Kitabı oku: «A Debt of Honor», sayfa 10

CHAPTER XXIX
GERALD IS RELEASED

At length the door was opened and Gerald was free to leave his place of confinement.

There was a cunning smile on Tip’s weazened face.

“I say, boss,” he said. “Ain’t you goin’ to give me somethin’ for lettin’ you out?”

Gerald was amused in spite of himself.

“I ought rather to punish you for getting me into such a scrape.”

“’Twasn’t me. ’Twas Uncle Sam that made me do it.”

“I know that, and for that reason I will forgive you. You were paid for luring me in here, and ought to be satisfied with that. So Mr. Standish is your uncle?”

“That is what he says. I couldn’t swear to it.”

“Perhaps he will leave you some money in his will.”

“He ain’t got no money,” said Tip contemptuously. “He’s strapped most of the time. Did you give him any?”

“No.”

“Didn’t he take your pocketbook?”

“No.”

Tip looked puzzled.

“Then what did he want you shut up for?”

“I had some papers that he wanted.”

“Did you give them to him?”

“Yes.”

“War they worth much?”

“He thought they were.”

Tip was silent a moment.

“I wish I’d known that,” he said, after a pause.

“Suppose you had?” inquired Gerald curiously.

“I’d have let you out before he came for five dollars.”

“That is very kind of you, Tip. What would your uncle have done to you?”

“He’d have licked me, but I’d stand a lickin’ any time for five dollars.”

“I see, Tip, you are a sharp boy. I haven’t any hard feelings against you. I hope you will grow up a good man.”

Tip shook his head.

“It ain’t likely,” he said. “There ain’t many good boys round here. This ain’t a Sunday-school neighborhood.”

“I am afraid it isn’t,” thought Gerald. “I fear Tip isn’t likely to turn out a good man or a model citizen. He is smart enough, but he isn’t using his smartness in the right way.”

“Where have you been, Gerald?” asked Mr. Brooke, when his secretary returned to the hotel. “You don’t often come back late to lunch.”

“I was unavoidably detained, Mr. Brooke. In other words, I was imprisoned.”

“Is that true?” asked the English tourist in surprise. “Please explain yourself.”

Gerald did so.

“So the papers were taken?”

“Yes, they are gone,” answered Gerald, smiling. “I should like to see Mr. Wentworth when he discovers that he has been duped.”

“He and his agent will both be disappointed. Do you know if he is in the city?”

“I believe he is at the Southern Hotel.”

“Waiting till his agent has secured the papers, I presume?”

“I suppose so.”

“Really, Gerald, this is an excellent joke. I don’t think he will make any further attempt to rob you. We can afford to laugh, but it might have been quite otherwise.”

Meanwhile Mr. Standish made his way slowly towards the Southern Hotel. He was plunged in deep thought. Should he give up the papers to Mr. Wentworth, or should he stand out for a larger sum? He had been promised two hundred dollars, but his principal had repeatedly offered a thousand dollars for them, and he persuaded himself that he ought to receive at least half this amount. He could not quite make up his mind what to do, and was still in a state of indecision when he reached the handsome hotel where Mr. Wentworth was a guest.

He entered the office, and did not have far to look, for Bradley Wentworth was standing at the news counter where he had just purchased a Chicago paper.

“Well?” he said eagerly when he saw Standish enter. “What news?”

“I’ve got the papers,” nodded Standish.

“You have? Give them to me.”

“Wait a minute, Mr. Wentworth. I want to see you alone.”

“Oh, very well! Come up-stairs.”

They boarded the elevator and stopped at the second landing, where Mr. Wentworth led the way to a front room, of which he unlocked the door and bade Standish enter.

“Give me the papers,” he said, “and I will give you a check.”

Samuel Standish made no motion to get the papers. Wentworth eyed him in some surprise.

“What is the matter?” he asked.

Standish cleared his throat.

“You agree to give me two hundred dollars,” he said, “while I find that you have more than once offered the boy a thousand dollars for them.”

“Who told you that?”

“Gerald himself.”

“It is a lie,” said Wentworth harshly. “Do you think I am a fool?”

“No; I think you are a very shrewd man. The papers are worth all that you offered for them?”

“How do you know? How can you judge?” demanded Wentworth hastily.

“I have read them, and the boy explained the circumstances.”

Bradley Wentworth turned red. He saw that his secret was exposed, and that this man knew that he had once been a forger.

