HOW LYMAN SUCCEEDED.
"I AM afraid you misjudge me, Uncle Anthony," said Lyman, after a pause,
during which he reflected that his best course was, if possible, to make
a favorable impression upon the relative who might be in possession of
considerable property. "I am afraid that you are prejudiced against me."
"You must admit that I have reason," said his uncle, dryly.
"It is true," replied Lyman, with an engaging frankness; "I did not
treat you well in California."
"I should say not. You disappeared, carrying away two thousand dollars,
leaving me penniless."
"Of course I was wrong. Still you had the claim, out of which you made a
good deal more within a short time."
"When you left me," said the hermit, quietly, "it looked as if it were
worthless. That it proved otherwise, was my good fortune."
"I won't argue the matter, Uncle Anthony. I was young and heedless."
"Wicked would be a better word."
"And I have had bad luck; I am almost penniless now. If you would be
willing to help me——"
"To what extent do you want help?" asked Anthony, abruptly.
"If you could lend me fifty dollars, it would set me on my feet."
"And in a week or two you would be coming back for more."
"Upon my honor——"
"How much honor have you?" asked his uncle, contemptuously. "Would you
like to go West?"
"Yes."
"Then I will give you the means of getting there."
Lyman was under the impression that his uncle proposed to hand him a sum
of money, out of which he decided to buy a western ticket if it suited
his convenience; Uncle Anthony would be none the wiser.
"Yes, uncle, if you will give me a hundred dollars, I will go to
Chicago, and seek there a chance to make an honest livelihood."
"Very well."
Old Anthony took out a memorandum book, tore a leaf from it, and wrote a
few lines, which he handed to his nephew.
"What is this?" asked Lyman, suspiciously.
"It is an order on a friend of mine in New York for a Chicago railroad
ticket."
"And the money?"
"He will give you an order on a firm in Chicago for the balance of the
money, which will be paid you there."
Lyman's countenance fell. It was clear that the trick which he intended
to play on his uncle would be impossible.
"It seems to me," he said, "it would be better to give me the money at
once."
"I don't think so."
"I hope you have no suspicions of my good faith."
"I won't express my opinion on that subject. I will only say that the
arrangement I have suggested suits me best."
"Well," said Lyman, slowly, "I will try to win your good opinion. I am
afraid I have not money enough to get back to the city."
He had over ten dollars in his pocket at that moment, but it struck him
that he had a good excuse for securing a little more.
The hermit smiled contemptuously.
"Then suppose I had had no money to give you—how would you have got back
to the city? Perhaps you meant to stay with me?"
"I will, Uncle Anthony, if you desire it."
"Thank you. I won't trouble you."
"I should have had to walk back. But, uncle, I can't leave you without a
word of warning."
"Well?"
"That boy, Mark, I am sure is scheming to rob you."
"What do you know of Mark?"
"I know the reputation he bears in the town. I know he has been
discharged from the shoe-shop."
"Who told you?"
"Two boys whom I met. One is the son of Mark's employer."
"I know the boys you mean. They dislike Mark, but I prefer him to them."
A noise was heard at the door, and Mark entered.
He looked in surprise at the visitor, whom he instantly recognized.
"You see, Mark," said the hermit, "my nephew has kindly called to see me
again. He felt anxious about my health."
"I feel relieved to find you so much better, uncle," said Lyman, by no
means abashed at the hermit's ironical words.
"It is the more creditable to him, this solicitude, because he had only
money enough to pay his fare one way. Mark, you may give him five
dollars."
"Very well, sir,"
Mark drew a five-dollar gold piece from his pocket, and handed it to
Lyman.
"Does Mark carry all your money, uncle?" asked Lyman.
"Not quite all."
"I hope he won't take a fancy to travel at your expense."
Mark's face flushed indignantly, but he left old Anthony to answer for
him.
"I have perfect confidence in Mark," he said.
"Thank you, sir," Mark responded, gratefully.
"Have you anything for me to do this morning?" the boy asked.
"No; I will give you a list of articles which you may bring me from the
village to-morrow."
"Then I will return, as I have some work to do at home."
"Very well."
"I will go along with you, Mark," said Lyman, suddenly.
"If you wish," answered Mark, but he would rather have gone alone.
"Good-by, Uncle Anthony. It may be a good while before I see you again.
If you need me at any time, write or telegraph."
"I will bear it in mind," said the old man, dryly.
Mark and the dutiful nephew left the cabin together.
"You've got a soft place, youngster," Lyman began.
"I have an easy place, and a kind employer," said Mark.
"So you carry the old man's money, hey?"
"Some of it," answered Mark, eying his companion, suspiciously.
"Don't looked scared, boy. I'm not going to rob you. I only want to ask
you a few questions. How much money did you and he take from that buried
jar the other day?"
"Who told you about it?" asked Mark, in surprise.
"O, I know more about the old man's affairs than you suppose," chuckled
Lyman.
"I can't tell you."
"Won't, you mean," returned Lyman, scowling.
"I have no right to do so."
"Look here, boy, do you know that I am my uncle's heir?"
"He never told me so."
"Then I tell you so."
"I hear you, sir."
"I'll tell you something else. I believe you are trying to worm yourself
into my uncle's confidence, so as to rob him—and me."
"Your thinking so doesn't make it so," said Mark, angrily.
"I warn you that you had better think twice before you play such a
dangerous game. You have a bad reputation in the village."
"Who told you so?" demanded Mark, indignantly.
"Two of your companions."
"James Collins and Tom Wyman probably!" said Mark, contemptuously.
"I know you were discharged from your place in the shoe-shop."
"But for no good reason."
"That's what you say. How much money of my uncle's have you in your
pocket?"
"That I don't choose to tell," said Mark, firmly.
Lyman felt a strong inclination to take the money by force, but prudence
restrained him. In that case, the order which he carried would not be
honored, and he would probably lose more than he would gain.
Mark was apprehensive of an attack, and it was with joy that he caught
sight a little way in advance of James and Tom, whom under other
circumstances he would not have cared to meet.
"You will now have company," he said, "and I will hurry along."
Lyman did not oppose his purpose, and joined the two boys.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XIX.
ALL ABOARD FOR NEW YORK.
THE next day Mark found a letter in the post-office directed to Anthony
Taylor. According to custom it appeared in a written list containing the
letters of those who had no boxes.
Mark called for it.
"Who is Anthony Taylor?" asked Tom Wyman, who happened to be attending
the office for his father.
"Old Anthony," as the boys call him.
"I wonder if there's money in it!" said Tom, holding up the letter, and
trying to peep inside.
"That's none of our business," answered Mark.
"Oh, you're mighty virtuous!" sneered Tom. "If there is any money, I'll
bet you'll get a share of it."
"I get no money except my wages."
"How much does he pay you?"
"I would rather not tell," returned Mark, with a smile. "You might try
to get my place away."
"As if I would work for an old tramp like the hermit!" exclaimed Tom,
disdainfully. "I suppose he pays you about a dollar a week."
"That's better than doing nothing, isn't it?"
"Yes, it's better for you. I don't want your place. I shall go to the
city when my school days are over."
"I wish you good luck, Tom, whenever you do," said Mark, good-naturedly.
"I must hurry along with my letter."
"A letter for you, Mr. Taylor," announced Mark, as he entered the cabin.
"From John Hardy," said the hermit, as he scanned the address.
He opened the letter and read as follows:
"MY DEAR OLD FRIEND: Your will is drafted and ready for signature.
You had better come up to the city, and sign it. I know your
reluctance to leave your forest home, but it will occur to you at
once that your signature must be witnessed, and though witnesses
might be found in Pocasset, it would involve a degree of publicity
which I presume you would wish to avoid. Here I can easily get it
witnessed by my clerks.
"I suggest that you bring the boy, Mark, with you, as he may be of
service to you. Moreover, I think it is high time that we spoke to
him of the mission on which you propose to send him.
"Your worthy nephew, Lyman, called upon me to-day with your letter.
