"Did you come to rob me?" repeated Mr. Browning, as he stood facing the tramp, whom he had brought to the light from under the bed.
There was an eager, questioning look on the face of the tramp, as he stared at the gentleman upon whose privacy he had intruded--not a look of fear, but a look of curiosity. Thomas Browning misinterpreted it. He thought the man was speechless from alarm.
Have you nothing to say for yourself? demanded Browning, sternly.
The answer considerably surprised him.
Why, pard, it's you, is it? said the man, with the air of one to whom a mystery was made plain.
What do you mean by your impertinence? asked the respectable Mr. Browning, angrily.
Well, that's a good one! Who'd have thought that this 'ere mansion belonged to my old friend and pard?
What do you mean? Are you crazy, fellow?
No, I ain't crazy, as I know of, but I'm flabbergasted--that's what I am.
Have done with this trifling and tell me why I shouldn't hand you over to the police?
I guess you won't do that, Tom Butler! returned the burglar, coolly.
Browning stared in surprise and dismay at hearing his old name pronounced by this unsavory specimen of humanity.
Who are you? he demanded, quickly.
Don't you know me?
No, I don't. I never saw you before. I don't associate with men of your class.
Hear him now! chuckled the tramp, in an amazed tone. "Why, Tom Butler, you an' me used to be pards. Don't you remember Jack King? Why, we've bunked together, and hunted for gold together, and almost starved together; but that was in the old days."
Browning looked the amazement he felt.
Are you really Jack King? he ejaculated, sinking back into an easy-chair, and staring hard at his unexpected visitor.
I'm the same old coon, Tom, but I'm down at the heel, while you--do you really own this fine house, and these elegant fixin's?
Yes, answered Browning, mechanically.
Well, you've fared better than I. I've been goin' down, down, till I've got about as far down as I can get.
And you have become a burglar?
Well, a man must live, you know.
You could work.
Who would give such a lookin' man as I any work?
How did you get in?
That's my secret! You mustn't expect me to give myself away.
And you had no idea whose house you were in?
I was told it belonged to a Mr. Browning.
I am Mr. Browning--Thomas Browning.
You! What has become of Butler?
I had good substantial reasons for changing my name--there was money in it, you understand.
I'd like to change my own name on them terms. And now, Tom Butler, what are you going to do for me?
Mr. Browning's face hardened. He felt no sympathy for the poor wretch with whom he had once been on terms of intimacy. He felt ashamed to think that they had ever been comrades, and he resented the tone of familiarity with which this outcast addressed him--a reputable citizen, a wealthy capitalist, a man whose name had been more than once mentioned in connection with the mayor's office.
I'll tell you what I ought to do, he said, harshly.
Well?
I ought to call a policeman, and give you in charge for entering my house as a burglar.
You'd better not do that, he said without betraying alarm.
Why not? Why should I not treat you like any other burglar?
Because--but I want to ask you a question.
What did you do with that money Walton gave you on his deathbed?
What do you mean? he faltered.
Just what I say. What did you do with Walton's money?
I am at a loss to understand your meaning.
No, you are not. However, I am ready to explain. On his deathbed Walton gave you ten thousand dollars to carry to his wife and family. Did you do it?
Who told you this?
It is unnecessary for me to say. It is enough that I know it. At the time you were poor enough. You might have had a few hundred dollars of your own, but certainly not much more. Now--it isn't so many years ago--I find you a rich man. Of course, I have my own ideas of how this came about.
Do you mean to accuse me of dishonesty? demanded Browning, angrily.
I don't accuse you of anything. I am only thinking of what would be natural under the circumstances. I'm not an angel myself, Tom Butler, and I can't say but the money might have miscarried if it had been handed to me instead of to you. I wish it had; I wouldn't be the miserable-looking wretch I am now.
Walton handed me some money, said Browning, cautiously--"not ten thousand dollars--and I handed it to his family."
Where did they live?
In a country town, he answered, glibly.
I was thinking I might run across Mrs. Walton some day, he said, significantly. "She would be glad to see me, as I knew her late husband in California."
She is dead, said Browning, hastily.
Dead! How long since?
She died soon after she heard of her husband's death. Died of grief, poor woman!
Were there no children?
Yes, there was a girl, but she was adopted by a relative in Massachusetts.
I don't believe a word of it! thought Jack King. "He wants to put me off the scent."
Humph! And you gave the wife the money?
Of course.
I may meet the girl some time; I might advertise for any of the family.
Do you think they would be glad to see you?
They might help me, and I stand in need of help.
There is no need of that. You are an old comrade in distress. I haven't forgotten the fact, though I pretended to, to try you. Here's a five-dollar bill. I'll let you out of the house myself. Considering how you entered it, you may count yourself lucky.
That's all right, as far as it goes, Tom, but I want to remind you of a little debt you owe me. When you were out of luck at Murphy's diggings I lent you twenty-five dollars, which you have never paid back.
I had forgotten it.
I haven't. That money will come mighty convenient just now. It will buy me a better-looking suit, second hand, and make a different man of me. With it I can get a place and set up for a respectable human being.
Here's the money, said Browning, reluctantly drawing the additional bills from his wallet. "Now that we are square, I hope you won't annoy me by further applications. I might have sent you out of the house under very different circumstances."
You were always considerate, Tom, said the tramp, stowing away the bills in the pocket of his ragged vest. "May I refer to you if I apply for a situation?"
