You can go out and take a walk, Robert, while I go with Mr. Gray to his office.
All right, sir.
Now, said Marden, as they emerged into State street, "will you take the boy?"
Yes, but I can't pay him much.
How much?
Five dollars a week.
That won't support him. He has been well brought up, and will need twelve.
Peter Gray stopped short and whistled in his surprise.
I can't possibly pay twelve dollars to any clerk, not even if he were experienced—and this boy probably isn't.
He knows nothing of the business.
Then, Marden——
Stop a minute! I propose that you shall pay him twelve dollars a week, but I will undertake to pay seven of it.
You must take a great interest in the lad.
I do—a most unusual interest.
Of course that will make a difference.
I should say so.
In that case he can come at once.
He will come day after to-morrow. To-morrow I want to show him Chicago.
All right. Oh, there is one thing I must mention. I have another clerk—twenty-two years of age—whom I only pay ten dollars a week. He mustn't know that the boy gets twelve.
Very well; I will caution Robert. Should the young man find out, let him understand that only five dollars come from you.
That will be satisfactory.
Marden went to the office of his old acquaintance. It was small, but as large as many in the same line of business.
At four he returned to the hotel.
Well, Robert, he said, "it's arranged. You will go to work on Thursday morning. Here is the card of your employer. To-morrow I will go round the city with you."
Shall I receive enough to pay my board, Mr. Marden, asked Robert anxiously.
You will receive twelve dollars a week.
Robert was amazed.
I don't see how Mr. Gray should be willing to pay me so much, he said.
Marden smiled.
Oh, he has a little private arrangement with me. There is another clerk, considerably older than you. He is not to know how much you get. Let him understand that it is five dollars.
I understand. How generous you are, Mr. Marden.
Not Mr. Marden—Dick.
Well, Dick. But you ought not to pay so much for me.
Why not? Consider me your uncle, and take care to do credit to my recommendation.
I will, said Robert earnestly. "Shall you remain in the city, Uncle Dick?"
I may come here now and then, but I expect day after to-morrow to go to the northern part of Michigan, to visit an old friend there, who is in the lumber business.
Then, hadn't I better be looking for a boarding-place?
Well thought of. We'll look over the Record and hunt up a place.
Within an hour Robert had selected a small room not far from La Salle street, where he was to have full board for five dollars a week. The room was not equal to the one he had at home, but he would spend very little time there.
During the day following, Robert and his miner friend made an extensive tour of Chicago, and Robert felt impressed with the magnitude of the city and the extent of the business that was carried on in it.
Do you think you shall like Chicago, Robert?
Yes, Uncle Dick; I begin to feel like a man of business already.
And you will be contented?
Yes, but I shall miss you.
I am glad to hear that, boy. Let me see, how long have we known each other?
Only two days.
And yet you seem like my own boy. I never had anyone belonging to me before.
You may get tired of me, Uncle Dick.
Perhaps so, but I don't believe it.
Will you write to me?
I'm not much on letter writing, but I reckon I'll be able to scribble a few lines occasionally.
Robert remained with the miner till Thursday morning, and then made his way to Mr. Gray's office.
He found a tall young man with tallowy hair and freckles standing behind the counter.
What can I do for you, boy? he asked with lofty politeness.
Robert smiled.
I'm the new clerk, he said. "Didn't Mr. Gray mention me?"
I believe he did say something about hiring a boy. What's your name?
Robert Frost.
Well, Frost, my name is Mr. Livingston Palmer.
Indeed! Are you related to Mr. Palmer who keeps the hotel?
I—ahem! I believe we are distantly related. Do your people live in Chicago?
No. Some distance out in the country.
Got a father and mother?
No, a mother—and a step-father.
I sympathize with you. So have I a step-father. He drinks.
I don't think that is true of Mr. Talbot—my step-father—but if he did, I should not dislike him any more. How do you like this business?
So-so.
Does Mr. Gray treat you well?
Well, I can't complain. He doesn't pay me enough salary.
That is a common complaint, I suppose, said Robert, smiling.
How much are you to get?
From Mr. Gray—five dollars.
That's what I got the first year. Now I only get ten.
That is considerably more.
Yes, but it isn't enough. Why, I am the brains of the establishment.
Robert was amused. But he saw that Mr. Livingston Palmer was quite in earnest.
How about the boss?
Oh, he's a fair business man, but he couldn't get along without me.
Then I hope he won't have to. I will take it as a favor if you will help me along. I am quite inexperienced. I never was in any business before.
Yes, I'll look after you. If Mr. Gray knew what was to his interest, he would take me into partnership.
Did you ever suggest it to him?
Well, no, not exactly, but I've given him a delicate hint, but he never seemed to understand what I meant.
Just then Peter Gray came in. He looked quite insignificant compared with either of his two clerks, but Robert soon found that he was a hustler and a good man of business.
So you are here on time? he said pleasantly.
Yes, sir.
Where is my old friend, Marden?
He starts this forenoon for Michigan.
So? He seems to feel a great interest in you.
I am glad to say he does.
He says you are a smart, go-ahead boy. I hope you will prove so.
I'll try, Mr. Gray.
If you try you'll succeed. Now, let me tell you a little about the business. You understand that this is a cut-rate railroad ticket office?
Yes, sir.
You'll soon get to understand our way of doing business—that is, if you pay attention.
I will do that.
The day passed, and Robert, who was on the alert, began to get an insight into the business. He found that it was not very hard, and could be soon mastered. He was not as much impressed as he expected to be by the business ability of Mr. Livingston Palmer, who had claimed to be the "brains of the business." It seemed to him that Mr. Palmer was slow, and prone to make mistakes, but those were only his first impressions, which might be modified hereafter.
The office closed at six.
Where do you board, Frost? asked the senior clerk.
Robert told him.
I have a room, and get my meals at restaurants.
I don't think I should like that so well.
We live on the same street. Have you any engagement this evening?
No.
I would invite you to go to some amusement with me, but I am almost broke.
Then suppose you go to some amusement with me, Mr. Palmer?
With pleasure, said the elder clerk, brightening up—"that is, if you don't mind the expense."
No, I can afford it.
I don't see how you can on five dollars a week.
Oh, I have an allowance besides.
You're in luck. I wish I had.
Mr. Palmer selected a variety theater, and Robert purchased two orchestra seats, although he would have preferred some performance of a higher class.
Do you know why I wanted to come here? asked Palmer in a low confidential tone.
No. Why?
There's a girl that sings here—she's a daisy, and I have reason to think that she's sweet on me. There's her name on the bill—Alameda Churchill. When she comes out, give me your opinion of her.
In about twenty minutes Miss Churchill appeared. She was a stout young lady, weighing at least one hundred and sixty pounds. She had a high color, black hair, and a loud metallic voice.
Mr. Palmer surveyed her with rapt intensity.
That's she! he whispered. "Didn't I tell you she was a daisy?"
Robert was tempted to smile. He had a very indefinite idea of what might be considered a feminine daisy, but he recognized his companion's conception of the term.
Miss Churchill sang in a loud voice and with plenty of action one of the popular songs of the day. Livingston Palmer looked the picture of rapture. With his head thrown back and his eyes fastened upon his charmer, he could hardly fail to attract her attention.
She paused between two of the verses, and looked at him with a smile.
Did you see? he whispered in delight, "she smiled at me."
Yes, answered Robert, "I noticed that she did."
It looks as if she was sweet on me, don't you think so?
Perhaps so, I don't know much about young ladies. I can't read their thoughts.
How would it do for me to write her a note?
What could you write? You don't know her?
But she has taken notice of me. I might ask her for an interview.
I don't feel competent to give you advice, Mr. Palmer; I am only a boy.
That is true. I—I think I will venture.
But what will it lead to? Your attachment is not serious, I presume?
I don't know but it may be. The fact is, Robert, I am in love.
Were you ever in love before, Mr. Palmer?
Never. This is the first time I have met my ideal.
You surely wouldn't think of marrying her, said Robert.
Why not?
I thought perhaps you would not care to marry on ten dollars a week.
I could not. But she is probably earning considerably more. If we both of us worked, there would be a nice income between us.
Then you would not object to your wife appearing in a theater?
No, Robert. I have no narrow prejudices.
Then you think she would marry you?
