The more Browning thought of the newsboy in whom he had so strangely recognized the son of the man whom he had so cruelly wronged, the more uneasy he felt.
He has evidently heard of me, he soliloquized. "His father could not have been so near death as I supposed. He must have sent the boy or his mother a message about that money. If it should come to his knowledge that I am the Thomas Butler to whom his father confided ten thousand dollars which I have failed to hand over to the family, he may make it very disagreeable for me."
The fact that so many persons were able to identify him as Thomas Butler made the danger more imminent.
I must take some steps--but what? Browning asked himself.
He kept on walking till he found himself passing the entrance of a low poolroom. He never played pool, nor would it have suited a man of his social position to enter such a place, but that he caught sight of a young man, whose face and figure were familiar to him, in the act of going into it. He quickened his pace, and laid a hand on the young man's shoulder.
The latter turned quickly, revealing a face bearing the unmistakable marks of dissipation.
Uncle Thomas! he exclaimed, apparently ill at ease.
Yes, Stephen, it is I. Where are you going? The young man hesitated.
You need not answer. I see you are wedded to your old amusements. Are you still in the place I got for you?
Stephen Webb looked uneasy and shamefaced.
I have lost my place, he answered, after a pause.
How does it happen that you lost it?
I don't know. Some one must have prejudiced my employer against me.
It is your own habits that have prejudiced him, I make no doubt.
This was true. One morning Stephen, whose besetting sin was intemperance, appeared at the office where he was employed in such a state of intoxication that he was summarily discharged. It may be explained that he was a son of Mr. Browning's only sister.
When were you discharged? asked his uncle.
Last week.
And have you tried to get another situation?
Yes.
What are your prospects of success?
There seem to be very few openings just now, Uncle Thomas.
The greater reason why you should have kept the place I obtained for you. Were you going to play pool in this low place?
I was going to look on. A man must have some amusement, said Stephen, sullenly.
Amusement is all you think of. However, it so happens that I have something that I wish you to do.
Stephen regarded his uncle in surprise.
Are you going to open an office in Chicago? he asked.
No; the service is of a different nature. It is--secret and confidential. It is, I may say, something in the detective line.
Then I'm your man, said his nephew, brightening up.
The service is simple, so that you will probably be qualified to do what I require.
I've read lots of detective stories, said Stephen, eagerly. "It's just the work I should like."
Humph! I don't think much is to be learned from detective stories. You will understand, of course, that you are not to let anyone know you are acting for me.
Certainly. You will find that I can keep a secret.
I leave Chicago to-morrow morning, and will give you directions before I go. Where can we have a private conference?
Here is an oyster house. We shall be quiet here.
Very well! We will go in.
They entered a small room, with a sanded floor, provided with a few unpainted tables.
Stephen and his uncle went to the back of the room, and seated themselves at the rear table.
We must order something, suggested Stephen.
Get what you please, said Browning, indifferently.
Two stews! ordered Stephen. "We can talk while they are getting them ready."
Very well! Now, for my instructions. At the corner of Clark and Randolph Streets every morning and evening you will find a newsboy selling papers.
A dozen, you mean.
True, but I am going to describe this boy so that you may know him. He is about fifteen, I should judge, neatly dressed, and would be considered good-looking.
Do you know his name?
Yes, it is Luke Walton.
Is he the one I am to watch?
You are to make his acquaintance, and find out all you can about his circumstances.
Do you know where he lives?
No; that is one of the things you are to find out for me.
What else do you want me to find out?
Find out how many there are in family, also how they live; whether they have anything to live on except what this newsboy earns.
All right, Uncle Thomas. You seem to have a great deal of interest in this boy.
That is my business, said Browning, curtly. "If you wish to work for me, you must not show too much curiosity. Never mind what my motives are. Do you understand?"
Certainly, Uncle Thomas. It shall be as you say. I suppose I am to be paid?
Yes. How much salary did you receive where you were last employed?
Ten dollars a week.
You shall receive this sum for the present. It is very good pay for the small service required of you.
All right, uncle.
The stews were ready by this time. They were brought and set before Stephen and his uncle. The latter toyed with his spoon, only taking a taste or two, but Stephen showed much more appreciation of the dish, not being accustomed, like his uncle, to dining at first-class hotels.
How am I to let you know what I find out? asked Stephen.
Write me at Milwaukee. I will send you further instructions from there.
Very well, sir.
Oh, by the way, you are never to mention me to this Luke Walton. I have my reasons.
I will do just as you say.
How is your mother, Stephen?
About the same. She isn't a very cheerful party, you know. She is always fretting.
Has she any lodgers?
Yes, three, but one is a little irregular with his rent.
Of course, I expect that you will hand your mother half the weekly sum I pay you. She has a right to expect that much help from her son.
Stephen assented, but not with alacrity, and as he had now disposed of the stew, the two rose from their seats and went outside. A few words of final instructions, and they parted.
I wonder why Uncle Thomas takes such an interest in that newsboy, thought Stephen. "I will make it my business to find out."
Luke was at his post the following morning, and had disposed of half his papers when Stephen Webb strolled by. He walked past Luke, and then, as if it was an after thought, turned back, and addressed him.
Have you a morning _Tribune?_ he asked.
Luke produced it.
How's business to-day? asked Stephen in an offhand manner.
Pretty fair, answered Luke, for the first time taking notice of the inquirer, who did not impress him very favorably.
I have often wondered how you newsboys make it pay, said Stephen, in a sociable tone.
We don't make our fortunes, as a rule, answered Luke, smiling, "so I can't recommend you to go into it."