“You can’t depend upon what the boy told you,” he said.

“It is confirmed by the letters.”

“You had no right to read the letters. It was a breach of faith.”

“I don’t look at it in that light. I wanted to be sure that they were the papers I was instructed to secure.”

“Very well. I will excuse you. Give me the papers and I will give you two hundred dollars, as I promised.”

“I must have five hundred,” said Standish firmly. “Even then you will save five hundred. If you had bargained with the boy you would have been obliged to give him a thousand.”

Then ensued a wordy wrangle, not necessary to detail. Wentworth, after trying in vain to keep Standish to the original agreement, finally paid him three hundred and fifty dollars, two hundred in bills and one hundred and fifty in a check payable to the order of Samuel Standish. Though he had not secured as much as he desired, Mr. Standish was reasonably satisfied, not for years having had so large a sum in his possession.

Bradley Wentworth was about to examine the papers when a bell-boy came up with a telegram. Wentworth tore it open hastily.

It was an urgent summons to return, as matters of importance demanded his presence at the factory.

He thrust the papers into his pocket.

“I am called home to Seneca,” he said. “I must catch the next train for Chicago, if possible. I will not detain you any longer, as I have no time to give you.”

“All right, Mr. Wentworth! I don’t want to interfere with your plans. My acquaintance with you has been very agreeable, and, as I trust, for our mutual advantage. I hope you may some time have further occasion to employ my services. Good day, sir!”

Bradley Wentworth was already packing his valise, and did not think it necessary to notice his agent’s farewell greeting.

“Three hundred and fifty dollars!” soliloquized Standish. “Did I ever have as much money before? I can’t remember the occasion. Mr. Samuel Standish, you can afford to live comfortably for a time. Did I do well to part with the papers, or should I have stood out for a larger sum? It is hard to tell. They must be worth more to the boy than this, but it is not likely he had money enough to buy them. On the whole, Samuel, you have probably done as well as you could.”

It will be remembered that Mr. Standish had a room at the Lindell. As he entered the hotel he met Gerald in the corridor.

“So you have got back?” he said with a pleasant smile.

“Yes,” answered Gerald.

“I thought Tip could be relied upon. I prefer you won’t cherish any hard feelings on account of the events of the morning.”

“Have you still got the papers, Mr. Standish?” asked Gerald abruptly.

“No.”

“Then I suppose you have given them to Mr. Wentworth?”

“Yes; I would much rather have given them back to you, but I judged that you had not money enough to purchase them.”

“Mr. Standish,” said Gerald composedly, “I wouldn’t give five dollars to have the papers back.”

“But,” stammered Standish, “you said Mr. Wentworth offered you a thousand dollars for them.”

“For the originals, yes. Those I delivered to you were copies.”

Standish seemed transfixed with amazement.

“But the originals? Where are they?” he asked.

“Where neither you nor Mr. Wentworth can get hold of them.”

When Standish had recovered from his astonishment he burst into a hearty laugh.

“The old man’s been fooled,” he said. “Serves him right for being so mean.”

CHAPTER XXX
TIDINGS OF THE FUGITIVE

It was not until Bradley Wentworth was on board the train that was to bear him to Chicago that he drew out the letters which he had secured through the agency of Standish and examined them.

He almost leaped from his seat in anger and disappointment.

“They are fraudulent, and not worth the paper they are written on,” he at once decided. “And I have actually given that scoundrel three hundred and fifty dollars for them. Why didn’t I take the precaution to examine them before handing over the money?”

He examined them again. They might be fraudulent, for the handwriting was not his, but they were word for word similar to the genuine letters which he had written many years since to Warren Lane. The question arose, Who had copied them? Was it Standish? He dismissed this supposition as very improbable, and adopted the theory that the genuine letters were not in existence – that Warren Lane had given these to his son as a record of what had passed between himself and Wentworth.

“In that case,” he reflected with satisfaction, “the boy has no hold upon me. I have only to deny all knowledge of the letters and stigmatize them as part of a conspiracy to extort money from me on false charges. It is worth three hundred and fifty dollars to find this out.”

So Wentworth’s anger was succeeded by a feeling of satisfaction.

“It is better to pay three hundred and fifty dollars than a thousand,” he reflected, “and that was the sum I was ready to give Gerald. On the whole my meeting with this fellow Standish was a fortunate one. I shall destroy these letters, and with them will perish the only evidence of my crime.”

