Bar and Val had a splendid time at the seashore. Never before had the former passed a week of such thoroughgoing enjoyment.

It was grand fun to catch fish; the very sailing and rowing were a kind of new life; every crab and clam they laid their hands on was a sort of new wonder. Still, if Bar had tried to analyze his feelings he would have found that, after all, the secret of his happiness was the fact that his “new time” was daily becoming more and more of a clear and clean and beautiful reality.

Val Manning was capital company, and they made more than one trip to the quiet and pleasant little home of Mrs. Brayton and Sibyl. The widow, for such she was, seemed always glad to see them, and Sibyl was sure to have something more to tell them about “George,” who seemed, indeed, to be a sort of human idol in the mind of his very pretty sister.That sort of thing, nice as it was, had an end at last, and Bar experienced a halfway gloomy sensation at finding himself once more on his way to the great city.

Their stay there was to be brief, as previously decided, but Bar had one more good, long talk with the judge and the doctor.

“I wish,” said the former, “that you could open your valise now, but that’s impossible. I wouldn’t have you break your word for anything. I’ll tell you, however, one thing I wish you’d do. Every time you recall, or think you do, anything that happened away back, before you began to live with Major Montague, I wish you would write it down.”

“Has he been to see you while I was gone?” asked Bar.

“I think he was in my office once while I was out,” replied the judge; “but he must have seen something or somebody there he didn’t like, for he hasn’t turned up since.”

“He’s not a man to give up anything,” said Bar; “but he can hardly find me as far away as Ogleport.”

“Hardly,” said the doctor; “and now, Barnaby, we both hope you will give a good account of yourself at the Academy. You will have to study pretty hard at first.”

“I suppose so,” said Bar. “Val knows a great many things that I have never heard of.”

“Keep your courage up, though,” said Judge Danvers. “I mean to make a lawyer of you one of these days. You’re just built for one.”

Kind friends they were, and Bar felt a curious glow at his heart twenty times before he and Val got away, as he found how well and thoughtfully his various wants had been foreseen and provided for.

“He’ll spend the whole of that thousand dollars,” said Bar to himself, “before he gets through with me. Well, I’ll pay him, somehow, some day. Meantime I’ll be a right good friend to Val. He’s a tip-top sort of a fellow, too.”

As for Val, that young gentleman could hardly find words to tell his mother all his satisfaction with his wonderful new chum.

“He knows everything but books, mother,” he said, “and you couldn’t get him to do a mean thing. I’m ever so glad he’s going with me.”

Then there came a leave-taking, which made Bar sick with the thought of what a wonderful thing it is to have a live father and mother. Then there followed an all-night ride, by rail, then a morning change of cars, and then a stage that took the two schoolboys to Ogleport from a direction opposite to that by which George Brayton had reached the same destination.

The “stage” was a long-bodied, flat-topped, four seated vehicle, that, in that warm weather, was left open to the dust and surrounding scenery on all sides. The boys had the back seat, wide enough for three, and immediately in front of them was a pair of decently well-dressed, middle-aged men, who got in at one of the villages through which they passed.

Neither of these gentry seemed to need more than a glance at Bar and Val to fix their identity as “Academy boys,” and they talked away unreservedly.

“No,” said one, the sharper and harder-faced of the two, “I ain’t goin’ straight through. Got to stop at Ogleport and make sure of Puff Evans’s boat.”

“What do you want of a boat?” asked his companion.“Why, you know I bought in the Peters’s place, up at the Rodney end of the lake, and I’m going to move in this week. There’s a good boat-house but no boat. Ain’t any good one around, that I know of, except Puff’s, so I laid for that.”

“I know, but then he wouldn’t sell it for any money. Made it himself, and it’s worth fifty or sixty.”

“Guess likely, but it won’t cost me that. You see, Puff goes on sprees every few months, and he’s awful kerless about his tavern bills. So I found one up in Rodney, bought it for most nothing, sued and got judgment on it, and levied on the boat.”

“What’s the judgment?”

“Costs and all, fifteen dollars. Cost me about five, and I’m willing to go five more. That’ll make the boat net me ten dollars.”

“Cheap enough. But s’pose Puff pays up?”

“Nobody’ll trust him with that much money. Besides, I can get another squeeze on him, if he should. I’m bound to have that boat. The stage’ll get in just about half an hour before the time. It’ll be down at Runner’s tavern and I can catch a ride home, or go up on the night stage.”

