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The sharp work was over, and the race won, as all
fancied; but still Harry relaxed nothing of his skill, or
his horses' speed. For without worrying them at all,
he kept them all at three parts speed, on a beautiful
high trot, holding enough in hand to spare for a puff,
in case their pursuers should come up.

“These horses perform beautifully,” said Heneage,
who was now growing easier in mind.

“Yes. Very fairly, for a catch team. That blue
roan has a nice cat-like, easy gait. He can go seventeen
miles the hour, and does not look as if he were
doing ten. The white horse snatches at his bit a thought
too much, and the sorrel bores. But they do very
well—very well, as I said, for a catch team.”

“You were lucky to catch such a team, at so short a
notice.”

“You mean to say that you were. It was no luck to
me, for I don't want them. As for the rest, I always
know where there are good horses, and what will buy
them. These cost me a pretty figure.”

“How much?”

“They spoiled the face of a thousand dollar bill, I
assure you.”

“Well, you shall be no loser, Harry, if we win. I
shall want four horses to take home, and show them in
the Park what Yankee trotters can do—”

“To win a Yankee wife!” said Archer, with a sly
glance at Maria.

“I will give you a thousand for them, at all events.”

“No, you won't!”

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“Why not? I will, I say. You shall not be a loser,
for my nonsense.”

“Hold! hold hard, Fred; do you call this nonsense?
No, I won't sell them; I mean them for a wedding
present to one Mrs. Frederic Heneage; do you know
such a lady?”

While they were chatting thus, they had left the valley
of the Ramapo, left Garry Bamper's and New Prospect,
left the bright stream that turns Zabrisky's mills,
and his snug cottage far behind them. They had
clomb the first pitch of the Red hills, and could see
Hackensack lying in the broad vale, scarcely four miles
away.

At this moment Forester, whom they had not seen
since they left young Tom's, overtook them at a gallop.

“He has got a horse,” he cried, as he came within
ear-shot, “from the flying Dutchman, and a remount
for both his men. I waited on him all the way, and
he is now nearly up with us—not half a mile off.”

“On horseback, or in the sulky?”

“On horse—and a devilish good horse, too!—It was
only on a distance, that the Trojan can leave him.”

“Are his men up with him?”

“Not quite—a quarter of a mile behind.”

“All right—keep near us.”

“He will overhaul you.”

“Not yet, not yet,” replied Harry, flanking his off-leader,
“Go up to your traces, sirrah!—not yet. I
cannot afford to let him overhaul us quite yet.”

And he put his horses all into a gallop down a gentle
declivity, where the road was hard and even.

In a few moments, however, they got into deep sand,
and the nags fell into a trot. D'Arcey came in sight,
and, when they were yet a mile or two distant from
Hackensack, he rode up alongside.

“Stop! stop!” he shouted.

“To whom are you speaking, sir?” asked Archer,

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keeping his horses to their work, but without quickening
his pace.

“Stop instantly?” repeated Theodore, thrusting his
hand into the bosom of his riding-frock, “or I will
shoot your leader.”

Without saying one word, Harry Archer put the reins
into Heneage's hands—“Keep them just there!”—
then stooped and drew one of the long-barrelled Kuchenre
üters from a holster, under the box, cocked it
quietly, and then turning to D'Arcey, who, notwithstanding
his threat, had not drawn his pistol, said
calmly—

“You are a lawyer, Mr. D'Arcey, and know what
right a man has to deal summarily with one who stops
him on the high-road with threats. You have fired
once at our party this morning. Now, sir, if I chose
it, I might shoot you, without fear of consequences,
through the head—but, upon my honor, you are not
worth the powder and shot. Frank Forester, ride close
to his bridle-rein—that is it—keep just there. Now, if
he draws his pistols, knock him off his horse with your
iron hunting-whip.”

D'Arcey looked round for the support of his men,
but although in sight, they were too far off to assist
him, and he reined up his horse to await their aid, with
a bitter oath.

“I'll pay you for this, ere you are fifteen minutes
older. We shall meet in Hackensack.”

“I hope so,” replied Archer. “Now for the keybugle.
I must let old Tom know that we are coming.
I think Yankee Doodle will be the best now, to cheer
the gentleman up a little.”

And with the words, he blew the strain up clear and
shrill, and met his reply instantly, in such a stentorian
roar from the lips of old Draw, although at half a
mile's distance, as drowned the sounds of the vocal
brass.

