"Please let me go, and I'll give you five dollars," said poor Philip, as he was dragged along the forest path by his captor.

"Humph!" said Temple, grimly, thinking he might as well take the money, though he had no intention of releasing Philip. "Have you got five dollars with you?"

"No."

"Then you are trying to fool me," exclaimed Temple, with an angry jerk at the boy's collar.

"No, I'm not," answered Philip, terrified. "I've got two dollars with me, and I'll bring you the rest before night.

"Where will you get it?"

"From my father."

"And I suppose you expect me to let you go home and get it?"

"If you please."

"But I don't please. You must think I'm a fool. Just as if you would come back if you had once got away!"

"But I will. I promise it on my word of honor."

"Your word of honor," repeated Temple, scornfully. "As if I didn't know what that amounts to."

Philip would have resented this imputation if he had dared, but there was a look of grim resolution about Temple's mouth which made him afraid to show any resentment.

"Besides," added Temple, "what do you think I care for five dollars? After you have stolen thousands of dollars from me, you dare to think I will let you off for five dollars."

There was something in this speech which, despite Philip's terror, attracted his attention. Temple spoke of being robbed of thousands of dollars, yet he was generally considered a poor outlaw. How could he have come into possession of so large a sum?

"Thousands of dollars!" repeated Philip, in undisguised amazement.

"Yes; what have you got to say about it?" demanded Temple, sharply.

"I thought you were poor," Philip couldn't help saying.

Temple paused a moment. He knew that the possession of so much money would excite surprise in others besides Philip, and he regretted his imprudence in speaking of thousands of dollars. As it was done, he must give some kind of an explanation.

"So I was poor; but a rich cousin in New York died lately, and left me a large legacy. Not having any safe to put it in," he added, with a grim smile, "I concealed it in the wood, thinking it would be safe. When I saw you and that friend of yours prowling around this morning, it crossed my mind that it was in danger; but I didn't think you were thieves."

"We are not," said Philip. "We know nothing about your tin box."

"That's all very well to say. What were you doing in the wood just now?"

"I only went there for a walk."

"Of course," said Temple, with a sneer. "It's a pleasant place for a walk, and handy to your house."

"I hope to die if I ain't telling the truth!" said Philip, desperately.

"You'll die when your time comes, and it may come sooner than you think for," said Temple, taking a malicious pleasure in seeing Philip turn pale and tremble in his grasp.

"You wouldn't kill me?" faltered Philip.

"I don't know what I shall do. If you tell me where the box is, I shan't."

"But I don't know—hope to die if I do."

"Who was that fellow with you?" demanded Temple, abruptly.

"James Congreve."

"Where does he come from?"

"From New York."

"If you haven't stolen the box, he has. It lies between you."

"James wouldn't steal it. He is a gentleman."

"So gentlemen don't steal?" sneered Temple. "I am not sure about that. I know one thing. I've lost the box, and one of you has got it."

It occurred to Temple that it was more likely to be Congreve, who was older and bolder than the boy he had captured, but he was not disposed to let Philip go, nevertheless.

Again Philip denied the charge, but this time Temple did not answer.

At length they reached the hut, and entered.

Now came the critical moment. What was this bad man going to do with him? Philip asked himself.

He was dragged into the hut, and then, for the first time, his captor relaxed his grip.

"Sit down there," he said, pointing to a wooden chair, from which the paint had all worn off.

Philip sat down.

"Now, if you dare to stir or try to escape I'll kill you," said Temple, coolly.

"What a blood-thirsty ruffian!" Philip thought, trembling.

Temple opened the door of a closet, which was filled with a variety of articles, including a small supply of kitchen utensils.

He took out a case-knife, to the horror of poor Philip, who concluded he was to be butchered in cold blood. Still, he did not dare to leave his seat, lest his jailer's threat should be carried into execution. He was happily undeceived, however, for from the floor of the closet Temple lifted a portion of a clothesline, and with some difficulty, for the knife was dull, cut off a portion. Then he turned to Philip.

"I can't stay here to stand guard over you, boy," he said, "but I don't mean that you shall get away in a hurry. I think I have found a way to prevent your escaping."

He approached the boy, and said:

"Hold out your hands."

"What are you going to do to me, Mr. Temple?" asked Philip, nervously.

"Tie you," answered his captor, sententiously. "What do you suppose ropes are made for?"

"Please don't tie me," said Philip, in dismay. "I won't run away."

"No, I don't think you will. Hold out your hands."

There was no help for it. Philip, much against his will, held out his hands, and they were tied tightly around the wrists, so that the stricture was painful.

"It hurts me," he complained.

"It would hurt your neck worse," replied Temple.

Philip understood what he meant, and turned pale. But a ray of hope came to him in his despondency. Even if his hands were tied he might escape, and he resolved to do so as soon as Temple was at a safe distance.

His hands being tied would not prevent his walking or running, and once out of the wood he would feel comparatively safe.

He reckoned without his host, however; or, rather, he reckoned without knowing the intentions of his captor.

"There," said Temple, when the boy's hands were tied, "so far so good! Now for your feet!"

Hope died once more in Philip's breast. He might escape with his hands tied, but with his feet tied it was quite another matter. In vain he protested against this second indignity. His jailor was not to be moved.

"You may as well spare your breath, boy," he said. "I ain't quite a fool. I'm not going to leave you free to get away as soon as my back is turned."

So Philip's feet were tied, too, and he realized how utterly helpless he was.

"There, you can amuse yourself now as much as you like," said Temple, with a humor that Philip did not by any means appreciate. "You'll have a nice, easy time, with nothing to do."

He turned and left the hut, relieving Philip of his presence, which was one comfort, but did not go very far.

As my readers will conclude, Philip began to work his wrists up and down, vainly endeavoring to unloose the rope, but only succeeded in hurting himself. Next he tried his feet, but they, also, were securely confined.

It was a righteous retribution for the trick he had played on Harry Gilbert. He was being paid off in his own coin. Though his conscience was not particularly sensitive, it did occur to him that he was in precisely the same condition as the boy whom he and Congreve had left alone in the dark wood, fully expecting that he would have to remain all night.

But even then he could not be said to feel deep regret for his unworthy act. He was sensible of the inconvenience to which he was subjected by his constrained position, and began to chafe and fret under it.

"I wonder how long he's going to leave me here?" thought Philip, though, in truth, he hardly knew whether he wanted Temple to return or not.

"Just as soon as I get away, I'll ask pa to have him arrested. I wouldn't mind seeing him hung."

An hour passed—about the longest hour Philip had ever known. At length his eager ears discerned steps outside the hut. It might be a friend! At any rate, he would call, and perhaps the call would bring rescue.

"Hello, there!" he called out. "Come in; I need help!"