You saw for yourself how sweetly she smiled on me. Oh, Robert, I am very happy! and the infatuated young man looked in the seventh heaven of bliss.
Excuse me for ten minutes, Robert, he said. "I am going into the Sherman House to write a note. I will try to get it to her this evening."
Robert smiled. He was a good deal amused by Palmer's romantic infatuation, but he did not feel called upon to remonstrate with him.
I will wait for you here, he said.
In fifteen minutes Livingston Palmer returned to his seat.
Well, have you written the note? asked Robert.
Yes, here it is. Cast your eye over it, and see what you think of it.
Robert glanced at the note.
This was the way it was expressed:
"Adorable Alameda: Doubtless you will know from whom this note comes. It is from the young man in the fourth row of the orchestra on whom you smiled so sweetly this evening. I am sure you read my devotion in my face. I have never spoken to you, but I feel that I love you, and I have never loved before. Will you appoint a time when I can meet you? Perhaps I flatter myself too much when I say that you seem to be kindly disposed towards me. I will send this by the usher, and will beg for a reply.
" "Yours devotedly, Livingston Palmer.""
"What do you think of it? asked Palmer eagerly.
I think it ought to make a favorable impression on the young lady, said Robert, doubtfully, however.
I think it is pretty good, myself, said Palmer complacently.
When the entertainment was over, Palmer went up to one of the ushers.
My friend, he said, "do you know Miss Alameda Churchill, the singer?"
Yes, sir.
Can you manage to put this note into her hands?
When?
To-night.
Well, I might if——
I will pay you for your trouble.
All right, sir. I see you are a gentleman. Give it to me.
I shall be glad if she will send me an answer.
A few minutes later the usher returned.
Did you give it to her? asked Palmer eagerly.
Yes, sir.
Did she send an answer?
Here it is.
It was a small scrap of paper, folded diagonally.
Palmer opened and read it, his heart beating with feverish excitement. Then he smiled.
Shall I read it to you, Robert? he asked.
Yes, if you like.
"Many thanks for your pretty note. To-morrow evening at eleven be under the window at No. 98 Lemore street. Alameda.""
"What do you think of that? said Livingston Palmer triumphantly. "Do you notice that she signs herself Alameda?"
Yes.
That seems nice and friendly, doesn't it?
Yes, it seems so.
She is evidently taken with me. Oh, Robert, I never was so happy.
Robert, of course, being a boy, could not enter fully into Palmer's feelings. However, he answered in a sympathetic tone which satisfied his fellow clerk.
I never thought I should be so fortunate, he said. "Oh, Robert, you don't know how I feel towards that girl."
No, I suppose not, Mr. Palmer.
It isn't to be expected, for you are only a boy.
Yes, I am only a boy.
I suppose I was the same at your age. How fortunate it was that you invited me to accompany you this evening. I feel under the greatest obligations to you, and Palmer, seizing our hero's hand, shook it with impulsive energy.
I am sure you are quite welcome, Mr. Palmer.
Robert was beginning to be weary. To his mind, Palmer seemed to be acting in a very silly manner. However, as he reflected, he was only a boy, and could not comprehend the effect of a grand passion on a man like his fellow clerk.
The next day Palmer was like a man in a dream. He was at his desk in the office, but he found it hard to attend to his duties in an intelligent manner. He made some ludicrous blunders, which finally attracted his employer's notice.
It seems to me, Mr. Palmer, he said quietly, "that you are not quite yourself. Where did the man you just waited on wish to go?"
Alameda, blurted out Palmer. "No," he corrected himself in some confusion, "Denver, Colorado."
You seem to have Alameda on the brain. We don't sell tickets to Alameda.
No, sir.
Do you know where Alameda is?
No, answered Palmer hesitatingly.
I believe there is such a place in California, but we never had any tickets for it.
Yes, sir.
For the rest of the day try to keep your wits about you.
Do you think he suspects? asked Palmer in a whisper to Robert, when Mr. Gray had gone out for a minute.
No; how should he?
Really, I hope not. It makes me feel embarrassed and confused.
I see it does. Can't you put the matter out of your mind during business hours?
I will try to, but oh, Robert, when I think of to-night I feel like dancing a Highland fling right in the office.
If you did I am sure Mr. Gray would think you were crazy.
Of course, I don't mean that exactly, Robert, I was speaking figuratively.
You refer to the figure you would cut when you were dancing the Highland fling?
I see you are witty, Robert.
No one ever accused me of that before, said Robert demurely.
Livingston Palmer laughed, and managed with an effort to devote himself for the rest of the day strictly to business.
You will be with me to-night, Frost, he said, as they closed the office, and started on their way to supper.
Do you mean that I am to go to 98 Lemore street with you?
Yes, you could stand on the other side of the street.
Your appointment is at eleven o'clock. What are you going to do before that time comes? Will you go to the theater?
No. I could not enjoy it. May I pass the evening in your room?
Certainly, if you like.
You know we can speak of her. That will be better than having my thoughts taken up by a variety entertainment. But, oh, how long the evening will be!
We shall get through it after a while. You might go round and take supper with me. I look upon you as my confidential friend.
As the clocks of the city struck eleven Robert and his friend Palmer turned into Lemore street. It was a small, narrow street, lined with brick houses, and evidently far from fashionable. The house indicated by the singer was no better than its neighbors.
I wonder which is her room? murmured Palmer. "There seems to be no light in any of the windows."
But as he spoke, one of the windows was lighted up by a lamp, which was lighted from within.
That's her room, said Palmer joyfully. "She is expecting me."
The curtain was lifted, and the fair face of Alameda peered out. She looked across the street and smiled, as she caught sight of Palmer and his young companion.
You see?
Yes. Perhaps I had better go now.
No; stay till she opens the window and speaks to me.
Very well, if you wish it.
Livingston Palmer walked across the street, and taking a harmonica from his pocket, started on a tune. It was the only instrument on which he knew how to play, and that is why he selected it. It might have been hard to distinguish the tune, but that was not of so much importance. He felt that it was the proper thing to do, to serenade his charmer.
Robert maintained his position, and wondered what would come next. He had not long to wait.
The window opened, and Alameda leaned out with something in her hand.
The next moment Palmer was drenched by the contents of a pitcher, which Alameda poured out, locating him with careful precision, so that he should receive the full benefit of it.
Palmer started with a cry of dismay, and turned quickly. But too late. His collar, his hat, and coat were thoroughly wet. It was certainly very aggravating, and his mortification was increased by a hard, cold laugh, evidently proceeding from his charmer.
Good-night, she said, and then shut the window.
Robert hurried across the street to where Palmer was standing motionless, as if dazed. He did not laugh, as most boys would have done, for he felt indignant at the treatment his unlucky companion had received.
Are you much wet? he asked in a tone of sympathy.
Yes, answered Livingston Palmer in a hollow voice. "But it is not that that troubles me. She is false, heartless. Oh, Robert, my heart is broken!"
And the poor fellow actually shed tears.
Brace up, Palmer! said Robert in a cheery voice. "She is not worthy of you. You are lucky to have found her out so soon."
Perhaps you are right, said Palmer in a mournful voice. "But how could she be so false, so cruel?"
You had not known her long?
No.
And you will soon forget her, now that you know how false she is.
I don't know, Robert, said the poor fellow sadly. "I don't think I shall ever get over it."
Oh, yes, you will. You will meet someone else, who will appreciate your devotion.
They heard the window opening again, and fearing a second deluge, drew quickly away.
It was just in time, for the pitcher was again emptied, but this time the water only wet the sidewalk.
Surely you can't love her after that, said Robert.
No. She is not what my fancy painted her. What can I do?
You had better let the matter drop.
No. I will go home and write her a reproachful letter. I will make her ashamed of herself.
Better not. She will only laugh at it.
But it will make me feel better. I—would you mind going into the Sherman House with me while I write the letter?
Better wait till to-morrow.
No, it will ease my breaking heart if I write to her to-night.
