University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
WHICH TELLS HOW A LAWYER SPENT HIS VACATION IN CAMP,
AND TOOK HOME A SPECIMEN OF GAME THAT HE HAD
NEVER BEFORE FOUND IN THE WOODS.

It was a bright moonlight night when Mike Conlin and
Jim started off from Sevenoaks for home, leaving Mr. Balfour
and his boy to follow. The old horse had a heavy load, and
it was not until an hour past midnight that Mike's house was
reached. There Jim made the new clothes, comprising a
complete outfit for his boarders at Number Ten, into a convenient
package, and swinging it over his shoulders, started
for his distant cabin on foot. Mike, after resting himself and
his horse, was to follow in the morning with the tools and
stores, so as to arrive at the river at as early an hour as Mr.
Balfour could complete the journey from Sevenoaks, with his
lighter load and swifter horses.

Jim Fenton, who had lain still for several days, and was
full of his schemes for Mr. Balfour and his proteges in camp,
and warm with his memories of Miss Butterworth, simply gloried
in his moonlight tramp. The accumulated vitality of his
days of idleness was quite enough to make all the fatigues before
him light and pleasant. At nine o'clock the next morning
he stood by the side of his boat again. The great stillness
of the woods, responding in vivid color to the first kisses
of the frost, half intoxicated him. No world-wide wanderer,
returning after many years to the home of his childhood,
could have felt more exulting gladness than he, as he shoved
his boat from the bank and pushed up the shining stream in
the face of the sun.

Benedict and Harry had not been idle during his absence.
A deer had been shot and dressed; trout had been caught
and saved alive; a cave had been dug for the preservation of
vegetables; and when Jim shouted, far down the stream, to
announce his approach, there were three happy persons on
shore, waiting to welcome him—Turk being the third, and apparently
oblivious of the fact that he was not as much a human
being as any of the party. Turk added the “tiger” to
Harry's three cheers, and Jim was as glad as a boy when his
boat touched the shore, and he received the affectionate
greetings of the party.

A choice meal was nearly in readiness for him, but not a
mouthful would he taste until he had unfolded his treasures,
and displayed to the astonished eyes of Mr. Benedict and the
lad the comfortable clothing he had brought for them.

“Take 'em to Number Ten and put 'em on,” said Jim.
“I'm a goin' to eat with big folks to-day, if clo'es can make
'em. Them's yer stockin's and them's yer boots, and them's
yer indigoes and them's yer clo'es.”

Jim's idea of the word “indigoes” was, that it drew its
meaning partly from the color of the articles designated, and
partly from their office. They were blue undergoes—in other
words, blue flannel shirts.

Jim sat down and waited. He saw that, while Harry was
hilarious over his good fortune, Mr. Benedict was very silent
and humble. It was twenty minutes before Harry reappeared;
and when he came bounding toward Jim, even Turk did not
know him. Jim embraced him, and could not help feeling
that he had acquired a certain amount of property in the
lad.

When Mr. Benedict came forth from the little cabin, and found
Jim chaffing and petting his boy, he was much embarrassed.
He could not speak, but walked directly past the pair, and
went out upon the bank of the river, with his eyes averted.

Jim comprehended it all. Leaving Harry, he went up to
his guest, and placed his hand upon his shoulder. “Will ye

furgive me, Mr. Benedict? I didn't go fur to make it hard
fur ye.”

“Jim,” said Mr. Benedict, struggling to retain his composure,
“I can never repay your overwhelming kindness, and
the fact oppresses me.”

“Well,” said Jim, “I s'pose I don't make 'lowance enough
fur the difference in folks. Ye think ye oughter pay fur this
sort o' thing, an' I don't want no pay. I git comfort enough
outen it, any way.”

Benedict turned, took and warmly pressed Jim's hand, and
then they went back to their dinner. After they had eaten,
and Jim had sat down to his pipe, he told his guests that they
were to have visitors that night—a man from the city and his
little boy—and that they would spend a fortnight with them.
The news alarmed Mr. Benedict, for his nerves were still
weak, and it was a long time before he could be reconciled to
the thought of intrusion upon his solitude; but Jim reassured
him by his enthusiastic accounts of Mr. Balfour, and Harry
was overjoyed with the thought of having a companion in the
strange lad.