He wished me to furnish him with the money needed for his ticket,
but I thought it better to send a clerk to purchase the ticket, and
see him fairly off. He has just returned, and reports that Lyman is
on the way to Chicago. I think you showed considerable shrewdness in
securing his removal from this neighborhood. He may return, to be
sure, but the chances are that he will spend all the money, and find
himself stranded in Chicago. If this compels him to work for a
living, no harm will result.
"Your friend as ever.
"JOHN HARDY."
Old Anthony laid down the letter thoughtfully. He was reluctant to go to
New York, but saw that it was necessary. His reluctance was diminished
by the prospect of having Mark's company.
"Mark," he said, "can you go to New York with me to-morrow?"
Mark stared at his employer in amazement. The proposal was very
unexpected.
"I am obliged to go up on business," explained the hermit. "I wish I
could delegate it to you, but I must attend to it myself. It is so long
since I have been in a crowd, that I believe I shall need some one to
take care of me."
"I shall be very happy to accompany you, sir," said Mark, with alacrity.
"At what time does the morning train leave the station?"
"Nine o'clock, sir."
"Then meet me there at fifteen minutes before the hour."
"All right, sir."
"When shall we return?" asked Mark, after a pause.
"When does the afternoon train leave the city?"
"At three o'clock."
"We will return then."
"I only wanted to tell my mother when to expect me."
It must be admitted that old Anthony looked like an antediluvian figure
in his old-fashioned coat, with a short waist and long tails, as he
stood on the platform the next morning waiting for the train. Two or
three of the village boys laughed rudely, but the hermit was buried in
thought, and took no notice of them. Mark, himself, thought his employer
looked queer, but he saw nothing to laugh at.
"Are you going to town with old Anthony?" asked one of the boys.
"Yes," answered Mark.
"People will take him for your grandfather."
"I don't mind."
"He looks like a rusty old tramp. His coat looks as if it was made in
the year one."
"He has a right to consult his own taste. He has been kind to me, and I
don't care to listen to any rude remarks."
"You may buy two tickets, Mark," said the hermit.
Mark did so.
Just as he was leaving the ticket-window, his former employer, Mr.
Collins, the shoe manufacturer, took his place.
"Are you going to the city?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Who goes with you?"
"Mr. Taylor."
"Mr. Taylor?"
"The—the hermit."
"Oh!" returned the manufacturer, arching his brows, "are you working for
him?"
"Yes, sir."
"You might have been working for me, if you had behaved yourself."
"I am satisfied with the change," answered Mark.
"That boy is impertinent," soliloquized the village magnate. "He can't
get much pay from a pauper. However, it serves him right. Of course, it
is only pride that makes him profess to be satisfied."
Mark would have been surprised, had he known that Mr. Collins was going
up to the city to call upon the person with whom the hermit had
business. Such was the fact, however. Mr. Collins had applied to Mr.
Hardy for a sum of four thousand dollars, mortgaging therefor, his large
shoe manufactory, which had originally cost double this sum.
As Mr. Hardy told old Anthony, he had ventured into Wall Street, and the
losses he had incurred there, had forced him to raise money in this way.
To-day had been fixed by Mr. Hardy for the execution of the papers, and
the transfer of the sum required. Twelve o'clock was the hour appointed
by Mr. Hardy, for his business with the manufacturer.
"What on earth can carry that old scarecrow up to New York?" thought Mr.
Collins, as he eyed curiously old Anthony, who, with Mark, was seated a
few steps in front of him, in the same car. "I suppose he has a pension
from some source, and is going to collect it."
It may be remarked that James Collins had never communicated to his
father the discovery made in the forest, connected with the pot of gold.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XXII.
IN AN OFFICE ON BROADWAY.
MR. HARDY'S office was in a large, high building, on Broadway. It was
the fifth floor, but there was an elevator constantly running, which
made it nearly as easy of access as if it had been on the first.
Mark had never before ridden in an elevator, and he enjoyed the novelty
of it. From a directory, near the entrance, they ascertained that Mr.
Hardy occupied office No. 55, and this was easily found.
"Welcome to New York," said the agent, advancing cordially, to greet his
visitors. "Good morning, Mark. So you have piloted my old friend
safely."
"I think he has piloted me, sir. I know very little of the city."
"I have not been here for five years," said Anthony, reflectively. "I am
unused to the noise, and it confuses me."
"I like it," said Mark.
"You are young, and enjoy new and busy scenes," said Mr. Hardy. "Would
you like to travel?"
"Very much, sir."
"Perhaps you may some time."
"I am afraid it will be a long time before I am able."
"Possibly not."
Mark, however, did not detect any special significance in these words.
"You may sit down here, and read a morning paper, Mark," said the agent,
"while I transact a little business with Mr. Taylor."
The two entered an inner office, where Mr. Hardy produced an
official-looking document, to which he called the attention of the
hermit.
"Read it over," he said, "and see if it meets your views."
"Precisely," answered Anthony, after he had taken the time necessary to
read it.
"Then it may as well be signed at once."
Mr. Hardy summoned three clerks from the outer office, and in their
presence as witnesses the will was signed.
"I suppose I may as well leave the document with you, John," said
Anthony.
"It will be as well. Now, about the other matter. It seems to me you may
as well send Mark at once in search of some clue to the possible
existence of a grandchild. Before doing so, however, may I suggest
something?"
"Certainly."
"I don't like the idea of your living in that lonely cabin. Why can't
you seek a home in the house of your young secretary? Has he a good
mother?"
"She is a very worthy woman."
"Has she a room for you?"
"I think so."
"What do you think of my proposal?"
"I have been thinking of such a change myself. For the first time in
five years I am beginning to find my cabin home monotonous."
"I am glad to hear it. You will be much better off in a home where you
can be taken care of."
"I will attend to the matter without delay on my return."
"So far, so good. Now, let me call in Mark, and speak to him of our
plan."
Mark, at the summons, entered the back office.
"Mark," said Mr. Hardy, "we want you to take a journey."
"I shall be very glad to do so, sir."
"It will be a long one."
"The longer the better," answered Mark, his eyes sparkling.
"Your first stopping place will be Chicago."
The boy's eyes sparkled with excitement.
"I should like nothing better," he said.
"The commission will be to trace out Mr. Taylor's daughter, and find out
whether she left a child. Necessary instructions will be given in
writing."
"Do you think I am old enough?" asked Mark, excited but doubtful whether
he was competent for the duty assigned him.
"Discretion is more needful than age," answered Mr. Hardy. "Perhaps an
older messenger would be better, but as my friend wishes to avoid
publicity, he is disposed to try you. Would your mother be willing to
have you go?"
"I think so, sir, but I hate to leave her alone."
"Mr. Taylor proposes to board with her while you are absent, if you
think she would be willing to receive him."
"I know she would be glad to secure such a boarder," answered Mark,
quickly; "with that help she would be able to get along very well."
"Then that matter is probably settled. Now a few words to guide you in
your quest."
These words need not be repeated here, as in following Mark's journey it
will be understood what they were.
Their business concluded, Mark and the hermit left the office and
descended to the ground floor.
They were just leaving the building when Squire Collins entered.
He arched his brows in surprise. "You here?" he said, addressing Mark.
"Yes, sir."
"On what errand?"
Mark was privately of opinion that he had as much right to ask the
manufacturer's business as the latter his, but he answered: "Mr. Taylor
had business here."
Squire Collins smiled contemptuously. It did not strike him that the
hermit's business was likely to be of any great moment. So people often
deceive themselves and assume a superiority to which they have little
claim.
"Probably old Anthony has just been paid his pension," he thought, as he
left them, and made his way to the elevator.
He, too, ascended to the fifth floor, and leaving it there went to John
Hardy's office.
"Good morning, Mr. Collins," said Hardy. He knew nothing of the
manufacturer's home title. "I shall be at leisure in five minutes."
The five minutes passed.
"Now I am at your service," he said.
"Have you decided to let me have the money, Mr. Hardy?" asked the
manufacturer, trying to conceal his anxiety.
"Taking as security a mortgage on your manufactory?"
"Yes, sir."
"I think I can let you have it."
Squire Collins looked much relieved.
"You will find the security ample," he said. "The building is worth
double the sum I am borrowing."
"Is it well insured?"
