The father of Alf was a sturdy man and good one, but he had a weakness.  He was the chief supporter in the neighborhood of the itinerant minister who exhorted throughout this portion of the country, and he had imbibed, perhaps, too much of a fancy for hearing himself talk at revival meetings, and for hearing himself in long prayers at home.  His petitions covered a great range of subjects, and he was regular in their presentation.  The family prayers before breakfast every morning were serious matters to the boys from one point of view, and not as serious as they should have been from another.  Present, and kneeling at chairs about the room, they always were on these occasions, for the order was imperative, and the father’s arm was strong, and above the door hung a strap of no light weight, constituting as it had once done that portion of a horse’s harness known technically as the bellyband.  So the boys were always there, each at his particular chair, and Grant Harlson, who had been present at these orisons many a time, knew exactly where Alf’s chair was, and the attitude he must occupy.  It was close beside an open window, and his back was always toward the opening, this particular attitude having been dictated by the father in the vain hope of making his buoyant offspring more attentive if their gaze were diverted from things outside.  And all these circumstances the dreadful savage from the South Sea islands was considering with care.  They are very regular in their habits in the country, and he knew just the moment when the morning devotions would begin—­some fifteen minutes before the breakfast hour.  He knew about how long he would be in traversing the distance between his own house and the scene of the coming tragedy, and the morning after his resolve was made he bolted his own breakfast in a hurry, seized his spear, and scurried down the wood road until he approached the verge of the Maitland clearing.  Then began a series of extraordinary movements.

Mr. Maitland’s house stood close by the wood at one side of the clearing, and Grant could easily have walked unperceived until within a few yards of the place, had he but kept hidden by the trees; but such was not his course.  Right across the clearing, and passing near the house, had been dug a great ditch a yard in depth, a year or two before, with the intent of draining a piece of lowland lately subjugated.  This ditch had been overgrown with weeds until it was almost hidden from sight, and now in summer time its bottom was but a sandy surface.  It was with the aid of this natural shelter that the wily invader proposed to steal upon his enemy.  Already he was lurking near its entrance.