“It’s all right, Judge. My boy goes back to Ogleport Academy in a couple of weeks or so, and our young friend must go with him. He must let me pay at least a year’s schooling on account of the thousand dollars’ reward. He’s saved me ten thousand, to say the least. A good deal more, I’m afraid. It’ll be just the place for him, and his old scoundrel of an uncle will never think of hunting for him there.” “That’s it,” shouted the judge; “only you must count me in, somewhere. My young friend, maybe my turn’ll come when that valise is opened. It may be chock full of law business, for all you know. Hullo, the boy’s crying!” It was a fact, though it did not long continue so. Poor Bar’s anxieties and excitements, with the task of detailing his sufferings and adventures, crowned as all had been by such a wonderful result, had been too much for him. With all his hardly acquired keenness and self-possession, Bar Vernon was only a boy, after all, and he was altogether unused to such treatment as he was now receiving. Besides, the idea of going to school, of all things, and in the country, and in decent company, such as he longed for--it was too much indeed, and Bar had covered his face with his hands. “That’s all right,” said the doctor; “but now, Judge, I must see all this stuff safely deposited in bank, this time; I shan’t be easy till I’ve done that.” “And I won’t leave you till you do,” said the Judge. “But how about Barnaby?” “The carriage I came in is still at the door,” said Bar, looking up; “you might ride down in that and leave me at the hotel.” “The very thing,” said the doctor. “And then I can call for you on my way back, and bring you right up here. No more hotel for you, my boy.” Bar felt very much like going on with his cry, but the two old gentlemen were in a hurry, and in a few moments more the dignified porter almost broke his neck looking after the carriage as it carried off that trio. It was barely an hour later that the clerk of the hotel, after bowing most respectfully to the great physician, was electrified by his inquiring for Mr. Vernon. “Didn’t know he was sick.” “Sick? No, indeed,” replied the doctor. “He’s coming up to visit with my boy for awhile. Send up for him, please.” “Youngster’s all right, after all,” muttered the clerk to himself, “but that villainous looking Major Montague was here for him again this morning. Anyhow, he’s in good hands now. Wonder who his father is?” That was just the puzzle that was troubling the mind of our hero, and the doctor, and even the busy old judge himself, all the rest of that long, hot August day, and the little black valise never said or hinted a single word to relieve them. CHAPTER VII HUNTING THE COWS