I don't think it would suit me. I don't mind owning up that I am lazy. But, then, I am not obliged to work for the present, at least.
I should like to be able to live without work, said the newsboy. "But even then I would find something to do. I should not be happy if I were idle."
I am not wholly without work, said Stephen. "My uncle, who lives at a distance, occasionally sends to me to do something for him. I have to hold myself subject to his orders. In the meantime I get an income from him. How long have you been a newsboy?"
Nearly two years.
Do you like it? Why don't you get a place in a store or an office?
I should like to, if I could make enough; but boys get very small salaries.
I was about to offer to look for a place for you. I know some men in business.
Thank you! You are very kind, considering that we are strangers.
Oh, well, I can judge of you by your looks. I shouldn't be afraid to recommend you.
Thank you! he replied; "but unless you can offer me as much as five dollars a week, I should feel obliged to keep on selling papers. I not only have myself to look out for, but a mother and little brother."
Stephen nodded to himself complacently. It was the very information of which he was in search.
Then your father isn't living? he said.
No. He died in California.
Uncle Thomas made his money in California, Stephen said to himself. "I wonder if he knew this newsboy's father."
Five dollars is little enough for three persons to live upon, he went on, in a sympathetic manner.
Mother earns something by sewing, Luke answered, unsuspiciously; "but it takes all we can make to support us."
Then they can't have any other resources, thought Stephen. "I am getting on famously."
Well, good-morning, Luke! he said. "I'll see you later."
How do you know my name? asked Luke, in surprise.
I'm an idiot! thought Stephen. "I ought to have appeared ignorant of his name. I have seen you before to-day," he replied, taking a little time to think. "I heard one of the other newsboys calling you by name. I don't pretend to be a magician."
This explanation satisfied Luke. It appeared very natural.
I have a great memory for names, proceeded Stephen. "That reminds me that I have not told you mine--I am Stephen Webb, at your service."
I will remember it.
Have a cigarette, Luke? added Stephen, producing a packet from his pocket."
Thank you; I don't smoke.
Don't smoke, and you a newsboy! I thought all of you smoked.
Most of us do, but I promised my mother I wouldn't smoke till I was twenty-one.
Then I'm old enough to smoke. I've smoked ever since I was twelve years old--well, good morning!
That'll do for one day, thought Stephen Webb.
It was three days before Stephen Webb called again on his new acquaintance. He did not wish Luke to suspect anything, he said to himself. Really, however, he found other things to take up his attention. At the rate his money was going it seemed very doubtful whether he would be able to give his mother any part of his salary, as suggested by his uncle.
Hang it all! he said to himself, as he noted his rapidly diminishing hoard. "Why can't my uncle open his heart and give me more than ten dollars a week? Fifteen dollars wouldn't be any too much, and to him it would be nothing--positively nothing."
On the second evening Luke went home late. It had been a poor day for him, and his receipts were less than usual, though he had been out more hours.
When he entered the house, however, he assumed a cheerful look, for he never wished to depress his mother's spirits.
You are late, Luke, said Mrs. Walton; "but I have kept your supper warm."
What makes you so late, Luke? asked Bennie.
The papers went slow, Bennie. They will, sometimes. There's no very important news just now. I suppose that explains it.
After a while Luke thought he noticed that his mother looked more serious than usual.
What's the matter, mother? he asked. "Have you a headache?"
No, Luke. I am perfectly well, but I am feeling a little anxious.
About what, mother?
I went around this afternoon to take half a dozen shirts that I had completed, and asked for more. They told me they had no more for me at present, and they didn't know when I could have any more.
This was bad news, for Luke knew that he alone did not earn enough to support the family. However, he answered cheerfully: "Don't be anxious, mother! There are plenty of other establishments in Chicago besides the one you have been working for."
That is true, Luke; but I don't know whether that will help me. I stopped at two places after leaving Gusset & Co.'s, and was told that their list was full.
Well, mother, don't let us think of it to-night! To morrow we can try again.
Luke's cheerfulness had its effect on his mother, and the evening was passed socially.
The next morning Luke went out to work at the usual time. He had all his papers sold out by half-past ten o'clock, and walked over to State Street, partly to fill up the time, arid partly in search of some stray job. He was standing in front of the Bee Hive, a well-known drygoods store on State Street, when his attention was called to an old lady, who, in attempting to cross the street, had imprudently placed herself just in the track of a rapidly advancing cable car. Becoming sensible of her danger, the old lady uttered a terrified cry, but was too panic-stricken to move.
On came the car, with gong sounding out its alarm, and a cry of horror went up from the bystanders.
Luke alone seemed to have his wits about him.
He saw that there was not a moment to lose, and, gathering up his strength, dashed to the old lady's assistance.
The old lady had just become conscious of her peril when Luke reached her. She was too bewildered to move, and would inevitably have been crushed by the approaching car had not Luke seized her by the arm and fairly dragged her out of danger.
Then, as the car passed on, he took off his hat, and said, apologetically: "I hope you will excuse my roughness, madam, but I could see no other way of saving you."
Please lead me to the sidewalk, gasped the old lady. Luke complied with her request.
I am deeply thankful to you, my boy, she said, as soon as she found voice. "I can see that I was in great danger. I was busily thinking, or I should not have been so careless."
I am glad that I was able to help you, responded Luke, as he prepared to leave his new acquaintance.
Don't leave me! said the old lady. "My nerves are so upset that I don't like being left alone."
I am quite at your service, madam, replied Luke, politely. "Shall I put you on board the cars?"
No, call a carriage, please.
This was easily done, for they were in front of the Palmer House, where a line of cabs may be found. Luke called one, and assisted the old lady inside.
