Before Gus had time to fairly digest what he had heard or to recover himself sufficiently to elicit further information by inquiry, the old man went on:

"Some folks makes a bungle of everything they do, and you just wait and see if that old scamp don't turn up again some day, and before he is wanted, too. But I oughtn't to abuse him before you, seeing that he is your own dead mother's brother."

"Oh, you needn't apologize for that," said Gus, as soon as he could speak. "I hate him as heartily as you do."

"And hain't I got good reason to hate him?" asked Barlow, elevating his wooden leg above the counter. "Just look at that! Wasn't he a nice cove to go and wing me and set me to stumping around on this thing all the rest of my days?"

Gus was well acquainted with the circumstances to which the man referred, and knew that he richly deserved the punishment he had received. In the years gone by Barlow had been a sailor, and had on one occasion shipped on a vessel commanded by Captain Nellis. He was so very turbulent that he was kept in irons almost half his time; and once, just after he was released from a long confinement, he, without the slightest provocation, attacked the mate of the vessel so fiercely, and with such evident intention to do him some serious injury, that the captain, in order to save his officer, disabled the ruffian with a ball from his pistol which shattered the bone and rendered amputation necessary. Barlow never forgave his captain for that; and, moreover, when he once got started on the subject he never seemed to be able to stop talking about it.

"I ask you wasn't he a nice fellow to go and do that?" continued the old man, growing more and more enraged the longer he dwelt upon it. "But for him I might to-day 'a 'been the master of as fine a vessel as ever sailed; but here I am, laid up in ordinary, trying to turn an honest penny by keepin' a sailors' boarding-house."

"And turning many a dishonest one by being a land-shark," thought Gus.

"I hate the whole tribe—every one that bears the name of Nellis," the old man went on, fiercely. "If I had my way I'd sweep them all off the earth."

"So would I," said Gus, heartily.

"Now, I'll tell you what's gospel," continued Barlow, leaning over the counter toward his visitor and sinking his voice almost to a whisper—"is that son of his coming here this summer?"

Gus replied that he was.

"Well, if men are as scarce as they were last year he had better keep himself close, or he'll make out the tail-end of a crew as sure as I can get my hands on him."

Gus started back and gazed at the old man in great amazement. Was the latter able to read the thoughts that were passing in his mind? It certainly looked like it. He had heard that men, even landsmen who knew nothing of the ways of the world, had been kidnapped and shipped off to sea to fill up a crew that could not be completed by voluntary enlistment, and it had occurred to him that that would be a good way to rid himself of the presence of his cousin, if he could only find some one to undertake the task. Knowing the deadly enmity that Barlow cherished toward Captain Nellis, Gus had visited him on purpose to ascertain whether or not he was ripe for such a scheme, and was delighted to know that he had found a willing tool—so willing, indeed, that he himself need have nothing to do with the matter. All he had to do was to remain in the background, and Barlow would do all the work and run all the risk.

This was a highly encouraging state of affairs, and Gus would have felt perfectly at his ease had it not been for the hints Barlow had thrown out in connection with Mr. Nellis's disappearance. Gus turned the conversation back to this subject as soon as he could, but all he learned was that one morning, following a remarkably stormy night, Mr. Nellis's boat had been found on the reefs with a hole knocked in her, and the supposition was that her owner had been out on one of his fishing excursions and had been caught in the storm and drowned. At any rate, he was never seen or heard of afterward. This was no news to Gus, for he had heard it long ago. He wanted to know what Barlow had seen on that stormy morning, but on this subject the old man refused to talk. It was none of his business, he said, and with that the boy was obliged to be contented.

Gus left the sailors' boarding-house heartily wishing that he had never gone near it. He had felt sure of his position before, but he did not feel so now. His uncle had been treacherously dealt with, that was plain, but instead of being safely out of the way was likely to make his appearance at any moment. He could not be far away, either, for Barlow had confidently assured him that he would be certain to turn up, and that, too, before he was wanted. Then what would happen? Gus trembled when he thought of it.

"Father had a hand in it," said he, as he climbed into the buggy. "I can now account for that wild look in his eye, and understand what he meant when he said that after all he had done and dared for me I ought to treat him with more respect. I declare it is the worst thing I ever heard of. If I am to be a party to this business I ought to know just what has happened, so that I can be prepared for any emergency."

