SEEKING WORK.
“Work and the admiral!”
These words comprised the motto that kept ringing through Nick Collins’
mind as, early the next morning, he left the deserted house.
They had awakened bright and refreshed from their sleep, and Nick had
gone to a neighboring store and bought some things for breakfast, of
which all partook heartily. As they ate they made their plans.
“We know where this place is,” said Nick, “and we can meet here
to-night, even if we do not stay here--eh, boys?”
“Yes--just the thing!”
“We will all go out and look around. To-night we will return here,
meet, and report our success.”
Nick divided the money he had among them, and the trio started forth.
As they came to a business portion of the city they separated. Nick
took one street and Frank and Will went down another together.
The first hour was not a very encouraging one to Nick. He kept a sharp
outlook for signs bearing the coveted legend, “Boy Wanted,” but no such
welcome call to work appeared.
He had gradually passed from the neighborhood of hotels and dry-goods
stores to the wholesale district, and thence into the Wall Street
section, where bankers, brokers, and financial men generally had their
establishments.
He had paused, somewhat wearied and undecided, against a railing of
iron outside a building aglare with polished metalwork, and marble, and
plate glass, when he saw an open automobile move up to the curb.
The sole occupant and driver of the machine was an elderly,
haughty-looking man, who got out leisurely and ascended the white
marble steps with an air of proprietorship.
Nick glanced at the gilded inscription over the arched doorway.
A strange, intense look came over his face as he read the same:
JAMES VAIL,
BROKER.
Marine Loans and Insurance a Specialty.
Somehow the name held his attention. It sounded familiar. Where had he
heard it before?
“James Vail--James Vail! Oh! I remember now. Captain Eccles spoke of
him. That was the name of the broker who loaned my father and Admiral
Semmes the eight thousand dollars on their ship, the _Star of Hope_.”
The discovery was an exciting one to Nick, for it seemed another
accidental link in the chain of circumstances attending the mystery of
the hidden treasure of the Pacific, in quest of which his father had
lost his ship and his life.
Why might not this man, James Vail, know something of the whereabouts
of Admiral Semmes? Why might not the admiral, at last securing the
long-lost letter, go direct to Vail to report his success and secure
his coöperation in finding the treasure?
The impulse to enter the place at once and seek and question James
Vail was checked as Nick contrasted his own attire with that of the
well-dressed people who were passing in and out of the building.
Perhaps the man who had got out of the automobile was James Vail, and
Nick glanced at the car again.
Then he started, and his amazed glance rested upon the vehicle and its
vicinage intently curious.
A strange pantomime was going on near it--for it was a pantomime. A
ragpicker, with quick, glittering eyes, was traversing the outer edge
of the curb and was every moment drawing nearer to the carriage.
He carried a huge bag over his shoulders filled with paper and rags,
and as he moved along, to all appearances his eyes were fixed on the
ground, as if he were looking for stray pieces of paper.
What fixed Nick’s attention, however, was the fact that the man, while
he pretended to be absorbed in his gutter quest, in reality had eyes
only for the building into which the man from the automobile had just
disappeared.
His glance was eager, sly, piercing, and, as he made feints to pick up
pieces of paper, he kept nearing the rear of the motor car, stealthily,
slowly, surely.
On a front seat at that moment Nick saw a brass-bound portfolio or
reticule, and he was convinced that the ragman saw it, too. The latter
directed a last watchful glance at the building. No one seemed to be
noticing him. Of a sudden he darted to the car. Quick as a flash his
deft, bony hand reached toward the seat. With a rapidity that was swift
and effective as sleight of hand he grasped the portfolio, popped it
into the bag, and started to cross the street.
The boldness and suddenness of the act, for a second or two, left Nick
somewhat dazed; but no longer. Another instant and he was down the
steps in a bound.
He came upon the ragpicker before he had reached the middle of the
street, and laid hold of the bag.
“Stop! stop!” he cried.
The man tugged at the sack, and then turned a fierce, angry face on
Nick.
“Letta alone! Go away! I licka you! Letta go, letta go!” he shouted,
reaching his free hand around to strike Nick.
