Mark Manning's Mission

"You must have a sweet time living here," he said, "in this lonely old cabin."

"I would not exchange it for the place in which you confess that you have passed the last four years."

Taylor frowned, but did not otherwise notice the old man's retort.

"Give me the five dollars, boy," he said, "and I will go. It seems I am wasting time here."

Mark drew a gold piece from his pocket and passed it to him.

"Have you many more of these?" he demanded, his eyes gleaming with cupidity.

"No."

"Give me another."

"They are not mine to give."

"Not another one, Mark," said Anthony. "He does not deserve even that."

"Make way, then, and I will go," said the nephew, convinced that he had no more to expect.

Mark moved aside, and he strode out of the cabin.

"Good-bye, Uncle Anthony," he said. "You haven't treated me very generously, considering how long it is since you did anything for me."

"Are you utterly shameless, Lyman?" said the hermit. "I hope never to set eyes on you again."

"Thank you, you are very kind. Boy, what is your name?"

"Mark Manning."

"Well, Mark, as you appear to be in charge of my uncle, I shall be glad to have you write me if anything happens to him. As his nearest relative and heir, I ought to be notified."

Mark looked to the hermit for directions.

"Give him your address, Lyman," said Anthony. "If there is any news to interest you, he shall write. But don't calculate on my speedy death. It is hardly likely to benefit you."

"I may want to visit your grave, uncle," said Lyman, jeeringly.

"Give him an address where a letter will reach you then."

"No. – Third Avenue, New York," said Taylor. "Write soon."

He left the cabin, and old Anthony and Mark were alone.

"He is my nearest relative," said the old man, "and a relative to be proud of, eh, Mark?"

"No, sir."

"Years since we were in California together, I had two thousand dollars in gold dust under my pillow. My nephew was my companion, but none of the gold belonged to him. I woke one morning to find my nephew gone, and my gold also. From that time I have not set eyes on him till to-day."

"It was a shabby trick," said Mark, warmly. "Were you left destitute?"

"So far as money went, yes. But I was the owner of a claim which my nephew thought exhausted. I resumed work on it, and three days later made a valuable find. Within a month I took out ten thousand dollars, and sold it for five thousand more."

"Your nephew does not know this, does he?"

"No; if he had, I should not have got rid of him so easily. But I have not told you all. I remained in California a year longer, and left it worth forty thousand dollars."

"Then why—excuse me for asking—have you come to this poor cabin to live?" asked Mark.

"I had one other relative than Lyman, a daughter—I left her at a boarding-school in Connecticut. I returned to find that she had married an adventurer a month previous. Two years later I heard of her death. Life had lost its charm for me. I would not deprive myself of it, but in a fit of misanthropy I buried myself here."

Old Anthony seemed weary, and Mark questioned him no more, but set before him the milk and loaf which he had brought with him.

CHAPTER V.

LYMAN TAYLOR MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE

On leaving the cabin Mark promised to call again the next afternoon, bringing from the village such articles as Anthony might require. This he could readily do as the shoe manufactory was not running full time.

"I will see that you are paid for your trouble," said the hermit.

"That will be all right," said Mark, cheerfully.

"I am able to pay you, and will employ you only on that condition," persisted Anthony.

"I shall not object to that part of the bargain," said Mark, smiling. "Money never comes amiss to me."

"I have plenty of money, though I would not admit it to my nephew," continued the sick man. "He would persecute me till I bought him off. Fortunately he thinks I am poor."

"But," said Mark, "suppose he should come back. Would not your money be in danger?"

"He would find none here. I do not keep any in this cabin. I did have some, but it is in your hands."

"Shall I not return it to you, sir?"

"No; I prefer that you should keep it. You will be using money for me daily, and for the present you shall be my treasurer."

"I am very much obliged to you for reposing so much confidence in me," said Mark.

"I trust you entirely. You have an honest face."

"Thank you, sir. I will endeavor to deserve your confidence."

It was past four o'clock when Mark left the cabin and started on his way homeward. He walked along thoughtfully, carrying his gun over his shoulder.

"It seems I have a near friend," he reflected; "and one who may be of service to me. Now that the shop is no longer running full time, it will be convenient to earn a little extra money, old Anthony must be rich, judging from what he said about his success in California."

