Keen on the scent of anything likely to turn to his own advantage, Lyman Taylor arranged the very next day to make a second visit to Pocasset, and find out definitely, if possible, whether his uncle had saved any of the large sum which his claim had yielded him.
He hardly knew what to think. Anthony was not the man to waste money on extravagant living, but then he might have made poor investments, and reduced himself to a pittance. Cases of that kind were common enough in California, as Lyman knew well enough.
He preferred, however, to think that his uncle had turned miser, and was still the possessor of a handsome fortune. In that case, as the only near relative, it ought to come to him some day.
Let me see, he mused, "how old is Uncle Anthony! Fifty-nine!" he resumed, after a mental calculation. "That isn't very old, but he looks a good deal older. He is about played out—a physical wreck," he reflected, complacently, "and may not live a year.
In that damp cabin it could not be expected. Of course it's his own lookout. If he chooses to live there, I don't see that it's any of my business. I ought to come to a friendly understanding with him, and get him to recognize me as his heir. I dare say he's got his money hidden away in some out-of-the-way place. It would be a sorry joke if he should die, and it shouldn't be found.
Lyman shuddered uneasily, as he thought of this contingency.
He ought to place his money in charge of some competent manager, he resumed. "I'd take care of it myself, and save him all business cares, if he'd let me."
Lyman did not appreciate the absurdity of this plan. Few persons think themselves unfit to be trusted with money. What he thought of his own honesty can only be conjectured. Probably he did not regard himself with the eyes of those who knew him.
Such thoughts were passing through the mind of the hermit's nephew, as he was traveling from New York to Pocasset. Arrived at the depot, he set out for the village at a brisk pace.
Presently he espied in advance of him a couple of boys, whose figures looked familiar. It did not take him long to recall the two boys he had met in the pasture on his former visit. Of course they were James and Tom.
Just the ones I want to see, he said to himself. "I may get some news from them."
He quickened his pace, and soon overtook them.
Good morning, young gentlemen! he said, urbanely. "I believe we have met before."
The boys turned around. They, too, recognized him.
Yes, sir, answered James. "You are old Anthony's nephew."
The same! I am glad you remember me. Have you seen or heard of my uncle lately?
Yes; we saw him yesterday in the wood.
Has he recovered from his rheumatic attack?
I guess so, said Tom. "He is looking pretty well now."
I came down to inquire his condition. I am his only relative, and though he is prejudiced against me, I can't help feeling anxious about his health. Can you tell me anything about him?
He has that boy, Mark Manning, about him all the time.
What can be the boy's object in keeping company with a poor old man, who has no way of rewarding him?
I am not so sure about that, said James.
About what? asked Lyman, quickly.
About his being poor.
Have you any reason to think my uncle has money? asked Lyman, eagerly, fixing a sharp glance of inquiry on the speaker.
James looked at Tom, as if to consult him about the propriety of telling what he knew.
As I am his nephew and only relation, and—heir, continued Lyman, "you can freely tell me anything you have found out."
Would you? asked James, turning to his companion.
I don't see why not, returned Tom.
Then, said James, who rather enjoyed the prospect of telling the story, "I'll tell you what I saw the other day—that is, Tom and I."
Yes, yes, what did you see? interrupted Lyman, eagerly.
We were out in the woods about a quarter of a mile from the hermit's cabin, when we all at once heard voices. Slipping behind a tree we saw old Anthony and Mark coming along. Mark had a spade over his shoulder. We wondered what it all meant, and so kept hidden. Well, the two came up to a big tree, and then measured with a tape measure to a place about a rod distant. Then old Anthony took the spade and began to dig. But I guess he got tired, for pretty soon he gave the spade to Mark, and got him to dig.
Well? ejaculated Lyman, who was listening with intense interest.
Pretty soon he struck something hard. It turned out to be an earthen pot with a cover.
Did they take it up?
No; but Mark took off the cover, and then took out, oh, such a lot of gold pieces.
Just what I thought! exclaimed Lyman, in excitement. "I was sure my uncle kept his money hidden in the ground somewhere. Do you know how much money he took out of the jar?"
There must have been hundreds of dollars—maybe a thousand.
And what then?
The cover was put on again, and then Mark filled up the hole, and covered it with leaves, so that nobody would think the ground had been disturbed, then they went away.
That shows there must be more money there, don't you think so?
Of course, or they wouldn't have taken so much trouble to cover it up again, answered James, readily.
You are right. I see you are sharp. What a fine detective you would make!
James looked pleased at this compliment, and it inclined him in favor of the appreciative stranger.
Do you think, asked Lyman, after a pause, "you could find the spot again?"
Yes, I guess so. Why?
I should like to go there.
But, objected James, cautiously, "what would you do if you found it?"
I would dig down and find the jar.
But you would have no right to do that; the money belongs to old Anthony.
Who is my uncle. But you are mistaken. I don't want to take it. I want to see if the gold is still there.
Why shouldn't it be?
Because, answered Lyman, with a lucky thought, "the boy knows where it is. What is to prevent his going there by himself and carrying off all there is. My uncle would have no proof that it was he."