"Yes, sir."
"The policies of insurance must be placed in my hands."
"Of course."
"I have to take all precautions, as the money is not mine, but belongs
to a boy for whom I am trustee."
"I see."
Squire Collins had no curiosity as to the name of the boy referred to.
He would have been very much amazed had he been told that it was the
very boy whom he had discharged from his employment only a short time
previous. For that matter, Mark would have been quite as much surprised.
In the course of half an hour the proper papers had been made out, a
check for four thousand dollars handed to Squire Collins, and the shoe
manufacturer left the office in as good spirits as Mark had done half an
hour before.
"By-the-way," remarked the Squire at his supper table that evening, "I
met two persons from Pocasset in the city to-day."
"Who were they?" asked James.
"Old Anthony and Mark Manning."
"What could have taken them to the city?"
"I presume Anthony receives a small pension from some source, and went
up to collect it."
"I think it very likely," said James, thinking of what he had seen in
the forest. "I presume it isn't much."
"Probably not."
"I shouldn't think he'd have gone to the expense of taking Mark."
"The old man looked dazed. I presume he doesn't feel safe in going
alone."
"Very likely Mark asked to go. He's fastened himself on the old man, and
means to get all he can out of him."
It is wonderful how prejudice colors our opinion of others.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XXIII.
MARK'S MISSION.
THREE days later, two things puzzled the good people of Pocasset. One
was the removal of old Anthony from his lonely cabin to the small but
comfortable cottage of Mrs. Manning. It was voted by the village people
a very sensible move, but they were at a loss to understand how the
recluse had been persuaded to change his mode of life. It was generally
supposed that he was quite poor, but the two or three dollars a week he
would be able to pay the widow would be a help. A room on the second
floor was appropriated to old Anthony, where he spent much of his time.
Every day, however, he wandered off to the woods, which had been his
residence for several years. Though he said little, he was soon
convinced that he had bettered himself by his removal. Mrs. Manning
provided plain, well-cooked meals, which were far more attractive than
the extemporized lunches with which he had thus far been content.
There was another circumstance, however, that equally puzzled the good
people of the village. This was the disappearance of Mark. He was no
longer seen walking about the streets, and many were the inquiries made
of his mother as to where he had gone. At the request of old Anthony she
answered very indefinitely. She could not tell just where Mark was, but
he was employed. He would probably be home in a few weeks.
Among those whose curiosity was most keen were James Collins and Tom
Wyman.
"Where do you think Mark has gone?" said James one day, throwing away a
half-smoked cigarette.
"I don't know any more than the man in the moon," answered Tom. "I asked
his mother the other day when I met her in the street, but I couldn't
get any satisfaction out of her."
"Perhaps he has gone to the city in search of a place."
"I shouldn't wonder."
"He can't get anything to do here. Father won't take him back into the
shop."
"He was at work for old Anthony."
"That couldn't amount to much. The hermit is as poor as Job's turkey."
"Do you know this? How about the gold we saw?"
"It was all he had," said James, who was in the habit of jumping at
conclusions. "My father says he gets a small pension from some person in
the city. Some rich relative, I suppose, is taking care of him. Do you
know, Tom, I should be glad to come across Mark blacking boots, or
selling papers in the city?"
"Why?"
"He is so mighty independent—poor and proud—that I believe he actually
thinks himself as good as you or I."
"He is pretty pert, that's a fact."
"If he were only humble, and showed that he knew his place, I'd get
father to take him back into the shop. It's his own fault that he got
discharged."
"It's a good thing for his mother having a boarder, as Mark isn't able
to help her."
"Pooh! what does that amount to? He probably pays two or three dollars a
week. However, I suppose that's a good deal to her."
Mark would have been amused, but not surprised, if he could have heard
this conversation between his two old companions. At present, however,
he had other things to occupy his attention.
He had already reached Chicago and was staying there a day or two before
going farther.
His ultimate destination was Claremont, in Indiana, the place where the
daughter of the hermit was understood to have died. It was about
seventy-five miles from Chicago, and could be reached in three hours.
Mark felt that he could do no better in his brief stay in Chicago than
walk about, and make himself familiar with the principal streets and
avenues, and gain some knowledge of the western metropolis.
He kept his eyes wide open, and noticed all that came in his way.
Everywhere throngs of busy wayfarers, and not one of whom he had ever
seen before. It seemed strange to him, for in Pocasset he knew
everybody.
"The world is larger than I thought," he reflected, "and there are more
people in it. I wish I could see one familiar face."
He had hardly formulated the wish when his glance rested on a form that
seemed strangely familiar. It was a man, tall, slender, with a slouching
gait.
"That must be Lyman Taylor," he decided, with a natural start of
astonishment.
It was indeed the man whom he had last seen in the woods at Pocasset. He
had not thought to meet him, though he remembered now to have heard that
Lyman had been sent to the West by his uncle.
On the whole, Mark was not as much pleased as he expected to see this
familiar face. He did not care to be recognized, as Lyman might have his
curiosity excited, and make him trouble.
Suddenly Lyman turned, and his glance fell upon Mark. The boy lowered
his head, and walked on without notice. Lyman did not recognize him,
though he was vaguely conscious of something familiar in Mark's
appearance. But before he left New York, Mark had been provided with a
new check traveling suit, and a hat of a different style from the one he
was accustomed to wear.
Moreover, Lyman had no thought of meeting the country boy in a western
city. So he turned his glance in a different direction, and descended
the steps that led to a basement pool and billiard room.
"I would follow him down there, if I dared risk discovery," thought
Mark. "However, it is none of my business what he does, as long as he
doesn't annoy his uncle."
Lyman Taylor would have been glad to see Mark, or any one else
representing his uncle. The sum he had brought away with him had nearly
all melted away, and his prospects were by no means brilliant. The
thought of engaging in any employment by which he might earn an honest
and independent livelihood was by no means attractive to him.
In the afternoon of the second day Mark started by train for Claremont,
and arrived at the Claremont Hotel in time for supper.
He found Claremont to be a fair sized town, containing perhaps four
thousand inhabitants. It seemed to be growing rapidly, like most western
towns favorably situated. After a comfortable supper he bethought
himself of whom he could make inquiries as to the object of his journey.
As he sat in the office, a tall man, with long hair, and a look of
speculation in his eyes accosted him.
"Have you just arrived in town, young man?"
"Yes, sir," answered Mark.
"Are you calculatin' to settle here?"
"No, sir; I am only here on a little business."
"Drummer, I reckon!"
"No, sir; I do not represent any business house."
"You do look rather young for a drummer, but you said you were travelin'
on business."
"My business is of a different nature, sir."
"Just so! if I can help you, I will. I am Colonel Enoch Tarbox,
well-known hereabouts."
"Thank you for your offer. If you will allow me, I will ask you one or
two questions."
"Go ahead, young man; I'm ready to give you any information in my
power."
"I am in search of a family named Ransom, who lived here some years
ago."
"John Ransom?"
"Yes, sir."
"You won't find him; he's dead."
"So I have heard. Did you know him or his wife?"
"I've drank with John Ransom many a time at this very bar. He was rather
fond of a social glass."
"Did you know his wife?"
"I've seen her often. She's dead too. They both died of a fever."
"I suppose they had no children," said Mark, putting the question
anxiously.
"Let me see," said the colonel slowly, evidently searching his memory;
"yes, I believe there was a child, a little boy."
"Is he alive?" asked Mark eagerly.
"There you've got me, stranger. Children ain't much in my line. I never
heerd of Ransom's child dying. I reckon it left town though."
"Where could I get any information about it, do you think?"
Colonel Tarbox reflected.
"I reckon you'd better go to Mrs. Finn; she was intimate with Mrs.
Ransom. She lives in the little white cottage alongside of the
Presbyterian church."
"Thank you, Colonel Tarbox; I am much indebted to you for what you have
told me."
"Don't mention it. Won't you take a drink?"
This kind offer Mark declined rather to the colonel's dissatisfaction.
He decided to call upon Mrs. Finn the next day.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XXIV.
WHAT MARK DISCOVERED.
