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Yates was badly blown by his row of ten miles on the river,
and could hardly stir from his seat; but Mr. Benedict helped
him up the bank, and then Jim followed him on shore.

Benedict looked from one to the other with mingled surprise
and consternation, and then said:

“Jim, what does this mean?”

“It means,” replied Jim, “that Number 'leven, an' his
name is Williams, forgot to 'tend to his feelin's over old
Tilden's grave, an' I've axed 'im to come back an' use up his
clean hankerchers. He was took with a fit o' knowin' somethin',
too, an' I'm goin' to see if I can cure 'im. It's a new
sort o' sickness for him, an' it may floor 'im.”

“I suppose there is no use in carrying on this farce any
longer,” said Yates. “I knew you, Mr. Benedict, soon after
arriving here, and it seems that you recognized me; and now,
here is my hand. I never meant you ill, and I did not expect
to find you alive. I have tried my best to make you out a
dead man, and so to report you; but Jim has compelled me to
come back and make sure that you are alive.”

“No, I didn't,” responded Jim. “I wanted to let ye
know that I'm alive, and that I don't 'low no hired cusses to

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come snoopin' round my camp, an' goin' off with a haw-haw
buttoned up in their jackets, without a thrashin'.”

Benedict, of course, stood thunderstruck and irresolute.
He was discovered by the very man whom his old persecutor
had sent for the purpose. He had felt that the discovery
would be made sooner or later—intended, indeed, that it
should be made—but he was not ready.

They all walked to the cabin in moody silence. Jim felt
that he had been hasty, and was very strongly inclined to believe
in the sincerity of Yates; but he knew it was safe to be
on his guard with any man who was in the employ of Mr.
Belcher. Turk saw there was trouble, and whined around his
master, as if inquiring whether there was anything that he
could do to bring matters to an adjustment.

“No, Turk; he's my game,” said Jim. “Ye couldn't eat
'im no more nor ye could a muss-rat.”

There were just three seats in the cabin—two camp-stools
and a chest.

“That's the seat for ye,” said Jim to Yates, pointing to
the chest. “Jest plant yerself thar. Thar's somethin' in
that 'ere chest as'll make ye tell the truth.”

Yates looked at the chest and hesitated.

“It ain't powder,” said Jim, “but it'll blow ye worse nor
powder, if ye don't tell the truth.”

Yates sat down. He had not appreciated the anxiety of
Benedict to escape discovery, or he would not have been so
silly as to bruit his knowledge until he had left the woods. He
felt ashamed of his indiscretion, but, as he knew that his motives
were good, he could not but feel that he had been outraged.

“Jim, you have abused me,” said he. “You have misunderstood
me, and that is the only apology that you can
make for your discourtesy. I was a fool to tell you what I
knew, but you had no right to serve me as you have served
me.”

“P'raps I hadn't,” responded Jim, doubtfully.

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Yates went on:

“I have never intended to play you a trick. It may be a
base thing for me to do, but I intended to deceive Mr. Belcher.
He is a man to whom I owe no good will. He has
always treated me like a dog, and he will continue the treatment
so long as I have anything to do with him; but he found
me when I was very low, and he has furnished me with the
money that has made it possible for me to redeem myself.
Believe me, the finding of Mr. Benedict was the most unwelcome
discovery I ever made.”

“Ye talk reasonable,” said Jim; “but how be I goin' to
know that ye're tellin' the truth?”

“You cannot know,” replied Yates. “The circumstances
are all against me, but you will be obliged to trust me. You
are not going to kill me; you are not going to harm me; for
you would gain nothing by getting my ill will. I forgive
your indignities, for it was natural for you to be provoked,
and I provoked you needlessly—childishly, in fact; but after
what I have said, anything further in that line will not be
borne.”

“I've a good mind to lick ye now,” said Jim, on hearing
himself defied.

“You would be a fool to undertake it,” said Yates.

“Well, what be ye goin' to tell old Belcher, anyway?”
inquired Jim.