It all sounded very businesslike and matter-of-course, but Bar looked at Val with his finger on his lip. Pretty much the same idea was passing through both their busy heads.

They had not intended to do any eaves-dropping, but they could scarcely have helped overhearing what they had, and, when their luggage was discharged at the Widow Wood’s, they astonished that good old lady by clearing out, within two minutes, on the plea of an important errand in the village.

Runner’s tavern was away down at the northern end of the main street, and was a curiously dilapidated kind of a country hostelry. It had been, however, time out of mind, the place appointed for the performance of petty “constables’ sales,” and on this day, at noon, quite a little crowd had assembled in front of it, less with any idea of “bidding” than with a mild curiosity to see what would become of Puff Evans’s boat.

Puff himself had been on hand half the morning, and had, with wonderful self-control for him, kept rigidly away from the door of the tavern bar-room.

Tall, lank, red-headed, weak-faced, with a strong tendency to wear his hands in his pockets and to blow out his irresolute cheeks in the style which had gained him his nickname, but for all that Puff Evans had not a single personal enemy in either Ogleport or Rodney.

Indeed, he received an abundance of sympathy over the admitted hardness of his case, especially from the boys.

Thus far, however, Puff had been utterly unable to crystallize that sympathy into anything that resembled coin or bank-notes, and he was now standing with his shoeless feet wide apart, mournfully gazing at the “notice of sale” which his moderate learning did not enable him to read.

Zeb Fuller was on hand as a matter of course, and well backed up, too, so far as numbers went, but Zeb’s pocket was only a very little better off, in that emergency, than Puff’s own, though with fewer holes in it.

“This is mighty hard on Puff, isn’t it, Gershom?” said Zeb to the fat old miller, as the latter waddled dignifiedly past the crowd.“What is it, Zeb? Come here,” replied the miller. “Do you want to buy?”

“Only to keep Puff Evans from drowning himself,” said Zeb. “It’s only fifteen dollars, and the boat’s worth four times that much. I’ve got three.”

“I’ll lend you the other twelve!” exclaimed Gershom Todderley, pulling out his wallet, “and you and I can own the boat together till you can pay me. We can let Puff use it, can’t we?”

“The very thing!” exclaimed Zeb. “You’re an honor to Ogleport, Brother Todderley.”

Gershom looked at the incorrigible youngster with a very dignified sort of wheeze, but Zeb went back to the crowd feeling like a Rothschild.

In a moment more the customary and monotonous, “How much’m I offered,” was responded to by a bid of five dollars from the Rodney attorney, who had “come for that boat.”

“Five, goin’ at five—five—do I hear any more?”

“Ten,” responded Zeb.

The Rodney man started and looked hard at Zeb.“No bids from boys,” he began, but the auctioneer promptly responded:

“If Zeb Fuller’s a boy, whar’d General Jackson git his army. Ten, ten—going at ten—do I hear any more?”

“Eleven!”

“Twelve!” shouted Zeb, and then he added, “Won’t do, Skinner, my boy; I’d never forgive myself if I let you go a boating and get drowned.”

“Thirteen!” exclaimed Skinner.

“Fourteen!” from Zeb.

“Fourteen, goin’ at fourteen——”

“Fourteen and a ’alf!” from Skinner.

“Fifteen!” said Zeb, quickly, but with a shivery sort of feeling that he had got to the end of his rope.

The Rodney attorney was inclined to dally a little, and the auctioneer came very near knocking down the prize to Zeb before that fatal “’alf” was added that carried him out of his depth.

If he had only had time to call for a collection of quarters from among the boys, or to make another pull on old Gershom Todderley.Nobody else looked as if they intended to dispute the matter, and lawyer Skinner began to think he would get his boat cheap enough, when a clear, strong, though somewhat boyish voice, capped the last bid with: “Sixteen!”

And all eyes were turned towards the newcomer, while Skinner growled:

“More boys? Come, now, this won’t do, Mr. What’s-your-name?”

“My name’s Cash,” quietly responded Bar Vernon, as the auctioneer went on with:

“Sixteen, sixteen! do I hear any more?”

“Seventeen!” said Skinner, raspishly.

“Twenty,” responded Bar; “let’s make it interesting.”

“Twenty-one,” shouted the now exasperated Skinner.

