ON LONG ISLAND SOUND
Had he possessed plenty of leisure, Robert would have been glad to
remain in Boston long enough to see the principal objects of interest in
the city and its vicinity, but he never for a moment forgot that his
time was not his own.
He had entered the service of the hermit, and every day’s delay was so
much additional expense to his employer. True, Gilbert Huet was a rich
man, as he had himself acknowledged, but Robert was conscientious, and
felt that this would not justify him in gratifying himself at the
expense of the man who had so trusted him.
Robert felt proud of this trust--this very unusual proof of confidence
in a boy so young and inexperienced as he was--and he was ambitious to
justify it. I am sure, therefore, that he would have had little
satisfaction in postponing it out of regard to his own pleasure.
There were two ways of going to the West, which, it will be remembered,
was his destination--by the way of Albany or New York City.
Finding that it would not matter much how he went, Robert decided upon
the latter. It would enable him to see the great city of which he had
heard so much, and who knows but, in this great metropolis, which
swallows up so many, he might hear something of the lost boy?
He decided, therefore, to go at once to New York, and, after some
inquiry, he fixed upon the Fall River route.
This includes railroad travel to Fall River, a distance of about fifty
miles, where the traveler embarks on a great steamer and arrives in New
York after a night on Long Island Sound.
Guided by an advertisement in the daily papers, Robert made his way to
the Old State House, at the head of State Street, and, entering the
office of the steamboat line, asked for a ticket.
“Will you take a stateroom also?” asked the clerk.
“Is that necessary?” asked Robert, who was unused to traveling.
“No, it’s not necessary. Your ticket will entitle you to a comfortable
berth, but in a stateroom you have greater privacy.”
“What is a stateroom?” asked our hero.
The clerk was rather surprised by this question, but decided that Robert
was not accustomed to traveling and answered politely enough:
“It is very much like a room in a hotel, only much smaller. There is a
berth and a washstand, and you can lock yourself in. There is greater
security against robbery, for you hold the key and no one can enter it
without your knowledge.”
As Robert carried considerable money belonging to Mr. Huet, he felt that
he ought to take this precaution, if it were not too expensive.
“How much must I pay for a stateroom?” he asked.
“You can get a good one for a dollar.”
“Then I will take one.”
“Number fifty-six,” said the clerk, handing him a card with the number
penciled on it. “What’s your name?”
“Robert Coverdale.”
So Robert walked out of the office with his passage engaged.
This was on the morning after his arrival, and as the steamboat train
did not start till afternoon, this afforded him a chance to spend
several hours in seeing the city.
First he went to the Common and walked across it, surveying with
interest the large and noble trees which add so much beauty to a park
which, in size, is insignificant compared with the great parks of New
York and Philadelphia, but appears older and more finished than either.
He rode in various directions in the cars and enjoyed the varied sights
that passed under his notice.
At half-past four he paid his bill at the hotel and took a car which
passed the depot from which the steamboat train for New York starts.
The train was an express, and in little more than an hour he boarded the
beautiful Sound steamer.
He was astonished at its magnificence as he went upstairs to the main
saloon. As he was looking about him in rather a bewildered way a colored
man employed on the boat inquired:
“What are you looking for, young man?”
“Where shall I get a key to my stateroom?”
He was told, and, opening the door, he found himself in a comfortable
little room with two berths.
“I can pass the night here very pleasantly,” he thought. “There is some
difference between sleeping here and on a sailboat.”
Once, in company with his uncle, he had been compelled to pass the night
on the ocean in a small sailboat used for fishing purposes.
Robert left his valise in the stateroom and went into the saloon.
A gong was heard, which he found was the announcement of supper. It was
now past seven o’clock and he felt hungry. He accordingly followed the
crowd downstairs and ate a hearty meal.
When he went upstairs again the band soon began to play and helped to
while away the time. Some of the passengers read papers, others read
books and magazines, while others from the outer decks watched the
progress of the large boat as it swiftly coursed over the waves. In this
last company was Robert.
Without being aware of it, our hero attracted the notice of one of his
fellow passengers, a man possibly of thirty-five, tall and thin and
dressed in black. Finally he accosted Robert.
“A fine evening!” he remarked.
“Yes, sir, very fine.”
“You are going to New York, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you tarry there?”
“Not long. I am going to Ohio.”
“You seem young to travel alone. Perhaps, however, you have company?”
