ON THE TRAIL.
The man who had entered the basement drinking place at once centered
the attention of both Dean and Marcus, although he did not appear to
notice them.
He went straight to the door of the room behind the main apartment and
tried the door.
It was locked, but he knocked vigorously, and then, as it was opened,
he called in to the crowd gathered about a card table:
“Spofford, come out here!”
A man left the inner room somewhat reluctantly, and the man the boys
supposed to be Daley led the way to a table just around a jog in the
wall, from that at which sat Dean and Marcus.
Thus the boys could not see the men, but Marcus, by tilting back in his
chair, could hear what they were saying.
“You ought to know better, drinking and playing cards, when we need our
wits and cash for the venture we’re on,” said Daley, rather irritably.
“Come now, Spofford, this won’t do.”
“Pshaw! I’ve got to pass the time some way.”
“Then do it sleeping--you’ll need it before we end this affair.”
“Is it settled?”
“Yes.”
“Found your man?”
“I have.”
“Where?”
“Ask no questions. The work will come soon enough. The last affair
about that boy----”
“Rawley?”
“The _Spray_ fellow, yes, paid us well enough, but the money is all
gone. Downey gave me a hint about a rich fellow who always keeps lots
of money in the house.”
“Near here?”
“A brief journey. So I’ve made inquiries. I believe we can break into
his strong box and carry off a fortune.”
“When do we go?”
“About noon.”
“Need tools?”
“Yes, and the best, and a boy, too.”
Some of this conversation Dean overheard distinctly. The allusion to
Downey, undoubtedly Tim Downey, startled him greatly. It verified the
shrewd suspicions of Marcus.
The latter heard all that the two men said, and his eyes glowed
intelligently. He hoped they would talk more in detail, or allude in
more definite terms to “the boy, Rawley,” but they did not.
They were bad men, common criminals, and they now meditated a new
crime--burglary!
They intended, their conversation showed, to break into some rich man’s
house for the purpose of theft.
Marcus believed that their share in the abduction of Dean Mercer had
been that of hired emissaries. They were not the principals.
“We want a boy, eh?” muttered Spofford.
“Yes.”
“What for?”
“To climb in at a window and unfasten the door to the house we are
going to rob.”
“Well, we can find one.”
“Where?”
“Oh, there’s lots of them.”
“Not experts, and not to be trusted, though,” replied Daley. “I wish we
had Downey.”
“Yes, Tim was a good one.”
“Anyway, you try and find one.”
“Are you going?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“To get some satchels. I intend to leave the country if we make a big
haul to-night.”
“When will you return?”
“About noon.”
“All right.”
Daley left the place, and Spofford, after seeing him fairly away,
returned deliberately to the card room.
The two boys looked at one another curiously. The parts of the
conversation Dean had not heard, his companion explained to him.
“We are getting along famously,” declared Marcus. “Now for a bold push
and we will come out with flying colors.”
“Shall you have the fellows arrested?” asked Dean.
“Not ready for that,” replied Marcus. “At this stage in the game we
might not get hold of those papers. I must have those. No, Dean, I
think I have a better plan.”
“Name it.”
“You notice that precious pair of scamps want to get a boy to help
them. I am going to apply for that job.”
“Will it do?”
“It must. You are afraid I will get mixed up in something worse than
the reform school. Trust me to keep a level head. Only I would like
to have you near at hand when the crisis comes, as I may need you in
rounding up the rogues.”
Marcus talked and acted like a skilled detective, instead of a mere
boy. He was bold and venturesome, and Dean feared too much so, for
it seemed as if their investigations were leading them into peril,
uncertainty and contact with crime in all its hideousness.
“Wickedness got you in all your trouble,” said Marcus, “and we must not
hesitate to invade its dark domains. Now, then, you go to some other
part of the room, or even outside.”
“What for?”
“So we won’t seem to be together.”
“Is that necessary?”
“To my plan, yes. Here is some of my money. Take it. You may need it.
Keep watch of me, but don’t pretend to know me. If you see me get
acquainted with Spofford, watch out for any note that I may write you,
or follow us wherever we go.”
“All right,” answered Dean, a little dubious of his own skill as a
detective.
“I may go away with them.”
“On their robbing excursion?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll get in trouble?”
