wait. Be patient, and I will soon teach you to talk to me. The typo at once began to instruct his young friend in the deaf and dumb alphabet, and it was wonderful how soon the boy picked it up. The desire to converse freely with his protector quickened his faculties amazingly. George Lumley soon perceived that the ques- tion what he should do with the elephant on his hands had been solved easily and satisfactorily. In consideration of Weasel’s services in pre- venting the house robbery, Arthur Blackman had clothed him, In consideration of his ser- vices as a jockey, he insisted on paying the boy’s board, and made an arrangement to that effect with his landlady. He also entered him at tbe public school, supplying bim with books, and Weasel attacked his studies very vigorously. The typo got on nicely in the office of the Vin- son Vindicator. He proved himself a good workman in all branches of the “art preserv- ative,” and was well liked by his fellows, with the exception of Tom Cripps, who did not scruple to say that he objected to the new man because he (Cripps) did not inrend to be taken in and done for again by any pretended deaf mute, He was soset in his conviction that Lumley was shamming, that he kept impressing it upon the others in the office, and was constantly try- ing experiments with the view of proving its truth. So the office of the Vindicator was at all times subject to startling questions and ex- clamations, yells, shrieks, er plosigne, and all sorts of sudden shocks in the line of noise, cal- culated to throw the pretended ‘‘dummy ” off his balance, and to betray his true character. Lumley bore these assaults so admirably, though they were very annoying to him, and a great strain upon his temper and his strength, that Seip made no converts. “But I know he is shamming,” insisted the pressman, ‘‘and I will prove it yet, or give him my head for a football. ur Blackman grew tired of these persecu- tions, and ordered that they should cease, as he did not wish his establishment to be turned into a menagerie. Foes At this the pressman took offense, and pro- | full FE ceeded to avenge himself by drawing his pay, and exchanging it for Vinson whisky as fast as he could, until he was quite unfit for work. But this left more work for the others, and in- jured nobody but himself. While he was sunk in this debauch, he devel- oped an unexpected ally. He came lumbering into the office of the Vin- dicator one afternoon, when the editor was ab- sent, dragging by the arm a disreputable and vicious-looking tramp, who seemed to be strongly disinclined to enter. ‘*Come in, old boy!” shouted Cripps. ‘ Come in an’ prove it, an’ I'll stand all th’ drinks you wanter stagger under. Come in an’ stick to what you tole me, an’ I'll stuff yer skin full o’ bu’sthead.” George Lumley glanced at them as they en- tered, and recognized in the ning See old acquaintance, Three-fingered Jack. ‘“What’s the matter, Tom?” asked one of the printers, Sam Martin by name. ‘*Ain’t nothin’ th’ matter o’ me,” replied Cripps, as he steadied himself against the com- posing stone. ‘ Yere’s a free ‘n’ independent Merican citizen, ’titled to th’ ’nestimable priv’- leges o’ free speech an’a fairshow. He’s kinder under a cloud just now—mebbe some p’liticle convention’s gone back on *im—but his heart is in the right place emphbaticalularly.” “Stow the jaw-snappers,” remarked Martin, ‘and tell us what’s the row.” “Your feller-citizen stands before you,” said Cripps, with a strong effort at dignity, ‘in th’ sacred cause of truth an’ justice, an’ a nonest man’s th’ noblest work o’ the Constitution, an’ I can whip any durned rat who says it ain’t.” ‘Hurry the racket, Tom, and put the stopper in the essence bottle. I’ve had enough already.” ‘This feller-citizen comes to substantiativate my statemen’s of an’ concernin’ a certain Cha’ over there, known as Dummy. Knows ’im well. Knows ’im all through, down to the ’verted — commas. Tram with ‘im through a toora- looral district, comin’ to this metrapulis. Knows that Dummy can hear well enough an’ talk fast enough when he wants to, an’ ’sready to swear to it. Ain’t that so, pard?” concluded Cripps, sla) ping his companion on the back. “It’s as true as Gospill, gen’lemen,” said the tramp. ‘‘That man over thar—which I know him well—ain’t no more deaf and dumb than I am, and I’m willin’ to swear to thison a stack 0’ Bibles,” ; , ‘Now, Dummy, what ha’ you got to say to that?’ demanded Cripps, veering toward Lum- ley. The young typo, perceiving that he wasspoken to, extended his away with an oath. Sam Martin took the slate, made a brief sum- mary of the tramp’s statement, and handed itto Lumley, who wrote this reply: “He isa thief. I helped catch him when he broke into Mr. Blackman’s house. A man who will steal will lie.” Arthur Blackman came in, and angrily asked Cripps what he meant by bringing such a — loafer into the office. The fuddled pressman, thrown off his balance, began a confused «xplanation, and broke down, ‘Take him out of here,” said the editor, ‘and take yourself off, too. If you are ever seen in such company again, Tom Cripps, you will not find another day’s work in this office,” ‘ In the evening of the day that witnessed this unpleasant scene George Lumley went out for a walk, after cautioning Perry Wessel to sta in the house and stick to his books. He wante to be alone for a while, that he might consider the situation in which he found himself, e had stopped in Vinson fer a purpose, but ~ had as yet done nothing toward the attainment of his purpose. He had made no discoveries that could strengthen his suspicions of Arthur Blackman, but had seen much to cause him to admire the character of that young gentleman, It was’ singular that Three-fingered Jack bad been allowed to go free after his attempt at burglary, and it was singular that Luml not again been requested to eall at Mr. Black- man’s house—a courtesy which should have been prompted by consideration for his services to that gentleman. But he bad seen Lizzie Black- man. He had met her in Vinson, and she had been very kind and gracious to permitted him to walk most of the way home with her, This eee had made him ‘happy, and his dreams were all of Lizzie, He was restless and uneasy, because he was making no progress in the search that had led him into so many towns and on so many tramps. But he had found at Vinson” ‘ sign of a clew, and he could not expect to gain te; but Cripps pushed it — im, and had —
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- every di 8 anything by aimless wandering. At the same time he was fully aware of the fact that his roving er ETE was held in check by the presences of Lizzie Blackman. Revolving these thoughts in his mind, he reached the river, a narrow, but rapid and turbid stream. It was crossed at that point b a railroad bridge, built upon piles, on whic none but the track-walkers were allowed. On the opposite side was a collection of shanties an hovels, to which a pretentious title had once been given, though the hamlet had been known for years by the brief and undignified name of Pulltight. There was a man on the bridge, and he did not look like a treck-walker. Lumley thought that he recognized that short and burly form, and when the moon came out from hehind a cloud he was sure that the walker was Tom i The festive pressman was coming from the direction of Pulltight, and his gait was very unsteady. As he staggered from tie to tie, the astonished spectator expected at every moment to see him drop into the river. Just then an express train came rattling on the bridge from Pulltight, and there seemed to be no chance for the solitary walker but a choice between death by the cowcatch and death by drowning. His only hope would bave been to let himself down and hang under the bridge until the train went by; but this was a straw that could hardly be grasped by a drunken man. Tom Cripps heard the danger, and turned to look at it. That is to say, he tried to turn; but the effort was too much for his equilibrium. He lost his balance, and dropped like a stone into the muddy stream below. The next instant George convey had pulled off his coat and boots, and was in the river, pushing a fence rail before him. **Here’s help, Tom!” he shouted, forgetting in the excitement of the moment the part he was playing. ‘‘ Keep up a minute, Tom!” He had seen at a glance that the heavy press- man was no swimmer, and he struck out with all his strength to reach him before he sunk. But the drowning man was about to go down for the third time when Lumley grasped his coat-collar, and brought the rail within bis reach, “Get your arms over thisrail, Tom, and keep ‘our head above water,” directed Lumley, * and will soon have you safe ashore.” Cripps held on manfully, and Lumley swam stoutly, and soon they were both panting on the ogen considerable distance below the bridge, while the rail went whirling down the stream. As soon as they rose to their feet Cripps be- gan to gesture rapidly, in the sign language used by deaf mutes, and these were the words he spelled: “You are allright, oldboy. I will never for- get this. You are as deaf asa post, and as dumb as an ovster, and [ will swear to it.” Lumley held out bis hand, and Cripps took it with a grasp that made him wince, Then they wrung out their clothes, and walk- ed to Vinson together, and it was plain that the pressman had been thoroughly sobered by his pert! and his plunge. CHAPTER VII, A TIGHT PINCH IN PULLTIGHT. THE young typo believed that the night’s ad- venture had gained bim a friend in Tom le and he was quite elated by this thought as he went home. But a startling surprise awaited him at his boarding house. Perry Wessel was not in his room, nor was he in the house. Lumley, though wishing that he could throw off the character of a deaf mute, seized his slate, and eagerly questioned the landlady. She could only tell him that the boy bad gone out shortly after dark, and since then she had not seen him. The typo instantly jomapes to the conclusion that Weasel had been kidnapped or made away with, and that Three-fingered Jack was respon- sible for his disappearance. He could form no opinion of the cause that prompted the tram to to regain possession of the boy, but felt convinced that such was his desire, and that he had been hanging around Vinson for that pur- pose. He sallied out immediately, and made inqui- ries at every place that was open, and looked in. ion which he thought the boy might ly have taken; but he conld get no intelli- The Typo. Detective, night was so dark and cloudy that he could muke no extended search. \ gence of Weasel, and the moon bad set, and the | the same shape and make as those that Arthur Blackman’s pistol carried. He shuddered as he laid the pistol away, There was nothing for him to do but return | registering a mental oath that if he could provo home and go to bed, hoping that his young | Arthur Blackman to have been his sister’s mur- | derer, he would kill him with a bullet from that friend might come in before morning. He passed a nearly sleepless night. The va- grant y bad taken a firm hold upon his affee- tions, and he could not bear the thought that he should be forcibly restored to the wretched life from which he had been rescued. When morning came nothing had been seen of Weasel, and Lumley burried out to renew his search. Butno person had seen the boy, and not the slightest trace of him could be found. Lumley naturally carried his sad countenance to the office of the Vindicator, where, some- what to bis surprise, he found Tom Cripps busy | at his case. The big pressman was decided] nervous, but was working resolutely ‘‘ to get bis hand iu,” and he smiled cordially when his res- cuer came in. The story of Weasel’s disappearance was soon told by Lumley to Sam Martin, who repeated it for the benefit of the others. Then Tom oie began some queer antics that attracted the attention of his comrades. He pulled a long face, shook himself like a dog, rubbed his shaggy head violently, and conclud- | ed the performance by covering his face with his broad hands. Lumley with his fingers. “Wait a bit,” he said. you something.” “Hello!” exclaimed Martin. ‘‘ What are you doing, Tom? If you know that Dummy can talk as well as you can, why don’t you shoot your tongue at him?” “‘T know that he can’t,” replied Cripps. “ He pulled me out of the river last night, when I was drowning, and I am sure that if he had ies able to talk he would have yelled to me then. Then he began the flnger conversation again. “T almost know something,” he said, * but can’t quite get hold of it. It is about the tramp I brought here yesterday.” “* Yes; what of him?” eagerly signed Lumley. “Tt was before that time. I met him in the morning, over at Pulltight; and heard him say something; but it slips away when I try to think of it. was then, it would come back to me. talking with a man he called Buck.” ‘His partner,” said Lumley’s fingers. “‘ They spoke of the boy. I heard the name of Weasel. ‘Perhaps I can tell Then he began to talk to | | on his } bi pistol. e are a revolver in town, and started uest, Gmuna the river at a bridge above the rail- road bridge, he reached Pulltight a little after noon. That broken-down burg had, in its younger days, aspired to be a city, but had never pro- gressed beyond the aspiration. Streets had been laid out, plots had been printed, the advan- tages of the location had been extensively ad- vertised, and a great sale of lots had been had. A few pretentious buildings and a number of shanties had been put up, a newspaper had been established, and various drinking-saloons bad sprung up like mushrooms. But Vinson had taken the trade and attracted the population, and had grown steadily while its rival dwindled. The brick buildings proved to be valueless investments, and even some of the shanties were tenantless. The newspaper failed, and the drinking-saloons snuk to grog-shops of the lowest