Where shall I tell the driver to take you? he asked.
The old lady named a number on Prairie Avenue, which contains some of the finest residences in Chicago.
Can I do anything more for you? asked our hero.
Yes, was the unexpected reply. "Get in yourself, if you can spare the time."
Certainly, assented Luke.
He took his seat beside the old lady.
I hope you have recovered from your fright, he said, politely.
Yes, I begin to feel myself again. Probably you wonder why I have asked you to accompany me?
Probably because you may need my services, suggested Luke.
Not altogether. I shudder as I think of the danger from which you rescued me, but I have another object in view.
Luke waited for her to explain.
I want to become better acquainted with you.
Thank you, madam.
I fully recognize that you have done me a great service. Now, if I ask you a fair question about yourself, you won't think it an old woman's curiosity?
I hope I should not be so ill-bred, madam.
Really, you are a very nice boy.
Now, tell me where you live?
On Green Street.
Where is that?
Only a stone's throw from Milwaukee Avenue.
I don't think I was ever in that part of the city.
It is not a nice part of the city, but we cannot afford to live in a better place.
You say 'we.' Does that mean your father and mother?
My father is dead. Our family consists of my mother, my little brother, and myself.
And you are--excuse my saying so--poor?
We are poor, but thus far we have not wanted for food or shelter.
I suppose you are employed in some way?
Yes; I sell papers.
Then you are a newsboy?
Yes, madam.
I suppose you cannot save very much?
If I make seventy-five cents a day I consider myself quite lucky. It is more than I average.
Surely you can't live on that--I mean the three of you?
Mother earns something by making shirts; at least, she has done so; but yesterday she was told that she would not have any more work at present.
And your brother--he is too young to work, I suppose?
Yes, madam.
While this conversation was going en, the cab was making rapid progress, and as the last words were spoken the driver reined up in front of a handsome residence.
Is this the place, madam?
The old lady looked out of the hack.
Yes, she answered. "I had no idea we had got along so far."
Luke helped her out of the cab. She paid the man his fare, and then signed Luke to help her up the steps.
I want you to come into the house with me, she said. "I have not got through talking with you."
A maidservant answered the bell. She looked surprised when she saw the old lady's young companion.
Is my niece in? asked the old lady.
No, Mrs. Merton--Master Harold is in.
Never mind! You may come upstairs with me, young man.
Luke followed the old lady up the broad, handsome staircase, stealing a curious glance at an elegantly-furnished drawing-room, the door of which opened into the hall.
His companion led the way into the front room on the second floor.
Remain here until I have taken off my things, she said.
Luke seated himself in a luxurious armchair.
He looked about him and wondered how it would seem to live in such luxury. He had little time for thought, for in less than five minutes Mrs. Merton made her appearance.
You have not yet told me your name, she said.
Luke Walton.
That's a good name--I am Mrs. Merton.
I noticed that the servant called you so, said Luke.
Yes; I am a widow. My married niece lives here with me. She is also a widow, with one son, Harold. I think he might be about your age. Her name is Tracy. You wonder why I give you all these particulars? I see you do. It is because I mean to keep up our acquaintance.
Thank you, Mrs. Merton.
My experience this morning has shown me that I am hardly fit to go about the city alone. Yet I am not willing to remain at home. It has occurred to me that I can make use of your services with advantage both to you and myself. What do you say?
I shall be glad of anything that will increase my income, said Luke, promptly.
Please call here to-morrow morning, and inquire for me. I will then tell you what I require.
Very well, Mrs. Merton. You may depend upon me.
And accept a week's pay in advance.
She put a sealed envelope into his hand. Luke took it, and, with a bow, left the room.
As the distance was considerable to the business part of the city, Luke boarded a car and rode downtown. It did not occur to him to open the envelope till he was half way to the end of his journey.
When he did so, he was agreeably surprised. The envelope contained a ten-dollar bill.
Ten dollars! Hasn't Mrs. Merton made a mistake? he said to himself. "She said it was a week's pay. But, of course, she wouldn't pay ten dollars for the little I am to do."
Luke decided that the extra sum was given him on account of the service he had already been fortunate enough to render the old lady.
Next to him sat rather a showily dressed woman, with keen, sharp eyes. She took notice of the bank-note which Luke drew from the envelope, and prepared to take advantage of the knowledge.
No sooner had Luke replaced the envelope in his pocket than this woman put her hand in hers, and, after a pretended search, exclaimed, in a loud voice: "There is a pickpocket in this car. I have been robbed!"
Of course, this statement aroused the attention of all the passengers.
What have you lost, madam? inquired an old gentleman.
A ten-dollar bill, answered the woman.
Was it in your pocketbook?
No, she replied, glibly. "It was in an envelope. It was handed to me by my sister just before I left home."
As soon as Luke heard this declaration, he understood that the woman had laid a trap for him, and he realized his imprudence in displaying the money. Naturally he looked excited and disturbed. He saw that in all probability the woman's word would be taken in preference to his. He might be arrested, and find it difficult to prove his innocence.
Have you any suspicion as to who took it? asked the old gentleman.
I think this boy took it, said the woman pointing to Luke.
It's terrible, and he so young! said an old lady with a severe cast of countenance, who sat next to the old gentleman. "What is the world coming to?"
What, indeed, ma'am? echoed the old gentleman.
Luke felt that it was time for him to say something.
This lady is quite mistaken, he declared, pale but resolute. "I'm no thief."
It can easily be proved, said the woman, with a cunning smile. "Let the boy show the contents of his pockets."
Yes, that is only fair.