AS the clock on the Presbyterian church struck nine, Mark stood knocking
at the door of the little cottage hard by.
The door was opened by a comely woman of middle age, who, not
recognizing Mark, looked at him inquiringly.
"What can I do for you?" she asked.
"My name is Mark Manning," said Mark, introducing himself. "I have been
directed to you as likely to give me some information about Mrs. Ransom,
who—"
"Yes, yes," interrupted Mrs. Finn, not waiting for Mark to finish his
sentence. "Poor dear! I know all about her. Come in, do!"
She led the way into the neat sitting-room, where she invited Mark to be
seated. Then she changed parts with Mark and began to ask questions.
"Are you related to Mrs. Ransom?" she asked.
"No," answered Mark, "but I come from one who is."
"Alas, it is too late! The poor woman is dead."
"I know that, but did she leave a child?"
"Yes, a little boy. She sat great store by little Jack."
"And what has become of him?" asked Mark, eagerly.
"That is more than I can tell. A tall gentleman—I don't rightly know his
name—appeared at the funeral, said he was a relation, and took off
little Jack to St. Louis, I think."
"A tall gentleman—a relation!" repeated Mark, surprised. "What was his
appearance?"
Mark was destined to be surprised, for Mrs. Finn's description tallied
exactly with the appearance of Lyman Taylor. This was a surprising
discovery. Mark was sharp enough to guess that Lyman's object was to
remove from his path any rival claimant to his uncle's property,
supposing him to possess any.
"I think I know who you mean," he said, after a pause.
"Was it really a relation of Mrs. Ransom?"
"If it was the one I suppose, it was her cousin."
"I am glad to hear it. Then poor Jack was taken care of."
"I am not sure about that," said Mark, gravely. "Though a relative, he
is a selfish, bad man, and I am afraid he meant the poor boy no good."
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Finn, startled, "you don't think he
would murder the innocent child?"
"No, I don't think that, but I think he wanted to put him where his
grandfather would never find him."
"Is it his grandfather you come from, then?"
"Yes; he does not even know of his grandchild's existence, but if I find
him, the boy will never need any other protector. Can you tell me
anything of Mrs. Ransom—of her husband?"
"Poor Mrs. Ransom was a sweet woman, who deserved a better fate. As for
her husband, he was a drunkard, and a loafer. Those are hard words, but
he deserved them both. They hadn't much money, but what there was he
spent for liquor at the hotel yonder. More than once his poor wife and
little child wouldn't have had any breakfast if I hadn't taken some
over."
And warm-hearted Mrs. Finn wiped away a tear.
"Did her husband treat her very badly? Did he beat her?"
"I am afraid he did when he was very far gone, but, poor thing! she
never complained. She always looked sad, though, and she didn't enjoy
her life very much."
"Did she ever speak of her father?"
"Once only. She told me she had ill-treated, him, and been a disobedient
daughter. I think it was in marrying Ransom."
"Did she ever write to him?"
"She told me she did once, but never received an answer. 'He won't
forgive me,' she said, with a sigh, and never wrote again."
"I am sure he did not receive the letter, Mrs. Finn. If he had, he would
have noticed it."
"I hope so; at any rate she was sadder than ever when no letter came to
her in return. Finally, her husband took sick with a fever. Bad as he
had been to her, she nursed him like a devoted wife as she was. But she
couldn't save him. Hardly was he dead, when she, too, caught sick, and
in the end she died. While she was sick I took little Jack home, for
fear he would catch the fever too. I was thinking of adopting him after
his mother's death, when the man I spoke of called and took away the
boy, saying he would provide for him."
"And that was—how many years ago?"
"Nearly six, I think."
"And I suppose you have neither seen nor heard of him since?"
Mrs. Finn shook her head.
"Where does little Jack's grandfather live?" she asked.
"Near New York."
"Is he a rich man?"
"Moderately rich. He is well able to take care of his grandson, if he
could find him."
"I wish I could tell you more, I am sure," said Mrs. Finn heartily. "If
the poor boy yet lives, Heaven knows what his condition may be. If you
could find the man that took him away——"
"I can," answered Mark.
"Then why don't you go to him, and ask him where to find the child?"
"Because it is against his interests to have him found. He and the
little boy are the only heirs to the grandfather's property. His uncle
has good reason to dislike him, and if the boy is found, Lyman Taylor
will get nothing, I feel sure."
"Well, well! What wickedness there is in the world!" ejaculated Mrs.
Finn. "What will you do?"
"I don't know. I shall have to consider."
"Did the grandfather send you out here?"
"Yes."
"Excuse my remarking that you are very young to undertake such a
responsible task."
"I think so myself, Mrs. Finn," Mark answered, modestly. "But it so
happened that he hadn't much choice. I shall do my best, and if I can't
find him, I shall go home and report, and advise Mr. Taylor to send an
older and more competent person."
"You won't be offended by what I said?"
"Certainly not. Any one would think as you do. Is there any other
information you can give me, Mrs. Finn?"
Mrs. Finn shook her head.
"I am afraid not," she said.
"You are sure the boy was carried to St. Louis?"
"Quite certain."
"I might go to St. Louis, but without any clue I am afraid I should
stand little chance of succeeding."
"You might advertise."
"That is true," said Mark. "Indeed, it appears to be the only thing I
can do. How old would the boy be now?"
"About eight years old, I think."
"Thank you."
Mark took out a small memorandum book, and noted down the small amount
of information he had obtained.
It did not appear to be much, and yet it was of great importance. He had
ascertained that Mrs. Ransom had left a child, and moreover that Lyman
Taylor had been aware of the fact, and had conspired to keep its
existence from old Anthony.
"Does he know where it is now?" Mark asked himself.
Mark was inclined to think not. Shortly after the boy was carried away,
Lyman had gone East, got into trouble, and served a term of some years
in a prison.
During those years, probably the boy had drifted out of his knowledge.
Doubtless he could furnish a clue, but for obvious reasons, it would not
do to apply to him.
"I am very much obliged to you for your information," said Mark, as he
rose to go.
"You are heartily welcome, sir. Would you mind writing me, if you find
out anything about poor Jack?"
"I will certainly do so, Mrs. Finn. I shall lose no time in going to St.
Louis."
"Heaven speed you, and bring you success," said Mrs. Finn, fervently.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XXV.
THE LITTLE MATCH BOY.
"MATCHES! Matches! Here's your nice matches!" was heard in a shrill
treble, proceeding from a little boy on Clark Street, in Chicago.
He looked thin and pale, and it was easy to see the poor little fellow
was poorly fed, as well as ill-clad.
"Only five cents a package!" the little fellow continued to cry; and he
looked wistfully in the faces of those who passed him, hoping for a
possible purchaser.
"Clear out of my way there, you brat!" said a rough voice. "Do you want
to take up the whole sidewalk?"
The boy shrank timidly, as the man who had addressed him swaggered by.
He would not have dared to resent the rudeness, but another did. It was
a stout, and healthy-looking woman, with a large basket on her arm,
whose heart warmed towards the poor little match boy, sent out so early
to earn his livelihood.
"You ought to be ashamed to speak to the poor boy that way!" she said,
warmly.
"Mind your business, woman!" retorted Lyman Taylor, for it was he whose
rough speech had been quoted.
"I always do," said the woman. "It's my business to speak my mind to
such brutes as you!"
Lyman vented his wrath in a volley of oaths, for his language was by no
means choice, when his anger was excited. He might have been more
prudent, if he had known that a policeman was just behind.
"Stop that, my man, unless you want me to take you in!" said the burly
officer.
Lyman Taylor turned sharply round, but quailed when he saw the officer.
"This woman has insulted me," he said, sullenly.
"I just spoke to him for abusin' that poor match boy," said the good
woman.
"I heard it all," said the officer. "Move on, my man, and behave
yourself, if you don't want to get into trouble."
Such a scene was sure to attract a small crowd. One kind-hearted man
drew out a dime from his pocket and handed it to the match boy.
"Here, my lad," he said; "take this, and I hope it'll do you good."
"Here are two boxes of matches for you, sir."
"No, keep them. I give you the money."