“I thought I'd come home an' git ye ready,” said Jim;
“fur I knowed ye'd feel bad to meet a gentleman in yer old
poor-house fixin's. Burn 'em or bury 'em as soon as I'm
gone. I don't never want to see them things agin.”

Jim went off again down the river, and Mr. Benedict and
Harry busied themselves in cleaning the camp, and preparing
Number Ten for the reception of Mr. Balfour and his boy,
having previously determined to take up their abode with Jim
for the winter. The latter had a hard afternoon. He was
tired with his night's tramp, and languid with loss of sleep.
When he arrived at the landing he found Mr. Balfour waiting.
He had passed Mike Conlin on the way, and even while they
were talking the Irishman came in sight. After half-an hour
of busy labor, the goods and passengers were bestowed, Mike
was paid for the transportation, and the closing journeys of
the day were begun.

When Jim had made half of the weary row up the river, he
ran into a little cove to rest and wipe the perspiration from
his forehead. Then he informed Mr. Balfour that he was not
alone in the camp, and, in his own inimitable way, having
first enjoined the strictest secrecy, he told the story of Mr.
Benedict and his boy.

“Benedict will hunt and fish with ye better nor I can,”
said he, “an' he's a better man nor I be any way; but I'm
at yer sarvice, and ye shall have the best time in the woods
that I can give ye.”

Then he enlarged upon the accomplishments of Benedict's
boy.

“He favors yer boy a little,” said Jim, eyeing the lad
closely. “Dress 'em alike, and they wouldn't be a bad pair
o' brothers.”

Jim did not recognize the germs of change that existed in
his accidental remark, but he noticed that a shade of pain
passed over the lawyer's face.

“Where is the other little feller that ye used to brag over,
Mr. Balfour?” inquired Jim.

“He's gone, Jim; I lost him. He died a year ago.”

Jim had no words with which to meet intelligence of this
character, so he did not try to utter any; but, after a minute
of silence, he said: “That's what floors me. Them dies
that's got everything, and them lives that's got nothin'—
lives through thick and thin. It seems sort o' strange to me
that the Lord runs everything so kind o' car'less like, when
there ain't nobody to bring it to his mind.”

Mr. Balfour made no response, and Jim resumed his oars.
But for the moon, it would have been quite dark when Number
Nine was reached, but, once there, the fatigues of the journey
were forgotten. It was Thede Balfour's first visit to the
woods, and he was wild with excitement. Mr. Benedict and
Harry gave the strangers a cordial greeting. The night was
frosty and crisp, and Jim drew his boat out of the water, and
permitted his stores to remain in it through the night. A

hearty supper prepared them all for sleep, and Jim led his
city friends to Number Ten, to enjoy their camp by themselves.
A camp-fire, recently lighted, awaited them, and,
with its flames illuminating the weird scenes around them,
they went to sleep.

The next day was Sunday. To the devoutly disposed, there
is no silence that seems so deeply hallowed as that which pervades
the forest on that holy day. No steamer plows the
river; no screaming, rushing train profanes the stillness; the
beasts that prowl, and the birds that fly, seem gentler than on
other days; and the wilderness, with its pillars and arches,
and aisles, becomes a sanctuary. Prayers that no ears can
hear but those of the Eternal; psalms that win no responses
except from the echoes; worship that rises from hearts unencumbered
by care, and undistracted by pageantry and dress
—all these are possible in the woods; and the great Being to
whom the temples of the world are reared cannot have failed
to find, in ten thousand instances, the purest offerings in
lonely camps and cabins.

They had a delightful and bountiful breakfast, and, at its
close, they divided themselves naturally into a double group.
The two boys and Turk went off by themselves to watch the
living things around them, while the men remained together
by the camp-fire.

Mr. Balfour drew out a little pocket-Testament, and was
soon absorbed in reading. Jim watched him, as a hungry
dog watches a man at his meal, and at last, having grown
more and more uneasy, he said:

“Give us some o' that, Mr. Balfour.”

