The next morning, Jim woke up in a painful state. His joints ached and were sore, and his back and legs had red, swollen gashes, which were blistering. He eased himself out of bed, dressed in a pair of jeans that were loose fitting and an oversized, flannel, long-sleeved shirt, and headed out to the farm to start pick-up. Hauling hay in the pick-up and trailer was a daily job for Jim. The truck was an old beat up, oil burner that wasn�t good for anything other than driving out in the field. It was unbearable pain, but he managed to get himself behind the steering wheel, and drove out to haul bales of hay.

Pulling up next to the barn, Jim saw a red pick-up truck parked up by the house and instantly recognized it as the one from the diner. Hateful rage grew inside the young man�s head as he realized he was in the presence of a monstrous ogre and his accomplice. Voices were coming from inside the house, and even though Jim knew it wasn�t right to do so, he decided to listen in on the conversation anyway.

�I gotta make it to Sleepyside soon before Jim�s great-uncle kicks the bucket,� Jonesy said. �Rainsford was just here hoping to talk with Jim about his inheritance �cause apparently the old man�s dying or something.�

�How much is the inheritance?� a gruff voice asked, which Jim could only assume that it belonged to the man from the diner.

�Well, Rainsford wouldn�t say, but word has it that there�s supposed to be half a million dollars hidden somewhere in that house,� Jonsey replied. Jim could hear greed seething through his words. �I guess the house is pretty huge too. Been in the Frayne family for ages.�

�But where do you come in?�

�I don�t know. Probably when the geezer dies, I suppose. Everything has been left to Jim, though.�

�Hey, that�s too bad,� said the man. �You could sure use half a million dollars what with the money you lost at the race track in Saratoga a few years back.�

�Hey now, don�t start that, Gary. That horse was drugged, and I didn�t know it.� Jonesy�s voice grew louder at his friend. �How�d I know that some dumb kid, or jockey, whatever he is, would drug a horse and then get disqualified? I put quite a bit of money on it, because Worthington has good horses, you know.�

�You should�a sued the guy for what he did,� Gary said.

�Yeah,� Jonesy said. �If I ever get my hands on whoever it was that did it, he�ll pay dearly.�

�Now don�t get yourself into trouble, Simon. That temper of yours can go a bit far sometimes.�

�Oh look who�s talking, Gary.� Simon stormed. �Your wife left you because of your temper.�

�Naw, she left me because she found some rich brainless twit,� Gary retorted. �Ahh, she�s a cheap floozy anyway.�

�Yeah, I know how you like your women, Gar, cheap and out of a bottle.�

�Yup. They�re the best kind. Say, Jones, I gotta go. I have a deal with Cal at the bar tonight.� Gary�s footsteps come closer to the screen door and Jim slinked around the corner of the house. �He says it�s an offer I can�t refuse. We�ll see.�

�Be careful, Gar.� Jonesy said as he followed Gary out the screen door. �Cal�s not one to trifle with. He�ll cut you if he wants.�

�But I�m his best paying customer. Shoot, Jones. You have it good, you know,� Gary commented.

�How�s that?�

�You�ve got a stepson who ain�t worth a darn, who�s got an uncle ready to croak, and is getting himself a small fortune. Now if I could just get myself one of those.� Gary opened the door to his pick-up truck and slid in. �Say, lemme know if that offer still stands for you, and I�ll tell Cal. He could get you a blonde, you know. Betsy would treat you right.�

�Nah, Cal knows who I like. Besides, I�ve got my hands full here. Maybe later,� Jonesy said as Gary started up the engine. �I gotta keep my eye on that runt to see that he doesn�t run away again. Thanks for spotting him at Mona�s. Say, what about that waitress? Did she take your order, if you know what I mean?�

�Who? Roz? Are you kiddin�? I wouldn�t touch her at all. She�s too cheap for me.�

�I guess that must be cheap. Still, she�s got something there.�

Gary shrugged. �I guess. Well, see you later, Jones.� The rumble of his pick-up truck dwindled off in the distance as Gary drove down the dirt road to head into town. Jim heard the screen door slam as Jonesy walked back inside.