Luke saw that his difficulties were increasing.
I admit that I have a ten-dollar bill in an envelope, he said.
I told you so! said the woman, triumphantly.
But it is my own.
Graceless boy! said the old gentleman, severely, "Do not add falsehood to theft."
I am speaking the truth, sir.
How the boy brazens it out! murmured the sour-visaged lady.
Return the lady her money, unless you wish to be arrested, said the old gentleman.
I don't intend to give this person--Luke found it hard to say lady--"what she has no claim to."
Young man, you will find that you are making a grand mistake. Probably if you give up the money the lady will not prosecute you.
No, I will have pity upon his youth, said the woman.
I can tell exactly where I got the money, went on Luke, desperately.
Where did you get it? asked the old maid, with a sarcastic smile.
From Mrs. Merton, of Prairie Avenue.
What did she give it to you for?
I am in her employment.
Gentlemen, said the woman, shrugging her shoulders, "you can judge whether this is a probable story."
I refer to Mrs. Merton herself, said Luke.
No doubt! You want to gain time. Boy, I am getting out of patience. Give me my money!
I have no money of yours, madam, replied Luke, provoked; "and you know that as well as I do."
So you are impertinent, as well as a thief, said the old gentleman. "I have no more pity for you. Madam, if you will take my advice, you will have the lying rascal arrested."
I would prefer that he should give up the money quietly.
I will take it upon myself to call a policeman when the car stops.
You do me great injustice, sir, said Luke. "Why do you judge so severely of one whom you do not know?"
Because, young man, I have lived too long to be easily deceived. I pride myself upon my judgment of faces, and I can see the guilt in yours.
Luke looked about him earnestly.
Is there no one in this car who believes me innocent? he asked.
No, said the old gentleman. "We all believe that this very respectable lady charges you justly."
I say amen to that, added the old maid, nodding sharply.
Next to the old maid sat a man of about thirty-five, in a business suit, who, though he had said nothing, had listened attentively to the charges and counter-charges. In him Luke was to find a powerful and effective friend.
Speak for yourself, old gentleman, he said. "You certainly are old enough to have learned a lesson of Christian charity."
Sir, exclaimed the old gentleman, in a lofty tone, "I don't require any instruction from you."
Why do you think the boy a thief? Did you see him take the money?
No, but its presence in his pocket is proof enough for me of his guilt.
Of course it is! said the old maid, triumphantly.
The young man did not appear in the least disconcerted.
I have seldom encountered more uncharitable people, he said. "You are ready to pronounce the boy guilty without any proof at all."
Don't it occur to you that you are insulting the lady who brings the charge? asked the old gentleman, sternly.
The young man laughed.
The woman has brought a false charge, he said.
Really, this is outrageous! cried the old maid. "If I were in her place I would make you suffer for this calumny."
Probably I know her better than you do. I am a salesman in Marshall Field's drygoods store, and this lady is a notorious shoplifter. She is varying her performances to-day. I have a great mind to call a policeman. She deserves arrest.
Had a bombshell exploded in the car, there would not have been a greater sensation. The woman rose without a word, and signaled to have the car stopped.
Now, sir, went on the young man, sternly, "if you are a gentleman, you will apologize to this boy for your unworthy suspicions, and you, too, madam."
The old maid tossed her head, but could not find a word to say, while the old gentleman looked the picture of mortification.
We are all liable to be mistaken! he muttered, in a confused tone.
Then be a little more careful next time, both of you! My boy, I congratulate you on your triumphant vindication.
Thank you, sir, for it. I should have stood a very poor chance without your help.
The tide was turned, and the uncharitable pair found so many unfriendly glances fixed upon them that they were glad to leave the car at the next crossing.
"I begin to think I am the favorite of fortune," thought Luke. "Ten dollars will more than pay a month's rent. Mother will feel easy now about her loss of employment."
Some boys would have felt like taking a holiday for the balance of the day, perhaps, or going to a place of amusement, but Luke bought his evening papers as usual. He had but half a dozen left when his new acquaintance, Stephen Webb, sauntered along.
How's business, Luke? he asked.
Very fair, thank you.
Give me a _News._
Stephen passed over a penny in payment, but did not seem inclined to go away.
I meant to see you before, he said, "but my time got filled up."
Have you taken a situation, then? asked Luke.
No, I am still a man of leisure. Why don't you hire a small store, and do a general periodical business? It would pay you better.
No doubt it would, but it would take money to open and stock such a store.
I may make a proposition to you some time to go in with me, I furnishing the capital, and you managing the business.
I am always open to a good offer, said Luke, smiling.
I suppose I ought to have some business, but I'm a social kind of fellow, and should want a partner, a smart, enterprising, trustworthy person like you.
Thank you for the compliment.
Never mind that! I am a judge of human nature, and I felt confidence in you at once.
Somehow Luke was not altogether inclined to take Stephen Webb at his own valuation. His new acquaintance did not impress him as a reliable man of business, but he had no suspicion of anything underhand.
By this time Luke had disposed of his remaining papers.
I am through for the day, he said, "and shall go home."
Do you walk or ride?
I walk.
If you don't mind, I will walk along with you. I haven't taken much exercise to-day.
Luke had no reason for declining this proposal, and accepted Stephen's companionship. They walked on Clark Street to the bridge, and crossed the river. Presently they reached Milwaukee Avenue."
Isn't the walk too long for you? asked Luke.
Oh, no! I can walk any distance when I have company. I shall take a car back.
Stephen accompanied the newsboy as far as his own door. He would like to have been invited up, but Luke did not care to give him an invitation. Though Stephen seemed very friendly, he was not one whom he cared to cultivate.
