"What business had that girl with you, papa?" asked Luella Ferguson, when, stung by her insolence, Ruth had left the house.
She told you, answered the father evasively.
Is it true that you were trustee of any property belonging to her?
Well, there is some truth in it. Her father was an old schoolmate of mine, though we were never intimate, and when he died, considerably to my surprise, he asked me to settle his estate.
How much did it amount to?
After paying all bills, including funeral expenses, there was seventy-five dollars left.
A fine estate, upon my word! said Luella with a scornful laugh. "Really, the girl is a great heiress."
She thought she ought to have been. What do you think she and her mother expected?
Something amusing, no doubt.
They thought that they would realize ten thousand dollars, and be completely provided for.
They must be fools!
We won't use so harsh an expression. Women know very little about business.
Some women, papa. You will please make an exception in my case.
Well, I admit, Luella, said her father complacently, "you do seem to have a sharp eye to your own interests."
Why shouldn't I? I come honestly by it, papa, don't I?
Well, perhaps----
You have been pretty sharp yourself, eh, papa? I fancy you have a pretty good sum of money salted down--that's the term, isn't it?
Well, I have something, but I don't care to make a boast of it. There would be plenty who would want a share--for instance, Mrs. Fenton.
That reminds me; her son is a train-boy on the Erie road.
Did you see him?
Yes, he made himself very obnoxious by his impertinent intermeddling. He insisted upon my removing my poor Fido, in order to give that girl a seat.
What concern was it of his?
None at all, but he made such a fuss that I had to do it.
You need not have done so. The train boy has no authority in such matters.
He called the conductor, and he took my poor darling into the baggage car. Papa, can't you get him discharged?
I have no influence with the Erie officials, my dear. Besides, if I deprive him of his chance to make a living, he and his mother will be importuning me for money. Better leave well enough alone!
This was the sort of argument that weighed with Luella Ferguson. She was meanness personified, and would rather save money than be revenged upon Fred.
Do you think you will have any more trouble with this girl who called to-night?
I should not be surprised if she called again to ask me to help her to employment.
If she does, advise her to go out to service. She could get a position as chambermaid without difficulty.
Remember, Luella, that in her own town she has held a good social position. She may have too much pride.
Then let her starve! said Luella, harshly. "It is preposterous for a pauper to be proud."
She is not exactly a pauper, said Mr. Ferguson, who was not quite so venomous in his hatred as his daughter.
I forgot--she has a fortune of seventy-five dollars. Will you do me a favor?
What is it?
If the girl comes again, turn her over to me.
Very well, my dear. I shall be glad to do so. It will relieve me from embarrassment.
I shall feel no embarrassment. I shall rather enjoy it.
By the way, Luella, how are you getting on with young Lindsay?
Luella flushed a little, and a softer light shone in her eyes. She had very little heart, but such as she had was given to Alfred Lindsay. At first attracted by his wealth and social position--for on his mother's side he belonged to one of the Knickerbocker families--she had ended by really falling in love with him. In his company she appeared at her best. Her amiable and attractive manners were not wholly assumed, for the potent spell of love softened her and transformed her from a hard, cynical, selfish girl to a woman seeking to charm one who had touched her heart.
He comes to see me very often, papa, she answered, coyly.
And he seems impressed?
I think so, said Luella, lowering her eyes, while a gratified smile lighted up her face.
He has never actually proposed? asked Ferguson eagerly.
Well, not exactly, but from his manner I think he will soon.
I hope so, Luella. There is no one whom I would more prefer for a son-in-law.
I shall not say him nay, papa.
Of course not. He is rich and of distinguished family. He will make a very suitable mate for you.
Yes, papa, I appreciate that, but you too are rich and of high social position.
Well, daughter, I stand fairly, but as to family, I can't boast much. My father--your grandfather--was a village blacksmith. I have never told you that before.
Horrors, papa! exclaimed Luella. "You cannot mean this?"
It is a sober fact. I have never told you, for I knew it would shock you.
Does any one know it in our circle?
No. Indeed, the only one who is likely to have any knowledge of it is Mrs. Fenton and her son.
The train boy!
Yes.
If it should get out I should die of mortification.
Neither you nor I are likely to mention it. I only referred to it to show the advantages of marrying a man of high lineage like Alfred Lindsay. I have money, but I have never been able to get into the inner circle to which the Lindsays belong. Money will buy much, but it won't buy that. I hope yon will do your best to bring the young mail to the point.
I will manage it, papa, said Luella complacently. "Do you know I have made up my mind to go to Europe on a wedding trip?"
If Lindsay consents.
He will do whatever I wish. I expect him to call this evening.
Do you?
Yes, and--papa, something might happen, added Luella playfully.
I hope so sincerely, my dear.
Mind, if he comes to you, not a word about the blacksmith! I wish you hadn't told me.
Forget it then, Luella. We will keep it a profound secret.
Luella left her father's presence with a smile upon her face. It was already eight o'clock. Half an hour passed, and she became anxious. Fifteen minutes more clipped by, and still the welcome ring at the bell was not heard. She was ready to cry with vexation, for she had made up her mind to lead the young man to a declaration that very evening if it were a possible thing.
She summoned a servant.
Jane, she said, "Mr. Lindsay has not called this evening, has he?"
No miss. If he had of course I would tell you.
I thought perhaps there might have been some mistake. If he should come--and it isn't very late yet--let me know at once.
Surely I will, Miss Luella.
She's dead gone on that man, said Jane to herself. "Well, I don't wonder, for he is awfully handsome, that's a fact. But my! if he could only see her in some of her tantrums, he'd open his eyes. He thinks she's an angel, but I know her better."
Several days passed and still Alfred Lindsay did not call. Luella became alarmed. Was she losing her hold upon him? She was considering whether it would be proper to write a letter to the young lawyer at his office, when she chanced to make a very painful discovery.
About five o'clock on Saturday afternoon she was coming out of Lord & Taylor's up-town store when in a plainly dressed girl who was just passing she recognized Ruth Patton. Curiosity led her to address Ruth.
So you are still in the city? she said abruptly.
Yes, Miss Ferguson, answered Ruth calmly.
Of course you are very poor. I think I can get you a place as chambermaid in the family of one of my friends.
Thank you, but I have a position I like better.
What sort of a position?
I am in a lawyer's office, copying legal papers.
Indeed! I suppose you are poorly paid.
I receive ten dollars a week.
That is ridiculously high pay. Of course you don't earn it.
Mr. Lindsay fixed the salary--I did not.
Lindsay! gasped Luella, "what Lindsay?"
Alfred Lindsay. He has his office in the Mills Building.
Ruth Patton passed on, having unconsciously given poignant anguish to the haughty Miss Ferguson.
Where could she have met Alfred? Luella asked herself with contracted brow. "I must get him to discharge her. I had no idea she was such an artful minx."
It was indeed true that Ruth Patton had found employment at ten dollars a week. Her services were scarcely worth that sum to her employer, but Alfred Lindsay was not only rich but generous, and was glad to believe Ruth's anxiety by insuring her a comfortable income. She was still at Mrs. Fenton's rooms, being now able to contribute her share of the expense incurred. The widow was willing to accept only three dollars per week, so that Ruth had the satisfaction of sending a weekly remittance to her mother. She was very grateful for the change in her circumstances, and, notwithstanding the disappointment about her father's estate, felt that there was reason to hope.
Two days later Alfred Lindsay found a letter upon his desk addressed in a delicate female hand which he did not recognize.
A lady client! he thought. "What does she want--a divorce?"
When he opened the envelope he read the following note, written on a highly perfumed sheet:
MY DEAR MR. LINDSAY: Pray don't be shocked at my boldness in writing you, but it _is so long_ since you have called that papa suggests sickness as a possible cause. I do hope that this is not what has kept you away. I confess that I have missed you very much. I have so enjoyed our conversations. You are not like the fashionable butterflies of whom we meet so many in society. One must tolerate them, of course but it is a comfort to meet a man who can talk intelligently about books and art. Apropos, I have a new collection of etchings that I want to show you. Won't you name an evening when you will call, as I want to be certain to be at home when you really do come. I should be desolated, as the French say, to be absent.