"Here's another dime," said a young man, of literary aspect. He was a
reporter on one of the Chicago daily papers, who, in spite of the cases
of poverty and privation that came under his notice every day, still
preserved a warm and sympathetic heart.
Then a lady followed his example, and in the end, the match boy had
received a sum much larger than the value of his small stock-in-trade.
Lyman Taylor's rudeness had proved to him a piece of good luck, in
opening the hearts of those who would otherwise have passed him by
without notice.
Smiling with pleasure at the child's good fortune, the good woman who
had resented Lyman's rudeness so warmly, went on her way. If all had
hearts as warm, there would be little misery or suffering in the world.
It is often those who have little, that are most ready to help others
poorer than themselves. I must not omit to add, that among the
contributors to the little match boy's fund was the policeman, who
placed a nickel in his hands, with the admonition to "brace up and be a
good boy!" This was true charity, for out of his salary the officer had
to support a large family of his own, and therefore had very few nickels
to spare. He was bluff of aspect, but kind of heart.
"It's a shame to send out such a child on the streets," he said to
himself. "Think of my Rob having to lead such a life!"
The policeman looked sober, for, should anything happen to him, as in
his exposed life might very well happen, he knew not what would be the
fate of his little ones. They might be as badly off as the poor match
boy.
The little match boy's thin face showed signs of satisfaction as he
looked at the collection of small coins which had been given him by the
pitying crowd. He turned into an alleyway and counted it. It amounted to
seventy-six cents. This was a phenomenal sum for the small merchant. And
the best of it was, he had his stock of merchandise left.
A thought entered the little boy's mind, prompted by his craving for
food.
"Would it be wrong for me to take a little of this money and buy me some
dinner?" he said to himself. "I am _so_ hungry. Aunt Peggy only gave me
a slice of bread for breakfast, and it's most two o'clock now."
Only a slice of bread, and he had been walking about for hours, trying
to sell matches. The fruit of all his labor was the sale of two boxes at
five cents each. But he had seventy-six cents besides, and they were
his. They had not been given to Aunt Peggy, but to him. So, at least, he
reasoned. Not that he meant to keep it all himself. He intended to give
the greater part to the woman who was the only guardian he knew, but he
thought he had a right to use fifteen cents for himself. It wasn't much,
but he knew a place—a cheap place—where for this sum he could get a cup
of coffee and a plate of beefsteak. At the thought of this delicious
repast the match boy's mouth watered. When had he eaten meat? Three days
ago Peggy had given him a bone to pick. There was not much on it, but
when he had got through with it there was none at all.
Johnny could not resist the temptation. He suspended sales, and made his
way to a cheap restaurant on a side street. With eager steps he entered,
and sat down at a wooden table from which nearly all the paint had been
worn off, and scanned the bill of fare.
It seemed to him that there was nothing better than the dish he had
already mentally selected.
A greasy looking waiter approached, and said sharply, "What'll you have,
kid?"
"Cup o' coffee an' plate of beefsteak!" answered Johnny.
"Sure yer got money enough to pay for it?"
"I wouldn't have asked for it if I hadn't," said Johnny, emboldened by
his unusual wealth.
"All right, then! Sometimes chaps come in and order their dinner, and
skip off before it comes time to pay."
The greasy looking waiter went to the back of the room, and soon
returned with the banquet Johnny ordered.
He set it down with a jerk.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XXVI.
LUCK FAVORS LYMAN.
NO patron of Delmonico's probably ever contemplated his sumptuous meal
with more satisfaction than shone in the little match boy's eyes, as he
gazed with watering mouth at the overdone, tough-looking steak, the
mashed potato, the three slices of stale bread and dab of butter, which
furnished the solid material of his meal. A cup of muddy coffee
completed the bill of fare. After all, appetite is the best sauce, and
Johnny had appetite enough to make his meal seem palatable.
Johnny did not stand upon ceremony, but "pitched in." It is not an
elegant expression, but it describes accurately the energy with which
the boy disposed of his dinner. Ten minutes sufficed for its entire
disappearance. There was not even a crumb left.
"That was bully!" said Johnny to himself, with a sigh of supreme
satisfaction "I wish I could have such a lay out every day."
But he evidently thought this was unattainable happiness. He did not
even think of reserving from his little fund, enough to provide a
similar feast on the following day—partly because he was an honest
little fellow, and partly because he stood in fear of the burly woman
whom he called Aunt Peggy.
"I wouldn't have Aunt Peggy know I've been here for something," he
thought.
There seemed little chance of it, but, as ill luck would have it, as he
was emerging from the restaurant, a boy he knew passed with a
blacking-box on his shoulder.
"What have you been doin' in there?" asked Tim Roach. "Been havin' yer
dinner?"
"I just got a little to eat," answered Johnny, ill at ease.
"Got any more money?"
"A little."
"Then just treat a feller, won't yer? I'll do as much for you
to-morrer."
"I can't, Tim, the money isn't mine."
"You won't, you mean."
"I would if the money belonged to me."
"Does Peggy know yer went in there?" asked Tim, slyly.
"Don't tell her, Tim! I was _so_ hungry."
"Then treat!"
"I can't, Tim!"
"All right!" replied Tim, nodding. "I'll let Peggy know how you spend
her money."
Poor Johnny! These last words alarmed him terribly.
Lyman Taylor's stock of money was getting low. He was not a good
financial manager. But even if he had been, he would not have been able
long to live without work. When his stock of ready money was reduced to
five dollars, he began to consider anxiously where he could obtain a
further supply. It is not strange that his thoughts should have reverted
to his uncle.
"I wonder if Uncle Anthony is well fixed or not. He got considerable
money in California, but may have lost it. The old man is close-mouthed,
and I can't worm the secret out of him. If I had any hold on him——"
continued Lyman, thoughtfully.
He sauntered along till he came to a pool-room, connected with a cheap
hotel, of the kind he was in the habit of frequenting. No one chanced to
be playing, and by way of filling up the time he took up a St. Louis
paper, and ran his eye listlessly over it.
But at one place in the advertising columns, his listlessness suddenly
vanished, and his face assumed a look of eager interest. This was the
advertisement that attracted his attention:
"INFORMATION WANTED.—Any one who can give information concerning a
child named Jack Ransom, who was brought to St. Louis a little more
than five years since, is desired to communicate with Mark Manning,
at the Planters' Hotel. The boy, if living, is now seven or eight
years of age."
"Well, I'll be——hanged!" ejaculated Lyman Taylor. "How, in the name of
all that's mysterious, has my uncle got hold of a clue to little Jack's
existence?
"So he's sent that country cub—Mark Manning—out to investigate. He must
be crazy to trust a green boy, who has always lived in the country.
"But what beats me, is how he learned so much. I did take the boy to St.
Louis, and placed him with an old woman, who very likely has starved or
beaten him to death by this time. But suppose she hasn't," continued
Lyman, after a pause.
"Suppose the child is still living. If I could only find out, then I
would have the hold on my uncle that I require. I would kidnap the boy,
and not part with him under a good round sum."
Lyman's face brightened, but only for an instant. It was a capital
scheme, but how was he to get hold of the boy? How did he know if he
were living?
He would have been amazed if he had known that he had seen the boy that
very day, selling matches in the streets.
There was one thing, however, that seemed clear to Lyman. His uncle must
still have a comfortable property, or he would not be able to send a
messenger to St. Louis in search of his lost grandson.
"The old man may have twenty thousand dollars, for aught I know,"
reflected Lyman; "and doesn't spend the income of half that as he lives
now. No doubt that country boy has an inkling of it, and is planning to
get hold of it. That boy is foxy, and knows what he is about, I'll be
bound."
This estimate did not exactly agree with the one Lyman had recently
expressed of Mark, but he did not think it necessary to be consistent.
"Twenty thousand dollars!" he repeated, and his nephew almost starving
here in Chicago. Oh, it was a cunning scheme to buy me off for a paltry
sum, and give a free field to that boy. That's a pretty way for a man to
treat his only living relation.
"But who could have put it into his head that his grandson was alive? I
presume the little beggar has kicked the bucket before this. If I only
could get hold of him, I would make the old man pay handsomely for his
return."