Yes; but remember I am Thomas Browning. I prefer not to have it known that my name was ever Butler.
All right! Now, if you'll do me the favor of showing me the door I'll leave you to your slumbers.
It's very awkward, that man's turning up, muttered Browning, as he returned from letting out his unsavory visitor. "How could he have heard about Walton's money?"
Jack King left the house with the money Browning had unwillingly given him. He sought a cheap lodging and the next morning proceeded to make himself respectable. When he had donned some clean linen, a suit of clothes which he bought cheap at a second-hand store, taken a bath, and called into requisition the services of a barber, it would have been hard to recognize him as the same man who had emerged from under the bed of the well-known philanthropist, a typical tramp and would-be burglar.
Jack King counted over the balance of his money, and found that he had nine dollars and thirty-seven cents left.
This won't support me forever, he reflected. "I must get something to do."
While sauntering along, he fell in with an old acquaintance named Stone.
What are you up to, King? he asked.
Looking for a job.
You are my man, then. I am keeping a cigar store at the Prairie Hotel, but I have some business calling me away from the city for six weeks or two months. Will you take my place?
What are the inducements?
Board and lodging and five dollars a week.
Agreed.
Come over, then, and I will show you the place.
The hotel was a cheap one, not far from the railway station, and though comfortable, was not patronized by fastidious travelers.
When do you want me to take hold? he asked.
To-morrow.
All right.
Come around at ten o'clock. I want to leave Milwaukee in the afternoon.
King could not help reflecting about the extraordinary prosperity of his old comrade, Tom Butler, now Thomas Browning, Esq.
What does it mean? he asked himself. "He seemed very uneasy when I asked him about Walton's money. I believe he kept it himself. I wish I knew. If I could prove it, it would be a gold mine for me. I must make inquiries, and, if possible, find out Walton's family."
Do you know anything of Thomas Browning? he asked Stone.
The philanthropist? Yes. What of him?
I called on him last evening.
Jack did not think it best to mention the circumstances of his visit.
Indeed! How did you know him?
In California.
I suppose he laid the foundation of his fortune there.
Is he so rich, then?
Yes, probably worth a quarter of a million.
This was an exaggeration, but rich men's wealth is generally overstated.
How does he stand in the city?
First-class. He has been mentioned for mayor. I shouldn't be surprised if he might get the office some day.
He has certainly been very lucky.
I should say so. Was he rich in California?
Not when I knew him. At one time there he had to borrow money of me. He paid me back last evening.
He is on the top of the ladder now, at any rate.
His respectability would suffer a little, thought Jack King, "if I could prove that he had appropriated Walton's money. I must think the matter over, and secure some information if I can."
The next Sunday evening he called at the house of the philanthropist, and sent in his name.
Thomas Browning went himself to the door. He was afraid King might be wearing the same disreputable suit in which he had made his former visit. But to his relief his visitor looked quite respectable.
Do you wish to see me? he asked.
Yes; but only for a social call. I am not acquainted in Milwaukee, and it does me good to see an old friend and comrade.
I have not much time to spare, but come in!
They went into the philanthropist's library, formerly described.
Have you found anything to do? asked Browning.
Yes.
What is it?
King answered the question.
It is not much, he added, "but will do for the present."
At any rate, it is considerably better than entering a house at night and hiding under the bed, said Browning, dryly.
So it is, answered King, smiling. "You must make allowance for my destitute condition. I little thought that I was in the house of an old friend. I have been asking about you, Tom Butler--I beg pardon, Mr. Browning--and I find that you stand very high in Milwaukee."
A shade of annoyance showed itself on the philanthropist's face when King referred to him under his former name, but when his high standing was referred to he smiled complacently.
Yes, he said, "I have been fortunate enough to win the good opinion of my fellow-citizens."
Some one told me that you would probably run for mayor some day.
It may be. I have been sounded on the subject.
The worst of running for office is that if a man has ever done anything discreditable it is sure to be brought out against him.
I hope you don't mean to imply that I have ever done anything discreditable, said Browning, sharply.
Oh, dear, no! How could I think such a thing? But sometimes false charges are brought. If you had ever betrayed a trust, or kept money belonging to another, of course, it would hurt you.
Certainly it would, said the philanthropist, his voice betraying some nervousness, "but I am glad to say that my conscience is clear on that point."
By the way, Jack, let me send for a bottle of wine. We'll drink to the memory of old time.
With all my heart, Tom. I see you're the right sort. When you are nominated for office I will work for you.
Browning smiled graciously on his visitor, and the interview closed pleasantly.
He's afraid of me! thought Jack, as he left the house.
When Luke brought home the dress pattern his mother was much pleased.
I have needed a dress for a good while, she said, "but I never felt that I could spare the money to buy even a common one. This material is very nice."
It cost seventy-five cents a yard. I was with Mrs. Merton when she bought it.
I hope you didn't hint to Mrs. Merton that I needed one.
No, that isn't like me, mother, but I own that I was very glad when she thought of it.
Please tell her how grateful I am.
I will certainly do so. Now, mother, I want you to have it made up at once. I can spare the money necessary.
It will cost very little. I will have it cut by a dress maker and make it up myself. I hope you will long retain the friendship of Mrs. Merton.
