Frank of Freedom Hill   By: Samuel A. (Samuel Arthur) Derieux (1881-1922)

BY SAMUEL A. DERIEUX

[Illustration: Publisher's logo]

WITH A FRONTISPIECE IN COLOUR

GARDEN CITY NEW YORK DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1922

[Illustration: Old Frank and Tommy ]

COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

COPYRIGHT, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1920, 1921, BY THE CROWELL COMPANY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.

TO

DR. BLANCHE COLTON WILLIAMS

WHO BELIEVED I COULD WRITE

CONTENTS

PAGE

I. THE DESTINY OF DAN VI 1

II. PARADISE REGAINED 28

III. THE BOLTER 51

IV. OLD FRANK SEES IT THROUGH 74

V. AN ACT OF GOD 100

VI. COMET 122

VII. THE CRISIS IN 25 147

VIII. THE TRIAL IN TOM BELCHER'S STORE 167

IX. THE PURSUIT 194

X. THE LITTLE BOY IN THE BLACKBERRY PATCH 219

XI. BLOOD MONEY 245

XII. THE CALL OF HOME 266

FRANK OF FREEDOM HILL

I

THE DESTINY OF DAN VI

The baggageman slid open the side door of the car. With a rattle of his chain Dan sprang to his feet. A big red Irish setter was Dan, of his breed sixth, and most superb, his colour wavy bronze, his head erect and noble, his eyes eloquent with that upward looking appeal of hunting dog to hunting man.

Cold, pine laden air deluged the heated car and chilled his quivering nose and swelled his heaving chest. Beyond the baggageman he saw through the open door, as on a moving picture screen, sunlit fields and sunlit woods whirling past. He began to bark at them eagerly, his eyes hungry, his tail beating against the taut chain an excited tattoo. The baggageman turned with a grin.

"Birds?" he said.

At the word the dog reared straight up like a maddened horse. Full throated angry barks, interspersed with sharp, querulous yaps, filled his roaring, swaying prison. How long since he had got so much as a whiff of untainted air, or a glimpse of wild fields and woods! Out there oceans of such air filled all the space between the gliding earth and the sky. Out there miles on miles of freedom were rushing forever out of his life. He began to rage, to froth at the mouth. The baggageman closed the door.

"Hard, old scout!" The baggageman shook his head.

Resignedly the dog sank on his belly, his long body throbbing, his nose between his paws. A deep sigh puffed a little cloud of dust from the slatted floor.

Three years before he had opened his amazed puppy eyes on this man (and woman) ruled planet. An agreeable place of abode he had found it as long as he was owned by a man. The Jersey kennels of George Devant had bred him; Devant had himself overlooked his first season's training, had hunted him a few times. At Devant's untimely death, Mrs. Devant had sold the place, the kennels, the mounts. But when, followed by a group of purchasing sportsmen, the widow came to the kennel where he waited at the end of his chain, she had clasped her hands together and cried out:

"I won't sell this one!"

Lancaster, bachelor friend of the late Devant, spoke up:

"Why, I had my eyes on him."

"You won't get him," she laughed. "He'll live with me won't you, beauty?"

"He's not a lap dog," Lancaster had reminded her.

"Don't you suppose I understand him?" she demanded.