I never thought of that, said James, quickly. "It would be just like Mark."
Do you think he is honest?
I wouldn't answer for him. He is a poor boy.
Exactly, and the gold would be a great temptation. As the legal heir of Uncle Anthony, I think I ought to look into the matter. Suppose my uncle should die, wouldn't this Mark get the money, even if he hasn't done it already, and no one would be the wiser?
Of course! James readily assented. "What do you want us to do?"
Lead me to the place, and let me see for myself if the money is still there.
Shall we, Tom?
I think it would be only fair.
Then come along. I'll get a spade from the house as we pass.
The spade was obtained, and the three set out for the wood.
James was not without his share of curiosity, and he was strongly desirous of seeing with his own eyes the pot of gold, and so learning how rich the hermit was.
Prejudiced as he was against Mark, he did not really believe the boy would appropriate money that did not belong to him, though it would have been a satisfaction to him to find that his enemy was in a scrape.
That boy, Mark, seems to be an artful young rascal, Lyman Taylor remarked, as they were walking along together.
He is all of that, said James, emphatically.
My uncle is old, and his mind is weak. He is very likely to be influenced by a sharp, unprincipled boy.
It's lucky you came down here to watch him.
That depends on whether I am able to put a spoke in his wheel.
Do you know whether your uncle has much money?
I don't know, positively, but I have heard he was very successful in California.
If he is rich, I shouldn't think he would live in such a tumble-down cabin, said Tom.
Perhaps he has become a miser. His burying money looks like it.
They entered the wood, and as the boys knew their way all over it, they were able to go straight to the tree.
It was from this tree that old Anthony measured, said James.
Can you tell in what direction? inquired Lyman, anxiously.
This way, I am sure.
Do you know how far?
Not exactly, but we can tell by seeing where the ground has been disturbed.
Lyman Taylor took the spade and began to dig vigorously. Such hard work was not generally to his taste, but now he was spurred by a powerful motive.
He would not have been sorry, now that he had obtained the information he required, if the boys had left him to work alone. But this they had no intention of doing. They were very curious to see the treasure unearthed, and ascertain how much there was.
At length, the spade struck the earthen pot.
I've touched it! exclaimed Lyman, triumphantly.
He worked with redoubled energy, and soon laid bare the buried vessel.
The boys drew near, eagerly, and looked into the hole.
Lyman threw himself down upon his knees, and removed the cover of the jar. No sooner had he done so, when he uttered a fierce cry of disappointment.
Boys, he said, looking up with haggard face, "there's nothing there!"
No gold in the jar? asked James, with a blank look.
Not a particle. Are you sure there was any left?
We couldn't see, but it stands to reason that it would not have been so carefully covered up unless there had been some left.
You are right there. Now, what has become of it?
Can Mark have taken it? said James, turning to Tom.
I don't know, answered Tom, doubtfully.
That's just what happened. I'd like to wring the young rascal's neck, said Lyman, fiercely.
What are you going to do about it? asked James, curiously.
I say, boys, it's pretty hard luck, complained Lyman, "to see yourself robbed by an artful young scoundrel. He's just taken in Uncle Anthony by his artful ways, and is laying a trap for his money."
I see now, said James, quickly. "That's what he meant by not caring about losing his place in my father's shop."
I'll go and warn my uncle against him, said Lyman. "Boys, will you show me the shortest way to the cabin?"
Certainly, with pleasure.
Pleased with the idea of getting Mark into a scrape, James guided the disappointed nephew to the hermit's dwelling.
Old Anthony was sitting in his doorway, thoughtfully smoking a pipe, when, chancing to lift his eyes, his gaze fell upon the figure of his nephew advancing towards the cabin. It was a surprise, and not a pleasant one. He could not divine Lyman's object in making this second visit.
How are you getting along, Uncle Anthony? inquired Lyman, in a conciliatory tone.
Have you come all the way from New York to ask me that question? said the hermit, dryly.
Well, not altogether. Still, I wanted to know whether you were better.
I have got over my rheumatic attack, said Anthony, shortly.
I'm very glad. At your age it must be uncomfortable to be sick—especially in such a place. Can't I persuade you to come to New York, and take comfortable lodgings?
Why should you desire it? Perhaps you would propose to live with me?
And if I did, being your only relative, it would be natural enough. With your means——
What do you know of my means? demanded the hermit, sharply.
I have reason to think you are better off than your position would indicate, announced Lyman, watching the effect of the assertion on his uncle.
What reason? inquired Anthony.
Well, I know you were very successful in California—after I left you. You struck it rich, made a great deal of money, and then sold the claim for a good round sum.
Anthony's countenance did not change, though the communication was by no means a welcome one.
How much of this money do you think I have now? he asked, at length.
I don't know.
And I don't propose to tell you.
I know you have some of it!
Very possibly. I cannot live for nothing.
And I know where you keep it, added Lyman, provoked by his uncle's manner.
Indeed!
