JOHN TRAFTON’S NEW PLAN
With the new but unlawful purpose which he had begun to entertain John
Trafton resolved to find out all he could about the hermit, and he
rightly judged that Robert could give him more information than anybody
else.
He decided to go home early and question his nephew cautiously. If he
could find out something about the hermit’s habits and peculiarities it
would help him in his plan, for there was no beating about the bush
now.
He acknowledged to himself that he meant to enter the cave, and if he
could only find the gold, which he was persuaded the occupant owned in
large quantities, to enrich himself at his expense.
His imagination was dazzled at the prospect. All his life he had been
working for a bare living. Probably, in his most prosperous year, not
over three hundred dollars in money had come into his hands as the
recompense of his toil.
Probably there are few people who do not, at some time, indulge in
dreams of sudden wealth. This time had come to John Trafton, and,
unfortunately, the temptation which came with it was so powerful as to
confuse his notions of right and wrong and almost to persuade him that
there was nothing very much out of the way in robbing the recluse of his
hoards.
“It don’t do him any good,” argued the fisherman, “while it would make
me comfortable for life. If I had ten thousand dollars, or even five,
I’d go away from here and live like a gentleman. My wife should be
rigged out from top to toe, and we’d jest settle down and take things
easy.”
John Trafton was not very strict in his principles, and his conscience
did not trouble him much. Even if it had, the dazzling picture which his
fancy painted of an easy and luxurious future would probably have
carried the day.
It was only eight o’clock in the evening when the fisherman lifted the
latch of the outer door and entered the cabin.
His wife and Robert looked up in surprise, for it was about two hours
earlier than he generally made his appearance.
Another surprise--his gait and general appearance showed that he was
quite sober. This was gratifying, even if it was the result of his
credit being exhausted.
During the preceding week it may be mentioned that he had worked more
steadily than usual, having made several trips in his boat, and had thus
been enabled to pay something on his score at the tavern.
John Trafton sat down before the fire.
His wife was mending stockings by the light of a candle which burned on
the table at her side and Robert was absorbed by the fascinating pages
of Scott’s “Rob Roy.”
A side glance showed the fisherman how his nephew was employed, and,
rightly judging where the book came from, he seized upon it as likely to
lead to the questions he wanted to ask.
“What book have you got there, Bob?” he inquired.
“It Is a story by Sir Walter Scott, uncle.”
“Never heard of him. Does he live in Boston?” asked Trafton.
“No, he was a Scotchman.”
“Some Scotchmen are pretty smart, I’ve heard tell.”
“Scott was a wonderful genius,” said Robert, glowing with enthusiasm.
“I dare say he was,” said the fisherman placidly. “Where did you get the
book?”
“I borrowed it of the hermit.”
This was the name which Robert used, for even now he had no knowledge of
his mysterious friend’s name.
“Has he got many books?”
“A whole bookcase full.”
“He must be a rich man,” suggested John Trafton with apparent
carelessness.
“I think he is,” said Robert, wondering a little at his uncle’s newborn
interest in his new acquaintance, but suspecting nothing of his design
in asking the question.
“It stands to reason he must be,” continued the fisherman. “He doesn’t
do anything for a living.”
“No.”
“Then, of course, he’s got enough to live on.”
“Besides, all his furniture is very nice,” cried Robert, falling into
the trap. “He seems not to mind money and talks as if he was always used
to it.”
“I s’pose he pays you for running of errands for him,” said Trafton.
“Yes,” answered Robert reluctantly, for he feared that his uncle would
ask to have the money transferred to him. But the next words of Trafton
reassured him.
“That’s all right,” he said. “You can spend the money as you please. I
don’t ask you for any of it.”
“Thank you, uncle,” said Robert warmly.
Mrs. Trafton regarded her husband in surprise. He was appearing in a
character new to her. What could his sudden unselfishness mean?
“I only asked because I didn’t want you to work for nothing, Bob,” said
his uncle, not wishing it to appear that he had any other motive, as his
plan must, of course, be kept secret from all.
“I wouldn’t mind working for nothing, uncle. It would be small pay for
his saving my life,” Robert said with perfect sincerity.
“He wouldn’t want you to do it--a rich man like him,” returned the
fisherman complacently. “It’s the only money he has to spend, except
what he pays for victuals. I’m glad you’ve fallen in with him. You might
as well get the benefit of his money as anybody.”
“Uncle seems to think I only think of money,” Robert said to himself
with some annoyance. “I begin to like the hermit. He is very kind to
me.”
He did not give utterance to this thought, rightly deeming that it would
not be expedient, but suffered his uncle to think as he might.
“Does the hermit always stay at home in the evening?” asked the
fisherman after a pause.
“Sometimes he goes out in his boat late at night and rows about half the
night. I suppose he gets tired of being alone or else can’t sleep.”
John Trafton nodded with an expression of satisfaction.
This would suit his plans exactly. If he could only enter the cave in
one of these absences, he would find everything easy and might
accomplish his purpose without running any risk.
It was clear to him now that the gold of which the trader spoke was
given to his nephew by the hermit. He was justified in thinking so, as
there was no other conceivable way in which Robert could have obtained
it. He coveted the ten-dollar gold piece, but he was playing for a
higher stake and could afford to let that go for the present at least.
The fisherman lit his pipe and smoked thoughtfully.
His wife was not partial to the odor of strong tobacco, but tobacco, she
reflected, was much to be preferred to drink, and if her husband could
be beguiled from the use of the latter by his pipe then she would gladly
endure it.
John Trafton smoked about ten minutes in silence and then rose from his
chair.
“I guess I’ll go out on the beach and have my smoke there,” he said as
he took his hat from the peg on which he had hung it on entering the
cabin.
“You’re not going back to the tavern, John?” said his wife in alarm.
“No, I’ve quit the tavern for to-night. I’ll just go out on the beach
and have my smoke there. I won’t be gone very long.”
When Trafton had descended from the cliff to the beach he took the
direction of the hermit’s cave.
Of course he had been in that direction a good many times, but then
there was nothing on his mind and he had not taken particular notice of
the entrance or its surroundings.
It was a calm, pleasant moonlight night and objects were visible for a
considerable distance. Trafton walked on till he stood at the foot of
the cliff containing the cave. There was the rude ladder leading to the
entrance. It was short. It could be scaled in a few seconds, and the box
or chest of gold, in whose existence Trafton had a thorough belief,
could be found. But caution must be used. Possibly the hermit might be
at home, and if he were, he would, of course, be awake at that hour.
Besides, the cave was dark and he had no light.
“When I come I will bring matches and a candle,” thought the fisherman.
“I can’t find the gold unless I can see my way. What a fool this hermit
must be to stay in such a place when with his money he could live
handsomely in the city! But I don’t find fault with him for that. It’s
so much the better for me.”
He turned his eyes toward the sea, and by the light of the moon he saw
the hermit’s slender skiff approaching. The old man was plainly visible,
with his long gray hair floating over his shoulders as he bent to the
oars.
“He mustn’t see me,” muttered the fisherman. “I had better go home.”