The chances, however, did not seem very flattering, and Lyman had no
money to expend in searching for the boy, apart from the doubt whether
he was still living. Gradually a new idea came to him. He might pick up
some boy who would answer the purpose, whom he could palm off on his
uncle as his grandson. True, it would be raising up a rival heir; but he
was thoroughly persuaded that in no case did he himself stand any chance
of succeeding to his uncle's property.
"It will be worth something," he muttered, "to cut out that country boy.
All I have to do, is to find a boy who is without relatives, and I can
concoct some story that will impose upon Uncle Anthony. That little
match boy, for instance! Why wouldn't he do?"
Lyman became so excited by his castle building, that he determined to
lose no time in carrying out his design. He left the tavern, and
retraced his steps to the place where he had encountered the match boy.
Johnny, after eating his dinner, had resumed his business, and was
within a block of the same place offering his wares to the passers by.
He was a little worried by Tim's threat to expose his extravagant dinner
to the old woman with whom he lived, but persistently refused to buy off
his persecutor.
"I say, little boy, what's your name?"
Johnny turned round at these words, and recognized in the man addressing
him, the one with whom he had already had trouble. His face showed the
fear which he not unnaturally felt.
"Don't be frightened, my boy!" said Lyman, with an ingratiating smile.
"I am afraid I was rough to you this morning. Don't mind it! I was
worried about my business affairs, and didn't mean what I said. Shake
hands, and let us be friends."
With rather a bewildered look, Johnny allowed Lyman to take his small,
thin hand, and looked perplexed.
"Come, you don't harbor no malice, my lad, do you?" said Lyman with a
smile.
"No—o," answered Johnny, doubtfully.
"The fact is, I feel an interest in you, my boy. You look like a little
cousin of mine that I haven't seen since he was a baby."
Johnny was more and more puzzled. The neglected little match boy was not
used to such attention.
"Did you ever live in St. Louis?" asked Lyman, at a venture.
"Yes," answered the match boy.
Lyman opened his eyes in surprise. He had not expected such an answer.
Even then he did not suspect that Chance had led him to the very boy
whom he desired to meet.
"Have you any father or mother?" he asked.
"No sir."
"Good!"
Johnny could not understand why his questioner should be pleased to hear
that he was an orphan. Lyman Taylor seemed to him a very
incomprehensible man. He felt rather uncomfortable in his presence, and
hoped the man would go away, and leave him to attend to his business.
"Who do you live with, then, sonny?" was Lyman's next question.
"With my aunt."
"What is your aunt's name?"
"I always call her Aunt Peggy."
"WHAT?" exclaimed Lyman, in a tone that made the little match boy jump.
"You live with an old woman named Peggy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is she your aunt?"
"I suppose so. I always call her Aunt Peggy."
"It's the very boy!" was Lyman's exulting thought. "I'm in luck at last.
Lyman, old man, your plans are going to be realized."
"Were you ever called Jack?" he asked, anxiously.
"Yes; that's what Aunt Peggy calls me. Other people call me Johnny."
"My boy," said Lyman, fervently, "I can't tell you how glad I am to see
you. I am sure now you are my little cousin. Where does Peggy live?"
The match boy named the place—a poor street in a poor neighborhood.
"Take me there at once. I want to see your Aunt Peggy."
"But Peggy will be mad if I don't stay and sell matches, sir."
"Come along; I will make it right with her."
Lyman took the little boy's hand, and the two turned off Clark Street,
and went in pursuit of Peggy.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XXVII.
OLD PEGGY.
TIM ROACH was not only selfish, but liked to make mischief. He resolved
to be revenged upon Johnny for declining to "treat" him to a dinner, and
having plenty of time on his hands, took pains to seek out the humble
home tenanted by old Peggy.
It was on the third floor of a tall, shabby brick house, not far from
the Chicago and Alton depot. Tim had been there before, and didn't
require directions. He ascended the rickety staircase, nearly treading
on two dirty faced children belonging to a neighbor of Peggy's, who were
playing on the landing. As a third child, older, made her appearance,
Tim stopped long enough to inquire, "Is Peggy at home?"
"Yes," answered the girl. "She's home, but, oh my, ain't she tight!"
"That's nothin' new," said Tim, composedly.
He knocked at Peggy's door, and receiving no answer, opened it.
The old woman had thrown herself on a truckle bed at one corner of the
room, and was breathing noisily with her eyes half closed.
"Is it you, Johnny!" she asked, without turning her head.
"No, it's me!"
"Who's me?"
"Tim Roach."
"What do you want?"
"I've just seed Johnny, Peggy."
"Has he sold many matches? Where is he?"
"I seed him in an eatin' house. He was eatin' a bully dinner."
"What!" exclaimed Peggy, now thoroughly roused, raising herself on her
elbow. "What's that you say, Tim Roach?"
Tim, quite enjoying the commotion he had raised, repeated his
information.
"So he's spendin' my money in fillin' his stomach, the little wretch!"
exclaimed Peggy. "That's why he brings home so little money. The
ungrateful little imp that I've slaved and slaved for these last six
years, takin' advantage of a poor old woman when her back's turned!
Where was it, Tim, dear?"
Tim mentioned the restaurant.
"And what was he eatin', Tim?"
"He ordered a cup o' coffee and beefsteak—I don't know what else he
had."
"I'll learn him to chate and decave me!" said the old woman, angrily.
"He only brought home twenty-five cents yesterday, and I takin' care of
him, and buyin' him close and vittles."
"I guess he buys some dinner every day," said Tim.
"And I never to suspect it! Tim, dear, you're a good boy to come and
tell me. You wouldn't treat your best friend that way?"
"No, I wouldn't!" said Tim, virtuously. "What are you goin' to do to
him, Peggy?"
"Where's my stick, Tim? Do you see it anywhere?"
"No, I don't," answered Tim, after a search.
"Some of them children downstairs must have carried it off."
"I can buy you a cane for ten cents."
"And where would the ten cents come from I would like to know. I'll bate
him wid my fists, the ongrateful young kid."
"What are you goin' to give me for tellin' you, Peggy?" asked Tim.
"I'll give you a penny the next time I see you," said Peggy, vaguely.
"That isn't enough. Give me a nickel to buy a glass of beer?"
"I haven't got it, Tim. I wish I had, for I'm awful dhry myself."
"I wouldn't have come all the way to tell you if I'd know'd that," said
Tim, discontentedly.
Just then a noise was heard on the stairs, and Tim, opening the door
wider, looked out.
"Here's Johnny now, Peggy!" he said in excitement.
"Come home the middle of the afternoon, too, the young rascal!"
ejaculated the old woman. "I'll fix him!"
"So here you are, you young——," commenced Peggy, as Johnny made his
appearance, but the threat with which she was about to conclude, died in
the utterance, when she saw that Johnny was closely followed by a tall
man of middle age.
"Who are you, sir?" she asked irritably, "and what brings you here? If
you're the agent, I haven't got any money for you."
"Don't you remember me, Peggy?" asked Lyman, sinking with rare courage
into a chair which cracked under his weight.
"No, sir, I don't. If I had my glasses, perhaps——"
"I see you've got company, Peggy," continued Lyman, with a significant
look at Tim. "I would like to speak to you alone. It'll be to your
advantage, mind," he added, detecting a suspicious look on the old
woman's face. "Just send the two boys out to play, and we'll speak
together."
"First, hand over what money you've got, Jack," said Peggy. "I ain't
goin' to have you wastin' it outside. Let me see your matches! How many
boxes did you sell?"
"Five," answered Johnny.
"Only five!" exclaimed the old woman, holding up her hands. "You were
playin' in the strates, I'll be bound!"
"No, I wasn't, Aunt Peggy. I tried to sell more, but——"
"Oh, yes, I understand! And you'd done so well you thought you'd buy
yourself a dinner off my money. Come here and let me shake you!"
"Tim told you!" said the little boy, with a reproachful look at his
betrayer.
"Yes, he told me, and he was a good bye for doin' it."
"He said he'd tell if I didn't buy him some, too."
"Is that threu?" asked Peggy.
