Kitabı oku: «A Debt of Honor», sayfa 11
CHAPTER XXXIII
INTERVIEWING A BURGLAR
Victor was not a brave boy, and it must be confessed that he felt dismayed when he saw the burglar, and realized that he was in danger of serious personal injury, perhaps death. This, however, was not his only feeling. He felt responsible for the safety of the goods in the store, having been left on guard. In an emergency one can think rapidly.
Prudence suggested to Victor to lie quite still and counterfeit sleep. Resistance would of course be futile, for he was rather a delicate boy of sixteen, and the burglar was nearly six feet in height and looked as if he might weigh a hundred and eighty pounds.
The burglar, when he had effected his entrance, looked about him to get his bearings.
His glance fell on Victor.
“Ha! a boy!” he exclaimed, and with one stride he reached the pallet on which the shop-boy slept.
Stooping over, and flashing the dark lantern into Victor’s face he saw his eyelids move.
“He is not asleep! He is only shamming,” he decided, and shook him roughly.
Victor opened his eyes and looked with alarm into the rough, bearded face and fierce, forbidding eyes of the midnight intruder.
“Well, do you know who I am?” growled the burglar.
“I never saw you before.”
“That isn’t what I mean. Do you know why I am here?”
“To rob the store, I suppose,” answered Victor with a troubled look.
“Right, my chicken! Did you see me get into the window?”
“Yes.”
“And then you closed your eyes and pretended to be asleep?”
“Yes.”
“I’m on to that trick. Do you see this?” and the burglar displayed a piece of iron which Victor supposed to be a “jimmy.”
“Yes,” answered Victor, gazing at it as if fascinated.
“A little tap on your head with it and you’d be done for. That’s what I call a hint to you to act sensibly and not interfere with what don’t concern you. Now where’s the money?”
“I don’t think Mrs. Ferguson leaves any here. I expect she carries all away with her.”
“You expect!” repeated the burglar frowning. “Don’t you know?”
“How long have you been employed in this store?”
“I only came this afternoon.”
“That accounts for it. Are you sure there is no money here?”
“I don’t think there is.”
“I’ll look about and see. If you know what’s best for yourself you’ll keep quiet.”
Victor was compelled to look on in helpless anxiety while the burglar rummaged the store. He managed to find a couple of dollars in small change, which he pocketed grumblingly. A few small ornamental articles he also took, and then made his exit from the window after a parting threat to Victor.
No sooner had he left the store than the latter sprang from the bed, drew on his pantaloons hurriedly, and running to the outer door unlocked it, and standing in the doorway looked up and down the street.
By great good luck a policeman was just turning the corner. When he saw the boy in partial undress at the door of the bookstore he ran up, apprehending mischief.
“What’s the matter, bub?” he asked.
“The store has just been entered from the rear and the burglar, after stealing what he thought worth taking, made his escape through the back yard.”
Instantly the policeman tapped for assistance and three brother officers made their appearance. After a hurried conference, two went through the store to the back, while the other two reconnoitered in front. The chances were in favor of the burglar’s escape, but apprehending no danger he had made his way into the next yard and was trying to enter the adjoining store. His imprudence cost him his liberty.
In five minutes he was brought again through the window with a stout policeman on each side. He scowled menacingly at Victor.
“You betrayed me, you young scoundrel!” he said.
“Keep your mouth shut!” said one of his captors.
“Answer me, did you call the police?” demanded the burglar, not heeding the command.
“Yes,” answered Victor.
“I’ll get even with you, for betraying your old pal.”
“What?” ejaculated Victor.
“He’s one of us,” said the burglar, addressing the policemen. “We got him into the store on purpose to help us. He only got the place this afternoon.”
Then for the first time Victor fell under suspicion.
“Is this true?” asked one of the officers turning to the boy.
“It is true that I got the place this afternoon.”
“And you know this man!”
“No; I never saw him before in my life.”
“That’s a lie, John Timmins, and you know it,” broke in the burglar audaciously.
“Is your name John Timmins?” asked the policeman with increased suspicion.
“No, sir. My name is Victor Wentworth.”
“Good, John. It does credit to your invention,” said the burglar laughing. “That’s a high-toned name you’ve got now.”
“Is this true that you are saying? Do you know the boy?”