“No, sir,” Robert answered. “I am traveling alone.”
There was a look of satisfaction on the man’s face, which Robert did not
see. Even if he had he would not have known how to interpret it.
“It is pleasant to go to New York by boat,” said the stranger. “I prefer
it to the cars; that is, when I can get a stateroom. Did you secure
one?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are more fortunate than I. I found they had all been taken. I would
not care so much if I were not suffering from fever and ague.”
“I suppose you have a berth?” said Robert.
“Yes, but the berths are exposed to draughts and are not as desirable as
staterooms.”
Robert did not know that, so far from this being the case, the great
fault of the ordinary berths was a lack of air.
“I suppose your stateroom contains two berths?” said the stranger.
“Yes, I believe so.”
“I may be taking a liberty, but I have a proposal to make. If you will
allow me to occupy one of them I will pay half the cost of your room. It
would oblige me very much, but I would not ask if I were not sick.”
Robert did not entirely like this proposal. He preferred to be alone.
Still he was naturally obliging, and he hardly knew how to refuse this
favor to a sick man.
“I see you hesitate,” said the stranger. “Pray think no more of my
request. I would not mind paying the entire cost of the room, if you
will take me in. It cost you a dollar, did it not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then,” said the man, drawing a dollar bill from his pocketbook, “allow
me to pay for it and share it with you.”
“I ought not to be selfish,” thought Robert. “I would rather be alone,
but if this man is sick I think I will let him come in with me.”
He so expressed himself, and the other thanked him warmly and pressed
the dollar upon him.
“No,” said Robert, “I can’t take so much. You may pay for your
share--fifty cents.”
“You are very kind,” murmured the other.
And, replacing the bill in his pocketbook, he took out a half dollar and
tendered it to our hero.
Half an hour later both repaired to stateroom No. 56.
As they entered the room the stranger glanced at the two berths and said:
“It is only fair that you should occupy the best berth.”
“Which is the best berth?” asked Robert.
“The lower one is generally so considered,” said the other. “It is a
little wider and it is less trouble to get into it. I will take the
upper one.”
“No,” said Robert generously. “You are sick and ought to have the best.
I am perfectly well, and I shan’t mind climbing into the upper one.”
“But it seems so selfish in me,” protested the stranger, “to step into
your stateroom and take the best accommodations.”
“Not if I am willing,” responded Robert cheerfully. “So it is all
settled.”
“How kind you are!” murmured the invalid. “Though we have met so
recently, I cannot help feeling toward you as if you were my younger
brother.”
Robert thanked him, but could hardly reciprocate the feeling. In truth,
he had taken no fancy to the man whom he had accepted as roommate and
was only influenced by compassion for his reported sickness.
They undressed and retired to their berths. As the stranger was about to
step into his he said:
“It is only fair to tell you my name. I am called Mortimer Fairfax and I
am a partner in a business firm in Baltimore. Are you in business?”
“Not exactly,” answered Robert, “though I am traveling on business just
now.”
“I believe you didn’t mention your name,” said Fairfax.
“My name is Robert Coverdale.”
“An excellent name. I know a family in Philadelphia by that name. Are
you sleepy?”
“A little.”
“Then suppose we go to sleep?”
“All right. Goodnight!”
Then there was silence in the stateroom.
It was not long before Robert’s eyes closed. He had gone about
considerable during the day and was naturally fatigued. Generally he had
no difficulty in sleeping soundly, but to-night proved an exception. He
tossed about in his narrow berth and he was troubled with disagreeable
dreams. Sometimes it happens that such dreams visit us to warn us of
impending danger.
Robert finally dreamed that a pickpocket had drawn his pocketbook from
his pocket and was running away with it, and he awoke with a sudden
start, his face bathed in perspiration.
It was midnight. The band had ceased playing for two hours and all who
had staterooms had retired to them. Only here and there in the main
saloon a passenger lay asleep in an armchair.
There was a scanty light, which entered the stateroom through a small
window, and by this light Robert, half rising in bed, saw a sight that
startled him.
Mr. Mortimer Fairfax, his roommate, was out of his berth. He had taken
down Robert’s trousers from the nail on which he had hung them and was
in the act of pulling out his wallet, which he had imprudently left in
it.
This sight fully aroused the lad, and he prepared for action.