"Hark to him!" said Tim, with virtuous indignation. "It's a lie, and he
knows it."
"Did you spend all the money, Jack?" demanded Peggy. "If you did——"
"But I didn't, Aunt Peggy. Some good people gave me some money, and——"
"It was for me, then. How dared you spind it?"
"I've brought most of it home, Peggy. See here!" and Johnny took out a
handful of small silver coins and pennies, and poured them into the old
woman's lap.
Peggy was agreeably surprised. She saw that there was nearly a dollar,
much more than Johnny generally brought home, and it put her in a good
humor.
"You've done well, Jack!" she said. "I won't grudge the money you spent
for a bit of dinner. Now go out and play wid Tim."
"I don't want to play with him. He told on me."
"My lad," said Lyman, "can't you bring a bottle of beer for your good
aunt and myself. Here's money; you can bring back the change."
"You go, Jack, for the gentleman," said Peggy, quite restored to good
humor. "I don't mind sayin' that my throat is just parched with bein' so
dhry."
Johnny went out, and soon returned, for he had not far to go. In spite
of his company being so unwelcome, Tim went and returned with him.
"Won't you give me a little, Peggy," he asked.
"No, I won't. You wanted Jack to trate you on my money. Now clear out,
and never let me see your ugly face here ag'in."
"That's the thanks I get for tellin' you!" complained Tim. "And after
runnin' myself out of breath, too!"
"Clear out wid you! And you, Jack, go back and see if you can't sell
some more matches. It's only the middle of the afternoon, and there's
plenty of time before sunset to sell half-a-dozen boxes."
Johnny obeyed, not unwillingly, for he was not partial to home, nor did
he enjoy Peggy's company. Tim accompanied him, but Johnny, gentle as he
was, refused to have anything to say to him. Tim felt that he was badly
treated. Johnny turned his back on him, and Peggy had utterly failed to
acknowledge the service he had rendered her. Tim was of opinion that it
was a cold world, and that there was little encouragement to be
virtuous.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XXVIII.
LYMAN'S PLAN.
"HERE'S your health, Peggy!" said Lyman, emptying his glass.
"Thank you, sir!" said Peggy, following his example. "You're very kind,
I'm sure, and I ought to remember you, but my memory ain't what it was."
"So you don't remember me?"
"I can't remimber that I iver set eyes on your face before, sir."
"Then you don't remember the man that brought you a small child to take
care of near six years ago?"
"Shure it's himself!" ejaculated the old woman, peering curiously into
Lyman's face. "I only saw you twice, and that's why I forgot. Shure it
was a cruel thrick you played upon a poor old woman, when you gave her a
baby to take care of, and then, five long years never sent her even a
penny. It's hundreds and hundreds of dollars I've spent on little Jack,
and he no kin to me!"
"No doubt he has been brought up in the lap of luxury! He looks like
it," said Lyman with an amused smile.
"And now you've come to pay me all I spent on the child?" insinuated
Peggy.
"Well, not just yet. The fact is, Peggy, unavoidable circumstances
prevented my communicating with you, and the same won't admit of my
paying over the hundreds of dollars that Jack has cost you."
"Then what do you want of me?" inquired the old woman disappointed.
"I think I can see a way by which both of us can make something out of
the boy. By-the-way, it strikes me just at present that he is supporting
you instead of you taking care of him."
"He only brings in a few pennies a day," said Peggy. "Shure it's hardly
enough to pay his salt."
"Then Jack must be immoderately fond of salt. However, I'll let you into
a secret. His grandfather is looking for him."
"His grandfather?"
"Yes; no doubt you are surprised that Jack possesses a grandfather, but
that is a fact. His grandfather is my uncle, and what is more to the
purpose he has a fair property."
"And little Jack is goin' to be rich?" gasped Peggy in amazement.
"Well, I don't know! That depends on whether we allow his grandfather to
find him."
"And why shouldn't he? Wouldn't he be givin' a big reward?"
"That is where you come to the point, my good Peggy. If he will make it
worth our while, we may restore him to the old gentleman."
"And how much would he be givin', d'ye think?" asked Peggy, her
bead-like eyes sparkling with greed.
"I shouldn't wonder, Peggy, if you might get a hundred dollars out of
it."
"A hundred dollars—after my takin' care of the boy ever since he was a
babby. Now you're jokin'."
"Well, you see, his grandfather isn't a rich man—" explained Lyman,
fearing he had unduly raised the expectations of the old woman.
"You said he was!" retorted Peggy sharply.
"I said he had a comfortable property—for a country town. That means a
few thousand dollars."
"He sha'n't have him for such a thrifle," snapped Peggy.
"The police might take him from you, without your getting a cent."
"How would they know, unless you told 'em?" asked Peggy suspiciously.
"Look here, Peggy!" said Lyman in a conciliatory tone. "We've got to
stand by each other in this thing. Just leave the matter in my hands,
and I'll manage it as well as I can. I'll get as much money from the old
gentleman as I can."
"And you'll give me half?"
"Of course—that is, after necessary expenses are paid."
"And what am I to do then?"
"Nothing, except to stay here, and see that nobody gets hold of Jack.
Does he know who he is?"
"He thinks I'm his aunt."
"And is proud of the connection, no doubt," said Lyman, who could not
restrain his tendency to sarcasm. "Well, perhaps that is as well. Don't
let any one know that it is not true. We can keep quiet till the time
comes to make it known. Now, I'll leave you, and take the first step by
writing to my uncle. Good afternoon, Peggy! I'll call again in a day or
two."
"Couldn't you leave me a dollar or two before you go?" whined Peggy. "Me
health is very poor, and I can't work, and it's only a few pennies the
boy brings in."
"You're better off than I am," said Lyman curtly, "for I am out of
employment and I have no boy to bring me in pennies. I don't know but
I'd better take Jack at once, and then you won't have to take care of
him."
"I'll kape him," said the old woman hurriedly—for she had no wish to
lose the income the match boy brought in, small as it was. "I'll kape
him, for he's used to me life, and he's happier here."
"Just as you like, Peggy!" returned Lyman with a smile at the success of
his stratagem. "I'd help you if I could, but I'm almost at the bottom of
my purse as it is. I'll see you again in a day or two, and report
progress."
"I've done a good day's work," reflected Lyman, as he picked his way
downstairs, nearly slipping on a piece of orange peel on one of the
steps. "It was a piece of good luck, my finding Jack so soon after
seeing that St. Louis paper—but I must write an effective letter to my
uncle."
Lyman went to the Sherman House, and entering the writing-room procured
a sheet of note paper, and penned the following note:
"CHICAGO, _September 7, 18—_.
"MY DEAR UNCLE:
"I am afraid you are feeling anxious about me, and I will therefore
relieve your affectionate solicitude, by saying that I am well in
health, but low—very low in pocket. It costs more to live in Chicago
than in Pocasset, and the sum of money with which you provided me is
nearly gone. As I am a little afraid this hint won't be sufficient
to open your heart, let me add that I can make it worth your while
to be generous.
"It has come to my knowledge that you have sent out Mark Manning in
search of your grandson. How you came to suspect that my cousin left
a boy I can't imagine, but I don't mind telling you that you are
correct. She did leave a boy, whose name is Jack Ransom. He is now
about eight years of age. I know where he is and can lay my hands
upon him at any moment. Whether I will or not depends on how you
propose to deal with me. Of course it isn't to my interest that the
boy should be found, as outside of him I am your natural and legal
heir. I know that Mark Manning is scheming to get possession of your
property when you are gone, but I am sure you wouldn't throw it away
on a stranger, when your brother's son is living.
"Now, Uncle Anthony, I am going to make you a proposition. Bear in
mind, if you please, that I am the only one who can restore little
Jack to you. Only one other person knows about him and she never
heard of you, and doesn't know Jack's last name. If you will
guarantee me five thousand dollars within three months, two thousand
being cash down, I will myself bring on little Jack, and place him
in your arms. Now, I am sorry to say that the boy has a miserable
home, and is scantily supplied with the necessaries of life. A
miserable career of poverty and perhaps crime, awaits him unless you
come to my terms. Let me know as soon as possible what you propose
to do.