It won't by my fault if I don't. But I can't help seeing that her niece, Mrs. Tracy, and Harold, a boy about my age, look upon me with dislike.
Why should they? I don't see how anyone can dislike you.
You are my mother and are prejudiced in my favor. But I am sure they have no reason to dislike me. I think, however, they are jealous, and fear the old lady will look upon me with too much favor. She is very rich, I hear, and they expect to inherit all her fortune.
Money makes people mean and unjust.
If I can only get hold of some, I'll run the risk of that, said Luke. "I should feel a good deal more comfortable if I hadn't two enemies in the house."
Do your duty, my son, and leave the rest to God. It isn't well to borrow trouble.
No doubt you are right, mother. I will follow your advice.
The next morning Luke was at his usual stand near the Sherman House when a boy who was passing uttered a slight exclamation of surprise. Looking up, Luke recognized Harold Tracy.
So it's you, is it? said Harold, not over politely.
Yes, answered Luke. "I hope you are well."
I didn't know you were a newsboy.
I spend a part of my time in selling papers.
Does Mrs. Merton know you are a newsboy?
I think I have told her, but I am not certain.
It must be inconvenient for you to come so far as our house every day?
Of course it takes up some time, but Mrs. Merton does not allow me to work for nothing.
How much does Aunt Eliza pay you?
I would rather you would ask Mrs. Merton. I am not sure that she would care to have me tell.
You seem to forget that I am her nephew that is, her grandnephew. It is hardly likely she would keep such a thing secret from me.
That may be, but I would rather you would ask her.
Does she pay you more than two dollars a week?
Again I must refer you to her.
It is ridiculous to make a secret of such a trifle, said Harold, annoyed.
How much do you make selling papers? he asked.
I averaged about seventy-five cents a day before I began to work for Mrs. Merton. Now I don't make as much.
Why don't you black boots, too? Many of the newsboys do?
I never cared to take up that business.
If you should go into it, I would give you a job now and then.
I am not likely to go into that business, but I shall be glad to sell you a paper whenever you need one.
You are not too proud to black boots, are you? persisted Harold.
I don't think it necessary to answer that question. I have always got along without it so far.
Harold carried the news home to his mother that Luke was a newsboy, and Mrs. Tracy found an opportunity to mention it at the supper table.
Harold saw your paragon this morning, Aunt Eliza, she commenced.
Have I a paragon? I really wasn't aware of it, returned the old lady.
Your errand boy.
Oh, Luke. Where did you see him, Harold?
He was selling papers near the Sherman House.
I hope you bought one of him.
I didn't have any change.
Did you know he was a newsboy, Aunt Eliza? asked Mrs. Tracy.
Yes; he told me so. You speak of it as if it were something to his discredit.
It is a low business, of course.
Why is it a low business?
Oh, well, of course it is only poor street boys who engage in it.
I am aware that Luke is poor, and that he has to contribute to the support of his mother and brother. I hope, if you were poor, that Harold would be willing to work for you.
I wouldn't sell papers, put in Harold.
I don't suppose Luke sells papers from choice.
Aunt Eliza, I don't see why you should so persistently compare Harold with that ragged errand boy of yours.
Is he ragged? I am glad you noticed it. I must help him to a new suit.
This was far from a welcome suggestion to Mrs. Tracy, and she made haste to add: "I don't think he's ragged. He dresses well enough for his position in life."
Still, I think he needs some new clothes, and I thank you for suggesting it, Louisa.
The next day, Luke, to his surprise, was asked to ac company Mrs. Merton to a ready-made clothing house on Clark Street, where he was presented with a fine suit, costing twenty dollars.
How kind you are, Mrs. Merton! said Luke.
I didn't notice that you needed a new suit, returned the old lady, "but my niece, Mrs. Tracy, spoke of it, and I was glad to take the hint."
It was in the afternoon of the same day that Luke, having an errand that carried him near the lake shore, strolled to the end of North Pier. He was fond of the water, but seldom had an opportunity to go out on it.
How are you, Luke? said a boy in a flat-bottomed boat a few rods away.
In the boy who hailed him Luke recognized John Hagan, an acquaintance of about his own age.
Won't you come aboard? asked John.
I don't mind, if you'll come near enough.
In five minutes Luke found himself on board the boat, He took the oars and relieved John, who was disposed to rest.
They rowed hither and thither, never very far from the pier. Not far away was a boat of the same build, occupied by a man of middle size, whose eccentric actions attracted their attention. Now he would take the oars and row with feverish haste, nearly fifty strokes to a minute; then he would let his oars trail, and seem wrapped in thought. Suddenly the boys were startled to see him spring to his feet and, flinging up his arms, leap head first into the lake.
Luke and his companion were startled by the sudden attempt at suicide, and for an instant sat motionless in their boat. Luke was the first to regain his self-possession.
Quick, let us try to save him, he called to John Hagan.
They plunged their oars into the water, and the boat bounded over the waves. Fortunately they were but half a dozen rods from the place where the would-be suicide was now struggling to keep himself up. For, as frequently happens, when he actually found himself in the water, the instinct of self-preservation impelled the would-be self-destroyer to attempt to save himself. He could swim a very little, but the waters of the lake were in lively motion, his boat had floated away, and he would inevitably have drowned but for the energetic action of Luke and John. They swept their boat alongside, and Luke thrust his oar in the direction of the struggling man.