grade. The places reserved for parka were abandoned to brambles and weeds, to cattle and hogs. The aspiring city with the sounding name bad become a disreputable suburb of Vinson— he ditch that drained off the filth and sediment of its population. ; It was considered dangerous for a respectable citizen to remain in Pulltight after dark, and bunted criminals fled thither as to one of the cities of refuge of old days. There was no church in Pulltight, and no ee were there. The policeman knew it not, and the sheriff of the county gave it as wide a berth as possible. George Lumley was well aware of the reputa- tion of this unsavory suburb; but he had confi- dence in bis ability to keep out of trouble, as well as to take care of himself if he should get into trouble, Armed with a stout stick, as well as with bis revolver, he wandered among the shanties anc: hovels of Pulltight, keeping bis eyes and ears If I could get just as drunk as [ | open to every indication. that might give him He was | aclew to the whereabouts of Weasel or Three- | fingered Jack. Occasionally he stopped in at agroggery, and endeavored to cultivate the confidence of the I think it is coming to me now. | shabby proprietor by liberality in the matterof Yes—Buck asked the other what he was going ; liquor, using his slate with those who proved to to do, ‘Bring him over to-night,’ said he. That | be able to read and write. is all IT can remember. heard.” “That will do,” said Lumley. for him in Pulltight.” Perhaps it is all I He told Arthur Blackman, to whom the situ- | | he was sauntering down a wretched lane tha | had once been styled a street, when he saw a ation was explained by the others, that he would have to take time to search for the boy, and to this thera was no objection, as Cripps had returned to work, sary had noticed that his revolver was | rm m his room, and he supposed that He asked the editor to missing Weasel had taken it. lend him one, Arthur hesitated a moment, and the shade of melancholy on-his face drew deeper. Then he unlocked a drawer of his desk, and took out a‘® pistol, which he handed to the typo. “T never carry a revolver,” he wrote. “Here is one which I have not touched in a long time. Lam prejudiced against it. But it is a fine pistol, and you must take care of it.” At his boarding-house the young printer ex- | amined the pistol that had been loaned to him. He had noticed the expression of Arthur Black- man’s face as he looked at the pistol, and had regarded his statement concerning it as at least singular. ' a pistol, and why should he be prejudiced against that particular weapon? It was asix-chambered revolver, witha rather | long barrel, handsomely mounted and with an ivory handle. Five of the chambers were load- ed. One of them was empty, but it was easy to os #34 it was a long time since it had been A chill ran through the young man as he handled this weapon and noticed its condition. Was it possible that he had in his hands the pistol that had slain his sister? Had the bullet that pierced her heart issued from that empty chamber? He hastily searched his sachel for the bullet that had been taken from Clara’s body, and ex- amined it carefully. It was of the same caliber, and evidently of t Why should he have ceased to carry | | man dodge behin But he soon discov- ered that bis search caused him to be looked on with suspicion, and his inquiries developed “T must look nothing but the most stolid ignorance. Asevening approached, having learned just nothing at all in the course of bis investigations one of the shanties that lined the bank of the river. The brief glimpse that he got of this dodger showed him a resemblance to Tbree-fingered Jack, and he started in pursuit, He soon caught sight of the man again, stand- ing at the corner of another shanty, and knew him to be the tramp whom he Was seeking. But at the same moment the man seemed to be- come aware of the fact that he was pursued, | and to recognize bis pursuer, and he again disap- peared. Lumley followed him up sharply, and saw him twice more as he dodged about among the shanties. It then occurred to the young typo that Three- fingered Jack might be leading himon. If the tramp wished to escape, or to hide, it seemed that he might easily do so; but he appeared to be dodging about for some other purpose. Was he adopting the tactics of the bird that seeks to draw the passer-by from her nest, or was he sare A aig .o decoy his pursuer into an am- sh? Lumley continued to pursue this flitting shadow, and soon he plainly saw the tramp enter a rickety frame building that stood at a little distance from the river. He was convinced that this maneuver was intended to be seen by him, and was then sure that he was being led on. But this belief did not prevent him from con- tinuing the pursuit. He did not doubt that be was physically a match for Three-fingered Jack, and was of the opinion that with the aid of his weapons he ought to be able to take care of him- self. He determined to follow the tramp into his den, to faee him there, and to compel the release of Weasel. Ad
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9 mn an eer ene Grasping his stick firmly, be approached the honse. It was a two-story building, but the upper part was much dilapidated, and the win- dows of the lower part were closed with board shutters, Without stopping to knock, he lifted the oa the door at once yielded, and he stepped . The room that he entered was dark, dirty and | bare, with the exception of a rickety table, a broken chair, and an old straw bed that lay on the floor, Neither Three-fingered Jack nor any other person was to be seen. He stepped forward to the middle of the room, the floor gave way beneath him, and he knew that he was falling, CHAPTER IX. MORE TRAPS THAN ONE. Tx typo fell but a little distance, striking on pun font, aud tumbling over on a hard earthen rr Before he could arise he was seized by two men, and his hands and feet were securely bound. Then he was lifted up and seated on a box, and the dim light of a lantern enabled bim to take a view of his surroundings. Tha cellar into which he had fallen was dark and damp, about half-filled with boxes and bar- rels, and had the appearance of being used as a storehouse. A trap-door that hung down from above, swinging on hinges, showed him how he had been dumped into the cellar, and a little light came through the opening. His captors were Three-fingered Jack, and another man of the same quality and style. While the other raised the trap-door and fas- tened if with a bolt, Three-fingered’ Jack stood in front of his prisoner, and surveyed bim with a look of malignant exultation. “Think you’re smart, don’t you?” he said. **Mebbe you are, but you ain’t smart enough fur me, sonny. Nobody but a durned fool would ha’ tumbled into sech a trap as this. I’ve got you now, and mean to settle old scores afore | wipe out w’ot’s on the slate.” Lumley made no reply, but gazed defiantly at the man’s dirty face. “Fine feller you are,” continued the tramp, “\to kerry off my propperty. That boy’s wuth too much to me to be let go, and you won’t see him no more—not, never, no, more, sonny. Sweet kind of a Christian you are, to go fur to bu’st up my little game. “Spect you reckoned I'd be sent up fur five or ten year on that job. But I ain’t, you see. Joe Blackman is too much of a gentleman to be that hard on a poor feller like me. He knows what side his bread is but- tered on, he does.” Lumley thought he could give a guess at the meaning of these words; but he said nothing, and the tramp resumed his taunts. ‘So you're a-playin’ of the deaf an’ dumb racket; but that’s all the good itll do you. Do you reckon I don’t know what kind of a lay you're on? I ain’ta bad hand at guessin’, I ain’t, and thar’s more’n one to take a band in that game. You needn’t ter think you kin git out o' this fix, ’cause you're as safe as a fly in a drum, and Buck and Pl go ‘long and tend to our business. Come, Buck!” George Lumley was by no means disposed to let the game end in that style. Lack of cau- tion had led him into a scrape, but he meant to try what pluck and skill could do to get him | out of it. ; Three-fingered Jack picked up the lantern, and the two men cienpoeesss behind a pile of boxes, leaving the cellar in total darkness. Tho tramp had told him that he was “‘as safe as a fly in a drum,” but he doubted that, and at once began to consider the question of escape. His feet and hands were tied with leather thongs, and it oceurred to him that leather, though strong, cannot be easily tied in a secure knot. | Glancing down at his hands, he believed that he could untie those knots with bis teeth. If not, his teeth onghs to be sharp enough to gnaw the thong. y had not the fools, he thought, tied his hands behind his back, so that he could not get at them? If be had been incau- tious, the tramp had. also been careless. Although his sight had become accustomed to the darkness, he could not see the knot with any degree of clearness, and.was obliged to feel it with his mouth. It proved to be a clumsy series of common hard knots, and he had not much difficulty in getting them loose. This was only a question of time, and when his bands were free he easily cast off the bonds from his feet. Pe his liberty; but, what should he do Tt would be an easy task to open the trap- | tors had not disarmed him, and was satisfied SS ee ne | and examined the pistol. fingered Jack had spoken of manner as to cause Tanitiey to believe that the boy was in his possession. If so, might he not be rescued? The young typo, moreover, was of an adventurous disposition, and believed in his ability to extricate himself from dangerous situations. He wanted to “get even” with the tramp who had entrapped him, and was anxious to explore the mystery that lay under the con- versation of his captor. He felt in his hip pocket for his pistol. It was still there. He was surprised that his cap- seasons, and I’ve jest “T am afraid you “* You don’t need to fret about thatchap. I’ve settled his bash.” ** How so?” “He came over to Pulltight on that very errant, and T led him on, and coaxed him into this shop, and dumped him through a trap inter the cellar.” ‘“ What!” exclaimed Mr. Blackman, in a tono that showed great excitement and displeasure. “ That's jest w’ot I did, old man, and itis best for all hands to git that chap hived. Don't you know that his name is George Lumley, and that he used to live at Yonkers?” “Yes; but there is no sense in stirring him up. I let him go along about his business, and you should have done the same,” ‘“* But he don’t need to be mixin’ up in my business, and I owe bim a grudge fur w’ot he’s done to me afore this.” “You ought to be careful how you get me into trouble, Jack,” said My. Blackman. “‘ You seem to forget that I let you off when you were taken at my house,” “That be blowed!” exclaimed the tramp. “I don’t owe you no thanks fur doin’ w’ot you bad todo, I know too much of you and your ways fur you to come down on me.” ‘“You had better be careful, Jack Snell,” said Mr. Blackman, with rising anger, Don't pro- voke me too far, or you will be sorry for it. I know just how much you know, but I also kuow that I can jan ad you ont of my that the balance of carelessness was not against him, though be had so easily tumbled into a pai is first thought was that he would conceal the pistol where he could easily reach it, await the return of Three-fingered Jack, and then as- tonish him to some purpose. With this view he carefully laid the revolver down behind the box on which he was seated. As he did so, his fingers came in contact with another pistol. Considerably surprised at this discovery, he lifted both weapons, restored his own to his hip pocket, and examined the other. It was a six- chambered revolver, and there was something about it that added to bis surprise, There was some carving on the stock that felt like lettering. On the stock of his own pistol—that which was missing when Weasel disappeared—he had carved his own initials, and his fingers told him that the lettering he was then feeling was simi- lar to that. This might be a mere freak of his fancy; but he could easily satisfy himself. He had some matches in his pocket, one of which he lighted, Yes, there were his | initials, G. I, carved on the stock. way. and nobody will be the wiser for it.” It was his pistol—there could be no doubt of “Jest you try it, old twist-an’-turn-about,” that. The presumption was that it had been in | replied the tramp. ‘Thar’s more’n one way to Weasel’s possession; that the boy had been in that cellar, and that be had concealed the pistol where Lumley found it, If it had been taken from him, the one who took it would bave kept it. Tt was also reasonable to suppose that Weasel was still in or about that building, and his friend was not inclined to abandon the pursuit when he was sure that he had found the trail. He put the two pistols in his pockets, picked up his stick, and started on a voyage of discoy- blow the gaff, and it ain’t safe fur you to fool with me. But you're a-raisin’ a big row about nothin’, 1'}] take the boy away, and totber chap won't bother you. I’ve got him, as I told him a bit ago, as safe asa fly in a dram, and now I'll go down and take a look at him.” “*T hope you will be careful, Jack. I will have to ship off a lot of these goods to-night, and this place must be kept quiet.” : As soon as Lumley heard the tramp say that he was going to look after his prisoner, he slipped down the stairs, and entered the front room of the cellar, where he hastily moved a box under the trap door, pulled out the bolt, and let the trap fall down. Then be concealed himse)f behind a pile of boxes, and awaited the arrival of his enemy. ery. The two tramps had disappeared behind a pile of boxes, and there he found a broken door, through which he passed, and entered another underground apartment. By means of a faint light from some unseen source he perceived that this room, like the other, was nearly filled with boxes and barrels. But he also saw a plain and stout staircase, lead- ing to the floor above, and knew that by that route the tramps must have made their exit, He determined to follow them, and to explore the tenement, in the hope of finding Wease). Quietly he ascended the stairs, and found a closed door at the head of thelanding. Here he stopped short, for the sound ef the voices that came from within startled him. There were evidently two men on the other side of the door, and be was sure that one of them was Three-fingered Jack, _The voice of the other he thought that he recognized, to his great surprise, as that of Mr. Blackman, Arthur's father, because it bad a peculiar low but pene- trating tone. Directly be was convinced of the correctness of this surmise. “T tell you now, Joe Blackman,” said the tramp, “you hain’t got no call to be a-scoldin’ of me, or findin’ fault with w’ot I see fit to do. f you keep your own self straight and out 0’ trouble, it’ll be as much as you kin ’tend to.” Mr. Blackman seemed to take no offense at the tramp’s familiar manner and insulting tone, but answered him quite meekly: “Well, Jack, this is my place, and I must be careful that nothing is done to bring the Vinson ee down on it, and I am afraid that this ittle business of yours may make trouble. That | is the reason I ask you why you have picked } up that boy and brought him over here.” “Just because it’s in the line o’ my business. Thar's money in the boy fur me, and I mean to | the best place to salt him, keep him ontil I kin git out 0’ him all he’s wuth | likely to rouse any of the neighbors or anybody tome. He hain’t got nothin’ to do wi’ you, and | else. Jerushy! won't I pay him up fur that you don’t ought to grumble.” ; time he plugged me in the stummick! 