“Yes, sir,” said Fred, hanging his head, “but he promises to do well, if he can only find work—­honest work; you see, sir, he is so bad nobody helps him.”

Mr. Sargent smiled.  “A strange recommendation, Fred,” he said, “but I will try what can be done.  A boy who wants to reform should have a helping hand.”

“He does want to—­he wants to heartily; he says he does.  Father, if you only will!”

Fred, as he stood there, his whole face lit up with the glow of this generous, noble emotion, never was dearer to his father’s heart; indeed his father’s eyes were dim, and his voice a little husky, as he said again: 

“I will look after him, Fred, for your sake.”

And so he did; but where and how I have not space now to tell my readers.  Perhaps, at some future time, I may finish this story; for the present let me say there is a new boy in Mr. Sargent’s store, with rough, coarse face, voice and manners; everybody wonders at seeing him there; everybody prophesies future trouble; but nobody knows that this step up in Sam Crandon’s life is Fred Sargent’s revenge.

THE SMUGGLER’S TRAP.

Hubert had accompanied his father on a visit to his uncle, who lived in a fine old country mansion, on the shore of Caermarthen Bay.

In front of the house spread a long beach, which terminated in precipitous cliffs and rocky ledges.  On the afternoon of the day following his arrival, he declared his intention of exploring the beach.

“Don’t get caught in ‘The Smuggler’s Trap,’” said his uncle, as he mentioned his plan.

“‘The Smuggler’s Trap?’”

“Yes.  It’s at the end of the beach where you see the cliffs.  It’s a hollow cave, which you can only walk at very low tide.  You’d better not go in there.”

“Oh, never fear,” said Hubert carelessly, and in a few minutes he was wandering over the beach, and after walking about two miles reached the end of the beach at the base of the great cliffs.

The precipice towered frowningly overhead, its base all worn and furrowed by the furious surges that for ages had dashed against it.  All around lay a chaos of huge boulders covered with seaweed.  The tide was now at the lowest ebb.  The surf here was moderate, for the seaweed on the rocks interfered with the swell of the waters, and the waves broke outside at some distance.

Between the base of the precipice and the edge of the water there was a space left dry by the ebb tide about two yards in width; and Hubert walked forward over the space thus uncovered to see what lay before him.

He soon found himself in a place which seemed like a fissure rent in a mountain side, by some extraordinary convulsion of nature.  All around rose black, precipitous cliffs.  On the side nearest was the precipice by whose base he had passed; while over opposite was a gigantic wall of dark rock, Which extended far out into the sea.  Huge waves thundered at its feet and dashed their spray far upward into the air.  The space was about fifty yards across.