But this was something Gus never found out. He visited Barlow a dozen times during the next two days, but could gain nothing further from him. He had several interviews with his father, during which he hinted so broadly at what he had heard that Mr. Layton exhibited the same signs of alarm he had shown when his son first came home; but he volunteered no information, and Gus dared not ask for it. These things made such an impression on him that on the morning of the day Bob was expected home from Elmwood Gus had all his luggage removed to the rooms in the south wing that had been prepared for him, and saw that everything was arranged in his cousin's room just as he had found it. As matters now stood Bob's star was in the ascendant, and Gus did not think it would be policy to begin an open warfare with him. But he did not for an instant lose sight of what had for the last few months been the main object of his life.

After Gus left the academy affairs went on in much the usual way. True, there was less wrangling and quarrelling among the students, and such fellows as Simpson and Scotty were obliged to keep themselves altogether in the background. The "cut-oar matter," as the boys called it, was thoroughly investigated, and every one who was in any way mixed up with it, and there proved to be at least a score of them, was sent to coventry without ceremony. The culprits at first assumed an independent attitude, and tried to show themselves as indifferent to the students as the latter were to them; but this plan did not succeed very well, and in their hearts they wished they had had nothing to do with Gus Layton and his attempted fraud.

Examination week ended and the closing exercises over, the students began to separate to their homes, all of them apparently light-hearted and joyous, and speaking confidently of meeting again at the beginning of the next school-year. Bob Nellis was melancholy and low-spirited. As far as he knew, he had no home to go to. There was no kind father waiting to receive him and tell him that he was satisfied with his conduct at school and of the progress he had made there. He was going among those who were almost strangers to him, and who he knew had no interest in him. He took a sorrowful leave of the school and of his mates, and with Sprague for a companion—he lived in the same village that Bob did—set out for home. As long as he remained in sight of the familiar buildings he kept looking back at them as if he never expected to see them again. He did go back to them, however, and prepared for college there; but he first passed through some adventures the like of which he had never dreamed of.

"Now, Bob, I want you to tell me what is the matter with you," said Sprague, laying his hand affectionately on his companion's shoulder. "Ever since your uncle countermanded your order for that new shell you haven't acted at all like yourself. Do you think your uncle has gone back on you?"

"I know it," said Bob. "But, Sprague, you will excuse me for not saying too much. When I get home I shall know just how the land lays. I may be wrong, but that's the way things look now."

"Only just one question more and then I'll drop the matter," said Sprague, earnestly. "I heard before I came here that your father used to be worth a lot of money. Has your uncle got hold of it?"

Bob nodded.

"Well, I am sorry for you, and I know how to appreciate your feelings; but I will tell you this, Bob: Whenever things get too hot for you, come to my house."

Bob thanked him from the bottom of his heart. It served to show him that he had at least one friend left in Clifton.

Bob left the academy on Thursday evening, and awoke the next morning to find the steamer in which he had taken passage tied up to the wharf in Clifton. There was the usual crowd to meet her, early as it was, and among the lookers-on Bob found many friends and acquaintances who were all eager to shake him by the hand. Although he was glad to see them he excused himself as soon as he could, and having given his luggage into the charge of a drayman, hurried away. He wanted to see his home once more, even if had no right there. There was one friend, at least, who would be glad to see him, and Bob was disappointed as well as surprised that he did not find him on the wharf, waiting for him. It was old Ben Watson, his father's gardener. But Bob knew where to find him, and he intended to visit him before he presented himself to his uncle. Perhaps Ben could tell him some things he wanted to know. With this determination, Bob went through the iron gate which opened into the grounds that had once belonged to his father; but instead of following the broad carriage-way that led up to the door he turned into a by-path, and presently found himself standing before a neat little cottage that was hidden away among the trees. There was an air of desolation about it that Bob had never noticed before. The door did not open at his knock, and when he looked in at the window he was surprised to see that the house was deserted—there was no furniture in it. Bob did not know what to make of it.

With a sigh of regret he turned into the path again, and after a few minutes' walk reached the stables. Here another disappointment awaited him. He found a man dressed as a hostler, and he was engaged in rubbing down one of Bob's own ponies; but the face he turned toward him was not that of old Jack Couch, who had charge of the stables during his father's lifetime. It was the face of a negro, and one Bob had never seen before.

If there had not been a person in the world with whom he was acquainted, Bob could not have felt more desolate and friendless than he did at that moment. When his father was alive there were four servants employed on the place—two in the house, one in the stables, and one in the garden. They were all men, and every one of them was a sailor who had grown gray in his father's service. Bob was a favorite with them all; and if any of them held a higher place in his estimation than the others, it was Ben Watson, the gardener. Many a relic and curiosity had the old fellow brought to him from over the sea, and many an hour had he spent in his cabin listening to his thrilling tales of the deep; and it was there, beside Ben's fire, that he had promised his father that, come what might, he would never be a sailor. The boy had often thought of old Ben since his father's death, and impatiently counted the hours of meeting him, but now he was gone.