Quickly, Jim raced across the back yard and behind the barn and stayed there for a few minutes. He didn�t fancy another beating for being suspected of eavesdropping, but didn�t regret it. He had always known what Jonesy was doing at the bar late at night, but never had any evidence. Now if he could just get in touch with Mr. Rainsford about it, he could possibly be sent away to live in Sleepyside with his Uncle James instead of here at this dumpy old truck farm. An eccentric uncle would be a billion times better company than an abusive guardian.

The rest of the day, Jim worked out in the barn or in the field. Around dinnertime, he walked up to the house feeling famished, and noticed that Jonesy�s car was gone. Probably couldn�t resist that offer from Cal, Jim thought. So many opportunities to break lose and run away again, but he didn�t feel healthy enough to do it. After a hard day�s work, and the beating of a lifetime the night before, Jim ached with every step he took. The refrigerator didn�t present anything very appetizing, since all there was to eat was leftover take-out from Ming�s Chinese Restaurant, and beer. Wearily, Jim pulled the dutch oven out of the cupboard and filled it with water and brought it to a boil on the stovetop. He threw in two handfuls of spaghetti noodles and stirred them around. After a few minutes, he strained the noodles and heaped a plate full.

Feeling better after dinner, he spent the evening searching the house for his satchel that contained his letters from the school. He hoped that Jonesy hadn�t left them out in the forest, but could only come to that conclusion since he was unable to find them. It still wasn�t too late to call Mr. Franklin at home, so Jim got out the phone book and looked him up.

�Hello, Mr. Franklin?�

�Yes.�

�Hi. This is Jim Frayne, student at Albany High. I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me.�

�Sure Jim. What do you need?� Mr. Franklin�s voice grew tender, as if he were expecting Jim to reveal what types of things were happening at home.

�Do you still have those papers from the University of New York for me?�

�Why, yes,� Mr. Franklin said. �They�re at the school, in your file. Do you need them?�

�No. Not just yet. I just wanted to make sure that you still had them. Thanks though.�

�Jim, is anything wrong? You aren�t acting like yourself.�

�No, Mr. Franklin. Nothing�s wrong.� Jim winced at his own words. He was lying to someone as prominent in the community as the principle of the high school. He hated lying. �I was just checking.�

�Ok, son. But you call me if you ever need anything, all right?�

�Will do, Mr. Franklin, sir. Good-bye.�

�Good-bye, Jim.� Mr. Franklin hung up.

Over the next month, Jim tried to get in touch with Mr. Rainsford about the Frayne wills, and inheritance, but to no avail. Finally one day in July, Wednesday morning, Jim came in from cleaning the stables to find Jonesy sitting at the kitchen table with Jim�s satchel in front of him along with a folder that contained the copies of his grades, letters, marks, athletic and academic awards, and other things.

�Jim, what are these?� Simon held up some papers for Jim to see.

�They are papers from school. I tested out of my sophomore year and will be a junior next year.� Jim felt a little proud in telling about his accomplishments, but at the same time didn�t really care to be telling it to Jonesy.

�I read them, and frankly, I�m not ready to believe this.�

�But the letters are from Mr. Franklin himself, Simon.�

�Mr. Franklin is a crock,� he answered Jim, narrowing his catlike eyes. �I think this is all a plot for the authorities to take you away. Well, it ain�t gonna happen, you see?�

�But it�s not a plot,� Jim argued with growing agitation. �Those letters are from the teachers at the school and Mr. Franklin. Then there�s also the letter from NYU, about how they�ll accept me a year early.�

�Yeah, I�m sure.� Jonesy�s voice sounded sarcastic. �I ain�t thoroughly convinced about these. Besides, I don�t figure on how a dumb useless rat like you can test out of a whole year.� He started laughing, which only infuriated Jim all the more.

�Laugh all you want, Jonesy,� Jim yelled. �Those are real and I�m telling the truth.�

This made his stepfather howl with more laughter. �You are such a stinking liar. There�s no way possible you could ever pass anything. Why don�t you just stick to what you know, and that�s working on the farm?�

�I AM NOT A LIAR!� Jim screamed in a tirade.