13 “‘T am not so sure of that,” oe ae Mr. Black- | - He set down bis lantern and burried ous, “There isone boy that Iam inierested “Much obliged to you, Mr. Snell,” muttered SPOILING A CIRCUS. THREE-FINGERED JACK came into the cellar room with his lantern, and stopped and stared, It needed but a glance to tell him that bis prisoner was missing, and the condition of the trap showed how the escape had been effected. e was not stricken dumb ty his astonish- ment, but poured forth for the space of ten min- utes sucha stream of profanity as might well have caused the air to turn blue, He examined the place with his lantern, and discovered nothing but the thongs with which he had bound Lumley’s feet and hands lying on the ground floor. ; He stamped on the scraps of leather, and spit out another stream of profanity, hot enough to set fire to the flooring above. , Having relieved himself by this exercise, he raised the trap-door and bolted it, “This looks like lockin’ the stable door arter the hoss is stole,” he said; ‘ but that trap needs to be shot, anyhow. Durned ef this ain’t the wust kittle o’ fish I’ve b’iled lately. Ef old man Blackman knowed what had come off, he'd jest go ravin’ crazy. I’m mad eneugh, my own self, to bu’st my gizzard; but I’ve got to git even with somebody, and my only show is to take it outo’ the boy, I meant to give him a scorcher fur runnin’ away, and now his hide ’Il hev to pay for this other go.” i The tramp started to leave the cellar, but stopped and looked around, / “ll fetch him down here,” he said. “ and his yells won’t be
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ea Lumley, “for arranging your circus so that I can have a front seat. But I suppose I shall have to pay for my ticket by taking part in the performance,” By the light of the lantern the typo made his preparations for the conflict he expected. After the lapse of about fifteen minutes Three- fingered Jack returned, dragging Weasel in by the arm. The boy’s face was pale, but he showed no fear. His lips were closed tightly, and the expression of his countenance was that of dogged defiance and determination. The tramp placed him in the middle of the room, near the boxes bebind which Lumley was concealed, and set his lantern where it would throw light on the se>ne. To the ambushed printer the picture was a striking one, though by no means pleasant. Whe dark and dingy cellar, the stout figure of the tramp and the slight form of the boy, the dim rays of the lantern falling on the dark and coarse features of the one and the clean and le face of the other, the contrast between ute force and courageous, weakness—made a scene more peculiar than pleasant. “Now, sonny,” said the brute, ‘‘ yon and me is gwine to heva heap o’ fun together. Youare tond o’ cirkisses, and we will hev a leetle cirkiss all to ourselves. You are gwine to be the trick mule, and I will be the ringmaster.” Weasel said nothing, and the tramp pro- duced from his coat pocket a stout leather “Do you see this tickler?” he said. “It'll play a big part in the cirkiss. I’m gwine to give you sech a larrupin’ as’ll teach you the folly o’ tryin’ torun away from me, When I fotched you over here, and made you a fine offer ef you would sw’ar ag’inst runnin’ off, you said you wouldn’t do it on no sort o’ tarms.” “T meant it, too,” defiantly replied the boy. “Bo now I’m gvine to settle with yon, and pay you up fur the new and the old. ve got sy ae alone, whar thar cain’t a mortal crit- come nigh us, aud I mean to jest about skin you alive.” Weasel did not flinch, and the set lines of his face showed that he bad made up his mind to the worst. “You've got to ketch it fur w’ot that dog- goned printer did, too,” said Snell. ever here a-huntin’ you, the cussed skunk, and Aootched him and hived him right in this hole, = him tight; but he got loose and sneaked Weasel’s face brightened. It was evidently a joy to him to learn that his friend had been searching for him, and that he was safe, The tramp ordered him to take off his coat; but this he evidently could not do, as his hands were tied, and it was necessary to unfasten them to get bis arms through the sleeves. As soon as his hands were loose the boy made a fight for liberty; but the tramp was too strong for him, and soon had him partly ard ae and tied, binding him so as to bring him in a leaning position over a box. ‘Now, sonny,” said Snell, ‘‘ the cirkiss is gwine to begin, and when it’s through thar won’t be a bit o’ hide on your body that ain’s as sore’s as a bile. Yell just as much as you wanter, Thar ain’t nobody to bear you but me, and that’s the kind o’ music I’m fond of.” George Lumley, concealed behind a pile of ‘He kem | ‘ “The Typo Detective. This time the pe became a stab, and the sharp blade of the knife entered the tramp’s flesh nearly its full length. He howled with pain and sprung up as if he would jump out of his ragged shoes. ; ss Murder !he shouted. ‘Snakes! Pmsnake- it !” Then be rushed mudly through the open door into the back cellar,and could be heard stum- bling up stairs, cursing as he went. Lumley came out from his concealment, cut Weasel’s bonds and raised bim to his feet. The boy uttered an exclamation of joy as he recognized his friend. ‘‘ Did you do that, Mr. Lumley?” he asked. Then, recollecting himself, he began to talk with bis fingers. “Never mind your fingers this time,” said Lumley. “Tell me how that rascal got hold of you?’ “*Hadn’t we better git away from here fust?”’ asked the boy. “No, He will not be likely to hurry back. If he should, he will be sorry for it.” Weasel told his story. e bad gone down- stairs at the boarding-house, to get some fresh air, taking Lumley’s pistol as a_ protection. Seeing a little girl crying over the way, he had crossed the street to learn what was the matter with her. There he had been suddenly seized from behind by two men, gagged and tied. They carried him through an alley, and across some back lots to the river, where they put him in a boat, and brought him to the old house in Pulltight. “Tt was Three-fingered Jack and his pard- ner,” said the boy, ‘‘ and Jack wanted me to take a Bible oath that I’d never leave him ag’in. He told me that if I'd stick to him he’d take me to my father, who is a rich gen’leman, and will ive me lots 0’ good clothes and plenty o’ money. f told bim that I didn’t believe a word he said, and that all the money in the world wouldn’t hire me to stay along o’ him. Then he cussed me black an’ blue, and swore I shouldn’t never git away from him no more. I reckon Id ha’ been thrashed nigh out o’ my skin, if you hadn’t been around.” *T did not give that fellow near enough,” said Lumley; ‘‘but I thought that the easiest wax was the best. Come; let us get out of ere. “Say, Mr. Lumley; they didn’t git your pistol away from me. I hid it down here in this hole, and I can go right to it.” ‘Never mind that, Weasel. I happened to find it, and I have it safe. Here it is. You may carry it; but you must not try to use it unless I tell you to. Come with me now.” Lumley mounted a box, pulled out the bolt of the trap door, and lowered it. Then he lifted Weasel through the opening and swung himself p. The upper room was empty, and there was no sign of life about the place. fhe young printer opened the street door, aud looked out, As he did so, he saw a number of men in front of the house, and found himself face to face with Tom Cripps. CHAPTER, XI. A TUUGH TIME AT PULLTIGHT. “THUNDERATION!” exclaimed the big press- boxes, had picked up a piece of cord and bad | man, when he found himself confronted by tightly bound his penknife to the end of his stick, opening ove of the small blades, which was as sbarp as a razor. Three fingered Jack planted himself near the ™ pile of boxes, with his back to his unseen foe, and raised his strap for a cruel, cutting stroke. George Lumley and his companion. ‘‘ Who’d have thought of running against you two?” Then, recollecting himself, he began to con- verse vigorously with bis fingers. At the same time the other men separated, | stationing themselves at different points about As he did so Lumley thrust out bis stick from | the old building. between the boxes, prodded bim sharply in the thickest part of his thigh, and immediately drew the lance back to his shelter. The tramp jumped up with a yell and clapped @* his hand on the wounded portion of his form, trembling with fright, if not with pain. He relieved his mind with a string of oaths, | picked up his lantern, and carefully examined the floor of the cellar, but saw nothing that could excite his suspicions. “What in thunder was that?’ he asked bim- self. ‘‘It couldn’t ha’ been suthin’ in my breeches. Never knowed any bug to bite like that afore. Was it you, you mizzable young bag-o’-bones? You don’t look like you could ha’ done it; but toar’s no tellin’ w’ot such a can- tankerous scamp kin be up to. You'll hey to pay for it, anyhow. Doggone my skin if I op’t fetch blood every lick!” ain he raised the strap to give effect to his wi , and again his convealed foe thrust out his lance, | ‘Never mind that, Tom,” said George. ‘‘ We will talk with our mouths, just now, and on this side of the river.” ‘Well, Dummy. Iam mighty glad to find you safe and sound. What were you doing in that house, and where did you get the boy?’ George explained the situation as briefly as he could, and gave an account of his adventuresin search of Weasel, carefully omitting, for rea- | sons of his own, the conversation that he had | overheard between Joseph Blackman and the | tramp. SR But what are you doing here, Tom?’ he asked. ‘* You seem to have a party with you, | too. What brought you to Pulltight again?” “ That’s a secret of state, Dummy, my boy.” i solemnly replied Tom Cripps. ‘‘ But it will be an open secret very soon, and I m:+y as well give you the rights of it. You know—or, if you don’t know, you may accept the assurance of the undersigned—that robberies have been the plague of Vinson for a longtime. Houses and stores have been entered, and property has been carried off by the wholesale; yet the police and the other authorities have never been able to get hold of the gang that did the work.” . George Lumley thought that he perceived an extensive rat’s nest, but kept his thoughts to himself. ‘‘ Lately,” continued Cripps, ‘the sheriff of the county picked upa clew. He got hold of one of the gang, and squeezed a partial confession out of him.” ** Did be give the names of his pals?” eagerly asked George. ‘No; but the sheriff is on the right track, and hopes to get at the inside of the whole business pretty soon. The man told where some of the plunder might be found, and the sheriff quietly went around to enlist a se Come-an’-get-us for service in Pulltight. e came to me, know- ing that I was fond of such work, and that I could play a good hand at the game. I gladly jumped in, as I wanted to come over here and ook after you and the boy, and here I am. The plunder is in this house, and we hope to get hold of some of the gang here.” The pressman’s flow of language was unex- pectedly and rudely interrupted. A dark form stole silently from within the house to the open door, and suddenly rushed out, knocking down Weasel, and nearly over- turning Tom Cripps. George Lumley recognized the shape and gait of Three-tingered Jack as the man ran swiftly up the dark street, and started in pur- suit of him, closely followed by Weasel. The young typo ran well, and cone on the tramp; but the latter was thoroughly acquainted with the labyrinth of Pulltight, and turned and wound among the ruins and brambles, so that it was difficult to _— him in sight. George did not dare to fire at him, for fear of arousing a mob of Pulltighters, who would be sare to take the part of the fugitive. The chase was ended by the sudden disappear- ance of the tramp, and Lumley and Weasel searched for him in vain, finding not the slight- est trace of him. Then they picked their way back to the old house, where Tom Cripps was still standing guard at the open door, “ The job is finished,” said Tom, when Lumle had briefly reported the failure of his pursui ‘ Part of the posse have gone home, and I was waiting here for you. The sheriff has found lots of plunder, and is as happy as a ward bummer at election time. There will be a big excitement in Vinson over this.” “Did he catch any of the gang?’ asked George. ‘Not a man. a4 had all crawled out at some rat-hole, unless the chap who gave us the slip was the only one in the shanty. But the sheriff is on the right track, and is sure of them. Keep mum about that, Lumley, and let us cross over to Vinson.” ‘Please remember, Tom, that when we get to Vinson J am to be Dummy again.” “ All right, my boy; I will make no mistake about that. But I would really like to know what sort of alay youareon. Are you keep- ing up this sort of thing just for fun? “No, Tom, there is somethi: g more than fun in it. It is a serious matter. But I can’t ex- plain it now, and I hope you will believe me when I say that it is nothing but what is square and honest.” “*T baven’t the least doubt of that.” “You won’t betray me then, old boy?’ “Betray you? Did you fish me out of the river for that? You may bet your utmost ducat on Tom Cripps!” When George Lumley reached his boarding~ house, he and Weas | retired to rest for the re- mainder of the night. The boy was soon lost in slumber, but sleep was slow to visit the eyes of the young type. The revelations of the earlier part of the night kept his brain active and excited, and both troubled and puzzled him. He could have no doubt that Joseph Black- man was the leader of the gang of robbers whose storehouse in Pulltight had been discoy- ered and raided by the sheriff. The old man had escaped capture; but Tom Cripps had said that the gang would surely be brought to jus- tice soon. It was clear that Mr, Blackman bad turned the burglarious tramp loose because he was one of the gang, and Lumley su: d that there mi ‘we be some further nti. ofthat. — is was no concern 0: e@ young typo thought. He cared nothing for Joe Blapiaton, and there was no valid reason why he should not perform the duty he owed to society by
