that he was on the way
home by slow stages, and would doubtless appear under another name, to
avoid recognition by his uncle, Sparks Lemington. What new expectations
this letter raised in the humble Fenton home; together with the story of
the boat races on the Mohunk, has been related at length in the third
volume, just preceding this, and issued under the name of "Fred Fenton
on the Crew; Or, The Young Oarsman of Riverport School."

But now several months had passed, and as yet Hiram had not come. This
was telling heavily on Fred, who counted the days as they dragged past,
and kept wondering if, after all, the missing witness had died abroad,
and they would never get the benefit of his evidence.

He knew his father was once more falling back into his old condition of
mental distress, and he saw the lines gather on the usually smooth
forehead of his mother. But Fred was by nature a light-hearted lad, who
tried to look on the brighter side of things. He put these dismal
thoughts resolutely aside as much as he could and took his part in the
various pleasures that the young people of the town enjoyed.

Those who were at his side in all sorts of athletic rivalries never
suspected that the boy often worried. And even pretty Flo Temple, the
doctor's daughter, whom Fred always took to picnics, and on boat rides
on moonlight nights, as well as to singing school and choir meetings, if
she thought him a trifle more serious than seemed necessary, did not
know what an effort it required for Fred to hide his anxieties.

Of course both Bristles and Fred were in running costume, in that they
wore as scanty an outfit of clothes as possible. They were jogging
along leisurely, and this allowed plenty of time for talk between them.

Bristles was one of Fred's best chums. Not a great while back he had
fallen into what he called a "peck of trouble, with the pot boiling
over," and Fred had been of great help to him. In fact, had it not been
for him the mystery of who was taking some of Miss Muster's opals might
never have been cleared up; and the elderly spinster, who was Bristles'
mother's aunt, must have always believed that her grand-nephew was the
guilty one.

But Fred had proved otherwise. He had even been smart enough to have the
rich old maid on the spot when Gabe Larkins, the butcher's hired boy,
was secreting his last bit of plunder. In her gratitude at finding that
the culprit was not her own nephew, Miss Muster had even forg