Tim Downey was the worst boy in Millville. Everybody in the village knew it, and Tim himself knew it, and rather gloried in the fact.
His parents were worthless, dissolute characters, who lived on the sands north of the village, where a low community of squatters and fishermen resided.
Tim had been twice in jail for stealing, and was avoided by all respectable boys in Millville.
Unconscious of the discovery his enemy had made, Dean Mercer walked with rapid steps in the direction of the more attractive portion of the town, where the better class of dwellings were to be found.
One of the finest of these was the residence of Judge Oglesby, and hither he was shaping his course. He soon came in sight of the well-kept grounds with groves of maples and birches, under whose cooling shade a brawling stream ran zigzag across one corner. The owner of this beautiful estate had left its surroundings in their natural state, as far as it had been possible without sacrificing his convenience.
The concrete driveway ran under an iron arch hung with electric lights of different colors and supported by two massive stone posts. A pair of huge stone dogs, as if on guard duty, crouched near the entrance to the magnificent retreat inside.
A bright boy of a dozen years was astride of one of these mute sentinels as Dean approached, while a pretty miss of fifteen, his sister, was warning him against falling from his perch.
At sight of the newcomer, the active youngster called out with boyish friendliness that put to rout all pretension to polite manners:
“Hello, Dean! Papa is waiting for you.”
Nodding to the youthful speaker, Dean bowed courteously to the sister, as he met her gaze with a look of admiration.
“Yes; you will find papa in the library, Dean,” she said, with a smile of welcome. “He told me to tell you to come right in, though he has company. He is such a strange-looking and acting man, too.”
“Indeed, Miss Eva. Did you learn his name?”
“No; but papa said he was a fine sailor. He looks and acts more like a big brown bear. And don’t you think instead of ringing the door bell----”
“He yelled like a pirate to the servants: ‘Avast there, you lubbers! Ship ahoy!’” broke in the boy, with enthusiasm.
“Do be still, Manly,” admonished his sister. “What is the mystery of all this, Dean?” she asked. “I am sure you know, for papa hinted that he had enlisted you in some new enterprise of his.”
“And he also pledged me to secrecy, Miss Eva. If you will watch the lake a few days, I think you will discover the key to the mystery.”
As she did not seem inclined to reply to this, Dean continued his approach to the fine residence of his wealthy friend.
The owner must have been watching for him, as he met him at the door and ushered him into his spacious library without delay.
“I am glad to see you, Dean. There is an important matter of which I wish to speak, and besides, I wish to introduce you to the captain of the Spray, who is just now in the dining room doing justice to the viands spread before him. You have notified Mr. Montague of your intentions?”
“I have, Mr. Oglesby, and I shall go down to Springfield on the Warrior, which will start in a short time.”
“Good. When you have anything to do you attend to it at once. That is a trait I like. I wonder what the colonel would say if he knew that two of his passengers were about to become his rivals for traffic on the lake?”
“But you have a perfect right to enter into this undertaking, Judge Oglesby. The people are clamoring for it. It is needed. Millville has been owned body and soul too long by two men, neither of whom has shown any disposition to do the right thing.”
“Brave for you, Dean Mercer!” cried the rich man, clasping the hand of his youthful visitor with a hearty grip. “That’s the kind of spirit I want to see. It is the kind that hews its way through the most dense obstruction. Only there is one thing I want you never to say again. Don’t say ‘you,’ but say ‘we.’ It is true I am furnishing the money, but there are fools that might do that. You are furnishing the power to develop this work. So we make a partnership, and it is we that are doing this.”
If Dean had made a bold assertion when he had said that Millville was owned body and soul by two men, there were not many in the town who would have denied its truth.
With all its natural features of advantage, its beautiful scenery, its fortunate location, the dream of its founders that it might become a prosperous and powerful centre of population and business had not been realized.
This was due mainly to two men. One of these was Squire David Littleton, who owned and operated the line of stages running between Millville and Springfield, the metropolis of that section of country. The other man was Colonel Ebenezer Darringford, who owned and operated the line of packets that plied up and down the lake, getting a share of the public patronage.
These lines were, in a way, rivals, and each operator hated and did all he could against his competitor. Still this rivalry did not, as is sometimes the case, improve the situation. If the squire’s coaches were miserable affairs, unfit to carry passengers, the colonel’s boats were no better. Both had grown rich out of their business, and the town had grown poor and helpless.
Mr. Montague had spoken of this to Dean before the latter had left him:
“The people may grumble at the old shaky coaches and the leaky, slow-moving packets, but they gain nothing by their clamor, simply because this couple of old-timers have got them by the throat.
“They have talked of railroads and better steamers upon the lake, and now that Judge Oglesby has moved here with his money and political influence this talk is revived. I do not see that the town is likely to profit by it. He has only complicated the fight; given the community another leech to suck its very life blood, without the inclination or ability to improve its condition.
“I can remember when Millville dreamed of being a great centre for the trade of the surrounding country, and her future looked bright. Now she sits in sackcloth and ashes, an old, hopeless, frayed-out community, looking with dimming sight upon the prosperity of her sister towns.”
Judge Oglesby showed that he had been thinking of Mr. Montague when he next spoke, saying:
“Mr. Montague has become a bit old-fashioned in his ideas, Dean. I remember he told me, with a good deal of vinegar in his tone, when I mentioned that you were to come with me: ‘Yes; you have filled his mind with visions. This is called the age of the young man. It is wrong--it is wrong. Does not the wisdom of years count for more than the illusions of youth?’ Now all you have got to do is to show him that you are equal to your opportunity.”