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The Typo Detective. iving information to the authorities of what e bad seen and heard in the old house at Pull- tight. et it was a matter of deep concern to him, and he could not give that information, be- cause the culprit was Lizzie Blackman’s father. He felt that Lizzie was his fate: that he could not help loving her, and would never love any but her. Her father’s misdeeds could never make him love her less, and for her sake he could do nothing to harm her father, But her brother? That was a harder nut to erack. Was Arthur Blackman associated with his father in his unlawful enterprises? Lumley did not believe that he was. There was something in the young editor’s voice and manner and ajl bis ways that seemed to shut out such a suspicion. Granted that he was clear of that charge, was he the murderer of Clara Lumley? George hoped that he was not, as he had taken a real liking to the liberal, whole- souled, sad-faced proprietor of the Vindicator. But suspicion was strong against him. There was his hand, the very image of the plaster cast which Lumley had so carefully preserved. There was his pistol, exactly such as that from which the fatal bullet had been fired. Besides, Joseph Blackman seemed to know something about George Lumley who used to live at Yon- kers, and had ‘let him go along about his busi- ness,” But these suspicious circumstances might be mere coincidences, easy of explanation. Lumley ho they were. fore be dropped to sleep be had formed ene determination—that he would go and visit Lizzie Blackman without any more delay. He wished that he could speak to her and talk freely. He had gained areca | as yet by Wg ing the part of a deaf mute. But he could not disclose the truth to her then, and confess him- self an impostor. CHAPTER XII. CLARA LUMLEY’S MURDERER, Tue next morning George Lumley’s determi- nation had not wilted, and he proceeded to earry into effect his intention of visiting Liz- zie Blackman. He arrayed himself in his best, and took un- usual pains with his personal appearance. He was somewhat nervous about this adventure, ashe began to believe that he was coming to the turning point of his life, and that much might depend upon a little. Attor givin easel a pistol, and cautioning him against allowing himself to be kidnapped again, he set out. ; In his walk from Vinson toward the resi- dence of Joseph Blackman, he left the main road, and turned aside into a quiet lane, or ‘neighborhood road,” which would take him direct to the house, saving uearly half a mile of distance, But fate had decreed that he was never to enter that house as a guest the second time. He had not come in sight of it when he heard a Wwoman’s scream—and a scream of terror aud pain. , He at once thought of Lizzie Blackman, and that thought put speed in his limbs. Running around a bend in the road, he saw her struggling in the grasp of a rough-looking man, whom he easily recognized as Three- fingered Jack, who was holding her by both arms. ety Y Both were g0 occupied—the girl in striving to get free, and the man in restraining her—that they did not notice the young typo’s approach. “Wot ails ye, gal?” the tramp was angrily exclaiming. ‘Don’t ye know that I’m a partic’ lar friend o’ yer dad’s? All the same as one o the fambly. "Be quiet, now, or I’ll git mad.’ But the gir} struggled for release, and scream- ed for help. Help was right at hand. As Lumley ran up he lanched his left fist into the tramp’s f#ce, causing him to lose his hold and stagger back. The next instant Lumley’s pistol was leveled at him, with a threatening gesture. a The scamp stood not upon the order of his going, but took to his heels. Lizzie was trembling with weakness and ex- citement, and did not refuse the proffered sup- port of her rescuer, 4 “Tam so thankful,” she said. Then remem- Wering his infirmity, she hesitated. ‘ George banded her bis slate and pencil. “ Sq thankful,” she wrote. in time to save me.” “You came just } ‘Lucky that I was going to your father’s house,” he wrote. She looked surprised, but was evidently not displeased. 6 wrote again. “Let us sit down. You need rest, and it is hard to write when one is standing.” She suffered him to lead her from the road, and they sat down on a log under a large oak. Lizzie then held out her hand for the slate; but he wrote again. ‘*T can understand what you say, by the mo- tions of your lips, if you will speak piainly, and if I may look at them.” She blushed, and the blush was quickly fol- } lowed by a smile. “Tam so glad of that,” she said, “and now | I only wish that you could talk to me without the slate. I have been hoping that you would come out to see us, and had expected you; but when I spoke to father about it, he frowned, and shook his head.” He was strongly tempted to speak to her, but restrained himself, ‘*T would gladly have come,” he wrote. ‘‘ Your face bas been with me all the time. I have heard your voice every hour, I was nearly crazy to see you, and to-day I meant to make the trial, no matter what stood in the a he could not help knowing what these words meant, and she blushed again, ‘You are very kind,” she said, ‘You have done me a great service to-day, and I would be glad to see you often; but father is so strange. I will speak to Arthur again.” It was clear to the young typo that she bad been taking at least a friendly interest in him, and he felt encouraged to go further. “T wish,” he wrote, ‘ that I could put on the slate just what I want to say to you.” Her eyes dropped and ber hands trembled. ‘*Would it be so hard to write it?’ she asked, without looking up. He held the slate under her eyes, and ‘I love you” was what she read. Then she blushed as she bad not blushed be- fore, but turned and looked him in the face. “You must not write that,” she said—‘ at least, not now. You know so little of me, and I—I know so little of you. And there is my father.” “You are not angry, I hope,” he wrote. ‘* How could I be angry with you, when you have done me such a service?” ** May [see you again?” **T hope so. You may walk with me now toward the house.” A short walk brought them in sight of the house, where they parted, George pressed her hand as he left her, and felt an answering pres- sure. When he had gone a little way be turned and looked back, and she was doing the same. He held his head high, and his heart was light as a feather, as he walked rapidly back to Vinson, reaching his boarding-house in time for a late dinner. After dinner, not knowing what else to do with himself, he determined to go to the print- ing office and work for awhile, as he needed oc- cupation to quiet his excited thoughts. He expected to find the office deserted, as the paper for the week was issued and out of the way, and all hands, including the “‘ devil,” were supposed to have gone to a pienic. ut Arthur Blackman was there, and he was not alone. Hiscompanion was his father, whom Lumley had never before seen at the office, They were seated at the table in the compos- ing-room, which Arthur used for business and editorial purposes. There was a stern and re- pulsive look on the old man’s face; but the young editor’s countenance wore its usual mild and melancholy, expression. Without a word to either of them Lumley went to his case, hung up his coat, and the types began to click as he worked on a piece of “ solid” copy that was already before him, ‘Tam ready to listen to what you say, sir,” said Arthur, ‘We are not alone now,” replied Mr. Black- man, with a frowning glance at Lumley. “That young man doesn’t count. He is as deaf as a post.” ‘Tam not so sure of that. I have heard it said that he can k and hear well enough.” “T have heard that story, too. It was told here by a tramp who would swear to anything for whisky. Lumley hasbeen tried in this office fifty different ways. If there was an im- position it would surely have been discovered. dis to believe him a fraud, is convin t he is a ven Tom Cripps, who was roel genuine deaf mute.” t | daylight I shall disappear.” “Tf you are sure of this, Arthur.” “Tam as sure of it asl am that I am speaking to you now,” “Then I will speak. Of course you know of . seizure that was made in Pulltight last night. ‘Of course I do,” replied the young editor. “‘T sent a dispatch to the Cincinnati Babeiiver this morning, giving all the particulars as far as the affair has gone. Sheriff Magee says that he has a sure thing on catching the scoundrels, and will soon get the whole gang. He is only wait- ing for a little more evidence.” ‘He will get it easy enough. But there is one member of the gang, as you call them, whom he will not catch, and that is the leader.” “How do you know that, sir?” “Because I am the leader, and I will not allow myself to be caught.” ‘Father! You? Do you know what you are saying?’ ‘Iam in my right mind, and am telling you the plain truth.” Arthur Blackman stared aghast at bis father, whose face did not relax in its hard and stern expression, “IT have been in that business for some years,” he continued, as calmly as if he were speal of a legitimate trade, ‘I started it here, an have controlled it absolutely. I have managed it so well that I had no fear of discovery. But it has come out at last, and the only thing for me to do is to get out of the way.” “You, father!” excl: imed Axtbur. “Ig it possible that you have been the leader of a band of robbers, and that I have known nothing about it? This is too horrible to believe.” _ Joseph Blackman sneered. ‘‘Is it so very horrible?” he asked. ‘Phere. are other horrible things in the world. When you shot and killed that girl at Yonkers, that was something horrible, too.” George Lumley wondered that he did not drop upon the floor, His legs shook under him a chill ran through his body, and then he burned with sudden fever, There wasa mist between his eyes and the boxes, and his hand shvok so that he could scarcely pickup the type. But he kept clicking them in the stick, lest his excite- ment should be perceived. It was true. There was the man who had murdered his sister, the man whom he had sworn to kill, and he must kill him, But not then, There was time enough for that, and the pistol with which the deed must be done was not. then upon his person, The others were too much absorbed by their- Own emotions to notice him. Arthur Blackman bowed his head on the table, and shook like a man in mortal agony. Then he looked up, and spoke clearly and sol- emnly: “You know that I never meant to kill her,” he said. ‘Oh, yes, that was horrible enough; but it was an accident, a misadventure, an God is my witness that I bave deeply and bit- terly repented of my carelessness,” “You say it was an accident,” sneered Joseph Blackman, ‘As you were the only witness of” the girl’s death, your word must go for what it is worth.” ‘‘Do you not believe me, then?” “I suppose I must believe you. But let that: ass. I merely wanted to hint to you that you. ave no right to preach tome. You were sur- prised at what I told you. Where did you im- agine my money came from?” “I thought you had retired from businees, and were living on your money.” “T have been “ie on the money of other as pa ay is what { have been living on But enough of this. Ihave told you the plain truth, to prepare you for my sudden departure. I will be safe here until to-morrow. Before “‘Tbope you will leave Lizzie with me,” said Arthur, in a broken voice. “T will leave her and the house in your care. ‘You will heré from me in some way before long. Now I must be off, as I have much to. — attend to.” : Joseph Blackman hurriedly left the house. Arthur sat a few minutes at the table wae a in ——- Then he arose, and slowly wa Red ou CHAPTER XTi. MORE REVELATIONS, WHEN the two Blackmans had left the print- ing office, mectie Lumley dropped his compos- ing-stick upon his case he room and its contents seemed to swim be - fore hig eyes, and he staggered like a drunken
