“There are a good many ways by which Hugh O’Hara’s cabin can be found, but those who come on honest errands stick to the path.”

“Which explains why the path is so little worn,” was the reply of Harvey.

“Aye, and your feet have done mighty little to help the wearing of the same.”

“If those who live in the cabin were honest themselves, they would not tremble every time the latch-string is pulled, nor would they be scared if they saw a visitor stop to snuff the air in this neighborhood.”

This was an ill-timed remark, and Harvey regretted the words the moment they passed his lips.  He saw Hugh and Tom glance at each other; but the words, having been spoken, could not be recalled, nor did the superintendent make any attempt to modify them.  Before the others could answer, he added: 

“I have heard it said that Hugh O’Hara held this place in such strong disfavor that nothing could lead him to spend a night here, yet he smokes his pipe and plots mischief as if the cabin is the one place in the world with which he is content.”

These words were not soothing in their effect, nor did the speaker mean that they should be.  Hugh was insolent, and the superintendent resented it.

The only proof of the rising anger in the breast of O’Hara was the vigorous puffing of his pipe.  Tom, as I have said, was too awed to say anything at all.

“I am of age and free born,” growled Hugh, looking into the glowing embers and speaking as if to himself; “where I go and what I do concerns no one but myself.”

“Not so long as you go to the proper place and do only what is right,” said Harvey, who, sitting back a few feet from the fire, looked calmly at the fellow whose rough profile was outlined against the fiery background behind him.

“Men interpret right according to their own ideas, and they seldom agree, but most people will pronounce that person the worst sort of knave who robs poor men of what they earn and looks upon them as he looks upon the beasts of the field—­worth only the amount of money they bring to him.”

CHAPTER III.

Missing.

The conversation was taking a dangerous shape.  Harvey saw that it would not do for him to stay.  Both these men were fierce enough to fly at his throat.  That little cabin in the woods was liable to become the scene of a tragedy unless he bridled his tongue or went away.

Disdaining to say so much as “good-night,” he rose to his feet, opened the door, shut it behind him, and walked out in the blustery darkness.

“I would rather spend the night fighting tigers than to keep the company of such miscreants.  But the new hands will be here in a few days, and the fellows will be taught a lesson which they will remember all their lives.  I suppose I ought to pity their dupes, but they should have enough sense to see that these men are their worst enemies.  It will be a bright day for the Rollo Mills and for Bardstown when they are well rid of them.”