Running To Waste

“O, Becky, you’ve saved my life! Can I ever repay you.”

Jenny lay upon the ground, with clasped hands and streaming eyes. Becky stood by her side, looking ruefully at the burning building. No more work there.

“Yes, Jenny, I believe I’ve saved both our lives. But there’s one thing I forgot; and it’s just like me. Your crutch! I might have saved that too.”

Not quite a thoughtful, earnest woman yet, Becky; but this day the climbing frolics of the tomboy days have enabled you to glorify humanity with its proudest triumph – an heroic act!

CHAPTER IX.
TEDDY SLEEPER DINES OUT

Just before the breaking out of the fire in the paper mill Teddy Sleeper, sat on the door step awaiting the return of his sister. He was particularly uneasy on this occasion, having had a long spell of fishing with no luck, “not even a bite” and was very impatient at the delay in obtaining a “bite” at home, it being the invariable rule there, to wait for Becky. Teddy under the wise rule of his sister had lost much of his gaukiness and rough speech but had lost none of his rotundity of form and cool, phlegmatic disposition. With him everything was taken as a matter of course. Nothing ever surprised him into expressions of wonder, and seldom did he lose his temper. The sole disturber of his peace was hunger – the foe that has successfully assailed the good disposition of many wise and great men. Under its attacks Teddy grew restless and disorderly. He was in a fair way to do something rash, when his keen eye discovered smoke rolling up over the paper mill, and the cry of “Fire! fire! fire!” faintly reached his ears. He rolled off the step, took a long look in the direction of the smoke, then started down the hill. Reaching the church, he saw Phil Hague standing before the captain’s house, shading his eyes and looking up the road. People were hurrying toward the fire.

“Phil, Phil, it’s the paper mill!”

“Is that so? Bedad, its foine kindlings they have there for a blaze.”

“Come on. Let’s get out the ingine.”

“What for, I dunno?” said Phil, scratching his head.

“To put out the fire. Here, Jackson, the ingine. Hold on, Smith, help run her up. Come on, Phil.”

Teddy run to the engine house, followed by Phil, and Smith and Jackson, who were on their way to the fire.

The engine was kept next door to the church. It was a heavy, old-fashioned affair, not much larger than a good-sized wash-tub, had not been moved for years, and it was very doubtful if it could be made to work. Of this Teddy took no thought. There was a fire, and the first thing to be done was to have it on the spot. So they pulled it out and started down the hill as fast as they could run. Not being experienced firemen, they did not use any “hold-back” measures, and the consequence was, half way down the hill they found the “ingine” close upon their heels, and themselves in danger of being crushed. With one accord they dropped the rope, and sprang to the sides of the road. “Cataract” – this was the name by which the extinguisher was known – being deserted by its leaders, went thundering down the hill and tipped over at the bottom.

“By my sowl,” said Phil Hague, “that’s a quare way of putting out a fire. The contrary divil’s laid down for a nap.”

“Come on, it ain’t hurt; let’s set it up and lug it up the hill,” said Teddy hurrying to the prostrate Cataract.

They managed to get it upon its wheels again, tugged up the hill with their heavy burden, and at last reached the fire. A hose was laid and the engine manned, but the rusty machine refused to work. All this time Teddy had been sweating and hurrying to get it in operation. It was a sore disappointment to him after all his trouble.

Mark Small came along at that moment.

“It’s no use, boys, there’s been no washers on them pumps this five years.”

There was a laugh from the crowd and Teddy turned away with a very red face.

“The best engine in the world would be of no use now. She’s got to burn,” said Small, looking at his buildings, now enveloped in flames. “Much obliged to you, Teddy, all the same. Tell you what you can do. There’s little York frightened most to death. Becky got her out just in time. Just you take my team and get her home. That’s a good fellow.”

Teddy followed the direction of Small’s pointing finger, and saw Jenny York crouching on the ground beside Becky. In a moment he was beside the girls.

“Hello, girls, had a narrow squeak of it. Say, Becky, Small says you got her out. Is that so?”

