CHAPTER III

BERTHA MAKES A VISIT TO THE GLEN

“You don’t understand me, Mr. Richard,” said Ben, after he had mused for a time.

“I’m sure I do not. You act as though you had lost your senses,” replied Richard.

“But I have not lost my conscience, Mr. Richard. Perhaps you would not object to exhibiting the contents of your pockets.”

“Do you mean to insult me, Ben?” exclaimed Richard, reddening with indignation.

“No, sir, certainly not; but you will do me a great favor by turning your pockets out--just to oblige an old servant of the family.”

“Enough of this, Ben. Use your oars again.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Richard, but I am in earnest. That money was lost in this boat. I am a poor man, and it must be found before any suspicion rests upon me.”

“Ben, do you mean to say I took the money from my sister?”

“That is precisely what I mean, Mr. Richard, only I couldn’t say it out in so many words, because you are the only son of Mr. Franklin Grant, the rich broker of New York. I thank you for helping me out with the idea.”

“Oh, no, Ben! You must be mistaken. Richard would not do so mean a thing.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Bertha, but your brother did do this mean thing and if he is mean enough to steal ten dollars, which was to be given in charity, he is mean enough to lay it to the old boatman; and I will not risk myself on shore till the matter is cleared up.”

“Ben, do you know who and what you are?” said Richard, sternly.

“I know all about it, Mr. Richard. I am your father’s servant--your servant, if you please; but if I lose my place, and am sent to jail for what I do, I will have this matter set right before I go ashore.”

“It is all right now, Ben. Put me on board of the _Greyhound_, and I will say nothing more about it.”

“I will not. You stole the money from your sister, and you shall return it to her before you get out of this boat.”

“Let him go, Ben,” remonstrated Bertha, who began to be alarmed by the stern manner of the old boatman.

“I would do anything in the world for you, Miss Bertha, but I must have justice done in this matter.”

“Nonsense, Ben. I haven’t got the money,” said Richard, who was also a little alarmed at the determined manner of the boatman.

“You have got it, Mr. Richard, and you must give it up.”

“I say I have not got it. Doesn’t that satisfy you?”

“It does not. If you haven’t got it, you will not object to turning out your pockets.”

“I have got ten dollars, of course. I told you I had.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Didn’t I tell you that I borrowed it of Bob Bleeker?”

“You didn’t borrow a dollar of Bob Bleeker,” answered Ben, placing himself by the side of the youth.

“Dare you tell me that I lie?”

“I dare tell you anything that is true. Will you show me the contents of your pockets or not?”

“I will not,” replied Richard, stoutly.

The boatman made no reply, but, taking Richard by the collar, he jerked him into the middle of the boat, and, in spite of his kicks and struggles, thrust his hand into the boy’s coat pocket, and took therefrom his portemonnaie. He then released him, and opened the wallet.

It contained two half eagles!

“Here is the money you lost, Miss Bertha.”

“Why, Richard Grant!” exclaimed Bertha, “how could you do such a thing?”

“That is not your money, Berty. I borrowed it of Bob Bleeker,” stammered Richard, whose face was now as pale as a sheet.

“Mr. Richard, would you be willing to go over with me and ask Bob Bleeker if he lent you ten dollars?”

“Of course I would if I had the time.”

“Sit down, Mr. Richard, and I will tell you a story,” and Ben proceeded to relate what had occurred in the saloon of Bob Bleeker. “Are you satisfied, Miss Bertha?”

“I am. Oh, Richard, how could you do such a thing!”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Let me see the half eagles, Ben. I remember the date of one of them, and I looked at them so much that I think I should know them again.”

Ben handed her the gold pieces, and she was forced to acknowledge that they were the coins she had lost. The one whose date she remembered had a spot upon it, which enabled her to identify it.

“Oh, Richard!” said she, bursting into tears. “I did not think you had sunk so low! What will become of you?”

“I suppose I must run away and go to sea, or do something of that kind. My reputation is spoiled here.”

“Oh, no, Richard! Promise to be a better boy, and Ben and I will not say a word about this.”

“Ben has insulted and outraged me.”

“Sorry for it, Mr. Richard, but I couldn’t help it. The matter is cleared up now, and I haven’t anything more to say.”

“You will not mention this, Ben--will you?” pleaded Bertha. “Dick is sorry for it, and he will always be a good boy.”

“I never talk about family matters, Miss Bertha. Whatever happens, I shall never say a word about this affair,” replied Ben, as, with a few vigorous strokes of his oars, he placed the boat alongside the _Greyhound_.

Richard, stupefied at the suddenness with which his guilt had found him out, stepped mechanically from one boat into the other, hardly knowing what he was doing. Not only had he been convicted of the base act of stealing from his sister, but he was deprived of the means of attending the race. He felt as if some terrible disaster was impending, and threw himself into the stern sheets of his boat and covered his face with his hands.

“Now, Miss Bertha, I will row you up to the Glen in double-quick time.”

“I don’t like to leave Richard now. He must feel dreadfully.”

“I hope he does. It will do him good to spend a few hours upon the stool of repentance. Leave him to himself for a while, Miss Bertha.”

“But perhaps he will do some desperate thing, Ben. He may run away, as he threatened.”

“No he won’t. He hasn’t the courage to run away. He knows what going to sea means, and a young gentleman like him won’t do any such thing,” said Ben, as he bent upon his oars, and the boat glided away in the direction of the Glen.

In a few moments Ben landed his fair young charge in the midst of her anxious disciples.

“Now, if you like, Miss Bertha, I will pull back and keep an eye on Mr. Richard.”

“Do, Ben.”

