Just about the time that Barnaby Vernon sat down to his first breakfast at his hotel, old Gershom Todderley, the fat and crusty miller of Ogleport, stood, with his hands in his pockets, halfway between the dam and the sawmill, jerking wheezy, angry sentences at the head of his Irish foreman.

“Mister Murphy, I say. Those rascally boys again. They’ve put up another spring-board. Twenty times I’ve forbidden ’em to bathe in my pond. Saw it off, sir. Close up. They’ll be here again this afternoon. So’ll I, sir. Saw it off. We’ll see, sir.”

And the wheezy miller put on all the dignity that he knew how, as he turned away towards his own breakfast, although the only reply from the dusty-looking Mr. Murphy was a subdued and doubtful:

“’Dade, an’ I’ll do that same, the day, sir.”The moment his employer was fairly out of ear-shot, however, a droll expression crept across the merry face of the Irishman.

“’Dade, an’ I’m glad the owld curmudgeon didn’t know I put it there mesilf. Sure, an’ the lake’s betther for ’em, but it’s a mile away, and the pond’s clane and handy. It’ll spile the fun for the byes, but ordhers is ordhers. Anyhow, I’ll have some fun of me own wid ’em. They’ll niver suspect owld Pat of layin’ a thrap for ’em.”

It evidently went to the heart of the miller’s foreman to spoil fun of any kind, but he went straightway to the grist-mill for a hand-saw, and then, after a sharp look around, to be sure that he was not observed, he made a deep cross-cut on the under side of the long pine plank which he had so carefully set for the convenience of the young bathers of Ogleport.

The cut was close in, towards the frame of the old flume by which the plank was supported, and, while no one would have noted or suspected it, the thin bit of pine remaining on the surface was not a great deal more than was required to sustain the weight and apparent “spring” of the plank itself.“There,” said Pat, as he put away his saw, “I hope the first feller that puts his fut on that same’ll be a good swimmer. It’s twinty fate o’ wather he’ll drop in, not an inch the less.”

But Pat’s scrutiny of the “surrounding country,” keen as it was, had not been as complete as he imagined.

On the opposite shore of the deep and capacious mill-pond, where the bulrushes had grown so thickly up to the edge, and the willows had matted the sweeping boughs so very densely, every blackbird had left his perch some ten minutes earlier.

The birds had been better posted than Pat Murphy, and knew very well why they had winged it away so suddenly and unanimously, but Pat had failed to take the hint. Little he was thinking of those chattering loafers, the blackbirds, but every one of them had his own beady little eye on the stealthy movements of Zeb Fuller.

Not so very young or so small, either, was Zeb, only somewhat short and “stocky” in build, and the slight cast in one of his twinkling gray optics did not at all interfere with the perfection with which he squinted through the willows at what was going on at the spring-board.

“Going to saw it off, is he?” muttered Zeb. “Well, Pat Murphy never’d ha’ done that unless the old man made him. No, he’s just a-sawin’ under it. If that ain’t mean! Well, no, not exactly mean, but if Pat reckons he’ll catch any of our crowd in that trap, he’s a sold Irishman, that’s all. Soon as he clears out, I’ll cut around and give the boys the word. There won’t one on ’em set foot on that there plank—you see if they do.”

Zebedee Fuller was the last boy in the village to interfere with anything like a practical joke, and his warning to “the boys” did not go beyond his own particular set.

Still, the way in which the mill and the pond were watched, that day, was a lesson for the detective service.

The hour at which old Gersh Todderley started out in his antiquated buggy, and the hour of his return, as well as every “in and out” of Pat Murphy himself, were carefully noted by one youngster or another, nor did the discontented blackbirds have a fair show at their willow-tree perches during all those weary hours of patient waiting.

At last, as the sun sank lower and lower in the west, the accustomed time arrived for such of the village boys as declined the long, hot walk to the lake, to trouble the smooth waters of the mill-pond and the unsympathizing soul of Gershom Todderley.

Pat Murphy was somehow more than usually busy at the grist-mill; the saw of the sawmill had been quiet for weeks.

There was really no reason why the boys should not have had a good time with their spring-board and the cool, cleansing, refreshing water—no reason at all but the dog-in-the-manger spirit of old Gersh Todderley.