But I can't commend your prudence in putting your money where it is so likely to be found—and taken.
Be a little more explicit. Let me know just what you mean.
Burying money in the ground is not very wise.
Old Anthony was taken by surprise, and showed it.
So you know this? Where did you obtain the information? he asked.
From some one who saw you and the boy, Mark, digging for it.
Well, said the old man, quietly, "I know of no better place. People are honest round here, and it will not be taken."
I agree with you there, Uncle Anthony. It won't be taken for a very good reason. There is none there. The jar is empty.
How do you know this, Lyman? demanded the hermit, with a searching look.
Lyman hesitated, but it seemed necessary to tell the truth.
Because, when I learned that you had been so imprudent as to let the boy into your secret, I concluded at once that he would take advantage of his knowledge, and rob you. I therefore uncovered the place, and found it as I suspected. The jar is empty.
Old Anthony betrayed no excitement on hearing this.
It is quite true, he said, quietly. "All the gold has been taken."
You knew this?
Certainly. I took the last gold piece myself. Having no occasion for the jar, I left it there. You are certainly very kind to take so much interest in the safety of my property, but it is needless. I am still able to take care of what money I have left.
Lyman's face fell. He began to suspect that this was only too true.
I am afraid you misjudge me, Uncle Anthony, said Lyman, after a pause, during which he reflected that his best course was, if possible, to make a favorable impression upon the relative who might be in possession of considerable property. "I am afraid that you are prejudiced against me."
You must admit that I have reason, said his uncle, dryly.
It is true, replied Lyman, with an engaging frankness; "I did not treat you well in California."
I should say not. You disappeared, carrying away two thousand dollars, leaving me penniless.
Of course I was wrong. Still you had the claim, out of which you made a good deal more within a short time.
When you left me, said the hermit, quietly, "it looked as if it were worthless. That it proved otherwise, was my good fortune."
I won't argue the matter, Uncle Anthony. I was young and heedless.
Wicked would be a better word.
And I have had bad luck; I am almost penniless now. If you would be willing to help me——
To what extent do you want help? asked Anthony, abruptly.
If you could lend me fifty dollars, it would set me on my feet.
And in a week or two you would be coming back for more.
Upon my honor——
How much honor have you? asked his uncle, contemptuously. "Would you like to go West?"
Yes.
Then I will give you the means of getting there.
Lyman was under the impression that his uncle proposed to hand him a sum of money, out of which he decided to buy a western ticket if it suited his convenience; Uncle Anthony would be none the wiser.
Yes, uncle, if you will give me a hundred dollars, I will go to Chicago, and seek there a chance to make an honest livelihood.
Very well.
Old Anthony took out a memorandum book, tore a leaf from it, and wrote a few lines, which he handed to his nephew.
What is this? asked Lyman, suspiciously.
It is an order on a friend of mine in New York for a Chicago railroad ticket.
And the money?
He will give you an order on a firm in Chicago for the balance of the money, which will be paid you there.
Lyman's countenance fell. It was clear that the trick which he intended to play on his uncle would be impossible.
It seems to me, he said, "it would be better to give me the money at once."
I don't think so.
I hope you have no suspicions of my good faith.
I won't express my opinion on that subject. I will only say that the arrangement I have suggested suits me best.
Well, said Lyman, slowly, "I will try to win your good opinion. I am afraid I have not money enough to get back to the city."
He had over ten dollars in his pocket at that moment, but it struck him that he had a good excuse for securing a little more.
The hermit smiled contemptuously.
Then suppose I had had no money to give you—how would you have got back to the city? Perhaps you meant to stay with me?
I will, Uncle Anthony, if you desire it.
Thank you. I won't trouble you.
I should have had to walk back. But, uncle, I can't leave you without a word of warning.
Well?
That boy, Mark, I am sure is scheming to rob you.
What do you know of Mark?
I know the reputation he bears in the town. I know he has been discharged from the shoe-shop.
Who told you?
Two boys whom I met. One is the son of Mark's employer.
I know the boys you mean. They dislike Mark, but I prefer him to them.
A noise was heard at the door, and Mark entered.
He looked in surprise at the visitor, whom he instantly recognized.
You see, Mark, said the hermit, "my nephew has kindly called to see me again. He felt anxious about my health."
I feel relieved to find you so much better, uncle, said Lyman, by no means abashed at the hermit's ironical words.
It is the more creditable to him, this solicitude, because he had only money enough to pay his fare one way. Mark, you may give him five dollars.
Very well, sir,
Mark drew a five-dollar gold piece from his pocket, and handed it to Lyman.
Does Mark carry all your money, uncle? asked Lyman.
Not quite all.
I hope he won't take a fancy to travel at your expense.
Mark's face flushed indignantly, but he left old Anthony to answer for him.
I have perfect confidence in Mark, he said.
Thank you, sir, Mark responded, gratefully.
Have you anything for me to do this morning? the boy asked.
No; I will give you a list of articles which you may bring me from the village to-morrow.
Then I will return, as I have some work to do at home.
Very well.
I will go along with you, Mark, said Lyman, suddenly.
