MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
Herbert Harkins was now consumed with a burning desire to meet the
mysterious stranger. He had an actual interest in clearing the memory
of his father; but above and beyond that he was now filled with a
boyish curiosity which insisted upon being satisfied. The thought of
the stranger occupied his waking hours, and even disturbed his rest
at night. When he was out of doors he stared at all the big men he
happened to meet, in order to discover, if possible, a burly man with
broad shoulders and a shock of red hair. At times this peculiar quest
seemed so absurd that he felt like abandoning it altogether; but such
periods of depression were invariably followed by a resolution to
persevere till he had accomplished his desire.
This sort of thing went on day after day without bringing any practical
results. Just when Herbert was beginning to tire of it, the thought
flashed across his mind that publicity was frequently a way of
obtaining things that could not be found by ordinary efforts. In other
words, he flew to the personal columns of the daily newspapers for
assistance. The result of this was the following advertisement which
appeared one morning in the New York Herald:
“Will the stranger who called on David Harkins at Cleverly very late
one night about five years ago kindly send his address to H. H., care
of General Delivery, Post Office. By doing so he may be the instrument
of redeeming the memory of a good man.”
Herbert was very much pleased with the phrasing of this advertisement.
There was an air of romance about it that appealed quite strongly to
his youthful fancy. The day after its appearance he hurried to the post
office with the expectation of receiving a letter, but he was doomed to
disappointment. No reply of any kind had been received. On the second
day he called at the post office again, and this time was rewarded by
the receipt of a very much soiled postal card. The writer informed him
that he had called on David Harkins at Cleverly about five years ago
and would be glad to meet the person who was in quest of information.
The address given was that of a low-grade lodging house on the Bowery.
Herbert felt a trifle disappointed at the tone of this communication,
but nevertheless resolved to run it out to the end. He visited the
Bowery that afternoon, and was received by a short, stout man with a
very red nose and a somewhat husky voice.
“You sent me this postal card,” said Herbert, exhibiting the square
piece of manila board.
“Yes,” said the other, with a leer, “what is there in it for me if I
give you the information you are after?”
“I don’t know that that has anything to do with it,” said Herbert.
“Oh, yes,” retorted the other, with a chuckle, “it has everything to do
with it, my young chappie. I’m a business man.”
“A business man?” queried Herbert.
“Yes, sir, a business man. My motto is, no cash no information. That’s
plain enough, isn’t it?”
“Too plain,” said Herbert, picking up his hat and starting towards the
door.
“Hold on!” cried the other, jumping up; “I don’t want much from you,
and I’ll tell you anything you wish to know.”
“I have no doubt of it,” replied Herbert; “but unfortunately you are
not the man I want.”
“Oh, yes, I am,” insisted the other eagerly, “I’m the man that called
on David Harkins at Cleverly.”
Herbert shook his head and shrugged his shoulders; then as if it were
an afterthought, he turned to the seedy-looking person and said:
“Do you insist that you are the identical man who called on David
Harkins?”
“I insist,” repeated the man, trying to draw himself up in a dignified
way.
“Now, I am sure that I have no business with you,” said Herbert,
“because it so happens that the man who called on David Harkins had
bright red hair--it was bushy, too, while you are almost bald-headed
and your hair is black.”
The fellow snickered a little at this, and said:
“I lost me hair durin’ a very bad attack o’ fever.”
Herbert could not forbear smiling himself.
“I suppose the color turned, too, at the same time.”
“Yes,” answered the man, “it did indeed. You needn’t laugh. Scientific
men will tell you that a man’s hair often changes color in a single
night.”
“Well, good-by,” said Herbert, “I’ll leave you to settle that with the
scientists.”
Three weeks passed by after this amusing episode and Herbert received
no further replies from the personal that he had inserted in the
Herald. He was reading the paper one afternoon, and while running his
trained eye down the many columns of small advertisements, happened to
see his own name in print. He looked closer, and this is what he read:
“If Herbert Harkins, son of the late David Harkins, of Cleverly, New
Jersey, will make his whereabouts known to the undersigned, he may
learn of something to his advantage. Write without delay to Captain
Thomas Janson, Anchor Inn, Jersey City, N. J.”
Feverish with anxiety, Herbert immediately sent a letter in response
to this advertisement. Within forty-eight hours after that he received
an answer, written in a large, sprawling hand, inviting him to call on
Captain Janson at his domicile in Jersey City. He responded without
delay. He found Anchor Inn to be an obscure hotel in a deserted part of
the town. It was a popular resort for seafaring men. Upon inquiry for
Captain Janson, he was informed that the Captain had removed that very
morning to a new two-story house which he had erected on the outskirts
of the city. He had left a message for Herbert, however, giving him
explicit directions where he could find his new domicile.
Herbert listened very carefully, and then made his way to the address
that had been given him. He found it to be the quaintest looking house
it had ever been his good fortune to gaze upon. The front of it was
shaped like the prow of a boat, and under the eaves of the house was
a wooden effigy of a mermaid, shaped and painted like those used upon
sailing craft in the Eastern waters. He rang the bell, and the call
was answered by a colored youth dressed up in blue clothing, with
brass buttons, to represent a cabin boy. He was ushered into a small,
low-ceilinged apartment which resembled the captain’s quarters upon a
boat. The beds on either side of the room were fitted up to resemble
bunks. The windows had been so constructed that they were perfect
reproductions of port holes. A little desk, a brass-rimmed clock, such
as can be seen in the cabins of pleasure yachts, a coil of rope, a
large marine glass, and cheap colored pictures of the admirals of the
United States Navy adorned the walls of this strangely furnished room.