But the accustomed squad of young “dolphins” forbade to come, for some cause or other, and Pat Murphy came to the north window of the mill, for the hundredth time, all in vain.

“Faix,” he said to himself, “it’s a pity to take so much throuble as all that for nothing. Sorra one on ’em’s showed himself near the pond the day.”Even as he spoke, however, though he had turned back to his endless clatter and dust, and saw it not, the seeming solitude of the pond was being invaded.

Down the stream, from the bushes that concealed its winding course through the valley above, there drifted a clumsy, scow-built punt, the pride of Zeb Fuller’s heart, and in it with him were three of his most trusted friends, for, only three minutes before, Zeb had been advised by a trusty scout of a very important and promising occurrence.

Not only had the miller returned, but he had been met at his very gate by the Rev. Solomon Dryer, D. D., Principal of Ogleport Academy, and the two men were actually approaching the mill together.

“Old Sol hasn’t anything to do with us in vacation, boys,” said Zeb, to his friends, “and I move we strip and go right in. We can keep out in the middle, you know, and they can’t get at us. The other boys can keep hid behind the willows and see the fun.”

The road from the miller’s house gave a good view of the pond at several points; and before he and his dignified companion had made half the distance, they saw such goings on upon the water as led even the fat and wheezy man of lumber and flour to double his perspiring pace and his wrath at the same time.

“Those boys, Doctor! See them? In the boat! That’s defiance. On my own pond. Defiance, sir. What are we coming to? What’s your authority worth, or mine? Glad I had the spring-board cut off. We must see about this, sir.”

“Indeed, my dear sir,” calmly and frigidly responded the head of the village institution, “I fully sympathize with you, but I think my presence will be sufficient. I have long been accustomed to repress these rebellious ebullitions. I will go with you with pleasure.”

“Right, sir; knew you would. Stop ’em. Make my pond a bathing-tub before my very eyes, sir.”

And now, while the lyers-in-wait behind the willows were half-bursting with envy of their more fortunate fellow-conspirators in the boat, the doctor and the miller puffed their consequential way to the open space on the old flume frame, between the dam and the sawmill.What a view that spot commanded of the peaceful mill-pond and of the audacious iniquity of those boys!

Nearer and nearer drifted the boat, while the white-skinned rebels plunged from its rocking sides and disported themselves boisterously and undisguisedly in all directions, as if ignorant of the approach of any authority higher than their own desire for a good swim.

It was to the last degree tantalizing and irritating, but, just as Gershom Todderley found breath to sing out, “You young rascals!” his eyes fell upon the mocking and obnoxious length of the spring-board, and he exclaimed:

“Doctor, do you see that! I’ll discharge him! He hasn’t cut it off. That Irishman!”

“Isn’t that what the boys denominate a spring-board?” asked the doctor.

“That’s it, sir. I told Pat Murphy to cut it off this very morning. They walk out to the end of that, sir, and tilter up and down, and then jump into the water.”

“Is there no danger of its breaking and drowning them?” asked the doctor.

“Drown ’em! Drown so many pickerel,” exclaimed the miller. “No, sir. Hold up a ton, sir. Why, it’s clear white pine. Stole it from me, most likely. Walk out on it. Try it yourself, Doctor.”

“I? Oh, no, indeed,” responded the doctor. “That would never do. I weigh very little, to be sure, but I could not think of such a thing.”

As the learned gentleman drew his thin and wizened form back to its most dignified uprightness, however, a riotous yell and splash from Zeb and his friends stirred the blood of the miller to the very bounds of endurance.

“Come on, boys,” shouted Zeb; “let’s have a jump from the board, and show ’em what we can do.”

The face of the miller grew red, and he actually drew a long breath as he strode forward.

He knew too well the strength of a two-inch pine plank to have any misgivings, and, just as a wild shout rang out from the window of the grist-mill, and Pat Murphy sprang insanely through it to the great heap of sour “bran” beneath, Gershom Todderley gave the treacherous wood the full benefit of his overfed weight.Even then the tough pine held its own for a step or two.

“You young rascals.”

Crack!

A wild spreading out of fat arms, a wheezy shriek of fear, a tremendous splash in the calm, deep water, and Gershom Todderley had received the full benefit of Pat Murphy’s trap.