When Mr. Wentworth reached home he found among his letters the following written in a regular schoolboy hand:

“Dear Sir:

“Your son Victor and I are in hard luck. We are staying at a poor boarding-house in Kansas City, and have only enough money to pay this week’s board. I have sent to my guardian for a remittance, and expect it within a few days, but Victor’s money gave out some time since. As I know you are a rich man I do not feel called upon to pay his expenses. I shall have only enough left for myself.

“Will you telegraph money at once to Victor, No. 125 H. Street, and I will advise him to take the money and go home.

“Yours respectfully,

“Arthur Grigson.”

Bradley Wentworth read this letter with a mixture of feelings. He had been very anxious about his son, but he was not a soft-hearted man, and now that he knew him to be alive his heart hardened.

“He hasn’t suffered enough,” he said to himself. “If I forgive him too quickly he will do the same thing again. He has dared to disobey me, and he must be made to understand that he has been guilty of a serious offense. This fellow Grigson has the hardihood to suggest that I telegraph money to Kansas City. If I should do so he would probably claim a share of it, and instead of returning, the two would very likely continue their journey.”

Under the influence of these feelings Mr. Wentworth wrote the following letter:

“Mr. Arthur Grigson:

“You have done me the honor to write me suggesting that I should telegraph money to my son, who took the bold step of leaving the school, where I had placed him, without my permission. Your letter contains no expression of regret for this flagrant act of disobedience, and I assume that neither you nor Victor feels any. No doubt you find it inconvenient to be without money, and it naturally occurs to you to apply to me. You may say to Victor that as he appears to think himself independent of me, and has shown a disregard for my wishes, I think it may be well for him to keep on a little longer. I do not feel under any obligation to help him home from Kansas City, since he went there without my permission. Whenever he returns home, and shows proper regret for his disobedience I will consider what I may be disposed to do for him.

“Bradley Wentworth.”

Hard as his nature was Bradley Wentworth did not send away this letter without momentary compunction. So far as he was capable of affection he was attached to his son. But he was a man who required implicit obedience, and Victor’s flight had excited his sternest indignation. He was a proud man, and was not willing to show signs of softening though he really yearned to see his absent son.

He held the letter in his hands undecided whether to send it or not, but pride finally gained the ascendency, and he dropped it into the box in which he deposited his outgoing mail.

“He will see that I am not to be trifled with,” he soliloquized, as he closed his lips firmly.

So the letter went on its cruel mission.

CHAPTER XXXI
THE YOUNG RUNAWAYS

In a small, plainly furnished room in Kansas City sat two boys of sixteen and seventeen. One of them was Victor Wentworth, the other his schoolmate and the companion of his flight, Arthur Grigson.

Victor looked despondent. He had a pleasant but weak face, in which little or no resemblance could be traced to his father. The latter’s hard nature was wholly wanting in Victor. He resembled his mother, now dead, who had been completely under the domination of her husband.

“I wonder if our letters will come to-day, Arthur,” he said anxiously.

“I hope so. I expected before this that your father would telegraph money.”

“You don’t know my father, Arthur,” said Victor sadly. “No doubt he is very angry with me, and I am not sure that he will send me any money at all.”

“You are an only son, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“And your father is very rich?”

“Yes.”

“Then he won’t be such a beast as to refuse. Isn’t he rather close with you?”

“Yes.”

“Rather mean, in fact. It costs money to telegraph. I presume it is on this account that he has written you by mail.”

“If he doesn’t write, what shall I do?” said Victor. “I have only twenty-five cents left, and that will barely buy my dinner.”

“I haven’t much more,” said Arthur, “but I don’t worry.”

“No, for you have money of your own, and are sure to get something.”

“I am not one of the worrying kind,” said Arthur. “I wouldn’t be as nervous as you are on any account.”

“I can’t help it.”

“If your father is like you he will be so worried about you that he will be sure to send the money, or else come on himself. Perhaps he will do that.”

Victor shook his head.

“He isn’t like me at all, Arthur. He is a very stern man. Oh, how foolish I was to leave school, but you persuaded me to do it!”

“Oh, you throw all the blame on me, do you?” returned Arthur in an unpleasant tone. “You were in for it as much as I was.”

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” said Victor in an unsteady voice.