Sympathizing with his friend, Robert made no further opposition, and Palmer stepped into the Sherman House, procured a sheet of paper, and wrote thus:
"Perfidious Girl:
"How could you find it in your heart to treat so cruelly one who loves you so wildly? You led me to think that you returned my love, at any rate that you felt an interest in me. I have just returned from the house in Lemore street. I will not refer to the way you received me. It was cruel and unwomanly. I feel that my heart has received a wound from which it will never recover. Yet, if you acted in a thoughtless manner, and did not mean to wound me, I am ready to forgive and forget all. Once more I will come to your side, and renew my vows of devotion. I put my business address below, and shall be most glad to hear from you.
"Your faithful friend,
"Livingston Palmer."
What do you think of that, Robert? asked Palmer, handing the boy the letter to read.
I wouldn't have said anything about going back to her, if I had been you.
But perhaps she only meant it in fun. Girls sometimes act that way.
Not if they love a person.
But if there is any chance of getting in with her again, I don't want to lose it.
Well, Mr. Palmer, if you are satisfied with the letter, you had better mail it.
I'll get a stamp and mail it to-night.
Now I think we had better go home and go to bed.
I shall not sleep to-night, Robert, said Palmer mournfully. "My poor heart is too sore;" and he placed his hand on the place where he supposed his heart to be.
I am glad I am not old enough to have any heart troubles.
Yes, you are fortunate. But your time will come.
Robert doubted whether he should ever be affected like Palmer, but he dropped the subject, and went home to bed.
Palmer appeared at business the next day. His face showed a mild melancholy, but there were no indications of a breaking heart.
Whenever the postman entered the office, he looked up hopefully. But there was no letter for him till three o'clock. And then it was not directed in a feminine hand. But he opened it eagerly. As he read it his face became blanched. Then he laid it down on the counter and beckoned to Robert. Mr. Gray was not in the office.
Is the letter from her? asked Robert.
No, but it is about her. Read it.
Robert cast his eye over the letter. It was written in a large masculine hand. It ran thus:
"Mr. Livingston Palmer.
"Dear Sir: You have dared to write an insulting letter to my wife and I demand an apology. You are evidently seeking to alienate her affections from me. If ever she should forsake me it won't be for such a man as you. She requests me to say that your attentions are unwelcome, and that she has never given you any encouragement. If you renew them, I will horsewhip you on sight.
"Yours, etc.,
"Peter Churchill.
"Should you take offense at my letter, I am willing to meet you on the field of honor. You have the choice of weapons."
So Alameda is a married woman? said Robert, rather amused.
Yes.
And her husband charges you with trying to alienate her affections?
It is terrible! murmured Palmer.
And he hints at a duel. Shall you meet him on the field of honor, Mr. Palmer?
No! no! I wouldn't fight a duel for anything. What do you think I had better do?
Write a letter of apology. Tell him you did not know she was a married woman, and will withdraw your attentions.
I will. I—I don't think I love her any more, now that I know she is another man's wife.
You are quite right. It would not be honorable.
Still she encouraged me.
You had better not say anything about that. Mr. Churchill might take offense, and insist on your fighting a duel.
My dream is at an end. I will never think of her again.
You are wise.
Livingston Palmer wrote a letter of apology, and mailed it just after supper. After that he seemed more cheerful. Robert concluded that his heart was not quite broken.
The next day about eleven o'clock a large dark-complexioned man with black hair and whiskers and a deep, hoarse voice entered the office.
What can I do for you, sir? asked Robert, who was nearest the door.
Is Mr. Livingston Palmer employed here?
Yes, sir. That is he.
The new arrival strode up to where Palmer was standing.
Mr. Palmer, he said. "I have received your letter. I am Peter Churchill."
Palmer turned pale, his knees knocked together, and he looked terror-stricken.
As Palmer looked at the stalwart black-bearded man facing him a terrible fear sent a tremor through his slender frame. Suppose the fellow had come to inflict punishment upon him? Suppose he had a cowhide somewhere concealed about his clothes? He felt ready to sink through the floor.
I hope, he said tremulously, "you found my letter satisfactory. I—I didn't know Alameda—I mean Mrs. Churchill—was married."
Oh, that's all right. So you supposed her single?
I assure you I do.
Well, at any rate she got even with you. She told me of the pitcher of water she threw on you out of the window. How did it feel?
Very wet, responded Palmer with a faint smile.
Good joke! said Churchill, laughing boisterously. "I wish I had been there."
Somehow Palmer did not enjoy having the scene which had been so harrowing to him recalled. Yet this man must be propitiated.
I was there, he said with a feeble attempt at a joke.
So you were, so you were. When Alameda told me about it I nearly laughed myself to death.
Palmer began to recover from his alarm. Evidently the injured husband was not disposed to take things seriously, for he seemed in a good humor.
I hope you don't object to my admiring your wife? he said.
No, it does credit to your taste, but I can't have you flirting with her.
I assure you my intentions were and are strictly honorable.
Oh, Alameda will take care of that. I'll tell you what I came about.
As long as it isn't about a duel, I don't mind, thought Palmer.
My wife is to have a benefit next Thursday evening. Tickets are a dollar each. How many will you take?
I'll take one.
Better take two. You can scare up some young lady to take with you.
I don't know many young ladies.
Don't tell me that. You were not so very bashful with Alameda.
I—I believe I'll take two.
All right! Here they are.
I'm afraid I haven't got two dollars with me, said Palmer embarrassed. In fact, he lived so closely up to his income that he seldom had that amount about him.
Peter Churchill frowned a little.
I can't leave the tickets without the money, he said.
I'll lend you the money, Mr. Palmer, said Robert.
Thank you, said the senior clerk gratefully.
Won't you take a couple of tickets, young fellow? asked Churchill.
No, sir. I will use one of Mr. Palmer's tickets.
The tickets were paid for and transferred to Palmer's vest-pocket. Then Alameda's husband left the office.
I'm glad he's gone, said Livingston Palmer feebly. "I—I really thought he'd come in to horsewhip me."
I guess he could do it, said Robert, with a smile.
Isn't he a terrible looking ruffian? To think the divine Alameda should be married to such a man!
It's a pity she didn't meet you first. But I say, Mr. Palmer, you'd better give up paying attentions to her. It wouldn't be safe.
I shall never dare to speak to her again.
And you won't try to alienate her affections from him.
No, answered Palmer fervently. "I—I feel that I have had a narrow escape."
Two weeks passed without any event of importance. Robert had no difficulty in "getting the run" of the business in the office, and it is not too much to say that he became in that short time quite as efficient as Livingston Palmer, though the latter had been in the office for several years. Robert was on the whole satisfied with his position, but it must be confessed that he was looking around for something better.
I am sure Mr. Marden wouldn't want me to remain here if I could improve myself, he thought. "In fact, I think he would like me the better for striking out for myself."
It's a terribly dull life—this in a stuffy office, said Livingston Palmer one day. Since his upsetting with the variety singer the senior clerk had hardly known what to do with himself.
That's true, answered Robert. "But it's much better than doing nothing."
That's true.
When I struck out from home I was at first afraid I would be left stranded.
Humph! that wouldn't happen to me, said Palmer loftily. "I am certain I could strike something at once, if I tried."
Robert did not agree with his fellow clerk, since he had seen many a poor fellow on the streets begging for work of any kind. But he saw it would be useless to attempt to argue Palmer out of his high opinion of himself.
On the day following there came a long letter for Robert. It was postmarked Timberville, Michigan, and was from Dick Marden.
"My dear Robert," wrote the miner, "I've been wanting to drop you a few lines for some time, but could not get around to do it. When I arrived here I found my uncle, Felix Amberton, very ill, and I have had to take practically entire charge of his affairs. My uncle is a bachelor like myself, so he hadn't even a wife to depend upon in this emergency.
"My uncle owns a large lumber interest here, close to the upper end of the State, and several Canadians are trying to force him into a sale of his lands at a low price. They claim to have some hold upon the land.
"I must say I wish you were up here with me—to help run the lumber office. I have to be out on the lands a greater part of the time, and the office clerk is not to be trusted, since he is a great friend of the Canadians I mentioned. I am in hopes that my uncle will soon recover, to take charge for himself."
Dick Marden's letter interested Robert greatly. The confinement of city life was beginning to tell on the boy, who had heretofore lived more or less in the open at home.
I'd like to go to Timberville, he said to Palmer, when he showed the communication. "The smell of pine and spruce would do a fellow a world of good."
It wouldn't suit me, said Palmer, with a decided shake of his head. "Why, you have no amusements in a place like that—no theaters, no concerts, no billiard parlors, nothing."