Now don't fail to answer this screed. Otherwise I shall certainly manage to have some law business that will give me an excuse for calling at your office.
Very sincerely yours,
LUELLA FERGUSON.
Alfred Lindsay read this note slowly, and there was a smile upon his face, for he fully appreciated Luella's motive in writing it. A fortnight since he would have been charmed, but his feelings with respect to Miss Ferguson had undergone a change. The revelation of her real character had shocked him, and served effectually to kill his growing attachment. Beauty of face could not make up for deformity of character. On the other hand, he was beginning to be attracted by Ruth. She lacked Luella's regular features and cold, classic beauty, but her sweet face revealed a disposition warm, kindly, and sympathetic; and when her deep, serious eyes rested upon him, he felt that she was far more attractive than her showy rival.
What shall I do? he asked himself as his eyes fell upon the note. He must of course answer it, but should he accept the invitation? Upon the whole he decided to do so. There was no reason which he could allege for declining, and, though it would be to sacrifice an evening, he would go armed against Luella's fascinations by the knowledge he had acquired. He drew out a sheet of paper from a drawer in his desk, and wrote as follows:
MY DEAR MISS FERGUSON: As I am writing in my office, you will understand and excuse the unfashionable business paper which I am using. I am flattered to find that you miss me, and still more at the reason you assign for preferring my company to that of the gilded young men who worship at your shrine. I am but "a plain, blunt man," as Shakspeare has it, and cannot vie with them in compliment. I shall no doubt find pleasure in examining the etchings which you hold out as an inducement to call. I will name Thursday evening, but should you have a previous engagement, don't scruple to notify me, as I can easily postpone my visit to another date.
Yours sincerely,
ALFRED LINDSAY.
Luella Ferguson read this note with mingled pleasure and disappointment.
It is very cold, she murmured, "almost as if I were an ordinary acquaintance. I suppose men feel hampered when they try to express themselves upon paper. I will not believe that he is less friendly, or admires me less than he used to do. At any rate he is coming, and I must make myself as fascinating as possible. I have a chance to win him, and I mean to do it."
Papa, said Luella on Thursday morning, "Mr. Lindsay will call here this evening."
I am glad to hear it, Luella. I hope he is coming--on business.
I don't know, she answered demurely.
You know my wishes on the subject?
They accord with mine, papa.
When Alfred Lindsay was announced, he found Luella resplendent in a new dress, and bedecked with jewels. She intentionally made herself as attractive as possible.
Really. Miss Ferguson, you are radiant tonight, he said.
Do you think so? she asked.
There is no doubt of it. Are you expecting other company?
Only yourself.
Then I am to consider it a special compliment to me.
If you like.
Then I must express my acknowledgments.
Yet as he spoke, his thoughts reverted to Ruth Patton, with her lack of ornament and severe simplicity, and he felt that her image was to him the more attractive of the two. It was fortunate for Miss Ferguson's peace of mind that she could not read his thoughts.
Now, you bad boy, she said playfully, "you must tell me why you have stayed away so long."
Perhaps to see if you would miss me.
I have missed you so much.
That is certainly a compliment to me as a conversationalist, As you wrote in your note you appreciate my sensible conversation I am afraid you overestimate me. I have a friend who is really brilliant, and can converse eloquently upon any subject. May I bring him with me?
Who is he? asked Luella hesitatingly.
Professor Grimes.
What, the lecturer?
Yes.
Why. he is grotesque in appearance. I heard him lecture once, and thought he wore a mask, so ugly was his face.
You admit his eloquence, however?
Yes; but from such a mouth even pearls cease to attract. Pray don't bring him! He positively makes me shudder, I assure you.
Luella did not like the turn the conversation had taken. There seemed no chance for sentiment, and she wanted to bring all her fascinations to bear.
You have some etchings to show me; Miss Ferguson? said Lindsay, after a pause.
Yes; but I want to show them to you myself. You will have to come and sit beside me.
Willingly, answered Alfred, but his tone was conventional, and lacked the warmth it had formerly shown.
Together they looked over the collection. Luella saw, however, to her mortification, that Lindsay was calm and cold. It seemed clear that she had lost her power over him. What could be the reason?
Can it be that girl, Ruth Patton? she asked herself. "Is it she who is drawing Alfred Lindsay away from me? I must warn him against her."
By the way, haven't you a copyist in your office named Ruth Patton?
How did you know? asked Lindsay.
I met her the other day on Broadway. Perhaps you don't know, but she is an humble protegee of my father's.
A protegee?
Yes; papa has been very kind to the family. He took charge of their affairs on the death of her father, and, though there was not enough property to pay the debts, he paid them all, and sent a check to Mrs. Patton besides.
That was certainly considerate! said Lindsay; but from his tone it could not be discovered if he were speaking in earnest or ironically.
As you say, it was considerate, but this Ruth is very ungrateful. She was actually ridiculous enough to think they ought to have had a fortune, and I believe blames papa for the way things have come out.
Alfred Lindsay listened politely, but did not express an opinion.
She is a very good copyist, he said.
I am glad she is earning a living, though I think it would have been better for her to remain in the country, don't you?
Really, I can't judge for others, not knowing all the circumstances.
The girl is ill bred, I am sorry to say. She treated me rudely in the cars.
She gives me no cause of complaint, said Lindsay shortly. He understood and despised Luella's attempts to prejudice him against the copyist.
When he rose to go, Luella was disappointed. She felt that she had brought him no nearer, and had not strengthened her hold upon him.
As the young lawyer descended the steps he met a man coming up whom he recognized as a dealer in worthless mining stock, who was looked upon by reputable business men with doubt and suspicion.
What business can Orlando Jenkins have with Mr. Ferguson? he asked himself.
Six months have passed and brought with them some changes. At the end of two months Ruth Patton sent for her mother, who was feeling very lonely at Port Jervis, and engaged a suite of three rooms over those occupied by Mrs. Fenton and Fred. Though she was away during the day, the two ladies, living so near together, were company for each other. Ruth had now become advanced to twelve dollars a week, not out of charity, but because Alfred Lindsay's business had considerably increased and gave his copyist more to do.
Fred was still on the Erie road, but it was now winter, and the travel had so much diminished that where he had formerly earned seven or eight dollars a week he now averaged no more than four. He began to be dissatisfied, for his income now was inadequate to meet his expenses, and he had been obliged to spend twenty dollars out of the two hundred which he had received from Mr. Lawrence at Niagara Falls. He was now seventeen, and he felt that it was high time he had entered upon some business in which he could advance by successive steps. On the road, if he remained till he was thirty years of age, he could earn no more than at present. He answered several advertisements, but secured nothing likely to be an improvement upon his present place.
One evening toward the end of December he was about to leave the cars, when his attention was drawn to an old gentleman with hair nearly white, who did not rise with the rest of the passengers, but remained in his seat with his head leaned back and his eyes closed.
The train boy, concluding that he had fallen asleep, went up to him and touched him gently.
We have reached Jersey City, he said.
The old man opened his eyes slightly and gazed at him bewildered.
I--I don't know where I am, he murmured vaguely.
You are in Jersey City, sir.
I want to go to New York.
You have only to cross the ferry.
Excuse me; I am a stranger here. I am from Ohio. Where is the ferry?
Let me lead you to the boat, sir.
The old man rose feebly and put his hand to his head.
I don't know what is the matter with me, he said. "I feel sick."
Perhaps you are upset by your journey. Come with me, and I will take care of you.
You are a very good boy, and I will accept your offer.
He rose and left the car, leaning heavily on Fred's arm.
How long have you felt unwell? asked the train boy sympathetically.
Ever since we left Elmira. My head troubles me.
It is the motion of the cars, no doubt. Here we are!
They were just in time to reach the boat. They entered the ladies' cabin, as Fred thought the tobacco smoke which always pervaded the cabin devoted to men would increase the old gentleman's head trouble.