Jonesy stood up to his full six-foot-seven hulking figure. �Don�t you take that tone with me, you stupid little kid. You�re not going anywhere and that�s final!�

Jim didn�t back down. �I have been to hell and back living here with you, Jones. I�ve seen you gamble your money away at racetracks, and throwing the rest of it at whores and beer. I�m sick and tired of the beatings, threats, being told that I�m worthless.�

�Better it come from me than from your mother,� Jonesy sneered at the boy. �You�d never believe the things she said about you and your failing attempts to show how much of a man you were.�

Jim remained calm and stared at the man square in the face. �You are so low, Jones. I was more of a man at three months old than you are now, you worthless bucket of vomit. Your whores are more manlier than you are!�

Jonesy grew irate and clenched his fists. �Men don�t cry when Mommy dies.� Jonesy was looking for the right words to intimidate Jim.

It didn�t work. Jim had grown used to this treatment since his mother died. For the last two years, Simon would have to bring up the subject just to get a rise out of Jim. �You wouldn�t know �manly� if it hit you. I think you�re a sissy, which is why you do the things you do!�

�I don�t know why I�m arguing with a useless teenager over this! I�m right, you�re wrong. Got it?�

�NO, I DON�T GOT IT! WHY DON�T YOU EXPLAIN IT TO ME!� By now Jim�s green eyes were flaming with fire, and his face was beet red.

�YOU WATCH IT, OR I�LL EXPLAIN IT GOOD AND HARD!� Jonesy sneered through his teeth as he unbuckled his belt and whipped it back through the belt loops.

�If you�re such a �man�, why don�t you fight like one and show me your fists?�

Jonesy started to laugh. �You see, this shows just how dumb you are, Jim. You�ll never get anywhere doing things fair-like. Cheap and easy, Jim. It�s the American Way.� Jonesy cracked the belt in Jim�s face, but the boy didn�t even wince. Jonesy saw him tense his muscles, ready for a fight.

�You know, Jones, I have to hand it to you. You did teach me something about life.� Jonesy stopped threatening Jim with the belt long enough to listen. �You taught me how to do things your way. �Cheap and easy�, just like you said.�

Jonesy looked confused. �Mr. Honorable is going to do things the American Way now, huh? Shoot, I�ll believe that when I see it!� He laughed so hard, his beer gut bounced.

Within an instant, Jim had pulled Simon�s loose, dark green, polyester pants down around his ankles and kicked his �manly� area with his steel toed work boots, leaving a shocked and stunned man laying in the fetal position on the kitchen floor, gasping for breath. The cast iron pan that Jim grabbed off the counter made a loud bong as it hit Jonesy�s head, leaving him unconscious.

After running to his room to grab his christening cup and hunting knife, he set off at a steady run down the gravel driveway, down the dirt road, and out towards the highway going south again. Jim was tired from lack of sleep the night before, his early morning chores, and his non-stop run for about a mile, but still kept walking through the rest of the day and night. This time it wasn�t worth stopping for anything.

He was tired and he ached by the time he reached Hudson. Before walking past Mona�s Restaurant, he checked her parking lot for the red pickup truck, but there was no sign of it. He followed the main road through Hudson and continued on along the river. It was almost five in the morning when he reached a truck stop five miles outside of Kingston, where he stepped inside to ask for a glass of water. While drinking, he overheard two farmers say they were on their way to Poughkeepsie to visit family. Poughkeepsie would at least get me on the other side of the river. The rest of the way should be a piece of cake!

He waited until the farmers were nearly finished with their breakfasts before he returned the glass and thanked the waitress. The only vehicle in the parking lot was a dusty old brown pick-up truck with about three small bales of hay in the back. Looking back at the restaurant, Jim noticed the farmers had left their table, possibly to pay their bill, so now was his chance to get in the back and hide. Sure enough, the farmers climbed into their truck and rumbled out of the parking lot, back firing and the radio blaring Slim Whitman�s obnoxious yodeling. They didn�t stop until they reached a gas station just outside of Poughkeepsie, where Jim jumped out of the pick-up leaving his father�s wristwatch behind as a payment for the ride.

