If there was any one who had an inkling of what disturbing matters were in store it was the silent, shabby Roger Bardwell who did Samuel Skerry’s errands, helped to mend Hopewell’s rows of broken shoes and who, in spite of his shyness and the evil reputation of his master, seemed to have won the good will of all who knew him. It began to be that people bringing boots to be mended asked that the apprentice do the work instead of the cobbler himself for, as Goodwife Allen said: “That surly Skerry makes me feel that with every stitch he puts into the leather he has sewed in a poisoned thought of me and mine.” At first the shoemaker took such requests as ill-naturedly as you would expect of so sour tempered a man; later he would merely shrug his shoulders and say: “If the boy wishes to do twice as much work as his master, what have I to say? So be it you pay me the money I care not who bears the labour.” For it was well known that Skerry loved money almost as much as he hated his fellow men. Throughout this summer it began to happen more and more often that villagers, coming to ask for Roger Bardwell, found only the scowling master-cobbler, and on their inquiring where the boy might be were told that “he was off in the forest somewhere, wasting the precious minutes that might otherwise be turned into good silver coin.” “Ay, coin for you but not for him,” Goody Parsons retorted one day. “When you pay the boy no wages you have no just cause for complaint if now and then he steals a moment for himself.” “A moment!” snarled Skerry. “Why, he is often gone for a whole day and a night and sometimes more. He used to waste his time sailing a boat down yonder on the bay, but now he has given up even that pastime for these endless expeditions into the wood.” “Tell me, friend, what errand takes him there and for such long spaces of time,” inquired the Goody eagerly. “Tell me and I vow I will whisper it to no one.” The shoemaker rocked back and forth upon his stool in silent, ill-natured glee. “And this is the dame who had sworn to give over gossiping,” he exclaimed. “No, you would not whisper it, you would shout it louder than could the town crier himself. Therefore I will not tell you.” “I think you do not know,” returned Goody Parsons with spirit, and she flounced out of his workshop with as much haughtiness as her still old joints would permit. She left Skerry muttering and frowning over her remark, which had evidently come nearer to the truth than he liked. It was not often that the shoemaker’s crafty curiosity failed to penetrate the most hidden mysteries, but in this matter of his helper’s absence he seemed to have met with distinct failure. Whatever it was that took Roger Bardwell so often to the forest, whatever it was that made his blue eyes more serious and his face more sober every day, no questioning or spying on his master’s part served to draw the secret from him.