Mr. Balfour looked up and smiled, and then read to him
the parable of the talents.

“I don't know nothin' 'bout it,' said Jim, at the conclusion,
“but it seems to me the man was a little rough on the
feller with one talent. 'Twas a mighty small capital to start
with, an' he didn't give 'im any chance to try it over; but
what bothers me the most is about the man's trav'lin' into a

fur country. They hadn't no chance to talk with 'im about
it, and git his notions. It stan's to reason that the feller with
one talent would think his master was stingy, and be riled
over it.”

“You must remember, Jim, that all he needed was to ask
for wisdom in order to receive it,” said Mr. Benedict.

“No; the man that traveled into a fur country stan's for
the Almighty, and he'd got out o' the way. He'd jest gi'n
these fellers his capital, and quit, and left 'em to go it alone.
They couldn't go arter 'im, and he couldn't 'a' hearn a word
they said. He did what he thought was all right, and didn't
want to be bothered. I never think about prayin' till I git
into a tight place. It stan's to reason that the Lord don't
want people comin' to him to do things that they can do
theirselves. I shouldn't pray for breath; I sh'd jest h'ist the
winder. If I wanted a bucket o' water, I sh'd go for it. If
a man's got common sense, and a pair o' hands, he hain't no
business to be botherin' other folks till he gits into what he
can't git out of. When he's squeezed, then in course he'll
squeal. It seems to me that it makes a sort of a spooney of a
man to be always askin' for what he can git if he tries. If
the feller that only had one talent had brushed round, he
could 'a' made a spec on it, an' had somethin' to show fur it,
but he jest hid it. I don't stan' up for 'im. I think he was
meaner nor pusly not to make the best on't, but he didn't
need to pray for sense, for the man didn't want 'im to use no
more nor his nateral stock, an' he knowed if he used that
he'd be all right.”

“But we are told to pray, Jim,” said Mr. Balfour, “and
assured that it is pleasant to the Lord to receive our petitions.
We are even told to pray for our daily bread.”

“Well, it can't mean jest that, fur the feller that don't
work for't don't git it, an' he hadn't oughter git it. If he
don't lift his hands, but jest sets with his mouth open, he gits
mostly flies. The old birds, with a nest full o' howlin' young
ones, might go on, I s'pose, pickin' up grasshoppers till the

cows come home, an' feedin' 'em, but they don't. They jest
poke 'em out o' the nest, an' larn 'em to fly an' pick up their
own livin'; an' that's what makes birds on 'em. They pray
mighty hard fur their daily bread, I tell ye, and the way the
old birds answer is jest to poke 'em out, and let 'em slide. I
don't see many prayin' folks, an' I don't see many folks any
way; but I have a consait that a feller can pray so much an'
do so little, that he won't be nobody. He'll jest grow weaker
an' weaker all the time.”

“I don't see,” said Mr. Balfour, laughing, and turning to
Mr. Benedict, “but we've had the exposition of our Scripture.”

The former had always delighted to hear Jim talk, and
never lost an opportunity to set him going; but he did not
know that Jim's exposition of the parable had a personal
motive. Mr. Benedict knew that it had, and was very serious
over it. His nature was weak in many respects. His
will was weak; he had no combativeness; he had a wish to
lean. He had been baffled and buffeted in the world. He
had gone down into the darkness, praying all the way; and
now that he had come out of it, and had so little society; now
that his young life was all behind him, and so few earthly
hopes beckoned him on, he turned with a heart morbidly religious
to what seemed to him the only source of comfort open
to him. Jim had watched him with pain. He had seen him,
from day to day, spending his hours alone, and felt that prayer
formed almost the staple of his life. He had seen him willing
to work, but knew that his heart was not in it. He was
not willing to go back into the world, and assert his place
among men. The poverty, disease, and disgrace of his former
life dwelt in his memory, and he shrank from the conflicts
and competitions which would be necessary to enable him to
work out better results for himself.