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Five minutes more, and they pulled up under the
long Dutch porch of Vanderbeck's neat tavern, where
Harry's own team, the blacks and chesnuts, were ready
in their neat clothes, and pawing the ground, eager for
a start.

The fat man stood on the step of the bar-room, in
his element; but his face fell a little, as he saw that
there were no pursuers in sight.

“How's this? how's this? boys”—he shouted;
harn't he had heart to foller. Darnation, that's bad.
I'd a-played a merry hell with him—if he'd comed
down. Harn't you heard on him?”

“Indeed have we,” said Archer. That chesnut on
the near lead, Joe. He would have caught us beyond
young Tom's, if Forester had not broken the bridge!”

“Who-whoop! who-whoop! By the Etarnal; did
he though?—did he break down the bridge?—he's a
peeler, is little wax skin anyhow. But you harn't seen
him since? hey?”

“Not ten minutes ago. He bought a fresh horse
from the Dutchman, and overhauled us on the Red
hills, and threatened to shoot my leader.”

“Consarn his hide on him! Did he, though? Wait
jest a little, Aircher, dew, and see how I'll fix him off.”

“Have you got it all made right?”

“Sartain. I made the afferdavit, and Squire Breawn,
he gin me a warrant slick away, to hold him for a thousand.
Mike here has got the warrant.”

“Can't he get bail, here?”

“I guess not—he harn't got no friends no how—
unless so be, Mr. Aircher, you bids Vanderbeck bail
him.”

“I don't think I shall do that,” said Archer laughing.
“Now to make all sure, Forester, you must stay
back here, and if Tom's warrant fail, or he gets bailed
which I think he can't, swear your life against him,
and bind him to keep the peace.”

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At this moment D'Arcey and his two men gallopped
up, just as Archer was going to ascend his box.

“We are in time,” he shouted. “Seize the horses
by the heads, Peter.”

And as he spoke, he leaped to the ground, and was
dashing forward, when old Tom threw his hat into the
air with a prodigious whoop, and leaped down in front
of him.

“I parjured myself didn't I, you etarnal thunderin'
liar? He's your man, constable, lay hold on him.”

“Is your name Theodore D'Arcey, sir,” said the
other man, approaching him.

“What if it be?” he asked hastily.

“You are my prisoner, sir,” he replied, laying his
hand on his shoulder, “unless you can give bail for a
thousand dollars, to answer Mr. Draw's charge of defamation.”

“It is a d—d trick—help me here, Dick, Peter; I'll
hold you harmless.”

“I charge you in the State's name, assist me”—
shouted the constable to Archer, holding D'Arcey with
a firm gripe.

“Stand back, stand back, man; keep the peace,”
cried Archer, as the men pressed on to rescue Theodore.

“Nay, then, take that!”

And suiting the action to the word he dealt the fore-most
a flush blow in the face, which hurled him to the
ground, helpless and motionless; while fat Tom seizing
the second by the scruff of his neck, as he termed it, and
the seat of his breeches, hurled him over his head, as
cleanly as if he had shot from an engine.

Resistance was in vain, and seeing that it was so,
D'Arcey began to parley.

“We will cut all this short, in a moment, Sir,” said
Harry “step with me into the next room, sign a full
consent of your sister's marriage with my friend, which
you cannot prevent—make a virtue of necessity—shake

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hands with Heneage, who is a right good fellow, and
will forgive and forget—ride back to my place, spare
us all farther trouble, and let the whole affair end as it
should, by a quiet wedding at the Elms.—Then I will
be your bail, or at least will indemnify a bailsman for
you here, and will get Tom to withdraw his suit.
Come, let it be a bargain.”

“Oh! do brother—do dear Theodore.”

“There is my hand,” said Heneage cordially.

“And I'll say nothing about that cursed bad shot
you made,” said Forester laughing.

“And you may say that I'm parjured jest ten times
a day if you will”—said Tom, “'taint much slander
no how”—he added in a low voice, “seein who it
comed from.”

“I will see you all at the devil first,” said he spitefully.

“May be you will”—said old Tom, “consid'rin
that you'll go there sartain—but we'll see you in the
stone jug fust. Come constable, do your dooty.”

“Do you wish time to find bail, sir?”

“I can find none here; I must send to the city.”

“No need for that, Mr. D'Arcey,” said Forester
tauntingly, “we shall be back this afternoon, and we
will let you out then, when you can do no more harm.”

