Dave Porter at Oak Hall. Stratemeyer Edward

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      "Oh, so you are back at last, Dave! I was afraid you had—had left me!"

      "You know better than that, professor."

      "But it is so late."

      "Yes, I stayed up on the mountain longer than I intended."

      "Did you get any huckleberries?"

      "Over ten quarts, and sold them to Mr. Jackson for eighty-four cents."

      ​"That's fine!" The old man's face brightened. "I could do that work—it's not hard. But I don't see how I'm to get up the mountain," and his face fell again.

      "Has anybody been here since I went away?"

      "Yes; Aaron Poole's son—a very high-toned young man. He drove up in a fancy cart to tell me that his father would be here to-morrow morning for the interest on the mortgage."

      "And what did you tell him?"

      "I—I told him I couldn't pay up just yet—that he must wait a little."

      "And what did he say to that?"

      "His nose went up into the air and he said I must pay. That if I didn't his father was going to have the place sold. He was very lordly and—and somewhat abusive."

      "Abusive? What do you mean by that?"

      "He—he said his father was foolish to trust his money to such a—a—crazy, good-for-nothing fellow as myself. Caspar Potts' lips quivered as he spoke. "He said I was a—a lunatic, and ought to be in an asylum."

      "I wish Nat Poole would mind his own business," cried Dave. "If I ever meet him I'll give him a piece of my mind."

      "I am not crazy, am I, Dave?" asked the old professor, anxiously. "Tell me truly, lad?"

      "No, you are not crazy, and I don't think you ​will ever be," was the ready answer. "You've been sick, that's all."

      "Sometimes I feel very weak here." Caspar Potts tapped his forehead. "But it doesn't last long."

      "What you need is a good long rest, professor."

      "Yes, yes; but how can I rest when these troubles——"

      "These troubles will all solve themselves somehow." Dave spoke as bravely as possible, solely for the old man's benefit, and not because he saw any solution himself. "Don't let's meet them halfway."

      "Very well, lad; I'll do as you say," and then Caspar Potts shuffled into the cottage, much comforted.

      The conversation did not comfort Dave, and his heart was heavy within him as he hurried around, preparing a scanty supper for the old man and himself. Caspar Potts had not thought of eating, and only did so after repeated urgings by the boy.

      "You've got to eat to get strong again," said Dave. "Here, let me give you some more fried potatoes and another egg."

      "Eat the potatoes yourself, Dave; I'll take the egg. That's enough for me."

      In the morning Dave was up at five o'clock and working around the truck garden. After breakfast, he went out to hoe corn, but kept his eye on ​the road which ran past the house, from Crumville to Dixonville. Caspar Potts came out to aid him, but soon had to give up through sheer weakness.

      "I—I can't do it," he panted. "It takes all the breath out of me."

      "Sit down in the shade and rest," said Dave. "I can easily hoe the corn alone."

      It was approaching noon when a buggy hove into sight on the road. It was drawn by a fine-looking horse and came forward at a spanking gait. In the buggy was a portly man of fifty, with a dark face and heavy black mustache, Mr. Aaron Poole.

      "Mr. Poole!" murmured Caspar Potts, "I—I wish I was stronger to-day!"

      "Let me help you to the house," answered Dave, and caught him by the arm. They had barely reached the porch when Aaron Poole strode up the dooryard path and confronted them.

      "Good-morning, Mr. Poole," said Caspar Potts, politely. "Will you walk in and have a chair?"

      "No, I just as soon stay out here," was the brusque answer. "I suppose you know what I am here for?" went on the newcomer, with a sharp look at first the old man and then at Dave.

      "Yes, I know," answered Caspar Potts, feebly.

      "I believe you told my son you couldn't pay that interest money."

      "Not just yet, Mr. Poole. In a short while—perhaps a few weeks—when I am well again——"

      ​"I don't intend to wait, Mr. Potts. The mortgage will be due in three months, and then the whole amount will have to be paid."

      "The whole amount!" cried Caspar Potts, aghast.

      "That is what I said, sir."

      "Won't you renew——"

      "No, I want the money; and I want that interest now."

      "As I said before, I can't pay it. I've been sick all winter, and——"

      "It seems to me you might wait a little, Mr. Poole," said Dave, interrupting him. "We'll pay you as soon as we can."

      "Humph! Who are you, Mr. Potts' son?"

      "No, sir; I work for him and live with him."

      "Oh, yes, I remember now; you're the boy he took from the poorhouse. Well, I don't want any poorhouse urchin to advise me, do you understand? I am here for my money."

      Dave's face flushed, and some angry words rushed to his lips, but he suppressed them.

      "You—you have no right to insult the boy!" came from Caspar Potts. "He is a fine lad, even if he did come from the poorhouse."

      "Insult him? Bosh! But we won't talk about that. Are you going to pay or not?"

      "I cannot pay."

      "Then I am going to let the law take its course." ​Aaron Poole paused. "That is, unless you want to make a deal with me."

      "What kind of a deal?"

      "I don't believe the property is worth a cent more than the mortgage, but to save trouble I am willing to give you a hundred dollars and take the place just as it stands."

      "I think it is worth more than the mortgage," came quickly from Dave.

      "Boy, you hold your tongue. I am dealing with Mr. Potts."

      "Don't you take the offer, Mr. Potts."

      At these words from the youth, Aaron Poole strode forward and shook his fist in Dave's face.

      "I want you to be quiet!" he roared, passionately. "This is none of СКАЧАТЬ