“Of course I do. His father, Dick Timmins, is my pal. I thought we could trust the boy, but he’s betrayed me, the young rascal, expectin’ a reward for his honesty. Oh, he’s a sly one, John is.”
Victor could hardly believe his ears. He understood at once that this man was acting from revengeful motives, but he saw also that the story made an impression on the police.
“You’ll have to go with us,” said one of the officers. “This man has made a charge against you, and you will have to disprove it.”
Victor was compelled to dress hurriedly and accompany the officers to the station-house. He was questioned by the sergeant, who recognized the burglar and suspected his motive.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Victor Wentworth.”
“Do you live in Kansas City?”
“No, sir. I have been stopping here a few days at a boarding-house, but my money gave out and I was obliged to seek a situation.”
“When did you secure it?”
“This afternoon.”
“Just what I told you,” said the burglar. “It was all fixed that John should sleep there and open the window for me.”
“What have you to say to this?”
“That it is a lie. This man wants to punish me for calling in the police.”
“You’re lyin’, John Timmins, and you know it. Your father’ll whack you for this.”
“Bring him here and let him claim me if he dare!” said Victor angrily.
“Who is your father? Is his name Timmins?”
“No, sir. My father is Bradley Wentworth, of Seneca, Illinois.”
“We have an officer here who came from Seneca. He will tell us whether your statement is correct. Ah, here he is! Hilton, come here.”
A stout, pleasant-faced policeman entered the station house.
“Well, sir,” he responded, touching his cap.
“Look at this boy and tell me if you recognize him.”
Hilton approached, and as he scanned Victor’s face, said in surprise, “Why, it’s Squire Wentworth’s son.”
“And he lives in Seneca?”
“Yes; I am surprised to see him here.”
Victor flushed.
“I left school without my father’s knowledge,” he said in embarrassment.
“He is working in a bookstore here in town,” explained the sergeant. “This man who has just been caught in the act of burglary declares the boy to be John Timmins, the son of one of his pals.”
“That isn’t true. I recognize the boy as the son of Mr. Wentworth.”
“That settles the matter. Young man, you are discharged. As for the man who has testified falsely against you, he will find that he has not improved his chances by so doing.”
Victor left the station-house, and returning to the store, resumed his interrupted night’s rest. But the last hour had been so full of excitement that it was at least two hours before he could compose himself to sleep.
“I’ve read about burglars,” thought Victor, as he called to mind sundry dime novels that he had perused in his boarding-school days, “but I never expected to meet one, or to be suspected of being his accomplice.”
Before Mrs. Ferguson reached the store she had already read in great excitement an account of how her place had been entered, and gave Victor high praise for his success in causing the arrest of the burglar.
CHAPTER XXXIV
A STRANGE MEETING
Noel Brooke and Gerald remained at the Lindell Hotel beyond the time originally fixed, as the former found an English friend established in a prosperous business on Olive Street. Gilbert Sandford was a man of forty-five, a pleasant, genial, man, who lived in a fine house in the upper portion of the city. He had a wife and three attractive children.
“Come and take dinner with me next Sunday, Noel,” he said in a hospitable manner.
“I shall be glad to do so if you will let me bring my friend also.”
“By all means! Any friend of yours is welcome. Did he accompany you from England?”
“No. It is a young American – a boy of sixteen – whom I met in Colorado. We have been together three or four months now, and I have become very much attached to him.”
“Bring him along by all means. My children will enjoy his company.”
“By the way, how old is your oldest child?”
“Edward is fourteen, only two years younger than your friend. The other two are girls. What is your friend’s name?”
“Gerald Lane.”
“A good name. Is he fond of children?”
“Yes. In our travels he has frequently become acquainted with children, and has always made himself a favorite with them.”
The next Sunday found Gerald and his employer dinner guests at the handsome residence of Mr. Sandford. Before he left, Gerald had made himself an established favorite with the entire Sandford family. The merchant was particularly gracious to him. It was not long before this partiality was to turn to his advantage.
Three weeks later Mr. Brooke received a letter from England which he read with an expression of pain.
“Gerald,” he said, “this letter comes from my sister. My father is seriously ill, and I shall be obliged to return to England at once.”
“I am very sorry,” said Gerald with sincere sympathy.
“One regret I have is, that it will compel us to separate for a time at least.”
“I feared so, Mr. Brooke. I shall feel quite lost without you. I have no relatives, and it will leave me alone in the world.”
