PHIL’S SAD PREDICAMENT
As Phil stood in front of the hotel desk striving to unclasp the
bewildering safety-pins that held his pocket-book so firmly a heavy
hand was laid on his shoulder, and a stern voice asked if he was Philip
Ryder.
“Yes, that is my name,” replied Phil, looking around inquiringly.
“Very well,” said the owner of the voice; “then I shall have to ask you
to come with me.”
“I haven’t time,” replied the lad, “and, besides, I wouldn’t go
anywhere in a strange city at this hour of night with a person whom I
do not know.”
“I guess you’ll come,” retorted the man, with a grim smile, “when I
inform you that I am an officer with a warrant for your arrest, and
that you are wanted at the central police station.”
“Nonsense!” cried Phil, stoutly; “you’ve made some mistake and got
hold of the wrong party. I haven’t done anything to be arrested for.
I’m an American citizen on my way to Alaska, and I’ve only barely time
to catch the steamer now. So I must request you not to detain me any
longer with this foolishness, or you may have cause to regret having
done so.”
“I’ll risk it,” was the self-contained reply, “and I doubt very much
if you will start for Alaska to-night, or for some nights to come.
You know me,” he added, turning to the hotel clerk, who was regarding
this scene as coolly as though it were nothing unusual to him, and as
though the heart of the lad who a minute before had been so buoyant
with hope and happiness were not near to breaking with an undefined
agony of apprehension.
“Yes, I know you,” answered the clerk, “and whatever you do is all
right. You’d better go with him quietly,” he added, turning to Phil,
“for it won’t do you any good to make a kick.”
“But what am I arrested for?” cried Phil, with one more despairing
effort to solve this horrible mystery. “Of what crime am I accused, and
who is my accuser?”
“It is not my business to say,” replied the officer, “but under the
circumstances I don’t mind telling you that the charge is an attempt at
felonious assault, and that the complainant’s name is Goldollar.”
“Oh!” gasped Phil, as this light was thrown upon the situation. And
then, eagerly, “But I can explain all that in a minute.”
“Not here,” said the officer; “this is neither the time nor the place.
You must come with me, and at once too,” he added, sternly, as he
glanced at the little group of curious spectators gathering in the
hotel office. “Now don’t try to resist or make a scene, for it won’t do
the slightest good, and will only get you into further trouble.”
So Phil Ryder went out into the night a friendless prisoner in a
strange city, leaving his travelling-bag, rifle, and overcoat behind
him, the clerk remarking significantly that he would take good care of
them until they should be called for.
No word was spoken between the officer and his prisoner as they passed
through the brilliantly lighted streets until they finally reached the
police station, and the latter stood before the sergeant’s desk, behind
which that functionary was prepared, pen in hand, to enter a record
of this case in his blotter. Then a torrent of words sprang to Phil’s
lips. He told his story with such evident honesty and pleading anguish
of soul that even the grizzled sergeant, accustomed as he was to scenes
of this kind, was moved by it. “It does seem hard,” he said, when Phil
paused, more for want of breath than anything else, “that a young gent
like you should be compelled to pass a night in the cooler. If you had
any one to go on your bail now, we might get the justice to give you a
private examination, late as it is, and perhaps he’d accept a bond for
the night.”
“But I haven’t. I don’t know a soul in the city,” answered Phil,
despondently. “How much do you think the bail would be?” he asked, with
a sudden inspiration.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe not more than a hundred or so.”
“I have that much right here with me!” cried Phil, eagerly, “and I’d
gladly give every cent of it rather than pass a night in a cell. That
would be too awful, and it doesn’t seem as though I could bear it.”
“Let us see your money,” said the sergeant, with a caution bred of long
experience.
With eager but trembling fingers Phil fumbled at the hateful
safety-pins that seemed determined never to relax their hold of his
pocket-book. At length he drew it forth, and opened it with an air of
anxious triumph. At least one of his assertions was about to be proved
true.
Suddenly his face turned to a deathly pallor. The empty wallet, in
which no bill remained, dropped from his nerveless grasp, and he
clutched wildly at the rail of the sergeant’s desk for support.
“I have been robbed!” he gasped. “Robbed of every cent I had in the
world. What shall I do? What shall I do?”
The sergeant and officer exchanged significant glances, and for a few
minutes only the ticking of a big clock and the boy’s panting breathing
that closely resembled sobbing broke the painful stillness.
“You certainly seem to be playing to hard luck, young fellow,” remarked
the sergeant at length, “and I don’t mind saying that I’m sorry for
you. You appear to be an honest, well-meaning sort of a chap, too. Now,
I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Though appearances are often deceitful and
I’ve been misled by them a many times, I’m going to trust ’em once
more. So, if you’ll give me your word not to make any disturbance, nor
the slightest effort to escape, I’ll let you occupy my room, where
you’ll find a bed that is fairly comfortable. You can spend the night
there, and it will be better than being locked up in a cell, anyway.
