After Crane left the money for Porter's note with Mortimer the latter
took the three one-thousand-dollar bills, pinned them to the note,
placed them in a cigar box and put the box away carefully in the bank
safe, to remain there until the 14th of June, when it became due.
Incidentally Mortimer mentioned this matter to Alan Porter.
Crane in writing to the cashier about other affairs of the bank touched
upon the subject of Porter's obligation, stating that he had left the
money with Mr. Mortimer to meet the note when it matured.
The day before the Derby, the 12th of the month, Alan asked his day's
leave and got it. The cashier more readily granted Alan's request, as
Crane had intimated in his letter that it would please him if the lad
were to have a holiday.
Alan went up to New York that evening. Earlier in the day he somewhat
hesitatingly confided to Mortimer that he had backed Lucretia when she
was well and looked to have a good chance to win her race; now she was
scratched, and his money was lost. Bearing in mind what Crane had said
about The Dutchman's chances of winning, even with Lucretia in the race,
he felt now that it appeared almost like a certainty for Crane's horse.
If he could have a bet on The Dutchman he would surely recoup his
losses. Alan explained all these racing matters very minutely and with
great earnestness to Mortimer, for the latter was quite unfamiliar
with the science of race gambling. Having stated his predicament and
hoped-for relief, as an excuse for so doing, he wound up by asking his
companion for a loan of two hundred dollars.
Mortimer had little less horror of betting and its evil influence than
Mrs. Porter, but under the circumstances he would perhaps have complied
with the boy's request had he been provided with sufficient funds. As it
was, he said: “I don't like the idea of lending you money to bet with,
Alan; your mother wouldn't thank me for doing so; besides, if you lost
it you'd feel uncomfortable owing me the money. At any rate, I haven't
got it. I couldn't lend you two hundred, or half of it. I suppose I
haven't got a hundred to my credit.”
“Oh, never mind then,” answered Alan, angrily, stiffening up, because of
Mortimer's lecture.
“I'll lend you what I've got.”
“I don't want it. I can get it some other place.”
“You'd better take--”
“Take nothing--I don't want it.”
“Very well, I'm sorry I can't oblige you. But take my advice and don't
bet at all; it'll only get you into trouble.”
“Thanks; I don't need your advice. I was a fool to ask you for the
money.”
“I say, Alan,” began Mortimer, in a coaxing tone.
“Please don't 'Alan' me any more. I can get along without your money and
without your friendship; I don't want either.”
Mortimer remained silent. What was the use of angering the boy further?
He would come to see that he had meant it in good part, and would be all
right in a day or two.
During the rest of the day Alan preserved a surly distance of manner,
speaking to Mortimer only once--a constrained request for a bunch of
keys in the latter's possession which unlocked some private drawers in
the vault.
The next morning it suddenly occurred to Mortimer that Porter's note
fell due that day--either that day or the next, he wasn't sure. The
easiest way to settle the question was to look at the date on the note.
He stepped into the vault, took out the little cigar box, opened it, and
as he handled the crisp papers a sudden shock of horror ran through
his frame. One of the bills was gone; there were only two
one-thousand-dollar notes left.
The discovery paralyzed him for an instant. He was responsible; the
money had been left in his charge. Then he looked at the note; it
matured the next day. All the money had been in the box the morning
before, for he had looked at it. Only the cashier and Alan Porter knew
that it was in the vault.
The whole dreadful truth came clearly to Mortimer's mind with absolute
conviction. Alan, infatuated with the prospect of winning a large sum
over The Dutchman, and failing to borrow from him, had taken the money.
The gravity of the situation calmed Mortimer, and his mind worked with
a cool method that surprised him. Bit by bit he pieced it out. The boy,
inconsistently enough, had reasoned that the money was his father's, and
that he was only borrowing family property. No doubt he had felt sure
of winning, and that he would be back in time to replace the thousand
before it was needed. This sophistical reasoning had, without doubt,
tempted the lad to commit this--this--Mortimer felt a reluctance to
bestow the proper name upon Alan's act, but undoubtedly it was stealing.
And if the boy lost the money, what would happen? He couldn't repay it;
the shortage would be discovered and Allis's brother would be ruined,
branded as a 'thief.
Mortimer would willingly put the money back himself for Allis's sake;
but he hadn't it. What was he to do? If he could find Alan and force him
to give up the stolen money he could yet save the boy. But Alan had gone
to Gravesend.
Like an inspiration the thought came to Mortimer that he must go after
him and get the money before it was lost. He shoved the box back in its
place, and came out into the office.
It was half past ten by the clock. Luckily the cashier had not come yet.
Mortimer's mind worked rapidly. He must make some excuse and get away;
anything; he must even lie; if he saved the boy it would be justifiable.
Why did not the cashier come, now that he was ready for him? Each minute
seemed an age, with the honor of Allis's brother hanging in the balance.
He would need money. He drew a check for a hundred dollars. A hasty
inspection showed that he still had a trifle more than this amount to
his credit. Why he took a hundred he hardly knew; fate seemed writing
the check. He had barely finished when the cashier appeared. At once
Mortimer spoke to him.
“I want leave of absence to-day, sir,” he said, speaking hurriedly.
The cashier frowned in astonishment. “Impossible We are short-handed
with young Porter away.”
“I'll be back in the morning,” pleaded Mortimer. “My mother is very ill.
I've opened up, and Mr. Cass can manage, I'm sure, if you'll let me go.
I wouldn't ask it, but it's a matter of almost life and death.” He had
nearly said of honor.
Unwillingly the cashier consented. It probably meant extra work for him;
he would certainly have to take a hand in the office routine. Theirs was
not a busy bank, and that day was not likely to be a very pressing one,
but still he would have to shoulder some of the labor.
Full of the terrible situation, Mortimer cared not who worked, so that
he got away in time to save Allis's brother from himself. At last he was
free. He almost ran to the station.
Looking from the window of the bank, the cashier seeing Mortimer's rapid
pace, muttered: “I guess the poor man's mother is pretty bad; I'm glad I
let him go. He's a good son to that mother of his.”
At eleven o'clock Mortimer got a train for New York. During the wait at
the station he had paced up and down the platform with nervous stride. A
dozen times he looked at his watch--would he be too late? He had no idea
how long it would take to reach Gravesend; he knew nothing of the race
track's location. As the train whirled him through Emerson, where
his mother lived, he could see the little drab cottage, and wondered
pathetically what the good woman would say if she knew her son was going
to a race meeting. At twelve he was in New York.