“I would invite you to go to England with me if it were not a case of sickness.”
“I should not expect it, Mr. Brooke. Besides, I am an American boy, and I have my living to earn in America.”
“That gives me an idea. Remain here, please, till I return from Mr. Sandford’s office. I must go there and acquaint him with my recall.”
An hour later he returned to the hotel.
“I have engaged my passage from New York by next Saturday’s steamer,” he said. “I shall leave St. Louis to-morrow morning.”
“Then I shall have to form my plans,” said Gerald.
“They are formed already. How would you like to go into the employ of Mr. Sandford?”
“I would like nothing better.”
“He has a place provided for you. You will remain in the store here for a short time, and then he will send you off on a special mission.”
Gerald brightened up.
“I must be indebted to you for this, Mr. Brooke?” he said.
“Partly, but partly also to the pleasant impression which you made on the whole family. You don’t ask what salary you are to receive?”
“If it will pay my board with a little over I shall be satisfied.”
“It won’t pay for your board at this hotel.”
“I should not expect it. I will seek a fair boarding-house. Probably I can get board for six or seven dollars a week?”
“I should think so. Your salary will be fifteen dollars a week.”
“But does Mr. Sandford know that I have no business experience?”
“Yes, he knows it, but he thinks you have qualities that will enable you to make a success.”
After hurried preparations Mr. Brooke left St. Louis, and the same day Gerald moved to a plain, but cheerful boarding-house not far from the store where he was to be employed.
He was at first occupied as stock clerk, and soon familiarized himself with his duties. Three months later he had a summons from Mr. Sandford, who received him in his office. There were about a hundred clerks in the establishment, who got their orders in general from the heads of the departments, and seldom were admitted to interviews with their employer.
Gerald feared that he might have made some mistake and was to receive a reprimand, but the pleasant expression on Mr. Sandford’s face relieved him from apprehension at once.
“Sit down, Gerald,” said the merchant with a wave of the hand.
“Thank you, sir.”
“How long have you been in my employ?”
“Three months to-day, sir.”
“You are stock clerk?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you learned something about the stock?”
“Yes, sir, I think so.”
“Mr. Hall” – this was the superintendent – “tells me that your services are intelligently rendered and very satisfactory.”
“I am very glad that he is satisfied with me,” said Gerald earnestly. “I have done my best.”
“And your best seems to be very good. How would you like to travel for the house?”
Gerald knew that the position of drummer was courted by all the resident clerks, and was considered a distinct promotion.
“I should like it very much, sir, but do you think I am old enough?”
“You certainly are unusually young for such a position, and this, of course, occurred to me, but you have had some experience in traveling, though not on business, with our friend, Mr. Brooke.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And this experience will be of service to you. How old are you?”
“Nearly seventeen.”
“I have never employed a drummer under twenty, but I am nevertheless inclined to give you a trial.”
“I will do my best for you and the house.”
“Then you will have a fair chance of succeeding. You may go and ask Mr. Hall for instructions – I have spoken with him on the subject – and I presume he will arrange to have you start on Monday next.”
Mr. Sandford bowed, and Gerald understood that the interview was ended.
Two weeks later Gerald found himself in Kansas City. He had had but a fortnight’s experience as a drummer, but he had met with success exceeding his anticipations. Though his youth was against him, and he often found it difficult to persuade dealers that he was really an authorized agent of a merchant so well known as Gilbert Sandford of St. Louis, five minutes’ conversation was generally sufficient to show that he thoroughly understood his business.
His stay in Kansas City was drawing to a close. He was a guest of the Coates House, one of the representative hotels of the West, when he had occasion to enter a periodical store near the hotel. It was the one already known to us as kept by Mrs. Ferguson.
Victor Wentworth stood behind the counter and waited upon Gerald. But he was no longer the bright and healthy boy of a few weeks back. He had contracted malaria, and his face was pallid. Gerald could not but notice the boy’s sick condition.
“You are not well,” he said.
“No,” answered Victor, shivering. “I don’t know what is the matter with me.”
“How long have you been sick?” inquired Gerald.
“I was taken about a week since.”
“You ought to be at home and in bed.”
“I wish I could afford to rest,” said Victor despondently; “but I cannot. I depend on my weekly wages.”
“Have you a home in Kansas City?”
“No; I have no relatives in this place.”