"A letter directed to me at the Chicago post-office will reach me
safely.
"Your affectionate nephew,
"LYMAN TAYLOR."
Anthony received this letter in due time, and deemed it of sufficient
importance to warrant a visit to New York. He wished to lay it before
Mr. Hardy, and ask his advice.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XXIX.
MARK RECEIVES A TELEGRAM.
"MY good friend," said Mr. Hardy, "have you any reason to think your
nephew's statement is to be relied upon?"
"I hope so," answered Anthony. "I am getting to be an old man, and I
should like to feel that some one of my own blood would survive me, and
profit by a part of the competence which God has bestowed upon me."
"It may be simply a money-making scheme on the part of Lyman," said the
agent, thoughtfully. "Finding that he has little chance of becoming your
heir, he wants to secure a handsome reward for restoring to you your
grandson. Why has he not proposed it before?"
"Because he did not know I had any property to leave, or else because he
supposed his own chances of inheriting good. After the last interview
with me, he probably lost the hope of profiting by my death."
"There is something in what you say, Mr. Taylor. What is your own idea?"
"I would give five thousand dollars, if necessary, to secure the return
of my grandson. It would give me an object to live for."
"I should be exceedingly sorry to see that sum pass into the hands of
such a rascal as your graceless nephew."
"Would you offer two thousand?"
"I would hold no serious negotiations with him."
"But I would run the risk of leaving the poor boy to a life of poverty,
and myself to a lonely old age."
"My idea is this. I will telegraph to Mark Manning, who is now in St.
Louis, the particulars of your nephew's offer, with instructions to go
at once to Chicago, find out Lyman, and put a detective on his track. If
his story is true, he probably visits the boy from time to time. In this
way it can be discovered where the boy lives, and steps can be taken to
secure him."
"I approve of your plan," said Anthony. "Let it be carried out at once."
"There will be this advantage," added Hardy. "Your enterprising nephew
will not realize any benefit from his nice little scheme for trading
upon your affections."
"Do as you think best, my good friend. Your judgment is always better
than mine."
John Hardy rapidly penned the following despatch.
"MARK MANNING, Planter's Hotel, St. Louis: Go at once to Chicago and
find Lyman Taylor. He knows where child is. Employ a detective, and
track him to boy's residence. Don't let him suspect your object.
Keep me apprised of your progress.
JOHN HARDY."
This despatch reached Mark within two hours. He had been in St. Louis
several days, and had learned nothing. Two or three persons had called
upon him with bogus information in the hope of a reward, but he was
sharp enough to detect the imposition. He was beginning to despair of
success when Mr. Hardy's telegram was received. Mark brightened up. He
saw his way clearer now.
He went out to purchase a ticket for Chicago, and on his return found a
second telegram in these words:
"Lyman admits knowledge of boy, and offers to restore him for five
thousand dollars."
"I will endeavor to thwart Mr. Lyman Taylor," said Mark to himself. "He
is a greater rascal than I thought."
Mark paid his bill and took the next train for Chicago. He arrived late,
and registered at the Fremont House, where he prepared himself for the
difficult work that lay before him by taking a good night's rest. In the
morning he awoke hopeful and determined, and after breakfast went out to
walk. He had no clue to the where-abouts of Lyman, but thought it
possible he might meet him as he had done before in the streets.
He walked about for two hours, keeping his eyes wide open, but though he
scanned many hundreds of faces, that of Lyman Taylor was not among them.
Yet his walk was to be more successful than he anticipated.
Little Jack still continued his street trade of selling matches. Peggy
was not willing to give up the small revenue she obtained from the boy's
sales. Sometimes, also, a compassionate passer-by would bestow a dime or
nickel on the boy, pitying him for his thin face and sad expression.
Sometimes, if Tim were not by, he would buy a cheap lunch, for the
scanty rations which he received from Peggy, left him in a chronic state
of hunger.
It was fortunate that the poor boy indulged himself thus, or his feeble
strength would hardly have held out against hunger and hard work
combined.
Unwittingly Jack had made an active enemy in Tim Roach. His refusal to
treat, Tim persuaded himself, was very mean, and his indignation was
increased by the ill-success of his attempt to secure pay for the
information given to Peggy. He was anxious to be revenged upon Jack, and
was only waiting for an opportunity.
Malice generally finds its opportunity after awhile. One day Jack set
down his basket of matches a moment while he ran into a shop to change a
twenty-five cent piece. Tim was close at hand, and slyly secured the
basket, and fled swiftly through a narrow passage-way with his booty. He
had not only secured a stock of merchandise, but he had got Jack into
trouble.
When Jack came out and found his basket gone he was in dismay.
"Who took my basket?" he inquired of an applewoman, who kept a stand
close by.
"There was a bye here just now—bigger than you. He must have run off wid
it when my back was turned away."
"Where did he go?" asked Jack, anxiously.
"I didn't mind."
"What was he like?"
"Shure I've seed him here afore wid you. You called him Tim."
"It was Tim Roach!" exclaimed Jack. "He's a mean boy. He took it to get
me into trouble."
"Shure he looks like a thafe."
The tears started to Jack's eyes.
"I don't know what to do," he said, piteously. "I am afraid Peggy will
beat me when I get home."
"Who is Peggy?" asked a new voice.
Jack looked towards the speaker. He saw a pleasant-faced boy, apparently
about sixteen.
"She's the woman I live with," answered Jack.
"What will she beat you for?" asked Mark, for it was he. He had just
come up, and hadn't heard of Jack's misfortune, but his heart was
stirred to sympathy, by the sadness visible upon the little boy's face.
"For losing my matches," and thereupon Jack told his story to his new
acquaintance.
"How much were the matches worth?" asked Mark.
"There were fourteen boxes. They cost me three cents a piece. Then there
was the basket. That cost a quarter."
"Do you know where to buy more?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then take this dollar bill, and get a new supply."
Jack's little face glowed with gratitude.
"Oh, how kind you are!" he said.
"Do you generally stand here?" asked Mark.
"Yes, sir."
"Does this Peggy send you out every day?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is she related to you?"
"I thought she was my aunt," answered the match boy, "but last evening a
gentleman called on Peggy, I heard them talking when they thought I was
asleep," Jack continued in a lower tone. "I heard the gentleman say I
had a grandfather living at the East, and that he would pay a good sum
to get hold of me. I wish he would, for Peggy doesn't give me enough to
eat, and sometimes she beats me."
"Tell me about this gentleman," said Mark in excitement. "Is he tall?"
"Yes, sir."
"With black hair and whiskers?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you know his name?"
"No, sir; but there he is now!"
Mark followed the direction of the boy's finger, and he recognized,
though his head was turned, the familiar form of Lyman Taylor on the
opposite side of the street.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XXX.
MARK MAKES ARRANGEMENTS WITH JACK.
MARK'S excitement was at fever heat. In the most wonderful manner he had
succeeded almost without an effort. He could not doubt that this boy was
the very one of whom he was in search.
He was apprehensive that Lyman would turn, and on recognizing him
penetrate his design and arrange to defeat it. But fortunately the
object of his dread appeared to have other business in hand and kept on
his way, never turning back.
"How old are you?" he asked, thinking it best to make assurance doubly
sure.
"Peggy says I'm goin' on eight," answered the match boy.
"That is the right age," thought Mark.
"Have you always lived in Chicago?" he continued.
"No, sir; Peggy brought me from St. Louis when I was a very little
child."
"I suppose you don't remember much about St. Louis?"
"I don't remember it at all."
"What does Peggy do for a living?"
Jack shrugged his shoulders.
"Nothing much," he answered; "she says she isn't well enough to work."
"Surely she does not depend wholly upon what you earn?"
"I don't know. Sometimes she gets money in a letter. I think it comes
from her son."
"Then she has a son?"
"Yes."
"Where does he live?"
"I saw one of his letters once. It said Fall River on the wrapper. I
think he works in a factory."
"Fall River is a city in Massachusetts. I have never been there, but I
hear that they have factories there."
"So you can read writing?" asked Mark after a pause.
"Yes, a little."
"And I suppose you can read books and papers?"