And yet people get along very well without them, smiled Robert.
They can't have very elevated tastes.
Perhaps more elevated than you think, Livingston. I've known some lumbermen who were very well educated.
If I made a change do you know what I would do? asked Palmer.
No.
I would go on the stage, said the senior clerk earnestly.
What stage? Perhaps the variety stage the adorable Alameda is on, eh?
No! no! I am done with that forever. I would go in for tragedy.
Tragedy doesn't pay, so I've heard said.
Good, real talent will pay, I feel sure of it.
And what would you play, Hamlet?
I would play all of Shakespeare's plays, but the part of Sparticus the Gladiator would suit me better.
Did you ever act?
Twice—at the Twice-a-week Club. We gave Julius C?sar, and I was C?sar. The performance was a great success from an artistic standpoint.
How about it financially?
Well, to tell the truth, we ran about thirty-three dollars behind.
Which proves what I said, that tragedy doesn't pay, said Robert, with a short laugh.
My support was very poor, and, besides, our performance was not advertised widely enough.
I presume the newspapers gave you some favorable notices.
No, they did nothing of the sort. We had not given them much advertising and so they ignored us. You know they won't do a thing without being paid for it.
I didn't know it. I thought they gave the news. Why, sometimes they condemn a play even while they advertise it.
Never mind, they ought to have praised our play, but they didn't. And here Palmer walked away and the subject was dropped.
A week passed and nothing of special interest happened. During that time Robert wrote to his mother, telling her where he was and what he was doing. He hoped to receive a letter in return, and was quite disappointed when no word came back.
The trouble was that the letter he had sent fell into James Talbot's hands.
Here is a letter for Mrs. Talbot, said the postmaster, one day to Talbot, when the latter had called at the place for the mail.
All right, I'll take it home to her, answered Robert's step-father.
It's from Chicago, said the postmaster, whose name was Joel Blarcomb. "It looks like Robert's handwriting, too."
Do you know Robert's writing? questioned Mr. Talbot.
Very well. He once did some writing for me in my books, when I had injured my finger on a nail in a sugar barrel, said the postmaster, who also kept the principal store in Granville.
Well, give me the letter and I will take it home, said Mr. Talbot, and soon after left the store with the communication in his pocket.
As soon as he was out of sight of the store he began to inspect the letter and wondered what it contained.
More than likely the young rascal has sent to his mother for money, he thought. "I've a good mind to open the letter and read it."
The communication was not sealed very well, and by breathing repeatedly upon the flap James Talbot soon had the envelope open. Then he drew out the letter and read it.
He was chagrined to learn that his step-son was doing so nicely and needed no assistance.
He seems to have fallen upon his feet, he murmured. "Well, I'll wager it won't last. Sooner or later he'll be back home and wanting me and his mother to take care of him. When that time comes, I'll dictate pretty stiff terms to him, or my name isn't James Talbot."
One passage in the letter positively angered him.
"I trust Mr. Talbot treats you as you should be treated," wrote Robert. "If he does not, let me know, and I will compel him to do what is right. He must remember that the house and everything else belongs to you so long as you live."
Belongs to you so long as you live, mused James Talbot. "Can it be possible that the estate goes to Robert after his mother's death? I must look into this."
At first he was of a mind to destroy the letter, but thought better of it and placed it again in the envelope.
When he reached the house he found his wife in the garden, sitting under a grape arbor. Mrs. Talbot's face showed that she had been weeping.
Why, my love, what is the matter? he asked softly. Of late he had been treating her well, having what is popularly called "an ax to grind."
Nothing is the matter, James.
But your face shows that you have been crying.
It is nothing.
Have you had any trouble with Jane?
No.
Then what is it?
I was thinking of Robert. Isn't it terrible that I get no word from him?
Mr. Talbot started, and his hand went into the pocket where the letter rested. Then he recovered and shrugged his shoulders.
I have already told you what I think of the boy, he said. "My love, he is unworthy of your tears."
Oh, James!
It is true. He has gone out into the world and has forgotten you.
No, no! Robert would never be so heartless.
I think I know him better than do you. You are blind to the truth because you are his mother.
He may be penniless, or sick, so that he cannot write.
Perhaps he is out on the ocean, or on the Great Lakes, said Mr. Talbot.
Even so, I am sure he would have written before going.
You must not think so much of him, my love. You are altogether too melancholy. I have just learned that we are to have a first-class theatrical company in Granville next week. I will get good seats and take you there.
I do not care to go to any play. Life is too real to me for that.
You are blue, Sarah. Forget the boy and you will feel better, said James Talbot, and receiving no answer to this, he walked away.
Forget Robert! forget my only child! thought Mrs. Talbot. "Never! Oh, if I only knew where I could write to him!"
On the day following Mrs. Talbot had occasion to call at Joel Blarcomb's store to order a number of groceries for the house.
I hope you got good news from Robert, said the postmaster, after she had given her order.
Good news? she repeated, in bewilderment. "I haven't any news, Mr. Blarcomb."
Oh, then that Chicago letter wasn't from him?
What Chicago letter?
The one I gave to Mr. Talbot yesterday. I felt certain it was your son's handwriting on the envelope.
He gave me no letter, answered the lady, and then a sudden fear came into her heart that made her feel faint. Had her husband received a letter from her son and destroyed it?
No, no, he would not be so cruel, she thought.
Well, the letter was for you, whether you got it or not, said Joel Blarcomb bluntly. He did not like James Talbot any more than did many others in the little town. All who had had dealings with Robert's step-father had found him mean to the last degree.
Perhaps he has forgotten to give it to me, said Mrs. Talbot, and abruptly left the store. Joel Blarcomb gazed after her pityingly.
She didn't make no happy match an' I know it, he muttered. "That Talbot aint half the man Frost was."
Arriving at home, Mrs. Talbot at once sought out her husband.
James, where is the letter Mr. Blarcomb gave you for me? she demanded.
The letter? he said carelessly. "Why—er—that didn't amount to anything."
Did you open it?
Yes—by mistake. It was only an advertisement from a Chicago investment company. The men who run it are little better than swindlers and I don't want you to have anything to do with them.
Mrs. Talbot's heart sank. The letter was not from Robert after all.
Still, I would like to see the letter, she continued.
I am sorry, my love, but I really believe I tore it up—in fact I am sure I did.
You shouldn't have done that, since it was addressed to me.
As your husband, I didn't do so very wrong to open the letter. When I saw what it was I thought best to destroy it—I didn't want you to place any of your money in the hands of such swindlers. If you did that you would never see a dollar of it again.
Don't you think I am capable of looking out a little bit for myself, James?
Not in money matters, Sarah. Such things a woman should leave entirely to her husband.
I feel I must differ with you. After Mr. Frost died I became the sole executrix of his will, and I do not know that anything has gone wrong.
Oh, I do not say that. James Talbot paused for a moment. "Speaking of Mr. Frost," he continued. "May I ask, did he leave his estate entirely to you?"
No, he left me my choice of one-half of all he possessed, the other half to go to Robert, or the use of everything so long as I lived, all to go to Robert after my death, providing he was living at that time.
And which did you choose, asked Talbot, trying vainly to conceal his intense interest in the matter.
I chose a life interest only, and signed the necessary papers for the surrogate.
Then when you die, all will go to that good-for-nothing boy.
All will go to Robert, yes; but he is not a good-for-nothing boy.
That is where we differ, Mrs. Talbot. Once he gets the fortune he will run through it like wildfire, mark my words.
Robert is far too sensible to do any such thing.
Suppose he dies before you do, what then becomes of the estate?
It becomes mine absolutely.
I see.
But I do not anticipate Robert will die before I do, went on Mrs. Talbot. "He is a strong, healthy lad."
True, but there is many an accident happens to a boy that is knocking around like him.
Mr. Talbot, do you wish any harm to befall my son? demanded the lady of the house, half angrily.
Oh, no, of course not. But in knocking around he is taking a big risk, you must admit that.
At these words Mrs. Talbot's face became a study and she left her husband without another word.
I really believe he wishes Robert out of the way, she thought. "Then the money would be mine, and he would try to get me to leave it to him."
Left to himself James Talbot walked up and down in moody contemplation.