Jim thoroughly believed that Benedict was religiously diseased,
and that he never could become a man again until he
had ceased to live so exclusively in the spiritual world. He

contrived all possible ways to keep him employed. He put
responsibility upon him. He stimulated him with considerations
of the welfare of Harry. He disturbed him in his retirement.
He contrived fatigues that would induce sound
sleep. To use his own language, he had tried to cure him of
“loppin',” but with very unsatisfactory results.

Benedict comprehended Jim's lesson, and it made an impression
upon him; but to break himself of his habit of thought
and life was as difficult as the breaking of morbid habits always
is. He knew that he was a weak man, and saw that he had
never fully developed that which was manliest within him.
He saw plainly, too, that his prayers would not develop it,
and that nothing but a faithful, bold, manly use of his powers
could accomplish the result. He knew that he had a better
brain, and a brain better furnished, than that of Robert Belcher,
yet he had known to his sorrow, and well-nigh to his
destruction, that Robert Belcher could wind him around his
finger. Prayer had never saved him from this, and nothing
could save him but a development of his own manhood. Was
he too old for hope? Could he break away from the delights
of his weakness, and grow into something stronger and better?
Could he so change the attitude of his soul that it should
cease to be exigent and receptive, and become a positive, self-poised,
and active force? He sighed when these questions
came to him, but he felt that Jim had helped him in many
practical ways, and could help him still further.

A stranger, looking upon the group, would have found it a
curious and interesting study. Mr. Balfour was a tall, lithe
man, with not a redundant ounce of flesh on him. He was
as straight as an arrow, bore on his shoulders a fine head that
gave evidence in its contour of equal benevolence and force,
and was a practical, fearless, straightforward, true man. He
enjoyed humor, and though he had a happy way of evoking it
from others, possessed or exhibited very little himself. Jim
was better than a theater to him. He spent so much of his
time in the conflicts of his profession, that in his vacations he

simply opened heart and mind to entertainment. A shrewd,
frank, unsophisticated nature was a constant feast to him, and
though he was a keen sportsman, the woods would have had
few attractions without Jim.

Mr. Benedict regarded him with profound respect, as a
man who possessed the precise qualities which had been denied
to himself—self-assertion, combativeness, strong will,
and “push.” Even through Benedict's ample beard, a good
reader of the human face would have detected the weak chin,
while admiring the splendid brow, silken curls, and handsome
eyes above it. He was a thoroughly gentle man, and, curiously
enough, attracted the interest of Mr. Balfour in consequence
of his gentleness. The instinct of defense and
protection to everything weak and dependent was strong
within the lawyer; and Benedict affected him like a woman.
It was easy for the two to become friends, and as Mr. Balfour
grew familiar with the real excellences of his new acquaintance,
with his intelligence in certain directions, and his
wonderful mechanical ingenuity, he conceived just as high a
degree of respect for him as he could entertain for one who
was entirely unfurnished with those weapons with which the
battles of life are fought.

It was a great delight to Jim to see his two friends get along
so well together, particularly as he had pressing employment
on his hands, in preparing for the winter. So, after the first
day, Benedict became Mr. Balfour's guide during the fortnight
which he passed in the woods.

The bright light of Monday morning was the signal for the
beginning of their sport, and Thede, who had never thrown
a fly, was awake at the first day-light; and before Jim had the
breakfast of venison and cakes ready, he had strung his tackle
and leaned his rod against the cabin in readiness for his enterprise.
They had a day of satisfactory fishing, and brought
home half-a-hundred spotted beauties that would have delighted
the eyes of any angler in the world; and when their
golden flesh stood open and broiling before the fire, or hissed

and sputtered in the frying-pan, watched by the hungry and
admiring eyes of the fishermen, they were attractive enough
to be the food of the gods. And when, at last, the group
gathered around the rude board, with appetites that seemed
measureless, and devoured the dainties prepared for them, the
pleasures of the day were crowned.

But all this was comparatively tame sport to Mr. Balfour.
He had come for larger game, and waited only for the nightfall
to deepen into darkness to start upon his hunt for deer.
The moon had passed her full, and would not rise until after
the ordinary bed-time. The boys were anxious to be witnesses
of the sport, and it was finally concluded, that for once, at
least, they should be indulged in their desire.