Mark could not help wondering where the hermit kept his money. But for Anthony's positive assurance, he would have conjectured that he kept it somewhere concealed about the cabin, but that being left out of the question he was at a loss to fix upon any probable place of deposit.

Leaving Mark for a brief time; we go back to the other two young hunters, from whom he had separated two hours before.

"I don't like that boy," said James Collins. "He puts on too many airs for a poor boy. I suppose he will be crowing over his successful shot."

"Very likely," chimed in his companion, who made it a point to flatter James by agreeing with everything he said.

"It was only a lucky accident," continued James. "He couldn't do it again."

"Of course not. I don't think he is really as good a shot as you or I."

"You can hardly class yourself with me," said James egotistically. "However. I agree with you that he is inferior to you."

"Quick, James!" said Tom Wyman. "There is a squirrel—shoot! I'll give you the first chance."

James pulled the trigger, but the squirrel was not destined to fall by his hands. He scampered away, looking back saucily at the baffled young hunter.

"Was ever anything more provoking?" asked James in evident chagrin.

Later in the afternoon when the two boys were slowly strolling homewards, they saw a strange man issuing from the woods. It was Lyman Taylor, returned from his only partially successful visit to his uncle.

He waited till the boys came up.

"Good afternoon, young gentlemen," he said by way of greeting.

"Good afternoon," returned James stiffly.

He doubted whether the newcomer was a man whom it was worth while to notice.

"What luck have you had? I see you have been out hunting."

"We didn't shoot anything we thought worth bringing home," said Tom.

"I met another boy out with a gun. Perhaps he is a friend of yours."

James and Tom exchanged glances. They understood very well that Mark Manning was meant.

"I think I know the boy you met," said James. "It is a poor boy who works in my father's manufactory."

"What is his name?" asked Lyman Taylor.

"Mark Manning."

"Does he live in the village?"

"Yes; his mother is a poor widow."

"Where did you meet him?" asked Tom.

"At a cabin in the woods."

"Old Anthony's?"

"Yes; the hermit is an uncle of mine."

The two boys regarded the speaker with interest. All the villagers had some curiosity about the man who had settled so near them.

"What is his name?" inquired Tom.

"You called him old Anthony," said Lyman, smiling. "That is his name."

"But his other name?"

"His last name is Taylor, I have not seen him before for five years. Does he often come into the village?"

"About twice a week."

"I suppose he comes to buy food?"

"Yes; I suppose so."

"Does he appear to be provided with money?" asked Taylor with some eagerness.

"Yes, I believe so," replied Tom. "He has sometimes come into our place—father is the postmaster—to get a gold piece changed. But I don't suppose he has much money. It doesn't cost him much to live."

"Does he ever get any letters—as your father is postmaster, you can probably tell."

"I don't think so; my father has never mentioned it, and I think he would if any had been received."

"What sort of a boy is this Mark Manning?" asked Taylor abruptly.

"I don't think much of him," answered James. "He is poor and proud. He is only a pegger in our shop, but he puts on airs with the best."

"Do you think he is honest?"

The two boys looked surprised; that question had never occurred to them.

"What makes you ask?" inquired James.

"Only that he has in his possession a sum of money belonging to my uncle."

"Did he tell you so? did you see it?" were the questions quickly asked.

"I met him at my uncle's cabin. My uncle owed me a small sum, and instead of paying me himself, he asked this boy to pay me. The boy took the money from his pocket, and handed it to me."

Both boys were surprised.

"I didn't know he had anything to do with the hermit," said Tom. "Did you, James?"

"No; but then I don't trouble myself about Mark Manning's affairs."

Lyman Taylor regarded James shrewdly, he had no difficulty in detecting the boy's dislike towards Mark.

"Excuse my troubling you with questions, young gentlemen," he said. "My uncle is a simple-minded old man, and it would be easy to rob him, though I fancy he hasn't much money. This boy Mark appeared to me an artful young rogue, who might very probably cheat him out of the small sum he has."

"I never saw the two together," said Tom, musingly. "Old Anthony has generally paid his bills himself."

"He is sick just now, and perhaps that accounts for it. The boy Mark has been making purchases for him in the village. However, I must leave the place, as important business calls me elsewhere. Since you," addressing Tom, "are the postmaster's son, may I ask a favor of you?"