“I will, Judge Oglesby,” replied Dean firmly.
“If I did not think you would, I should not have selected you to carry out my plans. But there is no need for me to review the situation. We have other matters to talk of in the few minutes given us. I would not have you miss your passage on the Warrior for considerable. The Spray must be brought up in the morning. There are important reasons for this.”
“I await your directions, sir.”
“Please be seated while I write a letter for you to take along. Then we will talk over our business.”
Judge Oglesby was a bright-faced man, whose kindly countenance showed not only good nature, but the results of correct habits. His desk was piled high with letters and documents, proving that he had a busy day before him. In fact, all days were busy ones with Judge Oglesby.
While he was waiting for his friend to write the letter, Dean amused himself by looking through an album, which he knew from the name on the flyleaf belonged to Evaline Oglesby.
He recognized but few of the portraits, and among this limited number were the pictures of two that he had strong reasons for disliking intensely. These were the photographs of Rodney Darringford and Abner Littleton, sons of the two men of whom he had spoken to Judge Oglesby with so much decisiveness.
While this couple were not friendly to each other, he knew both fairly hated him. He realized, too, that this hatred was likely to be increased within a few days if the plans of Judge Oglesby and himself did not meet with failure.
Somehow, Dean, as unmanly as he knew it was, could not help feeling somewhat piqued to find their pictures in Evaline Oglesby’s album. But he was, fortunately, interrupted in the midst of these unpleasant reflections by the words of her father:
“There you are, Dean, at last,” he said, folding carefully the letter he had written, and placing, not only that, but a check, in the envelope, which he handed, unsealed, to him. The superscription read, written in a bold hand:
BROWN, SEWALL & CO.,
Shipbuilders,
Springfield.
By Dean Mercer.
“Be careful of it, Dean,” admonished the judge. “The check is for eight thousand dollars, and is to pay the balance on the boat. You will attend to this part of your business immediately upon reaching the city and take possession of the boat.”
“I understand, sir. But I did not know I was to go alone.”
“Well, not exactly. While I cannot go, as I had planned, I have a man to accompany you. You see, it was necessary to find a man to captain our boat, so I sent to my lawyers to find me a man. He found us a full set, crew and officers. One of them, at least, is a study for the character reader. His name is Jack Carboy, and he is to be the man at the wheel. Ha! here he comes! Note how he speaks of our lake as a mud puddle, and----”
Before Judge Oglesby had finished his sentence, the object of his remarks, a typical tar of sailing days on the sea, entered the room with the peculiar rolling gait of one used to a life upon shipboard.
“Shiver my toplights, admiral, ’tain’t every watch-eend ol’ Jack sets by sich a feast. Ahoy! what strange craft is this?” The last words spoken in an interrogative tone as the speaker caught sight of Dean.
“Your new commander, who is to manage our enterprise,” said the judge. “Mr. Mercer, allow me to introduce to you Mr. Jack Carboy, who----”
“Avast there! who dubs this ol’ salt a ‘mister’? Reef yer flying jib and give ol’ Jack Carboy his due. Pardin’, sir,” he quickly added, executing an admirable naval salute, “I didn’t know it was the high admiral.”
“Your pardon, Jack,” said the judge good naturedly. “If your new captain is young, he is quick to learn.”
“So he’s the skipper, is he?”
“Yes, Jack.”
Carboy tugged at a stray lock at his brow and scraped his foot backward in grotesque politeness.
“Captain, sir!” he said half inquiringly.
“No, no!” laughed Dean.
“Yes, yes!” replied the judge spiritedly. “He’ll need a little posting, Jack, but you and he must combine efforts and help each other along.”
“We’ll do that, sir!” cried Carboy. “His eye tells me that I shall like him. As to bossing the boat, that’s mere jaw work. It’s the man at the wheel that is the real genius of the boat. That’s me, ho! ho!”
Judge Oglesby talked with the twain for about five minutes.
“Now, then,” he said, “we understand just what is to be done, don’t we?”
“I think so, sir,” replied Dean. “The men to man the new steamer are waiting for us at Springfield.”
“Exactly. You will find the Spray all ready for you.”
“What’s that--what’s that, sir?” cried Carboy, with a start of dismay.
“The Spray.”
“Is that the name of the steamer?”
“It is.”
“Sorry!” and Jack shook his head lugubriously.
“Why, Jack?” exclaimed the amazed judge.
“It’s a bad name.”
“Bad name?”
“Yes.”
“How so, Jack?”
“Because I’ve sailed on two Sprays--one to Australia, one to China, and both were wrecked at sea.”
Judge Oglesby smiled at Carboy’s superstitious fears.
“This is a lake, Jack,” he said reassuringly.
But Carboy looked glum.
“You’ve got the check safe, Dean?” asked the judge.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then, good-by. I shall expect to see you back here by to-morrow night.”
“Surely, sir,” replied Jack Carboy. “Come, captain, we’re started on the voyage at last!”
Seeing no reason for further delay in starting for the pier, Dean suggested that they go aboard the Warrior at once. Accordingly, he and his quaint companion bade the judge adieu and started toward the lake shore at a rapid pace.
They had barely got in sight of the pier when Dean stopped with a low exclamation of surprise.
“Look! See! We are too late!” he cried. “The Warrior has left her moorings and is headed down the lake!”
“Ship ahoy!” bellowed Jack Carboy at the top of his stentorian lungs, while he dashed madly toward the shore, closely followed by Dean Mercer.
A crowd of boys witnessed their hasty advance, and shouted after them in derision and mirth.
“Hie, there, or your feet will run away with your heads!”
