ever been before, and that Davy's Bend was the best place in which he had ever lived; but these declarations did not afford him peace, for he was soon as gloomy and thoughtful as ever. That he was ill at ease, the dark nights could have easily seen had they been blessed with eyes; for the dread of loneliness grew upon him, and frequently he sent for Mrs. Wedge, confessing to her that he was lonely, and that she would oblige him by talking, no matter what it was about.

Mrs. Wedge would politely comply, and in a dignified way relate how, on her visits to the stores to purchase supplies, great curiosity was everywhere expressed with reference to the new master of The Locks,—what business he would engage in; where he came from; and, most of all, there was a universal opinion that he had bought The Locks for almost nothing.

"A great many say they would have taken the place at the price themselves," Mrs. Wedge would continue, smoothing down the folds of her apron, a habit of which she never tired, "but this is not necessarily true. The people here never want to buy anything until it is out of the market; which gives them excuse for grumbling, of which they have great need, for they have little else to do. I believe the price at which you took the house was lower than it was ever offered before,—but that is neither here nor there."

Then Mrs. Wedge would tell of the queer old town, in a quaint way, and of the people, which amused her employer; and noticing that, in his easy chair, he seemed to enjoy her company, she would smooth out her apron once more, and continue:—

"They all agree,"—there would be an amused smile on Mrs. Wedge's face as she said it,—"they all agree that you do not amount to much, else you would have gone to Ben's City, instead of coming here. This is always said of every stranger, for Davy's Bend is so dull that its people have forgotten their patriotism. I have not heard a good word for the town in ten years, but it is always being denounced, and cursed, and ridiculed. I think we despise each other because we do not move to Ben's City, and we live very much as I imagine the prisoners in a jail do,—in cursing our home, in lounging, in idle talk, and in expecting that each one of us will finally be fortunate, while the condition of the others will grow worse. We are a strange community."

Dorris expressed surprise at the size of the church near The Locks, and wondered at the deserted houses which he had seen in his walks, whereupon Mrs. Wedge explained that Davy's Bend was once a prosperous city, containing five thousand busy people, but it had had bad luck since; very bad luck, for less than a fifth of that number now remained, and even they are trying to get away. What is the cause of this decrease in population? The growth of Ben's City, thirty miles down the river. The belief which existed at one time that a great town would be built at Davy's Bend turned out to be a mistake. Ben's City seemed to be the place; so the people had been going there for a number of years, leaving Davy's Bend to get along as best it could.

This, and much more, from Mrs. Wedge, until at a late hour she notices that Dorris is asleep in his chair, probably having got rid of his thoughts; so she takes up the lamp to retire with it. Holding it up so that the shade throws the light full upon his face, she remarks to herself that she is certain he is a good, an honorable, and a safe man, whoever he is, for she prides herself on knowing something about men, and arranging the room for the night, although it does not need it, she goes quietly down the stairs, out at a door in a lower room, and into her own apartment.

CHAPTER III.

THE FACE AT THE WINDOW.

Allan Dorris sleeps on, unconscious of the darkness peering in at him from the outside, which is also running riot in the town, and particularly down by the river, where the crazy houses with their boarded windows seem to collect shadows during the day for use at night, robbing the sunlight for the purpose; for there is little brightness and warmth at Davy's Bend, but much of dampness and hazy atmosphere.

There is light and life down this way; a light in the window of the wretched house occupied by Mr. Tug Whittle, and all the neighboring buildings are alive with rats and vermin. Tug occupies his house for the same reason that the rats occupy theirs, for in this quarter of the town the tenants pay no rent. Some of the buildings were once busy warehouses and stores, but they have been turned over to the rats these ten years, and Tug occupies a little frame one from choice, as he argues that if it falls down from old age, there will not be so many ruins in which to bury the tenants. Besides, the big buildings shelter him from the cold north winds in winter, and do not interfere with the southern breezes from the river in summer; therefore the faded sign of "T. Whittle, Law Office," swings in front of the little frame building back from the street, instead of from the more imposing ones by its side.

Everybody knows Tug Whittle, and admits that he is perfectly harmless and hopelessly lazy—always excepting Silas Davy, who believes that his friend is very energetic and dangerous; therefore when Silas is unable to hold a position because he is a good fellow, or because he spends so much time at night with Tug that he is unfit for work during the day, he is also an inhabitant of the little law office, along with the lawyer and the rats, although it is not much of a law office, for it contains nothing but a stove, half cooking and half heating, a bed that looks as though it came from the fourth story of a cheap hotel, a few broken chairs, a box that is the lawyer's table, and a few other articles common to a kitchen, all of them second-hand, and very poor.

There is nothing about the place to suggest a law office save the sign in front, and a single leather-covered book on the inside; a ponderous volume to which Mr. Whittle applies for everything, including kindling. Silas has seen him look through it to decide questions in science, theology, law, and history, and tear leaves out of it with which to start his fire; and while a cunning man would have guessed that Mr. Whittle made up his authority, instead of finding it in the book, Silas Davy, who is not cunning, believes that it is a repository of secrets of every kind, although it is really a treatise on a law which has been repealed many years. When Silas so far forgets himself as to mildly question something his companion has said, Mr. Whittle refers to the book, and triumphantly proves his position, no difference what it may be; whereupon the little man feels much humiliated. Mr. Whittle has even been known to refer to the book to convict his enemies in Davy's Bend of various offences; and Silas has so much respect for the volume that he has no trouble in imagining that the den in which Tug lives is not only a law office, but a repository of profane, political, and sacred history, to say nothing of the sciences and the town scandal.

Like the rats again, Tug lies by during the day, and goes abroad at night, for he is seldom seen on the streets until the sun goes down, and he is not entirely himself until after midnight. Occasionally, on dark, bad days he is to be seen walking about, but not often, and it is known that he sleeps most of the day on the rough bed in his rough office. If he is disturbed by idle boys, which is sometimes the case, he gets up long enough to drive them away, and returns to his bed until it is dark, when he yawns and stretches himself, and waits patiently for Silas Davy, who is due about that hour with his supper.

But for Silas Davy, like the rats again, Tug would be compelled to steal for a living; for he never works, but Silas believes in him, and admires him, and whenever he is employed, he saves half of what he gets for his friend, who eats it, and is not grateful. Indeed, he often looks at Silas as much as to say that he is not providing for him