LITMIR.BIZ

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the street. The deacon hesitated an instant, and then dashed after him, his long cloak floating in the wind, and his hat unconsciously pushed back on the top of his head.

      "Stop, you Sam!" he shouted.

      But Sam, with his head over his shoulder, already three rods in advance, grinned provokingly, but appeared to have no intention of stopping. The deacon was not used to running, nor did he make due allowance for the difficulty of navigating the crowded streets of the metropolis. He dashed headlong into an apple-stand, and suffered disastrous shipwreck. The apple-stand was overturned, the deacon's hat flew off, and he found himself sprawling on the sidewalk, with apples rolling in all directions around him, and an angry dame showering maledictions upon him, and demanding compensation for damages.

      The deacon picked himself up, bruised and ashamed, recovered his hat, which had rolled into a mud-puddle, and was forced to pay the woman a dollar before he could get away. When this matter was settled, he looked for Sam, but the boy was out of sight. In fact, he was just around the corner, laughing as if he would split. He had seen his pursuer's discomfiture, and regarded it as a huge practical joke.

      "I never had such fun in all my life," he ejaculated, with difficulty, and he went off into a fresh convulsion. "The old feller won't forget me in a hurry."

      CHAPTER II.

      SAM'S EARLY LIFE

      Three years before the meeting described in the previous chapter Sam Barker became an orphan, by the death of his father. The father was an intemperate man, and no one grieved much for his death. Sam felt rather relieved than otherwise. He had received many a beating from his father, in his fits of drunken fury, and had been obliged to forage for himself for the most part, getting a meal from one neighbor, a basket of provision from another, and so managed to eke out a precarious subsistence in the tumble-down shanty which he and his father occupied.

      Mr. Barker left no will, for the good and sufficient reason that he had no property to dispose of. So, on the day after the funeral, Sam found himself a candidate for the poorhouse. He was a stout boy of twelve, strong and sturdy in spite of insufficient food, and certainly had suffered nothing from luxurious living.

      It was a country town in Connecticut, near the Rhode Island border. We will call it Dudley. The selectmen deliberated what should be done with Sam.

      "There isn't much for a lad like him to do at the poorhouse," said Major Stebbins. "He'd ought to be set to work. Why don't you take him, Deacon Hopkins?"

      "I do need a boy," said the deacon, "but I'm most afeard to take Sam.

      He's a dreadful mischievous boy, I've heerd."

      "He's had a bad example in his father," said the major. "You could train him up the way he'd ought to go."

      "Mebbe I could," said the deacon, flattered by this tribute, and reflecting, moreover, that he could get a good deal of work out of Sam without being obliged to pay him wages.

      "You could train him up to be a respectable man," said the major.

      "They wouldn't know what to do with him at the poorhouse."

      So the deacon was prevailed upon to take Sam to bring up.

      "You're goin to live with me, Samuel," said the deacon, calling the boy to his side.

      "Am I?" asked Sam, surveying the old man attentively.

      "Yes; I shall try to make a man of you."

      "I'll get to be a man anyway, if I live long enough," said Sam.

      "I mean I will make a man of you in a moral sense," explained the deacon.

      This, however, was above Sam's comprehension.

      "What would you like to do when you're a man?" asked the deacon.

      "Smoke a pipe," answered Sam, after some reflection.

      The deacon held up his hands in horror.

      "What a misguided youth!" he exclaimed. "Can you think of nothing better than to smoke a pipe?"

      "Dad liked it," said Sam; "but I guess he liked rum better."

      "Your father was a misguided man," said the deacon. "He wasted his substance in riotous living."

      "You'd ought to have seen him when he was tight," said Sam, confidentially. "Didn't he tear round then? He'd fling sticks of wood at my head. O jolly! Didn't I run? I used to hide under the bed when I couldn't run out of doors."

      "Your father's dead and gone. I don't want to talk against him, but I hope you'll grow up a very different man. Do you think you will like to live with me?"

      "I guess so," said Sam. "You live in a good house, where the rain don't leak through the roof on your head. You'll give me lots to eat, too; won't you?"

      "You shall have enough," said the deacon, cautiously, "but it is bad to over-eat. Boys ought to be moderate."

      "I didn't over-eat to home," said Sam. "I went one day without eatin' a crumb."

      "You shall have enough to eat at my house, but you must render a return."

      "What's that?"

      "You must pay me for it."

      "I can't; I aint got a cent."

      "You shall pay me in work. He that does not work shall not eat."

      "Have I got to work very hard?" asked Sam, anxiously.

      "I will not task you beyond your strength, but I shall expect you to work faithfully. I work myself. Everybody works in my house."

      Sam was occupied for a brief space in considering the great problem that connects labor and eating. Somehow it didn't seem quite satisfactory.

      "I wish I was a pig!" he burst out, rather unexpectedly.

      "Why?" demanded the deacon, amazed.

      "Pigs have a better time than men and boys. They have all they can eat, and don't have to work for it nuther."

      "I'm surprised at you," said the deacon, shocked. "Pigs are only brute animals. They have no souls. Would you be willing to give up your immortal soul for the sake of bein' idle, and doin' no work?"

      "I don't know anything bout my immortal soul. What good does it do me?" inquired Sam.

      "I declare! the boy's actilly gropin' in heathen darkness," said the deacon, beginning to think he had undertaken a tough job.

      "What's that?" asked Sam, mystified.

      "I haven't time to tell you now, but I must have a long talk with you some day. You aint had no sort of bringing up. Do you ever read the Bible?"

      "No, but I've read the life of Cap'n Kidd. He was a smart man, though."

      "Captain Kidd, the pirate?" asked the deacon, horrified.

      "Yes. Wa'n't he a great man?"

      "He calls a pirate a great man!" groaned the deacon.

      "I think I'd like to be a pirate," said Sam, admiringly.

      "Then you'd die on the gallus!" exclaimed the deacon with energy.

      "No, I wouldn't. I wouldn't let 'em catch me," said Sam, confidently.

      "I never heerd a boy talk so," said the deacon. "He's as bad as a – a Hottentot."

      Deacon Hopkins had no very clear ideas as to the moral or physical condition of Hottentots, or where they lived, but had a general notion that they were in a benighted state, and the comparison seemed to him a good one. Not so to Sam.

      "You're calling me names," he said, discontentedly. "You called me a Hottentot."

      "I fear you are very much like those poor, benighted creatures, Samuel," said his new guardian; "but it isn't wholly your fault. You have never had any religious or moral instruction. This must be rectified. I shall buy you a catechism this very day."

      "Will you?" asked Sam, eagerly, who, it must be explained, had an idea that a catechism was something good to eat.

      "Yes, I'll stop at the store and get one."

      They

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