“Twenty-two!” said Bar, and even Zeb Fuller gave a shout of exultation and remarked:

“Skinner, my son, you’ve got to give full value for that ark if you get it. You ain’t so much in danger of drowning as you was.”

But the Rodney lawyer had no idea of any such wickedness as paying full value for that or any other thing, and the auctioneer hammered away in vain.

“Come,” said Zeb, encouragingly—“come, Skinner, my dear fellow, if a man’s drowned he’ll never be hung. It’s your best chance. Try him again. Say three, now.”

But Skinner was getting sulky over his defeat, and, before he could quite make up his mind to raise the bid, the hammer fell.

“What name?” said the auctioneer.

“Cash,” said Barnaby, and the “best boat on the lake” was all his own.

That is, he and Val Manning owned it between them, for they had decided to “go halves” on the purchase-money.

As for Lawyer Skinner, that gentleman somewhat rapidly withdrew himself from the gaze of the crowd of boys and the tantalizing remarks of Zeb Fuller.

“Well, Mr. Cash,” said Zeb to our hero, “you’ve got the boat, but who’s to pay Puff Evans’s funeral expenses, I’d like to know?”

“Which one is he?” asked Bar.

“The gentleman yonder that reminds you of Daniel Webster,” said Zeb, pointing at the half-stunned and altogether bewildered builder of the boat. “I’ve some business to attend to over at the mill, but I’ll call for the coroner on my way back.”

So saying he was off, without waiting for Bar’s reply, for his disappointment with reference to that boat had been the severest blow Zeb had received for many a day. Besides, he was really anxious to return the miller’s money with as little delay as might be.

“Puff,” said Bar, as he walked up to that worthy, “where’s the boat?”

“Down t’ the lake. Right by my house,” replied Puff, vacantly. “She’s a beauty, but all the money I had in the world was ten dollars. Skinner’s as mean as pusley, but I don’t know as I blame you. Going to bring her over to town and put her in Todderley’s pond?”

“Not so bad as that,” said Bar. “Do you suppose you know enough to take good care of her?”

“Why,” said Puff, “I built her myself, and she’s just the neatest little thing. Mast and sail, too. Runs as if she was greased.”

“Well,” said Bar, “what’ll you charge me to keep her for me? You to use her all the time, same as if you owned her, and I to have her once in awhile to go fishing in.”

“Charge?” exclaimed Puff, opening his eyes. “Charge? You git eout.”

“Well, then,” said Bar, “you go back home and look sharp after that boat. One of these days I’ll come over and take a look at her.”

“I say, mister!” exclaimed Puff, as the advantages of Bar’s proposition slowly dawned on him, “won’t ye come in and take suthin’?”

“Not a drop,” said Bar; “nor you won’t, either. That’s the way you lost your boat.”

“Fact, mister,” said Puff, “but I tell ye what. I’d like to have a sheer in that boat. Won’t ye let me?”

“Of course,” said Bar, “if you’ll keep dark about it. If lawyer Skinner knew it he’d be after it again.”

“Say ten dollars’ wuth, then,” said Puff. “’Pears like I couldn’t ketch no fish in another man’s boat.”

“All right,” said Bar. “Call it ten dollars’ worth, if that’ll do you any good.”

“Wall, then,” said Puff, drawing himself up straighter than he had done before during that day, “there’s the money, cash down.”

“Oh, never mind that,” said Bar; “pay when you get ready.”

“No, ye don’t,” said Puff. “Take that, or I shan’t feel honest. There’s somethin’ comin’ to me from the sale over’n above the jedgment. I shan’t go home empty. I ain’t sure but what it’s a pooty good job for me, anyhow, and old Skinner’s beat, too; I’m right down glad o’ that.”

Bar consented to take the money, and he and Val returned to Mrs. Wood’s, congratulating themselves on the splendid beginning they had made for their fun at Ogleport.

“We can fish pretty much all the time till school opens,” said Val, “and then there’s evenings and Saturdays after that.”

“We won’t want to fish all our spare time,” said Bar. “There must be piles and piles of things to make fun out of around such a place as this is.”

“So there are,” said Val, “but we mustn’t be careless of our money. I’m glad we’ve beaten that rascally lawyer as cheaply as we have. I mean to write my father all about it.”“He’d have done it himself, I know,” said Bar.

There could be small doubt of that.