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Old Crompton's Secret

_By Harl Vincent_

Tom's extraordinary machine glowed--and the years were banished
from Old Crompton's body. But there still remained, deep-seated
in his century-old mind, the memory of his crime.

[Illustration: _Tom tripped on a wire and fell, with his ferocious
adversary on top._]

Two miles west of the village of Laketon there lived an aged recluse who
was known only as Old Crompton. As far back as the villagers could
remember he had visited the town regularly twice a month, each time
tottering his lonely way homeward with a load of provisions. He appeared
to be well supplied with funds, but purchased sparingly as became a
miserly hermit. And so vicious was his tongue that few cared to converse
with him, even the young hoodlums of the town hesitating to harass him
with the banter usually accorded the other bizarre characters of the
streets.

The oldest inhabitants knew nothing of his past history, and they had
long since lost their curiosity in the matter. He was a fixture, as was
the old town hall with its surrounding park. His lonely cabin was
shunned by all who chanced to pass along the old dirt road that led
through the woods to nowhere and was rarely used.

His only extravagance was in the matter of books, and the village book
store profited considerably by his purchases. But, at the instigation of
Cass Harmon, the bookseller, it was whispered about that Old Crompton
was a believer in the black art--that he had made a pact with the devil
himself and was leagued with him and his imps. For the books he bought
were strange ones; ancient volumes that Cass must needs order from New
York or Chicago and that cost as much as ten and even fifteen dollars a
copy; translations of the writings of the alchemists and astrologers and
philosophers of the dark ages.

It was no wonder Old Crompton was looked at askance by the simple-living
and deeply religious natives of the small Pennsylvania town.

But there came a day when the hermit was to have a neighbor, and the
town buzzed with excited speculation as to what would happen.

* * * * *

The property across the road from Old Crompton's hut belonged to Alton
Forsythe, Laketon's wealthiest resident--hundreds of acres of scrubby
woodland that he considered well nigh worthless. But Tom Forsythe, the
only son, had returned from college and his ambitions were of a nature