The voice of a hound was never heard in the woods, and
even the “still hunting” practiced by the Indian was never
resorted to until after the streams were frozen.

Jim had been busy during the day in picking up pine knots,
and digging out old stumps whose roots were charged with
pitch. These he had collected and split up into small pieces,
so that everything should be in readiness for the “float.” As
soon as the supper was finished, he brought a little iron
“Jack,” mounted upon a standard, and proceeded to fix this
upright in the bow of the boat. Behind this he placed a
square of sheet iron, so that a deer, dazzled by the light of the
blazing pine, would see nothing behind it, while the occupants
of the boat could see everything ahead without being
blinded by the light, of which they could see nothing. Then
he fixed a knob of tallow upon the forward sight of Mr. Balfour's
gun, so that, projecting in front of the sheet iron
screen, it would be plainly visible and render necessary only
the raising of the breech to the point of half-hiding the tallow,
in order to procure as perfect a range as if it were broad day-light.

All these preparations were familiar to Mr. Balfour, and,
loading his heavy shot-gun with a powerful charge, he waited
impatiently for the darkness.

At nine o'clock, Jim said it was time to start, and, lighting
his torch, he took his seat in the stern of the boat, and bade
Mr. Balfour take his place in the bow, where a board, placed
across the boat, made him a comfortable seat. The boys,
warmly wrapped, took their places together in the middle of
the boat, and, clasping one another's hands and shivering with
excitement, bade good-night to Mr. Benedict, who pushed
them from the shore.

The night was still, and Jim's powerful paddle urged the
little craft up the stream with a push so steady, strong, and
noiseless, that its passengers might well have imagined that
the unseen river-spirits had it in tow. The torch cast its long
glare into the darkness on either bank, and made shadows so
weird and changeful that the boys imagined they saw every
form of wild beast and flight of strange bird with which pictures
had made them familiar. Owls hooted in the distance.
A wild-cat screamed like a frightened child. A partridge,
waked from its perch by a flash of the torch, whirred off into
the woods.

At length, after paddling up the stream for a mile, they
heard the genuine crash of a startled animal. Jim stopped
and listened. Then came the spiteful stroke of a deer's forefeet
upon the leaves, and a whistle so sharp, strong and vital,
that it thrilled every ear that heard it. It was a question, a
protest, a defiance all in one; but not a sign of the animal
could be seen. He was back in the cover, wary and watching,
and was not to be tempted nearer by the light.

Jim knew the buck, and knew that any delay on his account
would be useless.

“I knowed 'im when I hearn 'im whistle, an' he knowed
me. He's been shot at from this boat more nor twenty times.
`Not any pine-knots on my plate,' says he. `I seen 'em
afore, an' you can pass.' I used to git kind o' mad at 'im,
an' promise to foller 'im, but he's so 'cute, I sort o' like 'im.
He 'muses me.”

While Jim waited and talked in a low tone, the buck was

evidently examining the light and the craft, at his leisure and
at a distance. Then he gave another lusty whistle that was
half snort, and bounded off into the woods by leaps that
struck every foot upon the ground at the same instant, and
soon passed beyond hearing.

“Well, the old feller's gone,” said Jim, “an' now I know
a patch o' lily-pads up the river where I guess we can find a
beast that hasn't had a public edication.”

The tension upon the nerves of the boys was relieved, and
they whispered between themselves about what they had seen,
or thought they had seen.

All became still, as Jim turned his boat up the stream again.
After proceeding for ten or fifteen minutes in perfect silence,
Jim whispered:

“Skin yer eyes, now, Mr. Balfour; we're comin' to a lick.”

Jim steered his boat around a little bend, and in a moment
it was running in shallow water, among grass and rushes.
The bottom of the stream was plainly visible, and Mr. Balfour
saw that they had left the river, and were pushing up the debouchure
of a sluggish little affluent. They brushed along
among the grass for twenty or thirty rods, when, at the same
instant, every eye detected a figure in the distance. Two
blazing, quiet, curious eyes were watching them. Jim had
an instinct which assured him that the deer was fascinated by
the light, and so he pushed toward him silently, then stopped,
and held his boat perfectly still. This was the signal for Mr.
Balfour, and in an instant the woods were startled by a discharge
that deafened the silence.