“Yes, I did, Teddy. Ain’t you glad?” said Becky.

“Glad; you bet I am. Bully for you. Hurrah for Becky Sleeper.”

The crowd took up the shout, and Becky received an ovation. Just then Small drove up in his wagon.

“Come, Teddy, get the girls home, quick.”

He leaped from his seat and took Jenny in his arms and placed her in the wagon.

“There’s room for you, too, Becky. Jump in. God bless you, girl. It’s hard to lose all I have in the world, but it would have been harder to bear had there been a life lost.”

Becky climbed into the wagon followed by Teddy who took up the reins and drove away. As they moved off the excited crowd, who had witnessed Becky’s valor, shouted until Becky was out of sight, “Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!” As they flew down the road Jenny poured into the ears of Teddy Sleeper the exciting narrative of the escape.

“That’s just like her, Jenny. Hi, lively, Spotty. She’s a bouncer, I tell you. And she’s my sister. Ain’t I proud of her? Oh, no – get up, Spotty,” cried Teddy, at the conclusion of the narrative. “And I lugged that plaguy old ingine up all for nothing. She does all the brave things, and I ain’t no account. Don’t care, she’s my sister. Hi, there, Spotty, what are ye about? She’s my sister.”

Spotty was the name of Small’s horse – an explanation rather necessary, in view of the manner in which Teddy mixed his sentences.

Having safely deposited his sister at home, Teddy drove on to Jenny’s house. Mrs. York was surprised at the appearance of Jenny in the middle of the day. The family had heard nothing about the fire, and were about sitting down to dinner when Teddy arrived with his charge.

“Bless the child, where did you come from? What’s the matter?” cried Mrs. York, appearing in the doorway, as Teddy carefully deposited Jenny on the step.

“Been a fire! Mill’s gone – clean gone!” said Teddy. “So I brought Jenny home.”

“Mill’s burned? Sakes alive! How on earth did you get out? Do you hear that, father? Mill’s gone – clean gone.”

“I got out because Becky Sleeper saved me, mother,” said Jenny, quietly, as she took her mother’s hand to get into the house. “Had it not been for her you’d have had no crippled daughter to care for more.”

“My gracious! you don’t mean it,” cried Mrs. York, hastily closing the door, regardless of Teddy standing outside. Teddy turned away with a disappointed air. The grateful incense of a boiled dinner had been wafted to his hungry spirit, through the open door. He remembered the time, when on a charitable mission, that same door had been closed to him, and thought that if a little charity should be extended to him from the other side, hungry as he was he could not refuse it. He climbed to his seat, took up the reins, and was on the point of starting off when the door opened again.

“Here, Teddy, Teddy Sleeper, don’t go yet.” It was the voice of Mrs. York. “You mustn’t mind my shuttin’ the door. I’m so flurried to think that our Jenny’s come so near never comin’ home again. Come in and have some dinner. We ain’t got much, but what we have is good, for I cooked it myself. Don’t be bashful. Come in, and welcome.”

Teddy stopped not for further invitation, but quickly fastened Spotty and entered the house. The table was spread in the middle of the room, its centre embellished with a huge platter in which reposed a smoking piece of corned-beef, almost hidden by the surrounding accompaniment of turnips, carrots, parsnips, cabbage and potatoes. Near it was an enormous dish of squash. There was a plate of brown bread, another of white, a castor, a huge coffee pot, cups and saucers, plates, knives and forks. Teddy took it all in at a glance. There was enough for all, he should not be robbing the poor if he helped to dispose of the feast. Yet the supply of squash so far exceeded the usual provision made for such an occasion that he could not keep his eyes from it.

“Father” York who was on the lounge, when he entered raised his eyes and said “How do you do?” in a very weak voice.

“Come, father, dinner’s all on the table.”

“Father” rose quickly, and took his place at the foot of the table. Mrs. York motioned Teddy to a seat next him. Jenny took her place, and the two younger Yorks, about four and six years old scrambled to their places.

