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CHAPTER IV
ABNER BALBERRY'S DISCOVERY

"Nat!"

Abner Balberry uttered the name in a loud, clear voice and waited fully a minute for an answer.

"Nat!" he repeated. "I want you to answer me, do you hear? Nat!"

Still there was no reply, and now, in some alarm, Abner Balberry turned back into his bedchamber and donned part of his clothing.

"If that boy is moving around this house I'm goin' to know it," he murmured to himself, as he felt his way toward Nat's room. Coming to the door, he threw it open and took a step toward the bed.

As we already know, it was empty. The discovery was something of a shock to the farmer and for the moment he stood stock-still, gazing at the bed and feeling under the covers to make certain that his nephew was not really there.

"Gone!" he muttered at last. "He must be downstairs. More'n likely he went down to git somethin' to eat. Wait till I catch him! I'll tan him well!"

Hoping to catch Nat unawares, he tiptoed his way down the stairs and entered the living room. Then he passed to the kitchen and the shed, and came back to peer into the parlor. Not a trace of the lad was to be found anywhere.

"I certainly heard him," he reasoned. "I certainly did."

"Mr. Balberry!" The call came from the housekeeper. "Are you up?"

"Yes, I am."

"Oh, all right."

"But it ain't all right! Nat's up too."

"Is he down there with you?"

"No, I don't know at all where he is. I'm a-lookin' fer him."

By this time Mrs. Felton's curiosity was aroused and she lost no time in slipping on her wrapper. When she came down she brought with her a lamp.

"Where do you suppose he went?" she asked.

"How do I know?" snarled Abner Balberry.

The housekeeper happened to glance into the pantry. She was about to utter an exclamation, but checked herself.

"What did you say, Mrs. Felton?"

"I—I didn't say anything."

"He ain't in there, is he?"

"No."

"Has he been at the victuals?"

"Not—not very much," stammered the housekeeper.

"Humph! I guess he ate as much as he wanted. Jest wait till I catch him—I'll tan him harder than he was ever tanned before!"

"Maybe he went to bed again."

"No, I jest looked into his room."

Abner Balberry unlocked the kitchen door and stepped out into the dooryard. As he did this he caught sight of somebody running swiftly down the road.

"Hi! Stop!" he yelled. "Stop, Nat, do you hear?"

To this there was no answer, and the fleeing individual merely ran the faster.

"Was it Nat?" asked the housekeeper.

"To be sure it was. Oh, wait till I lay my hands on him!" And the farmer shook his fist at the figure that was fast disappearing in the gloom.

"What's that light in the barn?" demanded Mrs. Felton, an instant later.

"Light? Where?"

"Up in the haymow."

Abner Balberry gave a glance toward the structure.

"The barn's afire!" he screamed. "Thet good-fer-nuthin' boy has set the place on fire!"

"Oh! oh!" screamed the housekeeper, and began to tremble from head to feet, for to her mind a fire was the most dreadful thing that could happen.

"I've got to git thet fire out," said the farmer, and ran toward the barn with all speed.

"Be careful, or you'll be burnt up!" screamed Mrs. Felton.

"Go on an' git the water pails!" said the farmer. "Fill everything with water. An' bring a rag carpet, an' I'll soak thet too!"

He already had an old patch of carpet used at the doorstep in his hand, and this he soused in the watering trough as he passed. Then he ran into the open barn and mounted to the loft.

The fire was in a patch of hay at one end of the loft, close to an open window. Regardless of his personal safety, Abner Balberry leaped in and threw part of the hay out of the window. Then he began to beat out the fire with the water-soaked carpet.

"Here's some water," came timidly from below, and Mrs. Felton appeared with two pails full to the brim. He took these upstairs and dashed them on the flames.

"You look out or you'll be burnt up!" cried the housekeeper. She was trembling to such a degree that she could scarcely stand.

"Git some more water," was Abner Balberry's only reply. The thought that his barn might be totally destroyed filled him with dread, for there was no insurance on the structure—he being too miserly to pay the premium demanded by the insurance company.

More water was procured by Mrs. Felton, and at last it was apparent that the farmer was getting the best of the fire. He worked hard and did not seem to mind the fact that his eyebrows were singed and his hands slightly blistered.

"There! now I've got it!" he sighed at last.

"Are you sure?" asked the housekeeper in a faint voice.