Well, so long! said Stephen, with his "good-night," "I shall probably see you to-morrow."
I have found out where they live, thought Stephen. "I am making a very good detective. I'll drop a line to Uncle Thomas this evening."
Meanwhile Luke went upstairs two steps at a time. He was the bearer of good tidings, and that always quickens the steps.
He found his mother sitting in her rocking-chair with a sober face.
Well, mother, he asked, gayly, "how have you passed the day?"
Very unprofitably, Luke. I went out this afternoon, and visited two places where I thought they might have some sewing for me, but I only met with disappointment. Now that I have a sewing machine, it is a great pity that I can't make use of it.
Don't be troubled, mother! We can get along well enough.
But we have only your earnings to depend upon.
If I always have as good a day as this, we can depend on those very easily.
Did you earn much, Luke?
I earned a lot of money.
Mrs. Walton looked interested, and Luke's manner cheered her.
There are always compensations, it seems. I was only thinking of my own bad luck.
What do you say to that, mother? and Luke displayed the ten-dollar bill.
I don't understand how you could have taken in so much money, Luke.
Then I will explain, and Luke told the story of the adventure on State Street, and his rescue of the old lady from the danger of being run over.
The best of it is, he concluded, "I think I shall get regular employment for part of my time from Mrs. Merton. Whatever I do for her will be liberally paid for."
Luke went to a bakery for some cream cakes, of which Bennie was particularly fond.
At the same time Stephen Webb was busily engaged In the writing room of the Palmer House, inditing a letter to his uncle.
DEAR UNCLE THOMAS:--I have devoted my whole time to the task which you assigned me, and have met with very good success. I found the boy uncommunicative, and had to exert all my ingenuity.
Of the accuracy of this and other statements, the reader will judge for himself.
The boy has a mother and a younger brother. They depend for support chiefly upon what he can earn, though the mother does a little sewing, but that doesn't bring in much. They live in Green Street, near Milwaukee Avenue. I have been there, and seen the house where they reside. It is a humble place, but as good, I presume, as they can afford. No doubt they are very poor, and have all they can do to make both ends meet.
I have learned this much, but have had to work hard to do it. Of course, I need not say that I shall spare no pains to meet your expectations. If you should take me into your confidence, and give me an idea of what more you wish to know, I feel sure that I can manage to secure all needed information. Your dutiful nephew,
STEPHEN WEBB.
Thomas Browning, in his Milwaukee home, read this letter with satisfaction.
He wrote briefly to his nephew:
You have done well thus far, and I appreciate your zeal. Get the boy to talking about his father, if you can. Let me hear anything he may say on this subject. As to my motive, I suspect that Mr. Walton may have been an early acquaintance of mine. If so, I may feel disposed to do something for the family.
On his way to the Sherman House, the next morning, Luke witnessed rather an exciting scene, in which his old friend, Tom Brooks, played a prominent part.
There was a Chinese laundry on Milwaukee Avenue kept by a couple of Chinamen who were peaceably disposed if not interfered with. But several boys, headed by Tom Brooks, had repeatedly annoyed the laundrymen, and excited their resentment.
On this particular morning Tom sent a stone crashing through the window of Ah King. The latter had been on the watch, and, provoked beyond self-control, rushed out into the street, wild with rage, and pursued Tom with a flatiron in his hand.
Help! help! murder! exclaimed Tom, panic-stricken, running away as fast as his legs would carry him.
But anger, excited by the broken window, lent wings to the Chinaman's feet, and he gained rapidly upon the young aggressor.
Tom Brooks had reason to feel alarmed for his Chinese pursuer fully intended to strike Tom with the flatiron. Though this was utterly wrong, some excuse must be made for Ah King, who had frequently been annoyed by Tom.
It was at this critical juncture that Luke Walton appeared on the scene.
He had no reason to like Tom, but he instantly prepared to rescue him. Fortunately, he knew Ah King, whom he had more than once protected from the annoyance of the hoodlums of the neighborhood.
Luke ran up and seized the Chinaman by the arm.
What are you going to do? he demanded, sternly.
Fool boy bleak my window, said Ah King. "I bleak his head."
No, you mustn't do that. The police will arrest you.
Go way! Me killee white boy, cried Ah King, impatiently trying to shake off Luke's grasp. "He bleak window--cost me a dollee."
I'll see that he pays it, or is arrested, said Luke.
Unwillingly Ah King suffered himself to be persuaded, more readily, perhaps, that Tom was now at a safe distance.
You plomise me? said Ah King.
Yes; if he don't pay, I will. Go and get the window mended.
Luke easily overtook Tom, who was looking round the corner to see how matters were going.
Has he gone back? asked Tom, rather anxiously.
Yes, but if I hadn't come along, he would, perhaps, have killed you.
You only say that to scare me, said Tom, uneasily.
No, I don't; I mean it. Do you know how I got you off?
How?
I told Ah King you would pay for the broken window. It will cost a dollar.
I didn't promise, said Tom, significantly.
No, said Luke, sternly, "but if you don't do it, I will myself have you arrested. I saw you throw the stone at the window."
What concern is it of yours? asked Tom, angrily. "Why do you meddle with my business?"
If I hadn't meddled with your business, you might have a fractured skull by this time. It is a contemptibly mean thing to annoy a poor Chinaman.
He's only a heathen.
A well-behaved heathen is better than a Christian such as you are.
I don't want any lectures, said Tom in a sulky tone.
I presume not. I have nothing more to say except that I expect you to hand me that dollar to-night.
I haven't got a dollar.
