When Skinny the Swiper, standing in the little country burying-ground,
looked upon the time-stained marble slab, and deciphered the inscription
upon it, he opened his eyes in wonder, and for the second time within
five minutes, uttered the exclamation which he kept on hand for such
emergencies as demanded something more vigorous and expressive than
commonplace English.
“Hully gee!” was all that this little New York street boy had to say;
but coming from him it possessed a deeper significance than is conveyed
by the cold type which spells the words.
First he looked at the grave-stone, and then he looked at Bruce Decker,
and finally he asked: “Wuz dat your mother?”
“Yes,” replied Bruce, simply.
Skinny said nothing but he thought a great deal; and while he was
thinking he scratched his head and looked down at the half obliterated
mound of earth that marked the grave of Mrs. Decker. From the very first
he had suspected that there was some connection between the gallant
young fire laddie, who had saved his life and carried him from the
burning building, and the scarred and bearded man who had sent him to
this remote corner of the world. He had not forgotten that he had been
solemnly charged not to breathe a word to any human being in regard to
his strange errand, and he had an intuitive feeling that if he violated
in any way the trust reposed in him, his employer would learn of it, and
mete out to him a terrible vengeance, instead of the liberal reward that
he had promised.
On the other hand, he saw before him the boy who had done for him what
no one else in the world would have done for a friendless, ragged child
of the streets, and for a moment he hesitated as to which of these two
masters he should choose to serve. To the one he owed a certain amount
of loyalty—a few dollars worth, perhaps—but to the other he owed his
life. He raised his eyes, and encountered the clear, honest, truthful
ones of Bruce, which looked him square in the face, and he hesitated no
longer. Rough contact with the world had taught him to be suspicious of
others, and it was rare enough in his career that he had encountered any
one whom he fully trusted. But there was that in Bruce’s face which
caused him to say to himself: “Dat man is all right, an’ white,” which
is a high compliment for a newsboy to pay any one.
Having reached the conclusion that Bruce was the best friend he was
likely to have in the world, he took from his pocket the written
instructions which Mr. Korwein had given him, handed the paper to the
new master whom he had elected to serve, and blurted out: “Hay, boss,
ain’t dat de same party?”
To say that Bruce was surprised when he saw his mother’s name written in
an unknown handwriting, and in the possession of his little hospital
friend but feebly describes his condition of mind.
“Come over here with me,” he said, as he led the way to a low stone
wall, somewhat remote from the couples who were walking up and down the
paths, laughing and whispering and talking. Then, seating himself on a
convenient bowlder, he said to Skinny: “How in the world did you ever
get hold of this paper?”
And Skinny in reply told him the whole story of the dark-bearded man,
who had summoned him to his office, and sent him away to the shore of
the great inland lake, simply to get information about Mary Decker and
her son, if son she had. Skinny’s recital occupied nearly a quarter of
an hour, for he stretched it so as to include his adventures while on
the road from New York, and the circumstances which had led to his
becoming what he called a haymaker. Bruce listened intently to every
word the boy uttered, and questioned him narrowly in regard to Mr.
Korwein and his motive in entrusting him with such a strange commission.
Of course Skinny could not account for the man’s motives, and, indeed,
that was something he had not troubled himself about. It was enough to
him that his employer wished to obtain certain information, and was
willing to pay for it. So long as he could be well paid for his work he
did not concern himself about people’s motives, or ask what would be
done with the information which he supplied. But he did not neglect to
mention the fact that in telling as much as he had, he had betrayed his
employer, and he warned his friend to keep strictly to himself all that
he had told him. Bruce readily agreed to this, and then, as the
afternoon had already merged into twilight, they returned to the
village, Skinny, passing on to Mr. Wolcott’s house and Bruce going to
that of the friends whom he was visiting.
The following evening the two boys met again by agreement, and, with his
friends assistance, Skinny composed and sent to his employer in New York
the following letter:
“MR. KORWEIN—
DEAR SIR:—I went up to the cemetery yesterday, and seen the grave,
which had on it
Sacred to the memory
of
Mary, wife of Frank Decker.
Born Dec. 1st, 1855,
Died Sept. 5th, 1877.
There wasn’t no other graves of any folks named Decker. I am still
on the farm. No more at present. From
SKINNY.”
Then he entrusted to Bruce his employer’s address and bade him good-bye
with a parting injunction not to let the man know where he learned of
him; and with this address in his pocket, Bruce climbed aboard a New
York train, said good-bye to a number of admiring villagers who
accompanied him to the depot and was borne away toward New York, while
the street boy walked slowly back to the Wolcott’s.
[Illustration: Skinny writes a letter to Mr. Korwein.—_Page 270._]
As the train rolled swiftly along our young hero sat with his face
pressed against the car window looking out into the quiet night and
thinking over the strange things that happened to him of late. To begin
with, there was this dark bearded man of mystery who, he was positive,
could tell him everything that he wished to know; and who was this
ragged newsboy whom he had befriended—could it be possible that he was
simply a hireling of the other and that he had been sent to Rocky Point
to spy upon him? No, he could not doubt Skinny’s sincerity, and the
feeling had been growing daily within him that through him the mystery
which enveloped his early days and even his origin would finally be
cleared up. One thing he had determined, and that was that as soon as he
reached New York he would go to Mr. Korwein and boldly ask him—what?
That was the trouble. What should he ask him? He would feel very foolish
saying to that scarred and bearded gentleman: “Please sir will you tell
me who I am and clear up the mystery which enshrouds me?”
His mind was still busy with this problem when the monotonous motion of
the train got the better of his senses and he fell into a deep sleep.