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12 the chair vacated by Arthur. He bowed his head on the table, as Arthur had dona, and for some minutes a tumult of seen | thoughts and emotions kept his brain in a whir As he looked and stared abont him, his eyes rested on the table, and on a folded paper which had the appearance of a legal document. Mechanically he read the writing that was visible upon it, and it bore this inscription : “ Richard W. Jones to Frederick Lyster, deed,” The young typo opened the document and hastily perused it. It exactly answered the de- scription of the deed that had been stolen from Frederick Lyster about the time of the killing of Clara Lumley. There could be no doubt that it was that deed. George quickly concealed it in an inner pocket of his vest. He only wondered whether it was Joseph Blackman or his son who had left it _ there. Hearing steps approaching the door, ke sprung to his case, and the types were clicking merrily in his stick when the door opened. The visitor was Joseph Blackman, who looked on the table, on the floor, and about the room, as if searching for something. He alsoexamined his pockets thoroughly. **T must have lost it,” he muttered, “ unless I left it at home.” After casting a suspicious glance at the silent and solitary typo, he again Jeft the printing ice, George Lumley remained a little while after the old man had gone, and then put on his coat and sallied out. He walked away from town, and up the river bank into the woods, The events of the day had been sufficient to upset his equilibrium @nd be- wilder bis brain, and he needed to calnt himself down and take a rational view of matters, to be mle to decide what he could, should, or ought to do, He was sure that Lizzie Blackman loved him. He was also sure that her brother had slain his sister. It was true that he claimed the killing to have been an accident, and Lumley was will- ing. for Lizzie’s sake, to give him the benefit of a doubt; but there must be a settlement with him, a final and complete settlement. But not just yet. There was another matter that pressed upon Luinley, and claimed kis im- mediate attention. It was clear that Joseph Blackmen had stolen, or caused to be stolen, Frederick Lyster's deed, It was in his possession, and he it was who had eee by the theft. It was at least reasonable presume that the same man had stolen, or caused to be stolen, Frederick Lyster’s children, and the young typo felt it to be his duty to find them and restore them to their sorrowing parent. It was not for nothing, after all, that he had played the part of a deaf mute, as thus he had gained possession of secrets which could not otherwise have come to his knowledge. But he no longer needed to support that pretense, and was ready to declare himself in his true char- acter and act openly and above-board. When his walk was ended he bad resolved to visit Joseph Blackman at his bouse that night, when he might expect to find him at home, and compel him to declare what had become of ‘Frederick Lyster’s lost children. Should he refuse to do so, Lumley determined to prevent his escape from Indiana justice. It was after dark when he left Vinson on this errand; but there was a half moon, which shone oceasionally through broken clouds, and gave him light enough to see his way. He took Weasel along for company, and to make sure that the boy did not fall into any more difficulties. Weasel observed the silent and melancholy mood of his protector, and tried to talk in a lively strain as they jogged aloug; but nothing be said or did could cheer ' George Lumley. When they came in sight of Mr. Blackman’s residence a startled exclamation burst from the lips of both, The bouse was on fire, and flames were burst- ing out from the side which they were approach- ing! With the wild instinct that prompts a boy to run to a fire, Weasel darted away, and was out _of sight before Lumley could stop him. He, also, bastened on at the top of his speed; but be was still at a considerable distance from the house when he discovered the fire, and the flames were darting up from all parts when he reached the spot. No one was to be seen about the premises but the hired man, who stood in front of the house, stamping and yelling like a crazy person. Lumley gave this fellow a sound shaking, to bring him to his senses, and sent him off to seek assistance, Then he darted in at the front door, which the man had left open after bis own exit, and hurried from room to room, seeking the in- mates, At last he found Lizzie Blackman and one of the women servants, cowering in an up-stairs room, frightened by the flame, and nearly suf- focated by the smoke, and so confused that they did not know which way to turn, He saw them safely down the stairway, which ; had already been attacked by the fire, and es- corted them to a place of security at the side of the road, Then be returned to see what could be done for the burning building and its contents, There was nothing that could bedone. A num- ber of the neighbors had arrived, and bad succeeded in bringing out a few articles of fur- niture; but there was no hope of saving the house, which was of wood, and burned rapidly. Lumley looked among the gathering crowd for Arthur Blackman, and at last found him. He was running about frantically, inquiring for Lizzie and his tather. As the young typo was not ready, under this change of circumstances, to disclose himself in his real character, he took his employer by the sleeve, and led him to where Lizzie was seated at the side of the road. “Thank God that you are safe, Arthur!” she exclaimed. ‘‘ Where is fatier?” “Ido not know,” sadly answered the young man. “Iwas with bim in bis private room, where we were conversing on business matters, We noticed a strong smell of smoke, and soon the light out doors told us that the house was on fire, He had locked the door on the inside, but something was the matter with the lock, and the key woald not turn, At last I threw up a window, and jumped out on the lawn, He said that he wanted to get something out of his safe, and would follow me immediately. Ido not know why he sbould not have escaped. He had plenty of time and opportunity. He must ark out. But | have not been able to find in, Wher Lumley returned to the scene of the conflagration the roof of the house had fallen iu, and the flames had full sway. After a while a fire engine from Vinson came lumbering up, but found nothing but ruins to play upon. The handsome residence was totally destroyed, with most of the outbuildings. The !.orses and cattle were saved, but scarcely anything else of value, Lizzie Blackman had been taken by Arthur to the house of a neighbor who bad offered them shelter, and Lumley, unwilling to in- trude upon her in a time of trouble, set out to return to Vinson, accompanied by Tom Cripps. They had not gone far when George began to be worried about Weasel, as he had not seen the boy since he started torun to the fire, and be spoke of bis fears to Cripps. “Oh, those boys!” replied Tom. ‘* You can’t keep the run of that sort. They are always where they ought not tobe. But you may bet your life that they, like the cats, always come down on their feet.” “But I am afraid for bim, Tom. Go back with me, and let us takea good Jook for him.” “Hold up, Dummy! I think that’s his voice.’ Yes, it was his voice. George Lumley at once recognized the shrill cry that pierced the midnight air. “Thar he is! Stop him! way, quick! Help! Help!” man came stumbiing through the brush, and after him bounded a boy, who leaped upon him as he ran, seizing him by the throat, and fairly winding bis arms and legs about him. Lumley was sure thet the two were Three- fingered Jack and Weasel, and ran to them at the tep of his speed, Tom Cripps lumbering after him. The tramp, unable to strike the boy as -he clung, was dlawing at him in the effort to throw him off, when Lumley grabbed bim by ae collar ot his coat, at the same time tripping im, He fell backward on the ground, with the boy on top, and in a moment Lumley and Tom Cripps had his hands tied behind his back with a handkerchief. “That's him!” svid Weasel, as he stood up, panting for breath, his face bleeding, ard bis clothes nearly torn from his back. “ That's bim! I cotched bim! Don't you let bim go, fur any money!” Stop him! This ———- “ What is the matter, Weasel?” asked George. “That's the cuss who sot to the house up yonder. L[see’d him jest arter he’d started an- other fire on t’other side. Then he started a fire ag’inst the barp. I stomped that out, and watched him. He laid around in the bushes till the house was burned down, and then sneaked off. I followed him, and when I caught sight of you fellers I hollered to you, and then I bounced him,” Lumley looked at the tramp, who had been placed in a sitting posture, with ‘his back against a tree. P * So this is what you have brought yourself to at last, Dick Snell,” he said. ‘‘How did you git holt of my name?” de- manded the tramp. ‘*Oh, I know it well enough, and I know all about you. I was going to see Joseph Black- man this night, to make him tell me what bas be- come of Frederick Lyster’s children; but [ have an idea that you know more about it than he does.” ‘*'The —— you have!” “Yes, that is my opinion. This is a bad serape you are in, Dick Snell. Setting fire to that house is sure to land you in the peniten- tiary, and if Mr. Blackman was burned, as there is reason to believe he was, it is a hang- ing matter,” ; The tramp stared about bewildered, as if seeking a Med out of the difficulty, ‘Seems like you’ve been too much for me every time, young feller,” be said; ‘‘ but I be- lieve you are squar’, If I tell you the honest truth about those young ones, will you let me oF ‘“ What do you say, Tom?” asked Lumley. ‘This is your job, Dummy. I will agree to anything you say.” “Very well. I will turn you loose, Dick Snell, if you will tell me the truth and the whole truth about those children. But if you lie to me, 1 will know it. I warn you of that.” “Ob, I will give it to you straight enough. You are George Lumley, who ued to live at Yonkers. Do you want to know who killed your sister?” ! “No; Il know that. Tell me about the chik ren.’ “T stole ’em, both of ’em. Joe Blackman paid me to do it, and I have made bim stake me now an’ then when I wanted money. I knowed he was goin’ to light out, andI struck him heavy; but he went back on me, and I set fire to his house out of spite.” Under Lumley’s questioning the tramp gave the dates and particulars of the disappearance of the children, leaving no doubt of the truth of bis story. “ Where are they now?’ asked vhe typo. “One of ‘em is that imp thar, standin’ by you,’ “ ‘T thought so, And the other?” “other «ne passes for Joe Blackman’s darter, and he calls her Lizzie.” “Thank heaven!” exclaimed Lumley. ‘She is not toucbed by Joseph Blackman’s sin or Arthur’s fault. Now, Bick Snell, who stole Mr Lwyster’s deed?” “IT did, and gave it to Arthur, who was sens thar to git it. But he didn’t know nothin’ about i: nor any of the rest of the old man’s jobs.” ar I believe you. You may go now, and you had better get far away from here.” CHAPIER XIV. CONFESSION AND ATONEMENT. Wen George Lumley and Weasel reached their boarving-\ouse in Vinson, the boy was anxious to krow mere about the mysterious affairin which he bad been involved, He cc uld not understand why the incendiary tramp had been turned loose. and he’ had per- ceived that he was alluded to in a manner that excited bis curiosity. Consequently bis ques- tions were frequent and pointed, Lumley put him cff, merely assuring bim that he was ‘in luck,” and saying that they were both tired and 1«ded sleep, ‘‘H ve patience for a little while,” said he, ‘and yon will know ajl akoutit, But I may tell you now that you will be a poor boyno longer. They both.slept soundly, in fact, and did not awake until a late hour in the morning. Lumley’s first task in the morning was to send a telegram to Frederick Lyster, requesting him to come on to Vinson at once, as beth bia children were found. He then ssuntered abeut town, herring the comments of the people ot Vinsen tpow tle fre and other recent vccurlences, They were much