"Certainly."

"If my uncle should die, can I trouble you to send me a note informing me, as I should feel called upon, as his only relative, to see that he was properly buried."

"Yes, sir; I will write you, if you will leave me your address."

Lyman Taylor gave Tom the same address he had already given Mark. He then bade the boys good-bye, and walked on.

"Uncle Anthony may have some money," he soliloquized, "and if he dies, I shall see if I can find it. I am pretty sure to hear through one of the boys."

CHAPTER VI.

A TRAGEDY IN THE PASTURE

On their way home the two boys had occasion to cross a pasture belonging to Deacon Miller, an old farmer whose house and barn were about a furlong distant on a rising ground.

They sauntered along in single file. James had a careless way of carrying his gun, which made some of the boys unwilling to accompany him, unless it was unloaded. Tom had two or three times cautioned him on this very afternoon, but James did not receive his remonstrance in good part.

"Don't trouble yourself so much about my gun, Tom Wyman," he said. "I guess I know how to carry my gun as well as you do."

"I don't doubt that in the least, James, but you must admit that you handle it rather carelessly. Some of the boys don't like to go hunting with you."

"Then they are cowards. I never shot any boy yet," answered James, with some heat.

"No, but you might."

"You are making a great deal of fuss about nothing. I didn't think you were so timid."

"I don't know that I am particularly timid, but I shouldn't like to be riddled with shot," returned Tom, good-humoredly.

"Then you'd better get your life insured when you go out with me next," sneered James.

"I don't know but I shall," said Tom, declining to take offense.

For a very brief period James carried his gun more carefully. Then he forgot his caution, and in transferring his gun from one shoulder to the other somehow he touched the hammer, and the gun was discharged.

It was most unfortunate, but when the gun went off it was pointed directly at a white-faced cow belonging to Deacon Miller.

The small shot penetrated both the poor animal's eyes, and with a moan of anguish the cow sank to the ground.

Both boys stared in dismay at the victim of carelessness.

"There, you've gone and done it now, James," said Tom. "You've shot Deacon Miller's cow."

"I don't see how I happened to do it," stammered James, really frightened.

"I told you not to carry your gun so carelessly."

"You told me! Of course you want to get me into trouble about this!" exclaimed James, irritably.

"No, I don't."

"Then," said James, quickly, "don't say a word about it. We'll get home as soon as we can, and won't know anything about it. Mum's the word!"

"Of course I'll be mum, but it will be known that we have been out with guns this afternoon."

"So has Mark Manning."

James looked significantly at Tom, and Tom understood.

Poor Mark was to bear the blame for a deed he didn't do, and all to screen James.

"It's mean!" Tom said to himself, "but I can't go back on James. I want to keep in with him, and I suppose I must consent."

"Well?" demanded James, impatiently.

"It won't come out through me," answered Tom, but not with alacrity.

"And if Mark is accused you won't say anything?"

"N-o!" said Tom, slowly.

"Then let us put for home!"

James suited the action to the word, and the two boys hurried across the pasture, never venturing to look back at the suffering animal.

Fifteen minutes later, when James and Tom were already at home, Mark Manning entered the narrow foot-path that led across the pasture.

He was immersed in thought, the hermit and his strange experience at the cabin being the subject of his reflections, when he heard a pitiful moaning, not far from him.

Looking up he observed that it proceeded from old Whitey, as the deacon was accustomed to call his favorite cow.

"What's the matter with you, old Whitey?" said Mark, who was always moved by distress, whether in man or beast.

Coming nearer, he was not long left in doubt. The nature of the injury which the poor cow had received was evident to him.

"Poor old Whitey!" he said, pitifully. "Who has shot you in this cruel manner?"

The sole answer was a moan of anguish from the stricken animal.

"I am afraid she will have to be killed!" thought Mark, sadly. "It is only torture for her to live with this injury, and of course there is no cure."

He was still standing beside the cow, gun in hand, when a harsh voice became audible.

"What have you done to my cow, Mark Manning?"

Looking up, he saw the deacon but four rods distant.

Deacon Miller was an old man, of giant form, and harsh, irregular features. He was a very unpopular man in the neighborhood, and deservedly so. He had made home so disagreeable that his only son had gone away fifteen years before, and the deacon had never heard from him since.