“Have you no friends who would help you while you were sick?”
Victor hesitated a moment.
“No,” he answered slowly.
“Are you an orphan?”
“No; I have a father living.”
“Ah! I understand. He is poor.”
“No,” answered Victor, shaking his head. “He is not poor. He is quite rich.”
“Then how does it happen that you do not write to him and ask him to help you?”
“Because he is angry with me. He is a stern man, and I offended him very much some time since,” and Victor flushed as he made the confession.
“How did you offend him? You could not have done anything very bad, I am sure.”
“He had placed me at a boarding-school and I ran away. I was very foolish, and I have repented it more than once, but he is very angry with me and won’t forgive me.”
The story seemed familiar to Gerald. Surely he had heard it before.
“Tell me,” he asked abruptly, “are you the son of Bradley Wentworth of Seneca, Illinois?”
“Yes; do you know him? Is he a friend of yours?” asked Victor in breathless astonishment.
“I knew him, but he is not a friend of mine.”
“Ah! I hoped he was,” sighed Victor, his face falling.
“But all the same I am going to help you.”
Gerald had a brief conversation with Mrs. Ferguson and arranged with her to find a comfortable home for Victor, where he could rest and receive medical attendance, and deposited a sum of money with her to defray his expenses.
“How kind you are!” said Victor gratefully. “I was very much discouraged when you came in. I didn’t know what was to become of me.”
“I shall be back again in Kansas City in four weeks,” said Gerald. “Till then you will be taken care of. Keep up your spirits and all will turn out well.”
“How strange,” he thought, “that I should help the son as my father helped his father. I like the boy. I am sure he will not prove ungrateful.”
CHAPTER XXXV
THOMAS HASTINGS
Two weeks later Gerald found himself in the town of Brentwood, Minnesota. It was too small for him to expect to do much business there, but he had a special message to bear to a sister of Mr. Sandford, who had her home in the place. He put up at the Commercial Hotel, a small inn capable of accommodating about thirty travelers.
Brentwood did not seem an attractive place to Gerald, and he felt that he should be glad to take the morning train to St. Paul. Yet he was destined to meet here a man who could aid him materially in the object to which he had consecrated his energies – that of clearing his father’s reputation and punishing his enemy.
He was sitting in the office of the hotel when a man apparently fifty years of age entered and had a whispered conference with the clerk. He appeared to prefer some request which the latter denied. The man was thin and haggard, and his face bore a look of settled despondency. His clothing was shabby, yet he looked as if he had seen better days and had at some time occupied a better position. Without knowing why, Gerald’s curiosity and interest were excited. As he left the room Gerald said: “That fellow looks as if the world had gone wrong with him.”
“Yes,” answered the clerk, “he has been going down hill the last three years, and now is near the foot.”
“Does he drink?”
“Yes, when he gets the chance, but he has not had money enough to gratify his appetite lately. I don’t pity him so much as I do his wife and child, for he has a daughter of twelve, a sweet, innocent child, whose lot in such a home as he can supply is far from being a happy one.”
“How long has he lived in Brentwood?”
“Five years. When he first came here he kept a small store, and seemed to do tolerably well. He appeared to receive some help from outside, for he sometimes brought checks to the hotel to be cashed. They all came from the same party, a certain Bradley Wentworth.”
“What!” exclaimed Gerald in startled surprise.
“Do you know the name?” asked the clerk.
“I know a man of that name. It may not be the same one.”
“This man, so Hastings told me once, was a manufacturer, and lived in – in – ”
“Seneca, Illinois?”
“The very place. Then it is the man you know?”
“It seems so. What is this man’s name?”
“Thomas Hastings.”
“Did he ever live in Seneca?”
“I think he once told me so.”
“Perhaps he is some relative of Mr. Wentworth, and that may account for the checks.”
“I can’t say as to that.”
“Then no checks come now?”
“No, not for a long time. Since these supplies were cut off Hastings has been going downhill.”
Gerald bent his eyes upon the floor in silent thought. What, he asked himself, could be the connection between this human wreck, living in a small Minnesota town, and Bradley Wentworth, the wealthy manufacturer? With his eyes fixed upon the floor his attention was drawn to a torn letter which he now remembered that Hastings had held in his hand and clutched convulsively as he stood at the desk.
Mechanically he picked it up, when the name signed to it attracted his attention and filled him with a thrill of excitement.