Take hold of it, he said, "and we will tow you to your own boat."
Guided and sustained by the oar, the man gripped the side of Luke's boat, leaving the oar free. His weight nearly overbalanced the craft, but with considerable difficulty the boys succeeded in reaching the other boat, and, though considerably exhausted, its late occupant managed to get in.
As he took his place in the boat he presented a sorry spectacle, for his clothes were wet through and dripping.
You will take your death of cold unless you go on shore at once, said Luke.
It wouldn't matter much if I did, said the young man, gloomily.
We will row to shore also, said Luke to John Hagan. "He may make another attempt to drown himself. I will see what I can do to reason him out of it."
They were soon at the pier, and the three landed.
Where do you live? asked Luke, taking his position beside the young man.
The latter named a number on Vine Street. It was at a considerable distance, and time was precious, for the young man was trembling from the effects of his immersion.
There is no time to lose. We must take a carriage, said Luke.
He summoned one, which fortunately had just returned from the pier, to which it had conveyed a passenger, and the two jumped in.
Luke helped him up to his room, a small one on the third floor, and remained until he had changed his clothes and was reclining on the bed.
You ought to have some hot drink, he said. "Can any be got in the house?"
Yes; Mrs. Woods, the landlady, will have some hot water.
Luke went downstairs and succeeded in enlisting the sympathetic assistance of the kind-hearted woman by representing that her lodger had been upset in the lake and was in danger of a severe cold.
When the patient had taken down a cup of hot drink, he turned to Luke and said: "How can I thank you?"
There is no need to thank me. I am glad I was at hand when you needed me.
What is your name?
Luke Walton.
Mine is Ambrose Kean. You must think I am a fool,
I think, said Luke, gently, "that you have some cause of unhappiness."
You are right there. I have been unfortunate, but I am also an offender against the law, and it was the fear of exposure and arrest that made me take the step I did. I thought I was ready to die, but when I found myself in the water life seemed dearer than it had before, and I tried to escape. Thanks to you, I am alive, but now I almost wish that I had succeeded. I don't know how to face what is before me.
Would you mind telling me what it is?
No; I need someone to confide in, and you deserve my confidence. Let me tell you, then, that I am employed in an office on Dearborn Street. My pay is small, twelve dollars a week, but it would be enough to support me if I had only myself to look out for. But I have a mother in Milwaukee, and I have been in the habit of sending her four dollars a week. That left me only eight dollars, which I found it hard to live on, and there was nothing left for clothes.
I can easily believe that, said Luke.
I struggled along, however, as best I might, but last week I received a letter from my mother saying that she was sick. Of course her expenses were increased, and she wrote to know if I could send her a little extra money. I have been living so close up to my income that I absolutely had less than a dollar in my pocket. Unfortunately, temptation came at a time when I was least prepared to resist it. One of our customers from the country came in when I was alone, and paid me fifty dollars in bills, for which I gave him a receipt. No one saw the payment made. It flashed upon me that this sum would make my mother comfortable even if her sickness lasted a considerable time. Without taking time to think, I went to an express office, and forwarded to her a package containing the bills. It started yesterday, and by this time is in my mother's hands. You see the situation I am placed in. The one who paid the money may come to the office at any time and reveal my guilt.
I don't wonder that you were dispirited, returned Luke. "But can nothing be done? Can you not replace the money in time?"
How can I? I have told you how small my salary is.
Have you no friend or friends from whom you could borrow the money?
I know of none. I have few friends, and such as they are, are, like myself, dependent on small pay. I must tell you, by the way, how we became poor. My mother had a few thousand dollars, which, added to my earnings, would have made us comparatively independent, but in an evil hour she invested them in a California mine, on the strength of the indorsement of a well-known financier of Milwaukee, Mr. Thomas Browning----
Who? asked Luke, in surprise.
Thomas Browning. Do you know him?
I have seen him. He sometimes comes to Chicago, and stops at the Sherman House.
He recommended the stock so highly--in fact, he was the president of the company that put it on the market--that my poor mother thought it all right, and invested all she had. The stock was two dollars a share. Now it would not fetch two cents. This it was that reduced us to such extreme poverty.
Do you think Mr. Browning was honest in his recommendation of the mine? asked Luke, thoughtfully.
I don't know. He claimed to be the principal loser himself. But it is rather remarkable that he is living like a rich man now. Hundreds lost their money through this mine. As Mr. Browning had himself been in California----
What is that? asked Luke, in excitement. "You say this Browning was once in California? Can you tell when?"
Half a dozen years ago, more or less.
And he looks like the man to whom my poor father confided ten thousand dollars for us, thought Luke. "It is very strange. Everything tallies but the name. The wretch who swindled us was named Butler."
Why do you ask when Mr. Browning was in California? asked the young man.
Because my father died in California, answered Luke, evasively, "and I thought it possible that Mr. Browning might have met him."
"Mr. Browning is a man of very peculiar appearance," said Kean.
You refer to the wart on the upper part of his right cheek?
Yes, it gives him a repulsive look.
And yet he is popular in Milwaukee?
Yes, among those who were not swindled by his mining scheme. He has done more harm than he can ever repair. For instance, added the young man, bitterly, "this crime which I have committed--I will call it by its right name--I was impelled to do by my mother's poverty, brought on by him."
How does it happen that you are not at the office to day?