Here's a nice mess, he muttered. "I thought the whole estate belonged to her. If she died to-morrow I would be turned out without a cent and that boy or his guardian would take sole possession. I half wish I could get him out of my way for good, I really do." And then he began to speculate upon how such a dark deed could be accomplished.
On the following Sunday morning Robert attended one of the principal churches in Chicago and heard what he considered a very fine sermon on charity.
I suppose we ought all to be more charitable, he thought, on coming out. "But I must say I find it very hard to have any charitable feelings for Mr. Talbot. I do hope he is treating mother as he should."
He was walking down State Street when he heard a commotion on the thoroughfare. A fire engine was coming along, followed by a long hook and ladder truck. He watched them and to his surprise saw them draw up almost in front of the tall office building in which Mr. Gray's cut-rate ticket establishment was located.
Can it be possible that our place is on fire? he cried, and ran to the office with all speed.
He soon discovered that the building was a mass of flames from top to bottom, the fire having started in the boiler room in the basement and found a natural outlet through the elevator shafts. He tried to get into the office, but the door was locked and he had no key.
Back there, young man! came from a policeman, as he rushed up to force the gathering crowd out of the firemen's way.
I work in this office, answered Robert. "Hadn't I better try to save something?"
Are your books in your safe?
I presume they are.
Then you had better get back. Something may cave in soon, you know.
While Robert hesitated another officer came along, and then everybody was ordered back, and a rope was stretched across the street at either end of the block. Meanwhile the fire kept increasing until it was easy to see that the office building was doomed.
It's too bad, thought Robert, as he watched the progress of the flames. "This will upset Mr. Gray's business completely."
Half an hour later, as the boy was moving around in the dense crowd, he ran across Livingston Palmer.
This will throw us out of employment, Livingston, he said.
It looks like it, Robert, answered the senior clerk. "Still, I can't say that I care so much."
You do not?
No. You see, after we closed up Saturday night I met my friend Jack Dixon, of the Combination Comedy Company, and he has offered me a place to travel with the organization.
And you are going to accept?
I certainly shall now. At first I was on the fence about it, for I wanted to get with a tragedy company. But I suppose this will do for a stepping stone to something better.
Robert had his doubts about this, for Palmer had recited several times for him, and he had thought the recitations very poor. But the senior clerk was thoroughly stage-struck, and Robert felt that it would do no good to argue the matter with him.
Your leaving may throw Mr. Gray into a worse hole than ever, he ventured.
Oh, I guess not. He will have you to fall back on. I doubt if he will be able to resume business immediately.
Livingston Palmer was right in the latter surmise. The next day Robert found his employer in an office on the opposite side of the street.
I am all upset, Frost, said Mr. Gray. "The safe has dropped to the bottom of the ruins and it will be a week or two before they can dig it out."
Shall you resume at once?
I hardly think so. The fact is, I have telegraphed to my brother in New York about business there. It may be that I shall open up in that city instead of here.
Then I fancy I can consider myself disengaged for the present.
Yes. I am sorry for you, but you can see it cannot be helped.
I don't blame you in the least, Mr. Gray. I am sorry on your own account, as well as mine, that you have been burnt out. I hope you were fully insured.
I was, in a way. Yet I have lost valuable records which no amount of money can replace.
When Robert left the office it was with a sober face. He was out of a position. What should he do next?
It's too bad, he mused. "And just after writing to mother that I was doing so nicely."
All told he had saved up about twenty-five dollars, and he resolved to be very careful of this amount and not spend a cent more than was necessary, until another situation was secured.
Feeling that no time was to be lost, he procured two of the morning papers and carefully read the want columns. There were several advertisements which seemed to promise well, and he made a note of these and then started to visit the addresses given.
The first was at a restaurant where a cashier was wanted. Robert found the resort to be anything but high-styled. It was on a side street and looked far from clean.
Well, a fellow can't be too particular, he thought, and marched inside without hesitation.
This way, said the head waiter, thinking he had come in to get something to eat.
I wish to see the proprietor, answered Robert. "He advertised for a cashier."
He's got one.
Oh, if that's so, excuse me for troubling you, and the boy turned on his heel to walk out.
Hold on, said the head waiter. "I don't think the new man suits Mr. Hinks entirely. Perhaps he'll give you a show after all. You'll find Mr. Hinks over at the pie counter yonder," and the waiter jerked his thumb in the direction.
Robert walked to the counter and found a short, stout man in charge. The individual had a pair of crafty eyes that the boy did not at all admire.
I came to see about that position which you advertised, he said.
Yes? Have you had any experience?
I worked in a cut-rate ticket office—the one that was burned out on Sunday last. I think I could do the work of an ordinary cashier.
No doubt you could, if you are used to handling money. Did you work for Gray?
Yes, sir.
Well, I reckon he wouldn't have you unless you were all right, said Mr. Hinks. "I've got a new man on but he don't suit—he's too fussy and particular. Last night he left his desk and ran all the way to the sidewalk to give a man a dollar bill which he had forgotten."
Well, that shows he is honest, said Robert, with a laugh.
Yes, but my desk might have been robbed in the meantime.
I suppose that is true.
I don't want a man to be so honest as all that,—that is, with the customers,—although he must be honest with me. If a customer is foolish enough to leave his change behind, why let him lose it, that's my motto. What do you want a week?
I was getting twelve dollars.
Phew! That's pretty stiff.
I might start in for less.
I never pay a man over five dollars.
I cannot live on five dollars, I am afraid.
Well, you pick up a good deal, you know, replied Mr. Hinks, and closed one eye suggestively.
You mean in the way of tips?
Tips? Oh, no, they go to the waiters. But through making change and the like, and Mr. Hinks closed one eye again.
Robert's face flushed.
Do you mean by giving people the wrong change? he demanded indignantly.
I didn't say so. But I know almost every cashier picks up lots of extra money in one way and another.
Not if they are honest, sir. And I would not be dishonest—I would starve first. I am out for business, but not the kind of business you seem to expect of your employees.
At this plain talk Mr. Hinks scowled darkly at Robert.
Here, here, I won't have you speak to me in this fashion, he blustered. "If you don't like the offer I've made you, you can get out."
I don't like the offer, and I think it is an outrage that you are allowed to conduct business on such principles, replied Robert, and lost no time in quitting the place. The proprietor followed him to the door and shook his fist after him.
The next place was a map-maker's office. Here there was a large force of clerks, and the youth was received very politely.
I am sorry to keep you waiting, said the clerk who advanced to see what the boy wanted. "But Mr. Ruggles is very busy at present. Will you sit down or call again?"
I'll wait a little while, said Robert, who was favorably impressed by the surroundings. "That is, if the place that was advertised is still open."
I can't say as to that. There have been several applicants, but the entire matter is in Mr. Ruggles' hands.
The clerk turned away and Robert dropped on a long bench running up one side of the waiting room. Hardly had he settled himself than two men came in. One looked like an Englishman while the other was evidently French.
The clerk greeted them as if they had been there before.
Mr. Stanhope will see you directly, he said.
We cannot wait too long, said the Englishman. "My friend—Jean Le Fevre, must get back to Michigan as soon as possible."
I will tell Mr. Stanhope, said the clerk, and vanished into an inner office.
Left to themselves, the Englishman and the Frenchman began to converse rapidly, the subject of their talk being a certain tract of timber land in the upper section of Michigan. This interested Robert, who could not help but hear all that was said.
Ze map—zat is what we want, he heard the French Canadian—for such Jean Le Fevre was—say. "Once we have zat, and the land will be ours."
Right you are, answered the Englishman. "And then old Felix Amberton can whistle for his money. His claim won't be worth the paper it is written upon."
Robert was startled at these words. He remembered that Felix Amberton was the name of Dick Marden's uncle, the Michigan lumberman. Were these the fellows who wished to get the lumberman's lands away from him?
I must hear all they have to say, thought Robert.
Ordinarily he despised playing the part of an eavesdropper, but in the present instance he felt justified in doing so.
It ees a great pity zat man came to help Mistair Amberton, went on the Canadian. "Who is he, do you know, Mistair Hammerditch?"
His name is Marden and he is Amberton's nephew.
He seem to be verra smart, as you call heem.
