Chapter 12
CHAPTER XII. DICK AND JOE BLOCK MUDGET AND TIM BUNKER'S SHADY ENTERPRISE. MUDGET HAD SEIZED THE OLD MISER BY THE ARM AND WAS DRAGGING HIM OUT OF THE BUGGIE WHEN DICK ARMSTRONG SPRANG UPON HIM LIKE A YOUNG TIGER AND BORE HIM TO THE GROUND. AT THE SAME INSTANT JOE FLETCHER RAN AROUND THE VEHICLE AND HIT TIM BUNKER WITH SUCH A whack over the head with his cudgel that the walk-hill youth saw unnumbered stars and hastened
to make his escape over the back of the buggy. But Joe cut him off, and the two boys were soon mixing it up pretty lively, with all the advantage in Joe's favor. In the meantime Dick found Mudgett a tough proposition to get away with, while the bearded man discovered in the strong, active boy a hard nut to crack. Old Adam Fairclough, thus relieved of his assailants, stood helplessly aloof and watched the struggle that was going on about him.
He seemed to be utterly bewildered by the condition of affairs that had faced him on his return home, and while this lively scrimmage was going on in front of the house, Luke Maslin, in the rear, took advantage of the opportunity to scramble out of the window through which he had been forced to effect an entrance,
and reaching the ground he took to his heels and made off into the line of woods beyond the fence as fast as his heels would carry him. Let me up, you young imp, exclaimed Mudget, panting for breath after several ineffectual efforts on his part to dislodge Dick from an advantageous position on his chest. Do you give in? asked the almost equally breathless boy, refusing to budge an inch from his perch.
No, hang you for a meddlesome little monkey. But if you don't get up, I'll break your head. I don't think you will, Mr. Mudget, answered Dick stoutly. You know my name, eh? Who the Dickens are you, anyway? said the rascal in a tone that showed a surprise. Never mind who I am, returned the lad.
I've got you dead to rights now, so you might as well just throw up your hands at once. Not on your life, gritted Mudgett, renewing the struggle. But he might just as well have saved his strength, for Joe, having mastered Tim Bunker
and bound his arms behind his back with a whiplash belonging to the buggy, now came to his chum's assistance, and Mudgett, with a villainous scowl, gave up the fight and suffered himself to be secured with one of the traces which Joe took off the horse.
I'm afraid these men meant to kill me, thinking I had money, said old Adam Fairclough to Dick in trembling tones, when the lad stepped up to assure him that he no longer was in danger of molestation. But I'm a poor old man, poor, very poor. They were in the act of breaking into your house to rob you when we turned up,
intending to prevent them carrying out their plan, which I fortunately overheard. Why should they want to rob me when I'm only a poor old man? cried the miser in a pathetic voice. They think you have lots of money hidden in your house, replied Dick. Not a cent, not a single cent, wailed the old man,
beating the air with his arms in a sort of abject denial. Dick, of course, believed Adam Fairclough was not telling the truth. He had always heard people say the man was worth thousands of dollars, that he owned half a dozen good farms which he rented out to thrifty tenants, that he held mortgages and a dozen more,
that he had a strong box filled with family plate that had not been used for fifty years, and a second one stuffed with gold and banknotes he had taken out of circulation in order to hoard up for the mere pleasure of accumulation. Probably the old man's wealth was greatly exaggerated, but there seemed little doubt that he was tolerably rich.
Dick led him around to the back of the house and showed him the broken window. So they sent you a letter saying your brother William in Walkhill was dead, isn't that so? asked the boy. Yes, yes, but it was false. My brother is not dead at all.
That was a trick to get you away from here so they might search the house during your absence. And Dick told him the whole story of what he had learned at the old deserted farmhouse. You're a good boy, a brave boy, said the poor old miser,
shaking the lad by the hand in a pitiful way, for he appeared to have but little strength after the shock he had sustained. If I wasn't so very, very poor, I'd reward you. Don't worry about that, replied Dick with a cheerfulness to put the old man more at his ease. If you let us stay here for the rest of the night, it's all we want.
You shall stay, yes, yes, you shall stay. But there isn't anything I could give you to eat. I'm so poor I can't buy much. From the appearance of both his horse as well as himself, it was evident that the miser didn't squander much of his money on food of any kind.
They were both shriveled and dried up like a pair of animated mummies. Indeed, when Dick led the animal off to its stable, he almost fancied he could hear its bones rattle with each step it took. Poor old beast, he murmured sympathetically. I would like to give you one good square meal, but I fear the shock of it would lay you out.
And the mayor, as if it understood him, looked at him with her saucer-like eyes in hopeless resignation. Such a thing as a square meal to her was a dream never to be realized. The old man wouldn't have the prisoners taken into the mansion. He was afraid of them, and so Joe tied them securely to posts in the stable. Inside the house there were bolts and bars without number. Every room appeared to be completely furnished, but the old-fashioned
mahogany pieces that must have been valuable in their day long ago were now given over to the ravages of dust and neglect. Adam Fairclough ate and slept in one little room at the top of the building, of which the boys caught only a momentary glimpse as the old man led them past another room in which were a bed, some chairs, and other articles in a fair state of preservation. There the miser left them after assuring Dick once more
that he was miserably poor and sorry he couldn't do better by them. Gee, grinned Joe when they were alone. What a liar the old fellow is. Never mind the old man, replied his chum. It's none of our business.
We've done our duty, and I can sleep like a top on the strength of it. There's one thing I'm glad about. Luke Maslin has skipped. Next morning old Faircloth produced some weak boiled coffee. and a plate of hard bread and cheese,
which he offered to them for breakfast with every evidence of earnest hospitality, repeating his refrain of abject poverty. He wrote down the boys' names in a big leather-bound book, making a large cross opposite Dick's name.
When they went out to the stable to look after Mudgett and Tim Bunker, they were surprised to find that the rascals had managed to liberate themselves somehow and had taken French leave. The boys didn't know whether to be glad or sorry,
but on the whole they were pleased to find that they would not have to appear against the housebreakers. Then they bade the old man goodbye, advising him to be very careful against any future attempts of a like nature. They reached the deserted farm about nine o'clock, looked after the horses,
made their stomachs happy with a substantial meal, and then hide themselves to the nutting ground, where they spent most of the day gathering up the remainder of the crop. Not knowing but they might possibly be surprised by the fugitives, Mudgett and Tim Bunker, if they pass the night in the house, they left the place before dark
and put up at Farmer Haywood's for supper and a bed. The next day they arrived back in Albany and dispose of their final load of nuts, the whole speculation netting the sum of $375. That same afternoon Dick sold the team for nearly $400. I think we can afford to take the train for New York, he said after figuring up his cash capital, which he found amounted to eight hundred fifty dollars, and Joe readily agreed with him,
for he had a hundred fifty-five dollars tucked snugly away in an inside pocket. End of chapter 12