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ae excited], and the wonder was what bed become ot Joseph Blackman. It was generally sup- posed that he must bave been lost in the fire, though no trace of him had been discovered. The sheriff, however, shook his head, and looked wise, hinting that there were other ways of disappearance than burning buildings, and that more persons than one might have good reasons for disappearing. When Lumley went to the printing office, he carried upon his person the pistol that bad been loaned to him by Arthur Blackman. He took his plaee at his case as usual and waited for his empleyer. ut Arthur did not make his appearance until the middle of the afternoon. He had been oceupied with caring for Lizzie, and with directing a search of the ruins of the house for | his father’s remains. : When he came in he sat down at his table, | but was exhausted, broken down, and evidently | incapacitated for work. Lumley put on his coat and hat, went to the | table, and wrote these words on his slate: | | | “Tam anxious to have a conversation with ‘ou, in some quiet place, where we will not be interrupted.” ag Will you go up-stairs?” wrote Arthur in answer. “TI would prefer to see you outside. This is | a matter of importance. It concerns your | sister.” | ‘I will go wherever you wish,” Arthur Blackman took his hat and’ cane, and | followed the young typo out of the office. In silence, and without looking at each other, they walked away from Vinson, and up the river into the forest that lined the eastern nk. When they had reached a secluded spot Lumley stopped, and seated himself on a stone. Arthur took a seat on a log opposite him, and jooked at him na marta ‘ ‘My. Blackman,” said Lumley, “T am no more eaf-and dumb than you are. The editor started at the sound of his com- yanion’s voice, and changed color, but recovered imself instantly. “Then you heard everything that my father and I were saying yesterday,” he remarked. * Of course I did; but that need give you no uneasiness, Most of it was already known to me. ‘* Why have you been playing this part? Per- haps‘you are some sort of a detective.” ‘I'am, but only on my own pete My once mame, as you know, is George Lumley, lived in Yonkers, and had a sister.” Arthur Blackman started agein, and turned ashy pale, : ‘So it was your sister,” he said, faintly. “Mv father was right, then.” “Ves; but it is not of her that IT wish to speak now. J think you need not worry about your father. In my opinion he is alive and far from here. I would also advise you not to grieve over his criminal career, which need not touch you. The evil deeds of which he told you were only a part of the wrong he bas done, and perhaps not the greatest part. 1 wish to speak to you now of ber whom you have supposed to be your sister.” f ‘“Supposed to be my sister?’ exclaimed Arthur. ‘‘ What do you mean by that? But l am ready to believe anything now.” “Your fatber,” said Lumley, “ was formerly in business in New York with a gentleman named Frederick Lyster, He swindled bis con- filing partner, who exposed him and caused his arrest; but be escaped punisbment. Angry at the exposure, he sought revenge by causing Mr. Lyster’s two children to be stolen away, first the little girl and then the little boy. he most thorough search failed to discover them, and to this day their father has seen or heard nothing of them. Joseph Blackman’s tool in that vil- lainous business was the same tramp whom we caught breaking into your house here a while ago. The samerascal afterward stole from Mr. | Lyster’s house an unrecorded deed, and gave it | to you, ata time you have good reason to re- inember.” “How could I help remembering?” replied | Blackman. ‘I received the paper; but, as God | is my judge, I never supposed that there was | anything wrong about it.” { “Your father bad blinded you, no doubt. | The theft of that deed caused Mr, Lyster to lows a large sum of money.” ‘These are terrible things that you tell moe, and yet Lam bound fo believe vou. But what have they te do with my sister Lizzie?” “J was only last night.” answered we 4 “that I learned what bad become of Mr, seat, and pressed his bands to bis forehead. “T must have time to settle this in my mind,” he said, ‘‘and there is a matter of business of much importance which | must attend to before the day is done. Let me go back to town, Lumley, and I will meet you here again at seven o'clock this evening.” “Thave no right to hinder you, Mr. Black. man,” replied rge, surprised at bis em- ployer’s tone. ‘You have that right. I am at your com- mand in everything. I ask thisasatavor. As sure as God lives and justice reigns I will meet | you here at seven. Lizzie’s brother.” Arthur Blackman hastened away toward Vinson, and after a few minutes George Lumley slowly took the same direction. At his boarding-house Lumley found a tele- gram awaiting bim from Frederick Lyster, who ring that boy witb you-- said that he would take the first train to the | West. The young ty: office again, as Blackman then. ; He passed the time in telling Weasel the story of his father, and explaining to him by what chances he had been discovered, At the same time he cautioned the boy to say nothing about the matter to any one until the arrival of his father. Weasel was overjoyed by his good for- tune, and promised to obey his protector in every particular. As the appointed hour approached, Lumley set out for the eae of meeting, accompanied by the boy. He had on bis person the pistol to which his bullet fitted, and carried a small pack- age carefully wrapped up. As they drew near the woods they saw Arthur Blackman walking before them, and when they reached the appointed place he was there, seat- ed on a log. He was pale and careworn, and a deeper shade of melancholy rested on bis face than it nad ae shown, But he spoke clearly and firmly: “My mind is settled now, Lumley,” he said. “«T bave no longer any kith or kin in the world, Nobody belongs to me and [ pealong to nobody. lam glad that you brought the boy here. I would like to make some atonement to him for the wrong my father did bim; but that would be useless,as he will soon be restored to bis ome.” ‘He will be well cared for,” replied Lumley. “That is a consolation to me, Lumley, we must speak of know that it was I who killed “T know that. I strongly suspected as much before yesterday, Look here,” continued Lum- ley, as he unwrapped bis package, “This is a plaster cast of the hand-print that was left in the mud. Itis your hand, Here are the meas- urements of the footprints. They will fit your boots.” “That is true.” “Here is the bullet that killed my sister, and bd is your pistol, from which the bullet wag did not go to the printing e did not wish to meet Arthur “You are right. That is the pistol which fired the fatal shot. It has never since been used. I killed your sister, George Lumiey, but, as ltold my father yesterday, it was an acci- dent, a misadventure. Ido not wish to defend or excuse myself; but you must listen to the whole truth, I was sent by my father to Yonkers to get a paper that would be handed to me by a man whose description I had. I was pee, through a little grove when I saw a rab- it seated on a stump. I wished to try my new pistol, and kneeled down and aimed carefully at the rabbit. Isaw the fur fly as I fired, but at the same time I was startled by a sbriek, “*Horrified at what I might have done, I ran forward, and saw a young woman lying on the ground among the bushes. She had a few wild flowers in her hand, and blood was flowing from her breast where my bullet had struck her, She was dying, and I had hardly reached her when she breathed her last. “‘T bent over her to make sure that she was quite dead, and then fled from the accursed spot. FT was crazed by what I had dove, and only the instinct of it was left teme. I took the first train that went north. I made no effort to ascertain the name of my victim, amd did not look ate newspaper for weoks, Lately You I cannot say that 1 ,eally leved him, i 413 my fa‘ber told me that her name was Clara Lumley, and then I hegan to connect that name with yours “Now, George Lumley, there is but one thing left. L bave rid my breast of the secret that has been torturing me so terribly. Here is the pistol with which [ killed your sister. Take it, George Lamley, and shoot me as | shot ber.” “IT cannot do that, Mr. Blackman, I believe what you say, and am willing to forgive the deed, though [ cannot forgetrit.” * Do you forgive me, then?” ‘As 1 hope to be forgiven.” “| wish I could forgive myself, See, Lam- ley, this chamber of the revelver bas been empty sines that shot was fired? I bave a car- tridge that fits it, and [ will load it now, in token of your forgiveness, and the pistol shall be yours. I have something in my pocket for you, but will not give it to you just now. Lookt is not that somebody coming into the wood from below” Lumley and Weasel turned to look in the di- rection indicated. As they did so the loud report of a pistol startled them, and they jum 2k ge Arthur Blackman bad fallen fo the ground. His right band grasped the pistol, and there was an ugly hole in his temple. He had shot a bullet into his brain, and in a few moments he was dead. “Forgiven!” was the only word he mur- mured. Lumley sent Weasel to Vinson for asgstance and remained by the botly until a physician an others came to take charge of it. CHAPTER XY, CONCLUSION. GrorGE LUMLEY thought that he would visit Lizzie Blackman that nik t, and explain to her the circumstances thet led to Arthur’s death; but on reflection he decided that he would no’ doso, There would be plenty to break the ill news to her, and after a night’s rest she would be better able to bear what he had to tell ber, The next morning the inquest on the body of Arthur Blackman occupied his time. He told his story plainly and fully, including all his connection with the deceased and the circumstances that led to bis death. In respect to the suicide he was supported ae the testi- mony of Weasel, and the jury rendered a ver- dict in accordance with this evidence. As soon as the inquest was over, Lumley pro- cured a horse and bugzy, and drove out to the farm where Lizzie Blackman was temporarily sheltered. He found her alone in the sitting- room of the farm-house. It wags easy to see that she was in sore distress, and she received him coldly, as if doubtful whetber she ought not to consider him the author of her tunes, Her displeasure increased when he spoke to her, “ What, 4 she exclaimed. ‘Are you nota deaf mute, then? What sort of an imposition is this that you have been practicing on us, and for what purpose?” i ie, a good purpose, I assure you,” be calmly replied. “Tt seemed to have been a purpose that caused the death of my brother.” “Your brother is not dead.” , “Do yen know what you are saying! I have been told, and by more than one, that my bro- ther shot himself last night in your presence.” “Arthur Blackman shot himself; but he was not your brother, and you are not Lizzie Black~ man, ; \ “Not Lizzie Blackman! Do you deny that [ am myself? Have you gone crasy! What they you mean, sir?” ‘Please listen to me patiently for a Jittle while, and I will explain eve: ing to you.” She listened, and Lumley told her his entire story, connecting it with that of Frederick Lyster, and bringing the narrative down to the death of Arthur Blackman, She was greatly moved, and at times she wept; but finally she dried her tears, and looked at the young man with her former friendly and trustful expression. “T hardly know whygther to be glad or scrry,” she said. “Iam both glad and sorry. I have always believed that Mr, Blackman was my fatber, and have sespected bim as such, though thur was like a brother tome, and I could not have loved a real brother better than I loved him, nor could I have mourned a real brother: ari es than I *bim.” : i ‘death has rime me, also,” sid Lum. ley. “ Thad no idea thet be meant to bili bine But Ar. —
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14 golf, ancl | -vould have saved_his lifo if I could. But you siould becomforted: Your real father is one of the best men in the world, and he will goon come here to claim you. Your real brother is in Vinson, and I am sure that you will fove him when you come to know bim,” ‘That ragged vagrant who came to our house with you when I first saw you—is he really my brother?” asked Lizzie. “Yes; and a very bright and lovable young fellow he is, too. He is rough and untrained, but will soon get over that, and you will be proud of him.” “T want to see him right away. Will you drive me into Vinson?” * With the greatest pleasure.” ‘Wait for me, then. I will be ready in a few minutes.” Lumley took Lena Lyster, no longer Lizzie Blackman, to his boarding-house, and ieft her there, while he went to fetch Weasel, or Willie Lyster, from his school. ma at once took her young brother in hand, und busied herself in dressing him to suit her taste, so that his father should find him looking trim and neat. As Lumley bad predicted, she ‘was proud of him when she came to kuow him. The next morning Frederick Lyster arrived from the East, and was introduced by Lumley to his children. The meeting was a joyful one on all sides, and the happy father, when he had heard all of Lumley’s story, overwhelmed him with praise and thanks, . ** You have more than made my fortune,” he said, ‘‘and I mus« do something to show that I appreciate the good work you have done. As far as money goes, my boy, you shall be inde- pendent.” “T am eae A independent as it is,” replied George. “ At the inquest on the body of Ar- thur Blackman, a sealed envelope was found in the breast pocket of his coat, addressed to me. It contained his will, bequeathing me ull his property, as a partial atonement, he said, for a gteat wrong he had done.” It was afterward ascertained that the prop- erty to which the young typo had thus fallen heir consisted of the Vindicator office, a bank account, and considerable land which came to Arthur Blackman from his father who was supposed to be dead. miley had his doubts as to whether Joseph Blackman had really porished in the burned house; but it was the general belief that he had, and as a matter of fact be was never again heard of br any one in that vicinity. . Lyster remaiued at Vinson a week or so, to assist his young friend in settling his affairs. Before this task was completed he saw indi- cations which convinced him that Lumley had found a way of his own to reward bimself for his services, and he had a long private interview na. George Lumley was finally called in to assist at this interview, and he found Lena blushing and her father smiling. “Well, young gentleman,” said Mr. Lyster, “there seems to be something like a mutual un- derstanding between you and this young lady. You have found my daughter for me, and now you want to keep her for yourself.” er that that was the dearest Waiy wit be granted, thee,"? bg t mus' ted, then, pose. You have earned iat aba you may have her. But you shall not take her from me entirely. You must ge to Yonkers with me, and you and Lena shall have the land thatis covered by the deed you saved for me.” Before Lumley left Vinson he executed a lease of the Vindicator ofics to Tom Cripps, cautioning him to leave liquor alone, and re- questing him on all suitable occasions to defend the memory of Arthur Blackman. THE END. Sunnyside Library. 1Yutta RooxH. By Thomas Moore............ 10c 2 Don Juan By Lord Byron..................-. 20¢ 8 Panavise Lost. By John Mitton...... ....... 10¢ 4 Tae Lapy or THE Lake. By Sir WalterScott.. 