Herbert returned to New York from Cleverly in the gayest of spirits. He
was happier than he had been for years, and was filled with a desire
to communicate this light-hearted feeling to everyone that he met. The
fact that the long standing cloud had been removed from the memory of
his father made him forget his own troubles for the time at least. A
week before everything had appeared dark and gloomy; but now the dawn
had arrived and the earth assumed a cheerful appearance. With the
light-heartedness of youth, he looked forward to a future of prosperity
and uninterrupted happiness.
The time was within a month of Christmas, and before leaving Cleverly
he had exacted a promise from his mother that she would come to New
York on the eve of the festival and stay with him over the holidays. He
was already mentally planning out the treat that would be given her on
her arrival in the metropolis. It was in this mood that he hurried to
his apartments. He found Tomlin at home, and opening and closing the
door boisterously, shouted:
“Hello Tomlin, old fellow! I want you to jump up and shake hands with a
very happy man.”
Tomlin did jump up and did shake hands with his friend; but he said
nothing, gazing on the other with an expectant air. Receiving no
response to his silent inquiry, he asked:
“Have you fallen heir to a fortune?”
“No,” said Herbert, “something better than that.”
“Have you obtained a permanent position on one of the big papers?”
“No,” replied Herbert, and this time a little sadly, “not that.”
“Well, what in the world is it?” asked the other.
“Simply this,” replied Herbert, speaking hurriedly and with some
feeling; “after a number of anxious years I have succeeded in clearing
the memory of my father from a stain that has rested upon it ever since
his death.”
Very rapidly he sketched the events that had followed one another
from the time he had read the little personal in the Herald until the
unveiling of the memorial fountain in Cleverly.
Tomlin whistled.
“This is news indeed, and I never knew a thing about it. Why didn’t you
tell me?”
“I owe you an apology for that,” said Herbert contritely, “but I was a
victim of circumstances. After my interview with the old sea captain
I missed you, and found it necessary to go to Cleverly immediately.
Besides that I had a strong desire to complete the whole business so
that I might give you the story in full when we met.”
“Don’t mention it,” said the other heartily, his eyes glistening with
the pleasure he felt. “Why the thing has the flavor of a romance from
real life. Say, it would make a bully story for the Argus.”
Herbert raised his hand in protest.
“Don’t think of such a thing, Tomlin!” he exclaimed. “I am not desirous
of any publicity just at this time. I wouldn’t have Blakeley even hear
my name or to see it, at least not for some time to come. I know that
he feels very bitterly towards me, and I realize that he has a real
justification for that feeling. Some day I may be able to win back his
good opinion.”
“I hope so,” fervently ejaculated Tomlin; then as if the thought had
just struck him: “Why not make the attempt now?”
“It is not possible now,” said Herbert in a positive tone, which
conveyed a distinct desire to close the subject.
“By the way,” said Tomlin, “you will have to get down to work. You’ve
been wasting a lot of your time when you should have been toiling for
your bread and butter. I’ve got an order here for three specials, and
you will have to turn them out before the end of the week.”
“I’m your man,” responded Herbert enthusiastically. Then looking at his
friend fondly, he added:
“Say, Tomlin, how can I ever repay you for your goodness to me?”
“By never speaking about it,” was the crisp reply.
Herbert started in immediately and began working on the specials that
had been ordered for the following week. He had to go out for several
days and nights in succession in order to obtain the material, but
once that was in hand he worked quickly and industriously. One of the
articles was a graphic description of the entrance to the Brooklyn
bridge at the rush hour in the evening. The subject was not new by any
means; but Herbert handled it with such cleverness and originality
that it made a very readable page in the Sunday issue of one of the
enterprising newspapers. Another of the specials was a description of
Chinatown at night, couched in such phraseology as to make the reader
believe that the scenes so graphically described were taking place in
the heart of one of the cities of old China instead of actually being
enacted in the midst of the American metropolis. The third article
gave the impressions of a man who went to the very top of one of
the highest buildings on Manhattan Island and viewed the surrounding
country.
The Argus office was only a few blocks from the lodgings of the two
young men. While Herbert was hard at work one night, Tomlin rushed in
unexpectedly, and said in agitated tones:
“I’ve got a sensational tip that I want you to run out for me. I am
tied up on another story now, and there is no one in the office. It may
be nothing, or it may be a good thing; but if you are willing to tackle
it I will guarantee that you will not lose anything by the operation.”
“Don’t talk about losses,” said Herbert impatiently; “tell me what you
want.”
“Well,” said the other; “I was around at the precinct police station
a little while ago. The telephone bell rang while I was in the room.
The house sergeant was sound asleep, snoring like a log, so I took the
liberty of responding to the call. When I got my ear to the receiver a
very feminine voice said:
“‘Is this the police station?’
“‘Yes ma’am,’ I replied, wondering what was coming next.
“‘Well,’ said the sweet voice again, ‘a burglar has broken into our
house and I have him locked in the sitting room, and I will be very
much obliged indeed if you will send an officer here at once to take
the man into custody.’
“Just in the most matter of fact manner imaginable,” cried Tomlin.
“Could anything be more picturesque or interesting? Here is a woman who
is not afraid of a burglar. She calmly telephones for the police to
come and arrest him. I think that’s a peach of a story, and if you have
any red blood in your veins you will grab your hat and coat and start
off on the story before I am able to say ten more words.”
This was precisely what Herbert did. In less than a minute’s time he
was at the door, and turning to Tomlin, said:
“Where’s the house? What was the number?”
“The cabby knows all about it,” said Tomlin, pointing to a stout man
who was sitting on the high seat of a cab in front of the door.
“What’s that?” asked Herbert.
“That’s the cabby,” replied Tomlin; “you don’t suppose I would come
here without furnishing you with all the conveniences necessary to do
the job. There’s a policeman in plain clothes on the inside of the cab.
All you have to do is to go with him, help him to make the arrest,
and then write up the story. I’ll call here again in an hour and get
the copy. If it proves to be a beat, I’ll give it to Blakeley in the
morning and quietly let him know that you have sent it in as a partial
act of retribution for the scurvy manner in which you treated him on
that other big scoop.”
“Tomlin, I wish you would stop talking about that,” said Herbert
impatiently; “but I’ll do the best I can with this story.” And with a
farewell shout he jumped into the cab, pulled the door to with a slam
and was whirled in the direction of upper New York. The cab driver
had evidently been given an extra fee for speed, because he lashed
his horse unmercifully, and the vehicle went whirling up Broadway
at a gait which terrified chance pedestrians and aroused the ire of
sleepy policemen. Once the hub of the wheel struck another team that
was coming down-town, and for several seconds Herbert felt that their
team was about to be wrecked; but by some lucky chance the wheels
became extricated and the cab once more resumed its upward and onward
journey. Finally, after many minutes had passed, it turned off the
main highway into a side street. Herbert noticed by glancing at a lamp
on the side of the thoroughfare that they had turned into West 69th
street. Presently the cab stopped, and when Herbert and the officer had
alighted, the cabby, pointing towards a brownstone house with the tip
of his whip, said:
“That’s your house, boys.”
Herbert looked up at the dwelling, and something familiar about it
arrested his attention. He looked again to make sure, but there could
be no doubt about it.
It was the home of John Black. Herbert stood on the sidewalk for some
seconds, half dazed at this entirely unexpected discovery. He wondered
curiously what fatality it was that had brought him to this house on
such a strange errand at such an hour of the night; but presently he
aroused himself. Speculation was in vain; action was necessary. After a
few whispered instructions to the officer, he walked up the high steps
and rang the bell.