“The boat, boys!” shouted Zeb.

“Quick, now, or the old porpoise will drown himself. Pity we didn’t bring a harpoon along.”

Four naked boys were in the boat in less than no time, and while the Rev. Solomon Dryer stood on the flume, helplessly opening and shutting his mouth, without uttering a sound, Zeb and his heroes pulled vigorously to the rescue. They would have been there in plenty of time, too, but Pat Murphy, forgetting, in his conscience-stricken excitement, that he could not swim a stroke, had made no pause at the brink, but had gone in, heels over head, to fish for his employer.

There was double work cut out for Zeb and his friends, and the willows on the opposite shore were alive with a chorus which never came from the throats of blackbirds.The miller may have been a selfish man, but he was neither a coward nor a fool, and when, on coming to the surface for the second time, he found an oar-blade poked into his well-covered ribs, he had quite sense enough to cling to it and be pulled to the side of the boat.

“That’ll do,” said Zeb. “You’ll tip us over if you try to climb in. You’re safe enough, now, and we’ll pull you ashore. I’m going for poor Pat Murphy.”

Pat was by no means so easy to manage, but in a couple of minutes more the boys had him upon the other side of the boat, making a very good counterpoise for the miller.

“Now, Dr. Dryer,” exclaimed Zeb, “we’re only waiting for you. You needn’t stop to strip. Neither Pat nor old Todderley did. Come right in. Water’s nice and cool.”

“Young man,” solemnly remarked the doctor, “your levity is most reprehensible. I hope for an opportunity of inspiring you with a greater degree of reverence.”

“Boys,” said Zeb, “we’ll let Pat and old Todderley go. They’ve had a good ducking. But we must drown the doctor. It’s our last chance.”Whether or not the man of learning had any fears of their carrying out the proposition, it was received with such a yell of what he deemed irreclaimable ferocity, that he immediately turned his stately steppings away from the unhallowed margin of the mill-pond, and the boys were left to finish their work of rescue alone.

It was easy enough to pull the boat into shallow water, where Pat and the miller could find footing and wade ashore, but Zeb Fuller had got a new idea in his head.

The miller had been obstinately silent ever since his bald head rose above the water, and now Zeb turned upon him reproachfully, with:

“I saw you, Mr. Todderley, or I’d never have believed it. Who’d have thought such a thing of you, a deacon in the church! And old Sol Dryer, too! Setting such a trap as that to drown poor boys, just for swimming in your pond. What do you think the village will say to it? What’ll the church say! You’re a poor, miserable sinner, but you haven’t the heart to drown boys, like so many puppies. You fell into your own trap, Gershom Todderley, and we’ve returned good for evil by saving your life. Go home and dry yourself.”

“Hark to him! Listen to him, the now!” exclaimed Pat, in open admiration. “Ownly eighteen! Ownly two winters in a debatin’ society, and he can lie like that. What a lawyer he’ll make one of these days!”

And the fat old miller stood dripping on the grassy margin for a moment before he could gather his wits or breath for anything, but then he said:

“Pat Murphy, set the boys a new board. A good strong one. Must have been an awful knot in that other.”

“Is it another trap?” sternly inquired Zeb Fuller.

“Zeb, my boy,” returned the miller, “I don’t exactly understand it, but I am thankful I wasn’t drowned. I think I’ll go to meeting to-night. You need it, too, Zeb. You and the boys may swim all over the pond, all day, summer or winter.”

“Thank you, Gershom,” replied the incorrigible Zeb, “and if you meet old Sol Dryer, tell him to go to meeting, too. He’s had a very narrow escape from drowning.”“The young pirate!” exclaimed Pat. “Indade, Mr. Todderley, it’s home ye’d betther be goin’, an’ I’d loike a dhry rag or two on me own silf.”

The miller turned very soberly away, the worst puzzled man in Ogleport that day, but Zeb was right when he turned to his companions, and said:

“Boys, I reckon it won’t hurt him. He didn’t know it was Pat’s work, and we must keep the secret.”

Not a bit of hurt had come to the miller externally, and more than a little good internally, but there were altogether too many boys in that “secret” for it to keep any length of time.