If you wish, answered Mark, but he would rather have gone alone.
Good-by, Uncle Anthony. It may be a good while before I see you again. If you need me at any time, write or telegraph.
I will bear it in mind, said the old man, dryly.
Mark and the dutiful nephew left the cabin together.
You've got a soft place, youngster, Lyman began.
I have an easy place, and a kind employer, said Mark.
So you carry the old man's money, hey?
Some of it, answered Mark, eying his companion, suspiciously.
Don't looked scared, boy. I'm not going to rob you. I only want to ask you a few questions. How much money did you and he take from that buried jar the other day?
Who told you about it? asked Mark, in surprise.
O, I know more about the old man's affairs than you suppose, chuckled Lyman.
I can't tell you.
Won't, you mean, returned Lyman, scowling.
I have no right to do so.
Look here, boy, do you know that I am my uncle's heir?
He never told me so.
Then I tell you so.
I hear you, sir.
I'll tell you something else. I believe you are trying to worm yourself into my uncle's confidence, so as to rob him—and me.
Your thinking so doesn't make it so, said Mark, angrily.
I warn you that you had better think twice before you play such a dangerous game. You have a bad reputation in the village.
Who told you so? demanded Mark, indignantly.
Two of your companions.
James Collins and Tom Wyman probably! said Mark, contemptuously.
I know you were discharged from your place in the shoe-shop.
But for no good reason.
That's what you say. How much money of my uncle's have you in your pocket?
That I don't choose to tell, said Mark, firmly.
Lyman felt a strong inclination to take the money by force, but prudence restrained him. In that case, the order which he carried would not be honored, and he would probably lose more than he would gain.
Mark was apprehensive of an attack, and it was with joy that he caught sight a little way in advance of James and Tom, whom under other circumstances he would not have cared to meet.
You will now have company, he said, "and I will hurry along."
Lyman did not oppose his purpose, and joined the two boys.
The next day Mark found a letter in the post-office directed to Anthony Taylor. According to custom it appeared in a written list containing the letters of those who had no boxes.
Mark called for it.
Who is Anthony Taylor? asked Tom Wyman, who happened to be attending the office for his father.
Old Anthony, as the boys call him.
I wonder if there's money in it! said Tom, holding up the letter, and trying to peep inside.
That's none of our business, answered Mark.
Oh, you're mighty virtuous! sneered Tom. "If there is any money, I'll bet you'll get a share of it."
I get no money except my wages.
How much does he pay you?
I would rather not tell, returned Mark, with a smile. "You might try to get my place away."
As if I would work for an old tramp like the hermit! exclaimed Tom, disdainfully. "I suppose he pays you about a dollar a week."
That's better than doing nothing, isn't it?
Yes, it's better for you. I don't want your place. I shall go to the city when my school days are over.
I wish you good luck, Tom, whenever you do, said Mark, good-naturedly. "I must hurry along with my letter."
A letter for you, Mr. Taylor, announced Mark, as he entered the cabin.
From John Hardy, said the hermit, as he scanned the address.
He opened the letter and read as follows:
"My Dear Old Friend: Your will is drafted and ready for signature. You had better come up to the city, and sign it. I know your reluctance to leave your forest home, but it will occur to you at once that your signature must be witnessed, and though witnesses might be found in Pocasset, it would involve a degree of publicity which I presume you would wish to avoid. Here I can easily get it witnessed by my clerks. I suggest that you bring the boy, Mark, with you, as he may be of service to you. Moreover, I think it is high time that we spoke to him of the mission on which you propose to send him.
" "Your worthy nephew, Lyman, called upon me to-day with your letter. He wished me to furnish him with the money needed for his ticket, but I thought it better to send a clerk to purchase the ticket, and see him fairly off. He has just returned, and reports that Lyman is on the way to Chicago. I think you showed considerable shrewdness in securing his removal from this neighborhood. He may return, to be sure, but the chances are that he will spend all the money, and find himself stranded in Chicago. If this compels him to work for a living, no harm will result. Your friend as ever.
"John Hardy.
Old Anthony laid down the letter thoughtfully. He was reluctant to go to New York, but saw that it was necessary. His reluctance was diminished by the prospect of having Mark's company.
Mark, he said, "can you go to New York with me to-morrow?"
Mark stared at his employer in amazement. The proposal was very unexpected.
I am obliged to go up on business, explained the hermit. "I wish I could delegate it to you, but I must attend to it myself. It is so long since I have been in a crowd, that I believe I shall need some one to take care of me."
I shall be very happy to accompany you, sir, said Mark, with alacrity.
At what time does the morning train leave the station?
Nine o'clock, sir.
Then meet me there at fifteen minutes before the hour.
All right, sir.
When shall we return? asked Mark, after a pause.
When does the afternoon train leave the city?
At three o'clock.
We will return then.
I only wanted to tell my mother when to expect me.