There was a violent splash in the water, a scramble up the
bank, a bound or two toward the woods, a pitiful bleat, and
then all was still.

“We've got 'im,” said Jim. “He's took jest one buckshot
through his heart. Ye didn't touch his head nor his
legs. He jest run till the blood leaked out and he gi'n it up.
Now, boys, you set here, and sing hallelujer till we bring 'im
in.”

The nose of the little craft was run against the bank, and
Mr. Balfour, seizing the torch, sprang on shore, and Jim followed
him into the woods. They soon found track of the
game by the blood that dabbled the bushes, and stumbled
upon the beautiful creature stone dead—fallen prone, with his
legs doubled under him. Jim swung him across his shoulders,
and, tottering behind Mr. Balfour, bore him back to the
boat. Placing him in the bottom, the two men resumed their
seats, and Jim, after carefully working himself out of the inlet
into the river, settled down to a long, swift stroke that bore
them back to the camp just as the moon began to show
herself above the trees.

It was a night long to be remembered by the boys, a fitting
inauguration of the lawyer's vacation, and an introduction to
woodcraft from which, in after years, the neophytes won rare
stores of refreshment and health.

Mr. Benedict received them with hearty congratulations,
and the perfect sleep of the night only sharpened their desire
for further depredations upon the game that lived around
them, in the water and on the land.

As the days passed on, they caught trout until they were
tired of the sport; they floated for deer at night; they took
weary tramps in all directions, and at evening, around the
camp-fires, rehearsed their experiences.

During all this period, Mr. Balfour was watching Harry
Benedict. The contrast between the lad and his own son was
as marked as that between the lad's father and himself, but
the positions were reversed. Harry led, contrived, executed.
He was positive, facile, amiable, and the boys were as happy
together as their parents were. Jim had noticed the remarkable
interest that Mr. Balfour took in the boy, and had begun
to suspect that he entertained intentions which would deprive
the camp of one of its chief sources of pleasure.

One day when the lawyer and his guide were quietly eating
their lunch in the forest, Mr. Balfour went to work, in his
quiet, lawyer-like way, to ascertain the details of Benedict's

history; and he heard them all. When he heard who had benefited
by his guide's inventions, and learned just how matters
stood with regard to the Belcher rifle, he became, for the first
time since he had been in the woods, thoroughly excited. He
had a law-case before him as full of the elements of romance
as any that he had ever been engaged in. A defrauded inventor,
living in the forest in poverty, having escaped from
the insane ward of an alms-house, and the real owner of
patent rights that were a mine of wealth to the man who
believed that death had blotted out all the evidences of his
villainy—this was quite enough to excite his professional interest,
even had he been unacquainted with the man defrauded.
But the position of this uncomplaining, dependent
man, who could not fight his own battles, made an irresistible
appeal to his sense of justice and his manhood.

The moment, however, that the lawyer proposed to assist in
righting the wrong, Mr. Benedict became dangerously excited.
He could tell his story, but the thought of going out
into the world again, and, particularly of engaging in a conflict
with Robert Belcher, was one that he could not entertain.
He was happier in the woods than he had been for
many years. The life was gradually strengthening him. He
hoped the time would come when he could get something for
his boy, but, for the present, he could engage in no struggle
for reclaiming and maintaining his rights. He believed that
an attempt to do it would again drive him to distraction, and
that, somehow, Mr. Belcher would get the advantage of him.
His fear of the great proprietor had become morbidly acute,
and Mr. Balfour could make no headway against it. It was
prudent to let the matter drop for a while.

Then Mr. Balfour opened his heart in regard to the boy.
He told Benedict of the loss with which he had already acquainted
Jim, of the loneliness of his remaining son, of the
help that Harry could afford him, the need in which the lad
stood of careful education, and the accomplishments he could
win among better opportunities and higher society. He

would take the boy, and treat him, up to the time of his majority,
as his own. If Mr. Benedict could ever return the
money expended for him, he could have the privilege of doing
so, but it would never be regarded as a debt. Once every year
the lawyer would bring the lad to the woods, so that he should
not forget his father, and if the time should ever come when
it seemed practicable to do so, a suit would be instituted that
would give him the rights so cruelly withheld from his natural
protector.

