Dave Porter at Oak Hall. Stratemeyer Edward

About twelve years before this story opens he had been found, one summer evening, wandering near the railroad tracks just outside of the village of Crumville. Some farm hands had discovered him, sitting on a fallen tree, calling for "the bad train to come back!" From the little fellow the farm hands had gathered that the train had stopped, and he had been put off by "a bad, bad man, who wouldn't buy the candy after all!" The waif was tired and hungry, and was taken to ​a neighboring farmhouse and there fed and put to bed.

      For two weeks the little fellow remained at the farmhouse, and during that time every effort was made to find out his identity, and learn why he had been abandoned in such a heartless fashion. Questioned on the point, he said his name was Dave, or Davy, and sometimes he added Porter, and then, again, Dun-Dun, whatever that might mean. Because of this, he was generally spoken of as Dave Porter, and that was the name that eventually clung to him.

      All efforts to ascertain who the waif was proved fruitless, and the lost one was thereupon turned over to the matron of the district poorhouse. As fortune would have it, she proved a kind woman, and brought up the little lad as if he were her own. He was given a fair amount of schooling, and likewise religious instruction, and was also taught to work.

      Dave remained at the poorhouse farm until he was about nine years old. During those years Crumville grew from a village into a town, and many rich people settled there. Including a Mr. Oliver Wadsworth, who erected a jewelry works employing several hundred hands. Mr. Wadsworth was a liberal and public-spirited citizen, and we shall hear more of him in the near future.

      As Crumville grew, the poorhouse with its farm ​was removed to another locality and placed under an entirely different management. The three boys at the institution were bound out to such persons as desired them, and Dave was sent to live with an elderly man named Caspar Potts, who had, the year before, purchased one of the hillside farms back of Crumville. By many Caspar Potts was considered to be "a bit off," as they expressed it, but as he appeared to be able to support Dave, the poorhouse management did not hesitate to place the waif in his charge. Dave was nothing to them, and all they wished to do was to get rid of him.

      The boy had been very skeptical about going to live with old Caspar Potts, but his doubts soon vanished, and inside of a month he was glad the change had come to him. Much to his surprise, he learned that Caspar Potts had once been a college professor, but over-application to work had broken him down mentally, and then the man—who in his younger days had been brought up on a farm—had given up teaching and gone back to the soil.

      "Stick by me, Dave," the old man had said. "Stick by me, and I'll feed and clothe you, and give you an education besides." And Caspar Potts had kept his word as far as he was able, and now Dave had more of an education than most lads of his years. More than that, he had learned many ​things not taught in the lower schools, and of these, in his own quiet way, he was rather proud.

      During the past year matters had been going gradually from bad to worse. Through the winter Caspar Potts was very sick, and this illness ate up almost every dollar the man had saved. When spring came he was too weak to work at plowing and planting, and consequently this fell to Dave's lot. The two lived alone, and there were times when Caspar Potts was certainly more than half out of his mind, acting childish, and begging Dave not to desert him.

      "I am not going to desert you," had been Dave's answer. "You have done for me as long as you could, and now I am going to do for you."

      "But they may put us out of this house, Dave."

      "If they do, we'll have to find some other place to live."

      "I cannot undertake to develop another farm, lad; I am too old and feeble."

      "Oh, you mustn't talk that way, professor." Dave sometimes called him professor just to please him, and it suited the old man very well. "You are not so very old—and you'll feel better before long."

      "Do you think so, my boy?" questioned the old man, wistfully.

      "I'm sure of it."

      "It does me good to hear you say so, Dave. ​You must know, for you're a smart lad, and you are bound to be a great man some day—I can see it sticking out all over you. Tell me now, would you like to be a professor, or would you rather be a farmer?"

      "I don't know exactly what I'd like to be, just yet. I don't know enough of the outside world."

      "Ha!" the old man drew a long breath. "That is true, Davy; that is true. You'll find it a hard world, with many sharp corners and many pitfalls. But you'll get through, you'll get through—I can see it in your face. You'll get through!"

      ​

      CHAPTER II

      AN UNACCEPTED OFFER

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      When Dave returned home that night he was eighty-four cents richer than when he started out, directly after dinner. Ben Basswood had helped him to pick huckleberries until sundown and insisted that Dave should keep the entire proceeds.

      "I like to help you, Dave," said Ben, on parting. "If you ever get in a hole let me know." He would have offered Dave some of his spending money, but felt that the lad would not accept it.

      When Dave reached the cottage in which Caspar Potts and himself resided he found the old man walking up and down on the porch and wringing his hands.

      "Oh, so you are back at last, Dave! I was afraid you had—had left me!"

      "You know better than that, professor."

      "But it is so late."

      "Yes, I stayed up on the mountain longer than I intended."

      "Did you get any huckleberries?"

      "Over ten quarts, and sold them to Mr. Jackson for eighty-four cents."

      ​"That's fine!" The old man's face brightened. "I could do that work—it's not hard. But I don't see how I'm to get up the mountain," and his face fell again.

      "Has anybody been here since I went away?"

      "Yes; Aaron Poole's son—a very high-toned young man. He drove up in a fancy cart to tell me that his father would be here to-morrow morning for the interest on the mortgage."

      "And what did you tell him?"

      "I—I told him I couldn't pay up just yet—that he must wait a little."

      "And what did he say to that?"

      "His nose went up into the air and he said I must pay. That if I didn't his father was going to have the place sold. He was very lordly and—and somewhat abusive."

      "Abusive? What do you mean by that?"

      "He—he said his father was foolish to trust his money to such a—a—crazy, good-for-nothing fellow as myself. Caspar Potts' lips quivered as he spoke. "He said I was a—a lunatic, and ought to be in an asylum."

      "I wish Nat Poole would mind his own business," cried Dave. "If I ever meet him I'll give him a piece of my mind."

      "I am not crazy, am I, Dave?" asked the old professor, anxiously. "Tell me truly, lad?"

      "No, you are not crazy, and I don't think you ​will ever be," was the ready answer. "You've been sick, that's all."

      "Sometimes I feel very weak here." Caspar Potts tapped his forehead. "But it doesn't last long."

      "What you need is a good long rest, professor."

      "Yes, yes; but how can I rest when these troubles——"

      "These troubles will all solve themselves somehow." Dave spoke as bravely as possible, solely for the old man's benefit, and not because he saw any solution himself. "Don't let's meet them halfway."

      "Very well, lad; I'll do as you