"Yes, but I'm a-goin' to hunt around fer sparks. Git some more water."

Additional water was soon at hand, and Abner Balberry began a minute search of the whole loft, on the lookout for stray sparks. A few were found and extinguished, and then the excitement came to an end.

"How thankful I am that the barn didn't burn down," said the housekeeper, as the farmer came below and began to bathe his face and hands.

"It was hot work."

"Are you burnt much?"

"More'n I want to be. Jest wait till I catch Nat!"

"Do you think–" began the housekeeper.

"O' course I do!" snorted Abner Balberry. "Didn't I see him a-runnin' away from the barn?"

"I never thought Nat would be wicked enough to set a barn on fire."

"He was mad because I wouldn't give him no supper. He's a young rascal, he is!"

"But to burn a barn!"

"Thet boy has got to be taken in hand, Mrs. Felton. I've let him have his own way too much. I'm goin' to lay down the law good an' hard after this."

"Maybe he won't come back," suggested the housekeeper.

This thought startled the farmer and he lost no time in finishing his washing.

"I'm goin' after him," he announced. "If he thinks to run away I'll put a spoke in his wheel putty quick."

Taking another look around, to make certain that the fire was really out, Abner Balberry brought out one of his horses and hitched the animal to a buckboard, in the meantime sending the housekeeper back to the house to get his hat and coat.

"Where do you suppose you'll find him?" asked Mrs. Felton.

"Somewhere along the road most likely."

"Maybe he'll hide on you."

"He had better not. If he does that, I'll call on the squire about him."

"Can you do that?"

"O' course I can. Didn't he try to burn down the barn? The squire can make out a warrant for his arrest."

"It would be awful to have him arrested."

"Well, he brought it on himself," answered Abner Balberry, doggedly. "He had no right to try to set the barn afire. Next thing you know, Mrs. Felton, he'll be a-trying to burn us up in our beds."

"Oh, I don't think Nat would be as bad as that."

"You don't know thet boy as well as I do. He's sly an' stubborn, and he'll do 'most anything when he's crossed. But I'll fix him! Jest you wait an' see!"

"How far will you follow him?"

"As far as it's necessary. If he thinks he can git away from me he'll find out, sooner or later, he is mistaken."

"You don't know when you'll be back?"

"No. It may be I'll have to wait in town till the squire opens his office—that is, if I can't find Nat."

"But you are going to look for him yourself first?"

"Yes."

With this answer Abner Balberry drove off in the darkness. Mrs. Felton watched him and heaved a long and deep sigh.

"Too bad!" she murmured. "If he catches Nat it will surely go hard with that boy. Well, I didn't think he was bad enough to set fire to a barn!"

CHAPTER V
THE SALE OF A COW

Totally unconscious of what had taken place at the farm after his departure, Nat, in company with his friend, Sam Price, proceeded on his way to Brookville.

On the journey Nat told his friend of many things that had happened to him and of his uncle's meanness.

"I don't wonder you want a change," said Sam. "I'd want a change myself."

At last they came in sight of Brookville, and Nat drove the cow to the yard of Jackson the butcher.

The butcher was a fat, good-natured man of middle age. But he was a shrewd business man and first-class at driving a bargain.

"What do you want, boy?" he asked of Nat.

"Do you want to buy a cow, Mr. Jackson? Sam says you were out looking for cows day before yesterday."

"I did want cows then, but I've got nearly all I want now."

"Oh, then I'll go elsewhere," answered Nat.

"Hold on, not so fast. What do you want for your cow?"

"Thirty dollars."

"Phew! you don't want much."

"She's worth it. You can milk her or use her for meat, just as you choose."

"Whose cow is she?"

"Mine."

"Yours?" And the butcher gazed at Nat curiously.

"Yes. I've owned her ever since she was a little calf."

"And now you are tired of her?"

"Not exactly that, but I want to use the money. Will you buy her?"

"Yes, but not for thirty dollars."

"How much will you give?"

"Twenty dollars."

"I don't care to sell for twenty dollars."

"That's the best I can do."

"Then I'll have to go elsewhere. Come, Jennie," and Nat turned to drive the cow from the butcher's yard again.

"Hold on!" cried the meat man. "I'll give you twenty-two dollars."

"Make it twenty-five and I'll accept. I can't take less. I ought to get thirty dollars."

