Mark Manning's Mission

"Do you mean to say, Mark Manning, that you think the critter shot herself in the face?" he demanded, sharply.

"No, Deacon Miller, I have no such idea."

"That's the same as admittin' that you shot her," said the deacon, triumphantly.

"No, it isn't, deacon. I didn't shoot her, but I have no doubt some one else did."

"It may have been the cat," remarked the deacon, with a return to sarcasm.

"It was probably a two-legged cat," said Mark.

"Jest my idee!" remarked the deacon, quickly, "An' that brings it home to you. You was out with a gun, an' I caught you standin' beside the cow."

"As to catching me," returned Mark, "there was no catching about it. I was crossing the pasture, and was attracted by the poor animal's moans. That is the way I happened to be near when you came up."

"That all sounds very smooth," said the deacon, impatiently, "but if you didn't shoot the cow, who did?"

"I think that question can be answered, Deacon Miller; John Downie!"

To the deacon's surprise, John came into the room at this summons.

"Johnny," said Mark, "will you tell the deacon who shot his cow!"

"I don't like to tell," objected John; "it wasn't done on purpose."

"Did you do it?" queried the deacon, sharply.

"No, sir. I never fired a gun in my life."

"Who did it, then?"

"Must I tell, Mark?"

"Yes, Johnny; Deacon Miller has a right to know; even if it was not done on purpose, the one who did it ought to make good the loss."

"That's where you speak sense, Mark," said the deacon, approvingly.

"Then it was Jim Collins."

"James Collins—the squire's son!" repeated the deacon, astonished.

"Yes."

John proceeded to tell the story once more. The deacon, it is needless to say, listened very attentively.

"So the boys run away, did they?" he inquired, grimly.

"Yes, sir."

"And I s'pose you'd have run away, too, if you had done it, hey?"

"Perhaps I might," answered John, ingenuously. "I s'pose they were scared."

"I'll scare 'em," growled the deacon. "Squire Collins is able to make up the loss to me, and I mean he shall." Then, with a momentary suspicion, "This ain't a story you an' Mark have got up between you, to get him off, is it?"

"I will answer that, Deacon Miller," said Mark firmly. "If I had shot your cow, I wouldn't have run away, but I'd have gone right to you and told you about it, and I'd have paid you just as soon as I could."

"That's right, that's right," said the deacon, approvingly, beginning to regard Mark with more favor. "Well, I must go and see the squire. Here, you John Downie, come along with me."

"I've got to go home," said John.

"But I can't prove it without you."

"You can tell the squire that I saw it done, and am ready to swear to it, if he wants me to."

"Mebbe that'll do if I send for you, you'll come, hey?"

"Yes, sir."

The deacon did not feel disposed to postpone what he regarded as important business, and he left the cottage, taking the shortest direction to the squire's more imposing dwelling. We will precede him.

James Collins and his friend, as already described, ran away as fast as their legs could carry them, when they ascertained what damage had been done.

No one, so far as they knew, had seen them, and they hoped to escape, scot free.

Tom accompanied James home, and stayed to supper. After supper the boys went out, and had a conference together.

James felt a little nervous, though he believed that he was safe from incurring suspicion.

"I wonder if the deacon has found old Whitey yet?" said James.

"I guess so," answered Tom. "He usually goes after the cows before this."

"I wonder how he'll think it happened?"

"Maybe he'll lay it to Mark."

James was not very much disturbed at this supposition.

"That would be a good joke!" he said.

"Not for Mark."

"Mark can take care of himself. He was out with a gun as well as we."

"His mother couldn't afford to pay for the cow," said Tom, who was rather more considerate than his companion.

"That's none of my business. And, Tom, there's something I want to say to you."

"Go ahead!"

"If Mark is accused, don't you go to saying it's a mistake. Remember it's none of your business."

Tom looked uncomfortable, having some conscience.

"It would be rough on a poor woman like Mrs. Manning having to pay for the deacon's cow."

"You're mighty considerate, Tom. You might consider me a little. If it were known that I shot the cow, father would make me pay at least half the bill out of my money in the savings' bank. I thought you were my friend!"