“No. You stole something out of that automobile. Put it back or I will
call a policeman!”
“Ah! you boy, I killa you!”
The fierce, revengeful face of the ragpicker was aflame with passion as
he tried to wrest the bag from Nick’s grasp.
The latter held on, however, and was whirled round and round, always
opposite the man.
Suddenly the latter dropped the bag. Like a flash Nick went down, the
bag on top of him.
The man caught his throat in an iron grip.
“Help! help! This man is a thief!”
Although nearly choked, Nick clung to the bag. A crowd began to gather.
The man who owned the automobile came running out. Several persons
in the crowd were ready to help the boy, but the ragpicker made this
unnecessary. Directing a vicious kick at young Collins, he fled around
a corner.
Nick struggled to his feet, pale and gasping. A policeman bustled up
and seized his arm.
“Here, what’s the trouble?” he demanded.
“Arrest that man!” Nick answered, pointing in the direction the ragman
had gone.
“What man?”
“The man that owns this bag.”
“Ain’t this your bag?” asked the policeman suspiciously.
“No.”
“What are you doing with it, then?”
“He tried to steal--oh, from your automobile, sir.”
Nick had seen the owner of the machine among the bystanders.
“My car?” repeated the man, casting a glance at his automobile.
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“That man reached into it and stole--this!”
As he spoke Nick opened the bag and produced the portfolio. The owner
of it turned pale.
“Good gracious!” he ejaculated. “How careless of me to leave it there.
Did you stop the man?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Nick quietly.
“A hundred thousand dollars in negotiable securities, and nearly
stolen!” murmured the other. “Here, boy!”
He drew some coins from his pocket, looked at them a moment, as if in
hesitation, then said:
“Come into the office, boy. I want to see you.”
Nick followed him. The crowd gazed at the young hero of the occasion
admiringly.
“Plucky boy! He deserves a hundred for that act,” was the remark of one
onlooker.
“Who is it?”
“Vail, the broker. The boy saved him a hundred thousand dollars.”
“No danger of a big reward there! He’s too close-fisted!”
“And needs all his money to pay his honest debts if rumor has it right!”
These and similar comments fell upon Nick’s ears as he mounted the
steps of the building, but the broker was too far ahead to hear them.
Mr. Vail ushered Nick into a large countingroom and thence into his
private office.
A crafty-faced, smirking man, evidently a manager or confidential
clerk, stood at a railed inclosure and looked up inquiringly.
“Trouble outside, Mr. Vail?” he asked.
“I should say so! Loucks, look here!”
“Your portfolio?”
“Yes. I carelessly left it in the automobile and some one stole it.”
“How did you get it back?”
“This boy recovered it.”
“Much in it?”
“All the Speedwell bonds.”
“Well, well! And this boy saved it?” Loucks regarded Nick with a snaky,
smirking glance that, while it seemed to express admiration, impressed
Nick very unpleasantly.
“We must reward the boy, Loucks.”
“If you please, sir----”
“We must give him a substantial reward.”
“Let the boy speak, Mr. Vail. What was it, lad?”
“I want no reward, sir.”
Mr. Vail, halfway to his desk, stopped short.
“No reward!” he exclaimed.
“Eminently unselfish and proper!” nodded Loucks, smiling. “Quite right,
my lad! Only a duty, eh?”
“Yes, sir, but I would like work.”
Mr. Vail looked relieved at an escape from paying money in reward for
Nick’s services. He regarded the boy searchingly for a moment.
“Do you live in the city?” he asked.
“I just came here last night.”
“He looks honest, Loucks. Is there a vacancy?”
“I can make one, sir.”
“Do so. This boy will work cheap.”
“Write your name on that,” said Loucks, handing a pen and paper to Nick.
Nick did so.
“Call at eight o’clock to-morrow morning. Position as messenger. Wages,
five dollars a week. If honest and reliable, six dollars after next
January. Good day. Boy of sense and honesty! No reward! Excellent!
Good day!”
Then, with the same smirking smile, he bowed Nick from the desk, out of
the office into the countingroom, and, with a last nod and smile, into
the street.