There was some more talk, and in the end, the butcher agreed to pay twenty-five dollars and did so. He wanted a receipt, and Nat wrote it out for him.

"So you are Nat Nason," said the butcher. "I used to know your father. A very nice man."

"He was a nice man."

"Live with your uncle now, don't you?"

"I have been living with him, yes. Good-day, and much obliged," returned the boy, and to avoid being questioned further he left the yard at once, followed by Sam.

"You made a good bargain on the cow," said Sam. "I reckon you got every cent she was worth."

"She was a good cow, Sam. I'm rather sorry to part with her. She was almost like a friend."

"What are you going to do next?"

"Strike out for the city."

"I wish you luck."

"You won't tell my uncle?"

"Not a word. But, say."

"Well?"

"When you get to the city write and tell me how you like it."

"I will, Sam, and you must tell me the news from home, and how my uncle gets along without me."

So it was arranged; and a few minutes later the two lads separated, and Sam Price started for home.

Brookville was on a small branch railroad running to Cleveland, and by consulting a time-table Nat learned that a train for Cleveland would leave in ten minutes. He lost no time in purchasing a ticket, and spent the rest of the time in eating some of the lunch he had brought along. With over twenty-three dollars still in his pocket he felt rich, and bought some peanuts and a cake of sweet chocolate.

When the train came along there were scarcely any passengers aboard, so he had little difficulty in getting the seat he wanted. He sat down by a window, with his bundle beside him, and gave himself up to thinking and to looking at the scenery as it whirled past.

Nat had traveled but little on the cars, so the ride to Cleveland was intensely enjoyable. The different places passed were so interesting that he soon forgot to think about his prospects, or of what he was to do when he arrived at the city on the lake.

"Next stop is Cleveland!" cried the conductor, standing at the open doorway. "All change, for trains east and west!"

A moment later the train rolled into the smoky station, and bundle in hand, Nat left the car and stepped onto the platform. From there he walked to the street, where he gazed in some bewilderment at the crowds of people and the swiftly moving street cars.

"Paper!" cried a newsboy. "Morning paper?"

"No, I don't want any paper," answered Nat.

"All about the big fire in Chicago, boss. Take a paper?"

"Yes, I'll take one," said Nat, and passed over the necessary change. Off darted the newsboy, to be lost in the crowd on the other side of the street. Nat gazed at the paper, to find that a tenement had burned out in Chicago, with the loss of one life.

"That's not such a terrible thing—for a big city like Chicago," he mused, and then noticed that the newspaper was two days old.

"That boy stuck me!" he muttered, and a cloud crossed his face. "I wonder where he is?"

The boy could not be found, and in a moment Nat concluded it would be a waste of time to look for him.

"He caught me for a greeny, true enough," he thought. "I've got to keep my eyes open after this."

From one street Nat passed to another, gazing into the shop windows, and wondering what he had best do next. He had at first calculated to go to New York without delay, but now thought it would do no harm to remain in Cleveland a day or two.

"Perhaps I'll never get here again," he reasoned. "And I might as well see all there is to see."

Noon found him on one of the main streets. He was now hungry again, and coming to a modest-looking restaurant, he entered and sat down at a side table.

"What will you have?" asked the waiter, coming up to him.

"Give me a regular dinner," said Nat, seeing the sign on the wall:

Regular Dinner, 11 to 2. 30 cents.

The waiter walked off, and presently returned with some bread and butter.

"Pea or tomato soup?" he asked.

"What's that?" questioned the boy.

"Pea or tomato soup?"

"I don't want any soup—I want a regular dinner."

At this the waiter smiled, for he saw that Nat was green.

"We serve soup first—if the customer wants it."

"And what do you serve after that?"

"One kind of meat, vegetables, coffee or milk, and pie or pudding."

"Oh! Well bring me the meat and other stuff. I never cared for soup anyway."

"Roast beef or lamb?"

"Roast beef."

The waiter went off, and presently Nat was supplied with all he cared to eat. The food was good, and he took his time, finishing off with a piece of lemon meringue pie, a dainty of which he was exceedingly fond, but which Mrs. Felton had seldom dared to make.

"Thirty cents, but I guess it was worth it," he thought, as he left the restaurant.

Nat had never seen Lake Erie, and toward the middle of the afternoon he walked down in the direction of the water. The shipping interested him greatly, and it was dark before he realized that the day was gone without anything definite being accomplished.

