Andy the Acrobat | Page 8

is, Mr. Dale, I burned down one of your haystacks about an hour ago."
"What! You burned one of my haystacks? Which one--which one?" demanded Dale, growing pale with excitement.
"The little one to the north-east of the field," explained Andy. "I should think it held between two and three tons."
Farmer Dale dropped the lines and jumped down into the road from the wagon, whip in hand. All his jubilant slyness deserted him. He began to get frightfully worked up over Andy's news.
"Wait a minute," pleaded Andy. "Don't get excited till I explain. I managed to save the other stacks. It was all an accident, but I want to pay the damage. Yes, I'll pay you, Mr. Dale."
"You'll have to, you bet on that!" snorted the farmer wrathfully. "I'll go to your aunt right off with the bill."
"Don't do it, Mr. Dale," advised Andy. "She preaches lots about honesty and responsibility and all that, but she's mighty close when it comes to the dollars. She wouldn't pay you a cent, no, sir, but I will. That hay is worth about twenty dollars, I reckon, Mr. Dale?"
"Well, yes, it is," nodded the farmer. "Good timothy is scarce, and that was a prime lot."
"I've got no money, of course," went on Andy, "but I thought this: couldn't you give me some work to do and let me pay it out in that way? I'll do my level best to--"
"Oh! that's your precious proposition, is it?" snarled Mr. Dale, switching the whip about furiously. "No, I couldn't. The hand I've got now is idle half the time. See here, Wildwood, arson is a pretty serious crime. You'd better square this thing some way. In fact you've got to do it, or there's going to be trouble."
"I know what you mean," said Andy--"you'll have me arrested. You mustn't do that, Mr. Dale--I feel bad enough, I'm in a hard enough corner already. I want to do what's right, and I intend to. I owe you twenty dollars. Will you give me time to pay it in? Will you take my note--with interest, of course--for the amount?"
"Will I--take your note--interest? ha! ha! oh, dear me! dear me!" fairly exploded Dale in a burst of uproarious laughter.
"Secured," added Andy in a business-like tone.
"Secured by what?" demanded Dale eagerly.
"I can't tell you now. I will to-night, or to-morrow morning."
"You don't mean old ball bats, or your mud scow in the creek, or that kind of trash?" inquired Dale suspiciously.
"No, sir, I mean tangible security," declared Andy.
"You don't seem to carry much of it around with you," suggested Dale bluntly, casting a sarcastic eye over Andy's well-worn clothes.
"Perhaps not," admitted Andy, coloring up. "I can give you security, though. What I want to know is this: If I can place good security in the hands of a trusty person, will you give me--say--three months to pay you off in? If I don't, the person will sell the security and pay you in full."
"Why don't you put the security in my hands?" asked the farmer shrewdly.
"Because I have done some damage up at the schoolhouse. I want to pay for that, too. You will be satisfied with the security and the person holding it, Mr. Dale. I will let you know all about it before ten o'clock to-morrow morning."
Farmer Dale surveyed Andy with a long, curious stare, whistling softly to himself. His hot temper was subdued, now that he saw a prospect of payment for the burned hay.
"You talk straight off the reel, Wildwood," he said. "I believe you're honest. Go on with your little arrangement, and let's see how it pans out. I shan't make any move until after ten o'clock to-morrow morning."
"Thank you, Mr. Dale," said Andy. "I won't disappoint you."
Andy started to move away from the spot.
"Hold on," interrupted Dale. "Tell me how it happened."
Andy gave an unbiased account of the morning's occurrences.
"Ha! hum!" commented the farmer. "No end of scrapes because you're a lively lad and can't help it. See here, Wildwood, do you know what I would do if I were in your place?"
"No, what's that, Mr. Dale?" asked Andy.
"I'd join the show--yes, I would!" declared the farmer energetically. "I tell you I believe circus is born in you, and you can't help it. You don't have much of a life at home. You're not built for humdrum village life. Get out; grow into something you fancy. No need being a scamp because you're a rover. My brother was built your sort. They pinned him down trying to make a doctor of him, and he ran away. He turned up with a little fortune ten years later, a big-hearted, happy fellow. No one particularly knew it, but he'd been with a traveling minstrel show for those ten years. Now he's settled down, and I'd like to