“I doubt whether I shall tell him anything. I have no intention
of telling him that Mr. Benedict is here, and I do not
wish to tell him a lie. I have intended to tell him that in all
my journey to Sevenoaks I did not find the object of my
search, and that Jim Fenton declared that but one pauper had
ever come into the woods and died there.”

“That's the truth,” said Jim. “Benedict ain't no pauper,
nor hain't been since he left the poor-house.”

“If he knows about old Tilden,” said Yates, “and I'm
afraid he does, he'll know that I'm on the wrong scent. If he
doesn't know about him, he'll naturally conclude that the

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dead man was Mr. Benedict. That will answer his purpose.”

“Old Belcher ain't no fool,” said Jim.

“Well,” said Yates, “why doesn't Mr. Benedict come out
like a man and claim his rights? That would relieve me, and
settle all the difficulties of the case.”

Benedict had nothing to say for this, for there was what he
felt to be a just reproach in it.

“It's the way he's made,” replied Jim—“leastways, partly.
When a man's ben hauled through hell by the har, it takes 'im
a few days to git over bein' dizzy an' find his legs ag'in; an'
when a man sells himself to old Belcher, he mustn't squawk
an' try to git another feller to help 'im out of 'is bargain. Ye
got into't, an' ye must git out on't the best way ye can.”

“What would you have me do?” inquired Yates.

“I want to have ye sw'ar, an' sign a Happy David.”

“A what?”

“A Happy David. Ye ain't no lawyer if ye don't know
what a Happy David is, and can't make one.”

Yates recognized, with a smile, the nature of the instrument
disguised in Jim's pronunciation and conception, and inquired:

“What would you have me to swear to?”

“To what I tell ye.”

“Very well. I have pen and paper with me, and am ready
to write. Whether I will sign the paper will depend upon its
contents.”

“Be ye ready?”

“Yes.”

“Here ye have it, then. `I solem-ny sw'ar, s'welp me!
that I hain't seen no pauper, in no woods, with his name as
Benedict.”'

Jim paused, and Yates, having completed the sentence,
waited. Then Jim muttered to himself:

“With his name as Benedict—with his name is Benedict—
with his name was Benedict.”

Then with a puzzled look, he said:

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“Yates, can't ye doctor that a little?”

“Whose name was Benedict,” suggested Yates.

“Whose name was Benedict,” continued Jim. “Now read
it over, as fur as ye've got.”

“`I solemnly swear that I have seen no pauper in the
woods whose name was Benedict.”'

“Now look a here, Sam Yates! That sort o' thing won't do.
Stop them tricks. Ye don't know me, an' ye don't know
whar ye're settin' if you think that'll go down.”

“Why, what's the matter?”

“I telled ye that Benedict was no pauper, an' ye say that
ye've seen no pauper whose name was Benedict. That's jest
tellin' that he's here. Oh, ye can't come that game! Now
begin agin, an' write jest as I give it to ye. `I solem-ny
sw'ar, s'welp me! that I hain't seen no pauper, in no woods,
whose name was Benedict.”'

“Done,” said Yates, “but it isn't grammar.”

“Hang the grammar!” responded Jim; “what I want is
sense. Now jine this on: `An' I solem-ny sw'ar, s'welp me!
that I won't blow on Benedict, as isn't a pauper—no more
nor Jim Fenton is—an' if so be as I do blow on Benedict—
I give Jim Fenton free liberty, out and out—to lick me—
without goin' to lor—but takin' the privlidge of self-defense.”'

Jim thought a moment. He had wrought out a large phrase.

“I guess,” said he, “that covers the thing. Ye understand,
don't ye, Yates, about the privlidge of self-defense?”

“You mean that I may defend myself if I can, don't you?”

“Yes. With the privlidge of self-defense. That's fair,
an' I'd give it to a painter. Now read it all over.”

