Harry helped the children pick up their berries, and remained with them through the forenoon. CHAPTER XI — THE TWO CONSPIRATORS Philip thirsted for revenge upon Harry, but it did not seem very clear in what way it was to be obtained. The trouble was that Harry was always in the right in all the difficulties they had had, and was likely to have popular sympathy on his side. As Philip walked home, fuming with anger, it occurred to him to make a formal complaint against Harry before a justice of the peace. But the examination which would ensue would disclose his unjustifiable conduct in the berry field, and he reluctantly abandoned the idea. While in this state of mind he met a recent acquaintance, some three years older than himself, named James Congreve. Congreve was boarding at the village hotel, with apparently no business on hand more pressing than smoking, fishing and lounging about the village. He came from the city of Brooklyn, and had been sent to this quiet village to remove him from the temptations of the city. He had been in several business positions, but had given satisfaction in none, and, so far as usefulness was concerned, was perhaps as well off here as anywhere else. As James Congreve wore good clothes, and had a showy gold watch and chain, which indicated worldly prosperity, Philip was glad to make his acquaintance, for Congreve taught him to smoke and play cards for money. So when the two met James Congreve asked, languidly: “What are you up to, Philip?” “Not much,” answered Philip, suddenly. “You look out of sorts.” “Oh, I’ve just had a fight with a boy in the berry pasture.” “I hope you didn’t hurt him much,” said Congreve, smiling. “No; but I’d like to,” replied Philip, spitefully. “Who is the villain?” “Harry Gilbert, a low, impudent upstart.” “Yes, I know; used to be in the grocery store, didn’t he?” “Yes.” “What’s he done now?” “Oh, it’s too long a story to tell. He was impudent to me, that’s all. I would like to annoy him in some way.” “Get him into a scrape, eh?” “Yes.” “Perhaps we can think of some way. If you haven’t anything better to do, come up to my room and play cards.” “I don’t mind.” Soon afterward the two were sitting at a small table in Congreve’s bedroom at the hotel, playing poker. This is essentially a gambling game, and for that reason it was a special favorite with James Congreve. He was much more than a match for Philip, whom he had initiated into the mysteries of the game. “How much do I owe you, Congreve?” asked Philip, as they sat down to their unprofitable employment. “I don’t know, exactly; I’ve got an account somewhere,” answered Congreve, carelessly. “It must be as much as ten dollars,” said Philip, rather uneasily. “Somehow, you always have more luck at the cards than I do.” “Luck will change in time. Besides, I am in no hurry for the money.”