of the propriety of intrusting him with the weightiest concerns. And his first care was to leave for the station in such good time as to put all fear of his missing the train out of the question.

Alas, poor Tom!

"Now, where's my hat?"

This inquiry was a sound of dismay in the Primrose household. Tom's hat was always missing. There was no spot in the house, yard, barn, or garden where it might not be hopefully searched for.

"Where did you have it last?" some one asked. Some one was always sure to ask that.

"I don't know—yes, I remember putting it on Rover's head, and he ran away with it. No, I found it after that behind the coal-house. I had it when we were playing hide-and-seek last evening."

Tom was usually left to do his own hunting, but in such an emergency as this all the family energy was aroused. Uneasiness gathered in every face as time went on.

"Let me see your old hat," said his mother at last. But the old hat proved to be too shabby to be thought of. Then his brother's hat was tried, but Frank was three years older, and it would not do.

"Wear it down to Mr. Ramsay, the hatter's," said his mother. "Tell him of your difficulty, and he will lend you a hat for a few hours." But Tom did not like to do this, and he continued his hunt longer than was prudent. At length his little sister came from the barn with a note of triumph and the missing hat. It had been lying in a corner of the hay-loft, where he had hidden the evening before. He seized it gratefully, and was off like the wind.

The locomotive was hissing in the station as Tom, hot and out of breath, asked for a ticket to Homer. Then he felt for his pocket-book in one pocket and then another, growing hotter as he failed to find it. After thorough search he concluded, with intense dismay, that his run must have shaken it from his pocket. He knew he had no time for thought. At the distance of about half a block was situated the office of one of his father's friends. He rushed over to it and told his trouble in a few words.

"Hurry, Tom, hurry," said the gentleman, as already the premonitory puff of the engine sounded. "Don't stop for a ticket, but board the train—if you can; but—Stop, boy! Hallo, there!" he shouted; "don't let that boy jump on that train!"

He ran after Tom as he flew toward the now-moving train, which the boy was fully resolved to board. But he was seized by friendly hands.

"You can't do that, my boy—no, sir," as Tom struggled. "Have you no concern for your life or limbs?"

"I must go on that train; I will," cried poor Tom, in utter despair. But it moved pitilessly on, while a few men gathered near to inquire into his trouble.

"It was about some business for my father," he explained, hardly able to force back his tears, as he realized what a terrible failure he had made at the very outset. "It was very important, and what shall I do?"

"There's a freight train going up," said a brakeman.

"When?" asked Tom, eagerly.

"In about half an hour. It'll be slow, though. You'll get to Homer about eleven, if that'll do you."

Tom could only hope it might.

After a ride made long by anxiety he stood at last before Sheriff Carroll, and presented his letter, waiting breathlessly to hear what he might say.

"Too bad! too bad! I discharged those scamps not more than an hour ago. Tell your father, though, that we may stand a chance of nabbing them yet. I'll have all the trains watched, and send out on the country roads. That sort are very apt to strike across country." He bustled away to set things moving, while Tom, full of bitter mortification, slowly walked back to the station.

He watched eagerly as the return train came in, in hope of seeing some kind of a "scrimmage," as he mentally expressed it, which might look like an arrest. But nothing of the sort occurred. He did not even see a force of policemen drawn up with threatening aspect, as he had expected, and made up his mind that Carroll was not up to his duty in this matter. His inexperienced gaze failed to take note of two or three keen-eyed men standing carelessly around in plain clothes, who would certainly have pressed the hospitalities of the village of Homer upon any stray criminals so warmly as to enable them to arrive at a speedy decision to travel no further at present.

As Tom rode along, he felt too much depressed at first by the very bad result of his undertaking to pay much heed to what was going on around him. But he suddenly jerked himself from the corner into which he had settled, and sat up with every sense on the alert.

"I told Primrose—revenged on him—jury agreed—got off—that I would go down—have it out with him—"

This was what came to his ears, mingled with the rattle of the cars. The words were spoken by one of two men who occupied the seat behind him. Tom ventured a peep over the back of his seat. They certainly did not look like desperate characters; but what was he to think of what he had heard? His father had made special mention of the very respectable appearance of the two men he had been prosecuting.

The older man had such a pleasant face that Tom was beginning to feel ashamed of his suspicions, when he suddenly bobbed down in his seat, with a cold chill at his heart. The man was examining something he held in his hand—a thing so small and delicate that at first glance Tom had taken it for a pocket-knife, but it was a pearl-mounted revolver. The full gravity of the situation now forced itself upon his excited mind. This was the Chief Criminal spoken of by his father, the younger man being, of course, the Accomplice. They were handling the very revolver which had been shown during the trial. This man's fierce anger had been excited by his father's vigorous attempt to consign him to merited punishment, and his words fully indicated that he was now on his way to seek revenge. How? Poor Tom fairly writhed in his seat as all the fearful possibilities of the case came before him, and he was obliged to own to himself that but for his petty acts of carelessness these men would now be safe under lock and key.

He left the car, full of the one idea of using any and every means of insuring his father's safety. Hastening to his office, he learned that he had been absent from it most of the day. It was supposed that he had been called out of town again. Reaching home, hoping to find him there, Tom learned that he had not been up to dinner, but was still expected, though it was long after the usual hour. Hot, tired, and anxious, Tom made but a poor attempt at the dinner urged upon him, and took his way to the front part of the house to watch for his father. He established himself on a sofa near a bay-window in the parlor, with a very heavy pressure of care on his heart. He knew it would not do to tell his nervous mother: even poor, heedless Tom was thoughtful of her comfort. And he did not want Frank to know anything about it if he could help it. It might all come out right yet, and then only his father need know.

"Tell him not to hurry—we can wait," said a voice in the room. Tom rubbed his eyes and stared about, as the maid showed in two strangers. He was wide awake in a moment, and drew himself into a corner of the sofa where he was nearly concealed by a curtain which divided the bay-window from the room. The maid drew aside the curtains of another window, and threw it open. And there, in the bright sunlight, Tom saw, with fright and horror, which at first took from him the power to move or speak, the Chief Criminal and the Accomplice seat themselves comfortably in his father's house.

What now? With a desperate effort at self-control he tried to think what it was best to do. It rested on him now not only to insure his father's safety, but to prevent the escape of these men.

He presently got up, and going quietly to a door which led into another room, locked it, and put the key in