"What have you been doin' to my cow?" he demanded, in a still harsher tone.

"Nothing, Deacon Miller," answered Mark, calmly.

"You don't mean to tell me the critter's makin' all this fuss for nothin', do you?"

"No; the poor animal has been shot."

"Has been what?" snarled the deacon.

"Shot! Shot in the face, and I am afraid its eyes are put out," replied Mark.

"Old Whitey shot in the eye," repeated the deacon, in a fury. "Then it's you that did it."

"You are mistaken, sir," said Mark, with dignity. "I have just come up, and this is the condition in which I found Whitey."

"What's that you are carryin' in your hand?" demanded the deacon, sternly.

"My gun."

"I am glad you are willin' to tell the truth. I didn't know but you'd say it was a hoe," exploded the deacon in angry irony.

"Your cow has received no injury from my gun, if that's what you're hinting at, Deacon Miller."

"Let me take the gun!"

In some surprise Mark put it into his hands. The deacon raised it, and pulled the trigger.

No report was heard. The gun was not loaded.

"Just what I thought," said the deacon, triumphantly. "If it had been loaded, I might have thought you told me the truth. Now I know as well as I want to that you shot my cow in the face with it."

"I assure you, Deacon Miller," said Mark, earnestly, beginning to comprehend the extent to which he was implicated, although innocent. "I assure you, Deacon Miller, that I have had nothing to do with harming poor Whitey."

"Anyway, I shall hold you responsible, and I reckon you'll have hard work to prove yourself innocent," said the deacon, grimly. "I ain't going to lose a forty-five dollar cow, and say nothin' about it. You jest tell your mother when you go home to see about raisin' forty-five dollars to make up old Whitey's loss. As she's a poor widder I'll give her thirty days to do it in. Do you hear?"

"Yes, Deacon Miller, I hear, but I repeat that I didn't harm your cow, and I shan't pay you a cent."

"We'll see!" was the only answer the deacon gave, nodding his head with emphasis.

Poor Mark! he had never felt so miserable, as he plodded slowly home. He was innocent, but circumstances were against him, and the deacon was implacable.

CHAPTER VII.

MARK AT HOME

Mark's home was a small cottage of a story and a half, surmounted by a sloping roof. It was plainly furnished, but looked comfortable. His mother was a pleasant looking woman of middle age, who managed well their scanty income, consisting chiefly of Mark's earnings.

"Are you not later than usual, Mark?" she inquired.

"Yes, mother; I went out gunning, and did an errand for old Anthony, who is laid up with the rheumatism in his cabin."

"Poor man! I hope he won't suffer."

"Thanks to me, he probably will not."

"What can you do for him, Mark? You have no money to spare."

"Haven't I, mother?" asked Mark, with a smile, as he drew from his pocket a large handful of silver and gold.

"What do you say to that?"

"Oh, Mark! I hope you came honestly by that money," said the widow, nervously.

"I haven't been robbing a bank, if that's what you mean, mother. I couldn't very well, as there is none within ten miles."

"Then, Mark, where did the money come from?"

"It belongs to old Anthony. He asked me to take charge of it, as I shall need to be buying things for him in the village for a few days to come."

"For mercy's sake, be careful of it, Mark, as, if you lost it, we couldn't make up the loss."

"I'll look after that. In fact, I think it will be safer with me than with the owner. If any dishonest person should enter his cabin, he could not help being robbed in his present condition."

"That would be very unfortunate, as the old man is probably very poor."

Mark was about to undeceive his mother, but, reflecting that Lyman Taylor might still be in the village, he thought it not prudent to betray the hermit's secret.

"I heard a report to-day, Mark," said his mother, as she was setting the supper table, "that the shoe-shop was to be closed for a month."

"I hope not," said Mark, startled. "That would be serious for us."

"And for others too, Mark."

"Yes. It isn't as if there were other employments open, but there is absolutely nothing, unless I could get a chance to do some farm work."

"Perhaps Deacon Miller may need a boy."

"He's about the last man I would work for. He wouldn't pay me a cent."

"Why not, Mark? He wouldn't expect you to work for nothing."

"He claims that I owe him forty-five dollars, and would expect me to work it out."