Where do you wish to go when we have reached the New York side? asked Fred, when they were nearly across the river.
I have a nephew living on Madison Avenue. Do you know that street?
Oh, yes, sir, very well. I will go up with you if you will let me know your nephew's name.
The name was mentioned, and to Fred's surprise was that of a wealthy and influential Wall Street broker. It was clear that the old gentleman, though plainly dressed, would not need to economize.
I think, sir, said Fred, noticing that the old man seemed to be getting more and more feeble, "that it will be well for you to take a cab, in order to avoid any walking. You seem very much fatigued."
You are right. Will you call one? I don't feel able.
With pleasure, sir.
Fred passed through the gate and beckoned a hackman, who drove up with alacrity.
Where to, sir? he asked.
Fred gave the number on Madison Avenue.
Mr. John Wainwrignt lives there, said the hackman. "I sometimes drive him up from Wall Street."
That is the place. This is his uncle.
The hackman touched his hat respectfully to the old gentleman, whom he had at first mentally styled a rusty old codger. His relationship to the wealthy broker gave him dignity in the eyes of the driver.
Won't you get in too? asked the old gentleman who had come to rely upon Fred as his guardian.
Certainly, sir.
I shall feel safer. I am a perfect stranger to the city.
He leaned back in the seat and partially closed his eyes.
The hack rattled through the streets and in due time reached its destination.
The hackman opened the door of the cab and Fred assisted the old gentleman to alight.
Take my pocketbook and pay him, said the old man.
The hackman did not venture to ask more than his rightful fare, as it would have come to the knowledge of the broker, whom he did not care to offend.
The driver paid, Fred ascended the steps and rang the bell.
A man servant opened the door.
Is Mr. Wainwright at home? asked Fred.
The servant, seeing an old man in rather a rusty dress, was inclined to think that he was an applicant for charity, and answered rather superciliously:
Yes, he's at 'ome, but I ain't sure as he'll see you.
Tell him, said Fred sharply, "that his uncle has arrived."
His uncle! repeated the astounded flunkey. "O yes, sir, certainly, sir. I think he _is_ at 'ome. Won't you step in, sir?"
Fred would have gone away, but the old gentleman still seemed to require his assistance, and he stepped in with him and led him into the drawing-room.
The servant promptly reported the arrival to Mr. Wainwright, who descended the staircase quickly and greeted his uncle.
You are heartily welcome, Uncle Silas, he said. "I did not expect you till to-morrow, or I would have sent the carriage for you."
I changed my mind, John, and decided to push through.
Who is this young man with you?
He is a kind friend, John. I was taken sick--the effect of the journey, I think--and I shouldn't have been able to get up here but for him.
The broker smiled pleasantly and held out his hand to Fred.
You are the train boy, are you not? he asked, glancing at Fred's cap.
Yes, sir.
I hope you find it pays you well.
Not at this season, sir.
How long have you been in service?
Over a year.
Thank you for your kindness to my uncle. He seems ill and requires my attention now. Can you make it convenient to call here to-morrow evening at eight o'clock?
Yes, sir. I will call with pleasure.
Good night, then, and don't forget to call.
The broker shook hands with Fred again, and the train-boy left the house quite won by the pleasant and affable manner of the great broker.
I never expected to know such a man as that, thought Fred. "I wish he would give me a position in his office. That would be much better worth having than my present place."
Why are you so late, Fred? asked his mother, when he reached home.
I had to make a call on Mr. Wainwright, the broker, answered Fred.
I guess you are only funning, said Albert.
No, I am not. I am invited to call again to-morrow evening.
What for?
Perhaps he's going to take me into partnership, said Fred in joke.
Fred made a short trip the next day, and returned home at four o'clock. He was glad to be back so early, as it gave him time to prepare for his evening visit. Naturally his mind had dwelt upon it more or less during the day, and he looked forward to the occasion with pleasant anticipations. The broker's gracious manners led Fred to think of him as a friend.
I would like to be in the employ of such a man, he reflected.
He started from home in good season, and found himself on the broker's steps on the stroke of eight.
The door was opened by the same servant as on the evening previous, but he treated Fred more respectfully, having overheard Mr. Wainwright speak of him cordially.
So when Fred asked, "Is Mr. Wainwright at home?" he answered "Yes, sir; come right in. I believe as you are expected."
The old man was descending the stairs as Fred entered, and immediately recognized him.
Ha, my young friend! he said. "I am glad to see you," and he held out his hand.
I hope you are feeling better, sir, said Fred respectfully.
Oh, yes, thank you. I feel quite myself to-day. It was the length of the journey that upset and fatigued me. I couldn't travel every day, as you do.
No, sir, I suppose not now; but when you were of my age it would have been different.
How old are you?
Seventeen.
And I am seventy-one, the same figures, but reversed. That makes a great difference. Come in here; my nephew will be down at once.
The train boy followed the old gentleman into the handsome drawing-room, and sat down on a sofa feeling, it must be owned, not quite as much at home as he would have done in a plainer house.
Did you make much to-day? asked Silas Corwin (that was his name) in a tone of interest.
No, sir, it was a poor day. I only sold three dollars' worth.
And how much did that yield you?
Sixty cents. I have a commission of twenty per cent.
What was the most you ever made in a day?
I took in thirteen dollars once--it was on a holiday.
That would give you two dollars and sixty cents.
Yes, sir.
Very good indeed!
If I could keep that up I should feel like a millionaire.
Perhaps happier than a millionaire. I have known millionaires who were weighed down by cares, and were far from happy.
Fred listened respectfully, but like most boys of his age found it impossible to understand how a very rich man could be otherwise than happy.
At this point Mr. John Wainwright entered the room.
Good evening, my boy! he said cordially. "I won't apologize for being late, as my uncle has no doubt entertained you."
Yes, sir; he was just telling me that millionaires are sometimes unhappy.
And you did not believe him?
I think I should be happy if I were worth a million.
You might feel poorer than you do now. I knew a millionaire once--a bachelor--who did not venture to drink but one cup of coffee at his breakfast (he took it at a cheap restaurant) because it would involve an added expenditure of five cents.
Was he in his right mind, sir?
I don't wonder you ask. I don't think a man who carries economy so far is quite in his right mind. However, he was shrewd enough in his business transactions. But now tell me something about yourself. Are you alone in the world?
No, sir; I have a mother and little brother.
Are they partly dependent upon you?
Yes, sir.
Can you make enough to support them comfortably?
I can in the summer, sir, but in the winter my earnings are small.
How small?
Not over four dollars a week.
That is certainly small. Do you like your present employment?
I am getting tired of it, answered Fred. "I should be glad to find a place where I can have a chance to rise, even if the pay is small."
What do you think of going into a broker's office?
Fred's heart gave a bound.
I should like it very much, he said.
Then I think I can offer you a place in mine. Come down on Saturday, and I will introduce you to the office employees, and on Monday you can begin work.
I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Wainwright.
Before you know how much pay you are to receive? asked the broker, smiling.
I can safely trust that to you, sir.
Then we will say eight dollars to begin with.
My mother will be pleased with my good luck. I hope I shall prove satisfactory.
We generally ask references from those about to enter our employment, but my uncle here insists that it is unnecessary in your case.
I'll go security for the boy, John, said Silas Corwin.
Thank you, sir, said Fred. "I will see that you don't run any risk."
At this moment a young girl of fourteen entered the room. She was the picture of rosy health, and Fred looked at her admiringly. She, too, glanced at him curiously.
Fred, this is my daughter, Rose, said Mr. Wainwright.
Is this the boy who came home with Uncle Silas? asked the young lady.
Yes, Rose.
He looks like a nice boy.
Fred blushed at the compliment, but coming from such lips he found it very agreeable.
Thank you, he said.
How old are you? continued Rose. "I'm fourteen."
I am three years older.
When I am three years older I shall be a young lady.
I don't think I shall ever be a young lady, said Fred demurely.