“Shall he stay about home to-day?” asked Ben, with a quiet smile on his bronzed features.

“You cannot keep him at home if he chooses to go away.”

“Oh, yes, I can, Miss Bertha,” answered the boatman, confidently. “If you only say the word, Miss Bertha, he shall stay at home and he will mind me just like a whipped kitten.”

“Don’t be too hard with him, Ben.”

“Oh, bless you, no! I will handle him as gently as I would a basket of eggs; but he shall mind me, if you say the word. It is none of my business, but I don’t like to see a fine boy, like Master Richard, going to ruin and destruction for the want of a steady hand at the helm.”

“Do as you think best, Ben, but don’t let any harm come to him.”

“I won’t, Miss Bertha,” replied the boatman, as he shoved off and pulled toward Woodville.

Ben had once been a boatswain in the navy, and was accustomed to rigid discipline. He understood Richard’s case exactly, and he had often regretted that he was not authorized to train him up in the way he should go. The father was ignorant of his dissolute life, and the boatman entertained some doubts whether Mr. Grant had the nerve to discipline him as the case demanded. Bertha was a power and an influence at Woodville, and Ben knew that whatever she counseled would be ratified at headquarters.

Richard was still lying on the cushions of the _Greyhound_ when Ben returned from the Glen. Without seeming to notice the young reprobate, the boatman kept one eye upon him, while his hands were busied in carving a snake’s head upon the end of a new tiller for the four-oar boat. There we will leave them, the watcher and the watched, and return to the Glen.

“We thought you never would come,” said one of the little savages, as Bertha walked up to the Retreat with them.

The Retreat was an arbor, which was completely covered with vines, and in which seats had been built by the ingenuity of Ben, the boatman, who was almost as much interested in Bertha’s mission as she was herself.

“Now, take your seats, children. I hope you have all got your lessons well, for we have a great deal to do to-day.”

In a moment each of the little savages took a seat, and produced the book which Bertha had furnished. They read, spelled and recited arithmetic to the entire satisfaction of the teacher. New lessons were assigned for the next day, and then Bertha proceeded to open the bundles of dry goods.

“Here is a calico dress for each of the girls, and here is some jean to make jackets and trousers for the boys. We must be as busy as bees, and have them all made up this week.”

The eyes of the little boys and girls sparkled with delight at this display of treasures. A Broadway belle or a Chestnut Street dandy could not have been more enraptured at the latest importation from Paris, than the poor children of Dunk’s Hollow were at the sight of the homely material of which their new clothes were to be made.

But the most serious part of the work was yet to be done, and consisted in the cutting and fitting of the garments. Ever since the brilliant idea of supplying her flock with new clothes had entered the fertile brain of Bertha, she had studied and practiced the dressmaker’s art, under the tuition of Mrs. Green, the housekeeper, who had kindly afforded her all the instruction she needed. She had also procured patterns for the jackets and trousers, and patiently examined some of her brother’s old clothes, for she was determined that the outfit of the savages should be fashioned entirely by her own hands.

With a confidence worthy the pioneer mind of a Columbus, she tore off the breadths for the dresses, and set the girls at work in running them together. Then, with the same zeal and self-possession, she proceeded to fit the waist of Gretchy von Brunt, who was about as thick as she was long, and not exactly a model of female elegance in form. It was a trying experiment for a beginner, but for what the chief operator lacked in skill and experience, she made up in zeal and hope.

At twelve o’clock Ben came up with a basket of provisions for the busy troop of workers. He reported that Richard was as tame as a lamb, and had gone in to dinner when the bell rang. He did not think there was any danger of his doing a desperate deed. But Bertha insisted that he should return, and not lose sight of him till his father came home from the city. As he had been instructed in the morning, Ben brought up Bertha’s boat, in which she intended to row back herself, when the labors of the day were finished.

While the girls were busily engaged upon their dresses, and the boys were bringing stones to make a walk from the landing place to the Retreat, a slight rustling was heard in the bushes, near the spot where the dinner things had been left.

“Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!” were the cries which immediately issued from the bushes.

It sounded like the scream of some wild bird; but neither Bertha nor her flock were frightened by the noise, though all of them left their work, and hastened to the spot from which it proceeded.

“It’s Noddy Newman,” said Griffy von Grunt, the largest of the three boys composing the mission school--a stout, fat little Dutchman of ten years of age.

“He has stolen what was left of the dinner,” added Bridget McGee.

“And he will steal Miss Bertha’s boat,” said Billy Ball, as he and Griffy hastened down to the landing place, intending by a flank movement to protect the property of the mistress.

“He may have the dinner, if he will not carry off the basket and the plates,” added Bertha. “Noddy! Noddy! Come here a moment; I want to see you,” called she, as loud as she could.

“No, you don’t,” replied the wild boy who had caused this sudden commotion. “None of your spelling books for me. I like your dinner, but I don’t want any of your learning.”

Noddy Newman was now in view of the party. He was even more ragged and dirty than the raggedest and dirtiest of the Dunk’s Hollowites. He wore nothing but a shirt and trousers with one suspender, and a straw hat, of which less than one-fourth of the original brim remained. Though he was said to be thirteen years old, he was smaller in stature than Griffy von Grunt; but he was as agile and quick as a monkey.

Noddy had no parents. They had lived at the Hollow till filth and dissipation ended their days. Since their death Noddy had taken care of himself; sleeping in barns and outbuildings at night, and begging or stealing food enough to keep him alive.

“Come to me, Noddy,” repeated Bertha. “I won’t hurt you.”

“I know you won’t. You can’t!” shouted the wild boy, as he bounded off, with the speed of an antelope, toward the river, ending his flight by running up a large tree which overhung the water.