"So I am."

"Then you won't betray me. As for Mark, the deacon can't prove it against him, so he won't have to pay."

"Then the deacon will lose his cow, and get no pay."

"He can afford it. He's a stingy old lunks, anyway."

"That's true enough."

"And it won't ruin him if he does lose the cow. He's able to buy another."

It struck Tom, though he was not over conscientious, that this was not exactly the way to regard the matter, but he did not like to offend James, and he had ventured to oppose him more than usual already. So he remained silent.

James was not quite satisfied with his friend. He was not altogether sure of his fidelity.

"I've got only one thing to say, Tom," he added. "If you go back on me, and breathe a word of what happened in the pasture, I'll never speak to you again as long as I live."

"Who's going back on you? did I say I was?" demanded Tom rather irritably.

"All right, then; I only wanted to have the thing understood between us, I didn't really think you would be mean enough to tell."

So a satisfactory understanding was established between the two boys, and it looked as if Mark was likely to be the victim of their alliance.

But just when James was beginning to feel secure, he was startled by an apparition just looming in sight on the highway. It was not a formidable figure—that of Deacon Miller—but under the circumstances James turned pale and his heart began to beat.

"Tom," he gasped; "isn't that Deacon Miller coming up the road?"

"It's the deacon sure enough!" answered Tom, looking disconcerted.

"Do you think he's coming here?" queried James nervously.

"Looks like it?" muttered Tom.

"Do you think he can have–heard anything?"

"Perhaps he heard that we were out with guns?" suggested Tom. "He may have come to make inquiries."

"Just so, now, Tom, be careful not to look as if there was anything the matter. We'll be extra polite to the old fellow."

"All right!"

"He may not be coming here after all."

But he was! arrived at the gate Deacon Miller paused, and opening it entered the front yard. He looked sharply at the two boys who were standing on the lawn.

CHAPTER IX.

THE DEACON'S MISSION

Ordinarily James would not have considered Deacon Miller worth any polite attention, but the knowledge of what had happened in the pasture had its effect upon him. He thought it necessary by a little attention to disarm the deacon's suspicions if he had any.

"Good evening, Deacon Miller," he said politely. "Did you wish to see father?"

"Wal," said the deacon deliberately. "I have a little business with him. Is he at home?"

"I am pretty sure he is," answered James. "Come in with me, and I'll see."

The deacon smiled—an inscrutable smile—and followed James, who opened the front door and led him into the parlor.

"You're very obligin'," he said. "I had no idea you was so polite."

"It is the duty of a gentleman to be polite!" said James loftily.

"So 'tis, so 'tis!" returned the old man chuckling in an unaccountable manner. "I'm glad you think so. It's a great thing to be a boy, I had lots of fun when I was a boy. So do you, hey?"

"Oh yes," answered James indifferently. "But not as much as I could have in the city."

"But you couldn't go huntin' and fishin' in the city," said the deacon slyly.

James' heart gave a bound. What did the disagreeable old man mean? was it possible that he suspected?

"I don't care much for either," he said. "But I'll go and call father."

Presently the squire appeared and invited Deacon Miller into the back room, which was used as the family dining and sitting-room.

"Glad to see, you, deacon," said Mr. Collins, who, having political aspirations, thought it worth while to be polite to his neighbors.

"I ain't so sure of that, squire, when you know what I come about," returned the deacon with a crafty smile.

"No bad news, I hope, deacon."

"Wal, it ain't good news. You know my cow, old Whitey?"

"Well?" interrogated the squire, looking puzzled. He had heard nothing as yet of the accident in the pasture.

"She was shot in the face this afternoon—her eyes totally destroyed. I shall have to kill her."

"That's a pity! I sympathize with you, deacon. It must be a great disappointment to you. She was a good milker, wasn't she?"

"Fust-rate! I never had a cow that could beat her. She was worth fifty dollars easy."

"Very likely," said the squire, innocently, quite unaware of the trap which the wily deacon was preparing for him. It will be observed that the deacon, finding he had a case against a rich man, had concluded to raise the value of the cow by five dollars. "Fifty dollars is a considerable loss."

