"Take it, then," said f.a.n.n.y, handing her the little roll of bills she had taken from the package for this purpose. "There is twenty-one dollars."

Kate took the money, and thrust it into her pocket.

"Now we are both just the same. You have taken some of the money, and you are just as bad as I am. You can't back out now, if you want to do so."

This was only an expedient on the part of the resolute mistress of the expedition to prevent her companion from deserting her, rather than to insure an equal division of the punishment for stealing.

"What shall we do now?" asked Kate, as she landed from the boat, which f.a.n.n.y held with the boat-hook.

"We will go up to the railroad station, and take the train for New York city."

"But what are you going to do with the boat?"

"I don't care anything about the boat. I have had all I want of her.

But I think I will let the sails down, and fasten her to the bank. If they should find her, she might betray us."

f.a.n.n.y lowered the sails, and fastened the painter to a stake on the bank. The two girls then started for the village, which was about a quarter of a mile below the place where they had landed. When they had gone a short distance, they saw a man mending a boat on the bank of the river. Kate took particular notice of him, for she was already planning the means of her deliverance from the arbitrary sway of her companion.

The two girls were very well dressed, and it was not an uncommon thing for young ladies to manage their own boats on the Hudson; so, if they had been seen to land from the Greyhound, no notice was taken of the circ.u.mstance. They were not likely to be molested, except by their own guilty consciences. They walked directly to the railroad station, and ascertained that the train would leave in half an hour. f.a.n.n.y, anxious to conciliate her a.s.sociate, and accustom her to her new situation, invited her to a saloon, where they partook of ice-creams; but partial as Kate was to this luxury, it did not taste good, and seemed to be entirely different from any ice-cream she had ever eaten before.

When it was nearly time for the train to arrive, f.a.n.n.y bought two tickets, and they joined the crowd that was waiting for the cars. Kate seemed to be so fully reconciled to the enterprise, that her friend did not doubt her any longer; she had no suspicion of her intended defection.

"I am almost choked," said Kate, when the whistle of the locomotive was heard in the distance. "I must have a drink of water."

"You have no time."

"I won't be gone but a second," replied Kate.

"I will wait here--but be quick."

Kate went into the station-house, and pa.s.sing out at the door on the other side, ran off towards the river as fast as her legs would carry her. She reached the outskirts of the village before she slackened her pace, and then, exhausted and out of breath with running, she paused to ascertain if f.a.n.n.y was in pursuit of her. No one was to be seen in the direction from which she had come, and taking courage from her success, she walked leisurely towards the place where the Greyhound had been left.

The man she had pa.s.sed on her way down was still at work on his boat, and Kate, telling him such a story as suited her purpose, engaged him to sail the Greyhound up to Woodville. They embarked without any interruption from f.a.n.n.y, and in a couple of hours she was landed at the pier from which she had started. Kate paid her boatman three dollars from the money which f.a.n.n.y had given her, and then walked up to the mansion.

She told Mrs. Green the whole truth, and gave her the eighteen dollars remaining in her possession. She then went home to make peace with her mother, to whom also she told the whole story, blaming f.a.n.n.y for everything except her own truancy, and pleading that she had been led away in this respect.

Mr. Long was still engaged in the search for f.a.n.n.y, though the loss of the money in the closet had not been discovered till Kate appeared.

CHAPTER VII.

THE SOLDIER'S FAMILY.

f.a.n.n.y stood on the platform in front of the station-house, waiting for the return of Kate. She had no suspicion that her friend had deserted her, and was at that moment running away as fast as she could. The train was approaching, and with the nervousness of one not accustomed to travelling, she feared they might be left. The cars stopped, and Kate did not return. f.a.n.n.y rushed into the station-house in search of her. She was not there! she was not in the building; she was not to be seen from the open door.

Then f.a.n.n.y realized that her companion's courage had failed, and that she had deserted her. The bell on the locomotive was ringing, and the train was in the act of starting. f.a.n.n.y was quick and decisive in her movements, and she bounded out of the building, and stepped upon the train after it was in motion. She was angry and indignant at the defection of Kate, and, taking a seat in the car, she nursed her bitter feelings until her wrath had expended itself.