It must be admitted that old Anthony looked like an antediluvian figure in his old-fashioned coat, with a short waist and long tails, as he stood on the platform the next morning waiting for the train. Two or three of the village boys laughed rudely, but the hermit was buried in thought, and took no notice of them. Mark, himself, thought his employer looked queer, but he saw nothing to laugh at.
Are you going to town with old Anthony? asked one of the boys.
Yes, answered Mark.
People will take him for your grandfather.
I don't mind.
He looks like a rusty old tramp. His coat looks as if it was made in the year one.
He has a right to consult his own taste. He has been kind to me, and I don't care to listen to any rude remarks.
You may buy two tickets, Mark, said the hermit.
Mark did so.
Just as he was leaving the ticket-window, his former employer, Mr. Collins, the shoe manufacturer, took his place.
Are you going to the city? he asked.
Yes, sir.
Who goes with you?
Mr. Taylor.
Mr. Taylor?
The—the hermit.
Oh! returned the manufacturer, arching his brows, "are you working for him?"
Yes, sir.
You might have been working for me, if you had behaved yourself.
I am satisfied with the change, answered Mark.
That boy is impertinent, soliloquized the village magnate. "He can't get much pay from a pauper. However, it serves him right. Of course, it is only pride that makes him profess to be satisfied."
Mark would have been surprised, had he known that Mr. Collins was going up to the city to call upon the person with whom the hermit had business. Such was the fact, however. Mr. Collins had applied to Mr. Hardy for a sum of four thousand dollars, mortgaging therefor, his large shoe manufactory, which had originally cost double this sum.
As Mr. Hardy told old Anthony, he had ventured into Wall Street, and the losses he had incurred there, had forced him to raise money in this way.
To-day had been fixed by Mr. Hardy for the execution of the papers, and the transfer of the sum required. Twelve o'clock was the hour appointed by Mr. Hardy, for his business with the manufacturer.
What on earth can carry that old scarecrow up to New York? thought Mr. Collins, as he eyed curiously old Anthony, who, with Mark, was seated a few steps in front of him, in the same car. "I suppose he has a pension from some source, and is going to collect it."
It may be remarked that James Collins had never communicated to his father the discovery made in the forest, connected with the pot of gold.
Mr. Hardy's office was in a large, high building, on Broadway. It was the fifth floor, but there was an elevator constantly running, which made it nearly as easy of access as if it had been on the first.
Mark had never before ridden in an elevator, and he enjoyed the novelty of it. From a directory, near the entrance, they ascertained that Mr. Hardy occupied office No. 55, and this was easily found.
Welcome to New York, said the agent, advancing cordially, to greet his visitors. "Good morning, Mark. So you have piloted my old friend safely."
I think he has piloted me, sir. I know very little of the city.
I have not been here for five years, said Anthony, reflectively. "I am unused to the noise, and it confuses me."
I like it, said Mark.
You are young, and enjoy new and busy scenes, said Mr. Hardy. "Would you like to travel?"
Very much, sir.
Perhaps you may some time.
I am afraid it will be a long time before I am able.
Possibly not.
Mark, however, did not detect any special significance in these words.
You may sit down here, and read a morning paper, Mark, said the agent, "while I transact a little business with Mr. Taylor."
The two entered an inner office, where Mr. Hardy produced an official-looking document, to which he called the attention of the hermit.
Read it over, he said, "and see if it meets your views."
Precisely, answered Anthony, after he had taken the time necessary to read it.
Then it may as well be signed at once.
Mr. Hardy summoned three clerks from the outer office, and in their presence as witnesses the will was signed.
I suppose I may as well leave the document with you, John, said Anthony.
It will be as well. Now, about the other matter. It seems to me you may as well send Mark at once in search of some clue to the possible existence of a grandchild. Before doing so, however, may I suggest something?
Certainly.
I don't like the idea of your living in that lonely cabin. Why can't you seek a home in the house of your young secretary? Has he a good mother?
She is a very worthy woman.
Has she a room for you?
I think so.
What do you think of my proposal?
I have been thinking of such a change myself. For the first time in five years I am beginning to find my cabin home monotonous.
I am glad to hear it. You will be much better off in a home where you can be taken care of.
I will attend to the matter without delay on my return.
So far, so good. Now, let me call in Mark, and speak to him of our plan.
Mark, at the summons, entered the back office.
Mark, said Mr. Hardy, "we want you to take a journey."
I shall be very glad to do so, sir.
It will be a long one.
The longer the better, answered Mark, his eyes sparkling.
Your first stopping place will be Chicago.
The boy's eyes sparkled with excitement.
I should like nothing better, he said.
The commission will be to trace out Mr. Taylor's daughter, and find out whether she left a child. Necessary instructions will be given in writing.
Do you think I am old enough? asked Mark, excited but doubtful whether he was competent for the duty assigned him.
Discretion is more needful than age, answered Mr. Hardy. "Perhaps an older messenger would be better, but as my friend wishes to avoid publicity, he is disposed to try you. Would your mother be willing to have you go?"
I think so, sir, but I hate to leave her alone.
Mr. Taylor proposes to board with her while you are absent, if you think she would be willing to receive him.