Perhaps he is smart, Le Fevre. But I don't think he can outwit me, returned Oscar Hammerditch. He was one of the kind of men who hold a very exalted opinion of themselves.
The French Canadian nodded his round head rapidly.
No, he cannot outwit you—nor Jean Le Fevre. Once we have ze map and all will be well.
At that moment the clerk came forward again.
Mr. Ruggles is at liberty now, he said to Robert. "You had best go in at once, before one of the clerks engages him."
Thank you, I will, answered the boy.
I wish he had left me to listen to those schemers a bit longer, was what he thought.
But there seemed no help for it, and leaving the Englishman and the Canadian talking earnestly to each other he entered the private office of the proprietor of the firm.
Mr. Ruggles proved to be a pleasant man past middle age.
If you have been waiting to see me I am sorry for you, he said, after Robert had stated the object of his visit. "I engaged a clerk less than an hour ago."
This was a set-back and the boy's face fell.
I am sorry too, he said. "I imagine this office would just suit me."
You can leave your name and address. Perhaps the other young man may not be suitable. Have you any recommendations?
I worked for Mr. Peter Gray, the cut-rate ticket man. We were burnt out, and Mr. Gray doesn't know what he is going to do next.
I know Mr. Gray, and if he can recommend you that will be sufficient. Here is a sheet of paper. Do you know what I pay a clerk at the start?
No, sir?
Can you keep an ordinary set of books?
Yes, sir.
How about writing an ordinary business letter?
I wrote many letters for Mr. Gray.
In that case I would be willing to start you at eight dollars per week, and after six months I would raise you to ten dollars.
That would be satisfactory.
Then leave your name and address. Even if that new clerk does suit there may be another opening before long—although I would not advise you to lay back and depend upon it.
I couldn't afford to lay back, sir.
You have to support yourself?
I do.
Then I trust you get an opening soon—if I cannot use you, concluded Mr. Ruggles.
Robert wrote out his name in his best style, and added the address of his boarding house. The handwriting pleased the map-publisher, but he put it on file without comment. Then the boy bowed himself out.
What a nice man, he thought. "I like him even better than I do Mr. Gray."
He was pleased to think that, although there was no immediate opening for him, there might be one in the near future.
As Robert entered the outer office he looked around for the Englishman and the Canadian. They were nowhere to be seen.
They are either in one of the other offices or they have gone, he said to himself. "I'd give a good deal to know just what they are up to. When I write to Mr. Marden I must tell him about the pair."
Once on the sidewalk the boy hardly knew how to turn. He had one more place on his list—that of a wholesale butcher, but the idea of working in a packing house did not please him.
I don't believe it would suit me, he said to himself. "Especially if I had to work down by the stockyards."
Nevertheless, he was resolved not to remain idle if it could be helped, and so started out to find the address.
The locality was some distance from the center of the city and in a neighborhood filled with factories and saloons. At the corner of the block upon which the packing establishment was located, Robert came to a halt.
I don't believe mother would like me to work in such a place as this, he mused. "The folks may be honest enough, but they don't know the meaning of the word refinement."
Lookin' fer sumthin', mister?
The question came from a very small and very dirty boy who had brushed up against Robert's elbow.
Hardly, answered Robert. "Is that Rogers' packing house over there?"
Yes.
Thank you, that's all I wanted to know.
Goin' in to see Mr. Rogers?
I was thinking of it.
Better not go now?
Why?
He jest came out of O'Grady's saloon and he's more'n half full.
Do you mean drunk?
Dat's it.
Then I don't think I care to see him.
Does he owe you anything? went on the street urchin, with a coolness that swallowed up the impertinence of the question.
No, he doesn't owe me anything. He advertised for a clerk and I had a notion I would strike for the situation, answered Robert, who could not help but like the street lad, he had such an open, friendly face.
He had a fight with one o' his clerks day before yesterday, an' the clerk got a black eye.
Indeed. And what did the clerk do?
I heard dad say he was going to have old Rogers arrested, but Rogers gave him some extry money to keep still about it.
And that is the reason he wants a new clerk, eh? said Robert, with a short laugh. "Well, I don't think I'll apply."
Couldn't you lick old Rogers if he hit you first?
I wouldn't want to get into a fight with him.
He's a terror when he's half drunk—my dad says so.
Does he work in the place?
Yes, he's a butcher.
And did he ever have any trouble?
Lots of times. Once old Rogers followed my dad with a butcher knife, but dad up and knocked the knife from his hand with a club.
And what did your father do then?
He was goin' to have old Rogers locked up for salt the battery, or sumt'ing like that, but Rogers he raised dad's wages a dollar a week, an' so dad didn't do nuthin.
Evidently Mr. Rogers thinks money will cover everything, said Robert. "Well, it wouldn't cover everything with me."
I'd like to see old Rogers git one good wallopin'—an' so would all of the boys around here. He won't let none of us around the packing house to see what's going on. He calls us all a set of thieves.
He certainly must be a hard man to work for, concluded Robert. "I don't want to go near him," and with this remark he walked back the way he had come.
Well, what luck? asked Livingston Palmer, when he and Robert met again.
No luck at all, answered Robert.
That's bad.
One man said he might have an opening in the near future.
That's all right, but a fellow can't live on promises.
Exactly my idea.
Why don't you try the stage, as I am going to do.
I don't believe I can act.
No one knows what is in him until he tries. Didn't you ever recite?
In school, yes. But I don't think I ever made a hit, as actors call it.
If you managed to get in with Jack Dixon I might be able to coach you in your part, said Livingston Palmer loftily.
Have you had a part assigned to you yet? asked Robert curiously.
Yes. We are to play two plays, 'The Homeless Sister,' and 'All for Love.' In 'The Homeless Sister' I am to take the part of a heartless landlord, and in 'All for Love' I am a butler in a Fifth Avenue mansion in New York.
Are they leading parts?
Well—er—hardly. Dixon says he can't put me in leading parts yet, for it would make the older actors jealous.
I see.
He says he will shove me ahead as soon as I've made a hit.
Then I trust you make a hit on the opening night.
Oh, I certainly shall. I have my lines down fine, and Dixon says my make-up is just what it ought to be.
Aren't you afraid of being nervous?
Nervous? Not a bit. Did you ever see me nervous, Frost?
No—excepting—— Robert was going to mention the time when the adorable Alameda's husband had called at the ticket office, but cut himself short.
Excepting when?
It's of no consequence, Palmer.
But I demand to know when I was ever nervous, insisted the would-be actor.
Well, you were rather put out when the husband of that variety actress called upon you.
Oh! Well—er—I'll admit it. But that was an unusual case, wasn't it?
I presume so. Does she know you are going on the stage?
Yes; I took particular pains to let her hear of it, through one of the ladies of our combination.
And did you hear what she said?
The lady says she laughed and said I would ruin Dixon. But I'll show her that she is mistaken, added Livingston Palmer, drawing himself up to his full height and inflating his chest. "Robert, I am a born actor—I feel it in my bones."
Do your bones ache?
You know what I mean. Shall I give you a sample of what I am to do?
If you get through by the time the supper bell rings. My walk has made me tremendously hungry.
The part of the landlord is not a long one—in fact it contains but six speeches each about thirty words in length. At first I come into the parlor where the guests have arrived. I make a low bow and turn to the gentleman and say: 'What, it is my father's friend, Roger Brockbury, as I live! Thrice welcome to the Lion Inn, sir. And what is the matter with the lady, sir?'
As Palmer began to recite he strutted around in grand style, ending by elevating his eyebrows, clenching his fists and throwing his head so far back that he nearly lost his balance.
Is that what you have to say? questioned Robert, who could scarcely keep from laughing outright.
Yes. How do you like it?
You'll certainly make them take notice of you?
I knew you would say that. Why, Robert, it won't be a month before I'm the star of the combination.
You have my best wishes.
Shall I take you to see Jack Dixon?
No—at least, not for the present.
But you may be missing the chance of your life.
No, I'm no actor. I believe I was cut out for some office business and nothing else.
Do you mean to say you would be content to sit on a high stool keeping books all your life? That wouldn't suit me.
No, I don't mean that exactly. I would like to manage some large office business—after I had learned it thoroughly.
Of course that is somewhat better.
At that moment the supper bell rang, and Palmer took his leave, to go to the theater for rehearsal. As Robert went down to the dining room of the boarding house he could not help but utter a short sigh.