Presently the door of an adjoining apartment opened and a big, brawny
man, with the rolling gait of a sailor, entered the room. His face was
as red as a boiled lobster; his hands were thick-skinned and broad.
He had wide shoulders and--this detail made an immediate impression
upon Herbert--he also possessed a heavy shock of red hair. The
identification was complete. This man, beyond a doubt, was the person
who had been with his father on that eventful night.
“Avast there, my hearty!” shouted the newcomer, putting out his broad
hand to meet the outstretched palm of his caller; “what are you doing
aboard my craft?”
“My name is Herbert Harkins,” said the young man, “and I came here in
response to your letter.”
The seaman stopped short with an exclamation on the tip of his
tongue. He stood in the center of the room with his hands on his hips
and rolled his head from side to side as he stared at Herbert with
unblinking eyes. The scrutiny appeared to satisfy him.
“So you’re Dave Harkins’ boy, are you? Well, you look like him; you
look like him just as he appeared when he was a young man. You’re
different from him in some ways, but the resemblance is there just the
same. You’re more like a chip off the old block than the old block
itself. Now, boy, take a seat on that steamer chair there, get out your
log book and tell me all about your journey through life.”
“All right, sir,” replied Herbert, taking the proffered seat; “I’ll do
so.”
“By the way,” interrupted the Captain, “before you talk about yourself,
tell me about your father.”
“You know that father is dead?” began Herbert.
“Yes, I know that,” answered the other, “but I want some details about
it.”
“All right, I’ll try to give them to you.”
“By the way,” he interrupted again, as Herbert started to talk, “will
you have a glass of grog to wet your whistle?”
“No, sir,” replied Herbert, “I don’t drink.”
“Good for you; you’re a good deal better without it; but an old salt
like myself couldn’t do without his pipe and his grog, especially in
his old days.”
Herbert then proceeded to tell the old sailor all about his father, and
when he spoke of the mysterious midnight visit and the cloud of false
rumors that had arisen therefrom the Captain’s face clouded and he
walked up and down the floor of his little cabin shaking his fist.
“The lubbers!” he shouted, “they ought to have been tied to the mast
and given a dose of a cat o’ nine tails.”
Having finished this part of his narrative, Herbert then proceeded to
tell the story of his own life, and at its conclusion the old salt put
out his brawny hand, and taking Herbert’s, gave it a hearty grasp.
“Your story is mighty interesting. I’m mighty glad to hear it, and I
think I am in a position to be your friend.”
“I am glad of that,” responded Herbert, “and I’m very curious to find
out the real meaning of that midnight visit.”
“I’ll give it to you, my boy, and in mighty quick order. I was a
boyhood chum of your father. We grew up together, went to school
together, and one never had a thing that wasn’t shared by the other.
I had no idea of the sea in my youth; but shortly after I got to be a
boy of about your age I was entrusted with a sum of money belonging to
another person. I was a sort of trustee. In an evil moment some fellow
came along and showed me how it would be possible to double the money
without any risk. I tried it, and lost every cent. While I was in this
condition, I was called upon to make an accounting of the trust money.
In my extremity I went to your father and explained everything. He
gave me every penny that he had in the world in order to make good the
loss, and my reputation was saved and I had learned a lesson that I
have never forgotten since then. I was a wild boy in my younger days. I
owed a great deal of money, and finally determined to take to the sea
as a means of cooling down my hot blood. During the next ten years I
sailed over every part of the civilized globe. I became a master and
traded extensively in the Chinese seas. I was fortunate, made money,
and finally came home to retire upon my savings.
“The first man I thought of,” said the Captain, leaning back in his
easy chair, “was Dave Harkins. I determined to hunt him up and pay him
the few hundred dollars he had so generously given me at a critical
time in my life. I got to Cleverly late at night; the hotel was closed
so that I was unable to secure accommodations there. The thought
struck me that I might find Harkins at home. I went to his house, and
fortunately found him at a moment when he needed my help just as I had
formerly needed his. I compelled him to take that thousand dollars, and
I made a condition that he was not to tell of my whereabouts until I
got ready to make myself known to the world. I wanted to clear up all
of my old debts and to rehabilitate myself before my old friends before
I revealed my identity. After leaving him I went to New York, and
carrying out a program that had already been arranged, went abroad to
settle up some business interests that I had in Liverpool. I came back,
only to hear that David Harkins was dead. I was told that the family
had moved from Cleverly, and accepted the report without attempting to
verify it. Years went by, but I was never quite satisfied. I hunted
around in a vague sort of way to find Harkins’ boy. Only last week it
occurred to me that a personal in the Herald might bring some results,
and thank goodness it did, because here you are with me in the flesh.”
“I am very grateful to hear all of this,” said Herbert after the old
sailor had finished; “I can assure you that it makes me very happy
indeed. I never doubted my father at any time; but it is a great
satisfaction to have the whole matter settled and to have these painful
rumors dispelled as you have dispelled them.”
The Captain arose from his chair, took a turn or two around the room,
and then putting his arm around Herbert’s shoulder, said:
“My boy, we’ll dispel them in such a way that they’ll never be heard of
again. Mark one thing down, and mark it down plain: I’m your friend,
and your friend for life.”