Then you had better get one. I don't believe you got a dollar's worth of sport in breaking the window, and I advise you hereafter to spend your money better.
I don't believe I will pay it, said Tom, eying Luke closely, to see if he were in earnest.
Then I will report your case to the police.
You're a mean fellow, said Tom, angrily.
I begin to be sorry I interfered to save you. How ever, take your choice. If necessary, I will pay the dollar myself, for I have promised Ah King; but I shall keep my word about having you arrested.
It was a bitter pill for Tom to swallow, but he managed to raise the money, and handed it to Luke that evening. Instead of being grateful to the one who had possibly saved his life, he was only the more incensed against him, and longed for an opportunity to do him an injury.
I hate that Luke Walton, he said to one of his intimate friends. "He wants to boss me, and all of us, but he can't do it. He's only fit to keep company with a heathen Chinee."
Luke spent a couple of hours in selling papers. He had not forgotten his engagement with Mrs. Merton, and punctually at ten o'clock he pulled the bell of the house in Prairie Avenue.
Just at that moment the door was opened, and he faced a boy of his own age, a thin, dark-complexioned youth, of haughty bearing. This, no doubt, he concluded, was Harold Tracy.
What do you want? he asked, superciliously.
I should like to see Mrs. Merton.
Humph! What business have you with Mrs. Merton?
Luke was not favorably impressed with Harold's manner, and did not propose to treat him with the consideration which he evidently thought his due.
I come here at Mrs. Merton's request, he said, briefly. "As to what business we have together, I refer you to her."
It strikes me that you are impudent, retorted Harold, angrily.
Your opinion of me is of no importance to me. If you don't care to let Mrs. Merton know I am here, I will ring again and ask the servant to do so.
Here a lady, bearing a strong personal resemblance to Harold, made her appearance, entering the hall from the breakfast room in the rear.
What is it, Harold? she asked, in a tone of authority.
Here is a boy who says he wants to see Aunt Eliza.
What can he want with her?
I asked him, but he won't tell.
I must trouble him to tell me, said Mrs. Tracy, closing her thin mouth with a snap.
Like mother--like son, thought Luke.
Do you hear? demanded Mrs. Tracy, unpleasantly.
I am here by Mrs. Merton's appointment, Mrs. Tracy, said Luke, firmly. "I shall be glad to have her informed that I have arrived."
And who are you, may I ask?
Perhaps you've got your card about you? sneered Harold.
I have, answered Luke, quietly.
With a comical twinkle in his eye, he offered one to Harold.
Luke Walton, repeated Harold.
Yes, that is my name.
I don't think my aunt will care to see you, said Mrs. Tracy, who was becoming more and more provoked with the "upstart boy," as she mentally termed him.
Perhaps it would be better to let her know I am here.
It is quite unnecessary. I will take the responsibility.
Luke was quite in doubt as to what he ought to do. He could not very well prevent Harold's closing the door, in obedience to his mother's directions, but fortunately the matter was taken out of his hands by the old lady herself, who, unobserved by Harold and his mother, had been listening to the conversation from the upper landing. When she saw her visitor about to be turned out of the house, she thought it quite time to interfere.
Louisa, she called, in a tone of displeasure, "you will oblige me by not meddling with my visitors. Luke, come upstairs."
Luke could not forbear a smile of triumph as he passed Harold and Mrs. Tracy, and noticed the look of discomfiture on their faces.
I didn't know he was your visitor, Aunt Eliza, said Mrs. Tracy, trembling with the anger she did not venture to display before her wealthy relative.
Didn't he say so? asked Mrs. Merton, sharply.
Yes, but I was not sure that he was not an impostor.
You had only to refer the matter to me, and I could have settled the question. Luke is in my employ----
In your employ? repeated Mrs. Tracy, in surprise.
Yes; he will do errands for me, and sometimes accompany me to the city.
Why didn't you call on Harold? He would be very glad to be of service to you.
Harold had other things to occupy him. I prefer the other arrangement. Luke, come into my room and I will give you directions.
Mrs. Tracy and Harold looked at each other as the old lady and Luke disappeared.
This is a new freak of Aunt Eliza's, said Mrs. Tracy. "Why does she pass over you, and give the preference to this upstart boy?"
I don't mind that, mother, replied Harold. "I don't want to be dancing attendance on an old woman."
But she may take a fancy to this boy--she seems to have done so already--and give him part of the money that ought to be yours.
If we find there is any danger of that, I guess we are smart enough to set her against him. Let her have the boy for a servant if she wishes.
I don't know but you are right, Harold. We must be very discreet, for Aunt Eliza is worth half a million.
And how old is she, mother?
Seventy-one.
That's pretty old. She can't live many years.
I hope she will live to a good old age, said Mrs. Tracy, hypocritically, "but when she dies, it is only fair that we should have her money."
When Luke and Mrs. Merton were alone, the old lady said, with a smile: "You seemed to have some difficulty in getting into the house."
Yes, answered Luke. "I don't think your nephew likes me."
Probably not. Both he and his mother are afraid someone will come between me and them. They are selfish, and cannot understand how I can have any other friends or beneficiaries. You are surprised that I speak so openly of such near relatives to such a comparative stranger. However, it is my nature to be outspoken. And now, Luke, if you don't think it will be tiresome to escort an old woman, I mean to take you downtown with me.
I look upon you as a kind friend, Mrs. Merton, responded Luke, earnestly. "I want to thank you for the handsome present you made me yesterday. I didn't expect anything like ten dollars."
You will find it acceptable, however, I don't doubt. Seriously, Luke, I don't think it's too much to pay for saving my life. Now, if you will wait here five minutes, I will be ready to go out with you.
