VI.

"Do hurry, John," she begged, setting her basket within the sleigh, "those poor creeters must be half-starved, let alone their crying theirselves eenamost to death."

Then her motherly heart that had taken up entirely the cause of the boys, allowed throbs of pity to be felt on Thomas' account as she saw the effect of her words upon him, and she hastened to add—"You'll make pretty quick time after you git on the road, and boys always know how to have a good time as long as daylight lasts, at any rate."

"You better believe, Betsey," declared Farmer Bassett, "that we will not let the grass, or the snow rather, accumulate under our feet, will we, Jack?" caressing his horse. "There, Mr. —— what'd you say your name was?" turning to the man beside him.

"Thomas, sir—Thomas Bradley. But I'm better known as Mr. Bangs' man, bad luck to the day I shirked a bit. But I'll catch it enough when I get home, though"—

"And serves you quite right, Thomas," observed Farmer Bassett; "well, get in, and we'll be off. Good-by, mother!" He didn't kiss her; it was not the New England way in which they had both been reared, but he did look at her round, comely face with such an expression in his gray eyes that a smile went back to him from the lips firmly folded together—"Take care of yourself now, an' the house, I'll be along in the mornin'."

Then he got into the sleigh, and tucking up the well-worn robes around his companion and himself, signified to Jack by a loud "g'lang!" that he was expected to start.

"I s'pose you're going to talk to me now," said Thomas awkwardly, after they had turned the corner from which the last view of the comfortable red farmhouse could be seen, "and give me a piece of your mind for leaving them chaps and disobeying master. You've a good right, I'm sure, being as you're getting me out o' the scrape."

"I ain't one to do preachin' to other folks," said the farmer shortly. "I have enough to do to take care o' my own sins."

Thomas stared in amazement into the tough, leathery face. That any one who could claim the least right, should let slip to "give it to" another man caught in a peccadillo, he could not understand, and he took the only way to find relief that came to his mind. When he finished scratching his head in a perplexed way, he relapsed into silence that was not broken till at least half the distance to Sachem Hill was traversed.

Then the old farmer began to converse, but on general topics, and in such a cheery way, that his travelling companion came a bit out of his shamefaced despondency feeling as if there might be a chance even for him in the world once more.

By the time that Jack jingled them into the vicinity of Mr. Bangs' summer cottage, the two were in such a good state of mind that any one meeting them would have said it was only a pleasure excursion that drew them out to enjoy the night.

And now Thomas sat erect and drew his breath fast, while his eyes, strained to their utmost, pierced the gathering darkness for the first glimpse of the house.

"Turn here up this lane, master," he begged suddenly, "it's a short cut," and the old farmer lashed Jack, all the time begging the astonished animal's pardon, while he hurried up the back way as directed.

"Good—oh!" groaned Thomas, pulling his arm, and pointing with a shaking hand. Farmer Bassett more intent on the feelings of the faithful horse, and on getting on, had not glanced up. At this cry of distress he did, and now saw with Thomas a bright light gleaming from one of the upper windows of the Bangs' cottage.

"It's FIRE!" said Thomas hoarsely, plucking him by the arm again. "We must 'a' left somethin' smoulderin' in the fire-place"—

"Nonsense," said the farmer reassuringly. Nevertheless he gave Jack another cut that made him jounce at a fearful rate up to the back veranda.

Thomas leaped out and sped up the steps. Farmer Bassett tarried only long enough to fasten Jack to the hitching-post, throw his blanket over him, and give one pat on his head, then followed.

"Boys!" screamed Thomas, racing up and down the veranda, and shaking the doors, "are you in there?"

But only the branches of the trees creaked in the cold wind for answer. Thomas stamped in very fury.

"See here," said the old farmer, down on the ground and pointing up, "look at their heads. They're all safe an' sound, an' not half as cold as you an' I."

With that he sent out such a halloo that Thomas on the veranda clapped his hands to his ears. It had the effect desired, for at least two of the windows in the gable end of the cottage were thrown up, and as many boys' heads as could possibly be accommodated, were thrust out.

"Halloo, Thomas, halloo," called one voice in derision, "don't you wish you were here too?"

"You're a nice one," said Master Wingate, "and won't you catch it, though, when you get home. You'll be place-hunting as soon as you can say 'Jack Robinson'"—

"See here, you young scamp," shouted the old farmer, "it will be for your interest to end that sort of talk, now I tell you. You just step down lively an' open one of these doors. We've cooled our heels enough comin' to look for you an' don't propose to stand here any longer. Hurry up, now."

The boys stared in astonishment down into as much of his face as the darkness would permit them to see, and recognizing from the quality of his voice that a parley would not be acceptable, drew in their heads and proceeded to obey the order.

"Who is the old party?" cried one of the boys as they ran over the stairs.

"I don't know," returned Wingate, "I'm sure."

"Don't let us open the door then," urged another boy; "see here, Wingate," laying a detaining hand on his arm, "you are not obliged to—nobody has a right to order you to unlock your father's house. Don't do it; we'll lose all the fun of keeping Thomas out till we've had the fun of scaring him all we want to."

Master Wingate hesitated. But a vigorous rap on the dining-room door at the foot of the staircase, made him start, and a loud imperative—"Hurry up, there," caused him to redouble his speed.

"I guess we better let 'em in," he said, and slid back the bolt.