I know she would be glad to secure such a boarder, answered Mark, quickly; "with that help she would be able to get along very well."
Then that matter is probably settled. Now a few words to guide you in your quest.
These words need not be repeated here, as in following Mark's journey it will be understood what they were.
Their business concluded, Mark and the hermit left the office and descended to the ground floor.
They were just leaving the building when Squire Collins entered.
He arched his brows in surprise. "You here?" he said, addressing Mark.
Yes, sir.
On what errand?
Mark was privately of opinion that he had as much right to ask the manufacturer's business as the latter his, but he answered: "Mr. Taylor had business here."
Squire Collins smiled contemptuously. It did not strike him that the hermit's business was likely to be of any great moment. So people often deceive themselves and assume a superiority to which they have little claim.
Probably old Anthony has just been paid his pension, he thought, as he left them, and made his way to the elevator.
He, too, ascended to the fifth floor, and leaving it there went to John Hardy's office.
Good morning, Mr. Collins, said Hardy. He knew nothing of the manufacturer's home title. "I shall be at leisure in five minutes."
The five minutes passed.
Now I am at your service, he said.
Have you decided to let me have the money, Mr. Hardy? asked the manufacturer, trying to conceal his anxiety.
Taking as security a mortgage on your manufactory?
Yes, sir.
I think I can let you have it.
Squire Collins looked much relieved.
You will find the security ample, he said. "The building is worth double the sum I am borrowing."
Is it well insured?
Yes, sir.
The policies of insurance must be placed in my hands.
Of course.
I have to take all precautions, as the money is not mine, but belongs to a boy for whom I am trustee.
I see.
Squire Collins had no curiosity as to the name of the boy referred to. He would have been very much amazed had he been told that it was the very boy whom he had discharged from his employment only a short time previous. For that matter, Mark would have been quite as much surprised.
In the course of half an hour the proper papers had been made out, a check for four thousand dollars handed to Squire Collins, and the shoe manufacturer left the office in as good spirits as Mark had done half an hour before.
By-the-way, remarked the Squire at his supper table that evening, "I met two persons from Pocasset in the city to-day."
Who were they? asked James.
Old Anthony and Mark Manning.
What could have taken them to the city?
I presume Anthony receives a small pension from some source, and went up to collect it.
I think it very likely, said James, thinking of what he had seen in the forest. "I presume it isn't much."
Probably not.
I shouldn't think he'd have gone to the expense of taking Mark.
The old man looked dazed. I presume he doesn't feel safe in going alone.
Very likely Mark asked to go. He's fastened himself on the old man, and means to get all he can out of him.
It is wonderful how prejudice colors our opinion of others.
Three days later, two things puzzled the good people of Pocasset. One was the removal of old Anthony from his lonely cabin to the small but comfortable cottage of Mrs. Manning. It was voted by the village people a very sensible move, but they were at a loss to understand how the recluse had been persuaded to change his mode of life. It was generally supposed that he was quite poor, but the two or three dollars a week he would be able to pay the widow would be a help. A room on the second floor was appropriated to old Anthony, where he spent much of his time. Every day, however, he wandered off to the woods, which had been his residence for several years. Though he said little, he was soon convinced that he had bettered himself by his removal. Mrs. Manning provided plain, well-cooked meals, which were far more attractive than the extemporized lunches with which he had thus far been content.
There was another circumstance, however, that equally puzzled the good people of the village. This was the disappearance of Mark. He was no longer seen walking about the streets, and many were the inquiries made of his mother as to where he had gone. At the request of old Anthony she answered very indefinitely. She could not tell just where Mark was, but he was employed. He would probably be home in a few weeks.
Among those whose curiosity was most keen were James Collins and Tom Wyman.
Where do you think Mark has gone? said James one day, throwing away a half-smoked cigarette.
I don't know any more than the man in the moon, answered Tom. "I asked his mother the other day when I met her in the street, but I couldn't get any satisfaction out of her."
Perhaps he has gone to the city in search of a place.
I shouldn't wonder.
He can't get anything to do here. Father won't take him back into the shop.
He was at work for old Anthony.
That couldn't amount to much. The hermit is as poor as Job's turkey.
Do you know this? How about the gold we saw?
It was all he had, said James, who was in the habit of jumping at conclusions. "My father says he gets a small pension from some person in the city. Some rich relative, I suppose, is taking care of him. Do you know, Tom, I should be glad to come across Mark blacking boots, or selling papers in the city?"
Why?
He is so mighty independent—poor and proud—that I believe he actually thinks himself as good as you or I.
He is pretty pert, that's a fact.
If he were only humble, and showed that he knew his place, I'd get father to take him back into the shop. It's his own fault that he got discharged.
It's a good thing for his mother having a boarder, as Mark isn't able to help her.
Pooh! what does that amount to? He probably pays two or three dollars a week. However, I suppose that's a good deal to her.
Mark would have been amused, but not surprised, if he could have heard this conversation between his two old companions. At present, however, he had other things to occupy his attention.
