CHAPTER I.

A BOYISH CHOICE.

Dean Mercer drew a breath of relief as he stepped from the musty law office of his former employer, Russell Montague, into the open air. He knew that he had made the most momentous decision of his life--a decision which was to shape his whole future course of action. In doing this he had abandoned a promising law course, overcame the natural preference of his parents and “struck out for himself,” as he put it.

“I can’t bear the stifling old place!” he exclaimed, giving vent to his feelings with a low exclamation of exultation, as the fresh breeze from Lake Seneca cooled his overheated temples. “Don’t that feel good--free, just as I feel, free!

“I do not blame Mr. Montague for wanting to keep me, just as I was becoming useful, and thinking, as he does, that he was doing father and mother a great favor. I am grateful to him for his six months’ kindly supervision of my fate, as he put it.

“Mother was loath to have me leave, but father could see more clearly than she that my heart was not in it. They all have called it ‘a boyish choice.’ Strange they all should have used the same words. But I am in for it, and, make or break, I am going to win. Sleepy old town, little do you realize that you are about to be suddenly awakened.”

Again the youthful speaker laughed softly to himself, his handsome, manly countenance showing a firmness of character not usually seen in a youth of seventeen.

Suddenly a look of concern swept over his face, and he started on a smart run toward the lake shore, murmuring as he ran:

“The _Warrior_ is about to start. I shall miss my passage.”

Five minutes of his rapid advance brought Dean to within a few yards of where one of the boats that plied on the lake, between that town and another at the foot of the lake, was chafing at its moorings. Catching sight of her commander, Dean asked:

“Is the _Warrior_ about to start, Captain Weymouth?”

“Start? Bless you, lad, did you ever know the _Warrior_ to start on time? It will be a good two hours before we leave our moorings.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Then Dean added to himself:

“I shall have ample time to see Judge Oglesby, as I ought to, before leaving for Springfield. Hello! what’s going on over yonder?”

If everything was quiet about the wharf, Dean had suddenly discovered that there was excitement reigning but a short distance away, though nothing could be seen to indicate trouble.

Still cries of distress came from near at hand, and a moment’s study of the situation told Dean that they came from behind a pile of old boxes and barrels.

Without further hesitation he sprang swiftly toward the spot, and in a moment these bitter words, uttered in a revengeful tone, came to his ears:

“Stung again!”

Biff--whack--biff! rang on the air, mingled with the cries for “help!”

Then Dean Mercer abruptly came upon a sight which made his blood boil with indignation. A burly-framed youth of eighteen had succeeded in throwing to the ground a boy of nearly his age, but considerably smaller, and was pummelling him most unmercifully.

“Sass me, will ye?” half questioned, half answered the belligerent bully, continuing to pound his victim with unremitting vengeance.

“Stop, Tim Downey!” fairly shouted Dean, who had quickly recognized the bully.

Then, without stopping for the other to cease his beating, if he would, Dean seized the fellow by the collar and hurled him backward a dozen yards, when the other whirled about on his feet like a top for a moment, to fall in a heap at last.

The abused boy slowly staggered to his feet, rubbing his eyes and staring stupidly upon Dean, as if he was too bewildered to speak, which in truth he was. He was considerably smaller than Dean, and a stranger to him.

“Has he hurt you very much?” asked Dean.

“Broke me all up,” replied the latter. “And I was just walking along without speaking to any one. I----”

“You crib every durned word you lisp!” cried Tim Downey fiercely, regaining his feet at this juncture.

Then seeing and recognizing Dean, he snapped:

“So it’s you that hev durst to meddle in my ’fairs! Drat yer picter, I’ll fix ye so ye won’t look in the glass fer one good spell!”

Tim had clenched his fists and was about to spring on Dean, when the latter said, in a clear, ringing tone:

“Lay a hand on me if you dare, Tim Downey.”

“I do dare!” yelled the bully, suddenly making a dash for the other.

Tim could never tell just what took place in the next half minute. But he soon found himself lying prone upon the ground again. He got up slower than he had before, his eyes filled with dirt and a stinging sensation behind the ear where Dean Mercer’s fist had landed. He stood glowering upon his victor without speaking.

Dean, seeing he had quite knocked out the bully for the time, turned to speak to the boy he had rescued from the other’s abuse.

“You look like a stranger in Millville?”

“I am, mister. My name is Marcus Ellison. I sha’n’t forget the good turn you did me. I thank you, and, if you don’t mind, I’ll be going. Hope the fellow won’t make you any trouble on my account.”

“Never fear for that.”

Seeing that the strange youth was anxious to be going his way, Dean said nothing further to him, while he again faced his enemy.

“Mebbe ye think ye’ve done yerself up brown with that, Dean Mercer. But I’ll do you up browner afore I’m through with yer miserable meddling. I know a thing or two that you don’t think I know,” and with these words the bully hastily left the place, Dean looking after him with a quizzical expression upon his countenance.

“Didn’t take long to stop that fuss,” he mused. “But perhaps it isn’t ended as far as I am concerned. Tim Downey has the reputation of being the worst boy in town, but that does not mean that I need fear him. Wonder what made that other boy in such a hurry.”

Dean then came out from the dark corner into the main street which ran nearly parallel with the waterline.

Millville lacked but one quality to make it one of the most beautiful and attractive places anywhere in the country. That quality was life, a very essential element.

Situated at the head of one of the most beautiful sheets of water in our fair land, its broad bosom dotted with fairy-like islands, it was located so as to command the business of a long line of towns running up and down the lake. Summer tourists had already been attracted here, and several villas and groups of cottages had sprung up among the delightful groves that covered its isles and lined its shore.

Dean had not gone a dozen steps before he stopped with a short whistle. He had seen a man rapidly approaching him, and his name was called anxiously. He saw at a glance that the newcomer was Mr. Montague, his recent employer and master.

“Whew!” panted the lawyer, quite out of breath with his exertions, “I was afraid I should miss you, Dean.”

“A delay in the starting of the steamer leaves me here, Mr. Montague. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You are going to Springfield?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I want you to do an errand for me. I forgot it when you left my office, I was so flustered with your leaving.”

“Anything I can do for you, Mr. Montague, I will gladly do.”

“I thought you would. Come with me to a side street. It is something important and confidential.”

Dean followed his friend away from the main thoroughfare, though not a person was in sight at that moment.

“I am going to intrust you with an errand, Dean, I would not trust with another. Here is this wallet for you to take to Springfield. It contains a thousand dollars in money and papers that are more valuable than the money. You remember the Ellison case?”

“Yes. You mean the Robert Ellison who was tried for murder?”

“Exactly. But we appealed, and he is to be given another chance. Well, I have found new evidence that will clear him. The proof is in that wallet. Take the papers and money to Mr. Durand, my associate at Springfield, and hand him the package as soon as possible. Mind you, do not let anyone else get it.”

“I will guard it with my life, Mr. Montague.”

“I know I can trust you, Dean. And I hope you will have reconsidered your hasty leave of me, and resume your law studies.”

“I do not believe I ever shall, Mr. Montague.”

“Time will show. Everything is made clear in those papers, but if Mr. Durand wants me, I will come to Springfield upon short notice. Good-day. The _Warrior_ must be about to start.”

“Good-day, sir.”

As the couple separated, each to go his way, the scowling face of Tim Downey appeared around the corner of a near-by building, and the tall, angular figure of the young bully came into full sight, while he watched the departure of Dean Mercer, muttering under his breath as he did so:

“So the wise Rube has fallen into a big pile of money! A thousand dollars and something a feller don’t understand. Guess he don’t size me up if he thinks I’m going to slump on that.”