“Why, where’s Johnny?” said Mrs. York, about to do the honors at the head of the table.

“Oh, he’ll be here afore we get through, I guess,” said father York, “he never loses a meal.”

There was a scrambling at the back door, it flew open, and Johnny York made his appearance. He was about eleven years old. A redheaded, freckled-faced boy, with eyes like a sculpin. With much haste he tossed his hat on the lounge, dragged a chair across the floor, jumped into his seat, and fastened his eyes upon the dish of squash.

“Squash!” he ejaculated, lifting his plate.

“Wait, sonny, wait; don’t you see we have company,” said Mrs. York.

Johnny looked round the table, saw Teddy, grinned, then fastened his eyes on his favorite dish.

Mrs. York helped Teddy and Jenny and then looked at Johnny.

“Squash,” answered Johnny to the look.

Into his plate Mrs. York heaped the yellow vegetable in such profusion that Teddy stared. The youngster seemed not a bit discouraged by the supply but attacked it at once. The two smaller children were also helped from the same dish, paying no attention to the contents of the principal platter. With a great many groans Mr. York supplied his own plate bountifully, and set to work like a man ravenously hungry. Teddy kept him company – he had fasted long and he was tempted by a favorite dinner.

“Teddy,” said Mrs. York, “we can never be grateful enough to that dear sister of yours, and only think, we turned her away from our doors.”

“Yes,” sighed Mr. York, “and refused her bounty. It was cruel, and if ever there was a thing a poor sick man hankered for, it was what she brought.”

“Squash!” burst out Johnny, raising his empty plate.

Teddy stopped eating and looked at Johnny. The boy’s eyes stood out hungrier than ever. Mrs. York quietly refilled his plate.

“Oh, she’s the dearest girl, mother, you ever saw. If you’d only seen her in the loft,” said Jenny, “tugging away at that great ladder, and then carrying me up in her arms, and so gay about it, as though she did it every day. I was frightened almost to death, but when I saw how calm she was, it made me quiet. I thought if I must die, it would not be alone. And then I thought that was selfish and wanted her to go and leave me to my fate. Oh, mother, it was a happy day for me when she came to the mill.”

“It was a happy day for us all, Jenny,” said Mrs. York. “What should we do without our singing Jenny? Have some more beef, Teddy. I declare you’re not eating anything.”

Teddy looked up to see if she was not making fun of him for he had already made away with two generous supplies. But, no, there was no fun in her eye, and he passed his plate.

“Yes,” sighed Mr. York, “we have much to be grateful for. Poor health is an awful pullback to a man who’s willin’ to do all he can, but to lose children after they’ve begun to earn something, is a special dispensation of Providence that goes agin’ the grain. I always told Small that mill of his would end in – ”

“Squash!” sung out Johnny, lifting an empty plate again.

“Squash!” echoed number four.

“Squash!” chimed in number five.

Teddy saw three uplifted plates and ceased to wonder at the enormous provision. Without a murmur Mrs. York plied the big iron spoon once more, and the youngsters again set to work.

“And to think that girl should turn out so well after all,” said Mrs. York. “She was the most harum scarum thing I ever saw when she was a young girl.”

“Ah, we must never judge by appearances,” sighed Mr. York. “That’s what I tell Mason when I have my bad spells come on. ‘York,’ he says, ‘don’t be a fool. You’re tough enough if you only keep to work. You’re as strong and healthy a looking man as I am.’ Ah, he little knows what a sinking there is my stomach and how weak I get, and don’t have the least bit of appetite. Ah, I’m slowly but surely fading away, fading away.”

“Don’t, father, don’t talk so. You make me feel miserable,” said Mrs. York, laying down her knife and looking at the sufferer with real distress in her face.

“Well, I won’t,” sighed York, taking up his knife and fork, and dashing at his plate with vigor. “I know its wrong to distress you, but what can a man do who feels the all-devouring worm continually crying – ”

“Squash!” interrupted Johnny.