Why, of course you won't, you foolish boy, said Rose, with a merry laugh. "Papa, may I invite Fred to my New Year's party?"
Yes, if you like.
You'll come, won't you? asked Rose.
If your father approves, answered Fred, hesitating.
Of course he does. Didn't he say so? If you'll tell me where you live, I'll send you a card. Do you dance?
Not much; but I will practise beforehand.
That's right. You must dance with me, you know.
Rose, said her father gravely, "are you under the impression that this is Leap Year? You seem to be very attentive to this young man."
Rose was the pride of her father's heart, as she might well be, for she was an unusually attractive child, and had been a good deal indulged, but by no means spoiled. Mr. Wainwright had no foolish ideas about exclusiveness, and was not disturbed by his daughter's cordiality to Fred.
Do you play backgammon, Fred? asked Rose, after some further conversation.
Yes, a little.
Then I'll get the backgammon board, and we'll have a game.
Fred was not a skilful player, and the young lady beat him three games in succession, which put her in high spirits. Her favorable opinion of Fred was confirmed, and when he rose to go she pressed him to come again.
Thank you, said Fred, "I shall be very glad indeed to come."
Rose, said her father, after Fred's departure, "it seems to me you have been flirting with Fred."
He's a nice boy, don't you think so, papa?
I hope he will prove so, for I am going to take him into my office.
That's good. Then I shall see him often.
Really, Rose, I was a little alarmed lest you should make him an offer this evening.
You needn't be afraid, papa. I will wait till I am a little bit older.
And then shall you offer yourself to Fred?
Perhaps I shall if I don't see any one I like better.
You must remember he is poor.
That doesn't make any difference. You can give us all the money we want.
A very satisfactory arrangement, upon my word! I am glad you don't insist upon getting married at once, but give me a few hours to get reconciled to the thought.
As Fred would make his debut in fashionable society at Rose Wainwright's party, he was naturally solicitous to make a favorable impression. He had for some time been intending to procure a new suit, but hesitated on account of the expense. Now with a new position in prospect, and a liberal salary he no longer delayed, but purchased a neat black suit--a misfit--for seventeen dollars, and a few small articles of which he stood in need.
The next thing required was to obtain some knowledge of dancing. Fortunately he was acquainted with a gentleman who gave private as well as class lessons, and was a very successful teacher. He called upon Professor Saville, and asked him if he could qualify him to make a creditable appearance at the party.
How much time have you? asked the professor.
Ten days.
Then come to me every evening, and I will guarantee to make you more than an average dancer in that time.
And your terms?
To you will be half price. I know very well, Fred, that you are not a millionaire, and will adapt my terms to your circumstances.
Professor Saville kept his word, and when the eventful day arrived Fred felt a degree of confidence in his newly-acquired skill. When he was dressed for the party in his new suit, with a white silk tie and a pair of patent leather shoes, it would have been hard to recognize him as a poor train boy.
You look nice, Fred, said Albert.
Do I? I must give you a dime for that compliment. Now don't go and spend it for whisky.
I never drink whisky, said Albert, indignantly.
I was only joking, Bertie. Well, mother, I will bid you good-evening.
I wish you a pleasant time, Fred. Shall you be out late?
I can't tell, mother. It is so long since I have been to a fashionable party that I have forgotten when they do close.
Some of the boys who attended Miss Wainwright's party engaged cabs, but Fred would have thought this a foolish expenditure. It was a dry crisp day, with no snow on the ground, and he felt that it would do him no harm to walk. He did not expect to meet any one he knew, but on turning into Madison Avenue, he nearly ran into Raymond Ferguson.
Raymond did not at first recognize him. When he did, he surveyed him in his party dress in unconcealed amazement.
Where did you get that rig? he inquired, with more abruptness than ceremony.
Fred was glad to meet Raymond, and enjoyed his surprise.
I bought it, he answered briefly.
But why did you buy it? I don't see where you found the money. You'd better have saved it for food and rent.
I'll think over your advice, Cousin Raymond, said Fred with a twinkle of fun in his eyes.
Were you going to call at our house? asked Raymond.
Not this evening.
I don't care to have you call me Cousin Raymond.
I won't, then. I am just as much ashamed of the relationship as you are.
If that's a joke it's a very poor one, said Raymond, provoked.
It's no joke, I assure you.
Fred seemed so cool and composed that his cousin was nonplussed. He started as if to go on, but curiosity got the better of him.
You haven't told me where you were going in that absurd dress, he said.
I don't see anything absurd in it. I am going to a party.
To a party? what party?
Miss Rose Wainwright's.
What, the daughter of Mr. Wainwright, the broker? asked Raymond, incredulously.
Yes.
Now it happened that Raymond had been particularly anxious to get an invitation to this party. Some of his friends at the Columbia Grammar School were going and he had intrigued, but unsuccessfully, to get a card of invitation. The idea that his cousin--an obscure train boy--had succeeded where he had failed seemed absurd and preposterous. It intensified his disappointment, and made him foolishly jealous of Fred.
There must be some mistake about this, he said harshly. "You only imagine that you are invited."
I am not quite a fool, Cousin Raymond--excuse me, Mr. Ferguson. What do you say to this?
He drew from his pocket a note of invitation requesting the favor of Mr. Fred Fenton's company at Miss Rose Wainwright's New Year's party.
How did she happen to send you this card? asked Raymond, his surprise increasing. "You don't mean to say you know Rose Wainwright?"
Yes, I know her. I spent an evening at the house nearly two weeks ago, and played backgammon with her.
I never heard the like. Have any bootblacks been invited?
I don't know. The young lady didn't tell me who were coming.
Take my advice and don't go.
Why not?
You will be about as much at home at a fashionable party as a cat would be at the opera.
But I have accepted the invitation.
That won't matter. You can write a note tomorrow saying that you thought it wiser to stay away.
Besides there is another objection.
What is that?
Rose expects me to dance with her.
You dance!
Certainly, why not?
I begin to think you are crazy, Fred Fenton.
I don't see why.
Of course you can't dance.
Of course I can. I am a pupil of Professor Saville. But I must bid you good evening, as it is time I was at the party.
Raymond gazed after Fred as he walked toward the scene of the evening's enjoyment with corrugated brows.
I never heard of anything more ridiculous, he muttered. "It's like a beggar on horseback. Think of a poor boy like Fred figuring at Rose Wainwright's party. It is disgusting."
Fred would not have had his share of human nature if he had not enjoyed the discomfiture of his haughty cousin.
He thinks this world was made for him, he said to himself. "There would be no place for me in it if he had his will."
The broker's house was blazing with light, and already many of the young guests had arrived. Plants and flowers were to be seen in profusion, and the mansion wore a holiday look. Fred was dazzled, but did not allow himself to appear ill at ease.
Second floor back, said the servant who admitted him.
Fred went up-stairs and arranged his toilet in the room appropriated to gentlemen. Three or four other boys were present, but he knew no one. With one of these, an attractive boy of his own age, Fred stumbled into acquaintance, and they went downstairs together.
Come with me. said the other boy, "we will pay our respects to Rose together."
Fred was glad to have some one take him in tow, and said so, adding, "Won't you tell me your name?"
My name is George Swain. I am a Columbia schoolboy.
And mine, Fred Fenton. I am in Mr. Wainwright's office.
Rose greeted both boys cordially. She glanced approvingly at Fred's dress. She had been a little uncertain whether he would be able to appear in suitable costume.
You won't forget our dance? she said, smiling.
Oh, no; I am counting upon it.
Then put down your name here, and she presented a card containing the order of dances.
May I put down my name, too? asked George
Certainly. I shall be pleased to dance with you.
When his turn came Fred acquitted himself very creditably, thanks to his skilful instructor, Professor Saville.
At ten o'clock a series of tableaux was announced. At one end of the dining-room a miniature stage had been erected, and there was a circular row of footlights. In the third tableau, Rose took part. She incautiously drew too near the footlights, and in an instant her dress caught fire.