He had already reached Chicago and was staying there a day or two before going farther.
His ultimate destination was Claremont, in Indiana, the place where the daughter of the hermit was understood to have died. It was about seventy-five miles from Chicago, and could be reached in three hours. Mark felt that he could do no better in his brief stay in Chicago than walk about, and make himself familiar with the principal streets and avenues, and gain some knowledge of the western metropolis.
He kept his eyes wide open, and noticed all that came in his way. Everywhere throngs of busy wayfarers, and not one of whom he had ever seen before. It seemed strange to him, for in Pocasset he knew everybody.
The world is larger than I thought, he reflected, "and there are more people in it. I wish I could see one familiar face."
He had hardly formulated the wish when his glance rested on a form that seemed strangely familiar. It was a man, tall, slender, with a slouching gait.
That must be Lyman Taylor, he decided, with a natural start of astonishment.
It was indeed the man whom he had last seen in the woods at Pocasset. He had not thought to meet him, though he remembered now to have heard that Lyman had been sent to the West by his uncle.
On the whole, Mark was not as much pleased as he expected to see this familiar face. He did not care to be recognized, as Lyman might have his curiosity excited, and make him trouble.
Suddenly Lyman turned, and his glance fell upon Mark. The boy lowered his head, and walked on without notice. Lyman did not recognize him, though he was vaguely conscious of something familiar in Mark's appearance. But before he left New York, Mark had been provided with a new check traveling suit, and a hat of a different style from the one he was accustomed to wear.
Moreover, Lyman had no thought of meeting the country boy in a western city. So he turned his glance in a different direction, and descended the steps that led to a basement pool and billiard room.
I would follow him down there, if I dared risk discovery, thought Mark. "However, it is none of my business what he does, as long as he doesn't annoy his uncle."
Lyman Taylor would have been glad to see Mark, or any one else representing his uncle. The sum he had brought away with him had nearly all melted away, and his prospects were by no means brilliant. The thought of engaging in any employment by which he might earn an honest and independent livelihood was by no means attractive to him.
In the afternoon of the second day Mark started by train for Claremont, and arrived at the Claremont Hotel in time for supper.
He found Claremont to be a fair sized town, containing perhaps four thousand inhabitants. It seemed to be growing rapidly, like most western towns favorably situated. After a comfortable supper he bethought himself of whom he could make inquiries as to the object of his journey.
As he sat in the office, a tall man, with long hair, and a look of speculation in his eyes accosted him.
Have you just arrived in town, young man?
Yes, sir, answered Mark.
Are you calculatin' to settle here?
No, sir; I am only here on a little business.
Drummer, I reckon!
No, sir; I do not represent any business house.
You do look rather young for a drummer, but you said you were travelin' on business.
My business is of a different nature, sir.
Just so! if I can help you, I will. I am Colonel Enoch Tarbox, well-known hereabouts.
Thank you for your offer. If you will allow me, I will ask you one or two questions.
Go ahead, young man; I'm ready to give you any information in my power.
I am in search of a family named Ransom, who lived here some years ago.
John Ransom?
Yes, sir.
You won't find him; he's dead.
So I have heard. Did you know him or his wife?
I've drank with John Ransom many a time at this very bar. He was rather fond of a social glass.
Did you know his wife?
I've seen her often. She's dead too. They both died of a fever.
I suppose they had no children, said Mark, putting the question anxiously.
Let me see, said the colonel slowly, evidently searching his memory; "yes, I believe there was a child, a little boy."
Is he alive? asked Mark eagerly.
There you've got me, stranger. Children ain't much in my line. I never heerd of Ransom's child dying. I reckon it left town though.
Where could I get any information about it, do you think?
Colonel Tarbox reflected.
I reckon you'd better go to Mrs. Finn; she was intimate with Mrs. Ransom. She lives in the little white cottage alongside of the Presbyterian church.
Thank you, Colonel Tarbox; I am much indebted to you for what you have told me.
Don't mention it. Won't you take a drink?
This kind offer Mark declined rather to the colonel's dissatisfaction. He decided to call upon Mrs. Finn the next day.
As the clock on the Presbyterian church struck nine, Mark stood knocking at the door of the little cottage hard by.
The door was opened by a comely woman of middle age, who, not recognizing Mark, looked at him inquiringly.
What can I do for you? she asked.
My name is Mark Manning, said Mark, introducing himself. "I have been directed to you as likely to give me some information about Mrs. Ransom, who—"
Yes, yes, interrupted Mrs. Finn, not waiting for Mark to finish his sentence. "Poor dear! I know all about her. Come in, do!"
She led the way into the neat sitting-room, where she invited Mark to be seated. Then she changed parts with Mark and began to ask questions.
Are you related to Mrs. Ransom? she asked.
No, answered Mark, "but I come from one who is."
Alas, it is too late! The poor woman is dead.
I know that, but did she leave a child?
Yes, a little boy. She sat great store by little Jack.
And what has become of him? asked Mark, eagerly.
That is more than I can tell. A tall gentleman—I don't rightly know his name—appeared at the funeral, said he was a relation, and took off little Jack to St. Louis, I think.