“No, sir, no more,” said Mrs. York, firmly. “Mercy sakes, do you want to turn into a squash vine, and have squashes grow out all over you? No more.”

Johnny said not a word, but pushed back his chair, grabbed his cap, and slid out of the back door. The little Yorks who were on the point of joining their petitions with that of their brother, awed by the stern tone of their mother, or frightened at the probable result of too much indulgence, dropped their plates and were silent. Teddy, having fully appeased his appetite, thought of Spotty.

“I believe I must be goin’. Hadn’t ought to have stopped so long. Mr. Small will be wanting his horse.”

“Oh, don’t be in a hurry, Teddy. Well, if you must go – come again, we’ll be glad to see you any time, won’t we, father?”

“Yes, indeed; and your sister, too, and she shan’t be turned out of doors, if she ever feels like bringing something nice to a poor sick man,” said Mr. York.

“Don’t, father, speak of such a thing,” cried Jenny. “She’s done enough for us. Don’t take such a message as that, Teddy, but tell her we all love her dearly, and will never think of her but as the best girl in Cleverly.”

“That’s so, Jenny. I knew folks would find out how clever she is,” said Teddy, “and she’s my sister. Good by. I really must be going,” and he started for the door. Outside he found Spotty impatiently pulling at his tether, and jumping into the wagon he started off. As he drove into the main street he found a group of men and boys discussing the fire, and by their motions enacting the scene in which Becky had taken a prominent part. Further on another group with the same subject under consideration, and a third were on the steps of the church. As he passed he could hear his sister’s name spoken by one and another. In a cheerful spirit, with his hungry foe completely vanquished, it is no wonder that Teddy’s heart glowed at the praises he heard, and felt proud of its connection with the heroine of the day.

And Becky; how bore she her triumph? Quietly she entered the house and took her place at her mother’s side.

“No more work to-day, mother, or for many days. The mill is burned to the ground.”

“Nobody hurt, Becky?” with an anxious look, said the mother.

“No, all safe and sound. Nobody lost anything but Mr. Small.”

Aunt Hulda entered the room at that moment.

“What’s that, Becky? Where have you been? Dinner’s cold as a stone.”

“Jenny was very sick and I couldn’t leave her, and then the mill took fire and burnt to the ground.”

“Mark Small’s mill burnt. You don’t mean it. Why, it will ruin him,” gasped Aunt Hulda.

“Yes, I’m afraid he’s lost everything.”

“Oh dear, dear, dear! It’s the Lord’s doin’s and I ’spose we must be resigned,” cried Aunt Hulda. “And Mark Small’s lost everything,” and she sat down and rocked briskly, wringing her hands.

“Why, Aunt Hulda, what ails you? You’ll lose nothing. Come, give me my dinner, I’m as hungry as a bear. I can’t wait; come along,” and Becky seized Aunt Hulda by main force and dragged her to the kitchen. Not a word about her adventure to Aunt Hulda, not a word to her mother on her return. They were left in ignorance until Teddy puffing with haste burst into the room. He ran at Becky and seized her in his arms.

“It’s all over town. I tell you, everybody’s talking about you. You’re a heroine, Becky, and I’m your brother.”

“What on airth ails the boy?” shrieked Aunt Hulda. “Is he mad? What’s Becky done now?”

“What has she done, Aunt Hulda? She dragged Jenny York up on the roof, tore up the bags and let her down to the ground, when the building was blazing like fury. D’ye hear that, mother? Our Becky did it. Ain’t you proud of her? I am.”

Becky freed herself from Teddy’s embrace, wondering what could have started him to such a proceeding, he always so cool and undemonstrative. She looked at her mother. The face of the invalid was flushed, the lips moved yet no words escaped them, but in the eyes Becky read the rich reward, “Well done, daughter.” She ran to her mother’s side and put her arms about her neck.

“Poor Jenny York, mother, she must have died without me. Thank Heaven, I was there, mother. Thank Him that I knew how to save her.”