"They're all gone," thought Bob, turning away from the stable without returning the hostler's civil greeting, "and I am left alone. They have been cast adrift in their old age, in spite of father's promise that they should always be cared for; and if I may judge by uncle's letters, I must go, too. If I had never made that promise I would be at sea in less than twenty-four hours; but it is as binding now as it was while father was living."

"Sah! Sah!" said a voice, arousing him from his reverie.

Bob looked up and saw a negro hurrying toward him.

"Sah!" repeated the negro, "ole Moster Layton done sent me to tell you dat dese is private grounds, an' he don't 'low no trespassin' from anybody."

Bob was thunderstruck. Did his uncle intend to cast him off in that style?

"I hates to say it to a gemman," continued the negro, "but ole Moster say dem's his 'perative orders."

"Does—does he know I am Bob Nellis?" asked our hero, at a venture.

"Sah?" yelled the darky. "Is you Moster Bob? 'Fore Moses, we's expectin' you. Your rooms am all done fix up nice. I fix 'em myself. Come dis way, sah. Your uncle is in de library."

Bob, whose equanimity was not altogether restored by this assurance and the change his name had produced in the darky's bearing toward him, followed to the house, and was presently ushered into the library. His uncle was there, busy with some papers, which he hastily bundled out of sight as his nephew entered.

"Why, Bob!" he exclaimed, with more apparent cordiality than the boy had expected to see him exhibit, "I didn't know that was you when I sent Sam to order you out. Sit down. You are welcome to my house."

This was said with so much emphasis on the pronoun that Bob took his cue from it and at once decided on his course.

"Uncle Luther," said he, suddenly, "I should like to know just how matters stand here. You said in one of your letters that you would explain everything when you saw me."

(Bob had noted, with some bitterness, that his uncle did not say, "When you come home.")

"Never mind that now," said Mr. Layton, hastily. "We will have some breakfast before we talk business. I can tell you everything you wish to know in two minutes."

"Then please tell me now," persisted Bob. "I have ordered my luggage brought to this house because I did not know where else to send it; but if I have no right or interest here, of course I don't want to stay."

"H'm," said Mr. Layton.

"I hope you'll be plain with me, for I am prepared for the worst," continued Bob.

His uncle settled back in his chair and coughed ominously once or twice, as if he were preparing to say something disagreeable.

"Well, Bob," said Mr. Layton, speaking hurriedly, as if he wished to get through with a very unpleasant duty, "I must tell you plainly that no provision has been made for you. I supposed, of course, as every one else did, that you were to be your father's heir, and why you were not I am sure I cannot tell; perhaps you can. I can tell you, however, that a codicil to his will, in which the property was left to you, makes me the sole heir. The will has been admitted to probate, and you can obtain a copy of it for a dollar or two, which I will cheerfully furnish you, if you are out of funds. As I suppose, you want to do something now for yourself, I have taken the liberty to make arrangements for you which I hope you will like. I trust that you have made the most of your opportunities, for that school is a very expensive one, and none but wealthy men can afford to send their sons there."

Bob listened to this speech, and when it was concluded told himself that if his uncle had not repeated it in private until he had learned it by heart, he certainly spoke and acted as if he had. Of one thing he was now satisfied, and that was, he was not to return to the academy. His uncle could not afford it. Bob could not help recalling the fact that his father had kept Gus there three years at his own expense, but he said nothing about it.

"As your father followed the sea for a livelihood during the earlier part of his life, I suppose you must have some love for the water, and I suggest that you adopt his profession," continued Mr. Layton. "You will have opportunities to see different countries, and under my patronage promotion will be certain if you prove yourself worthy of it."

"I cannot do it," said Bob. "I promised I would never be a sailor."

"But at the time your father extorted that promise from you he probably did not imagine that you would ever be thrown upon your own resources. Besides, he is dead."

"But the promise is binding, all the same," said Bob.

"Then what do you intend to do?" asked his uncle, with some impatience. "You have got to do something."

"I have not made up my mind. I can turn my hand to almost anything, and shall not starve."

"Well, perhaps you will need a little time to look about you, and meanwhile your rooms are quite at your service. Now that we have settled the matter we'll go to breakfast."

But Bob did not feel in the humor for breakfast. He could not have eaten a mouthful at Mr. Layton's table if he had tried—his heart was too full. He wanted to get away by himself, so he made his excuses to his uncle, who did not seem at all unwilling to part with him, and hurried out of the house.