He could not give any intelligent explanation and awoke, as it were, to the horrible realization that he was the inmate of what seemed to him a prison, but which he was soon to find was the State Reform School. A new name had been given him, which was simply a number, and he had entered upon a new phase of life hitherto unknown to him and undreamed of. To tell how it had come about will involve a brief narrative that shows cruelty, scheming, audacity, almost inconceivable in these days of modern progress. The reader already knows how Tim Downey decided to destroy the _Spray_ and how he secured the co-operation of two former acquaintances and desperate villains, named Spofford and Daley. These men were professional thieves. Tim had once gone with them on a predatory excursion among the farmhouses near Millville, and when he came to Springfield it was with the intention of joining fortunes with them again. Daley and Spofford, released from the lockup after their spree, had been found by Tim Downey, and threatened by him had agreed to do the job for which they had been hired. Tim saw that they did not get anything more to drink, and they managed to get aboard the _Spray_ while Dean Mercer slept. The boy was chloroformed, and while Tim set fire to the boat the others bore the boy away. Dean Mercer knew absolutely nothing for hours and hours. When he awoke, it was to find himself being roughly jolted in a wagon. His hands and feet were tied, and he lay in a pile of hay under a seat on which he saw two men. “Help! Where am I?” One of the men, Daley, leaned back and glared at Dean with a savage scowl. “Shut up!” he ordered. “Where am I?” “I’ll gag you if you don’t! Drive on, Spofford. There’s the place yonder, among the trees.” To say that Dean was amazed, would be to express his emotions faintly. He was mystified and alarmed. What had happened? Where was he? Who were the two men on the wagon seat? Why was he bound and taken away? The manner of Daley boded no good intent in his movements. Dean was silent. He tried to think out the bewildering mystery of the moment, but vainly. “Here, boy, you drink!” As the wagon came to a halt, Daley sprang over the seat and held a flask to Dean’s lips. “I am not thirsty.” “Drink, I say.” “I won’t.” “Then I’ll make you.” Daley did make him, and Dean wriggled and twisted vainly as the man forced some burning liquid down his throat. He moaned feebly as his senses seemed reeling once more, and he knew that some powerful drug had been administered to him. “Is he all right?” asked Spofford. “I guess so,” replied Daley, who watched Dean until he saw his heavy eyelids close. “Drive on.” “That’s the house ahead?” “Yes.” “Will we find Justice Mullern there?” “I guess we will. If he is in town we’ll wait for him. I don’t want to take the case among people.” The wagon was driven close to the gateway to quite a pretentious residence.