The Camp in the Snow.

by William Murray Graydon.

CHAPTER I.

A MERCILESS ENEMY.

"All tickets, please!"

The blue-uniformed conductor, with a lantern under his arm, and his punch in hand, entered the smoking-car of the Boston express.

It was between seven and eight o'clock on the night of the tenth of December. The train was speeding eastward through the wintry landscape of the State of Maine.

Among the pa.s.sengers in the smoking-car was a well-dressed lad of eighteen, with a ruddy face, and gray eyes in which was a lurking gleam of humor.

Just across the aisle sat a middle-aged man with a clean-shaven, cadaverous face and rusty black clothes. He was reading a small book, and seemed to be absorbed in its pages.

As the conductor drew near, the lad fumbled hurriedly in his pockets. He turned them inside out, one after another. He looked on the floor, on the seat, in the folds of his clothing.

"Your ticket, sir."

The conductor had been standing by the seat for a full minute.

"I--I must have lost it," replied the lad. "Just my beastly luck! You know that I had one, for you clipped it twice."

The conductor stared coldly.

"Find it, or pay your fare," he answered.

The lad put his hand into the breast pocket of his cape coat. He whipped out a handkerchief, and a bulky pocketbook. The latter flew across the aisle and under the next seat, where it burst open.

The clerical-looking man stooped and picked it up.

"Permit me," he said, handing it back with a low bow.

"Much obliged," answered the owner. "h.e.l.lo! there's a wad of bills missing. It must have fallen out."

The clerical-looking man pretended not to hear. He turned toward the window and went on reading. The conductor and the lad peered under the neighboring seats. They saw no trace of the money. The other pa.s.sengers looked on with interest.

"Lift your feet, sir," said the conductor, sharply, as he tapped the clerical pa.s.senger's arm.

The man obeyed with an air of injured innocence, and the roll of bank notes was instantly seen.

"Quite an accident," he protested. "I was not aware that my foot was on the money."

"Of course not," sneered the conductor.

"No insults, sir," replied the other, in a dignified tone. "Here is my card. I am a missionary from the South Seas. My name is Pendergast."

The conductor waved aside the proffered card.

"I see you are reading Hoyle's Games," he remarked, sarcastically.

"Is that the text-book you use among your heathen?"

The missionary looked discomfited for an instant.

"I have been perusing this evil work with horror," he replied. "Some worldly sinner left it on the seat. Perhaps it is yours, sir?"

The conductor reddened with anger, and some of the pa.s.sengers laughed aloud. The missionary folded his hands with a smile of triumph, and looked out of the window.

Meanwhile the lad had restored the roll of bills to his pocketbook, and in one of the compartments of the latter he found the missing ticket. As the conductor took it he leaned over and said:

"Keep an eye on that rascal yonder. He's no more a missionary than you or I."

Then he hurried on to the next car.

A few moments later scattered lights appeared through the frosty windows, and finally the vague outlines of houses and streets.

"Bangor!" shrieked the brakeman.

The announcement created a stir and bustle among the pa.s.sengers. The train soon rolled into a lofty station. The lad gathered up his traps, hurriedly left the car, pressed through the crowd, and gained the lighted street.

Here he paused for a moment, remembering the conductor's warning. But he could see nothing of the clerical-looking individual, though he carefully scanned the pa.s.sers.

"I've seen the last of that chap," he muttered. "Perhaps he was a missionary, after all. Well, I can't lose any more time here. Thanks to Tom Fordham, I've got my bearings pretty straight. I'll bet Tom wishes he was with me now. I fancy I can see him grinding away at old Herodotus by lamplight."

With a smile that showed his white teeth, he strode down the street of Maine's most thriving port and lumber town. He entered the Pen.o.bscot House, a block and a half from the depot.

He gave his luggage to a bellboy, and wrote his name on the register:

"Brick Larkins, New York City."

The clerk looked at the inscription and smiled.

"Done it again, have I?" exclaimed the lad. "Brick is only a nickname.

Shall I write it James?"

"Let it stand," replied the amused clerk. "Will you have supper, Mr.

Larkins?"

"Thanks, but I have dined on the train. Send the traps up to my room, please."

Brick fastened a b.u.t.ton or two of his cape-coat, and strolled out of the hotel.

He did not see the missionary standing across the street. If he had he would probably have failed to recognize him, for Mr. Pendergast now wore a tweed steamer-cap, gold gla.s.ses, and a short gray overcoat with the collar turned up.

Brick little dreamed that he was being followed as he pushed steadily across town to the banks of the Pen.o.bscot River.