This name was Bradley Wentworth. “I don’t know as I am justified,” thought Gerald, “but my father’s connection with Mr. Wentworth makes me desirous of learning whatever I can about him.”
He withdrew to a corner of the office where stood a table covered with newspapers and writing materials, and taking out the torn letter pieced it together so that he could read it consecutively.
It ran thus:
“Seneca, Illinois, September 7.
“Sir: Thomas Hastings,
“I have already warned you that you have annoyed me sufficiently, and that I should pay no further attention to your letters. Yet you persist in writing to me and demanding money. On what grounds? You claim to be acquainted with a secret now many years old, and threaten to divulge it unless I will send you money. What you have to tell is of no value whatever. The man to whom you want to reveal it is dead, and his son is dead also. There is absolutely no one who takes any interest in your threatened revelation. When I think of the sums of money which I have sent you in the aggregate I am provoked with myself for my weakness. You ought to be in comfortable circumstances, but you write me that you are destitute and that your wife and child are on the verge of starvation. Well, this is not my fault. It is largely the result of your inordinate love of drink. A man like you ought never to have married. You can’t take care of yourself, much less can you care for a family.
“I have wasted more words upon you than I intended. As, however, this is the last letter I ever expect to write you, I determined to make myself understood. Let me repeat, then, you have nothing to expect from me. You have exhausted my patience, and I have no more money to send you. If you can’t support yourself in any other way, go out and work by the day, and let your wife take in washing. It is an honest business, and will help to keep the wolf from the door. In any event, don’t write again to me.
“Bradley Wentworth.”
Gerald read this letter in ill-suppressed excitement. He could not misunderstand these words, referring to the secret of which this man had knowledge. “The man to whom you want to reveal it is dead, and his son is dead also.” He, the son, was not dead, but it suited Bradley Wentworth to represent that he was. What could this secret be? It must, he felt, relate to the “debt of honor,” and to the forgery which Wentworth had succeeded in laying upon the shoulders of his friend and associate.
Hastings must possess some information of great value, or Bradley Wentworth would not have sent the sums of money referred to in the letter. Clearly it was for Gerald’s interest to see Thomas Hastings, and learn what he could. He was quite in the dark as to the nature of his information, but it was unquestionably of importance. It seemed as if Providence had directed his steps to this out-of-the-way town in Minnesota, and he resolved to take advantage of his visit.
He sauntered up to the desk and in a voice of affected unconcern inquired, “Can you tell me where the man Hastings lives?”
“Are you interested in him?” asked the clerk, smilingly.
“Yes, somewhat. He looked so sad and woebegone. I might perhaps help him to a position if I could have a conversation with him and judge of his abilities.”
“Oh, his abilities are good, but his intemperate habits are so fixed that I would not advise you to recommend him.”
“At any rate I can give him a dollar, and I suppose that will be acceptable to him.”
“It will be a godsend. You will find that he won’t refuse it. As to where he lives I can’t readily direct you, but here is a little fellow,” pointing to a colored boy who had just entered, “who will be glad to show you. Here, Johnny, do you want to earn a dime?”
“Don’t I just?” returned the boy, showing the whites of his eyes.
“Then show this young man the way to Tom Hastings’s house.”
“All right, boss, I’ll show him.”
Gerald followed the boy along the street for about twenty rods; then down a side street, till he reached a shabby, two-story house, dismantled and with the paint worn off in spots.
“That’s where he lives, boss,” said the boy.
“Does he occupy the whole house?”
“No, he occupies the right side.”
Gerald hesitated a moment at the gate and then walked in. He was considering how he should introduce himself.
Thomas Hastings himself answered the knock on the door. He was in his shirt-sleeves. There was a beard of nearly a week’s growth on his cheeks, and he looked as neglected as the tenement which he occupied. He eyed Gerald in some surprise, and waited for him to mention his business.
“Are you Mr. Thomas Hastings?” asked the young visitor.
“Yes.”
“Are you acquainted with Bradley Wentworth of Seneca, Illinois?”
“Yes, do you come from him?” asked Hastings, eagerly.
“No, but I would like to talk with you about him. May I come in?”
Hastings looked backward, and the disordered rooms struck him with a sudden sense of shame.
“No,” he said, “we can talk better outside. Wait a minute and I’ll be with you.”