Jim put his head down between his knees, the better to
measure every word, while Yates read the complete document.
Then Jim took the paper, and, handing it to Benedict, requested
him to see if it had been read correctly. Assured
that it was all right, Jim turned his eyes severely on Yates,
and said:

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“Sam Yates, do ye s'pose ye've any idee what it is to be
licked by Jim Fenton? Do ye know what ye're sw'arin' to?
Do ye reelize that I wouldn't leave enough on ye to pay for
havin' a funeral?”

Yates laughed, and said that he believed he understood the
nature of an oath.

“Then sign yer Happy David,” said Jim.

Yates wrote his name, and passed the paper into Jim's
hands.

“Now,” said Jim, with an expression of triumph on his
face, “I s'pose ye don't know that ye've be'n settin' on a
Bible; but it's right under ye, in that chest, an' it's hearn
and seen the whole thing. If ye don't stand by yer Happy
David, there'll be somethin' worse nor Jim Fenton arter ye,
an' when that comes, ye can jest shet yer eyes, and gi'en it
up.”

This was too much for both Yates and Benedict. They
looked into each other's eyes, and burst into a laugh. But
Jim was in earnest, and not a smile crossed his rough face.

“Now,” said he, “I want to do a little sw'arin' myself,
and I want ye to write it.”

Yates resumed his pen, and declared himself to be in readiness.

“I solem-ny sw'ar,” Jim began, “s'welp me! that I will
lick Sam Yates—as is a lawyer—with the privlidge of self-defense—if
he ever blows on Benedict—as is not a pauper—no
more nor Jim Fenton is—an' I solem-ny sw'ar, s'welp me!
that I'll foller 'im till I find 'im, an' lick 'im—with the privlidge
of self-defense.”

Jim would have been glad to work in the last phrase again,
but he seemed to have covered the whole ground, and so inquired
whether Yates had got it all down.

Yates replied that he had.

“I'm a goin' to sign that, an' ye can take it along with ye.
Swap seats.”

Yates rese, and Jim seated himself upon the chest.

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“I'm a goin' to sign this, settin' over the Bible. I ain't
goin' to take no advantage on ye. Now we're squar',” said
he, as he blazoned the document with his coarse and clumsy
sign-manual. “Put that in yer pocket, an' keep it for five
year.”

“Is the business all settled?” inquired Yates.

“Clean,” replied Jim.

“When am I to have the liberty to go out of the woods?”

“Ye ain't goin' out o' the woods for a fortnight. Ye're a
goin' to stay here, an' have the best fishin' ye ever had in yer
life. It'll do ye good, an' ye can go out when yer man comes
arter ye. Ye can stay to the raisin', an' gi'en us a little lift
with the other fellers that's comin'. Ye'll be as strong as a
hoss when ye go out.”

An announcement more welcome than this could not have
been made to Sam Yates; and now that there was no secrecy
between them, and confidence was restored, he looked forward
to a fortnight of enjoyment. He laid aside his coat,
and, as far as possible, reduced his dress to the requirements
of camp life. Jim and Mr. Benedict were very busy, so that
he was obliged to find his way alone, but Jim lent him his
fishing-tackle, and taught him how to use it; and, as he was
an apt pupil, he was soon able to furnish more fish to the camp
than could be used.

Yates had many a long talk with Benedict, and the two
men found many points of sympathy, around which they
cemented a lasting friendship. Both, though in different ways,
had been very low down in the valley of helpless misfortune;
both had been the subjects of Mr. Belcher's brutal will; and
both had the promise of a better life before them, which it
would be necessary to achieve in opposition to that will.
Benedict was strengthened by this sympathy, and became
able to entertain plans for the assertion and maintenance of
his rights.