CHAPTER X.
THE ROMANCE OF A POOR OLD MAID

If ever a man had reason to be disappointed at the ways of Providence, that man was Mark Small, owner of the mill, whose earthly possessions had vanished in fire and smoke. Twenty years before, he had wandered over from Foxtown, a sunburnt lad, with all his wardrobe – a cotton shirt, homespun pants, and a straw hat, stuck loosely upon his thin frame, – and the sad recollection of the death-bed of his father, a dissipated laborer, firmly fixed in his memory. In search of a job he stumbled into Capt. Thompson’s kitchen, where he was treated to a good, warm meal, and afterwards given charge of the captain’s “cattle;” i. e. a lively young horse, and a quiet, orderly cow, – for the captain’s domestic establishment was then on a very small scale. This work contented him for five years; when a desire to become a tin-peddler, induced the captain to equip him with a horse and wagon, and to set him off upon his travels. A very promising year at this business was ended by the disappearance of his whole stock from the breaking of a bridge; and the bankruptcy of that concern was the consequence. Then he tried book-peddling with considerable success, until one night the barn, in which he and his library had taken shelter from a storm, was struck by lightning and burned; he barely escaping with his life. Then he took to farming; – cut his leg with a scythe, and was laid up all winter. So fast failures followed all his attempts to rise in the world, that he jestingly asserted he must have been named Mark, that misfortune might make no mistake in marking him for its victim. At length he sought employment at the paper mill, where he prospered; and in time, by careful saving and shrewd management, was able to purchase the whole concern. And now fire had again made him penniless. Yet he sat there, lounging on a stone, humming a tune, and whittling a stick, as the twilight was gathering, and the flickering flames dying out of all that remained of his earthly possessions. He was a tall, thin man, with hollow cheeks, a ring of grizzled beard encircling his throat, a long, sharp nose, and a pair of rambling, piercing eyes, which were now fastened upon the fast blackening heap before him. So deeply was he interested in the last flashes of his expiring treasures, that he was unconscious of the approach of footsteps, until a hand was laid upon his shoulder.

“Mark, if it wasn’t the Lord’s doings, I should say that you’re the worst treated man in Cleverly.”

Mark started, and turned to see the sharp eyes of Hulda Prime looking into his eagerly. He was not quite sure, but he thought they looked moist and watery.

“Yes, Hulda, the old tune’s struck up again,” – by which Mark meant his old follower, misfortune – “I’d kinder lost the hang of it, so long since I’ve heeded it, but now it seems jist as natral as ‘auld lang syne.’”

“Mark, I’m real sorry for you. I don’t know as I’m welcome, but I couldn’t help putting on my bunnet and coming over to see you, if ’twas only for the sake of ‘auld lang syne’ you tell about.”

“Well, it’s real kind of you, Hulda; something I couldn’t expect; for I hain’t treated you jest right, nohow.”

Aunt Hulda shivered; it couldn’t be with cold, for the warmth of the failing embers was still powerful.

“Seems queer you should drop down on me jest then, Hulda; for I’ve been kinder lookin’ back, and jest when you put your hand on my shoulder, I was thinkin’ of that day when horse, wagon, tin-ware and peddler, went through the bridge together.”

Aunt Hulda shivered again, and somehow managed to slip down by Small’s side. He took no notice of the circumstance, but went on.

“Yes, you were stopping with Mrs. Johnson, helping her with her thanksgiving. You were a smart girl those days. Not handsome, but kinder good, wholesome lookin’. Don’t you remember my coming round to the kitchen and jokin’ you about Cyrus Cheever, who was kinder makin’ up to you; and I sung out to you, ‘Don’t have him, Hulda, wait for me. I’ll call when I come back, and pop the question.’ But I drove off and popped through the bridge. Don’t you remember it?”

Hulda Prime answered not. Her elbows were on her knees, her chin in her hand, her eyes looking into the gleaming ruins, where broken walls and twisted machinery, stood as monuments of destruction.