And just at that moment Skinny the Swiper was lying wide awake in the
comfortable attic room in which Mr. Wolcott had installed him and was
asking himself what it all meant. Why should Mr. Korwein have sent him
up to Rocky Point, and what had he to do with the grave of the young
fireman’s mother? For the life of him he could not make it out and then
he wondered if Mr. Korwein would ever find out about his treachery and
at the thought of that great man’s wrath he curled himself up in bed,
drew the clothes up over his face and resolved that he would remain on
the farm until he had changed beyond all recognition. “Anyway,” he said
to himself, “dis is a better place dan de Bowery, because dere’s more to
eat an’ a place to sleep.”
And then he too fell asleep and did not waken until the daylight was
streaming through the window over his head and Mrs. Wolcott calling to
him from the foot of the staircase.
The little newsboy found life so pleasant during the autumnal weather on
the shore of Lake Ontario that he began to think seriously of settling
down to an agricultural life. The air was fine and bracing, the food
plentiful and nutritious and the farmer and his wife treated him with
great kindness and did not ask him to do more than a boy’s amount of
work. Skinny’s life had been a hard one, and never in his recollection
had he had as much to eat or enjoyed himself more than he had since his
arrival in the little country place on the shore of the great lake. Good
treatment was something that was more of a novelty to him than kicks and
curses, and when his naturally suspicious mind grasped the fact that the
farmer and his wife were kind to him, not because they expected to get
the better of him in any way, but because it was their nature to be kind
to all living things, and that they trusted him implicitly and seemed
inclined to trust him so long as he proved worthy, it occurred to him
for almost the first time in his life that there were some people in the
world who did not go about with their hands lifted against such Arabs as
himself, and he determined to repay their confidence with absolute
fidelity to their interests.
He had remained with them nearly a month, and, as has been said already
was beginning to think favorably of an agricultural life when something
occurred which drove all ideas of rural felicity out of his mind and
sent him adrift in the world once more. The something which served to
alter his intentions was a letter which came to him one morning in the
mail. It was from Bruce Decker who wanted to know how much longer he
intended to stay in the country, and whether he could be induced to make
a little trip to the city for the purpose of rendering him (Bruce) an
important service.
As the newsboy finished spelling out his friend’s epistle, a gleam of
delight came into his freckled face. Here was another friend who treated
him like a human being and came to him as to some one whom he could
trust to render him a service. Thrusting the letter into the inside
pocket of his jacket he buttoned that faded and rather rusty garment
tightly about him and went at once to his employer.
“Say, boss, I gotter go ter de city ter night,” was the way in which
Skinny announced his intended departure.
“To-night!” exclaimed the farmer, who was accustomed to slow country
ways rather than to Skinny’s metropolitan swiftness of action, “What’s
the matter? Don’t we use you right?”
“Use me right? Why, boss, der aint nobody never used me no whiter den
you an’ de missus, but I’ve gotter go on important bizness an’ if yer’ll
lemme come back when de biz is done, I’ll stop wid yer till I’m a
reg’lar haymaker.”
The farmer saw that the boy was in earnest, and although both he and his
wife were sorry to have him go they made no attempt to dissuade him, but
fitted him out with a new hat and shoes, and then to the lad’s intense
surprise handed him a five-dollar note as a present.
“Wot’s dis fur?” he demanded, looking with his keen, suspicious little
blue eyes from the greenback in his hand to the farmer’s ruddy and
honest face. He had agreed to work for his keep and never before in his
experience had any one of his numerous employers paid him a nickel more
than he was obliged to.
“You’ve earned it, my boy,” said the farmer heartily, “and if you want
to come back again you’ll find a home for you here the same as before.
You’ve saved me hiring an extra man since you have been here and next
summer if you choose to pitch in and work the same as you have this
fall, I’ll do better by you than this.”
Skinny was a boy of but few words, but sometimes he did a good deal of
quiet thinking. He said but little in farewell to his friends, but as he
was passing through the gate he turned for a last look at the house
which had given him shelter and at the farmer and his wife who were
still standing in the doorway and who had treated him with so much
kindness.
The night train bore him swiftly to New York and by nine o’clock the
next morning he was standing in front of the superintendent of the
Newsboys’ Lodging House, in negotiation for what he described as
“first-class commerdations widder best grub in der place.”
Having made arrangements for food and lodging, the boy started uptown
with the intention of seeing Bruce at the truck quarters, but he had not
gone many blocks before he felt a strong hand on his shoulder and heard
a stern voice behind him saying: “And so you’ve turned up again, you
young rascal! Now, let’s hear what you have to say for yourself!”
The newsboy knew the voice at once. There was no need for him to turn
his head. He felt that the hand of fate, in the person of the tall,
black-bearded man, had overtaken him. But it was not the first time that
the hand of vengeance or justice had fallen upon him, and no one knew
better than Skinny that such a grasp is not always a sure one. Without
even turning his head or uttering a single sound the boy simply slid out
of his jacket, twisted himself free and darted around the nearest
corner, leaving his captor standing on the sidewalk with the ragged
jacket in his hand and on his face a look of rage that it was well for
Skinny’s peace of mind that he did not see.
“I’ll catch him yet, the young vagabond, and find out what he’s been
doing all this time!” muttered the tall man between his teeth as he
looked down at the shabby garment which remained in his hand as evidence
of the brief captivity and sudden, eel-like escape of Skinny the Swiper.
He was about to throw the jacket in the gutter, for it would look odd to
be seen carrying it through the crowded streets, when his eye fell upon
the corner of an envelope protruding from an inside pocket, and thinking
that it might contain a clue to the boy’s haunts in the city, he took it
out and examined it. It was simply a letter written two days before, but
it was the signature of Bruce Decker which arrested the attention of the
man who read it and brought a sudden gleam into his eyes.