“No; it won’t kill you, but it’s awful cold,” said the boy, as he advanced towards the bed with a large pitcher in his hand. “Come, now, I must be off before sunrise. Don’t tell me any whopper now. Out with it.” “Oh!” burst in half-frightened accents from the helpless red-face; but then a very different look began to creep across it. “Barnaby Vernon, my boy.” “Is that my name?” “It was your father’s before you, and you’re coming out just like him. I reckon it’s that that fetches me now. Bar Vernon, if you make me one promise, I’ll be fair with you.” “Now that I know my own name, I’ll promise anything,” excitedly exclaimed Barnaby. “Well, then--quick now, listen, before I change my mind--you see that little black valise?” “Seen it a thousand times,” said Bar. “That’s yours, but you must promise not to open it for a year and a day. I’ll be either dead or a thousand miles from here then.” “Most likely dead,” growled Bar, who evidently bore small affection to his big relative. “But I’ll promise. Will it tell me anything?” “Everything; but, Barnaby, not for a year and a day! You always kept your word, just like your father.” “I’ll keep it,” said Bar, firmly, “and now, good-bye, Major Montague, if that’s your name--only it isn’t. I can’t say I forgive you exactly, but we’ll part friends. No more acrobat and juggling and tight-rope and wonderful performances for me.” “But what’ll you do? ’Twon’t be long before you’ll be hunting me up again.” “Guess not,” said Bar. “My clothes are pretty good, and I’ve collected my last six months’ wages out of the money you gave me when you came in last night. There’s a receipt for it, and there’s the rest of the money. You’ll find it all right.” “Wages? Receipt? Jack Chills!” almost screamed Major Montague. “Exactly,” said Bar. “I’ve stopped working for nothing and being knocked down for it; good-bye, old fellow.” So saying, Barnaby Vernon, for he somehow felt safe about so calling himself, picked up a very well-filled leather traveling bag with one hand and the mysterious little valise with the other, and started for the door. “Jack Chills! Barnaby! Come back with that money! I’ll have you arrested! I’ll strangle you!” “Stop that noise,” replied Bar, “or I’ll douse you all over.” “Barnaby!” “There, then if I must!” Barnaby had put down the valise and caught up the pitcher, and the voice of the man on the bed died away in a wretched sort of shivering whine as the chilly flood came swashing down upon him. “How he does hate water,” muttered Bar, as he again seized his new-found property, and glided out into the passageway. Neither voice nor pursuing feet came after him, for Major Montague was struggling frantically, like a man with the hydrophobia, to divest himself of his saturated habiliments, and his rum-destroyed strength was by no means equal to the task.