When Yates had been at the camp for a week and had
taken on the color and the manner of a woodsman, there came

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one night to Number Nine a dozen men, to assist in the raising
of Jim's hotel. They were from the mill where he had purchased
his lumber, and numbered several neighbors besides,
including Mike Conlin. They came up the old “tote-road”
by the river side, and a herd of buffaloes on a stampede could
hardly have made more noise. They were a rough, merry
set, and Jim had all he could do to feed them. Luckily,
trout were in abundant supply, and they supped like kings,
and slept on the ground. The following day was one of the
severest labor, but when it closed, the heaviest part of the
timber had been brought and put up, and when the second
day ended, all the timbers were in their place, including those
which defined the outlines of Jim's “cupalo.”

When the frame was at last complete, the weary men retired
to a convenient distance to look it over; and then they
emphasized their approval of the structure by three rousing
cheers.

“Be gorry, Jim, ye must make us a spache,” said Mike
Conlin. “Ye've plenty iv blarney; now out wid it.”

But Jim was sober. He was awed by the magnitude of his
enterprise. There was the building in open outline. There
was no going back. For better or for worse, it held his destiny,
and not only his, but that of one other—perhaps of others still.

“A speech! a speech!” came from a dozen tongues.

“Boys,” said Jim, “there's no more talk in me now nor
there is in one o' them chips. I don't seem to have no vent.
I'm full, but it don't run. If I could stick a gimblet in
somewhere, as if I was a cider-barrel, I could gi'en ye enough;
but I ain't no barrel, an' a gimblet ain't no use. There's a
man here as can talk. That's his trade, an' if he'll say what
I ought to say, I shall be obleeged to 'im. Yates is a lawyer,
an' it's his business to talk for other folks, an' I hope he'll
talk for me.”

“Yates! Yates!” arose on all sides.

Yates was at home in any performance of this kind, and,
mounting a low stump, said:

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“Boys, Jim wants me to thank you for the great service
you've rendered him. You have come a long distance to do
a neighborly deed, and that deed has been generously completed.
Here, in these forest shades, you have reared a monument
to human civilization. In these old woods you have
built a temple to the American household gods. The savage
beasts of the wilderness will fly from it, and the birds will
gather around it. The winter will be the warmer for the fire
that will burn within it, and the spring will come earlier in
prospect of a better welcome. The river that washes its feet
will be more musical in its flow, because finer ears will be listening.
The denizens of the great city will come here, year
after year, to renew their wasted strength, and they will carry
back with them the sweetest memories of these pure solitudes.

“To build a human home, where woman lives and little
children open their eyes upon life, and grow up and marry
and die—a home full of love and toil, of pleasure and hope
and hospitality, is to do the finest thing that a man can do.
I congratulate you on what you have done for Jim, and what
so nobly you have done for yourselves. Your whole life will
be sweeter for this service, and when you think of a lovely
woman presiding over this house, and of all the comfort it
will be to the gentle folk that will fill it full, you will be glad
that you have had a hand in it.”

Yates made his bow and stepped down. His auditors all
stood for a moment, under an impression that they were in
church and had heard a sermon. Their work had been so
idealized for them—it had been endowed with so much meaning—it
seemed so different from an ordinary “raising”—
that they lost, momentarily, the consciousness of their own
roughness and the homeliness of their surroundings.

“Be gorry!” exclaimed Mike, who was the first to break
the silence, “I'd 'a' gi'en a dollar if me owld woman could
'a' heard that. Divil a bit does she know what I've done for
her. I didn't know mesilf what a purty thing it was whin I
built me house. It's betther nor goin' to the church, bedad.”

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Three cheers were then given to Yates and three to Jim,
and, the spell once dissolved, they went noisily back to the
cabin and their supper.