Fairfax was half bent over, and Robert, who was deeply incensed, threw
himself from the upper berth, landing on the back of his roommate, who
was borne to the floor, releasing the garment with a startled cry.
“What did you do that for?” he asked nervously.
“What business had you with my pocketbook, you thief?” demanded Robert
sternly.
Mortimer Fairfax, who had supposed Robert to be fast asleep, saw that he
was in a scrape, but he was a man fertile in expedients, and he
instantly decided upon his course.
“What do you mean?” he inquired in a tone of innocent bewilderment.
“What do I mean?” retorted our hero. “I want to know what business you
had with my pocketbook in your hand?”
“You don’t mean to say that I was meddling with your pocketbook?” said
Fairfax with an air of surprise.
“That is exactly what I do say, Mr. Fairfax. If I hadn’t waked up just
as I did, you would have had all my money, and I should have been
penniless. That is the sort of fever and ague that troubles you, I
suppose.”
“My young friend,” said Fairfax, “I am shocked at what you tell me. I do
not blame you for accusing me. If I were in your place and you in mine,
I should no doubt act in the same way. Yet I am entirely innocent, I can
assure you.”
“It don’t look much like it,” Robert said, rather astonished at the
man’s effrontery. “When I find you examining my pockets and taking out
my pocketbook, it looks very much as if you were trying to rob me.”
“True, it does. I admit it all. But if you knew me, you would see how
groundless, nay, how absurd such suspicions are. Why, I am a rich man. I
am worth fifty thousand dollars.”
“Then why did you try to rob me?”
“I did not. It was only in appearance. Did you ever hear of a
somnambulist?”
“No.”
“It is one who gets up in his sleep and is entirely unconscious of what
he does. From early youth--from the days of my innocent boyhood--I have
been a victim of this unfortunate malady.”
“Do you often steal in your sleep?” inquired Robert sarcastically.
“Not often, but I have done it before. Once, when a boy, I got up and
took a purse from the pocket of my uncle, who occupied the same room
with me.”
“What did your uncle say?” Robert asked with some curiosity.
“He was angry till my mother assured him that I was a somnambulist and
not responsible for what I did at such a time. Then we had a good laugh,
over it.”
“Do you mean to say, Mr. Fairfax, that when you had your hand in my
pocket just now you were asleep?”
“Sound asleep. I had no idea that I was out of my berth.”
“You seemed to wake up pretty quick afterward!”
“To be sure I did! I rather think you would wake up, too, if I should
jump upon your back from the top berth! But I forgive you--don’t
apologize, I beg. I should have been misled, as you were, if our
situations had been changed.”
Certainly Mr. Mortimer Fairfax was cool.
In his limited acquaintance with the world Robert had never dreamed of
the existence of such a character, but he was gifted with shrewd common
sense, and he did not for an instant believe the story which the other
palmed off upon him.
“Mr. Fairfax,” he said, “shall I tell you what I think of your story?”
“Yes, if you please.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“What!” exclaimed Fairfax sadly. “Is it possible you believe that I
would rob you, my kind benefactor?”
“I don’t pretend to be your benefactor, but I haven’t a doubt about
it.”
“My dear young friend,” said Fairfax, putting his handkerchief to his
eyes, “you grieve me deeply--indeed you do! I had thought you would
understand me better. You do not consider that I am a rich man and can
have no object in depriving you of your little store of money. Let us go
to bed and forget this unpleasant little circumstance.”
“No, Mr. Fairfax, you cannot stay here any longer. I insist upon your
dressing yourself and leaving the stateroom!”
“But, my young friend. It is the middle of the night!”
“I can’t help it!” said Robert resolutely.
“And, in my delicate health, it would be dangerous.”
“I don’t believe you are in delicate health, but I can’t help it if you
are. You must go!”
“You forget,” said Fairfax in a different tone, “that half of the
stateroom is mine. I have paid for it.”
“Then I will return the money. Here it is.”
“I prefer to remain here.”
“If you don’t go,” said Robert energetically, “I will call for help and
report that you tried to rob me!”
“You will repent this unkind treatment,” said Fairfax sullenly, but he
proceeded to dress nevertheless, and in a few minutes he left the
stateroom.
Robert locked the door after him and then, returning to bed, he said
with a sigh of relief:
“Now I can sleep without fear. I am sure that fellow is a rascal, and I
am glad to be rid of him.”