The proposition was one which taxed to its utmost Mr.
Benedict's power of self-control. He loved his boy better
than he loved himself. He hoped that, in some way, life
would be pleasanter and more successful to the lad than it had
been to him. He did not wish him to grow up illiterate and
in the woods; but how he was to live without him he could
not tell. The plucking out of an eye would have given him
less pain than the parting with his boy, though he felt from
the first that the lad would go.

Nothing could be determined without consulting Jim, and
as the conversation had destroyed the desire for further sport,
they packed their fishing-tackle and returned to camp.

“The boy was'n't got up for my 'commodation,” said Jim,
when the proposition was placed before him. “I seen the
thing comin' for a week, an' I've brung my mind to't. We
hain't got no right to keep 'im up here, if he can do better.
Turk ain't bad company fur them as likes dogs, but he ain't
improvin'. I took the boy away from Tom Buffum 'cause I
could do better by 'im nor he could, and when a man comes
along that can do better by 'im nor I can, he's welcome to
wade in. I hain't no right to spile a little feller's life 'cause
I like his company. I don't think much of a feller that would
cheat a man out of a jews-harp 'cause he liked to fool with it.
Arter all, this sendin' the boy off is jest turnin' 'im out to
pastur' to grow, an' takin' 'im in in the fall. He may git his
head up so high t'we can't git the halter on 'im again, but
he'll be worth more to somebody that can, nor if we kep 'im

in the stable. I sh'll hate to say good-bye t'the little feller,
but I sh'll vote to have 'im go, unanimous.”

Mr. Benedict was not a man who had will enough to withstand
the rational and personal considerations that were
brought to bear upon him, and then the two boys were
brought into the consultation. Thede was overjoyed with the
prospect of having for a home companion the boy to whom he
had become so greatly attached, and poor Harry was torn by a
conflict of inclinations. To leave Jim and his father behind
was a great sorrow; and he was half angry with himself
to think that he could find any pleasure in the prospect
of a removal. But the love of change, natural to a boy, and
the desire to see the wonders of the great city, with accounts
of which Thede had excited his imagination, overcame his
inclination to remain in the camp. The year of separation
would be very short, he thought, so that, after all, it was only
a temporary matter. The moment the project of going away
took possession of him, his regrets died, and the exit from
the woods seemed to him like a journey into dreamland, from
which he should return in the morning.

How to get the lad through Sevenoaks, where he would be
sure to be recognised, and so reveal the hiding-place of his
father, became at once a puzzling question. Mr. Balfour had
arranged with the man who brought him into the woods to
return in a fortnight and take him out, and as he was a man
who had known the Benedicts it would not be safe to trust to
his silence.

It was finally arranged that Jim should start off at once with
Harry, and engage Mike Conlin to go through Sevenoaks with
him in the night, and deliver him at the railroad at about the
hour when the regular stage would arrive with Mr. Balfour.
The people of Sevenoaks were not travelers, and it would be
a rare chance that should bring one of them through to that
point. The preparations were therefore made at once, and
the next evening poor Benedict was called upon to part with
his boy. It was a bitter struggle, but it was accomplished,

and, excited by the strange life that was opening before him,
the boy entered the boat with Jim, and waved his adius to
the group that had gathered upon the bank to see them off.

Poor Turk, who had apparently understood all that had
passed in the conversations of the previous day, and become
fully aware of the bereavement that he was about to suffer,
stood upon the shore and howled and whined as they receded
into the distance. Then he went up to Thede, and licked his
hand, as if he would say; “Don't leave me as the other boy
has done; if you do, I shall be inconsolable.”

Jim effected his purpose, and returned before light the next
morning, and on the following day he took Mr. Balfour and
Thede down the river, and delivered them to the man whom
he found waiting for them. The programme was carried out
in all its details, and two days afterward the two boys were
sitting side by side in the railway-car that was hurrying them
toward the great city.