“No, I won’t. I’ll block their game without their knowing it. I only
want to learn about your enemies, who has the papers they stole proving
my father’s innocence. Now, then, leave me.”
Dean went to another portion of the room, and Marcus sat where he was,
watching the door of the card room for Spofford’s expected appearance.
Presently the latter came out. He flung himself into a chair at the
next table to that where Marcus sat, calling to the bartender to bring
him a drink of liquor.
Marcus devised a speedy plan for approaching Spofford and engaging him
in conversation. He took bold risks, but he succeeded in his venture.
He went to the next table and sat down opposite to Spofford.
“Say, mister,” he said, “could you help me to a few cents?”
“Eh? Who are you? What did you say?” muttered Spofford, arousing
himself from a fit of abstracted thought.
“I’m in hard luck.”
“Why don’t you work?”
“What at?”
“Your trade.”
“They don’t pick oakum here,” said Marcus.
“Hey?” and Spofford started intelligently. “So you’re a graduate, eh?”
“Yes.”
“From the reform school?”
“I am, for a fact,” replied Marcus, affecting a brazen recklessness.
“Aha! and need money, and out of work?” murmured Spofford reflectively.
“That’s just it.”
Spofford studied the grimed, ragged specimen of humanity before him
keenly.
Marcus chuckled to himself. He had completely deceived Spofford, he
felt sure, and he knew what the latter was thinking about--hiring him
to help him in his schemes of robbery just as Marcus had planned.
“See here, boy,” he said finally, “what’s your name?”
“Call me Bob--Bob Grant.”
“Can a fellow trust you?”
“What about?”
“Oh, in a little work.”
“What kind of work?”
“Well, making money.”
“At cracking a box? Ha! ha!”
“I guess you’ll do,” said Spofford. “Are you willing to come along with
me, help me and ask no questions?”
“That suits me!” replied Marcus briskly.
“All right. Be ready at noon. Here’s some change to buy food if you
need it.”
Then Spofford, after handing Marcus some silver coins, arose and left
the place.
The latter went over to where Dean was seated, and explained what he
had done.
“I’m to go with them at noon,” he said.
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Am I to follow you?”
“Yes; keep us in view. Something will develop. You keep us in sight.”
“I’ll try to.”
About eleven o’clock Spofford returned to the place. He went up to
Marcus and said:
“We’re ready. Come on!”
They left the place together and Dean followed them at a distance.
They walked down the street for several squares, and then at the corner
met the man Daley, who stood with two satchels in his hands, evidently
awaiting them.
He glanced sharply at Marcus and then gave him the satchels to carry,
while he walked ahead with Spofford.
Finally the two men paused and entered a small shop. In front of it
stood a stagecoach, and Dean at once recognized it.
It was one of the coaches owned by Squire Littleton, and ran to and
from Springfield and Millville.
He saw Daley purchase some tickets. Then he and Spofford and Marcus got
into the coach, the latter placing the satchels near the driver’s seat.
There were several other passengers aboard, and the man in charge of
the stage office seemed to give directions to the driver to start on
his journey.
Dean was dismayed and anxious. He scarcely knew what to do. These men
were going to Millville, or at least in that direction.
It was a dangerous route for Dean. He knew the driver incidentally,
recognized several of the passengers, and feared that if he attempted
also to ride on the stage he might be seen and recognized.
In no other way, however, could he keep the men in sight, as Marcus had
told him to do.
“I’ll risk it!” he said finally. “My disguise must be a good one.
The stage agent knows me well. I’ll go and buy a ticket to the first
station. If he recognizes me, I won’t venture on the coach. If he don’t
I’ll go.”
“Ticket to Blue Pond.”
“Twenty cents.”
The agent never noticed Dean, except as a stranger.
Dean went to the coach and boldly clambered on top. He saw Daley glance
out at him carelessly. He did not evince any interest in him, and if he
had ever seen him before, did not realize it at that moment.
“All aboard!” sang out the driver.
“Hold on, Jerry.”
Dean thrilled vaguely.
From the stage office at that moment a boy, dressed in the height of
fashion, ran out.
It was Abner Littleton, son of the man who owned the stagecoach line.
He knew Dean well, and did not like him over-well, either. But, to
Dean’s relief, he only glanced at him and then sat down beside the
driver.
The coach started on its journey.
“Where will this adventure end, I wonder?” mused the bewildered and
anxious Dean.