There was a wild scene of excitement. All seemed to have lost their presence of mind except Fred. Occupying a front seat, he jumped to his feet in an instant, stripped off his coat, and jumping on the stage wrapped it round the terrified Rose.
"Lie down instantly! Don't be alarmed! I will save you," said Fred rapidly, as he reached the girl.
He spoke in a tone of authority required by the emergency, and Rose obeyed without question. Her terror gave place to confidence in Fred. Her prompt obedience saved her life. A minute's delay, and it would have been too late.
There was a wild rush to the stage. First among those to reach Fred and the little girl was Mr. Wainwright. He had seen his daughter's peril, and for a moment he had been spellbound, his limbs refusing to act. Had Fred been affected in the same way, the life of Rose would have been sacrificed.
Are you much hurt, my darling? he asked, sick with apprehension.
Just a little, papa, answered Rose, cheerfully. "If it hadn't been for Fred, I don't know what would have happened."
The coat was carefully removed, and it was found that the chief damage had been to the white dress. The little girl's injuries were of small account.
Fortunately there was a physician present, who took Rose in hand, and did what was needed to relieve her.
It is a miracle that she was saved, Mr. Wainwright, he said. "But for this brave boy----"
Hush, doctor, I cannot bear to think of it, said Mr. Wainwright with a shudder. "I can never forget what you have done for me and mine," he added, turning to Fred, and wringing his hand. "I won't speak of it now, but I shall always remember it."
Fred blushed and tried to escape notice, but the guests surrounded him and overwhelmed him with congratulations. One little girl, the intimate friend of Rose, even threw her arms round his neck and kissed him, which caused Fred to blush more furiously then ever. But upon the whole he bore himself so modestly that he won golden opinions from all.
The incident put an end to the party. As soon as it was understood that Rose was in no danger, the guests began to take their leave.
George Swain and Fred went out together.
Fred, you have shown yourself a hero, said his friend warmly.
You would have done the same thing, said Fred.
Perhaps I should, but I should not have acted so promptly. That was the important point. You had your wits about you. I was sitting beside you, but before I had time to collect my thoughts you had saved Rose.
I acted on the impulse of the moment.
How did you know just what to do--making her lie down, you know?
I read an account of a similar case some months since. It came to me in a moment, and I acted upon it.
If I ever catch fire, I hope you'll be on hand to put me out.
Oh, yes, laughed Fred. "I'll stand you on your head directly."
Thank you! It's a good thing to have a considerate friend.
Did you have a pleasant evening, Fred? asked Mrs. Fenton. "Are you not home earlier than you expected?"
Yes, mother. There was as an accident that broke up the party.
He described the affair, but said nothing of his own part in it.
The next morning, after Fred had taken breakfast and gone to business, a neighbor came in.
I congratulate you, Mrs. Fenton, she said. "You have a right to be proud of Fred."
Thank you, said the widow, puzzled. "I'm glad you think well of him."
There's few boys that would have done what he did.
What has he done? asked Mrs. Fenton, stopping short on her way to the pantry.
You don't mean to say you don't know? Why, it's in all the papers.
I am sure I don't know what you are talking about.
Didn't I tell you how he saved the little girl from burning to death?
Was it Fred who saved her? He didn't tell me that.
Of course it was. Read that, now!
She put in the hand of the widow a copy of the _Sun_ in which the whole scene was vividly described.
What do you say now, Mrs. Fenton?
That I am all the more proud of Fred because he did not boast of what he did, and a look of pride shone in the widow's eyes.
That morning, when Raymond Ferguson entered the breakfast-room rather later than usual, he found his father reading a paragraph in the Sun with every appearance of surprise.
What is it, papa? asked Raymond.
Read that!
Raymond took the paper, and his eye was drawn to some conspicuous headlines.
A NARROW ESCAPE FROM A TERRIBLE DEATH!
A BROKER'S DAUGHTER IN FLAMES!
SAVED BY A BOY'S HEROISM!
A TRAGIC SCENE AT A NEW YEAR'S PARTY!
Why, it's Rose Wainwright! said Raymond excitedly. "Whom do you think I saw on his way to the party last evening?"
Fred Fenton.
How did you hear it? asked Raymond in surprise.
Read the account and you will understand.
This is what Raymond read:
Last evening a terrible tragedy came near being enacted at the house of the well-known broker, John Wainwright. The occasion was a juvenile party given by his little daughter Rose, eleven years of age. One part of the entertainment provided was a series of tableaux upon a miniature stage at one end of the dining-room. All went well till the third tableau, in which the young hostess took part, She incautiously approached too near the footlights, when her white dress caught fire and instantly blazed up. All present were spellbound, and it seemed as if the little girl's fate was sealed. Luckily one of the young guests, Fred Fenton, retained his coolness and presence of mind. Without an instant's delay he sprang upon the stage, directed the little girl to lie down, and wrapped his coat around her. Thanks to his promptitude, she escaped with slight injuries. By the time the rest of those present recovered from the spell of terror, Rose was saved.
We understand that the brave boy who displayed such heroic qualities was formerly a train boy on the Erie Railroad, but is now employed in the office of Mr. Wainwright.
Raymond read this account with lowering brow. He felt sick with jealousy. Why had he not been lucky enough to receive an invitation to the party, and enact the part of a deliverer? He did not ask himself whether, if the opportunity had been afforded, he would have availed himself of it. It is fortunate for Rose that she had Fred to depend upon in her terrible emergency, and not Raymond Ferguson. There was little that was heroic about him. A hero must be unselfish, and Raymond was the incarnation of selfishness.
Your cousin seems to have become quite a hero, said Mr. Ferguson, as Raymond looked up from the paper.
Don't call him my cousin! I don't care to own him.
I don't know, said his father, who was quite as selfish, but not as malicious as Raymond. "I am not sure but it will be considered a credit to us to have such a relative."
Anybody could have done as much as he did, said Raymond in a tone of discontent. "Here's some news of your train-boy, Luella," he continued, as his sister entered the room.
Has he been arrested? asked Luella listlessly.
Not at all! He turns out to be a hero, said her father.
I suppose that is a joke.
Read the paper and see.
The young lady read the account with as little pleasure as Raymond.
How on earth came a boy like that at the Wainwrights' house? she said with a curl of the lip. "Really, society is getting very much mixed."
Perhaps, said her father, "it was his relationship to the future Countess Cattelli."
Luella smiled complacently. She had fallen in with an Italian count, an insignificant looking man, very dark and with jet black hair and mustache, of whom she knew very little except that he claimed to be a count. She felt that he would propose soon, and she had decided to accept him. She did not pretend to love him, but it would be such a triumph to be addressed as the Countess Cattelli. She would let Alfred Lindsay see that she could do without him.
When Fred met Mr. Wainwright at the office the next morning his employer greeted him with a pleasant smile, but did not stop to speak. Fred felt relieved, for it embarrassed him to be thanked, and since the evening previous no one had met him without speaking of his heroism. Now Fred was inclined to be modest, and he could not possibly feel that he had done anything heroic, though he was quite aware that he had saved the life of Rose Wainwright. He looked upon it rather as a fortunate opportunity for rendering his employer a valuable service.
At one o'clock Fred took his hat, intending to go to lunch. He lunched at a quiet place in Nassau Street, and never spent over twenty-five cents for this meal, feeling that he must give the bulk of his salary to his mother.
He was just going out when he heard his name called.
Looking back, he saw that it was the broker himself who was speaking to him. Mr. Wainwright had his hat on, and seemed about going out, too.
You must go to lunch with me to-day, Fred.
Thank you, sir, answered Fred respectfully.
They walked through Wall Street together, the broker chatting pleasantly. On the way Fred met Raymond, who stared in surprise and disgust as he saw the intimate terms on which Fred appeared to be with his wealthy employer. Mr. Wainwright led the way into an expensive restaurant of a very select character, and motioned Fred to sit down at a table with him.
After the orders were given, he said: "I have invited you to lunch with me, as I could not speak at the office without being overheard. Of course the great service which you rendered me and mine last evening, I can never forget. I do not propose to pay you for it."