Remember it! had she not waited for that return? had she not taken to heart those playful words? And out of them woven a bright dream, and built upon it year by year, the only romance of her solitary life.

“I meant it, Hulda, true as gospel I meant it.”

Hulda’s old heart gave a bound. It was no jest after all.

“Yes, if it hadn’t been for that accident, I should have come back and asked you Hulda, true as preaching. But the old tune struck up, and ’twas no use trying to get up a wedding-dance to such music as that. And then when I got in luck again, somehow, I kinder got stuck up, and got used to being my own master; but I did keep kinder thinkin’ on you. But what’s the use of my tellin’ you all this? we’ve got by, all that nonsense, and I’m flat on by back agin, and as ‘poor as a puddock.’ I don’t s’pose it’s very manly in me to go confessing this thing now; but I’ve kinder felt mean about it, and your comin’, so cleverly and neighborly like, when I’ve nobody to feel sorry for me, has sorter made me do it.”

Mark Small shifted about uneasily in his seat, and whittled very briskly, and tried to whistle; but he found it hard to “pucker,” and could not muster a note.

Aunt Hulda shivered, and looked off into the ruins; and nursed her chin in her hand, and thought, “‘We’ve got by all that nonsense,’ have we?” Perhaps he had. She had not. No! Mark Small had been the idol of her younger days – her hero – by no means a handsome one; neither brave or gifted; yet she had loved him dearly, without any hope of being his wife, and now to find that he had thought of her, had wished to marry her, was happiness enough to pay for all the waiting, though they might never come any nearer to each other, – though, as he said, “they had got by all that nonsense.”

She spoke at last.

“Mark, I’m glad you told me this. You needn’t be ashamed of it, neither. It’s a manly thing for you to do. It’s wiped out some hard thoughts I’ve had of you; for I want you to understand that if you’d come back then, Cyrus Cheever, or any other man, would have been no consequence at all.”

And because all that nonsense had died out, Hulda’s hand fell upon Mark’s, and the ruined paper maker dropped his knife, and clasped it; and both gazed wistfully into the ruins, as the twilight darkened, and the fires burned dimmer.

“Mark, I am so sorry for you. What will you do now? Your mill is ruined. ’Twill take a heap of money to build it up again.”

“I don’t know, Hulda; but I ain’t a bit scart. I’ve begun too many times at the bottom of the ladder, to give up now.”

“Trust in the Lord, Mark, trust in the Lord.”

“That’s good, pious doctrine, Hulda, but I’m kinder unsteady on religious pints, and I think the Lord does the handsome thing, when he gives us this world, with all its fruits and products, and store of materials to work and weave, and brains to think, and arms to work; and we serve him best when we take all this, on trust, and turn it over, and work it up, and do the very best we can, givin’ him the glory. That’s my religion, Hulda, and I mean to live by it. And if I can do that, I ain’t afraid it won’t carry me over the river. I ain’t agoin’ to trouble him to set me goin’, but jest look ’round, find suthin’ to do, and then pitch in with a will.”

Hulda groaned in spirit, but kept her lips fast closed. This was not exactly what Parson Arnold preached, and the self-reliant religion of Mark Small, had a shade of blasphemy to her orthodox ears.

“Hulda, I wouldn’t sit here any longer if I were you. It’s getting dark and cold. I’ll walk down the road with you. It’s good of you to come, and I think I feel better for getting to be good friends with you again. I thought the old feelin’ had died out, but it hain’t, and if ever I get on my feet agen, – ”

“Is that you, Mark Small?”

A burly form came between them and the light. Hulda recognized it, and sprang to her feet. Captain Thompson, the last man she expected to meet stood before them. She darted back of Mark Small, out of the light. The captain took no notice of her, supposing her one of the employees of the mill.

“Yes, Captain, here I am, watching the remains. The old mill’s done for – and so am I.”

The captain came forward with outstretched hands.

“Mark, I am sorry for you. If it had been one of my ships, I couldn’t have felt worse. I’ve been out of town all day. Just heard of it. Swept clean away, hey?”