Five minutes later Mrs. Merton came into the room attired for the street. They went downstairs together, and Luke and she got on a street car.
They were observed by Mrs. Tracy and Harold as they left the house.
Aunt Eliza's very easily imposed upon, remarked the latter.
She scarcely knows anything of that boy, and she has taken him out with her. How does she know but he is a thief?
He looks like one, said Harold, in an amiable tone. "If aunt is robbed, I shan't pity her. She will deserve it."
Very true; but you must remember that it will be our loss as well as hers. Her property will rightfully come to us, and if she is robbed we shall inherit so much the less.
I have been thinking, Harold, it may be well for you to find out something of this boy. If you can prove to Aunt Eliza that he is of bad character, she will send him adrift.
I'll see about it, mother.
Meanwhile Mrs. Merton and Luke were on their way to the business portion of the city.
I think I will stop at Adams Street, Luke, said the old lady. "I shall have to go to the Continental Bank. Do you know where it is?"
I believe it is on La Salle Street, corner of Adams.
Quite right. I shall introduce you to the paying teller as in my employ, as I may have occasion to send you there alone at times to deposit or draw money.
I wish Harold was more like you, she said. "His mother's suggestion that I should take him with me as an escort would be just as disagreeable to him as to me."
Is he attending school? asked Luke.
Yes. He is preparing for college, but he is not fond of study, and I doubt whether he ever enters. I think he must be about your age.
I am nearly sixteen.
Then he is probably a little older.
They entered the bank, and Mrs. Merton, going to the window of the paying teller, presented a check for a hundred dollars.
How will you have it, Mrs. Merton? asked the teller.
In fives and tens. By the way, Mr. Northrop, please take notice of this boy with me. I shall occasionally send him by himself to attend to my business. His name is Luke Walton.
His face looks familiar. I think we have met before.
I have sold you papers more than once, Mr. Northrop, said Luke. "I stand on Clark Street, near the Sherman."
Yes, I remember, now. We bank officials are apt to take notice of faces.
Here, Luke, carry this money for me, said Mrs. Merton, putting a lady's pocketbook into the hand of her young escort. "You are less likely to be robbed than I."
Luke was rather pleased at the full confidence his new employer seemed to repose in him.
I am now going up on State Street, said Mrs. Merton, as they emerged into the street. "You know the store of Marshall Field?"
Oh, yes; everybody in Chicago knows that, said Luke.
In a few minutes they stood before the large store, and Mrs. Merton entered, followed by Luke.
Mrs. Merton went to that part of the establishment where woolens are sold, and purchased a dress pattern. To Luke's surprise, the salesman was the same one who had come to his assistance in the car the day previous when he was charged with stealing. The recognition was mutual.
I believe we have met before, said the young man, with a smile.
Yes, fortunately for me, answered Luke, gratefully.
The two parties who were determined to find you guilty looked foolish when they ascertained the real character of your accuser.
What is this, Luke? You didn't tell me of it, said Mrs. Merton.
The story was related briefly.
I should like to meet that woman, said Mrs. Merton, nodding energetically. "I'd give her a piece of my mind. Luke, you may hand me ten dollars."
The goods were wrapped up and the change returned.
Where shall I send the bundle, Mrs. Merton? asked the salesman, deferentially.
Luke will take it.
As they left the store Mrs. Merton said: "Did you think I was buying this dress for myself, Luke?"
I thought so, Luke answered.
No, I have dresses enough to last me a lifetime, I may almost say. This dress pattern is for your mother.
For my mother? repeated Luke, joyfully.
Yes; I hope it will be welcome.
Indeed it will. Mother hasn't had a new dress for over a year.
Then I guessed right. Give it to her with my compliments, and tell her I give it to her for your sake. Now, I believe I will go home.
No present made to Luke could have given him so much pleasure as this gift to his mother, for he knew how much she stood in need of it.
When they reached the house on Prairie Avenue, they met Mrs. Tracy on the steps. She had been out for a short call.
Did you have a pleasant morning, Aunt Eliza? she asked, quite ignoring Luke.
Yes, quite so. Luke, I won't trouble you to come in. I shall not need you to-morrow. The next day you may call at the same hour.
Luke turned away, but was called back sharply by Mrs. Tracy.
Boy! she said, "you are taking away my aunt's bundle. Bring it back directly."
Louisa, said the old lady, "don't trouble yourself. That bundle is meant for Luke's mother."
Something you bought for her?
Yes, a dress pattern.
Oh! sniffed Mrs. Tracy, eying Luke with strong disapproval.
In one of the handsomest streets in Milwaukee stood a private residence which was quite in harmony with its surroundings. It looked like the home of a man of ample means. It was luxuriously furnished, and at one side was a conservatory. It was apt to attract the attention of strangers, and the question was asked: "Who lives there?"
And the answer would be: "Thomas Browning. He will probably be mayor some day."
Yes, this was the residence of Thomas Browning, formerly Thomas Butler, the man to whom the dead father of Luke Walton had intrusted the sum of ten thousand dollars to carry to his wife and children. How he fulfilled his trust, or, rather, did not fulfill it, we already know. But in Milwaukee, where Mr. Browning had become a leading citizen, it was not known. It was entirely inconsistent with what was believed to be his character. For Mr. Browning was president of one charitable society and treasurer of another. At the annual meetings of these societies he was always called upon to speak, and his allusions to the poverty and privations of those who were cared for by these societies never failed to produce an impression.