Poor Palmer, he mused. "He means well, but I'm afraid he will make an awful mess of it."
The evening was spent in his room reading a paper, for Robert was in no humor to go anywhere, even if he had felt like spending any money.
I must try my luck again to-morrow, was his resolve. "And I must get around early, too."
He was up before seven o'clock, and dressing hastily, went out and purchased several newspapers. At the house he sat down in the sitting room to examine the Help Wanted columns, as he had done the day before.
Presently he heard the postman's whistle and ring. Soon after one of the servant girls came in with a letter for him.
It was from Timberville, as he could see by the postmark, and he tore it open eagerly, feeling it must have been sent by Dick Marden.
The communication interested Robert deeply. It ran as follows:
"My Dear Robert:
"I have just learned by the newspapers that Peter Gray's office was burnt out last Sunday. I see that the loss was heavy, and in an interview Gray says he may not resume.
"This will, of course, throw you out of a position. In one way I am sorry of it; in another, I am glad.
"I hate to have you compelled to make a change, yet, as matters have turned, I would like to have a smart boy like you up here to help me, since my uncle is worse than before and those swindlers—for such they are—are determined to get the lumber lands away from him.
"In the crowd are two men, a French Canadian Le Fevre and an Englishman named Hammerditch. They want to get hold of an old map which was in the possession of a certain lumberman named Herman Wenrich. This lumberman used to live in upper Michigan but now resides in Chicago.
"If you can do so, I would like you to find Herman Wenrich and get the map from him, even if you have to pay fifty or a hundred dollars for it. The map will be valuable in showing up the actual grants which belong to my uncle.
"In case Wenrich cannot be found in the course of two or three days you can drop the matter and come on to here without further delay. I send you some money in case the fire has left you short, and in case you have a chance to buy the map.
"Yours truly,
"Richard Marden."
Enclosed in the letter were money orders amounting to one hundred and fifty dollars.
I'm glad I didn't get a job now, thought Robert. "If I had I would only had to have thrown it up. I'll go down to the post-office at once, get those money orders cashed, and then go on a hunt for Herman Wenrich."
Robert had been to the post-office a number of times for Mr. Gray, so he made his way there after breakfast without difficulty.
He found the money-order department somewhat crowded, and had to take his place at the end of a line numbering a dozen persons or more.
While he was moving toward the window his attention was attracted to a loudly-dressed individual, who came in and glanced around as if looking for somebody he knew.
The man singled out Robert and came up to him.
Are you acquainted here, young man? he asked, in a low tone, so that those standing around might not hear.
What do you mean? asked the youth.
He was positive he had never seen the loudly-dressed individual before.
I mean do they know you at yonder window?
One of the clerks knows me.
Then I wish you would do me a favor. My name is Charles Shotmore. I come from Lexington. I received a money order yesterday from my aunt, with whom I reside, and I want to get the order cashed.
Well?
Won't you identify me? Of course, it's a mere matter of form, but it places one in a regular hole if one is not known, went on the man glibly. "You know they are very particular just at present, although they didn't used to be."
But I don't know you, said Robert, with considerable surprise.
I have just told you my name—Charles Shotmore, of Lexington. My aunt's name is Caroline Shotmore. And your name is——? The man paused, expecting Robert to fill in the blank.
But the youth had seen enough of city life to make him shy of strangers, and he did not mention his name.
Never mind about my name, he said coldly.
Won't you identify me?
How can I when I do not know you.
I have just told you my name. Isn't that sufficient?
Why don't you tell them the same thing at the window?
Because they are too particular.
I don't think they are.
Then you won't do me the favor? And the loudly-dressed individual frowned darkly.
I cannot, conscientiously.
Humph! it seems to me you are mighty particular.
And you are very forward, retorted Robert, and turned his back on the fellow. The man started to say more, but suddenly turned and walked to the corner of the room.
Robert had no difficulty in getting his money orders cashed.
For yourself? said the clerk, with a smile.
Yes.
You're in luck.
I've got to use most of the money, answered the boy, and left the window.
A hundred and fifty dollars was quite a sum, even for Robert to handle, and he placed the amount in the breast pocket of his coat.
The flashily-dressed man saw the youth stow the bank bills away, and his eyes glistened greedily.
He was a sharper by the name of Andy Cross, and it is doubtful if he had ever done an honest day's work in his life.
The money order he carried was one belonging to a man who had been stopping at the same boarding place at which Andy Cross had put up.
The order had come in a letter the day before, and Cross was anxious to get it cashed before Charles Shotmore should become aware of his loss.
I've a good mind to follow that boy and see if I can't get hold of that money, said Cross to himself.
As Robert went out of the post-office he came behind him.
Not far away was a drug store, where several directories lay on a stand for the use of the public.
Robert stepped into the drug store to look for Herman Wenrich's name in the directory, and Andy Cross took a stand outside where he might watch the boy.
While the sharper was waiting, he felt himself touched on the arm, and wheeling about, found himself confronted by the man to whom the stolen money order belonged.
Mr. Smith, I wish to speak to you, said Charles Shotmore, somewhat excitedly. He did not know Cross' real name, for he had never heard it.
What do you want? demanded Andy Cross, as coolly as he could, although he was much disconcerted.
I—I—that is, I believe you have a letter belonging to me.
A letter belonging to you?
Yes.
I have no such letter, Mr. Shotmore. What makes you think I have?
The servant at the boarding house says a letter came yesterday for me, and that she saw you pick it up from the hall rack.
She is mistaken.
She says she is positive, and—and she says your record is none of the best.
Sir, do you mean to insult me! demanded Cross, but his face turned pale with sudden fear.
The girl comes from the South End, and she says you are known by the name of Cross. She is positive you took my letter, and I want it.
Preposterous! Why should I take your letter?
I don't know. But I was expecting a money order from my aunt, and if it was in the letter I want it.
Did you follow me to here? asked Andy Cross, nervously.
I came down to the post-office, yes, for that is where they cash money orders.
Well, I haven't your money order, and that is all there is to it. Let go of my arm.
For Charles Shotmore had clutched the sharper while they were conversing.
At that moment Robert came out of the drug store. On catching sight of Cross in the grasp of another, he paused in wonder.
Something is wrong, he thought, and drew closer to the pair.
I am of the opinion that you have the money order, said Charles Shotmore. "If you are an honest man you will not object to being searched."
But I do object! burst out Andy Cross, fiercely, and tried to wrench himself loose. He had almost succeeded when Robert came to Charles Shotmore's assistance.
I'll help you hold him, sir, he said quietly, but firmly.
Let go, boy! fumed the sharper. "Let go, or it will be the worse for you!"
I'll not let go. Robert turned to the other man. "Do you know this fellow, sir?"
Perhaps I had better ask you that question, returned Charles Shotmore, cautiously.
I was at the post-office a while ago and he wanted me to identify him. He said his name was Charles Shotmore.
Why, that is my name.
He had a money order he wished to have cashed.
My money order, I'll wager a new hat. You villain. I have caught you just in time, and Charles Shotmore clutched Cross tighter than before.
It must be confessed that the sharper was nonplussed, for he had not expected to have Shotmore follow him up thus rapidly.
This is—er—a—a great mistake, he stammered.
I guess it was a mistake—for you, said Shotmore grimly.
If I—I have the letter, I took it by mistake, went on Andy Cross. "Sometimes I have violent headaches, and during those periods I do the most extraordinary things."
Indeed! sneered Charles Shotmore. "Never mind the headaches, just you hand over the money order."
As he spoke he slipped his hand into Cross' breast pocket and drew forth the letter.
Mine, sure enough! he ejaculated.
Is the money order in it? questioned Robert.
Yes. My boy, you have done me a valuable service.
I am glad of it.
I really believe I ought to have this rascal arrested.
I think you are justified, Mr. Shotmore. It's bad policy to have such dishonest persons running around loose.
Arrest me? gasped Andy Cross. "If you have me arrested you will make the greatest mistake of your lives."
I'll risk it, said Charles Shotmore.
He started to look around for an officer.
As he did so, Andy Cross gave a pull and freed himself from both Shotmore and Robert. Then he dashed into the street, among the cars and trucks going in both directions.