“Yes, Captain, all gone. Some of the machinery might be saved, but it can do no good. What’s the use of a horse, if you can’t get a stable for him?”

“Well, the first thing to do is to build a stable for your iron horses.”

“It’s easy enough to talk, but where’s the money coming from?”

“How much will it take to set the mill agoing again?”

“Ten thousand dollars,” said Mark, with a very faint whistle.

“Ten thousand dollars!” echoed the captain, with a louder whistle. “Any insurance?”

“Not a cent’s worth!” said Mark; “it’s too risky. You see a little combustible cotton has swept away my fortune in a couple of hours.”

“Nobody hurt, was there?” queried the captain.

“No. Thanks to brave little Becky Sleeper, even the little cripple was got out. That’s a brave girl, Captain. She’ll be the town talk to-morrow. Her skill in climbing and lifting stood her friend to-day. She’s a wide-awake Sleeper. Pity we hadn’t more tomboys like her about.”

“She of any use? you surprise me, Mark.”

Hulda drew a step nearer. With her pet for a subject, the conversation was becoming interesting.

“Yes, while the building was in flames, she dragged Jenny York to the roof, and lowered her to the ground;” and Small related the adventure, painting in glowing colors the heroism of Becky Sleeper.

“Well, well,” said the captain at the close of the narrative, “I’m glad she’s done something to redeem her bad character.”

Hulda Prime took another step forward, and clenched her fist. The captain never knew how narrowly he escaped an assault. “The ugly brute!” she thought, “he should repent that speech.” But remembering she had no right to interfere in that place, she smothered her ruffled feelings, and listened.

“And you say ten thousand dollars would be required to rebuild the mill. A big sum, a very big sum;” and the captain rubbed his hand thoughtfully.

“Yes, the stock’s gone clean; but my agent in Boston would fill me up, if I could only get the mill on its legs again.”

“Hem! pays good profit, hey?” asked the captain.

“Splendid! I had a customer for all I could make. Might rebuild on shares with my agents. I guess they’d come down with five thousand, if I could show the other five.”

“Would they,” said the captain, lighting up, “then you’re all right, Small. All right! build it up and set it agoing.”

“Yes, but where’s my five thousand coming from?”

“Out of my pocket, Small. ’Tain’t the first time I’ve set you up in business. And though you’ve failed many times, I’ve never lost a cent. You’ve paid me up principal and interest. And the money’s yours, when you want it to set things agoing. And if your agents won’t go in with you, why, I will; though where so much money’s coming from, I can’t exactly see.”

Small sprang to his feet, with eyes full of tears.

“Captain Thompson, you’re a friend worth having; you’ve put new life into me. I thought my best friend was gone when the old mill burnt; but I’m all right now.” And he seized Captain Thompson’s hand and shook it warmly.

“That’s all right, Small. Don’t say any more about it. And don’t let it leak out; I don’t like to have my doings known.”

“But they shall be known, you ugly old angel,” cried Hulda Prime, pouncing upon the Captain, and shaking his hand with energy.

“Hulda Prime, you here!” cried the astonished Captain; backing away and endeavoring to release his hand, —

“Yes, and I bless the Lord I am here, to see such a noble spirit. Captain Thompson, I’ve said hard things about you, and to your face, too; but I take ’em all back, – except about Harry – that I will stick to.”

Remembering what had been said about Harry, the Captain was not well pleased at the reservation.

“Miss Prime, I am surprised to find you here,” began he, sternly.

“Well, you needn’t be. Mark Small and I are old friends, and so I ran over to console him and bid him trust in the Lord. And I guess he did, after all, for nobody else could have sent you here just in the nick of time. You’re just splendid. Folks round here pity Miss Thompson because she’s got such a brute of a husband. But they needn’t. You’re just as good as you can be, and I’ve a great mind to hug you.”

The Captain grew red, and the Captain grew pale. He never felt in such deadly peril before.