The ride helped gain some time, and save on energy, but he knew he wasn�t far from Sleepyside. The whole rest of the day, and through the night he walked along the Hudson River. His anxiety was left behind at Jonesy�s farm, but he still remained cautious of strangers. He didn�t know who else would recognize him as Jonesy�s ward and have him dragged back to Albany. He also didn�t know for sure where Uncle James lived. He knew it was Sleepyside, but didn�t know his address. He thought that possibly neighbors would know, but didn�t want to risk being seen. It was well into the night when he arrived on the outskirts of Sleepyside. He was weak, hungry, tired, and felt he couldn�t take any more steps, but he was able to convince himself that the finish line was just within reach.

Coming down Albany Post Road, Jim turned left onto Glen Road and walked through a nice neighborhood of homes. These homes were nothing like what he knew living in the Albany countryside. They were well kept, tidy, and looked secure. Because it was so early in the morning, Jim knew it would be best to not disturb anyone, so he simply looked for clues of an eccentric person, whatever clues those would be. There were mailboxes, but most had just the address listed on them and no names. Once in a while, he�d find a mailbox with a name, but not his uncle�s. Nearly falling asleep with each step, he decided that it wouldn�t hurt to sit down for a while and rest. Possibly in the woods beyond this neighborhood, Jim thought. Each painstaking step was worth it to be able to sit under a tree in the thick forest and sleep.

The sun shone brightly as Jim blinked awake. He had no recollection of last night�s sleep, and had no idea what time it was. He stood up and stretched, suddenly cramping from a side ache from not eating in three days. The last meal he had was breakfast Wednesday morning, and hadn�t had a bite to eat since. Maybe Uncle James will have something to eat.

Walking along Glen Road, checking mailboxes, he kept looking for the name James Winthrop Frayne or even just Frayne. Further down the road, he noticed a small general store. I wonder if he would know anything about my Uncle. Shopkeepers tend to get to know the public very well. Jim started to head across the street when a car came whizzing toward him down the road. At once, Jim ducked behind a bush to avoid being seen. From where he was hiding, he could see the driver of the car. The motorist had dark black hair, tanned skin, and a mustache. The speed of the car, the wind blowing the man�s hair all over, and the worried expression led Jim to think that there was an emergency. Soon, the �emergency� was out of his mind, and he made sure the coast was clear, and ran across the street to the little store.

Lytell�s General Goods, read the sign above, and in the window in the door was a sign that which stated: �Closed until 9:00 AM.� Jim stepped down off the porch and walked away. Suddenly he heard rustling going on inside the little shop. Ducking behind another bush, he peered up to see an old man�s face anxiously looking out the windows, appearing in one window, and then the next. Finally, he stepped out the front door and stood on the porch for a while, looking around. He was a small scrawny little man with graying hair and a prim mustache. His glasses were down on the tip of his nose, and he held a newspaper in one of his hands. His long pointed nose almost twitched back and forth as if he were a mouse trying to smell out his foe. After a few minutes, the man wandered back inside and locked the door behind him.

Trying to stay out of sight, Jim wandered further along Glen Road, seeing the peek of a large white house just up the hill, surrounded by tall trees. He started walking toward it, hoping that it might be the home of his uncle. Suddenly he stopped in front of a mailbox at the foot of a driveway.

Ten Acres Manor
Mr. and Mrs. J W Frayne

Letting out a sigh of relief, he turned and headed down the driveway and up to the old mansion. It was three stories high, and looked to be magnificent, except the gray and yellow paint was chipped, the windows were filthy dirty, and there was junk laying all over the yard. The entire yard was overgrown and had gone to seed. After rapping on the door plenty of times with no answer, it dawned on Jim that his uncle may have already died, which is why the place was so rundown. It also could have been the reason why Mr. Rainsford had been around to see me. After trying the front and back doors, which were both locked, Jim felt defeated. He had walked all this way to see his only living relative, and was too late.