It was popularly supposed that he gave away large sums in charity. Indeed, he admitted the fact, but explained the absence of his name from subscription papers by saying: "All my gifts are anonymous. Instead of giving my name, I prefer to put down 'Cash,' so much, or 'A Friend,' such another sum. I don't wish to influence others, but it jars upon me to have my name ostentatiously paraded in the public prints."
Now, in all subscriptions there are donations ascribed to "Cash" and "A Friend," and whenever these occurred, it was generally supposed they represented Mr. Browning. But, to let the reader into a little secret, this was only a shrewd device of Mr. Browning's to have the reputation of a philanthropist at little or no expense, for, as a matter of fact, he never contributed at all to the charities in which he seemed to take such an interest!
In a pleasant room on the second floor sat the pseudo-philanthropist. The room was furnished as a library. At a writing table, poring over what looked like an account book, he looked the picture of comfort and respectability. A few well-chosen engravings adorned the walls. A pleasant light was diffused about the room from a chandelier suspended over the table.
Thomas Browning leaned back in his chair, and a placid smile overspread his naturally harsh features. He looked about him, and his thoughts somehow ran back to a time when he was very differently situated.
Five years ago to-night, he said, "I was well-nigh desperate. I hadn't a cent to bless myself with, nor was the prospect of getting one particularly bright. How I lived, for a considerable time, I hardly know. I did have a notion at one time, when I was particularly down on my luck, of committing suicide, and so ending the struggle once for all. It would have been a great mistake!" he added after a pause. "I didn't foresee at the time the prosperous years that lay before me. Frederick Walton's money changed my whole life. Ten thousand dollars isn't a fortune, but it proved the basis of one. It enabled me to float the Excelsior Mine. I remember there were a hundred thousand shares at two dollars a share, all based upon a few acres of mining land which I bought for a song. With the ten thousand dollars, I hired an office, printed circulars, distributed glowing accounts of imaginary wealth, etc. It cost considerable for advertising, but I sold seventy thousand shares, and when I had gathered in the money I let the bottom fall out. There was a great fuss, of course, but I figured as the largest loser, being the owner of thirty thousand shares (for which I hadn't paid a cent), and so shared the sympathy extended to losers. It was a nice scheme, and after deducting all expenses, I made a clean seventy-five thousand dollars out of it, which, added to my original capital, made eighty-five thousand. Then I came to Milwaukee and bought this house. From that time my career has been upward and onward. My friends say some day I shall be mayor of the city. Well, stranger things have happened, and who knows but my friends may be right!"
At this moment a servant entered the library.
Well, Mary, what is it? asked the philanthropist.
Please, sir, there's a poor woman at the door, and she would like to see you.
Ah, yes, she wants relief from the Widows' and Orphans' Society, probably. Well, send her up. I am always at home to the poor.
What a good man he is! thought Mary. "It's strange he gives such low wages to the girls that work for him. He says it's because he gives away so much money in charities."
Mary ushered in, a moment later, a woman in a faded dress, with a look of care and sorrow on her thin features.
Take a seat, madam, said Thomas Browning, urbanely. "Did you wish to see me?"
Yes, sir. I am in difficulties, and have ventured to call upon you.
I am glad to see you. I am always ready to see the unfortunate.
"
Yes, sir; I know you have the reputation of being a philanthropist. No, no,"" said Mr. Browning, modestly. ""Don't mention it. I am fully aware of the flattering estimation which is placed on my poor services, but I really don't deserve it. It is, perhaps, as the President of the Widows' and Orphans' Charitable Society that you wish to speak to me.""
"
No, sir. It is as President of the Excelsior Mining Company that I wish to make an appeal to you.
Oh! ejaculated Browning, with a perceptible change of countenance.
Of course you remember it, sir. I was a widow, with a small property of five thousand dollars left me by my late husband. It was all I had on which to support myself and two children. The banks paid poor interest, and I was in search of a profitable investment. One of your circulars fell into my hands. The shares were two dollars each, and it was stated that they would probably yield fifty per cent dividends. That would support me handsomely. But I didn't decide to invest until I had written a private letter to you.
She took it from the pocket of her dress, and offered it to Thomas Browning, but that gentleman waved it aside.
She continued: "You indorsed all that the circular contained. You said that within a year you thought he shares would rise to at least ten dollars. So I invested all the money I had. You know what followed. In six months the shares went down to nothing, and I found myself penniless."
I know it, my good woman, said Thomas Browning. "I know it, to my cost. I myself had sixty thousand dollars invested in the stock. I lost it all."
But you seem to be a rich man, said the poor woman, looking about her.
I have made it out of other ventures. But the collapse of the mine was a sad blow to me. As the president, I might have had something from the wreck, but I did not. I suffered with the rest. Now, may I ask what I can do for you?
It was on account of your advice that I bought stock. Don't you think you ought to make up to me a part of the loss?
Impossible! said Browning, sharply. "Didn't I tell you I lost much more heavily than you?"
Then you can do nothing for me?
Yes; I can put you on the pension list of the Widows' and Orphans' Society. That will entitle you to receive a dollar a week for three months.
I am not an object of charity, sir. I wish you good-night.
Good-night. If you change your mind come to me.
Very unreasonable, upon my word, soliloquized Thomas Browning.
At eleven o'clock Mr. Browning went to his bedchamber. He lit the gas and was preparing to disrobe, when his sharp ear detected the sound of suppressed breathing, and the point from which it proceeded. He walked quickly to the bed, bent over, and looked underneath. In an instant he had caught a man who had been concealed beneath it.
The intruder was a wretchedly dressed tramp. Browning allowed the man to get upon his feet, and then, facing him, demanded, sternly: "Why are you here? Did you come to rob me?"