"MICE AND MEN GANG AFT A-GLEY"
The return of Job Worth to London was not at all joyous. He sat upon the
deck in his ship chair or lay in his bunk drawing darkest pictures of his
defeat, as he called it. Nor was there any elation in his feelings when,
upon his arrival at the bank, the cashier handed him a check for three
thousand pounds, as a reward for the restoration of the fifty thousand
pounds. Yes, it was something to be sure; yet not much. There was chagrin
in it all, and he continually felt this, as he mingled with his
colleagues. To him it was--well--failure. At this time, there was another
meeting of the bank directors. Nearly all were present. The cashier
presided. Something had happened again. Was it another robbery? But no,
the atmosphere was different. Mr. Bone presented the case in a nutshell:
A package had been received from New York containing fifty thousand
pounds, and a letter had accompanied the money. It ran thus:
"MR. STEPHEN BONE, Cashier, Bank of England:
"Inclosed find a receipt from Express Company, which will be delivered to
you, for the sum of fifty thousand pounds, which is one third of the
amount borrowed from you a little over a year ago. Please to acknowledge
its receipt to Express Company, and oblige,
"Yours penitently, ANDREW COURTENAY."
"This money," said the cashier, "was received yesterday and is now in the
vault. Permit me to congratulate the Board upon having now received two
thirds of the stolen money."
"Does anyone know who Andrew Courtenay is?" asked one of the directors.
"No," replied Mr. Bone, as the others sat silent, "I presume not. It is
not vital, however, since the name is most likely fictitious."
Job Worth was given a vote of thanks for his services in restoring the
fifty thousand pounds, and it was resolved that in each case where the
money was refunded further prosecution would cease.
One day, soon after Job's return, he sat in his bachelor quarters,
brooding over his ill luck, as he called it. So intense was his
disappointment that he began to doubt his fitness for the calling he had
entered, and to think seriously of resigning. True, he had been credited
with two or three successful investigations, but this last undertaking
could hardly be called a success. He had spent four hundred dollars in
recovering one third of the stolen money, and had suffered the thief to
outgeneral him. He concluded that he was stupid. Why had he not arrested
him while he had a chance? But he had allowed Thurston to put him to
sleep, and then possess himself of his watch and a hundred pounds of his
money, slipping away while he slept, leaving him a prisoner in his own
room. Surely Thurston, instead of himself, had played the detective.
While in this despondent mood one of his brother officers made his
appearance and was greeted with a decidedly doleful "Good morning, Nick."
But the other's response was more cheerful. "Job," he said, "I'm glad to
see you again after your trip. I understand that the bank people honored
you with a vote of thanks. That was a great thing you did in getting that
pile of the bank's money."
Nick Hanson and Job Worth were of the same class in the department, and
had been admitted on the same date. Nick was every inch an athlete,
fearless and enduring. He was anything but good looking with his broad
face, short limbs, and heavy body. He had made pugilism and wrestling his
study, because they were his delight. Every man in the service respected
his prowess. They all knew that Nick had never been out-classed in
athletic sports. Yet, better than any or all of these qualifications,
were his character and disposition. He was the soul of honor and gentle
as a little child. He had a gentle and musical voice. Men used to say
that Nick Hanson's laugh was worth fifty dollars a month. They called him
"Old Nick," but no man among them was further away from that august
personage in character and personality.
"Yes, Job," Nick continued as the two shook hands, "I came in to
congratulate you on your successful trip and to welcome you home again. I
think the bank has done the right thing by you."
It did not take many minutes for Nick to discover that his
congratulations, while appreciated, were not entirely acceptable, and he
went on to say: "Job, there was not a man among us that as much as
suspected those kids of having done that slick job at the bank."
And, sure enough, this was true, and Worth unquestionably deserved credit
for the original thought as well as for the ends accomplished. And
although he had not succeeded in capturing the thief, he had restored one
third of the stolen money. Surely, this merited the congratulations of
all honest men.
Worth could not withstand the cheery words and more cheery laugh of his
friend. Indeed no one could. None had ever heard Nick speak an angry
word. He brought sunshine with him everywhere, even when engaged in the
most serious work of his profession. He was the hardest man in the
department to comprehend, and yet he was without a peer in frankness and
good nature. Nick's genial spirit had somewhat restored job to his usual
equanimity, and Nick knew it.
"It seems, Job," remarked Hanson, "that there were three of those
rascals, and they divided the spoils equally. Let me see--Thurston,
McLaren, and Blair. There is only one left. Is there no way to find out
which it is? Two have been exempted from further prosecution, and I
suppose the third one will be, if the money is given up."
"Would you know the third one if you could come across him, Nick?"
"Yes," replied Hanson, "I would know them all anywhere. And I think I
could find McLaren, but since I believe he is one of the men
forgiven--having given up the money--I don't want him. Blair is the
fellow we want. Good-by, Job, I'm going away."
And it was four months before these two friends met again during which
interval one of them, at least, had an eventful experience.