"What do you mean, Mark? How can you owe the deacon forty-five dollars?"

"I don't, but he claims I do."

Mark then told his mother the story of the cow.

"Deacon Miller expects me to pay for it," he concluded, "but I think he'll have to take it out in expecting."

"Oh, Mark, I am afraid this will lead to serious trouble," said Mrs. Manning, looking distressed. "He may go to law about it."

"He can't make me pay for the damage somebody else did, mother."

"But if he makes out that you shot the cow?"

"I won't trouble about it. It might spoil my appetite for supper. I've got a healthy appetite to-night, mother."

"Your story has taken away mine, Mark."

"Don't worry, mother; it will all come right."

"I am afraid worrying comes natural to me, Mark. I've seen more trouble than you have, my son."

"Forget it all till supper is over, mother."

Supper was scarcely over when a knock was heard at the door, and John Downie entered. He was a boy of Scotch descent, and lived near by.

"How are you, Johnny," said Mark, "won't you have some supper?"

"Thank you, Mark, I've had some. Have you heard about Deacon Miller's cow?"

"What about her?" asked Mark, eagerly.

"You know old Whitey?"

"Yes, yes."

"Her eyes are put out by an accidental discharge of a gun, and I guess she will have to be killed."

"Do you know who shot her?" asked Mark, with intense interest.

"Yes, I do, but the deacon doesn't," answered John.

"Who was it?"

"James Collins. He and Tom Wyman were coming through the pasture, when James, in handling his gun awkwardly, managed to discharge it full in poor Whitey's face."

"How do you know it was James?"

"Because I saw it. I was in the next field and saw it all."

"Did the boys see you?"

"No; they hurried away as fast as they could go."

"Johnny, you're a trump!" exclaimed Mark, rising and shaking the boy's hand vigorously.

"Why am I a trump?" asked Johnny, astonished.

"Because your testimony will clear me. The deacon charges me with shooting the cow, and wants me to pay forty-five dollars."

"Gosh!" exclaimed Johnny. "But what makes him think you shot old Whitey?"

Mark briefly explained.

"But," said Mrs. Manning, "surely James Collins would not permit you to suffer for his fault?"

"You don't know James, mother. That's just what he would do, I feel sure. What do you say, Johnny?"

"Jim Collins is just mean enough to do it," answered John.

"He can't do it now, however. Mr. Collins is abundantly able to pay for the cow, and I guess he'll have to."

"I don't know how we could ever have paid so large a sum," said the widow.

"We shan't have to, mother, that's one comfort."

"There's the deacon coming!" exclaimed Johnny, suddenly.

"So he is! Johnny, just run into the kitchen, and I'll call you when you're wanted. We'll have some fun. Mother, don't say a word till we hear what the deacon has to say."

By this time the deacon had knocked. Mrs. Manning admitted him, and he entered with a preliminary cough.

"Are your family well, deacon?" asked the mother.

"They're middlin', widder, which is a comfort. Families are often a source of trouble," and here the deacon glanced sharply at Mark, who, rather to his surprise, looked cool and composed.

"That may be, Deacon Miller, but I am thankful that Mark never gives me any trouble."

"Don't be too sure of that, ma'am," said the deacon, grimly. "It's about that very thing I've come here now. Your son has shot my most valuable cow, old Whitey, and I regret to say, widder, that he'll have to make it good for me. Forty-five dollars is what the critter is worth, and I wouldn't have taken that for her."

"Are you sure Mark shot your cow?" asked Mrs. Manning.

"As sure as I need to be. I caught him standin' by the cow with his gun in his hand. The barrel was empty, for I tried it to see."

"What have you to say to this charge, Mark?"

"That Deacon Miller is mistaken. I did not shoot his cow."

"I reckon you'll have to pay for it all the same. Mark Manning. I don't want to be hard on a poor widder, but it stands to reason that I should be paid for my cow."

"I agree to that," said Mark, "but I'm not the one."

"Mebbe the cow shot herself!" said the deacon, sarcastically. "It may be nat'ral for cows to commit suicide, but I never saw one do it as far as I can remember. Young man, your story is too thin."

CHAPTER VIII.

DEACON MILLER GETS A CLUE

Mark was forced to smile at the idea of old Whitey committing suicide. The deacon observed his smile, and it provoked him.