I felt sick--sick at heart, rather than sick in body, and I sent word to my employer that I could not be there. I dread entering the office, for at any time exposure may come.
If you could only raise the fifty dollars, you could replace the money before it was inquired for.
Ambrose Kean shook his head.
I can't possibly raise it, he said, despondently.
I would let you have it if I possessed as much money, but, as you may suppose, I am poor.
I am no less grateful to you, Luke. You have a good heart, I am sure. You don't despise me?
No, why should I?
I have been guilty of a crime.
But you are sorry for it. Is there positively no one with whom you are acquainted who is rich enough to help you?
There is one lady in Chicago--a rich lady--who was a schoolmate of my mother. She was older and in better circumstances, but they were good friends.
Who is this lady?
A Mrs. Merton.
Mrs. Merton! exclaimed Luke, in excitement. "Of Prairie Avenue?"
Yes; I believe she lives there.
Why, I know her--I am in her employ, said Luke.
Ambrose Kean stared at Luke in open amazement.
Is this true? he asked.
Yes.
Is she a kind lady? Do you think she would help me in this trouble of mine?
She is very kind-hearted, as I know from my own experience. I will go to her at once, and see what I can do.
Ambrose Kean grasped Luke's hand with fervor.
You are a friend sent from heaven, I truly believe, he said. "You have given me hope of retrieving myself."
I will leave you for a time, said Luke. "There is no time to be lost."
I shall be full of anxiety till I see you again.
Be hopeful. I think I shall bring you good news.
When Luke reached the house on Prairie Avenue he was about to ring the bell when Harold Tracy opened the door.
You here again! he said, in a tone of displeasure. "Weren't you here this morning?"
Yes.
Did Aunt Eliza ask you to come this afternoon?
No.
Then what brings you?
Business, answered Luke, curtly, and he quietly entered the hall, and said to a servant who was passing through, "Will you be kind enough to ask Mrs. Merton if she will see me?"
Well, you're cheeky! ejaculated Harold, who had in tended to keep him out.
As long as Mrs. Merton doesn't think so, I shall not trouble myself, said Luke, coldly.
Sooner or later Aunt Eliza will see you in your true colors, said Harold, provoked.
I think she does now.
At this moment the servant returned.
You are to go upstairs, she said. "Mrs. Merton will see you."
The old lady was sitting back in an easy-chair when Luke entered. She smiled pleasantly.
This is an unexpected pleasure, she said, "this after-noon call."
I will tell you at once what brought me, Mrs. Merton.
It isn't sickness at home, I hope?
No, I came for a comparative stranger.
Then Luke told the story of Ambrose Kean, his sudden yielding to temptation, his repentance and remorse.
I am interested in your friend, said Mrs. Merton. "You say he appropriated fifty dollars?"
Yes, but it was to help his mother.
True, but it was a dangerous step to take. It won't be considered a valid excuse.
He realizes all that. His employer is a just but strict man, and if the theft is discovered Kean will be arrested, and, of course, convicted.
And you think I will help him? Is that why you have come to me with this story?
I don't think I would have done so if he had not mentioned you as an old friend and schoolmate of his mother.
What's that? added Mrs. Merton, quickly. "His mother an old schoolmate of mine?"
That is what he says.
What was her name before marriage?
Mary Robinson.
You don't say so! Mrs. Merton exclaimed with vivacity. "Why, Mary was my favorite at school. And this young man is her son?
I would have helped him without knowing this, but now I won't hesitate a moment. Mary's boy! You must bring him here. I want to question him about her.
I can tell you something about her. She lost her money by investing in a California mine--I think it was the Excelsior Mine.
She, too?
Luke looked surprised. He did not understand the meaning of this exclamation.
I have a thousand shares of that worthless stock myself, continued the old lady. "It cost me two thousand dollars, and now it is worth nothing."
The one who introduced the stock was a Mr. Browning, of Milwaukee.
I know. He was an unscrupulous knave, I have no doubt. I could afford the loss, but hundreds invested, like poor Mary, who were ruined. Is the man living, do you know?
Yes, he is living in Milwaukee. He is rich, and is prominently spoken of as a candidate for mayor.
If he is ever a candidate I will take care that his connection with this swindling transaction is made known. A man who builds up a fortune on the losses of the poor is a contemptible wretch, in my opinion.
And mine, too, said Luke. "It is very strange that he answers the description of a man who cheated our family out of ten thousand dollars."
Indeed! How was that?
Luke told the story, and Mrs. Merton listened with great interest.
So all corresponds except the name?
Yes.
He may have changed his name.
I have thought of that. I mean to find out some time.
I won't keep you any longer. Your friend is, no doubt, in great anxiety. I have the money here in bills. I will give them to you for him.
Mrs. Merton was in the act of handing a roll of bills to Luke when the door opened suddenly, and Mrs. Tracy entered.
She frowned in surprise and displeasure when she saw her aunt giving money to "that boy," as she contemptuously called him.
"I didn't know you were occupied, Aunt Eliza," said Mrs. Tracy, in a significant tone, as she paused at the door.
My business is not private, returned the old lady. "Come in, Louisa."
Mrs. Tracy did come in, but she regarded Luke with a hostile and suspicious glance.
That is all, Luke, said his patroness. "You may go. You can report to me to-morrow."
All right, ma'am.
When Luke had left the room, Mrs. Tracy said: "You appear to repose a great deal of confidence in that boy."