10c 5 Lvucrtx By Owen Meredit? f Usprve; or, THE Warer-Sprrrr, German of Friederich De La Motte From the Fouque.. We For sale by all newsdealers, or sent, postage pald on receipt of twelve cents for! ir numbers, double sambers twenty-fo'rcents. AD. VICTOR & Co., RR Wiliam str.et, New York. The Typo Detective. Waverley ‘Library. | 1 THe Maskep Brine. By Mrs. Mary R, Crowell. 2 Was Ir Love? By Wm, Mason Turner. 8 Tux Grau Wore. By Bartley T. Campbell. 4 A Brave Heart. By Arabella Southworth. 5 Besste Raynor. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. 6 Tue Secret Marriaae. By Sara Claxton. 7 A Daveurer or Eve. By Mrs. Crowell. 8 Heart To Heart. By Arabella Southworth. 9 ALONE IN THE WorLD. By author. of “ Clifton.” 10 A Parr or Gray Eyes. By Rose Kennedy, 11 ENTANGLED. By Henrietta Thackeray. 12 His Lawrvt Wire. By Mrs. Stephens. 18 Mapear. By Corinne Cushman. 14 Way I Marriep His. By Sara Claxton, 15 A Farr Face. By Bartley T. Campbell, 16 Trust Her Nor. By Margaret Leicester. 17 A Loyat Lover. By Arabella Southworth. 18 His Ipot. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 19 Tue Broken BerrotHat. By Mary G. Halpine. 20 OrpHan Neu. By Agile Penne. 21 Now anp Forever. By H. Thackeray. 22 Tue Bripe or AN AcTor. By the author of “ Alone in the World,”’ étc., ete. 28 Leap Year. By Sara Claxton. 24 Her Face Was Her Fortune. By E. Blaine. 25 Onty A ScHootmistress. By A. Southworth. 26 Wirnout A Heart. Ry Col, P. Ingraham. 27 Was Sue a Coguetter By H. Thackeray. 28 Sypiu Coase. By Mrs, Ann 8, Stephen? 29 For Her Dear SAKE. By Sara Claxton, 30 Toe Bovguer Grau, By Agile Penne. 31 A Map Marriage. By Mary ‘A. Denison. 32 MARIANA, THE Prima Donna. By A. Southworth. 33 Tur Turee Sisters. By Alice Fleming. 34 A MARRIAGE oF CONVENIENCE. By Sara Claxton. 35 AtL AGaInst Her. By Clara Augusta. 86 Str ArcHER’s Brive. By Arabella Southworth. 37 Tux Country Cousin. By Rose Kennedy. 38 His Own Aaatn. By Arabella Southwor 39 Frreration. By Ralph Royal. 40 Purpcrp To Marry. By Sara Claxton. 41 Bund Devotion. By Alice Fleming. 42 BgeaTrice, THE Bravutirut. By A. Southworth, 43 Tae Banonet’g Secret. By Sara Claxton. 44 Tae Onty Dataurer. By Alice Fleming. 45 Her Hippen For. By Arabella Southworth. 46 Tue Lirrte Herress. By M., A. Denison. 47 Because Soe Loven Him. By Alice Fleming. 48 In Spire or Hersenr. By S. R. Sherwood. 49 His Heart’s Mistress. By Arabella Southworth, 50 Tue CcBaN Hetress. rae Mary A. Denison, 51 Two Youne Greys. By Alice Fleming. 52 Tue WINGED MessenGER. By Mary Reed Crowell 58 Aanus Hore. By W. M. Turner, M. D. 54 Onz Woman’s Heart. By George 8. Kaime. 55 Suz Dip Nor Love Him. By Arabella Southworth, 56 Love-Map. By Wm.M. Turner, M. D. 57 A Brave Grru. By Alice Fleming. 58 Tae Epon Mask. ean Reed Crowell. 59 A Wipow’s WILEs. y Rachel Bernhardt, 60 Creott’s Decerr. By Jennie Davis Burton. 61 A Wickep Hearr. By Sara Claxton, 62 Tax Maniac Brivg. By Margaret Blount. 63 Tax CreoLe Sisters. By Anna EF. Porter. 64 Wuat Jeatousy Dip. By Alice Fleming. 65 Tax Wire’s Secrer, By Col. Juan Lewis. 66 A Broruer’s Six. By Rachel Bernhardt. 67 Forsippen Bans. By Arabella Southworth, 68 WEAVERS AND Wert. By Mrs. M. E. Braddon. 69 Camtttz. By Alexander Dumas. 70 Tax Two OrpHans. By iter = 71 My Youne Wire. B: My Young Wife’s Husband. 72 Tun Two Wipows. nnie Thomas. 73 Rost Micnen. By Maude Hilton. 24 Cecor, CASTLEMAINE’s Gace. By Ouida. 7% Tur Buack Lapy or Duna. By J. 8. Le Fann. 76 Cuarntotre Tempie, By Mrs. Rowson. V7 Curistian OaKLEY's MISTAKE. rd Miss Mulock. 73 My Youna Hussanp. By Myself. TA EEN AMONGST WomEN. By the author of “ Dora Thorn,” 80 Hur Lorp anp Master. By Florence Marryat. 81 Lucy TremMp.e, 82 A Lone Tore Aco, By Meta Orred. 83 Payne For Hiex Stakes. By Annie Thomas 84 THe Lavre. Buse. By Miss Mulock. 85 Lep Astray. By Octave Feuillet. 86 Jannt’s REPENTANCE. +By George Eliot. 87 RoMANCE oF A Poor Younc Man. By O. Feuillet. 88 A TrerrisLte Deep. By Emma G, Jones. 89 A GiLpEp Sr. 90 THe AurHor’s DavcuTrrr. By Mary Howitt. 01 Tae Jn. By Charles Reade. 92 ErngeN ALANNA. By Dennis O'Sullivan, 93 Love’s Victory. By B. L. Farjeon. 94 Tue QtreT Heart. By Mrs. Oliphant. 95 Lerrice ARNoLD. By Mrs. Marsh. 96 Hauntrep Hearts. By Rachel Bernhardt. 97 Huan Meuron. By Catharine King. 98 Atice LearMont. By Miss Mulock. 99 Marvorte® Bruce's Lover. By Mary Patrick. j00 TurovaH Free AND WATER. By Fred. Talbot. 1g@i Hannan. By Miss Mulock. 102 Pea Worrinaton. By Charles Reade. 103 A Desperate Deep. By Erskine Boyd. 104 SHADOWS ON THE Snow. By B. L. Farjeon. 10 Taz Great Hoaearty Diamoxn. By W. ML Thackeray. 106 From Dreams To Waxrna. By E. Lynn Linton. 107 Poor Zerx. By F. W. Robinson. 108 Tue Sap Fortunes or THE Rev. Amos Barton. 1 110 Tae Wanperine Hem. By lil Taz Baormem’s Ser. By BE. BF, s - ee ee eeeeeeeeeeEeEeEeEeEeeEeEeEeEeEeeeeEeEeEeEeEe—e—E———E—E—e——————E——E—E——————————————————————e———————E———————————E——EEE | | | | 117 Tae Waysioe Cross. a 112 A Hxro. By Miss Mulock. 113 Pavi aAnp Viremrs. From the French of Bare nardin de St. Pierre. 114 "Twas IN toy cima Bay. By Walter Besaut and James Rice, 1145 THe Marp or KrLurena. ia William Black. ley. "Sy Capt. E. A. Milman, 116 Herry. By Henry Ki 118 Tue VicaR oF WAKEFIELD, By Oliver Goldsmith | 119 Maup Monan. By Annie Thomas. | 120 THAppEUs or Warsfw. By Miss Jane Porter. | 121 Tux Ktne or No-Lanp. By B. L. Farjeon. 122 Love, THE Wipowrer. By W. M. Thackeray. 423 An Istanp Pear By B. L. Farjeon. | 124 Cousin PHILtis. 125 Ler.a; or, Taz Steen or Grenapa, By Edward Bulwer, (Lord Lytton.) 226 Wen tHe Suir Comers Home. By Walter Besant and Jémes Rice. 127 One oF THE Fammiy. By James Payn. 128 Ture Brrrurieut. By Mrs. Gore. 129 MorHerLess; or, The Farmer’s Sweetheart. By Golonel Prentiss Ingraham. 180 Homeress; or, The Two Orphan Girls in New York. By Albert W. Aiken. 131 SISTER AGAINST SISTER: or, The Rivalry of Hearts. By Mrs. Mary Reed well, 182 Soub ror Goin; or, Almost Lost. By Mrs. M V. Victor. 183 Lonp Rorn's Sry; or, Betrothed at the Cradle, By Mrs. Georgiana Dickens. 184 Dip He Love Her? By Bartley. TJ. Campbell. 135 Smynep Acarnst; or, Almost in Power. Hy Lillian Lovejoy. Ire? By M Reed Crowell. 136 Was Sue His 187 Tue Vitaz.aGe on THE CiirF. By Miss Thackeray. 138 Poor Vateria; or, The Broken Troth. Margaret Blount. 139 Marcarer Granav. By G. P. R. James. 140 Witnovr Mercy. By Bartley T. Campbeh 141 Honor Bounp. By Lillian Lovejoy. 142 FLEEING FROM Mrs. Harriet Irving. 143 AnpvuctEep, By Rett Winwood. 144 A Strange Marniacr, By Lillian ety cf 145 Two Grats’ Lives. By Mrs. Mary Reed — 146 A Desperate Venture. By Arabella Southwort) 147 Toe War or Hearts. By Corinne Cushman, 148 Wmrch Was THE Woman? By Sara Claxton. 149 An Amsrrious Grru. By Frances H. Davenport 150 Love Lorp or Aut. By Alice May Fleming, 151 A Wrip Grav. By Corinne Cushman. Agnes Mary Shelton. 159 Lapy Hruen’s Vow. By the late Mrs. E. ¥, Hiller, 160 Buyrna A Heart. By Lillian Lovejoy. 161 Praru oF Pearts. By A. P. Morris, Jr. 162 A Farerut. Gavr. By Sara Claxton, 138 Tur Crroie Cocsins. By Phijip 8. Warne 1644 A Sca nine O pear. By Georgiana Dickens 165 A Sirancr Girt. By Albert W. Aiken. A new issue every week. For sale by all Newsdealers, price five centa each, or sent, postage paid, on receipt of six cents. BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William street, N. ¥. 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wo o o¢ ®@ 8 8a Kk fF & a is 19 20 Adventures of Buffalo Bill. From Boyhood to Man hood. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham, The Ocean Hunters; or, The Chase of the Leviathan, Captain Mayne Reid. [Q§" An extra large number. Adventures of Wild Bill, the Pistol Prince. Remarkable career of J. B, Hikok. By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham, The Prairie Ranch; or, The Young Cattle Herders, By Jos, HE. Badger, Jr. Texas Jack, the Mustang King. Thrilling Adventures in the Life of J. B, Omohundro, Texas Jack.” By Col. P. Ingraham, Cruise of the Flyaway; or, Yankee Boys in Ceylon, By C. Dunning Clark. Roving Joe: The History of a Young “ Border Ruffian.” Brief Scenes from the Life of Joseph E. Badger, Jr. By A. H. Post, The Plyaway Afloat; or, Yankee Boys ’Round the World. By C. Dunning Clark. Bruin Adams, Old Grizzly Adams’ Boy Pard. By | Col. Prentiss Ingraham, The Snow Trail; or, The Boy Hunters of Fur-Land. A Narra- tive of Sport and Life around Lake Winnipeg. By T. C. Harbaugh, Old Grizzly Adams, the Bear Tamer; or, The Monarch of the Mountain. By Dr. Frank Powell Woods and Waters; or, The Exploits of the Littleton Gun Club, By Capt. Frederick Whittaker. A Rolling Stone: Incidents in the Career on Sea and Land as Boy and Man, of Col. Prentiss Ingraham. By Prof.Wm. R. Eyster. Adrift on the Prairie, and Amateur Hunters on the Buffalo Range. By Oll Coomes. Kit Carson, King of Guides; Prairie Trails. By Albert W. Aiken. Red River Rovers; or, Life and Adventures in the Northwest. By C. Dunning Clark. Plaza and Plain; or, Wild Adventures of ‘ Buckskin Sam,” (Major Sam 8, Hall.) By Col, Prentiss Ingraham. Rifle and Revolver; or, The Littleton Gun Club on the Buffalo Range. By Capt. Frederick Whittaker. Wide-Awake George, the Boy Pioneer. By Ed. Willett. The Dashing Dragoon; or, The Story of General George A. Custer, from West Point to the Big Horn. By Capt. F. Whittaker. By or, Mountain Paths and 21 Deadwood Dick as a Boy; or, Why Wild Ned Harris, the New 22 England Farm-lad, became the Western Prince of the Road, By Edward L. Wheeler. The Boy Exiles of Siberia. By T. C. Harbaugh. 23 Paul De Lacy, the French Beast Charmer; or, New 24 25 Round the Cam 26 27 28 29 30 3i 32 33 34 35 36 37 York Boysin the Jungles, By C. Dunning Clark. The Sword Prince: The Romantic Life of Colonel Monstery, (American Champion-at-arms.) By Captain Fred. Whittaker. Fire ; or, Snow-Bound at “Freeze-out Camp.” A Tale of Roving Joe and his Hunter Pards. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. Snow-Shoe Tomy; or, New York Boys in the Wilderness, A Narrative of Sport and Peril'in Maine. By 'T. C. Harbaugh, Yellow Hair, the Boy Chief of the Pawnees. The Ad- venturous Career of Eddie Burgess of Nebraska. By Col, Ingraham. The Chase of the Great White Stag and Camp and Canoe. By C. Dunning Clark. The Fortune-Hunter; or, 7 pi Joe as Miner, Cow-Boy, Trapper and Hunter. By A. H. Post. Walt Ferguson’s Cruise. A Tale of the Antarctic Sea. By C. Dunning Clark. The Boy Crusader; or, How a Page and a Fool Saved a King. By Captain Frederick Whittaker. White Beaver, the Indian Medicine Chief: or, The Ro- mantic and Adventurous Life of Dr. D, Frank Powell, known on the Border as “ Fancy Frank,” “Iron Face,” ete, By Col. P. Ingrabam. Captain Ralph, the Young Explorer; or, The Centipede Among the Floes, By C, Dunning Clark. The Young Bear Hunters, A Story of the Haps and Mishaps of a Party of Boys in the Wilds of Michigan. By Morris Redwing. The Lost Boy Whalers; or, In the Shadow of the North Pole, By T. C, Harbaugh. Smart Sim, the Lad with a Level Head. By Ed Willett, Old Tar Knuckle and His Ber Chumes or, The Monsters of the Eequimaux Border. By Roger Starbuck. 38 49 67 68 69 70 The Settler’s Son; or, Adventures in Wilderness and Clear- ing. By Edward §, Ellis. Night-Hawk George, and His Daring Deeds ard Adventures in the Wilds of the South and West. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. The Ice Elephant; or, The Castaways of the Lone Coast. By Captain Frederick Whittaker, The Pampas Hunters; or, New York Boys in Buenos Ayres, By T. C, Harbaugh, The Young Land-Lubber. By C. Dunning Clark. Bronco Billy, the Saddle Prince. By Col P.):¢:sl om. The Snow Hunters; or, Winter in the Woods. ly Barry De Forrest, Jack, Harry and Tom, the Three Champion Brothers; or, Adventures of Three Brave Boys with the Tattooed Pirate. By Captain Frederick Whittaker. The Condor Killers; or, Wild Adventures at the Equator. By T. C. Harbaugh. The Boy Coral Fishers; or, The Sea-Cavern Scourge, “By Roger Starbuck. Dick, the Stowaway; or, A Yankee Boy’s Strange Cruise, By Charles Morris. Tip Tressell, the Floater; or, Fortunes and Misfortunes on the Mississippi. By Edward Willett. The Adventurous Life of Nebraska Oharite; (Chas, B, Burgess.) By Colonel Prentiss Ingrabam. The Colorado Boys}; or, Life on an Indigo Plantation. By Joseph K. Badger, Jr. Honest Harry; or, The Country Boy Adrift in the City. By Charles Morris, The Boy Detectives; or, The Young Californians in Shanghai. By T. C. Prerbangli California Joe, the Mysterious Plainsman. By Col. Tideshain: Harry Somers, the Sailor-Boy Magician. By 8. W. Pearce. . Nobody’s Boys; or, Life Among the Gipsies, By J. M. Hoff man, Ths Menagerie Hunter; or, Fanny Hobart, the Animal ; Queen. By Major H. Grenville, ‘‘ Sea Gull,” Lame Tim, the Mule Boy of the Mines, By Charles Morris. Lud Lionheels, the Young Tiger Fighter. By Roger Starbuck, The Young Trail Hunters; or, New York Boys in Grizzly Land. By T. C. Harbaugh. The Young Mustangers. By C. Dunning Clark. The Tiger Hunters; or, The Colorado Boys in Tiger-Land, By Joseph E, Badger, Jr. The Adventurous Life of Captain Jack, the Border Boy. (John W. Crawford, the Poet Scout.) By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. The Young Moose-Hunters; or, Trail and Camp-fire a the New Brunswick Woods. By Wm. H. Manning. Black Horse Bill, the Bandit Wrecker; or, Two Brave Baye to the Rescue.. By Roger Starbuck. Little Dan Rocks; or, The Mountain Kid’s Mission, By Morris Redwing. *Lo ore Lije; or, How a Rough Boy Won His Way. By C. Dunning Clark. Flatboat Fred; or, The Voyage of the “Experiment.” By Edward Willett. The Deer-Hunters; or, Life in the Ottawa Country. By Jobn J. Marshall. Kentucky Ben, the Long Rifle of the Plains; or, The Boy Trappers of Oregon. By Roger Starbuck. A New Issue Every Weck. BEADLE’s Bor’s Lisrary is for sale by all Newsdealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail on receipt of six cents each. BEADLE AND ADAMS, Pusiasnens, 98 William Streot New York.
