Philip thirsted for revenge upon Harry, but it did not seem very clear
in what way it was to be obtained. The trouble was that Harry was
always in the right in all the difficulties they had had, and was
likely to have popular sympathy on his side.
As Philip walked home, fuming with anger, it occurred to him to make a
formal complaint against Harry before a justice of the peace. But the
examination which would ensue would disclose his unjustifiable conduct
in the berry field, and he reluctantly abandoned the idea.
While in this state of mind he met a recent acquaintance, some three
years older than himself, named James Congreve.
Congreve was boarding at the village hotel, with apparently no business
on hand more pressing than smoking, fishing and lounging about the
village.
He came from the city of Brooklyn, and had been sent to this quiet
village to remove him from the temptations of the city.
He had been in several business positions, but had given satisfaction
in none, and, so far as usefulness was concerned, was perhaps as well
off here as anywhere else.
As James Congreve wore good clothes, and had a showy gold watch and
chain, which indicated worldly prosperity, Philip was glad to make his
acquaintance, for Congreve taught him to smoke and play cards for
money.
So when the two met James Congreve asked, languidly:
“What are you up to, Philip?”
“Not much,” answered Philip, suddenly.
“You look out of sorts.”
“Oh, I’ve just had a fight with a boy in the berry pasture.”
“I hope you didn’t hurt him much,” said Congreve, smiling.
“No; but I’d like to,” replied Philip, spitefully.
“Who is the villain?”
“Harry Gilbert, a low, impudent upstart.”
“Yes, I know; used to be in the grocery store, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“What’s he done now?”
“Oh, it’s too long a story to tell. He was impudent to me, that’s all.
I would like to annoy him in some way.”
“Get him into a scrape, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps we can think of some way. If you haven’t anything better to
do, come up to my room and play cards.”
“I don’t mind.”
Soon afterward the two were sitting at a small table in Congreve’s
bedroom at the hotel, playing poker.
This is essentially a gambling game, and for that reason it was a
special favorite with James Congreve. He was much more than a match for
Philip, whom he had initiated into the mysteries of the game.
“How much do I owe you, Congreve?” asked Philip, as they sat down to
their unprofitable employment.
“I don’t know, exactly; I’ve got an account somewhere,” answered
Congreve, carelessly.
“It must be as much as ten dollars,” said Philip, rather uneasily.
“Somehow, you always have more luck at the cards than I do.”
“Luck will change in time. Besides, I am in no hurry for the money.”
“I only wish an allowance of two dollars a week. Father will only give
me half of it, and mother makes up the rest. So it would take five
weeks to pay you, and leave me without a cent to spend.”
“Probably you won’t have to pay it at all. You may win it all back
to-day.”
Thus encouraged, Philip began to play, but was as unlucky as usual. He
rose from the table owing Congreve five dollars more than when he sat
down. “Just my luck!” ejaculated Philip, with a long face. “Just look
up the account and let me know what it all amounts to.”
Congreve made a little calculation, and announced, in apparent
surprise, that Philip owed him twenty-two dollars.
“It can’t be!” ejaculated Philip, in dismay.
“There’s no doubt about it,” said Congreve. “However, don’t trouble
yourself about it. I can wait. And now for your affair with this
Gilbert boy. I’ve got an idea that I may prove serviceable to you.”
During the next fifteen minutes a wicked plot was devised, of which it
was intended that Harry should be the victim. The particulars must be
reserved for the next chapter.