Voices off in the distance startled him out of his thoughts. He heard horses hooves and idle chatter, and knew someone was coming his way. Frantically, he tried the windows all the way around the house. At the very last minute, he found an unlocked window that opened fairly easily and hoisted himself inside. Letting out a breath of relief, he was safe where no one could see him. Peering out the living room window, Jim saw something that gave him a gut feeling he hadn�t felt in years.

Were they ghosts? Jim�s face went stark white as he stared at a tall, husky, redheaded man riding up the driveway on a big black gelding alongside a younger woman with light brown hair on a strawberry roan. Through the dirty window, he couldn�t tell the ages of the two people he saw, nor could he see them very clearly, but had this gut feeling about them, that he knew them. Halfway down the driveway, they turned their horses around and headed out. He kept looking after them, feeling that he should at least call out, but he didn�t want to take any unnecessary chances with strangers, and therefore, kept quiet.

He tried to convince himself that they were just illusions and hallucinations from not eating or sleeping for three days. A small part inside him insisted, though, that he was staring at the unreal�his parents. As if the young woman were able to hear his thoughts, she stopped her horse and peered over her shoulder to look directly into his eyes. For a moment, Jim felt connected with her in some way, but when she saw him, she nudged her horse and fled from the scene as fast as she could.

Stepping away from the window for a second, Jim shook his head, as if to release the cobwebs. �They were not really there,� Jim told himself aloud. �They couldn�t have been real.�

He looked out the window again and saw nothing but the hoof tracks their horses had left. Turning around, he took in his first real glance of the inside of the mansion. The living room was covered from floor to ceiling with old yellowed newspapers, dirty bottles, and canning jars full of buttons, bottle caps, and trinkets. The large paintings on the walls were covered thick with layers of dust, and the paneling was white and fuzzy with mold. The wooden floors were warped and uneven and the throw rugs were moth eaten and falling apart. The den featured a fuzzy, moldy roll top desk, thick layers of dust on all the furniture and picture frames, and barrels of rusty tin cans. Each step he took, the floorboards creaked and bent, as if they were ready to give and break away.

�Uncle James?� Jim called out, hoping that someone would answer. The big old house remained silent. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked down a small hallway to the kitchen. Unlike the other rooms, this room showed signs of life, as if someone was apparently still living here. Dirty footprints left a path from the hallway to the kitchen door, where the wooden floor was scuffed the most. Aside from the field mice in the corner, there wasn�t any sign of life at the moment. Jim could hear scampering and skittering of mice in the walls and upstairs. The back screen door was warped and was only held shut by a hook and latch. Outside was a small vegetable patch, which had been allowed to grow wild and untamed with weeds. The sinks themselves were black with dirt, mildew, and mold, which also covered the few dinner plates that had probably been sitting there for years. Spiders made their homes in the light fixtures, the corners, and along the countertop.

There probably isn�t anything left of the inheritance, Jim thought to himself as he looked all around himself at the weak cracked walls, the moth eaten curtains, chewed upholstered furniture, and all the junk lying around. Bad investments. That has to be it. No one could possibly live in a place like this if he had a lot of money. Standing in the middle of the living room, he noticed a mattress lying on the floor under a few heavy crates. Feeling weak, Jim tried with all his strength to lift the crates up and set them down without kicking up dust clouds. Pulling the mattress to the middle of the floor, Jim uncovered a rifle, which had apparently been hidden under the mattress.

�Gosh, Uncle James really must have been eccentric,� Jim breathed upon seeing the rifle and checking to see if it was loaded. �He must have been paranoid about something.� After looking around the living room for a few minutes, he began to grow tired and weary again, so he unhooked the christening cup from his belt and lay down on the lumpy mattress, and pulled the rifle close. Within seconds, the redheaded boy fell sound asleep, in what felt like the safest and most secure sleep he�d had in ages. Even though the house was empty, except for a few field mice, he still felt like he was with family. He was home.