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| BEAT ee a Deadwood Dick, mir Prove of rae Koay 8.7 Fdward LL. Wheerer. 2 VeTlowstone Jack. By Joe. & Kansas King. by Buifale 4 Fh. Wild-Horse Hunters. By Captain Mayne Reid and Captain I'rederick Whittaker, 5 Vagybond Joe, TH: Youre Wanpenine JEw. By O} Coomes. Doulle Number, ets, 6 Bill Biddon, Trapper. By EK. 8. Ellis. +. Badger, Jr. 7 The Viying Yankee, By Col. P. Tugceuham., | 8 Seth Jomes. By Edward §, Ellis. { 9 Adventures of Baron 0 Nat Bodd. By E. 8. Ellis. i The Two Detectives. By A.W. Aiken, 12 Gulliver's Travels, By Dean Swift. 43 The Dumb Spy. By OU Coomes. 14 Aladdiuy or Tae WonpersuL Lamp, 5 Whe Sea-Cat, 6 Robinson Crusoe, (27 Iilustrations.) 2 Ralph oy. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 8S Sindbad the Sailor, The Phantom Spy. The Doble Daggers. By EF. L. Whee ‘Yhe Frontier Angel. By The Sea Serpent. By Juan Lewis. Nick oo the Night. By T. C. Harbaugh. Biamon«d Divk. By Colonel P. Iogreham. The Boy Captain. By Roger Starbuck. Cloven Hioot, By Edward L. Wheeler. Antelope Abe, THe Boy Guipx, Oll Coomes, Buflalo Ben, By Edward L. Wheeler. The Dumb Frage. By Capt. F. Whittaker. Roaring Kalph Rockwood, THe Reck- Lese RanerR. By Harry St. George. Keen-Krite. By Olli Coomes. Bot, Woclf, By Edward L, Wheeler. Whe Ocewn Bloodhound, 8. W. Pierce. Orezon Sul, By Capt. J. F. C, Adams. Wild Ivau. By Edward L, Wheeler, The Boy Clown. By Frank 8. Finn. The Hiddan Lodge. By T. C. Harbaugh. Ned Wyldy, THE Boy Scout. By Texas Jack. Death-Fave, tHe Detective. By Wheeler. Roving Ben. By J. J. Marshall. Lasso Jack. By Oll Coomea. 2 ‘The Phanxvom Miner. By 5, lL. Wheeler. 3 Dick Darling. By Capt. Fred. Whittaker. 4+ Rattlhing Fube. By Harry St. George. Old Avalaache, By Kiward L. Wheeler, Glass Eye, By Capt. J. F.C. Adams. macke Nat. By T. ©. Harbaugh. ola, THE RoAp-Acext. By Badger. Omaha Olli, By Edward L. Wheeler. Burt Bunker, Tae Trarrer. C. FE. Lasalle. The Boy Alifies. By Archie C. Irons, The White Buffalo, By ©. E. Lasalle. Jim Bludsvse, Jr. By Edward L.Wheekr. Ned Hazel, By Capt. J. F.C. Adams, Deadly-Ey:. By Buffalo Bill. G Nick 67 Deadwood Dick’s Eagles. By Wheeler. 68 The Border King. By Oll Coomes, 59 Old Hicko) f By Harry St. George. 60 The White Indian, Capt. J. F.C, Adams, (1 BRaekhorn Bill, By Edward L. Wheeler. 62 The Shadow Ship. z ¢3 The Red Brothorhood. W. J. Hamilton. 64 acon d Jack. By T. C..Harbaugh. 65 Hurricane Bill, By Jos. E. Badger, Jr 66 Singie Hand. By W. J. Hamilton, 67 Patent-leather Joe. <f Philip 8. Warne. oR Bere Rubin Hood, By Buffalo Bill. By Buffalo Bill. y 4 , er, 1 2 1 : 3 ‘4 4 PORE EERE RRR te ~ 1 t 6 3 a 6 x 8 9 0 2 4 Mm te he ne SOCORRO OSCR IAH CN a hoe a Se ON OS See 2 73 Deadwooa D 74 Hawk-eye Harry. 75 Ree By age Mayne Reid. ANT peer. By A.W. Aiken. By Edward L. Wheeler. y Kit Haretoot, By T.C. Barhevaeh, Kollo, the Boy Ranger, es Coomes, Idyl, the Girl Miner. By F. L. Wheeler. Buck Buckram, By Capt. J. ¥. C. Adams, sate? f Rock, By G. Waldo Browne. The Land Pirates, By Capt. Mayne Reid. Photograph Phil, ¥K. L. Wheeler. Island Jim. By Bracebridge Hemyng. 0 The Dread Rider. By G. Waldo Browne. 1 The Captain of the Club; or, THe Youna IvVAG ATHLETES. By Eincehine Hemyng. 92 Canada Chet, By Edward L. Wheeler.. 93 The Boy Miners. By Edward 8. Ellis. 04 Midnight Jack. By T. C. Harbaugh, 95 The RivalRovers. Lieut. Col. Hazeltine. 96 Watch-Eye, Tur SHapoy. By E. L. Wheeler. 27 The Outlaw Brothers, By J, J. Marshall. #8 Robin Hood, By Prof. Gildersleeye. 99 The Tiger of Taos. By G. Waldo Browne. ightning Jo. ORDO KLAK SEL DaF-sa8-3 CRIA OK OCOOUA 100 Deadwood Dick in Leadville; or, A t STRANGE STROKE FOR LipertTy. By Wheeler. 101 Jack Harkaway in New York. By Bracebridge Hemyng. 102 Dick Dead-Eye. By Col. Ingraham. 103 The Lion of the Sea, 104 Deadwood Dick’s« Device, By Wheeler. Ca H. Holmes. = 9 Deadw Edward a 0 The Black Steed of the Prairies. A Th of Texan Adventure, By Bowen. Sol. P. Ingrah: The vil. - ‘he Wad eatenc By Burton Saxe, \ Munchausen, | By Captain Fred. Whittaker, His Seven Voyayes. | Edward 8, Fils. | hifi.es’ Pet. Capt. J. F.C. Adams. | By Col. P. Ingraham, | Captain J. F.C. Adams, | By Col. Delle Sara. | Harbaugh. | By i va ewrwen! 113 Jack Hoyle. By Edward 1. Wheeler. The Black Schooner, Roger Starbuck. The Viad Miner By G. Waldo Browne. Whe Husser Captain, Col. P. Ingraham, Gilt-Edged Dick. By E, L. Wheeler. WHI Somers, rae Boy Derkerive. Morris, Mustang Sam. By Jos. B. Badger, Jr. The Branded Hand, By Frank Dumont. Cinnamon Chip. By "dward L. Wheeler. Phil Hardy, tir Boss Boy. By T. C. Harbaugh. By George Gleason. 3 4 AN. UW, Mx Charles Morris, mnHE Roan, ne gv Privateer, By H, Cavendish, Detective Dick. By Charles Morris. The Golden Hand. The Hunted Hunter. Boss Bob. By Ed. L, Wheel Sure Shot Seth. By Ol! Coomes. Captain Paul. By ©, Dunning Clark. Night-Hawk Kit, » The Helpless Maud, Capt. Mayne Reid, Blonde Bill. By Edward lL. Wheeler. Judge Lynch, Jr. By T. 0. Harbaugh. Blue Blazes, By Frank Dumont. Selid Sam, By Edward L Wheeler. Handsome Harry. By Charles Morris. Sear-Face Saul, By Oll Coomes. Datity Lancée, Tar Boy Sport. By Badger. Captain Ferret. By Edward L, Wheeler. Silver Star, THE Boy KnicutT. By Coomes, Will Wildfire. By Charles Morris. Sharp Sam, By J. Alexander Patten, A Game of Gold. By Ed. L, Wheeler, Lance and Lasso, By Capt. F. Whittaker, Panther Paul, By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. Black Bess, Wr Witprme’s Racer; or, Wienina AGamst Opps, By Charles Morris. Eagle Kit, Tae Boy Demon. By Oll Coomes. The Swerd Hunters, By F. Whittaker. Gold Trigger, THE Sport. T.C. Harbaugh. Deadwood Dick of Deadwood; or, Tur Proxup Party. By Edward L, Wheeler. 7 Mike Merry. By Charles Morris. Frank ot Colorado, Buffalo Bill. 9 ‘The Lost Captain, By Whittaker. 0 The Black Giant. By J. E. Badger, Jr. 1 New York Nell. By E. L. Wheeler. 2 Will Wildfire in the Woods, Morris. 3 Little Texas, By Oll Coomes. 4 Dandy Rock’s Pledge. By G.W. Browne, 5 ae Baggage. By Charles Morris. 6 Hickory Harry. By Harry St. George, Asa Scott, Tar Sreampoat Boy, By Willett, Deadly Dash, By Jos. E, Badger, Jr. Tornado Tom. By T, C. Harbaugh. A Trump Card. By Charles Morris. Ebony Dan. By Frank Dumont. Thunderbolt Tom. By ey g St. George. Pandy Rock’'« Rival. By G.W. Browne. Bob Rockett, rar Boy Donarr. By Morris. Captain Arizona, By Philip 8.Warne. The Boy Runaway. By Lieut. Perry. Nobby Nick of Nevada, E. L. Wheeler. Old Solitary. By Ol! Coomes, Bob Rockett, rae Bank Rewer. Morris. The Sea Trailer, By Lieut. H. D. Perry. Wild Frank. By Edward L. Wheeler. Little. Hurricane. By Oli Coomes, The Hidden Hand, By Chas, Morris. $4 The Boy Trailers. By Badger, Jr. Kvll Eye. By Frank Dumont, Coot amond, By Col, Delle Bara. Fred Halyard, By Charles Morris. Ned Temple, THe Borper Boy. Harbaugh. Bob Rockett, rHe (racksman, By Morris, Dandy Darke. By Wm. R. Kyster. Buftalo Billy. By Capt. Taylor, U. 8. A. Captain Kit. By Lieut, H. D. Perry,U.8.N, Captain Mask. By pie, Ta Warne, 4 Buffalo Bills Bet. By Captain Taylor. Deadwood Dick’s Dream, By Wheeler. Shadowed. By Charles Morris. 7 Little Grit, m2 Witp Riorr. By Ingraham, 198 Arkansaw, By T. C. Harbaugh. | 199 Featherweight. By Edward Willett. 200 The Boy Bedonins, By Whittaker. | 201 The Black Hills Jezebel. By Wheeler. 202 Prospect Pete, By Oll Coons, , 203 The Boy Pards. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. By Ed. 8. Ellis, RH OSDIR WH HOO RI Rae Wie OS HAIRS SR NST it thee ae shee in pee he the thee he abe BO SS SO © QVew BH OCeIAhnew DHS HK KakadabadadaFabeFaFFOAAGAAAGAAGMS ors Lot OO WES SOM Sat tet bet it et ft el ot ft et et tt ft ft ft et pt bt fh lt et ft ttf St ft bt th tl ft Hh et et fa tl et St a i Sete — Aeie ANH SS TAR COOCVOCSOCSCSee 205 Deadwood Dick's Doom, By Wheeler | 206 Dark Paul, rue Tiaer Kine. By C. Morris 207 Navajo Nick. By T. C. Harbaugh. 208 The Boy Hercules. By Oll Coomes. 209 Fritz, Tux Bounv-Boy Detective. Wheeler. 210 Faro Frank of High Pine. By Eyster. 211 Crooked Cale, By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. | 212 Dashing Dave. By Charles Morris. | 213 Fritz to the Front. By E. L, Wheeler. | 214 Wolfgang, THe Roserr oF THe Rure. By Captain Frederick Whittaker. 215 Captain Bullet. By T. C. Harbaugh. 216 Rison Bill, By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. | 217 Captain Crack-Shot. By E. L. Wheeler. 218 Tiger Tom, tHe Texan Terror, Coomes. 219 Despard. the Duelist, By P. S. Warne, 220 Tom Tanner. By Charles Morris. 221) Sugar Coates “-rn. By E. i, Wheeler. 222 Grit, < 1c BE®*Y Dport, By Ingraham. By C, Morris, | Nek. By Ed. L. Wheeler. | Dumont. ! Deadwood Dick’s Double, By Wheeler. | By Geo. W. Browne. | By Jon. E. Badger, Jr. } 204 Gold Plume, tHE Boy Banvit. Ingraham. | | gag |} 224 | 225 226 | 227 228 229 | 230 231 232 233 234 ' 235 236 237 238 239 Assi ceeemsneniee LE'S | KALE-DIME | LIBRARY. |——— Ozark Alf, Kroc or ree Mountar, Ba Edward Willett, Dashing Dick. By OU Coomes. Sam Charcoal, By Charles Morris. Snoozer, THE Boy SHarp. By EB. L,Wheeler. Dusky Darrell, Trarper. By E. Emerson, Little Wildfire, By Oll Cocmes. Crimson Kate. By Col. P. Ingraham. The Vankee Rajah. By ©. D. Clare. Plucky Phil. By T. C. Harbaugh. Gold-Dust Dick. By E. L. Whieeter. Joe Buck, of Angels, By. A W. Aiken, Old Rocky's ‘ Boyees,’ Buckskin Sar. Shadow Sam. _ By Charles Morris., Apollo Bill, By Edward L, Wheeler, Lone Star, the Cowboy Captain y or, THe MysvERious Rancuero. By P. Ingraham, The Parson Detective, By Oll Coomes. The Gold-seeker Guide, or, Tau Losw Mounram. By Captain Mayne Reid. Cyclone Kit, By Edward L. Wheeler. 240 241 Bill Bravo and His Bear Pards. By T. C. Harbaugh. 242 The Two ‘ Bloods, By Charles Morris, 243 Whe Disguised Guide. By Of) Coomes. 244 Sierra Sam. By Edward L, Wheeler. 245 Merle, the MWiddy. By Col. P. Ingraham. 246 Glant George. By Buckskin Sam. 247 Old Grizzly and His Pets. By Captain “ Bruin” Adams. 248 Sierra Sam's Secret, By E. L. Wheeler. | 249 Milo Homer, By Capt. Fred. Whittaker. 250 Midshipman Mutineer, By Ingraham. 251 Light-house Lige, By J. F. C. Adams 252 Dick Dashaway. By Chas. Morris. 253 Stlerra Sam’s Frard,. By E. L. Wheeler, 254 The Half Blood. By Edward §. Ellis, 255 Captain Apollo. By T. C. Harbaugh. 256 Young Kentuck. By Capt. Mark Wilton, 257 The Lost Munters, By Capt. Adams, 258 Sierra Sams Seven, By i. L. Wheeler, 259 The Golden Harpoon. ByR. Starbock. 260 Dare-Devil Dan. By Oll Coomes. 261 Fergus Fearnaught, By Geo. L. Aiken. 262 The Young Sleuths, By Charles Morris. 263 Deadwood Dick's Divide, By Wheeler, 264 The Floating Feather. Bev Ingraham, 265 Whe Viger Temer. By Capt. Whittaker. 266 Killb’ar, the Guiles, By Ensign Warren. 267 The Buckskin Detective. By T. GC Harbaugh. by 268 Deadwood Dick's Death Trail, Edward L. Wheeler. 269 The Gold Ship. By Ool. P. Ingraham, |! 270 Blizzard Ben, By Captain Mark Wilton, 271 The Huge Hunter. By, Edward 8. Ellis. 272 Minkskin Mike, By OU Coomes. 273 Jumbo Joe. By Edward L. Wheeler, | 274 Jolly Jim. By Charles Mortis, 1275 Arizona Jack. By Buckskin Sam, 276 Merle Wonts Cruise, By Ingraham 277 Denver Doll. By Edward L. Wheeler, 278 Whe Three Trappers. By Major Carson. 279 Old Winch, Trav Rurvte Kiva, By T. Harbaugh, 280 Merle Monte'’s Fate, By Col Ingraham. 281 Denver Dolls Victory. By Wheeler. | 282 The Typo Detoctive, By EdVard Willett. 283 Indian Joe. By Major L. W. Carson. 284 The Sea “larauder. By. Col Ingraham. 285 Denver Dolls Decoy. By E. L. Wheeler. 286 Josh, the Boy Fenderfoot; or, Tar Witp Men or Buzzarp Bar. By Maik Wilts: | 2987 Billy Blue-Eyes. By Col. P. Ingraham 288 The Scalp King. By Capt. J. F.C, Adame, | 289 Jolly Jim's Job. By Charies Morris. 290 Little Foxfire, By Ol] Coomes, 291 Turk, the Ferret, By E. L. Wheeler. 292 Sancho Pedro, tHe Boy Banprr. By Major BE. L. St. Vrain, | 298 Red Claw, ne Onr-Evep Traprzr. By } Captain Comstock, , 294 Dynamite Dan, By T. C Harbaugh. 295 Fearless Phil; or, Tar Riva or Quart’ vItte. By Edward Willett. | 296 Denver Doil’s Drift. By E. L. Wheeler. | 297 The Tarantula of Taos, By Buckskin Sam, | 298 The Beach Pirates, By Charles Mors A ners dgsue every week. The Half-Dime Library {fs for sale by alf ewsdealers, five cents per COPY. or sent by mail on of six_cents each. SADLE & ADAMR ers. 98 William Street, New York. eee ROE