Kate's desertion affected the plans of the runaway, for in a few hours, at most, what she had done, and what she intended to do, would be known at Woodville. Mr. Long would take one of the afternoon trains for the city, and the whole police force of the great metropolis would be on the lookout for her before dark. Constables and policemen were now more than ever f.a.n.n.y's especial horror, and she trembled at the very thought of being arrested for the crime she had committed.

f.a.n.n.y was a girl of quick, bright parts. She had read the newspapers, and listened to the conversation of her elders. She was better informed in regard to the ways of the world than most young persons of her age with no more experience. She knew all about the telegraph, and the uses to which it was put in the detection and arrest of rogues. Though it was hardly possible for Kate to reach Woodville, and inform the people there where she had gone, yet circ.u.mstances might conspire against her so as to render the telegraph available. Mr. Long might have discovered in what direction the fugitives had gone, and followed them down to Pennville. He might have met Kate there, and learned her destination.

It was possible, therefore, that a despatch might reach the city before she did, and an officer be waiting for her at the railroad station.

She was too cunning to be entrapped by any such expedients; and when the train stopped at Harlem, she got out, with the intention of walking into the city. Deeming it imprudent to follow the princ.i.p.al street, in which some of the terrible policemen might be lying in wait for her, she made her way to one of the less travelled thoroughfares, in which she pursued her way towards the city. The street she had chosen led her through the localities inhabited by the poorer portions of the population. The territory through which she was pa.s.sing was in a transition state: broad streets and large squares had been laid out, in antic.i.p.ation of vast improvements, but only a little had been accomplished in carrying them out. There were many tasty little houses, and many long blocks of buildings occupied by mechanics and laborers, and occasionally a more pretentious mansion.

In some of the most ineligible places for building, there were houses, or rather hovels, constructed in the roughest and rudest manner, apparently for temporary use until the march of improvement should drive their tenants into still more obscure locations. f.a.n.n.y pa.s.sed near one of these rude abodes, which was situated on a cross street, a short distance from the avenue on which she was journeying to the city.

In front of this house was a scene which attracted the attention of the wanderer, and caused her to forget, for the time, the great wrong she had committed, and the consequences which would follow in its train.

In front of the house lay several articles of the coa.r.s.est furniture, and a man was engaged in removing more of the same kind from the hovel.

He had paused for a moment in his occupation, and before him stood a woman who was wringing her hands in the agonies of despair. f.a.n.n.y could hear the profane and abusive language the man used, and she could hear the piteous pleadings of the woman, at whose side stood a little boy, half clothed in tattered garments, weeping as though his heart would break.

f.a.n.n.y was interested in the scene. The woman's woe and despair touched her feelings, and perhaps more from curiosity than any other motive, she walked down the cross-street towards the cottage. Being resolute and courageous by nature, she had no fear of personal consequences. She did not comprehend the nature of the difficulty, having never seen a tenant forcibly ejected from a house for the non-payment of rent.

"You'll kill my child! You'll kill my child!" cried the poor woman, in such an agony of bitterness that f.a.n.n.y was thrilled by her tones.

"Isn't it a whole year I've been waiting for my rint?" replied the man, coa.r.s.ely. "Didn't ye keep promisin' to pay me for a twelvemonth, and niver a cint I got yet?"

"I would pay you if I could, Mr. O'Shane."

"If ye could! What call have I to wait any longer for me money?"

"My husband has gone to the war, and I haven't heard a word from him for a year; but I'm sure he will send me some money soon--I know he will."

"What call had he to go to the war? Why didn't he stay at home and take care of his childer? Go 'way wid ye! Give me up me house!"

Mr. O'Shane broke away from her, and, rushing into the house, presently returned bearing a dilapidated table in his hands.

"Have mercy, Mr. O'Shane. Pity me!" pleaded the woman, when he appeared.

"I do pity ye; 'pon me sowl, I do, thin; but what can a poor man like me do?" replied the landlord. "I live in a worse house nor this, and work like a mule, and I can't make enough, for the high prices, to take care of me family. Didn't I wait month after month for me rint, and sorra a cint I iver got? Sure it isn't Mike O'Shane that would do the likes of this if he could help it."

"But I will pay you all I owe, Mr. O'Shane."

"That's what ye been sayin' this twelvemonth; and I can't wait any longer. Why don't ye stir yoursilf, and go among the rich folks?"

"I can't beg, Mr. O'Shane."

"But ye better beg than chate me out of me honest dues. Go 'way wid ye!

Pay me the rint, or give me the house; and sorra one of me cares which you do."

"I would move if I could. You know that my poor child is very sick. For her sake don't turn me out of the house to-day," added the woman, in the most beseeching tones.

"Didn't I wait six months for the child to die, and she didn't die? She won't die. Sure, don't she sit in the chair all day? and what harm would it do to move her?"

"I have no place to move her to."