Yes; I think he deserves it.
Mrs. Tracy coughed.
You seem to trust him with a great deal of money.
Yes.
Of course, I don't want to interfere, but I think you will need to be on your guard. He is evidently bent on getting all he can out of you.
That is your judgment, is it, Louisa?
Yes. Aunt Eliza, since you ask me.
He has done me a service this morning. He has brought to my notice a son of one of my old school mates who is in a strait, and I have just sent him fifty dollars.
By that boy?
Yes. Why not?
Are you sure the person to whom you sent the money will ever get it?
Please speak out what you mean. Don't hint. I hate hints.
In plain terms, then, I think the boy will keep the money himself, or, at any rate, a part of it.
I don't fear it.
Have you any more to say?
Nothing, except to warn you against that designing boy.
You are very kind, Louisa, but I am not quite a simpleton. I have seen something of the world, and I don't think I am easily taken in.
Mrs. Tracy left the room, not very well satisfied. She really thought Luke had designs upon the old lady's money, and was averse even to his receiving a legacy, since it would take so much from Harold and herself.
Harold, when I entered your aunt's room, what do you think I saw?
This she said to Harold, who was waiting below.
I don't know.
Aunt Eliza was giving money to that boy.
Do you know how much?
Fifty dollars.
Whew! Was it for himself?
He came to her with a trumped-up story of an old schoolmate of aunt's who was in need of money.
Do you think he will keep it himself?
I am afraid so.
What a cheeky young rascal he is, to be sure! I have no doubt you are right.
Yes; there is too much reason to think he is an unscrupulous adventurer, young as he is.
Why don't you tell aunt so?
I have.
And what does she say?
It doesn't make the least impression upon her.
What do you think the boy will do?
Get her to make a will in his favor, or at least to leave him a large legacy.
Harold turned pale.
That would be robbing us, he said.
Of course it would. He wouldn't mind that, you know.
He was very impertinent to me this morning.
I presume so. He depends upon his favor with aunt.
Isn't there anything we can do, mother?
I must consider.
Meanwhile Luke returned at once to the room of Ambrose Kean. He found the young man awaiting him with great anxiety.
What success? he asked, quickly.
I have got the fifty dollars, answered Luke.
Thank God! I am saved! ejaculated the young man.
Would you mind taking it round to the office with a note from me? asked Kean.
I will do so cheerfully.
Then I shall feel at ease.
Mrs. Merton would like to have you call on her. She remembered your mother at once.
I shall be glad to do so, but shall be ashamed to meet her now that she knows of my yielding to temptation.
You need not mind that. She also suffered from the rascality of Thomas Browning, and she will make allowances for you.
Then I will go some day with you.
You had better give me a letter to take to your employer with the money.
I will.
Ambrose Kean wrote the following note:
JAMES COOPER:
DEAR SIR:--Hiram Crossley called at the office yesterday and paid in fifty dollars due to you. Being busy, I thrust it into my pocket, and inadvertently took it with me. I think I shall be able to be at the office to-morrow, but think it best to send the money by a young friend. I gave Mr. Crossley a receipt.
Yours respectfully, AMBROSE KEAN.
When Luke reached the office, Mr. Cooper was conversing with a stout, broad-shouldered man, of middle age, and Luke could not help hearing some of their conversation.
You say you paid fifty dollars to my clerk, Mr. Crossley? asked the merchant.
Yes.
Have you his receipt?
Here it is.
Mr. Cooper examined it.
Yes, that is his signature.
Isn't he here to-day?
No; he sent word that he had a headache.
And you don't find the money?
No.
That is singular. And the two men exchanged glances of suspicion.
What sort of a young man is he?
I never had any cause to suspect him.
I hope it is all right.
If it isn't, I will discharge him, said Cooper, nodding emphatically.
He probably didn't think I would be here so soon. I didn't expect to be, but a telegram summoned me to the city on other business.
Of course Luke understood that the conversation related to Kean, and that he had arrived none too soon. He came forward.
I have a letter for you from Mr. Kean, he said.
Ha! Give it to me!
Mr. Cooper tore open the envelope, saw the bank bills, and read the letter.
It's all right, Mr. Crossley, he said, his brow clearing. "Read that letter."
I am really glad, said Crossley.
How is Mr. Kean? asked Cooper, in a friendly tone.
He had a severe headache, but he is better, and hopes to be at the office to-morrow.
Tell him I shall be glad to see him, but don't want him to come unless he is really able.
Thank you, sir. I will do so. And Luke left the office.
He went back to Ambrose Kean, and told him what had happened at the office.
I have escaped better than I deserved, he said. "It will be a lesson to me. Please tell Mrs. Merton that her timely aid has saved my reputation and rescued my poor mother from sorrow and destitution."
I will, and I am sure she will consider the money well spent.
The next morning, as Luke stood at his usual post, he saw Thomas Browning, of Milwaukee, come out of the Sherman House. He knew him at once by the wart on the upper part of his right cheek, which gave him a remarkable appearance.
Can there be two persons answering this description? Luke asked himself.
Thomas Browning came across the street, and paused in front of Luke.
"Will you have a morning paper?" asked Luke.
He wanted to have a few words with Mr. Browning, even upon an indifferent subject, as he now thought it probable that this was the man who had defrauded his mother and himself.