A tall gentleman—a relation! repeated Mark, surprised. "What was his appearance?"
Mark was destined to be surprised, for Mrs. Finn's description tallied exactly with the appearance of Lyman Taylor. This was a surprising discovery. Mark was sharp enough to guess that Lyman's object was to remove from his path any rival claimant to his uncle's property, supposing him to possess any.
I think I know who you mean, he said, after a pause.
Was it really a relation of Mrs. Ransom?
If it was the one I suppose, it was her cousin.
I am glad to hear it. Then poor Jack was taken care of.
I am not sure about that, said Mark, gravely. "Though a relative, he is a selfish, bad man, and I am afraid he meant the poor boy no good."
Good gracious! exclaimed Mrs. Finn, startled, "you don't think he would murder the innocent child?"
No, I don't think that, but I think he wanted to put him where his grandfather would never find him.
Is it his grandfather you come from, then?
Yes; he does not even know of his grandchild's existence, but if I find him, the boy will never need any other protector. Can you tell me anything of Mrs. Ransom—of her husband?
Poor Mrs. Ransom was a sweet woman, who deserved a better fate. As for her husband, he was a drunkard, and a loafer. Those are hard words, but he deserved them both. They hadn't much money, but what there was he spent for liquor at the hotel yonder. More than once his poor wife and little child wouldn't have had any breakfast if I hadn't taken some over.
And warm-hearted Mrs. Finn wiped away a tear.
Did her husband treat her very badly? Did he beat her?
I am afraid he did when he was very far gone, but, poor thing! she never complained. She always looked sad, though, and she didn't enjoy her life very much.
Did she ever speak of her father?
Once only. She told me she had ill-treated, him, and been a disobedient daughter. I think it was in marrying Ransom.
Did she ever write to him?
She told me she did once, but never received an answer. 'He won't forgive me,' she said, with a sigh, and never wrote again.
I am sure he did not receive the letter, Mrs. Finn. If he had, he would have noticed it.
I hope so; at any rate she was sadder than ever when no letter came to her in return. Finally, her husband took sick with a fever. Bad as he had been to her, she nursed him like a devoted wife as she was. But she couldn't save him. Hardly was he dead, when she, too, caught sick, and in the end she died. While she was sick I took little Jack home, for fear he would catch the fever too. I was thinking of adopting him after his mother's death, when the man I spoke of called and took away the boy, saying he would provide for him.
And that was—how many years ago?
Nearly six, I think.
And I suppose you have neither seen nor heard of him since?
Mrs. Finn shook her head.
Where does little Jack's grandfather live? she asked.
Near New York.
Is he a rich man?
Moderately rich. He is well able to take care of his grandson, if he could find him.
I wish I could tell you more, I am sure, said Mrs. Finn heartily. "If the poor boy yet lives, Heaven knows what his condition may be. If you could find the man that took him away——"
I can, answered Mark.
Then why don't you go to him, and ask him where to find the child?
Because it is against his interests to have him found. He and the little boy are the only heirs to the grandfather's property. His uncle has good reason to dislike him, and if the boy is found, Lyman Taylor will get nothing, I feel sure.
Well, well! What wickedness there is in the world! ejaculated Mrs. Finn. "What will you do?"
I don't know. I shall have to consider.
Did the grandfather send you out here?
Yes.
Excuse my remarking that you are very young to undertake such a responsible task.
I think so myself, Mrs. Finn, Mark answered, modestly. "But it so happened that he hadn't much choice. I shall do my best, and if I can't find him, I shall go home and report, and advise Mr. Taylor to send an older and more competent person."
You won't be offended by what I said?
Certainly not. Any one would think as you do. Is there any other information you can give me, Mrs. Finn?
Mrs. Finn shook her head.
I am afraid not, she said.
You are sure the boy was carried to St. Louis?
Quite certain.
I might go to St. Louis, but without any clue I am afraid I should stand little chance of succeeding.
You might advertise.
That is true, said Mark. "Indeed, it appears to be the only thing I can do. How old would the boy be now?"
About eight years old, I think.
Thank you.
Mark took out a small memorandum book, and noted down the small amount of information he had obtained.
It did not appear to be much, and yet it was of great importance. He had ascertained that Mrs. Ransom had left a child, and moreover that Lyman Taylor had been aware of the fact, and had conspired to keep its existence from old Anthony.
Does he know where it is now? Mark asked himself.
Mark was inclined to think not. Shortly after the boy was carried away, Lyman had gone East, got into trouble, and served a term of some years in a prison.
During those years, probably the boy had drifted out of his knowledge. Doubtless he could furnish a clue, but for obvious reasons, it would not do to apply to him.
I am very much obliged to you for your information, said Mark, as he rose to go.
You are heartily welcome, sir. Would you mind writing me, if you find out anything about poor Jack?
I will certainly do so, Mrs. Finn. I shall lose no time in going to St. Louis.
Heaven speed you, and bring you success, said Mrs. Finn, fervently.