“Do try to be more manly! One would think you were in danger of going to prison!” exclaimed the stronger-minded Arthur, in ill-concealed disgust.

“I don’t know but I shall. I can’t starve, and I may have to steal when my money is gone.”

“You’d better get a place and work. That will be better than to starve or go to jail.”

“That is true. I didn’t think of that,” said Victor, brightening up. “But I don’t know what I can do. I never did any kind of work. I am afraid no one will employ me.”

“Then set up in business for yourself. You can sell papers if you can’t do anything else. That is, if you are not too proud to do it.”

“I am not too proud to do anything,” said the miserable Victor, “if I can make a living!”

“Good for you! That shows that you are not a snob, any way. What do you think your rich and aristocratic father would say if he should learn that his son was a newsboy?”

“He wouldn’t like it, and I don’t like it myself, but I shall not be ashamed to do it, if it is necessary.”

“I admire your spunk, Victor.”

“I am afraid I haven’t got much,” said Victor, shaking his head. “Oh, what a fool I have been! If I were only out of this scrape, I’ll never get into another.”

“It may all come right. It’s time we got letters. When we do we’ll start for home.”

At this instant there was a knock at the door, and the landlady, a stout woman with a red face, appeared.

“Here’s two letters just come!” she said.

Both boys sprang to their feet in excitement.

“One for each of us!” said Victor gladly.

“No; they are both for Mr. Grigson.”

Victor dropped into his seat in despondency.

“None for me!” he murmured.

“Better luck next time!” said the landlady. Meanwhile Arthur had torn open one of his letters.

“Hurrah!” he said. “There’s fifty dollars inside.”

“Who is the other from?”

“It is postmarked Seneca. It must be from your father.”

CHAPTER XXXII
ARTHUR GRIGSON’S TREACHERY

“Open the letter, quick!” cried Victor in feverish anxiety. “I don’t see why father didn’t write to me.”

The letter was opened. The reader is already acquainted with its contents. Arthur read it aloud, and Victor turned sick with disappointment.

“Well,” ejaculated Arthur, “if that isn’t a cold-blooded message for a man to send to his own son! And he rolling in wealth!”

“I was afraid he would refuse to send me some money,” said Victor. “What is that last sentence?”

“He says if you will come home he will see whether he will forgive you – that’s the upshot of it.”

“But I can’t go home without money unless you will pay my way. You will, won’t you, Arthur? I’ll pay you back just as soon as I can.”

“But you can’t, you know,” returned Arthur coldly. “Your father has always given you a very small allowance, and you can’t save anything out of that.”

“I will be sure to pay you some way.”

“You are very ready with your promises, but promises ain’t cash. Look here, Victor, I’ve got only fifty dollars.”

“That’s a big sum.”

“It’s got to last me some time. As for giving you fifteen or twenty dollars, I can’t do it, and that settles it.”

“Are you going home?”

“I shall take the next train for Chicago.”

“And leave me here?” faltered Victor, turning pale.

“I don’t see what else I can do,” returned Arthur, his face hardening.

“But I shall starve.”

“No; I will leave you two or three dollars, and I advise you to buy some papers if you can’t get any other position.”

“How meanly you are treating me!” said Victor indignantly.

“I am sorry, of course, but it is the best I can do – ”

“But for you I should not be here. Please remember that!”

“You were very ready to come when I proposed it,” retorted Arthur.

“You promised to see me through. I didn’t have money enough to come.”

“Well, I’ve kept my promise as well as I could. I was looking over my accounts yesterday, and I find that I have spent for you thirteen dollars and sixty-seven cents. Of course I shall never see a cent of it back.”

“I will pay it if I live,” said Victor, his companion’s meanness bringing a flush to his cheek. “I have just found you out. If I had known how mean you were I would never have left school in your company.”

“I wish you hadn’t. I didn’t suppose your father was such a miser. I knew you were an only son, and I expected that he would come to your help if you needed it. You mustn’t be so unreasonable. I am going out to get my bill changed. Will you come, too?”

“I suppose I may as well,” said Victor, in a spiritless tone.

Arthur made his way to a railroad ticket-office and purchased a ticket to Chicago.

Victor turned away to hide the indignant tears that rose to his eyes as he thought of his companion’s base desertion. It was on his lips to beg Arthur to buy another ticket, but his pride checked him. He felt that he had humiliated himself enough already.

On their way back they passed a periodical store.

On the window outside was a sign —

“Boy Wanted!”