Browning, too, on his part, wished for an opportunity to speak with the son of the man he had so shamefully swindled.
Yes, he said, abruptly, "you may give me the _Times._"
When the paper had been paid for, he said:
Do you make a good living at selling papers?
It gives me about seventy-five cents a day, answered Luke.
You can live on that, I suppose?
I have a mother to support.
That makes a difference. Why do you stay in Chicago? You could make a better living farther West.
In California? asked Luke, looking intently at Browning.
Thomas Browning started.
What put California into your head? he asked.
My father died in California.
A good reason for your not going there.
I thought you might be able to tell me something about California, continued Luke.
Why should I?
I thought perhaps you had been there.
You are right, said Browning, after a pause. "I made a brief trip to San Francisco at one time. It was on a slight matter of business. But I don't know much about the interior and can't give you advice."
I wonder if this is true, thought Luke. "He admits having been to California, but says he has never been in the interior. If that is the case, he can't have met my father."
I may at some time have it in my power to find you a place farther West, but not in California, resumed Browning. "I will take it into consideration. I frequently come to Chicago, and I presume you are to be found here."
Yes, sir.
Thomas Browning waved his hand by way of good-by, and continued on his way.
The boy seems sharp, he said to himself. "If he had the slightest hint of my connection with his father's money, he looks as if he would follow it up. Luckily there is no witness and no evidence. No one can prove that I received the money."
At the corner of Adams Street Mr. Browning encountered his nephew, Stephen Webb, who was gazing in at a window with a cigar in his mouth, looking the very image of independent leisure.
You are profitably employed, said Browning, dryly.
Stephen Webb wheeled round quickly.
Glad to see you, Uncle Thomas, he said, effusively. "I suppose you received my letter?"
Yes.
I hope you are satisfied. I had hard work to find out about the boy.
Humph! I don't see how there could be anything difficult about it. I hope you didn't mention my name?
No. I suppose you are interested in the boy, said Stephen, with a look of curious inquiry.
Yes; I always feel interested in the poor, and those who require assistance.
I am glad of that, uncle, for you have a poor nephew.
And a lazy one, said Browning, sharply. "Where would I be if I had been as indolent as you?"
I am sure I am willing to do whatever you require, Uncle Thomas. Have you any instructions?
Well, not just now, except to let me know all you can learn about the newsboy. Has he any other source of income except selling papers?
I believe he does a few odd jobs now and then, but I don't suppose he earns much outside.
I was talking with him this morning.
You were! ejaculated Stephen in a tone of curiosity. "Did you tell him you felt an interest in him?"
No, and I don't want you to tell him so. I suggested that he could make a better income by leaving Chicago, and going farther West.
I think I might like to do that, Uncle Thomas.
Then why don't you?
I can't go without money.
You could take up a quarter-section of land and start in as a farmer. I could give you a lift that way if I thought you were in earnest.
I don't think I should succeed as a farmer, said Stephen, with a grimace.
Too hard work, eh?
I am willing to work hard, but that isn't in my line.
Well, let that go. You asked if I had any instructions. Find opportunities of talking with the boy, and speak in favor of going West.
I will. Is there anything more?
No. I believe not.
You couldn't let me have a couple of dollars extra, could you, uncle?
Why should I?
I--I felt sick last week, and had to call in a doctor, and then get some medicine.
There's one dollar! Don't ask me for any more extras.
He's awfully close-fisted, grumbled Stephen.
I am afraid King might visit Chicago, and find out the boy, said Browning to himself as he continued his walk. "That would never do, for he is a sharp fellow, and would put the boy on my track if he saw any money in it. My best course is to get this Luke out of Chicago, if I can."
Stephen Webb made it in his way to fall in with Luke when he was selling afternoon papers.
This is rather a slow way of making a fortune, isn't it, Luke? he asked.
Yes; I have no thoughts of making a fortune at the newspaper business.
Do you always expect to remain in it? continued Webb.
Well, no, answered Luke, with a smile. "If I live to be fifty or sixty I think I should find it rather tiresome."
You are right there.
But I don't see any way of getting out of it just yet. There may be an opening for me by and by.
The chances for a young fellow in Chicago are not very good. Here am I twenty-five years old and with no prospects to speak of.
A good many people seem to make good livings, and many grow rich, in Chicago.
Yes, if you've got money you can make money. Did you ever think of going West?
Luke looked a little surprised.
A gentleman was speaking to me on that subject this morning, he said.
What did he say to you? asked Stephen, curiously.
He recommended me to go West, but did not seem to approve of California.
Why not. Had he ever been there?
He said he had visited San Francisco, but had never been in the interior.
What a whopper that was! thought Stephen Webb. "Why should Uncle Thomas say that?"
What sort of a looking man was he? Had you ever seen him before? he inquired.
He is a peculiar-looking man--has a wart on his right cheek.
Did he mention the particular part of the West?
No; he said he would look out for a chance for me.
It is curious Uncle Thomas feels such an interest in that boy, Webb said to himself, meditatively.
Ambrose Kean called with Luke an evening or two later to thank Mrs. Merton in person for her kindness. They arrived ten minutes after Mrs. Tracy and Harold had started for Hooley's Theater, and thus were saved an embarrassing meeting with two persons who would have treated them frigidly.
They were conducted upstairs by the servant, and were ushered into Mrs. Merton's room.