That evening Jim was very silent. When they were about
lying down for the night, he took his blankets, reached into
the chest, and withdrew something that he found there and
immediately hid from sight, and said that he was going to
sleep in his house. The moon was rising from behind the
trees when he emerged from his cabin. He looked up at the
tall skeleton of his future home, then approached it, and
swinging himself from beam to beam, did not pause until he had
reached the cupola. Boards had been placed across it for the
convenience of the framers, and on these Jim threw his blankets.
Under the little package that was to serve as his pillow he laid
his Bible, and then, with his eyes upon the stars, his heart
tender with the thoughts of the woman for whom he was rearing
a home, and his mind oppressed with the greatness of his undertaking,
he lay a long time in a waking dream. “If so be
He cares,” said Jim to himself—“if so be He cares for a
little buildin' as don't make no show 'longside o' His doin's
up thar an' down here, I hope He sees that I've got this Bible
under my head, an' knows what I mean by it. I hope the
thing 'll strike 'im favorable, an' that He knows, if He cares,
that I'm obleeged to 'im.”

At last, slumber came to Jim—the slumber of the toiler,
and early the next morning he was busy in feeding his helpers,
who had a long day's walk before them. When, at last, they
were all ferried over the river, and had started on their homeward
way, Jim ascended to the cupola again, and waved his
bandanna in farewell.

Two days afterward, Sam Yates left his host, and rowed
himself down to the landing in the same canoe by which he
had reached Number Nine. He found his conveyance waiting,
according to arrangement, and before night was housed
among his friends at Sevenoaks.

While he had been absent in the woods, there had been a

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conference among his relatives and the principal men of the
town, which had resulted in the determination to keep him in
Sevenoaks, if possible, in the practice of his profession.

To Yates, the proposition was the opening of a door into
safety and peace. To be among those who loved him, and
had a certain pride in him; to be released from his service to
Mr. Belcher, which he felt could go no farther without involving
him in crime and dishonor; to be sustained in his
good resolutions by the sympathy of friends, and the absence
of his city companions and temptations, gave him the promise
of perfect reformation, and a life of modest prosperity and
genuine self-respect.

He took but little time in coming to his conclusion, and
his first business was to report to Mr. Belcher by letter. He
informed that gentleman that he had concluded to remain in
Sevenoaks; reported all his investigations on his way thither
from New York; inclosed Jim's statement concerning the
death of a pauper in the woods; gave an account of the disinterment
of the pauper's bones in his presence; inclosed the
money unused in expenses and wages, and, with thanks for
what Mr. Belcher had done in helping him to a reform, closed
his missive in such a manner as to give the impression that he
expected and desired no further communication.

Great was Mr. Belcher's indignation when he received this
letter. He had not finished with Yates. He had anticipated
exactly this result from the investigations. He knew about
old Tilden, for Buffum had told him; and he did not doubt
that Jim had exhibited to Yates the old man's bones. He
believed that Benedict was dead, but he did not know. It
would be necessary, therefore, to prepare a document that
would be good in any event.

If the reader remembers the opening chapter of this story,
he will recall the statement of Miss Butterworth, that Mr.
Belcher had followed Benedict to the asylum to procure his
signature to a paper. This paper, drawn up in legal form,
had been preserved, for Mr. Belcher was a methodical, business

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man; and when he had finished reading Yates's letter,
and had exhausted his expletives after his usual manner, he
opened a drawer, and, extracting the paper, read it through.
It was more than six years old, and bore its date, and the
marks of its age. All it needed was the proper signatures.

He knew that he could trust Yates no longer. He knew,
too, that he could not forward his own ends by appearing to
be displeased. The reply which Yates received was one that
astonished him by its mildness, its expression of satisfaction
with his faithful labor, and its record of good wishes. Now
that he was upon the spot, Mr. Yates could still serve him,
both in a friendly and in a professional way. The first service
he could render him was to forward to him autograph
letters from the hands of two men deceased. He wished to
verify the signatures of these men, he said, but as they were
both dead, he, of course, could not apply to them.

Yates did not doubt that there was mischief in this request.
He guessed what it was, and he kept the letter; but after a
few days he secured the desired autographs, and forwarded
them to Mr. Belcher, who filed them away with the document
above referred to. After that, the great proprietor, as a
relief from the severe pursuits of his life, amused himself by
experiments with inks and pens, and pencils, and with writing
in a hand not his own, the names of “Nicholas Johnson”
and “James Ramsey.”