"Gracious, how time flies when one is in the city!" he thought. "To-morrow, I must make up my mind what to do next. If I don't, I'll have my money spent, and no job, either."

As it grew darker the boy felt the necessity of looking for accommodations for the night. Seeing a sign on a house, Furnished Rooms by the Day, Week, or Month, he ascended the stoop, and rang the bell. A young Irish girl answered his summons.

"Can I get a bed for to-night?" asked Nat.

"I guess yez can—I'll call Mrs. O'Hara," said the girl.

The landlady soon showed herself, and said she could let Nat have a hall room for fifty cents. To the boy's notion this seemed rather high.

"I can't take less," said Mrs. O'Hara, firmly.

"Very well; I'll take the room for to-night," answered Nat. "Can I put my bundle up there now?"

"To be sure."

Fortunately for Nat, the room proved clean and well-kept, and the bed was better than the one he had used at the farm. Tired out, the boy slept soundly until seven o'clock, when he lost no time in dressing and going below.

"Will you want the room again to-night, Mr. Nason?" asked the landlady.

"I don't think so," answered Nat. It made him feel a foot taller to be addressed as Mr. Nason. "If I want it, I'll let you know by supper time."

"Very well."

With his bundle under his arm, Nat left the house, and walked down the street toward one of the main thoroughfares of Cleveland. Then he stopped at a restaurant for breakfast.

"Now, I've got to make up my mind what to do," he told himself. "Maybe I had better go back to the depot and see about a train and the fare to New York."

After making several false turns, the boy found his way to the depot, and there hunted up the ticket office, and procured a time-table. He was just looking into the time-table when he felt a heavy hand placed on his shoulder.

"So I've found you, have I?" came harshly from Abner Balberry. "You young rascal, what do you mean by runnin' away?"

CHAPTER VI
NAT ON LAKE ERIE

Nat was so completely astonished by the unexpected appearance of his uncle and guardian, that for the moment he did not know what to say or do.

"Thought you was goin' to run away, didn't you?" continued Abner Balberry, with a gleam of triumph in his small eyes.

"Let go of me," answered Nat, trying to pull away.

"I ain't a-goin' to, Nat Nason. You're a-goin' back with me, an' on the next train."

"I'm not going back, Uncle Abner."

"What!"

"I said I'm not going back, so there," repeated Nat, desperately. "You don't treat me half decently, and I'm going to strike out for myself."

"Jest to hear the boy! You are a-goin' back. Nice doin's, I must say! What did you mean by trying to burn down the barn?"

"Burn down the barn?"

"That's wot I said."

"I never burned down any barn. Is the barn burned down?"

"No; because I put out the fire."

"When was this?"

"You know well enough."

"I don't know a word about it, Uncle Abner."

"You set the barn afire."

"Never!"

"You did! An' you've got to go back."

"Uncle Abner, I never set fire to a thing," gasped Nat. "I left because you worked me to death, and because you wouldn't let me have my supper. After this, I'm going to earn my own living in my own way."

"You're goin' back," snarled the farmer.

For answer, Nat gave a sudden jerk and pulled himself from his uncle's grasp. Then he started to run from the depot at his best speed.

"Hi! stop!" yelled the farmer. "Stop thet boy. I'm his guardian, and he is runnin' away from me."

The cry was taken up on all sides, and soon a crowd of a dozen men and boys were in pursuit of Nat, who by this time had reached the street.

Nat had always been fleet of foot, and now a new fear lent strength to his flying feet. He was accused of setting fire to the barn! Perhaps his uncle would have him arrested and sent to prison.

"He shan't do it," he muttered. "I must get away, somehow."

Down one street after another went poor Nat, with the crowd behind him growing steadily larger. Some thought they were after a thief, and some a murderer, and soon two policemen joined in the chase.

Coming to an alley way, Nat darted through it to a side street, and then around a corner to a thoroughfare leading down to the docks. This threw the crowd off the trail for a moment, and gave him a brief breathing spell.

Reaching the docks fronting the lake, the boy came to a halt. Not far off was a steamboat, getting ready to cast off.

"Where does that boat go to?" he asked of a man standing near.

"That's the boat for Buffalo," was the answer.

"And when does she leave?"

"She is getting ready to leave now."