I am glad of that, sir, said Fred earnestly.
I feel that money is entirely inadequate to express my gratitude, but I shall lose no opportunity of advancing your interests and pushing you on in business.
Thank you, sir.
Indeed, it so happens that I have an opportunity even now of showing my confidence in you.
Fred listened with increased attention.
Some months since, continued the broker, "a confidential clerk who had been employed in my office for years suddenly disappeared, and with him about fifteen thousand dollars in money and securities. As they were my property, and no one else was involved, I did not make the loss public, thinking that I might stand a better chance of getting them back."
But, sir, I should think the securities would be sold, and the amount realized spent.
Well thought of, but there was one hindrance. They were not negotiable without the indorsement of the owner in whose name they stood.
Yes, sir, I see.
Sooner or later, I expected to hear from them, and I have done so. Yesterday this letter came to me from my defaulting clerk.
He placed a letter, with a Canadian postmark in Fred's hand.
Shall I read it?' asked Fred.
Yes, do so.
This was the letter:
MR. WAINWRIGHT,
DEAR SIR--I am ashamed to address you after the manner in which I have betrayed your confidence and robbed you, but I do it in the hope of repairing to some extent the wrong I have committed, and of restoring to you a large part of the stolen bonds. If it depended on myself alone I should have little difficulty, but I had a partner in my crime. I may say indeed that I never should have robbed you had I not been instigated to it by another, This man, who calls himself Paul Bowman, I made acquaintance with at a billiard saloon in New York. He insinuated himself into my confidence, inquired my salary, denounced it as inadequate, and finally induced me to take advantage of the confidence reposed in me to abstract the securities which you lost. He had made all arrangements for my safe flight, accompanying me, of course. We went to Montreal first, but this is so apt to be the refuge of defaulters that we finally came to the small village from which I address these lines.
There was a considerable sum of money which we spent, also five hundred dollars in government bonds on which we realized. The other securities we have not as yet been able to negotiate. I have proposed to Bowman to restore them to you by express, and trust to your kindness to spare us a criminal prosecution, and enable us to return to the States, for which I have a homesick longing. But he laughs the idea to scorn, and has managed to spirit away the bonds and conceal them in some place unknown to me. Of course this makes me entirely dependent upon him. To make matters worse, I have fallen sick with rheumatism, and am physically helpless.
If you could send here a confidential messenger who could ascertain the hiding-place of the bonds, I would thankfully consent to his taking them back to you, and I would make no conditions with you. If you felt that you could repose confidence in me once more. I would willingly return to your employment, and make arrangements to pay you by degrees the value of the money thus far expended by Bowman and myself. There are still thirteen thousand five hundred dollars' worth of securities left untouched in their original packages.
We are living in a small village called St. Victor, thirty miles from the American line. We occupy a small cottage rather out of the village, and go by our own names. Do not write to me, for the letter would be seen by Paul Bowman, and defeat my plans, but instruct your messenger to seek a private interview with me. I am detained at home by sickness at present, but Bowman is away most of the day. He is fond of hunting, and spends considerable of the day in the woods, while his evenings are spent at the inn, where there is a pool table. I have managed to send this to the post office by a small girl who comes here in the morning to make the bed and sweep. Hoping earnestly that this communication may reach you, I sign myself
Your repentant clerk,
JAMES SINCLAIR.
Fred read this letter with great interest. "He seems to write in good faith," he said, as he handed it back.
Yes; Sinclair is not so wicked as weak. I quite believe him when he says that it was Bowman who instigated him to the deed.
Do you think there is any chance of recovering the securities? asked Fred.
That depends upon whether I can secure a discreet and trustworthy messenger.
Yes, sir; I suppose that is important.
Perhaps you can suggest some one? said the broker, eying Fred attentively.
Fred shook his head.
I have too few acquaintances to think of anyone who would be fit, he answered.
Would you undertake it yourself? asked Mr. Wainwright.
I? stammered Fred in genuine surprise.
Yes.
But don't you think I am too young?
Perhaps your youth may be a recommendation.
I don't see how, sir.
By drawing away suspicion from you. Should I send a man, the appearance of a stranger in a small place like St. Victor--I think it has little more than a thousand inhabitants--would very likely excite the suspicions of this Bowman, and so defeat the chances of success.
Yes, sir, I see that.
Of course your youth presents this objection--that you may not have the requisite judgment and knowledge of the world for so delicate a mission.
That is what I am afraid of, sir.
Still, I have observed you closely, and have found you prompt, self-reliant, and possessed of unusual good sense. So, upon the whole, having no other person in my mind, I have decided to send you to St. Victor if you will consent to go.
I will certainly go, sir, if you desire it, and will do my best to succeed.
That is all that any one could do, whatever might be his age and experience. When will you be ready?
To-morrow, if you wish it, sir.
The sooner the better. I shall provide you with ample funds to defray your expenses. As to instructions, I have none to give. You must be guided by circumstances, and fall back in times of perplexity upon your natural shrewdness. Now let us address ourselves to the dinner.‘
"So this is St. Victor," said Fred, as he got out of the train on the Grand Trunk Railroad, and looked about him curiously.
It was a small, unpretending village, composed entirely of frame houses, of modest size, and a few small stores kept, as the signs indicated, by Frenchmen. On a little elevation stood a wooden Catholic church, surmounted by a cross.
It seems a quiet place, thought Fred. "I shall find it dull enough, but if I accomplish my purpose I won't complain of that."
He scarcely needed to inquire for the village inn, for it was in plain sight, not a hundred yards from the station. As the town seemed to be peopled chiefly by French residents it would have been natural to conclude that the hotel also would be French. This, however, was not the case, for the Lion Inn (there was a swinging signboard adorned by the figure of a lion, the work of a fourth-rate sign painter) was kept by a short, stout, red-faced Englishman, who stood in the doorway as Fred came up, valise in hand.
Is this the hotel? asked Fred.
Yes, sir, was the reply.
I should like to stay with you for a while.
All right, sir. Come right in, and we'll accommodate you with a room. Have you had supper?
No. I should like some, for I am very hungry.
It shall be ready for you, sir, in a jiffy. Will 'am and heggs suit you, sir?
Yes, I shall relish them.
James, take the young gentleman's bag up to No. 5.
I should like water and towels, as I have had a long and dusty ride.
Fred was ushered into a small bedroom on the second floor, very plainly furnished, but the train boy was not accustomed to luxurious accommodations, and found it satisfactory. He indulged himself in a thorough ablution, then sat down at the window, which was in the front of the house.
Soon there was a knock at the door, and the boy James made his appearance.
Please, sir, your supper's ready, he said.
And so am I, returned Fred with alacrity.
He descended to a small dining-room, adjoining the bar. It was not more than twelve feet square, and from its size it might be inferred that the Lion Inn was seldom overrun with guests.
Fred sat down at the table alone, but presently a man of thirty-five or thereabouts entered and took a seat opposite him.
Good evening, young man, he said. "Where do you come from?"
Good evening, answered Fred, civilly. "I come from New York."
The other arched his brows.
So do I, he said. "What sent you here to this out-of-the-way place?"
There's good hunting hereabouts, isn't there?
Yes, are you fond of hunting?
I like it pretty well. I've just had a present of a handsome rifle.
It should be mentioned here that before Fred left New York Mr. Wainwright had given him a gun which would serve him as an excuse for his journey.
We'll go out together to-morrow. My name's Bowman.
Fred heard the name with a thrill of excitement. Why, this must be the man referred to in Sinclair's letter as having instigated him to the crime. He surveyed Bowman with attention, taking stock of him, so to speak. He found him to be a man of middle height, rather spare than stout, with dark, shifty eyes and a sallow complexion. He wore a mustache, but no whiskers.
I may find it worth while to get well acquainted with him, thought Fred. "I shall be glad to go out with you," he said aloud.
That's all right! But how does a boy like you happen to be traveling so far from home?
I have a vacation, said Fred. "I have never been in Canada, and thought it would be something new to come here."
I'm pretty tired of it, I can tell you.