Hi! stop him! cried Shotmore. "Police! Police!"
Robert at once took up the chase. Soon Shotmore joined in. But Andy Cross was fleet of foot, and fear lent speed to his feet. By the time the other side of the crowded thoroughfare was gained he was nowhere to be seen.
He's disappeared, panted Robert, coming to a halt at the corner.
So I see, returned Charles Shotmore. "He could run, couldn't he?"
Well, he had something to run for.
That's right. Shotmore indulged in a low laugh. "I'm glad I got my letter and money order away from him before he started."
Do you know him?
No more than that he boarded at the same house with me. I fancy he is an all-round sharper, from what the servant girl said of him.
Then it's a pity he escaped.
I may meet him again some day. But I owe you something for your aid.
You are welcome to whatever I have done for you.
But I would like to pay you something, persisted Charles Shotmore.
I don't wish it.
May I ask your name?
Robert gave it, and they shook hands.
I hope we meet again, said the gentleman, and after a few more words they parted, Shotmore going over to have his money order cashed without further delay,—he being already known at the post-office.
From the directory in the drug store Robert had obtained Herman Wenrich's address. The old lumberman lived on the outskirts of the city, on the other side of the Chicago River, and the youth set off for the place, little dreaming of what trouble his visit was to bring to him.
Andy Cross ran for several blocks after leaving Charles Shotmore and Robert so unceremoniously. Then he turned into a large office building and took the elevator to one of the upper floors.
Here he felt himself tolerably safe from pursuit.
He stood at a hall window, which overlooked the street, and gazing down saw a friend walking along on the opposite sidewalk.
Jim Huskin, he murmured. "I wonder if he has anything new on?"
Feeling that Shotmore and Robert must have given up the pursuit by this time, he descended again and hurried after the man he had recognized.
Hullo, Jim! he said, as he caught the other by the arm.
Jim Huskin started, half fearing that it was a detective who had accosted him, for he was wanted for several petty crimes—indeed the two rascals were well matched, and had committed many a wrong deed together.
Andy! replied Jim Huskin. "How are you?"
Nothing to brag of, answered Andy Cross.
Then you haven't been striking it rich lately.
On the contrary, I've had mighty poor luck. Have you got another cigar, Jim? He said this for Huskin was smoking.
No. I got this out of a gent at the Palmer House. I tried to work him for a loan, but it was no go.
Then I reckon you haven't any more money than I.
I've got a quarter, answered Jim Huskin, frankly.
You are exactly five cents richer than yours truly.
Both sharpers laughed at this. With them it was "easy come, easy go," and temporary poverty did not bother them.
Perhaps I am five cents richer, went on Jim Huskin. "But I owe my hotel three weeks' board."
It's a wonder they let you stay that long.
I've got a well-filled trunk in my room. And Huskin chuckled and winked one eye.
Filled with bricks, eh?
No, paving stones—although they are about the same thing. Say, when the hotel keeper opens that he'll have enough to build on another addition.
He won't build it on to accommodate such guests as you.
I don't suppose he will—and I don't care.
I am behind two weeks with my landlady. She's sharp after me—but I don't care. I can't go back, even if I wanted to.
Had a falling out with somebody?
Yes. One of the boarders got a money order and I tried to get it cashed for him.
And it didn't work, eh?
No, it didn't—and what's more, the man and a boy came close to having me arrested. I'll tell you what, Jim, I would like to get that boy in some spot where I could go through his pockets.
Has he got much?
He's got a good silver watch, and I saw him cash money orders at the post office amounting to one hundred and fifty dollars.
Phew! that would make a nice haul. Where is the boy?
I don't believe he's far off. I left him near the post office.
Why not look him up?
He would recognize me and make trouble.
Then point him out to me, and I'll see what I can do.
Andy Cross was willing to do this, providing Jim Huskin would "whack up" with anything which was netted from the proceedings, and the pair sauntered the way Cross had come.
There he is now! cried the sharper presently.
He pointed across the street to where Robert was walking, bound for the place where Herman Wenrich lived.
You are sure that's the boy? asked Huskin.
I am positive.
Is the money in his vest pocket?
I think he put it in his breast pocket.
Then I'll soon have it from him, providing I get half a chance.
You've got to be careful. He's a smart customer, I can tell you that.
I've never met the boy or man I couldn't work—if I had half a show, returned Jim Huskin confidently. "What will you do, follow me?"
Yes. If you can corner him and want assistance, whistle, and I'll do all I can, added Andy Cross.
So it was arranged, and a moment later Jim Huskin crossed the street and placed himself at Robert's heels.
By this time the boy was close to the river, and crossing the bridge at the foot of the street, he hurried on in the direction where the old lumberman resided.
I wonder if he lives over here? thought Huskin. "If he does I must tackle him before he reaches home."
Several blocks were passed, and Robert came to a halt on a street corner.
As he did so Huskin stooped down and pretended to pick up a handkerchief.
Excuse me, but you dropped your handkerchief, he said, holding out the article.
Robert felt in his pocket.
You are mistaken, the handkerchief is not mine, he answered.
Is that so? Why, I was sure you dropped it. And Jim Huskin appeared much surprised. "It's a pretty good article," he continued. "I guess I'll keep it."
You might as well—if you can't find the owner.
I once had a funny thing happen with a handkerchief, went on Jim Huskin, as he ranged up alongside of Robert when the boy started off again. "A lady dropped hers in a street car. I picked it up, and as I did so, out rolled, what do you think?"
I'm sure I cannot imagine.
A set of false teeth. The lady had been wiping her mouth and the teeth had dropped into the handkerchief. Maybe both of us weren't embarrassed. The lady got as red as a beet, and left the car at the very next corner. And Jim Huskin laughed loudly. "A good joke, wasn't it?"
Perhaps for the others in the car; not for the lady, answered Robert, yet he could not help smiling.
Live down this way? asked the sharper carelessly.
No, I am a stranger in this part of Chicago. I am looking for Grandon street.
Grandon Street. I can take you there easily enough. I own property on that street.
Do you? Then perhaps you can take me to number 238—that is, if you are going there now.
Yes, I was bound there—to see one of my tenants who talks of moving. Number 238 is less than a block from my houses. I think the Nelsons live at 238,—or is it the Romers.
I am looking for a man named Herman Wenrich—an old lumberman from Michigan.
Oh, yes, to be sure. I know him fairly well. Doesn't he live in the house with the Nelsons,—or maybe it's next door?
I don't know who he lives with, or if he lives alone. He is a stranger to me. I want to see him on a little business.
And you have never been in this part of Chicago before?
No.
Jim Huskin turned his head to conceal a smile. "I reckon I can lead him where I please now," he thought. Then he looked back, to see Andy Cross following them at a distance of less than a block.
Several squares were covered, and Huskin took Robert around a corner into a street which was little better than an alleyway.
This is a short cut, he said. "The street is all torn up a bit further on, and unless we go this way we will have to walk several blocks out of our way."
Any way will suit me, answered Robert. "Only I may have some difficulty in finding my way back."
Not if you take the street two blocks to our left.
As they entered the alleyway Jim Huskin began to whistle a lively air. It was the signal for Andy Cross to draw closer.
I always whistle when I get here, explained the sharper, glibly, as he stopped for a second. "I was born and brought up in this neighborhood, and the scene takes me back to my boyhood days."
Robert was not favorably impressed by the surroundings. On one side of the alleyway were a number of deserted tenement houses, and on the other the high brick wall surrounding a factory yard. "He must have been pretty poor to have lived in one of those shanties," thought the boy.
In those days these houses were well kept, and where the factory stands was a pretty open lot, said Huskin, as if reading his thoughts. "Everything is changed now. Will you mind my stopping at one of the houses for a minute? An old negro lives here, and I want to see if he is sick."
All right.
Jim Huskin entered one of the tenements, to find it as he expected, deserted.
Say, just look here a minute! he cried, coming to the front door. "What do you think is the matter with this poor fellow?"
Wondering what was up, Robert advanced and entered the hallway of the tenement.
The light was poor, and for several seconds he could see but little.
I don't see anybody— he began, when, without warning, Jim Huskin leaped upon him and caught him by the arm and collar.
Give me that money and your watch! he cried, harshly. "Give it to me instantly, or it will be the worse for you."