Maybe in the morning something will turn up that will straighten
matters out for you.”
Phil’s gratitude for this favor was expressed more by looks than by
words, though he did manage to give the required promise.
Then he was shown into a small bare room, where, flinging himself face
downward on a little iron bedstead that stood in one corner, he lay
for a long time motionless and apparently unconscious. At length he
began once more to think, but his thoughts were of the most gloomy and
despairing nature. Was ever a fellow in such a scrape? What should he
do? Was there any way in which he could get out of it? He could not
communicate with his father, for the steamer must already have left. He
had no friends in Victoria. He had no money. No money! For the first
time in his life Phil realized the full horror of being absolutely
penniless. He had not even money to buy breakfast with in case he
should be set free on the following day. Perhaps a prison would prove
his only refuge after all.
Where could that money have gone to, though? Some one must have taken
it; but who, and when? It wouldn’t have been Mr. Ames, of course; nor
the porter of the sleeping-car. No; his very face was a guarantee of
honesty. Could it have been Simon Goldollar? It must have been; he was
just the mean, low-down fellow who would do such a thing; still, what
chance had he had? Phil couldn’t remember that he had had any. Still,
the money must have been taken by some one, and while the pocket-book
was in some other place than the one provided for it by his aunt Ruth,
too. Oh, why had he forgotten her warnings and neglected her advice!
Dear Aunt Ruth! How much better she knew him than he knew himself.
Well, this was a lesson that should last him his life time. Never again
would he get into such a scrape through carelessness. Never!
At length the unhappy boy fell asleep, and when he awoke it was
daylight. An officer brought him a bowl of strong black coffee and a
plain but plentiful breakfast of porridge. Phil drank the coffee, but
could not eat. Then he waited, pale with anxiety, for the unknown fate
in store for him. After a while he was summoned outside and conducted
to a court-room. There he was placed in the prisoners’ dock, together
with the previous night’s occupants of the station-house cells, men
and women. He shrank as far as possible from contact with them, and
they jeered at him. His case was one of the first called, but as no
one appeared against him he was ordered to step aside and wait awhile
longer.
Finally, last of all, Phil’s turn came again.
“What is the charge against this prisoner?” demanded the judge.
“It is a case of assault, your Honor,” answered the officer who had
made the arrest.
“Let me look at the warrant. H’m, yes. Well, is the complainant
Goldollar here in person, or represented by counsel?”
To this no one made reply, but another officer whispered something to
the judge.
“H’m! Left the city, has he, without making arrangements to press the
charge? Very well, then, the case is dismissed. You may go, young man,
but I warn you that you have had a narrow escape, a very narrow escape,
and you had better never let me see you here again.”
A minute later poor bewildered Phil found himself out in the sunlight,
once more free to go where he pleased and do what he liked. For a
few blocks he walked mechanically, without taking note of where he
was going. Then, with a forlorn hope that the steamer might still be
waiting, he directed his steps towards the outer wharf. The walk was a
long one, and at its end his worst fears were confirmed. The Alaskan
steamer had indeed come in, and gone out again during the night. There
would not be another for at least ten days. His trunk had gone, too,
as he discovered by finding a porter who distinctly remembered seeing
one marked “Philip Ryder, Sitka, Alaska,” put aboard the ship. Mr.
Ames――Judge Ames, they called him――had also departed for his northern
home, as several persons could testify.
Now not a shred of hope was left. What would Mr. Ryder think, and what
would he do when the steamer arrived in Sitka without the son for whom
he was so anxiously watching? He was certain to meet Judge Ames and
to see the trunk. How terrible would be his anxiety! Would he come to
Victoria by return steamer in search of his boy, or would he wait for
news of him by the next boat? In the former case he could not possibly
get here in less than two weeks, and perhaps not so soon. At any rate
Phil was thrown upon his own resources for many days to come, and
during that time how should he obtain food and lodging?
While vaguely trying to form some plan, he walked slowly back into the
city, blind to the beauty of the day, deaf to the singing of birds, and
careless of the scent of myriads of flowers which form so beautiful and
striking a feature of this far western city. Here was the situation
with which this story opens and to which we have been so long in coming.
Hardly noticing the direction of his footsteps, Phil reached Government
Street, and walked slowly down that busy thoroughfare. Suddenly there
came a quick footfall behind him, a hand was clapped on his shoulder,
and a hearty friendly voice exclaimed, “Is it Philip Ryder or his
ghost? Why, old fellow! what on earth are you doing here?”
[Illustration: “‘IS IT PHILIP RYDER OR HIS GHOST!’”]
The poor lad’s heart gave a great throb of gratitude as he turned and
found himself face to face with Serge Belcofsky.