"Then that's the boat I want," came from Nat, and he rushed to the end of the dock, and up the gangplank with all speed. A moment later the gangplank was withdrawn, and the steamboat started on her trip down Lake Erie.

Trembling with excitement, Nat entered the cabin, and from the window looked back to the dock they had just left. It was not long before he beheld Abner Balberry and several others, on the dock, gazing up and down in perplexity. They did not know whether the boy was on the boat, or in hiding close by.

"What a narrow escape!" thought Nat, when the dock had faded from view. "In another minute Uncle Abner would have collared me, sure."

"Had to run pretty hard to catch the boat, didn't you?" remarked a man sitting beside him.

"Yes," answered Nat.

"Bound for Buffalo, I suppose."

"Yes."

"First visit to that city?"

"Yes."

"Well, it's a fine city to visit, I can tell you. Of course you'll run up to look at Niagara Falls?"

"I hadn't thought of that."

"It's not very far away, you know. The trolley cars run from Buffalo to the Falls and back."

"Then I'll certainly have to go up and look at the Falls," answered the boy.

He was too excited to make up his mind just what to do next, and so walked away from the man. Finding a secluded corner of the deck, he sat down on a camp stool to think the situation over.

The fact that his uncle believed he had tried to burn down the barn filled him with alarm. Certainly, the building must have been set on fire, but who had done the base deed?

"Perhaps that man I took to be Uncle Abner!" he cried to himself. Up to the present time he had forgotten about seeing that individual in the semi-darkness while on the way to get the cow.

The weather was warm and pleasant, and had Nat been less disturbed in mind he would have enjoyed the trip on Lake Erie thoroughly. Even as it was, he gazed at the great lake in wonder.

"If this is only a lake, what must the ocean be!" he mused. "When I get to New York, I'll have to take a trip to Coney Island, or some other ocean beach."

The boat Nat was on carried more freight than passengers, and made half a dozen landings before Buffalo was reached. But the boy thought the craft one of the best on the lake, and wandered over her from end to end with great interest. At noon he purchased a light lunch, and at supper time a sandwich and a glass of milk.

"They charge pretty stiff prices on a boat," he thought, after paying over his money. "I've got to live cheaper after this, or I'll be a beggar before I settle down and find something to do."

It was dark when Buffalo was reached, and here Nat was more bewildered than he had been on arriving at Cleveland. He followed the crowd up from the dock to one of the main streets, and then stood on a corner, not knowing which way to turn, or what to do next.

"What a terrible lot of people and cars!" was his mental comment. "It's enough to make a fellow's head swim."

He felt that it would be useless to try to do anything that night, and so looked around for a cheap lodging house. Soon he found a place where beds could be had for twenty-five cents a night, and he entered.

"I'll take a bed," he said to the clerk at the desk.

"All right; twenty-five cents." And as the money was passed over, the clerk continued: "Leave your valuables at the desk."

"Valuables?" repeated Nat. "You mean my watch?"

"You may leave it if you wish, and your money too."

"No; I'll keep them on me," answered the boy.

He was conducted to an elevator, and soon found himself on the fifth story of the building. Here was a big room containing twenty cots, ten on each side.

"Here you are; No. 134," said the attendant, and left him.

On several of the cots some men were already sleeping. They were not pleasant-appearing individuals, and a few of them smelt strongly of liquor.

"This isn't so nice," thought Nat. "But it's cheap, and that's something."

Before retiring, he placed his bundle and his clothing under his pillow, and stowed away his watch and money on his person.

Nat's actions were closely watched by a man who occupied the next cot on the left. He was a seedy individual, with a face that was horribly pockmarked.

"Reckon he's got a dollar or two," thought this man, who was known among his associates by the name of Checkers.

Despite his surroundings, Nat slept soundly throughout the night, and continued to sleep long after the sun came up.

While it was still early, Bob Checkers arose, dressed himself, and slipped over to the sleeping boy's side. Making certain that nobody was watching him, the fellow began a rapid search of Nat's clothing, and afterwards of the lad's person.

Soon he came in contact with a small roll of bills, which Nat, in the belief that they would be quite secure, had placed in a pocket of his shirt. A thrill of delight shot through the fellow as his hand touched them.

"Dis is de best yet!" he murmured to himself, and placing the bills in his own pocket, he left the lodging house almost on a run.