"So 'tis, but I haven't got to lose it. The one that shot old Whitey is responsible."

"Who did shoot her?" asked Squire Collins.

"Your boy, James," answered the deacon, slowly.

Squire Collins was very disagreeably surprised. He was not a man who liked to part with money, and he saw how he had been trapped.

"Did you see James shoot the cow?" he demanded sharply.

"N—o; I can't say I did," replied the deacon, cautiously.

"I don't believe he did it then. Did he admit it to you?"

"N—o. I didn't ask him about it."

"Then, Deacon Miller, permit me to say that you have no case against him, and I am not responsible for your unfortunate loss.

"Somebody else saw it!" remarked the deacon triumphantly.

"Who was it?"

"John Downie."

"John Downie! Pooh, he is a mere boy," said the squire, contemptuously.

"He's got as many eyes as you or I, squire," said the deacon, shrewdly.

This was unquestionably true, and the squire felt that he had made a foolish objection.

"John Downie may not tell the truth," he said, angrily.

"I'm willin' it should come before the court," said the deacon. "Wouldn't it be jest as well to ask your boy about it; he's out in the yard."

James was still in the yard. He had half a mind to go away, but was anxious about the deacon's errand. When he heard his father's voice calling him he turned pale.

"Wait for me, Tom," he said. "If you're asked, don't say I did it."

Tom looked disturbed and uneasy, and did not reply.

James entered his father's presence with a perturbed spirit. He stole a glance at the deacon, who sat with his wizened face calm and imperturbable.

"Did you want me, father?" asked James.

"James," said his father, abruptly, "Deacon Miller tells me that some one has shot his cow, old Whitey, this afternoon, and injured her so seriously that she will have to be killed."

"I am sorry to hear it," said James, nervously.

"Do you know who did it?"

"How should I?" asked James, after a pause.

"Wer'n't you out in the pastur' this afternoon?" asked the deacon, pointedly.

"Yes," answered James, "Tom Wyman and I crossed the pasture."

"With guns on your shoulders?"

"Ye—es," admitted James.

"Did you see anything of old Whitey?" continued the deacon, persevering in his pointed interrogations.

"There were some cows there I remember; I suppose old Whitey was among them."

"Did your gun go off while you were in the pasture?"

"Ye—es, I believe it did. It went off accidentally."

"And hit old Whitey?"

"I don't know about that. It may not have hit anything."

"Then you don't know that you hit my cow?"

"I wasn't the only boy in the pasture this afternoon," said James, evasively.

"I know all about that. Tom Wyman was with you."

"Yes, and so was Mark Manning. He was out gunning most all the afternoon. Have you asked him whether he hit the cow?"

"Yes," answered the deacon; "he says he didn't."

"Of course he would say so," sneered James, more confidently. "He's just as likely to have done it as I."

"That's what I thought myself," returned the deacon; "though Mark's a middlin' keerful boy. But I changed my mind."

"Because he denied it?" asked James, with a return of the sneer.

"Not exactly. There was a boy saw it done, and he told me who did it."

"What boy saw it done?" asked James, all his apprehensions reviving.

"John Downie."

This was startling news to James.

"And who does he say did it," he forced himself to ask.

"You!" answered Deacon Miller, laconically.

"I don't believe I did it," said James, wavering.

"He says after you shot the cow, you and Tom Wyman ran away as fast as your legs could carry you," added the deacon, chuckling.

James turned as red as scarlet, but said nothing. It was clear enough that he was guilty, and knew it.

"Deacon Miller," said Squire Collins, "I will look into this matter, and if I find James shot your cow, we will make some arrangement about payment. Understand clearly, however, that I won't pay any fancy price, such as fifty dollars."

"I won't argy the matter now, squire," said the deacon. "Good-evenin'."

"James," said his father, "I won't scold you for a piece of carelessness, but whatever compensation is paid to the deacon must come from your account in the savings' bank."

This was a sad blow to James, he had a hundred and fifty dollars in the bank, and this would make a heavy draft upon it.

He went out into the yard without a word.

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