“Oh brother!” exclaimed Maria, looking tenderly
at him, with clasped hands.

But seeing by the expression of his face that some
bitter, perhaps brutal reply was coming, Harry spared
her the pain of hearing it, by putting his beautiful fresh
team to the trot.

In less than an hour, they reached the ferry, with the
nags all fresh and lively, and all in good spirits, for
Maria, convinced that her brother would suffer no inconvenience
beyond a temporary detention, was now
well disposed to treat the whole matter as a joke.

Their glee was augmented too by the arrival of Frank,

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who came up with them at Hoboken, laughing so that
he could hardly sit in his saddle.

“He is jugged”—he cried—“fairly jugged, and
that old devil Tom is sitting at his cell door, plaguing
him—I would not be in Tom's shoes for a thousand if
he should get out—I believe he's gnawing the bars to
get at him. If I were you, Fred, I would look before
I leaped.—These things run in the blood. I dare say
she'll beat you before three weeks are over.”

“I certainly would beat you,” answered Maria,
shaking her little hand at him, “if I could reach you.”

“Of course you would. That is woman's gratitude.
Because I broke the bridge for you, and got shot at by
that bungling fellow! I dare say he'll have me indicted
too, and jugged myself for defacing the highway.”

“We'll hold you free from damage,” said Archer—
“but, here we are, at the foot of Barclay St.—What
o'clock? only half past nine by George—fifty miles over
such roads, in four hours, is going. Whither now?
To the Globe?”

“Oh! yes, to Blancard's certainly.”

“And a cab thence to the mayor's office,” added
Harry.

“I wish I could go with you thither,” said Forester,
“but I have urgent and immediate business.”

“The deuce! what is that?”

“Oh never mind! I will be here when you get back.”

“Here we are—then.—How do you do, Blancard?—
These ladies to your best private parlor—my horses
to the stable, and a good four wheeled cab directly.”

“Directly, Mr. Archer,” said that prince of hosts,
bowing and smiling, and showing the beautiful girl the
way up stairs, marvelling greatly what could be in the
wind, but too discreet to say a word or ask a question.

It was barely eleven o'clock when Fred and Heneage,
after handing Maria and her old companion into
the cab, jumped in themselves, and drove away to

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what the papers call the hymeneal altar; curiously represented
by a mayor's mahogany desk, with a rum
looking genius in very foggy spectacles, cracking most
lamentable jests, and looking as if begot by an owl of
a methodist parson, as the officiating priest.

At twelve o'clock they returned, happy man, happy
bride. And then it was apparent what had been Fred's
urgent and immediate business.

For after they had sat with the ladies about ten
minutes, Blancard himself entered discreetly, and begging
pardon for the interruption, informed Archer that
his presence and that of Mr. Heneage was earnestly
requested in another room.

“Good Heaven! what can it be?” said Heneage.

“Some of Frank's folly I'll be bound,” said Archer.

And sure enough when they reached the other room,
there round an amply furnished board, with Burgundy
beyond account, champagne punch creaming in a vast
bowl, hock almost frozen in its silver coolers, the
Globe's unrivalled Sercial and every drinkable that can
be named or dreamed of—there stood, with bumpers
ready filled, waiting their cue from Forester.—There
stood—the boys!

The Tall Spirit, towering above the rest, with his blue
eye and handsome face beaming with deviltry and good-natured
malice—the bald benevolence of the Doctor's
classic head—the thin lips of long Massachusetts
wreathed into a pleasant smile—the fine and manly
beard of Tom Hutch—the waggish, devil-may-care,
rakish cut of my Lord George Gordon—and, at the
head, flanked by Sully on one hand and Kendall on the
other, Frank Forester in all his glory.

“The Lord have mercy on us!” cried Archer
solemnly.

“Health and long life and happiness!”—cried Forester,
draining a potent draught and flinging the empty
glass over his head.

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“Health and long life and happiness! Hurrah!”
and amid the roar of voices and the clang of breaking
beakers, due homage was performed to Heneage and
his beauteous bride.

“One more toast!” shouted Forester.—“The match
maker!”

“The match maker! Hurrah! may he make many
such.”

“It takes you, hoss!” said the Spirit, slapping Harry
on the back.

“Why yes, Bill”—answered Harry—“we can do
some things at MY SHOOTING BOX.”