The Camp in the Snow

"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 passengers 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. "Hello! 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 passengers looked on with interest.

"Lift your feet, sir," said the conductor, sharply, as he tapped the clerical passenger'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 passengers 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 passengers. 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 passers.

"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 Penobscot 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 button 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 glasses, 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 Penobscot River.

Turning parallel with the river, Brick went on until the lights of the town were some distance behind. By the dim glow of the starlit sky he could see that the beach sloped upward to a pretty steep bluff, and that tall stacks of lumber lay in all directions. The sullen slapping of the waves drowned his crunching footsteps.

"It's all as Tom described it," he said, half-aloud, as he paused to look about him. "The dug-out ought to be near by, but I can't see a glimmer of light. Hullo! what's that?"

A sharp sound had fallen on his ear, and he wheeled around in time to see a dusky figure within ten feet of him.

"Hold on there," cried a stern voice. "Stop!"

Brick, having started forward, only ran the faster, and in the darkness he collided with a tall stack of lumber. He grabbed the projecting slabs and climbed to the top.

He was now eight or ten feet from the ground, and looking down he saw his pursuer standing directly beneath.

"No use, my lad," whispered the man. "I've got you safe. Pass down that pocketbook."

With a thrill of surprise, Brick recognized the voice.

"This is nice missionary work, Mr. Pendergast," he replied. "I'm willing to donate five dollars to the heathen if you'll be satisfied with that."

"No chaffing, young feller," growled the ruffian. "I'm not in the missionary line now. If I don't get your pocketbook and watch and chain in about ten seconds, I'll fix you."

Brick hesitated, and glanced toward the distant lights of the town. There seemed no chance of saving his money. An idea struck him, and he said, boldly:

"I've got friends at hand. You're making a big mistake to stay here."

"That bluff won't work," was the cool reply. "There's not a soul within half a mile. Fork it over, quick."

Just then the pile of lumber began to tremble and sway, and down it came with a crash.

Brick escaped injury by an agile leap that landed him on his enemy's back. They went to the ground together, and rolled clear of the avalanche of planks and snow.

The lad was almost a match for his wiry antagonist, and by a desperate effort he tore loose and ran. Pendergast overtook him, and snatched the collar of the cape-coat. Brick twisted out of the heavy garment and sped on. He had the pocketbook buttoned safely under his jacket.

Threats rang behind him. A pistol cracked shrilly, and the ball whistled by his head. He dashed on through the gloom, panting hard for breath, and shouting hoarsely for aid. Nearer and nearer came the crunching footsteps of his enemy.

Unluckily a boat lay right in the path. Brick spied it at such close quarters that he had no time to swerve aside. He pitched roughly over the gunwale and fell inside. The next instant Pendergast was kneeling on him, and shaking him with savage anger.

"I'll fix you," he snarled, as he lifted his shining weapon. "I'll pay you for this."

"Don't!" pleaded Brick.

He threw up his hands, and struggled to ward off the threatened blow.

"Take that," cried the ruffian.

Brick felt a stunning pain, and immediately lost consciousness.

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