Then why do you stay? asked Fred innocently.
My partner's taken down with rheumatism, and I can't leave him, answered Bowman in a tone of hesitation. "When he gets well I may go back to New York."
I doubt if you will, thought Fred.
Were you in a business position in New York? asked Bowman.
I have been for some time train boy on the Erie Railroad, answered Fred, feeling that it would never do to mention his connection with Mr. Wainwright.
Train boys don't usually have money to spend on vacation trips, said Bowman shrewdly.
That's true, laughed Fred. "If I had depended on my savings, I shouldn't have been able to go farther than Hoboken, or Coney Island, but a rich friend supplied me with a moderate sum for expenses."
Then you were in luck.
Fred was a little afraid that Bowman would inquire the name of the rich friend, and made up his mind that he would evade answering. However, his companion showed no curiosity on the subject.
Will you take a glass of ale with me? asked Bowman, as he filled his own glass from a bottle beside his plate.
No, thank you. I have no taste for it.
I didn't like it myself at first but I've come to like it.
Does your partner board with you at the hotel? asked Fred.
No, was the careless reply. "We have a small cottage just out of the village."
I wonder how he gets along for meals, thought Fred.
However that might be, Paul Bowman didn't permit anxiety to interfere with his own appetite. He did ample justice to the supper, and so indeed did Fred. Fortunately the ham and eggs were well cooked, and the loaf of bread was fresh. In place of ale Fred contented himself with tea.
At length they rose from the table.
This is a beastly hole--St. Victor, I mean, said Bowman, as he led the way to the reading-room, "but the eating is fair. An Englishman keeps the inn, and though he has no French kickshaws on his table, he gives you solid food and enough of it. Do you smoke? I believe I have a cigar somewhere, but I smoke a pipe myself."
Thank you, answered Fred, "but I don't smoke. I used to smoke cigarettes, but a young man--an acquaintance of mine--died of cigarette-smoking, so the doctor said, and I gave it up."
Smoking never hurt me that I know of, said Bowman. "Even if it did, what's a man to do in this dull hole? Shall you stay here long?"
I don't know how long. It's a cheap place to stay in, isn't it?
Yes, it has that recommendation.
Then I may stay a week possibly, said Fred in an off-hand way.
I've been here six weeks, said Bowman.
Then you have had a chance to get well acquainted with St. Victor.
A good deal better than I want to be. I was just getting ready to leave, when my partner had a sharp attack of rheumatism.
Is he from New York too?
No, from Philadelphia, answered Bowman cautiously, though he had no suspicion that Fred was other than he represented himself.
I have never been in Philadelphia, said Fred indifferently. "What is your partner's name?"
James Sinclair, answered Bowman after a moment's hesitation. "Have you ever heard that name before?"
Yes.
Where? I asked Bowman quickly.
I had a schoolmate of that name.
Oh! Yes, I suppose the name is not an uncommon one. Do you play billiards?
I have seen it played.
There is a poor table in the house. Such as it is, it may afford us a little recreation. Will you try a game?
Yes, if you will teach me.
Fred felt that it was his policy to cultivate the acquaintance of Mr. Bowman, as it might afford him an opportunity to obtain the information he desired. He had never played a game of billiards, but he was willing to try it.
Come in, then, said Bowman.
He led the way into a room opposite the office, where stood a venerable-looking billiard table, probably twenty years old. It had been given to the landlord some years before by a gentleman, and it had seen hard service since then.
They played one game, and were about to commence another when a small girl with black hair cut short entered the room.
Monsieur Bowman, she said, "your friend would like to see you. He feels quite bad."
Plague take it! said Bowman pettishly. "I can do him no good, but I suppose I shall have to go."
Is it your partner? asked Fred.
Yes.
If you don't mind I will walk over with you.
Glad of your company. Claudine, tell Mr. Sinclair that I will be with him directly.
_Oui, monsieur,_ and the little girl vanished.
I wish Sinclair would get well or something, grumbled Bowman, as they walked to the lower end of the main street of the village. "It's hard luck for me to be tied to a sick man."
Still he has the worst of it, suggested Fred, who was not altogether pleased with the cold selfishness of his companion.
Yes, I suppose so; but it isn't right that I should suffer for his misfortune.
Do you employ a doctor?
Yes; I called in a doctor once--a Frenchman--Dr. St. Hilaire. He left some medicines, and Sinclair takes them.
He doesn't seem to get better, then?
At any rate he is very slow about it, said Bowman, who spoke as if his unfortunate friend were in fault.
At last they reached the cottage. It was very small, containing three rooms and an attic. Bowman opened the door, and entered what might perhaps be designated as the sitting-room, though it contained a bed, on which, propped up by pillows, lay James Sinclair.
What's amiss with you, Sinclair? grumbled Bowman.
Everything is amiss. You have left me alone all day.
What good could I do you if I were here? It would only mope me to death.
I have had nothing to eat since morning, except a boiled egg.
Why not? Couldn't you send Claudine after food?
Of what use would that be, when I had no money to give her? I warrant you have had your regular meals.
I took my meals at the hotel--it was more convenient.
I warrant me you took care to provide for yourself. At least give me some money so that I may not quite starve.
Money, money, all the time! Do you know, Sinclair, our stock is running very low?
I demand my share of it as long as it lasts. You take advantage of my helplessness----
There's a dollar! Mind you make it last as long as possible, said Bowman. "It will be well to put off your complaints till another time, for I have brought company."
He signaled to Fred, who had remained outside, to enter, and the boy did so. He regarded the sick man with interest and sympathy, not alone because he seemed in sorry plight, and ill treated by his companion in crime, but also because he was clearly the less guilty of the two, and seemed disposed to make amends to the man whom he had wronged.
James Sinclair, unprepared for the advent of a boy, regarded him with surprise.
Who is this? he asked.
My name is Fred Fenton, answered the train boy, remembering that Bowman was as yet ignorant of his name.
He is a guest at the inn, explained Bowman carelessly. "He arrived to-night. He will be some company for me in this dull hole. We were playing a game of billiards when Claudine broke in and told me you wanted to see me. I expected to find you at the point of death," he finished impatiently.
That may come sooner than you think, said Sinclair. "May I ask where you come from, young man?" he added, in a tone of suppressed eagerness which Fred well understood.
I come from New York, answered the boy, trying to throw a degree of significance into this brief answer.
From New York! said Sinclair, in some excitement, and trying to read in Fred's face whether he was the expected messenger. "You have come for your health, I suppose?"
Not exactly for that, for my health is always good, but I thought it might be a pleasant place to spend an unexpected holiday that has been granted me.
Pleasant! repeated Bowman scornfully. "If you can find anything pleasant at St. Victor, you will have greater luck than I."
Is Claudine in the kitchen? asked the sick man. "Claudine!" he called, raising his voice.
Yes, monsieur, answered the little handmaid, appearing at the door.
Go to the baker's and buy a loaf of bread. Here is money. Is there any tea left?
Yes, monsieur.
Then buy a cupful of milk and half a pound of sugar. I am almost famished. A cup of tea and some toast will put new life into me.
Claudine departed on her errand, and Sinclair once more fixed his eyes on Fred. There was a question he very much wished to ask, but in Bowman's presence he could not do it safely.
"And so you come from New York?" Sinclair repeated, for the want of something better to say.
When did you leave the city, may I ask?
On Tuesday.
Then you came directly here?
Yes, I came directly here.
You must then have heard of St. Victor before starting.
Yes.
Yet I fancy it is so obscure that its existence can be known to very few in the great city.
I presume you are right. I was recommended to come here by a friend.
Ah! commented James Sinclair, beginning to think he was right, though it seemed to him very strange that Mr. Wainwright should have selected so young a messenger. "I should like to see New York once more."
Who wouldn't? interposed Bowman impatiently. "In New York you can _live._ Here in St. Victor one can only vegetate."
Don't you expect to go back to New York some day, Mr. Sinclair? asked Fred.
I don't know; I hope so.