Ambrose Kean was naturally ill at ease, knowing that Mrs. Merton was acquainted with the error he had committed. But the old lady received him cordially.
I am glad to meet the son of my old schoolmate, Mary Robinson, she said.
In spite of his unworthiness? returned Ambrose, his cheek flushing with shame.
I don't know whether he is unworthy. That remains to be seen.
You know I yielded to temptation and committed a theft.
Yes; but it was to help your mother.
It was, but that does not relieve me from guilt.
You are right; still it greatly mitigates it. Take my advice; forget it, and never again yield to a similar temptation.
I will not, indeed, Mrs. Merton, said the young many earnestly. "I feel that I have been very fortunate in escaping the consequences of my folly, and in enlisting your sympathy."
That is well! Let us forget this disagreeable circumstance, and look forward to the future. How is Mary your mother?
She is an invalid.
And poor. There is a remedy for poverty. Let us also hope there is a remedy for her ill-health. But tell me, why did you not come to see me before? You have been some time in Chicago.
True, but I knew you were a rich lady. I didn't think you would remember or care to hear from one so poor and obscure as my mother.
Come, I consider that far from a compliment, said the old lady. "You really thought as badly of me as that?"
I know you better now, said Ambrose, gratefully.
It is well you do. You have no idea how intimate your mother and I used to be. She is five years my junior, I think, so that I regarded her as a younger sister. It is many years since we met. And how is she looking?
She shows the effects of bad health, but I don't think she looks older than her years.
We have both changed greatly, no doubt. It is to be expected. But you can tell her that I have not forgotten the favorite companion of my school days.
I will do so, for I know it will warm her heart and brighten her up.
When we were girls together our worldly circumstances did not greatly differ. But I married, and my husband was very successful in business.
While she married and lost all she had.
It is often so. It might have been the other way. Your mother might have been rich, and I poor; but I don't think she would have been spoiled by prosperity any more than I have been. Now tell me how you are situated.
I am a clerk, earning twelve dollars a week.
And your employer--is he kind and considerate?
He is just, but he has strict notions. Had he learned my slip the other day he would have discharged me, perhaps had me arrested. Now, thanks to your prompt kindness, he knows and will know nothing of it.
Is he likely to increase your salary?
He will probably raise me to fifteen dollars a week next January. Then I can get along very well. At present it is difficult for me, after sending my mother four dollars a week, to live on the balance of my salary.
I should think it would be.
Still, I would have made it do, but for mother's falling sick, and so needing a larger allowance.
I hope she is not seriously ill, said Mrs. Merton, with solicitude.
No, fortunately not. I think she will be as well as usual in a few weeks.
Tell her I inquired particularly for her, and that I send her my love and remembrance.
I shall be only too glad to do so.
The time slipped away so rapidly that Luke was surprised when, looking at the French clock on the mantel, he saw that it lacked but a quarter of ten o'clock.
Mr. Kean, he said, glancing at the clock, "it is getting late."
So it is, said Ambrose, rising. "I am afraid we have been trespassing upon your kindness, Mrs. Merton."
Not at all! said Mrs. Merton, promptly. "I have enjoyed the evening, I can assure you. Mr. Kean, you must call again."
I shall be glad to do so, if you will permit me.
I wish you to do so. Luke will come with you. I shall want to hear more of your mother, and how she gets along.
As they were leaving, Mrs. Merton slipped into the hand of Ambrose Kean an envelope.
The contents is for your mother, she said. "I have made the check payable to you."
Thank you. It is another mark of your kindness.
When Ambrose Kean examined the check, he ascertained to his joy that it was for a hundred dollars.
What a splendid old lady she is, Luke! he said, enthusiastically.
She is always kind, Mr. Kean. I have much to be grateful to her for. I wish I could say the same of other members of the family.
What other members of the family are there?
A niece, Mrs. Tracy, and her son, Harold.
Why didn't we see them to-night?
I don't know. I suppose they were out.
The next day Ambrose handed the check to his employer and asked if he would indorse it, and so enable him to draw the money.
James Cooper took the check and examined the signature.
Eliza Merton, said he. "Is it the rich Mrs. Merton who lives on Prairie Avenue?"
Yes, sir.
Indeed; I did not know that you were acquainted with her.
She and my mother were schoolmates.
And so you keep up the acquaintance?
I spent last evening at her house. This check is a gift from her to my mother.
Ambrose Kean rose greatly in the estimation of his employer when the latter learned that Kean had such an aristocratic friend, and he was treated with more respect and consideration than before.
Meanwhile Harold and his mother had enjoyed themselves at the theater.
I suppose Aunt Eliza went to bed early, Harold, said Mrs. Tracy, as they were on their way home.
Went to roost with the hens, suggested Harold, laughing at what he thought to be a good joke.
Probably it is as well for her, said his mother. "It isn't good for old people to sit up late."
It was about half-past eleven when they were admitted by the drowsy servant.
I suppose Mrs. Merton went to bed long ago, Laura, said Mrs. Tracy.
No, ma'am, she set up later than usual.
That is odd. I thought she would feel lonely.
Oh, she had company, ma'am.
Company! Who?
Master Luke was here all the evenin', and a young man with him.
Mrs. Tracy frowned ominously.
The sly young artful! she said to Harold when they were alone. "He is trying all he can to get on aunt's weak side. Something will have to be done, or we shall be left out in the cold."