“There’s your chance for a situation, Victor,” said Arthur, half in joke.

Victor looked at the sign, and made up his mind. It was absolutely necessary for him to get employment, and he might as well work here as anywhere.

“Wait a minute,” he said.

He went in, expecting to meet a man, but found that the shop was kept by a middle-aged woman. Victor had never been obliged to rough it, and he colored up with embarrassment as he prepared to apply for the place.

“I see you want a boy,” he said.

“Yes,” said the woman, very favorably impressed by Victor’s neat appearance. “Have you ever worked in a store of this kind?”

“No; I have always attended school.”

“I won’t ask if you’re honest, for your looks speak in your favor. Would you be willing to sleep in the back part of the store?”

“Yes,” answered Victor, relieved to think that this would save him the expense of a room.

“When can you come?”

“At one o’clock if you wish. After I have eaten dinner.”

“Then I will engage you. You will receive four dollars and a half a week. Is that satisfactory?”

“Yes,” answered Victor thankfully.

He went out and told Arthur of his success. His companion was relieved, for, selfish as he was, it troubled him to think that Victor would be left in destitution.

“Good!” he said. “Now I advise you to write home, and see what your father has to say. I will leave you three dollars to buy your meals till your first week’s pay comes in.”

Mrs. Ferguson, the good Scotch lady who kept the periodical store, would have been very much surprised if she had learned that the quiet looking boy whom she had just engaged was the son of a man worth over three hundred thousand dollars. Her mind was occupied with other matters or she would have questioned Victor more closely in regard to his history and antecedents. He was glad she did not, for he would have felt some embarrassment in confessing that he had run away from school and was a fugitive from home.

He felt obliged to accept the three dollars offered him by Arthur Grigson, since it was necessary to have money to pay for his meals in the interval that must elapse before he would receive his first week’s pay.

“I will pay you back, Arthur,” said he gratefully, as he took the money from the boy who had been the cause of his trouble.

“Oh, that’s just as you like.”

“I would prefer to do it. I don’t care to be under any further obligations to you.”

“Oh, don’t be foolish! You didn’t expect I’d strip myself of money to give you a chance to go home?”

“You would have more than money enough to get us both home. I wouldn’t have treated you as you have treated me.”

“Yes, you would, and I wouldn’t have blamed you. I may go over to Seneca and tell your father how I left you. Maybe he’ll open his heart and send you twenty dollars.”

Victor did not reply, but knowing his father as he did, he cherished no such hopes. He tried to put a good face on the matter, however, reflecting that he was at any rate safe from starving, and would be able to live.

In the afternoon he went to work, and though evidently unused to business soon learned to do what was required of him. He seemed so willing that Mrs. Ferguson felt pleased with him, and did not regret her hasty choice of a boy who had no recommendations to offer.

The store closed at eight o’clock, and the shutters were put up.

Now came the hardest trial for Victor.

He had always been accustomed to a luxurious, or at all events, cozy bedroom, even at school. Now he was to sleep in a dark store, for the gas was put out, except one small jet in the rear. His bed was a small, narrow one, only about eighteen inches wide, and close behind the dark counter.

“This is where you will sleep,” said Mrs. Ferguson. “The bed is small, but I guess you will find it wide enough.”

“I guess I can make it do,” answered Victor.

“You are to get up at seven o’clock and open the store. Then you will sweep the floor and dust the books. I shall come at eight, and will then let you off for half an hour for breakfast.”

“All right, ma’am.”

Mrs. Ferguson went out, and Victor, not feeling yet like sleep, sat down on the side of the bed and began to reflect.

Only a few weeks ago he had been a member of a classical school, recognized as the son of a rich man, and treated with the more consideration on that account. Now he was a friendless boy, obliged to earn a scanty living by his own labor. It might be considered quite a come-down, but, strange as it may seem, Victor was not altogether despondent. He inherited from his father a taste for business, and had already begun to take an interest in his duties. He would indeed have liked a larger income, for he was compelled to eat at cheap and poor restaurants, but at any rate he felt happier than he had done when traveling in Arthur Grigson’s company.

At length he went to sleep, and slept comfortably for three hours or more. Then he suddenly awoke, and none too soon. The window at the rear of the store, leading out into the back yard, was half open, and he saw the figure of a large man crawling through.

“It must be a burglar!” thought Victor, and his heart sank within him.