When our business in Canada is completed, said Bowman, "we shall probably both go back."
Are you going to sleep here to-night, Bowman? asked Sinclair.
No, I think not. I have taken a room in the hotel.
You must do as you like, of course, but it is lonely for me. Besides I might need assistance.
Let the girl stay here, then. I should make a miserable sick nurse. I will ask young Fenton, here, if it is reasonable to expect me to bury myself in such a cheerless place when it will do no good.
Fred was disgusted with the man's selfishness. "If I had a friend sick," he said, "I think I would be quite willing to keep him company."
You say so now, but wait till the time comes.
Your words, Mr. Fenton, said Sinclair, "embolden me to ask you a favor."
Name it, said Fred, in a tone of kindly encouragement.
I spend all my time alone, except when Claudine is ministering to my wants. Your time is hardly likely to be very much occupied in this dull place. Can't you spare me an hour or two at your convenience during the day?
You have promised to go hunting with me tomorrow, interrupted Bowman.
That is true. I will go with you in the forenoon, and in the afternoon I will call on Mr. Sinclair.
Bowman shrugged his shoulders.
It is a rash promise. You will be sorry for having made it.
I will risk that, answered Fred.
Sinclair gave him a grateful glance. The promise cheered him, and kindled hopes in his breast. Now he would have a chance of learning, when alone with Fred, whether he came as a messenger from Mr. Wainwright. If so, and through his means he could make restitution and regain his place and lost character, he would still have something to live for. He execrated his folly in weakly submitting to the guidance of Paul Bowman, and for having taken that first step in crime, which is so difficult to retrace.
Don't forget your promise, he said earnestly as Fred rose to go.
I won't fail you, replied Fred quietly.
You're in for it now, remarked Bowman, as they started to walk home. "You might as well turn sick nurse at once as give up your time to Sinclair."
I might be sick sometime myself, said Fred, "and in that case I should be sorry to be left alone."
Oh, well, suit yourself, said Bowman carelessly. "I'd rather it would be you than me, for that matter. I shall expect you to go out to the woods with me in the forenoon."
All right!
Well, thought Fred, as he slipped into bed at ten o'clock, "I've made a beginning. I have formed the acquaintance of both parties to the robbery. The next step will be more difficult."
Fred did not rise till eight o'clock the next morning. He was fatigued by his long journey, and slept late. When he descended, he found Bowman seated at the breakfast-table.
I got ahead of you, said Bowman.
How long have you been down-stairs?
About ten minutes.
Are we likely to have a good day for hunting?
Good enough, answered Bowman, indifferently. "I am not an enthusiastic sportsman. I only take to it to fill up a part of my time. It is about the only thing I can do in this dull hole."
You might read. I brought two or three novels in my valise, and will lend yon one if you care for it.
I don't care for reading. Stories tire me. I used to read the daily papers in New York, but can't get hold of any here New York dailies, I mean. I don't care for Canadian papers unless they contain news from New York.
I have with me the _Tribune, World,_ and _Sun,_ of day before yesterday.
I should like to see them, said Bowman, eagerly. "If you will bring them down, I will look over them in the woods."
All right! I am glad I saved them. I had a mind to throw them away, or leave them in the car.
The breakfast was plain, but Fred and Bowman, who were the only guests, were not difficult to suit.
Ten minutes later they were on their way to the woods. They went across the fields, taking a footpath trodden in the snow, which materially shortened the distance. But even tramping this far tired Bowman, and when they reached a small rock that cropped out from the expanse of white, he declared that he must rest awhile.
He took a seat on the bowlder and began to read one of the papers he had brought with him.
Five minutes later he uttered an exclamation of surprise. Fred looked at him inquiringly.
Do you find news of any of your friends? he asked.
Yes, Teddy Donovan has escaped from Sing Sing.
That's the bank burglar, isn't it?
Yes, and one of the smartest men in the profession.
You know him, then?
Yes, answered Bowman. "I got acquainted with him some years ago. Of course," he added, feeling some explanation necessary, "I didn't know that he was a burglar till later. Poor fellow, it is his only fault."
Fred was privately of opinion that it was rather a serious fault.
He's a smart fellow, Bowman continued, "and he led the police a long chase before they nabbed him. I've often urged him to turn over a new leaf and lead an honest life or he'd fetch up in prison, but he only laughed, and that was all the good it did. I wish Teddy would find his way up here."
Do you think he will be able to elude recapture?
Well, he's sharp enough for almost anything.
I suppose there are a good many men of his kind in Canada, said Fred innocently.
Yes, replied Bowman, adding in a jocular tone. "I didn't know but that might have brought you here."
Oh, no! laughed Fred. "I'm as straight and honorable as you are."
Good joke! exclaimed Bowman, slapping his thigh. "Shake!"
Bowman extended his hand, and Fred shook it, though it was not clear to him what the joke was or why he should shake hands with his companion because they both happened to be straight and honorable.
The hunt was now begun, for Fred caught sight of a jack rabbit skimming across the snow. He lifted his gun, and was fortunate enough to bring his game down. This fired Bowman with the spirit of emulation, and putting the papers back in his pocket, he started off in search of a companion trophy to that of his young friend.
He did not find it until the ex-train boy had knocked over two more "bunnies" and as Fred continued to keep ahead of him in the amount of game bagged, Mr. Paul Bowman soon became disgusted and proposed a return to the hotel, where he would have an opportunity to finish his perusal of the New York papers by the reading-room stove.
As Fred's nose was being nipped by the frost, and he felt that he had wrought sufficient destruction among the rabbit tribe, he readily fell in with the suggestion.
Half an hour later he was thawing himself out when Bowman suddenly looked up from the _World_ and asked abruptly:
Did you ever hear of John Wainwright, the broker and banker?
Fred was on his guard and answered cautiously:
Yes, I believe I have heard of him. He has an office on Broadway, hasn't he?
No, on Wall Street.
Did you ever work for him?
No; but an acquaintance of mine did, said Bowman carelessly. "He's got a pile of money, I expect."
Very likely. Most bankers have, haven't they?
I suppose so, but they're not in my line. I used to be a dry goods clerk.
In New York?
No, in Baltimore.
I don't know anything about Baltimore.
If Bowman at any time entertained any suspicions about Fred they were dissipated by his next remark.
I might like to go to Baltimore to work. Would you recommend me to the firm you used to work for?
I believe they have gone out of business, but you'd better stick to New York, youngster. There's better chances there than in Baltimore.
The gong for dinner now sounded, and as their tramp through the snow had given them both good appetites, they lost no time in answering its summons.
When dinner was over Bowman asked:
What are you going to do with yourself this afternoon?
I promised to call on your friend in the cottage. Will you go with me?
Not I. I can fill up my time more agreeably. You will find it awfully stupid.
Very likely; but I like to keep my promises.
The landlord's going to ride to Hyacinth, about ten miles away, on business. He's invited me to ride with him. I wish there were room in the sleigh for you.
I can put that off till another time. I hope you will have a pleasant ride.
It will fill up the time, anyway.
Have you any message to your partner? asked Fred, as he stood ready to start on his walk.
No. Tell him to get well as fast as he can, so that we can get away from this beastly place. That's all.
James Sinclair was lying on the bed with a look of weariness on his face when Fred pushed open the outer door and entered.
Sinclair's face brightened up.
You didn't forget your promise, Mr. Fenton? lie said.
No, I always keep my promises when I can.
You are very kind to a poor sick man. You have no idea how long the hours seem in this quiet cottage with no one to look at or speak to but Claudine.
I can imagine it.
And Claudine understands very little English. Most of the people in St. Victor, as I suppose you know, are French.
I judged this from the signs over the shops.
Very few English-speaking people find their way here. It is for this reason that I was somewhat surprised to see you here.
I should not have come here, returned Fred pointedly, "if you had not been here."
You came here to see me? ejaculated Sinclair in excitement.
Yes.
Then you must come from Mr. Wainwright.
Yes, I come from him in response to the letter which he received from you.
Thank God! said Sinclair, fervently.